L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

“… can’t be. He’s a Telaryn officer … maybe more than that … what I’ve overheard…”

“Still looks like an old one … yellow-white hair … those eyes…”

Old one … is that the same as a lost one?

“… how would you know?… no paintings of them…”

“… I’ve heard tell…”

“… don’t upset him … the way things are … we’ll survive…”

“… won’t … but you deal with him…”

Quaeryt shook his head and moved away, still holding the concealment. He needed to check with Zhelan about the billeting and feeding for Fifth Battalion.

A glass or so later, after he’d finished with the major, as Quaeryt was waiting to enter the public room of the inn, a squad leader hurried up to him. “Subcommander … Commander Skarpa has called a meeting of all the subcommanders at sixth glass at the Traders’ Bowl.”

“Thank you. I’ll be there.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Once the squad leader had left the small front hall of the inn, Quaeryt permitted himself a sardonic smile, wondering what Deucalon’s reaction to Skarpa’s dispatch had been.

After he finished eating with the company officers and the undercaptains-a subdued affair, possibly because the imagers had little to say, and because Quaeryt could only tell the company officers that he’d heard nothing yet-he headed out for the Traders’ Bowl, the larger inn where Skarpa had made his headquarters.

As Quaeryt walked along the stone-paved way, carrying shields, despite a certain strain, he made a point of taking in every building and discovered that every one was built of gray stone, giving the quarter a cold and forboding appearance despite the warm damp air of harvest.

The Traders’ Bowl looked as though it might have once housed a wealthy family because the stone window frames were far larger than most of those he’d seen in Nordeau so far. When Quaeryt stepped inside, he saw a Telaryn ranker standing in the entry hall, a large foyer with niches in the walls, possibly designed for statues or the like, but devoid of ornamentation, possibly most recently removed, thought Quaeryt.

“Sir, the others are here, the first door back on the left,” said the ranker.

“Thank you.” Quaeryt walked swiftly to the door, opened it, stepped inside, and closed it behind himself.

Skarpa, Meinyt, and Khaern sat around a table in a small chamber across a wide hallway from the public room, but one that did not strike Quaeryt as originally intended as a plaques room, not given the arched ceiling with carved moldings that had later been whitewashed, although the circular table and the worn round-backed chairs proclaimed that plaques gaming had been its latest use. Skarpa motioned to the chair across from him.

Quaeryt took it and waited.

“Earlier this afternoon, I got a dispatch from the marshal. He had no problems with our not being able to cross the river today. In fact, he does not wish us to attack the isle fort and cross into the northern part of Nordeau until early on Lundi.”

“You mean he’s still a day away?” asked Meinyt sardonically.

“He did not convey when he and his forces would arrive.”

“Mardi, most likely.”

Skarpa looked sharply at Meinyt.

“He’s right, you know?” Khaern said.

“That may be,” replied Skarpa, “but he is the marshal, and it’s best to stick to the facts in officers’ meetings.” He went on. “Otherwise, we might be too free with our opinions in meetings with other commanders, and I do believe that you three are the most junior subcommanders, and I know I’m the most junior commander.” He softened his words with a faint smile.

Quaeryt had his doubts about whether he’d ever be included in such a meeting, at least voluntarily, by Deucalon.

“The isle fort isn’t that big,” Skarpa went on, looking at Quaeryt. “Once your imagers put a span over to it, I’d wager the Bovarians abandon it.”

“They might slip out of it tonight,” suggested Meinyt.

“That’s possible. If they don’t know it yet, they’ll find out soon that we’ve got imagers that can create a span,” added Skarpa.

“Why didn’t they know before?” asked Khaern.

“They likely knew we had some imagers, but the only time they built a bridge was at Ferravyl,” replied Skarpa, “and none of the Bovarian troopers or officers who saw it survived.”

“Still…” pressed Khaern.

“If you hadn’t seen it,” asked Meinyt, “would you have believed it?”

Khaern laughed softly. “Probably not.”

“Getting across a narrow span to the far side … that could be a problem,” said Skarpa.

“We might be able to image a wider span, maybe even two,” suggested Quaeryt. “The undercaptains will get another day to rest up. That will help.” He didn’t mention that there would likely be more than a few Bovarian casualties if the Bovarians massed troopers on and around the northern bridge approach.

“Good. If they have more pikemen in those narrow streets, that could be a problem…”

Quaeryt listened and gave the best answers and suggestions he could. By the time the meeting was over, less than two quints later, his head was aching even more and his eyes burning, and he was ready to walk back to the Stone’s Rest and get some sleep.

The chamber Quaeryt had taken in the Stone’s Rest was at the top of the building, in fact the only room on the third floor, perhaps four yards by five with not only a wide bed, and a night table, but a writing desk with a matching chair, and a doorless armoire for hanging garments. Quaeryt picked up his kit from the floor and set it on the chair, while he took out the pouch with soap and personals, noting that the writing desk, once a decent piece of oak furniture, was battered and the surface of the wood worn and scratched, as was that of the desk chair.

There was an adjoining washroom, with a chamber pot, but not a jakes, reminding Quaeryt, again, of the age of the building. The outer walls were stone, of course, as were the floors, and the wall plaster held an uneven off-white shade that was not the result of design, but age and less than enthusiastic cleaning.

After he hung up his spare uniform to at least air out, and taken off his shirt and hung that up as well, then washed up, he walked back into the main chamber and looked at the desk. He thought about writing Vaelora, but decided against it, since he really only wanted to write about taking Nordeau once. He wasn’t sleepy, tired as he felt, and the walk back from the Traders’ Bowl had cleared his headache and eyes somewhat.

He pulled the small leather volume from his kit, although he hoped, given the tight quarters in Nordeau and the lack of open space, that Skarpa would not insist on services on Solayi evening. Still … just in case …

In the dim light from the single lamp, he began to page through the book, hoping for something that would provide inspiration. One passage that he’d noted before struck him in a different light in view of what he’d surmised about the Naedarans.

Before Rholan, the Nameless was more a deity of battles and of rough justice, justice administered at the edge of a blade or under an ax.

Was that really so, or did Rholan … or the writer … just assume that?

Again, Quaeryt had no way of knowing.

Another passage caused Quaeryt to smile, as it had every time he’d seen the words.

Contrary to the legends that are already springing up about Rholan, he was never a proper chorister, or even an improper one. More than one chorister, especially the noted Basilyn of Cheva, berated his congregants for following a man who was “neither a proper scholar, nor a chorister, nor much of anything but a believer in his own rectitude.” To his credit, Rholan never claimed to be a chorister, but only that he attempted to follow the way of the Nameless as best he could. On more than one occasion, he was denied entry to an anomen to speak, the most well-known instance, of course, being when Chorister Tharyn Arysyn barred him from the north anomen in Montagne, not far from Rholan’s own home. Tharyn declared that all were welcome to worship in the anomen, but only those who had studied the Nameless could speak.