with problems in collecting tariffs from two northern High Holders, and various other difficulties.
Quaeryt shook his head. He didn’t like what he was discovering-the continuing portrayal of the hill holders as a far greater threat than he suspected that they were. He especially didn’t care for the fact that there wasn’t anything rock-solid that he could have used as proof of what he was coming to believe. He frowned, then began to look back through the dispatches.
62
On Vendrei night, after he’d returned to his quarters following the evening meal and prepared for bed, he had checked his spare browns, one of the pair tailored at the Ecoliae. Not only were they hanging in the narrow armoire, but they had been cleaned and pressed. That scarcely surprised him. On Samedi morning he donned the same browns he’d worn on Vendrei, deciding to save the clean and pressed ones for the reception, then made his way to the mess. There he ended up sitting with Captain Taenyd and another undercaptain-Haardyn.
“How is your comparative history coming?” asked Taenyd with a smile.
“Matters were slowed somewhat, as you might have heard. A crossbow quarrel, in fact.”
“I heard that. I also heard that you’re so knowledgeable that you could be a chorister.”
“From Undercaptain Gauswn?”
“And from others.”
“Alas … I’m a scholar of history, not of the Nameless. I’m not sure good scholars always make good choristers.”
“Why not?” asked Haardyn.
“Good scholars deal in facts. At least, they should. Choristers present the truth of the Nameless. But there aren’t any hard facts that affirmatively prove that there is a Nameless.”
“How did the world, the stars, everything come to be, then?” asked Haardyn.
“What if it always was?” Quaeryt smiled ruefully. “Your question presupposes that the Nameless created everything. What if the Namer did? Or there was some other cause? We think we know that the world exists, but what if it doesn’t? What if Taenyd and I are merely your imaginings? Or you and Taenyd are mine?”
“You just can’t imagine things…” Haardyn stopped.
“Exactly,” replied Quaeryt. “Imagers can image things into being … after a fashion, anyway.”
“Then the Nameless could have imaged all of us into being,” countered Taenyd, “or the world and whatever was on it that led to us.”
“That’s possible,” agreed Quaeryt. “But so could have the Namer … or something else. We don’t know. We don’t have any proof of any of those causes.”
“You don’t really believe that we’re merely dreams or imaginings,” declared Haardyn.
“No, I don’t … but that’s a matter of belief, not facts. How can I tell whether everything around me is real or imagined? I believe it to be real because too many things happen that are unpleasant and that I would not wish to happen … but a small part of my mind points out that I often do things which are unwise … and that I know are unwise … and so, could I not imagine unpleasant or unwise aspects of a world I might dream?” Quaeryt laughed, then took a swallow of tea from his mug, followed by a mouthful of the egg hash.
The captain and the undercaptain exchanged glances. Finally, Taenyd spoke. “Do you deny the existence of the Nameless?”
“No. I do not
“You still sound like a chorister,” said Haardyn with a laugh.
“That’s because scholars and choristers both study the world,” suggested Taenyd. “They just study it in different ways.”
“That’s a very good observation.” Quaeryt nodded. “And cavalry officers study it in yet another way.”
“The good ones do,” affirmed Taenyd.
“What do you always look for first?”
“The most likely place from which we might be attacked.”
“That’s not a bad precept for many situations,” replied Quaeryt with a smile.
From there on, the three talked about mounted tactics.
After breakfast, Quaeryt went to his study, then walked to the princeps’s anteroom.
Vhorym looked up. “Sir?”
“Could you tell me where the Red Room is, Vhorym?”
The squad leader smiled. “It’s on the main level, directly under the Green Salon.”
“Thank you. If, by any chance, anyone is looking for me, I’ll be in the palace library.”
Quaeryt spent the morning and early afternoon in the library, studying the available maps of Tilbor and trying to correlate which High Holders-as listed in a small book he’d discovered earlier-were located where. There was no comparable information on the hill holders, he noted.
As he sat in the library, a thought struck him. He’d seen all the dispatches, and he’d heard Straesyr talk about collecting tariffs, and he’d noted the size of the “regiment.” What he hadn’t seen any records on was expenses-especially the balancing of expenses against tariffs. The princeps had to be collecting enough tariffs to support the regiment and to send some of those revenues to Bhayar, because Bhayar would have been complaining far more loudly had there been no revenues at all, or scant revenues. Yet how could he raise that issue-or discover the figures-in a way that it did not appear that he was seeking them?
He was still pondering that question, in between other matters, when he had to leave the library to return to his quarters and change into what passed for his finery.
Given the nature of the reception, and the fact that Quaeryt was there as a member of Straesyr’s staff, the scholar appeared at the door to the Red Room half a quint before third glass, where he was greeted, unsurprisingly, by Vhorym in a dress green uniform.
“The princeps is over by the sidebar with the wine, sir.”
“Thank you.” Quaeryt nodded, then walked toward Straesyr, taking in the room and its decor. The chamber was identical to the Green Salon in size and shape, twenty yards in length and perhaps fifteen in width, but the hangings were a deep red and flowed down from the gilded crown moldings carved into floral designs. The ceiling was merely of normal height, and air flowed from a series of brass grates high on the walls. The only light was from the brass lamps set on matching wall brackets at intervals around the room, and, by comparison to the Green Salon, the Red Room was almost gloomy. There was also no clavecin in the chamber.
“Yes,” said Straesyr with a nod as Quaeryt approached, “that dress coat makes all the difference, indeed.”
“For which I am most grateful,” replied Quaeryt. “Is there any point or view you wish me to convey to the factors?”
“Only that you are from Solis, and that you were sent from Solis by Lord Bhayar to gather information for Lord Bhayar. That should be sufficient … beyond being pleasant and learning what you can without upsetting people.”
“Is there anything special you’re interested in discovering?”
“Nothing in particular. One finds out more without an agenda, just by encouraging others to talk about themselves.” Straesyr smiled. “You already know that. You might sample the delicacies before others arrive, so that you have more time to listen without your guts interrupting your concentration.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quaeryt made his way to the side table. From one of the dozen large platters, he picked up a slice of boiled pickled egg set on a petite round of bread and topped with a dollop of a stiff cream topping. The topping was horseradish so hot he never tasted the egg or the bread. The rarish mutton wrapped in thin fried flatbread with a cumin filling was tastier, and he had two of those. He skipped the pickled turtle eggs, but the pate on dark bread was good enough for two. He finished with one of the small white cakes, then moved to the beverage
