“We don’t get many dates in Cigoerne. Usually those we do get are dried and not fresh.”
“We’ll have to have you eat real dates, then,” says Rhamuel with a light laugh. “And some good vintages. The grapes from the hills southwest of Swartheld produce a wonderful red wine.”
“What about white wines?”
“Ah … you would like Ascatyl. It comes from the small white grapes on the higher hills.”
“And too much Ascatyl,” adds Valatyr from where he rides on the other side of Rhamuel, “will have you liking everything … until you wake the next morning.”
“That’s true of everything in excess,” says Rhamuel mildly, “assuming you wake up. That doesn’t always happen in parts of Swartheld.”
“People doing things to excess in Cigoerne usually do wake up.” Lerial pauses. “That used to be true. I’m not so certain it always does now. Cigoerne has grown so much.”
“That’s one difference between towns and cities,” comments Valatyr. “Cigoerne’s likely a city now.”
“A very small one,” replies Lerial.
“How big compared to Luba?” asks Valatyr.
“At least twice as large, perhaps three times.”
“It’s grown that much?” Rhamuel is clearly surprised.
“It’s grown rapidly in the past few years. It was larger every time I rode there from Ensenla.”
“Rode there from Ensenla?” asks Valatyr.
“I’ve been posted to Ensenla for most of the past five years,” explains Lerial.
“Five years?” For a long moment, Valatyr says nothing. “Oh…” He looks to Rhamuel.
“Yes, I knew that,” replies the arms-commander. “The overcaptain likely has more combat experience than any officer now in the Afritan Guard. More successful combat experience.”
“And more mistakes,” adds Lerial dryly. He cannot but wonder why Rhamuel did not mention that Lerial had been the one to destroy the Afritan battalion years ago … and then has admitted to Valatyr that he knew all along. Because Valatyr had also observed what had happened to the Heldyans attacking the east wall? But if Valatyr had observed … Lerial wants to shake his head at the already-complex politics in the Afritan Guard, politics that he knows will only get messier the longer he is in Afrit. Yet he also knows he had no real choice but to accept Rhamuel’s offer. And perhaps Rhamuel had no real choice but to offer. That, too, is a frightening and all-too-real possibility.
“Experience is always paid for in mistakes,” counters Rhamuel.
“If you’re fortunate, someone else’s,” suggests Valatyr.
“No, that doesn’t count as experience.” Rhamuel shakes his head. “Profiting from someone else’s mistakes, especially when you’re young, gives you the feeling that you won’t make mistakes … and that’s sometimes even worse.”
“You know, ser,” says Valatyr with a smile, “you could give any man pause.”
“Some men, but not those who need that pause. Words never affect them.”
That statement gives Lerial pause, if for a moment, as he realizes just how true it is.
“There is a pleasant way station at Haal,” Rhamuel says cheerfully.
“It will be crowded, but it has held a full battalion,” interjects Valatyr.
As they ride closer to Haal, Lerial can see a network of smaller canals, presumably fed by larger canals from the river. The olive trees are stout and well tended, and the mud-brick cottages between the orchards also in good condition, although some of the roofs could use a rethatching. But where do they get the thatching? He hasn’t seen either long-stemmed wild grasses or wheat-corn fields. Then he smiles. Water reeds. There’s no shortage of those this close to the river.
“You can see the way station now,” announces Valatyr.
As at Guasyra, the way station is located south of the town, and when they approach it, Lerial can see that the simple plaster-covered mud-brick walls three yards high form a square some two hundred yards on a side. In the center of the square are two long buildings, one clearly a stable, the other a two-story barracks.
The main gates, manned by two Afritan Guards, are less than twenty yards west of the road and do not look to have been closed in years, not from the way they sag to the packed clay of the courtyard, observes Lerial as he rides past them.
“The officers’ quarters are on the north end,” Valatyr explains. “So is the officers’ mess. Very small.”
“There’s a mess staff here?” asks Lerial.
“No,” replies Rhamuel, “but there are supplies here for companies to use, and one of the rankers in my personal squad is an excellent cook. You might have noticed him. He does enjoy his own cooking.”
Lerial can’t help but smile as he recalls the hefty ranker.
“He can do wonders with very little,” adds Rhamuel. “You’ll see.” With that, he nods and turns his mount toward the officers’ end of the barracks building.
Once Lerial has accompanied his men to the stables and he is well away from the arms-commander, he draws his undercaptains aside. “We need to keep a close watch on the gates. I want someone watching at all times. Let me know if anyone saddles up and departs the way station.”
“You want to let them go, ser?” asks Fheldar.
“No, but we don’t want anyone harmed, either. We are guests.”
“Leave that to us, ser.” Kusyl smiles.
“If … if you can find someone sneaking out and you can detain them, let me know immediately. You can’t hurt them.”
“No, ser. We won’t.”
Lerial nods slowly. Are you certain this is wise? He shakes his head. Is anything wise?
“We’ll be very careful, ser,” adds Strauxyn.
“We’ll need to be very careful about everything from here on.” Lerial feels that he cannot emphasize that too much, then realizes the absurdity of his words and goes on, grinning wryly as he does, “Even when we’re doing something that’s exceedingly risky.”
“But necessary,” says Kusyl.
Lerial doesn’t contradict the seasoned undercaptain.
More than two glasses later, Rhamuel, Valatyr, Lerial, the three undercaptains, and Fheldar are seated around the oblong mess table, finishing a meal of noodles and mutton slices in a spicy but tasty brown sauce, accompanied by warm crusty loaves of freshly baked bread. The only beverage is a watery ale that Lerial finds barely drinkable.
“Arms-Commander, ser?” asks Kusyl. “Begging your pardon, ser…”
Lerial wants to wince, knowing that the older squad leader, while diplomatic and deferential, will not hesitate to ask a direct question on delicate subjects.
“… but how did you get to be arms-commander … besides, again begging your pardon, ser, being the duke’s brother?”
Rhamuel laughs. “I can see why it would never be a good idea to have Cigoerne as an enemy again.” A smile follows his words. “Being named arms-commander was easy. My sire, when he was duke, declared my older brother would succeed him, and that I would learn enough to be arms-commander—or that I would be exiled to Lydiar or dropped on the desert isle of Recluce. Like your overcaptain, I started lower than an undercaptain, as a provisional officer trainee. I did make captain before my brother became duke and installed me as arms-commander. I listened to senior officers and followed their advice. I learned whose words were valuable and whose were … less valuable. I made a number of mistakes, one of which ended up getting me wounded and captured by Duke Kiedron. I learned enough from that to decide that fighting Cigoerne and its Mirror Lancers was less than wise. Another episode, while I was laid low by a particularly nasty flux, reinforced that decision. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.”
“Good. Now, let me ask you one. Why do you think you and Overcaptain Lerial were sent to Afrit?”
Kusyl looks to Lerial.
Lerial nods.
“Yes, ser. The overcaptain is the best commander the duke has. I know that, and so do Fhel
dar and Strauxyn, and the duke knows we know that.”
“So why do you think the duke sent his best commander, and his son, to help Afrit?”
“Because Duke Khesyn is a bastard, ser.”
Rhamuel bursts into laughter and laughs for several long moments. Then he shakes his head. “Oh … oh…” He turns to Valatyr. “I would that…” He breaks off and looks at Norstaan. “Would you have said that, Undercaptain?”
“Ah … ser…” The undercaptain swallows. “No, ser.”
Rhamuel shakes his head again, this time ruefully, before turning and looking down the table at Kusyl. “Thank you.” He pauses. “Were you in Verdheln, Undercaptain?”
“Yes, ser. Squad leader, acting undercaptain.”
“Serving under Lord Lerial?”
“No, ser. He was undercaptain of Second Company, and I was acting undercaptain of Fourth Company. Those were Verdyn Lancers, not Mirror Lancers, ser. Majer Altyrn was commanding.”
“How many companies did the majer command?”
“Six, ser.”
“How many Meroweyan companies were there?”
“Eight battalions, the majer said.”
Rhamuel looks to Norstaan. “I won’t put you on the spot.” His eyes go to Valatyr. “What would you gather from what Undercaptain Kusyl said, Subcommander?”
“Might I ask one more question of the undercaptain, ser?”
Rhamuel nods.
“How experienced were the Verdyn Lancers?”
“They’d never held a blade when we got there.” Kusyl smiles. “The majer, the overcaptain—he was a green undercaptain, barely seventeen—and two of us squad leaders trained them for less than a season before Duke Casseon attacked.”
Valatyr offers a tight smile. “I’d draw the conclusion you’re asking for, ser … that it is unwise to underestimate the Mirror Lancers.”
“What part of the training did you do?” Rhamuel asks Lerial.
“Blade training. That’s the only skill I really knew then. I had to learn about maneuvers, supplies, scouting, as fast as I could.”
Valatyr glances at Kusyl. “How good a blade is he?”
“Then … he was one of the best. Now…” Kusyl shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want to be in the same sparring ring.”
“Might I ask how good a blade your brother is?” asks Rhamuel.
“I couldn’t say,” replies Lerial. “We were close to evenly matched when I became an undercaptain.” That’s stretching matters, but … “We’ve never sparred since then. We seldom even see each other. He’s posted to Sudstrym, and I’ve spent most of my time at Ensenla or along the north border.”
Rhamuel frowns slightly. “It’s later than I thought. If you wouldn’t mind leaving the mess to the subcommander and me … we need to go over a few things…”
“By your leave, ser?” Lerial stands, followed by all the undercaptains and Fheldar.
Rhamuel nods.
Lerial gestures for Norstaan to lead the way from the small mess, and, after a moment, the dark-haired and fresh-faced undercaptain does so, stepping into the short and narrow hallway. Lerial lags slightly, then pauses at the door to the courtyard, holding the door ajar.
“If you’d all check on the men and mounts,” Lerial says. “I need to check some other matters. I’ll meet you outside the stable in half a glass or so.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial waits until the undercaptains are well away and half swallowed by the late twilight gloom before he raises a concealment, and then slips back into the hallway, closing the door loudly. He eases his way back toward the mess.
“… all gone,” says Valatyr, whom Lerial can sense moving back to the mess table and seating himself. “Might I ask what that was all about?”
“Didn’t you see it?” Rhamuel’s voice contains a trace of irritation.
“That Lord Lerial is extraordinarily accomplished and talented? We knew that already.”
“No. His undercaptains. They’re all seasoned veterans. They’re not afraid to speak their minds, if deferentially … and they respect him absolutely. What does that tell you?”
“Besides the fact that he’d turn most of our battalions into raw meat?” Valatyr is silent for several moments. “He was candid about his shortcomings as a green undercaptain.”
“And?”
“He’s unlikely to have an excessive opinion of his own abilities, and his officers know that as well.”
“It will be interesting to see how he manages Swartheld,” muses Rhamuel.
“Because it’s far less direct than a battlefield?” Valatyr laughs. “Deadly as young Lerial may be, I’d wager that Maesoryk will have him charmed and bewildered in less than a glass.”
Maesoryk—you need to keep that name in mind.
“He well may … but the first glass is not what counts. It’s the last glass. The empress won the last glass against my sire.”
“And your brother has never forgotten that.”
“No. But that last glass may be our saving in the end.”
“Ser?”
There is no response, but Lerial’s senses give him the impression that Rhamuel has shaken his head. Then, after a moment, the arms-commander speaks again. “Who should we invite to dinner in Shaelt? Those that Lord Lerial should meet?”
“Is Graemaald still willing…”
“He will host it and invite anyone we wish. Even on less than a day’s notice.”
“I thought you might ask that. I have a list here.” Valatyr extends a sheet. “You can add others, of course.”
“You haven’t listed Vonacht.”
“He’s been stipended off.”
“Exactly. That’s why he needs to be there. Also, Kenkram, and, if possible, Shalaara.”
“Shalaara? That could be awkward…”
“She’s a woman, and she’s powerful and wealthy. We don’t have many, and he needs to see that there are some in Afrit.”
Lerial listens intently as the two mention other names, although not a single name is familiar to him.
Then, abruptly, the arms-commander yawns. “I need to get some sleep. Even rest would be helpful. It will be a long ride tomorrow.” Rhamuel rises.
So does Valatyr.
Lerial slips to the part of the corridor past the archway to the mess, where he waits for the other two to leave. Then he waits before leaving the lower level, still holding a concealment and pondering what he has overheard.
XVIII
Well before dawn on eightday morning, a quiet rap on the door of the small and narrow room that passes for an officer’s quarters awakens Lerial.
“Ser?”
Lerial bolts upright and walks to the door, finally focusing his order-senses on the single figure out in the hall outside. “Yes?”
“Undercaptain Kusyl thinks you’d best join him outside the stables, ser.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Lerial yanks on his uniform and boots, then stops and belts on his sabre, the cupridium-plated iron blade that Altyrn claimed had come from one of his ancestors, and hurries down the outside steps from the second level to the courtyard and then across to the stables, glad for his order-sensing abilities, given the darkness cloaking the way station. Even before he leaves the barracks building, he can sense a single figure outside the stable.
The ranker steps forward as Lerial nears the stable door, barely ajar. “Undercaptain Kusyl is inside, ser.”
“Thank you.” Lerial slips through the door and into the stable, where Kusyl and three rankers stand under the one small lamp. Between them is an Afritan ranker, his black-gloved hands bound before him.
“We found this fellow with a dispatch pouch trying to take a mount out,” says Kusyl. “We thought you ought to see him, ser.” As Lerial steps closer to the undercaptain, Kusyl murmurs, “Still have men watching, ser,”
Lerial can’t help but feel the trace of a wry smile. Kusyl trusts the Afritans—or some of them—less than you do. He nods and st
udies the captive.
The Afritan ranker is not young, but neither is he old, perhaps three or four years older than Lerial, with a narrow face hardened by experience. He has lank blond hair, and a mole or scar on one cheek. Lerial does not recognize him, but that is not surprising, since he wears a regular Afritan Guard uniform and not the slightly dressier version worn by Rhamuel’s personal squad. That suggests he is a member of the permanent cadre at the way station … except for the black leather gloves. Could he be a decoy? Or just a contact so that whoever is the spy in Rhamuel’s squad can pass off information.
“What’s your name?” asks Lerial pleasantly.
“I only answer to Squad Leader Phoraan or Afritan Guard officers, ser.”
How can you get him to reveal something … Lerial smiles. “I think we can manage that. Put a rope around his waist. Tightly.”
“You can’t do that. I’m not under your command.”
“You’re absolutely right,” returns Lerial as he watches one of the rankers slip a rope around the midsection of the Afritan. “And I’m about to return you to a superior officer. I wouldn’t think of doing anything else.” He turns to Kusyl. “Do you have the dispatch pouch?”
“Yes, ser.” The undercaptain holds up a black leather case.
“What do you think about this ranker?” Lerial asks in a low voice.
“He’s not a ranker … or not just one. His belt knife isn’t what most rankers wear. It’s too good, more like a bravo’s. Doesn’t carry himself like a ranker, either.”
“Not the way he answered me.” Lerial, sensing something like chaos, turns and draws his sabre. He sees that one of the Afritan ranker’s hands is free, but the other holds a shimmering blade unlike the dark iron weapons usually used by Afritan Guards. That blade flashes toward the ranker with the rope, who, most sensibly, drops it and jumps back.
In that moment, Lerial steps forward, and a small bolt of chaos flares toward him. Unthinkingly, Lerial parries the chaos with his blade, even before it reaches his shields.
In the momentary light of that flare, Lerial can see the surprise on the false ranker’s face, although that doesn’t stop the man from beginning a thrust against Lerial.
Lerial instinctively parries the thrust, moving into an attack.
Heritage of Cyador Page 16
