Antiagon Fire ip-7

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  “What else can I be when you’re married to Vaelora?”

  “Remind me to talk to Aelina when she arrives.”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t have to. Vaelora will tell you everything.” Bhayar gestured toward the study door. “Go.”

  Quaeryt grinned, then bowed, turned, and made his way out.

  6

  At two quints before ninth glass on Samedi morning, Quaeryt had just stamped and then brushed his muddy boots off on the stone floor of the south-facing covered porch of the scholarium some five milles north of the Chateau Regis.

  Nearly two glasses to cover four milles on what wouldn’t have been called a path in Telaryn. Were all the side roads in Bovaria that bad, or was that because the scholars were in as much disfavor in Bovaria as in Telaryn? You may find out shortly.

  He glanced back below the porch at the terraced gardens, their low walls composed of local stones stacked and barely fitted together. The ground between the walls was bare, and the stalks and stubble had been turned under the soil, crudely, for Quaeryt could see parts of stalks protruding.

  He turned. Two rankers, hands on the hilts of their sabres, stood behind him as he crossed the porch to the door, still carrying full heavy imaging shields. Before Quaeryt reached the door, it opened.

  “Who might you be?” offered the lean, almost emaciated, man with straggly blond hair, who wore scholars’ browns of a somewhat different cut than those worn by the scholars of Telaryn.

  “Quaeryt Rytersyn, scholar and commander in the Southern Army of Telaryn. I’m here to see the maitre.”

  The scholar glanced at the two armed rankers and the mounted squad drawn up at the foot of the stone steps, then back at Quaeryt. “I don’t suppose we can exactly stop you.”

  “I have no ill intentions.”

  “I suppose not, not if you are asking. If you would follow me, sir…”

  Quaeryt ignored the grudging tone of the “sir” and followed the scholar into the two-story oblong brick structure. The rankers followed, the second closing the door.

  The scholar walked through a square entry hall floored with boot-scarred slate and down a narrow corridor to a dark gold oak door, half ajar. “Maitre, there’s a Telaryn commander here to see you. Says he’s a scholar.”

  “Then have him come in, Brialt.”

  “Thank you.” Quaeryt image-projected absolute authority and stepped past the scholar, ignoring the audible gulp, and closed the door behind himself. “I’m Quaeryt Rytersyn, maitre, a scholar from Solis.” Among other things.

  The white-haired and bent scholar did not rise from the narrow desk, but peered up at Quaeryt, his eyes wide as he took in the brownish green uniform and the commander’s insignia. Finally, he spoke in Bovarian. “You command a powerful presence, a strength of purpose I have never sensed before.”

  “I am who I am.”

  “You wear a uniform, yet you say you are a scholar.”

  “I was raised a scholar in Solis, then was a scholar assistant to Lord Bhayar before serving in the Tilboran rebellion and becoming an officer.”

  “You know we are not scholars like those in Solis.”

  Quaeryt was only slightly surprised at the standard phrasing, and he replied in kind. “I did not expect that you would be exactly the same. Nor does the moon have sons she acknowledges openly, yet learning exists under moonlight or sunlight, for all that the hunter may be Artiema’s guardian.”

  “I suppose I must welcome you, Quaeryt Rytersyn. I am Charpentier D’Scholarium, and Scholar Maitre of Variana. Might I ask what brings you here?”

  “Part of my duties to Lord Bhayar is to talk to the scholars of Bovaria. You represent the scholars here.”

  “Only here.” Charpentier offered a raspy laugh. “Only in this poor scholarium. Once this was the smallest of the three in and around Variana. Now … it is all that remains.”

  Quaeryt eased himself into the rickety-looking single armless wooden chair across the desk from the maitre. “How did that come to be?”

  “It is a long story … and a sad one.”

  Quaeryt nodded.

  “In the time of Rex Haarl, the father of Rex Kharst, the scholars were respected. Every scholarium received golds from the nearby anomens. Not many, but enough to supplement what we earned from the schools and to maintain the scholarium. Then … when Rex Kharst succeeded his sire and took the Chateau Regis, things changed.” The maitre sighed. “Had we but known, but yesterday is always so much clearer than tomorrow. You would think we go through life like a man riding backward in a coach, seeing everything after we pass it, if not later, facing where we have been, rather than where we are headed.”

  “And what happened?” prompted Quaeryt.

  “Rex Kharst … he ordered that the anomens not give golds to the scholaria. He said that worship belonged in the anomens, and scholars in the scholaria, and choristers should not use their golds to influence what scholars taught, and scholars should not teach what choristers wanted students to believe. The choristers were not unhappy, for they had never cared much for the old custom.”

  “And the choristers and the anomens prospered?”

  “You should see behind the walls of the modest dwelling of Chorister Amalyt … or Chorister Bruisn.” Charpentier gave a sniffling snort, then wiped his nose with his sleeve. “When Rex Kharst raised the tariffs on the local crafters and merchants, and the factors, fewer would send their boys to the school … and there were not even silvers to spare. We expanded the gardens and sold our beer, and it was a fine beer, but the brewers of Variana complained, and the armsmen of the rex came and smashed the brewery. That was three years ago.”

  Quaeryt nodded slowly. “Kharst was not good for scholars or for Bovaria.”

  “Who could say such?” The old scholar looked at Quaeryt, then said in a lower voice, “We prayed to the Nameless to grant us a scholar with the power to advise our ruler. Or even for another rex.” He laughed, his aged voice cracking. “From what I see of you, we received what we prayed for. Exactly what we prayed for.”

  “Have you no students?”

  “We have no students, and but a handful of scholars remaining, for that is all our modest lands will support. I hear that the scholarium in Laaryn has fared better. The others here in Variana are no more. About those elsewhere”-Charpentier shrugged-“I have not heard.”

  Quaeryt stood. “Thank you for seeing me. I am sorry to hear of your troubles.”

  “What will you do, Commander Scholar?”

  “For now … I will report to Lord Bhayar. What he will do, I do not know, save I doubt that he will visit more tribulation upon the scholars or any scholarium that accepts his rule.”

  “What else would we do but accept what we cannot change?”

  Quaeryt nodded once more, then took his leave of the old and tired building. Once outside, in the muddy space below the front steps, he mounted the mare, then gestured for the squad to ride out. At the foot of the low rise where the lane from the scholarium joined the road that was barely more than a path, he glanced back, his eyes taking in the sagging roofline of the old building and the wooden shutters that doubtless covered windows whose glass the scholars had been unable to replace.

  What has happened to the scholars all across Lydar? Or is it that the rulers changed? Quaeryt wasn’t certain that he knew. What was becoming increasingly clear was that he would receive little or no support or assistance from the scholars … and that he was likely better off without what they might offer. Except that the scholars in Tilbor had refused to accept being impoverished … and that had created a different and more difficult situation.

  Both situations saddened him.

  But that is why what you plan must come to be … must …

  7

  Solayi morning, Quaeryt and Vaelora slept late, if seventh glass could be considered late by any standards except that of the military-or by Bhayar, who seemed to rise glasses before anyone else. They had breakfast, and then Quaeryt headed
out to meet with Zhelan to go over details of their departure on Lundi morning. Next came the session with the imager undercaptains, conducted in what had likely been a walled garden of the late High Holder Paitrak. First, Quaeryt received a report from Voltyr on the anomen repairs, indicating that such had been limited to strengthening the walls and repairing cracks in the masonry.

  Then Quaeryt surveyed the eight remaining undercaptains before going on. “Because of various things, I have not had a chance to formally evaluate how each of you has progressed in terms of your imaging ability since before the battle of Variana.” And you should have, and now you’re squeezing this testing in because you didn’t get to it earlier.

  Zhelan and several rankers stood to Quaeryt’s left, holding various weapons, as well as a large wooden bucket filled with smooth stones.

  “Undercaptain Threkhyl … step forward.”

  The ginger-bearded Threkhyl did so, trying to conceal a smile.

  “Your ability to create and move material is prodigious,” Quaeryt began. “In the past, however, you have had difficulty in maintaining and holding personal shields…”

  Threkhyl suddenly had no trouble maintaining an unsmiling expression.

  “This could be a problem, since it renders you vulnerable to attack. So … I’d like you to raise whatever shield is appropriate.” Quaeryt stepped forward and took the staff from the nearest ranker, then motioned for Threkhyl to move out onto the open ground. “You’re to hold your shield as long as possible. If they fail or collapse, step back immediately. I’m only interested in your shields. You’ve already proven your courage in battle. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quaeryt squared his stance, holding the staff easily, with his own imaging shields almost against his skin in order to allow himself the ability to use the staff as freely as possible. Then he struck Threkhyl’s shields, a blow not particularly hard, because he knew the undercaptain’s shields could withstand almost anything-so long as Threkhyl could hold those shields.

  The staff rebounded, and Quaeryt tried a thrust toward Threkhyl’s legs, then one directly at his chest, moving the staff in a blur, again because he knew the undercaptain had difficulty in maintaining a comprehensive shield and compensated by creating a smaller moving shield. As Quaeryt suspected, after almost a full quint, abruptly Threkhyl stepped back, his face bright red. He was panting heavily, and sweat streamed down his face.

  “That’s better, Threkhyl. When you practice, I’d like you to try a larger moving shield a bit farther from your body.”

  “Yes, sir.” The burly undercaptain’s raspy voice was just short of surly.

  And that hasn’t changed much, either, thought Quaeryt. “Undercaptain Voltyr … forward.”

  Voltyr stepped out and into the clear area Threkhyl had left, his gray eyes on Quaeryt.

  Quaeryt motioned for the ranker with the bucket to join him. “I’m going to start throwing stones. I want you to image them out of existence as fast as you can.” He began tossing stones, quickly, and Voltyr managed to image each one away, either elsewhere or into nothing.

  Abruptly Quaeryt stopped. “Now … I want you to hold the strongest personal shields you can. While Major Zhelan pounds on them, I want you to continue imaging the stones away.”

  Voltyr nodded.

  Zhelan stepped forward and took the staff. Quaeryt began tossing stones. He stopped after a quint. Voltyr was breathing hard, and sweating heavily, and his face was flushed, but his shields had held.

  “Excellent.” Quaeryt turned to Desyrk. “We’ll start with the stones.” He paused and looked at the bucket, then shook his head. “Major … could you have one of your men gather another bucket or two of stones that are roughly fist-sized?”

  “Yes, sir.” Zhelan smiled.

  While one of the rankers hurried off, Quaeryt began throwing the stones for Desyrk. The undercaptain with the wavy blond hair destroyed a score before he missed one, then imaged away another, and missed the next.

  “Take a few moments rest, Desyrk. Then I want you to try again, while holding the best shields that you can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  By the time Quaeryt finished evaluating all the undercaptains, well after the first glass of the afternoon, he was sweating heavily despite the cool, almost chill, fall afternoon. More than a few muscles were aching and would doubtless remind him for the next few days that while his imaging skills had more than recovered, his physical endurance had not-and that lack of endurance and physical condition would, in turn, limit the amount of imaging he could accomplish.

  You need more exercise … much more.

  All of the undercaptains had improved, although some, particularly Voltyr, Khalis, and Lhandor, had improved far more than had the others.

  After Quaeryt had dismissed the undercaptains, Zhelan turned. “You’re tired. Did you have to test each of them personally?”

  “Who else would you suggest?” asked Quaeryt dryly. “Besides, I needed the exercise more than they did.” He paused. “What did your rankers think?”

  “Any rankers with sense have already decided that they don’t want to be imagers.” Zhelan added wryly, “I wouldn’t wish your position for all the gold in Lord Bhayar’s coffers.”

  Some of us don’t have that choice. But Quaeryt laughed ruefully and said, “You’re kind, Major, but I wouldn’t want your position, either.”

  “Then it’s good we each have what we do, sir.”

  They both smiled.

  Because of the duration of the individual sessions with the undercaptains, and the need to wash up afterward, it wasn’t that much before second glass when Quaeryt finally made his way to Skarpa’s small study to wait for his subcommanders. Once inside the study, he sat down behind Skarpa’s small table desk and took a deep breath.

  It seemed as though only moments had passed before Khaern-the short and wiry subcommander with red hair shot liberally with gray-walked into the study with quick, not quite jerky, movements, his faded gray eyes taking in everything before settling on Quaeryt.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon. How are matters with the Eleventh Regiment?”

  “We’re set to head out, sir. Even managed to round up some more spare mounts, and a couple of extra tow mules for the supply flatboats. Grain’s tight, but I’ve inquired and got the names of some grain factors in Eluthyn and Laaryn.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  At that moment Alazyn entered. The junior subcommander was no taller than Khaern, but broader in the shoulders, and moved with an easy grace for all his muscularity, closing the door firmly, but so quietly that there was almost no sound. Under jet-black hair, his brown eyes took in everything without seeming to do so. “Good afternoon, Commander, Subcommander.”

  “Have a seat.” Quaeryt gestured to the empty chair. “We were talking about arrangements for tomorrow and for moving along the Great Canal. I’d meant to ask you earlier, Alazyn, and I apologize for not doing so, but do you have a company of engineers?”

  “Yes, sir.” Alazyn paused. “That is, I’ve got a company that’s on the roster as engineers, and the captain, the undercaptain, and a couple of squad leaders know their trade. The rankers, well, there are a couple of journeyman carpenters, and a wheelwright that’s barely more than an apprentice…”

  When Alazyn had finished, Quaeryt nodded. “You’ve got more engineers than all Southern Army had. That’s good, because Subcommander Khaern only has about a squad.”

  “Why are you worried about engineers, sir?”

  “Because I have no idea what shape the Great Canal might be in once we get farther west … or what the water level is in the River Laar…”

  All in all, Quaeryt spent close to a glass with the subcommanders, going over everything from the travel route, the supply situation, payroll details, even provisions for a farrier and spare horseshoes.

  Then, at fourth glass, the three of them walked to the salon in the dwelling-o
r what had been the salon until much of the furnishings had been removed and replaced with a long table that had likely been used for dining-for a meeting of all the regimental commanders in Southern Army and those under Quaeryt’s command.

  Skarpa was waiting outside the door and beckoned to Quaeryt.

  “Just go on in,” Quaeryt told Alazyn and Khaern. As he stopped beside Skarpa, Alazyn and Khaern nodded and stepped through the doorway into the makeshift conference room.

  “Not all the other subcommanders are here yet,” added Skarpa. “Just Fhaen and Fhaasn, and Meinyt.”

  The one most junior and the two loyal to Skarpa. While that didn’t surprise Quaeryt, it suggested certain … possibilities.

  “Kharllon isn’t here yet, either,” added Skarpa in a low voice.

  “He’ll be the last, but barely.”

  “My thought as well.”

  Two subcommanders approached, hurrying down the hallway from the front hall. The first was graying, the second balding and blond. Both nodded to Quaeryt and Skarpa. “Good afternoon, Commander, Submarshal.”

  “Good afternoon, Dulaek, Paedn,” replied Skarpa. “We’ll be starting in a few moments.”

  No sooner had the pair entered the salon than the last two officers, who had to be Commander Kharllon and Subcommander Meurn, appeared from the rear of the building, walking at a steady, but not swift pace. Both nodded politely and said, “Good afternoon, Submarshal.”

  Quaeryt followed them into the salon, noting as he entered that the head of the table had been left for Skarpa, and the chair to Skarpa’s right for Quaeryt. Kharllon had taken the place to Skarpa’s left, across from Quaeryt. Quaeryt did not sit, but remained standing as the other officers rose when Skarpa entered.

  “As you were.”

  Quaeryt seated himself, taking a quick look at Kharllon, a clean-shaven, square-chinned man with short light brown hair shot lightly with silver, who looked to be perhaps ten years older than Quaeryt. Kharllon smiled warmly at Quaeryt, even with his pale blue eyes, and nodded. Quaeryt returned the nod and smile.