“It could be either, or something else altogether. That’s another question for Arion,” Quaeryt said, turning and sitting on the side of the bed. “How soon do you think breakfast will be ready?” Even as he finished speaking the words, he laughed.
“Why are you laughing?”
“That was a stupid question. Breakfast will be ready as soon as the Lady Envoy indicates that she wishes it.”
“
That,
dearest, is most disrespectful.” Vaelora tried to pout.
“You don’t pout well,” he said with a grin, standing.
“That’s because…” She shook her head, then eased the covers aside. “If the Commander Envoy requires breakfast, I suppose the Lady Envoy should wash and dress.”
Quaeryt had to admit she was far better at the arching tone of mockery than pouting.
Breakfast was indeed ready in moments from when Vaelora emerged from the bedchamber. The meal consisted of fluffy eggs cooked in a cheese mixture, a small almost crispy loaf of cinnamon-like spiced squash bread, and, of course, apricots that that had been dried, and then stewed. The beverage was a strong and unsweetened hot tea.
After eating, and more than a quint before seventh glass, wearing his best remaining uniform and jacket, Quaeryt strolled in the still-chill early winter air toward the buildings that quartered the Pharsi battalion.
Before long, he saw an officer, who stopped in his tracks, turned, and then stiffened.
“Sir? Might I help you,” asked the captain in accented Bovarian.
“I was looking for Major Arion…”
“I think he’s still in the mess, sir. I’ll see, sir.”
“Thank you, Stensted.”
The Pharsi captain looked surprised at the use of his name, but nodded and hurried off.
In moments, Arion was walking swiftly toward Quaeryt, who waited.
“Sir, you were looking for me?”
“I was, Major. I’ve been thinking, and I had a question. You’d mentioned the Eleni, and last night Subcommander Calkoran mentioned the
Eherelani.
Are they the same or different, and what might be the differences?”
Arion smiled. “
They
believe that they’re different. The
Eherelani
are the elder wise women who are councilors or who have been councilors. Many are said to have the sight. They are few, but they all come from towns or cities or from near such. The Eleni are what … you might call them the
Eherelani
of the barrens or the wild places. Some of the
Eherelani
talk with the Eleni, but most do not. Some of the Eleni are said to be very powerful.” He shrugged. “So are some of the
Eherelani.
I do not know what else to say because that is what I know, and I come from the cities of the north, not from the wilds … or from the south.”
“Would any of your men and officers know?”
“I know of none who come from the south. Those who live here … most keep to themselves and fewer joined the forces fighting Kharst’s armsmen. Those who did and survived returned to the wilds. Most of those who served under you, sir, come from the north and the port cities on the coast.”
“There’s something else I noticed. There are few pictures, sculptures, or carvings of people here, and none show their faces.”
Arion smiled crookedly. “That is the way of the south. It has always been like that. I cannot say why.”
“Why not?”
“Because the southerners will not talk of it, except to say that images of people give power to those who control the images.”
Images or imagers? They have always worried about the power of imagers?
Quaeryt nodded. That made a kind of sense.
“Subcommander Calkoran left earlier to see when the High Council will see you and Lady Vaelora. I would expect him back in a quint or so.”
“I’ll be meeting with my officers, and then I’ll be in the main house.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll let him know.”
“Thank you.” Quaeryt nodded and turned toward the buildings to the north, conscious of the unevenness of his steps as his boots struck the stone paving of the courtyard in behind the entry and in front of the main dwelling.
One of the rankers must have alerted Zhelan, because the major met Quaeryt even before he had reached the first door to the rear building.
“Good morning, Commander.”
“Good morning. Have you noticed anything, Major?”
“No, sir … except that we’re likely the only ones here, us and the Pharsi battalion, that is. Stables haven’t been used in a while. There’s cut grass for fodder, but it’s a wild grass. I’d be guessing the subcommander’s men have been cutting it.”
“Is it all right for the horses?”
“It looks to be the same as what they’ve grazed along the way, except it’s healthier, longer stalks…”
“Is there any grain?”
“Some. Not so much as I’d like, but there’s also some heavier grass, set in different lofts. Most likely winter feed.”
“How are the quarters?”
“They’re dry and solid. They’re also clean. Enough space and more to spare.”
“Have you seen any sculptures, pictures, or carvings that show people’s faces?”
“Sir?”
“It sounds like a strange question. Trust me; it’s not.”
Zhelan frowned. “Now that you mention it, sir, there’s no decoration at all in the barracks here. Just bunks and straw pallets, benches and tables. That’s it.” He paused. “The buildings here are bigger than they look. You could put a battalion in just this one, and the men wouldn’t be cramped.”
Barracks to hold a regiment dating back who knows how long?
“How are things going?”
“Fine, sir.”
“The undercaptains?”
“Undercaptain Baelthm’s kept them in line, not that they’ve tried to stray. Khalis and Lhandor have been looking at everything, though.”
“I asked them to … and to listen as much as they could.”
“Begging your pardon, sir…”
“I’m trying to figure how to get the Pharsi High Council to agree to Lord Bhayar’s terms … or to come up with terms he can accept. We really don’t want to fight another war here.”
Especially after what you’re seeing.
“But if we can’t get an agreement, sooner or later, Bhayar will insist on having Khel.”
“Rather not be in your boots, sir.”
At the moment Quaeryt wasn’t exactly pleased to be in them, either.
After spending another half quint talking to Zhelan, and then arranging for his and Vaelora’s mounts to be readied, Quaeryt returned to the main dwelling, where he stood, and occasionally paced, until Calkoran finally rode through the gates less than two quints before eighth glass. The subcommander caught sight of Quaeryt and rode straight to the dwelling, where he reined up, immediately dismounted, tied his horse to one of the hitching rings, and stepped up onto the narrow porch.
“What did you find out?”
“Councilor Khaliost told me that the High Council would meet with you and Lady Vaelora, at your convenience, between eighth glass and ninth glass.”
“When should we show up, then? What does it mean if we’re earlier or later?”
“I could not say, sir. This is the south.”
Don’t any of them know anything about the south of their own land?
Quaeryt wanted to snort, but only said, “We’ll leave at eighth glass, then, and split the difference.”
“Yes, sir.”
The moment Calkoran rode off, Vaelora appeared, wearing a striking riding outfit of black trimmed with gray. She smiled. “I take it that we should be departing?”
“Our mounts should be here shortly.”
“Do you have your credentials, such as they are?”
Quaeryt held up the leather folder he had carried across Lydar. “In here.” While they waited, he told her what else he had learned.
When he finished, she looked at him. “Do you think that the southerners have taken over Khel? Calkoran never did get very far north.”
“Or they want us to think they have.”
“How can we tell?”
“We’ll just have to do the best we can and see. We can also suggest that possibility, if indirectly, and see how they react.” Quaeryt turned as two rankers led their mounts toward them. Toward the north end of the paved area, Quaeryt could see first company forming up.
The ride back to Saendeol and then to the gray stone bridge took about a quint. As they rode through the town, Quaeryt could see no pictures of people and no statues at all. In fact, he realized, none of the few signboards depicted any animals, either.
The bridge itself consisted of two stone spans, joined in the center at wide pier. The river itself was comparatively narrow, no more than fifteen yards wide, if several yards deep, its waters a deep gray-blue.
“What river is this?” Quaeryt asked Calkoran, who rode behind two outriders and just ahead of Quaeryt and Vaelora.
“The Vohan,” replied the subcommander. “It flows into the Neimara north of Pointe Neiman.”
As they crossed the bridge, Quaeryt studied it closely, but saw no decorations, nothing besides solid stone construction—and no marks on the stone.
Just like the buildings in Nordeau.
From the bridge they rode another half mille or so until the avenue joined the stone road that circled the hill on which the council building stood. From there they took the stone lane that gradually angled up the hill so that by the time they reached the top they were at the back of the structure, a circular building no more than thirty yards across.
From what Quaeryt had seen, there were four sets of double doors, positioned on the east, north, west, and south. Two men wearing tan trousers and jackets with brown boots and belts stood by the western doors. One of them spoke to Calkoran in Pharsi.
“You may enter by any doors but these,” the subcommander relayed.
“Then we’ll use the north doors,” said Quaeryt, dismounting, and then offering a hand to Vaelora as she dismounted.
“The north doors would be good,” said Calkoran. “Not all should come.”
“No.” Quaeryt turned to Zhelan and the imager undercaptains behind him. “If anything should happen … unfortunate … you are to destroy this building and everyone who does not wear a Telaryn uniform.”
“Yes, sir!”
One of the Pharsi guards swallowed, suggesting he understood something of what had transpired.
Quaeryt made certain he held shields around Vaelora as they followed the circular stone walk around the side of the building to the brassbound honey-wood double doors on the north, where two more Khellan guards stood. As the three approached, each guard opened a door.
Quaeryt let Vaelora lead the way into the building if but by a half step, with Calkoran bringing up the rear.
Inside was like a stone and wooden tent, with huge long beams running from the gray stone walls to a solid circular stone pillar in the middle of the building. Narrow stone-framed windows, each a half yard wide and a yard apart, were spaced equally between the northern and southern doors on the east side of the structure. On the west side, the window ran but for half the distance. A low stone platform a half yard high extended from the northwest midpoint of the wall due south to the southwest midpoint. Centered in the middle of the platform roughly two yards back was a wooden fronted counter or desk about five yards long. Seated behind that desk were four women and a man, all in tan, with red scarves similar in shape and drape to those used by choristers of the Nameless. The man sat at the south end, but he was the one to speak.
“You may approach the High Council.”
“Councilor Khaliost,” murmured Calkoran from behind Quaeryt.
Quaeryt eased out the leather folder, then slipped the parchment documents from it, and nodded to Vaelora, letting her precede him just slightly, as before, toward the wide stone step in the middle of the platform, but gesturing for Calkoran to accompany them. When they reached the space before the desk, Quaeryt eased both documents onto the flat honey-wood surface, then stepped back, waiting as the documents were passed from councilor to councilor and then back to the white-haired and weathered-looking woman in the center.
The central councilor took a last look at the documents and then looked to Vaelora. “Why should we even consider treating with you?”
“Because,” Vaelora replied politely, “it is in your interest to do so.”
“Our interest is in being free. Agreeing to any terms with Lord Bhayar will lessen that freedom.”
“You need more trade, and you need more people,” said Vaelora. “Lord Bhayar will have little interest in allowing either.”
“How will he stop it?”
“He will not. He will merely tariff your traders heavily for any trade with Bovaria and Telaryn, and he is not likely to restrain his traders in their dealings with your people.”
The head councilor turned to Quaeryt. “You have not spoken, Commander. What have you to add?”
“I would observe that Lord Bhayar wishes to see all of Lydar under one rule so that the fighting and the wars of the past will be no more. I would also observe that because he has not completed his efforts in Bovaria, Khel is currently in a position to gain many concessions and rights that may not be possible if it insists on refusing Lord Bhayar’s offers.”
“May not be possible?”
“Lord Bhayar is not always patient. Those descended from the Yaran warlords are known to keep their word, for good and for worse. He would prefer not to fight in Khel, but fight he will when the time comes. You thought you suffered greatly from Rex Kharst, but Rex Kharst lost over fifty regiments to the very last man in fighting Lord Bhayar. Bhayar lost perhaps five. He does not wish to invade Khel. You do not wish him to. Those are conditions favorable to seeking an agreement.”
“You are said to be the most deadly fighter and commander possessed by Lord Bhayar. You are also said to be a hand of Erion. Yet any man with white hair and a bad leg can claim to be a hand of Erion. Being white-haired and young, and even an imager, does not make that so.”
“I have never claimed to be anything of Erion,” Quaeryt replied. “Since we are talking of claims, neither does claiming you are a High Council with dominion over all Khel make it so.”
“You doubt that? Then why are you here?”
Quaeryt smiled politely. “Because you have claimed that, and one has to start somewhere.”