“Accurate?” suggested Quaeryt.
“Yes, sir.”
“I think we share the same concerns, Zhelan.” That Myskyl and Marshal Deucalon would use any information against them. Quaeryt paused. “I do appreciate your forethought.”
“Your concerns were with Lady Vaelora, sir.”
“Yes, they were. But she is much better. She also feels that we should return to Variana … and not for reasons of her health.”
“We’ll be ready anytime after Mardi, sir.”
“Are there any men among the wounded who are especially dependable?”
Zhelan frowned. “Both Wessyl and Ralor. Wessyl’s arm was broken, but not badly. Ralor has his leg splinted.”
“I’d like to send them back to Liantiago on the Zephyr with dispatches for the submarshal.”
“They’d do well, sir.”
“If you say so, I’m certain they will.”
All in all, Quaeryt spent more than a glass discussing preparations with Zhelan, before he left to walk back to the fort.
3
Just before midmorning on Lundi, as Vaelora and Quaeryt walked northward along the harbor boulevard into a brisk wind under a gray sky, she turned to Quaeryt. “I feel fine.”
“That may be,” he replied, “but I’d like to see how you feel this afternoon.”
“I’ll still feel good.”
“We’ll see,” he replied, glancing to the north as he saw two riders in Telaryn uniform greens riding toward them. Each rider was leading a second mount, one leading the black gelding Quaeryt had ridden in Khel, and the other the black mare Vaelora had ridden. Quaeryt had his doubts about the symbolism, but Calkoran had insisted.
“That’s Major Zhelan, with another trooper,” Vaelora said. “He needs you for something.”
“And that means a problem or trouble, if not both.” Whatever it might be, it had happened recently, because Zhelan had not mentioned any difficulties at the morning muster. Nor had Khaern or Calkoran. “It has to be something involving the locals.”
“Could it be a dispatch rider from Bhayar?”
“It’s possible, but not likely this early in the day.”
They stopped and waited for Zhelan to reach them.
When the major and the ranker reined up, Quaeryt asked, “What is it?”
“There’s a messenger here from a High Holder Basalyt,” said Zhelan.
“Basalyt?” Quaeryt frowned. Where had he heard the name? It took him several moments to remember. “One of the southern holders whose hold we leveled because he wouldn’t meet with Vaelora and Skarpa? Is that the one?”
“I imagine so. He sent a youth, and the boy’s trying not to shake like a leaf in a gale. He’s waiting at the blockhouse.”
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“He said he was under orders to deliver the message to the submarshal or senior officer in command.”
“He sent a youth … so we wouldn’t kill him?” Quaeryt shook his head. “I’ll see him … after we escort Lady Vaelora back to the fort. I assume that’s why you brought the mounts.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quaeryt looked to Vaelora, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes … I can certainly ride that far,” she replied, adding in a much lower voice intended only for his ears, “and much farther, dearest.”
She did accept his offer of a leg up, since there was nothing to serve as a mounting block anywhere near.
Then Quaeryt mounted and turned in the saddle to look at her as they rode back south toward the fort. “I’m judging that his master likely wants to beg forgiveness and pay tariffs and be a good High Holder. Either that, or he sent the boy to demand his lands back. What do you think?”
“It wouldn’t hurt to allow him to retain his holding … if he’s begging and requesting. And if he’s remotely trustworthy. Under the law, you haven’t actually conveyed his lands to Bhayar yet.”
“You’ll have to meet with the High Holder as well, then,” Quaeryt told Vaelora.
“I can do that.”
“What do I do if he’s not trustworthy or it’s an attempt at something else?”
Vaelora smiled sadly.
“I was afraid that would be the answer, not that I disagree with you.” Quaeryt shook his head.
Once Quaeryt had left Vaelora at the fort, he and Zhelan rode back toward the blockhouse.
“What do you think of the youth?”
“He’s well bred. He’s not common. He rode in with two guards.”
“The High Holder’s son?”
“Might be. Or his nephew. Someone he trusts.”
“It’s a gamble on his part.”
“Is it, really, sir? If he doesn’t do something, he’s lost everything.”
“I can’t very well…” Quaeryt broke off his words, deciding that saying more before he met the young man would be premature.
When Quaeryt reached the blockhouse, he saw how much progress the imager undercaptains had made in rebuilding the former Antiagon structure. The walls, floors, and roof of the new wing looked to be complete. “They’ve done well.”
“They’re trying to complete the quarters and stables for a battalion before we leave.”
Quaeryt turned his attention to the full squad of troopers from first company stationed just south of the reconstructed main entrance to the blockhouse. Half were mounted. The others loosely guarded two men in dark blue. Quaeryt dismounted and followed Zhelan inside into the single large room on the ground-floor level.
Standing on one side was a youth, likely close to full grown, almost as tall as Quaeryt, but still thin, if with fairly broad shoulders. His light brown hair was short and well trimmed, and his riding jacket was a dark blue, with a touch of white piping. His trousers were also dark blue, and his dark brown boots, under a thin coat of dust, had been recently polished. His eyes fixed on Quaeryt, and although he said nothing, those eyes widened as they took in Quaeryt’s snow-white hair and eyebrows … and even the pure white of his fingernails.
Quaeryt nodded to Zhelan.
“This is Commander Quaeryt,” stated the major. “He’s the one you sought.”
“Are you a submarshal, sir?”
“No, I’m not. The submarshal is in Liantiago. I’m a commander and an envoy with credentials that empower me to make decisions for Lord Bhayar. What do you seek?”
“I bear a message from Basalyt, the former High Holder of Bartolan, the hold that the armies of Lord Bhayar leveled this winter.”
“We leveled five holds,” said Quaeryt. “Bartolan was one of the last. I would have thought that the High Holder would have understood the danger by then.”
“His choices were few, sir. Bartolan is the smallest.”
Quaeryt wasn’t about to point out that Bhayar would have defended Bartolan had it pledged allegiance. Based on what the High Holder had likely experienced under Rex Kharst, he would not have believed Quaeryt, Vaelora, or Skarpa. “And you are?”
“Barlaan, his son and heir.”
“His sole surviving son?”
“Yes, sir. My brothers died in the battle of Barna. That was when my sire decided it was best to make peace with Lord Bhayar.”
“Were you there?”
“No, sir. My sire was, but he insisted that not all his heirs fight in the same battle.”
Quaeryt wasn’t certain he would have called the Antiagon attack at Barna a battle, but he merely nodded.
“Begging your pardon, sir … are you an ancient?”
“I’ve been called many things, Baarlan, from a lost one to an ancient. I am who and what I am, and that is a commander serving under Lord Bhayar. I’m Pharsi by birth, and most Pharsi call me a lost one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have a message for me?”
“Yes, sir. You are the commander here?” the youth asked again.
“I am, but any decision I make must also be approved by the Lady Vaelora. She is also here in Kephria.”
The youth extended a sealed envelope. Quaeryt stepped forward, took it, and broke the seal. Then he began to read.