L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

“Access is largely from the river,” said Quaeryt.

“It looks more like a summer palace for the rex,” observed Arion from behind Quaeryt.

“It displays more taste than that,” countered Zhael.

Quaeryt noted that no boats were tied at the dock, but it was possible that the large boathouse held some craft, since one end extended well out into the river. His eyes turned to the small palace. Several windows on the upper level were open. As he studied the portico once more, two figures in livery stepped out and took positions on the wide white marble steps.

A smile crossed Quaeryt’s face. High Holder Fauxyn had style. Whether he had any sort of power was another question, but Quaeryt wasn’t about to leave himself open to attack. He strengthened his shields as he directed the scouts to follow the stone lane to where it joined the wider lane leading up from the dock.

Quaeryt ordered the two companies to draw up in formation well back from the portico, then turned to the officers, nodding at Zhael. “Arion will accompany me. You’re in command.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Undercaptain Voltyr, you’re in charge of the imagers. I don’t expect any difficulty, but if something should happen to us, you’re to bring down this entire confectionery structure.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt nodded to Arion, and the two rode forward, reining up just short of the wide white marble steps.

“Honored sirs,” announced the taller dark-haired man in the white and peach colored livery. “High Holder and Lady Fauxyn bid you welcome to Fauxheld.”

“Are they present?” asked Quaeryt.

“They are indeed, sir.” The functionary’s eyes went from Quaeryt to Arion and back to Quaeryt. “How might I announce you, sir?”

“Subcommander Quaeryt and Major Arion.” Quaeryt noted that the functionary had a military bearing, not to mention a scar across his forehead above his left eye.

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt eased the mare to the side of the steps where there was an ornate gilded hitching ring. There he dismounted.

“Allow me, sir,” said the shorter retainer, stepping forward and extending a hand for the mare’s reins.

“Thank you.” Quaeryt let him take the reins … and waited while he also took those of Arion’s mount.

“If you would follow me, sirs…” suggested the taller retainer.

“Stay close to me,” Quaeryt murmured to Arion.

The dark-haired retainer turned, opened the right-hand, gilded-iron outer door, and then the inner door, ornately carved with hunting scenes. He stepped back until the two officers stood in a vaulted receiving hall, then closed the inner door, but not the outer one. “This way. I am requested to escort you to the parlor.”

“Don’t most visitors come by river?” Quaeryt glanced around the receiving hall, its walls covered in a peach damask above the darker goldenwood wainscoting. Two full-length portraits, one on each side, each of a man in formal attire of some time in the past that Quaeryt didn’t recognize, were the only decoration. He did note that both men portrayed, one blond and one brown-haired, possessed eyes of a color that partook of both blue and violet-an odd shade.

“They do, sir.” The retainer walked through the archway into another chamber, from which corridors extended directly ahead and to the right and left. He turned to the left. “Only certain goods from the local area come through the rear gates, and that is by prior arrangement.”

“How long has the hold been in the family?”

“I could not say, sir. No one can recall the memory of a time when there was not a High Holder Fauxyn.” He stepped into the first archway on the left and bowed.

Quaeryt repressed a frown at the way the retainer had replied.

The individual waiting in the parlor, if a chamber some ten yards by five could be called a parlor, was not High Holder Fauxyn, but a blond woman who looked to be about Quaeryt’s age. Her eyes were a shade that was neither blue nor purple, but somewhere between-and intense-much like the color of the eyes of the two men in the receiving hall portraits. Her skin was a flawless creamy peach, and her form was exquisitely female, accentuated by the not quite sheer and clinging pale green gown she wore. The shade of her shoes matched the gown, but the stone in the pendant attached to the golden rope chain around her neck was the same color as her eyes.

“Lady Fauxyn, Subcommander Quaeryt and Major Arion.” The retainer bowed, then retreated to the wide hallway outside the archway into the parlor.

“Officers.” Lady Fauxyn smiled warmly, even with her eyes.

That she could project that warmth in such a situation chilled Quaeryt through. “Lady Fauxyn,” he replied, inclining his head slightly.

“My husband will be here shortly, but I thought it would be best if I made you welcome.” Another smile, warmer than the first, followed her words in Bovarian.

“Shortly?” asked Quaeryt politely in Bovarian. “As in within a quint … or within several days?” He glanced around the parlor, noting another doorway at the end of the chamber, the door half open, revealing beyond the doorway a bookcase filled with richly colored leather-bound volumes … and little more.

“Certainly within the glass, if not sooner. Might I assume you are here to assert some sovereignty or control over Fauxheld on behalf of Lord Bhayar … temporary as that may be?” A light but not mocking laugh followed her words.

Quaeryt smiled in return. “Time will tell whether that sovereignty is temporary, but since Rex Kharst lost more than eight regiments down to the last man at Ferravyl, I rather doubt that Lord Bhayar’s sovereignty along this part of the Aluse will be transient.”

“You speak Bovarian better than most in Kharst’s court, and far more eloquently. What rank is a subcommander?”

“Subcommanders command large battalions or regiments.”

“Your uniform differs, Subcommander, as if you are half scholar and half commander.”

“You are most perceptive, Lady, for that is indeed what I am.”

“And have you been in battle?”

Arion cleared his throat. “Sir…?”

“Just the basics, please, Major,” said Quaeryt.

“The subcommander is modest, Lady. He is the most effective and most accomplished commander in Telaryn, and one of the few who has led his men from the front, both against the rebel holders of Tilbor and against Rex Kharst’s regiments.”

“Your man is most loyal, Subcommander. Are his comments accurate?”

Quaeryt laughed. “He’s not my man. He’s a Khellan officer who joined the Telaryn forces. From what I’ve seen, the Khellans are far too proud to stoop to lying.”

For just a moment Lady Fauxyn was silent, as if his words had struck somewhere, but so short was her hesitation that it was barely noticeable. “My name is Ghretana. I’d prefer you call me that. When you address me as ‘Lady Fauxyn,’ I expect to turn and see my mother at my shoulder.”

Quaeryt was about to send Arion back to the companies outside, suspecting that Ghretana’s delaying was for a purpose that would scarcely please him, when the doorway to the library or study opened more widely, and a slender, but muscular man stepped through it and into the parlor. He was attired in white breeches, rather than trousers, with pale peach hose above white shoes, and a brilliant white shirt, over which he wore a sleeveless vest of a rich and darker peach. His smooth-shaven face was gently tanned, and his light brown hair was cut short in tight ringlets against his skull, ringlets that Quaeryt suspected were anything but natural. Fauxyn’s nose was straight, and neither too long nor too short.

He walked with his shoulders back and square, his head up, more like a dancing or fencing master than any High Holder Quaeryt had ever met, and at his side was a blade that was narrower than a sabre or rapier, but more substantial than a foil. From his gait, his body carriage, and Ghretana’s welcome, Quaeryt had a very good idea of what Fauxyn was-and was not … and more important, confirmation of who Ghretana was.