Princeps

Threkhyl. You don’t attack gods and live. The subcommander’s right about one thing. If we don’t work together, we’ll all end up dead. Afterward … that’s another story.”

Threkhyl tossed the pin on the table, then brushed away the tiny drop of blood on his forehead. “For now … for now.”

“What does he want us to do?” asked Shaelyt.

“Things to win battles…”

“… make life hard on the Bovarians…”

Quaeryt listened for a time longer before slipping away under his concealment shield. He definitely had his work cut out.

65

One of the imagers’ comments stuck with Quaeryt, so much so that he brought it up before he and Skarpa entered the mess that evening. He did speak in a low enough voice that it was unlikely anyone else would hear. “Did Myskyl give you any idea what I’m supposed to accomplish with the imagers?”

Skarpa’s words were simple, and not terribly helpful. “They don’t know. They’re counting on you to find a way to make the imagers more useful than they’ve been in the past. All imagers have done is assassination.”

Quaeryt understood. Assassination was a waste of an imager’s talent, at least in most cases, but Bhayar’s-or Myskyl’s-view left everything up to Quaeryt, which bothered him more than a little, since when everything had been left up to him in Extela, the results, so far as he and Vaelora were concerned, had been less than optimal. But then, here you don’t have to satisfy everyone immediately. You just have to get the job done and satisfy Bhayar … and Skarpa.

Quaeryt moved quickly to the smaller table that held the imagers and a few other undercaptains, while Skarpa, as senior officer, took his position at the head of the main table.

Most of the conversation at the table dealt with speculation about the intent of the Bovarians and the possible venues for their likely attack. Quaeryt ventured almost nothing and listened intently.

When he left the mess that evening, more than a few questions swirled through his thoughts.

Can you even make these imagers into any sort of force? How? You don’t even know what any of them can really do. In thinking about various imaging possibilities, another question came to mind, one so natural that he was amazed that he hadn’t thought about it before. If you can image things into being … why not out of being? Or from place to place?

Why hadn’t he considered it? Because all he’d ever seen or heard was about what imagers did in the way of creating things? Even when he’d killed people, it had been by creating something, whether water in someone’s chest, bread in their windpipe, pitricin in their brains or guts … Is it because we don’t naturally think of the absence of something?

He frowned. But he had done that. Once, anyway, and that was when he’d imaged a hole in a chunk of rock and imaged away ice to break the jam that had backed up the river. He’d just done it, but it hadn’t thought about it in just that way. Nor had he considered the implications of doing that on a wider scale.

Could he train the imagers to do that? Imaging holes in barges might make it difficult for the Bovarians to cross the river.

That sounded simple enough, but Quaeryt knew that all too many things that sounded simple enough were anything but simple. He’d been practically standing on top of the place where he’d imaged a hole in the stone, and he’d barely been able to walk away without collapsing. While imaging a hole in wood should be easier than in stone, doing so from a distance was another question entirely. He also had the feeling that some of the imagers were not all that accomplished.

That’s not surprising. Too many are killed before they become skilled. He also suspected that at least some of the more skilled imagers were more like him, in that they had largely managed to keep their abilities unnoticed … and were the least likely to have been discovered by Bhayar’s men.

He decided to walk to the north end of the post, where he’d seen several trees beyond the wall, tall enough to be seen over the stone ramparts, although the walls at North Post were only about two and a half yards high, not designed to withstand a siege or even bombards, but then since the Ferrean River lay between where the Bovarians could place bombards and the walls they would be aimed at, it wasn’t as though the Bovarians could batter holes in the walls and then easily charge through.

He had to walk between two stable buildings to get to the wall, but he could see the pair of trees, although he couldn’t tell what kind they were, except they weren’t oaks or poplars, possibly ash or elms. Both were leafed out, but with the brighter green of recent foliage. On his side of the wall, he was some ten yards from the nearest of the two. His eyes lighted on a small dead branch, hanging at an angle a yard or so higher than the top of the wall. He concentrated on a spot a yard from the end of the branch, trying to image away the wood there.

Abruptly the yard-long branch tip fluttered down and caught in the leafy branch below.

Quaeryt didn’t even feel any strain. So he turned and walked back another ten yards and tried again, this time trying to lop off a section of perhaps half a yard. Again, he had no difficulty.

Rock is much harder than wood, remember?

Even at fifty yards, he didn’t feel anything. At a hundred, where he could barely make out what was left of the dead branch, he did feel a momentary light-headedness. He decided against trying more for the moment, and turned and walked back southward.

When he finally entered his quarters and sat down on the end of the bed, he thought about writing Vaelora, but he decided that he needed to spend some time trying to work out how he would test the other imagers. That turned out to be harder than he’d thought, and by the time he had a plan with which he was satisfied, with notes on several sheets of paper, he was having trouble focusing his eyes on anything. That might also have been because the lamp over the desk didn’t afford the best illumination, and it had been a very long day. The letter will have to wait until tomorrow.

He realized that, again, when he found his eyes closing as soon as he stretched out in the bed.

When he woke on Jeudi, the sky was barely turning gray, and he had a slight headache. Still, he wondered if he’d spent the night dreaming about everything he had yet to do. Could he image away wood in fine slivers?

After a moment, he looked at the corner of the table desk and concentrated.

A line of light flashed through his eyes, but the corner edge of the desk had vanished, and he could see the lighter wood that lay behind the severed section-no more than a finger’s width of missing wood.

He massaged his forehead with his left hand and concentrated again. The corner was back in place.

Is it? He stepped forward to touch the wood, then noticed that a faint mist had appeared around the corner of the desk. Gingerly, he reached forward. The air around the corner was chill, but the piece he had imaged back into place was warm to the touch.

Why would that be?

He didn’t have an answer, but he needed to get washed and dressed, because he had things to do before breakfast.

In less than a quint, Quaeryt was dressed and walking the post … until he found a narrow walled space, more than fifty yards long, that would serve his purposes. It might have once served as anything from an outside wagon storage area to who knew what. Then he located the carpentry shop, but no one was there. So he went to the kitchen and persuaded the head cook to lend him two empty flour barrels, a plank he found outside the kitchen, and a pair of rankers to carry them to one end of the courtyard, where he set the plank with each end resting on the butt of an upended barrel.

After breakfast, he gathered the imager undercaptains at one end of the mess, even while the servers were cleaning up.

“We are charged with finding ways to disrupt the Bovarian forces. Today, you-and I-are going to learn something about what your abilities truly are and how they might best be used.”

“Why don’t we just kill them?” asked Threkhyl.

“Sir,” added Quaeryt quietly, fixing his eyes on the imager.