Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “… not enough brains left to be worried … his brother’s the one worried…”

  “… three for the bag … not a copper less…”

  “… sshh … high-ranking types…”

  “… ignore ’em … never stop to buy anything…”

  “… one in the strange uniform … younger than most…”

  “… any potatoes not winter-soft…?”

  Lerial wonders about the potatoes … cool sand in a root cellar should prevent softness.

  Beyond the market square is a second canal, and immediately to the north of it and west of the river road, Lerial notes an area of much larger dwellings—also set on larger pieces of property with higher walls surrounding the mansions, mansions at least in comparison with anything else he has seen in Luba. “The more affluent merchants and others live just north of this next canal?”

  “So I’ve heard,” replies Valatyr. “I can’t say that I’ve met any of them.”

  “Are you usually posted in Swartheld?”

  “Most of the time, but I go where the arms-commander wants me.”

  “I’ve never been to Swartheld, but it must be filled with wealthy traders.”

  Valatyr laughs. “More than you can believe, and they all want something, either to sell the Guard something or a favor for some relative.”

  “Do you get many young officers from the merchanters?”

  “Some. Usually second or third sons. Often from smaller merchanters. They’re usually very good or very bad.”

  “And the ones from the wealthiest families are generally the very worst—except for the one that’s outstanding?”

  “You’re obviously familiar with that problem.”

  “I’ve seen it.” And Magi’i sons can be even worse.

  Even before they approach the third canal, Lerial can smell the odors rising from the water. He glances toward Valatyr.

  “It does smell,” replies the subcommander to Lerial’s quizzical look. “All the smiths—blacksmiths, tinsmiths, silversmiths, coppersmiths—must be located along the north canal. Most people live on the canals or lands upstream of here … for obvious reasons.”

  Lerial represses a frown. He has not thought Cigoerne particularly advanced, especially after his aunt’s comments about all that she and his father lost when Cyad fell, but his grandmere and father had insisted that all factoring or smithing wastes be carted to the disposal ponds west of the city, ponds ringed with special lilies, or to a dryland gully to the northwest. Nightsoil also has to be collected, although it can be used to fertilize fields that grow fodder.

  “You look skeptical,” observes Valatyr.

  “We don’t have enough smiths for their waste to fill an entire canal,” Lerial temporizes.

  “I’m sure that those who live near here wished that were true here.”

  Roughly a third of a kay beyond the third canal, the dwellings come to an end. They continue riding, but to the west of the road is a gentle rise half covered with brown grass, with sandy ground between the patches of grass. Lerial can sense more rises farther west, but has the impression that they have even less grass. Ahead the road angles to the northwest as it climbs the west end of a bluff that the river curves eastward around before seemingly returning to its north-northwesterly course.

  Valatyr finally reins up short of where the road steepens. “You can see how steep the incline is between the road and the river from here north. It’s at least that steep for a good fifteen kays. That’s why Khesyn will attack somewhere between the south end of the hunting park and here. That is, if he chooses to attack here at all.”

  “Could he just be mustering forces from the south here before sending them downstream for an attack on Shaelt or Swartheld?”

  “That’s possible. That’s why there are battalions being held in both places. But we can’t afford to lose the ironworks, either, and that would certainly happen if we didn’t have forces here.”

  “I can see that.” And you’d have the dark angels’ time if they ever got a sizable force established on this side of the river.

  “Now that you’ve seen what there is to see of Luba by the river, so to speak, we’ll head back.” Valatyr turns his mount.

  So does Lerial.

  X

  The remainder of eightday goes without event, as do oneday, twoday, and threeday. On all of those days Lerial takes his companies to the grasslands southwest of the hunting park and conducts maneuvers. He also uses some of that time to study the land and the area farther south along the river, and insists that Fheldar and the undercaptains do as well. While he sees several more empty flatboats arriving, and Subcommander Drusyn and Valatyr report that at the morning meeting of the senior officers on threeday, the Heldyan piers south of Vyada remain filled with apparently empty flatboats.

  Although he has not pressed the issue, Lerial feels that Fheldar and the undercaptains need a tour of Luba and the area north of Lubana. Before the morning meeting on fourday, Lerial meets with Fheldar and his officers and arranges for arms practice for the rankers, under their squad leaders for the day. Then, after the morning meeting on fourday, he approaches Commander Sammyl.

  “What is it, Overcaptain?”

  “You were kind enough to arrange for Subcommander Valatyr to give me a tour of the area around Lubana, and I’ve familiarized my officers with everything south of the estate. While I would not wish to intrude on any of your officers’ time, I would like to familiarize them with Luba itself and the ground immediately north of the city.” Lerial offers an apologetic smile before continuing. “I fear, however, if Mirror Lancer officers and rankers ride unaccompanied through Luba, this might create some misapprehensions. So I would like to request the presence of four Afritan Guard rankers to accompany us.”

  Sammyl smiles. “That would be most appropriate and easy enough to arrange.”

  Less than half a glass later, Lerial, Kusyl, Strauxyn, Fheldar, four Mirror Lancer rankers, and four Afritan Guards ride out through the north gate of Lubana, with Lerial leading the officers and Fheldar, followed by the Afritan Guards, with the Mirror Lancers bringing up the rear.

  Lerial says very little on the ride along the river road, past the piers and market square, all the way to where the road swings inland and begins its climb over and around the bluff. Once there, he turns the gelding west, and leads his group up the grassy rise to the crest, where he reins up. As he has suspected, the eastern slope of the next rise presents more reddish sand than grass. So he turns south and rides along the crest until he nears the line of dwellings and small plots that mark the northern edge of Luba, finding his way to a narrow lane that leads south.

  Seemingly within moments after Lerial re-enters the small city, the stench becomes far more pronounced, close to unbearable in the still air, cool as it is, and Lerial wonders just what it must be like in the heat of summer. He leads his group on a wandering ride through the city, slowly leaving the stench behind and heading generally westward until they eventually reach the road to the ironworks. Rather than head eastward, Lerial heads west, studying the canals and ditches and the irrigated plots and olive orchards that are everywhere, continuing until the road intersects the side road that leads to the west gate of Lubana.

  As he rides back through the gate slightly before second glass in the afternoon, Lerial considers what he has learned from his ride north from Cigoerne … and from his tours around the Luba area. Luba itself is markedly smaller than Cigoerne, less than half its size, not nearly so neat or well kept, and definitely smells much worse. There seem to be more hamlets in Afrit than in Cigoerne, but of all those Lerial has seen, Guasyra and Luba are the only ones that appear prosperous. But then, it could just be that everywhere prosperous is north of here … and that’s why Rhamuel doesn’t much care about southeastern Afrit.

  A glass later, Lerial is busy watching lancers spar, occasionally offering advice to the squad leaders, and despite the coolness having to open his riding jacket. Just how warm will L
uba be by spring, let alone summer?

  By the time he enters the officers’ mess in the private dining room that evening, Lerial cannot help but wonder, even more, exactly what Duke Khesyn has in mind. Are the boats tied up at Vyada a decoy? If they aren’t, how long will it be before Khesyn attacks? And why would he attack where Rhamuel has amassed so many troopers? Because he wants to destroy Atroyan’s Afritan Guard in order to make conquest of Afrit easier? Or because it’s easier to cross the river here?

  After the opening toast by Rhamuel, this time to “patient officers,” Lerial quietly asks just those questions once the arms-commander has been served—some sort of sliced beef in a cream cheese sauce over sliced boiled potatoes, with turnips on the side.

  Rhamuel smiles, looking up from his platter. “You’re not terribly interested in dinner, are you?”

  “I’ll eat it, ser, but I’ve been watching and thinking…”

  “So have we all.”

  “And being patient doesn’t necessarily bring one answers.”

  “Sometimes insisting on an answer brings the one least appreciated.”

  Lerial laughs softly. “And sometimes waiting does.”

  Rhamuel shakes his head, obviously amused, then takes a sip of the hearty red wine he prefers before speaking. “Khesyn has two objectives. The first is to decimate, if not destroy, the Afritan Guard. The second is to conquer Afrit. If he can achieve the second without achieving the first, he will. My task is to make certain that he has to attempt the first before doing anything else.”

  “And because Swartheld is the key to Afrit, you have more guards there and in Shaelt than is commonly known. The guards here are to stop his forces from gaining this side of the river where there are roads that lead to Shaelt and Swartheld.”

  Rhamuel nods. “We should have brandy—or better lager—in my study after dinner.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  The arms-commander smiles, ironically. “Perhaps.”

  That suggests that while Lerial may be honored, he won’t necessarily be pleased. He returns the smile. “Your lager is good. If your private stock is better, it must be quite good.”

  “It’s excellent, if I do say so. You haven’t mentioned much about Cigoerne, you know.”

  “Well … since the last time you were there—”

  “The only time,” interjects Rhamuel mildly.

  “… it has grown a great deal. There are more piers on the river, and the dwellings now extend as far north as the Hall of Healing all the way as far west as the palace…”

  For the remainder of the meal, after Lerial finishes providing Rhamuel with a description of how Cigoerne has changed, he replies politely and tries to listen to what others are saying. One set of comments, which he can barely make out, even with his order-senses, comes from the bottom of the table between Majer Waell and Majer Sethwyn, whom Lerial knows only by sight and name.

  “… understand that Natroyor was ailing…”

  “He’s all right now. That’s what I heard.”

  “Good … don’t need something like that now … still wonder … not coincidence … not after what happened to the duke’s eldest…”

  Lerial refrains from frowning. Did something happen to Kyedra? He tries to pick up more, but the conversation turns to speculations on what types of troopers Khesyn might bring to an attack on Lubana … or anywhere in Afrit.

  “How did your ride through Luba go,” inquires Sammyl politely.

  “It was very instructive. We spent a bit more time in the north. I wanted to look over the rises and swales north of the third canal. We came back through the town and then used the ironworks road to return to the west gate.”

  “How does Luba compare to Cigoerne?”

  “It’s smaller, but it has more smiths and metalworkers than Cigoerne does. I’d judge that Cigoerne has more factors and traders, but that makes sense. Swartheld would seem to be the trading center for Afrit, not Luba…” As he talks, Lerial tries not to reveal anything most likely not already known to Rhamuel.

  After the last goblets of wine and the last beakers of lager are finished, Rhamuel rises, then nods to Lerial, who stands and walks with the arms-commander from the private dining room through the main hall to Rhamuel’s study … and then to the small conference table, on which is a silver tray holding a goblet and a beaker and two pitchers, one likely of white wine and the other of lager.

  Rhamuel seats himself, as does Lerial. “I presume you know why I’ve not invited you here before.”

  “To make it appear as though my presence is strictly a necessity and not to show favoritism … or to cause excessive prying that might reveal certain things.”

  “There is that. I also wanted you to see matters as any officer might … although we both know that you are anything but any officer. Your father knows that great rewards do not come without great risks.” The older man pours himself a goblet of the white wine.

  For a moment, Lerial wonders what Rhamuel means. Then he smiles pleasantly. “He did not place all those risks before me.” Altyrn did.

  “Then you are a greater gambler than I thought.”

  Lerial reaches for the pitcher of lager, scanning it with his order-senses as he lifts it, but he can feel none of the chaos that might suggest poison; not that he suspects such, but he is trying to make that a habit, especially when he is the only one drinking from a pitcher or other vessel. As he half fills the beaker, he replies, “I don’t seek risks. I try to do only what is necessary.”

  “That can be the greatest risk of all.”

  Lerial smiles again, more broadly. “You are more familiar with that than I am.”

  Rhamuel returns the smile. “What questions would you ask of me?”

  “Before we talk about what you might have in mind,” or not, “ser, I did have one question that has little to do with Duke Khesyn and my presence here. I overheard someone talking about something that had happened to the duke’s eldest child, and I hadn’t heard anything about Kyedra.” Lerial smiles apologetically. “I suppose I’m interested because she’s the only one of the duke’s children I ever met, and that was over ten years ago.”

  Rhamuel frowns. “Kyedra? There’s nothing…” Then he shakes his head. “They must have been talking about his elder son. That was Traeyen. He had a rare blood flux. There was some sort of chaos in his body. Not even the best healers in Afrit could do anything. He died. That was last fall, though.”

  “I hadn’t heard anything about that. I don’t think anyone in Cigoerne knows … and there was something about Natroyor…”

  “Contrary to your words, Lerial, those matters may have a great deal to do with you, me, and Duke Atroyan. “

  “You’re suggesting that his younger son is also ill … or frail?”

  “At times, there is little difference.”

  “He has no other sons?”

  Rhamuel shakes his head.

  From that gesture, Lerial gains the impression that other children are unlikely. “Yet neither you nor your brother…”

  “You know I can have no sons, not under the laws of Afrit. Nor can Mykel, not that his interests lie there.”

  Not only does what Rhamuel has disclosed suggest even more reasons for Duke Khesyn’s interests in Afrit, but there are definite implications. Should you press? “What can I do to help you?”

  Rhamuel laughs, softly, but with a bitter edge. “You are more of a gambler than you realize … or better at disguising it.”

  Lerial waits.

  “You may be able to help Afrit. Or you may be able to help me. Or yourself. Or none. You will, I think, know what must be done when the choice is before you.” After a moment, Rhamuel adds, “I would ask that you never aid Khesyn, but since that is so against your interests and those of your sire and your people, I trust I should not have to ask that.”

  Neatly done … asking without asking.

  “You asked about what Khesyn will do. There will be an attack. It will come soon. If
we repulse it without many casualties, or if we inflict massive casualties, Khesyn will withdraw. That has been his pattern.”

  “Then why do you need me…” Lerial shakes his head. Of course!

  “I think you understand.”

  “What better way than to smooth over past differences? In a fashion that even those who are less than charitably inclined cannot but accept?”

  Rhamuel nods. “And there is also the possibility that Khesyn may attack again.”

  “Would you like me to tell you about my family, especially about those you did not meet or spend much time with when you were in Cigoerne—my brother, my younger sister, my aunt, and her daughter?”

  “That would be helpful, especially if the duke calls upon me to advise him on such matters. That has happened, upon occasion, if less often in recent years.”

  “You may recall that my brother Lephi is two years older. As an overcaptain he is in command of two companies posted to Sudstrym—that’s a newer post just across the river from Amaershyn…” Lerial goes on with obvious information about his parents and Ryalah, and then his aunt Emerya … “remains as the head of healing at the Healing Hall in Cigoerne. She was the one who first instructed me in field healing. She has one daughter. That is Amaira. She has brown hair and brown eyes, much like you, and she is warm and has a good sense of humor.” Lerial almost mentions that Amaira is deeply grounded in order, but decides against that because it would raise too many questions about how he would know and what else he knows. “She’s very intelligent, and she is quietly strong, but sensitive. She’s been very good for my sister Ryalah and far more patient with her than I’d have been likely to be in the same circumstance. Her mother thinks she might have the talent for being a healer, and she’s been spending time at the Hall of Healing…”

  When Lerial finishes, Rhamuel nods and smiles, almost sadly. “That’s quite a family you have, even the girls.”

  “Ryalah has been a challenge now and then … Amaira, never, not that I can recall. She’s very thoughtful. She should make a good healer, but that’s something that only time will tell.”