Imager’s Battalion

puzzled he was. “That’s an apple orchard, and most of the fruit is ripe, or close to it. Why wouldn’t they burn it?”

“Ah … sir…” came a voice from behind Quaeryt. “You can torch a cot real quick. Takes a real fire to put a green tree to flame in spring, summer, or harvest. There’s no wind, either, and those trees aren’t that close together. That small shed, there, the one that’s burned. It’s not close enough to the trees. Might have had a cider press there. Lots of apples in the grass, though. They probably rode through and smashed what they could.”

Quaeryt turned, realizing that Ghaelyn was the one who had spoken. “Thank you. They must have been in a hurry.” But why? We weren’t that close to them.

“Might have orders to fall back to Villerive.” After a moment Skarpa raised his arm. “Column! Halt!”

The order echoed back along the long line of riders.

“Subcommander,” Skarpa ordered Quaeryt, “have your companies patrol an area out to a mille in an arc around the hamlet. Have them check for tracks, any sign of the enemy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll do the best we can here, for the night.”

“Imagers, two undercaptains each with second, third, and fourth companies…” Quaeryt went on to organize the perimeter patrol.

30

Fifth Battalion settled into another apple orchard besides the one Quaeryt had first spied as a form of shelter. He slept uneasily on Samedi night, and not just because there was a brief shower a glass or so past sunset. The light rain barely wet the leaves or the ground, not even enough to dampen the dust, and no one attempted a night attack on Skarpa’s force.

Quaeryt woke at the first hint of light, both stiff and puzzled. He pulled himself together and went to look for Zhelan, meeting him near the front of the orchard where a rutted lane ran from beside the trees and then joined the river road.

“Sir?”

“No problems last night?”

“No, sir. I thought there would be.”

“So did I.”

“Every company looks to be ready … or they will be shortly.”

“What do you think about this?” Quaeryt gestured toward the nearest burned cot.

“I can’t say I know what to make of it, sir. Unless it was to slow us down, but we wouldn’t have pushed on last night anyway.”

“They might not know that.”

“If we’re facing the less experienced Bovarians, they might not.”

“You think the better Bovarian troopers are on the north side of the river?”

“Be my guess, sir. More of them, too.”

“You might be right. But if we’re not … however it’s come about, it bothers me.”

Zhelan offered a crooked smile. “Me, too, sir.”

More than two glasses passed before the troopers were fed, gear was stowed, and the column rode out of the unnamed hamlet, with Fifth Battalion riding behind Third Regiment, the supply wagons following fourth company, and Fifth Regiment in the rear. While the day was overcast, the clouds were not dark, nor were they particularly low. That didn’t matter, because they’d been riding for perhaps two quints when a gust of wind whipped over them, and rain began to patter down on the troopers, not enough to be considered a downpour, but enough that, if it continued, the road would turn to muddy slop.

Quaeryt was riding with Major Arion and fourth company, and since he couldn’t do much about the rain, he turned to Arion, riding beside him. “You’ve fought against Bovarians, Major. Did you see anything like what we saw yesterday?”

Arion offered a bitter laugh. “Many times. They would burn any village that did not surrender. They would kill anyone who tried to stop their torches. In the end, when winter arrived, many froze. Most were women. The men had already died or were in the forces chased into the Montagnes D’Glace.”

“They didn’t treat their own people much better.”

“Kharst trusts no one who does not obey his every word. That includes his subjects and his High Holders. His father before him was like that, and his grandsire before him.”

“That’s against the precepts of the Nameless,” suggested Quaeryt.

“The Nameless is different in Bovaria.” Arion’s sarcastic tone would have curdled fresh cream. “As are many things. Why do you think every rex has needed so many troops?”

Quaeryt nodded, although he hadn’t thought of using armsmen that way. Still … to keep High Holders in line, a ruler has to have some leverage. Bhayar and his sire had used rewards and prestige, and … occasional force. Kharst appeared to use terror, in one form or another.

After the briefest pause, Quaeryt asked, “Is the Nameless truly different in Bovaria, or are the ideas attributed to the Nameless just different?”

“So far as men are concerned, is there any difference?”

Quaeryt laughed, ironically. “Well taken, Major.”

After another set of wind gusts, the rain subsided to less than intermittent, with drops occasionally striking Quaeryt, as if to remind him that it could resume at any time. For the next glass, the raindrops splattered down infrequently. Then the sky began to clear in the northeast, and by the second glass of the afternoon, only a few clouds remained, and the afternoon became even more hot and steamy.

Skarpa called a halt slightly before third glass, and immediately thereafter came riding back along the side of the road. He eased his mount in beside Quaeryt’s mare and dismounted, handing the reins to his mount to the ranker who held the mare’s reins and walking to join Quaeryt and Zhelan.

“There’s a high holding a bit more than a mille ahead on the left. I’d like you and your imagers to look into it and see what supplies-or anything else of value to the campaign-might be there … and if it would be suitable for sheltering the troops tonight.” He looked to the northeast, where another set of clouds-far darker than those earlier in the day-had begun to mass and move slowly toward the River Aluse and the Telaryn forces.

“It looks empty?”

“It does. Whether that’s so…” Skarpa shrugged.

“We’ll look and see.” Quaeryt glanced toward Zhelan, who had already mounted.

A half glass later Quaeryt, at the head of Fifth Battalion, had reined up before a pair of weathered and stained limestone gateposts. The iron gates themselves were secured with a rusted iron chain and a single lock. A wall of limestone, only two yards high, extended from the gateposts some twenty yards on each side, ending in earthen berms perhaps a yard and a half high, on the top of which were planted a form of spiky juniper. The berms stretched as far as the eye could see.

Through the iron bars of the gates, the holding looked to be far less opulent than Fauxheld, almost modest by comparison, with a good-sized hold house and several modest outbuildings. All were constructed of the same limestone as the gates, and all had weathered gray tile roofs. There was no sign of a single person or any livestock, nor did any of the chimneys show traces of smoke.

“I don’t like this,” muttered Zhelan. “They burned a hamlet, and they left an entire holding empty and untouched? It doesn’t make sense.”

Quaeryt was certain that it did, especially given that it wasn’t the first time. He just didn’t know in what way. Like Zhelan, he felt uneasy. He studied the gates, noting the deep wagon or coach ruts running from where the pavement ended onto the road itself. Those ruts had been softened by the rain that had fallen earlier that morning. Then his eyes went to the pavement. Outside the gate were tracks, but the pavement had been swept inside the gate-but only for a distance of fifteen yards or so. Yet there were no tracks or ruts in the uneven grass on each side of the swept portion of pavement.

“Look at the pavement inside the gate,” Quaeryt said to Zhelan.