Rex Regis (55 page)

Justanan nodded thoughtfully, then said, “It’s too bad more officers don’t understand their limitations.”

Quaeryt noted the tense the senior commander used, but merely said, “Power can be very tempting.”

“It can indeed,” replied Justanan with a laugh. “How long do you think it will take us to reach Variana?”

“My thought is roughly three weeks. What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t disagree … unless we get rain.”

From then on, the two talked about details of the journey ahead.

By midafternoon on Meredi, the regiments were approaching Vaestora in good order, and Quaeryt rode out with a squad from first company to request permission from Seliadyn to allow the regiments to stay overnight at the high holding. Even though the spacious barracks would not accommodate all the troopers, except in the most crowded of conditions, Quaeryt did not wish to impose Northern Army on any town as small as Vaestora and such a force would create a certain amount of destruction on any lands where they camped.

As he and fourth squad entered Vaestora from the north, he was again impressed by the order and cleanliness of the town, not to mention the imposing presence of the keep tower of Seliadyn. When he reached the square and rode toward the open gates in the ancient wall, both guards stepped out and waited. He reined up short of them.

“You’re the commander who was here last week or so, aren’t you?” asked the shorter guard.

“That I am. I’d like to see the High Holder.”

“He’s not been well, sir, but it’d be best that you talk with the steward.”

“That’s Wereas, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt and the squad followed the guard at a walk from the gates and across the stone-paved front courtyard to the base of the stone up to the second level and a set of double doors. He reined up, dismounted, and tied the gelding to the nearest bronze hitching rail, while the guard rang the bell on the bronze post.

Wereas, in his black and yellow livery, emerged from the doors at the top of the steps when Quaeryt was halfway up the steps. “Greetings, Wereas.”

“Commander.” The steward inclined his head.

“I was hoping to see the High Holder. I’m returning the Northern Army to Variana and would prefer to camp in the courtyard and barracks for the night.” Quaeryt walked the rest of the way up the steps to the entry.

“He’s not well, sir, but he did leave instructions to admit you when you returned. If you would come with me, sir.” Wereas stepped back through the still-open heavy oak door, then closed it behind Quaeryt.

As Quaeryt followed the steward through the square entry hall to the interior staircase, and then up the green marble steps, he gained the feeling that the entire tower was hushed, almost as if holding its breath. Quaeryt almost caught the heel of his boot on his bad leg twice on the last set of steps, up to the third interior level, one below that where he had met Seliadyn in his study.

“He’s in his sitting room, sir, to the right,” offered Wereas.

As with the study, the sitting room was at the rear of the tower on the north side.

The steward did not knock, but eased the door open. “Commander Quaeryt has returned and is here to see you.”

“Good. Afraid he might not make it.”

Wereas gestured, and Quaeryt entered the sitting room.

The walls were paneled in the same dark wood as the study had been, and the tall and narrow windows held the same pale green silk hangings. The carpet was of a pale green. While there was a small table desk, on which were several folders, Seliadyn sat in a green leather armchair, a dark green blanket across his legs. He wore a sleeveless gray vest over a gray shirt, and his silver hair seemed yellowed from the last time Quaeryt had seen him.

Seliadyn looked to the steward. “A lager for the commander, Wereas.”

The steward nodded, then turned, leaving the door open.

Quaeryt moved to the chair that matched the one in which Seliadyn sat and seated himself, waiting.

“I was not totally truthful with you, Commander. You’ve likely discovered that. I have no heirs. Not even distant ones. I won’t go into my reasons … or the history. My sources tell me that you destroyed the hold house at Fiancryt as well as the submarshal and the last of Kharst’s imagers. Is that true?”

“Three imagers died in the fire that resulted from their actions. So did the submarshal and his senior commander. Lady Myranda fled.”

“Good riddance.” Seliadyn smothered a cough with a black handkerchief. “You’re taking the army back to Variana?”

“All but one regiment.”

“They can stay here tonight. That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

“Partly. I also did wish to see you and thank you for the information you provided the last time. It was most helpful.”

“That was the idea.”

“I know,” replied Quaeryt, “but it still merits thanks.”

“I want a favor.”

“I will do what I can.”

“According to the laws of both Bovaria and Telaryn, Lord Bhayar will appoint my successor … or take my lands as his own. What influence do you have on his choice?”

“I can recommend. At times, he does heed my thoughts.”

“More than at times, I suspect.” Seliadyn coughed again, more violently.

Quaeryt waited.

“I may recover from this flux. I may not. At my age, you never know.” He lowered the handkerchief, then waited as Wereas returned with a tray, on which were two lagers.

The steward tendered the tray to Quaeryt first. Quaeryt took the nearer beaker. Then Wereas extended the tray to Seliadyn.

“All right. I’ll drink it. It can’t hurt, I suppose.” Seliadyn took the beaker, then lifted it and took a small swallow.

After Quaeryt took a swallow of the lager, as good as he remembered, he noted the smallest nod of approval from the steward once Seliadyn had drunk. Then Wereas slipped out of the sitting room, but the door remained ajar, and Quaeryt had no doubt that the steward remained close.

“As I was saying,” the High Holder went on, “I have no heirs. I would not wish that Vaestora become just a source of golds for whoever receives the hold. It is also a hold that can withstand a moderate siege, perhaps more, with the proper High Holder, and that might be valuable to a ruler still consolidating his power.” Seliadyn looked intently at Quaeryt.

“You would like me to prevail upon Lord Bhayar to bestow Vaestora upon someone who would respect the hold and the people of the town as well, someone who would appreciate its history and its capabilities, and someone who would be loyal to him.”

“I thought you would understand. I would hope that it would not go to the younger son of some Telaryn High Holder who would ruin it in years. It is most productive, but that production comes as much from the loyalty of the people as from the lands themselves. Most High Holders take anywhere from one part in three to one in two from their tenants. I have taken but three in twenty and at times as little as one part in ten, and over time I have been richly repaid.”

“I have seen few towns as orderly and as clean as Vaestora,” Quaeryt said.

“You have seen many, have you not?”

“More than I ever wished,” Quaeryt admitted.

Seliadyn started to laugh, but the laugh became a painful and extended bout of coughing. When he finally lowered the handkerchief, he said, “I should not talk more. Will you do what you can for my lands and my people?”

“I will.”

“Good. You had best go. I will put my wishes in a petition as well, to be delivered to Lord Bhayar when it is time.” Seliadyn gestured toward the door.

Quaeryt rose. “Like your steward, I would suggest you drink more of the lager. That might help assure that I do not have to carry out your wishes for some years yet.”

Seliadyn lifted the beaker, but Quaeryt could see that the old man’s hand trembled as he did.

“I will do that, but it will not be years, Commander. I wish you well.” The High Holder took a small swallow and lowered the beaker.

Quaeryt inclined his head, then slipped from the sitting room, still wondering about the history Seliadyn had declined to relate.

As before, Quaeryt did not see Seliadyn again on Meredi evening, or on Jeudi morning, when Northern Army left Vaestora. He did inquire of Wereas about Seliadyn’s health, and the steward replied that the High Holder was no better, but neither was he worse, and that he would prefer not to meet with Quaeryt unless the matter was urgent. While not encouraging, that news was better than it could have been … and Quaeryt had nothing of urgency to impart.

Despite skies that became increasingly cloudy, over the next three days, they made good time, and on Solayi evening, Northern Army camped on the grounds of a long-deserted high holding some fifteen milles south of Ariviana. Less than two days later, by midafternoon, Northern Army had settled into the inns and the buildings around them in Yapres, with Quaeryt again at the Copper Tankard.

When he and Justanan had taken care of the necessities, Quaeryt asked Calkoran to provide a squad and to accompany him on another visit to High Holder Caemren. Less than a glass later, they reined up outside the entry gates.

Once more, there was a single guard standing behind the iron gates and in front of the small guardhouse. While the guard wasn’t the same one who had challenged Quaeryt earlier, he looked at the commander, then offered a resigned look.

“I suppose you want to see the High Holder.” Without waiting for an answer, the guard walked to the middle of the gate, unlocked the chains, and then pulled the gate open.

Quaeryt, Calkoran, and the troopers rode up the stone-paved drive and reined up before the small covered receiving portico. A single functionary stood there, wearing the gray livery with white piping.

“If you’d announce me to High Holder Caemren. I’m Commander Quaeryt.”

In only a few moments, the footman returned with Caemren. Quaeryt was moderately surprised to see the High Holder in just a white shirt and gray trousers, rather than the colorful outfit he had been wearing on Quaeryt’s first visit.

“The word is that you seem to be in charge of the army of the north and that you’re leading the regiments back to Variana. Is that true?” asked the white-haired High Holder.

“You got the word rather swiftly,” replied Quaeryt.

“Since you’re here-again-you might as well come in.” Caemren turned and walked to the door, where he waited.

Quaeryt shook his head, dismounted, and handed his mount’s reins to the ranker who had moved up to take them. He motioned to Calkoran and the two officers walked to the entry.

“This is Subcommander Calkoran. High Holder Caemren.”

Caemren nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Subcommander.” He turned.

The two followed him to the terrace off the small salon on the northwest corner of the main section of the dwelling. All three sat down around the small circular table.

“You’re Pharsi, too, aren’t you, Subcommander?” asked Caemren.

“Khellan,” replied Calkoran.

Caemren nodded and turned to Quaeryt. “What do you want this time?”

“I thought you’d like to know what happened, but you apparently already know some if not all that occurred.”

“I understand that those of Kharst’s imagers who survived persuaded the submarshal to take you on. There’s a rumor that Erion arrived and destroyed them.”

“Let’s just say that their imaging was turned against them and the submarshal and that the hold house burned to the ground.”

“What about Lady Myranda?”

“She escaped. If she ever turns up, I imagine Lord Bhayar will have her executed.”

“That would be too merciful,” replied Caemren, his voice coldly sardonic.

“I wouldn’t know. I never met her. The events around her were less than favorable.”

“They seldom have been.”

“Tell me more about Seliadyn. About what happened to his family.”

“He has never spoken about them. His daughter and his wife died in a boating accident. They were both good swimmers.”

“Kharst’s imagers?”

“That was the supposition. He did not remarry. After his daughter died, he was … different.”

“His people seem very loyal to him,” observed Quaeryt.

“He is known for treating with them fairly. Anyone who succeeds him will need great experience. Seliadyn takes a lower tithe than most High Holders.”

“But if they produce more…”

Caemren smiled. “That blade has more than two edges, Commander, and all of them are sharp.”

“What do you know about Magiian?”

“You think I would know about him?”

“I think you would know about any person of power within fifty or even a hundred milles of Yapres. You could tell me the annual income of the Copper Tankard, I expect, and the wealth of the largest factors in Yapres.”

“I suppose I could come close.”

“Magiian,” prompted Quaeryt.

“He has extensive lands. Except for crops to supply the holding, his tenants plant oilseeds. Most of his flax is for linseed oil, but some goes to a small linen mill. He avoided Kharst. Kharst never paid much attention to him. Magiian cultivated the impression of being the descendant of a grower who stumbled into being a High Holder.”

“And he’s anything but, with the best mills and crop yields?”

Caemren nodded.

“How old is he?”

“Younger than I. We’ve met but a handful of times. I’ve never been to his place. I understand it’s modest.”

“Heirs?”

“He has two sons and two daughters. His wife always pled that she was carrying a child when she was invited to Variana. Since she did have a few, Kharst never pressed.”

Even after asking more questions, Quaeryt still hadn’t learned that much, and he finally asked, “What about you? You’ve avoided talking about your holdings and family.”