Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (54 page)

The remainder of the dispatch continued with details of where and how Quaeryt should report once he reached Ferravyl with Third Regiment.

For several moments, Quaeryt just stood there, not really thinking, stunned as much as anything.

In not quite a month and a half, almost seven weeks exactly, he’d effectively restored Extela to a working city, an incredible achievement by any standard, given the conditions he’d encountered, especially with the loss of most tools of government and those who knew how to wield them both effectively and honestly.
Except there were few who were truly honest.

And what was his reward—and Vaelora’s? Removal and replacement, because in trying to put things back together, he’d stepped on too many pairs of boots. Yet it would have taken months, if not longer, any other way, and he still likely would not have accomplished all that had to be done.
Not that you have yet, either.

He shook his head, then slipped the sheets back into the envelope. He needed to talk to Skarpa.

Finding the commander wasn’t difficult because Skarpa was standing outside the door to the post commander’s study, talking to Meinyt. Quaeryt was willing to wait, but when both officers saw him they stopped talking.

“We can finish this later,” Skarpa said to the major.

Meinyt nodded and hurried toward the courtyard.

Quaeryt followed Skarpa into the small study, not that any of the studies were capacious, and closed the door behind himself. “So what did your dispatch say?”

A puzzled expression crossed Skarpa’s face as he stood beside the desk. “The same as yours, I’d imagine. That we’re to depart as soon as possible, but that one company will receive special instructions from you.”

“That’s all?”

Skarpa lifted a single sheet from the desk and handed it to Quaeryt.

Quaeryt read it, then nodded as he handed it back. “That’s what it says. Now … you’re wondering why I asked. I’ll tell you, but only if it remains between the two of us.”

“You know—”

“I know you don’t talk, and some of this will be known in a day, but … you’ll see why. You’ll also understand why I want you to know.” He handed the dispatch he’d received to the commander.

Skarpa began to read, first nodding, and then frowning. At the end, he looked up. “Since this is between us … it’s all pigshit. He doesn’t want to piss off anyone at the moment … and I’d wager he’s got more trouble than he can handle in Ferravyl.” A rueful smile followed as he returned the dispatch to Quaeryt. “I did tell you that we were just here because no one else dared stomp on enough boots to fix things.”

“I remember some words to that effect.”

“I’m also going to suggest that you pay yourself a travel allowance and expenses, and your pay as governor for all of Mayas. You deserve that, and more, and Lord Bhayar will expect it and the new governor won’t miss it.”

“I’ll have to think about that.”

“Don’t think too hard. You’ve got your wife to think about … and it’s likely to be a good while before any of us gets paid once we’re in Ferravyl.” Skarpa shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. Well … I guess I can … I did tell you—”

“That governing wasn’t like winning battles. You did, and it isn’t. Any time you get anything done, someone else gets upset, and the faster you do it, the louder they complain.” Quaeryt offered a grim smile. “Do you think I should pay the regiment in advance, or just send the coins in a pay chest?”

“Send the pay chest. Too many of the rankers will spend every copper they have as soon as they get it.”

“I can do that.” Quaeryt couldn’t keep a true half smile from his face at the way Skarpa had conveyed the need to get his men paid. “How soon will you be ready to leave?”

“We’ve been mostly ready for weeks. Samedi morning, I’d thought.”

Quaeryt managed not to wince at the thought of telling Vaelora she had only a day to pack and leave Extela behind. “Then we’ll leave on Samedi.”
Not that we have any real choice.
“Have you told Heireg and the others?”

“Only that we’d likely be leaving before long on short notice.”

“Then I won’t keep you.”

Quaeryt spent the next two glasses with Heireg and Jhalyt, since the major would effectively be not only acting governor but paymaster for the Civic Patrol and the post until Markyl arrived. When he left them to carry out his instructions, he reclaimed the mare and rode out the post gates, heading for the villa, and what he knew would be another sort of eruption.

On the ride back, he couldn’t help but wonder exactly what Bhayar had in mind for him in Ferravyl. Was it simply to give him something to do, a meaningless position? Or had Bhayar decided that because Quaeryt had done more than he had ever admitted in Tilbor that he might be actually useful in Ferravyl?

Either way, what awaited him in Ferravyl meant trouble. The only question was what kind.

Vaelora came out of the villa to meet him on the portico after he stabled, but did not unsaddle, the mare, and walked up from the villa stables. Her expression was quizzical as she asked, “What is it, dearest? You’re never home this early. Is something wrong?”

Wordlessly, Quaeryt handed the dispatch to her.

Unlike Skarpa, Vaelora frowned from the moment she began to read the dispatch, and that frown deepened with each line. Finally, she looked up.

“They’re all lies! That bitch Grelyana … all of them! What did he expect with a quarter of the city destroyed? He had to know that schemer Scythn was skimming off too much in tariffs.”

“As are most governors,” said Quaeryt dryly.

“Except you. We’re both being punished for your honesty and effectiveness.”

Quaeryt shook his head. “I had a choice. I could have acted the way Scythn did, and few would have said anything. Or I could have proceeded slowly and deliberately, flattering and toadying, and doing nothing until everyone agreed, and doing nothing where people disagreed. I would have accomplished almost nothing in the time we’ve been here. Instead, I did everything in the dispatch. I did keep the price of flour down—just for a few weeks and to help the poor. I did cause Wystgahl’s death because he wanted to make golds off the suffering of others, while stealing from your brother. There was a reason for everything I did—a good reason, but people with influence felt they suffered because I was trying to do things I felt would help everyone … and in some cases, those who truly wanted or needed the help. Poor Zhrensyl was dying already. He couldn’t really do his job. I set it up so that he wouldn’t suffer, and he knew that. But he’s dead, and the only people who know what really happened are a few officers. It’s like that with everything in his dispatch.”
Or most things, anyway.

“Bhayar has to know better.”

“I’m certain he does,” replied Quaeryt. “There’s the phrase about most of the charges being false.”

“He won’t stand up for you…”

“He’s facing attacks by Kharst and the Bovarians. The last thing he wants is a bunch of unhappy factors and High Holders in his ancestral home. He replaces me, and it solves everything. This Markyl, if he’s smart, and I’m certain he is, will placate everyone and blame me. Things are getting back to normal, and no one will complain if the Civic Patrol is better, and if Markyl can find a justicer who does a better and more honest job than Tharyn and the other one did, the new governor will get the credit for it. He won’t have to take the blame for getting a governor’s residence—”

“That I found and negotiated for, had cleaned and furnished, and had little enough time to enjoy after months of travel and poor accommodations,” snapped Vaelora. “Bhayar didn’t even think of me, except to order me back to Solis like a discarded plaque in a game he’s playing with Kharst.”

Quaeryt couldn’t blame her for her anger as he added, “And replacing us will allow him to remove Third Regiment as well, which he needs immediately in Ferravyl.”

“How immediately?” demanded Vaelora.

“We leave on Samedi morning.”

“Samedi morning! One day to make arrangements and to pack! One day! And Shenna, poor Shenna … What will I do for her?”

“We could give her some golds…”

“Of course, but that’s little enough … and for all we’ve done…”

Quaeryt realized that he was not going to have much of a chance to say more. So he listened for almost two quints before he finally slipped in another sentence. “I have an errand to take care of…”

“Now?!! For what reason when you’re being rewarded like this?”

“If I don’t take care of it, I will regret it, and Extela will suffer.”

“What is all that important if we’re leaving on Samedi morning?”

“I’ll tell you when I return.” Quaeryt offered the sentence quietly.

“Is it that important?”

“It is to me. It’s something that needs to be done.”

Strangely, at least to Quaeryt, the anger seemed to vanish from Vaelora’s face, but she said nothing for several moments.

Quaeryt waited.

“You have to set something right, don’t you?”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“Please be careful, dearest.” After a moment, she added, “In every way.”

“This time, I intend exactly that.” Quaeryt took a deep breath. He wasn’t looking forward to what he planned, for more than a few reasons. Still …

He used a concealment shield to walk back to the stable, and he held it over both the mare and himself when he rode out from the villa, rather than try to explain to the rankers assigned to the villa why he needed no escorts. Since he’d had to make several trips to Hyleor’s dwelling before finally meeting the factor, Quaeryt had no difficulty finding his way there under his shield.

When he saw the house, and the brick wall topped with ironwork spikes that fronted the street and formed part of the enclosure around the garden between the house and street, he frowned again at the sheer ill chance that had befallen Versoryn.

Might have been better for all of us if they’d whipped Hyleor to death.
Quaeryt shook his head.
Then you’d have had to execute him and the others … and that would have been worse, especially given High Holder Cransyr. Except Hyleor’s caused at least five deaths you know of, and probably more that you don’t.
Like so many things in life, there was no ideal resolution.
But that’s why you’re here this afternoon.

As he rode closer, he could see that no one was outside in front, despite the open gates.

Holding a concealment shield over himself and the mare, Quaeryt rode slowly through the gates. He looked again at the drive. The last time he had seen Hyleor, the drive had been muddy and rutted. Now it was smooth and graveled. He slowed the mare, then almost a step at a time rode down the dirt on the side away from the graveled drive toward the dwelling and the small building behind it. He chose the dirt because the sound of hooves on the gravel would be noticed more than silent tracks appearing in the dirt … assuming anyone noticed at all.

He was halfway down the drive when two men stepped out of the small shedlike building behind the dwelling. One was the fleshy-faced and black-haired Hyleor, looking fatter and greasier than Quaeryt recalled. The other was wiry and dressed in faded gray, moving his head from side to side with a jerkiness that reminded Quaeryt of a wary rodent.

Quaeryt reined up and waited, listening.

“… do about Cauflyn?”

“… once he’s out of the patrol gaol … the same as the others … except I’ll carve my initials in his guts so big he doesn’t have guts…”

“Patrol chief or governor might have something to say about that.”

“Word is that the governor won’t last long…” The spice factor looked up and turned his head from side to side. “You hear something?”

“Just the wind.”

“Could have sworn I heard a horse whuffling.”

“Do you see a horse, sir?” asked the man in gray, his head moving rodent-like from side to side.

“I heard one.”

Quaeryt didn’t bother to wait longer. He imaged water into Hyleor’s lower throat and lungs.

The factor staggered, then tried to speak. No sound issued forth. An attempted cough spewed forth some liquid, but Quaeryt imaged more water into Hyleor’s lower throat.

The man in gray pounded on Hyleor’s back. Hyleor coughed out a small spurt of water, but his face was turning red.

“Elenda! Elenda!” yelled the man in gray.

Hyleor staggered, then bent forward, trying to clear his lungs and throat.

Quaeryt waited.

Abruptly, the factor pitched forward into the gravel of the drive. The other man pushed on his back and kept pressing intermittently. Water gushed from Hyleor’s mouth, but Quaeryt imaged more into the factor’s throat.

In time, Quaeryt could see that the factor’s chest was moving slower and slower … until it wasn’t rising and falling at all.

The man in gray rolled Hyleor over so that he faced skyward in the late afternoon. “Elenda!”

No one appeared.

The gray man ran for the rear of the house.

Once he was out of sight, Quaeryt turned the mare and rode slowly back up along the far side of the drive until he was outside the gates. He reined up and waited. Still … no one appeared.

After half a quint, he turned the mare.

He was just glad Hyleor had been there. He would have come back later that evening, or on Vendrei evening, had it been necessary. He just couldn’t have left Hyleor to create more trouble for Pharyl and for the people of Extela.

But won’t someone else just step into his boots? And what right did you have to act as justicer and executioner?

His laugh was silent and bitter.
No right at all, only the responsibility not to let a man who caused death after death keep doing it when no one else could or would stop it.

Quaeryt didn’t have any better answers to his own questions. He kept riding, back toward the villa that he and Vaelora had occupied for such a short time with such high hopes for a future that had not come to pass.

He’d been able to do nothing about improving matters in Extela or in any other part of Montagne for either scholars and imagers. He hadn’t finished resolving many of the problems facing the city, and he’d already been dismissed and replaced.