Scholar

34

When Quaeryt woke, it was past noon, and by the time he had walked down to the main level, found the bath chambers, washed and shaved, and climbed back up to his quarters and changed into clean scholars’ browns, it was closer to half past first glass. The west wing was apparently deserted, not surprisingly for early afternoon on a working day, and he set out to explore the grounds of the Telaryn Palace, beginning with the area west of where he’d been quartered. Just beyond the west entrance to the building was a stretch of gravel, and beyond that a flat and level area that looked like it might be used for turf bowls.

He walked along the edge of the bowling green to the anomen, located in the shadow of the northwest corner of the walls. It was a comparatively small edifice, dwarfed by the walls, looking from the outside as though it could hold no more than two hundred congregants.

Is it just for the officers? Or does the chorister hold many services? From what Quaeryt knew, there was close to a regiment of Telaryn soldiers and cavalry quartered within the grounds of the palace or nearby.

He studied the anomen closely. The dome had been repainted recently, but the color was more yellow than the traditional gold, and while the main doors had been oiled recently, the oak was still streaked with the white created by too many long winters.

East of the anomen was another stone-paved lane that led back toward the eastern-and only-gates. To the south were more gardens and a narrow orchard, and to the north, what looked more like three-story town houses, set side by side. Quaeryt estimated that they were only six or seven yards wide, but close to ten deep, with their rear wall abutting the defensive walls. He began to count as he walked along the lane. After forty of the narrow houses, there was a small park-like area, where a handful of small children played, watched by a white-haired woman. East of the first forty houses were another forty, and then a large three-story structure with narrow windows that resembled the west wing of the palace, except that the windows were even narrower and closer together.

Housing for the more valued servants? That was Quaeryt’s best guess, although he would have guessed that there were tinier rooms beneath the palace itself for others less fortunate.

East of the servants’ housing were the structures for the soldiers, more narrow-windowed gray stone buildings, but they were constructed so that the first level held stables, and the two levels above, presumably barracks. After making his way into the stables and asking several ostlers, he found his mare, and she had been groomed and fed, as Straesyr had said, and his saddle carefully cleaned and racked.

When he left the stables, the sound of marching drew Quaeryt back to the entry courtyard. There two companies were drilling, one with pikes, and another carrying sabres. The pike company took up most of the space. He watched for a time, then made his wandering way through the gardens and miniature orchards. During the entire survey of the planted area, which took almost two glasses, and during which he tried to note every different plant and tree, he saw no one except four gardeners.

The more he saw, the more he realized that the “Telaryn Palace” held the equivalent of a small city within the graystone walls.

At just before fifth glass, Quaeryt stepped into the mess in the west wing, to be greeted by a senior squad leader in crisp undress greens. “Scholar Quaeryt?”

“Yes?”

“All officers may sit at any table they please. The exception is at mess nights, when seating is by rank. The princeps has declared that, for purposes of mess night seating, your rank is that of the most junior captain.”

“What nights are mess nights?”

“Jeudi nights, unless otherwise announced.”

“Thank you.” For quarters, I’m field grade, but to the other officers, I’m a captain? Quaeryt stepped farther into the mess and quickly studied the tables. There were three long tables, each capable of seating twenty or so. There were but a handful of junior officers already present, and from what he could see of them, all wore the single silver bar of an undercaptain.

“I see you are pondering the anomalousness of being unnamed in a named hierarchy.…” The words were delivered from behind Quaeryt with sardonic lightness of tone.

He turned to see a gray-haired man wearing the green uniform of a Telaryn officer, if without rank insignia, but with a black-edged white triangle on each sleeve, recalling the black-edged long white scarf often worn by choristers of the Nameless. Like the other officers, his uniform was clean and pressed, but he did not wear a jacket, presumably because the weather remained too warm. “You must be the governor’s chorister.”

“More properly, the regimental chorister. Phargos, by name. You are obviously the new scholar.”

“Quaeryt.”

“A most appropriate appellation and one either greatly more or greatly less vulnerable to the egregiousness of Naming.”

“That is one way of describing it,” replied Quaeryt with a laugh.

“Would you care to join me?”

“I’d be pleased to.”

Phargos led the way to the table farthest from the door and sat in the last chair facing the door at what looked to be the foot of the table, assuming that the end of the chamber with the crossed banners represented the front.

Quaeryt took the seat across from him. “Phargos … From Montagne?”

“Cintella, actually, but that’s only ten milles from Montagne, farther from the ash and fumes of Mount Extel.” Phargos smiled. “This is where the juniors usually sit, except for the few more senior officers who occasionally deign to harass me … such as the one now approaching.”

Quaeryt half-turned as a deep baritone voice boomed out. “Phargos … I see you’re trying to convert another to nonspecific vagueness.”

“If you believe that, then you haven’t met too many scholars. He’s likely to have me scrambling to defend the entire tenet of the Nameless.”

“I’ve never seen you scramble-even when you were surrounded by those hill brigands.” The stocky major took the seat beside the chorister and across from Quaeryt.

“The backwoods barons of tall timber? What point was there in hurrying? The longer I took, the longer before they attacked, and the more time you had to reach us.”

“I told you they couldn’t be converted. They’re worse than the Duodeans…” The major broke off and grinned at Quaeryt. “I’m Skarpa, in charge of Sixth Battalion, cavalry.”

“Quaeryt, recently appointed scholar assistant to the princeps.”

“First a chorister, and then a scholar. Why did you get posted here?”

Quaeryt shrugged. “The short answer is that I couldn’t give Lord Bhayar an answer he liked.”

“What was the question?”

“Whether the people of Tilbor were so much different than other people and whether that was the cause of the continuing problems.” Quaeryt offered a wry smile. “I made the mistake of suggesting I couldn’t offer a good answer because I’d never been to Tilbor.”

Skarpa laughed.

Phargos frowned, then shook his head.

“Why so dour, friend?” asked the major.

“There is no answer to a question such as that.”

“Certainly, there is. Every person is similar in some ways to others. Every people is similar to every other in ways, but all peoples are formed by their lands, and that makes them different.”

“That is not the answer Lord Bhayar seeks,” pointed out the chorister. “Your answer is akin to saying that because all people must have names, all are in some fashion servants of the Namer.”

“Arguing again?” interjected another voice.

Quaeryt looked up to see a grizzled captain, apparently far older than the major.

“Why not? It’s more entertaining than complaining,” replied Skarpa. “Meinyt … have you met our new scholar assistant to the princeps?”

“Quaeryt.”

“Pleased to meet you. He could use one … if he’d listen or read anything besides the regimental ledgers and the Tilboran tariff records.”

“Careful … the princeps…”

“What can he do but complain to the governor? Rescalyn doesn’t have anyone else whose company can chase the backlands brigands through the winter snows.” Meinyt looked to Quaeryt. “You can even tell the princeps that.”

Quaeryt shook his head and laughed. “I’m a scholar, and I don’t think the princeps or the governor is about to listen to my words on military tactics and who’s best at what. I’ve already learned that scholars who say too much about what they don’t know are like fish.”

Phargos smiled, but said nothing.

“Like fish?” asked Meinyt.

“Did anyone ever catch a fish who kept its eyes open and its mouth shut?”

The two officers laughed, and Meinyt sat down beside Quaeryt.

By then the table was almost full, and as Phargos had said, most of those farther up the table looked to be undercaptains.

“You came all the way from Solis?” asked the captain.

“By sail, with one storm and a shipwreck.” Quaeryt offered a wry smile. “I thought it would be easier than riding, and I ended up riding the last part, from the Ayerne north, anyway.”

“Sometimes … trying to get out of things just gets you in deeper,” said Meinyt.

“That’s a lesson that’s hard to learn.” Quaeryt grinned sheepishly.

“Don’t tell me we’re getting fried squid again,” groaned Skarpa, looking at the platter that the server set in the middle of the table. “What’s wrong with plain old mutton?”

“It’s the season for squid,” replied Phargos. “Besides, most of the officers and men like fried squid, and the governor tries to make sure they get the fare they like.”

“I know,” sighed Skarpa. “But why the Namer do they all like squid?”

Meinyt laughed, and, for the rest of the meal, Quaeryt did his best to listen and say as little as possible.