L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

Horan held his head in his hands, massaging his forehead.

“It’s not that bad,” muttered Smaethyl.

“… speak for yourself…” replied the older imager. “Head like to split.”

“What did you do? Threkhyl did the ramp.”

“Who’d you think was imaging iron darts when we went down over the wall? All that iron hurts. Don’t see how the subcommander does it…” Horan raised his head and looked at Lhandor. “Not another word about his being a son of Erion…”

Lhandor and Khalis exchanged glances, but neither spoke.

“Not so easy, is it?” offered Baelthm.

“You didn’t have to do anything, just stick with the subcommander,” said Threkhyl, nursing an ale.

“Keepin’ up with him isn’t easy … Took down those gates like they were rotten wood, kept the battalion casualties real low…”

“How low?” asked Voltyr.

“Maybe ten dead, thirty wounded, and he took ’em through a whole two companies of pikemen, scattered ’em like leaves before the wind … not counting the archers and the foot.”

“How the frig does he do it?” asked Smaethyl. “Never heard of an imager that powerful.”

“You wouldn’t except in war,” answered Voltyr. “That’s because he’s married to Lord Bhayar’s sister. He’s serious about trying to make things better for imagers. That’s why, every battle, he does everything he can. He didn’t have to do it. He was a scholar assistant to Bhayar in Solis. No one even knew he was an imager. He could have stayed there safe and out of danger.”

“He just wants power,” said Threkhyl.

Shaelyt shook his head. “He might be made a commander. He’ll never hold a rank higher than that. He knows that. Rulers and their ministers don’t trust imagers.”

“Why’s he do it, then?” asked Horan.

“He told you,” said Desyrk tiredly. “Bhayar’s the only ruler in the frigging world who’ll give imagers even half a break. That’s because some of his family was Pharsi, they say.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” declared Threkhyl.

“Sure it does,” retorted Desyrk. “He’s married. If he doesn’t make things better for us, and all imagers, what will happen to his children and his children’s children once he’s gone?”

“Sounds like you like him.” Threkhyl snorted.

“You’d be a fool to like him. But you’d be an idiot not to respect him and support him. He’s the only hope we’ve got. You don’t think so, talk to the Khellans.”

“Didn’t know you talked Pharsi.”

“I don’t. The officers talk Bovarian, and my ma did. He’s their only hope, too.”

None of the undercaptains replied, as if Desyrk’s words had quieted everyone.

Only hope? Quaeryt winced. Then he slipped away and went back to the stable. From there, with a squad from third company, he rode back to the bridge approach, where he took his time studying the isle fort. The fort had been placed, as had the city, at a point where the river was narrower and deeper and where it had cut through higher ground so that both sides of the city rested on low bluffs. As Quaeryt had thought, the fort’s walls merged a yard or two above the water with the gray mass of stone that was the isle. As he looked to the north side of the river, he noted that the area below and to both sides of the north span was walled in the ubiquitous gray stone, but beyond the walls, both to the east and west, the low bluff was composed of a reddish stone. Quaeryt moved to where the stone wall on the west side of the bridge approach ended and looked west and down. On the south side as well, beyond the gray stone facing below and to the sides of the stonework supporting the approach, the rock of the bluff was red.

While there was certainly no way to tell, Quaeryt had a definite feeling that the isle was not at all natural and that it had been imaged in place, just to support the fort.

For the next two glasses he rode through the streets, looking at everything with great care. Skarpa had been right about the general absence of marks on the stone walls. Even the pavement had only the faintest of grooves worn by wagon wheels. Finally, he returned to the Stone’s Rest, where he stabled the mare, and then searched out the proprietor and found him just outside the kitchen that served the public room.

“Yes, sir, and what might I do for you?” replied the innkeeper, a youngish man for owning or running an inn, since he was not too many years older than Quaeryt.

“Answer a few questions. That’s all for now.”

The innkeeper frowned slightly. “As I can.”

Quaeryt glimpsed a narrow-faced woman with strawberry-blond hair pulled into a bun watching before she slipped into the kitchen. “Why are there so many empty buildings here?”

“This is the old trading quarter, sir. The larger traders have their warehouses on the north side. Once there was more trade on both sides, but that was afore Lord Bhayar started tariffing the river traders going beyond Ferravyl. Leastwise, that’s what my father says.”

“Is he an innkeeper, too?”

“That’d be the family trade. He runs the Black Goose north of the river.”

“It’s the more prosperous inn?”

“More so than here, but … we do well enough.”

“This part of Nordeau seems very old, yet the stones seem new…”

“Always been like that, sir.”

“Who built it?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, sir. Some say the old ones did, years and years back.”

“The old ones?”

“The ones who came before … from Chelaes or thereabouts. I wouldn’t know. My great-great-grandsire came here came from Tuuryl. This was his first inn. Grandsire built the Black Goose before I was born.”

While the man was polite, Quaeryt realized that he avoided looking quite directly at him. “Did the troopers from the barracks frequent your public room?”

The innkeeper chuckled. “Hadn’t a been for them, might have closed down years ago.” He paused. “You did say we could charge your men for the second ale or lager, didn’t you? And all after that?”

“I did indeed. Or for any ale or lager they want when you’re not serving them breakfast or dinner. No more than two coppers for the ordinary. Three for the special.”

“Fair enough, sir.”

Quaeryt suspected that what the man meant was that it was fair enough under the circumstances. “Have there been any more or any fewer troopers here in the last weeks?”

“I couldn’t say, one way or another, sir. Looked to be the same to me.”

“Did anyone tell you that we were marching on the city?”

“No one said anything … except … well, a few days ago, one of the traders I knew took everything he could and headed north … told me Rex Kharst’s forces were losing and pulling back … said we’d be wise to do as he was.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“The inns are all we have. Besides, my sire … he said that you’d let the inns be, leastwise those in Villerive.”

Quaeryt asked more questions, but it was clear that the innkeeper knew little beyond what he had already said. Finally, Quaeryt smiled and said, “Thank you. I appreciate your time.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Pleased to have been of help, sir. If you would excuse me…”

“Of course.”

Quaeryt waited until the innkeeper turned. After glancing around for a moment and seeing no one near, he raised a concealment shield and slipped after the man. Quaeryt stopped just outside the archway to the kitchen, because the innkeeper was on the other side talking to the woman Quaeryt had observed earlier.

“… did he want, Shajan?”

“… asked questions about the old quarter here and the Bovarian troops … lots of them…”

“… why would he? He looks like one of them …”