L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

Getting downstairs to eat felt as though it took more than a quint for the two flights of stone steps. Fortunately, the field surgeon did return with canvas and some bone stays, and the wrapping helped immobilize his ribs and chest, but even so, taking a deep breath shot pains through his entire chest.

Quaeryt was sitting in the public room, sipping on a lager, not wishing to climb steps or anything else, debating whether to try to make his way to see Skarpa when the commander arrived at the Stone’s Rest and slipped into the chair opposite Quaeryt, who had made no move to rise, although he would have, had he felt more able to move easily.

“I’d heard you’d been injured,” began Skarpa, “but how … like this?”

“Undercaptain Shaelyt and I were shielding the front of the columns as they came off the spans into the square. The Bovarians fired too many muskets…”

Skarpa frowned. “We recovered over four hundred muskets, but … you’ve faced them before.”

“Not five hundred all fired at once.”

“They fired all at once? That’s not…”

“That’s not the way they’re supposed to fire. They’re supposed to alternate volleys so that they can’t be rushed while reloading.”

“Why did they change? I’m not sure I understand…”

“Someone had an idea about how much protection an imager can provide. We can create shields, but if there’s too much … force … the shields give and crush in on our bodies.” That was an oversimplification, but Quaeryt wasn’t about to try to explain it all.

“You were able to do more than they thought, weren’t you? Was that why, even with so many muskets, there was so little damage to the troopers?”

Quaeryt gave a very small nod.

“That’s why Zhelan could get to the pikemen and muskets before they could do worse,” added Skarpa. “He thought you’d done something.”

“I think we helped,” Quaeryt admitted.

“More than helped. Made all the difference. Said you were a good officer. Too friggin’ brave, but good.”

Brave? I don’t think so. “Have you heard from the marshal?”

“Got a dispatch this morning. He wrote that they were slowed by logistical difficulties.” Skarpa snorted. “Logistical difficulties, my ass.”

“He wants to save his forces for the assault on Variana,” suggested Quaeryt.

“That’s where the glory is,” said Skarpa. “If he wins.”

“That’s just the beginning of the problems. You know that. How long did it take to bring Tilbor under control?”

“Ten years … and it’s less than a third the size of Bovaria.”

“If we defeat Kharst and his forces-decisively-at Variana,” said Quaeryt, “Bhayar could probably work out something with the people of Khel. That would leave the western part of old Bovaria. Pacifying that could take over a year and use all the forces Deucalon has.”

“He’ll stay in Variana and have Myskyl do it.”

Not if either of us has anything to say about it. “Lord Bhayar will have to decide about that, based on what happens at Variana and how.”

“You have something in mind, Quaeryt? When we get to Variana?”

“Only the general idea that I can’t do what I did yesterday again.”

“What else?”

“We need to make sure that Kharst masses his forces.”

“After what we’ve done to smaller forces along the way, that might not be a problem.”

Unless Kharst or his commanders understand what actually happened at Ferravyl. “I hope not. When will Deucalon arrive?”

“Not before tomorrow sometime.”

“Good and bad,” Quaeryt said.

“That will give you and the imagers more time to recover,” agreed Skarpa. “It will also give my men too much time to get in trouble.”

Quaeryt frowned.

“They said Villerive was a bawdy city.” Skarpa snorted. “The north side of Nordeau is far worse. You and Khaern are fortunate to have your men here.”

“They won’t think so once they’ve heard from the others.”

“They won’t hear until we’ve left for Variana.”

“And if we wait too long, that will give Kharst more time to amass forces there.”

“You seem convinced that he’ll have a huge army there.”

“Aren’t you?” countered Quaeryt.

“You almost convince me. I still have trouble seeing why, if he does, he hasn’t used it before now.”

“Because he has the same problem in Khel that Bhayar had in Tilbor, and getting troopers back from the west takes even longer. He also doesn’t care that much about the cost to his people so long as it costs us more. What he doesn’t understand is that the people know that as well, which is why we’ve not had too much difficulty with them. Even the High Holders have avoided us when they could. Kharst wants us weakened as much as possible and as far into Bovaria as possible before he attacks … but he can’t afford to give up Variana. So that’s where he and his forces will be.”

“Have you told Bhayar this?” asked Skarpa.

“When have I had a chance? I’d suggest,” Quaeryt went on, “that you not mention all that to Deucalon or Myskyl. If they’ve thought of it, they’ll think you’re trying to take credit for the idea. If they haven’t, they will take credit.”

Skarpa nodded slowly. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?”

“Not much, but I’m not feeling worse, and that means I’m likely getting better.”

“Good.”

After Skarpa departed, Quaeryt remained in the public room, nursing his lager, then saw Shaelyt standing in the archway. “Shaelyt!”

At Quaeryt’s gesture, the undercaptain moved gingerly into the public room and eased himself into the chair across from the subcommander. His face bore the same kinds of bruises as did Quaeryt’s. “Sir?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad, sir.”

“And I’m Lord Bhayar’s grandsire,” replied Quaeryt sardonically. “Is there anything that doesn’t ache or hurt?”

Shaelyt smiled sheepishly. “My feet and calves.”

“Mine, too.” Quaeryt paused, then asked, “Has your family always lived in Fuara?”

“I don’t know about always, sir. My grandfather was born there. So was my grandmere. Their parents, I don’t know. No one ever talked about it. You know how families can be.”

Quaeryt chuckled. “That’s one thing I don’t know.”

“Oh … sir … I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. I just don’t know. If families are anything like scholars, there are many things they don’t talk about. Are both your parents Pharsi? Are there many Pharsi in Fuara?”

“Not that many. My father said that Mother was the only Pharsi woman he could wed because she was the only one in town who wasn’t at least a first cousin.”

“Are there any other imagers?”

Shaelyt pursed his lips. “No one talks about my aunt. My mother’s older sister. She was always a little different. That’s what Mother said. It was about all she said. She took a position as governess with a wealthy family in Bhorael.”

“That’s a fair ways from Cloisonyt and Fuara,” observed Quaeryt.

“Two weeks on horse in good weather back then.” Shaelyt took a swallow of lager from the mug before him. “I don’t think she had much choice. She might have been with child.”

“Do you think she could image?”

“I don’t know. Ma-Mother said she could sometimes tell when things were going to happen. Usually they were terrible things. She dragged everyone out of Grandpere’s house when she was barely twelve. It was in the middle of a rainstorm. The house was buried in mud when the stock pond dam gave way. Mother didn’t tell me that. Grandmere did.”

“You got along well with your grandmere, then?”