Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “The nearest is High Holder Aramyn. His hold is five milles due west. Next is Wystgahl. He’s about twelve milles south on a hill overlooking the river. The next nearest is Thysor, but his lands are more into timber, and he’s to the east across the river.”

  “Who might be the strongest of the High Holders?” Quaeryt kept his voice pleasant, although he was less than pleased.

  “That’d be hard to say, sir.”

  “What can you tell me about Aramyn?”

  “I’ve never seen the High Holder, sir. Nor his place. I’d not wish to speculate on what I’ve not seen.”

  “What about Wystgahl and Thysor?”

  “I’ve not met either, sir.”

  “Have you met any others?”

  “No, sir. They’d be farther away.”

  Quaeryt was about to excuse himself when one other question, one he’d wondered about intermittently since he’d arrived in Extela, occurred to him. “I noticed that the anomen was locked…”

  “Ah … yes, sir. That’s because we’ve not a proper chorister. Well … not even an improper one, and there not being one, I felt it was best to secure the building. You wouldn’t have a regimental chorister coming, would you?”

  “No. There’s no chorister with the regiment.” Quaeryt wasn’t about to get tangled up any more in providing homilies, especially given what he’d seen in Extela. For all that he’d said in the last homily he delivered—and he sincerely hoped it was indeed his last—he still had trouble reconciling a benevolent Nameless with the destruction wreaked on the city.

  “That’s a pity. The officers and men were hoping…”

  “I can understand that.” Quaeryt nodded as he stood. “Where might I find Major Heireg?”

  “He has a study in the quartermaster’s spaces—the end of the south stable.”

  “Thank you.”

  Quaeryt returned to the smaller study he’d claimed and immediately summoned Meinyt and Fhaen. As soon as they arrived, he waved them into the two chairs.

  “Part of the problem here is that the Civic Patrol chief is apparently dead, the headquarters was destroyed, and no one bothered to reorganize the patrol, since the chief reported to the governor. Major Meinyt … I’d like you to have one of your captains or undercaptains scout around for a suitable building, preferably empty, that can be used as a temporary space for the Civic Patrol, one where cells or the like can be quickly built. Once we have a building, some of the engineers, and any stone or masonry workers we can find, will convert it, and chief clerk Jhalyt will write up some notices requesting patrollers who wish to retain their positions meet there. The sooner we can get patrollers back on the streets, the less patrolling you and your men will have to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After going over a few more details with the two, Quaeryt hurried out into the courtyard, where Vaelora was waiting. As he walked toward her, he looked to the northwest. The sky appeared clearer, and there was only the faintest haze surrounding Mount Extel. At least, that was the way it seemed to him. But are you seeing what you want to see?

  “How was your meeting?” she asked.

  “Very polite. It would appear that Governor Scythn kept him very much in the dark.”

  “And his curiosity about High Holders is rather restrained?”

  “Extremely. But that is the safest course for a military officer with limited talent. The other problem is that he’s done nothing to keep order beyond the post walls. He didn’t even try to gather what remained of the Civic Patrol.” Quaeryt couldn’t help but wonder how Zhrensyl had ever become a commander and why he’d been retained … unless Bhayar had judged that lack of curiosity was a requirement for the post in Extela.

  “He must be close to the age for a stipend.”

  “Unless he had a long and glorious service when he was younger, I’m not sure that he deserves it.”

  Vaelora slowed and glanced to the outside wall of the rankers’ mess hall, where the old woman they had rescued from the mob in Extela sat on the worn paving stones, her back against the wall, feeding bread from a loaf to the small child in her arms.

  “You stay here,” murmured Vaelora.

  An amused smile on his face, one that vanished almost immediately, Quaeryt waited as his wife neared the woman.

  “How are you doing?” asked Vaelora in Tellan.

  The woman responded in what Quaeryt thought was Pharsi.

  Vaelora said a few words back, apparently in the same tongue, then added in Tellan, “That’s all I know.”

  “Then you are lost ones, you and the scholar.”

  Vaelora’s eyes flashed to Quaeryt, as if questioning, before she replied, “He is the governor and my husband.”

  “Doubly lost are you both, then.”

  “We were fortunate enough to find each other.”

  “You will need to find more than that. Have you time to listen to an old woman’s tale?” The woman handed another fragment of bread to the child.

  Vaelora glanced to Quaeryt. He nodded.

  The woman cleared her throat and began to speak.

  In the time before the lost ones were lost, four young Pharsi, three men and a woman, were walking through the great woods of Khel. Two of the men were brothers, and strong-thewed they were. Afeared of nothing were they as well, even when they should have been. They led along a way too large to be a path and too narrow to be a road. Behind them walked their sister, with a young man like your companion, white-blond and black-eyed, and he was a distant cousin who had come to court her. Above them the trees were so thick that the day seemed like dusk. Before long, the four came to a scabbard lying beside the path, and a fine scabbard indeed it was, but bereft of its blade.

  The older brother picked it up and thrust it under his belt, saying, “Where that came from there must be a blade to match.”

  The younger brother replied, “If the scabbard is yours, then the blade will be mine.”

  “Both will be mine, for I am the eldest,” declared the older brother.

  “Mine, for it is only fair that we share,” insisted the younger brother.

  “Mine—”

  “Do not argue over what is not and may never be,” said the sister, and her voice was soft, but firm.

  “What say you, cousin?” asked the eldest.

  And the white-blond and black-eyed Pharsi who had come courting said in return, “Your sister has the right of it.”

  The two brothers grumbled, but they were silent. Before long, they came to a fine velvet wallet lying in the path, and the younger brother grabbed it up, yet there was but a single tarnished copper within the wallet.

  “So if there is a blade, it will be mine,” asserted the eldest.

  “Only if I do not find the golds that fell from this wallet.”

  And they began to argue once more. Again, their soft-voiced sister said, “Do not argue over what is not and may never be.”

  Once more, the brothers asked, “Cousin, what say you now?”

  And once more, he replied, “Your sister has the right of it.”

  Grumbles followed grumbles, until they died away, and before long the four came to a clearing in the wood, where there were two men. They were well attired and well armed, and they fought with blades that glistened in the late afternoon sun that poured into the clearing. Then one struck the other a blow that clove through shoulder and near onto the heart of the other, but the dying man grasped a poignard and slipped it between the ribs of the other, and they both fell down dead.

  The two brothers hurried into the clearing and immediately began to despoil the dead men of their belongings, seeing as neither would have need of such. Tied to one tree at the side of the clearing was young stallion, as handsome a stallion as anyone could want, and his coat was silver-white and as fine as silk, but he bore neither saddle nor bridle, but only a harness and a lead. But tethered to two other trees were even more splendid stallions, and they wore fine saddles and bridles as well.

  The two
brothers began to argue, each to claim what the other had, and the Pharsi woman turned to her cousin. “Dearest, let us take the stallion and lead him away.”

  Her cousin looked to the brothers. “There is much treasure there.”

  “Do not argue over what is not and may never be,” she said. “Am I not more treasure than they will ever see?”

  He smiled and said, “Truly, that is so.”

  And they untied the stallion and walked away from the clearing, leading the stallion between them, until the arguing voices of the brothers were lost in the soft sounds of the woods. They walked, and they walked, and the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky, until it, too, vanished behind the western peaks, and they came to the end of the woods and continued through the fields and meadows.

  They had scarce come around a corner in the way that was too wide for a path and too narrow for a road when a man with hair as white as snow and as silver as moonlight and the face of a young warrior rode toward them across the meadow to the south. The silver-white-haired man looked from the young woman to her cousin and then to the mare. “Where did you come by that stallion?” he asked.

  “Why, sir,” answered the Pharsi woman, “his lead was tangled in a branch in the woods, and we untangled it. That was how we came by him.”

  “You did not try to ride him?”

  “No, sir,” replied the cousin most politely. “He looked not to be broken, and escaped from his owner.”

  “He is indeed not broken, nor will that ever happen, and he was stolen by two brigands, and they had two other rough fellows to help them, but they fell to fighting and they were still fighting when we came upon them and slew the last two. And I would ask that you not argue and return my stallion to me.”

  The woman was grieved so that she thought her heart would break, but she held her tears and said, “I would not argue over what is not and may never be.”

  “Wise you are, woman, and you as well, fellow.” The white-haired man bent in the saddle and took the lead from her. “Wise you were, also, to lead the stallion between you, for to try to ride one so wild would only have left you dead and trampled in the dirt.” He took a small pouch from his belt and tossed it to her. “Some coppers for your troubles.”

  Then he turned his mount, and he and his mount, like as to a twin to the stallion that trotted beside them, they rode off.

  The woman opened the pouch and a score of coppers fell into her palm. She and her cousin looked up and saw the silver-white-haired man, a mighty bow across his back, riding up a shimmering road of reddish silver that stretched skyward … and vanished. And where the road had led, shining full in the night that had come on so suddenly, was Erion, the moon of the great hunter.

  A single beam from that, the lesser moon, flashed across her hands, and she gasped, for the coppers had turned to gold.

  And yet, the greatest treasure they had was not the wealth of the golds, but the wisdom of the hunter, and so that should be for you as well.

  The wisdom of the hunter? Quaeryt did not voice his question.

  The old woman looked from Vaelora to Quaeryt and back again before she smiled. “Remember the tale, lost ones, and you will be lost no more when you come to the road.” Then she bowed her head to Vaelora. “I thank you, Lady, for your grace and kindness.”

  “And I thank you for your story and your insight,” replied Vaelora. After a pause, she asked, “Is that an old, old tale?”

  “I heard it from my grandmere, and she from hers.”

  “Why did you offer it to us?” asked Quaeryt pleasantly, feeling far more charitable to her than he had toward Zhrensyl.

  “Because you need to know from where you come, lost one, governor that you may be.” She smiled sadly. “That is all I can say. The rest you must find yourselves.”

  “Thank you,” Vaelora said again.

  As they walked away, Quaeryt thought about the woman’s addressing them as the “lost ones.” He’d heard … somewhere … about the lost ones. He just couldn’t remember where.

  The two walked slowly away from the rankers’ mess hall.

  “Who are the lost ones? What does that mean?” asked Vaelora.

  “I’m trying…” Abruptly, he remembered who had first called him a “lost one”—Hailae, in Bhorael. How could you forget that? He shook his head ruefully. “I don’t know all of it, but I’ve told you about Rhodyn’s son Jorem…”

  “The one who married the Pharsi woman he saved, you mean?”

  “His wife is Hailae, and when she saw me the first time, she called me a ‘lost one.’ I’d never heard that. The lost ones are Pharsi who are marked by black eyes and white blond hair, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, explain more.”

  “You told me how she insisted you are Pharsi, but not about being a lost one.”

  “I thought I did.”

  Vaelora shook her head.

  Rather than pursue that, Quaeryt said, “The way she told it, it has to be an old tale, but I’ve never heard it or read about it.”

  “She was certain it applied to us.” Vaelora smiled. “Even if most Pharsi would have been beaten or killed if they’d been found with a horse and no way to have bought it.”

  “None of the old tales make any sense that way.” He paused. “Do you really think that we’re the lost ones?”

  “You’re from a Pharsi background, and so am I, but neither of us can speak more than a few words of Pharsi. We know nothing of their customs.”

  “So … from her point of view, we’re the lost ones.”

  “I think ‘lost ones’ means more than that,” mused Vaelora. “I wish I knew more. I should have listened more closely to Grandmere.”

  “She never talked about the lost ones?”

  “If she did, I don’t remember, and I think I would have.” After a moment she asked, “What will you do now?”

  “Meet with Major Heireg. The post quartermaster has to know something about the High Holders and who has what goods. Then … we’ll begin visiting the High Holders.”

  “We? You didn’t ask me.” Vaelora’s face was composed, severe in expression.

  Quaeryt wasn’t quite sure whether she was irritated or amused behind a facade. “Would my lady prefer to accompany me on a long ride to visit politely unpleasant High Holders or to remain here at the post in idle leisure?”

  “That is most disrespectful…” Vaelora grinned abruptly, but the grin didn’t last long.

  “I am sorry. I’d thought we’d talked about this last night.”

  “We did … but you didn’t ask. You just assumed.”

  Quaeryt didn’t hide the wince.

  “I would like to accompany you. I also think I can be useful, don’t you?”

  Her last words were delivered so sweetly that he winced again. “I do indeed, and I apologize for my assumptions.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for all of them, dearest. Just that one. Your apology is accepted.”

  “Thank you.”

  Vaelora laughed softly.

  “It might be better if I met with the major alone,” said Quaeryt as they neared the stables.

  “I would agree. I’ll be outside here nearby.”

  “It’s not likely to be long.”

  “Take as long as you need, dearest.”

  Quaeryt inclined his head to her, then turned and made his way to the narrow door at the end of the stable. Inside was a small space, barely large enough for the single narrow desk, the chair in front of it, and the records chests stacked head high against the outer wall.

  “Governor!” The major rose from the desk and bowed. “What might I do for you, sir?”

  “I’d like to hear what you have to say about procurement. Especially recent procurement.” Quaeryt gestured for the major to reseat himself, then settled into the single armless chair in front of the desk.

  “We haven’t procured much in the past weeks. Nothing at all.”

  “Commander Zhrensyl indicated that you have a fair supply of
rations and some fodder, but not that much more. Are supplies that hard to purchase?”

  “It depends on what you mean, Governor,” replied the round-faced man, whose cherubic visage was contraindicated by a lean muscular frame. “I could purchase more supplies, but we don’t need them right now. The local holders, especially the High Holders, are holding their grain and flour dear. They’re holding everything dear.” Heireg smiled sardonically. “I’ve held off buying. I figured Lord Bhayar would send someone to replace Governor Scythn before long. Whoever it was would have more clout than I would in getting a fair price from those bastards. Pardon my language, sir, but they are. Some of ’em would run down a starving mother for sport. Especially Wystgahl.”

  That didn’t surprise Quaeryt in the slightest. “I need to know what the range of past prices for simple goods has been—flour, a side of mutton, or a whole sheep, maize, potatoes…”

  “Until the mountain blew, sir, flour was running eight silvers a barrel, sometimes nine. Potatoes were less than three coppers a bushel. Good ones, that is. In the fall, I could get a bushel for two coppers. Price of the other provisions bounced around from week to week. I can show you the ledgers with all the prices…”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Heireg eased a ledger off the shelf on the wall, then stood, opening the ledger to the last page with entries. “You see here, almost a month ago, the last time I bought anything…”

  Quaeryt listened as the major went over the costs of each procurement, then asked, “From whom do you obtain these massive amounts of goods?”