Somewhere, a horse made a whuffling sound, most likely one of the rankers’ mounts, thought Quaeryt.
The dispatch rider glanced at his escorts, then started to turn his mount, gesturing toward the north. “Someone’s waiting for us up ahead.”
Quaeryt dropped the concealment shield. “We are.”
“Ride!” called the courier.
Quaeryt imaged a shield barrier in front of the three retreating riders, anchoring the shields to the road itself. He winced as the three horses encountered the unseen barrier, but they were not moving that quickly. “You’re not going anywhere.”
The courier turned his mount back toward Quaeryt and simultaneously reached for his sabre.
Quaeryt clamped shields around the courier, still holding the shield barrier as well. “Lhandor, use shields to restrain the escorts. I’ve got the courier.” He rode forward until he was beside the lead rider. “We’re not interested in hurting you, but you’re not going anywhere.”
The man swallowed as he took in the gold crescent moon insignia on Quaeryt’s uniform collar.
“By the way, I am Commander Quaeryt, and you will be accompanying us back to Rivages.”
The man’s brow furrowed, even as he tried to struggle against the unseen shields that held him. “Sir … I’m just a dispatch courier.”
“I know that. I’m interested in the dispatches you’re carrying.” And in your not letting anyone know who we are and where. Quaeryt reached out and unfastened the dispatch pouches from behind the courier’s saddle and slung them over the front of his own saddle. Then he eased the shields away from the man’s sabre, which he lifted from its scabbard. He looked to Lhandor. “How are you doing?”
“It’s easier than defending against Aliaro’s imagers.”
“Good.” Quaeryt looked to the first company rankers. “If you’d come forward and restrain them so that they can’t ride off.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quaeryt and Lhandor held the three riders until they were conventionally immobilized, with rope and tethers.
“Everyone back to the main body,” ordered Quaeryt, releasing the confining shields, and turning the gelding back toward first company.
When they neared where Khalis and Zhelan had to be, Quaeryt called out, “You can release the concealment.” He couldn’t help but look back and see the surprise on the captives’ faces, but he said nothing.
Once he reined up beside Zhelan and Calkoran, who had clearly just arrived, Quaeryt said, “Major, have these dispatch riders held with the others. The men can take a break for water for a quint.”
When that had been accomplished, Quaeryt gestured, and the two senior officers joined him just off the shoulder of the road in the shade of an older oak. There Quaeryt opened the dispatch pouches. There were several personal missives in one of the pouches, which Quaeryt left, and a single sealed and official dispatch in the other, from which he removed the seal, by imaging, and began to read.
The first part of the document was the same as any Telaryn dispatch:
To: Deucalon Calonsyn, Marshal, Armies of Telaryn
From: Myskyl Sarronsyn, Submarshal, Northern Army
Date: 24 Avryl
Subject: Current Status
Tariff collections continue apace, and now exceed ten thousand golds, comprised of the token 100-gold levies required of High Holders, and to an equal degree, of the ten-gold factors’ tariffs. Because of the uncertainty of transporting such a large amount of golds, we await your instructions on when to do so and with how many troopers. I would suggest a battalion.
Modifications of the Northern Army headquarters are largely complete, and we await further orders.
From there, another page of details about the training of various regiments, as well as suggested promotions, once senior officers eligible for stipends were released.
Quaeryt found the next section, especially in a larger context, disturbing.
The negotiations with the High Holders and the others have proceeded satisfactorily, and I believe the results will be all that could be desired in dealing with those who have usurped the powers of the marshal …
Yet, he had to admit that, by itself, it was proof of nothing other than the fact that Myskyl was meeting with High Holders and others, all of which was certainly within the scope of the duties assigned to him and, in fact, in accord with what Quaeryt himself had suggested two seasons before. To keep Myskyl from making trouble in and around Variana.
As he lowered the sheets of paper, Quaeryt wanted to shake his head. And to think he’d actually recommended Deucalon as a regional governor.
“Sir?”
Quaeryt handed the dispatch to Zhelan. “You might find this interesting. Let Calkoran read it after you do.”
He waited as Zhelan and then Calkoran read the dispatch. When they finished, he asked, “What do you think?”
Zhelan nodded to Calkoran, clearly deferring to the older senior officer.
Calkoran’s smile was wintry. “Are you certain that the submarshal is not related to the former Rex of Bovaria? Is there no loyalty there?”
Myskyl and Deucalon are most loyal to gaining power for themselves. Rather than comment on Calkoran’s words, Quaeryt just addressed Zhelan. “Your thoughts?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I said it all smelled like overdead fish. I was wrong. The fish couldn’t smell this bad.”
“I’d like you both to think over ways to approach Rivages and the submarshal’s forces this afternoon, and we’ll talk after we settle the men in Ariviana.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quaeryt had his own ideas … and none of them were promising. He hoped the three of them could come up with something better.
41
By fifth glass of the afternoon on Samedi, the two companies were billeted, after a fashion, in and around the two inns in Ariviana, a town that wasn’t quite that, but was too large to be called a hamlet. The larger inn, Traveler’s Rest, had but ten rooms and a stable and a barn, although the public room was of a size more suited to a larger town, suggesting the locals also frequented it to a greater extent than might have been expected. The Copper Pot had eight small rooms, a public room, and a single combined barn and stables, but Calkoran professed himself satisfied with the arrangement. So did both innkeepers, which suggested to Quaeryt that given what he was willing to pay, travel was light, times were lean, and then some.
After everyone had been fed, Quaeryt, Calkoran, and Zhelan met at a circular table in the corner of the public room, somewhat too warm for Quaeryt, but when he’d earlier ventured onto the porch in the twilight, he’d been attacked immediately by hungry mosquitoes and even red flies. He decided on being uncomfortably warm rather than being a meal for the insects.
He was nursing his second lager, and it could not have been called pale by any stretch of the imagination, but thankfully at least it wasn’t bitter, and the fare, prepared partly from Quaeryt’s supplies, had been adequate, although the noodles were pasty, as he’d expected, since there hadn’t really been enough time to make them properly, and the dried mutton chewy, if edible. The biscuits had been the best part of the meal.
“You’ve had some time to think over the dispatch from Myskyl to Deucalon,” Quaeryt began. “What are your thoughts?”
“I can’t say as I have much more to offer,” began Zhelan, after Calkoran had nodded to him. “Submarshal Myskyl has to be preparing some sort of surprise for us. I can’t see him attacking us, not with you and some imagers present.”
“That suggests that he may plan to separate us from your companies, then,” said Quaeryt mildly, not that he hadn’t already considered that possibility.
“They won’t attack you,” replied Zhelan.
“Not with troopers,” agreed Quaeryt.
“Then with poison or treachery,” concluded Calkoran. “After that, we will be asked to surrender or be attacked as traitors.” He paused. “That is sad, when they are the traitors.”