Scholar

by L. E. Modesitt

  He shook his head. Did what he felt really matter? At best, all he’d ever be would be a correspondent who provided a window of sorts to a world her brother would never let her enter. And that, he could and would do.

  Except … you’d like to do more for her.

  He pushed that thought away. Anything more was beyond his power—even as a hidden imager.

  The remainder of the day he divided his time between working on his reply to Vaelora, considering how to improve the scholarium, what he would say to Straesyr on Lundi in regard to Gauswn, and even resting. He was least successful at resting, with his thoughts swirling in so many different directions that he finally rose from his bunk feeling more exhausted than when he had stretched out on it.

  After the evening meal, he did make his way to the palace anomen and take in services, as much as to hear what Phargos had to say as anything, in hopes that the chorister’s words might offer some wisdom to settle his thoughts.

  Phargos began his homily with the standard opening, the one that Quaeryt had always heard. “… under the Nameless all evenings are good.… Almost all of you have just returned from a campaign against the hill holders. I have already heard tales of endless attacks and total destruction, and pondered what had led to such. The easy answer is Naming and the Namer … but easy answers are not always good answers.

  “Recently, I talked to a man. Some of you know him. Some don’t. I asked for his help in a matter some would call small and some would not. He said that he would do what he could. From this man, those words meant what they said. At the same time, I realized that so often we equate words with Naming. That is not so. Words followed by honest action are not Naming. Empty words or duplicitous words are the same as Naming. Promising help and not helping is a form of Naming. Saying good things in public about someone and undermining them in private are Naming, and so often empty words or deceptive words build on each other and lead to devastation and destruction…”

  Quaeryt had to agree with those sentiments, although the indirect reference to him—he thought it was to him, but perhaps it was not—bothered him. Still … what Phargos said about words was right—even if Quaeryt still had no idea of whether there even happened to be a Nameless.

  97

  Lundi morning, Quaeryt woke to gusty winds that filled his quarters with chill drafts and rattled the shutters. Outside under gray skies, fine light snowflakes danced on the gusty winds. As he shivered his way into his browns, he knew that it was bound to be far colder with far more snow falling in the Boran Hills, and that meant a much slower and more laborious return for those battalions not remaining at Zorlyn’s hold or at Boralieu.

  After breakfast, he made his way to meet with Straesyr. He had to wait almost a quint in the anteroom before the princeps arrived.

  “You’re always prompt, scholar. Come on in.”

  Quaeryt entered after the princeps and closed the door, then took a seat in front of the desk.

  “Why don’t you tell me your view of the campaign? I’d like your views on what worked well, what didn’t work so well, and why.”

  “Yes, sir.” Quaeryt shifted his weight in the armchair, enough so that he could rest the splint on the short wooden arm, then cleared his throat. “Governor Rescalyn planned the campaign exceedingly well. He also understood from the beginning the need not to become unduly distracted by the continual attacks from small forces of hill rebels…” He went on to talk for almost a glass about what he had seen and the need for the kind of campaign Rescalyn had planned and executed. “… all the destruction was necessary because nothing less would have ended the power of the hill holders to disrupt and restrict formal governing from either Tilbora or Solis.”

  “I’ve already heard from several High Holders that they think the additional tariffs on the remaining hill holders are too low. They complain that they’ve paid for more than their fair share. What would you tell them, master scholar?”

  “That the price paid by the dead hill holders was far greater than what they have paid, that the higher tariff levels on the remaining hill holders will continue for several years, and that harvesting a ram’s wool for years is more productive than slaughtering or starving it.”

  “That won’t make them happy.”

  “Nothing will make them happy. If they’re happy, you’re not tariffing enough, because that means they feel like they’re paying less than what they should.”

  “You sound like Rescalyn.”

  “I never disagreed with his governing.”

  “As we discussed, you will, of course, continue to supervise the scholarium.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I will have you study the ledgers so that you can begin to watch the tariffs and expenses…” Straesyr went on to outline other duties and details he had in mind for Quaeryt. When he finished that enumeration, he looked to the scholar. “Are there are other matters we need to discuss?”

  “There is one that Chorister Phargos brought to my attention.”

  “Oh?”

  “Undercaptain Gauswn—from Sixth Battalion—had at one time studied to be a chorister of the Nameless. Gauswn would like to leave the regiment when his time is up to become a chorister. That isn’t a problem, I would believe, but the problem lies in the fact that the current chorister at the scholarium is quite frail, and his years are numbered, perhaps even limited to months. Phargos feels, and I agree, that Gauswn would make an excellent replacement for Cyrethyn, but it would be beneficial for all, I believe, if Gauswn could be released earlier to study with Cyrethyn before the old chorister is no longer able to impart his knowledge.”

  “Gauswn … he’s the one who kept you from being trampled, isn’t he?”

  “He is. He’s also the one who’s often conducted services at Boralieu when Commander Zirkyl was unavailable. Chorister Phargos made the point that some good young officers have come from the scholarium, and that having Gauswn be chorister there would be beneficial to Telaryn. If Cyrethyn dies before Gauswn’s service ends…” Quaeryt shrugged.

  Straesyr frowned. “I’d like to talk to Myskyl when he returns. That should be within the week. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a good idea. It will also aid in continuing to change the outlook at the scholarium. You’d likely lose Gauswn anyway, and this way, Major Skarpa has more time to groom his replacement.”

  “That makes sense. We can work it out.” The princeps nodded slowly. “I’ll still have to talk to the commander. You’re not to say a word to anyone, even Phargos.”

  “I understand, sir. I will tell him that I asked you, and you and Commander Myskyl will decide.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Not at the moment, sir.”

  “Then you should get on with those matters.” But Straesyr did smile warmly as Quaeryt slowly rose from the chair.

  Quaeryt didn’t return to his own small study until almost ninth glass, where he began on the various tasks the princeps had assigned him.

  Given his physical condition, the remainder of the week passed, steadily, if not swiftly. On Jeudi, Quaeryt spent a good glass with Straesyr and several more with the chief accounts clerk and a stack of ledgers, learning enough about the tariff and expense accounts so that he could assist Straesyr at least until Bhayar sent word as to what he intended to do about who would be governor, if not Straesyr, and who would be princeps if the princeps became governor.

  On Vendrei, Quaeryt dispatched his reply to Vaelora, one on which he had labored long and carefully. Commander Myskyl returned, in another light snowstorm that tapered off around sunset, with those battalions—and the engineers—who would not be immediately posted to the Boralieu or to Zorlyn’s hold, now being called Rescalyt. With Myskyl came several hundred prisoners … or refugees.

  Quaeryt was not included in the discussions between the governor and the commander, which was probably a good idea, he decided upon reflection.

  On Samedi morning, the princeps informed Quaeryt
that many of his recommendations had been taken and that the scholarium would need to foster some twenty-one orphans. He also gave his decision regarding Undercaptain Gauswn, and on that afternoon Quaeryt rode, with the escort of a squad from Sixth Battalion, to the scholarium, where he spent the rest of the day with Nalakyn and Yullyd over those matters and a quint with Cyrethyn informing him about the acting governor’s decision to release Gauswn from his obligation at the end of Finitas. While there, he recovered the gear and clothing he had left—and everything was as he had left it.

  Quaeryt actually rested on Solayi. He did not attend services.

  On Lundi morning, a courier delivered a letter to the Telaryn Palace, a letter that made its way up to the princeps’s anteroom, from where Vhorym delivered it to Quaeryt in his small study.

  There were two names on the outside of the envelope. One indicated it was from Jorem Rhodynsyn, and the other was given as “Scholar Quaeryt, Telaryn Palace.”

  Why was Jorem writing him? Another Pharsi problem? Had something happened to Rhodyn? He opened the envelope, extracted the single sheet, and began to read.

  Dear Scholar Quaeryt:

  I have heard from many that you are a person of position in Tilbor. I would not impose on you for any favor for myself. I know of no one else to whom I can turn. Hailae has a young cousin named Chartyn. He is barely a youth, but he has been discovered as an imager. As such, and as a Pharsi, his very life will be endangered. Young Chartyn is most industrious and intelligent. He would make a good scholar, but we cannot afford the fees to pay for such an education.…

  Quaeryt set the letter aside and took a deep breath. Finally, he picked it up and finished the last lines. He supposed he could include Chartyn as a sort of fosterling and ask Nalakyn to look after the boy. Perhaps even Lankyt would help.

  Outside, the wind howled, reminding him that winter was little more than a week away.

  He shivered.

  98

  Quaeryt returned to the Telaryn Palace at just past second glass on Meredi afternoon. He’d spent more than a glass at the scholarium persuading Nalakyn and Yullyd that young Chartyn needed discipline and support, and that to accept young Chartyn would be to everyone’s advantage, not to mention that the scholarium owed the governor/princeps for agreeing to a forty gold a month payment for fostering and other services. Their acquiescence had been better than grudging and less than heartily enthusiastic, and the returning ride had been in a cold and biting wind.

  He had barely gotten the worst of the chill out of his bones and his arm, which only pained him intermittently, if especially when he was tired, and was seated back in his study, looking at a ledger that held the tariff collections for the factors in southern Tilbor, when he heard horns and the sound of horses. He didn’t get up because he couldn’t see much of the courtyard and because he was tired and the riders were most likely the battalion that Straesyr had ordered transferred from Midcote to Tilbora.

  More than a glass later, he’d finished checking the autumn receipts when Vhorym knocked on his door. “You’re needed in the governor’s study, sir.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No, sir. I wasn’t told.”

  Quaeryt rose, but he couldn’t help but notice an odd expression, one he couldn’t identify, on the squad leader’s face. “Are you all right, Vhorym?”

  “Yes, sir. You’d best hurry … as you can.”

  Quaeryt still limped, as he always had, but the pain of his other injuries had almost vanished, unless he bumped into something with a few parts of his body where the bruises had been especially deep.

  Vhorym did not accompany Quaeryt to the governor’s anteroom, where Undercaptain Caermyt stood by the door to the study. Otherwise the anteroom was empty.

  “You’re to go right in, sir.” Caermyt opened the door.

  Quaeryt saw Straesyr standing behind the governor’s desk. Another man, brown-haired and in traveling grays, stood beside him, but continued to look away from the door. Straesyr motioned Quaeryt forward, his face pleasant, but unsmiling.

  As the study door closed, the man in grays turned, and his dark blue eyes fixed on Quaeryt. The scholar managed not to gape. He inclined his head. “Lord Bhayar.”

  “Scholar.” Bhayar did not smile, but looked to Straesyr. “You may go, Governor. We will finish our talk later.”

  “Yes, sir.” Straesyr nodded, turned, and walked toward the study door. He avoided looking at Quaeryt.

  Only when the door closed did Bhayar look directly at Quaeryt. The scholar immediately noted the circles under Bhayar’s eyes and the fact that the wiry lord appeared thinner, if possible, than the last time Quaeryt had seen him.

  Quaeryt waited.

  “It appears as though you have been busy,” said Bhayar in formal Bovarian, his voice calm, not quite flat. “If not exactly in the manner which you had suggested upon your departure from Solis. You know, scholar, this has been an arduous trip. We rode from Solis, pressing all the way. We did accomplish some good along the way. We wiped out the last of the ship reavers, and we enjoyed the hospitality of a holder—Rhodyn, I think his name was—who thought quite highly of you. Still … I do believe you exceeded the charge with which I sent you. Especially by requiring, in effect through a missive to my sister, that I come to Tilbor or risk losing my rule.”

  For a moment, Quaeryt hesitated, before replying in Bovarian, “I did what I thought best and in your interests, sir.”

  “As I recall,” replied Bhayar, “you said you would recommend how to reduce the number of soldiers required in Tilbor. You didn’t say that you would take matters into your own hands and make it happen—regardless of the consequences. You didn’t happen to mention that you intended to have a governor vanish—and in a fashion that no one can possibly trace to you—or that you’d make a princeps whose greatest value was to keep tariffs honestly flowing to Solis into his successor, or that…” Bhayar did not finish what he might have said, instead pausing, then asking, “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “To stop Rescalyn from turning a fanatically loyal regiment that he’d built into the size of three regiments with your tariffs and all the silvers from Zorlyn’s mine into a weapon for overthrowing you and visiting chaos, death, and destruction on Telaryn at exactly the time you face challenges in the west.”

  Bhayar nodded. “I made a few inquiries of my own, and it appears that you have always been more than you represented, even while you were in Solis. Here in Tilbor, you did happen to be correct. You also resolved the problem, somehow, by setting up the would-be usurper as a hero who died in serving me. You also appear to have reorganized the local scholars and gained the respect of the officers and men of the regiment, as well as that of the new governor. What, might I ask in the shadow of the Nameless, makes you any different from Rescalyn?”

  “I did what I did to enhance your rule, not to undermine it.”

  “Yet … you have proven to be one of those men who can use the smallest levers of power to great effectiveness. Such men are as dangerous as they are useful. What can I do with you to maintain that usefulness without endangering myself?”

  Quaeryt thought, but couldn’t come up with a quick answer. Still … he had to try. “You could—”

  Bhayar held up his hand. “Spare me. There are some matters where I still have better ways of dealing with the problem at hand. I have looked into all aspects of your acts and your life, and I have found a solution.”

  Quaeryt had a very uneasy feeling, although the almost mischievous smile on Bhayar’s face was at odds with Bhayar’s usual means of dealing with those who displeased him. Still … if he had to, he could image a distraction and raise concealment.

  Bhayar pointed at Quaeryt. “Stay where you are.” He walked past Quaeryt and stood by the study door, then half-turned. “You may not like it at first, but I assure you that you both will come to enjoy it … or you should.”

  Both? What exactly does he have in mind?

  Bhayar op
ened the study door. He gestured.

  The woman who stepped through the door had light brown wavy hair, brown eyes, and light honey-clear skin. She still wore riding trousers and a winter jacket, if now open. She smiled.

  Vaelora? What … Quaeryt could only look at her, somehow older, perhaps partly because of the circles under her eyes as well, and … knowing …

  Bhayar shut the study door behind her. “You do look appropriately stunned,” he said dryly to Quaeryt. “I believe you two have met. I even believe you have exchanged some considerable correspondence. Considerable, at least, given her position and yours, scholar.”

  Before either Vaelora or Quaeryt could speak, Bhayar held up his hand again. “I have given this some thought. My sister has insisted that she will not marry some High Holder for reasons of state. Nor will she marry someone she does not respect. Yet there are few indeed she respects, and none presently of position. Moreover, I will be badgered and pestered by every High Holder and would-be power-seeker so long as she remains unwed. Likewise, scholar, you are powerful in ways I do not claim to understand. So I have decided on several things. First, scholar, I am appointing you princeps of Tilbor.” He looked to his sister, whose smile had faded to an expression between surprise and exasperation. “That is partly so that my sister cannot claim that she gained a marriage that did not have a purpose of state. It is also so that you can continue to build ties between Tilbor and the rest of Telaryn. Of necessity, she will reinforce your loyalty. Of necessity, you will have to maintain her respect because I will not have my sister ever disrespected. This marriage and your appointment will also reinforce in the minds of the High Holders and others of power in Tilbor that I do in fact have a personal interest in the welfare and future of the people of Tilbor. It will also tell the officers and soldiers of the regiment that deeds of selflessness are sometimes rewarded. And … because I have been too long already from Solis, the wedding will take place here in the palace on Solayi.” The Lord of Telaryn grinned, one of the few times Quaeryt had ever seen that expression. “That way, I can return to Solis in peace, and you two can spend all of the very long winter here keeping each other warm.”