Rex Regis (38 page)

Quaeryt imaged the seal onto another section of the oversized envelope, careful not to break it, and then extracted the single sheet of paper. He scanned the contents, hurrying over the heading and getting to the key paragraph.

It might be of interest to you that Commander Quaeryt and at least two companies of his forces set out from Variana on Mardi, the seventeenth of Avryl. Since the commander reports directly to the rex and lord, I received no information on his destination, nor did I ask, for obvious reasons. One can but imagine what that destination may be, and I thought that information might prove useful to you.

That was the only mention of Quaeryt or his forces. After that, there were two sections suggesting how to deal with High Holders and factors, with most of which Quaeryt had little difficulty. But one part did catch his eye, and he read it twice.

… As you suggested in your earlier dispatch, I heartily agree with the proposition that when speaking to them, one should always refer to the power of Telaryn and its forces, and never mention any individual by name or position. That way, their allegiance is to Telaryn and not to any individual.

Quaeryt stopped reading. There was something about that idea. Then he stiffened. That was exactly what Rescalyn had done in addressing the Tilboran forces on the campaign against the rebel hill holders.
Had that even been Rescalyn’s idea at all?
Quaeryt had no way of knowing, but those sentences were definitely suggestive … and then some.

He kept the envelope and handed the dispatch to Calkoran, who read it without speaking, then snorted, and handed it back to Quaeryt, who in turn passed it to Zhelan.

The major read it and returned it to Quaeryt, offering in a low voice, “I did say that matters had an odor, sir.”

Quaeryt replaced the single sheet in the envelope and then re-imaged the seal back into its original position. “If you’ll give me the dispatch pouch, I’ll keep both.”

Wordlessly, Zhelan handed across the battered leather pouch.

Quaeryt fastened it to one of the saddle rings, opposite the one holding his water bottle. “Where are the couriers?”

The major gestured south along the road to a group some ten yards south. “They’re over there.”

Quaeryt eased the gelding toward the three. All had their hands bound, and rope tethers around their waists, stretching to the saddles of three solid fifth squad rankers. There were also three spare mounts, a necessity when there weren’t dispatch stations set up. He reined up and surveyed them.

“Sir, begging your pardon, but why are we being treated like captives?” asked the dispatch rider, a small and lean man with the dispatch insignia on his sleeve, along with the insignia of a junior squad leader.

“For your protection and ours,” replied Quaeryt.

The rider squad leader looked puzzled.

“Have you talked to any dispatch rider that has come from Northern Army in the last two months?”

“Yes, sir. Caromyt returned three weeks ago. Well … three weeks before we set out. And Gosting, a week before that.”

“By the way, when did you leave Variana?”

“First thing last Jeudi. Why?”

Quaeryt caught the quick look of surprise that crossed Zhelan’s face.

“All that’s rather interesting,” said Quaeryt. “Not a single dispatch rider sent north by Lord Bhayar has returned. He sent us to investigate why.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Neither does Lord Bhayar. Neither do I. But until I do know why, you’ll be remaining with us. And if any of you attempt to ride off, you’re liable to end up dead.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I’d not be knowing you.”

“Quaeryt. Commander Quaeryt.”

The two ranker escorts exchanged worried and knowing glances. The courier moistened his lips before speaking. “I still don’t understand, sir. Marshal Deucalon sent us … said the dispatch was urgent.”

I’m certain he did.
Quaeryt smiled. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decide that.” He turned to Zhelan. “Keep them close.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We need to talk.” Quaeryt rode north until he was well away from the captive couriers, then reined up and waited for Zhelan and Calkoran to join him.

“Yes, sir?” asked Zhelan.

“Lord Bhayar indicated that he would not be mentioning our departure or destination to the marshal, and it appears he did not. It is clear that he was watching us closely, and a day after our departure, he chose to send a special dispatch informing the submarshal. That concerns me slightly.” Quaeryt’s understatement came out in an ironic tone.

“The riders don’t know anything,” Zhelan pointed out.

“Of course not. I’m certain that everything going on is along the lines of the dispatch-suggestive and little more.”

“Do we still ride on to Rivages as if nothing has happened?” asked the major.

“Nothing has happened,” Quaeryt pointed out.
Even if you’re convinced that something will happen.
“We’ve been ordered to go there, and until we have some sort of solid proof that there’s a problem, that’s just what we’ll do. We’ll just try to keep the submarshal from getting any advance warning of our arrival.”

Both officers nodded, if reluctantly.

Quaeryt didn’t feel much better, but he only said, “We’ll just have to be more alert than ever, both in the vanguard and the rear guard.”

“Yes, sir.”

As he rode north along the narrow shoulder of the road, Quaeryt couldn’t help but think about the second part of the dispatch that had concerned him. Emphasizing Telaryn power without mentioning Bhayar? That put a whole different light on what had happened in Tilbor … as his “dream” had suggested.

After he rode a bit farther, he began to think about Elsior’s sensing of shields.
Is that something you can do?
He just tried to feel the shields of the imagers behind him, but he could sense nothing. He kept trying, but after a quint, he still felt nothing. Yet, if he extended a tiny projection of his own shields, he could feel when that projection touched another shield.

What else might Elsior be able to do? Was his ability to sense shields something unique to him? Quaeryt wondered.
You’ll have to talk this over with the three of them.

Lundi afternoon, Quaeryt, Calkoran, and Zhelan rode side by side at the front of the column.

“The roads haven’t gotten any better,” said Zhelan.

“Most of the ones we ride are worse than the worst lanes in Khel,” added Calkoran.

“There don’t look to be any large towns or even high holdings for the next twenty milles or so,” said Zhelan. “Just small hamlets.”

That they might have to occupy some hamlet or bivouac on some smallholder’s lands was Quaeryt’s fault, but they’d ridden through the last town of any size-Roleon-at ninth glass in the morning, and stopping there would have made no sense. Besides, they still would have faced the same problem on Mardi, and lost almost an entire day. Quaeryt couldn’t help but worry that delays might be all too costly in one way or another.

“Calkoran, if you’d send out some scouts to look for any sort of holding that would provide some sort of shelter for the men.” Quaeryt glanced back over his shoulder at the darkening skies to the south.

The subcommander issued an order in Pharsi, and in moments another set of scouts rode out ahead of the column. Shortly, they passed the column outriders.

“You think we’ll actually get rain?” asked Zhelan.

“Since we have no towns of any size nearby and few prospects for shelter … and since we’ve been highly fortunate with the weather so far, I think it’s more than likely,” replied Quaeryt dryly. They’d been fortunate, he reflected, with only light rains or showers or cloudbursts that had lasted but a quint or two, not enough to turn the road into a quagmire.

“I’ll be returning to first company, sir,” said Zhelan.

Quaeryt nodded, then asked, “Any signs of dispatch riders?”

“No, sir. The ones with us are behaving.”

“Good.”

While he continued riding, and worrying about the possible rain, Quaeryt tried again to sense the shields of the imagers, but he had no success, although he could now “feel” their shields with the lightest extension of his own, but from what Elsior had said, feeling wasn’t the same thing as sensing, and since he could feel any probe of his own shields, and hadn’t, it seemed that what Elsior was doing was different from what Quaeryt did.

A glass passed before the scouts returned and reported.

“Sir … there is a holding ahead. Near on two milles. It might be a high holding, but there are no gates, just gateposts.”

“No gates? What about walls?”

“No, sir.”

Quaeryt reflected for a moment. While it wasn’t a requirement, most Bovarian high holdings did have gates or walls, at least around the hold house, although there had been a handful, one or two, mostly in hilly or rocky regions, that didn’t have gates, but none that hadn’t had either. “Are there enough outbuildings that might provide shelter?”

“There look to be plenty, sir.”

Quaeryt looked to Calkoran. “If you’d have a squad accompany me, we’ll ride ahead and see what we can do.”

Calkoran turned in the saddle. “Major Eslym, second squad, escort the commander.” Then he repeated the order in Pharsi.

For a moment Quaeryt wondered why Eslym was being detached. Then he almost shook his head. None of the Khellan rankers likely understood either Bovarian or Telaryn. He inclined his head to Calkoran. “Thank you.”

“No thanks are necessary. You treat us as your own.” Calkoran smiled.

Quaeryt smiled back and gave his own order. “Undercaptains, you report to the subcommander.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then Quaeryt urged the black gelding forward. For some reason, he couldn’t help thinking about the mare that had carried him all the way across Lydar, only to die under him in the last moments of the battle for Liantiago.
She deserved better.
But then, so did so many who perished in war, like Shaelyt, who had shown such promise, and Akoryt … and the tens of thousands who had died, so many because of his acts.

The worst part of that was that he was no longer so sure about what Vaelora had said after the battle for Ferravyl-that he had no choice on whether thousands would die, but only which thousands. That had been true at Ferravyl, he supposed, and at Variana, and the battles between, but at Liantiago? In essence, he’d made the decision to invade Liantiago.
You made it believing that war with Aliaro was inevitable … and that sooner would cost everyone less. But you made that decision.

He glanced over the bushes and high grass to his left and down at the River Aluse, its waters still a good fifteen to twenty yards wide, but the occasional mud bars near the shores suggested that it was shallower, at least in spots, than it appeared. To his right was a forest, or rather a well-managed if extensive woods, where the undergrowth appeared managed and trimmed. In places he could see lanes, suggesting that the growth was well managed, most likely by the holder whose dwelling they approached.

As they passed where the woods ended, and a hedgerow three yards high began, the scout turned in the saddle and called back, “It’s not that far ahead, sir!”

Quaeryt hoped not, because he could smell rain on the cool breeze blowing at his back. After he rode another hundred yards ahead, Quaeryt could see the gateposts on the right side of the river road, set just a yard or so out from the hedgerow. He glanced to the river side of the road … and frowned. While the area to the left of the road had been cleared and was pasture, in the middle of that green area was a long rise, as if a substantial dwelling had once been situated there, overlooking the river.

Why would someone remove a hold house from there and move away from the river?
Quaeryt shook his head.

A fraction of a quint later, when he reined up before the gateposts, he saw they were brick and square, but looked almost squat, as if they had once been much higher. Still … each was topped with a stone square on the top of which was an ornate iron letter L, something Quaeryt had never seen before, but most likely representing the name of the hold or its holder. The lane beyond the gates ran straight back, almost due east to a dwelling on a slight rise that was anything but small-unless compared to most hold houses. The small mansion looked to be a simple two-story brick structure no more than forty yards from end to end with an extended and columned entry porch. The roof was fired tile, rather than slate.

After a moment he turned the gelding up the brick-paved lane, flanked by two of Calkoran’s rankers. The bricks looked old, and in spots newer ones had replaced the originals, and intermittently the mortar between the bricks had been repointed, apparently as necessary, rather than all at once as Quaeryt would have expected at a high holding. The lane was flanked by simple pastures, and sheep were grazing on each side. None of the animals were close to the lane, and none looked up as the squad rode past at a walk.

The lane went straight up the low rise, ending in a brick-paved square some twenty yards on a side with the center of the eastern edge meeting the two wide stone steps leading down from the open space between the two brick columns that supported the roof over the entry porch.

Standing on the edge of the porch were a man and a woman.

Quaeryt gestured the squad to a halt and rode forward, reining up short of the two and bowing slightly in the saddle. “Greetings.”

“You speak Bovarian as though you were from Kharst’s court, officer.”

The man who had addressed Quaeryt was tanned, unlike most High Holders, and wore brown trousers, a cream-colored open-necked shirt, and a sleeveless brown leather vest. His boots were brown and scuffed. Quaeryt doubted he was five years older than Vaelora. The woman wore a loose-fitting white linen dress, as simple as a shift, with a pale violet sleeveless vest, unfastened, since she was quite visibly expecting.