Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (69 page)

While the next two barges weren’t that close together, Quaeryt worried because the remainder of the barges were far more closely clustered.

“Voltyr, take the second barge!” Quaeryt ordered.

Voltyr concentrated, but nothing happened—except that the cannoneers finally successfully targeted the third barge, which exploded in a hail of fire and fragments. Yet the second barge was already past the middle of the parapet, and the tillerman had fastened the rudder lever and bent to light the fuse. The Bovarian straightened and then jumped off the barge, heading toward the southern pier that rose out of comparatively shallow water. Even so, if the pier went …

Quaeryt imaged two small chunks of red-hot iron, and then a third.

A flash of light-headedness followed.
Somehow imaging iron over water takes more effort.
Another aspect of imaging that he hadn’t known or counted on.

He watched the second barge, then took a deep breath as it exploded—before he looked back upriver, only to see three more barges, almost abreast of each other, but separated enough that the explosion of one wouldn’t trigger the explosion of another. Gouts of water sprouted across the river, but none struck the next group of barges. Another round of shells was equally ineffective, except one cannonball struck close enough to the middle barge to send spray over the Bovarian guiding it.

“Shaelyt! Try for the barge on the far side.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Desyrk … the middle one, and Akoryt, the nearest to us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt turned to the oldest imager. Baelthm was actually shaking. “Don’t worry, the explosions won’t reach us here.”
Not unless it’s a misaimed shell from our own cannon crews.
“I want you to be ready to deal with any of the next barges that come close to this side of the river.”

“Can I try hot silver? Silver’s easier for me than iron.”

“You can certainly try it first. All I care about is getting metal hot enough to fire the powder.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt turned his attention to the raft of barges. The one closest to the bridge was the one nearest the south side of the river. He glanced to Shaelyt, intently looking out at the river, hopefully concentrating on the barge aimed at the far bridge pier. The tillerman had fastened the rudder and had stooped to light the fuse when the barge flared into light, flinging the body of the hapless Bovarian skyward and then into the river.

Shaelyt shivered, but straightened.

The cannoneers bracketed one of the barges farther upriver, and after several misses hit the craft with two shells and enough force that the steersman jumped from the stern and the barge began to sink … without exploding.

Desyrk’s face was drawn, but little shivers struck the oilcloth waterproof of the barge he’d been assigned. Nothing happened.

Quaeryt wondered if he should offer unseen assistance when two things happened. The barge exploded, and Desyrk grasped at the stone parapet before his knees buckled. Voltyr managed to partly catch Desyrk and ease him to the stone before returning his attention to the river.

The barge assigned to Akoryt exploded. Quaeryt didn’t see it happen, just the fire and remnants, but he didn’t think it had been a cannon shell that had accomplished the destruction. From somewhere, another barge pushed through that smoke, and Quaeryt called out, “Threkhyl! The lead barge!”

Then he saw another barge, one that had escaped his notice, hugging the north edge of the river, a course that kept it shielded from one of the cannon emplacements. He stepped forward, to Baelthm’s shoulder and pointed. “Baelthm … you take the barge headed this way, but don’t try to image until it’s right below us.” Quaeryt just hoped that the older imager could account for at least one barge.

“Got it!” announced Threkhyl, triumphantly.

“Voltyr! The next one!” Quaeryt watched as Voltyr straightened his shoulders, then waited.

Voltyr’s target barge exploded.

Quaeryt smiled.

Baelthm was the next imager to collapse, right as the barge that passed almost directly below the rampart exploded.

One barge, and he’s finished. But hot silver does work.
Quaeryt scanned the river.

“Akoryt! That one!” Quaeryt gestured.

Akoryt concentrated on his second target … and crumpled. Quaeryt looked to the barge he’d assigned Akoryt, then imaged his own hot iron. After a long moment the barge went up in fragments.

A flash of pain seared through Quaeryt’s eyes, followed by burning tears, such a flood that he could see nothing until he blotted them with his sleeve.

“Shaelyt! Get that lead barge.”

While the barge went up in smoke, and little flame, the young imager leaned forward over the parapet and vomited, then remained slumped there.

Quaeryt scanned the river. Eight barges remained.
Seven,
he corrected himself as the cannon claimed another barge. But of the imager undercaptains, only Voltyr and Threkhyl remained standing.

“Voltyr … can you do another? The one with the black splotch on the oilcloth?”

“I’ll … try.” Voltyr’s face was pale, but he turned back toward the river.

The splotched barge exploded, and Voltyr sat down on the stone, holding his head in his hands. “Can’t see…”

“That’s all right. Just rest.” Quaeryt stepped up to Threkhyl. “Try for the one in the middle of the river.”

“Two of them there.”

“The one farthest downriver … closest to the bridge.”

Sweat poured down the face of the ginger-bearded imager. Then his face went lax.

Quaeryt barely managed to catch him and lower him to the stone.

Quaeryt concentrated on the lead barge … and watched it explode and then sink through burning tears. He took a deep breath, then looked to the next barge, imaging just two small chunks of iron.

This time, the pain was so intense that it was several moments before he could see anything at all.
Iron over water … why so frigging hard. Think the Namer was blocking you.
Absently, he almost smiled, knowing that he hardly believed in the Namer, but the smile ended before it began as a second wave of pain knifed through his eyes.

He took as deep a breath as he could manage, then imaged again.

A quick wave of blackness hit him, and he had to reach out to the stone parapet to steady himself. When he could see again, there were still three barges on the river, two in the middle, and aiming for the isle that held the center pylon.

One was already close to a hundred yards from the isle, where the cannon could not be trained on it. Quaeryt forced himself to concentrate again.

This time the blackness was worse, and his guts twisted inside himself.

Two left … just two.

He managed to image two more small chunks of iron, then grasped the stone as blackness and nausea swept over him. The tears in his eyes were like red-hot pokers. When he finally straightened, he barely could keep himself from staggering, unable to focus his eyes on the last of the barges. By the time his eyes cleared, the craft was less than twenty yards from the isle.

If you image now …

He watched helplessly as the last barge grounded on the rock from which the central bridge pylon rose.

CRUMMPTT!
A column of flame and metal shot upward.

Through the pain and tears that filled his eyes, Quaeryt winced.
One last friggin’ barge … and you couldn’t do anything in time.
He just stood there as stones rained down from the center span of the bridge, except there were not as many as he had expected.

He blotted his eyes, trying to see the damage.

Finally, he could make out that while there was a hole in the span, at least half, if not more, of the roadway appeared to remain. Repairs might be possible comparatively quickly … at least repairs allowing troops to use the bridge.
Maybe.

He glanced around him. Voltyr was rubbing his eyes. Shaelyt had pushed himself away from the parapet, although he appeared pale. Threkhyl was groaning as he rolled over, pushed himself onto his knees, and then staggered erect.

Quaeryt swallowed back bile, then spoke. “Voltyr … you’re in better shape than the rest. Help the others. I’ll be back in a moment.” He paused. “Everyone here did the best he could, and we managed to destroy most of the barges. You did well. Voltyr … for those who didn’t hear that, tell them that if they come around before I return.”

He turned slowly, trying not to show any unsteadiness, and walked toward the raised platform where Bhayar stood, still surveying the river.

Were there more barges coming?
Quaeryt turned and scanned the river, much as his eyes and head throbbed, but the waters were empty, except for what looked to be one of the towboats, a good mille to the west. He turned back and continued toward the platform.

Bhayar stepped around two officers and then walked down to meet Quaeryt.

“Between us and the cannon, we got all but one, sir.”

The Lord of Telaryn nodded.

“We ran out of imagers and time before they ran out of barges,” Quaeryt added.

“The bridge looks to be passable,” Bhayar said. “Or it will be when the engineers finish immediate repairs.” He paused. “I didn’t think you could do half what you did. Kharst sent twenty-one barges. Undercaptain Sehaak counted six barges taken out by cannon, and fourteen by your imagers.”

“I wasn’t counting,” Quaeryt said.
Except that we took out fifteen or sixteen.
Bhayar’s face kept blurring, in between the flashes of light.

“I had that feeling. All those lost barges are going to stop a lot of upriver trading in Bovaria.” Bhayar laughed, although his voice contained a trace of bitterness. “We need to get your officers some rest and food. I didn’t realize it was quite that much work.”

“We had to image red-hot iron into the powder in the barges. Imaging iron across water seems to take much more effort than anyone thought.”

“Who thought…? You did, didn’t you?”

“The powder would have smothered a lit candle or flame.”

“You don’t look much better than your men, Quaeryt. Go take care of them.”

“Yes, sir.” Quaeryt turned and forced himself to walk back toward the undercaptains, trying not to limp too much.

73

Obviously acting under Bhayar’s orders, Deucalon ordered a major to find and assign a small chamber where the undercaptains could sleep on Mardi night. Quaeryt had a tiny chamber to himself with a pallet bed, almost directly under the parapets from which they had imaged. He collapsed onto that bed almost immediately after returning from the evening meal in an overcrowded mess.

On Meredi morning, he woke well before sunrise, fully alert. He glanced around the chamber he’d barely taken in the day before, noting that it was both bare and spare, with the only furnishings being the pallet bed, a chair, and a writing desk with a single drawer. He walked over to the desk and opened the drawer partway. It appeared empty, but when he pushed it closed, he felt something move. He opened it all the way, to discover a leather-bound volume at the back, so small that it was little more than the length of his hand from wrist to his middle fingertip. The volume was so covered in dust that when he lifted it from the drawer, gently as he did, dust flew upward and everywhere, and Quaeryt sneezed time after time.

When he finally controlled his sneezing, he carefully removed the remainder of the dust and then, more curious than ever, opened the volume, which bore no title on the cover or spine, to the title page. It read,
Rholan and the Nameless.
There was no author’s name given, either there or on or behind the frontispiece. Finding that strange and intriguing, he moved to the small window, where there was more light, and began to read the opening page.

All know of the words of Rholan and his thoughts and observations, as well as the precepts he formulated in support of the Nameless. Yet for all those precepts, and the wisdom behind them, few, if any, have dared voice or write one fact. There is no proof that there is a Nameless. There is also no proof that there is not a Nameless, but proving a negative is effectively impossible, particularly when one speaks of a deity whose invisible and unnameable presence and voice have never been seen or heard, except by those claiming to be its prophets.

For these reasons, over the years, I have made thoughts and observations about the Nameless, the Namer, Rholan, and others, and since the Nameless is without nomen, so will I remain as well. For the interested reader or the casual peruser, I hope you will find what follows thought-provoking, informative, or at the least entertaining.

Quaeryt stopped reading and examined the small volume more closely. There was no date anywhere, only the words “Cloisonyt, Tela,” which indicated the volume had been written before Hengyst had conquered Tela and that the writer had likely lived in the time of Rholan or close to that time. The leather was relatively soft, but clearly older, but the binding had been painstakingly done, and the text had been carefully hand-scripted, suggesting that there were few copies of the volume. Indeed, he might be holding the only one.

He turned to the second chapter of the volume.

In practical terms, Rholan has become synonymous with the worship of the Nameless. Therefore, to understand the appeal and growth of the cult of the Nameless, one must begin with Rholan. Already, the word has begun to spread that the man was mysterious and unknowable. He was neither. He was a physically unprepossessing scholar, the bastard son of High Holder Niasaen of Tela, possessed of a deep, melodic, and mesmerizing voice and an intellect surpassed only by his own sense of destiny …

Quaeryt looked at the book again. He couldn’t believe what he held in his hand. It might technically belong to the Lord of Telaryn, but Quaeryt was going to keep the volume with him, at least until he had read it all the way through. He slipped it into his gear bag and then began to dress for the day.