Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (3 page)

Quaeryt grinned broadly. “So … that was why—”

He didn’t get any farther because a good portion of the
cold
water pitcher splashed across his chest and face.

Later … when laughter subsided, with domestic order restored, and Quaeryt stopped shivering and got dressed, they did manage to reach the private dining chamber, where, thankfully, the stove had warmed the air to an almost pleasant state, pleasant for winter in Tilbora, reflected Quaeryt as he took a welcome swallow of tea.

“Dearest … are you still going to ride to the scholarium this morning?”

“Yes, even after a cold dowsing.” Quaeryt managed not to frown, then saw the anxious expression on Vaelora’s face, an expression he knew he was meant to see, since she was excellent at avoiding what she did not wish to reveal. “Would you like to accompany me?”

“If you wouldn’t mind too terribly. Emra … I had thought to spend some time with her, but both her son and daughter are quite ill with the croup. So is Eluisa. That means I won’t see her, either, and I was looking forward so to learning some of the pieces by Covaelyt and Veblynt.”

“Isn’t there sheet music? You play well enough…”

“She only has one copy of each, and she is most guarded in holding them. You can understand why that might be, and I’d rather not have to copy it line by line.”

Left unsaid was that there were no copyists at the Telaryn Palace except those attached to the regiments, and neither Quaeryt nor Vaelora felt it proper to request personal copying from them.

Quaeryt looked at his wife. “You miss Aelina, don’t you?”

“Terribly. I cannot tell you how much … She was the only one…”

“Except Aunt Nerya, of course,” teased Quaeryt.

Vaelora looked at her husband with wide guileless eyes. “I should have mentioned her.”

“Was she that bad?”

“You know what I feel.”

Quaeryt did, and did not press. “I’ll be leaving at half past seventh glass, and I’ll have a mount for you. Please dress warmly. There’s a bit of a wind.”

“Yes, dearest,” replied Vaelora in a voice that Quaeryt knew as her sweet and falsely submissive one—and that she knew he recognized as such.

He laughed.

The last quint of breakfast passed too quickly, and before that long, or so it seemed to Quaeryt, he had sent word down to have his mount and Vaelora’s ready, finished reading the various dispatches, and was donning his heavy riding jacket, the fur-lined leather gloves, and the fur-lined cap he’d taken to wearing whenever he was outside for long.

“Vhorym … I’ll be riding over to the scholarium. I likely won’t be back until close to second glass.”

Vaelora was actually mounted and waiting for him in the palace courtyard, as was the squad from Sixth Battalion who would accompany them. Quaeryt glanced at the sky, with the high gray clouds that were all too common in winter, then mounted quickly. As he and Vaelora followed the outriders through the eastern gates of the palace—the only gates—and down the stone-paved lane across the dry moat, now half filled with drifting snow, he could barely see over the snow piled on each side of the lane, even on horseback. The wind was raw and bitter, as it usually was when it blew out of the east.

Snow crunched under the hoofs of their mounts as they rode through the lower gates and onto the main road to the south.

“We’re only a few weeks from spring,” he said cheerfully.

“That’s spring in Solis,” returned Vaelora.

“True enough. We’ll be fortunate to have frozen mud by then.”

The wind was bitter enough that neither said that much on the glass-long ride to the scholarium. In fact, Quaeryt said almost nothing at all until they rode up the snow-packed lane and past the main building of the scholarium before reining up opposite the middle of the rear porch.

“Squad Leader, put all the mounts in the stable. You and the men wait in the tack room in the stable. If the stove isn’t fired up, you have my authority to do so. I will need two rankers to escort my wife.”

“Yes, sir.” Rheusyd glanced at the stable to the rear of the main building. “Might already be fired up, sir. There’s smoke rising.”

“I hope so. It’s been a cold ride, at least for us.”

“Been on colder ones, sir, but a warm stove would be good for the men.”

Vaelora and Quaeryt dismounted, climbed the steps, and crossed the wide and empty covered porch.

As he held the door for her, he said, “There’s a stove in the main hall outside the master scholar’s study. You can warm yourself there. I imagine you’ll have company before long. Besides your escorts.”

Vaelora raised her eyebrows, then brushed the combination of water and melting frost from them. “Oh?”

“There aren’t any women here, except for the cooks and a few others, and none are as beautiful as you.”

“Who could tell under all these garments?”

“They could tell.” Quaeryt turned as the gray-haired and round-faced master scholar hurried toward them. “Nalakyn, I’d like to present you to my wife, the Lady Vaelora.”

The master scholar bowed deeply, his eyes avoiding those of Vaelora, as was proper. “We are most honored to have the sister of Lord Bhayar here, and especially in weather such as this.” He straightened. “I would offer you my study or that of the scholar princeps, but neither has a stove or a hearth. With your permission, I will have a comfortable chair brought for you so that you can warm yourself by the main stove here.”

“You’re most kind, master scholar.”

Nalakyn flushed. “It is not often we are so honored.”

Once Vaelora was seated before the stove, the two rankers discreetly standing against the wall several yards away, Quaeryt and the other two scholars were about to retire to the much cooler study of the master scholar when another figure hurried through the rear door, a young man wearing the robes of a chorister. Snow sprayed from his boots.

“Princeps! Sir?”

Quaeryt stopped and waited. “Gauswn! It’s good to see you. How are you doing? How is Cyrethyn?”

“He is in good spirits, sir, but he is frail, and he begs your pardon for not joining me, but he is not so steady on his feet as once he was.”

“Has he let you deliver any homilies?”

“Let, sir? He insists I do two a month.” The young chorister looked embarrassed. “One of them was taken from what you said.”

“I’m sure I probably gleaned it from someone else.”

“I don’t think so, sir. There’s nothing like it in any of the chorister books.” Gauswn paused. “I mustn’t keep you, and Cyrethyn needs my help. I did want to come and thank you again. This is where I should be.”

“Before you go,” said Quaeryt, “you should meet my wife, Vaelora.”

Gauswn bowed deeply. “Lady…”

Quaeryt smiled at Vaelora and eased away.

After he entered the master scholar’s study, he took one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Let’s see the ledger, Yullyd.”

“Here, sir.” The scholar princeps handed the master ledger he had carried to Quaeryt, then took the other seat. “The marker is where the entries for Ianus are summarized. I finished them on Lundi.”

Nalakyn slipped into the chair behind the desk, but sat forward, apprehensively.

“Is there someone you can train to do the day-to-day entries?”

“Young Syndar has been helping me.” Yullyd’s voice was level.

Quaeryt wasn’t surprised. From the time he’d delivered a letter from Syndar’s father Rhodyn, he’d known that the student scholar would likely try anything not to leave the scholarium. “His father wants him to go back to Ayerne? Is that it?”

“He says he won’t go, and that his younger brother is far better suited to being a holder.”

“That’s likely true, but it’s not our decision.” Quaeryt frowned. “How good a scholar is Syndar? Would he make a good bursar in time?”

“He’s very accurate with the figures, and very neat,” replied Yullyd. “He truly wants to be a scholar.”

“He also assists in teaching the younger students. He’s been most helpful there,” added Nalakyn.

“Draft a missive to Holder Rhodyn for my signature. Make it very polite and most courteous. Tell him that I know of his desires and wishes for his sons, but I had thought he would like to know that I have learned that Scholar Syndar has proven to be exceedingly gifted as a scholar and is being considered for training as the bursar of the scholarium and that he has a future as a scholar. Because of this, tell him that I had thought he would like to know of this before making any final decision on what might be best for his sons.” Quaeryt paused. “Write that up as soon as we finish. I’ll wait for it.”

The two exchanged glances.

“I can send it tomorrow. Otherwise, it will be another week. I want him to get it before his mind is even more set and before it’s even close to spring planting.”

During the winter, now that Bhayar had destroyed the last of the ship reavers, couriers from Tilbora could take the coastal roads directly south, well past Ayerne, and then turn west through Piedryn on a more direct southern route to Solis. There was no reason Quaeryt couldn’t pay the courier out of his own funds to stop and deliver the missive to Rhodyn—the holding house was less than fifty yards off the road.

Yullyd nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Sir … we have … some difficulty,” said Nalakyn.

“What kind of difficulty?”

“Ah…” Nalakyn drew out the single syllable, as if he were at a loss for words.

“Chartyn,” said Yullyd. “He’s not the problem. The fact that we accepted him is.”

“There’s another factor with an imager son?” asked Quaeryt.

“Actually … well … ah…”

“Yes,” said Yullyd. “He’s not a factor. He’s a freeholder to the north. One of those with not enough lands to be a High Holder and too well off to be a mere grower or crofter. He heard about Chartyn. He’s well able to pay for his son.”

“I fail to see the problem. Has Chartyn created any difficulties?”

“No, sir … but … imagers in a scholarium?” asked Nalakyn almost plaintively.

“There are imagers in the Scholarium Solum in Solis. Why shouldn’t there be imagers here?”

“We don’t have any rules for imagers, sir,” said the master scholar.

“Would it help if I wrote out a draft of some rules? I knew the imagers at the scholarium fairly well, and they did tell me some things.”
Not that you don’t know far more than Voltyr did, or even poor Uhlyn, but the scholars don’t have to know that.
“You could start with those and refine them as necessary.”

“But … this is a scholarium…”

Quaeryt looked hard at Nalakyn, feeling almost like imaging his disgust and anger.

The master scholar paled … then swallowed. His voice was barely audible as he replied. “Whatever you say, sir.”

“Nalakyn,” Quaeryt said gently, “I went out of my way to save the scholarium when most of Tilbora was ready to burn it and all of you because of what Zarxes, Phaeryn, and Chardyn—oh, and Alkiabys—were doing. Lord Bhayar and Telaryn need safe places for both scholars and imagers. Not just scholars. Not just imagers. Both.”

Yullyd glanced at Nalakyn.

“I understand, sir, It’s just that…”

“We all have to change with the times. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in a few years”—
if not even sooner
—“Lord Bhayar will need imagers.”

“You mean if Rex Kharst conquers Antiago and captures the Autarch’s imagers?” asked Yullyd.

“That’s certainly a possibility,” agreed Quaeryt. “It would be useful to have some imagers who could create Antiagon Fire or combat it.” Not that Quaeryt had any idea of how to do that himself.

“How … would they combat it?”

“Image sand over it, I suspect. That usually damps most fires, even bitumen fires.” That was a guess on Quaeryt’s part, but he thought it would work, since stone and earthworks were impervious to Antiagon Fire. “I’ll have those draft rules to you within a week, sooner if I can. Tell the holder—what’s his name … his son’s name, too?”

“His name is Kryedt. The boy’s name is Dettredt.”

“Tell Holder Kryedt that the boy is accepted, under the usual provisions requiring good conduct and obedience to scholars.”

“Yes, sir,” replied both scholars. While Nalakyn’s tone was not quite resigned, Yullyd’s was more enthusiastic.

“Now … I’ll wait outside in the main hall while you draft that letter to Holder Rhodyn.”

Quaeryt stepped out to rejoin Vaelora, noting several students hurrying away as he neared. One he knew—Lankyt.

“What did young Lankyt have to say to you, dearest?” asked Quaeryt quietly, not wishing his voice to carry beyond Vaelora.

“Which one was he? The slim brown-haired one with the shy smile?”

“How did you know that?”

“I didn’t, but you wouldn’t have known who he was unless he stood out in some way. He was the most respectful and well-spoken.”

“His father is the holder in Ayerne.”

“Rhodyn, is it?”

“Yes. He was most kind when I escaped the ship reavers and was recovering.”

“He spoke highly of you when we spent the night there.”

“He’s a good man. I just hope…” Quaeryt went on to explain.

Vaelora listened, then nodded. “You’re offering a strong suggestion, but not demanding.” She smiled mischievously. “You are suggesting, between the lines, that he’d be a fool not to agree.”

“What else could I do?”

“You could let him do as he pleases without saying a word … but that’s not who you are. You’ve proved that in dealing with my brother.”

Quaeryt shrugged.

“The chorister? Gauswn … he was most complimentary. Is he the one who was an undercaptain?”

“He was.”

“He said that it was almost a shame you hadn’t been a chorister, but that he’d seen you were destined for greater deeds.”

Quaeryt winced. “I fear he thinks I’m another Rholan.”

“Would that be so bad, dearest?”

“For a man who doesn’t know whether there even is a Nameless, it would be.” Quaeryt shook his head.

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

“Not in that.”

Vaelora shook her head.

Shortly, Yullyd reappeared with the letter. “Sir?”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt read it, then nodded, took the pen from the scholar princeps, and signed the missive. “Very good, Yullyd.”