Princeps

been. This is the first time I’ve spent anything. Major Daendyr has kept most of them in the regimental strong room.” With a smile, Vaelora swung up into the saddle, far more gracefully than he ever did.

Quaeryt should have known. He just shook his head.

“Please hand me the gown, if you would, dearest?”

He did, and then mounted, wordlessly, wondering exactly how many golds his wife had stored away. Certainly far more than you have. At least, he could say to himself, if not to anyone else, that he hadn’t married Vaelora for golds. He hadn’t even thought of it, not that anyone was likely to believe him.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked as they rode away from the harbor area of Tilbora.

“Because I never married you for your golds and because no one would ever believe me if I said so.”

“I do.”

“No one but you.”

“The young chorister at the scholarium-the one who used to be an undercaptain-he would.”

Quaeryt laughed, ruefully. “That might be the one thing on which we’d agree. Otherwise, he thinks too highly of me.”

“You want people to think you do well, but not too well. Is that because you’re afraid that if they think too highly of you, you’ll disappoint them?”

“Partly.” And partly because I don’t want them looking at me too closely.

“And partly for other reasons?” She glanced knowingly in his direction.

“You know me too well.”

“A wife should,” she replied playfully.

He wasn’t about to argue with that, either.

“Dearest … I have not pressed … but I cannot wear that gown and ride…”

“Oh … I’m sorry. I meant to tell you. We will ride in a carriage down to the lower gates, and High Holder Thurl will have a sleigh waiting for us-the four of us.”

“When did you learn this?”

“Yesterday,” he admitted.

Her glance was not quite withering.

“I did find out,” he said quietly.

After several moments of stone-faced silence, abruptly, Vaelora grinned. “Dearest … next time … I do hope there is not a next time.”

So did Quaeryt, even if it had been his fault. Especially since it had been.

By the time they neared the lower gates to the palace, Quaeryt could feel the sunlight for the first time in more than a season. He was riding with his winter jacket open, and he noticed that small piles of slush had been thrown to the side of the road by the small sleighs used by many Tilborans in winter. In a few places, he saw mud. He glanced toward Vaelora, noting she had loosened her coat as well.

“It’s gotten warmer,” he said.

“It has, but for how long?”

There was that, but it was a reminder that spring would come.

He kept thinking about that even after he escorted Vaelora back to their quarters and then made his way back toward his study. When he reached the gallery, he turned and made his way to the governor’s anteroom.

Undercaptain Caermyt glanced up. “He’s not busy, sir.”

Quaeryt knocked on the half-open door and then peered in.

“Come in, Quaeryt. What’s on your mind?”

“Sir … I just returned from Tilbora. I think that First Regiment should leave as soon as possible. If the roads turn to mud…”

“I agree. So does Commander Myskyl-and he does prefer to remain with First Regiment. They’ve almost made ready, another day at most, and they will leave on Vendrei.” Straesyr smiled. “We’ll still see freezing nights, but it’s likely to get warmer and warmer during the day.”

“Have you received any more dispatches?”

The governor shook his head. “I doubt we will for a time, unless we fail to send off the regiments in a fashion Lord Bhayar deems untimely, and neither of us would wish that, I think.” His voice turned wry and sardonic with the last words.

“No, sir.” Quaeryt paused. “Oh … I got a note from Raurem late yesterday. He can deliver another wagonload of grain cakes by the third of Maris.”

“That should be acceptable. Muddy roads or not, Commander Skarpa won’t have Third Regiment ready to leave before the end of that week.”

“I’ll let Raurem know, but I’ll insist on that date, just in case.”

Straesyr nodded.

After leaving the governor, Quaeryt walked back toward his own chambers, wondering what might be happening in the west … and whether … and if so, when events might involve him.

Thinking of Vaelora, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to be involved, for all of his plans.

But you made those plans before she came into your life. Times change.

So they did, more than he had ever anticipated.

9

Quaeryt had only been in his study for a quint on Jeudi morning when Vhorym knocked on the door.

“Sir … There’s a young scholar here to see you. His name is Lankyt, he says.” Vhorym did not quite frown. “He says it’s important.”

“I’ll see him. He’s a good youth. His father saved my life.” Quaeryt rose.

Vhorym left the door open, stepped back, and gestured.

Lankyt hurried in, bowing deeply, and straightening. “Sir … Chorister Gauswn … he sent me. Chorister Cyrethyn is dying. He would like to see you. Chorister Gauswn … he said you should know.”

“I can leave now.” Quaeryt stood. “You rode alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll ride back together.” Quaeryt gestured for Lankyt to follow him. “Vhorym … I’m needed at the scholarium. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but it will be later today.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt hurried down to the main level, stopping by the duty desk to request a squad to accompany him, and then out to the stable, where he saddled the mare, then walked her out of the stable and mounted. He rode across the courtyard to where Lankyt was waiting on a gray gelding. “Your mount?”

“Syndar and I share him.”

Quaeryt glanced around the courtyard, looking for the duty squad that was to accompany him. “He’s the one you used to visit the local growers? To find better ways to grow things?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you discovered anything new since last harvest?”

“Well … not much … except that marigolds keep away many bugs. I was thinking that if we planted them around the orchards, that might help…”

Quaeryt listened for not quite another half quint, until the duty squad arrived, and then they set out through the eastern gates and down the stone lane to the lower gates. Once they left the upper gates, he raised his shields, the lighter ones that would stiffen into hard shields if anything neared them. He noticed that the snow heaped on each side of the lane seemed a touch lower and stone gutters flanking the lane were carrying meltwater down to the moat. They weren’t full, but it was more than a trickle.

After almost a quint of riding, Lankyt spoke again. “Sir … I meant to thank you, but I was worried about the chorister.”

“Thank me for what?”