L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

“One’s to the south and one to the west?”

“Yes, sir. Rheyam’s a few milles south on the road off the west end of town.”

“And Cassyon?”

“To the west. Don’t know how far. Never been there. Folks say some eight-ten milles. Really closer to Deauvyl.”

“What do folks think of Rheyam?”

The woman frowned.

“Is he fair and honest?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“What about Cassyon?” pressed Quaeryt.

“He’s really the High Holder for Deauvyl, but some folks here’ll do work for him.”

“Do many folk here do work for Rheyam?”

“I wouldn’t know any, sir.”

“Is there a town council here, or someone who’s in charge?”

“Only councilor I know is Fleigyl. He’s got the chandlery three doors up.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt returned to the table, sitting and easing three coppers from his purse onto the table. “I suggest we talk to the good councilor Fleigyl.”

“It’s a start,” said Skarpa, rising.

Quaeryt stood, and the three left the public room and the inn. They followed the wooden sidewalk to the chandlery, accompanied by three troopers. Quaeryt couldn’t help but notice that the few men nearby immediately found other destinations that left a wide empty area around the three officers. When they reached the chandlery, the three troopers entered first. A moment later one reappeared and held the door open. Quaeryt, Meinyt, and Skarpa stepped inside.

A short-bearded man with a soiled apron stood beside a table containing little but leather goods. “Sirs … I have but little…”

“We’re not here for your goods,” said Quaeryt. “You’re one of the town councilors?”

“I’m only a councilor. The newest and youngest one. The head councilor is Yurmyn.”

If Fleigyl, who looked to be twenty years older than Quaeryt, was the youngest, thought Quaeryt, the others truly had to be graybeards. “Where might we find Yurmyn?”

“Ah … he departed when he heard you were … coming this way.”

“Then I guess you’re head councilor in his absence,” said Skarpa.

Fleigyl swallowed.

“Don’t worry. We just have a few questions. There don’t happen to be a few High Holders around here, do there?”

After a moment the chandler sighed. “The only ones close are Rheyam and, I guess, Cassyon, except he’s really nearer Deauvyl.”

“Tell us about Rheyam.”

“He’s a High Holder. He’s got a place south of here. We don’t see much of him. They say he lives most of the year in Variana.”

“Who runs the holding, then?” asked Quaeryt.

“He’s got a steward.”

“His name?” asked Skarpa.

“Clukyn.”

After another half quint of questions, the three left the chandlery, but it was almost a glass later before Quaeryt’s first company, with the imager undercaptains, Skarpa, and four empty supply wagons, rode out of Rivecote Sud toward Rheyam’s holding.

Finding the holding was not difficult, because the road that began on the west end of the town heading south was the best maintained Quaeryt had seen since they had left Ferravyl. The long straight drive from the brick pillars off the road was paved in a reddish stone, stone soft enough that years of carriage, coach, and wagon wheels had worn slight channels in it. The drive was flanked by tall oaks, set far enough back from the stone that the roots had not disrupted the stone and close enough that the trees would provide shade throughout the hottest periods of the day. Beyond the oaks on each side was an area of grass some fifty yards wide, and beyond the grass were woods, although Quaeryt saw little undergrowth, a sign of a private park of some sort.

At the end of the drive was a circular paved area. A set of wide stone steps rose some five yards to a two-story redbrick structure, more the size of a small palace, dominating a low rise that was so regular that it had to have been created for the building. The holding house looked to be a hollow oblong, with perhaps a courtyard garden in the center. A trimmed hedge separated the house and immediate grounds and low gardens from the outbuildings on each side.

As the company drew up, a white-haired man in a cream jacket and dark trousers stepped out of the front door and walked past the white pillars and down the steps.

Quaeryt rode forward and reined up. “Commander Skarpa of the southern army of Telaryn is seeking High Holder Rheyam,” he announced, projecting pure authority.

“Beggin’ your pardon, mightiness, but he’s not here, hasn’t been since mid-Avryl. Doesn’t like to spend the hot months here.”

“Then Steward Clukyn will do.”

“Ah … he left with all the valuables soon as he heard you Telaryns were coming. All the pretty maids, too.”

“So … you’re in charge?”

“You might say so, your mightiness. I’m Exbael, assistant to the steward.”

“Good. We’re here to purchase some supplies.”

“Sirs … I can’t do that…”

Quaeryt smiled. “Of course you can. You can explain to Steward Clukyn that in his absence you were faced with the choice of selling the supplies or having all of them burned.”

“Lord Rheyam … he’d flay me alive, if Clukyn didn’t first. Anyways, they’re all locked up. Clukyn took the keys.”

“Let’s have a look.”

“The warehouse has thick walls and iron bars…”

“We still need a look. After we inquire with others in the hold house that you are who you say you are.”

Exbael gave Quaeryt a despairing look followed by a deep sigh. “Most are hiding in the cellar, except for the cook.”

Quaeryt turned in the saddle. “Major, if you’d provide a squad to accompany Undercaptain Desyrk to verify matters?”

“Yes, sir.”

Desyrk rode forward and dismounted, frowning momentarily as he looked to Quaeryt.

“You understand what your task is?”

“Yes, sir. I’m to make certain this man is who he says he is.”

Quaeryt nodded, then watched the troopers escort Exbael and Desyrk into the hold house.

Almost a quint later the group returned, with Desyrk in the lead.

“It’s like he said, sir,” said the undercaptain. “I talked to all of them. They all say pretty much the same thing.”

“Mount up, then.” Quaeryt turned to Exbael. “To the warehouse.”

“This way, your mightiness.” Exbael began to walk, dejectedly, to the right, toward the paved lane that led to the outbuildings on the north side of the hold house.

“Undercaptains, and first squad, with me,” ordered Quaeryt.

Exbael took his time, and it was close to half a quint later when Quaeryt, Skarpa, and the imagers reined up before a large oblong structure, the outbuilding farthest from the hold house. The walls were brick and windowless. The heavy, iron-bound, oak-timbered double doors were secured with eight iron bars that were slid into iron-lined circular holes in the oak-timbered lintels, and held in place by iron hoops on the doors. Each bar ended in the middle with a heavy iron circlet, with an equally heavy iron lock joining the two tightly mated circlets.

“You see, your mightiness?” Exbael gestured to the doors.

“I do see,” replied Quaeryt. “You’d best go and get some writing materials. You do write, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” The assistant steward’s voice was worried.

“You’re going to need to write out two copies of what we purchase and what we’ll be paying High Holder Rheyam.”

“Sir…”

“Don’t complain, and just fetch the writing materials.”

“Yes, sir.” Exbael turned and began to trudge back toward the palatial hold house.

“Imagers forward.” Quaeryt dismounted and handed the mare’s reins to the nearest ranker. “Thank you.” Then he walked to the warehouse door and waited.