governor/princeps for agreeing to a forty gold a month payment for fostering and other services. Their acquiescence had been better than grudging and less than heartily enthusiastic, and the returning ride had been in a cold and biting wind.
He had barely gotten the worst of the chill out of his bones and his arm, which only pained him intermittently, if especially when he was tired, and was seated back in his study, looking at a ledger that held the tariff collections for the factors in southern Tilbor, when he heard horns and the sound of horses. He didn’t get up because he couldn’t see much of the courtyard and because he was tired and the riders were most likely the battalion that Straesyr had ordered transferred from Midcote to Tilbora.
More than a glass later, he’d finished checking the autumn receipts when Vhorym knocked on his door. “You’re needed in the governor’s study, sir.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, sir. I wasn’t told.”
Quaeryt rose, but he couldn’t help but notice an odd expression, one he couldn’t identify, on the squad leader’s face. “Are you all right, Vhorym?”
“Yes, sir. You’d best hurry … as you can.”
Quaeryt still limped, as he always had, but the pain of his other injuries had almost vanished, unless he bumped into something with a few parts of his body where the bruises had been especially deep.
Vhorym did not accompany Quaeryt to the governor’s anteroom, where Undercaptain Caermyt stood by the door to the study. Otherwise the anteroom was empty.
“You’re to go right in, sir.” Caermyt opened the door.
Quaeryt saw Straesyr standing behind the governor’s desk. Another man, brown-haired and in traveling grays, stood beside him, but continued to look away from the door. Straesyr motioned Quaeryt forward, his face pleasant, but unsmiling.
As the study door closed, the man in grays turned, and his dark blue eyes fixed on Quaeryt. The scholar managed not to gape. He inclined his head. “Lord Bhayar.”
“Scholar.” Bhayar did not smile, but looked to Straesyr. “You may go, Governor. We will finish our talk later.”
“Yes, sir.” Straesyr nodded, turned, and walked toward the study door. He avoided looking at Quaeryt.
Only when the door closed did Bhayar look directly at Quaeryt. The scholar immediately noted the circles under Bhayar’s eyes and the fact that the wiry lord appeared thinner, if possible, than the last time Quaeryt had seen him.
Quaeryt waited.
“It appears as though you have been busy,” said Bhayar in formal Bovarian, his voice calm, not quite flat. “If not exactly in the manner which you had suggested upon your departure from Solis. You know, scholar, this has been an arduous trip. We rode from Solis, pressing all the way. We did accomplish some good along the way. We wiped out the last of the ship reavers, and we enjoyed the hospitality of a holder-Rhodyn, I think his name was- who thought quite highly of you. Still … I do believe you exceeded the charge with which I sent you. Especially by requiring, in effect through a missive to my sister, that I come to Tilbor or risk losing my rule.”
For a moment, Quaeryt hesitated, before replying in Bovarian, “I did what I thought best and in your interests, sir.”
“As I recall,” replied Bhayar, “you said you would recommend how to reduce the number of soldiers required in Tilbor. You didn’t say that you would take matters into your own hands and make it happen-regardless of the consequences. You didn’t happen to mention that you intended to have a governor vanish-and in a fashion that no one can possibly trace to you-or that you’d make a princeps whose greatest value was to keep tariffs honestly flowing to Solis into his successor, or that…” Bhayar did not finish what he might have said, instead pausing, then asking, “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“To stop Rescalyn from turning a fanatically loyal regiment that he’d built into the size of three regiments with your tariffs and all the silvers from Zorlyn’s mine into a weapon for overthrowing you and visiting chaos, death, and destruction on Telaryn at exactly the time you face challenges in the west.”
Bhayar nodded. “I made a few inquiries of my own, and it appears that you have always been more than you represented, even while you were in Solis. Here in Tilbor, you did happen to be correct. You also resolved the problem, somehow, by setting up the would-be usurper as a hero who died in serving me. You also appear to have reorganized the local scholars and gained the respect of the officers and men of the regiment, as well as that of the new governor. What, might I ask in the shadow of the Nameless, makes you any different from Rescalyn?”
“I did what I did to enhance your rule, not to undermine it.”
“Yet … you have proven to be one of those men who can use the smallest levers of power to great effectiveness. Such men are as dangerous as they are useful. What can I do with you to maintain that usefulness without endangering myself?”
Quaeryt thought, but couldn’t come up with a quick answer. Still … he had to try. “You could-”
Bhayar held up his hand. “Spare me. There are some matters where I still have better ways of dealing with the problem at hand. I have looked into all aspects of your acts and your life, and I have found a solution.”
Quaeryt had a very uneasy feeling, although the almost mischievous smile on Bhayar’s face was at odds with Bhayar’s usual means of dealing with those who displeased him. Still … if he had to, he could image a distraction and raise concealment.
Bhayar pointed at Quaeryt. “Stay where you are.” He walked past Quaeryt and stood by the study door, then half-turned. “You may not like it at first, but I assure you that you both will come to enjoy it … or you should.”
Bhayar opened the study door. He gestured.
The woman who stepped through the door had light brown wavy hair, brown eyes, and light honey-clear skin. She still wore riding trousers and a winter jacket, if now open. She smiled.
Bhayar shut the study door behind her. “You do look appropriately stunned,” he said dryly to Quaeryt. “I believe you two have met. I even believe you have exchanged some considerable correspondence. Considerable, at least, given her position and yours, scholar.”
Before either Vaelora or Quaeryt could speak, Bhayar held up his hand again. “I have given this some thought. My sister has insisted that she will not marry some High Holder for reasons of state. Nor will she marry someone she does not respect. Yet there are few indeed she respects, and none presently of position. Moreover, I will be badgered and pestered by every High Holder and would-be power-seeker so long as she remains unwed. Likewise, scholar, you are powerful in ways I do not claim to understand. So I have decided on several things. First, scholar, I am appointing you princeps of Tilbor.” He looked to his sister, whose smile had faded to an expression between surprise and exasperation. “That is partly so that my sister cannot claim that she gained a marriage that did not have a purpose of state. It is also so that you can continue to build ties between Tilbor and the rest of Telaryn. Of necessity, she will reinforce your loyalty. Of necessity, you will have to maintain her respect because I will not have my sister
Quaeryt remained speechless.
“We will find a way to tailor a jacket over that splint, dearest,” said Vaelora warmly.
