Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (50 page)

“I’m getting that feeling.” Quaeryt paused. “Who’s likely to be the best officer here at the post for training? Once you depart, we’ll need more local troopers.”

“I’d try Undercaptain Shanyt. Came up the long way.”

“You already asked around, didn’t you?”

“Now, sir … would I be a decent commander if I didn’t learn the lay of the land?”

Quaeryt grinned, almost laughing at the mock innocence in Skarpa’s voice. Then he shook his head. “Thank you. And have you suggested to him that he start recruiting?”

“I think he might have lined up a score or so…”

Quaeryt was going to miss Skarpa, far more than he’d realized. “I appreciate that. We’ll need them.”

“He’s a good man. Make a good captain.”

In short, promote him, you idiot.
“If you’d have your clerks draw up the papers … if you haven’t already.”

Skarpa extracted several sheets from the folder. “As a matter of fact, sir…”

“And there are several others there as well, I take it?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, sir.”

Quaeryt laughed.

After Skarpa had left, Quaeryt took a deep breath. He’d been kept out of more trouble by a few others—Skarpa, Aextyl, Pharyl, for starters—more times than he wanted to count, and some of those he’d lost or would soon lose. He just hoped he’d learned enough.

After finishing the discouraging business with the master ledger, he decided to take a break and try to come up with at least a few thoughts for a homily. He pushed away the nagging feeling that he should already have paid a visit to meet with Siemprit’s junior chorister.

What was the man’s name?
Quaeryt struggled to recall, then nodded.
Neoryn.

Next week. He’d get to it next week.

Then he tried to think about the homily.

More than two quints later, he finally came up with something, and when he finished, he looked down at the few sentences he had written.

A man I did not know long or well died this past week, but he was a man whom I respected, and who suffered because he was honest and he held to his principles. He was willing to help me up to the day of his death, and he saved me from making several mistakes …

His eyes strayed from the paper on the desk to the study window of the villa, still without hangings, out into the bedraggled remnants of what had once been a garden …

What else can you say?

After a time, he added a few more lines.

He agreed to help me because he thought it was right, not for the fame or fortune that had bypassed him. He will not be lauded, except by me and a few others. Nor will his name be praised unto the generations, outside his family, yet I will remember and respect his dignity and honesty …

Quaeryt nodded. He needed more, but he had a good beginning for the homily.

52

The coach and team that Vaelora had purchased for the villa did arrive on Samedi afternoon, while Quaeryt was still at the post, but he had remembered and brought back the thirty golds to reimburse her. Outside of a scratch or two, the coach was in excellent condition, as were the matched grays … and on Solayi evening Quaeryt and Vaelora rode to the post in the carriage, where Quaeryt again conducted services.

Despite Quaeryt’s worries, Lundi and Mardi came and went with no more than the usual kinds of problems, with three comparatively routine hearings at the Civic Patrol station on Mardi. He did review the preliminary plans for the governor’s building and, based on discussions with Ghaelt and Dhaeryn, requested several changes.

Meredi morning, after checking for dispatches and meeting briefly with Pharyl, and then with Skarpa, he set out for the anomen west of the governor’s residence to meet, of necessity, with Neoryn, the junior chorister, if only to be able to claim that he had done so. He halfway hoped that Neoryn wasn’t even at the anomen.

That was not to be, Quaeryt could tell, almost as soon as he arrived at the anomen, a oblong and featureless domed structure, except for doors and windows, as were all anomens, built of the black stone that formed the walls of so many buildings in Extela. He’d barely tied the mare to one of the ornate iron hitching rings when two men, both wearing black and white choristers’ scarves, appeared on the wide front steps of the building, clearly waiting for him.

“I have no idea how long this will take,” Quaeryt told Venkyl, the senior of the two rankers who had been his escorts.

“We’ll be here, Governor.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt walked along the immaculate stone walkway to the anomen and then up the wide steps to meet the two. He smiled as warmly as he could. “Good morning, Chorister Siemprit. I told you I’d be here.”

“So you did. I had wondered if we might be seeing you, Governor.” Siemprit gestured to the younger man with him, who looked to be about Quaeryt’s age. “This is Neoryn, my assistant chorister.”

Neoryn was black-haired with brilliant blue eyes and an oval face that conveyed innocence. He inclined his head politely and said, “Governor,” in a resonant and mellow voice that doubtless could fill an anomen with ease.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Neoryn.”

“And I you, sir.”

“You must come in and see the anomen,” said Siemprit.

The smoothness of his tone made Quaeryt check his shields, although he couldn’t imagine a chorister attempting anything. Yet …
You don’t trust him.
“I’d be happy to.”

Siemprit turned and walked back through the open double doors, doors of finely finished and well-polished goldenwood, Quaeryt noted in passing. The plain bronze handles shimmered in the warm spring sunlight.

Inside, the floor was of polished black marble, while the walls of the spacious vestibule were of plain white plaster, with simple goldenwood floor moldings. Twin black marble archways afforded access to the sanctuary from the vestibule. The sanctuary was a good thirty yards long and fifteen wide. The dais at the far end was of black marble as well, but the pulpit was of polished goldenwood.

“It’s very simple in an impressive way,” commented Quaeryt.

“As is the Nameless,” replied Siemprit.

“Unfortunately, life isn’t always that simple.” Quaeryt wanted to hear what the chorister might say in return.

“We often make life too complicated, Governor. A good remedy for that complexity is acting in accord with the basic and simple precepts of the Nameless.”

When one can … without creating even greater harm and complexity.
Quaeryt did not voice that thought but only nodded as he stopped short of the dais and studied the workmanship of the marble and the pulpit—and the recently painted white plaster walls behind the dais. Two narrow and high windows provided light.

“I imagine you’d like a few moments with Neoryn, Governor.”

“That would be helpful.”

“I will leave you two.” Siemprit smiled beatifically. “I will be in my study if you need me further.”

“Thank you.”

“We could go to my study,” suggested Neoryn.

“Lead the way.”

The assistant chorister’s study was twice the size of Quaeryt’s study at the post, but simple in the same fashion as the rest of the anomen, with the polished black marble floor, goldenwood moldings around the door and windows, and the white plaster walls. A desk, with a chair behind it, and three other chairs, a file chest, and a bookcase comprised the furnishings. All were plain and of polished goldenwood, and all showed the finest in crafting and workmanship.

Quaeryt took one of the chairs.

Neoryn took one of the others, but not the one behind the desk. “Chorister Siemprit said you might be looking for a chorister for … your anomen, Governor.”

“He probably told you I’ve been acting as chorister. It’s not my calling, but I’ve done the best I can. There have been so many pressing demands that, until now, I haven’t had time to look into the possibilities for a chorister, or frankly to come up with the funding to refurbish the anomen and support a chorister.”

“Would not the collections … help?”

“They might, but the collections were used to buy food and clothing for the poorest women in Extela. It seemed that they needed that help more than the troopers needed a refurbished anomen.”

Neoryn nodded. “No one could find fault with helping the poor.”

In spite of himself, Quaeryt had the feeling that Neoryn actually meant what he said, as opposed to Siemprit, whose every word he doubted.
But is that because Neoryn’s voice conveys sincerity, whether he is or not?

Quaeryt didn’t have an answer to that question. “There will be times when there are very few congregants, and even upon those infrequent occasions when there are more, the collections will not be large.”

“There is no anomen near the post. Could it not be opened to those who live nearby, and not just be limited to those stationed at the post?”

“That might be possible.” Neoryn’s suggestion made sense. Quaeryt just hadn’t thought of that option, most likely because he hadn’t wanted to think at all about dealing with the anomen and finding a chorister. “Why do you think you might be the right chorister for such an anomen?”

“I cannot say that I would be the right chorister, Governor. I am a chorister, and I would do my best. Whether a chorister is best for any anomen depends as much on the congregants as upon the chorister.” Neoryn smiled crookedly. “Part of a good chorister’s task is to persuade those who come to look beyond what they wish to see and hear without offending them so much that they do not return.”

Quaeryt did not reply immediately, because while he certainly recognized the truth of what Neoryn said, he also realized that what the chorister said applied, in many ways, to what he was trying to do as governor. The problem was that, in governing, one had to do things for the common good that were often not popular or acceptable to those with one kind of power or another. And sometimes, the law worked against justice, as in the cases of Wystgahl and Lysienk, something that few wanted to acknowledge, even as they bemoaned injustices either created by the very laws they supported or ignored by those laws.

“You disagree, Governor?”

“No. I was thinking that your words applied to more than being a chorister.” Quaeryt smiled. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I don’t know that there’s anything special about me. I was born in Ilyum…”

Quaeryt listened, occasionally asking questions, while Neoryn explained how he’d come to be a chorister. In spite of how little Quaeryt trusted Siemprit, he couldn’t help but think that Neoryn actually might make a good chorister … just about anywhere.

But why does Siemprit want so much for you to offer a position to Neoryn? Because he’s what Siemprit isn’t, and Siemprit doesn’t want his congregation to find out? Or is there something about Neoryn that you’re not seeing?

In the end, Quaeryt made no commitment, except that he would be in touch in the next few weeks.

He rode back to the post, still thinking about the questions his meeting had raised.

53

By Samedi morning Quaeryt had still received no dispatches from Bhayar. Because Samedi was the thirty-fifth of Avryl, the last day of the month, it was beginning to look more and more as if Third Regiment might actually remain in Extela until the fifteenth of Mayas. Since Quaeryt had heard nothing from Bieryn, he was getting the feeling that the advocate wanted no part of becoming a justicer. Quaeryt couldn’t say that he blamed the man. Perhaps, at least, he could consult with Bieryn about the advocates who had put their names forward for the position … if he ever had time to spend a day riding out to see the advocate.

On the other hand, Pharyl was reporting success in both recruiting and initial training of patrollers, and Ghaelt was working on getting together the crafters necessary to construct the governor’s building … and there were no more complaints on Samedi morning about the lack of cheap or free flour.

Quaeryt left the post earlier than he otherwise might have on a Samedi, although most military posts gave most of the men Samedi afternoons off, as well as all of Solayi—except, of course, those posts engaged in dealing with rebellions or war. It was slightly before third glass when he stepped onto the portico of the villa.

“Good afternoon, Governor,” offered Shenna, clearly preparing to leave for the day. “Lady Vaelora is upstairs preparing.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt inclined his head slightly. “Have you found other sources of provisions?”

“Yes, sir. They are much more reasonable, and so are those who purvey them.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“So was Lady Vaelora.”

“She’s quite pleased with all the help you’ve provided.”

“I’m pleased to be of assistance.” With a slight bow to Quaeryt, Shenna said, “Good day, sir,” and headed down the steps to the drive and then up toward the street.

Quaeryt turned and made his way into the villa, glancing in at the now perfectly respectably furnished receiving parlor and then at his study. The doors to the formal dining room were closed, since that chamber remained empty—finding a suitable table and chairs for a reasonable price had proved impossible … so far.

The master dressing chamber was where Quaeryt found Vaelora, who had just donned the same gown she had worn to the last ball in Tilbora.

“You look wonderful.”

“It’s too dressy, but nothing else is right, either. If there’s a ball here, I’ll have to wear this again, and hope that Aramyn and his guests tonight won’t say anything … unless I can find another good seamstress.”

“Shenna might know one.”

“She knows the same ones Grelyana knows.”

Quaeryt wasn’t about to address that issue. “I’ll wash up and be ready before long.”

“Your best browns are laid out, with the dress jacket.”

“Thank you.”

“Alsyra did that.”

“But you told her, and I appreciate that.”