Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (56 page)

“It wouldn’t matter if it were.”

Quaeryt nodded sympathetically.

“You’re being condescending…”

“Yes, dear.” He ducked and caught the pillow flung in his direction, hiding a smile.

“You can be most difficult, dearest.”

“You knew that before you married me.”

“I didn’t marry you. Bhayar did, and I had no choice in the matter.”

Quaeryt grinned and tossed the pillow back in her direction. “You weren’t complaining last night. Not at all.”

“You’re not just difficult. You’re impossible.”

But she was smiling.

After he dressed, while Vaelora finished readying herself, Quaeryt sought out Skarpa. He found the commander in a small conference room adjoining the mess, by himself, looking over maps with a set of calipers in his hand.

Skarpa looked up. “Yes, sir?”

“Any word about anything?” asked Quaeryt.

“Only a dispatch from Submarshal Myskyl stating that our presence is needed and requesting that Third Regiment take no more than two days rest in Tresrives before setting out for Ferravyl.”

“He’s a submarshal now?”

“That’s what the dispatch says, sir, and who am I to argue?”

“Neither one of us is in a position to argue at the moment,” replied Quaeryt warmly. “And since I’m no longer governor, and since I never was comfortable with you calling me ‘sir,’ please don’t argue with me when I tell you to stop it.”

“I could say, ‘Yes, sir,’” replied Skarpa, returning the smile, “but I won’t.” After a pause, he went on. “I know you haven’t received any dispatches, but do you have any idea what Lord Bhayar has in mind for you? After you get to Ferravyl?”

“Besides report? No. The last time I saw him, he was talking about what I needed to learn as princeps of Tilbor. He wrote a letter or two to Vaelora while we were still in Tilbora, but none of that mentioned me, except in passing. I haven’t heard anything since the dispatch I showed you.” Quaeryt shrugged.

“I was just curious.”

“As for today, I’d thought that we might ride around Tresrives, except I realized that wouldn’t rest the horses. So we’ll walk.”

“You can see it easily—the parts that you and the lady would like to see. Take the main avenue behind the middle of the piers.” Skarpa snorted. “There’s little enough here these days, except a lot of empty dwellings and buildings. I’m not sure there’s been that much for years, not since Bhayar’s family unified Telaryn.”

“That should make a comfortable walk.”

“I’ll send some rankers as an escort.” Before Quaeryt could protest, Skarpa went on. “You may not be governor any longer, but your wife remains the Lady Vaelora, and she’s Lord Bhayar’s sister. I’m not about to risk my neck by not protecting her.”

“I won’t argue that.”

“Good.”

“How long will it take to reach Ferravyl?”

“With good weather, at least a week. If it rains … who knows?” Skarpa looked at the maps again. “Planning where to stop gets tricky because we’re going in high water time and there are so many swamps and marshes along the river road—for the first hundred milles or so. After that, past the Great Bend, it’s just flat.”

“That should make traveling quicker, then.”

“If…”

“It doesn’t rain,” finished Quaeryt, smiling.

“I’ll have the rankers waiting outside the mess.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt stepped out of the chamber and went to rejoin Vaelora.

After eating breakfast in the mess, Quaeryt and Vaelora set off, walking eastward toward the piers, followed by four rankers at a distance of several paces.

The piers were largely empty, with only a single barge and one flatboat tied up at the second pier. A single guard appeared to be watching both.

“It’s almost sad,” said Vaelora. “It’s as if part of the town isn’t here. Why aren’t there more people here if Bhayar’s mustering troops in Ferravyl?”

“There’s no point in having them here. It’s too far from where the regiments are to support them and too close to Solis that it offers much of an advantage.”

The first shop opposite the foot of the westernmost pier was, unsurprisingly, a chandlery, if one whose weathered front siding suggested it had seen far better days. Quaeryt and Vaelora walked past it and past a second building, shuttered and seemingly deserted, then turned northward on what looked to be the main street Skarpa had mentioned.

The buildings nearest the piers largely held crafters, including a smithy, a coppersmith, a cooper, a rope factor, and a cabinetmaker. At the end of the first block, where there was a small square, was an inn with a brick and timber front, kept in better condition than many of the shops, and across the street from it, a tidy-looking café with a wide front window flanked by reddish shutters. Two pots of hyacinths were set on each side of the door.

“Given what you thought of breakfast and what you didn’t eat, we might want to come back later and eat there,” suggested Quaeryt.

Vaelora’s eyes flicked behind them.

“They could use a meal besides barracks rations,” replied Quaeryt. “It won’t be that expensive.”
Besides the rankers need to know they’re appreciated with more than words.

The main street continued northward past the square, and then angled slightly right, to the northeast. Quaeryt noted a narrow shop that looked to be that of a seamstress, but said nothing, although he noted his wife’s eyes flicked in that direction.

“Even if she’s good, I likely couldn’t get anything finished before I have to leave.”

“I imagine there are better seamstresses in Solis,” replied Quaeryt.

“How would I know? I was never allowed to visit any. The only one I ever met was the one Aelina picked out, and she came to the palace.”

Quaeryt decided not to comment on seamstresses again. Instead, he studied the more varied shops in the next block.

Close to three glasses later, Quaeryt, Vaelora, and the four troopers were walking back down the main street toward the square. As they neared the small café, Quaeryt turned. “We’re going to eat there.”

“Sir,” said the trooper with the insignia of a junior squad leader, “we’ll just wait outside.”

“Absolutely not,” declared Quaeryt. “You four need to eat as well.” Seeing the dubious look on the squad leader’s face, he swiftly added, “I’m paying for it, and besides, if you’re worried about protecting Lady Vaelora, you won’t be doing her any good if you’re out here, and she’s inside.”

“Sir … we’re not supposed to intrude…”

“You can sit at another table. That’s the only concession I’ll make,” Quaeryt insisted.

“Yes, sir,” the squad leader replied cheerfully.

The six of them walked into the café. The public spaces consisted of a large front chamber with eight tables, and a back room with a handful of smaller tables. From what Quaeryt could see, the only patron was a large man seated in the back room, facing away from the door and the front room.

A slender serving woman, barely more than a girl, appeared and bowed, gesturing toward the tables. Quaeryt and Vaelora took a smaller circular table on one side, near the wall, while the troopers took an oblong table against the other wall.

The serving girl moved to a position between and back from Quaeryt and Vaelora.

“What do you suggest?” asked Quaeryt.

“The hunter stew is good, very filling. So is the domchana. We use our own grain-fed game hens. The lady might like the lace rice fries as well.”

“Do you have skelana?” asked Vaelora. “With dark rice?”

“Yes, Lady. That is my favorite.”

“Then I’ll have that with whatever your best white wine is.”

Quaeryt didn’t have the faintest idea what his wife had ordered. “I’ll try the domchana, but with some dark rice as well. And a pale lager.”

“We only have amber, sir.”

“That will do.”

“It’s very good, and your meal will be, too.”

“Oh … and I’m paying for the four over there.”

As the server crossed the room to the troopers, Quaeryt looked at Vaelora. “What is skelana?”

“It’s pulled lamb shredded and seasoned, then seared until barely brown, and warmed in a cucumber and heavy cream and lager sauce.” She smiled. “You can try a bite of mine to see if you like it.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt glanced up and toward the troopers.

The serving girl had barely stepped away from the other table and headed toward the kitchen when Quaeryt heard the sound of something falling and turned.

“He’s one of them! They’re both evil ones!” The burly gray-haired man charged from the back room, with something in his hand, lunging toward the table where Quaeryt and Vaelora sat. “Die! Pharsi scum!”

Triggering full shields and extending them, Quaeryt leapt between the man and Vaelora, then anchored the shields to the floor.

The attacker hit the shields with such force that the cudgel he wielded slammed into the shields and rebounded, tearing itself from the man’s grasp.

“Evil protects him! Evil—” The man’s words stopped cold as one of the rankers slammed the flat of his sabre against the side of his head.

Quaeryt contracted the shields so that they were almost against his body as two other rankers grabbed the attacker’s arms and threw him to the floor. The squad leader whipped out a short length of rope and bound the man’s hands behind his back. Then the two hoisted the groggy figure to his feet. The fourth stood with his sabre ready.

An older woman, who had appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, glanced from the man pinned to the floor to Quaeryt, then Vaelora, and back to Quaeryt. The serving girl, her mouth open, stood beside the older woman.

The silence was broken by the sound of the café door opening. A patroller stepped inside. At least, he appeared to be in some sort of uniform, despite splotches and spots on the khaki shirt and trousers, with black boots and a wide belt, from which dangled a truncheon on one side. “What seems to be the trouble here?”

“Governor Quaeryt and his wife stopped here to eat,” answered the squad leader, turning toward the patroller. “His wife is the sister of Lord Bhayar. That man tried to attack them.”

The patroller raked his eyes over Vaelora in a way that made Quaeryt think of imaging him dead. “Rush-high tale that is. Lord Bhayar can’t be no stinking Pharsi.” A snigger followed the words. “You boys just need to run along and take your
friends
back to the barracks with you, and there won’t be no trouble.”

“I don’t think you understand,” said the muscular squad leader. “She is Lady Vaelora. That’s why we’re here. Now … you can take this piece of offal back to your station and throw him in a cell for a few days … or you can do anything else … and your relatives can decide what to do with your ashes.”

The suddenly dough-faced patroller looked at the four rankers and their drawn sabres and then at Quaeryt.

Quaeryt image-projected both authority and withering contempt.

The patroller swallowed. “Ah … begging your pardon, Lady … Maybe I’d best be going.” He took a step back.

“You need to take your friend here. He’d better stay in his cell for the next few days. Until the regiment leaves. You might tell your chief that,” added the squad leader. “He might not want a visit from the regimental commander.”

One of the two rankers flanking the attacker sheathed his sabre and half led, half dragged the still dazed man toward the local patroller, then practically shoved him forward.

Neither local said another word as the patroller led the still-bound attacker back out through the front door, stepping to one side, once he was outside, to avoid the potted hyacinths.

“The lost one…”

At those words, Quaeryt turned, realizing that they had been murmured in the comparative silence by the older woman who still stood by the kitchen door. He thought about asking her why she’d made the comment, but didn’t want to raise that question in such a public setting, especially with the troopers nearby. Instead, after a moment, he smiled at the older woman and the younger server beside her. “I think that good meal you promised would suit us all now.”

“Ah … yes, sir.” The server scurried toward the kitchen.

The older woman nodded at Quaeryt, then bowed to Vaelora, before following the server.

“The local people don’t care for troopers much, do they?” asked Vaelora.

“That’s true in most places,” replied Quaeryt. “That’s why Governor Rescalyn effectively built the cafés and…”

“Pleasure houses?” Vaelora raised her eyebrows.

“Well … after the problems caused by his predecessor…”

“It makes sense. I don’t have to like it. Just like Bhayar’s decision not to stand behind you. He’s fortunate not to be in Solis. I’d…” Vaelora broke off as the server appeared with a goblet and a large mug.

The older woman followed with two platters, deftly sliding one before Vaelora and the second in front of Quaeryt. They returned to the kitchen and came back with mugs and platters of food for the troopers.

“It looks much better than breakfast,” said Vaelora. “Even food on the road tasted better.”

“The mess kitchens are old,” suggested Quaeryt. “Or maybe the provisions were even older.”

His words brought a faint smile to Vaelora’s lips, before she took a bite of her meal. He picked up the batter-fried sandwich that held fowl strips, pepper slices, and cheese and took a bite, finding it hot and tasty, if not overwhelmingly so.

“You should try this,” suggested Vaelora.

After taking a taste of her skelana, Quaeryt looked to her. “You made the better choice.”

“It’s nice to hear you admit that,” she replied with a smile.

“But the domchana is still good. It’s just not as good.”

Vaelora took a sip of the white and set it down. “Your choice of beverage was better, I think.”

“Do you want a lager?”

“No … this will do.”

After they finished the meal, and as they walked southward toward the piers, Quaeryt strained to hear the low murmured words from the four troopers, but he could only catch snatches of words, because the troopers walked more than a few paces behind, obviously trying to give Quaeryt and Vaelora some space and privacy.

“… like he knew…”