Antiagon Fire

60

The drizzle turned into freezing rain on Jeudi and was gone by Vendrei morning, when Southern Army resumed its progress toward Liantiago under a cool sun and clear skies. By that afternoon, it was clear that everyone knew the Telaryn forces were coming. Every village and town along the road was largely deserted, with barred doors and shutters fastened tight.

By Samedi morning much of Quaeryt’s soreness had subsided, and he only had a faint headache, but he was still wearing his riding jacket fastened shut because he still felt chill, even in full sunlight that was as warm as fall in Tilbor. As he rode through seemingly empty hamlet after hamlet, town after town, Quaeryt couldn’t help but wonder why the people closer to Liantiago seemed more worried or concerned than those farther away had been. Or is it because they’re more worried about Aliaro and the Shahibs than about Southern Army? Then again, his thoughts along that line might just be wishful thinking, but how could he tell?

Solayi morning, after Southern Army had been on the road for a glass or so, Skarpa eased his mount in beside Quaeryt and his mare. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Fairly well … a little chill at times. Otherwise…” Quaeryt shrugged.

“A little chill isn’t bad after almost being frozen to death. I still wish-”

“That I wouldn’t do things like that?” Quaeryt laughed. “I wish I could think of better ways to deal with matters.”

“You can when you deliver homilies,” Skarpa pointed out.

“That’s because I have time to think about them. When something unexpected happens in the field, I don’t have that time.” Quaeryt looked quizzically at Skarpa. “You think that it would be useful for the army to have services? Is that it?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” replied Skarpa with a grin. “I had hoped. Some of the officers, especially the junior officers…”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“You always do. That’s why I keep saying that you’ll end up high in Bhayar’s councils.”

“I may be listened to, but I doubt I’ll ever hold a rank or position higher than this.”

“You keep saying that, but you’re a commander.”

“And you’re a submarshal.”

“Only because of you.” Skarpa paused. “Don’t think Kharllon and Meurn haven’t alluded to that.”

“And they’re where they are because of Deucalon and Myskyl.”

“Myskyl, I think. He seems to have a way of persuading people.”

“I can’t say I’ve found him very persuasive,” said Quaeryt dryly.

“You’re one of the few. Bhayar might find him persuasive as well, except for you. Don’t think Myskyl doesn’t know it.”

“I wonder how he likes the frozen north.”

“He’s either avoided it or settled himself into a high holding with a compliant widow.”

“If not both.”

Once Skarpa rode off, Quaeryt began to split his attention between the road ahead and the hills flanking it, because he didn’t want to be caught in another cannonade, and possible ideas for a homily. Since he had left Rholan and the Nameless with Vaelora, he wasn’t going to be able to page through that volume for ideas. As the glasses passed, though, there were no more cannon attacks, and not even a trace of Antiagon forces.

Why? Why not more attacks as we near Liantiago?

The only idea that Quaeryt had was that Aliaro’s forces were limited, and that he was saving them for the defense of Liantiago. In a way, that made perfect sense, because, given the way Antiago was governed, it was clear that without taking the capital city and capturing or removing Aliaro and his ministers and high officials, the entire Southern Army campaign would end up as an almost useless exercise. Not to mention undercutting everything you and Vaelora tried to accomplish in Khel.

After pushing that line of thought away-for the moment-Quaeryt tried to concentrate once more coming up with an idea for a decent homily.

By the fourth glass of the afternoon, Southern Army was settled into camp-a group of villas in the hills some ten milles from the outskirts of Liantiago-if both the maps and the millestones were to be believed. Unsurprisingly, the buildings had been largely stripped … except of common items such as heavy kitchen tables and common bedsteads and mattresses-and there were absolutely no supplies.

In the late twilight at sixth glass, those who wanted to attend services gathered on the slope below the main villa, where Quaeryt stood on the terrace. By image-projecting his voice, he made his way through the opening and invocation, a hymn, and the confession-and that had always disturbed him, but the men and officers seemed to need it. Before he knew it, he was beginning the homily.

“… and, as are all evenings under the Nameless, it is a good evening. If you don’t think so, you might recall that there are still several yards of snow covering Tilbor at the moment, and most likely a cold and drizzling rain is cloaking Solis right now, while the ground around Variana is either frozen solid or icy mud … and it’s no longer drizzling here … and no one is firing cannon at us.” Quaeryt paused for a moment. “All those examples could give you reasons for thinking it is a good evening. Whether for thinking it’s a good evening or one not so good, all of us have reasons for why we think matters are the way they are. When we left Suemyran for Barna, I kept wondering why these stands of trees with gold-tinged leaves were only planted on hilltops and why nothing except low grass was planted around them. When some cannon powder exploded, those of us in first company found out the reason why those trees were planted where they were. When they catch fire, they burn hot and fast.” Quaeryt did his best to image-project a sense of wry humor.

“But there’s a problem with reasons and reasoning. We assume that there must be a reason for everything, and we tend to assume that other people reason in the same way and with the same motives as we do. When we discover that they do not, we often decide that such people are tools of the Namer or that they are not so bright as we are. Yet who is to say that those people are not in turn looking at us and thinking that we are tools of the Namer?

“Why do I say this? Because reasoning is a tool. It is a tool of the mind, but like any tool it can be used for good or ill. An advocate who is skilled with words might well be able to reason well enough to convince any listener that Rholan the Unnamer was the Namer and the Namer was really the Nameless. The tool is only so good as the man who wields it, and there are two parts involved in using any tool. The first is how well it is used, and the second is the purpose for which it is used …

“If the purpose for which reason is used is to distort what is and has been or if a man uses reason to persuade others to do that which is evil, then reason is no more than Naming through the use of clever words and logic…”

His concluding words were simple enough. “… When we reason, let us strive to seek what is and not what we would wish to be, for reason in pursuit of passion, rather than in seeking truth, is Naming merely raised to a higher level of deception.”

Once the officers and men had dispersed, Quaeryt walked toward the end of an outbuilding to the west of the others. There he stopped, and under the stars, and the nearly full orb of Artiema, he looked down the long slope toward the ribbon of road he could barely see. That line of gray stretched east and west across the rolling hills. Aware of someone approaching, he glanced up to see Commander Kharllon stopping several yards away.

“It’s a long and narrow road,” said Kharllon, gesturing toward the road below.

“But well paved,” replied Quaeryt noncommitally.

“I’d heard that you had been a chorister,” offered Commander Kharllon. “It does show.”

Quaeryt offered a polite smile. “Actually, I was a scholar.”

“There’s not that much difference, is there? Both study the unknown and the impractical.”

“Much like officers in peacetime, when war isn’t a problem, don’t you think?” replied Quaeryt gently. “Too often, what’s practical is defined as what we need now, as opposed to what we will need, or what we could do to avoid needing it in the future.”

“Those who are effective in the present often assume that what they see is what others need.”

“Isn’t that true of all of us?” replied Quaeryt with a soft laugh. “We all think that what we understand is what others should as well. We often get angry when we find they don’t see matters as we do.”

“But the most dangerous men are those who are most persuasive, especially when their views are, shall we say, at variance with those who wield power.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Quaeryt. “That’s most likely why Rholan vanished. He was too persuasive and lacked the power to protect his vision of what should be.”

For several moments, Kharllon did not speak, merely looked at Quaeryt. Finally, he said, “It will be interesting to see what comes of this campaign.”

“The unification of all Lydar under Lord Bhayar, I would hope,” replied Quaeryt.

“So would I, but holding all Lydar together might prove even more daunting than conquering it.”

“It all depends on which vision those in power embrace, I would judge,” said Quaeryt.

“With that, I would agree.” Kharllon inclined his head. “Good evening, Commander. By the way, it was an excellent homily.”

Quaeryt watched as the older senior officer walked away, then looked back down at the road. In the east, Erion was rising.