Imager’s Battalion

“Actually, that wasn’t my choice. It was Lord Bhayar’s. One refuses him at great risk, but you should know that about rulers … shouldn’t you?” Again … that was a guess, based on what he’d seen so far.

Fauxyn’s face tightened, just fractionally. “You do need to learn about your betters … even if your men decide to murder me once I’ve disposed of you.”

Quaeryt glanced to Arion. “Major, if High Holder Fauxyn should happen to wound or kill me, he is not to be touched. Whatever his fate may be is to be left to Lord Bhayar. Is that clear?”

Arion’s response was immediate. “Yes, sir.”

“And the hold is to be left untouched-except for any supplies we may require.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are so honorable.” Fauxyn’s words were mockingly ironic.

“My men will keep their word. So will I.” Quaeryt walked back down the wide corridor to the receiving hall, where he turned and waited with Arion, who had accompanied him.

“Do not trust him,” murmured the major.

“I will trust him to be what he is,” replied Quaeryt, watching as Fauxyn stepped into the main entry hall with its goldenwood wainscoting and damask-covered walls.

“A staff … so awkward … so classless. But one must do what one must.” Fauxyn eased his blade from the scabbard in a practiced and flowing motion.

“Let’s call it a rod, Fauxyn. A rod for a spoiled child of a High Holder.” Quaeryt smiled, taking the half-staff in a two-handed and balanced grip. He also raised full shields, but held them almost against his uniform. “Tell me … why didn’t you leave Fauxheld? You must have heard we were advancing.”

“That is another most impudent question.” Fauxyn moved forward.

“Was it because you displeased your rex? Or because Lady Fauxyn would have greater freedom in Variana?”

“So impudent … and so foolish.” Fauxyn’s blade flickered toward Quaeryt.

Quaeryt moved the staff but slightly, deflecting the lighter weapon easily, his feet taking up a balanced stance. Even after all the recent battles where he had used the staff while mounted, he was far more comfortable with it on foot.

Fauxyn’s blade was close to a blur, but Quaeryt had learned the half-staff on the pitching decks of a merchanter, and its greater length offset the speed of the lighter weapon.

The High Holder feinted, then danced to one side before dropping impossibly low, attempting an underthrust.

Quaeryt parried it, almost pinning the High Holder’s blade to the polished marble floor before Fauxyn darted back.

“A rather accomplished blackguard … but when one deals with the lower classes, one must stoop to their level, must one not?” Abruptly Fauxyn stepped back and flipped the light blade to his left hand, and what looked to be a double-ended throwing knife appeared in his right. Before he finished speaking, the knife flew at Quaeryt.

Quaeryt twisted the staff, but missed … and the blade bounced off his tight-held shields just before it would have sliced into his shoulder. He moved forward immediately, twisting and turning the staff so that it was as close to a blur as he could manage.

“So fortunate, one time,” said Fauxyn mockingly, retreating and producing another blade, which he hurled at Quaeryt’s chest. The sharp-edged knife, deflected off shields and the staff, clattered to the marble. Fauxyn’s eyes widened.

In that moment, Quaeryt struck, one end of the staff knocking Fauxyn’s blade from his hand, and the other coming back and cracking the High Holder across the side of the jaw. As Fauxyn staggered, Quaeryt put as much force as he could into the next strike, right into the High Holder’s right knee. The knee cracked, and Fauxyn went down, with a short scream that he could not quite choke off.

Lying on the marble and trying not to writhe, Fauxyn glared at Quaeryt. “Go ahead. Kill me. That’s what you want.” The words were almost garbled, most likely because Fauxyn’s jaw was also broken.

Quaeryt shook his head. “No. That would be too easy. You need to understand that Lord Bhayar decides who lives and who does not, and that you need to obey. I will leave you to the tender care of your wife.” He turned to Ghretana. “He should live. I expect him to live. Is that clear? Very clear?”

Lady Fauxyn tried to conceal her swallow. “It is indeed.”

“Excellent. We will be back for what supplies we determine you can spare, most likely tomorrow. I expect nothing to be moved. Nothing at all.”

She nodded, involuntarily, then said, “You are not just a subcommander. You are more than that.” Ghretana looked to Arion. “Is he not, Major?”

“Yes, Lady. He is a lost one.”

She frowned.

“A child of Erion, you would say.”

“I meant … his position.”

Arion smiled. “That is not my part to say, although he is well above me and his official rank.”

Quaeryt looked to Ghretana. “Good day, Lady of Fauxyn.”

“Good day, honored sir.” There was not the slightest hint of mockery in the curtsey that followed her words.

Quaeryt turned to see the functionary with the scar glancing from Fauxyn to Ghretana before stiffening under Quaeryt’s gaze. What was all that about?

While there was no point to asking about a glance, because the retainer would certainly deny anything, Quaeryt tried to fix the man’s visage in his mind. Then he walked out of the damask-walled receiving hall, the unsmelled odor of corruption strong in his nostrils. Neither he nor Arion spoke as they reached their horses and mounted.

25

Before leaving Fauxyn’s holding, Quaeryt took the time and the precaution of inspecting the storehouses, where he discovered several hundred barrels of assorted provisions, including almost a hundred barrels of flour and ten of rice, not to mention other staples.

Once he’d completed the inspection and the companies were on the road back to Caernyn, he couldn’t help thinking over the incident with Fauxyn. Fauxyn had been insolent, almost seeking a fight, creating a situation that no commander could have afforded to let stand, yet one that would most likely resulted in his own death. He couldn’t have been so stupid as to think otherwise. Why had he behaved so? He’d been equally scornful and contemptuous of his wife … despite the fact that he’d gained title and lands because, under the laws of Bovaria Quaeryt had studied so many years before and which it was clear had not been changed, she’d been forced to marry him to keep the holding in her own bloodline.

At the same time, it bothered Quaeryt that he’d had to depend on his shields to avoid being wounded. It was another form of battle, wasn’t it? Fauxyn attempted to cheat as well, after all. Still, the fact that he thought of shields as cheating bothered him.

“You are concerned about what happened?” asked Arion after they had ridden for several quints.

“More about why it happened,” replied Quaeryt dryly. “Why were the holder and his wife still there?” He had his own ideas, but wanted to hear what Arion thought.

“He was ordered to remain,” suggested the major. “Only Kharst could have done that.”

“And?”

“You would know better than I, sir.”

“He wanted to offend me enough that we would destroy the hold … and thus destroy his wife’s heritage? And leave nothing for Kharst to claim if we’d executed the entire family?”

“I could not see any other reason for his acts.”

Neither could Quaeryt.

“You have destroyed him,” added Arion. “He will die or live as a shell of himself.”