“He’s right, you know?” Khaern said.
“That may be,” replied Skarpa, “but he is the marshal, and it’s best to stick to the facts in officers’ meetings.” He went on. “Otherwise, we might be too free with our opinions in meetings with other commanders, and I do believe that you three are the most junior subcommanders, and I know I’m the most junior commander.” He softened his words with a faint smile.
Quaeryt had his doubts about whether he’d ever be included in such a meeting, at least voluntarily, by Deucalon.
“The isle fort isn’t that big,” Skarpa went on, looking at Quaeryt. “Once your imagers put a span over to it, I’d wager the Bovarians abandon it.”
“They might slip out of it tonight,” suggested Meinyt.
“That’s possible. If they don’t know it yet, they’ll find out soon that we’ve got imagers that can create a span,” added Skarpa.
“Why didn’t they know before?” asked Khaern.
“They likely knew we had some imagers, but the only time they built a bridge was at Ferravyl,” replied Skarpa, “and none of the Bovarian troopers or officers who saw it survived.”
“Still…” pressed Khaern.
“If you hadn’t seen it,” asked Meinyt, “would you have believed it?”
Khaern laughed softly. “Probably not.”
“Getting across a narrow span to the far side … that could be a problem,” said Skarpa.
“We might be able to image a wider span, maybe even two,” suggested Quaeryt. “The undercaptains will get another day to rest up. That will help.” He didn’t mention that there would likely be more than a few Bovarian casualties if the Bovarians massed troopers on and around the northern bridge approach.
“Good. If they have more pikemen in those narrow streets, that could be a problem…”
Quaeryt listened and gave the best answers and suggestions he could. By the time the meeting was over, less than two quints later, his head was aching even more and his eyes burning, and he was ready to walk back to the Stone’s Rest and get some sleep.
59
The chamber Quaeryt had taken in the Stone’s Rest was at the top of the building, in fact the only room on the third floor, perhaps four yards by five with not only a wide bed, and a night table, but a writing desk with a matching chair, and a doorless armoire for hanging garments. Quaeryt picked up his kit from the floor and set it on the chair, while he took out the pouch with soap and personals, noting that the writing desk, once a decent piece of oak furniture, was battered and the surface of the wood worn and scratched, as was that of the desk chair.
There was an adjoining washroom, with a chamber pot, but not a jakes, reminding Quaeryt, again, of the age of the building. The outer walls were stone, of course, as were the floors, and the wall plaster held an uneven off- white shade that was not the result of design, but age and less than enthusiastic cleaning.
After he hung up his spare uniform to at least air out, and taken off his shirt and hung that up as well, then washed up, he walked back into the main chamber and looked at the desk. He thought about writing Vaelora, but decided against it, since he really only wanted to write about taking Nordeau once. He wasn’t sleepy, tired as he felt, and the walk back from the Traders’ Bowl had cleared his headache and eyes somewhat.
He pulled the small leather volume from his kit, although he hoped, given the tight quarters in Nordeau and the lack of open space, that Skarpa would not insist on services on Solayi evening. Still … just in case …
In the dim light from the single lamp, he began to page through the book, hoping for something that would provide inspiration. One passage that he’d noted before struck him in a different light in view of what he’d surmised about the Naedarans.
Before Rholan, the Nameless was more a deity of battles and of rough justice, justice administered at the edge of a blade or under an ax.
Again, Quaeryt had no way of knowing.
Another passage caused Quaeryt to smile, as it had every time he’d seen the words.
Contrary to the legends that are already springing up about Rholan, he was never a proper chorister, or even an improper one. More than one chorister, especially the noted Basilyn of Cheva, berated his congregants for following a man who was “neither a proper scholar, nor a chorister, nor much of anything but a believer in his own rectitude.” To his credit, Rholan never claimed to be a chorister, but only that he attempted to follow the way of the Nameless as best he could. On more than one occasion, he was denied entry to an anomen to speak, the most well-known instance, of course, being when Chorister Tharyn Arysyn barred him from the north anomen in Montagne, not far from Rholan’s own home. Tharyn declared that all were welcome to worship in the anomen, but only those who had studied the Nameless could speak.
It is said that Rholan smiled and declared, “How can any man, even a chorister, study the mightiness of the Nameless when none can describe the Nameless? I only claim to study the precepts of the Nameless, for those are what must guide men.” Those were not quite his words. What he said was, “Tharyn, you cannot even describe the Nameless. Nor can you explain His way. Yet you would bar one who can for fear that you will be found out as the fraud you are.” Shortly after Rholan’s disappearance and presumed death, Tharyn also vanished and was never seen again. Many of the faithful swore that they would never name a son Tharyn and that the Nameless would turn any with that appellation to the Namer. While there are reports of such, I cannot speak to them, for any malefactor named Tharyn would call up that story in the minds of followers, and none would note those who bore the name who were not evil.
In the end, Quaeryt put down the volume because his eyes were twitching and because nothing he had read gave ready inspiration for a homily, especially when he did not even know whether he would be conducting services. After blowing out the lamp, he walked to the window and opened the shutters wide, hoping for a cool evening breeze, then returned to the bed. For a time he just lay there, but his thoughts turned images of the Bovarians, frozen behind and around the gates he had taken down with his imaging.
Lying there in the darkness on the bed, he couldn’t help but think about Vaelora’s point that, so often, thousands would die, and his actions only determined which thousands.
He wasn’t sure how much that thought helped as he tried to ignore the soreness in his chest, arms, and thighs, and then … he didn’t even notice his eyes closing.
Somewhere in the night, the warm breeze turned cool, and Quaeryt fumbled for a blanket, but he couldn’t find it in the darkness. Then the sky rumbled, and the air got colder still. He sat up in the bed and swung his feet onto the stone floor, but the floor was so cold that his feet froze to the stone. Across the room from him was a shadowy figure. Then he realized that the figure was not shadowed, but coated in ice, and a bitter chill extended from that icy shape.
Warmth! He needed warmth, but his teeth were chattering so much that he could not even reach for a striker to light a lamp or a candle. In desperation, he tried to image a hearth and a fire, and flames roared up before him, so fierce and so quickly that he could soon free his feet.
But with those flames came smoke, acrid bitter smoke, and he began to cough, retchingly, time and time again.
Then … Quaeryt found himself back lying in his bed, with black and gray smoke all around him.
Through the smoke he could see that the desk and chair were in flames. Still coughing, his eyes burning from the smoke, he struggled to image a film of water over them both. The flames began to vanish, but there was even more smoke. He imaged a bit more water, then staggered, barely able to see, to the window.
From there, he stood and imaged in fresh air from somewhere until he could stop coughing.
