Scholar

by L. E. Modesitt

  The scholar limped up the hill, slowly following his escort, because his bad leg was worse, and his “good” leg was bruised in places all the way down from hip to just above the ankle. There were bruises across his chest and thighs as well, already turning yellow-purple, and others in places he couldn’t see but certainly could feel.

  When he reached what could only be called a manor house or mansion, even a small palace, he was escorted into the study by a junior squad leader, a study every bit as large as the one the governor had used at the Telaryn Palace, and at least as lavishly appointed, with dark paneled walls, and deep green hangings.

  Myskyl turned from where he had been looking out the bay window overlooking the walled garden and walked back to the ornately carved goldenwood desk. “Please be seated, scholar.” He sat behind the desk and waited for Quaeryt to ease himself into the cushioned wooden armchair before speaking. “I’m not an envoy or a courtier, scholar. I’m a soldier. I don’t pretend to be anything else. I speak what I think. You present a puzzle. You’re as brave and as resourceful as any junior officer I have, more so than most. Your courage is unquestioned. You’ve saved countless other officers and men. Yet … the governor was troubled by you. So am I. I’m also disturbed by the fact that he was killed by a crossbow quarrel at the end of the battle when no one saw any archers. No one has yet found a crossbow anywhere on the field. I’m even more troubled because that quarrel went straight through the plate the governor wore under his shirt and jacket. That can happen. It did happen. But it has to happen at close range.”

  I imaged the quarrel through plate? No wonder I lost shields … a wonder I’m alive. “I don’t know what to say, sir. You seem to think I might know something about his death. Major Skarpa can tell you that I did not even know that the governor had died when I finally could think and talk again.”

  “Strange things happen around you, scholar. Tell me why you are here. I know you told the governor. But tell me.”

  “It’s no secret I was sent by Lord Bhayar. It’s no secret that Lord Bhayar is concerned about the costs and the numbers of soldiers required to keep order in Tilbor. It’s no secret that Lord Bhayar believed that Governor Rescalyn was an outstanding commander and a good governor. The way he planned and conducted the campaign against the hill holders proves that point. I reported all that. Well … I did, except for the last part of the campaign, but that’s exactly what I will report.”

  “The governor said something to the effect that you were always everything you said you were, but that you were more than that. What else are you?” Myskyl’s voice was cool.

  “I am what I am, sir. Many men are more than what they say they are. Governor Rescalyn was more than he said he was. You know that. I am truly sorry he was killed. He was a great commander, and that is how he will be remembered. It is also how he should be remembered.” Quaeryt smiled faintly. “Don’t you think so?”

  Myskyl was silent, but his eyes never left Quaeryt. Finally, he cleared his throat. “How did you manage it?”

  “I managed nothing, sir. If you will ask every single person who saw me on the field, you will find that I was struck down before the last part of the fighting ended.” Quaeryt looked down at the heavy splint.

  Myskyl shook his head. “I have asked everyone. They all say what you have told me. Yet the governor is dead. He was killed by a hill holder quarrel that should not have been able to penetrate his plate. It did. I do not believe in coincidences.”

  “Nor do I, sir. Yet it happened. Sometimes, things happen that we cannot explain. One can deny that they should have, but they did. One can claim it was the work of the Namer or the Nameless, but nothing changes.”

  “No … they do not.” Myskyl moistened his lips.

  “What will you do now?”

  “Why are you asking, scholar?”

  “I still have to report to Lord Bhayar.”

  “So you do.” A short bitter laugh followed before the commander continued. “As the governor planned, I’ve sent messages to the remaining hill holders. I sent a company with each messenger as well.”

  “Will they agree to terms?”

  “Rescalyn didn’t think they would. I think they might. We’ll see.”

  “What are you going to do with Zorlyn’s holding, sir?”

  “That’s up to the princeps. He’s the acting governor. He may not even know yet, unless the couriers have reached him, but it’s his decision. After we finish with the other hill holders, I’ve recommended that we move two or three battalions here and make it a permanent base. We’d have control, and all the crop tithes would support the base here. We’d have to reduce the numbers at Boralieu. The lands of the other holdings will become Lord Bhayar’s.”

  “That sounds like a good plan, sir.”

  “It was the governor’s.”

  “He was a good commander and a good governor.” Just one who was far too ambitious.

  “He was.” Myskyl stood. “You’ll be going back to Boralieu with the rest of the wounded when the roads firm up. From there, when the fighting’s over, one way or another, you’ll go back to Tilbora.”

  “Yes, sir.” Quaeryt struggled to his feet.

  “I’d hope there won’t be any more strange occurrences.”

  “So do I, sir.” Quaeryt inclined his head, then turned. He could feel the commander’s eyes on his back as he walked out of the study.

  He hadn’t liked what he’d done. But he’d seen enough to know just where Rescalyn’s unbridled ambition would lead, both for Bhayar and for himself.

  … and yet … would Rescalyn have made a better ruler of Telaryn than Bhayar?

  Quite possibly, if he merely succeeded Bhayar, reflected Quaeryt, as he limped back toward Sixth Battalion, but what he would have had to do to consolidate his rule would have negated his abilities. And … Bhayar was a good ruler, for all his faults. The cost of a civil war to everyone, and the deaths and the unrest, would have far outweighed the benefits of a ruler who might have been a better ruler. Then, too, there was the problem that Rescalyn had no heirs, and succession was yet another problem, while Bhayar already had two sons.

  The risks for Telaryn—and you—were too great.

  He kept walking.

  93

  A sunny Samedi followed Vendrei, and an even warmer Solayi followed Samedi—and Myskyl, thankfully, did not request that Quaeryt offer a homily at the evening services. Quaeryt avoided attending, afraid that he would hear either a eulogy of some sort to Rescalyn or thanks for the great victory over Zorlyn. While it had been a significant victory, and the one that, for all intents and purposes, broke the power of the hill holders, even if Myskyl might have to ravage another holding, going to those services would have reminded Quaeryt of all the costs that were never mentioned … and his own part in how matters turned out. So he remained with those of Sixth Battalion who did not attend.

  On Mardi morning, a column of the riding wounded, those, like Quaeryt, who were on the way to recovery, left Zorlyn’s holding and made their way back to Boralieu. Quaeryt rode an almost-broken-down gelding, since no one seemed to know where the mare was—or if she had even survived the battle. She’d carried him through so much … and to have her vanish … He tried not to think about that … as well as other matters—at least not until he felt better.

  They arrived at Boralieu well after sunset on Meredi, but before total darkness. Quaeryt had not heard whether the remaining hill holders had agreed to terms when they left, and no one of the small contingent that remained at Boralieu had any word on what had occurred when they arrived.

  Over the next two days, Quaeryt forced himself to write up a report for Bhayar, one that summarized exactly what had happened during that part of the campaign in which he had participated, but which said nothing at all about his personal efforts. Between the physical effort of writing it one-handed, which took more care than he had anticipated, and the mental effort of seeking exactly the right words and phrases, the report took far l
onger than he had thought it would.

  Because the mess was more suited to writing, because he felt the walls of his small quarters were pressing in on him, because the bunk was uncomfortable for sitting and the chairs in the mess were far more comfortable than the single rickety one in his quarters, he spent most of his time in the officers’ mess. Late on Vendrei afternoon, Quaeryt was again sitting at the long table there when he heard riders outside in the courtyard. He debated getting up to see who they were, and if they had news, but decided he’d find out before long. Besides, walking any distance was still painful, especially as the day wore on.

  He saw several captains and undercaptains he did not know coming and going, and that suggested that a fair-sized contingent had returned. In turn, that indicated a high likelihood that the remaining hill holders had capitulated … but that was only an indication.

  Almost a glass later, a ranker peered into the mess from the door. “Scholar Quaeryt, sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Commander Zirkyl would like to see you, sir. He’s in his study.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Quaeryt rose carefully, then followed the ranker down the adjoining corridor to the open study door.

  “Come in, scholar.”

  Quaeryt did close the door behind him, then settled into one of the chairs in front of Zirkyl’s table desk. “I did not know you were among those who returned, sir.”

  “I brought back those who had accompanied me from here to deal with the hill holders at Zorlyn’s holding. We arrived back here less than a glass ago. On Jeudi, Commander Myskyl received word from the last of the hill holders, accepting the terms he offered. Once that happened, he dispatched us.” Zirkyl looked directly at Quaeryt. “You’ve been sending reports to Lord Bhayar, I understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Commander Myskyl’s couriers will be leaving here tomorrow morning, one for Tilbora to inform the acting governor, and one to Solis to report on the result of the campaign against the hill holders. Commander Myskyl asked me to tell you that you are welcome to have the courier carry your report to Solis as well. If you wish to do so, you should have it ready by seventh glass.”

  “It is largely written, sir, except I did not know that the remaining holders had accepted terms.”

  “I doubt that they were overjoyed … but defying the commander now would have been turning bare backs to the Namer.”

  “Where should I bring the report? To the courtyard by the gates?”

  “By the guardhouse. I’ll let the courier know that you will have a dispatch for him.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me. According to the commander, Lord Bhayar’s the one who should be thanking you.” Zirkyl offered a sad smile. “That is all I wanted to tell you. I do have a few other matters…”

  “Yes, sir.” Quaeryt stood, as gracefully as he could, then turned and limped from the commander’s study and headed back toward the mess.

  While he would have liked to send a letter to Vaelora, he decided that asking a special courier to carry it would not be a good idea, besides which, he frankly wasn’t certain what he would—or should—write, given the way matters stood in Tilbor. Or if he could find the right words in the time he had.

  94

  What with one thing and another, almost a week passed before Quaeryt joined Sixth Battalion on its return to Tilbora the following Jeudi. Once more, he rode with Skarpa, still awkwardly because the splinted arm, even in a sling, tended to unbalance him, although he had been reunited with the mare.

  “How did you find her?” he had asked when one of Skarpa’s rankers had led her out to him before they left Boralieu.

  “I didn’t,” Skarpa had replied. “Gauswn did. While we were waiting for the hill holders to decide, he had his men search for her. It took a couple of days to find her. Seventh Battalion had her. He said it wasn’t right that she wasn’t with you.”

  “I do appreciate it.” He’d reminded himself to thank the undercaptain with more than words, for both saving his life and finding the mare, although he had ridden across the courtyard to Gauswn and offered those words of gratitude almost immediately.

  Gauswn had insisted that he’d only done what was right and went on to say, “You’ll change things, sir. You will. Like Rholan.”

  That comparison had appalled Quaeryt, but he couldn’t say that, not when he likely owed the undercaptain his life … and the mare. All he’d been able to do was reiterate his thanks and gratitude. But Gauswn’s words and worshipful attitude had preyed on him throughout the journey.

  Finally, on Vendrei afternoon, as Sixth Battalion turned off the river road and headed directly along the back road toward the Telaryn Palace, Quaeryt again turned to Skarpa.

  “I’ve been thinking about Gauswn. I worry that he thinks I’m something that I’m not. I’m just a scholar trying to do the best I can.”

  Skarpa laughed. “I’ll grant that you’re a scholar. I’ll not grant that you’re just a scholar. No officer and man in Sixth Battalion would say you’re just a scholar. You’re as good a chorister as many, and you’re a better officer than many who wear the bars. There’s a lot more I don’t know. I do know that Commander Myskyl wouldn’t cross you.”

  “He wouldn’t cross me? I’m a near-penniless scholar.” Quaeryt laughed.

  “You were sent by Lord Bhayar. You get letters from his family…”

  Quaeryt managed not to wince. Did the entire regiment know that?

  “… and you’ve survived battles and wounds. I recall you also got through storms and a shipwreck. Myskyl knows that. He wouldn’t cross you for all the new-minted silvers he found in Zorlyn’s strong room.”

  “Didn’t he have a silver mine?” asked Quaeryt, deciding to change the subject as quickly as he could, especially since he’d wondered about the Ecoliae’s receipt of new-minted silvers. “Someone said…”

  “He does. Or he did.”

  “And he was minting his own silvers?”

  Skarpa looked quizzically at Quaeryt. “One of the majors said they found coin dies. Why does it matter? Silver’s silver.”

  “It would help explain how Zorlyn could afford to pay so many armsmen, for one thing.” And for another, it would explain why Rescalyn needed to take Zorlyn’s lands and holding.

  Skarpa nodded. “It would. Some of us wondered about that, even with all his lands.”

  Quaeryt’s thinking about Zorlyn brought to mind Zarxes. “Do you know if they found two scholars among the captives there?”

  “The two that ran off from the scholarium? Can’t say that I do.”

  Quaeryt wondered if he’d ever find out, or if Alkiabys and Zarxes had been part of the heavy cavalry that had been largely killed at the end of the battle. He shook his head.

  There are always things left unresolved, no matter how much you want to know how they turn out. That’s life.

  After a long silence, Skarpa finally spoke again. “Tell me. What will you do now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m only supposed to be the scholar assistant to the princeps until close to the end of winter. I’m supposed to return to Solis before the first day of spring.”

  “No offense … but should you be traveling before that arm has healed more? And all those bruises?”

  “Some of the bruises have healed.”

  “Not all, I’d wager.”

  “Not all of them,” Quaeryt admitted. Not wanting to dwell on the possibility of spending a long cold winter in Tilbora, he asked, “What will Myskyl do with the regiment now? Has he said?”

  “That’s up to the princeps—I’d guess he’s the acting governor for now. He’ll need to step up recruiting. That won’t be a problem now. Some of the senior squad leaders will be trained to be undercaptains, maybe even a few squad leaders.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll keep being a major. What else do I know? It’s a better life than many.” Skarpa laughed. “I’ve got some golds put by, enough to live q
uiet-like if I go out on an injury stipend or make it to full-stipend age. We’ll all get battle pay. You, too, I’d guess.”

  Quaeryt hadn’t even thought about pay or golds—but he hadn’t drawn his pay in something like two months. At half a gold a week—even with the deductions for the mess—that would total more than four golds.

  He smiled, if faintly. The golds had never meant that much to him, but that was probably because he’d never wed or had family to think about. And, the way his life was going, he never would.

  95

  Quaeryt needed to report to Princeps Straesyr. So, on Samedi morning, just after seventh glass, he made his way from “his” study to the anteroom to the princeps’s study.

  “He thought you might be here early,” replied Vhorym, in a manner more pleasant than Quaeryt recalled. “You can go on in, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Although his arm was still splinted and in a sling, it felt somewhat better, but every movement still hurt as Quaeryt limped into the princeps’s study and closed the door behind himself.

  You’d think you’d feel better than this after two weeks.…

  The first thing Quaeryt noted was that Straesyr no longer wore a tunic. Instead, he wore a marshal’s uniform. The second thing that the scholar noted was that the acting governor appeared far more comfortable in the uniform.

  Straesyr did not rise, but gestured to the chairs before the desk. “You’re still recovering, I see.”

  “It’s likely to be a while, sir.” Quaeryt eased himself into the nearest chair.

  “I’ve received several reports from Commander Myskyl, and the few remaining hill holders have agreed to terms and have even tendered part of their tariffs as evidence of good faith.”

  As evidence of fear, I suspect. “I had not heard about their payments, sir. I did know that they had agreed to terms.”