Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “So you did. I had wondered if we might be seeing you, Governor.” Siemprit gestured to the younger man with him, who looked to be about Quaeryt’s age. “This is Neoryn, my assistant chorister.”

  Neoryn was black-haired with brilliant blue eyes and an oval face that conveyed innocence. He inclined his head politely and said, “Governor,” in a resonant and mellow voice that doubtless could fill an anomen with ease.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Neoryn.”

  “And I you, sir.”

  “You must come in and see the anomen,” said Siemprit.

  The smoothness of his tone made Quaeryt check his shields, although he couldn’t imagine a chorister attempting anything. Yet … You don’t trust him. “I’d be happy to.”

  Siemprit turned and walked back through the open double doors, doors of finely finished and well-polished goldenwood, Quaeryt noted in passing. The plain bronze handles shimmered in the warm spring sunlight.

  Inside, the floor was of polished black marble, while the walls of the spacious vestibule were of plain white plaster, with simple goldenwood floor moldings. Twin black marble archways afforded access to the sanctuary from the vestibule. The sanctuary was a good thirty yards long and fifteen wide. The dais at the far end was of black marble as well, but the pulpit was of polished goldenwood.

  “It’s very simple in an impressive way,” commented Quaeryt.

  “As is the Nameless,” replied Siemprit.

  “Unfortunately, life isn’t always that simple.” Quaeryt wanted to hear what the chorister might say in return.

  “We often make life too complicated, Governor. A good remedy for that complexity is acting in accord with the basic and simple precepts of the Nameless.”

  When one can … without creating even greater harm and complexity. Quaeryt did not voice that thought but only nodded as he stopped short of the dais and studied the workmanship of the marble and the pulpit—and the recently painted white plaster walls behind the dais. Two narrow and high windows provided light.

  “I imagine you’d like a few moments with Neoryn, Governor.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  “I will leave you two.” Siemprit smiled beatifically. “I will be in my study if you need me further.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We could go to my study,” suggested Neoryn.

  “Lead the way.”

  The assistant chorister’s study was twice the size of Quaeryt’s study at the post, but simple in the same fashion as the rest of the anomen, with the polished black marble floor, goldenwood moldings around the door and windows, and the white plaster walls. A desk, with a chair behind it, and three other chairs, a file chest, and a bookcase comprised the furnishings. All were plain and of polished goldenwood, and all showed the finest in crafting and workmanship.

  Quaeryt took one of the chairs.

  Neoryn took one of the others, but not the one behind the desk. “Chorister Siemprit said you might be looking for a chorister for … your anomen, Governor.”

  “He probably told you I’ve been acting as chorister. It’s not my calling, but I’ve done the best I can. There have been so many pressing demands that, until now, I haven’t had time to look into the possibilities for a chorister, or frankly to come up with the funding to refurbish the anomen and support a chorister.”

  “Would not the collections … help?”

  “They might, but the collections were used to buy food and clothing for the poorest women in Extela. It seemed that they needed that help more than the troopers needed a refurbished anomen.”

  Neoryn nodded. “No one could find fault with helping the poor.”

  In spite of himself, Quaeryt had the feeling that Neoryn actually meant what he said, as opposed to Siemprit, whose every word he doubted. But is that because Neoryn’s voice conveys sincerity, whether he is or not?

  Quaeryt didn’t have an answer to that question. “There will be times when there are very few congregants, and even upon those infrequent occasions when there are more, the collections will not be large.”

  “There is no anomen near the post. Could it not be opened to those who live nearby, and not just be limited to those stationed at the post?”

  “That might be possible.” Neoryn’s suggestion made sense. Quaeryt just hadn’t thought of that option, most likely because he hadn’t wanted to think at all about dealing with the anomen and finding a chorister. “Why do you think you might be the right chorister for such an anomen?”

  “I cannot say that I would be the right chorister, Governor. I am a chorister, and I would do my best. Whether a chorister is best for any anomen depends as much on the congregants as upon the chorister.” Neoryn smiled crookedly. “Part of a good chorister’s task is to persuade those who come to look beyond what they wish to see and hear without offending them so much that they do not return.”

  Quaeryt did not reply immediately, because while he certainly recognized the truth of what Neoryn said, he also realized that what the chorister said applied, in many ways, to what he was trying to do as governor. The problem was that, in governing, one had to do things for the common good that were often not popular or acceptable to those with one kind of power or another. And sometimes, the law worked against justice, as in the cases of Wystgahl and Lysienk, something that few wanted to acknowledge, even as they bemoaned injustices either created by the very laws they supported or ignored by those laws.

  “You disagree, Governor?”

  “No. I was thinking that your words applied to more than being a chorister.” Quaeryt smiled. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “I don’t know that there’s anything special about me. I was born in Ilyum…”

  Quaeryt listened, occasionally asking questions, while Neoryn explained how he’d come to be a chorister. In spite of how little Quaeryt trusted Siemprit, he couldn’t help but think that Neoryn actually might make a good chorister … just about anywhere.

  But why does Siemprit want so much for you to offer a position to Neoryn? Because he’s what Siemprit isn’t, and Siemprit doesn’t want his congregation to find out? Or is there something about Neoryn that you’re not seeing?

  In the end, Quaeryt made no commitment, except that he would be in touch in the next few weeks.

  He rode back to the post, still thinking about the questions his meeting had raised.

  53

  By Samedi morning Quaeryt had still received no dispatches from Bhayar. Because Samedi was the thirty-fifth of Avryl, the last day of the month, it was beginning to look more and more as if Third Regiment might actually remain in Extela until the fifteenth of Mayas. Since Quaeryt had heard nothing from Bieryn, he was getting the feeling that the advocate wanted no part of becoming a justicer. Quaeryt couldn’t say that he blamed the man. Perhaps, at least, he could consult with Bieryn about the advocates who had put their names forward for the position … if he ever had time to spend a day riding out to see the advocate.

  On the other hand, Pharyl was reporting success in both recruiting and initial training of patrollers, and Ghaelt was working on getting together the crafters necessary to construct the governor’s building … and there were no more complaints on Samedi morning about the lack of cheap or free flour.

  Quaeryt left the post earlier than he otherwise might have on a Samedi, although most military posts gave most of the men Samedi afternoons off, as well as all of Solayi—except, of course, those posts engaged in dealing with rebellions or war. It was slightly before third glass when he stepped onto the portico of the villa.

  “Good afternoon, Governor,” offered Shenna, clearly preparing to leave for the day. “Lady Vaelora is upstairs preparing.”

  “Thank you.” Quaeryt inclined his head slightly. “Have you found other sources of provisions?”

  “Yes, sir. They are much more reasonable, and so are those who purvey them.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “So was Lady Vaelora.”

  “She�
��s quite pleased with all the help you’ve provided.”

  “I’m pleased to be of assistance.” With a slight bow to Quaeryt, Shenna said, “Good day, sir,” and headed down the steps to the drive and then up toward the street.

  Quaeryt turned and made his way into the villa, glancing in at the now perfectly respectably furnished receiving parlor and then at his study. The doors to the formal dining room were closed, since that chamber remained empty—finding a suitable table and chairs for a reasonable price had proved impossible … so far.

  The master dressing chamber was where Quaeryt found Vaelora, who had just donned the same gown she had worn to the last ball in Tilbora.

  “You look wonderful.”

  “It’s too dressy, but nothing else is right, either. If there’s a ball here, I’ll have to wear this again, and hope that Aramyn and his guests tonight won’t say anything … unless I can find another good seamstress.”

  “Shenna might know one.”

  “She knows the same ones Grelyana knows.”

  Quaeryt wasn’t about to address that issue. “I’ll wash up and be ready before long.”

  “Your best browns are laid out, with the dress jacket.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Alsyra did that.”

  “But you told her, and I appreciate that.”

  “We’ll need to leave in less than a glass.”

  Quaeryt understood.

  He washed up and dressed, then went down to his study and wrote what he could for Solayi’s homily, then waited for Vaelora to appear. When she did, he escorted her out to the end of the portico, where the coach was waiting, with a ranker teamster and two outriders.

  Neither spoke much until the coach was headed westward on the avenue, partly because Quaeryt was half bemused by the fact that he was traveling in a well-appointed coach, with velvet upholstered and padded seats, and even with real glass windows that could be swung up and fastened in place to keep out rain or snow. More amazing was that the coach was effectively his, at least so long as he was governor. A former scholar in a villa with a coach and team and a beautiful and devoted wife?

  “It almost feels strange to be traveling somewhere in a coach,” said Vaelora. “Until this week, it’s been so long since I’ve been in one.”

  Quaeryt glanced at the pair of ranker outriders, a precaution suggested by both Skarpa and by Heireg, who was now essentially the post commander, since Zhrensyl had taken a turn for the worse and was bedridden. He couldn’t help but think about how quickly things could change. While Zhrensyl had looked worn when Quaeryt and Vaelora arrived in Extela, the commander’s decline had been precipitous, as had that of Aextyl—at least, it had seemed that way to Quaeryt.

  Health, life … everything could change so quickly. One moment, Extela had been a city where all had been going well, and a day later a quarter of it had been in ruins.

  “What are you thinking about, dearest?”

  “How things can change so swiftly.”

  “Is that for your homily tomorrow?”

  “More likely for a later one. I’m got some ideas for tomorrow.”

  “Well … one day you were a scholar assistant and single, and the next…” She smiled.

  “The next I was a princeps and betrothed to a lovely lady.”

  “And now you’re a governor.”

  “And it’s not exactly what I thought it would be,” he replied with a laugh. “Very few people are happy with what I’ve done.”

  “But Extela is doing so much better.”

  “It will be harder when the regiment leaves, and that’s in two weeks from tomorrow—unless I get a dispatch ordering them out even sooner.”

  “You don’t really think that will happen, do you?”

  “It seems unlikely, but even two weeks may not be enough to complete some of the work. It won’t likely even be soon enough to begin work on the governor’s building, and that will mean paying more to local workers.”

  “You’ll make it work. You always do.”

  “So far … How are you and Shenna coming on finding a dining set?”

  Vaelora shook her head.

  For the rest of the ride out to Aramyn’s chateau, Quaeryt listened as Vaelora explained how she was coming in refurbishing the villa … and the problems she faced.

  The coach and team slowed as the teamster guided it along the curving drive through the High Holder’s private park and up the gentle rise to stop before the main entry of the old yellowish red brick chateau. While a doorman immediately stepped forward to open the coach door, Aramyn, dressed in a deep red velvet jacket and gray trousers, stood at the top of the steps waiting.

  “Greetings, Governor and Lady Vaelora,” offered the High Holder. “That’s a handsome team and coach.”

  “We picked them up for the governor’s residence from a widow who needed only one coach,” replied Quaeryt.

  “Ah, yes, that fellow Lysienk. I heard he was riding and suffered a seizure. They say it couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow.” The irony in Aramyn’s voice was so light that it was barely discernible. “Well … that was good for you. Do come in. Everyone’s wanting to hear about how you’ve managed to restore order in the city.” There was a slight pause. “This is just a small dinner … the four of us and my nephew and his wife, who are visiting from Montagne.”

  While Quaeryt was more than happy for the smallness of the gathering, he could see the slightest hint of a frown on Vaelora’s brow, gone so quickly he doubted anyone else had seen it.

  “We appreciate the chance to see you again, in less urgent circumstances,” replied Quaeryt.

  “There are so many things that Lady Minya and I did not have a chance to discuss,” added Vaelora.

  “Good,” replied Aramyn with a warm and broad smile, turning at leading the way to the same salon where Quaeryt and Vaelora had spent the better part of an afternoon once before.

  The four others in the salon rose as Quaeryt and Vaelora entered.

  “You’ve already met Minya. Might I present my nephew Jaekyt and his wife Buhlyn. Governor Quaeryt and Lady Vaelora.”

  “My pleasure,” offered the trim Jaekyt with polite warmth.

  “I so wanted to be you,” offered Buhlyn, a tall and broad-shouldered woman with curves only slightly excessive for her frame, if accentuated by the clinging mauve velvet gown she wore. She smiled warmly at Vaelora. “I saw you and your sisters ride through Extela years ago, and you all carried yourselves so well.”

  “She still does,” added Quaeryt.

  “Would you like to try some of my white winter wine?” asked Aramyn. “I must say that it’s better than the un-iced wine … this year, at least.”

  “Most years,” added Jaekyt.

  “Please,” said Vaelora.

  Quaeryt nodded.

  While the group might have been small, it was obvious that he and Vaelora were more than welcome, and that the evening would be enjoyable …

  … and it was, through the wine and apéritifs, the turtle soup, the braised and marinated beef with lace rice and other side courses, the lemon tarts, and the Montagne brandy that Jaekyt had brought with him. The conversation only touched the superficialities of the situation in Extela, and then moved on to other less substantive matters, such as the best wines from the hills around Extela, and the difficulty of finding good seamstresses.

  Quaeryt was almost sad to go, except he was tired.

  When they had left the chateau, in the darkness of the coach, he turned to Vaelora. “Did you enjoy the dinner?”

  “I did indeed. The food and company were both excellent.”

  “Except what?”

  “Did you notice that all the guests, except for us, were from his family?”

  “I did. You think that signifies we’re not in the greatest of favor among other local High Holders?”

  “I do, dearest.”

  “That’s doubtless because I’ve trod on the polished boots of all the others, except for Thyso
r.”

  “He wouldn’t count. He’s so far away that he’s scarcely local. We’ll just have to see how things turn out.”

  Indeed we will. Quaeryt reached out and squeezed her hand, as the coach rolled eastward, back to the villa. But he still worried.

  54

  Solayi was without event, and Quaeryt managed another homily, loosely based on what he and Vaelora had discussed in the carriage, rather than on what he worked on earlier, which he saved for the next time he had to give a homily. He rode to the post, cheerfully, on Lundi morning. There were no dispatches, which was likely for the best, but his cheer began to vanish when he saw Major Heireg waiting for him outside his study, a solemn expression on his face.

  “What is it, Major?”

  “Commander Zhrensyl … he died in his sleep last night.”

  “I’m sorry.” Quaeryt nodded slowly. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Does he have any other family we should notify?” Quaeryt knew Zhrensyl was a widower, but little more.

  “His son lives in Ilyum, but Hrehn says that they weren’t close.”

  “Arrange for services and a pyre tonight, then, and … if you’d draft a letter for me?”

  “Yes, sir.” Heireg paused. “He was a good man at heart.”

  “I know.” Perhaps not as strong as he should have been, but you might have only seen him when he was failing.

  Not moments after Heireg left, a fresh-faced patroller appeared, likely a recruit, since the young man wore the uniform without insignia.

  “Governor, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “I have an urgent message for you from the chief.” The recruit extended a sealed envelope.

  “Thank you. Is he expecting a response?”

  “He told me to wait to see if you had a response.”

  Quaeryt frowned. “How did you get here?”

  “On the patrol wagon, sir. It’s the only one left, Captain Hrehn said.”

  Quaeryt nodded. Only one left? There hadn’t been any, but Pharyl was the kind who would work out how to get something his men needed. For that matter, so would Hrehn. “I’ll let you know.”