Rex Regis

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “That’s very strange, sir…”

  “Is it? Many things have happened because of the whims of rulers. Anyway, that’s the way it is.”

  Paelort was still shaking his head as they left Yapres behind and rode along the river road under a hazy sky that reminded Quaeryt of midsummer in Tilbora, but then, he supposed, Rivages was just about as far north as was Tilbora.

  The road was surprisingly good, as the five milles into Yapres had been. He wondered whether the road would deteriorate after a point five milles north of Yapres when they left for Rivages, but after four milles, when the stone walls of Caemren’s holding came into view on the left side of the road ahead, the road remained packed and level. The walls surrounding Caemren’s hold weren’t that high, about three yards, and they were designed for privacy and to keep out casual intruders, given that they were constructed of soft limestone, and showed some softening of what had once doubtless been crisp edges.

  When Quaeryt reined up outside the entry gates, he could see that the iron gates were clearly sturdy enough to stop anything short of a military attack, and the guardhouse was inside the gates.

  The single guard stood behind the gates, locked and chained, and possibly even blocked with an iron bar set in brackets. “High Holder Caemren’s not receiving.”

  Quaeryt repressed a sigh. “Tell the High Holder that Commander Quaeryt is here to see him. I’m representing Lord Bhayar, who is now Rex of Bovaria. It might be best if we didn’t have to destroy such beautiful ironworks.” He smiled. “We’ll wait for you to convey the message, but we won’t wait too long.”

  The guard looked at Quaeryt and the trooper, and then glanced at the long drive, a good half mille straight back to a white-stone mansion on a slight rise, presumably overlooking the River Aluse. He looked at Quaeryt again.

  Quaeryt waited.

  “Those are heavy gates,” the guard said.

  Quaeryt looked at the chains and concentrated.

  With a dull clanging, the chains dropped to the stone drive.

  The guard looked at the chains, then at Quaeryt before offering a resigned look. He walked to the middle of the gates and dragged the heavy chains to one side, then moved to the back side of the right gatepost, where he began turning a wheel. A slight grating accompanied his turning. Shortly, the guard walked back to where the gates joined and lifted a heavy latch, then slowly backed up, pulling the gate open. He watched, almost dolefully, as Quaeryt and the squad of troopers rode past and onto the stone-paved drive up to the main dwelling.

  The house was not excessively large for a High Holder, just two levels, with a central square section, and a wing on each end. The central part was roughly thirty yards across, and each wing was twice that. The mansion walls were of the same limestone as the walls along the road, and the roof was of moderate pitch, finished in slate. A small, at least for a high holding, covered portico extended from the main entry, and Quaeryt led the squad into the shade under the portico.

  Two men stood at the top of the three steps up from the paved area below the portico. One wore gray livery with white piping, the other maroon trousers and jacket with a bright green shirt. Quaeryt managed not to blink at the unusual attire of the man he thought might be the High Holder. He inclined his head politely and said, “High Holder Caemren, I’m Commander Quaeryt, here on the affairs of Lord Bhayar.”

  “How did you convince Whealyt to open the gates?” asked the white-haired man in maroon and green.

  “We removed the chains, and suggested it would be better if we didn’t have to ruin the gates. He wasn’t pleased, but he did see our point.”

  “Well … you’re here. You might as well dismount and come in.” The High Holder turned and walked to the door. “Come on, Commander. Don’t dawdle. I’m sure you’ve got others to visit. Tiresome business it must be, being at someone else’s beck and call. Even at a distance.”

  Quaeryt suppressed a grin, dismounted, and handed his mount’s reins to the ranker who had moved up beside the squad leader. “This might take a bit longer. You might let some of the squad stretch their legs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Caemren stood waiting as Quaeryt walked quickly toward him.

  “You’re young for a commander. Your sire a marshal or a High Holder?” He looked closely at Quaeryt. “No … wouldn’t be that. Don’t know of any Pharsi holders or marshals. I’d wager that you’re the highest-ranking Pharsi officer in either Telaryn or Bovaria.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  “No probability about it, Commander.” Caemren turned and walked through the door, saying over his shoulder, “We’ll sit on the north terrace. Coolest place around during the summer, and it might as well be, close as it is by the calendar.”

  The north terrace was roofed and off a small salon and occupied the northwest corner formed by the center square of the main section of the house and the north wing. Caemren gestured to a table set back from a small fountain, comprised of what was meant to be a stone seasprite with water spraying up from its blowhole. Quaeryt had only seen one of the shy creatures ever, but they didn’t look much like the statue. He seated himself across the small circular table from the High Holder.

  For a moment Caemren looked closely at Quaeryt, who had removed his visor cap and set it on the edge of the table. Then the High Holder nodded. “Lord Bhayar’s said to be part Pharsi. You his tribute officer?”

  “Hardly. I was a scholar before the war. I ended up directing troops in Tilbor during the hill holder revolt. I was appointed princeps after the fighting was over. What with one thing and another, when Kharst attacked Ferravyl, I ended up commanding a company, then a battalion, then a regiment.”

  “You ever lose a skirmish or a battle?”

  “No. Except for the first skirmish, when I was just observing and took a crossbow bolt in the shoulder.”

  “You look like the Pharsi descriptions of a hand of Erion, and you limp. You paint your fingernails?”

  “No. After the battle of Variana, they turned white. So did my hair.”

  Caemren nodded again. “What do you want?”

  “Information.”

  “Fair enough. About what? Or who?”

  “The High Holders around Rivages. Are there others besides Fiancryt and Ryel?”

  “Two others. Paliast and Daefol.”

  “What about them?”

  “I’ve nothing to say. They’re non-entities who mean nothing and who will defer to anyone who has power in order to keep their lands and privileges.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else is there to say? You must know the type.”

  Quaeryt couldn’t contest that. So he went on. “Most towns in Bovaria only have one or two High Holders.”

  “Rivages is a city, not a town. It is a place unto itself. It was also the home of Caldor.”

  “The unifier of Bovaria.”

  “So-called unifier. The Yaran warlords who were your Lord Bhayar’s forbears were paragons of virtue by comparison.”

  “And Rivages has not changed much since?”

  “With High Holders such as Ryel and Fiancryt in power and indulging Kharst’s every whim? How could it change?”

  “I’d be interested to hear what you know about High Holder Fiancryt, the late High Holder, rather than his heir … if he has one.”

  “Ah, yes. Fiancryt. Interesting fellow. He kept to himself and his lands when he was in Rivages, but he was very social in Variana. He married twice, both wives to his advantage. He obtained additional lands from his first wife. Cytha was the sister of Ryel, the father of the Ryel who died when Lord Bhayar took Variana and destroyed the Chateau Regis…”

  Quaeryt didn’t bother to correct Caemren, but continued to listen.

  “The lands were thought to be worthless, but Fiancryt found coal there. Cytha supposedly died of a fever she caught from her eldest daughter, who also died. That left Fiancryt with a son. He was about ten. After Cytha conveniently died, Fiancryt w
asted no time. His second wife is said to be beautiful, but in the way a good blade is beautiful. Never talked to her, and I don’t care to. Myranda came from Variana. She was once a favorite of Kharst’s. Nameless knows how she survived, but Fiancryt’s fortunes improved even more after he wed her. Of course, he was at Chateau Regis when it fell to the brother of all storms.” Caemren looked guilelessly at Quaeryt. “It was either that, or a storm brought by the hand of Erion.”

  “It froze all of Kharst’s troopers and anyone who was in or around the Chateau Regis,” Quaeryt said evenly.

  “That was your doing, wasn’t it?”

  “I had something to do with it.”

  “That’s like saying winter has something to do with the cold.”

  “Myranda wasn’t in Variana?” Quaeryt really didn’t want to say more. For all of Caemren’s gaudy finery, Quaeryt trusted the High Holder less than any he had met, if for reasons he couldn’t voice.

  Caemren laughed, a softly ironic sound. “She never set foot in Variana after she wed Fiancryt. It’s been said that was one of the conditions. I don’t know that it was her condition, either. Kharst was said to be wary of her after a time. I saw the way every eye turned to her when she entered a chamber in Variana.”

  “I thought you hadn’t met her.”

  “I saw her. That was enough. Even most men who don’t like women were caught by her presence.”

  And she’s the one whose holding Myskyl is using as a base of his operations.

  “What about Fiancryt’s son? The heir?”

  “He died this winter. Fell in the river on a hunt. He was with his stepmother and the Telaryn submarshal.” Caemren’s eyes, hard and intense green, focused on Quaeryt. “That’s why you’re asking all these questions, isn’t it?”

  “I’m just following Lord Bhayar’s orders to see what the situation is in Rivages. I take it that Myranda has a son by Fiancryt?”

  “She has a son. He was born at Fiancryt.”

  Most likely by Kharst. That was the conclusion Quaeryt reached by the way Caemren had spoken. “What else should I know about Myranda and Fiancryt?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It could.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt if Lord Bhayar turned Fiancryt—without the lady—over to the most loyal and least corruptible officer he has.”

  “I’ll pass that on.” Quaeryt nodded. “What about Ryel?”

  “He’s dead. His widow is an outlander. She’ll do fine … if Bhayar lets her.”

  “He already has,” replied Quaeryt.

  For the first time in their conversation, Caemren showed a brief flash of surprise. Then he smiled. “Your doing?”

  “Yes. And Lady Vaelora’s.”

  “You knew her … before?”

  Quaeryt shook his head. “I knew who she was. I never met her until she came to Variana to petition Lord Bhayar to hold the lands for her children.”

  When Caemren did not speak, Quaeryt asked, “Who else might be able to tell me about what has happened in and around Rivages in the past two seasons?”

  “Besides Lady Myranda, you mean?”

  Quaeryt nodded.

  “You might try Seliadyn. His hold is in Vaestora. That’s some fifteen milles south of Rivages. He’s … different. He’s also one of the oldest High Holders, and he has ways of finding out things. That’s if he’ll talk to you.”

  “He’ll talk to me.” One way or another.

  “You don’t take no for an answer, I see.” The High Holder smiled, then added, “Sometimes, it’s better not even to ask.”

  Quaeryt thought about that and smiled. “That’s a very good point.”

  “I thought so.” Caemren stood. “You ought to be about your business, Commander.”

  Quaeryt didn’t object. He just stood. “Thank you for the time and information. I do trust that you pledge allegiance—and tariffs—to Lord Bhayar.”

  “With men like you supporting him, how could I do otherwise?” Caemren gestured toward the open door from the salon, then turned and led the way.

  “You might because it’s the wisest course.” Quaeryt followed the older man.

  “Wisdom is always of the moment, Commander. That is something I’ve learned to my regret. When the moment changes, so does the wise course.”

  “I can’t argue that, but I will say that Lord Bhayar generally chooses well for those who serve and support him.” Quaeryt wanted to get the point across that Bhayar had chosen others of capability.

  “A host of good and capable men can be brought low by one who is evil and excellent, especially one without principles.”

  “I’ve seen that.”

  “So have others, but most good men hesitate to act until it is too late.”

  But acting too soon is as much a danger as too late. “Timing is everything.”

  “So it is. So it is.”

  When they reached the portico, Caemren looked to Quaeryt. “A pleasure meeting you, Commander.”

  Quaeryt thought he actually meant it … although he wasn’t totally certain about the reasons behind Caemren’s statement. “And I you.” He could feel those intense green eyes on his back as he walked down the steps, took his horse’s reins from the waiting ranker, and mounted.

  As Quaeryt rode down the paved drive, he thought over the meeting. One thing was certain. The more he learned about Bovaria, the more he realized that Bhayar would need the imagers far more than even Quaeryt himself had realized. Far more, but that was assuming he was successful in dealing with whatever schemes Myskyl and Deucalon had set in motion … and although he couldn’t have said why, every conversation he had with either factors or High Holders made him more and more concerned about just what the relationship between Myskyl and Deucalon, and the Bovarian High Holders and factors might be.

  40

  By midday on Samedi, Quaeryt, riding with Calkoran’s company, was some ten milles north of Yapres under a sun that seemed just short of blistering. The road remained as good, if not better than it had been coming into and leading into the town. Quaeryt couldn’t help wondering if that was at least partly because the distance from Variana was great enough that Kharst wouldn’t have known the condition was better? Or because he had seen little point in marching troopers hundreds of milles over bad roads to get to good ones?

  As a matter of caution, he’d also instructed Zhelan and Calkoran, whenever they were in the rear, to maintain scouts a good half mille behind the squad acting as rear guard both to avoid any surprises, and in case Deucalon had sent another courier. He also instructed the scouts forward of the vanguard to pull back if they saw any Telaryn riders approaching so as to allow them closer to the lead squads. Quaeryt could only hope that would give his forces a chance to capture such dispatch riders or Telaryn scouts before they turned and galloped back to Rivages to report to Myskyl.

  “The road’s really good,” said Zhelan. “It’s like we’re in another land.”

  At Zhelan’s remarks, Quaeryt almost froze in the saddle. Another country? Maybe that’s exactly what most of the High Holders here believe. Was that another reason why Tyrena had traveled to Variana to petition Bhayar to hold on to control of her lands for her daughter? That certainly fit with what Quaeryt had learned from Laedica and Daalyn. But Myskyl can’t believe that Bhayar would let him set up his own land.

  Quaeryt shook his head. Myskyl didn’t have to believe that. He only had to persuade the High Holders and factors of the north that their only chance for continuing their privileges and power was to back an overthrow of Bhayar—and Quaeryt and the imagers. And you’ve played right into that by disciplining High Holders and factors for their high-handed ways—except those high-handed ways are exactly what they’ve always done and what they believe is their due.

  If that was what Myskyl and Deucalon were doing … he had to admire their strategy, but it raised even more questions about exactly what he could do to thwart it—and them—without destroying the regiments Bhayar needed to unite Lydar
.

  “What is it, sir?” asked Zhelan.

  “I was just thinking. Your point about the north of Bovaria being a different land may be truer than you thought.”

  “Do you think that’s because of the High Holders?”

  “They’re at least part of the problem. I doubt they’re all of it, but they could be. We’ll just have to see.” And Quaeryt wasn’t looking forward to that.

  About a glass later, Quaeryt saw all three scouts heading back toward first company at a good pace—a moderate canter, he thought. “Trouble of some sort ahead … or dispatch couriers.”

  “It could be both,” suggested Zhelan.

  “You’re cheerful,” said Quaeryt sardonically.

  “It is Bovaria, sir.”

  “You would remind me of that.” Quaeryt laughed.

  In less than half a quint, the lead scout had reined up—just after Quaeryt ordered a halt.

  “Sir! Three Telaryn riders headed this way. We saw them as we came over that rise and pulled back. They didn’t see us. They kept riding, anyway.”

  “Were there any riders behind them?” asked Quaeryt. “A squad? A company?”

  “Didn’t see any, sir. No road dust behind them, either.”

  “Good. Scouts, move back of the head of the column.” Quaeryt turned in the saddle. “Undercaptains. Khalis! Raise a concealment shield across the road so that it looks empty. Elsior, stay and support Khalis. Lhandor, you come with me. Major, send a man back to request Subcommander Calkoran join you. I’ll need five rankers to follow us. They’ll have to stay behind us so the riders won’t see them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quaeryt gestured to Khalis, then raised his own concealment shield as he urged the gelding forward at a fast trot, in order to be as close to the rise in the road as possible, just in case the Telaryn riders from the north saw dust or something else that would cause them to turn once they rode over the low rise whose crest was still a good two hundred yards ahead. Five rankers from first company fell in behind Quaeryt and Lhandor.