“Oh? What have I ever done?”
“Besides survive wounds that no one should? Besides lead troopers through ambushes and melees where most junior officers die? Besides killing close to a score with that half-staff? Besides somehow always being around when things happened that shouldn’t? Besides having enough balls to face down angry High Holders and survive? And you never seem to raise your voice. You, my friend, are the kind of subcommander every marshal loves and dreads … and every ruler will use to his advantage. Without counting the cost to you.”
Of that, Quaeryt was well aware. Bhayar would use any tool he could—Quaeryt, even his sisters—and he had. Quaeryt also suspected that Bhayar had a dual motive behind creating the imager force. He either wanted the imagers to be useful or to be expended so that he didn’t have to deal with them later, and he wanted Quaeryt to use them to inflict horrendous casualties on the Bovarians. He hadn’t said that, but it made perfect sense, given what Bhayar really had in mind. Not that Bhayar had ever said. He didn’t have to. Quaeryt knew, and it made sense, except for the fact it was totally impossible.
Because he didn’t want to address Skarpa’s words, Quaeryt said, “I just hope we have some time before the Bovarians attack.”
“We might. Myskyl thinks that won’t happen as soon as Lord Bhayar believes.”
“Why? Because they don’t outnumber us sufficiently?”
Skarpa laughed. “Because there aren’t that many barges available. He says there never were that many, and they haven’t seen any for weeks because the factors are hiding them.”
Or because Kharst gathered them together even earlier. “The rivers are too deep to ford anywhere near Ferravyl right now?”
Skarpa nodded.
“What about building a bridge to the north where it’s narrow, across a gap or something in rough terrain? If we don’t think it can be done there…”
“Once we get settled, I’ll have some scouts head north and look. They can check with the regiment to the north as well. We’ll need continuing patrols.”
Quaeryt wondered what else they’d need that he or Skarpa hadn’t even considered.
Third Regiment had just begun to stable mounts and offload wagons when Quaeryt and Skarpa rode through the gates in the stone walls of North Post. Quaeryt had barely dismounted outside the stables when a hard-faced captain hurried toward him. From the lines in his face, and the few streaks of gray in his black hair, Quaeryt suspected he had worked his way up through the ranks … and not that quickly.
“Subcommander, Captain Zhelan, at your service, sir.” The captain’s eyes took in the scholar browns.
“My uniform was a casualty of the rebellion in Tilbor,” said Quaeryt, exaggerating somewhat more than slightly, since his “uniform” had consisted of a single overlarge green Telaryn tunic. “I didn’t think I needed new ones when I was made princeps and then governor of Montagne. Lord Bhayar was kind enough to provide some, but I haven’t had a chance to change.”
“It might be…”
“Yes, it might, Captain. Do we have quarters where I can change?”
“Yes, sir. If you would follow me…”
Quaeryt found that, on his own, he now rated senior officers’ quarters, even not being a governor, although senior officers’ quarters effectively meant a slightly larger room and bed, a full writing desk, and a leather armchair, and an attached washroom, which he used to wash up before stripping off his travel-worn scholar’s browns and beginning to don one of the uniforms Bhayar had provided.
Quaeryt looked at the insignia, already fastened to the collars of the greenish brown undress uniform shirt—a silver crescent moon. Commanders wore a gold crescent. He shook his head and continued donning the well-tailored uniform.
Captain Zhelan was waiting, pacing almost, when Quaeryt left his quarters. “Sir?”
“Where are the imagers?”
“I had them gather in the officers’ mess. They’re all provisional undercaptains. They wear officers’ greens, but without insignia. They’re not command officers.”
Quaeryt understood the unsaid “like you.” He also understood the question behind the unspoken words, but did not address it. He’d see if Skarpa would quietly take Zhelan aside.
“Have they had any training in arms?”
“I’ve had one of my senior squad leaders work with them on using a sabre.”
“And they’re no longer totally hopeless?”
Zhelan offered a wry smile. “They know enough to protect themselves from the average attack and how to use it against foot without slashing their mount. Beyond that…”
Quaeryt understood. “Do you have a roster or a list of their names?”
“Yes, sir.” Zhelan handed Quaeryt a single sheet of paper.
Quaeryt read it. There were six names.
Akoryt Korytsyn, Undercaptain
Baelthm Athemsyn, Undercaptain
Desyrk Fhortsyn, Undercaptain
Shaelyt Haelsyn, Undercaptain
Threkhyl Chylsyn, Undercaptain
Voltyr Rytersyn, Undercaptain
“The last one, sir…?”
“No. I knew him in Solis, but he’s no relation.” Quaeryt kept his smile to himself. It didn’t surprise him that Voltyr was most likely an orphan, although that was something the imager had never revealed at the Scholarium in Solis. “Do I rate a study here, or do I use my quarters?”
“You have a small study on the corridor leading from the mess to the front courtyard entrance. Your name is already in the placard there. Well … not your name. It says Subcommander, Third Regiment.”
“Thank you. If you’d show me the way to the mess, then you can return to your men, and we’ll meet again after dinner.”
“Very good, sir.”
Quaeryt walked down the steps from the upper level senior officers’ quarters to the courtyard and then to the rear of the same building.
“Through that door, and the middle door beyond the vestibule leads directly into the mess.”
“Thank you.” Quaeryt nodded, then turned and entered the building.
A single imager was standing outside the mess, most likely the only one Quaeryt knew. The imager kept looking toward the side corridor that most likely led to the front courtyard entrance, the one that presumably held Quaeryt’s study.
Quaeryt walked toward the man, strengthening his shields, then spoke quietly, but firmly. “Imager Voltyr.”
The younger man turned, his eyes going to the insignia first. “Subcommander…” Voltyr’s mouth opened, and he was silent for several moments before continuing. “Quaeryt. They never said … just that we were getting a subcommander who had combat experience and could understand the needs of imagers.”
One of Bhayar’s little jokes? Quaeryt almost shook his head. Bhayar’s—or Myskyl’s—approach had been correct, emphasizing experience and ability over the name. A good application of the tenets of the Nameless.
“Combat experience? You’re a scholar. How…?”
“I didn’t have much choice. I ended up in most of the last battles, leading troops at times.” They even followed me.
“So … since Bhayar found a scholar could lead troopers, he figured you could lead imagers?” Voltyr did not quite sneer.
Quaeryt image-protected authority, as he repeated the last of Voltyr’s words, “… could lead imagers, sir?”
Voltyr stepped back, his gray eyes widening, and swallowed.
“Like it or not, Imager Undercaptain Voltyr, you are an officer, and I am your commander. Like it or not, Bhayar is the only ruler in all Lydar who is tolerant of those who are different, whether they be Pharsi, scholar, or imager. Like it or not, we will do what is necessary for him to prevail … because the alternatives are far worse. Is that clear?” Quaeryt kept his voice calm and level.
Voltyr swallowed. “Yes, sir, Subcommander.”
Quaeryt smiled pleasantly. “Go on in. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Yes, sir.” Voltyr swallo
wed again.
Quaeryt followed him, closing the door behind himself. There were five other men sitting around the smallest of the three mess tables. Quaeryt knew none of the undercaptains except Voltyr. One was nearly bald, with patches of gray hair above each ear, his face pallid. Another was a youth who was likely barely eighteen, if that. The other three looked to be in their late twenties or thirties. Only one of the five obviously looked to be Pharsi, at least have Pharsi blood, and that was the youth, with his honey-colored skin, black hair, and black eyes. He was the first one, besides Bhayar, to see Quaeryt, and he froze, if for just a moment, as he took in Quaeryt—and the uniform, and Quaeryt’s eyes and hair, Quaeryt suspected.
“Undercaptains…” Quaeryt’s voice was just loud enough to cut through the murmured conversation of the three men at the center of the group. He continued to project authority, absolute authority.
All five rose, swiftly, if not with military precision.
“You may be seated.” Quaeryt walked to the end of the table, waiting until the six were back in their seats. Then he took the chair at the end. “I’m Subcommander Quaeryt. Among other things, I’ve been princeps of Tilbor and temporary governor of Montagne, sent there to restore order after the eruption destroyed part of Extela. I also served in the campaign to put down the Tilboran rebellion. Before we begin, I’d like you to introduce yourselves. While I have a roster with your names, the only one of you I have met before is Undercaptain Voltyr.” He gestured to the oldest, seated immediately to his left. “We’ll start with age and go around from there.” Quaeryt forced himself to concentrate on each man, so that he could link names and faces.
“Baelthm, sir,” replied the gray and partly bald undercaptain in a resonant deep baritone.
“Desyrk, sir.” He was thirtyish, blond with limp hair and watery blue eyes.
“Akoryt, sir.” The thin man’s voice held a hint of supercilious condescension, and his flat brown eyes did not quite meet Quaeryt’s.
“Shaelyt, sir.” The youngest replied in a polite and respectful tone, even nodding his head.
“Threkhyl, sir.” On closer inspection, Threkhyl might have been closer to forty, with a voice that was raspy, matching his ginger hair and beard, a beard that looked recently trimmed to military length.
“Voltyr, sir.”
“Thank you.” Quaeryt offered an ironic smile. “None of you volunteered for this duty, I am most certain. Neither did I. That we didn’t makes no difference. I expect all of you to do your best in what will be required of you. As for why you should … I am going to ask you all a question. Are you not all serving as junior officers?”
“Did we have any choice … sir?” asked Akoryt.
“No, you didn’t. Do you know how many imagers there are that are alive in Tilbor? Or Khel?”
Every face around the table looked blank, except that of Shaelyt, but who did not speak.
“Do you know how many imagers are officers among the Bovarians?”
Again, there was no answer.
“None. In fact, Kharst killed all the imagers he could find that lived in Khel while or after he conquered it, and there never were very many in Bovaria because the Bovarians don’t like them.”
“Sir … we’re not exactly popular in Telaryn,” volunteered Voltyr.
“No … imagers are not, but Lord Bhayar is the very pillar of support for imagers compared to Rex Kharst … and I can testify that Lord Bhayar is fair to those who support him and merciless to those who oppose him … and I will be the same.
“There will be a meeting of imager officers every morning. While we are here at North Post, it will be at seventh glass, until further notice. Now, unless you have any questions, I will be talking to each of you individually in my study down the hall, beginning with Baelthym…”
“There is one thing…” offered Threkhyl. “We don’t have much choice, but we don’t intend to put up with trooper bullshit … and I’ll show you why.”
Something jabbed against Quaeryt’s shields, then dropped onto the table in pieces—several chunks of wood that had comprised a wooden arrowhead.
Threkhyl’s mouth opened. “He’s a frigging obdurate.”
That was a term Quaeryt had never heard before, but the meaning was clear.
But before he could say anything, Akoryt demanded, “What’s an obdurate?”
Desyrk nodded, as if he’d been about to ask.
“Someone that imaging doesn’t affect,” snorted Threkhyl.
To cut off further speculation, Quaeryt immediately interjected, “There was a reason why I was chosen, and that same reason is exactly why you will behave as officers and conduct yourselves accordingly.” He stood and swept his eyes across the group. “There will also be no more of this sort of nonsense. Is that absolutely clear?”
“Yes, sir.” The chorus of responses was not quite uniform, but several voices had a shaken timbre to them.
Quaeryt thought he caught the hint of a smile on the face of young Shaelyt. “Now, if you’d come with me, Baelthm?”
“Yes, sir.”
The study to which Quaeryt led the older imager was small, with barely enough room for a narrow table desk with a chair behind it and two against the side wall before it. There was a single narrow window onto the courtyard. Quaeryt sat down. “Tell me about yourself.”
The imager cleared his throat, then said, “I don’t know as there’s that much to be said, sir. I was born in Cheva and lived there all my life until Lord Bhayar’s men came for me. I made my living imaging little things, spring pins, pieces to things that got broken, tiny stone flowers for the masons when they wanted something special for their building…”
“Have you tried imaging larger things?”
“Much larger than, say, a small dagger, sir, and my head feels like it’s splitting apart. It’s not as though I haven’t tried…”
“Image me a small iron dagger. On the desk, here.”
The dagger that appeared was indeed small, no longer than Quaeryt’s middle finger, and with that, Baelthm was showing a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.
After a quint or so, Quaeryt sent Baelthm to fetch Desyrk, and after Quaeryt finished with him, he interviewed Akoryt, then the others, ending up with Voltyr sitting across from him in the small study.
“I’ve never asked before, but were you an orphan?”
“What difference…” Voltyr looked at Quaeryt, then stopped for a moment. “Not exactly. My grandmother raised me. She never talked about my parents. She wouldn’t talk about my parents, and she insisted that my father’s name was Ryter.”
“When did you discover you were an imager?”
“I was around twelve, and I imaged a copper so that I could buy some fruit. It wasn’t a very good copper.” Voltyt smiled wryly.
When Quaeryt had no more questions, Voltyr said, “I never knew you were an obdurate.”
“What point was there in revealing that?” countered Quaeryt. “You were the only imager I knew.”
“But … can I ask … why you, rather than another … obdurate?”
“Most likely because I do understand. Scholars are facing the same problems as imagers. The locals have killed the scholars and burned the scholariums in Nacliano and Extela. They almost did the same in Tilbora … and likely would have if I hadn’t straightened out the master scholar and scholar princeps there. Both scholars and imagers face similar problems. I’m a scholar, and Bhayar trusts me. Would you want an obdurate who understood nothing of the trials and fears imagers live with?”
“I’d guess not.”
Quaeryt looked hard at Voltyr.
“No, sir.”
“If you want to improve things for yourself and other imagers, we will have to work together and be as effective as possible. I’d like you to keep that in mind.” Quaeryt paused. “Do you have any other questions?”
“You said that you had been princeps of Tilbor. I heard that Bhayar’s youngest sister married the princeps of Tilbor.�
�� Voltyr looked at Quaeryt quizzically.
“It wasn’t quite like that. He ordered us both to marry each other.” Quaeryt smiled for a moment. “I’m glad he did, but I never expected it.”
“She’s here?”
Quaeryt shook his head. “She’s in Solis. When I was dispatched here, Bhayar had a company of troopers escort her there.” He rose from behind the desk. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Yes, sir.” Voltyt inclined his head and turned to leave.
Quaeryt stood there for a moment. After all the interviews, his head was filled with details, but he at least had a mental picture of all the imagers. The only one who promised trouble, day in and day out, was likely to be Threkhyl. While Akoryt had a tendency to be condescending, he was a realist at heart, as was Desyrk. Neither Voltyr nor Shaelyt would be difficult. The real problem was that Threkhyl was likely the strongest and most accomplished imager, although Shaelyt and Voltyr promised greater abilities, from what they had been able to image for him, because they hadn’t appeared to be straining.
Then he stepped toward the door, waiting until Voltyr was out in the corridor before drawing a concealment around himself. Then he moved into the hallway, closing the door behind himself, so it would appear that it had been closed from inside the study. He followed Voltyr, making an effort to keep his steps quiet and not to limp, down the hall and in through the partly open mess door, taking a position beside it.
“What did he say to you?” demanded Threkhyl as Voltyr entered the mess.
“He asked about my background, how I became an imager, and asked me to image something. All the things he probably said to you. A few words about working together.”
“Just like every other friggin’ officer,” muttered Threkhyl.
“He said he knew you before. What was he like?” asked the older Baelthm.
“He was always pleasant … fair … honest. He’s changed. I mean, he’s still honest and fair, I think. But he’s harder … like he’d cut you down in an instant for disobeying…”
“He’s an obdurate, not an imager…”
Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio Page 48