Imager’s Battalion (38 page)

“If they get stronger, they could protect others…”

“Then they become almost useless,” said Quaeryt. “If they even can do shielding, they can’t do things like image iron darts into musketeers. And their shields are small. If they try a larger shield, it’s good only for moments, a faction of a quint at best. If they had been far enough along to raise shields against musket attacks, you’d have lost two or three times as many troopers as you did because they wouldn’t have been able to attack the musketeers or image smoke and pepper.”

“I still don’t see why they can’t do both…”

“Why don’t your troopers carry large iron shields?” asked Quaeryt. “Large shields would certainly protect them … wouldn’t they?”

Skarpa frowned, then smiled and shook his head. “I think I see.” Then he frowned again. “But why teach them that at all?”

“So that they can survive long enough to do what is most useful for you.”
Should you hint at more?
“If they can protect even themselves, then they can image smoke, pepper, iron darts. Holding a shield for a quint—and that’s something none of them can do yet—would render them useless for the rest of a skirmish or battle. There are reasons why I’ve kept them close to me or away from the worst of battles, but I cannot be everywhere. I would like to send imagers out with other companies. Without being able to shield themselves, they risk dying—like Akoryt did. And there are too few of them to risk them unnecessarily. I wish we had more.”
For more than one reason.

“You can do that for longer.”

Quaeryt nodded. “I have my limits, too. You’ve seen that.”

“I’ve seen you go beyond them.”

“And there I’ve been most fortunate. Twice, at least, I could have died.”

Skarpa grinned. “More like four or five times.” The grin faded. “I understand. Try not to risk that much again. I’ll talk to Meinyt about it as well.” He rose from the table.

“Thank you.” Quaeryt stifled a yawn as he stood. It had been a long day, indeed.

“You look like you need some sleep.”

“Don’t we all?” replied Quaeryt wryly.

Skarpa chuckled, then turned and strode out of the public room.

Quaeryt had thought to go to bed early on Jeudi evening, after supper, and making a final round of the battalion and checking once more with the imager undercaptains and with Zhelan. That didn’t happen, because he ended up working out patrol schedules for the town with Meinyt and Skarpa, so that it was after eighth glass when he collapsed on the bed in his room at the South River Inn.

41

Quaeryt jolted awake with sheets of warm rain gusting through the gaps in the inn shutters, plastering his underclothes to his skin. Outside was pitch-dark except for the rolling thunder and an occasional flash of lightning so close that the entire inn seemed to shudder under the force of the storm.

He sat up, then, at the creaking of his door, turned to see it swing open.

Didn’t you bar it?

Two thumps followed and, ridiculously, sitting in the doorway was a black rabbit, staring fixedly at Quaeryt. But before he could even stand, a musketeer filled the doorway, leveling a dark musket directly at him. Quaeryt immediately raised full shields, but as the musket ball struck the barrier, ice formed everywhere.

Because of the warm rain?

The cold was so intense that he immediately began to shiver … and then the ice that coated everything shattered, and chill rivulets covered Quaeryt. His head felt as though it would burst.

His skin was like ice …

… and he found himself lying on his back in bed, once more, covered in shards of ice that were melting into his underdrawers and undershirt.

Slowly he sat up in the darkness, his eyes traveling to the door, still barred, to the window, its shutters still fastened, and to the floor, covered, as was the bed, with slivers and shards of clear ice. His breath steamed in the cold air of the small chamber.

He stood, wincing as one bare foot came down on a fragment of ice, and then made his way to the windows, where he opened the shutters and let the moist warm night air flow into the room. Where the breeze from the window met the frigid air of the chamber, droplets of water pattered to the plank floor for several moments as he stood there.

What was that all about?

He’d imaged in his sleep. That was clear enough from the ice shards around the small chamber and the throbbing in his skull. But what did the black rabbit and the musketeer have to do with anything? The dream of the musketeer, that he could understand after having been fired upon so often in recent weeks, but the black rabbit? The idea that black rabbits were a harbinger of doom was strictly a belief of people who lived in the southern parts of Lydar.

They’re not even your myths or superstitions.

He pulled off his undershirt and hung it on a wall peg, then bent and brushed the remaining fragments of ice off the bed. After a moment he concentrated on imaging away water droplets. At least that small imaging didn’t worsen his headache, although it did leave the sheets chill. But then, warm as the air from outside was, that wasn’t exactly a problem.

Finally, he closed the shutters again and lay back down on the bed, hoping he could drop off to sleep again. While he did drift off into an uneasy slumber, he woke slightly before dawn, sore and groggy, but not feeling as tired as he might have. After cleaning up and dressing he made his way down to the public room, where he found Skarpa and Meinyt eating breakfast.

He’d no sooner seated himself than the blond serving girl hurried over with a mug of lager and plate of eggs and half a loaf of dark bread for him.

“Thank you,” he said warmly.

“It’s nothing, sir,” she replied, avoiding his eyes and slipping away.

“You seem to have made an impression,” said Skarpa.

“Not necessarily a good one.” Quaeryt took a sip of the lager, then a swallow. He said nothing more until he’d had several mouthfuls of the cheese-scrambled eggs and a chunk of the moist dark bread. “What is the plan for today?”

“Have breakfast first,” said Skarpa jovially.

“We’ve taken Ralaes,” said Meinyt. “When do we move on to Villerive?”

“We haven’t heard,” said Skarpa. “I’m expecting dispatches before long. Then, I thought we’d hear something yesterday. The scouts can’t find any sign that the Bovarians are venturing beyond their perimeter defenses around Villerive. That tells me that Deucalon is on the move.”

“Slowly, as usual.” Meinyt snorted. “So it’s rest the horses, check and sharpen blades, and wait?”

“You don’t think the men and their mounts couldn’t use the rest?” countered Skarpa.

“They need it, but Deucalon’s likely to demand we do something to sacrifice them so it doesn’t cost him—and he’ll order it at the last moment.”

Quaeryt almost nodded, then realized that, much as he felt the same, he really had no evidence that Deucalon would do that.
Or did he?
The marshal had ordered Third Regiment into the most dangerous fighting in the battles around Ferravyl.
But had there been any other reasonable choice?
Quaeryt didn’t honestly know.

“Deucalon will do what he thinks is necessary,” replied Skarpa. “That’s true of all marshals, all that are worth anything.”

Meinyt nodded, although his mouth looked as if he’d swallowed a spoiled lemon.

Quaeryt decided to concentrate on finishing his meal.

After breakfast and the morning muster of Fifth Battalion, Quaeryt again summoned the imager undercaptains to the east courtyard of the South River Inn. There he worked with them for two glasses, before giving them two glasses to recover, and then worked with them for another glass, until a squad leader summoned him for a meeting with Skarpa.

“You’re dismissed,” Quaeryt said, “but you’re to remain near the inn. We may have orders from the marshal.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt ignored the expressions suggesting that none of them were that happy with his restriction. He didn’t care. They had far more freedom, better quarters, and better food than the rankers … and he didn’t want them going off until he knew what Skarpa had planned. “I’ll let you know after I meet with the commander.”

Skarpa was waiting in a small room off the front hall, a plaque room with a circular table and six chairs, and a sideboard that had likely held mugs and pitchers for local plaque players. The commander gestured to one of the chairs.

“Thank you.”

“We’ll wait for Meinyt. He won’t be long,” said Skarpa. “I saw that you were working the imagers hard. How are they coming?”

“They’re able to do much more than before. I worry that it won’t be enough.”

“From the way you looked, I thought as much.”

The door opened, and Meinyt entered. “I came as quickly as I could.”

“We have some time,” said Skarpa dryly as the older subcommander seated himself. “The northern regiments are about ten milles east of Ralaes on the north side of the river. There are only small hamlets between where they are and Villerive.”

“So the marshal will need another day or two to establish a position and base from which to mount the attack on Villerive?” asked Meinyt.

“He will inform us in due course.”

“Four days, at least,” predicted the older subcommander.

“He might surprise us,” suggested Skarpa.

“Oh … a week, then.”

“I doubt that. Lord Bhayar is not likely to be that patient,” said Skarpa, looking to Quaeryt. “That is my thought, but you know him better than any of us.”

Quaeryt shrugged. “He can be very deliberate, but he gets impatient when there is little reason for delay.”

Skarpa nodded. “I’d wager it will be far less than a week. Make sure your men get plenty of rest. There will be little of that after we advance on Villerive.” The commander reached into the dispatch case and extracted two envelopes, passing them to Quaeryt. “These arrived with Deucalon’s message.”

“Thank you.” As he took the envelopes, Quaeryt immediately recognized Vaelora’s script on one. The other was addressed to “Scholar Quaeryt Rytersyn, Aide to Lord Bhayar” in a hand Quaeryt did not recognize.

“That’s all for now.” Skarpa glanced around the chamber as he stood. “Very modest for a plaque room. Must not be too many gamblers here.” He started for the door.

“Or this is where the modest gamblers meet,” replied Quaeryt.

“More likely those who don’t gamble well,” said Meinyt, following Skarpa.

He’s probably right about that,
thought Quaeryt.

After leaving Skarpa, Quaeryt returned to the courtyard, where he told the imagers that while they would be at evening mess, they were free to walk the town, but only in pairs. Then he retreated to his room on the second floor of the inn, a space scarcely large enough to hold a bed and a table and chair. He smiled wryly as he closed the door and sat on the narrow straight-backed chair. The narrow space reminded him of the inn at Nacliano, a place whose name momentarily eluded him as he struggled to remember it.

The Tankard … that was it.
For some reason, that recalled the patroller who’d destroyed the innkeeper’s priceless Cloisonyt vase just to prove he could, and that brought a comparison to mind. Was there really any difference between the patroller and Kharst, each destroying things of value to show power?
Aren’t there better ways to show power?

He shook his head, then looked at the two envelopes, deciding to open the mysterious one and save Vaelora’s letter until he had dealt with the other—one that was far thicker, as if it contained more than a few sheets of paper.
Who would be addressing me that way and as an aide to Bhayar?
Shaking his head, he used his belt knife to slit the large envelope, finding inside a single sheet of paper—and another envelope, addressed to Governor Quaeryt Rytersyn, Extela, Montagne Province.

The single sheet was thick high quality paper. He began to read.

Scholar Quaeryt—

Upon arriving in Extela, I received the letter from you that awaited me, as well as your summary of the situation facing me as governor. I must state that I was greatly impressed with the scope of your accomplishments in the short length of time in which you served as governor, and I can see why Lord Bhayar would require your abilities in dealing with the Bovarians. Your direct approach, while possibly not practical for governing over an extended period of time, will doubtless make my tenure as governor far more pleasant than it might otherwise have been. I will consider your recommendations most carefully in the months ahead and wish you the very best in your present capacity.

I have also enclosed a letter which arrived shortly after I did and trust it will reach you in good stead.

My felicitations and best wishes for you in the campaign ahead.

At the bottom were a signature and title—Markyl Quintussyn, Governor, Montagne Province, by the grace of Lord Bhayar of Telaryn.

Who is writing you as governor?
He realized that it was likely someone from Tilbora, since word might not have reached Tilbor that he’d been replaced.
Straesyr, Nalakyn?
Those were the two most likely. Curious, he immediately slit the enclosed envelope and extracted the sheet within.

Dear Governor Quaeryt:

I trust this missive finds you and your lady well and prosperous.

I find myself writing in search of guidance, for there are none here for whose advice I can ask. All come to a chorister for such …

Quaeryt glanced to the bottom of the missive, taking in the signature—“Gauswn Holussyn, Chorister, Scholarium of Tilbora.” He smiled faintly, realizing that he’d never known Gauswn’s patronymic, then resumed reading.

… and my experience in matters other than being an armsman and a junior officer is most limited. Master Scholar Nalakyn has improved the course of studies considerably, but in all other matters he is reluctant to reach decisions. Instead of following his own mind or deferring to the princeps, he inquires about every matter from the least to the greatest with every scholar. Long and lengthy discussions follow. In the end, the scholar princeps decides, but not until many faces are red and flushed. I understand that all the scholars will make their wishes known as to who will be master scholar in another nine months, but matters may be most unruly by then. As a young chorister who is not a scholar, I believe there is little I can or should do, yet for all the efforts you made to save the scholarium, I felt I would be remiss in not informing you.