“They did indeed. Myskyl sent along their letters of agreement. Every one of them practically groveled. Not surprising.”
“Do you know how the High Holders feel?”
“The ones I’ve heard from are pleased, naturally.” Straesyr’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. “I’ve had three inquiries about purchasing the lands of the rebel holders. I wrote back that, if they wished, they could inquire of Lord Bhayar, since the lands were now his. I’ve heard nothing further.” He paused. “I also received an interesting report from the commander about you. You were most effective in battle. What was also unusual, apparently, was the difficulty the rebels had in actually striking you, and the fact that you managed to evade most blows you did not seem to see coming…”
Did Myskyl interrogate every ranker in Sixth Battalion?
“… Several officers seem to think that you’re under the protection of the Nameless, for all that you protest that you don’t know if the Nameless exists. Yet you are a most effective chorister in delivering homilies. Everyone the commander talked to insists that you asked for no special treatment.” Straesyr paused, then asked, “What are you? Why are you here? Most important, what really happened to the governor?”
“I’m sure you already know that, sir. He was hit in the chest with a crossbow quarrel. The quarrel was the kind the hill holders used, but no one could find who did it.”
“That’s another question. Who could put a quarrel through solid plate armor? Your name suggests it all—there are just too many questions around you.”
“That may be, sir, but there are the same questions around everyone. There were as many questions around the governor, but no one even thought of asking them.”
“Rescalyn was a good commander and strategist. Do you even understand, scholar…”
“I understand quite well, sir. He understood that the hill holders could fight forever against company-sized or even battalion-sized attacks. He built the regiment to the size necessary to destroy the major hill holds, if not more, and expanded the engineers. While he was doing that, he was giving the hill holders the illusion that they were holding their own, but he was consolidating support for himself and Telaryn everywhere outside of the hills, and using the hill holders as an example of brigandry. Then he attacked and destroyed the major holds one after the other. He removed the key holds … and then sent—well, Commander Myskyl did, but it was the governor’s plan—terms to those few surviving, demanding tribute and submission—or their destruction—and their agreement to follow the rules governing all the High Holders. After he took Zorlyn’s hold and destroyed most of his supporters, the others, all of them much weaker, capitulated.”
“Will they remain so?”
“You know the answer to that, sir. You may have to marshal the regiment once more against some recalcitrants to prove the point. But … if you make that point to all the officers … you may not. Word will get out.” Quaeryt paused, then added, “Rescalyn’s strategy wouldn’t have worked in a warmer clime, because the fighters could live off the land after the regiment left, but the winters are so harsh and long here that without stockpiles and supplies, that’s not feasible—and that’s why Waeryl, Saentaryn, Zorlyn, and the others fought rather than scattering into the hills.…”
“You saw this … when?”
“Some of it within weeks of arriving … some of it not until the campaign was well along.”
“It’s a tragedy that one of the last hill brigands was able to kill Rescalyn … if that’s what happened. Do you know how to use a crossbow?”
“I’ve never even picked one up, sir. As all the rankers and officers will tell you, I can barely defend myself with a half-staff. I’ve been wounded and injured twice and feel fortunate to have survived.” Quaeryt wasn’t about to raise the point that he’d been forced to learn to defend himself because Rescalyn had detailed him to assignments with Sixth Battalion that had continually exposed him to danger.
A flash of puzzlement crossed Straesyr’s face.
Quaeryt continued. “Rescalyn’s life ended with the reputation as a great strategist, an excellent commander, and a good governor. That’s how he will be remembered, and everyone will regard his death as a tragedy. That’s how it should be, rather than with Telaryn being torn apart.”
“You don’t really think—”
“Governor,” Quaeryt said firmly, “and you are governor in fact, at least until Bhayar decides otherwise, you know as well as I do what would have happened with the near-fanatical loyalty of the regiment to Rescalyn. He was a hero. It’s best left there.”
“Lord Bhayar is fortunate to have scholars such as you, Master Quaeryt.” Straesyr’s voice was surprisingly mild, almost at odds with the words he spoke.
“No, sir. Lord Bhayar is wise enough to use the talents of those who serve him loyally.” Quaeryt had a certain doubt that Bhayar always did so, but he had no doubts whatsoever that what Rescalyn had intended, after rebuilding the “regiment,” would have created far more death and devastation than anyone could have envisioned.
“How much of this is Lord Bhayar and how much is because of you? You never trusted Rescalyn from the first, did you?”
“Let us just say that I worried about his ambitions being greater than were in the interests of Lord Bhayar.”
“How did you know?”
“From his acts, his behavior, and even from the books he read. He wanted to be another Hengyst.”
“You may well be right, but where is the proof?”
“Rescalyn was far too brilliant to leave a written plan, or even footprints. But if one looks at the way he reorganized the regiment without ever letting on to Lord Bhayar actually how many men he had or how every dispatch emphasized in one way or another, never overplayed, the dangers of the hill holders…”
“That kind of proof is thin indeed.”
“And the way in which he used your wife’s safety against you.” Rather than reveal how he knew that, Quaeryt went on, “I suspected that in the way you mentioned family. Then, there was the warning you gave me, telling me to take care at a time when I wasn’t going into battle. More than anything, it was that the sum total of all the little things pointed to one end. He never mentioned in any dispatch the way he’d reorganized the regiment on the company and battalion level. Why did he leave the scholars alone when he knew their ties and links? His excessive efforts to build personal loyalty among the officers and men … his failure to ever mention Lord Bhayar to them … all those things…”
Straesyr shook his head. “You’re a dangerous man, scholar, to deduce so much, so accurately, from such small indicators.”
“What about you?” Quaeryt asked bluntly.
“Me? I’ve been ambitious, the Nameless knows, but I’d be more than pleased to end my days as governor here, not that such is likely now … and my family would be as well. That would never have suited Rescalyn.”
“You don’t know what Lord Bhayar will do. For what it’s worth, my words about you will be favorable.”
Straesyr’s smile was both rueful and wintry.
Quaeryt waited.
“That leaves the matter of what to do with you.”
“My term as your assistant lasts until the end of Finitas.” Not that Quaeryt wanted to stay in Tilbor even that long.
“That’s not exactly true,” replied Straesyr. “The letter from Lord Bhayar said that you were to be released in time to reach Solis before the end of winter. According to the surgeon—I did ask about your condition—you shouldn’t be riding as much as you did. You’ll be here longer than you had hoped. I don’t have to release you by the end of Finitas.”
Quaeryt didn’t answer immediately. Winter in Tilbor? What would Bhayar say? He’d suggested that Quaeryt might as well stay in Tilbor if he didn’t return by the end of winter. But how could Quaeryt even meet that deadline if he didn’t leave before winter truly set in?
Before Quaeryt could speak, Straesyr went on. “I’m going to have
to handle both positions. At the very least, scholar, I’ll need assistance, and I expect such, especially in matters dealing with the scholarium.”
After a moment, Quaeryt replied, “I can help there … and with anything else you feel comfortable with me doing.”
“Comfortable?” Straesyr raised his eyebrows. “You’re more than competent, but I can’t say I’m comfortable. As I said a moment ago, you’re a dangerous man.” He paused. “The biggest immediate problem will be all the prisoners Commander Myskyl is marching back. What would you do with them?”
“Apprentice out the youths. Relocate the adults as you can. Foster the orphaned children under five. The scholarium could help there, although they’d need some golds for clothing and food. You might have to offer some silvers for apprentices to begin with.”
“The scholarium would need golds anyway. You had that in mind all along.”
“I did … if I thought the new Master Scholar could make matters work.”
“It appears as though he is … or rather, his scholar princeps is.”
“I thought it might work out that way.”
“A number of matters have worked out the way you thought. A man would be wise to consider your views. Did Rescalyn ever ask you yours?”
“Only when he thought I might agree with him.”
“Did you ever raise questions about his acts or views? To him directly?”
“I hinted that the size of the regiment was large enough for other endeavors after dealing with the hill holders. He avoided dealing with that, and assigned me to Sixth Battalion for the attack on Zorlyn’s holding. Sixth Battalion was always in the fore and was one of the two lead battalions.”
“That is representative of his methods.” Straesyr nodded. “Scholar … there is one other thing.”
“Sir?”
Straesyr’s countenance broke into a smile as he extended an envelope. “This arrived with the last courier.”
As Quaeryt took the envelope, his eyes dropped to the script—Vaelora’s hand. “Thank you, sir.” For reasons he wasn’t certain he wanted to investigate at that moment, the existence of the missive seemed to lift a burden off his shoulders.
Is that because she writes because she wants to?
He looked to Straesyr. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“Not for the moment. We should talk on Lundi morning. You look like you could use some rest. I won’t need any written reports from you. You can just tell me anything you haven’t already then.”
“Thank you, sir.” Quaeryt stood slowly, nodded, and retreated to his study.
Once there, he opened the letter.
My Dearest Scholar Quaeryt—
“My Dearest”? Rhetorical excess? Or does she have dreams … more like delusions … or are the delusions yours? Quaeryt frowned, then swallowed. If she really feels that way … Bhayar would be anything but pleased. Anything but pleased. He took a deep breath before he continued reading.
Your latest missive was most entertaining as well as informative, so much so that I had to share it with members of my family. Unhappily, some were not so amused as was I, but even the sternest acknowledged your perception and wit …
Good … but will that be enough now that your brother has since discovered that he no longer has a “good governor” and undoubtedly superior commander? And that you address me as “Dearest”—or was that a way to assure I got the letter? He hoped so, or he might be marooned in Tilbor forever.
… and the wisdom behind such fascinating observations, although I must, as a mere young woman of no great worldly experience, defer to those with far greater apperception of the world as it is and not as I would have it.
I must also confess that I miss hearing your wit and perceptive comments in person, although in truth, I needs must also acknowledge that such occasions were far fewer in number than I, and I hope you, would otherwise have wished. For, as you know from your observations of the palace and the court, how could matters have been otherwise? Yet, in these times and perhaps in all times, a wise woman, or a young woman who is intelligent enough to seek the counsel of women far wiser and more powerful, must learn to seek where she can the company of minds who are not unsympathetic to her deepest feelings and convictions, be that company in correspondence, in conversation, or more happily otherwise. Wherever that dialogue may occur, it is to be valued and cherished, for even one so sheltered as I have been knows that it is rare indeed in any company, and so do I cherish those words you dispatch to me.
It may be that the news of other happenings has not reached you, in view of your duties and responsibilities, but it appears as if the Autarch of Antiago is tending to forget his most felicitous past relationships with Telaryn and is responding to a courtship of sorts from the Rex of Bovaria.…
Quaeryt read quickly through the next few paragraphs, which recounted various bits of news from Solis, all of which suggested that Rex Kharst was bent on annexing Antiago in one fashion or another in the years ahead … if not sooner.
… all of these events have given much pause, it is said, to Lord Bhayar, and those who know him well are given to suggesting that he has devoted much thought to readying Telaryn to weather the tempests that appear on the horizon. What preparations he will make and in what fashion has not been made known to any, only that he is about to undertake such, and that much may well change in the months and years to come. What this bodes for us, and for this most felicitous correspondence, I do not know, only that your words and the thoughts of receiving them have enlightened and warmed me, and that I would most earnestly hope that I will be able to count on continuing to receive such.
Quaeryt swallowed at the closing—“Your devoted Vaelora.”
Was her life that constricted in the palace that his comparatively few letters afforded such pleasure? Were her words rhetorical excess, based on the wistful fancies of a young woman who felt totally imprisoned by who she was?
He shook his head. Whatever the reason for the plea, he could not fail to reply to her, perhaps because he had seen—in the persons of Rescalyn’s exiled Bovarian mistress, of Hailae, and even of Tyrena, if only through the vista of a vanishing past—the way in which events could stifle the spirit of brilliant and accomplished women. He could not free Vaelora, but he could, he hoped, offer words that would stimulate and perhaps comfort, although, given the fierceness of her spirit, he could not ever be condescending or pitying.
And yet … even the act of replying to such a missive, even if carefully, oh so carefully accomplished, increased the risk of Bhayar’s displeasure … and for that matter the displeasure of anyone of power who wanted to form an alliance or gain greater power or access to Bhayar. Such displeasure could easily turn into attacks that might be difficult for even an accomplished imager to stop or divert.
For all that … you will reply …
He eased, awkwardly, a sheet of paper from the desk drawer.
96
Quaeryt barely made the mess on Solayi morning and had no more than seated himself when a figure walked swiftly toward him—Phargos.
“I was hoping to catch you,” said the chorister, settling into the seat across from Quaeryt. “I’m not going to ask you to deliver a homily.” A wide smile followed. “From what I’ve heard, mine would be most unfavorably compared to yours.”
“I’m certain that wouldn’t be true,” replied Quaeryt. “The homilies of yours that I’ve heard have always been enlightening.”
“I’m afraid it would be. Undercaptain Gauswn is convinced you’re the second coming of Rholan. So are a few others.”
“I’m nothing of the sort. You, of all people, know that.” Quaeryt poured tea into his mug, carefully, still feeling awkward in only having one hand to use.
“I do. I’m just not sure exactly what you are. You’re almost all things to all people. You’re a good officer to Skarpa and those who saw you in combat. You’re a good chorister to those who have heard your homilies. You’re obviously a good scholar to t
hose who value scholarship.” Phargos shook his head. “I don’t think anyone, even you yourself, knows truly what you are.” The smile returned. “That’s not why I wanted to talk to you. Did you know that Gauswn wants to leave the regiment when his time is up and become a chorister?”
“I didn’t know. I can’t say I’m surprised, though. When would that be?”
“His commitment ends on the thirty-fifth of Erntyn next year. Cyrethyn would like for him to study with both of us and succeed him as the chorister for the scholarium. We’ve gotten some good junior officers from there, and it would help to have a chorister who’s friendly to Telaryn and the regiment. Those are my thoughts on the matter. What are yours?”
Quaeryt grinned. “You don’t want my thoughts. You want to know if I’d approve of him. Yes, I would. He’s good at heart, and intelligent. He’d represent change, even though it wouldn’t be that great a change, and the scholarium could use that.” Quaeryt paused. “You don’t even need my approval. What’s the problem?”
“Cyrethyn is frail. He’s very frail. I worry he may not live another year.”
“Do you want me to talk to Straesyr to see if he’d release Gauswn early on the condition he starts immediately at the scholarium?”
“Cyrethyn is far more frail than he lets on.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you.” Phargos rose. “Unlike with some, with you, those words mean what they say.”
Quaeryt served himself one of the thick cooling cheese omelets and scarcely warm bread, then took a sip of his tea. As he ate, he couldn’t help but think about Phargos’s comment, especially as it applied to Vaelora. Was he something he wasn’t to her? He’d certainly never tried to deceive her—perhaps to mislead anyone who intercepted and read his words, but not her. For those reasons, composing a response to her latest missive had been difficult, and he had yet to finish that reply, but he did have a few days before another courier would leave for Solis.
What did he feel about her?
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