“Because that’s the signal to serve?”
Skarpa nodded, then grinned. “Remember … if I’m gone … you’re the next ranking officer. Then you get to worry about it.”
Quaeryt hadn’t even thought about that.
“How are those imagers coming along?”
“Not so well as I’d like. Right now … they’d be useless, or close to it. I’m working on training them on things that might be useful, like imaging holes in planks.”
“Why…” Skarpa broke off. “Holes in barges holding troops?”
“That’s one idea. Do you have any others where the placement or removal of small objects would make a difference?”
“Horseshoes in a cavalry charge.” Skarpa shrugged. “Other than that … Small things don’t matter as much once the fighting starts. They matter more before.”
“Like supplies that don’t get there because a wagon breaks an axle and holds up a whole line of wagons?”
The commander nodded.
So how can you make these imagers useful … as imagers? Outside of delaying or sinking troop barges, Quaeryt didn’t have any ideas that would make a significant difference. “If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.”
“I will.” Skarpa glanced at a captain and an undercaptain hurrying into the mess, then said, “I suppose it’s time to make our appearance. Lead on, Subcommander.”
Quaeryt couldn’t help but grin momentarily as he walked toward the mess door.
Since the seating in the mess was not strictly by rank, except on declared “mess nights,” usually Jeudi evenings, on the first, third, and fifth weeks of the month, perhaps because Skarpa wasn’t one for excessive formality, rather than every Jeudi, as had been the case in Tilbora, Quaeryt ate with the imager undercaptains, most of whom doubtless would have preferred that he did not, but he felt he needed to learn what he could about them.
After a good half quint of silence mixed with pleasantries, Desyrk cleared his throat, then asked, “Sir, can you tell us why we’re here? It doesn’t seem like what we can do would help the other troopers much.”
Quaeryt could sense the others looking to him and waiting for an answer. He offered a pleasant smile and replied, “It’s not what you can do now. It’s what you should be able to do. It’s the same thing with new troopers. If you put them into a fight the day they became troopers, most of them would end up running or dying. They have to be trained, and so do you. The problem with being an imager anywhere today is that no one really wants you to do anything because they’re afraid of what you can do. You’re not encouraged to get better at imaging, and you’re not pressed to improve. That’s my task.”
“But you’re not an imager … sir,” said Threkhyl.
“I’m a scholar, and I’ve studied what imagers have done. Have any of you?” Quaeryt looked at each undercaptain, one after the other. When there was no answer, he went on. “Just by watching you after less than a day, I can see that I’ve pressed some of you to do ways of imaging you hadn’t tried or considered.”
“But can we improve enough to make a difference before the Bovarians attack?” asked Akoryt.
“I don’t know,” admitted Quaeryt. “I hope so. Even if you don’t, though, this war won’t end with one battle or even a few battles. You’ll learn more with each fight or battle.” What he didn’t say was that those who didn’t might not survive to the next fight … and even some who did might be unfortunate anyway. “How much better you become as you train will be more important than what you can do now.”
“Have you ever been wounded, Subcommander?” asked Shaelyt, his voice very respectful. “Seriously, I mean?”
“Not seriously enough to die, obviously,” replied Quaeryt. “But … yes. Twice.” Before anyone could follow up on that, he added quickly, “Commander Skarpa, I think it was, made the observation to the effect that most officers only learn by surviving their mistakes, and getting wounded is a serious mistake.” He managed to deliver the words dryly enough that several of the undercaptains smiled.
He managed the rest of the meal with pleasantries, and in asking gentle questions.
While sitting there, he lifted his mug after drinking all the lager, then concentrated on refilling it with lager—by imaging. Immediately, there was lager in the mug, but the outside of the mug was chill. He took the smallest sip of the liquid. It was lager, but not terribly good lager, possibly because he knew nothing about being a brewmaster. Still, that ability would come in useful in the weeks and months ahead.
Later, after leaving the mess, Quaeryt walked out through the main gates of the post and then north for a hundred yards or so along the river road, past an area that had been largely cleared of brush and trees, except for the handful near the wall—which really should have been removed.
A task for your imagers—from a distance?
He’d have to suggest it to Skarpa. He could see that dropping branches on advancing troops might help in a fight in a woods, but he had the feeling that most cavalry commanders would try to avoid getting their troops caught in a heavily wooded area. Working on the tree would help strengthen the imagers’ abilities, anyway.
Quaeryt walked down the uneven slope toward the river, avoiding boulders, and the remnants of what looked to be the foundations of a large building, perhaps a warehouse, or even a barracks. He stopped some fifteen yards from the water, where he stood on a grassy patch at the back of a small knoll a few yards above the level of the water in the marshy area beneath him. Between the marshes on the east side of the river and the sand spits beyond the reeds, the distance from where he stood to solid ground on the west bank was less than three hundred yards. Across the river, if another hundred yards upstream, he could see the wooden barge piers and behind them various structures of the town of Cleblois. The piers were empty.
How far can you image? To those piers? Quaeryt wondered if he could image out a chunk of wood from the piers.
He looked at the piers and picked out a pole fastened to and rising from a bollard at the south end of the piers. Then he concentrated.
A line of light and pain flashed through his eyes and straight to the back of his skull—or so he felt. The pain was so intense for several moments that his eyes filled with tears, and he could not even see for a time. When he could finally see again, his head was still splitting. He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. When the pain had subsided to a dull ache, he looked across the river.
The top part of the pole was gone. Was it because he’d de-imaged it? He thought so, but the pain had blocked his vision for a time, enough so that he couldn’t be absolutely certain. He’d have to try again … later. With that thought, he turned and walked back up the slope to the road, far more slowly than he had descended.
Once he returned to his quarters, he lay down on the bed, wider than a mere bunk, and dozed, waking abruptly in near darkness to the sound of the bells sounding the glass. He bolted into a sitting position.
How long did you sleep?
He counted four more bells, then walked to the window and looked out. There was still a haze of gray in the western sky, indicating that it wasn’t that long after sunset.
Probably eighth glass. And that meant he’d slept a little over a glass.
At least his head no longer ached, and he could get on with writing the letter to Vaelora that he needed to dispatch on Vendrei, assuming he could find a courier headed to Solis.
He seated himself before the desk, with paper and the pen and inkwell he had brought from Extela, and began to write.
My dearest,
I have arrived safely in Ferravyl, although not without an adventure along the way, from which I escaped uninjured, if exhausted and momentarily strained and stiff. I do trust that your journey to Solis was less eventful, and that all is well with you … and Aelina.
You cannot imagine my surprise to discover, upon my arrival in Ferravyl, that Lord Bhayar had commissioned me as a subcommander. I am now
in command of a special force of troopers and imagers. When I asked why, he told me that he thought that a scholar with combat experience was the best choice for the position, and he had already conveyed that to the imagers, who all rank as undercaptains. At present, their skills are not greatly suited to combat, but I am working to discover what they can do and to train them toward abilities that may be more useful against the Bovarians. I fear, given the positions in which Lord Bhayar and Rex Kharst find themselves, that the coming conflict will be anything but short and believe that any small advantage may make the difference in the eventual outcome. Whether I can develop that advantage remains to be seen.…
Ferravyl is perhaps the least attractive city through which I have ever passed, and the very air burns one’s nostrils. That we are fighting over such a mean locale emphasizes the importance of its location.
Would that I were with you still in Extela, or even in Tilbora, but we do not yet choose where we would be. Yet I look for the days when that is so, and when we are again rejoined.
When he finished the last lines of the letter and signed it, he realized that his head was aching once more.
After letting the ink dry, he folded it, slipped it into an envelope, and sealed it, imaging the seal rather than melting wax. Even that minor bit of imaging sent a twinge through his skull.
Why? You’ve done more than that before. Because you’ve been doing it all the time while you’ve been carrying heavy shields?
He hoped so … and that his straining his imaging abilities all the time would result in more improvement.
Then he began to disrobe. Sleep would help … he hoped.
67
On Vendrei, Quaeryt added more drills to what he had begun, starting with having the imagers image small items, first while mounted and not moving, and then while riding. Following that, he required them to try to image holes in a swinging board as they rode past it, first at a distance of a few yards, next at twenty yards, fifty, and then a hundred yards. Only Threkhyl and Shaelyt could manage to create holes at the longer distance. Then he gave the undercaptain imagers a break from imaging and had one of Zhelan’s squad leaders spend another glass drilling them with the sabre. After that, he worked the imagers with more imaging drills.
That evening, after eating, Quaeryt walked through a light drizzle that had begun to fall in late afternoon back down to the river, where he again attempted to image away another section of the pole affixed to a bollard at the barge piers that served Cleblois, while holding the strongest personal shields he could, slightly extended away from himself. While the effort gave him an almost-splitting headache, he could see well enough afterward to determine that he had in fact imaged away the pole.
You just have to keep stretching yourself, no matter how painful it is.
He did smile, briefly, as he made his way back to the post.
On Samedi, he repeated the drills he had conducted on Vendrei, noting that both Voltyr and Desyrk could at last create holes in the swinging board at a hundred yards, although Desyrk could only manage tiny holes, but Akoryt did create larger holes at fifty yards, and even Baelthm managed one hole at a few yards. Quaeryt said nothing as they rode past the board, just listening when they re-formed and waited for the next exercise.
“… don’t see the point…”
“… just watches and makes us do what he can’t…”
“… waste of time…”
“… no real use for any of this…”
Only Voltyr and Shaelyt said nothing negative, but the practice, no matter how much the undercaptains disliked it—and from their comments, most did—seemed to work at improving their imaging skills, and when Quaeryt walked back toward his quarters to wash up and for a brief respite before the evening meal, he was satisfied that they were making progress.
“Subcommander, sir!”
A ranker hurried toward him with something in his hand.
Quaeryt turned and stopped. “Yes?”
“There’s a dispatch for you, sir.”
On the envelope were written two names, one above the other. The upper line read, “Subcommander Quaeryt, North Post.” The lower line read, “Governor Quaeryt Rytersyn.” Quaeryt recognized the lower handwriting immediately.
Quaeryt smiled at the duty ranker. “Thank you very much.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Quaeryt did not even inspect the missive until he was alone in his quarters. As he suspected, the seal appeared to have been heated and then replaced, suggesting that the letter had been read. But Vaelora would have known that before she ever penned what lay inside. He opened the envelope, extracted the single sheet, and began to read.
Dearest,
We have not yet even reached Solis, but I do miss you and felt that I should write to let you know that I do. I am sending this through Lord Bhayar as the most certain way to reach you, in an envelope within an envelope. Our journey from Tresrives has been swift so far, but I will be glad when it is over, although I know that you will still be traveling.
The sky has been mostly clear until this afternoon. I can see heavy clouds to the northeast. They remind me, more strongly than mere dreams, that the warmest rain can turn to ice and ice can imprison the unwary. For as you love me, please remember that in the days ahead …
“… more strongly than mere dreams … the warmest rain…” he murmured. What does she mean by that? Then he nodded. It had to be one of her visions—that was the reference to being stronger than “mere dreams,” and it was something important, because she would not have worded it the way she had. He only hoped he could recognize the situation she described.
“The warmest rain…” he murmured again.
After a time, he continued reading.
… I did so enjoy the last day at Tresrives, and your care and concern. I must also confess, I have worried too much about where we have lived rather than understood how much I need the joy of living with you …
Quaeryt swallowed as he read those words. For Vaelora’s sake … and yours … maybe being relieved as governor was for the best.
Before leaving his quarters for the evening meal, he reread Vaelora’s latest letter and the one she had left in his saddlebag. Then, outside the mess, as officers were hurrying to enter before the glass rang, he met Skarpa, as was getting to be their custom.
“Tomorrow is Solayi, you know,” offered Skarpa, his voice even.
“That would follow,” returned Quaeryt lightly, “since today is Samedi.”
“We don’t have a chorister…”
“You know that one of the reasons I was replaced as governor was that the local chorister complained that I was acting as a chorister and teaching false values in my homilies?”
“I didn’t know, but I can see that some of them might complain. You always preached something of value, rather than empty sayings. The men, and some of the officers, need what you have to say.” Skarpa grinned. “And since you are a subcommander, and I am a commander…”
Quaeryt groaned, semidramatically. “Yes, sir.”
“I thought you’d see it that way.” Skarpa’s grin was even broader.
Quaeryt shook his head, then asked, “Have you thought any more about what the imagers might be able to do to help directly in a battle or skirmish?”
“Could they do anything against archers … keep the shafts from hitting troops?”
“Not now, but if you could lend me a few archers on Lundi, we could see what might be possible.”
“If we’re not under attack by then, you’ll have some archers.”
“One other thing…”
“Yes?”
“There are trees just beyond the north wall. I’d like to see if the imagers could remove them. They shouldn’t be that close to the wall, anyway.”
Skarpa smiled. “If they can do it, have them. It’s one less thing to worry about.”
“Thank you.”
As the bells rang the glass, Skarpa turned toward the mess door. Quaeryt walk
ed beside him, but once inside, Skarpa made his way to the head of the main table, while Quaeryt walked to the small table that had become that of the imagers.
What else can you offer as a homily? That was a question that kept intruding on his thoughts, even as he began to listen to the comments by the imager undercaptains throughout the meal.
“… why don’t the Bovarians attack?”
“… even think they will?”
“… no way that Lord Bhayar would spend all the golds to assemble an army here if there isn’t a threat…”
“Or gather imagers,” suggested Shaelyt.
Several of the undercaptains exchanged glances, but Voltyr was not one of them. Instead, he looked to the youngest undercaptain and gave the slightest of nods.
Are golds always the final reason why rulers act? Or are golds merely one of the ways to measure a ruler’s power? As the conversation drifted to barges and flatboats and whether the Bovarians would use either to send troops against Telaryn, Quaeryt couldn’t help but keep thinking about whether it was a mistake to equate golds with power, especially in the case of the ruler of a land.
Is that why the precepts of the Nameless urge one to pay a ruler what the ruler is due, but no more? Because the power of the Nameless, or any deity, does not rest in golds but in the strength of the deity’s believers? Wouldn’t that also be true of troopers? That the winner is the one with better arms, better training, better strategy, and greater will? Quaeryt smiled wryly. If … and only if … that ruler has enough troops. The best of everything else doesn’t matter if you’re massively outnumbered, assuming, of course, that the enemy has weapons and equipment somewhere near your level.
Still …
Quaeryt nodded. He could do something with the idea that resolving problems required looking at what one truly needed, not merely golds, or what “everyone said.” He also needed to practice imaging better lager.
Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio Page 50
