L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

“It’s nothing, sir,” she replied, avoiding his eyes and slipping away.

“You seem to have made an impression,” said Skarpa.

“Not necessarily a good one.” Quaeryt took a sip of the lager, then a swallow. He said nothing more until he’d had several mouthfuls of the cheese-scrambled eggs and a chunk of the moist dark bread. “What is the plan for today?”

“Have breakfast first,” said Skarpa jovially.

“We’ve taken Ralaes,” said Meinyt. “When do we move on to Villerive?”

“We haven’t heard,” said Skarpa. “I’m expecting dispatches before long. Then, I thought we’d hear something yesterday. The scouts can’t find any sign that the Bovarians are venturing beyond their perimeter defenses around Villerive. That tells me that Deucalon is on the move.”

“Slowly, as usual.” Meinyt snorted. “So it’s rest the horses, check and sharpen blades, and wait?”

“You don’t think the men and their mounts couldn’t use the rest?” countered Skarpa.

“They need it, but Deucalon’s likely to demand we do something to sacrifice them so it doesn’t cost him-and he’ll order it at the last moment.”

Quaeryt almost nodded, then realized that, much as he felt the same, he really had no evidence that Deucalon would do that. Or did he? The marshal had ordered Third Regiment into the most dangerous fighting in the battles around Ferravyl. But had there been any other reasonable choice? Quaeryt didn’t honestly know.

“Deucalon will do what he thinks is necessary,” replied Skarpa. “That’s true of all marshals, all that are worth anything.”

Meinyt nodded, although his mouth looked as if he’d swallowed a spoiled lemon.

Quaeryt decided to concentrate on finishing his meal.

After breakfast and the morning muster of Fifth Battalion, Quaeryt again summoned the imager undercaptains to the east courtyard of the South River Inn. There he worked with them for two glasses, before giving them two glasses to recover, and then worked with them for another glass, until a squad leader summoned him for a meeting with Skarpa.

“You’re dismissed,” Quaeryt said, “but you’re to remain near the inn. We may have orders from the marshal.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt ignored the expressions suggesting that none of them were that happy with his restriction. He didn’t care. They had far more freedom, better quarters, and better food than the rankers … and he didn’t want them going off until he knew what Skarpa had planned. “I’ll let you know after I meet with the commander.”

Skarpa was waiting in a small room off the front hall, a plaque room with a circular table and six chairs, and a sideboard that had likely held mugs and pitchers for local plaque players. The commander gestured to one of the chairs.

“Thank you.”

“We’ll wait for Meinyt. He won’t be long,” said Skarpa. “I saw that you were working the imagers hard. How are they coming?”

“They’re able to do much more than before. I worry that it won’t be enough.”

“From the way you looked, I thought as much.”

The door opened, and Meinyt entered. “I came as quickly as I could.”

“We have some time,” said Skarpa dryly as the older subcommander seated himself. “The northern regiments are about ten milles east of Ralaes on the north side of the river. There are only small hamlets between where they are and Villerive.”

“So the marshal will need another day or two to establish a position and base from which to mount the attack on Villerive?” asked Meinyt.

“He will inform us in due course.”

“Four days, at least,” predicted the older subcommander.

“He might surprise us,” suggested Skarpa.

“Oh … a week, then.”

“I doubt that. Lord Bhayar is not likely to be that patient,” said Skarpa, looking to Quaeryt. “That is my thought, but you know him better than any of us.”

Quaeryt shrugged. “He can be very deliberate, but he gets impatient when there is little reason for delay.”

Skarpa nodded. “I’d wager it will be far less than a week. Make sure your men get plenty of rest. There will be little of that after we advance on Villerive.” The commander reached into the dispatch case and extracted two envelopes, passing them to Quaeryt. “These arrived with Deucalon’s message.”

“Thank you.” As he took the envelopes, Quaeryt immediately recognized Vaelora’s script on one. The other was addressed to “Scholar Quaeryt Rytersyn, Aide to Lord Bhayar” in a hand Quaeryt did not recognize.

“That’s all for now.” Skarpa glanced around the chamber as he stood. “Very modest for a plaque room. Must not be too many gamblers here.” He started for the door.

“Or this is where the modest gamblers meet,” replied Quaeryt.

“More likely those who don’t gamble well,” said Meinyt, following Skarpa.

He’s probably right about that, thought Quaeryt.

After leaving Skarpa, Quaeryt returned to the courtyard, where he told the imagers that while they would be at evening mess, they were free to walk the town, but only in pairs. Then he retreated to his room on the second floor of the inn, a space scarcely large enough to hold a bed and a table and chair. He smiled wryly as he closed the door and sat on the narrow straight-backed chair. The narrow space reminded him of the inn at Nacliano, a place whose name momentarily eluded him as he struggled to remember it.

The Tankard … that was it. For some reason, that recalled the patroller who’d destroyed the innkeeper’s priceless Cloisonyt vase just to prove he could, and that brought a comparison to mind. Was there really any difference between the patroller and Kharst, each destroying things of value to show power? Aren’t there better ways to show power?

He shook his head, then looked at the two envelopes, deciding to open the mysterious one and save Vaelora’s letter until he had dealt with the other-one that was far thicker, as if it contained more than a few sheets of paper. Who would be addressing me that way and as an aide to Bhayar? Shaking his head, he used his belt knife to slit the large envelope, finding inside a single sheet of paper-and another envelope, addressed to Governor Quaeryt Rytersyn, Extela, Montagne Province.

The single sheet was thick high quality paper. He began to read.

Scholar Quaeryt-

Upon arriving in Extela, I received the letter from you that awaited me, as well as your summary of the situation facing me as governor. I must state that I was greatly impressed with the scope of your accomplishments in the short length of time in which you served as governor, and I can see why Lord Bhayar would require your abilities in dealing with the Bovarians. Your direct approach, while possibly not practical for governing over an extended period of time, will doubtless make my tenure as governor far more pleasant than it might otherwise have been. I will consider your recommendations most carefully in the months ahead and wish you the very best in your present capacity.

I have also enclosed a letter which arrived shortly after I did and trust it will reach you in good stead.

My felicitations and best wishes for you in the campaign ahead.

At the bottom were a signature and title-Markyl Quintussyn, Governor, Montagne Province, by the grace of Lord Bhayar of Telaryn.

Who is writing you as governor? He realized that it was likely someone from Tilbora, since word might not have reached Tilbor that he’d been replaced. Straesyr, Nalakyn? Those were the two most likely. Curious, he immediately slit the enclosed envelope and extracted the sheet within.

Dear Governor Quaeryt: