Rex Regis

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  * * *

  Half a quint later, Gauswn and the four student imagers filed into the small study. Gauswn gestured to the two dark-haired and dark-eyed students at one end. “You might remember Chartyn and Doalak.”

  Quaeryt stood and nodded. He’d met Chartyn, but not Doalak, although he had arranged for the latter to study at the scholarium in Tilbor.

  “Poincaryt, here, came from Santara, and Moraen from outside Cloisonyt.”

  “All four of you are welcome here. Matters are unsettled and will be for a few weeks.” Quaeryt surveyed the four for a long moment before speaking. “Today, all four of you have seen what trained and skilled imagers can do. What you have not seen is what trying to image what you cannot do … or what is beyond your ability … will do. Have you ever thought of imaging golds?” His eyes swept across the four.

  Finally, the small dark-haired boy on the left gave a small nod.

  “Do you know what could happen if you tried that here … in this chamber … really tried it?”

  “No, sir.” But there was a question in the boy’s eyes.

  “It could kill you. That was how the Antiagon imagers who were captured killed themselves. They imaged a disk of gold large enough to kill themselves. That’s because, when you image, you’re drawing what you image from around you. If you image stone, that’s easier than metal, because there’s much stone beneath the soil—or beneath a river. Gold is rare and hard to find. It takes much strength. If you are strong enough to image gold, but there is no gold in the ground near you … it could kill you. Please don’t try it. You can image coppers … one at a time … if you can do it. But don’t pass them off on others. Not yet. Not until they’re perfect.”

  “Isn’t that counterfeiting, sir?”

  Quaeryt gave a ragged grin. “If they’re perfect and made totally out of copper … no. The value is in the metal. You won’t cheat anyone if the copper is perfect. And you’ll likely work as hard to image it as you would to earn it.” And every imager I know has tried it; so there’s no point in forbidding it. After a moment, he went on. “Before long, you’ll be having classes, like in the scholarium, and some of those will be about imaging. Until then, until you learn more, please limit your imaging to small things and familiar things. Too many rankers and even imagers have died to give you this chance. Don’t waste it by trying to image too much and killing yourself.”

  “Sir … did you know you were an imager when you were young?” The questioner was the small dark-haired boy.

  “I was younger than you. I couldn’t do even a small portion of what you saw today until two years ago. It takes time. Most imagers aren’t patient. That’s one reason why so many died young.” Quaeryt looked to Gauswn. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”

  Gauswn nodded, then turned to the students. “The commander was a strong imager two years ago. He still took a crossbow bolt in the chest. Months later he almost died in the last great battle in Tilbor. I know. I was there. None of you are anywhere close to his ability. Heed his words.”

  Quaeryt offered a smile. “I’m not trying to frighten you. I want every one of you to become the best imager you can. There aren’t enough good imagers. But trying to do more than you can will only put you in danger. You need to improve your imaging bit by bit.” He grinned. “Now … that’s enough homilies. They’re all yours, chorister.”

  Gauswn ushered the four out, then paused in the study door and said, quietly, “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” replied Quaeryt.

  For a time, he just stood there, half standing, half propped against the desk, before he roused himself for the ride back to the Chateau Regis.

  By the time he reached the stables there, his headache was no worse, but not any better, and at times his vision blurred. He dismounted and handed the gelding over to the ranker ostler. “Thank you. I won’t be needing him tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then Quaeryt made his way to the three studies that would initially comprise the spaces for the Ministry of Supply and Administration for Bovaria. He found Vaelora in the middle study, going over a ledger with a ranker clerk.

  She straightened and walked over to him, studying him. Then she said in a low voice, in court Bovarian, “You’re exhausted, and your eyes are bloodshot. What did you do?”

  “A little more imaging than I intended,” Quaeryt admitted.

  “What have you eaten?”

  “I had some lager and a biscuit or two.”

  Vaelora gave a sigh even more expressive than the theatrical ones offered by her brother, then shook her head. She turned to the young ranker clerk standing beside one of the writing tables. “Stennyl … run down to the kitchen and get some bread and cheese. Tell them it’s for Commander Quaeryt. If they protest, tell them that Lord Bhayar’s sister insists.”

  “Yes, Lady.” The ranker hurried out the study door, not quite at a run.

  Once they were momentarily alone in the middle study of the three, Vaelora looked at Quaeryt and asked quietly, but far from gently, “Just what did you image? An entire anomen? A massive bridge across the Aluse?”

  “Just the stoneworks on the north end of the isle.”

  “Just? The isle is more than a half mille wide.”

  “A bit wider,” Quaeryt admitted.

  “All at once?”

  “It seemed better that way.”

  “Quaeryt Rytersyn … you may be the most powerful imager ever and a hand of Erion, but you are an idiot! It’s one thing to have to do something like that in battle … but…” She shook her head again, almost violently.

  “I feel like we’re running out of time. This way … as the other imagers build on what I’ve done, they can’t slack off. They’ll have to match the height and strength of the stone walls, and that will keep the isle safe from flood damage. It will also create an image of power. That won’t hurt.” He lifted a hand to her lips to stop her protests. “People forget what they don’t see. In a few years, all but the oldest person in Variana will have forgotten the devastation and the death. You wouldn’t think so … but they will. A mighty stone isle—like a ship in the river—that’s harder to forget.”

  “Dearest…” Her voice softened. “No one could ever accuse you of dreaming small dreams.” She paused. “Please don’t do quite so much again.”

  He could hear the plaintive concern behind her soft words. “I won’t.” Unless there’s no choice.

  After eating some bread and cheese, retiring to their quarters … and a glass and a half later, Quaeryt felt better, and ready to escort Vaelora from their quarters to the formal dining chamber at the south end of the lower level of the Chateau Regis. He found the formal dress uniform slightly looser than he recalled, and that surprised him, because the last time he had worn it, he’d been recovering from his injuries from the battle of Variana.

  Vaelora wore the same black and silver dress and jacket she had worn then … and looked even more stunning, Quaeryt thought.

  When they reached the main level, a ranker escorted them to the receiving room adjoining the dining chamber.

  “Deucalon is here,” Quaeryt murmured after they stepped through the open double doors and he scanned the forty or so people in the room, in groups of three or four.

  “How could he not be?” replied Vaelora. “We should pay our respects to brother dear.”

  “Oh?”

  “He gave me a look.”

  There can be definite disadvantages to brother-sister communications, reflected Quaeryt as they made their way across the green and gold carpet toward where Bhayar stood, with his back to the closed doors leading to the dining chamber. Rankers circulated through the room, carrying trays with goblets of either white or red wine.

  When Vaelora and Quaeryt neared Bhayar, he nodded to the trumpeter standing to his left and a pace back, and a short fanfare silenced the muted conversations around the reception room.

  “Just so that all of you know a few of those attending … th
e distinguished gray-haired officer in the uniform of a marshal standing near the windows is Marshal Deucalon, in command of the armies of Telaryn … when I’m not interfering.” Bhayar gestured toward the marshal, then waited several moments before continuing. “You might also wish to know this charming couple,” announced Bhayar. “The beautiful one is my sister Vaelora, who was recently envoy to Khel, and the rugged-looking one is her husband, Commander Quaeryt, whose accomplishments are too numerous to discuss here.”

  Another fanfare followed those words as conversations threatened to rise once more. “I haven’t even tried to seat anyone by position or protocol,” said Bhayar, adding with a smile, “except myself. So when we enter the dining chamber, please do not be surprised or offended by where you are seated or by whom your nearest companions may be.”

  After a moment when Quaeryt felt that most eyes in the room remained on the three of them, the various conversations resumed.

  “I assume we’re to be charming and not terribly informative,” said Quaeryt dryly.

  “That would be helpful,” said Bhayar. “I’m told that I only have—properly—until the end of Avryl before I should cease entertaining for the summer and the first month of harvest.”

  “I know how you love entertaining,” said Vaelora. “You can hardly wait for Mayas.”

  “It’s necessary,” replied Bhayar.

  “To let everyone know that the fighting is over and the intriguing can resume?” asked Quaeryt.

  “Of course.”

  A ranker stopped and proffered a tray. Both Quaeryt and Vaelora took goblets of the white wine. Quaeryt just held his.

  “The wine’s not bad,” said Bhayar. “It’s just not good enough to keep some of the High Holders and their wives from complaining.”

  “People always like to complain,” replied Vaelora, “in Solis or in Variana.”

  Bhayar glanced to the Telaryn captain stationed just inside the doors from the main foyer, who offered a raised hand and a nod, then said, “Everyone’s here.” He turned to the trumpeter, who played another fanfare, then turned and opened the doors to the dining chamber.

  After setting their goblets on a ranker’s tray, Quaeryt and Vaelora accompanied Bhayar as far as the head of the table, where he smiled and said, “Vaelora, you grace the far end of the table so that those lower will not feel excessively slighted. You’re roughly in the middle on the right, Quaeryt.”

  Quaeryt inclined his head, then escorted Vaelora to the far end and seated her at the foot, directly opposite her brother. Quaeryt recognized the long dining table and chairs as those that had formerly graced the dining chamber of the late High Holder Paitrak’s hold, as had several of the sideboards. With a smile, he left his wife and made his way toward his own chair.

  He noted the placards before each place setting, with the carefully spelled out names. To his right was Malyssa D’Chamion. Chamion … that’s familiar, but why? He couldn’t remember and quickly took in the name to his left. Alynae D’Fyanyl-Alte. That meant she was the wife of High Holder Fyanyl, not that Quaeryt had any idea who Fyanyl might be.

  The first of those seated beside him to arrive was Malyssa D’Chamion, who looked to be a few years older than Quaeryt himself, and that likely meant, given women’s attention to appearance, she was probably older than that. Quaeryt seated her and then turned to seat the very much younger-looking Alynae, a chestnut-haired beauty in a deep green gown enhanced by a filigreed gold neck choker. Across the table from Quaeryt were two men and a woman he did not know.

  Once everyone was seated, and the ranker servers had filled all the goblets at the long table, Bhayar stood and raised his goblet. “To peace, prosperity, and order across all Lydar.”

  While many repeated the toast, some merely sipped their wine.

  “I did want to meet you, Commander,” offered the older Malyssa. “My husband was most impressed when he dined with you last fall. I understand you and your wife have been traveling.”

  “You might say that,” replied Quaeryt, now knowing that she had to be the wife of the chief councilor of Variana. “We both traveled to Khel to meet with their High Council. My wife was made envoy.”

  A quick look of confusion appeared and vanished from Malyssa’s face.

  “Vaelora is part Pharsi. The High Council of Khel is entirely Pharsi, and most are women. All but one, in fact.”

  “Ah … and since she is Lord Bhayar’s sister…”

  “Exactly.”

  “Commander,” came the almost silky smooth voice from his other dinner companion, “Lord Bhayar praised your achievements … but never mentioned what they were.”

  “No, I don’t believe he did,” replied Quaeryt politely.

  “If I might offer a few words, distinguished lady,” interjected Malyssa, “that the commander would be unable to offer without seeming excessively self-important, he was the one who destroyed two Bovarian armies, first at Ferravyl and then at Variana. I understand he accomplished a similar feat in Liantiago as well.” She looked at Quaeryt with the hint of a smile. “Did you not?”

  “For better or worse, I did,” he admitted. “Now … you know of me, and I know nothing of either of you, except that you, Madame Malyssa, are the wife of the chief councilor of Variana, and you are either the daughter or the wife of High Holder Fyanyl, whom I have not had the honor of meeting.”

  “Daughter?” Alynae laughed softly. “You’re most kind, Commander. I’m his wife, and the mother of four children.”

  “I honestly would not have guessed.” And that was true enough, Quaeryt knew.

  “Nor I,” added Malyssa.

  “Are your lands near Variana?”

  “Not terribly near—some fifty milles northeast of here. My husband was fortunate enough not to be an intimate of Rex Kharst.”

  “I suspect you were the one fortunate that he was not,” said Quaeryt dryly.

  “He was most careful, Commander. He presented me to Rex Kharst when I was almost full-term with our second child. I was not at my best.”

  Quaeryt managed not to smile or grin, but he did note that Fyanyl sounded like a High Holder to watch. “He was most careful.”

  Alynae nodded.

  “My husband said that you are an imager, and the officer in command of all of Lord Bhayar’s imagers.”

  “No more so than any officer is in command of those over whom he is placed,” demurred Quaeryt, before adding, “Your observation raises a question that has puzzled me for some time. What happened to the imagers who served Rex Kharst? We heard that there were such, and yet we never encountered them.”

  There was a moment of silence, then the man across the table from Quaeryt spoke. “Commander, Laevoryn D’Alte. I might be able to shed some light on that.”

  “Please … if you would.”

  “Rex Kharst relied on less than ten imagers, and he kept most of them close … but not too close. I have heard that most of them were in the field when you and your imagers froze the Bovarian forces. Several whom I trust have suggested that perhaps three of them were either not there or somehow escaped the violence of the winter that destroyed Rex Kharst and his forces.”

  “Do those whom you trust have any idea what happened to those who escaped?”

  High Holder Laevoryn shook his head. “They have left Variana. Of that, I am certain. Where they might be … that is another question, and one to which I have no answer. It is not a question, I hope you understand, that I would wish to pursue.”

  “I do understand.” Quaeryt did, especially given that any imagers powerful enough to survive what he had wrought were certainly powerful enough to wreak disaster on anyone who got in their way. “That does give some answer to the question of what happened to his imagers.” He paused. “He must have had some way of controlling them.”

  “His usual methods,” replied Laevoryn. “He kept close watch on their families…”

  Effectively holding them hostage.

  “… and that is all I know,” co
ncluded Laevoryn.

  Or all you’re willing to say. “That is most useful, and I thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Commander.”

  After another moment of silence, Malyssa cleared her throat delicately. “It is said that you were also a scholar,” said Malyssa. “A scholar who learned much about Bovaria, perhaps?”

  “Some … but I made a practice of talking to many in the course of the campaigns. I ran across a High Holder, a less than agreeable man, who had been banished to his estates … and I learned a great deal from him.”

  “Fauxyn?” asked Alynae.

  “I believe that was his name.”

  “He died this past winter … from injuries he suffered…” Alynae’s mouth opened. “Were you the one?”

  “The one what?” asked Malyssa.

  “Fauxyn was … despicable, among other things. He was also a duelist who murdered anyone who displeased Kharst. Even for a duelist, he cheated. He challenged a Telaryn officer, it was said. The officer used a staff and crippled him. He never recovered. Some said he poisoned himself to punish his wife.”

  At that moment Quaeryt realized that Alynae was not nearly so surprised as she should have been, but he said nothing, only waited.

  Malyssa looked to Quaeryt. “Were you?”

  Quaeryt shrugged. “He tried to kill me so that his wife would lose her family lands. When that failed, he tried to taunt me into killing him to reach the same goal. I wouldn’t. Now it appears he tried a third way to the same end.” Abruptly … Quaeryt turned and studied Alynae. Then he smiled. “How did you manage it?”

  “I was bold enough to ask Lord Bhayar if I might be seated near you. He thought it might be interesting … I think.”

  “You’re her sister? Cousin?”

  “Cousin.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” Quaeryt didn’t know whether to laugh or shake his head … and this was only the first dinner of what he feared might be many.