Imager’s Battalion

Skarpa laughed. “We’ve been predictable. All they had to do is ask what we did in any town we’ve taken. We haven’t commandeered houses in the larger towns, and this is the best inn. Where else would we be?”

“So they sent scouts back?”

“Spies. They couldn’t have gone in uniform. They probably just left people behind, men who were from the area and posing as deserters who didn’t want to get caught by either us or Kharst. People would certainly believe that. They know how brutal Kharst can be. Then those men would pass on the information. Right now, there’s not much we can do about it-except check the cellars and closets of every public house we go into first.”

“But…” Meinyt shook his head. “I suppose they’re everywhere.”

“I’d be very surprised if they weren’t,” replied Skarpa. “We’ll never know. If we hold this part of Bovaria, and we will, they’ll become deserters in truth, and we won’t know the difference. Even if we discover some of them, we certainly can’t hang them unless they break laws in some other way, because we’ll never know if they were truly deserters or truly spies.”

Just another aspect of war you hadn’t considered. But Quaeryt understood exactly what Skarpa meant. To most people, deserters were those who didn’t want to fight or who opposed Kharst. While some might think them cowards, and while desertion was a hanging offense, for Bhayar to have ordered them executed for effectively supporting Telaryn would have seemed cruel and hypocritical. Besides, most people would likely be wary of them for the rest of their lives.

He took another swallow of lager, better than most he’d had since leaving Nordruil more than a month before. He thought his headache was easing.

40

After Skarpa dismissed Quaeryt and Meinyt, Quaeryt put his gear in a small room in the inn, as had Meinyt, in order to leave the larger chambers for majors and company officers to share, and washed and shaved. It was well after ninth glass when he began the four-block-long walk to the smaller Black Pot Inn, where Fifth Battalion and its company officers were based, to meet with Zhelan. He already told the imager undercaptains to be ready to meet with him at second glass in the side courtyard at the South River Inn.

A light misty rain sprinkled down intermittently from light gray clouds, but died away as Quaeryt neared the blocklike two-story inn, with wooden walls stained almost the gray of the clouds. Zhelan was standing and waiting on the side porch, empty of anyone but the major himself. Quaeryt took the sagging wooden steps carefully, because he found himself limping again, a sign that he was more tired than he realized.

“How are you feeling, Subcommander?” Zhelan glanced to the pair of chairs.

Quaeryt needed no reminders and seated himself. So did the major.

“About the same as everyone else, I imagine. Tired and sore.” Quaeryt cleared his throat. “A little hoarse, too.” After another pause, he went on. “We’ll be here for another day, possibly longer. I don’t know if word has reached you from other officers, but the morning scouting patrols reported that the Bovarians have pulled back to Villerive, and it’s fortified all the way around…” From there Quaeryt passed on the rest of the information that Skarpa had divulged about the general disposition of the Bovarian troops and the likelihood that the northern forces might be several days in arriving.

“None of that’s exactly a surprise, sir.”

“No,” replied Quaeryt with a slight laugh.

“Sir … might I ask … but it seemed that some of the undercaptains are…?”

“Getting more accomplished as imagers? I certainly hope so. We’ll need everything that they can do at Villerive and later.” And especially at Variana.

“Sir … it’s also been said … ah … that you…”

Quaeryt nodded. “It has been said.” He paused. “Imaging is very difficult, and it takes a great amount of strength. By the end of a battle or skirmish, even at the beginning if an imager tries to do too much, imagers can be very vulnerable. At times, improper imaging can kill an imager.” Quaeryt smiled sardonically. “And yes, I was an imager from the first battles in Tilbor. I’ve learned a great deal from that, and I’m trying to see that the undercaptains don’t make as many mistakes as I did. They’ll probably make as many, though; they’ll just be different ones.”

Quaeryt could still see the hint of a question in Zhelan’s expression. “Being an imager is a bit like being an armored heavy cavalryman. You have better weapons and protection, but it takes more strength to use both, and if you’re in the wrong place or make the wrong decision, all your weapons and armor may not be enough to help you survive. They may even weigh you down more. That’s why it’s better that too many people don’t know who’s an imager and who isn’t. Especially since we have so few.”

After a moment Zhelan nodded. “I hadn’t thought about it that way. Thank you, sir.”

“You’re more than welcome. Without first company, I doubt any of us would have made it this far.”

“You would have, sir.”

“Perhaps … but the others wouldn’t have, and we’ll need them more and more.”

“I can see that, sir.”

“Now…” said Quaeryt, “you need to tell me about how the rest of Fifth Battalion is doing, and if there’s anything you or they need.”

“Yes, sir. We’ve got maybe a hundred mounts could stand reshoeing…”

Quaeryt listened for a good two quints before rising and heading back toward the South River Inn. As he strode back through the warm damp air, he decided that before he started working with the imagers, he needed to make arrangements for one of the farriers attached to either Fifth Regiment or Third Regiment to work on the battalion’s mounts, since Fifth Battalion hadn’t been assigned a farrier.

That took almost a glass, before he ran down Skarpa’s farrier in the stable beside yet another inn, The Overflowing Bowl, and extracted a firm commitment from the trooper, officially a senior squad leader, to report to Zhelan first thing on Vendrei morning. As he crossed the courtyard, he saw a brown dog lying on a heap of straw beside the stable door.

“Hello there,” he said warmly.

The dog lifted its head slightly, and its tail gave a single thump.

“You’re right,” replied Quaeryt. “It has been one of those days.”

“Careful, sir.” A stable boy stepped out of the stable. “He can bite. That’s why the chain.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt hadn’t noticed the chain. He decided against trying to give the dog a pat, mournful as the canine looked.

By the time he neared the South River Inn, it was nearly second glass … and he had to retrieve his staff from his room before working with the imagers. The two bells of the afternoon chimed out as he hurried down the steps with his staff in hand. Not only was he later than he would have liked getting back to undercaptains who he expected would be both tired and restless, but he was also late, and he hated that, even if it happened to be by only a few moments.

The five of them were indeed in the east courtyard, beside the roofed porch holding neither stools nor chairs. Quaeryt did not bother with much of an introduction to what he had in mind. “You have all been working to see if you can learn another imaging skill. This afternoon we’ll see how well you’re coming. I’ll be testing your shielding skills.”

He took in the resigned expressions and grinned. “I’ve told you before. You only improve when you’re required to do more when you’re already tired. That makes this afternoon a perfect time to try to improve.”

He gestured toward Shaelyt. “Step forward.”

The youngest undercaptain did so.

“I’m going to try to hit you with my staff. It won’t be that hard. Try to block the blow with an imaging shield. Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt took the staff in the two-handed grip of a seaman, feinted, and then came forward with the lower end of the staff. He could feel some resistance slowing the staff, but the end struck Shaelyt’s thigh. Quaeryt stepped back. “Try to tighten the hooks or whatever image you’re using. Ready?”