30
Unsurprisingly, Quaeryt woke early on Solayi morning, thankful that he’d had no dreams, of even the conventional type, at least not that he could remember. Although he tried to be quiet, before long Vaelora woke, and they summoned breakfast, a luxury that Quaeryt, and Vaelora, did appreciate greatly.
As they lingered at the small table after eating, Vaelora asked, “Do you have any more thoughts about last night?”
Quaeryt set down the mug of lager-the morning was too warm for tea-and thought for a moment. “Nothing that we didn’t already talk about.”
“Who else might be a traitor besides Myskyl or Deucalon?”
“Any number of people neither of us might know or think about,” replied Quaeryt. “In Tilbor, there were some who turned traitor because they thought it might benefit them, and in the end, they lost everything. They would have benefited more from being loyal.”
“Is that always so, though?” asked Vaelora. “We remember those for whom treason did not pay. What about those for whom it did?”
“You’re right,” replied Quaeryt with a laugh. “They don’t call it treason then … like when your great-grandsire revolted against the Lord of Telaryn. Or when Kharst’s forbears quietly removed the direct heirs to the throne of Bovaria.”
“Sometimes, it works. That’s why people try.”
“Because they’d rather fail in attempting to achieve great power than accept modest power in service of another?” Quaeryt took another swallow of the lager. “That raises another question. What did they want power for? For the sake of having it?”
“That’s the difference between them and you, dearest. You have a very direct and specific goal, and you want just enough power to accomplish it.”
Much as he wanted to believe Vaelora, Quaeryt couldn’t help thinking, Just enough power? How much is that? Will you ever know? Or will you be like so many others? Others who wanted power to do good and ended up just doing well for themselves.
After a moment of silence, Vaelora added, “You need to finish dressing and ride out to see if you can talk to Taelmyn.”
Quaeryt nodded, if reluctantly.
In less than two quints, he and four rankers from the duty squad were riding south. Before long they were on the north road headed toward the Nord Bridge. The road was less traveled than on other days, but far from deserted, even though most of the shops fronting the road were closed, most of which were located in the last half mille before the west end of the bridge, and again for another half mille east of the bridge. The paving on the east side of the river consisted of uneven and mismatched cobblestones, and modest dwellings lined the road for perhaps a mille beyond where the shops ended. Then the paving ended totally, and several hundred yards farther east, amid ramshackle dwellings, he came to a point where four roads and several lanes all met in an area of packed clay that was likely a muddy morass when there was any significant rain.
“This must be what Hullyt meant by a place that ought to be a square someday,” Quaeryt observed quietly to himself.
He turned the gelding southeast along the heavily packed clay road that he thought might be Saenhelyn. After he rode about half a mille, following Hullyt’s directions, he turned onto what looked to be the East Pike, since he could see the mill on the creek on the left side of the road. After a few hundred yards, the pike began a curve around a hill, surrounded at its base by a stone wall two yards high, with a substantial dwelling perched near the top. The next hill was lower, but only the burned-out remnants of a dwelling crowned its crest.
Quaeryt looked for a gate or an entry road to the dwelling on the next rise, since that supposedly held the “city” dwelling of High Holder Taelmyn, although calling a hilltop dwelling a good mille from any real congregation of houses or shops a “city dwelling” seemed to stretch that description. The wall around the long rise was clearly older and of reddish brick, as was the modest dwelling situated on the north side just below the crest. A brick-paved drive led from the brick gateposts and angled up through a lawn interspersed with three gardens of varying sizes.
A single guard waited beside the small gatehouse. His too-ample midsection flowed over a wide brown leather belt that seemed challenged in its efforts to restrain his girth, but his gray livery was pressed and clean. As Quaeryt reined up, the guard smiled cheerfully. “Sir?”
“Commander Quaeryt, to see the family.”
“Didn’t know as anyone was expected, sir.”
“I wasn’t. I’m bringing word about one of the daughters, Mistress Eluisa.”
“Mistress Eluisa? She’s been gone for years.”
“I know. She’s been living in Tilbor. I was princeps of Tilbor, and I have word from her.”
“The High Holder isn’t here, sir.”
“What about Mistress Rhella?”
“I suppose I could announce you.”
“That might be a good idea. Lord Bhayar might just be somewhat annoyed if you didn’t.”
“Lord Bhayar? He’s not coming, is he?”
“No. He sent me.”
“Oh … then I had best let you announce yourself, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The guard unfastened the heavy catch to the iron gates and swung the right gate back, then held it while Quaeryt and the others rode through and started up the brick drive just barely wide enough for a single carriage. The drive sloped gently upward for a hundred yards or so and then made a wide turn in a flat area cut out of the slope before continuing upward to an uncovered brick-paved area large enough for several carriages. The entry to the two-story mansion was flanked by a small terrace. The terrace roof extended out only about three yards, and was supported by two square brick columns on each side.
Two servitors in livery appeared on the brick steps at the end of the covered terrace just before Quaeryt and the four rankers reined up. One was a dark-haired and sharp-featured man most likely ten years Quaeryt’s senior. The other was probably a junior footman, closer to Lhandor’s age.
“Sir … the family is not receiving,” announced the footman imperiously.
Quaeryt smiled. “I’m not making a courtesy call. I’m Commander Quaeryt. I’m the Minister of Administration for Bovaria, and I’m here on Lord Bhayar’s business to see Mistress Rhella.”
“She won’t be receiving, sir.”
“I’ll ask you to announce me once more. Politely.”
“Sir … those are my instructions.”
Quaeryt image-projected absolute certainty and authority, along with the sense that any servant who blocked the lawful request of a ruler might as well be dead.
The footman paled, then fainted. The steward also paled, then took a step backward.
“Now, if you’d announce me to the lady.” Quaeryt dismounted and handed the gelding’s reins to one of the rankers. He also made sure he was carrying full shields.
The steward took another look at Quaeryt and swallowed. “Sir…”
“I know you’re only doing your duty, but I’m only doing mine, and I really don’t think it would be in your interests, or the family’s, to try and stop me. Especially since I mean no one any harm, and since Mistress Rhella will likely wish to hear what I have to say.”
“Lady Rhella will have to determine that herself, sir.” The steward looked to the young footman, who was slowly getting to his feet.
“She will hear me. Now…”
“Yes, sir.” The steward turned.
Quaeryt followed him into the entry hall, then tucked his visor cap under his arm and waited with the footman while the steward hurried through the archway and down a short hallway, before stepping through a doorway on the left side.
The conversation that occurred in the room Quaeryt could not see was too muffled for him to make out the words, but the tone was anything but pleasant. The steward reappeared and walked back to the entry hall.
“Lady Rhella will be here shortly, sir.”
“Thank you.” Quaeryt suspected he would be made to wait, not for a long time, but enough so that Rhella would not be seen to hurry to his summons.