Imager’s Battalion

60

Solayi was the first of Erntyn, the second and supposedly cooler month of harvest. It didn’t feel any cooler when Quaeryt woke. He had only a trace of a headache, but he felt tired and drained. When he looked around the room, he didn’t see any obvious sign of damage. Unfortunately, there were problems. The chair that he’d repaired with imaging had a smooth, if aged, golden oak finish. The same was true of the writing desk. He hadn’t been about to try to duplicate the battered and scratched finishes. Likewise, the plaster walls and ceiling were a clean off-white, rather than showing the uneven patina of age and dirt, but the innkeeper might not notice that.

Quaeryt washed up and shaved, a necessity for him in hot weather, because his skin developed rashes if he let a beard grow out, then began to dress when there was a rap on the door. He pulled on the least soiled of the uniform shirts and walked to the door. “Yes?”

“Sir … it’s Shajan … the innkeeper, I would hate to disturb you, but there is the odor of smoke … I wished to know if you were all right…”

And if you’ve damaged my family’s inn. Quaeryt wiped a wry smile off his face and opened the door, standing in such a way that the innkeeper could see everything, but not pass Quaeryt. “I smelled smoke last night as well … but I’m fine.”

The innkeeper tried to study the room without looking too obvious. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but…”

“I understand. You would not want a guest to suffer or the premises to be damaged. As you can see, I am fine, and so are the premises.” Quaeryt paused. “Could you wash some uniforms for me-for whatever the normal charges are-and have them ready by this evening?”

“Why … yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ll get them for you.” Quaeryt walked to the armoire and took the two sets of soiled uniforms and carried them back to Shajan, who had stepped into the room, his eyes studying everything, a puzzled expression on his face. “Here you are. My thanks.”

“Yes, sir.” The innkeeper took the uniforms, glancing around the chamber a last time before stepping back into the narrow landing at the top of the stairs.

Once Shajan departed, Quaeryt finished dressing before heading down to the public room for breakfast and the officers’ meeting to follow, in lieu of a formal muster.

What the Stone’s Rest offered for breakfast was related to a domchana, Quaeryt thought, consisting of two pieces of egg toast dipped in batter a second time and fried around a slice of ham and topped with a drizzle of an apple-berry syrup. Each officer-and trooper-got two and an ale or lager.

At the officers’ meeting, Quaeryt began, in Bovarian, “As I told Major Zhelan last night, unless the Bovarians mount an assault of some sort, we will not be undertaking any attacks today, but the bridge will remain guarded. We are to be ready to attack the north of Nordeau by early tomorrow.” He looked across the faces of the officers. “Major Calkoran, you have a question?”

“Your imagers will create stone bridges for us?”

“They will.”

“If they reach from that tiny fort to one point on the far shore, the Bovarians may be able to blunt the attack. Unless you lead the charge.”

“Thank you. We’ll be sure to spread out the attack in one or more ways so that your troopers are not crammed together and unable to fight their best. How we do that will depend on how the Bovarians are assembled to defend the north shore.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Quaeryt turned to Zhelan. “I had forgotten to ask you. The horses have been ridden a great deal on stone lately. Have we had more trouble with shoes or lameness?”

“Some, sir, but so far we’ve had enough spare mounts. Wouldn’t hurt to gather more if we could after tomorrow.”

Quaeryt nodded. “If you’d see what can be done when the time comes. What about grain?”

“That’s in short supply, sir, but I have suggested that some of the factors would be well advised to see if they can find some.”

Quaeryt wasn’t about to ask what Zhelan’s suggestions entailed, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if they mentioned the relation of a subcommander to a certain ruler. “And?”

Zhelan smiled. “They thought we might have some by this afternoon.”

“Good!”

After a few more items, and a report on the state of the troopers wounded in the assault, Quaeryt dismissed all the company officers, which left him alone in the public room with the imager undercaptains.

He let the silence draw out before speaking. “Tomorrow you’ll have to image a stone span from the end of the approach to the isle. After we take the isle, you’ll have to do the same to the north shore. If they have troops arrayed there we’ll need at least two wide spans that aren’t too close together. I’ll be scouting that out later this morning, and I’ll let you know either tonight or in the morning what will be necessary.”

“Will they have archers, sir?” asked Horan.

“They have archers. They also have musketeers. We’ve seen the archers here, but we haven’t seen the musketeers. Yet.”

“Why might that be?” asked Voltyr politely, in a tone that suggested he knew the answer and that Quaeryt should tell the others.

“From what I understand from Major Calkoran, who has faced the Bovarian musketeers far more than any of the rest of us, the muskets are far more effective on open level fields or in places where they have a clear field of fire. The south quarter of Nordeau is not suited to that. Neither are the approaches to the bridge. It may be that there is a level square beyond the approach to the north side of the bridge. If so, that would be where we would be most likely to encounter musketeers.”

“Thank you, sir.” Voltyr nodded.

Quaeryt scanned the faces of the undercaptains. “How many of you still have headaches? This isn’t a time for bravery or bearing pain without saying so.”

After a moment, Horan raised a hand, then so did Smaethyl, followed by Khalis, then Desyrk.

“Is there anyone who has trouble seeing?”

Every head shook “no.”

“Good. For those of you with headaches, it will help if you drink watered ale or lager. Not enough to get tipsy. That will only give you a second kind of headache, and you don’t need two right now.”

His words brought several smiles.

“Some walking and fresh air will help, but walk in groups of three if you do. If you can, take a nap this afternoon. You may need all the rest you can get before tomorrow…” He went on with a few more suggestions, then dismissed them.

When he finished with the imagers, Quaeryt reclaimed the mare from the inn stable, saddled and mounted, and rode up to the bridge to the isle fort under a sun that was already sweltering. It might be past the middle of harvest, but so far he hadn’t noticed any decrease in either the heat or the dampness of the air.

A full company was guarding the bridge approach, but three of the squads were engaged in sabre drills on foot, while the fourth squad was drawn up in loose formation just short of the gap between the approach and the isle fort. Quaeryt rode up the eastern edge of the roadway and reined up short of the formed-up squad.

A captain stepped forward. “Good morning, Subcommander.”

“And to you, Captain. Have you seen anyone in the fort today?”

“No, sir. The companies watching last night saw lots of lamps and lanterns. Nothing so far today. Not a soul. I’d not be surprised if they’ve left. That, or they want us to think so.”

Either wouldn’t have surprised Quaeryt, although he had the feeling that the Bovarians had left the small fort. “Just don’t let them surprise us.”

“No, sir.”

Quaeryt turned and eased the mare a bit closer to the end of the approach where he studied the fort. The foundation rising from the isle was not all that large, perhaps running thirty yards upstream to downstream, and although it was hard to tell from where he looked, about two-thirds of that from north to south. The fort proper was set on the western end, so that, were the bridge spans in place, riders or wagons would move straight across the span from one side of the river to the other. The stone roadway across the eastern end fort was bordered by a low stone wall a yard and a half high. The wooden span between the fort and the north shore had also been retracted so that the fort was truly an isle at the moment.

Quaeryt guided the mare down the approach and then westward on the narrow street bordering the bluff. Unlike in many towns and cities, there were no buildings or dwellings perched on the edge of the bluff, just the street, with a chest-high gray stone wall at the edge of the stone sidewalk.

Once he had ridden close to two hundred yards, he turned the mare and reined up so that he could see the isle. The span to the north approach had definitely been retracted. He squinted and looked again. He’d originally thought that the isle fort was in the middle of the river, but from the southern side and as far west as he’d ridden, it was clear that the gap between the fort and the northern shore was at least twice as far as between the fort and the southern shore.

That suggested that the Naedarans feared more from the north than from the south, not surprisingly, since the bulk of the Bovarian heartlands lay to the north and west of Nordeau. Still … with all the skill embodied in the stonework, Quaeryt couldn’t help but wonder how and why Naedara had declined without any record of a great war or conquest, with not even a story or a tale, except muttered references to “the old ones.”

While he had no doubts that Skarpa already knew what he’d just discovered, he turned the mare toward the Traders’ Bowl. There, after turning the mare over to a trooper, he found Skarpa where he expected to find him-in the plaques room of the Traders’ Bowl, seated at the table.

“Good morning, sir. I assume you’ve received reports that both bridge spans to the isle fort have been retracted, possibly removed.”

“Captain Faurot reported that early this morning.” Skarpa did not stand, nor did he gesture for Quaeryt to seat himself. “You think the Bovarians know we have imagers and that the fort offers little protection?”

“That’s possible,” Quaeryt agreed. “It’s also possible they’ve set a trap on the other side.”

“Musketeers again? Set to rake the entire approach from the bridge?”

“That thought had occurred to me.”

“It occurred to me as well. What can you do about it?”

“There are some possibilities…” Quaeryt went on to lay out what the imagers and he could do, although he did not differentiate his capabilities from those of the undercaptains, ending up with, “… about all that I can come up with, sir.”

“More than most. Prepare for that, and if they haven’t thought it out that well, we’ll count ourselves fortunate.”

That we will. “I’ve already gone over the possibilities with the officers.”

“Good. Plan for assembling on the bridge approach beginning at sixth glass.” Skarpa stood. “Sorry I can’t talk longer. Deucalon wants an immediate response. Friggin’ idiocy!”

Quaeryt nodded. “Tomorrow.”

Once he departed the Traders’ Bowl, he rode back to the bridge and the street fronting the river where he spent some three glasses studying the river, the fort, and what he could see of the north side of the river.

When he returned to the Stone’s Rest somewhat past midafternoon, he’d no sooner stepped into the small front hallway than Shajan stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Subcommander, sir, I hope that I did not trouble you unduly this morning.”

Quaeryt smiled politely. “No … I understand your concern. The inn is your livelihood, and you would not be diligent if you did not look to see that all was well. You have a responsibility to your wife and to your family.”

“Thank you, sir.” Shajan added, “I just returned your uniforms to your chamber.”

“Thank you. I do appreciate it. Is the usual fee two coppers for each?”

“Sir … you do not owe us.”

Quaeryt smiled again. “I cannot change what Lord Bhayar requires of you, but I can insist on paying for what I require of you.” He extended four coppers.

“Sir…”

“Please. Take them, if you will not for your services, as a favor to me.”

For a moment Shajan froze. Then he swallowed and took the coppers, as if he had no choice.

Quaeryt feared he’d used a phrase with a second meaning to those in Nordeau, and one he’d certainly not intended. He image-projected warmth and concern. “Shajan … I am not an old one. I am Pharsi, though I did not know it until I was well grown, and that is why I command a battalion that is largely Pharsi, but most are from Khel.”

Some, but not all, of the fear left the innkeeper’s face. “Thank you, sir.”

“It’s my pleasure, and I do appreciate having clean uniforms.”

As he walked up the steps to the third level to his chamber, where he wanted to wash up and rest before the evening meal, he wondered, once again, just what the old ones of Naedara had done that was so awful that folklore and legends could terrify a grown man after so many years.