Imager’s Battalion

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  The innkeeper frowned slightly. “As I can.”

  Quaeryt glimpsed a narrow-faced woman with strawberry-blond hair pulled into a bun watching before she slipped into the kitchen. “Why are there so many empty buildings here?”

  “This is the old trading quarter, sir. The larger traders have their warehouses on the north side. Once there was more trade on both sides, but that was afore Lord Bhayar started tariffing the river traders going beyond Ferravyl. Leastwise, that’s what my father says.”

  “Is he an innkeeper, too?”

  “That’d be the family trade. He runs the Black Goose north of the river.”

  “It’s the more prosperous inn?”

  “More so than here, but … we do well enough.”

  “This part of Nordeau seems very old, yet the stones seem new…”

  “Always been like that, sir.”

  “Who built it?”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, sir. Some say the old ones did, years and years back.”

  “The old ones?”

  “The ones who came before … from Chelaes or thereabouts. I wouldn’t know. My great-great-grandsire came here came from Tuuryl. This was his first inn. Grandsire built the Black Goose before I was born.”

  While the man was polite, Quaeryt realized that he avoided looking quite directly at him. “Did the troopers from the barracks frequent your public room?”

  The innkeeper chuckled. “Hadn’t a been for them, might have closed down years ago.” He paused. “You did say we could charge your men for the second ale or lager, didn’t you? And all after that?”

  “I did indeed. Or for any ale or lager they want when you’re not serving them breakfast or dinner. No more than two coppers for the ordinary. Three for the special.”

  “Fair enough, sir.”

  Quaeryt suspected that what the man meant was that it was fair enough under the circumstances. “Have there been any more or any fewer troopers here in the last weeks?”

  “I couldn’t say, one way or another, sir. Looked to be the same to me.”

  “Did anyone tell you that we were marching on the city?”

  “No one said anything … except … well, a few days ago, one of the traders I knew took everything he could and headed north … told me Rex Kharst’s forces were losing and pulling back … said we’d be wise to do as he was.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “The inns are all we have. Besides, my sire … he said that you’d let the inns be, leastwise those in Villerive.”

  Quaeryt asked more questions, but it was clear that the innkeeper knew little beyond what he had already said. Finally, Quaeryt smiled and said, “Thank you. I appreciate your time.”

  The innkeeper nodded. “Pleased to have been of help, sir. If you would excuse me…”

  “Of course.”

  Quaeryt waited until the innkeeper turned. After glancing around for a moment and seeing no one near, he raised a concealment shield and slipped after the man. Quaeryt stopped just outside the archway to the kitchen, because the innkeeper was on the other side talking to the woman Quaeryt had observed earlier.

  “… did he want, Shajan?”

  “… asked questions about the old quarter here and the Bovarian troops … lots of them…”

  “… why would he? He looks like one of them…”

  “… can’t be. He’s a Telaryn officer … maybe more than that … what I’ve overheard…”

  “Still looks like an old one … yellow-white hair … those eyes…”

  Old one … is that the same as a lost one?

  “… how would you know?… no paintings of them…”

  “… I’ve heard tell…”

  “… don’t upset him … the way things are … we’ll survive…”

  “… won’t … but you deal with him…”

  Quaeryt shook his head and moved away, still holding the concealment. He needed to check with Zhelan about the billeting and feeding for Fifth Battalion.

  A glass or so later, after he’d finished with the major, as Quaeryt was waiting to enter the public room of the inn, a squad leader hurried up to him. “Subcommander … Commander Skarpa has called a meeting of all the subcommanders at sixth glass at the Traders’ Bowl.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be there.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Once the squad leader had left the small front hall of the inn, Quaeryt permitted himself a sardonic smile, wondering what Deucalon’s reaction to Skarpa’s dispatch had been.

  After he finished eating with the company officers and the undercaptains—a subdued affair, possibly because the imagers had little to say, and because Quaeryt could only tell the company officers that he’d heard nothing yet—he headed out for the Traders’ Bowl, the larger inn where Skarpa had made his headquarters.

  As Quaeryt walked along the stone-paved way, carrying shields, despite a certain strain, he made a point of taking in every building and discovered that every one was built of gray stone, giving the quarter a cold and forboding appearance despite the warm damp air of harvest.

  The Traders’ Bowl looked as though it might have once housed a wealthy family because the stone window frames were far larger than most of those he’d seen in Nordeau so far. When Quaeryt stepped inside, he saw a Telaryn ranker standing in the entry hall, a large foyer with niches in the walls, possibly designed for statues or the like, but devoid of ornamentation, possibly most recently removed, thought Quaeryt.

  “Sir, the others are here, the first door back on the left,” said the ranker.

  “Thank you.” Quaeryt walked swiftly to the door, opened it, stepped inside, and closed it behind himself.

  Skarpa, Meinyt, and Khaern sat around a table in a small chamber across a wide hallway from the public room, but one that did not strike Quaeryt as originally intended as a plaques room, not given the arched ceiling with carved moldings that had later been whitewashed, although the circular table and the worn round-backed chairs proclaimed that plaques gaming had been its latest use. Skarpa motioned to the chair across from him.

  Quaeryt took it and waited.

  “Earlier this afternoon, I got a dispatch from the marshal. He had no problems with our not being able to cross the river today. In fact, he does not wish us to attack the isle fort and cross into the northern part of Nordeau until early on Lundi.”

  “You mean he’s still a day away?” asked Meinyt sardonically.

  “He did not convey when he and his forces would arrive.”

  “Mardi, most likely.”

  Skarpa looked sharply at Meinyt.

  “He’s right, you know?” Khaern said.

  “That may be,” replied Skarpa, “but he is the marshal, and it’s best to stick to the facts in officers’ meetings.” He went on. “Otherwise, we might be too free with our opinions in meetings with other commanders, and I do believe that you three are the most junior subcommanders, and I know I’m the most junior commander.” He softened his words with a faint smile.

  Quaeryt had his doubts about whether he’d ever be included in such a meeting, at least voluntarily, by Deucalon.

  “The isle fort isn’t that big,” Skarpa went on, looking at Quaeryt. “Once your imagers put a span over to it, I’d wager the Bovarians abandon it.”

  “They might slip out of it tonight,” suggested Meinyt.

  “That’s possible. If they don’t know it yet, they’ll find out soon that we’ve got imagers that can create a span,” added Skarpa.

  “Why didn’t they know before?” asked Khaern.

  “They likely knew we had some imagers, but the only time they built a bridge was at Ferravyl,” replied Skarpa, “and none of the Bovarian troopers or officers who saw it survived.”

  “Still…” pressed Khaern.

  “If you hadn’t seen it,” asked Meinyt, “would you have believed it?”

  Khaern laughed softly. “Probably not.”

  “Getting across a narrow span to
the far side … that could be a problem,” said Skarpa.

  “We might be able to image a wider span, maybe even two,” suggested Quaeryt. “The undercaptains will get another day to rest up. That will help.” He didn’t mention that there would likely be more than a few Bovarian casualties if the Bovarians massed troopers on and around the northern bridge approach.

  “Good. If they have more pikemen in those narrow streets, that could be a problem…”

  Quaeryt listened and gave the best answers and suggestions he could. By the time the meeting was over, less than two quints later, his head was aching even more and his eyes burning, and he was ready to walk back to the Stone’s Rest and get some sleep.

  59

  The chamber Quaeryt had taken in the Stone’s Rest was at the top of the building, in fact the only room on the third floor, perhaps four yards by five with not only a wide bed, and a night table, but a writing desk with a matching chair, and a doorless armoire for hanging garments. Quaeryt picked up his kit from the floor and set it on the chair, while he took out the pouch with soap and personals, noting that the writing desk, once a decent piece of oak furniture, was battered and the surface of the wood worn and scratched, as was that of the desk chair.

  There was an adjoining washroom, with a chamber pot, but not a jakes, reminding Quaeryt, again, of the age of the building. The outer walls were stone, of course, as were the floors, and the wall plaster held an uneven off-white shade that was not the result of design, but age and less than enthusiastic cleaning.

  After he hung up his spare uniform to at least air out, and taken off his shirt and hung that up as well, then washed up, he walked back into the main chamber and looked at the desk. He thought about writing Vaelora, but decided against it, since he really only wanted to write about taking Nordeau once. He wasn’t sleepy, tired as he felt, and the walk back from the Traders’ Bowl had cleared his headache and eyes somewhat.

  He pulled the small leather volume from his kit, although he hoped, given the tight quarters in Nordeau and the lack of open space, that Skarpa would not insist on services on Solayi evening. Still … just in case …

  In the dim light from the single lamp, he began to page through the book, hoping for something that would provide inspiration. One passage that he’d noted before struck him in a different light in view of what he’d surmised about the Naedarans.

  Before Rholan, the Nameless was more a deity of battles and of rough justice, justice administered at the edge of a blade or under an ax.

  Was that really so, or did Rholan … or the writer … just assume that?

  Again, Quaeryt had no way of knowing.

  Another passage caused Quaeryt to smile, as it had every time he’d seen the words.

  Contrary to the legends that are already springing up about Rholan, he was never a proper chorister, or even an improper one. More than one chorister, especially the noted Basilyn of Cheva, berated his congregants for following a man who was “neither a proper scholar, nor a chorister, nor much of anything but a believer in his own rectitude.” To his credit, Rholan never claimed to be a chorister, but only that he attempted to follow the way of the Nameless as best he could. On more than one occasion, he was denied entry to an anomen to speak, the most well-known instance, of course, being when Chorister Tharyn Arysyn barred him from the north anomen in Montagne, not far from Rholan’s own home. Tharyn declared that all were welcome to worship in the anomen, but only those who had studied the Nameless could speak.

  It is said that Rholan smiled and declared, “How can any man, even a chorister, study the mightiness of the Nameless when none can describe the Nameless? I only claim to study the precepts of the Nameless, for those are what must guide men.” Those were not quite his words. What he said was, “Tharyn, you cannot even describe the Nameless. Nor can you explain His way. Yet you would bar one who can for fear that you will be found out as the fraud you are.” Shortly after Rholan’s disappearance and presumed death, Tharyn also vanished and was never seen again. Many of the faithful swore that they would never name a son Tharyn and that the Nameless would turn any with that appellation to the Namer. While there are reports of such, I cannot speak to them, for any malefactor named Tharyn would call up that story in the minds of followers, and none would note those who bore the name who were not evil.

  In the end, Quaeryt put down the volume because his eyes were twitching and because nothing he had read gave ready inspiration for a homily, especially when he did not even know whether he would be conducting services. After blowing out the lamp, he walked to the window and opened the shutters wide, hoping for a cool evening breeze, then returned to the bed. For a time he just lay there, but his thoughts turned images of the Bovarians, frozen behind and around the gates he had taken down with his imaging.

  Troopers and armsmen die in war. After a moment came the second thought. But you’ve killed more than your share … except … is there such a thing as a fair share? Does it matter whether you’ve killed one man or a thousand? Or is that just a rationalization? But then, in a battle, if you don’t fight to win …

  Lying there in the darkness on the bed, he couldn’t help but think about Vaelora’s point that, so often, thousands would die, and his actions only determined which thousands.

  He wasn’t sure how much that thought helped as he tried to ignore the soreness in his chest, arms, and thighs, and then … he didn’t even notice his eyes closing.

  Somewhere in the night, the warm breeze turned cool, and Quaeryt fumbled for a blanket, but he couldn’t find it in the darkness. Then the sky rumbled, and the air got colder still. He sat up in the bed and swung his feet onto the stone floor, but the floor was so cold that his feet froze to the stone. Across the room from him was a shadowy figure. Then he realized that the figure was not shadowed, but coated in ice, and a bitter chill extended from that icy shape.

  Warmth! He needed warmth, but his teeth were chattering so much that he could not even reach for a striker to light a lamp or a candle. In desperation, he tried to image a hearth and a fire, and flames roared up before him, so fierce and so quickly that he could soon free his feet.

  But with those flames came smoke, acrid bitter smoke, and he began to cough, retchingly, time and time again.

  Then … Quaeryt found himself back lying in his bed, with black and gray smoke all around him.

  Idiot! You imaged in your sleep …

  Through the smoke he could see that the desk and chair were in flames. Still coughing, his eyes burning from the smoke, he struggled to image a film of water over them both. The flames began to vanish, but there was even more smoke. He imaged a bit more water, then staggered, barely able to see, to the window.

  From there, he stood and imaged in fresh air from somewhere until he could stop coughing.

  Then there was a pounding on the door.

  “Subcommander! Sir! Are you all right!”

  Quaeryt recognized Zhelan’s voice and slowly walked to the door, removing the bar. “I’m fine now.” Should you open the door? If you don’t, he and everyone else will think the worst. With a sigh that turned into a cough, he slowly opened the door. “You might as well come in, Major.”

  Zhelan stepped inside, his eyes widening. “I smelled smoke. It came drifting down the steps. What … happened?”

  Quaeryt closed the door. “One of the dangers of imaging. Every so often, just like everyone else, imagers have nightmares. I had one where I was freezing. In my nightmare, I tried to start a fire … I got more than I wanted.” Quaeryt started to laugh, then began to cough from the little bit of smoke still in his chest.

  “Sir … can I do anything?” Zhelan glanced at the soot on the walls and the charred table. Then his eyes went to the bruises on Quaeryt’s thighs and arms, widening slightly.

  “No. I can probably remove most of the damage. Just tell anyone who asks that smoke drifted in through my open window.”

  “Yes, sir.” Zhelan looked dubious.

  “I can. If n
ot tonight, tomorrow. I’d appreciate your not mentioning this to any of the company commanders or the imagers. The majors are uneasy enough, and this sort of thing won’t hurt anyone but me. As for the undercaptains, they’re not experienced enough to worry about it.” Yet.

  “I can do that, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  After Zhelan left, and Quaeryt closed the door, he thought about his last words. How soon before that sort of thing happened to some of them? And how could he prevent it or deal with it? Clearly, when imaging nightmares happened, it wasn’t exactly safe for anyone sleeping nearby …

  At that moment he recalled the small stone-walled sleeping chamber in the dwelling in Gahenyara, the one occupied by Vaelora’s great-great-grandmere. She wasn’t only Pharsi; she was an imager! That’s why she slept alone … because of imaging nightmares.

  That raised other questions … such as how much Bhayar knew about his family’s past. Was that why he wasn’t unsettled about Quaeryt and Vaelora marrying? Or did he have plans for Quaeryt, just as Quaeryt had plans for him?

  How could he not? But were they instinctive, as Vaelora believed, or were they more focused? Quaeryt suspected the instinctive and opportunistic, but he’d have to be very careful in laying the groundwork for his own plans.

  He still had a slight headache, but he needed to do something about the sooty mess his nightmares had created … and working on that might well tire him enough so that he didn’t have any more unsettling dreams … or feelings of guilt and concern about what he had done. And what you might yet have to do?

  He looked at the charred desk and chair … and then at the soot streaks and smudges on the white plaster walls and ceiling … and the puddles of water on the floor.

  60

  Solayi was the first of Erntyn, the second and supposedly cooler month of harvest. It didn’t feel any cooler when Quaeryt woke. He had only a trace of a headache, but he felt tired and drained. When he looked around the room, he didn’t see any obvious sign of damage. Unfortunately, there were problems. The chair that he’d repaired with imaging had a smooth, if aged, golden oak finish. The same was true of the writing desk. He hadn’t been about to try to duplicate the battered and scratched finishes. Likewise, the plaster walls and ceiling were a clean off-white, rather than showing the uneven patina of age and dirt, but the innkeeper might not notice that.