Princeps ip-5

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Quaeryt went on to describe the extent of destruction in detail, the areas of the city still intact, and the beginning of repairs to sewers and aqueducts, noting that with the complete destruction of the north aqueduct, the repairs and expansion of the River Aqueduct had become more vital, as had those to the east bridge. He also mentioned his acts to freeze prices of foodstuffs temporarily, if with a slight profit to the High Holders and growers. All in all, he ended up writing a five-page dispatch, and felt that he’d probably overlooked matters that he should not have.

  He decided to have Vaelora read it over before he dispatched it.

  Later that evening, after dinner, in the privacy of the quarters, he watched closely as she read through his carefully chosen words.

  When she finished, she smiled. “It’s better than most he receives, and longer.”

  “You’re suggesting I should shorten it.”

  “No. A first report should be long, especially to protect you. If you don’t tell him how bad things are, then he’ll expect too much.”

  After they discussed possible changes to the dispatch, he then recounted the other events of the day, saving what Jhalyt had conveyed about Scythn and double ledgers.

  Vaelora nodded calmly, clearly not surprised. “Most governors do something like that, in various ways. That’s why Father made them pay for any soldier garrisoned in their provinces. It’s why Bhayar continues the practice, and it’s one reason why you’re governor now. My brother knows you’re honest, and Extela can’t afford another governor lining his wallet at the moment.”

  Quaeryt shook his head. “It’s not the pocketing of the golds that gets me so much as the amounts involved. A captain makes a half gold a week, a major a gold, a commander two, and a marshal five-along with quarters. Even as governor and marshal Rescalyn only made ten golds a week. Scythn was officially paying himself twenty times what a marshal makes…”

  “Why do you think so many High Holders press Bhayar for governor’s positions for their younger sons?”

  “I knew that,” replied Quaeryt dryly. “I just didn’t realize how lucrative the position was for someone with few principles. But I couldn’t justify that much. That’s why I only set my own pay at twenty-five golds a week for now.”

  “Dearest, I think you’re being too frugal. You could have taken fifty golds a week and still paid yourself a quarter or less of what Scythn was taking. And it would be nice to have a real dwelling…”

  “I know. But we don’t have the time to build one. We’d have to find one, if there even is one suitable … and we’d need to have a cook and a maid … and some guards, not to mention a stable … and there are furnishings…” The entire idea overwhelmed Quaeryt, who’d never had to worry about anything of a personal nature except having a room, a few garments, and feeding himself. Not only that, but he felt he had little enough time to do what needed to be done to return Extela to a semblance of its former prosperity.

  “You’ve been governor, officially, since Scythn died. That was the middle of Fevier. That means you are owed two hundred golds. I know you’ve saved a few from when you were princeps, and I have quite a few remaining. Also, we could rent a place for a time, perhaps from a once well-off factor who would prefer the golds until his business improves.”

  “And who would not mind being owed a favor from the sister of Lord Bhayar?” Quaeryt smiled.

  “My brother can afford that.”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Quaeryt protested.

  “You don’t have to. Those are matters I do know something about, dearest. All you have to do is tell me how many golds you have, and I tell you what I have, and we decide what we can spend, both to begin with, and each month. Then you leave the rest to me. Running a household is something that wives are supposed to do.”

  “And husbands are just supposed to pay for it?”

  “Of course.” Vaelora smiled gently, then added, “Within reason. But you already know I’m very reasonable.”

  Except about cleaning up abandoned anomens. “That’s true.” Quaeryt repressed a shrug. “Right now, I have forty-five golds, and a few silvers. That’s before I’m paid.”

  Vaelora nodded. “I have almost a hundred, and Bhayar will give me at least two hundred after our first year anniversary. He said it would be a delayed dowry.”

  “We can’t count on promises … even your brother’s.”

  “I won’t.” She frowned. “I will need an escort when I look for something suitable. Don’t object. It’s reasonable that I have one, since the lava destroyed a very suitable dwelling … and I promise not to commit more than a hundred golds for the dwelling … or more than twenty golds a month to run it.”

  “And you can’t obtain it by promising or even hinting at favors-or difficulties-from me,” Quaeryt added.

  “No, dearest. Even I understand that.”

  Quaeryt winced at the arch tones in her voice. “I’m sorry. After the way Wystgahl treated me, I just worry.” What Vaelora proposed seemed reasonable enough under the circumstances, but he still worried, even as he said, “I’ll let Skarpa know about the escort tomorrow morning.”

  “You’ll be pleased,” she promised.

  And so will you. But then, he could certainly understand, given that she’d been raised in a palace and especially given all the places she’d had to sleep over the past month. “I’m sure I will be.”

  30

  Meredi morning Quaeryt was up early, very early, so that he could rewrite sections of his report to Bhayar, and dispatch it with a special courier immediately after breakfast. As soon as he’d seen Vaelora off on her quest for a governor’s house with two squads of troopers, he cornered Skarpa again outside the stables.

  “Yes, Governor? You have that look … sir.”

  Quaeryt grinned. “I’m certain I do. You may have heard that I’m trying to re-form the Civic Patrol…”

  “The guards told me that you left orders to admit up to eight patrollers yesterday, and Dhaeryn told me you’re converting an old factorage. You seem to have that well in hand.” Skarpa raised his eyebrows.

  “The chief and his captains didn’t appear to survive … or if they did, they’re nowhere to be found.”

  “Some of both, I’d wager.”

  “I was wondering if you might have a very senior, hard-as-nails captain close to being stipended, who could finish his service as a chief patroller here. The locals need someone to keep them in line.” And then some.

  The commander shook his head. “Too bad they won’t keep you as governor.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sir … begging your pardon, you’re here for the same reason I got promoted to commander. Lord Bhayar needs someone he can trust, someone who’s honest, and someone who will do what’s necessary … even if it means tromping all over the polished boots of every High Holder and wealthy factor in Montagne.”

  One aspect of the qualities mentioned by Skarpa immediately struck Quaeryt-and that was the separation of trustworthiness and honesty, suggesting that trustworthiness was more akin to loyalty. What Skarpa said didn’t conflict with what Quaeryt had observed, but in a way it saddened him. “I’m well on the way to scuffing at least a few boots.”

  “You’ll likely have to do more than that, sir.”

  “About one of those captains you or your battalion commanders could recommend?”

  “If you’d give me a day or so to think about it … and talk to the majors…”

  “I’m assuming it’s not something you or Meinyt would want.”

  “No, sir. Not me. Couldn’t speak for Meinyt, but he’d be better off elsewhere.”

  Quaeryt nodded. That suggested Meinyt might be useful in another capacity … perhaps.

  “I’ll talk it over with all of them,” Skarpa added.

  “Thank you.”

  Quaeryt had only taken a few more steps back toward the headquarters building when he saw Heireg hurrying toward him. He stopped and waited for the major.r />
  The slightly rotund officer stopped short of Quaeryt and announced, “Sir … I have to report that the flour we got from High Holder Wystgahl is filled with weevils. By the time we strain it and sift it, we’ll lose almost half of it.”

  “Is that true of all the barrels?”

  “We’ve checked five of them. They’re all like that.”

  Quaeryt sighed. “He delivered what … some fifty barrels?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Check them all, and then let me know when I get back to the post. I’ve got to meet with what’s left of the Extelan Civic Patrol.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quaeryt made his way back to the headquarters building, where he gathered up the items he needed, and then briefed Baharyt on what he expected of the young clerk at the meeting. Then he went to the strong room where he and Jhalyt counted out sufficient silvers and coppers to pay forty patrollers from the time of their last payday … with some extra, just in case.

  Then, accompanied by Taenyd and third company, Quaeryt and Baharyt rode out from the post. The young clerk was clearly uncomfortable on a horse, much the way Quaeryt had been a year earlier.

  Less than a year, really. So much had happened since the previous summer, and all because of his ideas for changing the positions of scholars and imagers in Telaryn, plans about which he’d done little enough, except for restructuring and improving the scholarium in Tilbora. Still … that had been a start.

  The ride was uneventful, and Quaeryt noted that there were more people on the streets, even some women and children, and to him that was a good sign.

  When they reached the patrol station, Quaeryt studied the roof and the front of the building before dismounting. While the places where the old slates had been replaced were obvious, the roof looked far better, as did the front of the building, with freshly oiled shutters in place on the four windows. Two men worked on planing one of the heavy double doors to the main entry. One might have been one of the brigands Quaeryt had captured, but he wasn’t certain.

  He dismounted and turned to Baharyt. “Just follow me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quaeryt didn’t see Dhaeryn after he tied the mare to the old railing and stepped up onto the narrow stone porch, but one of the senior squad leaders of the engineers appeared and said, “All of the patrollers are inside, Governor.”

  “Thank you.”

  When Quaeryt stepped inside the entry area of the Civic Patrol station, two things struck him. First, the receiving desk or counter was largely finished, the wood already oiled, and there were around thirty patrollers, all in uniform, standing in groups.

  The murmurs died away as he moved toward them. While a few looked at him with what resembled hope, there was certainly an air of something that was not quite indifference, and certainly skepticism.

  Quaeryt stopped several yards in front of them and smiled politely, image-projecting authority and confidence. “Good morning. Your patrollers first may have told you. I’m Governor Quaeryt, and I’ll be acting patrol chief for a bit. This will be Civic Patrol headquarters, and in the next few days, there will be twenty cells in the back. For now, while we reorganize the patrol, the troopers of the Third Tilboran Regiment will patrol the streets. By next week, you-or those of you who wish to remain patrollers-will begin taking over those patrols. The engineers will finish converting this building and making other repairs around the city.…”

  Quaeryt went on to explain what he expected of them and that those expectations would be posted as a written code for the Civic Patrol, although he would consider changes based on their suggestions and experience.

  “… We will clearly need more patrollers, and any of you who recruits a new patroller will get a bonus-after that new recruit completes three months of paid service. The bonus will be two silvers.” He paused. “Do you have any questions?”

  “What about pay?” came a question from the back of the group.

  “The pay grades will be the same as before.” Quaeryt knew that wasn’t what the patroller who asked the question had in mind.

  “The pay we didn’t get,” said another voice.

  “That’s an interesting question. When I arrived here a little over a week ago, there was no one patrolling the streets, and people were afraid to go out. So I’ve had troopers patrolling the avenues and streets. I’ve asked around, and none of you have been doing the duties that you were supposed to be doing, not for the last month, in any case.” Quaeryt projected withering contempt for a moment. “Some of that is understandable. You didn’t have a patrol building or a gaol. Nor did you have any captains or a chief, it appears. For that reason, those of you who wish to continue as patrollers will receive back pay after you sign up and renew your commitment.”

  “Why did you put the station here?”

  “Because we could and because we needed it quickly. It also appears that we couldn’t put it in the northwest part of the city,” he added dryly. That did get a smile or two.

  “Scholars…” murmured someone.

  Quaeryt smiled. Coldly. “I am a scholar. I’ve also been a quartermaster at sea, and I took part in all the battles in Tilbor in the last year before I became princeps there. I’ve taken a crossbow bolt to the chest and broken an arm in battle. I’m not much impressed with muttered comments by men who are supposed to be honorable and uphold the law. As I said a moment ago, I expect every one of you to be polite and cheerful to every person.” He paused, then smiled sardonically. “You don’t have to be cheerful to lawbreakers-just polite and forceful enough to keep them well under control.”

  He could sense a certain confusion, even antagonism.

  Again, projecting total authority, he said, “If you behave like toughs and lawbreakers, then the people will all regard you as worse than the lawbreakers because you’re abusing your authority. More to the point, so will I … and none of you want that.”

  The authority projection worked better than the words, he suspected, but he could see the effect. “We won’t go to shifts yet. All of you who intend to continue as patrollers will be here at seventh glass tomorrow morning. In uniform. Right now, you can line up at the end of the receiving desk where Baharyt is. Give him your name. He’ll check it against the duty roster and your rank, and you’ll be given your back pay. Then you can leave until tomorrow morning. Several of you have already been paid, but you still need to check with Baharyt.”

  Quaeryt stepped back and then moved to where he stood behind Baharyt, so that he could look at each man as he came forward.

  Most of those who stepped up avoided meeting his eyes. Jaramyr did, nodding respectfully, if grudgingly, Quaeryt thought. So did Chelsyr and several of the others Quaeryt had already met.

  Once all the patrollers had given their information to Baharyt and been paid, Quaeryt and the clerk left the building to the engineers. As Quaeryt mounted and started back to the post with Taenyd and third company, he could hear the murmurs from a group of patrollers who had remained outside, gathered together and talking.

  “… there he goes … bastard…”

  “… tough bastard…”

  “… you want to cross him?”

  “Jaramyr … talked to some of the troopers … related to Bhayar…”

  “… not kidding about … killed a score with a staff…”

  Quaeryt managed not to wince at the last. But then, he probably had.

  As he rode back to the post, he had to wonder. Had he used too much force in facing them? What choice did he have? From meeting the patrollers first and seeing that group, he had few doubts that they’d been only slightly better than organized toughs, probably taking bribes and then some. What else should he have expected after learning the way Scythn had acted?

  He didn’t get back to the post until two quints past ninth glass. He barely dismounted before Heireg appeared.

  “Sir…?”

  “How many barrels were spoiled?”

  “All of them in some amount. We might
save half of it … if we use those barrels first.”

  “Do that. It appears I need to pay another call on High Holder Wystgahl.” Quaeryt turned toward Taenyd, who had dismounted. “Captain! Can you be ready to ride out in a quint?”

  “Yes, sir. We can water the horses some and be ready to go. Where to, sir?”

  “High Holder Wystgahl’s.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A little more than two glasses later, third company rode up to the portico of the hold. As Quaeryt reined up, he caught sight of the graying red hair of Gahlen, the holder’s son, standing on the black stone step below the white marble columns.

  “I don’t believe you are expected, Governor.”

  “I’m here to see your father.”

  “I don’t think he’ll want to see you.”

  “I’m quite certain he won’t.” Quaeryt smiled coldly. “That’s not his choice.”

  “And if I deny you entry?”

  “Gahlen … for your sake, I do hope you don’t try.”

  The heir frowned, then gestured. “This way. He’s in the salon. That’s where he always is these days. He says he coughs less there.”

  Quaeryt caught up with the redhead and asked, “Consumption?”

  “Who can tell whether it’s that or just age?”

  Quaeryt could sense the mixed feelings swirling within Gahlen, but said nothing, thinking about what he could or might do. He did raise his shields, close to his body, before he followed Gahlen into the salon.