Imager’s Battalion

67

In leaving Nordeau on Solayi morning, Skarpa rode with Fifth Battalion, once more in the van, along the wide and well-paved river road that led from the southwest gate of the old southern section of the city westward and, according to the maps, to Variana. For one of the few times in months, there was a trace of coolness in the air, but the sky was clear.

Are we going to get a foretaste of fall? Quaeryt had his doubts, especially as the day quickly warmed as mille after mille passed. As it did, Quaeryt began to sweat, if less than on previous days, and he thought more and more about the road. Why, after hundreds of milles of generally poor roads, except for the stretches created by the ancient Naedarans, had Kharst or his predecessors built such a superb road on the south side of the river?

The roadbed itself was wide and solid, but he did notice that it rose and fell more than the Naedaran road, which had maintained more of a level path, and the Bovarian road was, for the most part, closer to the river.

He asked Skarpa, riding beside him, “Why do you think they built this road so well?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe they knew we were headed to Variana.” The commander offered a low laugh.

“Or maybe there are more High Holdings on the south side from here to Variana,” countered Quaeryt, “and Kharst wanted to reach them more easily.”

“Them or the holders’ ladies?”

“Both, most likely.”

The only problem with the idea of High Holdings was that Quaeryt didn’t see a trace of one for the first two glasses of the ride. He also realized, belatedly, that he really hadn’t talked to many of the undercaptains in days, except for Voltyr and Shaelyt, beyond instructing them or drilling them. So, when Skarpa rode back to check on Third Regiment, Quaeryt motioned for Baelthm to ride with him on his right, since the road was wide enough that Zhelan was already riding on his left.

“Sir … have I done something…”

“No. We have a long ride, and it’s been a while since I’ve really talked to any of you. You told me you’d agreed to be an imager undercaptain when Lord Bhayar’s men came for you. Was that forced … or was it a better choice?”

“Some of both, sir, I suppose. It wasn’t like I had that much choice. Fewer and fewer of the local tradespeople wanted me to image things for them, except maybe the masons, and in that part of Cheva, none were building houses that needed scrollwork or metal trim. The gold for going to join you, excepting that I didn’t know it was you, sir, would pay for food and more, enough that Rashyl could feed and clothe the boys. With her lacework, that is.”

“Have you sent script for coin back to her?”

“Most of my pay, sir. One of the dispatch riders brought me a note, a mere scrap. He didn’t take her coin. He said that taking notes to tell a man his pay scripts made it to his wife would have been a crime against the Nameless.” Baelthm chuckled in his deep voice. “Long as I live, they’ll be doing fairly well, and if I don’t … well … there’s the death golds. What is it, four golds for an undercaptain?”

Quaeryt knew the death gold payment was two golds for a ranker, if he had a wife, none otherwise, but for an officer, he’d never asked, but Baelthm’s comment reminded him that he needed to check to see that the proper payment request had been lodged for Akoryt. Rather than answer Baelthm directly, he only said, “It could happen, but it’s best not to dwell on it.”

“You’d be right about that, sir.”

“Have there been any other imagers in your family?”

“None that I know of. I wonder at times if my youngest might not be growing in that direction.”

“How old is he?”

“He’s but four.” Baelthm added immediately, “I did not wed young. Few women in Cheva would willingly wed an imager, especially one with a Pharsi grandmother. But Rashyl … her sweetness was a boon and well worth waiting for.”

“What sort of lacework does she do?”

Baelthm beamed. “Any kind that needs doing.” The broad smile faded. “At times, the ladies wanted more from her than the masons did from me.”

“Was your father an imager?”

“Who could say? I don’t remember much of him. He was a boatman on the river. He died when I could barely walk. Drowned, my mother said. She never spoke much of him, and the way she didn’t, I didn’t ask much. Not after she said that he was a boatman and that was all I needed to know.”

Quaeryt nodded and waited.

“Not that it’d be good to dwell on it, sir, but you did say something about how things might be better for us after the campaign…”

“After the war is settled, one way or another,” Quaeryt affirmed. “Lord Bhayar has agreed not to forget the imagers, and he has always kept his word on such matters.”

“And you being an imager, then, and wed to his sister…” Baelthm raised his eyebrows.

Quaeryt nodded.

“What about families, sir?”

“I’d like them to be able to join you.” You can’t promise that. Not now.

“Be good to think that I might not have to return to Cheva. The whole province…” The oldest undercaptain shook his head.

“The folk of Piedryn haven’t been as charitable as they might have been to imagers…”

“Those words, sir, are all too charitable for the folk of Piedryn.”

Quaeryt wasn’t about to point out that those words applied to all too many people in Lydar and that was one reason why he was risking so much for Bhayar. “That may be, but we do what we can do.”

Quaeryt talked for another quint before he felt he’d spent enough time with the older imager and sent Baelthm back to the undercaptains. But before summoning another undercaptain to talk with, Quaeryt turned to Zhelan. “I know it’s late, and I should have realized it earlier, but the death payments for Akoryt?”

“You had much to do, sir. I took care of it when we had time in Ralaes, then sent it off after we took Villerive. Be a few weeks before his wife receives those golds, and she’ll grieve again.” Zhelan added quietly, “It’s five golds for an undercaptain.”

“Thank you.”

Desyrk was the next undercaptain Quaeryt gestured to ride beside him.

The blond undercaptain looked quizzically at Quaeryt. “Sir?”

“You’d told me you were a potter before you became an undercaptain. You avoided talking much about it, and I didn’t press … then. Why didn’t you want to say more?”

“Just didn’t.”

“I need to know more now.” Quaeryt image-projected a hint of warmth and curiosity.

“Might I ask why, sir?”

“The more I know about you, now that your imaging has improved, the more I can try to put you where you’re the most effective,” replied Quaeryt. “Did you like being a potter?”

“Well enough.”

“How much imaging did you do to help in forming or throwing pots?”

“Couldn’t have been any kind of potter without it.” Desyrk paused, then went on. “My pots’d sag. Didn’t have my brother’s touch. He was even better than our da.”

“Your father was a master potter, then?”

“Hardly! We made pots and jugs for the poorer folk north of Thuyl. They were strong and solid, and they didn’t leak. Other than that…” He shook his head.

“Was anyone else in your family an imager?”

“Not that I know. Until my brother caught me imaging a pot, even my folks didn’t know. He was the one who told Bhayar’s men. Even kept the gold, the miserable whelp.”

“Why did he turn you in?”

“He didn’t know how come I could form pots as good as they were. He’d see ’em sagging and lumpy, and I’d image ’em better before we put them in the kiln … when no one was looking. But he kept watching closer and closer, and he caught me. Said I wasn’t doing it right. Said a potter had to work the clay, not just image it. I told him it was work one way or the other. He didn’t want to hear it. Da didn’t believe it, and Jorj went and told the local constable or whatever, and they put me on an old mule and sent me to Solis and then to Ferravyl.” Desyrk shrugged. “You know the rest.”

“You never married.”

“Couldn’t raise the bride price. Pots don’t bring a lot.”

“What do you think about being an imager?”

“It’s not great, sir. A lot better than being a potter in Thuyla, though.”

Quaeryt continued to ask questions and listen as they rode westward along the well-paved road that led to Variana.