Imager’s Battalion ip-6

by L. E. Modesitt

  “Sir, the others are here, the first door back on the left,” said the ranker.

  “Thank you.” Quaeryt walked swiftly to the door, opened it, stepped inside, and closed it behind himself.

  Skarpa, Meinyt, and Khaern sat around a table in a small chamber across a wide hallway from the public room, but one that did not strike Quaeryt as originally intended as a plaques room, not given the arched ceiling with carved moldings that had later been whitewashed, although the circular table and the worn round-backed chairs proclaimed that plaques gaming had been its latest use. Skarpa motioned to the chair across from him.

  Quaeryt took it and waited.

  “Earlier this afternoon, I got a dispatch from the marshal. He had no problems with our not being able to cross the river today. In fact, he does not wish us to attack the isle fort and cross into the northern part of Nordeau until early on Lundi.”

  “You mean he’s still a day away?” asked Meinyt sardonically.

  “He did not convey when he and his forces would arrive.”

  “Mardi, most likely.”

  Skarpa looked sharply at Meinyt.

  “He’s right, you know?” Khaern said.

  “That may be,” replied Skarpa, “but he is the marshal, and it’s best to stick to the facts in officers’ meetings.” He went on. “Otherwise, we might be too free with our opinions in meetings with other commanders, and I do believe that you three are the most junior subcommanders, and I know I’m the most junior commander.” He softened his words with a faint smile.

  Quaeryt had his doubts about whether he’d ever be included in such a meeting, at least voluntarily, by Deucalon.

  “The isle fort isn’t that big,” Skarpa went on, looking at Quaeryt. “Once your imagers put a span over to it, I’d wager the Bovarians abandon it.”

  “They might slip out of it tonight,” suggested Meinyt.

  “That’s possible. If they don’t know it yet, they’ll find out soon that we’ve got imagers that can create a span,” added Skarpa.

  “Why didn’t they know before?” asked Khaern.

  “They likely knew we had some imagers, but the only time they built a bridge was at Ferravyl,” replied Skarpa, “and none of the Bovarian troopers or officers who saw it survived.”

  “Still…” pressed Khaern.

  “If you hadn’t seen it,” asked Meinyt, “would you have believed it?”

  Khaern laughed softly. “Probably not.”

  “Getting across a narrow span to the far side … that could be a problem,” said Skarpa.

  “We might be able to image a wider span, maybe even two,” suggested Quaeryt. “The undercaptains will get another day to rest up. That will help.” He didn’t mention that there would likely be more than a few Bovarian casualties if the Bovarians massed troopers on and around the northern bridge approach.

  “Good. If they have more pikemen in those narrow streets, that could be a problem…”

  Quaeryt listened and gave the best answers and suggestions he could. By the time the meeting was over, less than two quints later, his head was aching even more and his eyes burning, and he was ready to walk back to the Stone’s Rest and get some sleep.

  59

  The chamber Quaeryt had taken in the Stone’s Rest was at the top of the building, in fact the only room on the third floor, perhaps four yards by five with not only a wide bed, and a night table, but a writing desk with a matching chair, and a doorless armoire for hanging garments. Quaeryt picked up his kit from the floor and set it on the chair, while he took out the pouch with soap and personals, noting that the writing desk, once a decent piece of oak furniture, was battered and the surface of the wood worn and scratched, as was that of the desk chair.

  There was an adjoining washroom, with a chamber pot, but not a jakes, reminding Quaeryt, again, of the age of the building. The outer walls were stone, of course, as were the floors, and the wall plaster held an uneven off-white shade that was not the result of design, but age and less than enthusiastic cleaning.

  After he hung up his spare uniform to at least air out, and taken off his shirt and hung that up as well, then washed up, he walked back into the main chamber and looked at the desk. He thought about writing Vaelora, but decided against it, since he really only wanted to write about taking Nordeau once. He wasn’t sleepy, tired as he felt, and the walk back from the Traders’ Bowl had cleared his headache and eyes somewhat.

  He pulled the small leather volume from his kit, although he hoped, given the tight quarters in Nordeau and the lack of open space, that Skarpa would not insist on services on Solayi evening. Still … just in case …

  In the dim light from the single lamp, he began to page through the book, hoping for something that would provide inspiration. One passage that he’d noted before struck him in a different light in view of what he’d surmised about the Naedarans.

  Before Rholan, the Nameless was more a deity of battles and of rough justice, justice administered at the edge of a blade or under an ax.

  Was that really so, or did Rholan … or the writer … just assume that?

  Again, Quaeryt had no way of knowing.

  Another passage caused Quaeryt to smile, as it had every time he’d seen the words.

  Contrary to the legends that are already springing up about Rholan, he was never a proper chorister, or even an improper one. More than one chorister, especially the noted Basilyn of Cheva, berated his congregants for following a man who was “neither a proper scholar, nor a chorister, nor much of anything but a believer in his own rectitude.” To his credit, Rholan never claimed to be a chorister, but only that he attempted to follow the way of the Nameless as best he could. On more than one occasion, he was denied entry to an anomen to speak, the most well-known instance, of course, being when Chorister Tharyn Arysyn barred him from the north anomen in Montagne, not far from Rholan’s own home. Tharyn declared that all were welcome to worship in the anomen, but only those who had studied the Nameless could speak.

  It is said that Rholan smiled and declared, “How can any man, even a chorister, study the mightiness of the Nameless when none can describe the Nameless? I only claim to study the precepts of the Nameless, for those are what must guide men.” Those were not quite his words. What he said was, “Tharyn, you cannot even describe the Nameless. Nor can you explain His way. Yet you would bar one who can for fear that you will be found out as the fraud you are.” Shortly after Rholan’s disappearance and presumed death, Tharyn also vanished and was never seen again. Many of the faithful swore that they would never name a son Tharyn and that the Nameless would turn any with that appellation to the Namer. While there are reports of such, I cannot speak to them, for any malefactor named Tharyn would call up that story in the minds of followers, and none would note those who bore the name who were not evil.

  In the end, Quaeryt put down the volume because his eyes were twitching and because nothing he had read gave ready inspiration for a homily, especially when he did not even know whether he would be conducting services. After blowing out the lamp, he walked to the window and opened the shutters wide, hoping for a cool evening breeze, then returned to the bed. For a time he just lay there, but his thoughts turned images of the Bovarians, frozen behind and around the gates he had taken down with his imaging.

  Troopers and armsmen die in war. After a moment came the second thought. But you’ve killed more than your share … except … is there such a thing as a fair share? Does it matter whether you’ve killed one man or a thousand? Or is that just a rationalization? But then, in a battle, if you don’t fight to win …

  Lying there in the darkness on the bed, he couldn’t help but think about Vaelora’s point that, so often, thousands would die, and his actions only determined which thousands.

  He wasn’t sure how much that thought helped as he tried to ignore the soreness in his chest, arms, and thighs, and then … he didn’t even notice his eyes closing.

  Somewhere in the night, the warm breeze turn
ed cool, and Quaeryt fumbled for a blanket, but he couldn’t find it in the darkness. Then the sky rumbled, and the air got colder still. He sat up in the bed and swung his feet onto the stone floor, but the floor was so cold that his feet froze to the stone. Across the room from him was a shadowy figure. Then he realized that the figure was not shadowed, but coated in ice, and a bitter chill extended from that icy shape.

  Warmth! He needed warmth, but his teeth were chattering so much that he could not even reach for a striker to light a lamp or a candle. In desperation, he tried to image a hearth and a fire, and flames roared up before him, so fierce and so quickly that he could soon free his feet.

  But with those flames came smoke, acrid bitter smoke, and he began to cough, retchingly, time and time again.

  Then … Quaeryt found himself back lying in his bed, with black and gray smoke all around him.

  Idiot! You imaged in your sleep …

  Through the smoke he could see that the desk and chair were in flames. Still coughing, his eyes burning from the smoke, he struggled to image a film of water over them both. The flames began to vanish, but there was even more smoke. He imaged a bit more water, then staggered, barely able to see, to the window.

  From there, he stood and imaged in fresh air from somewhere until he could stop coughing.

  Then there was a pounding on the door.

  “Subcommander! Sir! Are you all right!”

  Quaeryt recognized Zhelan’s voice and slowly walked to the door, removing the bar. “I’m fine now.” Should you open the door? If you don’t, he and everyone else will think the worst. With a sigh that turned into a cough, he slowly opened the door. “You might as well come in, Major.”

  Zhelan stepped inside, his eyes widening. “I smelled smoke. It came drifting down the steps. What … happened?”

  Quaeryt closed the door. “One of the dangers of imaging. Every so often, just like everyone else, imagers have nightmares. I had one where I was freezing. In my nightmare, I tried to start a fire … I got more than I wanted.” Quaeryt started to laugh, then began to cough from the little bit of smoke still in his chest.

  “Sir … can I do anything?” Zhelan glanced at the soot on the walls and the charred table. Then his eyes went to the bruises on Quaeryt’s thighs and arms, widening slightly.

  “No. I can probably remove most of the damage. Just tell anyone who asks that smoke drifted in through my open window.”

  “Yes, sir.” Zhelan looked dubious.

  “I can. If not tonight, tomorrow. I’d appreciate your not mentioning this to any of the company commanders or the imagers. The majors are uneasy enough, and this sort of thing won’t hurt anyone but me. As for the undercaptains, they’re not experienced enough to worry about it.” Yet.

  “I can do that, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  After Zhelan left, and Quaeryt closed the door, he thought about his last words. How soon before that sort of thing happened to some of them? And how could he prevent it or deal with it? Clearly, when imaging nightmares happened, it wasn’t exactly safe for anyone sleeping nearby …

  At that moment he recalled the small stone-walled sleeping chamber in the dwelling in Gahenyara, the one occupied by Vaelora’s great-great-grandmere. She wasn’t only Pharsi; she was an imager! That’s why she slept alone … because of imaging nightmares.

  That raised other questions … such as how much Bhayar knew about his family’s past. Was that why he wasn’t unsettled about Quaeryt and Vaelora marrying? Or did he have plans for Quaeryt, just as Quaeryt had plans for him?

  How could he not? But were they instinctive, as Vaelora believed, or were they more focused? Quaeryt suspected the instinctive and opportunistic, but he’d have to be very careful in laying the groundwork for his own plans.

  He still had a slight headache, but he needed to do something about the sooty mess his nightmares had created … and working on that might well tire him enough so that he didn’t have any more unsettling dreams … or feelings of guilt and concern about what he had done. And what you might yet have to do?

  He looked at the charred desk and chair … and then at the soot streaks and smudges on the white plaster walls and ceiling … and the puddles of water on the floor.

  60

  Solayi was the first of Erntyn, the second and supposedly cooler month of harvest. It didn’t feel any cooler when Quaeryt woke. He had only a trace of a headache, but he felt tired and drained. When he looked around the room, he didn’t see any obvious sign of damage. Unfortunately, there were problems. The chair that he’d repaired with imaging had a smooth, if aged, golden oak finish. The same was true of the writing desk. He hadn’t been about to try to duplicate the battered and scratched finishes. Likewise, the plaster walls and ceiling were a clean off-white, rather than showing the uneven patina of age and dirt, but the innkeeper might not notice that.

  Quaeryt washed up and shaved, a necessity for him in hot weather, because his skin developed rashes if he let a beard grow out, then began to dress when there was a rap on the door. He pulled on the least soiled of the uniform shirts and walked to the door. “Yes?”

  “Sir … it’s Shajan … the innkeeper, I would hate to disturb you, but there is the odor of smoke … I wished to know if you were all right…”

  And if you’ve damaged my family’s inn. Quaeryt wiped a wry smile off his face and opened the door, standing in such a way that the innkeeper could see everything, but not pass Quaeryt. “I smelled smoke last night as well … but I’m fine.”

  The innkeeper tried to study the room without looking too obvious. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but…”

  “I understand. You would not want a guest to suffer or the premises to be damaged. As you can see, I am fine, and so are the premises.” Quaeryt paused. “Could you wash some uniforms for me-for whatever the normal charges are-and have them ready by this evening?”

  “Why … yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’ll get them for you.” Quaeryt walked to the armoire and took the two sets of soiled uniforms and carried them back to Shajan, who had stepped into the room, his eyes studying everything, a puzzled expression on his face. “Here you are. My thanks.”

  “Yes, sir.” The innkeeper took the uniforms, glancing around the chamber a last time before stepping back into the narrow landing at the top of the stairs.

  Once Shajan departed, Quaeryt finished dressing before heading down to the public room for breakfast and the officers’ meeting to follow, in lieu of a formal muster.

  What the Stone’s Rest offered for breakfast was related to a domchana, Quaeryt thought, consisting of two pieces of egg toast dipped in batter a second time and fried around a slice of ham and topped with a drizzle of an apple-berry syrup. Each officer-and trooper-got two and an ale or lager.

  At the officers’ meeting, Quaeryt began, in Bovarian, “As I told Major Zhelan last night, unless the Bovarians mount an assault of some sort, we will not be undertaking any attacks today, but the bridge will remain guarded. We are to be ready to attack the north of Nordeau by early tomorrow.” He looked across the faces of the officers. “Major Calkoran, you have a question?”

  “Your imagers will create stone bridges for us?”

  “They will.”

  “If they reach from that tiny fort to one point on the far shore, the Bovarians may be able to blunt the attack. Unless you lead the charge.”

  “Thank you. We’ll be sure to spread out the attack in one or more ways so that your troopers are not crammed together and unable to fight their best. How we do that will depend on how the Bovarians are assembled to defend the north shore.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Quaeryt turned to Zhelan. “I had forgotten to ask you. The horses have been ridden a great deal on stone lately. Have we had more trouble with shoes or lameness?”

  “Some, sir, but so far we’ve had enough spare mounts. Wouldn’t hurt to gather more if we could after tomorrow.”

  Quaeryt nodded. “If you’d
see what can be done when the time comes. What about grain?”

  “That’s in short supply, sir, but I have suggested that some of the factors would be well advised to see if they can find some.”

  Quaeryt wasn’t about to ask what Zhelan’s suggestions entailed, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if they mentioned the relation of a subcommander to a certain ruler. “And?”

  Zhelan smiled. “They thought we might have some by this afternoon.”

  “Good!”

  After a few more items, and a report on the state of the troopers wounded in the assault, Quaeryt dismissed all the company officers, which left him alone in the public room with the imager undercaptains.

  He let the silence draw out before speaking. “Tomorrow you’ll have to image a stone span from the end of the approach to the isle. After we take the isle, you’ll have to do the same to the north shore. If they have troops arrayed there we’ll need at least two wide spans that aren’t too close together. I’ll be scouting that out later this morning, and I’ll let you know either tonight or in the morning what will be necessary.”

  “Will they have archers, sir?” asked Horan.

  “They have archers. They also have musketeers. We’ve seen the archers here, but we haven’t seen the musketeers. Yet.”

  “Why might that be?” asked Voltyr politely, in a tone that suggested he knew the answer and that Quaeryt should tell the others.

  “From what I understand from Major Calkoran, who has faced the Bovarian musketeers far more than any of the rest of us, the muskets are far more effective on open level fields or in places where they have a clear field of fire. The south quarter of Nordeau is not suited to that. Neither are the approaches to the bridge. It may be that there is a level square beyond the approach to the north side of the bridge. If so, that would be where we would be most likely to encounter musketeers.”