Antiagon Fire

12

For the next three days, almost all that Quaeryt and Vaelora did was ride with one of the companies, either first company or one of those in Eleventh or Nineteenth Regiment, and occasionally with Skarpa and his forces; share rations with the officers; and retire to the canal boat to sleep, then wake and begin the same pattern once more. The one other duty to which they attended was to write their respective missives to Bhayar, ostensibly reporting on what they had observed so far in their travels … and then dispatch them with a trooper courier and his escorts.

By midafternoon on Meredi, a chill wind blew, and light flakes of snow drifted intermittently out of light gray clouds, flakes that melted when they touched the towpath or the mare’s mane or the sleeves of Quaeryt’s uniform jacket.

“First snow of the year,” observed Zhelan, riding to Quaeryt’s right.

“Here,” added Vaelora from his left. “It’s likely snowed in Tilbor. More than once.”

To Quaeryt, the snow was a reminder that the beginning of winter was just a bit more than three weeks away, and that they would be heading north from Kherseilles … and that Khelgror was as far north as was Tilbora. That meant riding into snow.

If only you had recovered sooner. But there was no way to undo what had been done, and waiting until spring would make matters worse, far worse.

He glanced ahead to see more than a score of people standing on a rise to the north of the towpath, watching as the vanguard rode westward. Many, if not all, appeared to be crofters and peasants from their worn trousers and shirts, the colors of which ranged from faded tans to washed-out grays and blues. Behind them were others bending and stooping among the stalks that remained green. Most of them, Quaeryt realized, were women, and those that were not were old men or children. The children were either shoeless or wore rags wrapped around feet.

“Who are they?” murmured Vaelora.

“Field workers, likely gleaning the fields after the harvest, trying to grub up the leftover grain or beans or whatever,” replied Quaeryt.

“Autumn beans,” added Zhelan quietly. “They’re sweeter, but they’re often frost-killed.”

“I’ve heard of gleaning,” said Vaelora, “but … it’s different when you see it.”

“When you see so many gleaning, especially soon after harvest, that’s often a sign of famine … or a greedy High Holder,” said Zhelan.

“It wouldn’t hurt to learn whose lands they glean,” said Quaeryt.

“It might be better if I asked, sir, or had a squad leader ask.”

“Try with a squad leader,” suggested Quaeryt.

Zhelan turned in the saddle.

Quaeryt did not catch all the words but overheard the gist of the orders. “… don’t press … just ask whose fine fields we’re passing…”

“Yes, sir.”

The three watched as the squad leader rode forward, behind the scouts, and then slowed. Several of the gleaners immediately moved away, but a tall woman with streaks of gray in her hair remained. Her posture was upright, and while Quaeryt could not hear what she said, he could tell that whatever she said was uttered emphatically. After a time the woman gave an abrupt nod and stepped back, her eyes fixing on the approaching riders, although Quaeryt could not determine at which of them she was looking.

The squad leader turned his mount and rode back to rejoin first company. When he reached the head of the column, Zhelan motioned for him to ride alongside, then asked, “What did she say?”

“She said that the lands belonged to High Holder Raynd. She also said that he was a disgrace to both the High Holders and to the Nameless because no just Almighty would let such an abomination live, let alone prosper.”

“She said that?” asked Zhelan.

“Sure as I’m here riding, sir. Those are the words she said.”

“We need to keep that name in mind.” Quaeryt looked to Vaelora.

“I won’t forget.”

Quaeryt doubted that she would, not with such words from the gleaner and not when it was Vaelora’s first sight of such countryside poverty. It was also another reminder to him of how she had been sheltered from certain cruel realities of the world, while being exposed to other cruelties and considerations that the gleaners could not imagine.

“We can’t do anything … either…” murmured Vaelora to Quaeryt.

“Not now.” And perhaps never … or enough to help these poor folk, either.

The dark-haired woman did not move from where she stood, watching as Quaeryt and Vaelora rode by and remaining motionless as the intermittent snow swirled around her and as the rest of the Southern Army rode and marched onward along the towpath toward Laaryn.