L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

Quaeryt managed not to break step.

Once he and Skarpa were in the public room, Meinyt walked back from the main entrance, where he’d apparently been directing the removal of the dead would-be assassins. He looked at Quaeryt with a half-humorous smile. “I thought so, but you’ve been very careful.”

“I didn’t have a choice here,” Quaeryt said dryly. Then he laughed ironically. “Actually, if I weren’t so tired, I probably could have misdirected the crossbow bolts, caused them to slip, and various other mishaps to occur.” He took a deep breath. “I was too tired to think straight or do anything else.”

“Why…?”

“Why haven’t I done more at times?” Quaeryt followed Skarpa’s example, sitting down in one of the chairs at another table. “Because I’ve usually done everything I can.” Not always, but usually. “It takes strength, and the ability to see. When I get near my limits, I can’t even see. I can barely stay in the saddle. It’s a different kind of fighting, but it takes a lot of effort.”

“That’s when you’ve gotten hurt or wounded, isn’t it?” Meinyt’s voice was low as he eased into the adjoining chair.

Quaeryt nodded. “I’ve also had to protect the undercaptains until they can learn better how to protect themselves.”

“Since it’s in the open, between us, anyway,” said Skarpa, sounding not at all surprised, “who else knows?”

“The only one who knows besides the undercaptains and you two, so far as I know, is Lord Bhayar. Myskyl suspects something. Others may as well. It’s been hard to disguise it and still be effective.”

Skarpa nodded, then grinned. “Well … since Lord Bhayar knows, he’ll obviously have told Deucalon and Myskyl. So we don’t need to report anything.”

Meinyt grinned as well. “I think you’re right about that, sir.”

“Far be it from me to disobey a superior,” added Quaeryt.

“What about the men?” asked Meinyt.

“Don’t make a fuss about it. If an officer says anything, just tell him that the imagers need an imager to lead them, as if it’s absolutely normal.” Skarpa turned to Quaeryt. “There are already rumors, and you couldn’t keep it hidden much longer anyway.”

Quaeryt nodded. That will cause other problems, but there will always be problems.

A trooper appeared with three mugs of lager, setting them on the table. “We tapped a new keg, sirs, and we had the women drink some first.”

“Thank you,” said Skarpa.

Quaeryt just nodded and reached for his lager, immediately taking a slow but long swallow, hoping it would ease the pain behind his eyes. It had been a long day already.

“There’s another question,” offered Meinyt. “How did they know we’d be here? They had to have been there since sometime last night.”

Skarpa laughed. “We’ve been predictable. All they had to do is ask what we did in any town we’ve taken. We haven’t commandeered houses in the larger towns, and this is the best inn. Where else would we be?”

“So they sent scouts back?”

“Spies. They couldn’t have gone in uniform. They probably just left people behind, men who were from the area and posing as deserters who didn’t want to get caught by either us or Kharst. People would certainly believe that. They know how brutal Kharst can be. Then those men would pass on the information. Right now, there’s not much we can do about it-except check the cellars and closets of every public house we go into first.”

“But…” Meinyt shook his head. “I suppose they’re everywhere.”

“I’d be very surprised if they weren’t,” replied Skarpa. “We’ll never know. If we hold this part of Bovaria, and we will, they’ll become deserters in truth, and we won’t know the difference. Even if we discover some of them, we certainly can’t hang them unless they break laws in some other way, because we’ll never know if they were truly deserters or truly spies.”

Just another aspect of war you hadn’t considered. But Quaeryt understood exactly what Skarpa meant. To most people, deserters were those who didn’t want to fight or who opposed Kharst. While some might think them cowards, and while desertion was a hanging offense, for Bhayar to have ordered them executed for effectively supporting Telaryn would have seemed cruel and hypocritical. Besides, most people would likely be wary of them for the rest of their lives.

He took another swallow of lager, better than most he’d had since leaving Nordruil more than a month before. He thought his headache was easing.

After Skarpa dismissed Quaeryt and Meinyt, Quaeryt put his gear in a small room in the inn, as had Meinyt, in order to leave the larger chambers for majors and company officers to share, and washed and shaved. It was well after ninth glass when he began the four-block-long walk to the smaller Black Pot Inn, where Fifth Battalion and its company officers were based, to meet with Zhelan. He already told the imager undercaptains to be ready to meet with him at second glass in the side courtyard at the South River Inn.

A light misty rain sprinkled down intermittently from light gray clouds, but died away as Quaeryt neared the blocklike two-story inn, with wooden walls stained almost the gray of the clouds. Zhelan was standing and waiting on the side porch, empty of anyone but the major himself. Quaeryt took the sagging wooden steps carefully, because he found himself limping again, a sign that he was more tired than he realized.

“How are you feeling, Subcommander?” Zhelan glanced to the pair of chairs.

Quaeryt needed no reminders and seated himself. So did the major.

“About the same as everyone else, I imagine. Tired and sore.” Quaeryt cleared his throat. “A little hoarse, too.” After another pause, he went on. “We’ll be here for another day, possibly longer. I don’t know if word has reached you from other officers, but the morning scouting patrols reported that the Bovarians have pulled back to Villerive, and it’s fortified all the way around…” From there Quaeryt passed on the rest of the information that Skarpa had divulged about the general disposition of the Bovarian troops and the likelihood that the northern forces might be several days in arriving.

“None of that’s exactly a surprise, sir.”

“No,” replied Quaeryt with a slight laugh.

“Sir … might I ask … but it seemed that some of the undercaptains are…?”

“Getting more accomplished as imagers? I certainly hope so. We’ll need everything that they can do at Villerive and later.” And especially at Variana.

“Sir … it’s also been said … ah … that you…”

Quaeryt nodded. “It has been said.” He paused. “Imaging is very difficult, and it takes a great amount of strength. By the end of a battle or skirmish, even at the beginning if an imager tries to do too much, imagers can be very vulnerable. At times, improper imaging can kill an imager.” Quaeryt smiled sardonically. “And yes, I was an imager from the first battles in Tilbor. I’ve learned a great deal from that, and I’m trying to see that the undercaptains don’t make as many mistakes as I did. They’ll probably make as many, though; they’ll just be different ones.”

Quaeryt could still see the hint of a question in Zhelan’s expression. “Being an imager is a bit like being an armored heavy cavalryman. You have better weapons and protection, but it takes more strength to use both, and if you’re in the wrong place or make the wrong decision, all your weapons and armor may not be enough to help you survive. They may even weigh you down more. That’s why it’s better that too many people don’t know who’s an imager and who isn’t. Especially since we have so few.”