“I can recommend. At times, he does heed my thoughts.”
“More than at times, I suspect.” Seliadyn coughed again, more violently.
Quaeryt waited.
“I may recover from this flux. I may not. At my age, you never know.” He lowered the handkerchief, then waited as Wereas returned with a tray, on which were two lagers.
The steward tendered the tray to Quaeryt first. Quaeryt took the nearer beaker. Then Wereas extended the tray to Seliadyn.
“All right. I’ll drink it. It can’t hurt, I suppose.” Seliadyn took the beaker, then lifted it and took a small swallow.
After Quaeryt took a swallow of the lager, as good as he remembered, he noted the smallest nod of approval from the steward once Seliadyn had drunk. Then Wereas slipped out of the sitting room, but the door remained ajar, and Quaeryt had no doubt that the steward remained close.
“As I was saying,” the High Holder went on, “I have no heirs. I would not wish that Vaestora become just a source of golds for whoever receives the hold. It is also a hold that can withstand a moderate siege, perhaps more, with the proper High Holder, and that might be valuable to a ruler still consolidating his power.” Seliadyn looked intently at Quaeryt.
“You would like me to prevail upon Lord Bhayar to bestow Vaestora upon someone who would respect the hold and the people of the town as well, someone who would appreciate its history and its capabilities, and someone who would be loyal to him.”
“I thought you would understand. I would hope that it would not go to the younger son of some Telaryn High Holder who would ruin it in years. It is most productive, but that production comes as much from the loyalty of the people as from the lands themselves. Most High Holders take anywhere from one part in three to one in two from their tenants. I have taken but three in twenty and at times as little as one part in ten, and over time I have been richly repaid.”
“I have seen few towns as orderly and as clean as Vaestora,” Quaeryt said.
“You have seen many, have you not?”
“More than I ever wished,” Quaeryt admitted.
Seliadyn started to laugh, but the laugh became a painful and extended bout of coughing. When he finally lowered the handkerchief, he said, “I should not talk more. Will you do what you can for my lands and my people?”
“I will.”
“Good. You had best go. I will put my wishes in a petition as well, to be delivered to Lord Bhayar when it is time.” Seliadyn gestured toward the door.
Quaeryt rose. “Like your steward, I would suggest you drink more of the lager. That might help assure that I do not have to carry out your wishes for some years yet.”
Seliadyn lifted the beaker, but Quaeryt could see that the old man’s hand trembled as he did.
“I will do that, but it will not be years, Commander. I wish you well.” The High Holder took a small swallow and lowered the beaker.
Quaeryt inclined his head, then slipped from the sitting room, still wondering about the history Seliadyn had declined to relate.
53
As before, Quaeryt did not see Seliadyn again on Meredi evening, or on Jeudi morning, when Northern Army left Vaestora. He did inquire of Wereas about Seliadyn’s health, and the steward replied that the High Holder was no better, but neither was he worse, and that he would prefer not to meet with Quaeryt unless the matter was urgent. While not encouraging, that news was better than it could have been … and Quaeryt had nothing of urgency to impart.
Despite skies that became increasingly cloudy, over the next three days, they made good time, and on Solayi evening, Northern Army camped on the grounds of a long-deserted high holding some fifteen milles south of Ariviana. Less than two days later, by midafternoon, Northern Army had settled into the inns and the buildings around them in Yapres, with Quaeryt again at the Copper Tankard.
When he and Justanan had taken care of the necessities, Quaeryt asked Calkoran to provide a squad and to accompany him on another visit to High Holder Caemren. Less than a glass later, they reined up outside the entry gates.
Once more, there was a single guard standing behind the iron gates and in front of the small guardhouse. While the guard wasn’t the same one who had challenged Quaeryt earlier, he looked at the commander, then offered a resigned look.
“I suppose you want to see the High Holder.” Without waiting for an answer, the guard walked to the middle of the gate, unlocked the chains, and then pulled the gate open.
Quaeryt, Calkoran, and the troopers rode up the stone-paved drive and reined up before the small covered receiving portico. A single functionary stood there, wearing the gray livery with white piping.
“If you’d announce me to High Holder Caemren. I’m Commander Quaeryt.”
In only a few moments, the footman returned with Caemren. Quaeryt was moderately surprised to see the High Holder in just a white shirt and gray trousers, rather than the colorful outfit he had been wearing on Quaeryt’s first visit.
“The word is that you seem to be in charge of the army of the north and that you’re leading the regiments back to Variana. Is that true?” asked the white-haired High Holder.
“You got the word rather swiftly,” replied Quaeryt.
“Since you’re here-again-you might as well come in.” Caemren turned and walked to the door, where he waited.
Quaeryt shook his head, dismounted, and handed his mount’s reins to the ranker who had moved up to take them. He motioned to Calkoran and the two officers walked to the entry.
“This is Subcommander Calkoran. High Holder Caemren.”
Caemren nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Subcommander.” He turned.
The two followed him to the terrace off the small salon on the northwest corner of the main section of the dwelling. All three sat down around the small circular table.
“You’re Pharsi, too, aren’t you, Subcommander?” asked Caemren.
“Khellan,” replied Calkoran.
Caemren nodded and turned to Quaeryt. “What do you want this time?”
“I thought you’d like to know what happened, but you apparently already know some if not all that occurred.”
“I understand that those of Kharst’s imagers who survived persuaded the submarshal to take you on. There’s a rumor that Erion arrived and destroyed them.”
“Let’s just say that their imaging was turned against them and the submarshal and that the hold house burned to the ground.”
“What about Lady Myranda?”
“She escaped. If she ever turns up, I imagine Lord Bhayar will have her executed.”
“That would be too merciful,” replied Caemren, his voice coldly sardonic.
“I wouldn’t know. I never met her. The events around her were less than favorable.”
“They seldom have been.”
“Tell me more about Seliadyn. About what happened to his family.”
“He has never spoken about them. His daughter and his wife died in a boating accident. They were both good swimmers.”
“Kharst’s imagers?”
“That was the supposition. He did not remarry. After his daughter died, he was … different.”
“His people seem very loyal to him,” observed Quaeryt.
“He is known for treating with them fairly. Anyone who succeeds him will need great experience. Seliadyn takes a lower tithe than most High Holders.”
“But if they produce more…”
Caemren smiled. “That blade has more than two edges, Commander, and all of them are sharp.”
“What do you know about Magiian?”
“You think I would know about him?”
“I think you would know about any person of power within fifty or even a hundred milles of Yapres. You could tell me the annual income of the Copper Tankard, I expect, and the wealth of the largest factors in Yapres.”
“I suppose I could come close.”
“Magiian,” prompted Quaeryt.