“Then who killed Traesk?”
“No man could have killed him.”
“Was the Khanara that skilled in weapons?”
“She was the equal of any man.”
Quaeryt could see the general outline, but parts of what he thought he saw didn’t make sense. “What does this have to do with the scholars?”
“The Khanara had help from … some in the south. The … scholar has vowed to kill all those who helped her.”
Quaeryt looked at the seamstress, taking in the lean muscles he’d thought were merely the sign of lack of privilege. He risked jumping to a conclusion. “He’s after all the Sisters?”
Her face tightened.
“I’m not after you … or them. I’ve overheard people talking about the Sisters, but I didn’t know what they meant. When you explained, though…”
“You are a dangerous man.”
“I doubt I’m near as dangerous as you.” He paused but briefly. “I do have a question. Do you know the name of Traesk’s son? If I ever meet him, I’d like to know it.”
“Chardyn … Chardyn Traesksyn…”
Quaeryt refrained from nodding. That made all too much sense. “And the scholars are still working with the hill timber holders against the governor … because they think the people in the south sold out to Lord Chayar?”
“I cannot say. I would judge so.” The seamstress offered another smile, faint and knowing. “You are not a scholar … or not just a scholar.”
“I’ve been a seaman, but I am a scholar.”
“Your eyes say that you are more.”
“No more than you,” he replied.
She laughed. “You did not give your name.”
“Quaeryt Rytersyn.”
“Your name says it all.”
He frowned.
“The questioner of every man.”
“And yours?”
“Syen Yendradyr.”
“That says that your mother…”
“We do not take our father’s names.” She nodded. “You know enough for now.”
“I might be back.”
“Don’t come too soon. Talk to others.”
“I will.” He inclined his head, turned, and departed.
Once he was outside the shop, he shook his head. He’d never thought he’d risked being killed for being a local scholar. Had the patroller who’d recommended Thayl’s stable the first time he’d ridden through the harbor done so for reasons other than courtesy?
He massaged his sore forearm with his left hand. The injury, slight as it was, again reminded him that he did need to think more about how to create some sort of shields.
You can’t keep putting it off.
He glanced back at the silversmith’s, but the door was still shuttered. So he walked past the café and entered the chandlery.
A man within a few years of Quaeryt’s age turned, then frowned.
“Greetings,” Quaeryt said quickly. “I’ve recently arrived from Solis.”
An expression close to relief crossed the man’s face.
“I’m a scholar, and I’ve been sent to write about the history of Tilbor from the time of the last Khanars until now.”
“Were you raised in Solis?”
“I was an orphan left in Solis as a young child when my parents died in the Great Plague. I’d guess I’m as much from Solis as from anywhere.”
“Better there than some places.”
“I was hoping that you could tell me what you recall…” From there Quaeryt went on, asking a question here and there. After two quints, it was clear he wouldn’t learn much more, and he left for the next shop.
He visited almost a score of shops, but people were wary, and no one told him as much as Syen had. He never did find a bookstore, nor a cooperage in the harbor area, and it was more than three glasses later when he finally returned to Thayl’s and paid the extra copper. Instead of riding back directly, he headed north from the harbor area, through an area of dwellings that were slightly larger than those he’d passed to the northwest of the harbor on his way in, but all had higher-pitched roofs than he’d seen anywhere but in Tilbora, and narrower windows. No one looked askance at him, and several women and older men waved.
By midafternoon, the sky had clouded over, and the wind had shifted from the northwest. A light sprinkling of rain had begun to fall when he finally returned to the palace grounds just after third glass. By the time he’d logged back in, unsaddled and groomed the mare, and washed up, it was close to fourth glass. Even so, he did return to his study, but found no more envelopes and messages.
At half past fourth glass, he made his way down to the mess, where, as Dueryl had explained, there was a pay table. He waited behind several undercaptains until it was his turn.
“Scholar Quaeryt … yes … here you are, sir.” The ranker clerk eased three silvers and five coppers across the pay table.
“I thought meals were a copper each.”
“They are, sir, except for mess night, and that’s two.”
“Oh … thank you.” Quaeryt certainly didn’t mind the charges. The food was better than it would have been in Tilbora, at half the price, and certainly better than at the Ecoliae.
As he stood there, waiting for supper, he couldn’t help but wonder about the fare. Yet both the princeps and Major Skarpa had insisted that what the rankers got was about the same as what the officers got. Somehow, if that were true, and he suspected it happened to be so, he doubted that such was the case for rankers elsewhere in Bhayar’s service.
45
Samedi morning, Quaeryt lingered over breakfast, talking to another set of undercaptains, not learning anything new, but more of what he’d already picked up, if from a slightly different viewpoint. In a way, that suggested there might not be that much else truly new that he could learn from the junior officers about the regiment itself, at least for the moment, because what he could ask was limited to some extent by what he already knew … and what he didn’t.
After breakfast, he hurried up to his study, arriving just before seventh glass, where he sat down and tried to think about what he had discovered so far and how he could recommend—if he could—a reduction in troops in Tilbor. If he couldn’t, what could he do … that wouldn’t leave him in a precarious position with Bhayar? The other problem he faced was the scholars. He’d been seeking a way to bolster and improve their position in Telaryn as a first step toward what he really envisioned, but so far all he was discovering was how they were destroying their support among both the landholders and the people.
After a time, he decided to go back down to the library to see if there were any books dealing with scholars. Once there, in less than a glass, he found that there were none, and there hadn’t been any references to the scholars in either the governor’s dispatches or the records of the Khanar’s Council. The lack of mention of the scholars by Rescalyn reinforced Quaeryt’s decision to move slowly in dealing with them.
Somewhat discouraged, he decided to make a more thorough survey of everything that lay within the walls of the Telaryn Palace, starting at the west end. That effort took most of the day, from eighth glass until nearly fifth glass. In the process, he did discover that, despite housing more than a full regiment, many of the troop quarters were currently empty, that at least two springs and numerous cisterns supplied and stored water, and that, in effect, the space within the palace walls could house and support more than five thousand people.
With his feet sore from walking on stone pavement and floors for more than seven glasses, something that often happened because of his uneven gait, he returned to his quarters and cleaned up, then made his way to the main part of the palace to find the Green Salon, which he discovered on the third level of the center section of the main palace.
The first person Quaeryt saw—after the senior squad leader in the dress green uniform by the door—when he entered the Green Salon was Princeps Straesyr, wearing a white formal tunic over dark blue trousers. Be
yond Straesyr, Quaeryt glimpsed several officers in dress uniforms, including the governor and Commander Myskyl, as well as a woman dressed elegantly in a flowing black gown, and Chorister Phargos.
The princeps stepped toward him. “Master scholar … I had forgotten that scholars do not have formal attire. We will have to take care of that. I will request the regimental tailor make you a brown formal jacket of the same cut and cloth as a dress uniform.”
Quaeryt didn’t have an immediate direct response that would not have been either obsequious or flippant. “I had not anticipated such formality, and I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“You are likely to be here for a time, and we do want you to be appropriately attired.” The princeps gestured toward a sideboard behind him and to his left. “You might try the Noiran white ice wine. It’s rather delicate … but potent.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.” With a smile, Straesyr turned and eased back in the direction of those surrounding the governor.
Quaeryt surveyed the salon quickly. The walls of the oval-shaped chamber, a good twenty yards in length and perhaps fifteen in width at its widest point, were cloaked in deep green hangings, flowing down from the gilded crown moldings carved into floral designs. The ceiling rose two levels, at an angle that suggested a mansard exterior, and light—and a gentle breeze—poured in from the open upper-level windows, although the shimmering brass lamps set on protruding brackets at intervals around the salon were also lit. At one end of the salon was placed a clavecin, as if someone might be playing the plucked keyboard instrument later during the reception.
Since no one moved toward him, he stepped toward the sideboard, tended by a ranker in dress greens.
“Sir?”
“The white ice wine, please.”
“Very good, sir.”
Quaeryt took the goblet, almost tulip-shaped, with a crest he did not recognize cut into the crystal, and took the smallest sip of the colorless wine. Even that small sip convinced him that the princeps had been right. He’d have to make the wine last a long time.
As several other officers entered the salon, also greeted by the princeps, Quaeryt eased toward those already gathered, not all that far from the end of the clavecin, an instrument whose unadorned but polished wood shimmered.
The gray-haired Commander Myskyl caught sight of Quaeryt and turned, stepping toward him. “Scholar, I don’t believe we’ve met yet.”
Quaeryt noted a pattern of faint, but long-healed, scars on the commander’s left cheek and jaw. “No, sir. I’ve only seen you from across the mess.”
“What do you think of the regiment so far?”
“I’ve been very impressed by everything I’ve seen.”
“I understand you’ve also visited Tilbora and taken a local patrol.”
“I have. It appears that your officers and men are held in high regard here.”
“Here in the south, that is true.”
Behind the commander, Quaeryt heard both Skarpa and Phargos laughing, apparently at something the governor had said. “And elsewhere?”
“We’re accepted in the north. We have troubles in the lands bordering and encompassing the Boran Hills.”
“I assume you have some sort of post in the north.”
“We have posts in Midcote and Noira, just three battalions in Midcote and two in Noira. There aren’t that many people in the far north, and most of those are clustered on the lands of the High Holders. The war wiped out most of the northers who would have caused trouble.”
“Are the timber holders a problem because they stayed out of the war?”
“They’ve avoided authority as much as they could from before the time of the Khanars.” Myskyl’s tone was dryly sardonic. “Have you visited the local scholars?”
“Before the reception I received in Tilbora, until I explained I was a scholar from Solis, I had thought to do so. Now … I’m not certain it would be for the best. Not yet, at least. Do you know why those in Tilbora—around the harbor, anyway—feel strongly about scholars?”
“I couldn’t say why, except many believe that the scholars are more allied with the timber holders than the rest of the south. I understand they’re tolerated because of their school and because they’ve given no one a reason to attack them … and because the governors have declared that any violence will be dealt with severely.”
“That’s because of the incident involving the Pharsi women?”
Myskyl frowned, if only for a moment. “That was unfortunate. Governor Fhayt did not understand fully how a regiment must be handled following a war.”
“Governor Rescalyn understands that clearly, it would seem to me.”
The commander nodded. “He understands both war and governing very well.”
A bell-like sound echoed across the room, and the conversation died away. Everyone turned toward the governor, who stood, waiting, until the salon was absolutely silent.
“Now that you are all here, I thought we should have some entertainment of … shall I say … a more refined nature.” Rescalyn gestured to the dark-haired woman in black beside him. “Some of you have already heard Mistress Eluisa play, but it is always a joy to listen. She is quite accomplished. She was Bovarian by birth. Her music has made my duties here far more pleasant.”
Quaeryt shifted his eyes, but not his head, to observe the princeps. Straesyr merely nodded and offered a polite smile, as did Myskyl.
As the officers formed a semicircle, several yards back from the clavecin, Eluisa settled herself onto the padded bench before the instrument. Quaeryt moved to one side, with the more junior officers, almost beside Major Skarpa. When Eluisa poised her hands above the keys, from where he stood, Quaeryt could not help but notice that her fingers, while slender, were not particularly long.
The music that issued from the clavecin was almost like the flow of a river, dancing, then slowing. Whether that was what the composer had meant, Quaeryt had no idea, only that was the impression he garnered. The second piece was a triumphal march, followed by a gentler melody that seemed half love song, half lullaby. The final presentation was slightly longer, and seemed almost to present a history in music … at least to Quaeryt.
All the officers applauded, but after the applause died away, and the more senior officers had presented their compliments, Quaeryt made his way to Eluisa. “What was the last piece that you played?”
“It’s an adaptation of a Khellan melody by Covaelyt. He was the court composer to the father of Rex Kharst.”
“Why did you flee Variana?” He kept his voice soft, but not too soft, so that the governor would think him merely deferential, rather than secretive.
Her eyebrows lifted.
“You are too beautiful and too talented not to have left except under some sort of … duress.”
“You compliment as a form of inquiry, master scholar.”
“The governor would agree with my compliments, I am most certain.”
Her smile was brief. “My sister killed herself. She was extraordinarily beautiful…”
“And the Rex used her and spurned her?”
“That was what everyone believed.”
“She was too noble for that,” suggested Quaeryt.
“How would you know that, master scholar?”
“You are extremely talented, and such ability comes from both training and position. You also have survived in a land strange to you. It is rare, despite the romantic tales, that one daughter in a noble family is weak while another is strong. The daughters of families of high position in Bovaria are always presented in court. I am only speculating, based on what I have heard, but she would not jeopardize your family by any form of outright refusal. Therefore, she did not refuse his advances, and she would likely have been relieved when his attention waned. Except it did not, and his, shall we say, excesses led to her death.” Quaeryt was attempting to state the conclusion politely.
For the barest moment, her mouth moved, as if to dro
p open, before she spoke, her pleasant voice quite level. “Does all Lydar speculate so wildly?”
“My dear Lady Eluisa, the proclivities of any ruler can seldom be kept secret. If those who know them are killed, then the absences are noted, and questions are asked of those who might have carried out the killings, and sooner or later all will know, because a ruler cannot kill too many of those who serve him and still remain a ruler. If those who know are not killed, then the proclivities are known sooner.”
“Yet women die, and none care. Is it only the death of men that rouses other men to action?”
“That depends, Lady, on the man.” Quaeryt bowed his head.
“Or how beloved and highborn the woman is.”
“That, too,” Quaeryt admitted.
Rescalyn cleared his throat and stepped forward. “You are rather perceptive, scholar, but I would not have your perception recall too many unpleasantnesses for Mistress Eluisa.”
“Nor would I.” Quaeryt inclined his head to the lady. “My deepest apologies if I have unwittingly injured or offended you.”
“You have not,” she replied, “so long as matters remain as they are.”
“As they shall,” promised Quaeryt.
Rescalyn smiled at Eluisa, and she slipped away, moving toward the princeps.
“Master scholar,” said Rescalyn cheerfully, “one last word with you before we get on with enjoyment of the evening.”
“Yes, sir.”
“On Lundi morning, the companies will begin their monthly rotation. Major Skarpa will be taking Sixth Battalion to Boralieu. Since you seem to be on agreeable terms with the major, as well as with one of his captains, Captain Meinyt, I thought that accompanying them and their men to the main hill outpost and riding with them on patrols for a time would provide you a firsthand understanding of the problems we face in the hills.”
“I am most certain that it would, and I look forward to accompanying them and learning what would not otherwise be possible.”
“Excellent. Now … we have some delightful refreshments, including slices of a special suckling pig prepared in the Cloisonyt style. Do enjoy yourself.” Rescalyn nodded and then walked toward Eluisa and Straesyr.
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