By the time he reached the cookfires, the two had walked away, deep in conversation, and Quaeryt didn’t follow them. After a breakfast of egg and mutton hash inside a rolled flatcake, accompanied by some very bad ale-likely the dregs from Saentaryn’s stores-that he had to pour into his own water bottle, Quaeryt still had a headache and was still sore and stiff. He went to check the mare, but she looked and acted better than he felt.
He’d no sooner returned to the area that held Sixth Battalion than a ranker hurried toward him. Quaeryt had the feeling he knew who was seeking him.
“The governor would like to see you, scholar.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s inside, in the main hall of the hold.”
Quaeryt nodded and walked toward the hold building, not dawdling, but not rushing, not with the way his leg felt. When he got there, two guards blocked the open double doors. “Not yet, sir.”
After more than a quint, one of the guards called, “Sir, the governor will see you now.”
Quaeryt stepped through the open double doors into a large foyer, although the ceiling was not raised above normal height or open to the upper level. The floor was wooden, and oiled, but showed the marks of years of wear, and the grain suggested it was oak. The walls were oak-paneled, and lighter oblongs suggested that paintings had hung there and been removed, either by Saentaryn’s retainers earlier or at Rescalyn’s direction later. Quaeryt wasn’t about to ask which.
“Sir … the governor’s that way.” A squad leader pointed to the square archway to the left. “He’s expecting you.”
The large hall-obviously a dining hall-had been roughly cleared, with the long tables and benches pushed against the walls. A shorter table stood before the natural stone hearth and chimney, but well out from the stonework. Rescalyn sat behind the table.
He motioned to Quaeryt.
Quaeryt approached and bowed slightly. “Sir.”
“Scholar, I understand you give a passable homily … and that Undercaptain Gauswn knows the service fairly well.”
“I’m no chorister, sir, but I can speak to some of the teachings of Rholan and the Nameless. From what I’ve observed, Undercaptain Gauswn is quite familiar with the order of the service.”
“Good. I will leave the arrangements for this evening’s service to the two of you. I do trust that the subject of the homily will be appropriate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is all, scholar.”
Quaeryt inclined his head, turned, and departed.
Once he was outside the hold, he moved to the south end and kept walking until he could step into a space between two junipers. There he raised a concealment shield and slowly and carefully made his way back to the hold entrance, where, after a time, he slipped past the ranker guards and into the foyer, and then into the hall.
It was empty, but the papers left on the table suggested that Rescalyn would return.
Quaeryt waited almost two quints, standing beside the massive stone hearth and chimney, before the governor returned, accompanied by Commander Myskyl.
For a time, the talk centered on logistics, including three wagons the engineers had found in the wagon shed and were inspecting to see how usable they might be. Eventually, the two began to discuss subjects of greater interest to Quaeryt.
“… should be able to get to the staging point on that flat ridge a good glass before sunset if we leave at dawn tomorrow.”
“If it doesn’t rain, that shouldn’t be a problem, sir.”
“The clouds are still high. If we do get rain, it won’t be more than a light drizzle for the next few days. After that, it won’t matter as much.”
“A few prayers to the Nameless wouldn’t hurt,” replied Myskyl ironically.
“Speaking of the Nameless, what you do think of the scholar?”
“I’ve asked around, as you requested. Quietly.” Myskyl paused. “He’s careful. He’s also courageous. The officers and the men respect him.”
“How does he handle that staff?”
“Like a seaman, mostly.”
Rescalyn shook his head. “He’s never what he says he isn’t … but that doesn’t mean he’s not more than he is.”
“You know he’s Lord Bhayar’s man.”
“It’s too bad, really. We’ll just have to see, though. We’ll put Sixth Battalion in the center when we face Demotyl’s retainers … and later at Zorlyn’s … if it comes to that.”
“Will it?”
“I’ll offer terms to Zorlyn to appear magnanimous, because he didn’t sign their declaration, but he won’t accept. Besides, it will take Zorlyn’s fall to convince those in the south. Do we have any word from the north?”
“I’m certain Commander Pulaskyr can flatten Vurlaent’s hold. After that, the others will likely capitulate.”
“I trust that will be so. That will give us the winter to rebuild. Without the threat of the hill holders, we’ll pick up more rankers. We might pick up a few deserters as well.”
“More than a few, I’d wager. Enough to add another full battalion.”
“It would be helpful if they were archers. We’ll need another two companies by then.”
Quaeryt stood in the space beside the massive hearth for more than a glass, but the rest of the conversation with Commander Myskyl and those with other officers all dealt with the conduct of the campaign. Finally, behind his concealment shield, he slipped away and out of the hold house that held little of value that could have been moved. He found a shaded space behind a large juniper at the south end of the dwelling, where he released the concealment, then headed back to find the officers of Sixth Battalion.
Again … what he’d heard wasn’t totally conclusive, but it was more than suggestive, especially the words about archers, because archers were supposedly only good in pitched battles. For what pitched battles was Rescalyn planning?
It took him almost half a glass to find Gauswn, whose company was located in an outlying sheep shed that no longer held sheep-only pungent odors that made it clear that the ovine presence had been most recent.
“Sir?” asked the undercaptain on seeing Quaeryt approach.
“The governor has requested that you and I conduct services this evening, much the way we did at Boralieu.”
“Yes, sir.”
“By the way, Cyrethyn speaks most highly of you. I’m not certain he doesn’t think you should be a chorister.”
“No, sir. I couldn’t think up things the way either of you do.”
“That just comes with practice and experience in life.”
“I think it takes more than that, sir.”
Quaeryt wasn’t about to argue on that point and said, “You know the openings, the invocation … the confession…”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think we should skip the offertory.”
Gauswn nodded.
In less than a quint, the two had completed the arrangements and organization for the evening services. After that, Quaeryt found a quiet spot in the rear and very rustic herb and vegetable gardens to think about a homily that was true to the precepts of the Nameless and also “appropriate,” as Rescalyn had put it. He didn’t like being put in the position of delivering homilies under the auspices of a deity of whose existence he was most uncertain, and especially doing so in the middle of what was turning into a very bloody campaign. Yet … refusing to do so helped no one, including the rankers who were the ones shedding most of the blood. It also wouldn’t help him or Lord Bhayar or his goals for scholars and eventually imagers-goals he thought were worthwhile.
But doesn’t everyone with a mission believe their goals are worthwhile? Doesn’t Rescalyn?
He knew the answers to those questions, and they didn’t offer much comfort.
All too soon the rest of the afternoon and supper passed, and Quaeryt and Gauswn stood on the flat space north of the hold house, facing several hundred men and officers. Gauswn handled the invocation and confession, and skipped the offertory, then turned to Quaeryt.