Princeps

Baelthm Athemsyn, Undercaptain

Desyrk Fhortsyn, Undercaptain

Shaelyt Haelsyn, Undercaptain

Threkhyl Chylsyn, Undercaptain

Voltyr Rytersyn, Undercaptain

“The last one, sir…?”

“No. I knew him in Solis, but he’s no relation.” Quaeryt kept his smile to himself. It didn’t surprise him that Voltyr was most likely an orphan, although that was something the imager had never revealed at the Scholarium in Solis. “Do I rate a study here, or do I use my quarters?”

“You have a small study on the corridor leading from the mess to the front courtyard entrance. Your name is already in the placard there. Well … not your name. It says Subcommander, Third Regiment.”

“Thank you. If you’d show me the way to the mess, then you can return to your men, and we’ll meet again after dinner.”

“Very good, sir.”

Quaeryt walked down the steps from the upper level senior officers’ quarters to the courtyard and then to the rear of the same building.

“Through that door, and the middle door beyond the vestibule leads directly into the mess.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt nodded, then turned and entered the building.

A single imager was standing outside the mess, most likely the only one Quaeryt knew. The imager kept looking toward the side corridor that most likely led to the front courtyard entrance, the one that presumably held Quaeryt’s study.

Quaeryt walked toward the man, strengthening his shields, then spoke quietly, but firmly. “Imager Voltyr.”

The younger man turned, his eyes going to the insignia first. “Subcommander…” Voltyr’s mouth opened, and he was silent for several moments before continuing. “Quaeryt. They never said … just that we were getting a subcommander who had combat experience and could understand the needs of imagers.”

One of Bhayar’s little jokes? Quaeryt almost shook his head. Bhayar’s-or Myskyl’s- approach had been correct, emphasizing experience and ability over the name. A good application of the tenets of the Nameless.

“Combat experience? You’re a scholar. How…?”

“I didn’t have much choice. I ended up in most of the last battles, leading troops at times.” They even followed me.

“So … since Bhayar found a scholar could lead troopers, he figured you could lead imagers?” Voltyr did not quite sneer.

Quaeryt image-protected authority, as he repeated the last of Voltyr’s words, “… could lead imagers, sir?”

Voltyr stepped back, his gray eyes widening, and swallowed.

“Like it or not, Imager Undercaptain Voltyr, you are an officer, and I am your commander. Like it or not, Bhayar is the only ruler in all Lydar who is tolerant of those who are different, whether they be Pharsi, scholar, or imager. Like it or not, we will do what is necessary for him to prevail … because the alternatives are far worse. Is that clear?” Quaeryt kept his voice calm and level.

Voltyr swallowed. “Yes, sir, Subcommander.”

Quaeryt smiled pleasantly. “Go on in. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Yes, sir.” Voltyr swallowed again.

Quaeryt followed him, closing the door behind himself. There were five other men sitting around the smallest of the three mess tables. Quaeryt knew none of the undercaptains except Voltyr. One was nearly bald, with patches of gray hair above each ear, his face pallid. Another was a youth who was likely barely eighteen, if that. The other three looked to be in their late twenties or thirties. Only one of the five obviously looked to be Pharsi, at least have Pharsi blood, and that was the youth, with his honey-colored skin, black hair, and black eyes. He was the first one, besides Bhayar, to see Quaeryt, and he froze, if for just a moment, as he took in Quaeryt-and the uniform, and Quaeryt’s eyes and hair, Quaeryt suspected.

“Undercaptains…” Quaeryt’s voice was just loud enough to cut through the murmured conversation of the three men at the center of the group. He continued to project authority, absolute authority.

All five rose, swiftly, if not with military precision.

“You may be seated.” Quaeryt walked to the end of the table, waiting until the six were back in their seats. Then he took the chair at the end. “I’m Subcommander Quaeryt. Among other things, I’ve been princeps of Tilbor and temporary governor of Montagne, sent there to restore order after the eruption destroyed part of Extela. I also served in the campaign to put down the Tilboran rebellion. Before we begin, I’d like you to introduce yourselves. While I have a roster with your names, the only one of you I have met before is Undercaptain Voltyr.” He gestured to the oldest, seated immediately to his left. “We’ll start with age and go around from there.” Quaeryt forced himself to concentrate on each man, so that he could link names and faces.

“Baelthm, sir,” replied the gray and partly bald undercaptain in a resonant deep baritone.

“Desyrk, sir.” He was thirtyish, blond with limp hair and watery blue eyes.

“Akoryt, sir.” The thin man’s voice held a hint of supercilious condescension, and his flat brown eyes did not quite meet Quaeryt’s.

“Shaelyt, sir.” The youngest replied in a polite and respectful tone, even nodding his head.

“Threkhyl, sir.” On closer inspection, Threkhyl might have been closer to forty, with a voice that was raspy, matching his ginger hair and beard, a beard that looked recently trimmed to military length.

“Voltyr, sir.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt offered an ironic smile. “None of you volunteered for this duty, I am most certain. Neither did I. That we didn’t makes no difference. I expect all of you to do your best in what will be required of you. As for why you should … I am going to ask you all a question. Are you not all serving as junior officers?”

“Did we have any choice … sir?” asked Akoryt.

“No, you didn’t. Do you know how many imagers there are that are alive in Tilbor? Or Khel?”

Every face around the table looked blank, except that of Shaelyt, but who did not speak.

“Do you know how many imagers are officers among the Bovarians?”

Again, there was no answer.

“None. In fact, Kharst killed all the imagers he could find that lived in Khel while or after he conquered it, and there never were very many in Bovaria because the Bovarians don’t like them.”

“Sir … we’re not exactly popular in Telaryn,” volunteered Voltyr.

“No … imagers are not, but Lord Bhayar is the very pillar of support for imagers compared to Rex Kharst … and I can testify that Lord Bhayar is fair to those who support him and merciless to those who oppose him … and I will be the same.

“There will be a meeting of imager officers every morning. While we are here at North Post, it will be at seventh glass, until further notice. Now, unless you have any questions, I will be talking to each of you individually in my study down the hall, beginning with Baelthym…”

“There is one thing…” offered Threkhyl. “We don’t have much choice, but we don’t intend to put up with trooper bullshit … and I’ll show you why.”

Something jabbed against Quaeryt’s shields, then dropped onto the table in pieces-several chunks of wood that had comprised a wooden arrowhead.

Threkhyl’s mouth opened. “He’s a frigging obdurate.”

That was a term Quaeryt had never heard before, but the meaning was clear.

But before he could say anything, Akoryt demanded, “What’s an obdurate?”

Desyrk nodded, as if he’d been about to ask.

“Someone that imaging doesn’t affect,” snorted Threkhyl.

To cut off further speculation, Quaeryt immediately interjected, “There was a reason why I was chosen, and that same reason is exactly why you will behave as officers and conduct yourselves accordingly.” He stood and swept his eyes across the group. “There will also be no more of this sort of nonsense. Is that absolutely clear?”