Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (30 page)

Quaeryt stopped several yards in front of them and smiled politely, image-projecting authority and confidence. “Good morning. Your patrollers first may have told you. I’m Governor Quaeryt, and I’ll be acting patrol chief for a bit. This will be Civic Patrol headquarters, and in the next few days, there will be twenty cells in the back. For now, while we reorganize the patrol, the troopers of the Third Tilboran Regiment will patrol the streets. By next week, you—or those of you who wish to remain patrollers—will begin taking over those patrols. The engineers will finish converting this building and making other repairs around the city.…”

Quaeryt went on to explain what he expected of them and that those expectations would be posted as a written code for the Civic Patrol, although he would consider changes based on their suggestions and experience.

“… We will clearly need more patrollers, and any of you who recruits a new patroller will get a bonus—after that new recruit completes three months of paid service. The bonus will be two silvers.” He paused. “Do you have any questions?”

“What about pay?” came a question from the back of the group.

“The pay grades will be the same as before.” Quaeryt knew that wasn’t what the patroller who asked the question had in mind.

“The pay we didn’t get,” said another voice.

“That’s an interesting question. When I arrived here a little over a week ago, there was no one patrolling the streets, and people were afraid to go out. So I’ve had troopers patrolling the avenues and streets. I’ve asked around, and none of you have been doing the duties that you were supposed to be doing, not for the last month, in any case.” Quaeryt projected withering contempt for a moment. “Some of that is understandable. You didn’t have a patrol building or a gaol. Nor did you have any captains or a chief, it appears. For that reason, those of you who wish to continue as patrollers will receive back pay after you sign up and renew your commitment.”

“Why did you put the station here?”

“Because we could and because we needed it quickly. It also appears that we couldn’t put it in the northwest part of the city,” he added dryly. That did get a smile or two.

“Scholars…” murmured someone.

Quaeryt smiled. Coldly. “I am a scholar. I’ve also been a quartermaster at sea, and I took part in all the battles in Tilbor in the last year before I became princeps there. I’ve taken a crossbow bolt to the chest and broken an arm in battle. I’m not much impressed with muttered comments by men who are supposed to be honorable and uphold the law. As I said a moment ago, I expect every one of you to be polite and cheerful to every person.” He paused, then smiled sardonically. “You don’t have to be cheerful to lawbreakers—just polite and forceful enough to keep them well under control.”

He could sense a certain confusion, even antagonism.

Again, projecting total authority, he said, “If you behave like toughs and lawbreakers, then the people will all regard you as worse than the lawbreakers because you’re abusing your authority. More to the point, so will I … and none of you want that.”

The authority projection worked better than the words, he suspected, but he could see the effect. “We won’t go to shifts yet. All of you who intend to continue as patrollers will be here at seventh glass tomorrow morning. In uniform. Right now, you can line up at the end of the receiving desk where Baharyt is. Give him your name. He’ll check it against the duty roster and your rank, and you’ll be given your back pay. Then you can leave until tomorrow morning. Several of you have already been paid, but you still need to check with Baharyt.”

Quaeryt stepped back and then moved to where he stood behind Baharyt, so that he could look at each man as he came forward.

Most of those who stepped up avoided meeting his eyes. Jaramyr did, nodding respectfully, if grudgingly, Quaeryt thought. So did Chelsyr and several of the others Quaeryt had already met.

Once all the patrollers had given their information to Baharyt and been paid, Quaeryt and the clerk left the building to the engineers. As Quaeryt mounted and started back to the post with Taenyd and third company, he could hear the murmurs from a group of patrollers who had remained outside, gathered together and talking.

“… there he goes … bastard…”

“… tough bastard…”

“… you want to cross him?”

“Jaramyr … talked to some of the troopers … related to Bhayar…”

“… not kidding about … killed a score with a staff…”

Quaeryt managed not to wince at the last. But then, he probably had.

As he rode back to the post, he had to wonder. Had he used too much force in facing them? What choice did he have? From meeting the patrollers first and seeing that group, he had few doubts that they’d been only slightly better than organized toughs, probably taking bribes and then some. What else should he have expected after learning the way Scythn had acted?

He didn’t get back to the post until two quints past ninth glass. He barely dismounted before Heireg appeared.

“Sir…?”

“How many barrels were spoiled?”

“All of them in some amount. We might save half of it … if we use those barrels first.”

“Do that. It appears I need to pay another call on High Holder Wystgahl.” Quaeryt turned toward Taenyd, who had dismounted. “Captain! Can you be ready to ride out in a quint?”

“Yes, sir. We can water the horses some and be ready to go. Where to, sir?”

“High Holder Wystgahl’s.”

“Yes, sir.”

A little more than two glasses later, third company rode up to the portico of the hold. As Quaeryt reined up, he caught sight of the graying red hair of Gahlen, the holder’s son, standing on the black stone step below the white marble columns.

“I don’t believe you are expected, Governor.”

“I’m here to see your father.”

“I don’t think he’ll want to see you.”

“I’m quite certain he won’t.” Quaeryt smiled coldly. “That’s not his choice.”

“And if I deny you entry?”

“Gahlen … for your sake, I do hope you don’t try.”

The heir frowned, then gestured. “This way. He’s in the salon. That’s where he always is these days. He says he coughs less there.”

Quaeryt caught up with the redhead and asked, “Consumption?”

“Who can tell whether it’s that or just age?”

Quaeryt could sense the mixed feelings swirling within Gahlen, but said nothing, thinking about what he could or might do. He did raise his shields, close to his body, before he followed Gahlen into the salon.

“Why did you let him in?” snapped Wystgahl, rising from the same armchair in which Quaeryt had last seen him. “I should disinherit you and settle the holding on your brother.”

“It’s rather hard to deny a governor with a company of armed troopers,” replied Gahlen, stepping back, but not leaving the salon. “Haylen would have the same problem.”

“Bah … you’re both worthless.” Wystgahl turned to face Quaeryt. “I sent you your Namer-cursed flour. Now … get out of here.”

“You sent weevil-ridden flour, and more than half of it is spoiled and useless.”

“You insisted on a price for the flour, Governor.” Wystgahl smiled crookedly, a glint in his eyes. “I gave you the kind of flour represented by that price.”

“The price was for good flour, and I offered you a profit of an eighth more than what you could have gotten two months ago. That’s likely a profit of one part in four.”

“I could have gotten more. You set the price. I gave you the quality you paid for.”

“You don’t intend to make good on what was promised?”

“A promise extracted by force has no value, Governor. Lord Bhayar has already upheld that precedent. Besides, you accepted that flour.”

“My men accepted it in good faith. Your faith was anything but good.” Quaeryt was at a loss. He didn’t want to drag an old man out of his holding. Nor did he really have the authority to do so, and Wystgahl certainly knew that. “You effectively defrauded Lord Bhayar out of thirty golds.”

“He can certainly afford it. Or you can.”

“It’s all right to cheat anyone you can if you’re a High Holder? What about the next two hundred and fifty barrels?” asked Quaeryt calmly, although he felt anything but calm.

“That’s your problem as well. Face it. You can’t do anything … Governor. You don’t dare bring your troops in here and seize my holding. You wouldn’t last a season after that. Do you think that the High Justicer in Solis is going to even hear an appeal over a mere thirty or a hundred golds?” Wystgahl laughed.

And such an appeal would take weeks to get to Solis, longer to decide, and make Bhayar most unhappy,
thought Quaeryt.
You don’t have the time for that. Yet … if he gets away with cheating and defying me … putting Extela back together will just get harder … because he’s the kind to flaunt his “victory” and let everyone know, and that will require that you use more and more force, and that will mean everyone will think you’re even more unfair than they already do.

Wystgahl coughed, once twice. “Namer-cursed phlegm.”

Phelgm … water … consumption … that’s it.

“You can’t make me change matters … Not even a governor can do that.”

“I don’t intend to do anything of the sort. I’ll leave you here, dreaming of your past glories that never were. I’ll deal with your son, who understands the responsibilities of being a holder far better than you do. You’re not a High Holder. You’re a greedy old man who’d cheat on the Nameless to get an extra copper.” Quaeryt sneered and image-projected withering scorn and contempt.

“You’re a worthless scholar … a nothing! A nothing, do you hear me? Nothing at—”

Quaeryt imaged water—just plain water—into Wystgahl’s lower windpipe as the old man continued his tirade.

The holder tried to cough and sputtered up some water. Quaeryt imaged more water, into where he thought the man’s lungs were.

Wystgahl staggered, then gasped, tried to speak, coughed up more water, then began to choke and convulse.

Gahlen rushed forward, unable to catch his father as the old man collapsed on the rich maroon and cream of the salon carpet. He turned his father over, half lifting him, then pounding him on the back.

Finally, he lowered the body and stood, facing Quaeryt. “You did it! You made him so upset!” He rushed toward Quaeryt, drawing a poignard and thrusting toward the governor.

The blade slipped aside off the shields, and while Gahlen gaped, Quaeryt imaged a section out of the tang of the blade, so that the weapon snapped with the second thrust.

“Armor…”

“Don’t!” snapped Quaeryt, reinforcing the single word with as much authority as he could order-project.

Gahlen stopped as though he’d run into a stone wall.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Quaeryt tiredly. “I offered your father a decent profit, but he was greedy. He wanted more. In trying to cheat the governor of Montagne, he was cheating Lord Bhayar. He got so angry he died. I’m not interested in pursuing the matter further … unless you make me. Enough people have already died in Extela, and more will likely die across Telaryn with the war to come. You’re now the High Holder. All I’m asking is for you to keep the bargain he didn’t.”

“But you killed him.”

“Oh? Did I ever even touch him? I only told him that he was selfish, greedy, and unreasonable and that I’d deal with you.”

Gahlen was silent.

“Your father sent fifty barrels of flour. Half of it was worthless. You owe another twenty-five barrels, and those had best be good barrels, and so should the remaining two hundred and fifty, as well as the potatoes. I also want a letter of apology from you for your sire’s attempt to cheat Lord Bhayar.”

Gahlen flushed. “After this…?”

“High Holder Wystgahl, and you are now High Holder … as I told your father, had any workingman or factor cheated Lord Bhayar—or you or your father—out of thirty golds, he would lose everything, possibly even his life. I’m only asking for you to fulfill what your father agreed to provide … and an apology. I’m not a High Holder. I’m a former scholar who happens to think that High Holders shouldn’t get away with crimes that would condemn men of lower position to death.”

“He didn’t get away with anything. Say what you will … you killed him.”

Quaeryt wasn’t about to dispute that.
Not that you had much choice, given the circumstances.
He glanced down at the body on the costly carpet. “No … in the end, he didn’t get away with anything. Should he have, just because he was a High Holder?” After a brief pause, Quaeryt went on. “I’m sorry for your loss … because he was your father, and it is your loss. I can’t say I’m sorry for his death. He’d rather have had people starve than settle for a modest profit, and he defrauded Lord Bhayar … and took pleasure in it. That’s neither right nor honorable. Now … if you will excuse me.” He turned and walked out of the holding.

No one said a word.

Once they had ridden out through the gates, Taenyd finally looked at Quaeryt. “What happened, Governor? They all looked at you as though you were the Namer in person.”

“High Holder Wystgahl became incensed when I accused him of fraud and providing weevil-ridden flour. He said that was what I deserved for forcing a sale. I pointed out that he would be making a profit on good flour, but that he’d defrauded Lord Bhayar. He said Lord Bhayar could afford it. I told him he was a greedy old man. He got red in the face, then blue, and collapsed. His son accused me of making him so angry that he died. That’s possible. He wasn’t in good health. But my responsibility is not to allow Lord Bhayar to be cheated.” Quaeryt laughed bitterly. “If you or I had stolen thirty golds from Lord Bhayar … or High Holder Wystgahl, what do you think would have happened to us?”

Taenyd shook his head. “I’d not even want to think about that.”

When Quaeryt returned to the post, it was less than three quints before the evening meal, and he barely had time to go to his study and complete the rough map of Extela he’d been working on—one that showed the undamaged sections of the city, those that would likely need civic patrollers—if and when there were enough patrollers.