L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

Will Bhayar be that conqueror? wondered Quaeryt.

… because, of course, all such conquerors, or would-be conquerors, style themselves as “great.” Rholan understood this and observed that when a man instructed others to refer to him as “great,” it was absolute evidence that he had become an apostle of the Namer. More interesting is the fact that this is already one of his few observations that has lapsed into oblivion, and only in a few short years.

Hengyst is now claiming that Ryntar and Tela must unite …

Quaeryt paused. This was written in the time of Hengyst, but before the unification. So who is the writer, if he knows Caldor-or about him? Because he had no answers, he continued to read.

… in order to avoid being swept into Bovaria. It remains to be seen how much of that is because Tilbor offers little in the way of men, gold, and resources, and a will to resist to the last hill holder, and Tela is scarcely more than a patchwork of high holdings agreeing to accept Ofryk as Lord of Tela so long as he does not impose unduly on their privileges. Tela will fall, as have all lands whose local interests supersede those of the greater good, and even Rholan’s efforts to unite the people under the Nameless have fallen short.

It could not have been otherwise, for those who have listened to his words have little power, and those who have power have not listened. So it often is with the words of those who proffer wisdom. That may be because so few can tell the difference between what is wisdom and what they wish to believe as wisdom …

Quaeryt stifled a yawn. Fascinating as the small volume was in its odd way, and with its puzzles about who the writer was and how accurate his depiction of Rholan was, he was getting sleepy … and tomorrow would come all too soon.

He closed the book, snuffed the oil lamp, and partially disrobed for bed, yawning once more.

Even after his reading and writing, or perhaps because of it, Quaeryt still did not sleep well, with dreams he could not remember, but which left an after-sense of unease, and he found it difficult to rouse himself. Even though he did manage to struggle awake and washed and dressed quickly, he didn’t get down to the public room of the Grande Sud for breakfast until two quints before seventh glass. Skarpa, Meinyt, and most of the other officers had already left when Quaeryt sat down at a small table near the wall. Several junior engineers were seated at another table, but were rising to leave, and there were no other officers remaining in the public room.

A server stepped up to the table, a woman neither girlish nor matronly in appearance, but with the demeanor of someone not quite worn out by life, but well on the way. “We’ve got cheese and eggs and biscuits with milk gravy.”

“That will be fine. Do you have lager?”

“Amber, not pale.”

“Good.”

“The commander fellow said we got to charge three coppers plus two for the lager. No more, no less.”

Quaeryt eased five coppers onto the table.

The server scooped up the coins, then paused as her eyes took in the silver crescent moon insignia. “You got the same emblem on your collars as him, except yours are silver. You a commander, too?”

“A subcommander.”

She nodded, then hurried toward the kitchen, returning immediately with a beaker of lager. “Be a bit for the eggs and biscuits. You got a different uniform from the others. Different color anyway. That mean anything?”

“I was a scholar before I was an officer. That’s why it’s shaded brown.”

“Never seen a scholar before. Heard tell of ’em. Not much more. What do scholars do?” Her voice suggested she felt she had to say something, rather than that she was truly interested.

“Some do the same things as other people. Some teach children. Others write books. Some advise rulers or High Holders.”

“What about you?”

Quaeryt laughed softly. “A little of all that, before I ended up as an officer, anyway.”

“How did that happen?”

“That’s a long story. Just say that I asked the wrong question, and I ended up in the middle of the Tilboran Revolt, and it turned out that I managed to lead some troops and we all survived.” That was a gross oversimplification, but he didn’t want to explain.

“You must have been pretty good, then.”

He took a swallow of the lager, not to be impolite, but because his mouth and throat were dry. Then he shrugged and smiled wryly. “There’s no way to answer that. I was good enough to survive and keep too many men from being killed.”

Still standing there, she glanced toward the archway into the kitchen, then spoke in a lower voice. “Some of the old fellows said that you Telaryns have imagers and you didn’t fight fair. You imaged them with pepper dust.”

Quaeryt looked directly at her. “Would you rather have them all dead? That was what would have happened otherwise. They weren’t that well trained, and most of them would have died. Our fight isn’t with you or the people here. It’s with Rex Kharst. Right after thousands of people were killed in an eruption, he massed his troopers and tried to invade Telaryn. And right after the Red Death struck Khel, he did the same thing. It wasn’t our idea to fight. It was his, and we’re going after him so we don’t have to keep worrying about him.”

The server looked at him without speaking.

Quaeryt smiled softly. “Do you know why all those soldiers are riding patrols down your streets? It’s to keep order, so that no one gets hurt. Last week, we found Bovarian soldiers firing the fields of growers. We stopped as much as we could. We couldn’t have used that wheat, but Rex Kharst ordered it destroyed. The only people who will suffer are those poor growers.”

“I’d best get your food.” Abruptly she turned and walked away.

Quaeryt almost sighed. He shouldn’t have tried to explain. No one wanted explanations, and most people didn’t care. The writer of the old book had that correct in his observations about wisdom. If you believed him, then why did you bother?

He took another swallow of the amber lager. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great, either.

Quaeryt, Meinyt, and Skarpa sat at a circular table in the public room of the Grande Sud just before eighth glass on Meredi.

“I’ve sent out scouts along the river in both directions,” announced Skarpa. “The ones to the east will look to see how far Deucalon has advanced. The ones to the west”-he shrugged-“you both know what they’re looking for.” He looked to Quaeryt. “We need more supplies. The marshal told me to obtain them with as little cost as possible. What do you suggest?”

“Do we have the golds to pay for them?”

“We have some golds, but not enough to take us all the way to Variana.”

“Then we find the least popular High Holder around and persuade him to supply us at a very reasonable cost,” said Quaeryt.

“That might cost us more troops than taking Rivecote Sud,” said Meinyt.

“Not if we take imagers out with us,” suggested Quaeryt.

Skarpa nodded.

Quaeryt rose and beckoned to the serving woman-the same one who had been rather cool that morning-and waited for her to approach. As she did, given her earlier diffidence, he image-projected reasonableness and unquestioned authority. “We need to know some things.”

Her eyes flicked to the other two officers and then back to Quaeryt. “There’d be others who’d know more than me.”

“There are always others.” He smiled. “I doubt they’d know more. Everyone talks in a public room. Who are the High Holders on this side of the river? Nearby.”

For a moment a puzzled expression appeared on the server’s face. “There’s only two. High Holder Cassyon and High Holder Rheyam.”