Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (61 page)

Voltyr swallowed. “Yes, sir, Subcommander.”

Quaeryt smiled pleasantly. “Go on in. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Yes, sir.” Voltyr swallowed again.

Quaeryt followed him, closing the door behind himself. There were five other men sitting around the smallest of the three mess tables. Quaeryt knew none of the undercaptains except Voltyr. One was nearly bald, with patches of gray hair above each ear, his face pallid. Another was a youth who was likely barely eighteen, if that. The other three looked to be in their late twenties or thirties. Only one of the five obviously looked to be Pharsi, at least have Pharsi blood, and that was the youth, with his honey-colored skin, black hair, and black eyes. He was the first one, besides Bhayar, to see Quaeryt, and he froze, if for just a moment, as he took in Quaeryt—and the uniform, and Quaeryt’s eyes and hair, Quaeryt suspected.

“Undercaptains…” Quaeryt’s voice was just loud enough to cut through the murmured conversation of the three men at the center of the group. He continued to project authority, absolute authority.

All five rose, swiftly, if not with military precision.

“You may be seated.” Quaeryt walked to the end of the table, waiting until the six were back in their seats. Then he took the chair at the end. “I’m Subcommander Quaeryt. Among other things, I’ve been princeps of Tilbor and temporary governor of Montagne, sent there to restore order after the eruption destroyed part of Extela. I also served in the campaign to put down the Tilboran rebellion. Before we begin, I’d like you to introduce yourselves. While I have a roster with your names, the only one of you I have met before is Undercaptain Voltyr.” He gestured to the oldest, seated immediately to his left. “We’ll start with age and go around from there.” Quaeryt forced himself to concentrate on each man, so that he could link names and faces.

“Baelthm, sir,” replied the gray and partly bald undercaptain in a resonant deep baritone.

“Desyrk, sir.” He was thirtyish, blond with limp hair and watery blue eyes.

“Akoryt, sir.” The thin man’s voice held a hint of supercilious condescension, and his flat brown eyes did not quite meet Quaeryt’s.

“Shaelyt, sir.” The youngest replied in a polite and respectful tone, even nodding his head.

“Threkhyl, sir.” On closer inspection, Threkhyl might have been closer to forty, with a voice that was raspy, matching his ginger hair and beard, a beard that looked recently trimmed to military length.

“Voltyr, sir.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt offered an ironic smile. “None of you volunteered for this duty, I am most certain. Neither did I. That we didn’t makes no difference. I expect all of you to do your best in what will be required of you. As for why you should … I am going to ask you all a question. Are you not all serving as junior officers?”

“Did we have any choice … sir?” asked Akoryt.

“No, you didn’t. Do you know how many imagers there are that are alive in Tilbor? Or Khel?”

Every face around the table looked blank, except that of Shaelyt, but who did not speak.

“Do you know how many imagers are officers among the Bovarians?”

Again, there was no answer.

“None. In fact, Kharst killed all the imagers he could find that lived in Khel while or after he conquered it, and there never were very many in Bovaria because the Bovarians don’t like them.”

“Sir … we’re not exactly popular in Telaryn,” volunteered Voltyr.

“No … imagers are not, but Lord Bhayar is the very pillar of support for imagers compared to Rex Kharst … and I can testify that Lord Bhayar is fair to those who support him and merciless to those who oppose him … and I will be the same.

“There will be a meeting of imager officers every morning. While we are here at North Post, it will be at seventh glass, until further notice. Now, unless you have any questions, I will be talking to each of you individually in my study down the hall, beginning with Baelthym…”

“There is one thing…” offered Threkhyl. “We don’t have much choice, but we don’t intend to put up with trooper bullshit … and I’ll show you why.”

Something jabbed against Quaeryt’s shields, then dropped onto the table in pieces—several chunks of wood that had comprised a wooden arrowhead.

Threkhyl’s mouth opened. “He’s a frigging obdurate.”

That was a term Quaeryt had never heard before, but the meaning was clear.

But before he could say anything, Akoryt demanded, “What’s an obdurate?”

Desyrk nodded, as if he’d been about to ask.

“Someone that imaging doesn’t affect,” snorted Threkhyl.

To cut off further speculation, Quaeryt immediately interjected, “There was a reason why I was chosen, and that same reason is exactly why you
will
behave as officers and conduct yourselves accordingly.” He stood and swept his eyes across the group. “There will also be no more of this sort of nonsense. Is that absolutely clear?”

“Yes, sir.” The chorus of responses was not quite uniform, but several voices had a shaken timbre to them.

Quaeryt thought he caught the hint of a smile on the face of young Shaelyt. “Now, if you’d come with me, Baelthm?”

“Yes, sir.”

The study to which Quaeryt led the older imager was small, with barely enough room for a narrow table desk with a chair behind it and two against the side wall before it. There was a single narrow window onto the courtyard. Quaeryt sat down. “Tell me about yourself.”

The imager cleared his throat, then said, “I don’t know as there’s that much to be said, sir. I was born in Cheva and lived there all my life until Lord Bhayar’s men came for me. I made my living imaging little things, spring pins, pieces to things that got broken, tiny stone flowers for the masons when they wanted something special for their building…”

“Have you tried imaging larger things?”

“Much larger than, say, a small dagger, sir, and my head feels like it’s splitting apart. It’s not as though I haven’t tried…”

“Image me a small iron dagger. On the desk, here.”

The dagger that appeared was indeed small, no longer than Quaeryt’s middle finger, and with that, Baelthm was showing a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

After a quint or so, Quaeryt sent Baelthm to fetch Desyrk, and after Quaeryt finished with him, he interviewed Akoryt, then the others, ending up with Voltyr sitting across from him in the small study.

“I’ve never asked before, but were you an orphan?”

“What difference…” Voltyr looked at Quaeryt, then stopped for a moment. “Not exactly. My grandmother raised me. She never talked about my parents. She wouldn’t talk about my parents, and she insisted that my father’s name was Ryter.”

“When did you discover you were an imager?”

“I was around twelve, and I imaged a copper so that I could buy some fruit. It wasn’t a very good copper.” Voltyt smiled wryly.

When Quaeryt had no more questions, Voltyr said, “I never knew you were an obdurate.”

“What point was there in revealing that?” countered Quaeryt. “You were the only imager I knew.”

“But … can I ask … why you, rather than another … obdurate?”

“Most likely because I do understand. Scholars are facing the same problems as imagers. The locals have killed the scholars and burned the scholariums in Nacliano and Extela. They almost did the same in Tilbora … and likely would have if I hadn’t straightened out the master scholar and scholar princeps there. Both scholars and imagers face similar problems. I’m a scholar, and Bhayar trusts me. Would you want an obdurate who understood nothing of the trials and fears imagers live with?”

“I’d guess not.”

Quaeryt looked hard at Voltyr.

“No, sir.”

“If you want to improve things for yourself and other imagers, we will have to work together and be as effective as possible. I’d like you to keep that in mind.” Quaeryt paused. “Do you have any other questions?”

“You said that you had been princeps of Tilbor. I heard that Bhayar’s youngest sister married the princeps of Tilbor.” Voltyr looked at Quaeryt quizzically.

“It wasn’t quite like that. He ordered us both to marry each other.” Quaeryt smiled for a moment. “I’m glad he did, but I never expected it.”

“She’s here?”

Quaeryt shook his head. “She’s in Solis. When I was dispatched here, Bhayar had a company of troopers escort her there.” He rose from behind the desk. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Yes, sir.” Voltyt inclined his head and turned to leave.

Quaeryt stood there for a moment. After all the interviews, his head was filled with details, but he at least had a mental picture of all the imagers. The only one who promised trouble, day in and day out, was likely to be Threkhyl. While Akoryt had a tendency to be condescending, he was a realist at heart, as was Desyrk. Neither Voltyr nor Shaelyt would be difficult. The real problem was that Threkhyl was likely the strongest and most accomplished imager, although Shaelyt and Voltyr promised greater abilities, from what they had been able to image for him, because they hadn’t appeared to be straining.

Then he stepped toward the door, waiting until Voltyr was out in the corridor before drawing a concealment around himself. Then he moved into the hallway, closing the door behind himself, so it would appear that it had been closed from inside the study. He followed Voltyr, making an effort to keep his steps quiet and not to limp, down the hall and in through the partly open mess door, taking a position beside it.

“What did he say to you?” demanded Threkhyl as Voltyr entered the mess.

“He asked about my background, how I became an imager, and asked me to image something. All the things he probably said to you. A few words about working together.”

“Just like every other friggin’ officer,” muttered Threkhyl.

“He said he knew you before. What was he like?” asked the older Baelthm.

“He was always pleasant … fair … honest. He’s changed. I mean, he’s still honest and fair, I think. But he’s harder … like he’d cut you down in an instant for disobeying…”

“He’s an obdurate, not an imager…”

“He’s a scholar, and he knows what it’s like to worry. He told me about all the scholars that have been killed…”

“If something happens to him … just happens,” offered Akoryt, “what can they do to us?”

“He’s Bhayar’s friend, and he’s married to his sister,” replied Voltyr. “How long would any of us last?”

“Frig…”

“You would do well not to cross him and to do as he asks,” suggested Shaelyt, almost deferentially.

“Oh … and how would you know?” asked Threkhyl.

“He is a lost one. Lost ones make good leaders and terrible enemies. If you do not believe me, ask those who know him how many of those who have opposed him are still alive and well.”

“Lost one…?” murmured someone.

Surprisingly, Desyrk spoke. “Seems to me that most of you are against the subcommander just because he’s in charge and you don’t want to be here. Looks to me that he’s been successful. Do we know that anyone else would be better?”

“Couldn’t be worse,” snapped Threkhyl.

“You, my friend,” replied Desyrk, “have not seen enough of the world to know how much worse it could be. Until you do, don’t say things like that. We’ve been made officers and given uniforms and food. There are much worse places to be.”

“It won’t last,” declared Threkhyl.

“Nothing lasts,” returned Desyrk, “except maybe the Nameless, and I’m not even sure of that.”

“What is a ‘lost one’?” asked Baelthm, looking to Shaelyt.

The young man flushed slightly, then replied, “The ‘lost ones’ are from the ancient times. They are like the subcommander. They have white-blond hair and black eyes. Sometimes, they are missing a hand, or they limp. Other times, they have strange powers.”

“He is an obdurate,” Baelthm said. “That might be a strange power.”

“Do your legends say what those powers are?” asked Desyrk.

“No, save that they can sometimes call upon the powers of Erion.”

“So he’s a god, now?” sneered Threkhyl. “A limping god?”

“No,” replied Baelthm. “He’s no god. You’re still alive.”

“What do you—” Threkhyl pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet.

At that moment, a silver pin planted itself in the ginger-haired imager’s forehead. Threkhyl grabbed it one-handed and started to frown, as if concentrating.

“Don’t,” snapped the older man. “I could have put that through your eye, dipped in pitricin.”

“Stop being fools.” Akoryt’s voice dripped condescension. “I understand what Baelthm meant. You should too, Threkhyl. You don’t attack gods and live. The subcommander’s right about one thing. If we don’t work together, we’ll all end up dead. Afterward … that’s another story.”

Threkhyl tossed the pin on the table, then brushed away the tiny drop of blood on his forehead. “For now … for now.”

“What does he want us to do?” asked Shaelyt.

“Things to win battles…”

“… make life hard on the Bovarians…”

Quaeryt listened for a time longer before slipping away under his concealment shield. He definitely had his work cut out.

65

One of the imagers’ comments stuck with Quaeryt, so much so that he brought it up before he and Skarpa entered the mess that evening. He did speak in a low enough voice that it was unlikely anyone else would hear. “Did Myskyl give you any idea what I’m supposed to accomplish with the imagers?”

Skarpa’s words were simple, and not terribly helpful. “They don’t know. They’re counting on you to find a way to make the imagers more useful than they’ve been in the past. All imagers have done is assassination.”

Quaeryt understood. Assassination was a waste of an imager’s talent, at least in most cases, but Bhayar’s—or Myskyl’s—view left everything up to Quaeryt, which bothered him more than a little, since when everything had been left up to him in Extela, the results, so far as he and Vaelora were concerned, had been less than optimal.
But then, here you don’t have to satisfy everyone immediately. You just have to get the job done and satisfy Bhayar … and Skarpa.

Quaeryt moved quickly to the smaller table that held the imagers and a few other undercaptains, while Skarpa, as senior officer, took his position at the head of the main table.