He washed, shaved, and dressed, then made his way down to eat, where he fended off questions from Zhelan and the company officers with the truth-that he hadn’t yet heard from the commander because, in all likelihood, the commander hadn’t heard from the marshal. As he finished eating, he overheard, more than once, words suggesting that there was all too much hurrying up to get places, only to sit and wait.
“You want to hurry on into something worst than Villerive or all those musket attacks?” asked Desyrk. “Go ahead. I’d rather wait.”
Overhearing those words, Quaeryt couldn’t help but smile.
A good glass after Quaeryt mustered men and officers, then sent out his own patrols through the town, he was standing on the porch of the Agile Coney, waiting, when Skarpa rode up, accompanied by a squad from Third Regiment. The commander reined up, vaulted off his mount, handed the reins to the nearest ranker, and jumped over the two steps to the porch. He walked over to Quaeryt and handed him a single sheet of paper.
In the same spirit, Quaeryt said nothing, but began to read, his eyes going quickly to the key phrases of the dispatch.
… You and your regiments, as well as Fifth Battalion, are to remain at Caluse until the bulk of Lord Bhayar’s forces have invested the town. At that point, once you receive orders, you are to begin the advance on Variana, using your regiments and the capabilities of Fifth Battalion, to remove all possible distractions and delays so that, after rest and resupply, the northern forces may proceed as then directed by Lord Bhayar …
Quaeryt managed to keep his face expressionless.
“Now you’ve read it. What do you think?”
Quaeryt knew very well what he thought. Bhayar had indicated he wanted to proceed behind Skarpa’s forces, but Deucalon didn’t want to. So he was reserving his options by not directly contradicting his lord, while he hoped to spend the next day changing Bhayar’s mind.
“Well?” pressed Skarpa.
“It reads as if the marshal is of two minds and has not decided whether to attack Variana with all forces united or to proceed separately. That is why he wishes to preserve control of the bridge.”
Skarpa snorted. “Something like that … except it smells worse than week-old fish in summer … or harvest here in Bovaria.”
“Land of endless summer,” added Quaeryt, keeping his voice light.
“Until we get cold rain and sleet out of nowhere when we least expect it.”
“Right about the time we face endless Bovarian hordes,” countered Quaeryt.
“Something like that.”
“Do you know where the marshal is?”
“Two glasses south of Caluse on the north bank.”
“You want Fifth Battalion ready to move out at noon?”
“That’s my thought, but don’t have anyone mount up until you get word.”
“I hope not.” Skarpa flashed a sardonic smile, then walked back off the porch.
Quaeryt watched until the commander had ridden down the street, then turned and headed to find Zhelan. He also needed to find a way to dispatch his letter to Vaelora.
The town bells had already struck the first glass of the afternoon before Fifth Battalion actually mounted up and rode out of Caluse, once more in the vanguard.
Less than three milles west of Caluse, the River Aluse began a wide and sweeping curve that, over three milles, resulted in its course running almost due north, a course that would remain generally northward until well beyond Variana. Although Skarpa rode beside Quaeryt, the commander remained tight-lipped, even more self- contained than usual, for close to two glasses. Quaeryt did not press him, knowing that he would offer what he would when he would, although Quaeryt suspected that what Skarpa might say would be less than pleasant.
While he waited for Skarpa to speak, Quaeryt studied the road, the river, and the surrounding terrain, as well as listened intently to the scouts as they reported periodically to Skarpa.
Just after the vanguard rode onto the first few hundred yards where the river and the road both headed north, Quaeryt caught sight of a deep wagon wheel rut on the shoulder of the road, as if the wagon had been pulled over to allow something or someone else to pass. Yet he saw no disturbance, tracks, or gouges in the paving stones … nor any sign the stones had been removed or replaced. Yet the shoulder was of firm ground. There had been little rain, and the depth of the rut and the width of the wheel indicated a heavy load indeed.
Quaeryt couldn’t help but think that the wagon carried something like explosives, cannon shells, or worse … but that was only speculation.
The road itself had come more to resemble the Naedaran road since Caluse, in that it followed higher ground, and there were also few trees between the road and the river, and a cleared space of at least fifty yards to the west of the road before either fields or woods began, mostly fields, with low stone walls marking the edge of the lands. The cots, as usual, were tightly shuttered, and no traces of smoke rose from their chimneys. And there was no sign of any high holdings.
Several hundred yards farther along, Quaeryt saw another deep rut at the edge of the road, but where the wagon had moved back onto the paved area, the wheel had fractured the edge of one of the paving stones.
“You were right, you know,” Skarpa finally said.
“About what?” replied Quaeryt cautiously.
“Deucalon summoned me personally. That was one reason we were later than I told you we would be. It did allow me to hand your letter to a courier. That was the easy part.” Skarpa readjusted his visor cap, still not quite looking at Quaeryt. “Deucalon was less than direct … in that way that he could deny what he conveyed. There was also no one else present.”
Quaeryt nodded.
“He said that we had an important task. That was to remove all Bovarian devices, tactics, and unusual forces that might have a disproportionate impact on the main body. I was to spare none of my forces in such efforts. In fact, if any such Bovarian units remained, especially if my forces appeared to have resorted to positional tactics to temporarily isolate, rather than remove, such Bovarian units, he would regard that as a lack of enthusiasm in carrying out my orders.”
“In other words, you’re to keep Fifth Battalion in the van and order us to destroy anything and everything that may pose a threat, regardless of whether better tactics or even accepting prisoners would accomplish the result of defeating those Bovarian units?”
“That was his point, without ever stating it.” Skarpa snorted. “He did ask if I understood what he expected. Twice. And he was careful not to ask or allow me to comment on what I thought of those orders.”
“Whatever tactics will get the task accomplished without you and your battalion taking major casualties while never seeming to be out of the fight.”
“Yes, sir.” Quaeryt understood exactly what Skarpa was saying. Accomplishing that was likely to be far more difficult than it sounded, and it didn’t sound easy to begin with.
For another mille, neither officer said anything.
“Trouble ahead,” said Skarpa, turning in the saddle and ordering, “Column! Halt!”
Quaeryt had already reached the same conclusion, as soon as he’d seen the scout riding swiftly toward them and leading a riderless mount.
“Sirs!” called the scout, who reined up before Skarpa. “They’ve got musketeers ahead. Over that rise.”
“How far beyond the rise?” demanded Skarpa.
“Four hundred yards or so, sir.”
“How did the other scout get shot, then?”
“There were two of them and a squad hidden by bushes … much closer. Soon as we saw them, we turned. They got Vaern before we could get away.”
Quaeryt estimated the distance to the top of the rise as perhaps three hundred yards. “I’d like to take a
