“Thank you.” Both Vaelora and Quaeryt stood and made their way to the staircase.
Little more than a glass later, far cleaner and in fresh browns, Quaeryt escorted Vaelora, who wore one of the simple dresses she had packed in the kit bag that accompanied her trunk, across the stone-paved courtyard to the officers’ mess. Everyone stood as they entered.
Quaeryt was seated at the head of the table, with Vaelora to his left and Skarpa to his right. Major Duffryt was beside Vaelora, and as the senior major in the regiment-which had taken Skarpa some considerable maneuvering to achieve-Meinyt was seated beside Skarpa.
“Perhaps … your wife might offer a blessing?”
Quaeryt looked to Vaelora.
“I would be pleased.” She lowered her head slightly and spoke with the slight huskiness of voice that Quaeryt always enjoyed hearing. “For the grace we owe each other, in times both good and ill, for the bounty of which we are about to partake, for good faith and kindness among all peoples, and especially for mercies great and small. For these blessings, we offer thanks and gratitude, in the spirit of that which cannot be named or imaged.…”
“In peace and harmony,” chorused the officers quietly.
After the blessing, Quaeryt immediately poured the red wine into Vaelora’s goblet, then into his own. He waited until all the officers had wine, then raised his goblet. “A toast to the hospitality and grace of Cloisonyt Post.”
“To the post,” seconded Skarpa.
Then the servers appeared with platters of lamb and roasted potatoes.
Once everyone was served, Major Duffryt turned to Quaeryt. “Princeps … I heard that you picked a spear aimed at your wife out of midair and hurled it back at the man who threw it with enough force to send it through his chest. You broke most of his ribs and killed him on the spot.”
“I don’t know about the ribs,” demurred Quaeryt.
“You have to be a strong man, but you’re only a trace larger than average. I don’t know how you could do that while mounted.”
Quaeryt smiled, sheepishly. “Major … I wish I could answer that question. I just saw the man throwing the spear, and I reacted.”
The major tried not to frown.
“The princeps is too modest,” said Skarpa. “I have seen him in battle. With only a half-staff he unseated a rebel with enough force to break his neck. He took a crossbow bolt full in the chest, pulled it out, blocked the wound, recovered a stray mount, and rode back to the post. He was fighting again in a month. Another time, he broke a line of pikemen and cut down almost half a score from behind.”
“Yet you wear brown…”
Quaeryt could see why the older officer was still only a major and in charge of a reserve post. That was where his nit-picking would be most valuable. “I’m still a scholar. I was riding with Sixth Battalion because the former governor felt I needed the experience to be able to report back to Lord Bhayar. Now … the man who attacked the lady Vaelora was wearing a uniform I’ve never seen.” He looked at the major.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me about the uniform. Commander Skarpa had you look at him.”
“It’s similar-I doubt it’s identical-to the uniforms the Tellan troops wore when they lost the battle of Cloisonyt.”
“How might you know that?” asked Vaelora sweetly.
“There was a parade or a march … last Feuillyt. A whole company of men wore them. They claimed they were celebrating the founding of Tela. They weren’t carrying weapons … so there wasn’t much the civic council could do.
“Might someone on the council know more about this?” Quaeryt smiled pleasantly.
“Chief Counselor Ghanyst knows everything that is going on.”
“We’ll have to pay him a visit tomorrow,” said Quaeryt. “Now … if you would tell us about the post…?”
From that point on, Quaeryt and Vaelora kept the conversation to the post and to the recent history of Cloisonyt, although the major and his officers could shed little additional light on the group wearing the replicas of ancient uniforms.
Much, much later, they retired to the master bedroom of their temporary quarters.
“Would you like to come along to visit the chief counselor tomorrow?” asked Quaeryt as he hung his jacket in the armoire.
“I would.”
Quaeryt smiled. “Good.”
“Dearest … was Skarpa telling the truth … about what you did?”
“That was the way it looked,” Quaeryt admitted. “My shields weren’t that strong when the quarrel hit, and it went into my chest. I knew the tip was barbed, and as you deduced, I managed to image it away before I pulled out the rest of the bolt…” He went on, reluctantly, to explain the other incidents.
“You were almost killed all those times … and you never even told my brother?”
“I wrote him about the quarrel.”
“I read what you wrote. It sounded like a modest wound. It was more than that … wasn’t it?”
“Probably.”
“Why don’t you admit to what you’ve done?”
“Because the imaging gives me an advantage. That means that I’m not in as much danger and that those deeds are not so great as others think. Yet I cannot admit that, or I cannot do what I must for you and for Bhayar. Nor will I be able to do what else I’ve planned.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I’ve told you about what happened to the scholars in Nacliano, and what almost happened in Tilbora. Scholars are cherished and revered compared to imagers. The first thing I want to do is to improve the conditions for scholars and get them to help and teach young imagers, the way the scholars in Solis did for me-even if they didn’t know I was an imager…” He went on to explain what else he had in mind.
17
Just before eighth glass on Samedi morning, a squad of troopers from third company in Third Battalion-Meinyt’s battalion-escorted Quaeryt, Vaelora, and Duffryt to the ancient graystone council building of Cloisonyt, an oblong two-story structure with windows almost as narrow as those common in Tilbora. The walls held no ornamentation, and except for the number of windows and the lack of a gold-colored dome, the severity of the structure could have identified it as an anomen of the Nameless.
The young clerk outside the chief councilor’s study looked up as the major, Quaeryt, and Vaelora approached. “Sir … he requested-”
“Nonsense!” snapped Duffyt. “This is the new governor of Montagne, Choryn. Don’t bother. I’ll do the introductions.”
Choryn swallowed. “Ah … yes, sirs, Lady…”
Major Duffryt was the first into the councilor’s study, but he stepped aside quickly, waiting until Vaelora and Quaeryr entered before he spoke. “Councilor Ghanyst, I’d like to present you to Princeps Quaeryt. He’s the regional princeps of Tilbor, and he’s on his way to Extela to take over as governor of Montagne. His wife is Lady Vaelora, the sister of Lord Bhayar.” Duffryt paused, then added, “Did I mention that he also brought an entire regiment with him?”
As Duffryt finished the introduction, and Choryn quietly closed the door, Ghanyst’s expression changed from a polite impassiveness, concealing irritation at being interrupted, Quaeryt suspected, to a broad and equally false smile. “Lady … Princeps … how kind of you to call. Please…” He gestured to the chairs before his desk. “How might I be of service?”
After he seated Vaelora and then himself, Quaeryt smiled pleasantly. “I understand that you are the chief councilor of Cloisonyt, and that you have an expansive knowledge of the city, based on long and diligent experience.”
“You are too kind, or perhaps the major has been far too charitable.” Ghanyst offered a warm smile of the political kind-one whose warmth his eyes did not fully reflect. “I can lay claim to some knowledge and experience. It is far from expansive, for Cloisonyt is an old city with much history.” He laughed gently and warmly. “That history is not dead. It lives in many inhabitants.”
Quaeryt nodded. “Sometimes, what has happened long ago is not even past. When we rode into Cloisonyt, we saw a man in a strange uniform. When I asked Major Duffryt about it, he said that it was a reproduction of those worn by soldiers in the time of Hengyst … and that many wore such uniforms at times.” He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.