The server looked at him without speaking.
Quaeryt smiled softly. “Do you know why all those soldiers are riding patrols down your streets? It’s to keep order, so that no one gets hurt. Last week, we found Bovarian soldiers firing the fields of growers. We stopped as much as we could. We couldn’t have used that wheat, but Rex Kharst ordered it destroyed. The only people who will suffer are those poor growers.”
“I’d best get your food.” Abruptly she turned and walked away.
Quaeryt almost sighed. He shouldn’t have tried to explain. No one wanted explanations, and most people didn’t care. The writer of the old book had that correct in his observations about wisdom. If you believed him, then why did you bother?
He took another swallow of the amber lager. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great, either.
16
Quaeryt, Meinyt, and Skarpa sat at a circular table in the public room of the Grande Sud just before eighth glass on Meredi.
“I’ve sent out scouts along the river in both directions,” announced Skarpa. “The ones to the east will look to see how far Deucalon has advanced. The ones to the west”-he shrugged-“you both know what they’re looking for.” He looked to Quaeryt. “We need more supplies. The marshal told me to obtain them with as little cost as possible. What do you suggest?”
“Do we have the golds to pay for them?”
“We have some golds, but not enough to take us all the way to Variana.”
“Then we find the least popular High Holder around and persuade him to supply us at a very reasonable cost,” said Quaeryt.
“That might cost us more troops than taking Rivecote Sud,” said Meinyt.
“Not if we take imagers out with us,” suggested Quaeryt.
Skarpa nodded.
Quaeryt rose and beckoned to the serving woman-the same one who had been rather cool that morning-and waited for her to approach. As she did, given her earlier diffidence, he image-projected reasonableness and unquestioned authority. “We need to know some things.”
Her eyes flicked to the other two officers and then back to Quaeryt. “There’d be others who’d know more than me.”
“There are always others.” He smiled. “I doubt they’d know more. Everyone talks in a public room. Who are the High Holders on this side of the river? Nearby.”
For a moment a puzzled expression appeared on the server’s face. “There’s only two. High Holder Cassyon and High Holder Rheyam.”
“One’s to the south and one to the west?”
“Yes, sir. Rheyam’s a few milles south on the road off the west end of town.”
“And Cassyon?”
“To the west. Don’t know how far. Never been there. Folks say some eight-ten milles. Really closer to Deauvyl.”
“What do folks think of Rheyam?”
The woman frowned.
“Is he fair and honest?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“What about Cassyon?” pressed Quaeryt.
“He’s really the High Holder for Deauvyl, but some folks here’ll do work for him.”
“Do many folk here do work for Rheyam?”
“I wouldn’t know any, sir.”
“Is there a town council here, or someone who’s in charge?”
“Only councilor I know is Fleigyl. He’s got the chandlery three doors up.”
“Thank you.” Quaeryt returned to the table, sitting and easing three coppers from his purse onto the table. “I suggest we talk to the good councilor Fleigyl.”
“It’s a start,” said Skarpa, rising.
Quaeryt stood, and the three left the public room and the inn. They followed the wooden sidewalk to the chandlery, accompanied by three troopers. Quaeryt couldn’t help but notice that the few men nearby immediately found other destinations that left a wide empty area around the three officers. When they reached the chandlery, the three troopers entered first. A moment later one reappeared and held the door open. Quaeryt, Meinyt, and Skarpa stepped inside.
A short-bearded man with a soiled apron stood beside a table containing little but leather goods. “Sirs … I have but little…”
“We’re not here for your goods,” said Quaeryt. “You’re one of the town councilors?”
“I’m only a councilor. The newest and youngest one. The head councilor is Yurmyn.”
If Fleigyl, who looked to be twenty years older than Quaeryt, was the youngest, thought Quaeryt, the others truly had to be graybeards. “Where might we find Yurmyn?”
“Ah … he departed when he heard you were … coming this way.”
“Then I guess you’re head councilor in his absence,” said Skarpa.
Fleigyl swallowed.
“Don’t worry. We just have a few questions. There don’t happen to be a few High Holders around here, do there?”
After a moment the chandler sighed. “The only ones close are Rheyam and, I guess, Cassyon, except he’s really nearer Deauvyl.”
“Tell us about Rheyam.”
“He’s a High Holder. He’s got a place south of here. We don’t see much of him. They say he lives most of the year in Variana.”
“Who runs the holding, then?” asked Quaeryt.
“He’s got a steward.”
“His name?” asked Skarpa.
“Clukyn.”
After another half quint of questions, the three left the chandlery, but it was almost a glass later before Quaeryt’s first company, with the imager undercaptains, Skarpa, and four empty supply wagons, rode out of Rivecote Sud toward Rheyam’s holding.
Finding the holding was not difficult, because the road that began on the west end of the town heading south was the best maintained Quaeryt had seen since they had left Ferravyl. The long straight drive from the brick pillars off the road was paved in a reddish stone, stone soft enough that years of carriage, coach, and wagon wheels had worn slight channels in it. The drive was flanked by tall oaks, set far enough back from the stone that the roots had not disrupted the stone and close enough that the trees would provide shade throughout the hottest periods of the day. Beyond the oaks on each side was an area of grass some fifty yards wide, and beyond the grass were woods, although Quaeryt saw little undergrowth, a sign of a private park of some sort.
At the end of the drive was a circular paved area. A set of wide stone steps rose some five yards to a two-story redbrick structure, more the size of a small palace, dominating a low rise that was so regular that it had to have been created for the building. The holding house looked to be a hollow oblong, with perhaps a courtyard garden in the center. A trimmed hedge separated the house and immediate grounds and low gardens from the outbuildings on each side.
As the company drew up, a white-haired man in a cream jacket and dark trousers stepped out of the front door and walked past the white pillars and down the steps.
Quaeryt rode forward and reined up. “Commander Skarpa of the southern army of Telaryn is seeking High Holder Rheyam,” he announced, projecting pure authority.
“Beggin’ your pardon, mightiness, but he’s not here, hasn’t been since mid-Avryl. Doesn’t like to spend the hot months here.”
“Then Steward Clukyn will do.”
“Ah … he left with all the valuables soon as he heard you Telaryns were coming. All the pretty maids, too.”
“So … you’re in charge?”
“You might say so, your mightiness. I’m Exbael, assistant to the steward.”
“Good. We’re here to purchase some supplies.”
“Sirs … I can’t do that…”
Quaeryt smiled. “Of course you can. You can explain to Steward Clukyn that in his absence you were faced with the choice of selling the supplies or having all of them burned.”