Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  A rap on the study door breaks through his momentary musing. “Yes?”

  “Captain, the watch reports the scouts are at the crossroads.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be out in a moment.”

  Lerial checks the dispatch, thinks about folding and sealing it, then snorts softly. No point in doing that until you hear what the scouts have discovered … or not. He rises and leaves the study, stepping into the small anteroom of the Ensenla Post headquarters building and walking to the duty desk.

  “Ser.” The duty ranker looks up.

  “I’ll have something later for a dispatch rider. Let the duty squad know.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Thank you.” Lerial then walks out into the cold wind blowing out of the southwest and stands waiting for the scouts to ride into the post and report. He does not wait long.

  The two Mirror Lancers in their greens and heavy riding jackets—and gray gloves—rein up outside the headquarters building. Both have red faces from the cold and wind. “Tie your mounts. You can report where it’s warmer.” Lerial smiles. He can recall every winter he has spent in Ensenla, and how much he appreciated the few days of leave spent at the palace in Cigoerne.

  Once the three are seated in his study, Lerial nods to Vominen, the former Verdyn Lancer who transferred to the Mirror Lancers as soon as he could, even before the Verdyn Lancers became Mirror Lancers and ceased to exist as a separate force. “You look like something has happened.” It’s not that the scout looks that way, but that Lerial can sense the patterns of order and chaos that flow around him, and the turbulence of those patterns is suggestive.

  “Ser … almost all of the Afritan Guard pulled out of the north Ensenla post just after dawn this morning.”

  “How do you know?” Lerial grins. “Or did you sneak over there?”

  “Wouldn’t call it sneaking, ser. Just rode over and asked one of the herders. Besides, there was no one about, and they do the same when they can.”

  “And?”

  “I rode almost to the gates. They’re barred. No one’s in the watchtower. No smoke from the chimneys. No smoke in midwinter, ser?” Vominen shakes his head.

  “What did you see, Naedar?”

  “Same as Vominen, ser. One of the herder boys said they took three wagons, too.”

  Lerial nods slowly.

  After another third of a glass with the two scouts, Lerial feels they have told him everything they can recall, and he dismisses them. He looks to the dispatch he had written earlier. You’ll need to rewrite that and send it off immediately.

  Why … why in the name of the Rational Stars would Rhamuel pull three companies of guards from Ensenla when for the past two years those guards have been patrolling the border and looking for any excuse to provoke the Mirror Lancers into a skirmish?

  Lerial can think of only two reasons—a crisis in Swartheld, even an armed uprising, since Duke Atroyan has been far from the most effective ruler of Afrit, or an attack on Afrit, most likely on Luba or even Swartheld itself, by the forces of Duke Khesyn of Heldya. Either of those events would be far worse for Cigoerne than another Afritan attack on Ensenla or anywhere else along Cigoerne’s northern border.

  Could there be other reasons? Quite possibly, although Lerial has no idea what they might be, only that it’s unlikely that they would be any better than the alternatives that he already suspects are the reasons for the Afritan withdrawal.

  II

  By fourday morning, just before muster, Lerial has still heard nothing from headquarters, not that he expected a dispatch in the morning, but he had thought there might have been one on threeday afternoon. He’d even sent lancers to check the lone pier that serves Ensenla, and the scouts had talked to more of the Afritan herders and growers, but none of them knew anything more than Lerial and the scouts. A delay in response from the commander means nothing in itself, but Ensenla post is less than a day’s ride north of Cigoerne—though a fast ride to make in that time—and Lerial sent out the dispatch on oneday.

  There’s no helping that, he thinks as he steps out of headquarters to receive the morning reports. Both officers are waiting on the narrow porch.

  “Eleventh Company stands ready, ser,” reports Undercaptain Strauxyn.

  “Eighth Company stands ready, ser,” reports Senior Squad Leader Fheldar, who handles the muster for Lerial, since Lerial is both Eighth Company captain and post commander.

  “Good.” Since Eleventh Company is the duty company for the day, Lerial turns to Strauxyn. “Keep up the scouting runs on the Afritan post … and to the west, just in case the withdrawal was some sort of feint. If anything changes, let me know. Keep someone posted at the pier as well.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  At the inquiring looks from the two, Lerial shakes his head. “You’d have already heard if we’d gotten a dispatch from the commander. He may not know anything more than we do.” In fact, he might not even have known what we know. Lerial understands the need for following the chain of command, but there are times when not following it might result in better information … and sooner, and this might be one of those times, since it is just possible that either his father or his aunt might have information that would be useful.

  “Yes, ser,” replies Fheldar blandly.

  Lerial manages not to smile, knowing exactly what Fheldar’s blandness signifies. At the same time, having served under Phortyn, the previous commander of the Mirror Lancers, Lerial would far rather have the not terribly imaginative, and very honest and loyal, Jhalet in that position. “I’ll be riding out on my own inspection in half a glass, Strauxyn. If you’d have four rankers…”

  “Yes, ser.”

  It is closer to a third of a glass later when Lerial rides out through the post gates on the brown gelding that has been his primary mount for almost six years, accompanied by four lancers. The post stands on high ground to the west of Ensenla, ground not quite so high as that of the rise along which the border between Cigoerne and Afrit runs, but with a swale between it and the border rise.

  As always, but especially when he leaves the post, Lerial has created an order-shield that will repel chaos-bolts and iron weapons—and linked it to his belt knife. Even after five years of trying, for reasons he cannot fathom he has been unable to create shields directly linked to himself, and that could pose a problem at times, because the linked shields have a tendency to fade, unless renewed, roughly two glasses after being created. He can create momentarily larger shields, enough to protect a company, for a short time, but holding them for any longer than a tenth of a glass quickly exhausts him.

  You should count yourself fortunate, he reminds himself. And he should, because his father, for all his Magi’i bloodline, has no ability to shield himself at all, and his brother Lephi’s shields, although based on chaos rather than order, are far weaker than Lerial’s.

  Lerial turns the gelding onto the main road from the post through the town and to the river pier. Less than half a kay from the post gates is a dwelling under construction, its walls of sun-dried mud bricks that will be covered with a mud plaster when the house is completed and roofed and then whitewashed with numerous coats until the walls are almost a shimmering white. The walls of the older dwellings, not that any are more than four years old, are beginning to take on a faint pinkish shade from the reddish dust that is all too prevalent in summer.

  As he rides into the center of the town, and across the small square, he sees that the small walled and roofed terrace of the inn on the south side of the square is vacant, as it usually is in winter, but that two men watch from the narrow front porch.

  “Good morning, Captain!” calls Carlyat, the taller of the two, and the son of Harush, who owns the inn and tavern.

  “The same to you,” returns Lerial cheerfully.

  Carlyat grins and shakes head.

  Beyond the square are a handful of crafters’ shops, and the only chandlery north of the city proper of Cigoerne. More than once when he was young, Leri
al had questioned his father about why the city that held the palace and the duchy itself were both called Cigoerne, and the answer was invariably the same: “Because that is the way it has to be.”

  Now … it doesn’t have to be that way, but the habit is so ingrained that it’s unlikely to change, at least not anytime soon. Beyond the crafters’ shops is the single factorage in Ensenla, and it is, given the herders, a wool factorage that sits almost at the foot of the single brick and stone pier extending some twenty yards from the shore out into the gray-blue water, which also holds a touch of brown. At the moment, no craft are tied there, as is usually the case. Lerial glances across the river toward the marshes on the far side, but he sees no fishermen or bird hunters there, nor any flatboats or trading craft.

  While he has never measured the width of the river, it is more than half a kay across when it reaches Swartheld, according to Emerya, and from Lerial’s own best judgment it is not that much narrower at Ensenla or even Cigoerne, although it narrows considerably upstream of Cigoerne. That, he does recall from the few journeys he had taken with his father when he was much younger.

  After a short time, he turns the gelding away from the pier and rides north along the river road, which quickly turns into little more than a trail, well before it reaches the faded green post that marks the boundary between the two duchies. He takes his time as he heads west along the border. Almost three glasses after he set out, Lerial rides back into Ensenla Post, his winter jacket loosened because the sun and the still air have made the day almost pleasant. He has seen no sign of any Afritan troopers or raiders … and he has been able to sense no bodies of men within more than five kays of Ensenla … and that worries him.

  He is still worrying, sitting behind his desk and looking at maps, two glasses later when the duty ranker calls out, “Ser! There’s a dispatch rider coming through the gates.”

  Lerial does not quite bolt to his feet, but he is waiting by the duty desk as a dispatch rider he does not recognize hurries into headquarters.

  “Captain Lerial, ser?”

  Lerial nods. “Yes?”

  “These are for you, ser.” The rider hands over two sealed dispatches and a small leather pouch. “They’re from Commander Jhalet, ser.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, ser.”

  “If you’d arrange for food…” Lerial looks to the duty ranker.

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lerial turns and takes the dispatch and pouch back into his small study, closing the door behind himself. Then he breaks the seal and unfolds the first dispatch, a single sheet, and begins to read.

  The message is brief, and the key sentence is simple and direct: “In view of your service and ability to keep the north border secure, you are hereby promoted to Overcaptain, effective immediately.” The signature at the bottom is that of Commander Jhalet.

  The small pouch that has come with the dispatch contains the insignia of an overcaptain.

  The unexpected promotion troubles Lerial greatly, because in the normal course of events he would not have been considered for promotion for roughly another year and a half, and also because his older brother Lephi has been an overcaptain for less than a year, having spent the full five years as a captain.

  Lerial looks at the second dispatch, then opens it. The substance of that dispatch, also from Jhalet—and, unlike the first, written in the commander’s own hand—is equally brief and direct.

  You are hereby temporarily recalled to Mirror Lancer headquarters for consultation, to leave no later than fiveday morning and to make deliberate speed. Undercaptain Strauxyn will act as temporary post commander in your absence.

  The two dispatches could easily have been written on a single sheet, but Jhalet had not done so, most likely because a duplicate of the promotion dispatch would be in Lerial’s files, and that means that the recall dispatch is not something that Jhalet wishes to share with anyone at the moment.

  An early promotion and a recall for consultations, whatever that means? Lerial has grave doubts that it means anything good. The only question is how bad the trouble is and where.

  III

  Just after first light on fiveday, Lerial rides south from Ensenla, accompanied by half a squad from Eighth Company. While the river road is not paved until it is within five kays of the city of Cigoerne, it has been traveled so much over the past ten years, with sand added periodically, that the mixed sand and clay is packed hard. Duke Kiedron had also insisted that the road be set on the highest relatively level surfaces and that all bridges be wide enough for a least a wagon and a horse side by side.

  Even making good speed, Lerial does not catch sight of the city until the second glass of the afternoon, when he reaches the north side of the rise that holds, on its southern end, the Hall of Healing, where he had spent so many days learning what he could from his aunt. The reddish sandstone building, surrounded by its sandstone walls, looks no different to him, but to the west of the hall stretches a good half kay’s worth of smaller dwellings that over the past five years have crept northward from the boulevard that links the hall with the palace. Every time that Lerial returns to the city, he is surprised at the additional growth.

  As he and the lancers ride past the Hall of Healing, heading south on the paved avenue that runs along the river toward the Mirror Lancer headquarters, Lerial wonders if he should stop briefly, then shakes his head. He will certainly see Emerya at the palace later that afternoon … and the dispatch conveyed urgency.

  South of the hall, but north of the River Square, are the factorages of the larger merchanters in Cigoerne. Not only are they busier than he recalls, but he could swear that there are more factorages, and that some new ones have been built, taking the place of smaller factorages or perhaps crafters’ shops.

  There is also a new, longer stone pier south of the two piers that had projected from the stone levee walls protecting the city for almost as long as Lerial could remember—and all three piers have rivercraft of various sorts tied there. There are no Lancer sailing craft, either. At that, he frowns … and looks farther south along the river, but the buildings flanking the avenue block his view. Extending his order-senses, he discovers another pier, several hundred yards north of the Mirror Lancer headquarters compound. So much trading that they had to add a pier for the river patrols?

  Before long, he and the rankers near headquarters. Even from the River Avenue, Lerial can see the white-edged black draping on the headquarters’ gateposts. Who died? It cannot be Jhalet, unless it happened in the last day, and that would be unlikely. Nor would it be anyone from his family … again, unless it has happened in the last few glasses. Majer Chaen? Lerial hopes not, but then, he wouldn’t like it to be any of those whose names have passed through his thoughts.

  He rides more slowly up the stone causeway toward the gates, trying to think over who it might have been.

  “Welcome to headquarters, Captain, oh … excuse me, ser, Overcaptain,” calls out the ranker posted on the east side of the headquarters compound gate.

  “Thank you.” Lerial gestures at the white-edged black drape on each of the gateposts. “Not Commander Jhalet?””

  “No, ser. Not him. It was the majer … I mean Commander Altyrn. We heard late last night.”

  The ranker’s clearly regretful words go through Lerial like a lance of ice. Altyrn? The majer … the man who has made all that you have done possible. The man who taught you blade skills, who worked you until you understood what work truly was … and who gave you the sabre you still carry … telling you that he was restoring your own heritage …

  “Ser…?”

  Lerial manages to rein up the gelding, but cannot speak for a moment. “I’m sorry. I had no idea…”

  “No one did, ser.”

  “Do you know…?”

  “No, ser. Commander Jhalet might.”

  “Thank you.” Lerial rides directly to the hexagonal stone headquarters building, still trying to grapple with the idea of A
ltyrn’s death. The majer—that was always the way Lerial thought of him—had been anything but young. Lerial had never known his actual age, but he’d been close to the age of his Grandmere Mairena. Another thought strikes him. Could that be why you’re being recalled to Cigoerne? No, that couldn’t be, not when headquarters had only heard of the majer’s death late the night before.

  Outside the headquarters building, he reins up, then turns to Dhoraat, the First Squad leader. “Have the horses watered and rested, but don’t unsaddle them until you hear from me. We may be quartering here or at the palace. I won’t know until I talk to the commander.” Assuming he’s here … but he should be … with Altyrn’s death, especially. Even as he thinks those thoughts, Lerial knows that they make little logical sense.

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lerial dismounts and hands the gelding’s reins to the nearest ranker, then walks into headquarters, taking off his lancer’s visor cap and tucking it under his arm as he crosses the anteroom.

  The young ranker at the duty desk snaps to his feet. “Ser! The commander said you’re to go right in.”

  “Thank you.” Lerial steps around the desk and pushes the door, already slightly ajar, open, enters the study, and closes it behind himself.

  Jhalet rises easily from behind the table desk. Lerial again notices how, over the past five years, the commander’s once jet-black hair has gained more and more strands of silver white, and his face has hardened somewhat, but he smiles pleasantly enough. “You made good time, Overcaptain.”

  “We left at first light. Your dispatch suggested urgency.” Before Jhalet can reply, Lerial goes on. “Majer Altyrn? Do you know…?”

  Jhalet shakes his head. “We got word from the palace lancers last night.” He gestures toward the chairs in front of the desk, then seats himself. “All we know is that he died at his villa.”

  “If his death isn’t the reason I’ve been recalled…” Lerial seats himself, if slightly forward on the straight-backed armless chair. “Your dispatch did stress urgency.”