Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (42 page)

“He’s a soldier’s soldier. The men—and the officers—would do anything for him. They’d take on the Namer if the governor told them. They know he’d be with them. He’s not a rear-hilltop marshal.”

“I got that impression.” Quaeryt paused. “You know. I think when I go on other patrols I should be wearing green also.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” replied Skarpa. “I should have thought of that. We just haven’t had a scholar out here before.” He frowned. “Weren’t you supposed to go back to Tilbora?”

“No one told me anything. I thought I’d just go back when you did.” The fact that no one had mentioned his return suggested other possibilities. “In another week or so, I ought to be able to ride.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll see what the surgeon says. I need to see more. One patrol—not even one patrol—won’t give me a very good understanding of what you and your men go through.”

“I don’t know about that,” replied Skarpa with a laugh. “You came about as close as anyone to experiencing the worst.”

“Then I need to see the best and what’s neither.”

“Are all scholars so stubborn?”

“No. Only those that have to report back to Lord Bhayar.”

Skarpa stood. “I’ll see you at supper. I need to find out what Taenyd discovered.”

Quaeryt watched the major walk out of the mess. Then he took another swallow of the lager. It wasn’t bitter in his mouth, but the conversation with Skarpa had left a bitter residue in his thoughts.

He definitely needed to figure out a way to improve his shields—and soon.

52

On Jeudi morning, before breakfast, Quaeryt went to find the ranker who doubled as the local tailor, where he reclaimed the once-damaged browns—also washed and pressed. He gratefully paid two coppers, well worth it, and thanked the man. Then, after he ate, he headed out to see if he could work out something with his shields. Although he could use his left arm without more than discomfort, he left it in the sling when he wasn’t using it, because it still pulled on the wound if he didn’t. His first task was to obtain the materials he needed. First, he begged a few sheets of paper from Skarpa’s senior squad leader and an old flour sack from the cooks. Then he found pinecones in the tinder bin.

After that, it took him almost a quint to find the head ostler—in the third stable that he entered.

“I was hoping you could help me. I need about five yards of line, and the same of cord.”

“Line, sir?” The ostler glanced at Quaeryt’s injured arm and at the tattered flour bag that held the paper, pinecones, and thin strips of what might once have been lathing.

Quaeryt concealed a wince. “Line” was the term for sailors. “I’m sorry. That came from my sailing background. Thin rope, stronger than cord, but not the heavy kind used for drays or heavy wagons.”

“We might have some in the tack room, sir. Let’s go see.” The ostler turned.

Quaeryt followed him to the back of the stable and a small room filled with harnesses, spare bridles, traces, and other items he did not recognize hanging everywhere.

“… saw a coil back here the other day…”

Quaeryt waited.

“Here we are.” The ostler glanced back at Quaeryt. “Five yards, you say?”

“If you have it.”

“That we do.” The ostler began uncoiling rope, quickly measuring out five lengths from fingertip to chest and then adding a few spans. A quick cut with a thin, worn, and sharp belt knife, and the ostler handed the small coil to the scholar. “Cord’s over here.”

In short order, Quaeryt also had the cord.

“Is there anything else you need, sir?”

“Do you have something broken, iron or bronze, that I could tie to the end of the rope as a weight?”

“Bound to have something like that here somewhere.” The ostler bent and rummaged through a barrel. “Thought so!” He straightened. “There you go.” He presented Quaeryt with an arc of iron, broken at one end. “Will that do?”

Quaeryt weighed it in his hand. “That’s just what I need. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Quaeryt nodded politely, ignoring the quizzical look from the ostler, then turned and walked out of the stable before heading westward toward the end stable. He stopped suddenly. He realized that the end stable couldn’t be empty, because that was where the officers’ mounts—and his mare—were stabled. He continued to the stable next to the end one, which was empty, and slipped inside. After closing the doors behind himself, he walked down the center until he found what he sought—a beam close to the ceiling around which he could tie one end of the line, and another ceiling beam less than three yards away, with a pulley suspended from it.

Then it took him time to find a ladder, half-hidden against the rear wall under the opening to a hayloft. With his right hand, he dragged the ladder back to the beams. Then he set to work.

When he finished, he had the broken iron half-hoop or harness trace brace or buckle, whatever it had been, tied to the end of the rope that extended from the first beam, suspended about a yard and a half above the stable floor. The cord ran from the weight to the pulley on the other beam and through it and then down to the floor, where Quaeryt had arranged a framework of slats and the pinecones at an angle so that when the pinecones all rolled off the paper on top of the frame, the change in weight would release the end of the cord.

It took him more than a quint to work out the weight that balanced that of the rope and the iron. The device worked, if jerkily, but that was fine because he didn’t want to know when the cord was released.

He flicked one of the pinecones, starting them rolling off the frame, then stepped over to where he’d be in the path of the swinging rope and iron and raised the heavy shields. Several moments later, the iron at the end of the rope banged off the shields.

Quaeryt nodded and reset his contraptions. The second time, he only raised the light shields, concentrating on the feeling when the iron hit the shields—except that it didn’t work because even the light shields slowed the iron enough that it nearly stopped before it reached Quaeryt.

The third time, he raised only the lightest of linked-air shields, and the iron slid through them, but Quaeryt could barely sense anything. He took a deep breath and set up the cumbersome makeshift device once more, using slightly heavier shields.

More than a glass later, he was finally able to sense when the iron hit any level of shield.

Although the physical side of the shield training wasn’t that hard, he was still sweating, and he sat down on the floor and rested for a quint.

Then he stood and stretched, gingerly.

The next step—he hoped—was to see if he could train his reflexes to create heavier shields without his thinking about it if anything touched the outer shields.

Once more, he reset the framework with the pinecones and the end of the cord.

The first time he tried to link the two sets of shields, nothing happened and the iron thumped into his gut. Nor was the second attempt much better. Nor the third.

Maybe you’re looking and anticipating too much.

With that thought in mind, for the fourth attempt, he turned his back … and the heavier shield did form, but too far from his body, and then flicked out of existence, and the iron thumped his lower back.

Quaeryt was sweating again … more heavily, and he was feeling light-headed.

After two more attempts, he gathered up the pieces of his makeshift apparatus and put them in the corner of one of the unused stalls. Even if someone stumbled over them, they wouldn’t know their use.

He smiled. Most likely, they’d think that it was just a pile of junk no one had cleaned up.

Still, while he hadn’t figured out how to make things work enough to protect him, he had proved it was possible.

His steps were slow as he walked toward the mess and another mug of the lager that was beginning to wear on him.

53

By late on Solayi afternoon, just before supper, after four solid days of practice with his ramshackle device, Quaeryt had managed to train his body or his mind or some combination of both to react to any intrusion on light image-created shields, whether he could see it or not. That didn’t prove that his improved shields would work in a combat situation or when he was totally surprised, but he was more hopeful than he had been. He also felt that he needed both more work on them and more time to recover from his injury.

With that thought, as he sat in the room serving as the officers’ mess, he took another swallow of lager. He looked up to see Skarpa and Meinyt seating themselves across from him.

“Scholar … you’ve been off somewhere a lot lately,” offered Meinyt.

“I haven’t left Boralieu. I’ve been thinking, doing some light exercise so my muscles don’t stiffen up. And I’ve been drinking more lager than I ever thought because the surgeon told me to.”

“Can’t go wrong with that advice,” interjected Skarpa.

“I feel like I’ll float away at times.”

“Does it help?” asked Meinyt.

“It can’t be harming him,” pointed out Skarpa. “How many men have you seen take a bolt in the chest and shoulder and be up and walking in a week?”

Quaeryt decided against pointing out that the wound hadn’t been quite as deep as those suffered by others. It had been deep enough, and it still ached, especially when he forgot to use the sling. “How have things been for you two?”

“We never did find the rest of those poachers,” snorted Meinyt. “We may have to go visit Holder Waerfyl personally.”

“That’s something the commander has to decide,” said Skarpa. “He’s not here, and that’s why I was looking for you. You’re a scholar … can you talk about the Nameless?”

“I suppose I could talk about Rholan the Unnamer. Why?”

“We don’t have a regular chorister for services, and the commander usually serves as chorister, or Captain Fyten of the engineers does, but they’ve both gone back to see the governor. The commander knows I talk a lot with Phargos. Before he left, he asked if I’d step in or find someone.” Skarpa shook his head. “I like Phargos, and I might be able to say things like he does, but no one would believe me if I started talking about the Nameless.”

Filling in for a chorister was about the last thing Quaeryt wanted to do. “I could do something for the homily, but I don’t know the service.”

“Gauswn does. He’ll do that. He’s a real believer—he might even have considered being a chorister, I heard—but he thinks it’s improper for a fresh undercaptain to act as a chorister. No one will think that about you because scholars are supposed to know things like that.”

“Am I supposed to give it in Bovarian the way Phargos does, or in Tellan?”

“Out here, even Phargos does it in Tellan. We don’t have two services here. But you speak well in either tongue, I think.”

“I think you’ve twisted my very sore arm far enough, Major,” answered Quaeryt dryly. “I’ll do it.” He paused. “You mean tonight? Where are the services?”

“I mean tonight. I wouldn’t have asked if you looked like you were dragging. We hold services in the main dining hall—just out there.” He pointed through the door to where the troopers were gathered for their meal.

“I should have looked worse,” quipped Quaeryt.

“It’s too late for that now, scholar,” returned Skarpa. “Enjoy your food.”

“Because I won’t enjoy acting as chorister?” Quaeryt shook his head. “I’m going to have to be more careful around you.”

“The captains and undercaptains learn that quickly,” said Meinyt.

Skarpa just laughed.

The mess began to fill, and before long, lager, ale, and platters were before those at the table. The sliced mutton, mashed potatoes, and some kind of gourd, all covered with a brown gravy, were decent, but unsurprisingly, not nearly so good as the food at the Telaryn Palace.

Finally, as the officers’ mess emptied, Quaeryt stood and adjusted the sling. It had been a long day, and his shoulder was throbbing.

“You sure you’ll be all right, scholar?” asked Skarpa.

“I’m a little tired, but I’ll be fine. I don’t talk with my shoulder.” He offered a quick grin.

Less than a quint later, Quaeryt followed Gauswn into the end of the dining hall, where they faced perhaps a hundred rankers and a handful of officers. Quaeryt saw Meinyt and Skarpa in the rear to one side.

After a long pause, the undercaptain stepped forward. He wore a plain white scarf over his undress greens, not nearly so long as those worn by true choristers, but his voice was firm as he began with the traditional greeting. “We gather together in the spirit of the Nameless and to affirm the quest for goodness and mercy in all that we do.”

The opening hymn followed, and it was “Praise Not the Nameless,” but sung in Tellan. That wasn’t surprising, either, since it was one of the better-known hymns. Then came the confession, ending with, “… and deference to You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped.”

Quaeryt murmured “In peace and harmony” with the others, but standing where he was, he didn’t have to offer coins for the offertory basket, for which he was grateful.

Since there was no pulpit, after the offering was collected he just stepped forward. “Good evening,” he offered in Tellan.

“Good evening,” came the murmured reply.

“Under the Nameless all evenings are reckoned as good … but how good … well … it’s not raining, and for that we can all thank the Nameless.”

A low chuckle ran through those assembled.

“A few of you just may have heard about Rholan the Unnamer.” Quaeryt paused, hoping his understatement would at least draw smiles and a few chuckles.

It did, and he went on. “Just before I was posted to Tilbor, I happened to read about Rholan in an ancient tome that might not have been opened since it was written over a century ago. Reading old, old books often doesn’t tell you as much as you hope, but this one, and some of the others, got me to thinking. Rholan is the most famous exponent of the Nameless, yet we know almost nothing about him as a man, as if he tried, in fact, to be as nameless as possible. He was born in Montagne, we think, but do not know for sure, and lived there most of his life. He never traveled more than a two hundred milles from there, and he disappeared after traveling to Cloisonyt in his fifty-third year. Yet his words and acts changed all Lydar.