Imager’s Battalion

16

Quaeryt, Meinyt, and Skarpa sat at a circular table in the public room of the Grande Sud just before eighth glass on Meredi.

“I’ve sent out scouts along the river in both directions,” announced Skarpa. “The ones to the east will look to see how far Deucalon has advanced. The ones to the west”-he shrugged-“you both know what they’re looking for.” He looked to Quaeryt. “We need more supplies. The marshal told me to obtain them with as little cost as possible. What do you suggest?”

“Do we have the golds to pay for them?”

“We have some golds, but not enough to take us all the way to Variana.”

“Then we find the least popular High Holder around and persuade him to supply us at a very reasonable cost,” said Quaeryt.

“That might cost us more troops than taking Rivecote Sud,” said Meinyt.

“Not if we take imagers out with us,” suggested Quaeryt.

Skarpa nodded.

Quaeryt rose and beckoned to the serving woman-the same one who had been rather cool that morning-and waited for her to approach. As she did, given her earlier diffidence, he image-projected reasonableness and unquestioned authority. “We need to know some things.”

Her eyes flicked to the other two officers and then back to Quaeryt. “There’d be others who’d know more than me.”

“There are always others.” He smiled. “I doubt they’d know more. Everyone talks in a public room. Who are the High Holders on this side of the river? Nearby.”

For a moment a puzzled expression appeared on the server’s face. “There’s only two. High Holder Cassyon and High Holder Rheyam.”

“One’s to the south and one to the west?”

“Yes, sir. Rheyam’s a few milles south on the road off the west end of town.”

“And Cassyon?”

“To the west. Don’t know how far. Never been there. Folks say some eight-ten milles. Really closer to Deauvyl.”

“What do folks think of Rheyam?”

The woman frowned.

“Is he fair and honest?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“What about Cassyon?” pressed Quaeryt.

“He’s really the High Holder for Deauvyl, but some folks here’ll do work for him.”

“Do many folk here do work for Rheyam?”

“I wouldn’t know any, sir.”

“Is there a town council here, or someone who’s in charge?”

“Only councilor I know is Fleigyl. He’s got the chandlery three doors up.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt returned to the table, sitting and easing three coppers from his purse onto the table. “I suggest we talk to the good councilor Fleigyl.”

“It’s a start,” said Skarpa, rising.

Quaeryt stood, and the three left the public room and the inn. They followed the wooden sidewalk to the chandlery, accompanied by three troopers. Quaeryt couldn’t help but notice that the few men nearby immediately found other destinations that left a wide empty area around the three officers. When they reached the chandlery, the three troopers entered first. A moment later one reappeared and held the door open. Quaeryt, Meinyt, and Skarpa stepped inside.

A short-bearded man with a soiled apron stood beside a table containing little but leather goods. “Sirs … I have but little…”

“We’re not here for your goods,” said Quaeryt. “You’re one of the town councilors?”

“I’m only a councilor. The newest and youngest one. The head councilor is Yurmyn.”

If Fleigyl, who looked to be twenty years older than Quaeryt, was the youngest, thought Quaeryt, the others truly had to be graybeards. “Where might we find Yurmyn?”

“Ah … he departed when he heard you were … coming this way.”

“Then I guess you’re head councilor in his absence,” said Skarpa.

Fleigyl swallowed.

“Don’t worry. We just have a few questions. There don’t happen to be a few High Holders around here, do there?”

After a moment the chandler sighed. “The only ones close are Rheyam and, I guess, Cassyon, except he’s really nearer Deauvyl.”

“Tell us about Rheyam.”

“He’s a High Holder. He’s got a place south of here. We don’t see much of him. They say he lives most of the year in Variana.”

“Who runs the holding, then?” asked Quaeryt.

“He’s got a steward.”

“His name?” asked Skarpa.

“Clukyn.”

After another half quint of questions, the three left the chandlery, but it was almost a glass later before Quaeryt’s first company, with the imager undercaptains, Skarpa, and four empty supply wagons, rode out of Rivecote Sud toward Rheyam’s holding.

Finding the holding was not difficult, because the road that began on the west end of the town heading south was the best maintained Quaeryt had seen since they had left Ferravyl. The long straight drive from the brick pillars off the road was paved in a reddish stone, stone soft enough that years of carriage, coach, and wagon wheels had worn slight channels in it. The drive was flanked by tall oaks, set far enough back from the stone that the roots had not disrupted the stone and close enough that the trees would provide shade throughout the hottest periods of the day. Beyond the oaks on each side was an area of grass some fifty yards wide, and beyond the grass were woods, although Quaeryt saw little undergrowth, a sign of a private park of some sort.

At the end of the drive was a circular paved area. A set of wide stone steps rose some five yards to a two-story redbrick structure, more the size of a small palace, dominating a low rise that was so regular that it had to have been created for the building. The holding house looked to be a hollow oblong, with perhaps a courtyard garden in the center. A trimmed hedge separated the house and immediate grounds and low gardens from the outbuildings on each side.

As the company drew up, a white-haired man in a cream jacket and dark trousers stepped out of the front door and walked past the white pillars and down the steps.

Quaeryt rode forward and reined up. “Commander Skarpa of the southern army of Telaryn is seeking High Holder Rheyam,” he announced, projecting pure authority.

“Beggin’ your pardon, mightiness, but he’s not here, hasn’t been since mid-Avryl. Doesn’t like to spend the hot months here.”

“Then Steward Clukyn will do.”

“Ah … he left with all the valuables soon as he heard you Telaryns were coming. All the pretty maids, too.”

“So … you’re in charge?”

“You might say so, your mightiness. I’m Exbael, assistant to the steward.”

“Good. We’re here to purchase some supplies.”

“Sirs … I can’t do that…”

Quaeryt smiled. “Of course you can. You can explain to Steward Clukyn that in his absence you were faced with the choice of selling the supplies or having all of them burned.”

“Lord Rheyam … he’d flay me alive, if Clukyn didn’t first. Anyways, they’re all locked up. Clukyn took the keys.”

“Let’s have a look.”

“The warehouse has thick walls and iron bars…”

“We still need a look. After we inquire with others in the hold house that you are who you say you are.”

Exbael gave Quaeryt a despairing look followed by a deep sigh. “Most are hiding in the cellar, except for the cook.”

Quaeryt turned in the saddle. “Major, if you’d provide a squad to accompany Undercaptain Desyrk to verify matters?”

“Yes, sir.”

Desyrk rode forward and dismounted, frowning momentarily as he looked to Quaeryt.

“You understand what your task is?”

“Yes, sir. I’m to make certain this man is who he says he is.”

Quaeryt nodded, then watched the troopers escort Exbael and Desyrk into the hold house.

Almost a quint later the group returned, with Desyrk in the lead.

“It’s like he said, sir,” said the undercaptain. “I talked to all of them. They all say pretty much the same thing.”

“Mount up, then.” Quaeryt turned to Exbael. “To the warehouse.”

“This way, your mightiness.” Exbael began to walk, dejectedly, to the right, toward the paved lane that led to the outbuildings on the north side of the hold house.

“Undercaptains, and first squad, with me,” ordered Quaeryt.

Exbael took his time, and it was close to half a quint later when Quaeryt, Skarpa, and the imagers reined up before a large oblong structure, the outbuilding farthest from the hold house. The walls were brick and windowless. The heavy, iron-bound, oak-timbered double doors were secured with eight iron bars that were slid into iron-lined circular holes in the oak-timbered lintels, and held in place by iron hoops on the doors. Each bar ended in the middle with a heavy iron circlet, with an equally heavy iron lock joining the two tightly mated circlets.

“You see, your mightiness?” Exbael gestured to the doors.

“I do see,” replied Quaeryt. “You’d best go and get some writing materials. You do write, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The assistant steward’s voice was worried.

“You’re going to need to write out two copies of what we purchase and what we’ll be paying High Holder Rheyam.”

“Sir…”

“Don’t complain, and just fetch the writing materials.”

“Yes, sir.” Exbael turned and began to trudge back toward the palatial hold house.

“Imagers forward.” Quaeryt dismounted and handed the mare’s reins to the nearest ranker. “Thank you.” Then he walked to the warehouse door and waited.

Once they were gathered, he gestured to the door. “You’re going to take turns imaging out just enough pieces of the lock shackle so that we can remove the locks and bars. When we’re finished loading the wagons, we’ll replace the bars and locks, and you’ll image the shackles back together. We’d like to leave things as we found them-with the exception of what we’re purchasing.” He gestured to Akoryt. “Why don’t you start with the shackle on the top lock?”

“Yes, sir.” As usual, the undercaptain’s flat brown eyes revealed little, but he imaged away two small chunks of iron, and the heavy lock dropped. He barely managed to catch it.

“That’s right,” said Quaeryt. “Try not to let the locks get broken.” He motioned to Baelthm. “You work on the next lock.”

In less than half a glass, the locks and bars had all been removed, and the heavy warehouse doors opened. Even after Exbael returned and offered some assistance, it took time to find a lantern and light it, then to study the contents, to check the dates marked on each barrel, and then to open several barrels to inspect the contents. Finally, Skarpa sent for the wagons.

While Quaeryt waited for their arrival, he turned to Skarpa. “You’ve seen what’s there. He’s got barrels of salted mutton, salted pork, a fair number of barrels of flour, and even a few barrels of rice. Don’t see any potatoes or root vegetables. They’d likely be in a separate root cellar. How much do you want?”

“As much as the wagons will hold. Who knows when we’ll have another chance to resupply with this little difficulty.”

“The difficulty will come later,” Quaeryt said dryly, “when the High Holders of Bovaria protest. There are too many of them for Bhayar to replace them.”

“You’re assuming he’ll conquer Bovaria.”

“He’ll at least hold the eastern part. He won’t let that go, and I can’t see Kharst taking it back anytime soon.”

Skarpa only nodded at that.

With a company of troopers, and four wagons, it still took over a glass to pull out the barrels, and then roll them up planks onto the wagons, and wedge and stack them in place. Quaeryt had Baelthm make certain that every barrel was counted and entered on the manifest that Exbael was writing up.

When the loading was finished, with every wagon loaded to its limit, and the two copies of the manifest completed, Quaeryt turned back to Skarpa. “That’s sixty barrels of flour, twenty of salt pork, and ten of dried salted mutton, a total of ninety barrels. The going rate is around eight silvers a barrel for flour. Since we’re doing the transporting and this is war, we shouldn’t pay that much. What if we give High Holder Rheyam four silvers a barrel? That’s thirty-six golds.”

Skarpa frowned. “I’ll give him twenty-five. Tell the assistant steward that we’ll post that amount in the town so that everyone will know … and so that he can’t make off with it.”

“I will have to flee anyway,” said Exbael despondently.

Quaeryt smiled. “Let’s do this another way.”

The steward offered a puzzled look.

“Let’s leave the golds and the manifest and payment statement inside the warehouse, right on top of a barrel behind the doors. We’ll close the doors and replace the locks.” He grinned at Exbael. “How could you have anything to do with it? You don’t have the keys, do you?”

“No, sir.”

Quaeryt could see Skarpa smiling behind the assistant’s back.

“Roll one of the barrels we’ve left over there right in the space behind where the doors close and set it upright.” Once the barrel was in place, Quaeryt took the manifest, the payment statement, and the golds and weighted down the two papers on the upper barrel butt with the coins, then stepped out of the warehouse. “Close the doors, and replace the bars.” Quaeryt waited until that happened. “Undercaptains forward.” He nodded to Ghaelyn. “If you’d take the steward over behind the wagons.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the steward was where he couldn’t see the doors, Quaeryt nodded to Voltyr. “If you’d repair the first lock.”

“Yes, sir.”

Voltyr gingerly held the lock up to the shackle and concentrated. The first attempt left the shackle crooked, but when he could remove his hands from the lock and study the lock and shackle, the second attempt resulted in a joining so smooth that none could have told the shackle had been severed.

“Threkhyl … you do the second.”

The ginger-bearded imager managed to repair lock and shackle in one attempt. So did Shaelyt with the next lock. Desyrk took two attempts with the last one.

“Exbael, you can return.”

The steward walked from behind the wagons and looked at the iron-bound and locked doors. His mouth opened, then closed. Then he stepped forward and inspected and pulled on the locks one after another.

“The High Holder’s goods are safe,” said Quaeryt. “The golds and the manifest are inside.”

Exbael looked at the locked door and murmured something.

“What did you say?” asked Quaeryt.

The assistant to the steward swallowed, then finally spoke. “Just that I might as well have chanced on a black hare, sir.”

“It could have been worse, Exbael, much worse.” Do all the southerners have this worry about black rabbits? Quaeryt didn’t say anything, though, as he mounted.

They left Exbael standing forlornly by the warehouse and rode back toward the front drive, the wagons creaking. There, the rest of the company joined them for the trip back to Rivecote Sud.

As they turned from the paved drive onto the packed earth and gravel road that headed north, Skarpa looked to Quaeryt. “He’ll still have to flee, you know.”

“I know. There’s no help for it with a holder and a steward like that. But we didn’t hurt anyone or damage his property. Removed a bit of it without full compensation, but that’s not unreasonable in a war.”

“I will post a statement in Rivecote Sud, saying that we bought goods from the holding of High Holder Rheyam and damaged nothing.”

“Oh?”

“That way the steward will have to explain … if he can.”

Quaeryt did not smile … quite.

The ride back to the town took a good glass, and Quaeryt couldn’t help but puzzle over the fact that the road to the holding looked to be better than the main road westward along the river. Reloading the barrels across all the supply wagons took even longer than the return to Rivecote Sud, although Quaeryt did not remain to watch that, but spent a good glass checking the patrols, and then briefing Captain Shaask from Skarpa’s Second Battalion, since he’d been chosen to garrison the town and keep order.

The remainder of Meredi was uneventful. Most of the locals stayed off the streets, and the scouts discovered no signs or tracks of Bovarian forces, although Quaeryt had no doubt that there were at least some Bovarian scouts watching Skarpa’s force from a distance. The Bovarians continued to hold Rivecote Nord, as evidenced by the presence of uniformed troopers or officers on the north cable ferry tower.

Skarpa’s scouts from the east reported back in late afternoon that they had spotted Telaryn troops on the north side of the river some fifteen milles east of Rivecote Nord. With that information in hand, Skarpa summoned Meinyt and Quaeryt to discuss preparations for the regiments and Quaeryt’s battalion to depart on Jeudi morning. That meeting took another glass, and Quaeryt’s guts were growling by the time he walked into the public room for what passed for the evening mess.

The skeptical serving woman looked at him, neither warmly nor coldly, then turned away. But when he sat down at the table with Skarpa and Meinyt, she reappeared and set a beaker of pale lager in front of him.

“Thank you.”

“No thanks, not for now.” She nodded and stepped away.

“What was that about?” asked Meinyt.

“I think it’s a reminder and a suggestion that things might not be too bad if we leave the townspeople to their lives.” Quaeryt took a sip of the lager. It was far better than what he’d been served for breakfast. “It also might be a quiet thank you.”

He thought so, but in war, how could he ever know for certain?