Skarpa turned and looked directly at Quaeryt. “You knew everything would be read, didn’t you?”
“I thought it would be.”
“So how did Bhayar know what was going on?”
“He didn’t at first. I had to be careful in how I wrote things.”
“When he got to Tilbor, he knew everything that had happened.”
“He’s very sharp.”
“No. You’re very sharp, scholar, and he’s sharp enough to know it and to use you. Just like he uses his regiments.”
“Good rulers know how to recognize and use the best tools.”
“I think I said the same thing,” replied Skarpa with a laugh.
“You did. I admit it.”
“A lot of tools get broken in war, scholar. Even good ones.”
“I know that.” And he did. He also worried that Skarpa and the other commanders-and Myskyl-were building one imager scholar into something far greater and more important than he was. Even Vaelora might be doing that, if only because she loved him.
And all he’d been doing was trying to survive and to make things better for those who were scholars and imagers … and now, on top of that, to hold on to what he had with Vaelora.
62
After two days of following the river road along the Great Bend, Quaeryt was convinced that the only things great about it were that the land was greatly flat and that, even early in the year, the size and ferocity of both mosquitoes and red flies were even greater. His shields didn’t help against the pesky insects, although attempting to use them against the pests definitely gave his shield-imaging skills a trial. That effort, he hoped, might strengthen his abilities, since he hadn’t been as diligent in practicing as he might have been.
On Lundi morning, at sixth glass, Skarpa dispatched a message to Bhayar containing an estimated arrival on Meredi, late in the afternoon.
As the courier rode off, Skarpa turned in the saddle toward Quaeryt. “Now that I’ve given a date, sure as a full Erion in the night sky means trouble we’ll run into something to delay us. Or more than one thing.”
Quaeryt wasn’t certain that a full Erion meant trouble, but he had already experienced too many times when committing to something inevitably invited difficulties. That had seemed particularly true in Extela, but then, that might just be because of the way things had turned out. So he just smiled and nodded.
At two quints past seventh glass, a scout rode past the outriders and pulled in alongside Skarpa. “Sir … there’s a problem ahead.”
“What’s the matter?” Skarpa asked the scout who rode over and reined up.
“There’s a bridge up ahead over a small river, and there’s a wagon stuck somehow on the bridge. The teamster there has a pair of archers, and won’t let anyone near. Says he’ll fix his wheel and axle on his own. There must be fifteen wagons waiting.”
Quaeryt wondered what a teamster would be carrying that required archers, but not an entire body of guards.
“Probably headed to or from Amyal,” said Skarpa, interrupting Quaeryt’s thoughts. “That’s the next town of any size. Could you tell what he was carrying?”
“No, sir. With those archers, I didn’t see any point in getting too close. He was headed toward us, though.”
“Shouldn’t take that long if he’s got spares. If he’s that heavy, he ought to be carrying spares.” Skarpa frowned. “That’s the Myal River. It’s the last river of any size entering the Aluse between here and Ferravyl.”
Quaeryt cleared his throat. “Perhaps…”
“If you want to, be my guest.” Skarpa turned in the saddle and gestured to Alusyk, commanding Third Battalion’s fourth company. “Captain, take a few men and accompany Scholar Quaeryt to see if you can get these wagons moving.”
“Yes, sir.”
In moments, Quaeryt was riding beside the captain, with six troopers trailing them, half wondering why he had volunteered-except that there was something about the broken wagon that bothered him. His hand brushed the half-staff in the leathers, but he hoped he wouldn’t need it.
The road angled more northward, away from the river, for almost half a mille before turning west again along what amounted to a levee on the north side of a series of marshes. The ground farther to the north of the road was low and swampy, and held what looked to be rice fields. After another quarter of a mille, they came to the end of the line of wagons.
“Captain, sir,” called the first teamster they neared, the last one in line, with a fully loaded wagon, its contents covered with an oilcloth tarp, sacks of grain or something similar Quaeryt guessed. “Can you get them moving? I’ve been sitting here nigh on two quints, awaitin’ for ’em to move.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” answered Alusyk, guiding his mount to the north shoulder of the road in order to pass the waiting wagons and teams.
Quaeryt eased the mare behind the captain, and the other troopers followed him. A large farm wagon, piled high with hay from the previous fall’s harvest, was the first in line, just short of the stone approach to the bridge.
The bridge over the Amyal wasn’t quite what Quaeryt expected. It was a two-span structure, the spans joining in the middle, where it was supported by a stone pylon rising out of the murky river water. The spans were composed of heavy planks over timbers stretching from the stone approaches to the central pylon. Each span looked to be some ten yards long. As the scout had reported, a large high-sided and enclosed battered black wagon rested in the center of the bridge, almost directly over the center pylon.
Alusyk rode to the end of the bridge and reined up, then called out, “You need some help there?”
“I’ve sent two of my men back to Amyal for what we need.” The man who spoke was broad-shouldered, almost massive, blond, and clean-shaven. “We’re not moving until then.”
“You’re blocking the road in both directions,” pointed out Alusyk politely.
“So?”
“So … these teamsters and the regiment need to get across the bridge.”
“A little waiting won’t hurt anyone.”
Quaeryt was getting a very bad feeling about the placement of the wagon and the attitude of the man-who looked to be more of a mercenary type than a teamster. He eased the mare closer to Alusyk and murmured, “Stay here. Keep him talking. I’ll start talking. If I yell ‘charge,’ send the others after me.”
For a moment, a look of puzzlement crossed the captain’s face. “Are you sure?” he asked in a low voice.
“Very sure. I’m just a scholar.”
After another moment, Alusyk looked to the blond man. “Waiting is going to hurt these teamsters, and the commander won’t be happy. That might end up hurting you, too. Why don’t you just let us help you off the bridge?”
Quaeryt urged the mare forward as well, trying to use his knees and as little movement of the reins as possible while concentrating on strengthening his shields. “Let me help you. Surely, a poor scholar without weapons is no threat to you or your cargo.”
“Now … don’t you crowd me, scholar. Be better if you didn’t.”
“It might be better if you let us help you. If that regiment commander finds you’re blocking his way…”
Quaeryt could see the two archers nocking their shafts, and he urged the mare forward. “Charge!”
The two archers fired shafts, and nocked and fired again. Quaeryt could feel one and then the other shaft impacting his shields, but he kept riding. The archers loosed more shafts, some of which hit Quaeryt’s shields, and then they and the blond man scrambled off the wagon and dove off the side of the bridge. A moment later another man that Quaeryt hadn’t seen dove off the bridge as well. All four began to swim downstream.
