Princeps

Skarpa smiled. “If they can do it, have them. It’s one less thing to worry about.”

“Thank you.”

As the bells rang the glass, Skarpa turned toward the mess door. Quaeryt walked beside him, but once inside, Skarpa made his way to the head of the main table, while Quaeryt walked to the small table that had become that of the imagers.

What else can you offer as a homily? That was a question that kept intruding on his thoughts, even as he began to listen to the comments by the imager undercaptains throughout the meal.

“… why don’t the Bovarians attack?”

“… even think they will?”

“… no way that Lord Bhayar would spend all the golds to assemble an army here if there isn’t a threat…”

“Or gather imagers,” suggested Shaelyt.

Several of the undercaptains exchanged glances, but Voltyr was not one of them. Instead, he looked to the youngest undercaptain and gave the slightest of nods.

Are golds always the final reason why rulers act? Or are golds merely one of the ways to measure a ruler’s power? As the conversation drifted to barges and flatboats and whether the Bovarians would use either to send troops against Telaryn, Quaeryt couldn’t help but keep thinking about whether it was a mistake to equate golds with power, especially in the case of the ruler of a land.

Is that why the precepts of the Nameless urge one to pay a ruler what the ruler is due, but no more? Because the power of the Nameless, or any deity, does not rest in golds but in the strength of the deity’s believers? Wouldn’t that also be true of troopers? That the winner is the one with better arms, better training, better strategy, and greater will? Quaeryt smiled wryly. If … and only if … that ruler has enough troops. The best of everything else doesn’t matter if you’re massively outnumbered, assuming, of course, that the enemy has weapons and equipment somewhere near your level.

Still …

Quaeryt nodded. He could do something with the idea that resolving problems required looking at what one truly needed, not merely golds, or what “everyone said.” He also needed to practice imaging better lager.

68

Quaeryt spent the first part of the day on Solayi thinking and writing, first about the homily he had to deliver that evening, and then about more exercises that would help develop the skills of his imagers.

Then he went to find Captain Zhelan, who was just finishing meeting with his squad leaders in a tack room in the second stable. Quaeryt stayed out of sight until the squad leaders dispersed, then stepped forward as Zhelan was about to close the door.

“A moment, if you will, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.” Zhelan stiffened, far more respectfully than the first time that Quaeryt had met him.

“I’ve been so busy trying to get the imager undercaptains into shape that I fear I’ve neglected meeting with you.”

Zhelan smiled. “I thought that might be so.”

“You were right.”

“What will you be needing from us, Subcommander?”

“When the time comes, escort duty to keep the imagers from getting killed while they do what they’re supposed to do. At times, it probably won’t be anything except keeping watch. Other times, it’s likely to be quite a bit more.”

“Begging your pardon, sir … but what can they do? I know imagers can kill people when they’re close. Some of them, anyway, but it seems to me that a blade or a quarrel or an arrow will do the same…”

“You’re right, Captain. But there are other things that they can do. What would happen if the Bovarians launched boats and barges to bring troops across the river … and a number of them sank in the channel? Should it ever come to a siege, and it probably won’t, what would happen if the Bovarian siege engines all failed? Those skills some of the undercaptains already have. I’m working to develop others.”

Zhelan nodded slowly, then spoke again. “Sir … if I offended you in any way when we first met…”

“You were surprised that I was a scholar. That’s understandable. I may be the first scholar ever to become a subcommander.”

“Commander Skarpa explained…”

Quaeryt smiled politely, but not coolly. “The commander and I have been through quite a bit together.”

“Yes, sir. He said he’d been trying to get you to take command of a unit for years.”

That was a bit of an overstatement, Quaeryt knew, but he merely said, “It’s probably better that I had the experience in Tilbor and Extela before it happened.”

“He said you were wounded several times.”

“That’s right. The first time because I didn’t duck quickly enough, and the second because I tried to hold the line against heavy armored cavalry just a shade longer than necessary.” That also wasn’t quite true, except in spirit, because he’d been holding his position to get to where he could keep Rescalyn from leading a revolt against Bhayar.

“He also said that those were just the times when you almost died.”

“In battle, Captain, as you must know, almost anyone who is seriously wounded is very close to dying. I was fortunate enough to survive and to learn from it.” Of course, what you learned was the necessity of building shields strong enough so that you don’t get put in such positions again. “I hope I’m never in a position to learn that way again.” Quaeryt punctuated his words with an ironic laugh.

“No, sir. None of us do.”

“I don’t know that I’ve totally answered your question, Captain, but it’s the best I can do right now.”

“Yes, sir. I appreciate it.”

After leaving Zhelan, Quaeryt again made his way down to the river south of the post, an area slightly less uneven, and without any trees or bushes. Before long he stood on what resembled a ridge some five yards back of the point where the ground dropped to the river, a low bluff whose lip was perhaps five yards above the shallows below, where the water swirled in a slight backwater. Where he stood on the south side of the post was more than another hundred yards farther from the piers than from the grassy knoll where he had tried imaging across the river earlier. The sky had cleared, and the air was so clean that the piers of Cleblois appeared far closer than they really were.

This time, Quaeryt concentrated on trying to remove the top of a bollard, the part above the uppermost iron band. He looked at the bollard, half wondering if he dared to try to remove the iron bands as well, then focused on the bollard … only to find himself thrown back by a wave of blackness and freezing chill, casting him into a deeper darkness.

A deep throbbing in his skull was the first thing he noticed. The next were rocks and sharp objects gouging his back. His eyes opened, and through intermittent flashes of light he could see the sky overhead. He realized that he was sprawled on his back, looking upward. Slowly, he rolled onto his side and then rose, slightly unsteadily, to his feet.

He had to squint to make out the piers. He swallowed. The entire upper section of the bollard, including the iron band, had vanished.

Your concentration varied just a little … and look what happened. He winced at that thought, a reminder of what care he needed to take in imaging.

He did his best to brush the dirt and grass off his uniform before walking slowly back to the post and through the main gates. He’d no more than approached the officers’ quarters when Major Meinyt hurried over.

“Sir … did you see what happened on the river a bit ago?”

“On the river?” Quaeryt frowned, trying to ignore the pounding in his skull.

“There was a line of ice across the entire river, and then it broke up in chunks. Never seen anything like it.”