“That’s not surprising,” she replied. “When you turned the battlefield at Variana and the Chateau Regis to ice, you likely killed almost everyone who knew anything … and possibly the imagers themselves … if there were any. If they weren’t there, don’t you think they would have gone into hiding or fled?”
“Because of what they did for Kharst?”
“Well … anyone who had a company of assassins…”
Quaeryt nodded, but he wondered if they’d ever really find out.
Less than a glass later, they rode into Eelan, an old river town, with two river piers, old enough to look like they should sag out over the water, although they did not, and a single inn, across the river square from the piers. Clean and tidy as it was, the Silver Swan had seen better days, with slightly sagging and worn floorboards, and a public room. Every building in the town appeared to have been constructed of the same pale yellow brick that they had seen at the holding.
After the initial meeting with the innkeeper, Quaeryt left the details of settling the men in to Zhelan and Khaern. Barely allowing Vaelora a chance to wash up, he requested a squad of troopers from Eleventh Regiment to accompany him and Vaelora back to the high holding. Khalis also rode with them, before Quaeryt and Vaelora and alongside squad leader Kezyn.
They had scarcely ridden away from the inn when Vaelora turned in the saddle and said, “Do tell me we’re doing this now so that we don’t have to spend another day here.”
“That’s precisely why we’re doing it.” Quaeryt glanced at the small chandlery on the west side of the main street, its shutters already closed for the day, even though it was barely past fifth glass.
“What is the name of the High Holder?” asked Vaelora.
“I told you. It’s Nephyl-”
“You may have told me, dearest, but you didn’t bother to see if I happened to be where I could hear what you had to say.”
Quaeryt held in a wince, and continued. “He has some contact with the town, but seldom has visitors from the north, except by the river … and not many of those. The innkeeper said that his family was here before the town, or so the story goes, and that his bricks built all of Eelan, all of Faantyl, and much of Daaren.”
“I didn’t see much sign of a brickworks.”
“It’s supposedly on the other side of the river, downstream and out of sight. The good High Holder doubtless did not wish his view spoiled.”
When they reached the gates, Kezyn gestured, and a trooper dismounted and walked to the gates.
“The gates are locked, sir.”
“Stand back, if you would,” ordered Quaeryt, who gestured to Khalis.
The trooper backed away, and the undercaptain imaged away a link of the heavy iron chain.
“Try it now.”
The trooper unwound the chain and then pulled back one gate, then the other. Both creaked loudly.
Quaeryt studied the short brick-paved apron leading to the gate, then nodded. “No recent tracks. Most visitors and supplies come by river.” He looked to Khalis. “Shields up. Lead the way to the side entry.”
Khalis led the way along the brick-paved lane to the entry on the north side of the hold house.
As they neared, Quaeryt could see that another brick lane angled up from a pier and boathouse on the river some ten yards lower than the side terrace that appeared to serve as a receiving portico. No one appeared on the unroofed terrace, which had four gray stone pillars on the east side and four on the west river side. Three wide steps ran from the paved lane up to the portico terrace.
A gray-haired man in pale yellow livery, trimmed in white, stepped out onto the side portico, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Lady Vaelora and Commander Quaeryt are here to see High Holder Nephyl,” announced Khalis.
“He is not receiving,” announced the functionary.
“I don’t think you understand,” said Khalis. “Lady Vaelora is an envoy and the sister of Lord Bhayar, who now rules Bovaria. Your master can receive them … or he can contemplate his failure to do so amid the ruin of his holding.”
“I do not believe-”
Before the man could complete his sentence, Khalis imaged away the first two pillars on the left side of the receiving terrace.
The functionary swallowed. “I will convey your message.” He did not quite bolt inside.
In moments, a short and slender figure in an elegant blue jacket, a white ruffled shirt, and gray trousers above polished black boots appeared. His eyes darted to the missing section of the portico, and he smiled wryly as he turned to face Khalis, Quaeryt, and Vaelora. “I see that Vheran was not exaggerating. I’m Nephyl, current holder, if recently. Welcome to Lehyln. We did see your forces pass earlier. Will you be requiring the holding for quarters or the like?”
“No … not unless matters deteriorate,” replied Quaeryt. “We were passing through on our return to Variana, and the Lady Vaelora thought we should pay our respects.”
“You’re welcome to enter, and we would be happy to receive you…”
Quaeryt smiled. “Thank you. Of necessity, our visit will be short. Undercaptain Khalis and the troopers will remain here. Khalis is, of course, quite capable of bringing down the entire holding by himself.”
“I had heard that Lord Bhayar’s forces were not unduly bothered by obstacles that had in the past thwarted other conquerors.”
Quaeryt dismounted and extended a hand to Vaelora.
Her fingers barely touched his as she vaulted down from the saddle, a gesture expressing appreciation while making the point that she needed no aid. “Thank you.”
As Quaeryt and Vaelora walked toward the slender holder, half a head shorter than Quaeryt, who was barely taller than average, Nephyl studied the two from behind a pleasant smile. Quaeryt maintained shields covering both himself and Vaelora.
The holder gestured toward the open door, then stepped through and led the way. Beyond the wide but single door was a modest entry hall with a slightly raised ceiling and a floor tiled in pale yellow and a dark gray. Waiting was a black-haired maid in the pale yellow livery of the hold. She stepped forward to take Vaelora’s riding jacket, then looked at her closely. Her eyes widened and went to Quaeryt, running from his brilliant white hair and eyebrows, even to his fingers. She said nothing, but took Vaelora’s jacket and Quaeryt’s visor cap, bowed, and immediately retreated down a narrow hall immediately to the right.
“We had not expected visitors,” said Nephyl, “and what refreshments we can offer are perforce limited.”
“We understand,” replied Quaeryt. “We had not intended to be visitors, but we could not pass up the opportunity to visit another High Holder.”
“You have visited many?”
Quaeryt frowned, trying to make a quick mental calculation. “I would say a score or more, in one fashion or another, but that is just an estimate.”
“You are the seventh hold in southern Bovaria,” added Vaelora.
Quaeryt’s eyes darted to the narrow side hall where he saw the maid whispering something to a taller young woman with curly brown hair, wearing a hip-length gray silk jacket over gray trousers and a bright yellow silk blouse. The taller woman slipped away from the maid and hurried into the entry hall.
“My wife, Mergiana.”
“I apologize. I had just come in from riding. We had not expected such distinguished personages.” Mergiana’s voice was warm, although her smile was tentative.
“We’re pleased to meet you,” said Vaelora warmly.
“If you would join us in the salon,” suggested Nephyl. “It does have a lovely view of the river.”
Quaeryt stayed close to Vaelora, his shields covering them both, as they followed the couple, both far closer to Vaelora’s age than Quaeryt’s, down the larger corridor that led straight back from the entry hall. Mergiana leaned toward her husband and murmured a few words. While Quaeryt could not hear them, he could sense the urgency behind them, and he strengthened his shields.