Rex Regis (46 page)

He studied the maps, both the large one and the hand-drawn one he’d received from Seliadyn, trying to determine just how to deal with the situation … or to explain to Daefol how he ended up at his gates, so to speak. Abruptly he shook his head. Fiancryt’s holding was across the river bridge in Rivages and just north of the town.

He almost laughed, but ludicrous as the idea was, it just might work … and it might tell him something about what Myskyl was doing. He put the maps away and beckoned for Zhelan to move closer.

“Sir?”

“If I can, when we get to Daefol’s hold, I’m going to act like a very stupid commander. I want to see how he reacts. So … try not to act as though I’m out of my mind.”

A puzzled expression crossed the major’s face.

“I’m going to insist that I was just following directions, the way Kharllon did when he wanted to make trouble, except I just want to confuse the High Holder and get enough men in position to take over the holding without anyone getting hurt…” Quaeryt went on to explain what else he wanted Zhelan to do when the time came. Then he rode back and gave a similar explanation to Calkoran.

The senior Khellan officer snorted. “The High Holder … he will likely believe you. A commander who comes late to an area is often not the smartest.”

“I hope he does. It will make matters simpler.”

As Quaeryt rode back to the front of the column, he could hope that Seliadyn’s description of Daefol as a fool was at least partly accurate. At the same time, he pondered over the mysterious older High Holder … and about what he had missed in observing him.

Another quint passed, and Quaeryt was beginning to wonder about the maps and the directions he had received when one of the scouts rode back and reined up-since Quaeryt had ordered a halt when he saw the scout returning.

“Sir, there’s a walled holding ahead, west of the road.”

“It’s not on the river?”

“No, sir. It looks to be quite a ways back from the road, maybe a good half mille.”

“Good. Did you see any scouts or troopers?”

“No, sir. The lane from the river road to the gates is empty. Much better than the road we’re on. The river road north from where the hold road joins it is better as well.”

Seliadyn had said it would be.
That confirmation made Quaeryt feel somewhat less uneasy about relying on the white-haired High Holder’s information. “I was told that, but it’s good to know it’s so.”

“Much better. Leastwise, it looks so from a distance. You told us to stay out of eyeshot from the hold.”

“I did … and thank you. From here to the hold, you’re only to be a hundred yards in front, and let that decrease as we near the gates.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt turned to Zhelan. “We’ll take a break here. A last watering for the horses.”
And then I play the willfully stupid commander … and hope it works.

While Zhelan dealt with the details of rest and watering, Quaeryt gathered the imager undercaptains under a large tree, not an oak but something equally large and impressive, if a species he didn’t recognize.

“Once we get inside the hold, assuming we don’t have to use force, we’re going to need to find out as much as we can quickly. All three of you can hold personal concealments. I’d like each of you to slip into areas where you can under concealment outside the hold house itself and listen-”

“Ah … sir,” interrupted Khalis, his tone one of embarrassment, “I can hold a concealment, but listening won’t help. I don’t know much Bovarian.”

Quaeryt wanted to shake his head. He’d known that. He just hadn’t thought about it. “Lhandor? You know some, don’t you?”

“I can pick up some things. I’ll miss some, but I can try.”

“Elsior?”

The youngest undercaptain nodded.

“All right. Khalis, you stay close to Major Zhelan and make certain nothing happens to him. Elsior and Lhandor, here’s what I want you to do…” Quaeryt went on, detailing the possibilities and what he wanted them to look and listen for, and where to go.

Then he explained to Zhelan what would happen … if all went well … and what they would do if it didn’t. Then he rode back to Calkoran and outlined what he wanted from the subcommander and his men.

Less than two quints later, Quaeryt led his small force out of the tree-concealed section of the west river road past the meadow pasture area that fronted the hold and toward the lane up to the gates. The rutted section of the river road ended abruptly, exactly when the smooth graveled lane heading westward to the walled hold began. Quaeryt could see that the gates were open … and that they were simple, if tall, ironbound wooden gates drawn back from gate buttresses that were part of the reddish stone walls that surrounded the hold house and its outbuildings. There was no stonework between the buttresses, either. As he rode closer, Quaeryt could see that the walls were not hard redstone, but sandstone. That and the gate structure indicated that the hold might withstand a short assault but not even a modest siege-or a force with a single accomplished imager, not that Quaeryt wanted to image his way through the gates. The hold house or keep looked to be only three stories, since a single level and a slate tile roof were all that appeared above the walls.

There was a small flock of sheep grazing several hundred yards to the north, and the fact that the grass closer to the road on the right was lower than on the left suggested that they were being used to keep the growth in the meadows at a low level. Quaeryt could see some thin trails of smoke from hold chimneys, most likely from the kitchens.

As they neared the gates, several guards hurried up, clearly nervous, but not a one of the three said a word, although they stood across the lane just outside the walls.

“Just move aside!” Quaeryt called out cheerfully. “We’re expected.” He image-projected warmth and assurance. “Just don’t get in the way. It’s been a long ride.”

“But, sir,” called a taller guard, trotting toward Quaeryt, “no one told us … there are no preparations!”

“We made good time,” replied Quaeryt. “Now … just move aside.” He kept riding, turning in the saddle and calling out, “Keep moving! We don’t want to block the gates!”

The guards backed away, forced back by the press of first company.

Once through the gates, Quaeryt turned the column toward the hold house, trying to keep in character as a clueless commander. He glanced over his shoulder, but Calkoran had halted his company just inside the gates, in a way to keep anyone from leaving, just as Quaeryt had ordered.

Quaeryt reined up and halted first company short of the wide sandstone steps leading up to a small uncovered front terrace before the formal entry to the hold house, not quite a tower, nor exactly a mansion, but with red sandstone walls showing a certain amount of wear. Almost at that moment, a man several years younger than Quaeryt and possibly not that much older than Khalis or Lhandor emerged, flanked by two guards on each side. He sported a square-cut but short curly beard, above a white shirt, a crimson doublet or jacket of a style Quaeryt had never seen, and dark blue trousers. His polished boots were also dark blue, something Quaeryt hadn’t seen before, either. The arrogant walk to the end of the terrace suggested that he was indeed Daefol.

Once at the end of the terrace, Daefol squared his shoulders and glared at Quaeryt. “You’re not the submarshal. He’s the only one with permission to ride in here unannounced.” A heavy gold rope chain hung around his thick neck and above his slightly jowled jaw.

“Who are you?” asked Quaeryt. “Aren’t you High Holder Fiancryt?”

“Do I look like Fiancryt? He’s dead, by the way.”

“Then why were we directed to Fiancryt?” asked Quaeryt. “And if this isn’t Fiancryt, where are we? And who are you?”

“I’m Daefol D’Alte, and this is Folan. And why are you here, rather than where you should be?”

“According to my orders,” Quaeryt hid a smile as he spoke, “I was told to stop at the first high holding I came to.”

Daefol looked puzzled. “Folan is scarcely the first.”

“We crossed the bridge and came up the west river road, and your holding is the first one,” said Quaeryt, trying to look as confused as the High Holder did.

“You came up the west river road?” Daefol’s voice contained astonishment and a little skepticism. “It only goes another five milles south before it becomes a path … or not even that.”

“No, sir,” insisted Quaeryt. “We were given directions to follow the east river road to the first bridge, and then cross the bridge and turn north until we came to the first high holding.”

“But this isn’t the first high holding,” protested Daefol.

“It’s the first we’ve come to, and it looks like a high holding, and you say that it is,” replied Quaeryt.

“Besides,” insisted Daefol in an exasperated tone, “there’s no bridge south of here.”

“But there is, sir,” protested Quaeryt. “It looks new. Gray stone. It arches over the river between two bluffs. It’s wide enough for two or three mounts, but probably wouldn’t take two carts abreast.” He turned to Zhelan. “Didn’t it look new to you, Major?”

“Yes, sir.” Zhelan did not quite roll his eyes.

“You see?” continued Quaeryt. “You can ask any of the troopers. We crossed the river south of here, I’d say three milles or so. Over that bridge.”

Daefol, standing on the upper steps of the entry to the low tower, frowned. “I don’t know…” Then he nodded. “I’d heard the submarshal had some imagers. That must be it … but he should have let me know.”

“I wish they’d let us know.” Quaeryt frowned. “I thought all the imagers were in Variana or somewhere in Khel. That’s what the marshal said. He ought to know.” Then he looked hard at Daefol. “How did you know the submarshal has imagers and we don’t?”

“I must have overheard something,”

Quaeryt shook his head. “Here I am a commander, and I don’t know what’s happening in my own army.” He paused, then said, “We’ll have to stay here tonight. Then we’ll be on our way tomorrow.”

“It’s not all that far to Fiancryt … maybe ten milles.”

Quaeryt shook his head. “That’s too far for this late in the afternoon.”

“Commander, I must protest! Submarshal Myskyl said that I would not have to garrison any Telaryn troops. He said that if matters changed, I’d be the first to know.”

“We’ll be gone early in the morning,” said Quaeryt cheerfully. “I’ll also let the submarshal know how helpful you’ve been.”

“And you want to take over the hold house as well-”

“Oh, no, sir,” Quaeryt replied. “That wouldn’t be right. Some of the outbuildings and the like, but not your dwelling. If Submarshal Myskyl thinks so highly of you that there’s no garrison here, I wouldn’t dream of intruding. But my men have had a long ride from Variana, and trying to push them and arriving late in a strange place, that wouldn’t do.”

“I’ll send a messenger to the submarshal!”

“High Holder, sir … that won’t do. It’s ten milles there, you say, and ten milles back. That’s a good four glasses on a fast mount.”

Daefol opened his mouth, then shut it, and finally spoke. “Just the outbuildings. I’ll have my steward show you.”

“He can show the major here, sir. He takes care of all billeting arrangements.”

“The major, then.” Daefol did not quite snort before he turned and walked back toward the entrance, followed by the guards.

Quaeryt dismounted immediately and handed the gelding’s reins to Khalis. “Hand him off to someone.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt then stepped back between the next set of mounts and raised a concealment before moving to the side and then walking along the edge of the terrace. A single guard remained outside the main doors, but he was positioned on the other side from where Quaeryt was when he reached the point where the terrace met the wall. As quietly as he could, Quaeryt levered himself up onto the terrace, then flattened himself against the wall beside the closed entry doors.

A good half quint passed before the door opened and a stern-faced graying man in dark blue livery stepped out through the door. Quaeryt slipped inside before the guard could close it, almost hitting the footman who had opened it and barely dodging away, again flattening himself against the side wall of the entry hall, not moving.

“What was that?” declared the surprised footman.

“What was what, Fontoy?” demanded the steward, stopping and looking back.

“Like … someone was here, but they’re not, sir.”

“Don’t go seeing things. We’ve got enough to worry about. Don’t say a word to the master unless you do see something.”

“Yes, sir.”

The steward turned, and the door closed.

“Nameless knows there was something…” murmured the footman, drawing himself up and looking toward the closed main door.

Quaeryt slowly moved along the wall of the square entry hall, trying to make certain his boots didn’t click on the polished gray marble floor, then eased out of the entry hall into a larger circular space. Ahead of him was a staircase and, to each side, long corridors.

After glancing around, Quaeryt took the hallway to the right, beyond the square entry hall, also floored in the polished gray marble, but with wainscot paneling with off-white plaster walls above. Hung every half yard or so was a portrait-except for where there were doors. The first door on his right was a small parlor, the second what looked to be a family dining area, while across the hall was a large formal dining area.

Shaking his head, Quaeryt retraced his steps, stopping and moving close to the wall as a maid of some sort hurried past him toward, he presumed, the kitchen. Then he continued past the entry hall and staircase. He passed a small sitting chamber on his left, then a large salon on the right, holding a clavecin at one end, followed by a lady’s study on the left, and a large library on the right. All were vacant.

Quaeryt headed back to the staircase and started up, trying to be as careful and quiet as possible. At the top of the steps were two men in livery. Quaeryt listened as he neared them.