L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

“Greetings, Officers. What brings you to Fauxyn? Do tell me that it is something more substantial than the hope of plunder and pillage, not that Ghretana dear might not enjoy certain aspects of the pillaging, especially if it preserved Fauxyn.”

“She married you to save the hold?” Quaeryt was half probing, half guessing, based on what he knew of inheritances and what he had observed since entering the hold house.

“Rather an impudent question, don’t you think, Major?”

“Subcommander,” corrected Arion.

“You don’t resemble any of the portraits in the hallway. She does.”

“That matters little. I remain High Holder.”

“Only at Lord Bhayar’s sufferance,” Quaeryt said mildly.

“Perhaps for a brief time, until Kharst sweeps you all away. Kharst always has what he wishes.” Fauxyn glanced meaningfully, if briefly, toward Ghretana. “I do not believe you ever stated the reason for your unannounced visit.”

“There were two reasons for our visit. One was to meet the High Holder, if he happened to be present, and the other was to obtain supplies.”

“You have met him, and we have little enough in the way of supplies to feed an army.”

“I’m certain that you can spare some,” suggested Quaeryt.

“Who are you to say what can be spared, Major?”

“I’m the subcommander with two companies outside your front entry, and a battalion within a few milles, not to mention two full regiments at Caernyn.”

“Fauxyn…” said Ghretana mildly.

The High Holder turned toward his wife. “You are determined to have it your way, aren’t you? You always are, not that it has afforded you the least success.”

“As if you have not?” Her voice was velvet and cool.

Abruptly, for no reason that Quaeryt could discern, Fauxyn’s hand went to his waist and then back toward Quaeryt. Gold coins scattered across the thick pile of the carpet.

“Take those. Take whatever you will. You’re the type that thinks you’re honorable. Here’s what I think of you and your lord…”

Quaeryt laughed. “Pick them up and put them back in your wallet.”

“You can’t make me. Not unless you’re willing to kill me.” Fauxyn sneered. “You aren’t good enough to kill me yourself. You don’t even carry a blade, and that means you’re lowborn. So you can’t afford to do that. Besides, you’d have to explain to your lord why you killed me when he’ll need the cooperation of all the High Holders to rule. That is, if he even manages to keep what he’s taken.”

“Major Arion,” said Quaeryt quietly, still in Bovarian, “if you’d have one of your men bring me my weapon.”

“With pleasure, sir.” Arion stepped back, then turned and hurried from the study.

Fauxyn offered a cold smile. “What weapon might that be?”

“One designed to teach arrogant High Holders a lesson.”

“Killing me will only make matters worse … for you … and for your lord.”

“Who said anything about killing? One doesn’t kill willful children. One disciplines them.”

Fauxyn couldn’t quite conceal the puzzlement behind his smile.

As Arion hurried out through the archway, Ghretana’s face remained pleasantly impassive, but Quaeryt suspected she was pleased.

“I could kill you now, you know?” said Fauxyn.

“You could try,” admitted Quaeryt. “But if you succeeded, you’d only have killed an unarmed man, and neither Kharst nor Bhayar would find that either honorable or acceptable. Nor would you find much satisfaction in that.”

“How would you know?”

“You said as much. If you go against what you implied, then you would be a liar as well as dishonorable. Then, again, you may be both, but I wouldn’t hold that against you.”

The slightest hint of color crossed the High Holder’s face, and he took a step forward.

Ghretana stepped back slightly.

“You do not need to worry, dear one,” oozed Fauxyn. “Not at present.”

“You are a fool, Fauxyn, if you think that,” she replied pleasantly, as if she were suggesting a walk on the verandah.

“I’ve been called many things, dear one, but there are none left who have called me that.”

Quaeryt eased to the side as he heard footsteps so that he could watch both the archway and the parlor, but the only one who entered was Arion.

The major halted and handed the half-staff to Quaeryt. “Subcommander.”

“A staff? You would face me with a staff?”

“I think you would be better served if we repaired to one of the entry halls,” Quaeryt said. “After all, you would not wish to ruin this fine carpet with blood.” He walked to the archway and turned. “Are you coming?”

“A staff? How did anyone ever allow you to become an officer?”

“Actually, that wasn’t my choice. It was Lord Bhayar’s. One refuses him at great risk, but you should know that about rulers … shouldn’t you?” Again … that was a guess, based on what he’d seen so far.

Fauxyn’s face tightened, just fractionally. “You do need to learn about your betters … even if your men decide to murder me once I’ve disposed of you.”

Quaeryt glanced to Arion. “Major, if High Holder Fauxyn should happen to wound or kill me, he is not to be touched. Whatever his fate may be is to be left to Lord Bhayar. Is that clear?”

Arion’s response was immediate. “Yes, sir.”

“And the hold is to be left untouched-except for any supplies we may require.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are so honorable.” Fauxyn’s words were mockingly ironic.

“My men will keep their word. So will I.” Quaeryt walked back down the wide corridor to the receiving hall, where he turned and waited with Arion, who had accompanied him.

“Do not trust him,” murmured the major.

“I will trust him to be what he is,” replied Quaeryt, watching as Fauxyn stepped into the main entry hall with its goldenwood wainscoting and damask-covered walls.

“A staff … so awkward … so classless. But one must do what one must.” Fauxyn eased his blade from the scabbard in a practiced and flowing motion.

“Let’s call it a rod, Fauxyn. A rod for a spoiled child of a High Holder.” Quaeryt smiled, taking the half-staff in a two-handed and balanced grip. He also raised full shields, but held them almost against his uniform. “Tell me … why didn’t you leave Fauxheld? You must have heard we were advancing.”

“That is another most impudent question.” Fauxyn moved forward.

“Was it because you displeased your rex? Or because Lady Fauxyn would have greater freedom in Variana?”

“So impudent … and so foolish.” Fauxyn’s blade flickered toward Quaeryt.

Quaeryt moved the staff but slightly, deflecting the lighter weapon easily, his feet taking up a balanced stance. Even after all the recent battles where he had used the staff while mounted, he was far more comfortable with it on foot.

Fauxyn’s blade was close to a blur, but Quaeryt had learned the half-staff on the pitching decks of a merchanter, and its greater length offset the speed of the lighter weapon.

The High Holder feinted, then danced to one side before dropping impossibly low, attempting an underthrust.

Quaeryt parried it, almost pinning the High Holder’s blade to the polished marble floor before Fauxyn darted back.

“A rather accomplished blackguard … but when one deals with the lower classes, one must stoop to their level, must one not?” Abruptly Fauxyn stepped back and flipped the light blade to his left hand, and what looked to be a double-ended throwing knife appeared in his right. Before he finished speaking, the knife flew at Quaeryt.

Quaeryt twisted the staff, but missed … and the blade bounced off his tight-held shields just before it would have sliced into his shoulder. He moved forward immediately, twisting and turning the staff so that it was as close to a blur as he could manage.