Scholar

by L. E. Modesitt

  “They were after I got hit. After that, they’ve been all right.”

  “Good. One of my assistants will be bringing you some ale. You’re to sit here quietly and drink it slowly. That will help combat the blood loss. From what’s on your garments, you lost more than I’d like to see. Don’t drink any water for the next few days—just ale or lager. And don’t eat very much tonight. Nothing, if you can manage it. Oh … you can get lager or ale between meals at the mess.” With that, the surgeon was gone.

  More than a glass later, and after drinking a large mug of bitter ale, with his arm in the sling, Quaeryt walked slowly back toward the main building and the officers’ mess. Because he was a little light-headed, he took care with every step. It wouldn’t be all that long before the evening meal, and his quarters at Boralieu were almost as small as the room at the Tankard had been.

  When he entered the mess, he didn’t even have to ask where to find ale or lager. A ranker came up and took in the sling and the caked blood. “Ah … lager or ale, sir?”

  “Lager, please.” Quaeryt took a seat close to the end of the single long table, but it was too high to rest the arm in the sling on. So he pushed back the chair slightly and waited for the lager, which arrived quickly.

  He really didn’t feel that thirsty, and just sipped it as he could and thought, trying to ignore the combination of sharp stabbing pain and dull throbbing aches in his chest and shoulder. The fact that the surgeon had seen more than a few crossbow-quarrel wounds and that the mess attendant hadn’t even asked what he wanted tended to confirm Rescalyn’s assessment of the dangers of the hill brigands.

  After a time, close to two quints before the bells rang out fifth glass, Skarpa entered the mess, his head moving from side to side until he saw Quaeryt. He immediately hurried over, a puzzled expression on his face. “I’d heard you took a quarrel. I expected you to be laid out in the infirmary. Did I hear wrong?”

  “No. I managed to get it out without ripping myself up more. It must have been slowed by leaves or something. It didn’t break the bone or cut too deep.”

  “From all that blood, it wasn’t just a scratch, either,” Skarpa said.

  “No. I’ll grant that. The surgeon had to stitch me up. He’s still worried about the blood loss and the wound turning bad, but he’s done what he can.”

  “He’s had more experience than any one of us would like him to have.”

  “I certainly learned firsthand just how nasty the hill brigands could be. Getting shot on the first patrol…” Quaeryt shook his head.

  “It does happen. The governor’s always telling the troops that there are no safe patrols in the hill country. Almost every other one has some sort of trouble. One of the rankers who died was on his first patrol out of training.”

  “I wondered about that. I think he was the one hit when I was. I managed to grab the reins of his mount … I mean, after I worked out the quarrel.”

  Skarpa’s eyes widened for just a moment. “You saw him get hit?”

  “No. I got hit. Later, I saw him, but he died before I could do anything. Then I got his mount.”

  “You took a quarrel, worked it out, caught a stray mount, and then rode back here?”

  “It wasn’t that easy. My … guts … didn’t agree after I got the quarrel out, and I had to hold a cloth over the field dressing most of the way back to keep the bleeding down until it finally stopped.”

  “You should have been a cavalry officer.”

  “Me? I was so stupid that I ducked too late. I didn’t even realize that pattering sound was quarrels going through leaves.” Quaeryt paused. “Why would they shoot through leaves?”

  “Because you can’t get a totally clean shot in the woods. That’s one reason why they use the crossbows. They’ve got more power, and they don’t get stopped as easily.”

  “I still can’t believe I just watched for a moment.”

  Skarpa laughed. “That’s what makes a good officer. Everyone makes mistakes. Those who are smart enough or tough enough to survive become good officers.”

  Quaeryt had his doubts, but he wasn’t about to contradict the major.

  What he did know was that, once he felt better, he definitely needed more practice with his shields. He also needed to be too sick to ride back to Tilbora until he was far more healed than anyone thought he was, because he had a very bad feeling about things.

  51

  For the next five days, all Quaeryt did was eat, rest, and drink lager—and clean off the area around the dressing with small amounts of clear spirits that he imaged when no one else was around. He had bouts of fever, or at least hot sweatiness, but those subsided after several days. He even slept through the time for services on Solayi, not that he’d planned to attend. While he slept a great deal, part of that was because he didn’t sleep all that well. He had to stay on his back and prop the arm on his injured side so that it wouldn’t move when he drifted off into a state that was more doze than true sleep. By Meredi, especially after the surgeon captain’s assessment that morning that the wound was healing nicely, he was feeling improved enough to begin exploring the fortress that was Boralieu.

  Unlike the Telaryn Palace, Boralieu had been built for the sole purpose of providing an entrenched impregnable base for forces engaged in pursuing and attacking the wayward holders of the hills. The walls were tall enough and thick enough that only massive siege engines could have toppled them, and the post had been built over two springs that supplied water. The windows were double-shuttered and even narrower than those in Tilbora, and most of the open space within the walls was stone-paved to eliminate mud when the heavy winter snows melted. The interior of the post was simple enough that Quaeryt finished walking through it within two glasses, and that was more than soon enough, because he definitely felt tired when he returned to the officers’ mess and sank into one of the spare wooden chairs at the table.

  During his enforced rest, he’d thought about everything about Tilbor that he could recall, as well as what he might have done, especially in developing better shields. The one thing that he did remember that struck him as both odd and promising was the feeling that something had ripped through his thoughts just before the quarrel had struck him. He had to question if in fact his thoughts were somehow linked to his shields. Yet he wasn’t certain how to test that; he didn’t want to make himself a target to see, and he wasn’t in any condition to do much of great physical effort yet. But the idea held promise.

  He couldn’t hold the really strong shields for all that long, but could he train his reactions so that such a rip or impact on the lighter shields could instantly create heavier ones close to him? It was worth looking into … more than worth looking into if he wanted to survive in Tilbor.

  Then there were the larger, if less personal, questions. From what he could figure, there were close to four thousand officers and men at the Telaryn Palace, and more than another three thousand in the four outposts. Together, they represented the largest concentrated force in all Telaryn, and all were controlled by Rescalyn. Rescalyn had certainly opened every record to Quaeryt and granted him access everywhere. So far as Quaeryt could determine, Rescalyn was an inspiring and effective commander, and one whose acts benefited Bhayar and all Telaryn, including Tilbor. So why did Quaeryt feel something was wrong?

  For a time, he just sat in the mess and sipped lager, thinking, not able to put anything in any sort of perspective.

  Abruptly, he recalled one of the passages in the book that Rescalyn had read—the one about the best strategy being the one that was so open that no one even understood that it was a strategy. He shook his head ruefully. He’d been looking for what was hidden. What about what was hidden in plain sight?

  “Scholar … are you feeling better?” Skarpa paused at the door to the mess.

  As he did, a ranker stepped past the major. Quaeryt frowned, realizing that in the indirect light where the two stood, he couldn’t tell the difference between their undress uniforms.
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br />   Skarpa stepped inside and walked over to where Quaeryt sat. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh … I’m sorry. I was thinking.” The scholar gestured to a chair. “Do you have a moment.”

  “A few, but not many. Taenyd’s company is coming in from a west valley patrol, and I’ll need to debrief them.”

  “I was thinking … about uniforms. The undress greens worn by the officers and the rankers are almost the same except for the collar insignia.…”

  “Oh … that’s just good tactics. If the enemy could easily see who the officers are, they’d concentrate on them. That’s especially important out in the hills. The brigands always want to get officers.”

  So … the only one who stood out on that patrol was one scholar …

  “Was that something that the governor came up with?”

  “That was before he was governor. He was stationed in Ferravyl as a commander. You know, watching the Bovarians on the other side of the river. Sometimes, they’d come downstream and try to pick off officers from their riverboats with long-range crossbows. They always targeted officers. He realized it was because their uniforms were too different. He persuaded Lord Chayar to make the change. Some of the older officers didn’t approve. They liked their fancy uniforms. The marshal said they wouldn’t like them near so much if they were leading their men. Then he suggested that the dress uniforms be as fancy as ever, because balls and parades were where people paid attention to gilt and glitz. That didn’t make him popular, either. It might have been why Fhayt was appointed the first governor of Tilbor.”

  Quaeryt nodded. “Governor Rescalyn’s very practical.”

  “He’s a soldier’s soldier. The men—and the officers—would do anything for him. They’d take on the Namer if the governor told them. They know he’d be with them. He’s not a rear-hilltop marshal.”

  “I got that impression.” Quaeryt paused. “You know. I think when I go on other patrols I should be wearing green also.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” replied Skarpa. “I should have thought of that. We just haven’t had a scholar out here before.” He frowned. “Weren’t you supposed to go back to Tilbora?”

  “No one told me anything. I thought I’d just go back when you did.” The fact that no one had mentioned his return suggested other possibilities. “In another week or so, I ought to be able to ride.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll see what the surgeon says. I need to see more. One patrol—not even one patrol—won’t give me a very good understanding of what you and your men go through.”

  “I don’t know about that,” replied Skarpa with a laugh. “You came about as close as anyone to experiencing the worst.”

  “Then I need to see the best and what’s neither.”

  “Are all scholars so stubborn?”

  “No. Only those that have to report back to Lord Bhayar.”

  Skarpa stood. “I’ll see you at supper. I need to find out what Taenyd discovered.”

  Quaeryt watched the major walk out of the mess. Then he took another swallow of the lager. It wasn’t bitter in his mouth, but the conversation with Skarpa had left a bitter residue in his thoughts.

  He definitely needed to figure out a way to improve his shields—and soon.

  52

  On Jeudi morning, before breakfast, Quaeryt went to find the ranker who doubled as the local tailor, where he reclaimed the once-damaged browns—also washed and pressed. He gratefully paid two coppers, well worth it, and thanked the man. Then, after he ate, he headed out to see if he could work out something with his shields. Although he could use his left arm without more than discomfort, he left it in the sling when he wasn’t using it, because it still pulled on the wound if he didn’t. His first task was to obtain the materials he needed. First, he begged a few sheets of paper from Skarpa’s senior squad leader and an old flour sack from the cooks. Then he found pinecones in the tinder bin.

  After that, it took him almost a quint to find the head ostler—in the third stable that he entered.

  “I was hoping you could help me. I need about five yards of line, and the same of cord.”

  “Line, sir?” The ostler glanced at Quaeryt’s injured arm and at the tattered flour bag that held the paper, pinecones, and thin strips of what might once have been lathing.

  Quaeryt concealed a wince. “Line” was the term for sailors. “I’m sorry. That came from my sailing background. Thin rope, stronger than cord, but not the heavy kind used for drays or heavy wagons.”

  “We might have some in the tack room, sir. Let’s go see.” The ostler turned.

  Quaeryt followed him to the back of the stable and a small room filled with harnesses, spare bridles, traces, and other items he did not recognize hanging everywhere.

  “… saw a coil back here the other day…”

  Quaeryt waited.

  “Here we are.” The ostler glanced back at Quaeryt. “Five yards, you say?”

  “If you have it.”

  “That we do.” The ostler began uncoiling rope, quickly measuring out five lengths from fingertip to chest and then adding a few spans. A quick cut with a thin, worn, and sharp belt knife, and the ostler handed the small coil to the scholar. “Cord’s over here.”

  In short order, Quaeryt also had the cord.

  “Is there anything else you need, sir?”

  “Do you have something broken, iron or bronze, that I could tie to the end of the rope as a weight?”

  “Bound to have something like that here somewhere.” The ostler bent and rummaged through a barrel. “Thought so!” He straightened. “There you go.” He presented Quaeryt with an arc of iron, broken at one end. “Will that do?”

  Quaeryt weighed it in his hand. “That’s just what I need. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  Quaeryt nodded politely, ignoring the quizzical look from the ostler, then turned and walked out of the stable before heading westward toward the end stable. He stopped suddenly. He realized that the end stable couldn’t be empty, because that was where the officers’ mounts—and his mare—were stabled. He continued to the stable next to the end one, which was empty, and slipped inside. After closing the doors behind himself, he walked down the center until he found what he sought—a beam close to the ceiling around which he could tie one end of the line, and another ceiling beam less than three yards away, with a pulley suspended from it.

  Then it took him time to find a ladder, half-hidden against the rear wall under the opening to a hayloft. With his right hand, he dragged the ladder back to the beams. Then he set to work.

  When he finished, he had the broken iron half-hoop or harness trace brace or buckle, whatever it had been, tied to the end of the rope that extended from the first beam, suspended about a yard and a half above the stable floor. The cord ran from the weight to the pulley on the other beam and through it and then down to the floor, where Quaeryt had arranged a framework of slats and the pinecones at an angle so that when the pinecones all rolled off the paper on top of the frame, the change in weight would release the end of the cord.

  It took him more than a quint to work out the weight that balanced that of the rope and the iron. The device worked, if jerkily, but that was fine because he didn’t want to know when the cord was released.

  He flicked one of the pinecones, starting them rolling off the frame, then stepped over to where he’d be in the path of the swinging rope and iron and raised the heavy shields. Several moments later, the iron at the end of the rope banged off the shields.

  Quaeryt nodded and reset his contraptions. The second time, he only raised the light shields, concentrating on the feeling when the iron hit the shields—except that it didn’t work because even the light shields slowed the iron enough that it nearly stopped before it reached Quaeryt.

  The third time, he raised only the lightest of linked-air shields, and the iron slid through them, but Quaeryt could barely sense anything. He took a deep breath and set up th
e cumbersome makeshift device once more, using slightly heavier shields.

  More than a glass later, he was finally able to sense when the iron hit any level of shield.

  Although the physical side of the shield training wasn’t that hard, he was still sweating, and he sat down on the floor and rested for a quint.

  Then he stood and stretched, gingerly.

  The next step—he hoped—was to see if he could train his reflexes to create heavier shields without his thinking about it if anything touched the outer shields.

  Once more, he reset the framework with the pinecones and the end of the cord.

  The first time he tried to link the two sets of shields, nothing happened and the iron thumped into his gut. Nor was the second attempt much better. Nor the third.

  Maybe you’re looking and anticipating too much.

  With that thought in mind, for the fourth attempt, he turned his back … and the heavier shield did form, but too far from his body, and then flicked out of existence, and the iron thumped his lower back.

  Quaeryt was sweating again … more heavily, and he was feeling light-headed.

  After two more attempts, he gathered up the pieces of his makeshift apparatus and put them in the corner of one of the unused stalls. Even if someone stumbled over them, they wouldn’t know their use.

  He smiled. Most likely, they’d think that it was just a pile of junk no one had cleaned up.

  Still, while he hadn’t figured out how to make things work enough to protect him, he had proved it was possible.

  His steps were slow as he walked toward the mess and another mug of the lager that was beginning to wear on him.

  53

  By late on Solayi afternoon, just before supper, after four solid days of practice with his ramshackle device, Quaeryt had managed to train his body or his mind or some combination of both to react to any intrusion on light image-created shields, whether he could see it or not. That didn’t prove that his improved shields would work in a combat situation or when he was totally surprised, but he was more hopeful than he had been. He also felt that he needed both more work on them and more time to recover from his injury.