As they neared the gates, several guards hurried up, clearly nervous, but not a one of the three said a word, although they stood across the lane just outside the walls.
“Just move aside!” Quaeryt called out cheerfully. “We’re expected.” He image-projected warmth and assurance. “Just don’t get in the way. It’s been a long ride.”
“But, sir,” called a taller guard, trotting toward Quaeryt, “no one told us … there are no preparations!”
“We made good time,” replied Quaeryt. “Now … just move aside.” He kept riding, turning in the saddle and calling out, “Keep moving! We don’t want to block the gates!”
The guards backed away, forced back by the press of first company.
Once through the gates, Quaeryt turned the column toward the hold house, trying to keep in character as a clueless commander. He glanced over his shoulder, but Calkoran had halted his company just inside the gates, in a way to keep anyone from leaving, just as Quaeryt had ordered.
Quaeryt reined up and halted first company short of the wide sandstone steps leading up to a small uncovered front terrace before the formal entry to the hold house, not quite a tower, nor exactly a mansion, but with red sandstone walls showing a certain amount of wear. Almost at that moment, a man several years younger than Quaeryt and possibly not that much older than Khalis or Lhandor emerged, flanked by two guards on each side. He sported a square-cut but short curly beard, above a white shirt, a crimson doublet or jacket of a style Quaeryt had never seen, and dark blue trousers. His polished boots were also dark blue, something Quaeryt hadn’t seen before, either. The arrogant walk to the end of the terrace suggested that he was indeed Daefol.
Once at the end of the terrace, Daefol squared his shoulders and glared at Quaeryt. “You’re not the submarshal. He’s the only one with permission to ride in here unannounced.” A heavy gold rope chain hung around his thick neck and above his slightly jowled jaw.
“Who are you?” asked Quaeryt. “Aren’t you High Holder Fiancryt?”
“Do I look like Fiancryt? He’s dead, by the way.”
“Then why were we directed to Fiancryt?” asked Quaeryt. “And if this isn’t Fiancryt, where are we? And who are you?”
“I’m Daefol D’Alte, and this is Folan. And why are you here, rather than where you should be?”
“According to my orders,” Quaeryt hid a smile as he spoke, “I was told to stop at the first high holding I came to.”
Daefol looked puzzled. “Folan is scarcely the first.”
“We crossed the bridge and came up the west river road, and your holding is the first one,” said Quaeryt, trying to look as confused as the High Holder did.
“You came up the west river road?” Daefol’s voice contained astonishment and a little skepticism. “It only goes another five milles south before it becomes a path … or not even that.”
“No, sir,” insisted Quaeryt. “We were given directions to follow the east river road to the first bridge, and then cross the bridge and turn north until we came to the first high holding.”
“But this isn’t the first high holding,” protested Daefol.
“It’s the first we’ve come to, and it looks like a high holding, and you say that it is,” replied Quaeryt.
“Besides,” insisted Daefol in an exasperated tone, “there’s no bridge south of here.”
“But there is, sir,” protested Quaeryt. “It looks new. Gray stone. It arches over the river between two bluffs. It’s wide enough for two or three mounts, but probably wouldn’t take two carts abreast.” He turned to Zhelan. “Didn’t it look new to you, Major?”
“Yes, sir.” Zhelan did not quite roll his eyes.
“You see?” continued Quaeryt. “You can ask any of the troopers. We crossed the river south of here, I’d say three milles or so. Over that bridge.”
Daefol, standing on the upper steps of the entry to the low tower, frowned. “I don’t know…” Then he nodded. “I’d heard the submarshal had some imagers. That must be it … but he should have let me know.”
“I wish they’d let us know.” Quaeryt frowned. “I thought all the imagers were in Variana or somewhere in Khel. That’s what the marshal said. He ought to know.” Then he looked hard at Daefol. “How did you know the submarshal has imagers and we don’t?”
“I must have overheard something,”
Quaeryt shook his head. “Here I am a commander, and I don’t know what’s happening in my own army.” He paused, then said, “We’ll have to stay here tonight. Then we’ll be on our way tomorrow.”
“It’s not all that far to Fiancryt … maybe ten milles.”
Quaeryt shook his head. “That’s too far for this late in the afternoon.”
“Commander, I must protest! Submarshal Myskyl said that I would not have to garrison any Telaryn troops. He said that if matters changed, I’d be the first to know.”
“We’ll be gone early in the morning,” said Quaeryt cheerfully. “I’ll also let the submarshal know how helpful you’ve been.”
“And you want to take over the hold house as well-”
“Oh, no, sir,” Quaeryt replied. “That wouldn’t be right. Some of the outbuildings and the like, but not your dwelling. If Submarshal Myskyl thinks so highly of you that there’s no garrison here, I wouldn’t dream of intruding. But my men have had a long ride from Variana, and trying to push them and arriving late in a strange place, that wouldn’t do.”
“I’ll send a messenger to the submarshal!”
“High Holder, sir … that won’t do. It’s ten milles there, you say, and ten milles back. That’s a good four glasses on a fast mount.”
Daefol opened his mouth, then shut it, and finally spoke. “Just the outbuildings. I’ll have my steward show you.”
“He can show the major here, sir. He takes care of all billeting arrangements.”
“The major, then.” Daefol did not quite snort before he turned and walked back toward the entrance, followed by the guards.
Quaeryt dismounted immediately and handed the gelding’s reins to Khalis. “Hand him off to someone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quaeryt then stepped back between the next set of mounts and raised a concealment before moving to the side and then walking along the edge of the terrace. A single guard remained outside the main doors, but he was positioned on the other side from where Quaeryt was when he reached the point where the terrace met the wall. As quietly as he could, Quaeryt levered himself up onto the terrace, then flattened himself against the wall beside the closed entry doors.
A good half quint passed before the door opened and a stern-faced graying man in dark blue livery stepped out through the door. Quaeryt slipped inside before the guard could close it, almost hitting the footman who had opened it and barely dodging away, again flattening himself against the side wall of the entry hall, not moving.
“What was that?” declared the surprised footman.
“What was what, Fontoy?” demanded the steward, stopping and looking back.
“Like … someone was here, but they’re not, sir.”
“Don’t go seeing things. We’ve got enough to worry about. Don’t say a word to the master unless you do see something.”
“Yes, sir.”
The steward turned, and the door closed.
“Nameless knows there was something…” murmured the footman, drawing himself up and looking toward the closed main door.
Quaeryt slowly moved along the wall of the square entry hall, trying to make certain his boots didn’t click on the polished gray marble floor, then eased out of the entry hall into a larger circular space. Ahead of him was a staircase and, to each side, long corridors.
After glancing around, Quaeryt took the hallway to the right, beyond the square entry hall, also floored in the polished gray marble, but with wainscot paneling with off-white plaster walls above. Hung every half yard or so was a portrait-except for where there were doors. The first door on his right was a small parlor, the second what looked to be a family dining area, while across the hall was a large formal dining area.