Quaeryt located the innkeeper with whom he and Zhelan had dealt earlier. The slightly stooped but clean-shaven Culum was arranging tables in the public room.
“This is your inn?” Remembering to speak Bovarian, Quaeryt noticed, for the first time, that the man’s right arm was shorter than his left and his left hand was twisted slightly.
“Ah … it is my grandsire’s, sir, if he remains alive.”
“So far, we haven’t killed anyone. We told you that before. If we’re not attacked, we won’t. They left you here to see if you could manage? Or because they felt we wouldn’t slaughter a man who was crippled?”
“Might be both, Commander.”
“Subcommander. The insignia are gold for commanders. How long has your family owned the inn?”
“Since my great-grandsire, sir. That was when Rex Hrensol built the grand road on the south side of the river from Variana, and the first bridge.”
“Why did he build the road? There’s only a good road from Nordeau west. Farther east, the south road is little more than a trail in places.”
“I’m certain I wouldn’t be knowing that, sir. It was well before my time.”
“That may be, but an innkeeper—or an innkeeper’s son or grandson hears stories…” Quaeryt image-projected friendliness and curiosity.
“It’s only a story … but … well … some say that it was after the good rex built his white palace on the hill south of the River Aluse, and he wanted travelers to approach it along the great avenue beside the river.” Culum shrugged. “Others say it was because Hrensol wanted traders to avoid Kurmitag. That was the town where High Holder Kurm had his timber and woolen mills. Can’t say as which story might be true. Might be neither is.”
“Where did the name of the inn come from?”
“That’d be a strange question, sir.”
“Not so strange. Some of the folks to the east don’t seem too fond of coneys.”
Culum laughed. “Old aunt’s tales. My great-grandsire’s wife’s father raised rabbits … big fat juicy ones. He said that you had to be an agile coney to get around the old man, but he did, and he wed my great-grandmom. My grandsire laughs when he talks about it.” He paused. “Your men’ll be careful of the kitchen?”
“As best we can.”
“You’ll keep ’em from breaking the chairs and benches?”
“We haven’t broken any in other inns.” After a moment Quaeryt asked, “You have problems with Rex Kharst’s troopers?”
“It’d not be my place to say, sir.”
Quaeryt understood. He smiled. “You’ll find that Lord Bhayar’s troopers are far more careful.” And they’d Namer-well better be. “That’s something Lord Bhayar expects.”
Culum opened his mouth, then shut it, before finally speaking. “Be most appreciated, Commander.”
Quaeryt didn’t correct him.
72
By the time all the officers and troopers had been fed and settled once more into quarters on Vendrei night, Quaeryt had taken one squad or another through Caluse at least three times, as well as once a good three milles west on the river road. He’d seen nothing, and neither had any of the sentries or the scouts, but he continued to worry about what the Bovarians had planned.
Skarpa had received no messages, orders, or dispatches back from Deucalon, although neither he nor Quaeryt had expected such a dispatch until Samedi. Quaeryt had to trust that Bhayar would accept his suggestions, but if Bhayar did, that might mean that Myskyl, and possibly Deucalon, would realize the extent of Quaeryt’s influence. In turn, that would doubtless result in another attempt by the submarshal and the marshal to place Quaeryt and Fifth Battalion in a position of maximum danger—and that would also place the imager undercaptains in great danger … when every imager lost would make Quaeryt’s goals harder to reach, especially against the opposition of Myskyl and Deucalon, not to mention those senior officers beholden to them.
Even after all his patrols, when he retired to his room in the Agile Coney, Quaeryt was restless and could not sleep.
Although he had written Vaelora a week before, and had not yet received another letter from her, after tomorrow or perhaps Solayi, he doubted he would have time to write … unless, for some reason, Kharst avoided battle, but how long that might be, especially if Bhayar followed Deucalon’s counsel, Quaeryt had no idea. With those thoughts in mind, he took out a sheet of paper and began to write, painstakingly, since he did not wish to redraft his thoughts.
My dearest,
We are now in the rather large town of Caluse, some twenty-odd milles east of Variana. It is a pleasant enough place, although it seems strange that the Bovarian forces have withdrawn without destroying the bridge over the River Aluse …
He went on to describe the town and what had happened since his previous letter, then turned to other thoughts.
I cannot but think often of you and of our child to come, and the world into which she will be born, especially since I realized, by way of comparison to a cool morning in Nordruil, the meaning of the separate bedchamber in the chateau of your great-grandmere. Much as I know, if we are successful, that life in Variana will be unsettled, and possibly dangerous, I would wish that you join me as soon as practical and possible, since, for many of the reasons we have discussed, I think it highly unlikely that, given my future duties and goals, I will be able to return to Solis in the foreseeable future …
How do you close a letter like this? Quaeryt shook his head.
As I can, I will dispatch this, with all my desires and affection, and my hopes for our future together …
After he finished, he snuffed out the lamp.
Almost a glass later, he was still lying there. Finally, he relit the lamp and opened Rholan and the Nameless and began to page through it before a section caught his eye.
Even before his disappearance and presumed death, Rholan had come to take on the appellation of “Rholan the Unnamer.” Certainly, he spoke against the sin of Naming, and he spoke well against it in its many manifestations, from boasting and bragging, to vanity—although his strongest words there were reserved for women, as I have noted earlier—and especially to the exultation of titles, and that did little to endear him to young Hengyst, especially when Rholan proclaimed that young rulers too often confuse titles with deeds and then are forced to shed the blood of others to justify the titles they inherited or assumed …
“The exultation of titles…” mused Quaeryt, closing the small volume and setting it on the small night table.
Assuming that Bhayar did defeat Kharst and managed to rule Bovaria, he couldn’t for very long style himself Lord of Telaryn and Rex Bhayar of Bovaria. That would just perpetuate the idea that they’re separate lands. Besides, sooner or later, Antiago would be a problem, if only because Bhayar held Autarch Aliaro responsible for the death of his sister … and Bhayar had been close to Chaerila. According to some rumors, Bhayar had opposed his father’s efforts to wed Chaerila to Aliaro. Because Bhayar had refused to talk about it, Quaeryt had never pressed Bhayar into talking about how the marriage had come about, but having seen Bhayar’s stony grief, Quaeryt could well believe the rumors.
For that reason alone, he doubted that if Bhayar had his way, Antiago would long remain independent—regardless of the cost. And that was yet another reason why Quaeryt needed to keep training and building a corps of imagers, because the Antiagons would certainly have Antiagon Fire to spare for any Telaryn invaders, and given their expertise with cannon onboard their merchanters and warships, cannon as well.
After sitting there for a long time, thinking, he finally snuffed out the lamp and lay down, hoping that he would at last be able to drift into some sort of sleep.
73
When Quaeryt woke abruptly in the grayness of dawn on Samedi morning, he was still trying to puzzle through the situation facing them. Was Kharst a ruler who simply could not believe that his land could be invaded and his capital threatened? Or was it all part of a strategy, as Qu
aeryt had believed all along, to suck all of Bhayar’s forces deep into Bovaria and then annihilate them?
All you can do is prepare for the worst … and don’t even hope for the best.
He washed, shaved, and dressed, then made his way down to eat, where he fended off questions from Zhelan and the company officers with the truth—that he hadn’t yet heard from the commander because, in all likelihood, the commander hadn’t heard from the marshal. As he finished eating, he overheard, more than once, words suggesting that there was all too much hurrying up to get places, only to sit and wait.
“You want to hurry on into something worst than Villerive or all those musket attacks?” asked Desyrk. “Go ahead. I’d rather wait.”
Overhearing those words, Quaeryt couldn’t help but smile.
A good glass after Quaeryt mustered men and officers, then sent out his own patrols through the town, he was standing on the porch of the Agile Coney, waiting, when Skarpa rode up, accompanied by a squad from Third Regiment. The commander reined up, vaulted off his mount, handed the reins to the nearest ranker, and jumped over the two steps to the porch. He walked over to Quaeryt and handed him a single sheet of paper.
In the same spirit, Quaeryt said nothing, but began to read, his eyes going quickly to the key phrases of the dispatch.
… You and your regiments, as well as Fifth Battalion, are to remain at Caluse until the bulk of Lord Bhayar’s forces have invested the town. At that point, once you receive orders, you are to begin the advance on Variana, using your regiments and the capabilities of Fifth Battalion, to remove all possible distractions and delays so that, after rest and resupply, the northern forces may proceed as then directed by Lord Bhayar …
Quaeryt managed to keep his face expressionless.
“Now you’ve read it. What do you think?”
Quaeryt knew very well what he thought. Bhayar had indicated he wanted to proceed behind Skarpa’s forces, but Deucalon didn’t want to. So he was reserving his options by not directly contradicting his lord, while he hoped to spend the next day changing Bhayar’s mind.
“Well?” pressed Skarpa.
“It reads as if the marshal is of two minds and has not decided whether to attack Variana with all forces united or to proceed separately. That is why he wishes to preserve control of the bridge.”
Skarpa snorted. “Something like that … except it smells worse than week-old fish in summer … or harvest here in Bovaria.”
“Land of endless summer,” added Quaeryt, keeping his voice light.
“Until we get cold rain and sleet out of nowhere when we least expect it.”
“Right about the time we face endless Bovarian hordes,” countered Quaeryt.
“Something like that.”
“Do you know where the marshal is?”
“Two glasses south of Caluse on the north bank.”
“You want Fifth Battalion ready to move out at noon?”
“That’s my thought, but don’t have anyone mount up until you get word.”
Because we both know Deucalon doesn’t always move his forces with any haste. Quaeryt only nodded. “Is there anything else?”
“I hope not.” Skarpa flashed a sardonic smile, then walked back off the porch.
Quaeryt watched until the commander had ridden down the street, then turned and headed to find Zhelan. He also needed to find a way to dispatch his letter to Vaelora.
The town bells had already struck the first glass of the afternoon before Fifth Battalion actually mounted up and rode out of Caluse, once more in the vanguard.
Less than three milles west of Caluse, the River Aluse began a wide and sweeping curve that, over three milles, resulted in its course running almost due north, a course that would remain generally northward until well beyond Variana. Although Skarpa rode beside Quaeryt, the commander remained tight-lipped, even more self-contained than usual, for close to two glasses. Quaeryt did not press him, knowing that he would offer what he would when he would, although Quaeryt suspected that what Skarpa might say would be less than pleasant.
While he waited for Skarpa to speak, Quaeryt studied the road, the river, and the surrounding terrain, as well as listened intently to the scouts as they reported periodically to Skarpa.
Just after the vanguard rode onto the first few hundred yards where the river and the road both headed north, Quaeryt caught sight of a deep wagon wheel rut on the shoulder of the road, as if the wagon had been pulled over to allow something or someone else to pass. Yet he saw no disturbance, tracks, or gouges in the paving stones … nor any sign the stones had been removed or replaced. Yet the shoulder was of firm ground. There had been little rain, and the depth of the rut and the width of the wheel indicated a heavy load indeed.
Quaeryt couldn’t help but think that the wagon carried something like explosives, cannon shells, or worse … but that was only speculation.
The road itself had come more to resemble the Naedaran road since Caluse, in that it followed higher ground, and there were also few trees between the road and the river, and a cleared space of at least fifty yards to the west of the road before either fields or woods began, mostly fields, with low stone walls marking the edge of the lands. The cots, as usual, were tightly shuttered, and no traces of smoke rose from their chimneys. And there was no sign of any high holdings.
Several hundred yards farther along, Quaeryt saw another deep rut at the edge of the road, but where the wagon had moved back onto the paved area, the wheel had fractured the edge of one of the paving stones.
Definitely heavy.
“You were right, you know,” Skarpa finally said.
“About what?” replied Quaeryt cautiously.
“Deucalon summoned me personally. That was one reason we were later than I told you we would be. It did allow me to hand your letter to a courier. That was the easy part.” Skarpa readjusted his visor cap, still not quite looking at Quaeryt. “Deucalon was less than direct … in that way that he could deny what he conveyed. There was also no one else present.”
Quaeryt nodded.
“He said that we had an important task. That was to remove all Bovarian devices, tactics, and unusual forces that might have a disproportionate impact on the main body. I was to spare none of my forces in such efforts. In fact, if any such Bovarian units remained, especially if my forces appeared to have resorted to positional tactics to temporarily isolate, rather than remove, such Bovarian units, he would regard that as a lack of enthusiasm in carrying out my orders.”
“In other words, you’re to keep Fifth Battalion in the van and order us to destroy anything and everything that may pose a threat, regardless of whether better tactics or even accepting prisoners would accomplish the result of defeating those Bovarian units?”
“That was his point, without ever stating it.” Skarpa snorted. “He did ask if I understood what he expected. Twice. And he was careful not to ask or allow me to comment on what I thought of those orders.”
Some commanders never do. Even as he thought that, Quaeryt recognized that he’d been one of them more than once. “What do you suggest?”
“Whatever tactics will get the task accomplished without you and your battalion taking major casualties while never seeming to be out of the fight.”
“Yes, sir.” Quaeryt understood exactly what Skarpa was saying. Accomplishing that was likely to be far more difficult than it sounded, and it didn’t sound easy to begin with.
For another mille, neither officer said anything.
“Trouble ahead,” said Skarpa, turning in the saddle and ordering, “Column! Halt!”
Quaeryt had already reached the same conclusion, as soon as he’d seen the scout riding swiftly toward them and leading a riderless mount.
“Sirs!” called the scout, who reined up before Skarpa. “They’ve got musketeers ahead. Over that rise.”
“How far beyond the rise?” demanded Skarpa.
“Four hundred yards or so, sir.”
“How did the oth
er scout get shot, then?”
“There were two of them and a squad hidden by bushes … much closer. Soon as we saw them, we turned. They got Vaern before we could get away.”
Quaeryt estimated the distance to the top of the rise as perhaps three hundred yards. “I’d like to take a look.”
“I don’t need a subcommander being shot,” said Skarpa.
“They won’t see me. There’s something not right about this.”
“That’s new?” rejoined Skarpa dryly.
“I want to see if the ground will allow us to spread out, or if we need to just move around the Bovarians and attack from the south or even the north.”
“It won’t. They wouldn’t have taken a position if we could.”
Quaeryt was afraid Skarpa was right, but he still wanted to see.
“Go ahead. Be careful.”
Quaeryt eased the mare forward, slowly, taking his time, and raising a concealment shield before him, as well as his personal full shields. When he neared the top of the rise in the road, as he passed a narrow lane that ran westward, he guided his mount onto the left shoulder of the river road, just in case someone might see dust or something and target the middle of the main road.
He was a good twenty yards from the crest when he could see the Bovarian position, and he reined up immediately. The musketeers were lined up across the road and a good fifty yards on either side, if not more, protected by a chest-high earthen berm. As the scout had reported, they looked to be a fifth of a mille to the north. There looked to be another battalion of foot dug in behind the musketeers, keeping low in shallow trenches behind the earth excavated from the trenches, and several other berms farther back, although he couldn’t see what kind of troops they sheltered. There were even berms between the lines of trenches, at the west end, as if the Bovarians expected a flanking maneuver of some sort.
Imager’s Battalion Page 52
