Scholar

by L. E. Modesitt

  Again, the undercaptain looked hard at Quaeryt, who merely offered an amused smile, even as he was thinking, Why did it have to be Gauswn who saw the effect of the shields?

  “Tell me about what you have the men look for when you patrol along the western edge,” said Quaeryt. “Do you get any brigands taking shots at you from the higher slopes?”

  The undercaptain looked startled, but, after a moment, replied, “Not since I’ve been here, but we do see tracks, as if someone is scouting. Not too often, but you can never tell…”

  Quaeryt remained ready to ask more questions as he listened, but, obviously, he needed to work more, a great deal more, on perfecting the shields if they were to be effective.

  55

  When he returned from the local patrol, it was a quint or so past second glass, and Quaeryt was so exhausted that he went to his tiny room and took a nap. He woke just before the evening meal sore all over. He limped to dinner, because his bad leg was bothering him more than usual, and managed to sit beside Skarpa in order to avoid Gauswn without really seeming to do so. He listened carefully during and after the meal, while Skarpa, Meinyt, and the other officers talked, but he didn’t overhear any references to the wind or hay flying around him.

  A long night’s sleep left him less tired, but still stiff when he struggled up on Vendrei morning, although he was limping less on the way to the mess. After breakfast, he made his way from the mess to the infirmary. He didn’t wait long, because he was the only one there. The surgeon removed the latest dressing and checked the wound.

  “You don’t need a dressing any longer. Just keep it clean.” The captain shook his head. “Most wounds like this don’t heal so cleanly or so quickly. If I hadn’t seen how deep it was myself, I wouldn’t have believed it, scholar.”

  “When would it be a good idea to go back to riding patrols outside the valley?”

  “A good idea? Never. But if that’s what you have to do, I’d give it until Lundi. But take two water bottles of lager if you do. You didn’t drink any water, did you?”

  “No. You told me not to.”

  “Good. I’d stay away from it for another week, at least mostly. If you do drink water, only drink what you get here in Boralieu. It’s clean enough. The hillside streams might look clear, but I’ve had more than a few rankers who drank from them end up turning their bowels inside out, and you don’t need that.”

  “Do you know why?” Quaeryt couldn’t resist asking.

  “Might be hill people fouling the water. They’re not all that careful. It might be the beavers, or other animals, or who knows what.” The surgeon stepped back. “If it gets red or the soreness across your chest gets worse, you need to come back. Otherwise, there’s not much else that I can do.”

  Quaeryt just nodded. If there’s soreness and pain across my chest, there isn’t going to be much you or anyone can do. But there wasn’t much point in saying so, and he didn’t as he stood and replaced his undershirt and repaired tunic.

  After leaving the surgeon, he made his way to the one unused stable, where he set up his apparatus. There he spent almost three glasses experimenting with his apparatus and his shields, trying to figure out how to let small things through the shields … but not too small. The tip of an unbarbed crossbow bolt wasn’t very large, and he’d seen what that could do.

  He wasn’t having much success until he thought, What about the speed of something hitting the outer shields?

  That seemed to make sense, except that he really didn’t have much of a way to speed the swinging fall of the iron weight. He could slow it … though …

  After another glass, he felt he was on to something that might work better, but he was feeling tired and not reacting as well as he felt he should.

  But you need to improve your shields more or you’ll just be a lure for those backwoods crossbowmen.

  Improving his shields was taking time, and Bhayar had been rather firm about his returning before the end of winter … and Quaeryt himself didn’t want to remain for any part of winter. Yet he was convinced that he needed to remain at Boralieu because the hills and the timber holders contained the key to the mystery that was Tilbor, and, if he wanted to survive to discover what that key was, he needed better shields. Even so, he was sweating heavily from exercising, however lightly, in the damp air left from the recent rains, and he needed to cool down and rest.

  Some things you can’t force.

  He hated to admit that, but he hid his makeshift device, then made his way slowly back to his quarters, such as they were, to get the rest he needed and didn’t want to spare the time for.

  When Quaeryt walked into the mess that night, even before he reached the table, Skarpa intercepted him. “The commander wants to meet you, scholar.”

  “Me? What did I do … or fail to do?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing to worry about.” The major guided him toward a black-haired officer in greens with silver starbursts on his collar who stood beside the head of a long table. “Commander Zirkyl, this is Scholar Quaeryt.”

  “I’m very glad to meet you, scholar.” The commander smiled. “All have said that you offered a better homily than most choristers. If you remain here long, we may call upon you again.…”

  “Thank you, sir, but one homily does not make a chorister out of a scholar.”

  “I’ll take you at your word, scholar … with a few doubts. I’ve heard enough officers speak badly and at length to know that it’s unlikely that one who speaks well when asked to do so on short notice will speak badly upon other occasions.” Zirkyl smiled. “I might not like what you say all the time, but it’s likely you will say it well.” He looked to Skarpa. “Have you ever heard him speak poorly?”

  “No, sir, but he listens more than he talks.”

  “I would that some officers followed that practice.” Zirkyl laughed and turned back to Quaeryt. “I’m glad to see that you’re healing well.”

  “So am I, sir. Thank you.” Quaeryt understood that the commander had said what he wanted, and he inclined his head and stepped back, moving more toward the foot of the table.

  Skarpa came with him, then gestured. “We can sit here.”

  The two sat side by side, directly in front of two pitchers, one of ale and one of lager. Skarpa immediately filled his mug with ale. Quaeryt took lager. In less than half a quint, all the officers were seated, and platters were headed down the table.

  Meinyt had taken the seat across from Quaeryt. “Major Bruelt said the commander especially liked your words about officers and soldiers being remembered for their deeds and not their boasts.”

  “How did he know what I said?”

  “Oh … Undercaptain Gauswn wrote it down. He’s got a good memory.”

  Quaeryt managed not to wince.

  “He’s a good undercaptain,” Skarpa said. “He works hard, and he’s thorough. You rode with him. What do you think?”

  “From what I saw, I’d agree, but I’m not a mounted officer.”

  “With a little training, you’d do better than most,” Meinyt said. “Don’t know many who could take a quarrel, get it out, catch a loose mount, and then ride back to Boralieu, and be ready to ride again in a few weeks.”

  “Have any of the companies had any success in dealing with those poachers and hill holders?” asked Quaeryt, trying to change the subject without being totally obvious.

  Skarpa, his mouth full of the less than tender mutton, shook his head.

  From beside him, Meinyt said, “There haven’t been any attacks there since the one on us.”

  “There have been two near the northwest outpost, though,” Skarpa finally said, before taking another swallow of ale.

  “What will happen next?”

  “The commander is considering paying a visit to Waerfyl—with three companies,” said Skarpa quietly. “That’s what I hear.”

  “I think I’d like to accompany you.”

  “Why do you think I’d be involved?”

  “I t
hink both you and Captain Meinyt would be involved. He’d want the best major and company behind him.”

  Meinyt grinned. “He’s got you, Major.”

  “If … if something like that happens, you can go.”

  “This time I’ll wear greens, at least a green shirt,” Quaeryt said dryly.

  “Good idea.”

  Is it a good idea? Hardly. You just don’t have any better ones. Quaeryt sipped more of the lager he was liking less and less.

  56

  On Lundi morning, Quaeryt rode out of Boralieu beside Major Skarpa, with three companies from Sixth Battalion behind them, the first one being Meinyt’s. Quaeryt had donned, over his browns, a somewhat worn and overlarge green undress uniform shirt he had obtained from the ranker serving as supply clerk, although he had his doubts that such a large force would be attacked. The wind was brisk, under a clear sky.

  Commander Zirkyl had decided, regretfully, according to Skarpa, that for the post commander to pay a call on Holder Waerfyl would grant the timber holder far too much importance, both in Waerfyl’s own mind and in the eyes of both High Holders and hill holders. Quaeryt couldn’t help but wonder if Zirkyl had received a dispatch or other advice along those lines from Rescalyn.

  For the first glass, Skarpa’s outriders and scouts followed the same road that Meinyt’s company had taken on the patrol where Quaeryt had been wounded. During that part of the ride, Quaeryt kept working with and adjusting his shields, effectively enough that no one noticed. Then, after another few quints, when the scouts reached the point where the road forked, they turned to the right, heading close to due north.

  “How far before we reach Waerfyl’s holding?” Quaeryt asked the major.

  “Another three milles or so to the gate, and about a mille after that.”

  “Has anyone actually ridden up to his hold?”

  “Not often. That’s why the outriders will unfurl a friendship banner when we get closer to his holding. He’ll be there. Where else would he go?”

  Naïve as Skarpa’s question sounded superficially, Quaeryt realized that the major had a point. Waerfyl wasn’t welcome to visit High Holders, and, from what Quaeryt did know, the hill holders weren’t exactly that friendly with each other, just united by a common opposition to any other authority.

  Some three quints passed before the scouts—and the column of riders—halted at the gates marking the entry to the estate or hold proper. Unlike the estate gates around Tilbora, or those in Solis, the “gate” to Waerfyl’s holding consisted of two pillars constructed of local stones of all sizes a man could lift, mortared together, and standing some four yards apart. Each square pillar was a yard on a side and rose roughly three yards from a flat stone and mortar base. There was no gatehouse or anything resembling such, and no sign of any guards. The road or lane beyond the two gate pillars consisted of gravel unevenly packed into the local clay or mud, but compacted enough by time, hoofs, and wagons that the latest wagon had left barely an indentation on the surface, despite the rain that had fallen on Samedi.

  “Horns to the front! With the banner bearers!” ordered Skarpa.

  With the hornists riding directly behind the scouts, if separated by several yards, and playing fanfares intermittently, the column rode slowly up the lane that climbed gently through a small area of woods, then crossed a level meadow beside a pond. Both red flies and mosquitoes swarmed toward the riders, and Quaeryt found that his adjustments to his shields did little or nothing to stop the voracious insects. Even fanning them away was of limited usefulness.

  The meadow stretched close to half a mille before the ground beyond rose gently to a low ridge, cleared of all trees and brush, on the top of which stood the buildings comprising the hold. That ridge was lower than the one immediately to the north, and only a gentle swale separated the two ridges. What appeared to be a low stone tower stood on the end of the higher ridge closest to the holding buildings.

  As Quaeryt rode closer, he could see that the main hold structure looked to be of two stories, although he had the feeling there was a third, lower level dug into the ridge. The walls were of large logs, stripped of their bark and notched or planed to fit together, rising from a foundation composed of stones and mortar that showed a yard above ground. As with all dwellings in Tilbor, the windows, especially on the lower level, were narrow and had thick shutters. The roof was of split slate, rather than tile or thatch—or the wooden shakes he had noticed on larger dwellings in Tilbora.

  Why slate here? The snow has to be deeper. Or is the danger from sparks or fire greater? Quaeryt had no way of knowing, but surmised that hill holders had the resources to build structures strong enough to handle snow and minimize dangers from fire.

  A handful of men, apparently unarmed and generally wearing leather jackets of various sorts, gathered on the stone-paved expanse that served as an unroofed porch or a terrace and that extended some ten yards on each side of the heavy double doors in the center of the building. The lane split, and one part continued up to where it ran beside the front of the terrace, while the other circled to the right toward the buildings to the east and slightly lower on the ridge.

  When the hornists and the banner bearers neared the end of the porch, Skarpa ordered, “Column! Halt!” After several moments, he added, “Welcome fanfare!”

  While Quaeryt thought the hornists did their best, the fanfare was ragged and slightly out of tune.

  The double doors opened, and a man of medium height stepped out. His bearing declared that he was of import, and he walked to the front of the porch and surveyed the assembled troops. He wore a fine white linen shirt, with a deep red sleeveless vest over it, and brownish black trousers. His brown hair was long, and tied back, but he sported neither mustache nor beard, unlike many of the men Quaeryt had seen around Tilbora or most of those already gathered on the terrace. He looked to be some ten years older than Quaeryt. He just stood on the wide stone platform for a time after the fanfare ended. Then he laughed. “I am honored! Deeply honored that Lord Bhayar’s minions would think I am so fearsome that a friendly visit requires so many armed men.”

  Waerfyl’s eyes fixed on Skarpa. “Your approach was rather contradictory, don’t you think, Major? A peace banner followed by hundreds of armed cavalrymen?”

  “Not at all,” replied Skarpa with a brief laugh of his own, riding closer and reining up. “As we have discovered, peaceful behavior here in the hills only seems to happen when one appears with overwhelming force.”

  “Might I ask, if it is not deemed too impertinent by a mere hill holder in dealing with the force and might of all Telaryn, what might be the purpose of this visit … this appearance?”

  “You might indeed,” replied Skarpa.

  Quaeryt could sense that the major was uneasy in speaking, but he had no doubts that Commander Zirkyl had tutored Skarpa carefully in what he wanted said.

  After a moment, the major cleared his throat. “I am here to convey the greetings and concerns of the governor. You are the holder over a large expanse of lands, largely timberlands. You are known to have great control over those who serve you. Yet, time after time, groups of men have proceeded from your lands to those of the High Holder whose lands adjoin yours and poached game and removed valuable timber. In addition, some of those men have attacked routine patrols merely riding the roads and, in several cases, killed soldiers. The governor is concerned that you have failed to exercise control over those men. Given the extent of your lands, it is highly unlikely that they could have done what they did without spending a great deal of time on your lands. This suggests a failure to control your own lands, and possibly those who serve you. Your lack of action to exert such control suggests that you either allow or actively support the actions of these men. Neither is acceptable.”

  Neither Waerfyl nor Skarpa spoke for several moments.

  The major continued to look pointedly at the holder.

  Finally, Waerfyl offered a cynical smile. “Your words, or should I say the
governor’s, are most polite. I will say that I am sorry to be unable to respond as well. You accuse me of acts with no proof that these men are in any way connected to me. My lands are large. Not nearly so large as those of High Holder Dymaetyn. They are also hilly and rocky, and there are places that have not seen a man or mount in generations. As you should know, Major, and as the governor certainly knows, it has been strongly suggested by this governor and his predecessor that I avoid raising large numbers of armsmen. I do not have anywhere as many as do the High Holders. Yet they cannot stop such brigands? And I, with far fewer armsmen … how can I possibly be held accountable for those who slip through my lands?”

  “Holder Waerfyl, I am not here to debate. I am not here to judge. I am here to convey the governor’s concerns. You may recall that the fate of those landholders who have ignored those concerns has not been one many would wish to share.”

  “So … you are warning me that if brigands I do not and cannot control continue their actions, the governor will act against me and my family and retainers.”

  “The governor will do what the governor will do based upon what happens in the future. I am not in his confidences. I cannot say what he will do. I am here to convey his concerns.”

  “Such a loyal officer.” Waerfyl shook his head. “You and your men may take this holding. You may even put it to the torch. If you do, you will never control the hill lands, and any soldier who enters these forests will be at risk, for generations to come. Is that what the governor wants?”

  “The governor wishes that the lawbreaking, the attacks, and the thefts stop. Since they come from your lands, it seemed reasonable to convey those concerns to you. I have done so. You have received that conveyance. We will leave the determination of what happens in the future to you.” Skarpa inclined his head politely. “Now … having conveyed the governor’s concerns, we will depart … peacefully.”

  “You may convey to the governor that I can only do what I can do.”