Imager’s Battalion (49 page)

“About what?”

“I received a letter from Vaelora yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t read it until later, when I thought I’d have a moment to enjoy it. In it she mentioned that I would be getting some more undercaptains and that ten regiments were being sent to reinforce us—”

“Ten regiments?”

“That’s what she wrote. What’s also odd is that the letter was sent a week before the regiments were due to depart from Solis. Yet it arrived with the marshal’s dispatch accompanying the Fifth Battalion reinforcements. Oh … and the seal had been removed and replaced”—Quaeryt quickly explained about the altered seal and the unusual delay of Vaelora’s first letter—“so when I read about ten regiments of reinforcements…”

“That frigging bastard Deucalon … calling Khaern’s regiment the Eleventh! I should have guessed … I saw an awful lot of troopers, and I asked Deucalon about the number of reinforcements. He never really answered me.”

“You couldn’t very well demand an answer,” Quaeryt pointed out.

“But you could have asked Bhayar. That’s why Deucalon summoned me early. I’d wager you weren’t supposed to get that letter until later … except someone saw it who might report that to him. I had the feeling they were up to something. What they said they wanted was a waste of time after the first glass. When I’d say I needed to get back to the regiment, Myskyl or Deucalon had one request after another. ‘If you wouldn’t mind telling Commander Crecytt about the musketeers … Commander Dafaul about … Bovarian scouts…’”

“But if I went to Bhayar, around you and Myskyl and Deucalon…”

Skarpa nodded slowly. “You’d have undermined me, and hurt yourself, and you wouldn’t have gotten us any more troopers. If Bhayar had overruled Deucalon, then he’d have pissed off every senior officer in Telaryn, except us, and Deucalon would have resigned.” After a moment he mused, “Actually, it’s not a bad plot on Myskyl’s part. He puts you in a poor position no matter what, and even if you got us more troopers, then he’s got a shot at becoming marshal.”

“Or Deucalon throws the blame on Myskyl and demotes him, and we still aren’t much better off,” replied Quaeryt.

“Don’t you just love being a senior officer, Quaeryt?”

“You’ve got no one but yourself to blame,” countered Quaeryt with a smile. “You’re the one who insisted I’d be good at it.”

“You are. I’d rather have you than two full regiments. The problem is that Deucalon and Myskyl know it, and they’ll try to get a victory over the Bovarians by putting you and the imagers in a situation where even if you win, you’ll lose.”

“That thought had occurred to me.” Quaeryt took a swallow of the lager, then set the mug down on the table. “We just have to figure out a way to play our plaques so that everyone wins and it becomes obvious that Deucalon and Myskyl didn’t want it to happen that way.”

“You have that figured out?”

“Not yet.” Quaeryt offered a grin. “I’ve got until we take Variana, maybe even longer.”

“You make that sound easy. You really think…”

“No … it will either be long and bloody, or short and horribly brutal. That all depends on what Kharst does.”

“What’s your wager?”

Quaeryt shook his head, even as he thought,
Horribly brutal, no matter how it turns out, but especially if Kharst can gather all his troops.

“Oh … I should tell you about Khaern. He was posted here from Lucayl. He commanded a battalion there that was charged with rooting out the pirates. Won’t say he got all of them, but the number of merchanters lost dropped by more than two-thirds in the two years he was there.” Skarpa snorted. “Rumor is that was one reason why he was promoted and his battalion became the core of Eleventh Regiment.”

“Oh…?”

“Several of the High Holders southeast of Ruile have holdings and wealth far more than might be expected from their lands.”

Quaeryt didn’t bother to sigh. He could believe it.

“Anyway, he seems like a solid type. Most likely why we got him.”

“And because he’s junior to you,” suggested Quaeryt.

“Of course.” Skarpa lifted the mug and took a swallow.

For a short time, neither officer spoke.

“Don’t look forward to the month ahead—”

At that moment, a trooper rapped on the study door. “Subcommander Meinyt and Subcommander Khaern are here, sirs.”

“Show them in.”

Meinyt opened the door, ushered in a short and wiry subcommander with red hair shot liberally with gray, and stepped into the study, closing the door behind him before the trooper standing there could. “We got here as soon as we could.”

Both Skarpa and Quaeryt stood.

Skarpa looked to Khaern. “Subcommander, this is Subcommander Quaeryt.” After the slightest pause, he added, “I’ve told each of you about the other.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” offered Quaeryt.

“The same.” Khaern grinned warmly. “You don’t look like the deadliest officer Commander Skarpa has ever seen … but he said you wouldn’t.”

Quaeryt shrugged helplessly. “I just do what’s necessary to support the commander.”

“Sometimes that’s whether I’ve ordered him to or not.”

“Have I ever done anything that wasn’t to support you and in our interest?”

“No”—Skarpa laughed—“but at times you’ve done it before anyone realized what happened.”

Quaeryt decided to put an end to that line of bantering and gestured to the plaques table, saying cheerfully, “Your lagers are waiting for you.”

“We could use those.” Meinyt dropped into the chair across from Skarpa, who had seated himself.

Khaern eased into the one opposite Quaeryt, waiting momentarily for Quaeryt to sit.

After taking a swallow from his mug, Meinyt asked, “Have you two decided how to take Nordeau before the marshal orders another stupid attack that will cost too many troops?”

“We were getting to that,” said Skarpa.

“If he’d just have let the Bovarians withdraw to that hill and let the imagers deal with the Antiagon Fire first, we’d have lost less than a battalion, instead of a regiment. But no … he wants to attack when he wants to attack.” With a snort, Meinyt lifted his mug again.

After setting down his mug, Khaern gave the slightest of nods, but said nothing.

“How are your replacements?” asked Skarpa.

“They’re replacements. Some of them barely know one end of a sabre from the other. A few even have to hang on to the saddle if they move faster than a trot.” Meinyt took another healthy swallow of lager.

“And your new battalions?” Skarpa asked Khaern.

“I had to raise them out of Lucayl and around there. We trained them for a few weeks there, and then on the road. We joined the others at Ferravyl.”

“That explains the Eleventh Regiment,” said Quaeryt to Skarpa.

For an instant Skarpa looked as though he would swear, but he only nodded.

“What are you talking about?” asked Meinyt.

“The marshal decided that when he received eleven regiments of reinforcements, the southern army should get one.” Skarpa nodded to Khaern. “Not that I’m not very glad to have you, but another regiment in addition to yours would have been helpful.”

A puzzled expression appeared on Khaern’s face. “How many regiments are there in the northern army, then?”

“Twenty-two, from what we can figure,” replied Skarpa.

Meinyt almost choked on his lager. “That—” He stopped as he caught the look from the commander.

Skarpa said to Quaeryt calmly, “I haven’t heard about your new undercaptains.”

“They’re not bad,” Quaeryt admitted. “Two Pharsi youths who still could be students, but they’re decent imagers. Two hill types. One wanted to kill me, but decided trying wouldn’t do much for his future. The other I don’t know, but he can image a lot of iron darts.”

“Sounds like you did better than I did,” said Meinyt.

“Zhelan had the same complaint as you did about the replacements for first company,” said Quaeryt. “The Khellan officers didn’t get enough to reach full complement, but all the ones they got were Khellan Pharsi types who’d been injured and had recovered. They got replacements for about nine of every ten they’ve lost.”

“Why do you think you got better imagers?” asked Skarpa.

“A lot of the factors and High Holders don’t like imagers. Second, the four I got don’t look that good—two almost still schoolboys, a wild imager trapper, and an independent norther.”

“Still less than half a squad … well, half a squad counting you,” said Meinyt.

“Let Deucalon and the Bovarians think that,” declared Skarpa. “We need to talk about what we’re going to be doing tomorrow and on the way to Nordeau…”

Quaeryt nodded and squared himself in the chair.

53

Skarpa insisted that Fifth Battalion lead the way back through Villerive and over the bridge—and that he ride with Quaeryt. Third Regiment followed Fifth Battalion, then Eleventh, the engineers and support wagons, and finally Fifth Regiment. The column moved out from Saarcoyn’s grounds just as the sun cleared the tops of the ridge to the east. Shaelyt and the two young Pharsi undercaptains rode immediately behind Quaeryt and Skarpa, while Voltyr rode beside Horan, with the other undercaptains behind them.

“Don’t see many of the marshal’s troops up this morning,” observed Skarpa as they rode past the estate quartering senior officers under Deucalon and some of the northern regiments.

“Ours wouldn’t be moving this early, either, if we weren’t headed out,” replied Quaeryt with a smile. “It is Solayi.” That was why he’d been up later than he would have liked on Samedi night arranging his letters to be dispatched through one of Bhayar’s personal aides. They still might be read, but they would be sent.

“Speaking of that…” Skarpa drew out the words.

“Yes?”

“You know very well what I’m about to say, Subcommander and Master Chorister.”

“I fear that I do. What choice do I have?” Quaeryt paused. “But only if it does not take away from what is necessary for a proper encampment.”

“We won’t hold services if we cannot do so safely and properly,” agreed Skarpa.

As they rode past the abandoned earthworks and into Villerive proper, Quaeryt noted that few if any windows were shuttered, and that, early as it was on Solayi, people were on the streets, and taking only passing notice of the Telaryn troopers.
What does that mean? That they expect we’ll come and go? Or that it matters little who rules, so long as their lives are not disrupted?

Quaeryt suspected that indifference to who ruled combined with a recognition that Bhayar had not allowed and did not intend to allow his troopers to molest the locals was the most likely reason for the near-casual acceptance of the troopers. Even with the apparent calm in Villerive, he maintained full shields, rather than triggered shields, as much to try to build up his imaging strength as because he expected a sudden attack.
Those will come once we’re nearing Nordeau.

When the outriders and scouts reached the approach to the bridge over the River Aluse, Quaeryt noted that all traces of the barricades that the Bovarians had erected had vanished, as had any traces of the battle—except for the fact that the stonework and pavement were far, far cleaner than was usual in any city he’d visited.

Behind him, he could hear Shaelyt’s quiet explanation to Khalis and Lhandor as they rode through the gap in the wall he’d imaged to block the Bovarians.

“Subcommander imaged that wall in place, except it was all the way across the bridge, until Threkhyl removed the middle part … Subcommander led the charge that broke their pikemen, and then rode three milles and took out the Bovarian catapults and their Antiagon Fire…”

Quaeryt winced, noticeably enough that Skarpa chuckled and said, in a voice that barely carried to Quaeryt, “You can’t keep what you’ve done that quiet.”

“Except among Deucalon’s senior officers,” Quaeryt murmured back.

“They don’t care much for scholars who are good commanders.”

“Or those officers who are the best commanders.”

“Too many marshals and submarshals are like ministers that swarm around a ruler. They toady up to him. Worried more that a better commander might replace them than about the best way to win. Might be why we got Khaern. He might show up some of Deucalon’s favorites.”

Quaeryt certainly hoped so. He’d been impressed by Khaern’s quiet assurance when they had met the afternoon before.

Once they were over the bridge and through south Villerive, Quaeryt couldn’t help but notice that locals had been digging where the imagers had buried defenders under the flattened earthworks.
Scavengers … but how can you blame them with the way Kharst treats his own people?

While Quaeryt had anticipated that the road to Nordeau would quickly deteriorate once they left the more populated area, it did not. Less than a mille west of what remained of the earthworks, the south river road ended at a road that had come from the south—one that was narrower than the compacted clay and gravel way that had led out of Villerive, but constructed of a solid, if somewhat worn, gray stone, wide enough, if barely, for two wagons side by side. It was also far more level than the river road had been heretofore—except for the one stretch near the old canal.

Quaeryt looked south, but the road angled to the southwest, its course not following the valleys but low ridges and even cut into the gentle hillsides in places. The dust over the stone indicated it was seldom traveled to the south.

He turned to Skarpa. “This is a better road than the one out of Villerive. The maps don’t give an indication how good it is.”

“Could be that it won’t last. Might just be a stretch leading to a High Holder’s place.”

At Skarpa’s remark, Quaeryt realized that for the last thirty milles or so leading into Villerive, they’d seen no trace of a High Holder.
Was that another reason why the Bovarians drove off the locals? Or aren’t there many High Holders around on this side of the river?
There was so much he didn’t know and not enough time to find it out.

His eyes went back to the road, and then to a low retaining wall on the side of the road away from the river. He frowned.
Where did you last see stonework like this?
After a moment he remembered.
The Naedaran canal!