L. Modesitt Jr - Antiagon Fire

Quaeryt frowned. “I recall that, but … what was the problem?”

“Deucalon was most displeased. He insisted that there was a vast difference between professionalism and unwarranted leniency. Myskyl said nothing.” Bhayar smiled. “If you had been here, what would you have said?”

“Something along the line that I would agree wholeheartedly with the marshal, that had the factor been uncooperative, my efforts not to destroy his livelihood would definitely have been unwarranted. But I would have pointed out that a number of High Holders who stripped their holdings of everything, including provisions we could have used, are being allowed to retain those lands and holdings. I don’t believe that you, or those of us serving you, should employ one standard for factors and another for High Holders, especially when the factor in question was nearly as wealthy as some lesser High Holders. Doing so would undercut your support among the factors without gaining you any more support at all among the High Holders.”

Bhayar nodded. “I thought your reply might be something like that. I merely thanked the marshal for his concerns and said I would bring the matter up with you.”

“I suspect Myskyl brought the matter to Deucalon’s attention. I would not wish to speculate on why that might be.”

“Vaelora would … and has.”

“She is often more perceptive than I … and more careful in her words.”

“And if Myskyl did suggest Deucalon’s words?”

“You would know far better than I,” Quaeryt pointed out.

“What I do know is that I’ll be relieved when my submarshals are away from Variana and you are on your way to Khel.” Bhayar sat back slightly and tilted his head to the left. “That leaves another matter. Do you honestly believe that you and your imagers can rein in the High Holders in the years to come?”

“Don’t you?”

“You weren’t exactly as effective as you could have been in Montagne.”

“I was as effective as necessary in order to restore order. And … I was acting alone. The outcry would have died away.”

“Especially if something … an accident or sickness … had happened to another High Holder?”

Quaeryt nodded.

“You are capable of that. I know.”

“I’d prefer not to act that way, but it’s far better to remove one man than fight uprisings and rebellions.”

“How long will it take?”

“As necessary, we can begin to do what needs to be done once I return from Khel.”

“Not until then?” A faint, almost humorous smile flitted across Bhayar’s lips.

“You need to give the High Holders time to misbehave. That way, any accidents or illnesses will be seen as a result of their actions and not mere greed for their lands on your part.”

“But not too much time.”

“No.” Quaeryt shook his head. “But you will need to allow us the resources to build the scholarium. The imagers cannot be seen as merely your tool. We need to prove useful to many, so that the people, especially in Khel and Bovaria, will support them.”

“And not in Telaryn?”

“That will come, but it is not as necessary.”

“I suppose not.” Bhayar stretched, then stood. “I’d best ready myself for a long dinner.”

“Better you than me.”

“Your turn will come, right after you return.”

If I return successfully. “We’ll face that then.”

“Along with more than you ever dreamed possible, Quaeryt.”

“You’re so encouraging.”

“What else can I be when you’re married to Vaelora?”

“Remind me to talk to Aelina when she arrives.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t have to. Vaelora will tell you everything.” Bhayar gestured toward the study door. “Go.”

Quaeryt grinned, then bowed, turned, and made his way out.

At two quints before ninth glass on Samedi morning, Quaeryt had just stamped and then brushed his muddy boots off on the stone floor of the south-facing covered porch of the scholarium some five milles north of the Chateau Regis.

Nearly two glasses to cover four milles on what wouldn’t have been called a path in Telaryn. Were all the side roads in Bovaria that bad, or was that because the scholars were in as much disfavor in Bovaria as in Telaryn? You may find out shortly.

He glanced back below the porch at the terraced gardens, their low walls composed of local stones stacked and barely fitted together. The ground between the walls was bare, and the stalks and stubble had been turned under the soil, crudely, for Quaeryt could see parts of stalks protruding.

He turned. Two rankers, hands on the hilts of their sabres, stood behind him as he crossed the porch to the door, still carrying full heavy imaging shields. Before Quaeryt reached the door, it opened.

“Who might you be?” offered the lean, almost emaciated, man with straggly blond hair, who wore scholars’ browns of a somewhat different cut than those worn by the scholars of Telaryn.

“Quaeryt Rytersyn, scholar and commander in the Southern Army of Telaryn. I’m here to see the maitre.”

The scholar glanced at the two armed rankers and the mounted squad drawn up at the foot of the stone steps, then back at Quaeryt. “I don’t suppose we can exactly stop you.”

“I have no ill intentions.”

“I suppose not, not if you are asking. If you would follow me, sir…”

Quaeryt ignored the grudging tone of the “sir” and followed the scholar into the two-story oblong brick structure. The rankers followed, the second closing the door.

The scholar walked through a square entry hall floored with boot-scarred slate and down a narrow corridor to a dark gold oak door, half ajar. “Maitre, there’s a Telaryn commander here to see you. Says he’s a scholar.”

“Then have him come in, Brialt.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt image-projected absolute authority and stepped past the scholar, ignoring the audible gulp, and closed the door behind himself. “I’m Quaeryt Rytersyn, maitre, a scholar from Solis.” Among other things.

The white-haired and bent scholar did not rise from the narrow desk, but peered up at Quaeryt, his eyes wide as he took in the brownish green uniform and the commander’s insignia. Finally, he spoke in Bovarian. “You command a powerful presence, a strength of purpose I have never sensed before.”

“I am who I am.”

“You wear a uniform, yet you say you are a scholar.”

“I was raised a scholar in Solis, then was a scholar assistant to Lord Bhayar before serving in the Tilboran rebellion and becoming an officer.”

“You know we are not scholars like those in Solis.”

Quaeryt was only slightly surprised at the standard phrasing, and he replied in kind. “I did not expect that you would be exactly the same. Nor does the moon have sons she acknowledges openly, yet learning exists under moonlight or sunlight, for all that the hunter may be Artiema’s guardian.”

“I suppose I must welcome you, Quaeryt Rytersyn. I am Charpentier D’Scholarium, and Scholar Maitre of Variana. Might I ask what brings you here?”

“Part of my duties to Lord Bhayar is to talk to the scholars of Bovaria. You represent the scholars here.”

“Only here.” Charpentier offered a raspy laugh. “Only in this poor scholarium. Once this was the smallest of the three in and around Variana. Now … it is all that remains.”

Quaeryt eased himself into the rickety-looking single armless wooden chair across the desk from the maitre. “How did that come to be?”

“It is a long story … and a sad one.”

Quaeryt nodded.

“In the time of Rex Haarl, the father of Rex Kharst, the scholars were respected. Every scholarium received golds from the nearby anomens. Not many, but enough to supplement what we earned from the schools and to maintain the scholarium. Then … when Rex Kharst succeeded his sire and took the Chateau Regis, things changed.” The maitre sighed. “Had we but known, but yesterday is always so much clearer than tomorrow. You would think we go through life like a man riding backward in a coach, seeing everything after we pass it, if not later, facing where we have been, rather than where we are headed.”