L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

Not that some probably weren’t cut down, he thought, massaging his forehead.

This time, he could still see, and that amazed him, even as it strengthened his belief that continually stretching himself to his limits seemed to extend those limits once he recovered. But for how long? Is there a point when your body can do no more?

What Skarpa called follow-up operations took most of the rest of Mardi, and early on Fifth Battalion was dispatched to occupy and guard a large manor house a half mille west, beyond the estate and ridge on which the morning’s battle had taken place. The Khellan companies patrolled the area around the near-palatial dwelling with great diligence, a diligence, Quaeryt suspected, that assured that no Bovarian troopers would have dared even to approach the grounds and well-tended gardens. He’d posted troopers at the front and rear entrances to the house, more to create a certain respect than because he thought anyone would likely try to break in or attack anyone inside.

Once he and Zhelan had worked out the details of quartering and patrolling, Quaeryt found himself at a loss, walking the first floor of the dwelling and the terraces from which he could observe the Khellan patrols, and in the distance the gathering of some regiments around the High Holder estate that had seen too much blood and fire.

The bells had just struck third glass when the house assistant steward, the steward having fled with the family, cautiously eased up to Quaeryt, who stood in the shade of the east porch, again studying the hold house below which all too much, if necessary, carnage had occurred.

“Sir…?” The man, a few years older than Quaeryt, and balding, looked nervously up to the taller subcommander, his eyes seemingly focusing on the silver crescent moon insignia on Quaeryt’s collars rather than meeting his eyes.

Quaeryt half turned. “Yes?”

“Will … we … I mean … you have men to feed…”

“Yes, they will need to be fed. Is there a problem, Chaefur?”

“The head cook, the second cook … they went with the family. Just two assistant cooks…”

Chaefur’s Bovarian held the trace of a regional accent, but whether that was local or not, Quaeryt had no idea.

“The troopers and officers don’t expect meals for a High Holder. If your cooks…” Quaeryt paused. “The battalion has several cooks. They’ll be in the kitchen as well.” That way they can make certain nothing untoward gets into the food.

“Yes, sir…” Chaefur paused. “Might I ask how long…?”

“That’s up to Lord Bhayar.”

“Lord Bhayar? Not … Is Lord Bhayar here? Here in Villerive?”

“I haven’t seen him lately, but I think I’d know if he weren’t.”

“Oh … oh, dear … what shall we do if he comes here?”

“He might summon me,” Quaeryt said, “but he won’t come here. Why do you worry about that?” There should be more of concern to you and the staff than whether Bhayar appears.

“Master Saarcoyn … he always wants everything to be proper … whoever might arrive…”

“Master Saarcoyn, of what is he a master?”

“He’s a master factor, sir. A grain and timber and metals factor. He’s got three factorages, sir … and some mines to the north.”

Quaeryt glanced at the stone pillars that ran up three stories, supporting the porch roof, then out over the iron filigree of the railing bordering the porch and down to the precisely trimmed hedges of the formal garden on the terrace below the porch. “He obviously does well.”

“That he does, sir. But now…”

“We’ll do our best to leave his house undamaged. That is, if we have no trouble.”

“No, sir … you’ll have no trouble. No, sir.”

At the sound of hooves, Quaeryt turned to see a squad of Telaryn troopers riding up the narrow limestone-paved drive to the front entrance. One of the mounts, led by a ranker, held an empty saddle. That doesn’t look good. “You’ll have to excuse me, Chaefur. If I’m not here, direct any questions you have to Major Zhelan.”

“But … sir … dinner?”

“Plan on fifth glass. Set up serving tables for the troopers in the courtyard off the kitchen. The servers can dish the food into the troopers’ mess kits. They’ll serve me and the officers in the dining room after the men are all fed.” Quaeryt turned and followed the porch that circled the entire dwelling back to the front.

Chaefur did not follow. Quaeryt only had to wait a few moments under the roof of the entry portico before a squad leader dismounted and hurried up the four wide limestone steps, halting and inclining his head politely before he addressed Quaeryt.

“Subcommander, sir, Lord Bhayar would like to see you. We have a spare mount.”

“One moment, Squad Leader.” Quaeryt turned to the pair of troopers flanking the front door. “Troopers … if one of you would immediately convey to Major Zhelan that Lord Bhayar has summoned me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt nodded to the troopers, then followed the squad leader to the mount, a chestnut gelding far larger than Quaeryt’s mare. The fact that he had no trouble mounting, or riding down the drive, was another indication of how much had changed for a scholar who had seldom ridden until a year earlier.

The squad leader headed almost due east, back to the hold house that Quaeryt had been observing less than a quint earlier. When Quaeryt dismounted under a portico easily three times the size of the one at Master Saarcoyn’s manor-like dwelling, he noted a good squad of troopers stationed there, half on each side of the double doors.

“We’ll be waiting for you, Subcommander.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt turned and walked toward the doors.

One of the troopers opened the left door.

Once Quaeryt stepped into the large marble-floored circular entry hall, a young captain moved forward. “Subcommander Quaeryt … sir. It will be a few moments, sir. Would you like a cool lager while you wait?”

Quaeryt had to admire how the captain eased him toward what had to be a receiving parlor. “I would, thank you.” He took a seat in the velvet-upholstered armchair, rather than the matching green settee.

Almost immediately, the captain returned, extending a crystal beaker containing a lager so light that it was barely golden.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir.” The captain slipped away, leaving Quaeryt with the lager.

Quaeryt took a sip. The lager was good. Not excellent, but good, and Quaeryt didn’t hurry in drinking it. He’d often had to wait on Bhayar.

Even so, he’d almost finished the beaker when a tall and squarish figure in Telaryn officers’ greens strode past the receiving parlor toward the entry hall. The older officer’s face was impassive, and his jaw clenched. Quaeryt recognized Deucalon, but the marshal did not even glance in Quaeryt’s direction. More likely he doesn’t want to.

Several moments later the captain returned. “Subcommander…”

Quaeryt took a last swallow of the lager and placed the crystal beaker on the side table, then stood and followed the young officer down the hallway to the second door.

“The subcommander, sir.”

“Have him come in.”

Quaeryt eased off the visor cap, slipped it under his arm, and stepped through the white oak door that the captain had opened for him. As soon as he stood in the study, its paneling matching the white oak of the door, with a wall of shelves to his right, the door closed.

Bhayar sat alone at a circular conference table of polished white oak, but rimmed with inlaid green stone, most likely malachite, reflected Quaeryt. The Lord of Telaryn gestured to a chair across the table. “Please sit down. I hear you’ve had several hard days.”