Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (38 page)

After a time, he decided to go back down to the library to see if there were any books dealing with scholars. Once there, in less than a glass, he found that there were none, and there hadn’t been any references to the scholars in either the governor’s dispatches or the records of the Khanar’s Council. The lack of mention of the scholars by Rescalyn reinforced Quaeryt’s decision to move slowly in dealing with them.

Somewhat discouraged, he decided to make a more thorough survey of everything that lay within the walls of the Telaryn Palace, starting at the west end. That effort took most of the day, from eighth glass until nearly fifth glass. In the process, he did discover that, despite housing more than a full regiment, many of the troop quarters were currently empty, that at least two springs and numerous cisterns supplied and stored water, and that, in effect, the space within the palace walls could house and support more than five thousand people.

With his feet sore from walking on stone pavement and floors for more than seven glasses, something that often happened because of his uneven gait, he returned to his quarters and cleaned up, then made his way to the main part of the palace to find the Green Salon, which he discovered on the third level of the center section of the main palace.

The first person Quaeryt saw—after the senior squad leader in the dress green uniform by the door—when he entered the Green Salon was Princeps Straesyr, wearing a white formal tunic over dark blue trousers. Beyond Straesyr, Quaeryt glimpsed several officers in dress uniforms, including the governor and Commander Myskyl, as well as a woman dressed elegantly in a flowing black gown, and Chorister Phargos.

The princeps stepped toward him. “Master scholar … I had forgotten that scholars do not have formal attire. We will have to take care of that. I will request the regimental tailor make you a brown formal jacket of the same cut and cloth as a dress uniform.”

Quaeryt didn’t have an immediate direct response that would not have been either obsequious or flippant. “I had not anticipated such formality, and I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“You are likely to be here for a time, and we do want you to be appropriately attired.” The princeps gestured toward a sideboard behind him and to his left. “You might try the Noiran white ice wine. It’s rather delicate … but potent.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome.” With a smile, Straesyr turned and eased back in the direction of those surrounding the governor.

Quaeryt surveyed the salon quickly. The walls of the oval-shaped chamber, a good twenty yards in length and perhaps fifteen in width at its widest point, were cloaked in deep green hangings, flowing down from the gilded crown moldings carved into floral designs. The ceiling rose two levels, at an angle that suggested a mansard exterior, and light—and a gentle breeze—poured in from the open upper-level windows, although the shimmering brass lamps set on protruding brackets at intervals around the salon were also lit. At one end of the salon was placed a clavecin, as if someone might be playing the plucked keyboard instrument later during the reception.

Since no one moved toward him, he stepped toward the sideboard, tended by a ranker in dress greens.

“Sir?”

“The white ice wine, please.”

“Very good, sir.”

Quaeryt took the goblet, almost tulip-shaped, with a crest he did not recognize cut into the crystal, and took the smallest sip of the colorless wine. Even that small sip convinced him that the princeps had been right. He’d have to make the wine last a long time.

As several other officers entered the salon, also greeted by the princeps, Quaeryt eased toward those already gathered, not all that far from the end of the clavecin, an instrument whose unadorned but polished wood shimmered.

The gray-haired Commander Myskyl caught sight of Quaeryt and turned, stepping toward him. “Scholar, I don’t believe we’ve met yet.”

Quaeryt noted a pattern of faint, but long-healed, scars on the commander’s left cheek and jaw. “No, sir. I’ve only seen you from across the mess.”

“What do you think of the regiment so far?”

“I’ve been very impressed by everything I’ve seen.”

“I understand you’ve also visited Tilbora and taken a local patrol.”

“I have. It appears that your officers and men are held in high regard here.”

“Here in the south, that is true.”

Behind the commander, Quaeryt heard both Skarpa and Phargos laughing, apparently at something the governor had said. “And elsewhere?”

“We’re accepted in the north. We have troubles in the lands bordering and encompassing the Boran Hills.”

“I assume you have some sort of post in the north.”

“We have posts in Midcote and Noira, just three battalions in Midcote and two in Noira. There aren’t that many people in the far north, and most of those are clustered on the lands of the High Holders. The war wiped out most of the northers who would have caused trouble.”

“Are the timber holders a problem because they stayed out of the war?”

“They’ve avoided authority as much as they could from before the time of the Khanars.” Myskyl’s tone was dryly sardonic. “Have you visited the local scholars?”

“Before the reception I received in Tilbora, until I explained I was a scholar from Solis, I had thought to do so. Now … I’m not certain it would be for the best. Not yet, at least. Do you know why those in Tilbora—around the harbor, anyway—feel strongly about scholars?”

“I couldn’t say why, except many believe that the scholars are more allied with the timber holders than the rest of the south. I understand they’re tolerated because of their school and because they’ve given no one a reason to attack them … and because the governors have declared that any violence will be dealt with severely.”

“That’s because of the incident involving the Pharsi women?”

Myskyl frowned, if only for a moment. “That was unfortunate. Governor Fhayt did not understand fully how a regiment must be handled following a war.”

“Governor Rescalyn understands that clearly, it would seem to me.”

The commander nodded. “He understands both war and governing very well.”

A bell-like sound echoed across the room, and the conversation died away. Everyone turned toward the governor, who stood, waiting, until the salon was absolutely silent.

“Now that you are all here, I thought we should have some entertainment of … shall I say … a more refined nature.” Rescalyn gestured to the dark-haired woman in black beside him. “Some of you have already heard Mistress Eluisa play, but it is always a joy to listen. She is quite accomplished. She was Bovarian by birth. Her music has made my duties here far more pleasant.”

Quaeryt shifted his eyes, but not his head, to observe the princeps. Straesyr merely nodded and offered a polite smile, as did Myskyl.

As the officers formed a semicircle, several yards back from the clavecin, Eluisa settled herself onto the padded bench before the instrument. Quaeryt moved to one side, with the more junior officers, almost beside Major Skarpa. When Eluisa poised her hands above the keys, from where he stood, Quaeryt could not help but notice that her fingers, while slender, were not particularly long.

The music that issued from the clavecin was almost like the flow of a river, dancing, then slowing. Whether that was what the composer had meant, Quaeryt had no idea, only that was the impression he garnered. The second piece was a triumphal march, followed by a gentler melody that seemed half love song, half lullaby. The final presentation was slightly longer, and seemed almost to present a history in music … at least to Quaeryt.

All the officers applauded, but after the applause died away, and the more senior officers had presented their compliments, Quaeryt made his way to Eluisa. “What was the last piece that you played?”

“It’s an adaptation of a Khellan melody by Covaelyt. He was the court composer to the father of Rex Kharst.”

“Why did you flee Variana?” He kept his voice soft, but not too soft, so that the governor would think him merely deferential, rather than secretive.

Her eyebrows lifted.

“You are too beautiful and too talented not to have left except under some sort of … duress.”

“You compliment as a form of inquiry, master scholar.”

“The governor would agree with my compliments, I am most certain.”

Her smile was brief. “My sister killed herself. She was extraordinarily beautiful…”

“And the Rex used her and spurned her?”

“That was what everyone believed.”

“She was too noble for that,” suggested Quaeryt.

“How would you know that, master scholar?”

“You are extremely talented, and such ability comes from both training and position. You also have survived in a land strange to you. It is rare, despite the romantic tales, that one daughter in a noble family is weak while another is strong. The daughters of families of high position in Bovaria are always presented in court. I am only speculating, based on what I have heard, but she would not jeopardize your family by any form of outright refusal. Therefore, she did not refuse his advances, and she would likely have been relieved when his attention waned. Except it did not, and his, shall we say, excesses led to her death.” Quaeryt was attempting to state the conclusion politely.

For the barest moment, her mouth moved, as if to drop open, before she spoke, her pleasant voice quite level. “Does all Lydar speculate so wildly?”

“My dear Lady Eluisa, the proclivities of any ruler can seldom be kept secret. If those who know them are killed, then the absences are noted, and questions are asked of those who might have carried out the killings, and sooner or later all will know, because a ruler cannot kill too many of those who serve him and still remain a ruler. If those who know are not killed, then the proclivities are known sooner.”

“Yet women die, and none care. Is it only the death of men that rouses other men to action?”

“That depends, Lady, on the man.” Quaeryt bowed his head.

“Or how beloved and highborn the woman is.”

“That, too,” Quaeryt admitted.

Rescalyn cleared his throat and stepped forward. “You are rather perceptive, scholar, but I would not have your perception recall too many unpleasantnesses for Mistress Eluisa.”

“Nor would I.” Quaeryt inclined his head to the lady. “My deepest apologies if I have unwittingly injured or offended you.”

“You have not,” she replied, “so long as matters remain as they are.”

“As they shall,” promised Quaeryt.

Rescalyn smiled at Eluisa, and she slipped away, moving toward the princeps.

“Master scholar,” said Rescalyn cheerfully, “one last word with you before we get on with enjoyment of the evening.”

“Yes, sir.”

“On Lundi morning, the companies will begin their monthly rotation. Major Skarpa will be taking Sixth Battalion to Boralieu. Since you seem to be on agreeable terms with the major, as well as with one of his captains, Captain Meinyt, I thought that accompanying them and their men to the main hill outpost and riding with them on patrols for a time would provide you a firsthand understanding of the problems we face in the hills.”

“I am most certain that it would, and I look forward to accompanying them and learning what would not otherwise be possible.”

“Excellent. Now … we have some delightful refreshments, including slices of a special suckling pig prepared in the Cloisonyt style. Do enjoy yourself.” Rescalyn nodded and then walked toward Eluisa and Straesyr.

“He does know how to entertain.”

Quaeryt turned to find Phargos at his elbow. “I do believe he does, but that may be the least of his talents.”

“Quite so.” Phargos smiled.

Quaeryt took another small sip of the ice wine. He would enjoy the refreshments … and listen. He’d already talked too much.

46

By midmorning on Solayi, Quaeryt was seated in the shade on a bench under an apple tree, one not exactly a dwarf, but a tree that had been carefully pruned to a size in keeping with the limited space available within the palace grounds, if limited meant an extent more than a half mille from east to west and a third of a mille north to south. His forehead was damp, not so much from the air or the rain that had fallen on the previous day, but because of his efforts in attempting various imaging approaches to creating some sort of shield to protect himself against direct attacks. He’d always relied upon avoiding any direct confrontation, but the events of the last few months had made it clearer and clearer that such an approach was not sufficient for the situation in which he found himself.

You put yourself there.

He had, but … over the long run, the alternatives would have been worse.

Over the long run, you’ll be dead anyway. Everyone is.

That thought didn’t offer much consolation, and, besides, he was where he was, not somewhere else.

He’d tried imaging a net of colorless silk, and ended up with a pile of silk threads. He’d attempted an invisible net like that of a spiderweb, anchoring it between the trees, but it had immediately dragged down the branches, and he’d imaged it away.

What’s as light as the air that you could harden?

“Clouds … fog…” he murmured.

He straightened on the park bench and concentrated on creating a shield of fog—hard misty fog.

The air before him seemed to shiver … almost rippling … and then tiny ice pellets appeared in midair and cascaded down onto the path between the trees, and a wave of chill air washed over him.

For a moment, he felt light-headed, but that passed. He decided to wait for a time to regain his strength and turned his thoughts to another part of his problems—the governor. Everyone seemingly liked the man. He was warm and charming. He spoke well. He certainly took good care of his men, and they all felt he was an outstanding leader. With the strange exception of the timber holders, and possibly a few northers or High Holders in the north, Rescalyn appeared to be extremely effective as a governor, and even the seamstress who had to have been a member of the Sisters had offered testimony to that effectiveness.