Quaeryt offered a mock wince.
“That’s almost disrespect.”
They both laughed.
Later, they dressed and ate at the mess, another meal that had Quaeryt wishing for either their own kitchen or even the meals fixed by the officers’ mess in Tilbora. He supposed he could have gotten involved with the kitchens at the post, but that was just another problem … and one that was far from urgent, especially when he felt he didn’t have enough time to do everything that needed to be done. Then he escorted Vaelora back to their quarters before heading to his study to write out the final version of his report to Bhayar. Close to two glasses later he scurried across the courtyard through the drizzling rain to their quarters.
While Vaelora continued to go through her lists of what the villa needed, Quaeryt tried to think of something that he could offer as a homily. Finally, he eased away from the small writing desk and went out onto the balcony, where he stood looking out into the chill rain and the mist sweeping eastward into the post from the river, trying to think of something that would inspire and not sound worn with time and repetition.
How long he stood there, he wasn’t certain, but Vaelora seemed to appear beside him from nowhere.
“What are you doing out here? You’re just staring into the rain.”
“I don’t know what to say for the homily for services this evening,” he admitted. “I’ve been so busy trying to resolve this and that problem that when I finally have time to think … I can’t.”
“Talk about what you told me this morning,” she suggested.
“What was that?”
“You said I couldn’t do everything. Neither can you. Neither can most people. Life’s not about what we can’t do, but what we actually do.”
“I might be able to do something with that.”
She smiled. “I’m sure you can.”
Quaeryt finally did manage to find a way to tie what Vaelora had suggested into a passable homily, enough so that when he finally stood on the dais in the anomen facing the officers and men of the Third Tilboran Regiment, he could begin the homily without feeling that he was repeating something they had heard from others too many times.
“Under the Nameless all evenings are good, even those filled with rain and mist…” The slight pause he offered allowed for a few smiles before he continued. “All of us have been very busy the past weeks. We’ve been trying to make things work here in Extela, to keep order at a time of disorder. For all of our efforts, there are as many problems arising as we have resolved … so many tasks uncompleted, and even more that we have yet to begin …
“As I thought of all those undone tasks, it came to me that dwelling on what one has not done, or what one plans to do, but has not done … well … that it’s a form of Naming. Why might that be? Because we’re spending words in worrying about something that has no value. A deed not done is not a deed. It’s one thing to acknowledge what needs to be done. It’s another to fret and worry and talk endlessly about what has to be done. Spending time and words on nothing … if that isn’t Naming, then what is?
“We think of Naming in terms of vanity, of using words to lift ourselves above others or to gain an advantage over them by word-painting them as less than we are or ourselves as more than others. And those uses of words are indeed Naming. But what of those uses of words and thoughts that distract us from what we must do? We all know people who worry and fret and worry so much that the worries keep them from even trying to do what is necessary. In such instances, the words erect a barrier between a man and productive accomplishment … and they make that man less than he could be. Naming is not just an offense against others. It can also be an offense against ourselves and how much better we could be…”
It wasn’t one of Quaeryt’s better homilies, but what he’d said was indeed true enough.
He just hoped that his next homily was more inspiring, for both himself and the men of the post and the regiment.
38
With the Civic Patrol under the control of Pharyl and Hrehn, Quaeryt concentrated on various other problems on Lundi and Mardi, the most pressing of which, Jhalyt reminded him politely, was to locate the tariff collectors and either continue them in their past employ or dismiss them, but not before obtaining their ledgers-since all records of who had paid and how much had presumably been charred in the lava.
Given how many records he was realizing were missing and would need to be replaced, Quaeryt requested a company from Skarpa and returned to the governor’s square. After two days of digging through chambers and checking file chests, they were actually able to locate the tariff records for those paid two years previously. There was no sign-no uncharred and unburned indication-of any records more recent. Nor did they find any more golds or silvers, although there were signs that other looters had been there, but it appeared they had found nothing of great value either.
In his riding back and forth from the post to the entombed governor’s square, Quaeryt also traveled different routes through Extela to see how repairs were coming and how many shops and crafters were back at work … and it did appear that the majority were actually open. How well they were doing was another question, but he could hope that their being open was a good sign.
In the end, until Baharyt’s efforts were more urgently needed, Quaeryt assigned the junior clerk and a half squad of troopers to continue looking through the shambles that had been the governor’s building in an effort to find and salvage any records of any possible usefulness. He wondered if he should have tried such reclamation sooner, but it still seemed to him that he’d been right to place restoring order and providing food ahead of finding tariff ledgers and other records. He then had Skarpa assign several rankers to accompany Jhaylt while the chief clerk tried to locate and contact past tariff collectors.
At eighth glass on Meredi morning, Quaeryt rode to Aextyl’s dwelling to see if the old justicer had returned from Tulagne. Only half a squad accompanied him, since Extela had returned to an appearance of order, and since the troopers were better used in patrolling areas where the Civic Patrol did not have enough men to cover-and helping Baharyt and the engineers.
A sad-faced hound, chained to the side of the house, bayed once as Quaeryt dismounted, then watched him as he walked up the steps.
A narrow-faced woman whose blond hair was streaked with gray opened the door. “Yes?”
“I’m Governor Quaeryt, and I’m here to see High Justicer Aextyl.”
The woman’s eyes hardened, then looked past to the ten uniformed troopers, still mounted and waiting, one of whom was holding the reins to Quaeryt’s mare. After a moment she looked reluctantly back to Quaeryt. “He’s no longer a justicer, Governor.”
“I know that, but I would still like to see him.”
Another long moment passed. Then she sighed. “Very well. If you’d come in. He’s in his study.”
Quaeryt followed the woman through an entry hall that was more the size of a small vestibule and down a narrow hallway for only a few yards to an oak door aged to a deep golden brown shade. She stopped at the door, barely ajar. “Father … the new governor is here to see you.”
“Send him in, daughter. Send him in,” replied a hearty voice.
At the woman’s gesture, Quaeryt stepped into the modest study, more like a small library, with bookcases on every wall. The door closed behind him. The man who sat in the worn brown leather-upholstered chair had a lined face with sunken cheeks, wispy white hair, and red-rimmed eyes. Even so, those pale green eyes were intent and imparted a cheerful expression.
“Good morning, Governor. Do sit down. You’ll pardon me if I don’t stand.”
Quaeryt smiled as he seated himself in the straight-backed chair. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me.”
“Time … time … these days I’ve got plenty of that.” The alert green eyes continued to study Quaeryt. “Hmmm … a scholar. That’s what they said, but you never know. How did Bhayar ever have the nerve to appoint a scholar? Or is your father a High Holder to whom he’s beholden?”