Princeps

66

By the time he walked toward the mess for the evening meal on Jeudi, Quaeryt had a solid idea of which undercaptain could do what … and what each could not do. What he didn’t know, and wouldn’t for a time, was how much they would improve with training. Just from what he had observed from Shaelyt’s actions, he had no doubt that he’d see more improvement from the young Pharsi. He also thought that Voltyr and Threkhyl would improve. Baelthm seemed limited in his abilities, as well as either reluctant or unable to try to learn more. As for Akoryt and Desyrk … he had no idea.

Is it easier for Voltyr and Shaelyt because they’re younger? That might be, but he’d learned and developed skills as an adult, and he was older than both of them, considerably older than Shaelyt.

Skarpa was waiting outside the mess, well away from the door, and Quaeryt walked over to join him.

“Pain in the ass to be regimental commander, sometimes.”

“Oh?” asked Quaeryt.

“I can’t walk into the mess any more and talk to anyone before we eat. Not for the evening meal. I can’t even be early, because…” He shook his head.

“Because that’s the signal to serve?”

Skarpa nodded, then grinned. “Remember … if I’m gone … you’re the next ranking officer. Then you get to worry about it.”

Quaeryt hadn’t even thought about that.

“How are those imagers coming along?”

“Not so well as I’d like. Right now … they’d be useless, or close to it. I’m working on training them on things that might be useful, like imaging holes in planks.”

“Why…” Skarpa broke off. “Holes in barges holding troops?”

“That’s one idea. Do you have any others where the placement or removal of small objects would make a difference?”

“Horseshoes in a cavalry charge.” Skarpa shrugged. “Other than that … Small things don’t matter as much once the fighting starts. They matter more before.”

“Like supplies that don’t get there because a wagon breaks an axle and holds up a whole line of wagons?”

The commander nodded.

So how can you make these imagers useful … as imagers? Outside of delaying or sinking troop barges, Quaeryt didn’t have any ideas that would make a significant difference. “If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.”

“I will.” Skarpa glanced at a captain and an undercaptain hurrying into the mess, then said, “I suppose it’s time to make our appearance. Lead on, Subcommander.”

Quaeryt couldn’t help but grin momentarily as he walked toward the mess door.

Since the seating in the mess was not strictly by rank, except on declared “mess nights,” usually Jeudi evenings, on the first, third, and fifth weeks of the month, perhaps because Skarpa wasn’t one for excessive formality, rather than every Jeudi, as had been the case in Tilbora, Quaeryt ate with the imager undercaptains, most of whom doubtless would have preferred that he did not, but he felt he needed to learn what he could about them.

After a good half quint of silence mixed with pleasantries, Desyrk cleared his throat, then asked, “Sir, can you tell us why we’re here? It doesn’t seem like what we can do would help the other troopers much.”

Quaeryt could sense the others looking to him and waiting for an answer. He offered a pleasant smile and replied, “It’s not what you can do now. It’s what you should be able to do. It’s the same thing with new troopers. If you put them into a fight the day they became troopers, most of them would end up running or dying. They have to be trained, and so do you. The problem with being an imager anywhere today is that no one really wants you to do anything because they’re afraid of what you can do. You’re not encouraged to get better at imaging, and you’re not pressed to improve. That’s my task.”

“But you’re not an imager … sir,” said Threkhyl.

“I’m a scholar, and I’ve studied what imagers have done. Have any of you?” Quaeryt looked at each undercaptain, one after the other. When there was no answer, he went on. “Just by watching you after less than a day, I can see that I’ve pressed some of you to do ways of imaging you hadn’t tried or considered.”

“But can we improve enough to make a difference before the Bovarians attack?” asked Akoryt.

“I don’t know,” admitted Quaeryt. “I hope so. Even if you don’t, though, this war won’t end with one battle or even a few battles. You’ll learn more with each fight or battle.” What he didn’t say was that those who didn’t might not survive to the next fight … and even some who did might be unfortunate anyway. “How much better you become as you train will be more important than what you can do now.”

“Have you ever been wounded, Subcommander?” asked Shaelyt, his voice very respectful. “Seriously, I mean?”

“Not seriously enough to die, obviously,” replied Quaeryt. “But … yes. Twice.” Before anyone could follow up on that, he added quickly, “Commander Skarpa, I think it was, made the observation to the effect that most officers only learn by surviving their mistakes, and getting wounded is a serious mistake.” He managed to deliver the words dryly enough that several of the undercaptains smiled.

He managed the rest of the meal with pleasantries, and in asking gentle questions.

While sitting there, he lifted his mug after drinking all the lager, then concentrated on refilling it with lager-by imaging. Immediately, there was lager in the mug, but the outside of the mug was chill. He took the smallest sip of the liquid. It was lager, but not terribly good lager, possibly because he knew nothing about being a brewmaster. Still, that ability would come in useful in the weeks and months ahead.

Later, after leaving the mess, Quaeryt walked out through the main gates of the post and then north for a hundred yards or so along the river road, past an area that had been largely cleared of brush and trees, except for the handful near the wall-which really should have been removed.

A task for your imagers-from a distance?

He’d have to suggest it to Skarpa. He could see that dropping branches on advancing troops might help in a fight in a woods, but he had the feeling that most cavalry commanders would try to avoid getting their troops caught in a heavily wooded area. Working on the tree would help strengthen the imagers’ abilities, anyway.

Quaeryt walked down the uneven slope toward the river, avoiding boulders, and the remnants of what looked to be the foundations of a large building, perhaps a warehouse, or even a barracks. He stopped some fifteen yards from the water, where he stood on a grassy patch at the back of a small knoll a few yards above the level of the water in the marshy area beneath him. Between the marshes on the east side of the river and the sand spits beyond the reeds, the distance from where he stood to solid ground on the west bank was less than three hundred yards. Across the river, if another hundred yards upstream, he could see the wooden barge piers and behind them various structures of the town of Cleblois. The piers were empty.

How far can you image? To those piers? Quaeryt wondered if he could image out a chunk of wood from the piers.

He looked at the piers and picked out a pole fastened to and rising from a bollard at the south end of the piers. Then he concentrated.

A line of light and pain flashed through his eyes and straight to the back of his skull-or so he felt. The pain was so intense for several moments that his eyes filled with tears, and he could not even see for a time. When he could finally see again, his head was still splitting. He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. When the pain had subsided to a dull ache, he looked across the river.

The top part of the pole was gone. Was it because he’d de-imaged it? He thought so, but the pain had blocked his vision for a time, enough so that he couldn’t be absolutely certain. He’d have to try again … later. With that thought, he turned and walked back up the slope to the road, far more slowly than he had descended.

Once he returned to his quarters, he lay down on the bed, wider than a mere bunk, and dozed, waking abruptly in near darkness to the sound of the bells sounding the glass. He bolted into a sitting position.

How long did you sleep?

He counted four more bells, then walked to the window and looked out. There was still a haze of gray in the western sky, indicating that it wasn’t that long after sunset.

Probably eighth glass. And that meant he’d slept a little over a glass.

At least his head no longer ached, and he could get on with writing the letter to Vaelora that he needed to dispatch on Vendrei, assuming he could find a courier headed to Solis.

He seated himself before the desk, with paper and the pen and inkwell he had brought from Extela, and began to write.

My dearest,

I have arrived safely in Ferravyl, although not without an adventure along the way, from which I escaped uninjured, if exhausted and momentarily strained and stiff. I do trust that your journey to Solis was less eventful, and that all is well with you … and Aelina.

You cannot imagine my surprise to discover, upon my arrival in Ferravyl, that Lord Bhayar had commissioned me as a subcommander. I am now in command of a special force of troopers and imagers. When I asked why, he told me that he thought that a scholar with combat experience was the best choice for the position, and he had already conveyed that to the imagers, who all rank as undercaptains. At present, their skills are not greatly suited to combat, but I am working to discover what they can do and to train them toward abilities that may be more useful against the Bovarians. I fear, given the positions in which Lord Bhayar and Rex Kharst find themselves, that the coming conflict will be anything but short and believe that any small advantage may make the difference in the eventual outcome. Whether I can develop that advantage remains to be seen.…

Ferravyl is perhaps the least attractive city through which I have ever passed, and the very air burns one’s nostrils. That we are fighting over such a mean locale emphasizes the importance of its location.

Would that I were with you still in Extela, or even in Tilbora, but we do not yet choose where we would be. Yet I look for the days when that is so, and when we are again rejoined.

When he finished the last lines of the letter and signed it, he realized that his head was aching once more.

After letting the ink dry, he folded it, slipped it into an envelope, and sealed it, imaging the seal rather than melting wax. Even that minor bit of imaging sent a twinge through his skull.

Why? You’ve done more than that before. Because you’ve been doing it all the time while you’ve been carrying heavy shields?

He hoped so … and that his straining his imaging abilities all the time would result in more improvement.

Then he began to disrobe. Sleep would help … he hoped.