Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (7 page)

“Why are you smiling?” she asked as they rode away from the harbor area of Tilbora.

“Because I never married you for your golds and because no one would ever believe me if I said so.”

“I do.”

“No one but you.”

“The young chorister at the scholarium—the one who used to be an undercaptain—he would.”

Quaeryt laughed, ruefully. “That might be the one thing on which we’d agree. Otherwise, he thinks too highly of me.”

“You want people to think you do well, but not too well. Is that because you’re afraid that if they think too highly of you, you’ll disappoint them?”

“Partly.”
And partly because I don’t want them looking at me too closely.

“And partly for other reasons?” She glanced knowingly in his direction.

“You know me too well.”

“A wife should,” she replied playfully.

He wasn’t about to argue with that, either.

“Dearest … I have not pressed … but I cannot wear that gown and ride…”

“Oh … I’m sorry. I meant to tell you. We will ride in a carriage down to the lower gates, and High Holder Thurl will have a sleigh waiting for us—the four of us.”

“When did you learn this?”

“Yesterday,” he admitted.

Her glance was not quite withering.

“I did find out,” he said quietly.

After several moments of stone-faced silence, abruptly, Vaelora grinned. “Dearest … next time … I do hope there is not a next time.”

So did Quaeryt, even if it had been his fault.
Especially since it had been.

By the time they neared the lower gates to the palace, Quaeryt could feel the sunlight for the first time in more than a season. He was riding with his winter jacket open, and he noticed that small piles of slush had been thrown to the side of the road by the small sleighs used by many Tilborans in winter. In a few places, he saw mud. He glanced toward Vaelora, noting she had loosened her coat as well.

“It’s gotten warmer,” he said.

“It has, but for how long?”

There was that, but it was a reminder that spring would come.

He kept thinking about that even after he escorted Vaelora back to their quarters and then made his way back toward his study. When he reached the gallery, he turned and made his way to the governor’s anteroom.

Undercaptain Caermyt glanced up. “He’s not busy, sir.”

Quaeryt knocked on the half-open door and then peered in.

“Come in, Quaeryt. What’s on your mind?”

“Sir … I just returned from Tilbora. I think that First Regiment should leave as soon as possible. If the roads turn to mud…”

“I agree. So does Commander Myskyl—and he does prefer to remain with First Regiment. They’ve almost made ready, another day at most, and they will leave on Vendrei.” Straesyr smiled. “We’ll still see freezing nights, but it’s likely to get warmer and warmer during the day.”

“Have you received any more dispatches?”

The governor shook his head. “I doubt we will for a time, unless we fail to send off the regiments in a fashion Lord Bhayar deems untimely, and neither of us would wish that, I think.” His voice turned wry and sardonic with the last words.

“No, sir.” Quaeryt paused. “Oh … I got a note from Raurem late yesterday. He can deliver another wagonload of grain cakes by the third of Maris.”

“That should be acceptable. Muddy roads or not, Commander Skarpa won’t have Third Regiment ready to leave before the end of that week.”

“I’ll let Raurem know, but I’ll insist on that date, just in case.”

Straesyr nodded.

After leaving the governor, Quaeryt walked back toward his own chambers, wondering what might be happening in the west … and whether … and if so, when events might involve him.

Thinking of Vaelora, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to be involved, for all of his plans.

But you made those plans before she came into your life. Times change.

So they did, more than he had ever anticipated.

9

Quaeryt had only been in his study for a quint on Jeudi morning when Vhorym knocked on the door.

“Sir … There’s a young scholar here to see you. His name is Lankyt, he says.” Vhorym did not quite frown. “He says it’s important.”

“I’ll see him. He’s a good youth. His father saved my life.” Quaeryt rose.

Vhorym left the door open, stepped back, and gestured.

Lankyt hurried in, bowing deeply, and straightening. “Sir … Chorister Gauswn … he sent me. Chorister Cyrethyn is dying. He would like to see you. Chorister Gauswn … he said you should know.”

“I can leave now.” Quaeryt stood. “You rode alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll ride back together.” Quaeryt gestured for Lankyt to follow him. “Vhorym … I’m needed at the scholarium. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but it will be later today.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt hurried down to the main level, stopping by the duty desk to request a squad to accompany him, and then out to the stable, where he saddled the mare, then walked her out of the stable and mounted. He rode across the courtyard to where Lankyt was waiting on a gray gelding. “Your mount?”

“Syndar and I share him.”

Quaeryt glanced around the courtyard, looking for the duty squad that was to accompany him. “He’s the one you used to visit the local growers? To find better ways to grow things?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you discovered anything new since last harvest?”

“Well … not much … except that marigolds keep away many bugs. I was thinking that if we planted them around the orchards, that might help…”

Quaeryt listened for not quite another half quint, until the duty squad arrived, and then they set out through the eastern gates and down the stone lane to the lower gates. Once they left the upper gates, he raised his shields, the lighter ones that would stiffen into hard shields if anything neared them. He noticed that the snow heaped on each side of the lane seemed a touch lower and stone gutters flanking the lane were carrying meltwater down to the moat. They weren’t full, but it was more than a trickle.

After almost a quint of riding, Lankyt spoke again. “Sir … I meant to thank you, but I was worried about the chorister.”

“Thank me for what?”

“Yesterday … my da—my father—I got a letter from him. He agreed that since Syndar seemed so much better suited to being a scholar, I should come home, but only when the roads were clear and when I could join someone trustworthy. You did that, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly. Syndar wanted to stay. He’s been a great help to Scholar Princeps Yullyd. I wrote that to your father. Nothing more.”

“Thank you, sir. I liked what I learned at the scholarium, but I do so miss Ayerne, and I know I’m better suited to the land.”

“I’m sure you are.” Quaeryt paused. “Would you be willing to leave tomorrow?”

“Sir? Do you mean it?”

“First Regiment is heading that way, and they leave tomorrow. I think I can persuade Commander Myskyl to let you ride with them. They’ll likely overnight at Ayerne anyway. But you’ll have to gather your things and ride back with me when I leave the scholarium after I see Cyrethyn.”

“I can do that, sir. I can.”

Quaeryt nodded, his eyes on the road. So far the packed snow and ice, and presumably the ground beneath both in places where the roads were not stone-paved, seemed frozen solid. Of course, there would be mud farther south, but because the snow melted more in between storms, there wouldn’t be as much mud as in Tilbor and the area just south of the river when everything did melt.

After they had ridden a while longer, Lankyt again turned in the saddle. “You said First Regiment was riding south. Will there be a war, sir?”

“There’s always likely to be a war sometime. When and where the next one will be, I don’t know, but I fear it won’t be that long.”

“Will you have to go or will you stay in Tilbor?”

“I serve here at the pleasure of Lord Bhayar. That’s up to him.”

The youth nodded thoughtfully.

It was close to a glass later when Quaeryt dismounted outside the stable of the scholarium. He was almost breathing heavily when he dismounted, and wondered why, until he realized, belatedly, that he’d been carrying shields for the entire ride.

Can you lower them?
He frowned.
Surely, here …
He decided against it. He’d promised Vaelora, and if anything at all happened … he certainly didn’t want to hear what she might say. Besides, the more he worked at it, the sooner before the effort required would diminish.

At that moment, he saw Gauswn hurrying toward him at almost a run.

“Sir!” panted the chorister.

“Where is Cyrethyn?” asked Quaeryt.

“He’s in his quarters in the anomen, sir. He does want to talk to you, but he’s so weak. I was afraid to leave him.”

“We came as quickly as we could.” Quaeryt turned to Lankyt. “You need to get your things ready. If any of the scholars need an explanation, I’ll talk to them after I see to Cyrethyn.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt handed the mare’s reins to the ranker nearest to him and looked to the squad leader. “I’ll probably be here about a glass, Heisyn. There should be room in the stable for the mounts, and the tack room is usually warm.”

“Yes, sir.”

With that, Quaeryt nodded to Gauswn, and the two walked along the packed snow that covered the brick lane and then along the foot-packed path from the scholarium to the anomen.

Gauswn led the way to the main door of the building and stepped into the vestibule. “The private hallway is this way.” He opened a narrow ancient ironbound door that Quaeryt had only vaguely noticed in passing on the few occasions he had visited the scholarium’s anomen.

The long hallway, barely illumined by a single oil lamp, led to a narrow staircase whose stone steps bore the hollows worn by years of choristers’ footsteps. At the bottom of the staircase, there was another passage to the right, again dimly lit by a single oil lamp in a wall sconce. Quaeryt found the near darkness oppressive, but less than five yards from the bottom of the steps was a door, beside which stood two older students.

“He’s in his bed.” Gauswn pointed to the door. “He said he needed to talk to you alone. I’ll wait out here.”

“I’ll try not to tire him.”

Gauswn nodded, but then said, “Please … sir … do let him say what he must, whatever that may be.”

Quaeryt smiled sadly. “I will.” He opened the door, stepped into the chamber, and shut the door behind him. The sole light came from a pair of high and narrow windows, only one of which was unshuttered, and just on one side. The furnishings were few, just the bed, a night table beside it, an armoire, a writing desk, and a chair—which had been pulled up close to the bed.

The old chorister, whose still wavy brown hair, without a trace of white, was so in contrast to the drawn and lined features of his face, smiled faintly as Quaeryt walked over to the narrow bed and sat on the chair.

“I came as soon as I could.”

“I … thought … you would.”

Quaeryt waited.

“Thank you … for Gauswn. He will be … a good chorister.” Cyrethyn took a wheezing breath. “A better chorister than an officer…”

“He was a good officer,” said Quaeryt.

“He will be … he already is … a better chorister … and you … you have not disappointed him. He will always look up to you.”

That was something Quaeryt had worried about more than once. “I wish he did not.”

“No … you must understand that he does … Never forget it … you … there is more about you … and … you must … must never … disappoint those who believe … in you.…” Cyrethyn was gasping as he finished those words.

Quaeryt wanted to ask if there was any way he could make Cyrethyn more comfortable, but knowing there was not, he remained silent until Cyrethyn’s breathing eased somewhat. “Is there anything else … I should know?”

The slightest smile crossed the old man’s lips. “You would make … a fine chorister … but … the world would be … poorer for it.”

Quaeryt did not wish to dispute either, much as he doubted both of Cyrethyn’s assertions, so he just sat on the stool and smiled warmly. “Is there anything I can do?”

“You … have done all I hoped … so far … just … do … not … disappoint them.…”

Even those words exhausted the old man, and Quaeryt nodded, rather than speak. For perhaps a quint he sat there, long after the chorister’s eyelids closed and he drifted into sleep. Finally, Quaeryt rose and walked to the door, opening it quietly and stepping outside, trying to close it equally silently.

“Is he…?” asked Gauswn.

“He told me what he wanted me to know. He’s sleeping or dozing now.”

“Thank you for coming,” said Gauswn.

“I could do no less for him.” Quaeryt shook his head. “But there is also little else I can do.”

“You saved the scholarium and the anomen, sir, and he cared greatly for both.”

“He was devoted to both.”
Unlike some.

After several moments of silence, Gauswn cleared his throat. “I’ll see you out, sir.”

“There’s no need. Cyrethyn needs you more than I do.”

“He’d be very disappointed, sir, if I didn’t at least see you to the door.”

Quaeryt smiled. He couldn’t argue with that. “Just to the anomen door.”

From the chorister’s chamber they walked side by side, just far enough apart that Quaeryt’s closely held shields were not triggered into full protection. Because the staircase was too narrow to be comfortable for two, Quaeryt led the way, with Gauswn close behind. Just before Quaeryt reached the top of the staircase, he frowned. Was there someone waiting by the door?

Something slammed into his shields, driving him back so hard that he staggered to one side and almost fell. Because of his shorter left leg, he barely managed to catch his balance after going down one step.

As he did, Gauswn sprinted past him, a long knife drawn from somewhere in his hand.

Quaeryt’s eyes followed the chorister, and after a moment, so did his feet as he ran after Gauswn. He was close enough to see Gauswn’s arm move in what looked to be an underhanded thrust to the chest of a man in black—whose face mirrored shock, even as the crossbow clattered to the stone floor.