Antiagon Fire

13

Slightly before eighth glass on a cool and hazy Samedi, Quaeryt once more looked to the Great Canal, empty of boats. He turned to Vaelora, riding beside Alazyn at the head of Nineteenth Regiment. “How long has it been since we’ve seen a canal boat?”

“We haven’t seen any today,” noted Alazyn.

“Midafternoon yesterday, I think,” said Vaelora.

Quaeryt nodded. “Then there’s some sort of problem, most likely with the locks, since the water level seems to be all right. I’m going to ride ahead and talk to Skarpa.”

Vaelora glanced sideways at him.

“We’ll ride up to talk to the submarshal.”

Alazyn managed not to smile. “Yes, sir.”

A quint later Quaeryt and Vaelora reined their mounts in beside Skarpa.

“What’s on your mind?” asked the submarshal.

“That there aren’t any boats on the canal.” Quaeryt went on to explain. “So I think we should sent someone ahead to see what the problem might be.”

“Meinyt. Just this morning he was telling me he wasn’t used to riding in Bovaria without being attacked.” Skarpa chuckled. “Besides, that will irritate Kharllon.”

“Is he getting to you?” asked Quaeryt.

“Only in the quiet way that he’s looking to find any mistake I might make.”

“Him and Meurn,” said Quaeryt.

“Would you have expected anything less of Deucalon?”

Quaeryt laughed.

In less than half a quint, Meinyt and one of the companies from his Fifth Regiment were moving westward at a good clip along the towpath. Almost two glasses passed before the subcommander and his company returned. Skarpa called a halt and let the troopers rest while the three senior officers and Vaelora met at the edge of the towpath.

“There aren’t any boats because there’s trouble in Laaryn,” Meinyt began. “That’s what the town councilor told me. An old white-bearded fellow. He came out to meet me with some factors. They said a full company of Bovarian foot has occupied the lock houses.” Meinyt shook his head. “Sounds like an alehouse tale, but I thought I’d report and see what you thought.”

“They must want something,” said Vaelora.

“Supposedly, they want Bhayar to allow them to rule western Bovaria as independent. The councilor says that they’ve drained all the locks and put barrels of gunpowder against the lock gates to destroy them.”

“Did you see that?” asked Skarpa.

“The locks are empty of water-one is, anyway. The councilor didn’t want me closer. He said the troopers would kill some hostages. They kept looking back at the lock houses. I didn’t see anyone moving-except for one trooper at the door of the closest lock house.”

“What’s to keep us from just moving in and taking them out?” asked Skarpa.

“They say they’ve captured the firstborn sons of fifty factors and merchants, and if their terms aren’t met, they’ll cut all their throats.” Meinyt shook his head. “I don’t like people who hold others for ransom. Don’t like folks who tell stories like that, either. Just as soon take ’em all out. Besides, I can’t believe they’d let their own troopers take so many hostages.”

“The locals can’t expect Bhayar to give in,” Skarpa pointed out.

“That doesn’t matter,” said Vaelora. “What matters is that we can’t appear weak.”

Quaeryt frowned. But why block the canal? It would take weeks for Bhayar to find out. He looked to Meinyt, then Skarpa. “Would any company you’ve ever commanded do something like this? Would anyone who’s ever commanded come up with a story like that?”

“It’s not likely,” said Skarpa.

Meinyt shook his head.

“Given the way Kharst punished men…” suggested Vaelora.

“So what do we do?” mused Skarpa.

“Did you see any troopers … or any men with arms? Besides the one?” asked Quaeryt.

It was Meinyt’s turn to frown. “No. The councilor begged me not to approach the lock houses too closely.”

“What are we supposed to do, then?”

“Send their request to Bhayar and wait for a response.”

“I’d like to try something different,” said Quaeryt.

Vaelora offered a concerned glance.

“I’d like you to march one of the regiments toward the locks. Stop a good half mille short and hold them there. Tell the councilor that you will wait there for Lord Bhayar’s reply.”

“And?”

“I’d like to see what is actually happening.”

“I take it,” said Skarpa dryly, “that they won’t happen to see you?”

“I’d be very surprised if they did.”

“We’ll just take the whole army until we’re about two milles from the edge of Laaryn,” Skarpa announced. “Fifth Regiment will be the one making the appearance.”

Meinyt nodded, as if he had expected nothing else.

“And your imager undercaptains will be in the van with Subcommander Meinyt and me,” Skarpa added.

A quint later Fifth Regiment rode westward at the front of the long column. Quaeryt and Vaelora rode behind Skarpa and Meinyt, with the eight imager undercaptains following them.

Vaelora eased her mount closer to his. “What are you thinking, dearest?”

“I think you know. Troopers wouldn’t take a canal, or hold the firstborn sons of factors for ransom. Who benefits from closing the canal, especially in wartime?”

“And they didn’t expect an army?”

He nodded.

“Then why not…? Oh … we’d have no idea…”

“Exactly, and it will be better if…”

Vaelora nodded, but said no more as they continued riding.

Noon had come and gone, and it was close to the first glass of the afternoon before they could see the buildings ahead spreading away from the Great Canal.

“The first lock house is a bit more than two milles from here,” Meinyt declared.

“Column! Halt!” ordered Skarpa.

In moments, or so it seemed to Quaeryt, he and the imagers were moving out with Skarpa and Fifth Regiment, leaving Vaelora with Zhelan and first company.

When the vanguard of Fifth Regiment reached the millestone with the number two on it, roughly a mille from the lower lock, Skarpa called a halt and looked to Quaeryt and Meinyt.

“Submarshal, I’d suggest that you ride forward with a squad and two imager undercaptains who can provide shields. I’d recommend that you announce to the town councilor that you’re stationing one regiment here for the moment, with the others slightly farther away, and that you’d like to talk to the leader of the mutineers.”

Meinyt raised his eyebrows as if to ask why Skarpa would be doing the talking.

“I’ll be there,” said Quaeryt. “The submarshal just won’t see me. I’d rather not walk that distance.” He turned to Skarpa. “I doubt that you’ll have to say much more, but if you do, just tell whoever it is that you’ll have to send a dispatch to Bhayar.”

“They’ll claim they won’t wait for that. They’ll threaten to kill people.”

“Then say that any deaths will be on their heads. Stall them however you can.” Quaeryt turned in the saddle. “Voltyr! Desyrk! Forward.”

Before long, flanked by the undercaptains, Skarpa rode forward. Quaeryt rode just behind Desyrk, and following him was a squad of troopers. Quaeryt held a concealment shield only in front of himself and the mare, so that the troopers saw him perfectly, although Skarpa and the undercaptains could not.

To Quaeryt’s right was a lane that paralleled the canal. The riders continued on the towpath for another hundred yards before the lane curved away to the west-northwest, and Quaeryt rode past the first of several structures that looked to be traders’ or factors’ warehouses. As seemed to be common along the Great Canal, they were constructed of the same dull red brick that Quaeryt had observed day after day in the small towns through which they had ridden. Unlike in many towns, though, the buildings appeared to be roofed in fired clay tiles.

As Quaeryt had suspected would happen, when they neared the section of the towpath some fifty yards short of the lock gates of the lower lock, the white-bearded town councilor, accompanied by two muscular young men, hurried forward.

Skarpa reined up, as did the group. Quaeryt dismounted and walked the mare forward and to the right side of Desyrk, so that the undercaptain could see him. There he handed the reins to Desyrk, before stepping to the side and extending his concealment shield to surround himself. He stood, waiting to hear what the white-bearded man had to say.

“Sir … I told the other officer…”

“I’m Submarshal Skarpa of the Southern Army. There are nine regiments behind me. Who are you?”

“Town councilor Moraes … Please, sir, do not approach closer. They will kill too many.”

“Who are they?”

“The soldiers who hold the locks … and our sons.”

“What do you expect us to do, Councilor?” demanded Skarpa coolly. “I understand from Subcommander Meinyt that these mutineers have some ridiculous idea about governing their own land.”

“Yes, sir … yes, sir.”

“Then it’s our duty to remove them,” Skarpa declared. “Lord Bhayar isn’t about to stand for something like that.”

“Please, sir … please wait … please.”

“I’ll give them a glass to come out and talk to me. No more.”

“But … sir…”

“Tell them what I said.”

The councilor’s shoulders sagged. “Yes … yes … I will tell them.” He turned and began to trudge back, with the two muscular men, each with a truncheon, walking on each side of him, perhaps a pace back.

As Quaeryt followed them, he noticed a single canal boat, well appointed, tied to the wall just below the lower lock. When he was almost abreast of the boat, he saw that the shutters were closed and locked, and the hatches or doors were chained shut. Yet he could see marks in the towpath that indicated cargo had been rolled or carried to the boat, and that it rode lower in water, with the canal water slightly above its waterline. The doors of the warehouse across from it were chained shut as well.

Probably a factor trying to save his cargo from the rapacious Telaryn barbarians. Quaeryt shook his head and returned his attention to the men he followed.

The three were silent until they reached the long stone ramp that angled up beside the lower lock.

“You should have tried harder, Moraes…” said the taller younger man.

“With a Telaryn submarshal?” The older man’s voice was plaintive. “You heard what they did at Variana.”

“What do we care about that?”

The other man with the truncheon turned and looked back.

Quaeryt froze.

“What is it?”

“Coulda sworn I heard someone else.”

“There’s no one else around, not close enough you could hear steps. Just keep walking,” said the tall man.

The north side of the lower lock was almost ten yards wide. Quaeryt glanced up. From what he could see, a lock house stood at each end, one just short of the eastern lock gate and one just below the western lock gate. The ramp rose until it was level with the top of the lock at the west end, and then flattened out for some fifty yards. Besides of the one trooper standing outside the easternmost lock house, Quaeryt saw no one else near the locks or the canal.

That single trooper standing by the lock-house door paced back and forth.

Pacing … not marching. Quaeryt frowned.

The lower lock looked to be largely empty of water, although he could not see the bottom of the lock from where he was. At least one lock empty, the one that leads to Eluthyn. What about the one that serves that part of the canal that meets the River Laar? The town councilor had said that both lock gates were charged with gunpowder. Quaeryt wanted to shake his head. Just placing bags of gunpowder against oak-timbered locks and lighting them off might only create superficial damage and might not even strain the lock-gate timbers. He glanced toward the closed gate to the upper lock, but there was no way to tell whether it was full or empty.

Abruptly the three men turned to the right, walking toward a narrow stone-paved lane between two brick buildings.

At the far end of the lane, Quaeryt could see that the street was blocked with barrels set on their butts, with ropes wound around each barrel and then stretched to the next. Behind the barrels stood men with truncheons and clubs, facing north and away from Quaeryt. Beyond them were more than a few men and women.

As Quaeryt stepped into the partly shaded lane, he strained to see if he could hear some of what was being said. Most of the words were lost, but he did catch a few louder phrases.

“… no, you can’t go there. Lord Bhayar’s got an army coming through…”

“… you want to get trampled?”

“… don’t care if it is market Samedi…”

The three men he followed turned left into an open archway, and Quaeryt had to hurry to catch up to them as they stepped through two battered doors that were swung back. In the open space before rows of bales and barrels stood nine men.

Immediately a tall and stout gray-bearded man turned. He wore a rich brocade jacket and black woolen trousers, with a silver stripe down the outside seam of each leg. “What happened?”

“They’ve got a submarshal there, like Moraes told you. He says he’s got nine regiments. He said we had a glass to get one of the mutineers out there to talk.”

“We can’t get everyone out that fast, not all the men who are manning the barriers.”

“They’ll talk…”

“How were we to know that bastard Bhayar would send an army this way so soon? None of those in Variana-”

“They probably traveled faster than any messengers…”

“… don’t know if the Telaryns let anyone ride out…”

“… have to do something…”

Quaeryt surveyed the interior of the warehouse for several moments, before imaging a thin layer of stone across the far door, then across the two windows. A whitish mist filled the warehouse, caused by the chill of the imaging. While holding full protective shields, he dropped the concealment shields.

The factors turned. As their faces took in the uniform, several swallowed.

One younger and burlier factor pulled out a blade and charged Quaeryt. When he hit Quaeryt’s unseen shields, the force of his impact threw him off balance, but the blade did not leave his hand until he slammed down on the stone floor. His head twisted, and the side of his face hit the stone as well.

Another factor raised a heavy pistol, awkwardly starting to cock it.

Quaeryt imaged the weapon out of existence, then image-projected his voice with absolute authority. “None of you are going anywhere. Not for a time.”

“Who are you?” demanded the tall and stout gray-bearded man.

“Commander Quaeryt Rytersyn, in the service of Lord Bhayar. I can tell you also that he will not appreciate the attempted closure, even temporarily, of the Great Canal.” Quaeryt once more studied the inside of the warehouse for several moments, then imaged more stone across two other possible exits, a boarded-up window, and what looked to be a trapdoor, behind the barrels. Then he stepped back and imaged a stone barrier to fill the archway.

Once outside, he raised his concealment shields and walked around the warehouse, sealing two other doors and three windows. Then he hurried up the second ramp to the upper lock, filled with water. He looked to the west. Beyond the upper lock were scores of boats moored to the canal walls, but very few crewmen in sight.

Quaeryt couldn’t help frowning, but he turned and walked down the upper ramp, past the empty lower lock, down the second ramp, quickly, past the locked canal boat, the only one in sight below the lock, and out to where Skarpa waited, dropping the concealment as he neared Skarpa, the undercaptains, and the squad.

Even before he mounted the mare, he began to explain. “The local factors are behind this. I’ve sealed some of them in a warehouse, but they certainly aren’t the only ones. They have men blocking off access to the canal…” When he finished describing the situation, he added, “I’d suggest we take over the canal and the warehouses first and then sort through who else might be part of this.”

Skarpa’s smile was almost predatory. “I would agree, Commander. If you would dispatch one of your undercaptains to inform the other regiments to join us.”

“Undercaptain Voltyr, do so at once. Begin with Commander Kharllon and then Subcommander Meinyt.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once Voltyr rode back toward the remainder of Southern Army, Quaeryt turned to Skarpa. “We’ll need to have companies assigned to protect the locks. From what I could tell, there are no charges, but I didn’t have a chance to look closely.”

“If we keep everyone away until your imagers can deal with the locks, it won’t matter,” Skarpa pointed out.

“We’ll also need to capture the men blocking off the canal…”

Skarpa and Quaeryt had finished their plans a good quint before all the regiments had arrived. Once they did, Quaeryt and Skarpa rode near the head of Fifth Regiment as the Southern Army rode into Laaryn. Over her unvoiced objections-not that Quaeryt had not noticed her frown-Vaelora remained farther back with Zhelan and first company.

One of Skarpa’s regiments split off to the north, moving out in order to flank the factors’ men at the barrel barricades. In less than half a glass, the regiments had encircled both locks and had captured most of the men who had been behind the roped-off barrels.

Before dealing with the factors walled up in the warehouse, now surrounded by two companies from Meinyt’s first battalion, and with Voltyr and Horan standing by there just in case, Quaeryt first approached and checked the upper lock, still closed at both ends and holding water, if at a slightly lower level than the canal leading to the River Laar, which he hadn’t noticed earlier. He could find no sign of explosives anywhere. He inspected the smaller lock house, but it was empty. After that he approached the main lock house of the upper lock. He continued to hold full shields and hoped that there weren’t any explosives inside.

Even from fifteen yards away, Quaeryt could see that the door was chained shut, with an old and rusty but large and heavy lock. He paused, then imaged away the lock hasp, and waited. Nothing happened. He moved forward, finally, unfastening the remainder of the chain and easing open the door.

Inside was a figure gagged and bound to a chair. Behind the chair were long and heavy levers, most likely for controlling the water flows into or out of the lock. Quaeryt moved to the chair, then took out his belt knife and cut the ropes binding the man’s hands, then untied the gag.

The lockman, gray-haired, with a short gray and brown beard, coughed several times before he finally spoke. “Never thought I’d be thanking a Telaryn officer for saving me.” He frowned. “You are Telaryn? That’s no uniform I ever saw.”

“I’m a Telaryn commander,” Quaeryt admitted. “We have an army taking back the canal.”

“Hope you get whoever did this.” The lockman rubbed his wrists where the ropes had been fastened, then stood and stretched, gingerly. “Wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Quaeryt thought the man was unsteady. “You need to sit down. I’ll have someone get you some water or ale or something. Who tied you up? What did you mean by it not being as it was supposed to be?”

“They close the canal every so often for repairs. Never saw any repairs most times. This time, I said to Pharn-he’s the head lockman-said that we didn’t need repairs, and with the war, folk in Variana needed grain and food. He looked at me funny, then walked off. Next thing I knew, there were three big fellows in brown. Grabbed me and tied me up. Never saw ’em before in my life.” The lockman snorted as he sat down. “That’s something in a place like Laaryn.”

“Did they say anything that said who or why they did it?”

“Not a word. Just told me I’d be all right if I didn’t fight.”

“You’ve been here for a while.”

“Close to a day, I figure. Ruined my clothes.”

Quaeryt had noted the odor, but ignored it. “Did they mention gunpowder or anything like that?”

“No. Heard some hammering and smelled coal or charcoal, like someone was forging. Don’t know why, though.”

“Take it easy…”

When he finished with the lockman, Quaeryt made his way down to the lower lock, still empty except for a few digits of water covering the bottom of the lock. As closely as he looked, he could find no sign of gunpowder or other explosives. Then he carefully approached and checked the lock houses. The smaller one was empty, as was the larger one. As he left the larger one, he couldn’t help but frown. Only one lockman tied up? That suggested that some of the canal workers, likely the head lockman, had been cooperating with or been co-opted by the factors. But you might never find out which.

He shook his head. The older he got, the more he discovered that there were all too many questions to which the answers remained unknown or obscured in some fashion. He paused and looked closely at the eastern end of the lower lock gate, noticing for the first time a band of iron linking the iron plate of the housing into which the lock gate recessed to the plate at the end of the lock gate. Someone had forge-welded the lock gate closed. Trying to cold-chisel it open would likely damage the gates so much they might not hold water.

Quaeryt smiled. Imaging would take care of that.