With that thought, as he sat in the room serving as the officers’ mess, he took another swallow of lager. He looked up to see Skarpa and Meinyt seating themselves across from him.
“Scholar … you’ve been off somewhere a lot lately,” offered Meinyt.
“I haven’t left Boralieu. I’ve been thinking, doing some light exercise so my muscles don’t stiffen up. And I’ve been drinking more lager than I ever thought because the surgeon told me to.”
“Can’t go wrong with that advice,” interjected Skarpa.
“I feel like I’ll float away at times.”
“Does it help?” asked Meinyt.
“It can’t be harming him,” pointed out Skarpa. “How many men have you seen take a bolt in the chest and shoulder and be up and walking in a week?”
Quaeryt decided against pointing out that the wound hadn’t been quite as deep as those suffered by others. It had been deep enough, and it still ached, especially when he forgot to use the sling. “How have things been for you two?”
“We never did find the rest of those poachers,” snorted Meinyt. “We may have to go visit Holder Waerfyl personally.”
“That’s something the commander has to decide,” said Skarpa. “He’s not here, and that’s why I was looking for you. You’re a scholar … can you talk about the Nameless?”
“I suppose I could talk about Rholan the Unnamer. Why?”
“We don’t have a regular chorister for services, and the commander usually serves as chorister, or Captain Fyten of the engineers does, but they’ve both gone back to see the governor. The commander knows I talk a lot with Phargos. Before he left, he asked if I’d step in or find someone.” Skarpa shook his head. “I like Phargos, and I might be able to say things like he does, but no one would believe me if I started talking about the Nameless.”
Filling in for a chorister was about the last thing Quaeryt wanted to do. “I could do something for the homily, but I don’t know the service.”
“Gauswn does. He’ll do that. He’s a real believer—he might even have considered being a chorister, I heard—but he thinks it’s improper for a fresh undercaptain to act as a chorister. No one will think that about you because scholars are supposed to know things like that.”
“Am I supposed to give it in Bovarian the way Phargos does, or in Tellan?”
“Out here, even Phargos does it in Tellan. We don’t have two services here. But you speak well in either tongue, I think.”
“I think you’ve twisted my very sore arm far enough, Major,” answered Quaeryt dryly. “I’ll do it.” He paused. “You mean tonight? Where are the services?”
“I mean tonight. I wouldn’t have asked if you looked like you were dragging. We hold services in the main dining hall—just out there.” He pointed through the door to where the troopers were gathered for their meal.
“I should have looked worse,” quipped Quaeryt.
“It’s too late for that now, scholar,” returned Skarpa. “Enjoy your food.”
“Because I won’t enjoy acting as chorister?” Quaeryt shook his head. “I’m going to have to be more careful around you.”
“The captains and undercaptains learn that quickly,” said Meinyt.
Skarpa just laughed.
The mess began to fill, and before long, lager, ale, and platters were before those at the table. The sliced mutton, mashed potatoes, and some kind of gourd, all covered with a brown gravy, were decent, but unsurprisingly, not nearly so good as the food at the Telaryn Palace.
Finally, as the officers’ mess emptied, Quaeryt stood and adjusted the sling. It had been a long day, and his shoulder was throbbing.
“You sure you’ll be all right, scholar?” asked Skarpa.
“I’m a little tired, but I’ll be fine. I don’t talk with my shoulder.” He offered a quick grin.
Less than a quint later, Quaeryt followed Gauswn into the end of the dining hall, where they faced perhaps a hundred rankers and a handful of officers. Quaeryt saw Meinyt and Skarpa in the rear to one side.
After a long pause, the undercaptain stepped forward. He wore a plain white scarf over his undress greens, not nearly so long as those worn by true choristers, but his voice was firm as he began with the traditional greeting. “We gather together in the spirit of the Nameless and to affirm the quest for goodness and mercy in all that we do.”
The opening hymn followed, and it was “Praise Not the Nameless,” but sung in Tellan. That wasn’t surprising, either, since it was one of the better-known hymns. Then came the confession, ending with, “… and deference to You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped.”
Quaeryt murmured “In peace and harmony” with the others, but standing where he was, he didn’t have to offer coins for the offertory basket, for which he was grateful.
Since there was no pulpit, after the offering was collected he just stepped forward. “Good evening,” he offered in Tellan.
“Good evening,” came the murmured reply.
“Under the Nameless all evenings are reckoned as good … but how good … well … it’s not raining, and for that we can all thank the Nameless.”
A low chuckle ran through those assembled.
“A few of you just may have heard about Rholan the Unnamer.” Quaeryt paused, hoping his understatement would at least draw smiles and a few chuckles.
It did, and he went on. “Just before I was posted to Tilbor, I happened to read about Rholan in an ancient tome that might not have been opened since it was written over a century ago. Reading old, old books often doesn’t tell you as much as you hope, but this one, and some of the others, got me to thinking. Rholan is the most famous exponent of the Nameless, yet we know almost nothing about him as a man, as if he tried, in fact, to be as nameless as possible. He was born in Montagne, we think, but do not know for sure, and lived there most of his life. He never traveled more than a two hundred milles from there, and he disappeared after traveling to Cloisonyt in his fifty-third year. Yet his words and acts changed all Lydar.
“You have certainly heard his most famous precepts, such as ‘A name does not equal deeds’ or ‘When the body is a slave to the name, both are servants of the Namer.’ You know that every anomen is without adornment within and without because Rholan declared that adornment that serves no function and provides no use is a form of Naming. He made the point that acts always triumph over names, and in a sense his own life proves that. We know little of him, only what he said, only in the questions he raised.
“Yet there is an irony in that, because we tend to revere his name, often ignoring his precepts, and while I am no chorister, I have the feeling that Rholan would rather have been more forgotten than to have his words, and even his questions, ignored in favor of remembering his name. Yet … were another such as he to arise, who offered such precepts and questions, would we pay attention to them, or would we require proof of deeds?
“We talk of deeds and acts, but if either a deed or an act is used as a proof of something, is that not also Naming?
“You are all soldiers, and I am a scholar, and it is most unlikely that, even if we wished otherwise, which we should not, our names will outlive us, except in the hearts and thoughts of those closest to us. What will outlive us is our actions, for better or worse, those actions undertaken for the sake of the action itself, and not for fame or glory…”
Quaeryt went on to talk about the value of actions, citing a few great military acts along the way, then concluded, “… and yet the irony, which we should never forget, is that deeds can only be remembered through words, and words, used too freely, can easily become boasting, and thus a form of Naming. In that, I would observe that, indeed, the hardest part of accomplishing deeds, both great and small, is letting them speak for themselves and resisting the temptation to speak of them.”
After the benediction, Quaeryt waited as the worshippers, mainly rankers, filed out of the dining hall.
Then the undercaptain turned to Quaer
yt. “You mentioned the coming of another such as Rholan. Do you think that possible?”
“Anything is possible, but I think it unlikely we will ever see another exactly like Rholan. We might see another who raises those questions in another fashion.”
“You could be a chorister, Scholar Quaeryt.”
“Not week after week, I fear, but thank you anyway.”
Skarpa stepped forward, smiling. “I’ll have to tell Phargos what you said. After all his homilies I never heard that about Rholan.”
Quaeryt laughed softly. “There are some things a scholar should know that not even choristers know.”
54
The first part of the week passed relatively uneventfully for Quaeryt. He kept practicing with his contrived system, varying the timing and adding weight to the rope, so that his shields seemed to react instantly to any intrusion. His strength had largely returned, and he had no more incidents of fever, although soreness persisted in his shoulder, and he had trouble sleeping for long periods because he still was limited to sleeping on his back or his right side.
He spent his time, when he wasn’t practicing his shields, studying the post, asking questions and listening at meals and in the evening in the officers’ mess and trying to learn more about Tilbor and the regiment. While he did find out more, nothing he heard added anything new, but rather filled out with specific details what he already knew.
Finally, at breakfast on Jeudi, he looked across the table at Skarpa. “Major … are there any patrols that just stay in the valley?”
“There’s one every day. It’s tedious. They patrol around the edges of the entire valley looking for tracks or signs that anyone may be scouting the post … or causing trouble. It’s part training and part precaution.”
“I’d like to accompany them today.”
Skarpa frowned. “Are you up to that?”
Quaeryt offered a grin. “I can ride. I never was any good with weapons, and I wouldn’t be any trouble. And if I get too tired, I can certainly find my way back. There haven’t been any brigands in the valley itself in years. That’s what Meinyt said.”
“That’s true.” Skarpa frowned, then nodded. “Undercaptain Gauswn has the boundary patrol today. I’ll tell him to expect you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” He didn’t point out that he was bored—because he hated to say that—but there was little enough for a scholar to do, with no library and no diversions. Then again, that might have been another reason why the companies spent only a month at a time at Boralieu.
“I don’t know as you’ll learn all that much.”
“I may not, but that’s a form of learning, too.”
Skarpa shook his head.
After he finished eating, Quaeryt made his way to the end stable. He’d thought about asking around to get a worn green uniform shirt that he could wear over his browns, but hadn’t done so. Still, he shouldn’t need it, not so long as the patrol stayed in the valley.
He did manage to saddle the mare, if awkwardly. He wouldn’t have been able to do so, he realized, if he’d injured his right shoulder. When he led the mare out into the courtyard and mounted, using both hands, but replacing his arm in the sling after settling into the saddle, he saw that clouds were moving in from the north—not thunderclouds, but high thin clouds that might presage nothing or a later rain. The clouds would make the day more pleasant, but not if rain followed.
From the south end of the courtyard, Gauswn turned his horse and rode toward Quaeryt.
The scholar had to admire the ease with which the undercaptain seemed to meld with his mount.
“Greetings, scholar.” Gauswn smiled. “Welcome to our very routine patrol.”
“That’s fine with me. My last patrol had enough excitement.”
“Your arm?”
“I can use it if I have to, but I’m supposed to keep it in the sling most of the time for a bit longer.”
Gauswn’s nod contained a hint of doubt, but he said nothing more as Quaeryt rode beside him toward the head of the column, which looked to consist of two squads, and not a full company.
Once the patrol headed downhill from the sandstone walls of Boralieu, Quaeryt raised his lighter shields, set close to a yard and a half from him. He had already realized that the way his shielding worked, he’d have trouble if he rode too close to anyone. Still … if he kept working with them, maybe, just maybe, he could become strong enough to hold the heavier shields all the time. Or he could find a way to make them more selective.
The wind from the north was not stiff, but stronger than a mere breeze, with a hint of chill behind it.
“This won’t be much of a patrol,” offered Gauswn.
“Major Skarpa said that it was also a training exercise of sorts.”
“It is. We put a newer ranker out front with each experienced outrider, and they point out what a scout or an outrider needs to look for. Also, we’ll run road drills when we’re not near any of the local crofters.” Gauswn offered a wry smile. “A quick charge beside a plow horse or a cart horse might spook them, and the commander wouldn’t want to hear about that.…”
Less than a quint later, as the patrol neared the eastern edge of the valley, Quaeryt saw ahead four large drays. Four draft horses, escorted by a squad of troopers, pulled each as they groaned along the dirt road toward Boralieu.
Gauswn ordered the squads immediately onto the shoulder of the road to wait as the wagons passed.
“Supply wagons,” explained Gauswn. “Once a week except in the winter.”
“How often then?”
“Whenever they can, but over the next few weeks, they’ll bring in extra supplies—the kind that keep—so that the post could last all winter without resupply. The fare isn’t what anyone likes, but they’re always fed.”
“That’s the mark of a good commander.”
“It is.” Gauswn paused, then asked, “Did you ever study to be chorister? You seem to know so much about Rholan and the Nameless.”
“Scholars study many things.”
“But … you knew about Rholan, the way you talked about him. What else do you know?”
Quaeryt hesitated, if but for a moment. If he didn’t offer a bit more, he’d seem like a shallow scholar, yet … “He’s the only follower of the Nameless who is mentioned in any of the hymns or as a subject for homilies in the guidance for choristers.”
“Where did you discover that?”
Quaeryt laughed. “I asked several choristers. I have this bad habit of asking questions. So did Rholan, I think.” As soon as he uttered the last sentence, he wished he hadn’t.
“Rholan asked questions?”
“That’s what some of the texts say.”
“Such as?”
“Oh … some are so familiar everyone’s forgotten who first asked them. He was the one who asked, ‘What truly is a name?’ At least, he was the first to ask that as a serious question. Things like that.”
“What else?”
“I’d have to go back to my library in Solis to rediscover the others.”
Gauswn looked appraisingly at Quaeryt, but didn’t press further.
Skarpa did warn you that he was very devout in his worship of the Nameless.
Once the wagons had passed, the patrol rode no more than another half mille before turning south on a path little more than a dirt track stamped out by patrol after patrol. On the slope to the east were bushes, copses of trees, largely evergreens and birches, and rocky pasture. Quaeryt saw one flock of sheep, tended by a youth or a young girl, farther to the south and higher on the rise.
“This side’s easy, but I have the outriders make the new ones name all the tracks they see from the saddle. Too many times, you don’t have time to dismount and check, especially not in the woods.”
Based on his one experience along those lines, Quaeryt tended to agree.
Close to two glasses later, the patrol reached the southern end of the valley and turned westward. Less than a mille farther
, the slopes had become covered with older pines, with but scattered handfuls of birches and only an occasional oak. On the north side of the track were flat fields, most bearing golden wheat corn close to being harvested.
Quaeryt had the feeling that those fertile fields might once have been a shallow lake, generations back.
“It’s mostly wheat down here. Farther along, where there’s a stream, they grow some maize.”
“Do you get any supplies from the locals?”
“Some … but they don’t grow enough for themselves and all of Boralieu. The governor insists that we pay fair prices for anything we buy and that we make sure to leave enough that they can get through the worst of winters without difficulty.”
“He tries very hard to be fair.”
“Fairer than the Khanars, some of the old folks say.”
As the patrol neared the southwestern corner of the valley, the wind picked up, and Quaeryt could see where the winters could indeed be bitter. Ahead, at the end of a hayfield, one of the last, it appeared to the scholar, a cart was drawn up next to a low stone wall, and a boy was stacking the bundles in the cart while either his father or an older brother was cutting the stalks in the field with a scythe.
As the column approached the cart, a severe gust of wind blasted out of the north, ripping part of the bundle of hay out of the boy’s hands and swirling it toward the patrol. Abruptly, Quaeryt’s shields triggered, and the hay and dust swirled around him. He dropped the shields quickly, but Gauswn turned with a frown.
“That … what was that? The hay and dust, they blew around you…”
“They did?” asked Quaeryt. “I didn’t notice.” What else can you say?
“I’m sure they did.”
Quaeryt laughed. “Sometimes, the wind does strange things.”
Scholar Page 34