Imager’s Battalion

3

On Jeudi morning, while Vaelora finished dressing, Quaeryt picked up the small book that appeared to be both a biography and a commentary on the life of Rholan, and as seemed often to be the case, he found himself rereading a section with particular interest.

No deity, should one exist, needs a name. Those who worship such a deity need that name, for otherwise how can they be certain that their prayers, their hopes, and their plaints go to whom they are meant to be addressed. Gods do not need worshippers, but most people need gods. Rholan addressed the paradox of names by calling the almighty “the Nameless,” a stratagem far more clever than either his contemporaries or those claiming scholarly insight have seemed able to recognize.

As Vaelora stepped from the dressing chamber, Quaeryt closed the small book, smiling in spite of himself.

“Is that smile for what I’m wearing?” asked Vaelora, her voice mock-stern.

“Hardly, dear. I’d smile were you wearing nothing.”

“You’d smile far more than that. You always do.”

“Can I help the fact that I find you beautiful?”

“Lust can make any woman beautiful.”

Quaeryt had strong doubts about that, because one of the aspects of Vaelora he found so appealing was her intelligence. After all, her letters had captured him even when he’d had no thought of anything more. “You will write me … as you did before?”

Vaelora blinked, as if what he’d said had no relation to what they’d been discussing. “What…?”

“I was thinking about your letters, that I found what you wrote so entrancing…”

She laughed softly. “You still surprise me.”

“I hope I always will … in a good fashion.”

From the bedchamber, with its antique stone walls, walls softened somewhat by the not quite so ancient cloth hangings, they made their way down the stone steps barely wide enough for two abreast and then to the small breakfast room, rather than the terrace, since the night had brought rain and drizzle.

Again, as he ate the near-perfect omelet that the serving woman placed on his platter, he thought about the days ahead with hard rations, or worse. He smiled wryly.

“What are you finding so amusing?” Vaelora’s tone was openly curious.

“How life changes. A year ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of having so much good food, when even decent meals strained my purse, and there were times when regimental rations would have seemed a luxury. Now…” He shrugged.

“Dearest … it comes with a price. Have you not noticed? Did not our stay in Extela…?”

He nodded. “Part of that price was because I chose accomplishment over popularity when I had not time to achieve both.”

“Dearest … there is always that choice.”

Quaeryt smiled. “Not if the one who seeks accomplishment is not the one who needs popularity … or one to whom little attention is paid. We talked of this before. Perhaps as a mere subcommander…”

“Even that is dangerous…”

“Perhaps,” Quaeryt replied, “but my idea of costs and prices may not be what you have in mind. What are yours?”

“Little more than a year ago, you could have walked away from danger, or handled it quietly, with no one being the wiser. In fact, I’d wager you did. Can you do that now? A year ago, the only one whom you hazarded by your acts was you. Now … tell me what might have happened had you failed in the warm rain.”

“I would have died,” he replied dryly, “but that wasn’t what you meant. Thousands of troopers would have died as well.”

“And…?”

“Your point is taken, dearest.” Of course, Quaeryt had known what she meant. He still didn’t like thinking about matters in those terms.

“You don’t like admitting that you have hostages to fortune. You also do not wish to admit that your sense of responsibility makes you a captive of others and of fate.” Vaelora sipped her hot tea.

“Does any man with any sense wish to admit that?” Quaeryt lifted a beaker of lager and took a swallow. In the summer, at least in the hot midlands, tea was too warm for him even at breakfast, even when breakfast was early, not that this morning it was anywhere close to early.

“There is a difference between admitting it publicly and admitting it to one’s self.”

“You’re all too right, dear, but there are those who publicly profess to have hostages to fortune, and who in the end act as if those hostages have no worth to them at all. More than a few rulers-or those who wish to rule-have been such.”

“Are you saying Bhayar is?” Vaelora raised her eyebrows.

“I suspect he is of the other type, who denies that those who are close to him have any value, while quietly valuing them.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Think upon our marriage. Ostensibly, he punished you for your apparent willfulness by marrying you to someone beneath your station. Yet…” Quaeryt shrugged.

“Yet what, dearest?”

Quaeryt grinned and ignored the slight edge in her voice. “He did not go against your wishes and marry you to someone you could not stand.”

“There are times,” she responded, her voice holding a hint of playfulness.

Quaeryt was about to respond when he heard bootsteps. He waited.

“Sir … there’s a Commander Skarpa who just arrived from Ferravyl to see you…” offered one of the rankers from the door to the breakfast room.

“Escort him to the study. I’ll meet him there.”

“Do you think…?” asked Vaelora.

“I don’t think so. I’d judge he wants to see me before I return to talk over how he’d like us to work together.” Quaeryt stood and smiled wryly. “But you never know.”

He reached the center hall at the same time as did Skarpa. The ranker escorting the senior officer stepped back in deference to Quaeryt. The commander had obviously worn an oilcloth waterproof, since his uniform shirt and tunic were dry, while his trousers beneath the knees were wet.

“I hope the ride wasn’t too difficult,” offered Quaeryt, gesturing down a corridor made gloomy by the heavy clouds outside.

“Wet, and long, but not hard.”

“You could have sent word for me to see you early tomorrow.”

“Then I’d have gotten a courier soaked and made tomorrow even longer for both of us.”

Quaeryt reached the study and motioned for Skarpa to enter, then followed, closing the door behind himself. Skarpa stopped and extended a visor cap, an officer’s cap with the insignia of the double moons. “I thought you might like a replacement. I heard yours fell apart … in the ice. You’ll need it here in the south.”

“Oh … thank you.” Quaeryt almost flushed as he took the visor cap. He’d never thought about the cap. Half the time, he forgot he was wearing it. Sometimes, he’d just forgotten it. He stepped toward the circular table, where he seated himself, as did Skarpa.

“I wanted to talk with you where we wouldn’t be interrupted before you returned to Ferravyl,” said Skarpa.

“That suggests problems or matters of which I’m unaware … if not both.”

“There are always problems. Sometimes, we just don’t recognize them. Sometimes, they’re people who shouldn’t be problems, and sometimes we hope, against hope, that they’ll disappear.” Skarpa laughed. “I learned a long time ago that it’s best not to rely on hope if there are other paths. I’d rather save my hoping for times when there is no other way.”

“What are the people problems?” asked Quaeryt.

Skarpa shook his head. “I don’t know, except it takes Deucalon far too long to decide. That happens most often when a subordinate raises too many questions that don’t matter.”

“You don’t have any idea?”

“No. Even if I did, what difference would it make? He won’t listen to the most junior commander about subcommanders and majors he’s worked with for months or years. Especially not about more senior commanders.”

Quaeryt could see that.

After a moment of silence Skarpa said, “I understand Lord Bhayar visited you yesterday. I presume he did discuss more than family.”

“I understand Zhelan and I will have to deal with three Khellan companies…”

“It’s worse than that. Each company is led by a Pharsi officer who used to be the equivalent of a major or a subcommander, with another officer below him, and most of the troopers don’t speak either Tellan or Bovarian. The officers speak both Bovarian and Pharsi. That was another reason for putting them under you.”

“Another reason?” inquired Quaeryt lightly. “Besides the fact that he can claim I’m of Pharsi descent?”

Skarpa nodded, then said slowly, “There’s also the fact that people around you who aren’t loyal to Lord Bhayar … don’t … prosper. And that you seem to know quickly who they are.”

“How many officers besides you have come to those conclusions?”

“Myskyl, of course, and he told Deucalon. Every officer in all the Tilboran regiments.” Skarpa grinned. “So by now … just about every officer.”

On top of everything else … Quaeryt shook his head.

“Could any of your imager undercaptains handle his own company?” asked Skarpa. “Not now, of course. We don’t have the troopers. I’d like to start, when you think it possible, by giving each a squad, with a senior squad leader at their elbow.”

“I wouldn’t put any of them in command yet … even of a squad.” They know far less than I did, and I knew almost nothing. “Desyrk’s got the most common sense, but he’s not that strong an imager. Voltyr has sense, and he and Shaelyt are stronger, but they have a lot to learn. In time, it might work if the squad leader were in charge of the squad’s movements to begin with, and those three were told they were being trained to take over greater leadership. But I wouldn’t do it now, or anytime soon.” Quaeryt grinned ruefully. “I’m barely effective with a company, and that’s with Zhelan to keep me from making too many mistakes. But that’s why he’s there.”

“You’re better than that, but unlike some officers, you understand what you can do.”

“You think this is going to be a much longer war, don’t you?”

“Don’t you?” returned Skarpa.

“I don’t think that fighting large battles will take all that long. What comes before may take months, and what comes after will take years.”

“That’s why I wanted to know about your undercaptains. Who’s the strongest imager … among them?”

Quaeryt didn’t care for the way the question had been phrased, intentionally, because Skarpa was effectively pointing out that Quaeryt was the strongest imager, without saying so. “That would be Threkhyl, but he’s like an ax with a greasewood shaft.”

“Good to keep in mind, but that’s not what we need right now.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“There’s another question I had. An observation. It looked to me that you and the imagers created that bridge.”

“I’m just their subcommander.”

Skarpa raised both eyebrows.

“I might have helped some,” added Quaeryt.

“I’m not the only one with doubts about that statement.”

“It’s true.”

“I’m certain it is. Rescalyn, Myskyl, and Governor Straesyr all agreed on one thing. Nothing you say is untrue. It’s just not always the entire truth, or it has nothing to do with what the question was, although it may seem that it does. Myskyl said you and your imagers built the bridge and Third and Fifth Regiments will be the first to use it.”

“So we’re assigned to the south side of the river because we created the bridge?”

“Can you think of a better reason?” asked Skarpa. “Besides the fact that we’re the three most effective regiments they have?”

“Three? I heard that you’d have two regiments and a battalion, and that half of each regiment was composed of Piedran rejects.”

“Any regiment under Meinyt will be effective, and a battalion under you and Zhelan is as good as a regiment.”

“I do marvel at your optimism.”

“Realism. We’ve had more actual fighting than any other regiments, and we’ve killed and captured more than any others, and we’ve had fewer casualties. Bhayar knows that.”

“I’m certain he does.”

“He also knows one other thing.”

“Which is?”

“You are absolutely loyal to him.” After a moment Skarpa asked, “Why? You can’t have liked the way he treated you after all you did in Extela.”

“He did what was necessary. I made a choice between doing what was politically wise and what was best for the people. It wasn’t necessarily the best for the High Holders. I knew there were risks. You even told me so. I made a mistake. I thought I’d have more time than two months. But … unlike many rulers, Bhayar does not discard those who support him.”

“No … he uses everyone to their advantage … and his.”

An astute observation. “He’s been known for that. It’s one of his strengths.”

“And yours, if I do say so, is to use others’ needs for your own ends while overfulfilling their wants.”

“You grant me too much capability,” protested Quaeryt.

“No. I do not. You are fortunate that Bhayar does not see what I do.”

But he does … and wishes to use me to help him gain the rule of all Lydar. “He sees enough that I must be cautious.” That, too, was true. Quaeryt smiled. “What else need I know before tomorrow?”

Skarpa smiled in return. “That is all for now. Enjoy the day … and your wife. When we leave on Lundi, it will be months, if not longer, before you see her again.”

Quaeryt rose from the table, sensing that Skarpa would not be the first to stand, even though he should have been, given that he was Quaeryt’s superior. “I intend to.” More than you can imagine.

“Good.”

They walked from the study together toward the front entry and the cold rain that awaited the commander on his ride back to Ferravyl.