Imager’s Battalion

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  There is another matter that gnaws at me. Before you departed, you arranged for two young imagers to become student scholars. You drafted rules and procedures for them. At present, those appear to suffice, but Chartyn and Doalak often come to talk to me because the other students and the scholars will have little to do with them, save as necessary in instruction and other scholarium matters and duties. They are good youths, but I have some doubts as to whether either would wish to be a chorister, and their isolation is pushing them away from wishing to be scholars, despite their talents. If you have any suggestions or advice, I would be most grateful.

  May the Nameless continue to watch over and protect you.

  With a sigh, Quaeryt lowered the letter. He had worried about Nalakyn from the beginning, but there hadn’t been many choices open to him … and less time. If Bhayar had let him remain in Tilbor as princeps for longer, he could have done something. But then … he couldn’t do what he was doing now, and that might yield greater results. Yet, what could he tell Gauswn?

  Counsel him to be patient? Quaeryt shook his head. Patience would serve Gauswn well personally, but it wouldn’t help the Tilboran scholarium.

  As for the two young imagers … the reactions that they faced were exactly why he wanted to create a place that would be both a school and more for imagers—but that couldn’t happen unless and until Bhayar was successful and Bhayar realized that the imagers had been instrumental in that success … and both aspects of that were anything but certain at the moment.

  Because he’d need to think over a response, he set aside Gauswn’s letter and picked up the one from Vaelora, noting that the seal had been lifted and replaced. He shook his head. That didn’t surprise him.

  My dearest,

  We have traveled quickly and today arrived in Tresrives at the third glass of the afternoon. The quarters here are even more deserted than when we were here together …

  Just from Tresrives … not Solis? Quaeryt stopped reading and looked at the date at the bottom of the letter—the twenty-fourth of Juyn, nearly a month? Then he looked at the date on the letter from Governor Markyl—the third of Agostas.

  Markyl’s letter had taken roughly two weeks less time to reach him from a destination almost twice as far away, even though Vaelora’s missive had been sent on the most frequently traveled dispatch route. Why had her correspondence taken so much longer?

  The most logical reason was that Vaelora’s letter had languished somewhere along the way.

  The discrepancy bothered Quaeryt. Is that just because you’d far rather hear from Vaelora and wanted to know she was doing well? That was certainly one reason, but her correspondence hadn’t been delayed before. It’s probably one of those onetime foul-ups, he told himself. Besides, who would care about a personal letter of that nature? He lifted her letter again, then stopped. He still didn’t like the time the letter had taken in reaching him, especially when she had used official dispatch riders. But who would delay it? Bhayar might read it, but he certainly wouldn’t have held on to it for weeks.

  Finally, he continued reading.

  … and they felt deserted. We did not eat away from the mess. Without you, I would not have felt secure, although my dreams have not been disturbed.

  Quaeryt nodded at that intimation that she’d had no more farsight flashes.

  So much has changed, it seems to me, but as a mere woman, I cannot say whether my feelings are a result of my lack of experience in the wider world or because we are living in a time that foreshadows great change. From the little I have seen, I do believe that those with power are reluctant to relinquish it, and more so when their power derives from another than from their own position or ability. There is none so vindictive as a vengeful assistant who believes one of greater ability has attained position through familial ties, and who will not believe that those in power who have great ability demand more of those with whom they share family than those who are less familiar …

  Deucalon, Myskyl? Too many men fit the description of a vengeful assistant, but perhaps another letter would reveal more.

  He kept reading through the more cheerful observations about the pleasant weather and her desire to see her brother’s wife, and at the end, he realized that she had mentioned no one related to her by name, nor did her letter bear any identification except a single “V” at the bottom, below the words “all my love.”

  Abruptly he realized that it was almost fifth glass and that the officers’ mess was about to begin below in the public room of the inn. He folded up the three letters and slipped them into his personal dispatch case, the one that had accompanied him all the way from Solis, through shipwreck and worse. He could barely fit them in, given Vaelora’s other letters and that the case was far from large. He eased the case back into his kit and then hurried from his chamber down the steps to the main level.

  42

  Vendrei came and went, leaving a cloud-covered sky that promised a downpour on Samedi, but ended up only offering scattered showers. Quaeryt found a waterproof and took a squad from Major Arion’s company and rode west to inspect and study the Bovarian defenses surrounding Villerive. Unlike the other river towns, there were neither swamps, marshes, nor forests blocking the approaches to the city on the south side of the River Aluse. In fact, the southern section of Villerive, located on largely flat and slightly raised ground, did not appear that much larger than Caernyn. It was encircled by a recently constructed set of earthworks that extended little more than a mille from one end to the other. Still, an earthen berm nearly two yards high suggested considerable effort, and several score catapults behind it implied the strong possibility of Antiagon Fire. The level ground made the danger from muskets, and possible hidden pits, greater as well. Yet the sheer openness of the approach made Quaeryt question why Kharst had chosen Villerive as a position to hold. When he returned to Ralaes, he and Meinyt discussed the defenses with Skarpa, but none of them had been able to discern what else lay behind that recently constructed berm.

  The intermittent rain stopped sometime on Samedi night so that by the time Quaeryt finished breakfast on Solayi and headed to the onetime plaques room in the inn to meet with Skarpa and Meinyt, the clear sky and warmth promised a steamy day.

  Meinyt was already in the plaques room. Skarpa was not.

  The older subcommander looked to Quaeryt. “Wager we’ll attack Villerive tomorrow. The commander looks worried, and that ass-saving bastard Deucalon will want things as easy as possible for his troopers.”

  “So we attack first, and Deucalon holds back. The Bovarians move more reinforcements across the bridge to stop us, and then Deucalon attacks?”

  “Something like that.” Meinyt fingered his chin. “Hope your imagers can do what they’ve done before.”

  Quaeryt smiled wryly. “We’ll need to do more.” Not that you know exactly what more to do, since the Bovarians have remained holed up behind their earthworks.

  “You will indeed,” said Skarpa, closing the door behind himself and motioning to the chairs around the battered dark oak table. “We’re to attack tomorrow. Marshal Deucalon has not ordered or suggested a specific plan for us. He has ordered us to make a strong enough push to fully occupy the Bovarians.”

  Meinyt glanced sideways at Quaeryt, with an “I told you so” look.

  “You both have studied the maps and the defenses. Does either of you have any other thoughts? Any concerns?”

  Who wouldn’t have concerns? Still, there was nothing he could do about them. Quaeryt shook his head.

  Meinyt frowned. “They’ve only got earthworks, so far as I can see.”

  “You’re wondering why they’re picking a city that’s not walled?” asked Skarpa.

  “It had occurred to me, sir.”

  “When was the last time anyone managed to make an attack more than two hundred milles inside Bovaria? For that matter, are there any walled cities in Telaryn except Ferravyl?”

  Quaeryt did not mention that some of the older towns
, such as Cloisonyt and Montagne, had vestiges of ancient walls remaining.

  “Kharst didn’t ever anticipate an attack this far inside Bovaria,” said Skarpa. “And you can’t build stone walls overnight … not even with imagers. Anything else?”

  Both subcommanders shook their heads.

  “Then we’ll proceed as planned, with each regiment and Fifth Battalion assaulting a different stretch of earthworks so that the defenders can’t concentrate their forces. I’ve already sent a dispatch. Deucalon’s just a few milles east of us on the other side of the river. We’ve got courier boats to cross now.” Skarpa glanced at Quaeryt. “I imagine there will be space for a few private dispatches.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There is one other matter.”

  Quaeryt caught the twinkle in the commander’s eyes. “Yes, sir?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you would consider…”

  “… conducting services this evening?” finished Quaeryt.

  Skarpa nodded.

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “You always do. Still say you’re the best chorister I’ve ever heard.”

  After leaving Skarpa, Quaeryt returned to his small chamber in the inn, where he quickly read over the letter he had written the night before, especially one section …

  After we took Ralaes, we discovered once more the methods by which Rex Kharst enforces control over his High Holders. Commander Skarpa summoned a meeting of senior officers, and as we began, assassins with small crossbows attacked the officers. Through sheer chance … none of our commanders or subcommanders were injured, and we captured two of the assassins. We discovered from them that Kharst maintains several companies of such assassins and that one of their duties is to deal with recalcitrant High Holders. While it is clear that any successful ruler must find a way to maintain order and control over High Holders, it would strike me that a quieter and more subtle form of control might be better suited to a ruler, and that perhaps one that incorporated knowledge and persuasion, leaving a quiet but completely effective force as a last resort … Those problems, if they should exist at all, are in the future. Before long we will be facing the Bovarian forces at Villerive …

  He nodded. That would have to do. He added a few sentences of affection and concern, then sealed it and tucked it inside his uniform before heading downstairs. After locating the dispatch orderly, he handed over the letter and a silver, then went to meet with Zhelan.

  First he went over the plans for the assault on south Villerive with Zhelan and the company officers, emphasizing the key points in Bovarian to the Khellan majors, then accompanied Zhelan and each officer on an inspection of his company. After that, several glasses later, he returned to the South River Inn and briefed the imager undercaptains, then sent them off to practice another skill that he hoped would prove useful with the earthworks.

  Finally, he retired to his chamber to try to come up with yet another homily for the evening services. For a time, he just stood and looked out the window. Finally, he pulled out the small thin book about Rholan and began to page through it, reading phrases and sections until one section finally caught his attention and interest.

  The problem with justice is that it is always defined with regard to who offers the definition. Rholan avoided this problem simply by refusing to address it and by defining it as what men and women should do. The definition of justice by a High Holder, however, is likely to differ greatly from what a grower or a peasant regards as justice. A peasant regards it as just that he and his family have enough to eat; the High Holder insists that it is just that sustenance be grown or paid for by those who consume it, while the factor feels that it is only just that he retain a portion of whatever food is traded because he facilitated the exchange. Yet is it just that a man and his family starve because of flood or drought? Is it just that all the effort a High Holder puts into maintaining order and providing seed and storage go for naught because others are hungry? What portion of a harvest is a just portion for a factor to take in return for finding a buyer where the grower cannot? Those scholars who study the exchange of goods claim that justice can only be found in what terms a fair seller and a fair buyer agree upon. But in a time of famine, those who have golds will have food, and those who do not will starve. Is that justice? In a time of war, those who have blades and the skill to wield them best will have golds and food. Is that justice? Yet without the order provided by those with arms, all will suffer, and there will certainly be no justice.

  So far as I know, Rholan seldom, if ever, addressed such a question, except in generalities, and with humor, and that may be why he will be remembered, and why I have chosen to remain, if you will, nameless.

  Quaeryt couldn’t help but ask, Who was the writer who knew and understood Rholan so well? So far as he could tell, the book didn’t offer any clues, not in all the times he’d read it and leafed through the pages. Even at the end of all the text, in the lower left-hand corner of the page there was only a jumble of letters, “T(N)of D.” Had that meant, “The End” or did it signify something else?

  Nor was justice an apt subject for troopers about to attack a town, where, as Rholan had said, the only “justice” was provided by the edge of a sabre.

  He finally came to yet another section that offered a certain … possibility.

  Rholan traveled much, although his journeys were seldom that long, and most, if not all, of his travels remained within Tela. He often commented, both in conversation and in his public utterances, upon roads, using them both factually and metaphorically. Upon one occasion at table he observed that all too many wide and smooth roads leading from towns or holdings soon deteriorated into the meanest of ways once the traveler was beyond the eyeshot of those in power. As he so often did, however, he reversed that observation by declaring that a traveler need be most cautious when the meanest of ways turned within a few hundred yards to a splendid road. That proclaimed more clearly than anything that those in power were self-centered and egotistical because only the road they could see mattered to them, and not the roads they could not see and would never travel.

  Quaeryt closed the book and sat down at the small table, trying to turn what he read into a semblance of a homily. Two glasses later, he was still struggling, but he finally had something workable, if not ideal, just before he had to join the other officers in the public room.

  That evening, after dinner, at slightly before half past sixth glass, Quaeryt approached the door in the South River Inn leading out onto the courtyard porch.

  Skarpa stood beside the door, with a slight smile on his face. “Both courtyards are filled. I hope your voice is in good fettle.”

  “So do I.” That meant image-projecting his voice, but that wasn’t tiring, and he would have a night’s sleep before they advanced on Villerive.

  He stepped out onto the porch, and the conversations died away. He let the silence draw out for a bit, then image-projected his voice. “We gather together in the spirit of the Nameless and to affirm the quest for goodness and mercy in all that we do.”

  Then came the opening hymn, again the only one he knew by heart—“Glory to the Nameless”—followed by the confession beginning with, “We name not You, for naming presumes, and we presume not upon the Creator of all that was, is, and will be…”

  As always the confessional words that followed were difficult for Quaeryt, but he did lead the response that followed, “In peace and harmony.”

  He waited for a long moment, and then spoke. “Good evening, and all evenings are good evenings under the Nameless, but we say that so often that, for many, it is like saying a day is a day, an evening an evening, and all roads lead somewhere. When I thought that, I wondered what Rholan had thought about roads, since he walked and rode many in his time. Then I recalled what he had said. He claimed that whether a road was good or not so good depended on how you looked at it. Were you considering where a road stopped as its end or its beginning? Now … if we’re walking a road, and it
stops, we think we’ve come to the end. But what of the man who steps out of the woods and sees where we thought the road ended? He sees it as a beginning. In that way, whether a road is an end or a beginning depends on where you’re going. That’s true of every man here.

  “Before long, we will be heading west, toward Villerive and then toward Nordeau and Variana. If we are to be successful, we must consider the road we travel, the road we must fight to travel, as a beginning, and not as an end. It must be the beginning of a better time for all of Lydar …

  “Why do I say this? Some of you may know that Rex Kharst sent out his own men to burn the crops of his own holders for fear that we might benefit from them. His own holders, and his men burned crops we could not have used. Some others of you may know that he has sent assassins with crossbows to kill our officers, but these assassins were not trained to kill Telaryn officers. They were trained to kill anyone in Bovaria—not in Telaryn, but Bovaria—from High Holders to important factors who uttered a word against the rex. Rex Kharst does not have a few assassins; he has companies of them.

  “We did not start to travel this road. In order to attack us, Rex Kharst sent his troopers down the very road we travel in the opposite direction. If we do not travel this road all the way to Variana, and beyond, then you, and your children, and your children’s children will live in fear that, at some time, another rex will burn your crops and worse. For as Rholan said many years ago, a road is measured by its quality and the goodness of not only those who create it, but those who must travel it … and we are traveling it to return goodness to Lydar…”