Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  An older woman, who had appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, glanced from the man pinned to the floor to Quaeryt, then Vaelora, and back to Quaeryt. The serving girl, her mouth open, stood beside the older woman.

  The silence was broken by the sound of the café door opening. A patroller stepped inside. At least, he appeared to be in some sort of uniform, despite splotches and spots on the khaki shirt and trousers, with black boots and a wide belt, from which dangled a truncheon on one side. “What seems to be the trouble here?”

  “Governor Quaeryt and his wife stopped here to eat,” answered the squad leader, turning toward the patroller. “His wife is the sister of Lord Bhayar. That man tried to attack them.”

  The patroller raked his eyes over Vaelora in a way that made Quaeryt think of imaging him dead. “Rush-high tale that is. Lord Bhayar can’t be no stinking Pharsi.” A snigger followed the words. “You boys just need to run along and take your friends back to the barracks with you, and there won’t be no trouble.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” said the muscular squad leader. “She is Lady Vaelora. That’s why we’re here. Now … you can take this piece of offal back to your station and throw him in a cell for a few days … or you can do anything else … and your relatives can decide what to do with your ashes.”

  The suddenly dough-faced patroller looked at the four rankers and their drawn sabres and then at Quaeryt.

  Quaeryt image-projected both authority and withering contempt.

  The patroller swallowed. “Ah … begging your pardon, Lady … Maybe I’d best be going.” He took a step back.

  “You need to take your friend here. He’d better stay in his cell for the next few days. Until the regiment leaves. You might tell your chief that,” added the squad leader. “He might not want a visit from the regimental commander.”

  One of the two rankers flanking the attacker sheathed his sabre and half led, half dragged the still dazed man toward the local patroller, then practically shoved him forward.

  Neither local said another word as the patroller led the still-bound attacker back out through the front door, stepping to one side, once he was outside, to avoid the potted hyacinths.

  “The lost one…”

  At those words, Quaeryt turned, realizing that they had been murmured in the comparative silence by the older woman who still stood by the kitchen door. He thought about asking her why she’d made the comment, but didn’t want to raise that question in such a public setting, especially with the troopers nearby. Instead, after a moment, he smiled at the older woman and the younger server beside her. “I think that good meal you promised would suit us all now.”

  “Ah … yes, sir.” The server scurried toward the kitchen.

  The older woman nodded at Quaeryt, then bowed to Vaelora, before following the server.

  “The local people don’t care for troopers much, do they?” asked Vaelora.

  “That’s true in most places,” replied Quaeryt. “That’s why Governor Rescalyn effectively built the cafés and…”

  “Pleasure houses?” Vaelora raised her eyebrows.

  “Well … after the problems caused by his predecessor…”

  “It makes sense. I don’t have to like it. Just like Bhayar’s decision not to stand behind you. He’s fortunate not to be in Solis. I’d…” Vaelora broke off as the server appeared with a goblet and a large mug.

  The older woman followed with two platters, deftly sliding one before Vaelora and the second in front of Quaeryt. They returned to the kitchen and came back with mugs and platters of food for the troopers.

  “It looks much better than breakfast,” said Vaelora. “Even food on the road tasted better.”

  “The mess kitchens are old,” suggested Quaeryt. “Or maybe the provisions were even older.”

  His words brought a faint smile to Vaelora’s lips, before she took a bite of her meal. He picked up the batter-fried sandwich that held fowl strips, pepper slices, and cheese and took a bite, finding it hot and tasty, if not overwhelmingly so.

  “You should try this,” suggested Vaelora.

  After taking a taste of her skelana, Quaeryt looked to her. “You made the better choice.”

  “It’s nice to hear you admit that,” she replied with a smile.

  “But the domchana is still good. It’s just not as good.”

  Vaelora took a sip of the white and set it down. “Your choice of beverage was better, I think.”

  “Do you want a lager?”

  “No … this will do.”

  After they finished the meal, and as they walked southward toward the piers, Quaeryt strained to hear the low murmured words from the four troopers, but he could only catch snatches of words, because the troopers walked more than a few paces behind, obviously trying to give Quaeryt and Vaelora some space and privacy.

  “… like he knew…”

  “… say he knows more than…”

  “… said he was Pharsi, too…”

  “… blond?”

  Even though Quaeryt did not look back, the troopers’ words died away.

  Quaeryt looked sideways at Vaelora. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She shook her head ruefully. “You’d think, after all these years, that people would know that there’s Pharsi blood in our family.”

  “How?” asked Quaeryt quietly. “Except for when you handed out flour and bread in Extela, this is probably the first time in your entire life when you’ve been surrounded by people who didn’t know who you are.” Perhaps not the first, but there can’t have been very many times. He didn’t voice that thought.

  “But … the people who own the café … they’re Pharsi. Why didn’t he attack them?”

  “They’re subservient, in his mind. They serve. They’re in their place. We weren’t … and he didn’t know who you were.”

  “People here seem to know who you are, even when they don’t.” Vaelora’s voice held an edge.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The old woman in the café.”

  “She just recognized us as having Pharsi blood.”

  “Oh? She didn’t say ‘one of the lost ones.’ She said ‘the lost one,’” said Vaelora, “as if it meant something. As if she knew you were that lost one.”

  “She bowed to you, not me. And how would she know?” Quaeryt shook his head even before he finished speaking, and quickly added, “A vision?”

  “Farsight,” suggested Vaelora.

  “You haven’t had any more visions lately, have you?”

  “No … dearest. They’re not that frequent. Not for me. Grandmere had them more often, I think.”

  “Why would she…? Could it be a skill that improves with experience?”

  Vaelora laughed, ironically. “How? It’s not something you can exactly practice.”

  “I wonder…”

  “Wonder all you want.”

  “Haven’t all the visions you’ve told me about dealt with people close to you?”

  “How was the eruption in Extela…” Vaelora stopped.

  “Twice. Your family was there when she had it, and it influenced your life.”

  “But she didn’t know that then.”

  “Do you know that? Or what else she saw? I told you about the young Pharsi woman in Bhorael, the wife of Rhodyn’s son? She had a vision of me in her kitchen before she ever knew I existed.”

  Vaelora frowned, then smiled wryly. “It’s best to think that what will be will be, and that at times we may get a glimpse of it.”

  Quaeryt nodded, thinking, A glimpse of what lies before us might be helpful—except such visions don’t appear to be that accommodating.

  He reached out and took Vaelora’s hand as they continued toward the river.

  60

  Unlike Lundi, Mardi had been uneventful, and Quaeryt enjoyed spending time with Vaelora, if only talking or walking … not to mention other pleasures, but the day passed too quickly, as did the evening.

  Desp
ite the comparatively cramped room Quaeryt and Vaelora shared in the small post adjacent to the piers at Tresrives, officers’ quarters that a year earlier Quaeryt would have found more than adequate, Quaeryt woke early and with dread on Meredi morning. In the gloom that was barely lighter than full darkness, he glanced over at the still-sleeping Vaelora and a smile appeared on his lips, one that vanished immediately as he thought about how soon they would be parted.

  You never thought you’d feel this way … or even have the chance to.

  So few scholars ever could afford a wife, and as for imagers, almost no families even wanted a child who might grow up to be one. Quaeryt had understood that as a very young orphan among the scholars. That was why he’d kept his imaging talent to himself for long, long years … until Vaelora had arrived, although he had to admit that she and Bhayar had suspected it earlier than that. But Bhayar might not have without your letters to her.

  Vaelora opened her eyes and yawned, then rolled closer to him and kissed him gently.

  As she leaned back slightly a while later, he asked, “What was that for?”

  “You know very well, silly man.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “For loving me, and not the sister of the Lord of Telaryn.”

  “I only really knew you, as you. You are the one who saw to that.” There had still been times when he’d seen a certain imperiousness, but although Quaeryt did not know, not for certain, he had the feeling that most women had moments of imperiousness. Certainly, most men did … often with women in particular. That, he’d seen from the outside, as it were.

  “I did my best.”

  “You did it very well.”

  Vaelora looked to the riding clothes on the rack, then offered a sad smile. “We’d best dress.”

  All too soon, after a quick and cold breakfast in the officers’ mess, and packing both their mounts, he was mounted on the mare, waiting beside Skarpa in the courtyard as Eleryt, Vaelora, and Third Battalion’s second company rode out of the courtyard and swung eastward on the river road toward Solis.

  How long before I see her again? He tried not to think about other, even less pleasant, possibilities as he finally turned the mare and followed the commander toward the front of the regiment about to ride out to the west and who knew what awaited them there.

  For the next glass or so, Quaeryt and Skarpa rode westward, first from the barracks and over the bridge over the Telexan River, and then along the stone-paved river road. As the day grew hotter and damper, Quaeryt folded his jacket and laid it over the front of his saddle, then at the first rest and watering stop, tucked it into the left saddlebag.

  Two glasses later, when they stopped again, Quaeryt dismounted and actually opened the tight saddlebag to reach for the hard biscuits he’d slipped inside before leaving Tresrives … and paused at the envelope tucked in beside the small sack of provisions.

  How had she…? He shook his head and extracted the envelope, slipping it inside his tunic for a moment while he took out two biscuits and closed the saddlebag. Then the biscuits went into a pocket, and he opened the letter, smoothed it out carefully, and began to read.

  Dearest—

  I know I have not been the most pleasant person at times over the last weeks. At such times, I have not been the best of wives, either. That has not been right, or fair to you. I can only hope you understand. For all of my life, until we were married, I have been confined and restricted, even more so in what I might say than what I might do. For all the difficulties, and the lack of proper quarters at times for the last months, I still appreciate, more now than ever, the freedom you bestowed upon me … and your grace in hearing me out.

  Much as I love you, and would wish to be able to tell you that only your survival matters to me, I must tell you that you will not survive without Bhayar’s support. Nor will my brother survive and prosper without yours. You have the burden of saving yourself and him. Nothing else matters, for I will not see either of you again unless I am able to see you both.

  Another vision? Something she didn’t want to tell you? Quaeryt frowned. Why hadn’t she wanted to tell him?

  He looked back down at the elegant script.

  Do what you must, as much as necessary, but no more than that. Do so with the knowledge that I love you for the man you are, and not for the talents you have and will need to use in often terrible ways. For, as we both know, that is the nature of war.

  Beneath those words were three others—“All my love”—and her signature.

  He read the last lines a second time, and a third, before finally refolding the sheet and replacing it in the envelope.

  61

  Samedi looked to be another long day, thought Quaeryt, particularly after the regiment took almost a glass to ride around a line of supply wagons headed for Ferravyl, and that was only a glass after leaving the small unnamed town where they had spent Vendrei night in leaking barns and sheds. That rain had also softened the ground flanking the road so much that passing the wagons required the column splitting into single files and each file riding on the graveled shoulder of the road until the entire regiment was past and could re-form. The wagons mostly held barrels, either of dried and salted meat, pickled vegetables, and flour, at least from the lettering on the barrels Quaeryt could see. He rode beside Skarpa, at the head of Fourth Battalion for the day.

  Once they were well past the wagons, Skarpa eased his mount closer to Quaeryt’s mare. “I haven’t mentioned it before … but I got a written complaint from the head of the town council at Tresrives. It was delivered the morning we left, but I figured it could wait until we were on the road … and then, somehow, I didn’t get to it immediately.”

  “So you could claim you were too far away … or that you took care of it in the proper manner … and there’d be no way for them to know what you did.”

  “Something like that.” Skarpa grinned. “You might know what it was all about.”

  “A very unhappy patroller, I’d wager,” said Quaeryt. “He wanted to show a couple he thought were lowly Pharsis who was in charge, and he discovered that he was on the wrong end of a few blades and an angry husband.”

  “He claims that you assaulted a local merchant.”

  “The so-called local merchant came running at us with a cudgel. I took it away from him, but I never even hit him. He started yelling about how we were cursed Pharsis and the evil ones. One of the rankers quieted him with the flat of his sabre. They tied him up. The patroller came in and tried to order us out. Your squad leader was most persuasive in changing his mind.”

  “Did he actually threaten the patroller?”

  “I don’t recall anything like that. He did say something about the patrol chief not really wanting a visit from you because he’d offended Lord Bhayar’s sister.”

  Skarpa nodded. “Your recollection matches the squad leader’s. I wanted to make sure.” After a moment he added, “Still say you’d make a good officer, scholar or not. We’re likely to be at war with the Bovarians before long, if we’re not already, and in war no one cares too much about officers who might step on the boots of merchants and High Holders. They do care whether you get the task accomplished without losing too many men. You’ve already proved that in Tilbor and as governor in Extela.”

  “I also proved that most people don’t care whether a governor gets the job done, only how it affects them.”

  “You proved that High Holders and snotty factors think that. The men just saw that you wanted the best for everyone, not just in Extela but when lives were on the line in Tilbor.”

  “I just might have been fortunate in Tilbor.”

  “When an officer is fortunate time after time, especially when he’s close enough to get wounded a few times and men and squad leaders risk their necks to save him, it’s not luck.”

  “That’s a different kind of fortune, riding with good men and squad leaders.” Quaeryt gestured toward the road ahead, which curved northward in a barely perceptible arc. “Th
is is the Great Bend?” He wanted to change the subject.

  “For the next fifty milles, roughly.” Skarpa smiled. “When we’re through it, and heading due west, we’ll be about a day away from Ferravyl.”

  “If it doesn’t rain again.”

  “It always rains in the midlands here. Only questions are how long and how hard.”

  Quaeryt smiled.

  “Squad Leader Demryn did mention one interesting thing,” said Skarpa, after a long silence. “He said he offered to have the rankers wait outside the café, but you said they needed to eat. That was kind of you, but I wouldn’t have expected otherwise. He also said you told them that they couldn’t protect Lady Vaelora if they were outside.”

  “I just said that to make it easier for them to accept a good meal.”

  “From anyone else, I’d accept that unquestioningly. From you…” The commander shook his head. “Too many things you’ve said that seemed improbable when you said them have come to pass.” One hand lifted, and he pointed to the gold insignia on his collars, a crescent moon. “Like these. And then I find out that you’re actually Pharsi. I never would have thought it. Never saw a blond Pharsi, but you’ve got the eyes, when you look close.”

  “Fortunate guesses. That’s all.” I really did want to make it easier for the troopers to eat. Yet Quaeryt knew Skarpa wouldn’t believe such a statement, and saying that it was so would only make it seem like he was protesting too much.

  “Lord Bhayar sent you to Tilbor. He’s got Pharsi blood, too. How did he know to send you?”

  How are you supposed to answer that? “I don’t know. I’ve told you what he said.”

  “I’m sure that is what he said. That doesn’t mean it’s what he meant or why he sent you. And then … why did he ride all the way across Telaryn—with his sister—just to marry her to you?”

  “I don’t think that’s why he came. Not the only reason. I’d been sending him reports from the day I arrived at the Telaryn Palace.”