Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (60 page)

“I might have guessed.”

“My placing you as governor also served notice, in an indirect way, that any of them could be replaced immediately if they become too greedy. You proved you could be an effective governor, and you’re far more valuable as a governor in waiting, so to speak, than an actual governor.”

“Thank you,” replied Quaeryt dryly. He extracted a folded sheet of paper and extended it.

“This is?” asked Bhayar as he took it.

“A copy of what I left behind for Governor Markyl, with a note that you had a copy.”

Bhayar laughed. “Excellent! Excellent … you’ve just proved you make a wonderful governor in waiting.” He paused. “That leads us to why you’re really here. That’s the problem of Bovaria itself.”

“Bovaria itself?”

“Bear with me,” said Bhayar. “The only port that can handle Bovarian sea trade that is even remotely close to Variana is Ephra, and it’s on the north side of the River Laar, opposite Kephria, which belongs to Antiago. The Autarch has enough ships to shut down trade there anytime he’d like. In addition, all the trade that would come down the Aluse can’t so long as we hold Ferravyl. That’s because Kharst doesn’t want his merchants to pay tariffs, and I’m not about to let them use the Aluse to strengthen Bovaria without getting a healthy stream of golds to build up our defenses. So his traders have to use barges from the Aluse south of Variana along the Great Canal to the Laar and then go down the Laar to Ephra. That takes longer, and it costs more.”

Quaeryt understood the higher costs of trading, but Bhayar had more than that in mind. “What you’re saying is that Kharst wants Ferravyl so that he can eventually take Solis. Why doesn’t he just take Antiago instead?”

“He’d take heavy losses, especially with all that Antiagon Fire, and he still wouldn’t have direct access to a good port. The great canal is long and very narrow. It costs thousands of golds a year to maintain.”

“But he can’t possibly conquer Telaryn, even if he takes Ferravyl.”

“Not this year or next. Perhaps not in ten years. He’s thinking for the long term. If he can gain control of Ferravyl, he’ll control the Aluse. Once he has that, it won’t take him long to build up forces to take the grain lands from Solis to Piedryn. And then there’s the iron.”

“Iron?”

“Iron ore. Why do you think my predecessors fought to keep Ferravyl? The largest amounts of high grade iron ore in all Lydar lie to the northeast of Ferravyl. With control of that iron and the grain lands, it would only be a matter of time before…” Bhayar shrugged. “So … it’s best we act…”

“You have something else in mind?”

“I have thoughts. Whether they become more than thoughts depends on how much damage we can inflict on Kharst’s forces. According to Submarshal Myskyl, your very presence multiplied the losses suffered by the rebels and reduced regimental casualties comparatively. I expect you to do the same here once the Bovarians attack.”

“How long do we have?”

“They could attack tomorrow … or next week. I wager it’s sooner rather than later.”

“Why did you pick me for this?”

“You’re the only one that might be able to wield the imagers into a coherent force. That’s always been a problem in using imagers.”

Quaeryt wasn’t satisfied with that answer, knowing that there had to be more. “What else?”

“There’s a price for everything, Subcommander. If you don’t pay it, what you get will eat you away until you’re a shadow of yourself.”

Quaeryt managed a smile and a nod. “There is indeed a price, one way or another.”
And there’s one you’ll pay as well when this is all over.

“Is there anything else you need to know from me, Quaeryt?”

“There doubtless is, but at the moment, I have no idea what it might be.”

“Then I will let you and Commander Skarpa be on your way to North Post.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Bhayar walked to the door of the conference room and opened it, waiting for Quaeryt.

They walked out almost together.

64

While walking into and out of the headquarters building at the main post had loosened up some of Quaeryt’s muscles, he still felt stiff and sore as he and Skarpa rode northward to try to return to Third Regiment as quickly as possible without straining their mounts.

For a time, Quaeryt said nothing at all, while he rode and mulled over what Bhayar had told him. He couldn’t help but wonder if the causes of wars were as simple as the Lord of Telaryn thought. As he and Skarpa rode past a building that might have been either inn or tavern, a fragment of song drifted toward him on the acrid air, a song sung in a clear soprano to the accompaniment of a lutelin.

West of the lowlands, and near to the sea,

my true love did sing out his song to me …

He sang and he wept and his words sounded true,

that never the night did I think I would rue …

Quaeryt frowned. He’d heard that song before … although the words didn’t seem quite the same. Then he nodded—at Jardyna in Tilbor, where the singer had also sung another song, the one clearly about the war in Tilbor … blaming it all on how a man and his daughter and a cousin fought, and how the singer ended up with a daughter with no father, all for naught.

He shook his head.
Is it ever that simple?
Certainly, being governor in Extela had been far more complicated than he’d thought, and he’d never thought it would be easy.

After they had ridden a bit farther, Skarpa cleared his throat. “Myskyl said your command has imagers in it.” The commander’s voice was neutral. “All those that Lord Bhayar could find.”

“That’s what Bhayar told me. I asked him why he was putting me in charge. He said they would more likely take orders from a scholar. He also hinted that I’d best find a way, if they weren’t so inclined.” Bhayar hadn’t even hinted that, but it was true, all the same, Quaeryt felt.

“Aren’t you the fortunate one.”

“No more so than you,” replied Quaeryt ironically.

Skarpa laughed. “I told you that you’d make a good officer.”

“Apparently, someone told Bhayar, and it wasn’t Myskyl.”

“No. He’s scared shitless of you. I don’t blame him.”

“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.