Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (13 page)

Consequently, he’d decided to say nothing about that to Vaelora, not until he was certain that the last episode had truly increased his capabilities.

In late midafternoon, under a clear sky with a cool wind at their back, he rode beside her, with Skarpa on her right, as they passed the as-yet-untilled fields and woodlots on the outskirts of Cloisonyt. Ahead, Quaeryt could barely make out where the fields and small cots gave way to the conglomeration of houses.

They rode on for another half glass, and the extent of the fields surrounding each cot dwindled as they neared the ancient city located on the north side of the River Acliano. Since the post road entered the city of hills from the northeast, their first view was that of stone dwellings scattered closely, but seemingly haphazardly, up a gentle slope to a low ridge topped by a line of far larger dwellings, also of stone. Unlike in the north, the roofs were of many different types—slate, shakes, and brown and red tile, creating the impression of different colored plaques thrown carelessly from a gambler’s deck.

“Is there somewhere for the men to stay?” Vaelora asked Skarpa. “Besides in barns and warehouses and stables and worse?”

“Yes, Lady. There is a post there. It is old, but well built, and can hold a garrison the size of a regiment. Most times, there is but a company stationed there.”

“One of Hengyst’s old posts built after his conquest?” asked Quaeryt.

“So it’s said.”

“Is it still the home of great artisans?” pressed Quaeryt, thinking of the graceful ancient vase of the innkeeper destroyed by the boorish patroller in Nacliano and wondering if such artistry still remained in Cloisonyt.

“There are many artisans. Their shops are everywhere.” Skarpa offered a sound between a laugh and a snort. “Many of their works are pleasant to look upon. Whether they are great, I could not say.”

“Where is the post from here?”

“On the other side of the ridge and to the north a mille or so. It guards the road to Montagne.”

“That’s a good road?”

“As good as the one we travel now,” replied Skarpa with a smile. “The road from Extela to Montagne is
very
good.” He paused. “Or it was before…”

“Mount Extel exploded?”

The commander nodded. “It’s likely to be good until we near Extela. Then…” He shrugged. “Who can say? The engineers may have much to do.”

Ahead of them was a pair of stone pillars flanking the road, signifying, Quaeryt suspected, the edge of the city proper, since immediately beyond it were houses with walled courtyards. The houses were not centered on the courtyards, as was the case in Solis. Instead, the stone walls enclosed a space behind the houses and appeared to encircle gardens and tiny orchards. Between the ground before each dwelling and the road were stone sidewalks, the first Quaeryt had seen since leaving Nacliano the summer before. Had it been less than a year?

There were few people on the streets or sidewalks, and while some hurried out of the riders’ way, most gave them little more than a passing glance. The farther Quaeryt and Vaelora rode up the hill, the more winding the road became, and the smaller the houses they passed were. Before long, the houses gave way to small shops, scores of them, squatting side by side, their stoops and porches beginning almost at the edge of the sidewalk, with lanes so narrow that they resembled alleys more than anything. Many, as Skarpa had said, showed artistic wares in their display windows. In one potter’s window, there was a beautiful white cat, and for a moment Quaeryt marveled at the artistry, until the feline moved, and revealed that the “artistry” was from nature and not from the potter.

Less than a half mille ahead, Quaeryt could make out a line of ancient trees, towering against the sky, if still leafless, and behind them, the beginning of the larger dwellings, some almost chateau-like, that he had seen from afar.

“Death to the Yarans! Death to the Yarans!”

Quaeryt jerked his head in the direction of the words offered in old Tellan just in time to see a man wearing a uniform he did not recognize. The man had apparently dashed out of an alleyway even narrower than a lane until he was less than a handful of yards from Quaeryt, if two or three yards forward of him. Even before the words were finished, the man released a long spear.

Knowing he’d never free his staff in time, Quaeryt tried to extend his shields … and did so barely quickly enough to block the weapon from hitting Vaelora. As the spear bounced off Quaeryt’s expanded shields, he concentrated on imaging it back into the chest of the burly man who had thrown it.

A flash of light flared for an instant, and the assailant’s mouth worked silently as his hands tried to grasp the shaft of the weapon whose barbed point had gone through his body and which protruded from his back.

Quaeryt managed to keep his mouth shut as he reined up.
How did you do that?
He’d imaged a crossbow bolt into Rescalyn, but a long spear? That did tend to answer his question about stretching his abilities, because he didn’t even feel the slightest bit strained or tired.

“After him!” snapped Skarpa.

Quaeryt forbore to mention that the man wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, by the time the troopers from the squad following them had ridden over and dismounted, the attacker was dead.

Several bystanders gawked, but edged back from the armed soldiers.

“Stay with him until the wagons reach you. Then tie him onto one,” ordered Skarpa. “Make sure that spear comes with him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vaelora looked to Quaeryt. He thought she was trembling, but as she saw him looking, she stiffened and offered a smile, if a very faint one.

“I’ll be fine, dearest.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’m very certain. You’re beside me.”

Quaeryt eased his mount slightly closer to hers, letting his shields retreat to the lighter trigger shields, but keeping them extended enough to cover her. “You will be fine.”

She forced a grin. “I think I said that.”

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone else,” said Skarpa, “but we ought to pick up the pace a bit.”

Quaeryt nodded.

“Send out two more outriders, fifty yards ahead. Forward!”

They resumed riding, and after several moments Skarpa leaned forward in the saddle to look across past Vaelora to Quaeryt. “What … what did you do back there?” The commander’s voice was low.

“I caught it and threw it back,” replied Quaeryt. “I was furious! No one … no one … attacks my wife.”
Not and lives, not if I can do anything about it.

“I can see that.” Skarpa’s voice turned dry. “I still don’t know how you did that.”

“Neither do I,” admitted Quaeryt. “I just did.”

The commander shook his head. “Might I ask … Princeps … what he yelled? What it meant?”

“Lord Chayar’s forebears were called Yaran warlords. They defeated Hengyst’s descendants and took over Telaryn. Apparently, some people in Cloisonyt have never forgotten, most likely because it was first a Tellan and then a Ryntarian stronghold.” Quaeryt paused. “What I’d like to know is how he knew that Lady Vaelora would be coming.”

“He must have found out from someone at the post … or from someone who knew someone at the post.”

For all Quaeryt’s caution and the extra outriders, or because of them, they encountered nothing else untoward for the remainder of the ride through Cloisonyt, up the hill, then down a quarter of the way on the west side before turning northwest for another mille. A half glass passed before they rode through the ancient stone-pillared iron gates of the post into the main courtyard.

They had barely reined up when a major hurried across the courtyard almost at a run. He came to a halt several yards short of Quaeryt and Vaelora. “Welcome to Cloisonyt Post, Lady, Princeps.” He bowed, then straightened. “Major Duffryt, at your service.”

A gesture of respect and caution to Vaelora,
reflected Quaeryt.

“Thank you,” she replied. “Have you received any news from Extela?”

“Very little, Lady. Only that part of the city was destroyed. The lava still flows, and ash still falls.”

Quaeryt hadn’t expected much more news than that, not when they had a good week’s travel, if not more, to reach Montagne, with Extela three to four days beyond.

“How long will you be staying?” asked the major.

“That depends on the needs of the regiment.” Quaeryt looked to Skarpa. “The horses need rest and grain and fodder.”
Especially since we didn’t get all of the grain cakes we’d expected because we left Tilbora early.

“Two days would be good,” offered Skarpa.

“Two or three days,” said Quaeryt. Arriving in Extela with excessively tired men and mounts wouldn’t help people much and would just tax even more whatever food and provisions remained in the battered city.

“The post commander’s quarters are ready for you, Lady … Princeps,” offered the major. “And we will have a fine dinner for you and all the officers.”

“You’re most gracious,” replied Vaelora.

Quaeryt merely nodded.

Even so, it was almost a glass later before Quaeryt and Vaelora entered the quarters of the former post commander, a modest dwelling set against the north wall of the post, with a formal sitting room, a capacious dining room and kitchen, a small study—all on the first floor—and three bedrooms and a bathing chamber on the second.

“This furniture is beautiful,” said Vaelora, looking around the master bedchamber, taking in the postered bed of dark goldenwood, the matching night tables, and even the twin armoires.

“It’s not as old as the house,” offered Duffryt. “Lord Chayar’s father had it placed here for when he traveled to Cloisonyt.”

That explains much.
Quaeryt nodded.

“I will leave you to do what you must … and perhaps rest. The dinner will be in the officers’ mess at half past fifth glass.”

After the major departed and Quaeryt had closed the massive carved front door, the two studied the sitting room, then sat down in facing armchairs, waiting for the promised hot water for the bath chamber from the kitchen staff.

“What happened with that man … You couldn’t do that before, could you?” asked Vaelora, keeping her voice low.

“Do what?” asked Quaeryt innocently.

“That kind of imaging.”

“Not with something as big as that spear,” he admitted. “I didn’t think. I just did it. I didn’t want you hurt.”

“There was a flash of light around you…”

“I’ve never seen that happen before,” he admitted.

At the footsteps in the hallway, Quaeryt stopped and looked to the archway.

“The water is ready and in the tub, Lady … Princeps.” The sturdy graying woman bowed her head.

“Thank you.” Both Vaelora and Quaeryt stood and made their way to the staircase.

Little more than a glass later, far cleaner and in fresh browns, Quaeryt escorted Vaelora, who wore one of the simple dresses she had packed in the kit bag that accompanied her trunk, across the stone-paved courtyard to the officers’ mess. Everyone stood as they entered.

Quaeryt was seated at the head of the table, with Vaelora to his left and Skarpa to his right. Major Duffryt was beside Vaelora, and as the senior major in the regiment—which had taken Skarpa some considerable maneuvering to achieve—Meinyt was seated beside Skarpa.

“Perhaps … your wife might offer a blessing?”

Quaeryt looked to Vaelora.

“I would be pleased.” She lowered her head slightly and spoke with the slight huskiness of voice that Quaeryt always enjoyed hearing. “For the grace we owe each other, in times both good and ill, for the bounty of which we are about to partake, for good faith and kindness among all peoples, and especially for mercies great and small. For these blessings, we offer thanks and gratitude, in the spirit of that which cannot be named or imaged.…”

“In peace and harmony,” chorused the officers quietly.

After the blessing, Quaeryt immediately poured the red wine into Vaelora’s goblet, then into his own. He waited until all the officers had wine, then raised his goblet. “A toast to the hospitality and grace of Cloisonyt Post.”

“To the post,” seconded Skarpa.

Then the servers appeared with platters of lamb and roasted potatoes.

Once everyone was served, Major Duffryt turned to Quaeryt. “Princeps … I heard that you picked a spear aimed at your wife out of midair and hurled it back at the man who threw it with enough force to send it through his chest. You broke most of his ribs and killed him on the spot.”

“I don’t know about the ribs,” demurred Quaeryt.

“You have to be a strong man, but you’re only a trace larger than average. I don’t know how you could do that while mounted.”

Quaeryt smiled, sheepishly. “Major … I wish I could answer that question. I just saw the man throwing the spear, and I reacted.”

The major tried not to frown.

“The princeps is too modest,” said Skarpa. “I have seen him in battle. With only a half-staff he unseated a rebel with enough force to break his neck. He took a crossbow bolt full in the chest, pulled it out, blocked the wound, recovered a stray mount, and rode back to the post. He was fighting again in a month. Another time, he broke a line of pikemen and cut down almost half a score from behind.”

“Yet you wear brown…”

Quaeryt could see why the older officer was still only a major and in charge of a reserve post. That was where his nit-picking would be most valuable. “I’m still a scholar. I was riding with Sixth Battalion because the former governor felt I needed the experience to be able to report back to Lord Bhayar. Now … the man who attacked the lady Vaelora was wearing a uniform I’ve never seen.” He looked at the major.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me about the uniform. Commander Skarpa had you look at him.”

“It’s similar—I doubt it’s identical—to the uniforms the Tellan troops wore when they lost the battle of Cloisonyt.”

“How might you know that?” asked Vaelora sweetly.

“There was a parade or a march … last Feuillyt. A whole company of men wore them. They claimed they were celebrating the founding of Tela. They weren’t carrying weapons … so there wasn’t much the civic council could do.