Scholar

55

When he returned from the local patrol, it was a quint or so past second glass, and Quaeryt was so exhausted that he went to his tiny room and took a nap. He woke just before the evening meal sore all over. He limped to dinner, because his bad leg was bothering him more than usual, and managed to sit beside Skarpa in order to avoid Gauswn without really seeming to do so. He listened carefully during and after the meal, while Skarpa, Meinyt, and the other officers talked, but he didn’t overhear any references to the wind or hay flying around him.

A long night’s sleep left him less tired, but still stiff when he struggled up on Vendrei morning, although he was limping less on the way to the mess. After breakfast, he made his way from the mess to the infirmary. He didn’t wait long, because he was the only one there. The surgeon removed the latest dressing and checked the wound.

“You don’t need a dressing any longer. Just keep it clean.” The captain shook his head. “Most wounds like this don’t heal so cleanly or so quickly. If I hadn’t seen how deep it was myself, I wouldn’t have believed it, scholar.”

“When would it be a good idea to go back to riding patrols outside the valley?”

“A good idea? Never. But if that’s what you have to do, I’d give it until Lundi. But take two water bottles of lager if you do. You didn’t drink any water, did you?”

“No. You told me not to.”

“Good. I’d stay away from it for another week, at least mostly. If you do drink water, only drink what you get here in Boralieu. It’s clean enough. The hillside streams might look clear, but I’ve had more than a few rankers who drank from them end up turning their bowels inside out, and you don’t need that.”

“Do you know why?” Quaeryt couldn’t resist asking.

“Might be hill people fouling the water. They’re not all that careful. It might be the beavers, or other animals, or who knows what.” The surgeon stepped back. “If it gets red or the soreness across your chest gets worse, you need to come back. Otherwise, there’s not much else that I can do.”

Quaeryt just nodded. If there’s soreness and pain across my chest, there isn’t going to be much you or anyone can do. But there wasn’t much point in saying so, and he didn’t as he stood and replaced his undershirt and repaired tunic.

After leaving the surgeon, he made his way to the one unused stable, where he set up his apparatus. There he spent almost three glasses experimenting with his apparatus and his shields, trying to figure out how to let small things through the shields … but not too small. The tip of an unbarbed crossbow bolt wasn’t very large, and he’d seen what that could do.

He wasn’t having much success until he thought, What about the speed of something hitting the outer shields?

That seemed to make sense, except that he really didn’t have much of a way to speed the swinging fall of the iron weight. He could slow it … though …

After another glass, he felt he was on to something that might work better, but he was feeling tired and not reacting as well as he felt he should.

But you need to improve your shields more or you’ll just be a lure for those backwoods crossbowmen.

Improving his shields was taking time, and Bhayar had been rather firm about his returning before the end of winter … and Quaeryt himself didn’t want to remain for any part of winter. Yet he was convinced that he needed to remain at Boralieu because the hills and the timber holders contained the key to the mystery that was Tilbor, and, if he wanted to survive to discover what that key was, he needed better shields. Even so, he was sweating heavily from exercising, however lightly, in the damp air left from the recent rains, and he needed to cool down and rest.

Some things you can’t force.

He hated to admit that, but he hid his makeshift device, then made his way slowly back to his quarters, such as they were, to get the rest he needed and didn’t want to spare the time for.

When Quaeryt walked into the mess that night, even before he reached the table, Skarpa intercepted him. “The commander wants to meet you, scholar.”

“Me? What did I do … or fail to do?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing to worry about.” The major guided him toward a black-haired officer in greens with silver starbursts on his collar who stood beside the head of a long table. “Commander Zirkyl, this is Scholar Quaeryt.”

“I’m very glad to meet you, scholar.” The commander smiled. “All have said that you offered a better homily than most choristers. If you remain here long, we may call upon you again.…”

“Thank you, sir, but one homily does not make a chorister out of a scholar.”

“I’ll take you at your word, scholar … with a few doubts. I’ve heard enough officers speak badly and at length to know that it’s unlikely that one who speaks well when asked to do so on short notice will speak badly upon other occasions.” Zirkyl smiled. “I might not like what you say all the time, but it’s likely you will say it well.” He looked to Skarpa. “Have you ever heard him speak poorly?”

“No, sir, but he listens more than he talks.”

“I would that some officers followed that practice.” Zirkyl laughed and turned back to Quaeryt. “I’m glad to see that you’re healing well.”

“So am I, sir. Thank you.” Quaeryt understood that the commander had said what he wanted, and he inclined his head and stepped back, moving more toward the foot of the table.

Skarpa came with him, then gestured. “We can sit here.”

The two sat side by side, directly in front of two pitchers, one of ale and one of lager. Skarpa immediately filled his mug with ale. Quaeryt took lager. In less than half a quint, all the officers were seated, and platters were headed down the table.

Meinyt had taken the seat across from Quaeryt. “Major Bruelt said the commander especially liked your words about officers and soldiers being remembered for their deeds and not their boasts.”

“How did he know what I said?”

“Oh … Undercaptain Gauswn wrote it down. He’s got a good memory.”

Quaeryt managed not to wince.

“He’s a good undercaptain,” Skarpa said. “He works hard, and he’s thorough. You rode with him. What do you think?”

“From what I saw, I’d agree, but I’m not a mounted officer.”

“With a little training, you’d do better than most,” Meinyt said. “Don’t know many who could take a quarrel, get it out, catch a loose mount, and then ride back to Boralieu, and be ready to ride again in a few weeks.”

“Have any of the companies had any success in dealing with those poachers and hill holders?” asked Quaeryt, trying to change the subject without being totally obvious.

Skarpa, his mouth full of the less than tender mutton, shook his head.

From beside him, Meinyt said, “There haven’t been any attacks there since the one on us.”

“There have been two near the northwest outpost, though,” Skarpa finally said, before taking another swallow of ale.

“What will happen next?”

“The commander is considering paying a visit to Waerfyl-with three companies,” said Skarpa quietly. “That’s what I hear.”

“I think I’d like to accompany you.”

“Why do you think I’d be involved?”

“I think both you and Captain Meinyt would be involved. He’d want the best major and company behind him.”

Meinyt grinned. “He’s got you, Major.”

“If … if something like that happens, you can go.”

“This time I’ll wear greens, at least a green shirt,” Quaeryt said dryly.

“Good idea.”

Is it a good idea? Hardly. You just don’t have any better ones. Quaeryt sipped more of the lager he was liking less and less.