Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (46 page)

“That’s why you didn’t pursue them.”

“The major will understand. So will the commander, and the governor will see that the only report that gets to Lord Bhayar is that we were attacked, and captured one brigand and had no casualties. That’s not as good as it could be, but better than some patrol reports. That’s the way it goes in dealing with the hill holders. Thank the Nameless that the governor understands how they work.”

“He understands a great deal,” said Quaeryt mildly. “Do you think the princeps does as well?”

“They both do. That’s what the major says. The princeps is quieter. Everyone thinks he only knows supplies and figures, but some of the older rankers remember when he was a battalion commander. He wasn’t flash, just solid.” The captain shrugged. “That’s what they say, anyway.” He blotted his forehead, brushing away red flies. “Hate patrolling this time of year. Every bug and mosquito known to a soldier is out trying to get the last meals possible before winter hits.”

Quaeryt didn’t know about the winter, but he definitely agreed about the insects.

58

What Skarpa had predicted after the “visit” to convey the governor’s concerns to Waerfyl did in fact come to pass, if after the coal thefts from High Holder Eshalyn. Day after day went by, with Quaeryt accompanying patrol after patrol—and there was no sign of attacks, of poaching, of timber thefts. Nor did any of the High Holders send messages to Boralieu reporting such. What the commander or the major learned from the captive was apparently little, because Skarpa only said that the man had told everything he knew, and that was almost nothing except he’d been ordered to join the raid on the coal mine by a subchief of Saentaryn, and he’d never seen the holder himself.

Quaeryt discovered he had become a much better rider, and his shields worked largely as he had hoped, although he had not been able to make them sensitive enough to keep away predatory insects and still not have them set themselves at the slightest intrusion, but he could live with that. He still wore the undress green shirt on patrols.

He thought he’d be heading back to the Telaryn Palace with Sixth Battalion, but he’d heard no word. By Jeudi the thirty-third of Erntyn, he decided that, even if he didn’t get such word, he intended to go—unless someone sent orders forbidding his return. He’d learned all he was likely to learn, for his purposes, in the time he’d spent at Boralieu.

That night at the mess, he sat across the table from Skarpa.

“It’s been quiet for a while, and it will be for a few more weeks, maybe even to near the end of Feuillyt or Finitas or into winter,” noted the major.

“Did you ever find out more about why Saentaryn ordered the raid?”

“We can’t prove he did, and there’s been no more trouble. The commander did send the one captive back with a message that suggested there shouldn’t be. If there is, we’ll probably have to do something.” Skarpa shook his head. “There won’t be. Not now. Saentaryn doesn’t want to risk us torching his hold this close to winter. Besides, he got the coal.”

“That doesn’t seem … right.”

“It’s not a question of right. It’s a question of when you decide you want to lose troopers and what you get for it.”

Quaeryt had understood that before he asked the question, but wanted to hear Skarpa’s reply. “When will Sixth Battalion get rotated back here?”

“The whole battalion? Not until Avril, most likely. Meinyt’s company might have to go to the northwest outpost in Fevier. I haven’t heard yet. He might not, since they’re here so late in the year. I suggested that to make the company spend three winters in a row on outpost duty wasn’t fair to either Meinyt or the men.”

“Do you think—”

“The commander’s a fair man. He’ll make a recommendation to the governor, and unless there’s a special reason, the governor will accept it. I’m hopeful Meinyt will be able to enjoy winter in the comparative warmth of Tilbora. Nothing in Tilbor’s really that comfortable in winter, but you never really get warm at Boralieu and the outposts. Maybe that’s why so many of the hill holders are such Namer-chosen serpents. Nothing ever warms their blood or their hearts.”

Quaeryt finished the tough cutlet with the last morsel of tasty sauce, then took a swallow of lager. Tired as he was getting of the lager, the thought of drinking ale was even worse. “What makes a fireplace or a stove far warmer than a fire are the bounds placed on the fire by the containment of the hearth or the stove. Men who recognize no boundaries save those of their own flames of ambition lose the warmth of their hearts without even knowing it.”

“You sound like Rholan might.”

“Hardly.” Quaeryt shook his head.

“I’d have to doubt that, my scholar friend.” Skarpa glanced down the long table, grinned, and lowered his voice. “I didn’t see you at services on Solayi. Gauswn was disappointed.…”

“He seems to think I’m something I’m not. I’m just a scholar who knows a bit about Rholan and the background of those who follow the Nameless.”

“You’re more than that, even if you’re trying to sound like you don’t believe in the Nameless.”

“I don’t disbelieve. I don’t know, but I believe in the precepts that Rholan and others set forth.”

“For a doubter, you’re a powerful chorister.”

“That’s one of the problems with words. Those who master them think that they’ve mastered more than the words themselves. Most haven’t.”

“That sounds even more like Rholan to me, except better.”

Quaeryt sighed loudly and dramatically. “I’m not a chorister. I’m not even a scholar of the Nameless.”

“You could fool me and most of the officers.”

Quaeryt couldn’t think what else to say that wouldn’t end up with him in the position of protesting so much that he’d end up convincing Skarpa and those around that he was what he wasn’t.

“Scholar?” asked a voice from behind Quaeryt’s shoulder.

Quaeryt turned, and seeing Commander Zirkyl, immediately stood. “Sir. You surprised me.”

“That can be good or bad.” Zirkyl’s light voice was dry. “By the way, I couldn’t help but overhear your comments about the mastery of words convincing people they have greater abilities when they don’t. You’re right about that. That wasn’t what I came over to see you about, though. I’m going to prevail upon you to speak as chorister at services this coming Solayi. Everyone has said you gave an excellent homily two weeks ago, and I think they’re more than tired of me. Since you’ll be returning to Tilbora with Sixth Battalion next Meredi, that will be the last chance many of them will have to avoid hearing me.”

While the literal meaning of the commander’s words was correct, since most of those attending would be leaving when Quaeryt did, the scholar wasn’t certain that was exactly what Zirkyl meant. In any case, all he could do was nod and say, “If that is your wish, sir, I’ll do my best.”

“I’m certain it will be very good. Thank you, scholar.”

As the commander walked away, Quaeryt looked across the mess table at Skarpa. The major was smiling.

“Did you hear that?”

“Every word. I told you the commander was good at using the resources at his disposal effectively.”

“He’s very good,” agreed Quaeryt.
Too good, in this case.
He shouldn’t have protested so eloquently or for so long, but then he hadn’t seen the commander slip up behind him.

“Gauswn will be pleased. So will many of the others.”

Quaeryt winced.

“Gauswn’s a good undercaptain.”

“I know he is. He just sees more in me than there is. Besides, the commander is a good speaker and chorister, I’m certain.”

“He is. You’re better.”

“I think this is a case where familiarity breeds a desire for difference, and I’m just different.” Before Skarpa could contradict him, Quaeryt asked, “How early will Sixth Battalion set out on Meredi for the return to Tilbora?”

“I’ll let you change the subject this time, scholar, because you still have to give that homily.” Skarpa grinned, then added, “By sixth glass.”

59

On Samedi morning, Quaeryt rode another uneventful patrol, this one to the southeast, far longer, so that he did not return until just before the evening meal, at which he ended up next to Duesyn, who, he discovered, was actually from Nacliano and had been promoted to captain the past Juyn. The good captain knew nothing about the sad state of affairs concerning scholars in his home city, and said that it must have happened after he had been posted to the regiment from duty near Ruile.

Quaeryt was so tired that he almost slept through breakfast on Solayi and then went back to his quarters and took a nap. By late afternoon, though, he woke feeling famished and made his way to the officers’ mess, where he wheedled a lager from the attendants and waited for the evening meal.

He’d barely seated himself when Gauswn stepped into the mess, looked around, spotted him, and then walked over. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon.”

“You will be speaking tonight, won’t you? At services?”

“I will.”
As if I had any choice.

“Thank you. I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say.” After a very polite nod, the undercaptain turned and left the mess.

Quaeryt took a long swallow from his mug.

Before long, Skarpa and Meinyt joined him.

“I haven’t seen you around today,” offered the major as he sat down across from the scholar.

“Yesterday’s patrol wore me out. I thought I was almost recovered, but…”

“Oh … you went with Duesyn on the southern sweep,” said Skarpa. “That’s long and boring, but we do that one because High Holder Dymaetyn and High Holder Fhaelyn kept asking for it to keep poachers away. They never had any.” He shook his head.

“It was a way to show the other High Holders that the governor listens to them,” offered Meinyt.

“He listens to all the High Holders. He meets with them all the time. He just doesn’t always do what they want,” countered the major.

“Has he ever met with the hill holders?” asked Quaeryt.

Skarpa cocked his head. “I can’t say as I know. If he does, it isn’t often. They said they didn’t meet often with the Khanars, either. Most stiff-necked folk in all Tilbor. You were there when I had to deliver the commander’s message to that young snot Waerfyl, him in his red vest, daring me and the commander to torch his holding.”

“I wish you had,” murmured Meinyt.

“And then what? We’d have to torch every holding in the hills and abandon them for years or spend hundreds of troopers chasing down every man or boy with a bow or crossbow. Armies and regiments aren’t meant to fight brigands and outlaws.”

Quaeryt wondered about that. With the winters so long and cold, what would happen if most of the holds were destroyed? What would people do in the winter? Rather than raise that point, he just listened.

“What do you do then?” asked Meinyt. “Let them get away with it?”

Skarpa shrugged.

Quaeryt considered the question without commenting as the rest of the officers and the food arrived.

The evening meal consisted of some form of potato dumplings and chunks of meat in a brown gravy so spicy that Quaeryt couldn’t begin to determine the origin of the meat, although he guessed it was most likely mutton. The brown bread was hot and moist, though, and that helped.

After eating, as before, Quaeryt followed the officer acting as chorister for the entire service—Commander Zirkyl this time—into the dining hall and stood to one side while the commander led worship from the invocation to confession and through the offertory, before standing aside and letting Quaeryt move forward to delivery the homily.

“Good evening,” he offered in Tellan.

“Good evening,” came the reply.

“Under the Nameless all evenings are good … and even if they weren’t, I somehow think that having a less than perfect evening is to be preferred over the alternative of having no evening.” Quaeryt didn’t expect a laugh, and he didn’t get one.

“Some of you may have heard of the term ‘nomenclature.’ No, it’s not a fancy substitute for good old-fashioned swearing. It’s the study of names, and the words it comes from mean literally to summon or command a name. For all that, do we really study what names are? We’re all familiar with what the names of people and things mean, and even where many of those names come from.

“But what is a name? We say that it is a noun, and a noun describes or is the term or definition of a person, place, or thing. But is that all it is? As people, we need names. They serve a function. They allow us to talk to each other, and to let others know who we are as opposed to other human beings. But let me ask another question.” Quaeryt paused.

“Why do we capitalize a name when we write it? That’s a simple question, isn’t it? In terms of grammar, names are officially ‘proper names,’ and that is why names are capitalized. But then, would anyone want an improper name?”

A low laugh rippled across the officers and rankers.

“Yet … by capitalizing our names and the names of others, we are declaring that we are special, that we have a greater identity or are of greater import to the world than do those objects or creatures who share the same common name, such as trees, or rocks, or pebbles, or ants, or cattle. At times, people name animals, especially those that are loved or that have served faithfully, and those names accord them somehow a higher place than animals that bear no names. Yet no higher power, not even the Nameless, has bestowed our proper names upon us. No … we give them to our children, as our parents did to us.

“By what right do we claim a special position in capitalizing our names? Do not all creatures on this earth have a use and a worth, whether or not each has a proper name as opposed to just a creature name? What is our worth and use? Is it measured by a name? Rholan certainly did not believe so. Or is it measured by our usefulness and accomplishments?…

“Yet how often do accomplishments become mere nouns, common names written on the pages of history by struggling scholars far more skilled than I in an effort to capture the essence of those deeds? Do those who read the words understand that essence, or do they only focus on the words and names … losing that essence and understanding?