L. Modesitt: Scholar

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me. According to the commander, Lord Bhayar’s the one who should be thanking you.” Zirkyl offered a sad smile. “That is all I wanted to tell you. I do have a few other matters…”

“Yes, sir.” Quaeryt stood, as gracefully as he could, then turned and limped from the commander’s study and headed back toward the mess.

While he would have liked to send a letter to Vaelora, he decided that asking a special courier to carry it would not be a good idea, besides which, he frankly wasn’t certain what he would-or should-write, given the way matters stood in Tilbor. Or if he could find the right words in the time he had.

What with one thing and another, almost a week passed before Quaeryt joined Sixth Battalion on its return to Tilbora the following Jeudi. Once more, he rode with Skarpa, still awkwardly because the splinted arm, even in a sling, tended to unbalance him, although he had been reunited with the mare.

“How did you find her?” he had asked when one of Skarpa’s rankers had led her out to him before they left Boralieu.

“I didn’t,” Skarpa had replied. “Gauswn did. While we were waiting for the hill holders to decide, he had his men search for her. It took a couple of days to find her. Seventh Battalion had her. He said it wasn’t right that she wasn’t with you.”

“I do appreciate it.” He’d reminded himself to thank the undercaptain with more than words, for both saving his life and finding the mare, although he had ridden across the courtyard to Gauswn and offered those words of gratitude almost immediately.

Gauswn had insisted that he’d only done what was right and went on to say, “You’ll change things, sir. You will. Like Rholan.”

That comparison had appalled Quaeryt, but he couldn’t say that, not when he likely owed the undercaptain his life … and the mare. All he’d been able to do was reiterate his thanks and gratitude. But Gauswn’s words and worshipful attitude had preyed on him throughout the journey.

Finally, on Vendrei afternoon, as Sixth Battalion turned off the river road and headed directly along the back road toward the Telaryn Palace, Quaeryt again turned to Skarpa.

“I’ve been thinking about Gauswn. I worry that he thinks I’m something that I’m not. I’m just a scholar trying to do the best I can.”

Skarpa laughed. “I’ll grant that you’re a scholar. I’ll not grant that you’re just a scholar. No officer and man in Sixth Battalion would say you’re just a scholar. You’re as good a chorister as many, and you’re a better officer than many who wear the bars. There’s a lot more I don’t know. I do know that Commander Myskyl wouldn’t cross you.”

“He wouldn’t cross me? I’m a near-penniless scholar.” Quaeryt laughed.

“You were sent by Lord Bhayar. You get letters from his family…”

Quaeryt managed not to wince. Did the entire regiment know that?

“… and you’ve survived battles and wounds. I recall you also got through storms and a shipwreck. Myskyl knows that. He wouldn’t cross you for all the new-minted silvers he found in Zorlyn’s strong room.”

“Didn’t he have a silver mine?” asked Quaeryt, deciding to change the subject as quickly as he could, especially since he’d wondered about the Ecoliae’s receipt of new-minted silvers. “Someone said…”

“He does. Or he did.”

“And he was minting his own silvers?”

Skarpa looked quizzically at Quaeryt. “One of the majors said they found coin dies. Why does it matter? Silver’s silver.”

“It would help explain how Zorlyn could afford to pay so many armsmen, for one thing.” And for another, it would explain why Rescalyn needed to take Zorlyn’s lands and holding.

Skarpa nodded. “It would. Some of us wondered about that, even with all his lands.”

Quaeryt’s thinking about Zorlyn brought to mind Zarxes. “Do you know if they found two scholars among the captives there?”

“The two that ran off from the scholarium? Can’t say that I do.”

Quaeryt wondered if he’d ever find out, or if Alkiabys and Zarxes had been part of the heavy cavalry that had been largely killed at the end of the battle. He shook his head.

There are always things left unresolved, no matter how much you want to know how they turn out. That’s life.

After a long silence, Skarpa finally spoke again. “Tell me. What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. I’m only supposed to be the scholar assistant to the princeps until close to the end of winter. I’m supposed to return to Solis before the first day of spring.”

“No offense … but should you be traveling before that arm has healed more? And all those bruises?”

“Some of the bruises have healed.”

“Not all, I’d wager.”

“Not all of them,” Quaeryt admitted. Not wanting to dwell on the possibility of spending a long cold winter in Tilbora, he asked, “What will Myskyl do with the regiment now? Has he said?”

“That’s up to the princeps-I’d guess he’s the acting governor for now. He’ll need to step up recruiting. That won’t be a problem now. Some of the senior squad leaders will be trained to be undercaptains, maybe even a few squad leaders.”

“And you?”

“I’ll keep being a major. What else do I know? It’s a better life than many.” Skarpa laughed. “I’ve got some golds put by, enough to live quiet-like if I go out on an injury stipend or make it to full-stipend age. We’ll all get battle pay. You, too, I’d guess.”

Quaeryt hadn’t even thought about pay or golds-but he hadn’t drawn his pay in something like two months. At half a gold a week-even with the deductions for the mess-that would total more than four golds.

He smiled, if faintly. The golds had never meant that much to him, but that was probably because he’d never wed or had family to think about. And, the way his life was going, he never would.

Quaeryt needed to report to Princeps Straesyr. So, on Samedi morning, just after seventh glass, he made his way from “his” study to the anteroom to the princeps’s study.

“He thought you might be here early,” replied Vhorym, in a manner more pleasant than Quaeryt recalled. “You can go on in, sir.”

“Thank you.” Although his arm was still splinted and in a sling, it felt somewhat better, but every movement still hurt as Quaeryt limped into the princeps’s study and closed the door behind himself.

You’d think you’d feel better than this after two weeks.…

The first thing Quaeryt noted was that Straesyr no longer wore a tunic. Instead, he wore a marshal’s uniform. The second thing that the scholar noted was that the acting governor appeared far more comfortable in the uniform.

Straesyr did not rise, but gestured to the chairs before the desk. “You’re still recovering, I see.”

“It’s likely to be a while, sir.” Quaeryt eased himself into the nearest chair.

“I’ve received several reports from Commander Myskyl, and the few remaining hill holders have agreed to terms and have even tendered part of their tariffs as evidence of good faith.”

As evidence of fear, I suspect. “I had not heard about their payments, sir. I did know that they had agreed to terms.”

“They did indeed. Myskyl sent along their letters of agreement. Every one of them practically groveled. Not surprising.”

“Do you know how the High Holders feel?”

“The ones I’ve heard from are pleased, naturally.” Straesyr’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. “I’ve had three inquiries about purchasing the lands of the rebel holders. I wrote back that, if they wished, they could inquire of Lord Bhayar, since the lands were now his. I’ve heard nothing further.” He paused. “I also received an interesting report from the commander about you. You were most effective in battle. What was also unusual, apparently, was the difficulty the rebels had in actually striking you, and the fact that you managed to evade most blows you did not seem to see coming…”