Scholar

by L. E. Modesitt

  “Thank you, sir.” Quaeryt inclined his head in respect, then turned and left the study.

  The undercaptain was on his feet well before the scholar closed the door to the governor’s study. “This way, sir.”

  As he followed Undercaptain Caermyt down the main staircase, Quaeryt thought about the governor’s not-so-veiled order that he needed to accompany Telaryn soldiers into situations that might be dangerous. He couldn’t help but wonder why imagers couldn’t do more … or what they—or he—could do if he were caught in a battle situation. He decided that the lesser danger might be to do a little more in trying to expand his imaging abilities.

  At the bottom of the staircase, the undercaptain turned back east along the main-floor center hallway, but only for about ten yards before he produced a key and unlocked the door. Then he handed the key to Quaeryt. “If you would lock the door and return the key to me whenever you’re not here, sir, the governor would appreciate it.”

  “I’ll certainly do so, and thank you.”

  “My pleasure, sir.” Caermyt turned and walked quickly back toward the main staircase.

  Quaeryt stepped into the room, lit, as was the library, by thin high windows on the outer wall, and closed the door behind him. There were rows and rows of neatly stacked boxes, and a single wide table desk next to the inside wall almost beside the door. A bracket held a pair of lamps, positioned over the desk. Neither was lit, but a striker was set in a holder on the otherwise bare wooden surface.

  Almost ten years of dispatches—and where was he supposed to begin?

  Quaeryt shook his head and moved toward the last box, the one with the top beside it, rather than covering it. That was as good a place to start as any.

  40

  Quaeryt spent the rest of Mardi in the dispatch room, with various breaks, until time for the evening meal. While he talked occasionally, he mostly listened through the meal and for a time thereafter, before taking a walk through the gardens and retiring to his quarters.

  After a good night’s sleep and an early breakfast, he appeared in the study assigned to him on Meredi morning, then retrieved the key from Undercaptain Caermyt and made his way back down to peruse more dispatches. The previous day, he had read the dispatches for most of the past year. While some of the details certainly supported what the governor and the various officers had revealed, he had learned little that was new, only gained more information that shed little light on why matters were as they appeared to be.

  After what he had already read, he turned his attention to those from the first months after Lord Chayar had taken the palace—and found there were none. The first dispatches in the files began some four months after the fall of Tilbor, and they were from Governor Fhayt to Lord Chayar. The tone of Fhayt’s dispatches was markedly different from that of the later ones sent by Rescalyn. That Quaeryt could see almost from the first. He paused, then read several lines from one sent by Fhayt.

  … the northern High Holders complain ceaselessly. They want the port of Noira rebuilt in stone. They want a coastal road from Midcote to Noira … The High Holders of the south are more polite. They ask me to consider how a new paved stone road from the river piers will lead to greater tariff collections. They want more. They say it better …

  Quaeryt walked over to one of the first boxes he’d gone through and pulled out a dispatch from Rescalyn, almost at random, reading it in turn.

  … tariff collection patrol south of the Boran Hills was attacked, but only one man was wounded. Three brigands were killed, and one captured, but he offered no useful information … now have three farriers trained, which will reduce costs of re-shoeing the cavalry mounts …

  He nodded and replaced Rescalyn’s dispatch, then went back to reading the ones from Fhayt.

  After reading through several months of dispatches, Quaeryt realized something—Fhayt had never mentioned timber holders or backwoods barons or the like. At times, he referred to attacks or incidents near or in the hills, but he never made any attributions as to who or what might be behind them.

  By ninth glass, Quaeryt needed a break. He rose, snuffed the twin lamps, and then left the dispatch chamber, locking it behind him. He walked down the long main-level corridor until he reached the library, where he opened the door and stepped inside.

  “You’re back again, sir.”

  “There’s a lot to learn.” Quaeryt smiled. “You’re here most of the time, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir. Well … me and Khernan, but I’m here in the day, and he’s here in the early evening.”

  “I just wondered if you could help me out. I met with the governor yesterday, and he was commending the library to me, and he mentioned a history volume that he had found especially enlightening…” Quaeryt offered a helpless shrug. “I was trying to remember so much.… Is there any way…?”

  “I couldn’t say which book it was, sir.”

  “Oh … I was hoping … I hate to have to admit to him that I didn’t remember…”

  “But … sir … he did insist that I write down any volume he took out of the library. He always returned the books, every one, but I do have a list here … that’s of the ones he’s taken in the last month or so. If you look at it … maybe that will jog your memory…”

  “That would be so helpful. Thank you.”

  Quaeryt studied the list of six books. One was listed twice. Then he coughed several times, bending over with the list in hand. When he was bent almost double, he concentrated on looking hard at the list and imaging it. Just before he straightened he slipped the second list inside his jacket.

  “I’m sorry. I must have caught something in my throat. Thank you. I think it must have been the one called Historical Elements of Strategy. I’ll see if it’s here. Thank you again.”

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  “So am I. I would have hated to have had to bother the governor.”

  “I understand that, sir.” The squad leader smiled.

  It only took Quaeryt a fraction of a glass to locate Historical Elements of Strategy and to repair to one of the comfortable leather chairs. He did not so much skim or read the thin book, but study it, trying to deduce what sections appeared to be more heavily perused.

  In the end, he thought three places had been read more often, a guess, based on a short blond hair, a tiny scrap of paper, and what appeared to have been turned-down page corners.

  Only a guess, he reminded himself.

  … no commander should ever forget that his men are his only resource and that his officers must be an extension of his will and must always set an example and demonstrate through acts that they care for their men. Yet that care must be seen as equal, fair, and above all impartial, and it should also demand that every man do his best in support of his comrades and of the objective to be attained … Nor should officers ever arrogate themselves above their men by their mere position. They must be superior in act, ability, and demeanor to those they command …

  The second passage reflected on power more indirectly.

  … the key to ruling is to assure support from those with power, whether that power be control of food supplies, access to rivers, or the ability to turn trade and commerce to one’s own ends …

  One phrase on the third turned-down page struck Quaeryt particularly.

  The best strategy is one carried out in such openness that no enemy, or ally, understands that it is a strategy until the trap is sprung.

  Such openness that no one understands?

  Quaeryt nodded. Those passages made sense, and they were practical, commonsense approaches that fit in with what little he’d seen of the governor.

  He closed the book, replaced it on the shelf, and returned to the dispatch room.

  By close to noon, Quaeryt had struggled through two years of dispatches, most of them dealing with the quiet stubbornness and intransigence of the locals, including the High Holders. Only a few dispatches mentioned attacks on soldiers, and while most took place in or near the
hills or timberlands, there were still reports of attacks elsewhere. Then he read a very different dispatch.

  … grieves me to report the wounding of Governor Fhayt in an unprovoked attack on his way to meet with High Holder Fhaedyrk … brigands were repulsed by the squad accompanying the governor, although that squad was outnumbered three to one … governor took three crossbow bolts … more than twenty brigands killed …

  … immediately dispatched the Sixth Cavalry Battalion … followed the surviving brigands for twenty milles … captured another fifteen … revealed that the group had been recruited by a former officer of the Khanar’s Guard … only known as “the captain” … possible ties to timber holders north of the Boran Hills …

  … as princeps, acting as governor and awaiting your decision, on who should best represent you in Tilbor …

  The dispatch was signed by Straesyr.

  For the next two weeks, so was every other dispatch. Then for another two weeks, the dispatches were again signed by Fhayt—including his last, that announced Rescalyn had arrived as his replacement as regional governor. But all the dispatches signed by either Fhayt or Straesyr seemed to report roughly the same things. While Quaeryt couldn’t be absolutely sure, not without counting, and that would have been even more tedious and time-consuming, it appeared to him that the number of attacks on Telaryn troopers were either holding steady or increasing very slightly over the next few years.

  At some time close to third glass, there was a knock on the door to the dispatch room. Almost with relief, Quaeryt stood, turned, and opened the door.

  Undercaptain Caermyt stood there. “Sir, the governor would like to know if you would like to accompany a patrol tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Then you should be ready to mount up at half past seventh glass. The patrol will be led by Undercaptain Jusaph. He will be expecting you.”

  “Thank you, and convey my thanks to the governor.”

  “Yes, sir.” Caermyt turned and headed back toward the main staircase.

  Quaeryt slowly closed the door and sat back down at the table desk. He hadn’t asked where the patrol was going, or what it was doing. He’d assumed it was just a daily patrol … but was it?

  He looked down at the dispatch he’d been reading and then away, looking blankly at the paneled wall at the end of the chamber.

  What exactly do patrols do?

  For better or worse, he was about to find out.

  He looked back down at the dispatch, finished reading it, and went to the next one.

  41

  Quaeryt was still thinking over all the dispatches he’d read in two days—close to two-thirds of them, he estimated—when he entered the officers’ mess for supper. This time he was earlier and took a place at the far table … and found that Phargos and then Skarpa joined him. With the major was a captain who looked to be about Quaeryt’s age.

  “Taenyd, this is Scholar Quaeryt. He’s attached to the princeps’s staff.”

  Taenyd nodded politely. “I heard we had a scholar now. Are you doing a history of the regiment or something?”

  “More like a comparative history of Tilbor,” replied Quaeryt with a smile, pouring some of the lager. “I’m trying to write an explanation of why some Tilborans are so stiff-necked, especially those in the hills and the forests.”

  “Most of— If you lived there, you’d be stiff-necked, too. The trees are so tall and thick that it’s always gloomy, even in midsummer. In winter, the snow’s always drifting down, even when it hasn’t snowed for days. It’s too cold to bathe, and most of the hill scum stink more than rank sows.…”

  “Enough … enough,” protested Skarpa with a laugh. “You tell him too much, and he won’t have the scholarly joy of discovering it all on his own.”

  “Scholarly joy? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?” countered the captain, immediately flushing and turning to Quaeryt. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “For some scholars, you’re probably right,” admitted Quaeryt cheerfully. “And I’m sure not all Tilborans are stiff-necked. Some seemed very friendly when I rode through Tilbora.” He didn’t want to say more than that. He took a swallow of the lager—far better than that which he had had at the Ecoliae or the Jardyna.

  “Most people in Tilbora are. They’re practical,” said the captain. “That’s why they get along with the governor.”

  “He seems very practical.”

  “That could be his patronymic,” interjected Phargos.

  Conversation slowed as the platters appeared, this time a form of ribs stewed in a red sauce, accompanied by seasoned rice with raisins. Quaeryt had to admit that the food in the mess was excellent. After a time, he looked to Skarpa and asked in a low voice, “Is the fare the men get…?”

  “Pretty much the same. The setting’s not nearly so nice. That’s the difference.”

  Quaeryt nodded and took a swallow of the lager. The ribs were pepper-spiced and every bit as hot as anything he’d had in Solis.

  “I saw you at the service on Solayi, scholar,” offered Phargos.

  “I enjoyed your homily.”

  The chorister laughed. “That’s what those who aren’t sure they believe in the Nameless always say.”

  “I don’t believe, and I don’t not believe. I just don’t know if there is a Nameless.” Quaeryt grinned and added, “And if I said I did, wouldn’t that be a form of Naming?”

  “You scholars…” Phargos’s voice held humor and exasperation.

  “I told you he’d liven things up,” added Skarpa.

  Quaeryt took more of the ribs, hot as they were, and even more rice. It had been a long day … listening as Taenyd talked with the young undercaptain who had seated himself beside him …

  “… once you get beyond the lower hills … never know when someone’s going to let fly with an arrow or a crossbow bolt … was that way even for the Khanar’s Guard…”

  “… don’t like anybody very much…”

  “… think the hills are theirs…”

  “Would muskets help at all?” asked Quaeryt, turning to Skarpa.

  “Not likely. We’ve got one company of musketeers. They’re not much use except in a set battle. I’d send them to defend Ferravyl in case Kharst attacked there. They’re heavy and hard to move. No good in the rain, or in the snow … never replace pike and blades, not really. Rather have a halberd company than a musket company, and you know what most officers think of halberds.”

  Quaeryt didn’t, but he let it pass, instead pointing out, “Bows aren’t much good in the rain, either.”

  “No … but they’re light enough that the archers can get out of the way of a foot or mounted charge. Not that we have any archers right now. Well … one company, and that’s almost none.”

  The conversation for the remainder of the meal dealt more with the weather and when the late-harvest rains would come and turn the back roads into quagmires.

  Later, when Quaeryt left the mess, he made his way to the gardens to think. A light breeze rustled through the trees and plants, just enough to be pleasant—but he was anything but soothed. As he sat on a bench beside what looked to be a dwarf apple tree—and all the apples in easy reach had been picked, or perhaps harvested and stored for the winter—he couldn’t help thinking about the patrol on Meredi … and the matter-of-fact comments by Taenyd. Both reminded him that he’d considered a few times that he needed to expand his imaging abilities.

  But how could he forget how he puked his guts out, or the endless days of fever, and the weeks regaining his strength after attempting to image a single gold? How could he not forget that?

  Yet … if he kept riding on patrols, he’d need more imaging skills … and the strength to handle them.

  Quaeryt took a deep breath. What exactly could he try to do? He did know that imaging things that were common, like wood or clay or bread, usually didn’t have a bad effect on him.

  Could he image something like a shield? He frowned. Imaging things out
of iron wasn’t easy, and iron was heavy. Besides, how could he hold it in place? Something that heavy would just fall to the ground. And trying to image an iron shield—or anything like it—would be useless against arrows or crossbow bolts because he’d have to react, and reacting after he got hit with an arrow wouldn’t be terribly useful … if he even happened to be in any condition to image anything.

  There was water all around, and ice could stop an arrow … but ice thick enough to stop an arrow or crossbow bolt would be heavy. Not as heavy as iron, but too heavy to be practical.

  He rubbed his forehead. There had to be a way.

  Finally, when he could think of no more possibilities, he stood and started back to his quarters. He was tired. He hadn’t realized just how tiring reading dispatch after dispatch was. Maybe he could think better in the morning.

  He just hoped the patrol wasn’t headed where he’d come under attack.

  42

  Quaeryt made sure he was in the stables early on Jeudi morning, because he was concerned about how long it would take him to saddle the mare. As he checked her before beginning, he could see that she’d been groomed recently … although he was supposed to, he recalled belatedly. While he doubted he was anywhere as proficient as the cavalry rankers and officers, he was out in the courtyard in front of the stables and mounted before half past seven. Under a hazy sky that promised another warm day, he glanced around at the column forming up. Two squads, he judged—and that meant that the patrol wasn’t going anywhere near the hills.

  He was still looking around when an undercaptain close to his own age rode over and reined up. “Scholar Quaeryt?”

  “I am. You’re Undercaptain Jusaph?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand you’ll be riding with us this morning.”