L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d like you to remove it, image it away. Just it. Nothing else.”

The ginger-bearded undercaptain concentrated, and in a moment the broken gear section was gone.

“Good. Voltyr, this other piece…”

It took almost a quint and two efforts by each undercaptain to remove the broken metal, and Quaeryt had to give a little hidden assistance to Baelthm.

“Now … the next part is harder. The gears are iron, and we need to replace the broken teeth, and they have to meld with the others…”

Imaging the sections of gears back in place took almost two glasses, and left all the imagers exhausted, because Quaeryt was effectively making them match gears by eye and that required both imaging and un-imaging and smoothing … and doing some of them over two and three times. More than a few times, he ended up doing some of the work, although it appeared that none of the undercaptains noticed.

Finally, Quaeryt motioned to the engineer captain, who had been watching from a distance. The captain walked swiftly toward him, then halted a yard away.

“Captain, while it appears as though we may have fixed this winch, I honestly cannot tell if the repairs the imagers have made will stand the strain of operation. Can you turn it without any load just to see if the gears mesh properly? And do so very slowly?”

“We can, sir.”

Once again, Quaeryt waited, as did the imagers.

Everything about war is a flurry of action, then a lot of waiting, or slow traveling, followed by action, and more waiting. At least, that was the impression he’d gotten in the Tilboran Revolt, and the war against Bovaria looked to be following the same pattern.

Finally, a crew of rankers appeared and took the capstan bars, rather than the ox, which also appeared to be missing, but then the engineers might have removed the animal to work on the equipment.

“Forward, slowly…” called the captain. “So far … so good.”

“A little faster, now…”

After a time the engineer called out, “Stop … that will do.” He turned to Quaeryt. “It seems to work. Thank you, sir … imagers.”

“This isn’t something we normally do,” Quaeryt said. “We just hope the repairs will hold.”

“Well … you cleaned out all the smashed pieces, and that alone was a help.”

Quaeryt turned to the undercaptains. “Thank you. Now, you can return to the inn, or you can walk through the town, but you need to do so in pairs. We’ll meet at the inn a quint before mess … dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Desyrk and Baelthm were the first to leave, followed by Akoryt and Threkhyl. Voltyr and Shaelyt remained, then eased toward Quaeryt as he headed to the stone steps up to the tower.

“Sir…?” offered Voltyr.

“Yes…?”

“The winch … how did you know…?”

“All that iron,” added Shaelyt.

Quaeryt smiled. “I didn’t, not for certain, but there are winches and capstans on every merchant ship, and I spent six years at sea. This wasn’t that different. It’s a bit heavier and simpler, that’s all.”

“Sir … it seemed like-”

“It was a great deal of work for all of you, but the engineers appreciate it, and so do I, a great deal, and I think it probably improved all of your imaging skills and controls. Don’t you?” Quaeryt smiled warmly.

Voltyr looked to Shaelyt.

The Pharsi nodded, then smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll see you both later at the inn.”

“Yes, sir.”

The pair nodded respectfully, then stepped back and turned.

Quaeryt knew very well what that had all been about, but he hadn’t even wanted to let them ask the question, especially not in public and with the engineer not all that far away. He stood for a moment, watching as the two undercaptains walked off the wharf toward the main street, talking quietly. Then he turned and headed for the stone steps.

Skarpa, surprisingly, was waiting when Quaeryt returned to the tower courtyard, breathing heavily from the climb back up the steep steps from the ferry slips.

“Did you repair that winch?”

“It’s no longer jammed. Whether the repairs the imagers made will hold under strain, I can’t tell. Neither can the engineers.” Quaeryt paused, then added, “We did manage to image out all the broken pieces.”

“By the time this war is over, you and those imagers will be worth a regiment.”

Quaeryt hoped so … if he were ever to make the position of scholars and imagers more secure, but he only said, “I’m trying to get them to do what they can and to improve their abilities as much as possible.” And before long, when they’re better imagers, I’ll have to decide whether to teach them about shields … or whom to teach and how.

“That’s becoming clear. I’ll see you later,” said Skarpa, mounting and then riding out of the courtyard.

Quaeryt mounted. He needed to ride through the town and see how orderly things were, and how the patrols were working out.

Although it was close to ninth glass when Quaeryt returned to his small room in the inn on Mardi night, he was anything but sleepy after checking the patrols of the town’s streets. Some of that might also have been the aftereffect of imaging. So … although he knew it might be days, if not weeks, before he could send a letter to Valeora, he sat on the edge of the bed and used the small table there to write. Part of his reason, he had to admit, was also knowing that if he did have a chance to send something, he might not have time to compose it. The words did not come easily, but finally he had written all that he could.

My dear,

We are now in Rivecote Sud, where there is a cable ferry across the Aluse, or was until the Bovarians cut the cables, and we must wait for our forces advancing along the north side of the river to catch up to us.

Several days ago we came across a small Bovarian force that was setting fields of winter wheat corn afire. We managed to stop the worst of the damage and tied up the men we caught and left them for the locals. The wheat wasn’t quite ready for harvest. Even if it had been, we couldn’t have taken the time to harvest it. But Kharst was sending men to destroy his own people’s crops, as if torching the land would help. We’ll either hold Variana before winter or we’ll have withdrawn. Either way, all that sort of act does is hurt the people.

Quaeryt had stopped writing there because he wasn’t certain of his conclusion. He wasn’t even sure about Bhayar withdrawing if the Telaryn forces couldn’t take Variana. He thought Bhayar wouldn’t be foolish enough to continue an indeterminate or losing war … but he couldn’t be certain. The only thing Quaeryt was certain about was that so long as fighting continued, no matter how matters appeared, nothing was truly certain.

Probable … but not certain.

He still was anything but sleepy.

Reading the book about Rholan might put you to sleep …

With that thought, he took out the small volume and leafed through the pages, trying to see if he could find something the ancient writer had put down that might, in some way, be applicable to what had happened in Rivecote Sud. A word struck him, and he stopped turning pages and began to read from the top of the page.

… Self-created mythologies are a form of Naming. On that point, Rholan and I agree, not that he ever deigned to acknowledge when others were right, except in noting that they agreed with him. Rulers and would-be conquerors create their own mythologies. Rex Caldor has just claimed that he has unified Bovaria, but what he means is that he has merely reduced the total independence of the High Holders and entered into an arrangement of mutual distrust based on the realization that he can destroy any one of them, or even several, who displease him, but not the High Holders as a body. Khel remains fiercely aloof, and Caldor is not enough of a fool to enter war with either Khel or his own High Holders. Yet, if Caldor’s words triumph over his actions, he will be remembered as the unifier of Bovaria, until another “great” conqueror appears …