Antiagon Fire

10

Quaeryt woke up with a start, lying on his back. He could not move, except to breathe, and his breath was a thin white cloud above him that crystallized into fine needles of ice that stabbed at the flesh of his face as they solidified and fell. The chill seeped over him like ice water, but without any sense of wetness as it bit into his exposed flesh.

Standing in the ice mist facing him were white figures, assemblages of bones, angular skeletons. The sightless eyeholes of the skulls looked at him, accusingly. As he lay there, Quaeryt became aware that standing on each side of where he lay were men in the blue-gray uniforms of Bovaria. Each Bovarian trooper was coated in ice, and each stared down at him, as if to demand a reason why he stood there, frozen and immobile.

“No…” Quaeryt could barely choke out the words. “No…”

Then … the skeletons and the ice-covered troopers faded away, and Quaeryt lay in the icy sheets of the wide bed in the canal boat’s sleeping chamber, with Vaelora’s arms and warmth around him.

“Dearest … dearest…”

“I’m here,” mumbled Quaeryt.

“The windows … They’re coated with ice.” Vaelora wrapped her arms even more tightly around Quaeryt. “Another terrible dream, dearest?”

“I was frozen in ice … again. This time … there were skeletons, bones of ice, and they were all looking at me.”

“Bones, skeletons?”

“Yesterday, when we repaired the canal, we discovered bones, bones of the workers who died building it and who were buried under the walls and the bottom of the canal.”

“You didn’t say anything about that last night.”

“No,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to think about it.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with them.”

“No … but I couldn’t help thinking about how they died for a purpose. Have the thousands I’ve killed, more than those Kharst and his sire killed in building the canal, died for any real purpose?”

“You can’t think that way, dearest. You can’t.”

“I keep telling myself that. I keep saying I’ve had to do what I’ve done, but sometimes I’m not very good at persuading my dreams to consider things that way.” Quaeryt shivered.

“Thousands would have died if you hadn’t done what you did. In the end, it might have gone the other way, and thousands more in Telaryn might have died. Bhayar is far more merciful than Kharst ever was. Neither he nor Father nor Grandsire killed thousands to build canals. They didn’t employ assassins to kill uncooperative High Holders.”

Quaeryt sat up slowly, looking around the sleeping cabin. The frost that had coated the inside of the shutters and the paneled walls was beginning to melt, but the air was still far cooler than it should have been, even in late fall. “Are you all right?”

“Me? I’m fine.” She paused. “Are you?”

“I will be … thanks to you.” He turned and put his arms around her.

Somewhat later, after Quaeryt had stopped shivering and both were dressed, they sat across from each other at the narrow table in the salon, sipping tea and finishing the remnants of egg toast drizzled with an apple-berry syrup.

“I wonder how Skarpa is doing in finding supplies in Eluthyn,” mused Quaeryt.

“He won’t be having that much difficulty. It would be rather hard for factors to deny someone with nine regiments.” She paused. “Didn’t you get a message while I was dressing?”

“I did. It just said that he had established quarters in the north of Eluthyn and that the town was calm. The factors wouldn’t cause problems, but purchasing their supplies could be hard on the town if there aren’t High Holders with supplies. I should have mentioned that. Then…”

“Then what?”

“Purchasing supplies from either holders or factors will drive the costs of goods up here, no matter how it’s done.”

“There are costs to war that no ruler can pay.” Vaelora smiled. “I have no doubts Submarshal Skarpa will have done what he can, dearest. If he hasn’t, you can always go to the High Holders. You have a way with them.”

Quaeryt made a sour face. “Just another form of coercion.”

“All power is a form of coercion,” she pointed out.

“It is,” he agreed, “but the problem is that you can’t get much done without power, and the less power you use, in whatever form, the longer it takes to get things done. The more you use, the more likely people are going to get hurt or killed.”

“Sometimes, using more quickly hurts fewer people than not acting.” She looked at him. “A man who doesn’t act can claim he didn’t do anything to hurt people, but what happens if more people die because he doesn’t want blood on his hands?”

“I understand that argument all too well, dear. It’s why I have nightmares.”

“No … you have nightmares because you understand the costs of power. Those who don’t sleep soundly. You’ve often wondered why Bhayar is up so early every day. It’s because he worries himself awake.”

Quaeryt hadn’t even considered that, he had to admit.

“Now … dearest … shall we prepare to ride to Eluthyn?”

By way of an answer, Quaeryt stood and extended his hand to Vaelora.

Two quints later, as they rode westward on the towpath, escorted by first squad from first company, Quaeryt looked at the canal water level, which seemed to be almost as high as it had been before the breach-until they reached the closed water gate. While water was filling the space between the easternmost lock and the water gate, it was less than a yard deep, needing another yard before it reached a level equal with that behind the emergency water gate to the east.

Before long, they began to ride past more and more cots set in the fields, both to the north and the south of the canal, and then the towpath was bordered by warehouses and factorages, stretching for the several hundred yards leading to the first lock just east of where the canal crossed the Phraan River. The water level remained about a yard deep, and most of the canal boats tied to the bollards on the canal wall tilted slightly one way or the other, indicating that the water had not yet risen enough to lift them off the bottom of the canal.

They rode up the ramps beside the two locks, both empty of boats, and then to where the canal crossed the Phraan River. The river was narrower than even the canal, and Kharst’s engineers had resolved the problem of crossing the river simply. They’d just created a stone culvert under the canal, so that where the canal crossed the river, it was effectively a stone tube above the culvert.

To the west of the river, the canal widened to almost twenty yards across for close to half a mille, and canal boats were tied end to end and two deep for most of that distance. A hundred yards ahead, a large stone plaza extended north from the canal towpath, and beyond it a wide paved boulevard, the first paved street or road Quaeryt had seen since leaving Variana. He gestured to the squad leader and Vaelora, then turned the mare north and led the others across the plaza. Because it was Samedi, a market day, there were carts and stalls and vendors set up all around the plaza. Quaeryt also noted more than a few men in the garb of boatmen, but that was to be expected, given that Eluthyn was a stop on the canal and that more than the normal number of canal boats were tied up because of the breach in the canal.

More than a few people glanced at the uniformed riders, particularly those closer to the center of the plaza as they edged back from the armed troopers, but most soon looked away once it was clear that the riders were passing through the plaza.

“They don’t seem terribly worried,” said Vaelora quietly.

“Most likely because of the way Skarpa handled things.” Quaeryt’s words were supported by the fact that he saw no Telaryn patrols riding the boulevard. If the people in Eluthyn had accepted Bhayar’s rule, patrols were not called for unless there were disturbances.

Beyond the plaza the boulevard gradually narrowed, although there remained enough space for several wagons abreast. The shops and crafting establishments that stood back of the wide stone sidewalks were modest, but well kept. Quaeryt noticed two coppersmiths in the space of a long block, as well as a silversmith.

“You! The Telaryn officer!”

Quaeryt turned and reined up the mare, gesturing for the squad to halt. Then he rode over to a gray stone building on the east side of the boulevard, roofed with gray slate, old enough that the slate tiles were green with moss in places. There on the limestone steps stood a heavyset man in a stylish gray coat and matching trousers.

“You had a question?” asked Quaeryt, looking at the older man, who was likely half a head taller than Quaeryt himself.

“What are you doing here? You and all the other Telaryn troops? The war’s over, isn’t it? We agreed to accept your lord’s rule.”

“You haven’t heard?” asked Quaeryt mildly. “Although Lord Bhayar defeated Rex Kharst at Variana over a month ago, not all parts of Bovaria have been as agreeable as you have. As for why we’re here, we’re in the vanguard of the Southern Army headed for Ephra. Some regiments will be posted there to watch Autarch Aliaro’s forces. Some others will be heading to the lands that were once Khel, since they have not yet agreed to Lord Bhayar’s terms. The troopers here will not remain long, most likely only another day … unless there are severe storms.” Quaeryt smiled politely. “Might I ask your name, sir?”

“My name is mine, not yours.”

Quaeryt refrained from sighing. While image-projecting both absolute authority and well-meaning friendliness, he spoke again. “I certainly mean you no harm, sir, but as an officer of Lord Bhayar, I cannot accept the way in which you replied. So I will offer my name and ask once more for yours. I am Commander Quaeryt Rytersyn, in command of the Eleventh and Nineteenth Regiments. You are?”

The large man paled slightly, then swallowed. “Grekial D’Factorius, Commander.”

“Thank you. I wish you well, Factor Grekial. Good day.” With a nod Quaeryt turned the mare and rode back to where he rejoined Vaelora.

“You were powerfully mannered, dearest,” she murmured.

“I wish I had not been required to do so.”

“He will remember both your power and your forbearance.”

Quaeryt certainly hoped so.

After several blocks the shops gave way to two-story dwellings, and then to those of one story, and before long they were nearing what looked to be the northern end of Eluthyn proper. Ahead was a squad of Telaryn troopers, heading southward, with an undercaptain in the lead.

“Commander! Sir!” The undercaptain rode forward and reined up as Quaeryt signaled his own troopers to a halt.

“Yes, Undercaptain?”

“We just left the submarshal, sir, with a dispatch for you.” The officer handed a folded and sealed paper to Quaeryt.

Quaeryt broke the seal and read the message.

Commander-

We have availed ourselves of the generosity of High Holder Cleotyr.

He has hopes that he might make your acquaintance and that of Lady Vaelora … if such is possible.

Underneath the brief lines was Skarpa’s signature.

Quaeryt handed the missive to Vaelora, who read it and handed it back.

“Lead on, Undercaptain,” said Quaeryt.

“Yes, sir!” The undercaptain turned his mount, and called out orders to his squad, his voice enthusiastically cheerful. “To the rear, ride!”

“He is most cheerful,” observed Vaelora, easing her mount closer to Quaeryt’s mare, so much that their boots nearly brushed.

“Of course. We saved him a ride of more than ten milles, and he can report success.”

“I’m not dressed for calling on High Holders.”

“We don’t need to ride seven milles back and then another seven milles to return here,” he pointed out reasonably.

“I’m only wearing good riding clothes,” murmured Vaelora.

“What else would you be wearing for riding?” he replied, adding in a voice below a whisper, “That kind of riding, anyway.”

“Dearest…”

Quaeryt did not wince at the icily exasperated tone, but he did manage to grin.

“You are impossible.”

“That is quite likely, as you well know.”

Ahead of them, a trooper galloped away, heading northward along the road that had become merely packed clay beyond the edges of Eluthyn.

No doubt to tell Skarpa that we’re on our way. Quaeryt glanced toward Vaelora.

She looked straight ahead, clearly refusing to look in his direction, although he thought he detected the faintest hint of a smile at the corners of her lips.

After riding another mille or so, the undercaptain and his squad rode through a set of gates guarded by a squad of foot troopers. Quaeryt and Vaelora and their troopers followed.

The graveled drive that led from the dull red-brick entry gates with their black iron grillwork toward the hold house curved through gently rising grounds that were largely meadows, although Quaeryt wasn’t totally sure about that because much of the grass had been flattened, either by winds or late and heavy rain. Several hundred yards back from the drive on each side rose tall trees, mainly oaks, set in what was clearly parkland, for there was little undergrowth.

Nearly half a mille up the drive was the hold house, a moderately sprawling two-story structure constructed largely of the same dull red brick as the gates, with limestone cornices, arches, and window ledges.

Skarpa was standing in the midday shade under the small covered portico.

“I had hoped you might appear,” he offered, looking to Vaelora and adding, “and especially you, Lady Vaelora.”

“How could we not?” replied Vaelora brightly.

Quaeryt merely nodded as he dismounted and handed the mare’s reins to the nearest ranker, before moving to offer a hand to Vaelora in dismounting. As usual, she needed no assistance, but took his hand, if putting no weight at all on it while alighting on the lowest step of the brick and stone steps up to the main entry.

“High Holder Cleotyr and his wife are most hopeful that you will accept their hospitality for midday refreshments,” Skarpa added.

“We would be delighted,” announced Vaelora, “although we are dressed for riding.” She did not glance sideways at Quaeryt, although he felt that she did.

“I am quite certain that they understand you are traveling, Lady. I assure you that you look beautiful.”

“You are most kind.”

“No. I’m honest. Your husband knows that.”

Quaeryt grinned. “I told her that she was beautiful in riding clothes. She didn’t believe me.”

“She should. You’re too honest for your own good, Quaeryt.” With that, Skarpa turned and led them up the low steps to the entry doors, opened by a footman in maroon livery.

Waiting in the square receiving hall beyond the entry foyer were a man and a woman. The man was likely five or six years older than Quaeryt, and his wife close to the High Holder’s age. Both immediately inclined their heads as Skarpa, Quaeryt, and Vaelora halted.

“High Holder Cleotyr, Lady Cleonie, might I present Commander Quaeryt and his wife Lady Vaelora? She is the sister of Lord Bhayar, as you may recall.”

The faintest look of puzzlement crossed the face of the ample High Holder as he looked at Vaelora, but his eyes widened as he beheld Quaeryt, especially after he had removed his visor cap and tendered it to the footman.

By comparison, his petite wife smiled warmly and stepped forward immediately, inclining her head. “Lady Vaelora, you and your husband grace us with your presence.”

“We are pleased to be here, and you are most kind to receive us with so little notice,” replied Vaelora.

“It is not kindness, but what you are due,” added Cleotyr. “Come … we should retire to the salon while refreshments are made ready.” He stepped aside and gestured toward the larger of the three corridors leading from the receiving hall, the one that led straight back.

Lady Cleonie and Vaelora led the way, followed by the three men, to an oblong chamber with large square windows set waist high in paneled light oak walls and comprised of leaded panes that looked to be even older than those in the hold house of the late High Holder Paitrak. Cleonie settled herself on a loveseat upholstered in a green velvet, a velvet that had seen its youth before Quaeryt was born, he suspected. Vaelora sat beside her.

Cleotyr did not sit, but moved to a carved oak sideboard and turned. “I can offer you a lovely white wine, an exuberant red, or some of the best amber lager in Bovaria.”

“The white, if you please,” said Vaelora.

“I must say that I’d prefer the best amber lager in Bovaria. Good lager is even harder to find than outstanding vintages,” noted Quaeryt.

“Ah … a man after my own heart.”

“The lager, if you would,” added Skarpa.

Cleotyr nodded to the footman who stood at the end of the sideboard, then gestured to the wooden chairs, with seats and backs upholstered in the green velvet, set in a semicircle, with a low table midway between the loveseat and the chairs.

Quaeryt took the chair across from Cleonie, Skarpa the one facing Vaelora, and the High Holder the one between them.

“Quite a surprise to have such distinguished personages appearing without notice here in Eluthyn,” offered the burly Cleotyr, shifting his weight in the chair and glancing toward Skarpa. “We have not seen such in many years.”

In turn, Skarpa looked to Quaeryt.

“Many things may occur without notice for some time to come,” said Quaeryt. “Lord Bhayar has no wish to unsettle the High Holders, factors, and people any more than necessary, but he also will make changes, and some of those changes may come with brief notice.”

“What kind of changes might those be?” Cleotyr’s voice was pleasant, but held an undertone.

“There are always changes when those in power change,” replied Quaeryt. “Some will happen just because Lord Bhayar is in power. I suspect that merchants along the River Aluse will find it easier and less costly to use the river ports in the cities of old Telaryn, for example, and traders and merchants will find more places to sell goods now that Telaryn and Bovaria are no longer enemies.”

“And do you anticipate changes in the laws of the land?”

“There will doubtless be some. Lord Bhayar would not wish to have to administer one set of laws in one place, and another somewhere else. How those changes to a more consistent set of laws will be made … that I could not tell you, since I doubt Lord Bhayar has yet had the chance to consider the matter beyond the fact that some changes along those lines will be necessary.”

“Such speculation right now would be useless,” added Skarpa firmly.

Cleotyr turned as the footman appeared with a tray on which were set three beakers of lager and two goblets of white wine. “Ah … you must tell me what you think of the lager.”

Vaelora received her wine first, then Cleonie, with the lagers going to Skarpa, Quaeryt, and Cleotyr in turn. Quaeryt was careful to take the crystal beaker in his right hand, since he still had no real control of the two fingers on his left.

Once everyone had a beverage, Vaelora lifted her goblet. “Our thanks and appreciation for your gracious hospitality.”

“It is more than our pleasure,” replied Cleonie, also lifting her glass.

When they had all sipped, Vaelora said, “As you said, this is a lovely white wine.”

“And the lager is indeed one of the best I’ve tasted,” added Quaeryt.

“I agree with Commander Quaeryt,” said Skarpa, “and we’ve tasted lager all the way across Lydar.”

“You’re most kind,” replied Cleotyr.

“Truthful,” said Skarpa.

After a slight moment of silence, Cleonie again spoke, looking to Quaeryt. “I could not but notice that your uniform differs slightly from those of other officers, Commander. I know little of such, and I beg your indulgence for my ignorance.”

Quaeryt smiled, managing to conceal his amusement at the manner in which she had offered the question to obtain an answer most likely desired by her husband. “It is not a matter of ignorance. You are most observant to note that the shade and color of my uniform differ somewhat from those of other officers. The color reflects my background as a scholar.”

“And as an imager,” added Skarpa.

High Holder Cleotyr moistened his lips. “There was mention of an imager commander…”

“Yes, there was,” replied Skarpa. “Commander Quaeryt has been most effective. Now he is on his way to Khelgror. Lord Bhayar named him and Lady Vaelora as his envoys. Southern Army is accompanying his forces as far as Ephra.”

“Again,” interjected Cleonie sweetly, “I fear I lack the knowledge to understand these military matters as I should. But … if Commander Quaeryt is so accomplished … and he is married to the sister of Lord Bhayar…” She let the words trail off with a puzzled expression.

Quaeryt wanted to laugh. He did not. “I did not plan to be an officer. I was a scholar advisor to Lord Bhayar, and I was sent to Tilbor to advise the princeps there. During that time, the hill holders revolted, and I ended up in service, just in order to survive. I proved somewhat effective, and after the revolt was put down, I was appointed princeps. After the eruption and earthquake leveled part of Extela, Lord Bhayar’s ancestral home, he sent me and Vaelora there. For a short period I was provincial governor until Rex Kharst attacked Ferravyl, and I was once more pressed into service in charge of a battalion. I fear I lack the experience to command more than a few regiments, and Lord Bhayar is wise enough not to tariff me beyond my abilities.”

Cleotyr frowned. “So you have worked your way up to commanding large forces in only a few years?”

“Commander Quaeryt is unduly modest,” replied Skarpa. “He is the most effective commander in Lydar today. He was responsible for the destruction of Rex Kharst’s forces at Ferravyl and at the battle of Variana. He has survived wounds and experiences that would have killed lesser men. They have taken their toll in other ways, you might notice.”

Quaeryt appreciated the tactful allusion to his brilliant white hair.

“Still…” pressed Cleonie.

Cleotyr’s glance at her was like a crossbow bolt.

Cleonie smiled. “There must be a story behind how you two came to be wed.”

“There is,” said Vaelora. “I wrote him letters until my brother commanded me to wed him.”

The High Holder’s wife blinked.

“And Lord Bhayar told me that he would have my head if I ever disrespected her,” added Quaeryt with a low laugh.

“That is indeed quite a story,” said Cleotyr, “and someday we hope to hear all of it … if you wish, of course.”

“As a High Holder”-Quaeryt turned in his chair to the burly man-“you must have spent some considerable time in Variana.”

“More than I would have liked, I must admit, but one’s attendance was often required, if only to show … a modicum of support for the rex.”

“All Lydar has heard rumors of the, shall I say, stringency of the late rex toward those who disagreed or were less than eager to cooperate with his wishes.” Quaeryt almost said “whims,” but decided against it. “I also talked with a number of High Holders on the way to Variana. I got the impression that being a High Holder, especially when in Variana, could require … great skill and delicacy…”

“Great skill and delicacy!” Cleotyr laughed heartily, if with a slight undertone of bitterness. “You do have a way with words. Yes, skill and delicacy … but better than that was silence except when addressed and a look of thoughtful consideration, no matter how outrageous the conversation … or the proposed diversions. But then … as a High Holder of modest means in the country, it was … useful … to be overlooked.”

“How did you find Variana, when you were there?” Vaelora asked Cleonie. “Were some of the more noted High Holders as polished and scheming as has been said?”

“Those in favor were most polished,” replied the petite woman. “The most despicable were the most mannered. High Holder Ryel … they said he was Kharst’s spymaster, for all that he was the minister of waterways. I never saw his wife, though she was supposedly an outland beauty of wealth, but any of that wealth went toward his schemes.” Cleonie glanced at her husband. “I don’t care. He’s dead, you said, and he wasn’t as bad as the other ones, the one Kharst banished to his lands, or the one who walled up his wife…”

Ryel? Hadn’t Eluisa D’Taelmyn, Rescalyn’s mistress, said something about a High Holder of that name? Quaeryt couldn’t remember what, though. And so did someone else …

“He is dead, as are all those High Holders who were most polished,” said Cleotyr heavily. “Rex Kharst summoned them to him when he heard Lord Bhayar was marching on Variana.”

“Why?” asked Skarpa.

“To see his triumph over Lord Bhayar with the trap he had laid. He could not conceive that a ruler so much younger could have developed a greater trap.” Cleotyr looked at Quaeryt. “You were the one who executed it, were you not?”

Quaeryt offered a puzzled expression.

The High Holder chuckled. “I’m not much of a man for fighting. I know lands and how to run them, but I know men, and I’ve watched rulers. From what the submarshal has said, and from the way he defers to you, and from the woman to whom you’re wed, and from the mission you’re on with only a modest army, I’d judge you had much to do with Lord Bhayar’s success.”

“None of it would have been possible without Submarshal Skarpa,” Quaeryt demurred, “or without the leadership of Lord Bhayar.”

Cleotyr nodded slowly. “I can see that Lord Bhayar will have a long and peaceful rule, and I would appreciate your conveying my support of that rule.” He offered a laugh that was somewhat forced. “And now … might we talk of the weather, the best in wines and lagers … until the refreshments are ready?”

“Do you have your own vineyards?” asked Vaelora gently.

“Alas, no. The wine comes from the lands of my distant cousin … but the lager … all the grains and hops are grown here, and the lager is indeed brewed here … in the fashion developed by my grandsire … although I will say that I have made some modest improvements over the years, and even my son, who is visiting relatives in the north with his bride, has been most helpful in that regard…”

Quaeryt could not help but note the wary expression in Cleonie’s eyes whenever she looked in his direction, but he sensed that little more of import would be mentioned for the duration of their visit.