“Might
“Sometimes…” But she smiled.
Once they returned to their quarters and Quaeryt had thrown the bolt, Vaelora turned to him and said quietly, “You were wonderful, dearest.”
“Thank you.” Quaeryt took a deep breath. “You know I don’t like doing it.”
“You like doing it. You like inspiring people and challenging them to think. What you don’t like is feeling like a fraud because you’re not sure that there even is a Nameless. You worry that you’re doing good things under what are false pretenses.” Vaelora stepped up to him and put her arms around his neck, then kissed him gently on the cheek. “I understand, dearest. I do.”
“Women have to do it all the time.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me … or Aelina. She has to do it even more.”
Quaeryt couldn’t argue with that. The impositions that scholars had to deal with were nothing compared to what women put up with in Telaryn, and from what he’d heard and read, women were treated far worse in Bovaria and Antiago. And he was all too aware that women had often had to do what they disliked for love of others … or even survival.
Vaelora moistened her lips. “I have to confess … Please don’t be angry with me.”
“Confess what?” he asked warily.
“I didn’t have any visions about the anomen. It just looked … forlorn … and lonely, and then when I saw the faces of some of the men … when we cleaned it up…”
“Vaelora…” Quaeryt’s voice held exasperation … and a touch of anger, he had to admit.
“Did you see the faces of the officers and the men when they left the anomen tonight?”
“I was looking at you,” he admitted.
“They felt better. I could see it and sense it.”
“Your Pharsi background?”
“You’d have seen it, too, if you’d looked.” She dropped her eyes for a moment before lifting them to him again. “I am sorry … but … you need to do this. Not for me, not for you…”
“But for them?” He shook his head. “Why do you think it upsets me? They need that reminder of their faith, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else…”
“Do you think all the soldiers like killing?”
“Some do. I’d say most don’t.”
“But they do it because it’s their duty.”
“You’re telling me that…”
“Yes, dearest. I am.”
He couldn’t argue with that. Unlike others, Vaelora had seen that kind of duty, or possibly the lack of it. After a moment he put his arms around her and just held her.
Her arms went around him, comfortingly.
28
On Lundi morning, under a clear sky, if with the slightest trace of haze, Vaelora departed with the companies that would be selling bread, flour, and potatoes, first at the south market square and then at the main square. Skarpa insisted on three companies, given that Vaelora was accompanying them, and put Meinyt in command.
Immediately after that, Quaeryt joined Major Dhaeryn, and they rode with some of the engineering rankers to the factorage that would soon be a Civic Patrol station.
The southeast section of Extela was definitely the rougher part of the city, with older houses, some of brick, some of weathered wood, but most of the black stone that had to be ancient lava, with small areas of shops, and a tired feel to every street. Still, he did see a few people about, and many the dwellings were unshuttered, and even a few of the shops.
The empty factorage, like many structures in Extela, was of a single level, built of rough-trimmed black stone, with a slate roof. Quaeryt judged that it was thirty yards across the front, and perhaps twenty deep, with a wagon courtyard on the south side, where there was a single loading dock. Two men, not rankers, were replacing cracked and broken roof slates as Quaeryt and Dhaeryn reined up in front.
“The doors are heavy enough,” offered the major, dismounting.
Quaeryt dismounted and tied the mare to the hitching rail, a worn pole suspended between two black stone posts.
“I got the masons to start yesterday, after we cleaned out all the junk and stacked it in the side courtyard. Walls are solid, but the place was filthy.” The major shook his head. “I’ve got a couple of rankers who are good with wood, and they’re setting up the front the way we drew it. It’s like the patrol stations in Estisle, because that’s what I remember.”
Quaeryt looked to the major.
“My uncle was a patroller.”
Once inside, Quaeryt glanced around. Two rankers had already framed what looked to be a counter with a built-in desk.
“That’ll be a receiving desk. It also keeps a wall between the duty patroller and trouble. We’ll need to put heavy doors in this archway…”
Quaeryt listened as he followed the engineering major, and as Dhaeryn explained.
“… and this is the storage area I told you about. I’ve got the masons building twenty cells here. For now, we’ll have to use double-thick doors with peepholes.”
“We can only do what we can.”
“Sirs?”
Quaeryt and Dhaeryn turned.
“There’s a patroller in uniform outside, sir,” said the approaching ranker engineer. “He wants to talk to the new chief patroller.”
“Tell him I’ll be out in a moment,” said Quaeryt.
“Yes, sir.” The ranker turned and hurried back through the archway.
“I was wondering if there were any patrollers left,” said Quaeryt.
“Probably they lost everyone at the top. You lose too many officers or the like, and some outfits just fall apart.”
That might have been, but Quaeryt had to wonder. “I’d better go talk to him.” He walked back outside, checking his shields before he left the building.
The patroller who waited wore a gray uniform with black belt and boots, and a visor cap with a black leather bill. He was burly and a few digits taller than Quaeryt.
“You were looking for the patrol chief?” asked Quaeryt, stopping a yard from the man.
“Sir … begging your pardon…” The patroller looked curiously at Quaeryt’s browns. “Are you the new patrol chief?”
“No. I’m the new governor. I don’t know what happened to the old chief, but I assume he’s dead or fled. The patrol building’s buried in ash and lava. So I’m having the engineers convert this building for patrol use. We don’t have the time or golds to build a new one. And you are?”
“Jaramyr, patroller first, sir. There’s maybe thirty-five of us left. The others put me up to finding out what was going to happen.” Jaramyr glanced to the roof, and then to the open doors.
“You’re the most senior?”
“One of the most senior, sir. There are eight of us who are patroller firsts. None of us saw the chief or the two captains after the firestorm. The others are seconds and thirds, mostly. We’ve got three patroller recruits.
