Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “You might,” Lerial say amiably, “if you’ll first tell me a bit about the lady. I don’t even know her name.”

  “Haesychya,” replies Mesphaes. “She is fair and slender, with hair the color of pale strawberry wine. Other than that, I can say little, because she reputedly also says very little, except in the privacy of the palace and among family and close friends. That is a trait that runs in the House of Aenian.”

  “Thank you … and what did you have in mind?”

  “The possibility of a letter of introduction to a factor of influence in Cigoerne.”

  Lerial offers an embarrassed smile. “I could offer you a letter of introduction to my father, but not to a factor of influence. I was never trained in trading and factoring, and I’ve been away from Cigoerne most of the last six years.”

  “One would think…” Mesphaes shakes his head ruefully. “Without trade and tariffs, a land cannot long survive.”

  Lerial nods. “I agree. So does my father, but we remain slightly removed from the affairs of trade. So long as traders and merchanters pay their tariffs and obey the laws, the duke and his ministers do not become involved. Disputes go to a justicer. Although the duke may review a decision, seldom is a justicer’s finding overturned.”

  For several long moments, Mesphaes is silent.

  Lerial keeps a pleasant expression on his face, but does not speak.

  Finally, the merchanter shakes his head once more. “Even without an introduction, it appears as though I should look into the possibility of opening a factorage in Cigoerne.”

  “You are in spirits.” Lerial pauses. “You might inquire of the widow of Majer Altyrn about the possibility of purchasing some of the dark lager they brew in Teilyn. I’ve not had anything like it—not so far—here in Afrit.”

  A smile crosses the merchanter’s face. “Is she attractive?”

  “Very. But as a lady long consorted to a man she adored and most recently widowed, I doubt her inclinations will be romantic. The lager, however, is likely to prove profitable.”

  “Have you other … information?”

  “There are a number of factoring houses in Cigoerne. Most I know little of, but I would be most wary of Myrapol House.” Now that Veraan has taken over running the factoring house founded by his late mother, Lerial isn’t about to recommend it.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s quite successful, but … I question some of the basis of that success.” There is something else about Myrapol … but Lerial cannot remember what that might be.

  Mesphaes nods. “I appreciate that information.”

  “Still trying to get the first opportunities, Mesphaes?” The new speaker is an angular man a good half a head shorter than Lerial.

  “Why would I do otherwise, Khaythor?” The spirits merchanter turns to Lerial. “Khaythor is renowned for his wit and his ability to procure and mill any kind of timber known to man. Well, except camma wood. That’s too dangerous for a mill.”

  “Too dangerous to grow. We thin those whenever we see one.”

  Dangerous to grow…? Abruptly, Lerial recalls what Altyrn had said and how the elders of Verdheln used cammabark to blast away dirt and rock for roads … and how they’d used it against the Meroweyans at Faerwest. “What about lorken?”

  “In smaller quantities,” admits Khaythor, with a smile that includes not just his lips, but his whole face and light green eyes. “Are there any stocks in Cigoerne?”

  “If there are, they would only be known to the people of the Verd.”

  “That’s too bad. One can scarcely make a profit when timber is eightdays by wagon from a river or the ocean.”

  Lerial loses track of Mephaes’s response, because he hears two men somewhere behind him talking in comparatively low voices, and he is straining to catch the words.

  “… you know Aenian House has an advantage…”

  “… not if they don’t use it. Alaphyn is far better positioned to deal with the Austrans…”

  “… what about the Nordlans?”

  While Lerial recognizes the fact that the duke’s consort is from Aenian House, he cannot decipher anything close to the specifics of what he hears in passing.

  “… always about transport, Mesphaes,” Khaythor continues. “It doesn’t matter if you have the goods, not if you can’t get them to those who want them cheaply…”

  “But you have to obtain them with better quality or lower costs, don’t you?” asks Lerial amiably.

  “Transport is just part of the cost.”

  “Ah … here’s Lord Lerial!” Two more merchanters join the group. The speaker wears a white linen jacket over a pale green shirt, rather than the muslin overtunic favored by many of the merchanters, and he looks directly at Lerial. “Corsonnyl—not so much a merchanter as a builder of fine structures.”

  “A merchanter of buildings and dwellings by any other name,” adds the shorter man with him, clad in a dark blue overtunic. “And I’m Sosostryn … and proud to claim to be just a merchanter of fine fowl. Any kind, any time.”

  A merchanter of fowl? Does he raise them by the scores? Lerial nods. “I’m pleased to meet you both. What sort of buildings?”

  “Any kind. I built this villa for Graemaald…”

  Lerial listens as Corsonnyl declaims on the stones in Graemaald’s villa and how the stones employed, the purpose of a structure, and the location all must be considered in order to create the best possible building.

  A set of chimes brings the time of refreshments to a close, and in moments Lerial finds himself seated at the long table, with Rhamuel at the head, Graemaald to the left of the arms-commander and Lerial to the right. On Lerial’s right is an older man, with thick gray hair, introduced to Lerial by Rhamuel as Fhastal, a merchanter of note, both in Shaelt and in Swartheld. Once several toasts have been offered, the first to Rhamuel, the second to Lerial, and the third in appreciation of all those who came on such short notice, Fhastal turns to Lerial.

  “Have you been adequately introduced, or merely inundated?”

  “Adequately introduced and occasionally inundated.”

  “That is the nature of such dinners. One attempts to overwhelm with spirits, conversation, excellent fare, the obvious known, and the insignificant otherwise unknown, in an effort to gain an advantage that may never be used, but which will be remembered and held in case of necessity or mere opportunity.”

  “Then,” replies Lerial with a laugh, “what obvious known and intriguing insignificant unknown will you present?”

  “The obvious to all but you”—Fhastal smiles—“is that I trade in golds, silvers, and coppers. I provide letters of credit based on those, and take an interest in the resources of those who need ready credit or ready golds.”

  “Then at times, you must have found yourself with interests in or in possession of almost every form of merchanting … and learned something, if not much, about each. That, in turn, since you are here, obviously enabled you to become even more astute.”

  “Some might say so, but in the merchanting of golds, one single misstep can destroy one, just as a single grave misstep can destroy a ruler.”

  “Or a commander in battle,” adds Rhamuel.

  “Precisely.”

  “And your insignificant but intriguing unknown?”

  “That I once purchased some jewelry from your grandmere, and paid more than anyone thought I should have.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  Fhastal smiles once more. “I did not profit from the trade, but I more than profited from the knowledge.”

  “And what might have been the profit from that knowledge?” Lerial asks lightly.

  “Let me just say that I was one trader in golds and credits when I made that purchase. Now…” He shrugs.

  Lerial looks pointedly at Graemaald.

  The cotton merchant pauses, then replies. “He holds the largest countinghouse in Hamor, by any reckoning.”

  That explains why Fhastal is seated where he is … o
r at least one reason. “That suggests that you maintain interests in far more than golds and credit.”

  “I must confess that I do have some such interests. Now … what about a known obvious and an insignificant unknown in return?”

  “The known obvious is that I am the second son of the duke of Cigoerne and an overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers. An insignificant unknown? I spent a summer and more digging irrigation trenches on the lands of Majer Altyrn.”

  “I will accept that, gratefully,” replies Fhastal with a smile more like the grin of a satisfied mountain cat, “although I would not term it insignificant.”

  “I only returned in kind.”

  Graemaald stiffens slightly at Lerial’s words, while Rhamuel shows the slightest hint of a nod.

  Fhastal laughs, if almost softly.

  When the laughter ends, Lerial says, “Tell me what others know. In how many towns and cities are your countinghouses … those sorts of matters.”

  “That I can do … willingly. There are large houses in Swartheld and Shaelt, and smaller ones in Luba and Guasyra. The main house is in Shaelt. We have very small houses in Dolari, Kysha, Nubyat, and, of course, Cigoerne…”

  Fhastal has a countinghouse in Cigoerne. That, Lerial had not known, but he had no reason to know. He nods, thinking. Might that be how Emerya has sent letters to Rhamuel all these years?

  “Those houses outside Afrit … would it not be risky for them to hold much in the way of golds or silvers?”

  “Not so long as the countinghouses from Merowey and Heldya operate in Afrit,” returns Fhastal.

  That also makes a sort of sense to Lerial. “And family … they are involved?”

  “Both daughters and two of my sons.”

  “Daughters…” murmurs Graemaald.

  “There are some transactions better suited to women, dear friend,” replies Fhastal, although the gentleness of the phrase “dear friend” suggests courtesy rather than friendship, it seems to Lerial.

  After more talk of the countinghouses, Rhamuel clears his throat and looks at Lerial. “Perhaps you could enlighten Graemaald and Fhastal on what Cigoerne is like these days.”

  “I’d be more than happy to do so, but you must realize you’ll be seeing it through the eyes of a Lancer officer and not a merchanter.”

  “That will be far better than no eyes or a faded memory.”

  Lerial doubts Rhamuel’s memory has faded in the least, but he nods and begins. “As I told the arms-commander earlier, Cigoerne has grown greatly in the past five years…”

  By the time the dinner is finally over, and Lerial, Ascaar, and Rhamuel are riding back to the post, Lerial can only hope he did not reveal anything he will regret, because his head is swimming with details and partly remembered faces and conversations.

  And what you’ll likely face in Swartheld will be far worse.

  XXI

  Once they reach Shaelt Post, just before they dismount, Lerial turns to Ascaar. “If you have a moment later … there are some details.”

  Ascaar nods, although there is a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Half a glass in your quarters? They’re better than mine.”

  “That would be fine.”

  Lerial meets briefly with Fheldar and his officers, but all is as well as can be expected, and he makes his way to his quarters, thinking about several things. First, there is the question about why not a single person at the dinner mentioned the battles at Luba. Nor did anyone mention the assassination of Valatyr. The second might be because neither Lerial nor Rhamuel mentioned it … but Lerial has to wonder. As for the first, the impact on all the merchanters in Afrit would have been enormous had the Heldyans succeeded in gaining a foothold on the west side of the river … and no one had said anything.

  Lerial is still puzzling over the strangeness of what was not mentioned at the dinner when he hears a knock. He checks his shields and renews them, then moves to the door and opens it.

  Ascaar stands there holding a pitcher of lager and two beakers. “I thought you might like something to drink. It’s not nearly what the arms-commander can offer, but it’s not bad.”

  “It’s very welcome … and I am thirsty.” Lerial closes the door behind Ascaar and walks over to stand by one of the two armchairs.

  The subcommander sets the beakers and pitcher on the low table between the chairs, turns one chair so that the chairs almost face, and settles himself. Lerial checks the pitcher and beakers with his order-senses, then fills both beakers two-thirds full, before sitting and gesturing to Ascaar to take a beaker.

  The subcommander does, taking a swallow. Then he looks at Lerial. “Details … or what you heard or didn’t hear at the dinner? Or something else.”

  “All that.” Lerial drinks some of the lager. “This is better than you said.” He sets the beaker on the low table. “On the ride back from Graemaald’s villa, I finally realized what bothered me about the dinner, something I couldn’t put my finger on at the time.”

  Ascaar tilts his head, but doesn’t speak, clearly waiting for Lerial to explain.

  “We fought a series of battles only an eightday ago, and if we’d failed all Afrit would be in danger. But no one said a thing. At least, not that I heard. Did you hear anything—besides from the commander, I mean?”

  Ascaar offers an amused smile. “I wouldn’t have, except from him. That happened almost two eightdays ago. For a wealthy merchanter to talk about something more than an eightday old would suggest that he was not well informed and could hurt him. They all have fast river schooner-galleys. They need information quickly. I’m certain they’ve all talked about it in private. Some have likely already changed their goods or what they do as a result. But talk about it? Not likely with other merchanters around. I’m sure Graemaald had words in private with the arms-commander.”

  Lerial has not even thought of that … but it also explains why there are no large towns or cities in Afrit that are not on the river or very close to it. The river is not only the major source of water for much of what is grown, but it’s also the fastest means of travel, especially downstream.

  Ascaar goes on. “I asked the same question years ago. Everyone laughed.” He snorts. “All the undercaptains from merchanter families sneered.”

  “Thank you.” Lerial nods. “That answers one question, but not another. No one mentioned Valatyr.”

  “They wouldn’t have. Not in a public setting. There’s a different reason for that. If they let it be known they knew…”

  “Oh … the only way they could have found out is by revealing that they have an informant in the Afritan Guard on their payroll.”

  “Exactly. And commenting on the death of even a high-ranking subcommander isn’t worth possibly compromising an informant whose information would be worth golds…”

  “Rather than momentary prestige,” finishes Lerial.

  “You picked that up quickly.”

  “I hope I’m not too slow. I just hadn’t thought of it that way.” Lerial pauses, then goes on. “I assume you mentioned Valatyr’s death to Commander Vonacht. I’d be most interested in hearing what he might have said.”

  “You didn’t mention it to anyone?”

  “I thought it would be taken badly, except to Vonacht. Was I wrong?” asks Lerial.

  Ascaar shakes his head. “Especially the way it happened.” He pauses. “It did happen that way, didn’t it?”

  “Except for one thing. I had men posted to watch for anyone leaving at odd times.”

  Ascaar offers a sardonic grin. “For a young overcaptain and a junior heir who looks so honest, you don’t trust people much.”

  “I trust based on the way I see people. That’s why I trust you.” Lerial can only hope he is seeing Ascaar correctly.

  “Vonacht wasn’t surprised. Valatyr has a good idea which merchanters provide better supplies at a more reasonable cost, and Subcommander Klassyn has been listening to Valatyr.”

  “That’s enough to risk losing a chaos-handling assassin?�
�� Lerial has strong doubts about that, cutthroat as the merchanters of Afrit appear to be.

  “No.” Ascaar grins sardonically. “It’s a good cover for whatever the real reason might be. That’s why Vonacht has heard it, and another reason why none of them talked about it.”

  “Why do you think he was killed, really?”

  “What I said earlier. It’s clear the arms-commander relied on Valatyr. Commander Sammyl’s loyalties are to the duke and those who support the duke. Klassyn knows supplies and logistics. He never was much good at tactics and strategy.”

  “He knows supplies … or he knows the suppliers?” asks Lerial warily.

  “That’s a good question. I don’t know … not for certain … but you can’t know anything about supplies without knowing the suppliers.”

  “Which gives two possible reasons for Valatyr’s death, and neither is likely to be the right one.”

  “That’s the way I’d see it.”

  Lerial takes a deep swallow of the lager. It’s more bitter than he’d thought. Or maybe other things make it taste that way. “What did you think of Valatyr?”

  “When he was a battalion commander, he was firm and direct. Let you know where you stood and what he thought. He changed some of the river patrol schedules.” Ascaar grins again. “Didn’t catch that many more Heldyan raiders, but he did catch a few flatboats that never paid tariffs anywhere.”

  “Is anything in Afrit simple?”

  “That’s another reason why I stayed in the Guard. Two or three merchanters asked if I’d be interested in shaping up their private forces.”

  “Do they all have private companies of guards?”

  Ascaar shakes his head. “Only the biggest. Aenian House, Fhastal, Maesoryk, maybe Jhosef. And especially Mesphaes … he has to. Everyone would steal spirits if they weren’t guarded.”

  By the time they finish the lager and Ascaar leaves, Lerial has a headache … and not from the lager.

  XXII

  By seventh glass on fiveday morning, Lerial is once more riding beside Rhamuel on the river road, this time several kays north of Shaelt, under high gray clouds.