The Guard Square is comparatively modest, a mere hundred yards on a side, with only handfuls of carts and peddlers scattered here and there.
“The hawkers are more numerous when there are more troopers quartered here. There will be more tomorrow … assuming your men have even a few coppers apiece.”
“They do have that,” and more given their share of the spoils from the fallen Heldyans, “although they may not last given the temptations of a true city.”
Beyond the square rise the walls of the Afritan Guard post, a good seven yards high, even though the post itself cannot be much larger than the Mirror Lancer headquarters in Cigoerne. The gates are only partly open as the combined forces near, but after the guards sight the arms-commander’s banner, they swing full open, and a series of horn calls echoes from somewhere on the wall above the gates.
Lerial can smell a miasma—and slight odor—of age permeating the entry courtyard, faint but definitely there as he rides past the gates. A half squad of Afritan Guards barely finishes forming up in front of the central building in the middle of the courtyard before Rhamuel and Lerial rein up. An Afritan captain, hardly much older than Lerial, then hurries forward.
“Arms-Commander, ser, you have a dispatch from the duke.” The officer reaches up and extends the missive.
“Thank you, Captain.” Rhamuel opens the sealed missive and unfolds it. An amused smile appears and then vanishes. He looks to Lerial. “The duke would earnestly hope that you and I would immediately take up residence at the palace for the duration of your stay. You can, of course, bring a half squad of your lancers, as you see fit. That might be … interesting.”
“A half squad. I can arrange that.”
“I need to send a messenger to notify Valatyr’s family and to set up the memorial for him. Shall we say … half a glass?”
Lerial nods.
“Good.” Rhamuel turns back to the captain. “Lord Lerial’s three companies are the ones that will need quarters. It turns out that he did not need to bring a full battalion. Once he’s free, you can brief him on what is available.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial immediately summons Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl and addresses them. “My presence has been requested at the duke’s palace. I’m allowed a personal guard of a half squad.”
Fheldar and Strauxyn exchange glances.
Then Strauxyn clears his throat. “Begging your pardon, ser, and yours, Undercaptain Kusyl, but your men have more experience around palaces than ours.”
“Not at a palace like Duke Atroyan’s, but I take your point. If you two agree…”
Both Strauxyn and Fheldar nod.
“I’d recommend Second Squad, under Polidaar,” Kusyl says. “He’s got a good head and is well-mannered but affable.”
“Good. If you’d pass that on to him, I’ll hear from the captain on billeting and stabling arrangements.” While Lerial has not met Squad Leader Polidaar, except in passing and in inspections, Kusyl knows his men well. He always has.
Lerial then rides forward to meet with the waiting Afritan Guard captain.
Slightly more than a glass later, Lerial and his half squad of Mirror Lancers and Rhamuel and his personal squad ride back out through the gates of Swartheld Post, or Afritan Guard headquarters, depending apparently on who was speaking about the post, riding generally southwest, as far as Lerial can determine, through streets that, while able to accommodate two wagons side by side, he would have considered far too narrow for Cigoerne, let alone a city the size of Swartheld. While the faintly unpleasant odor that surrounded the Afritan Guard headquarters slowly fades as they leave the post behind, it appears that the haze has thickened slightly by the time Lerial and Rhamuel emerge from the taller buildings bordering the wide paved avenue that circles the hill dominated by the walled palace of the Duke of Afrit.
While the main gates, those on the east side of the hill, are not closed, they are guarded by four men in bright crimson uniforms and only open into a small walled courtyard, at the end of which is a set of iron-barred gates, closed and guarded by more guards in bright crimson livery. A separate guard beside the main gate studies Lerial—or his uniform—and then runs across the courtyard toward the second gates.
“Those who guard the palace aren’t under your command?” asks Lerial.
“No. They’re the duke’s personal guard. Seldom is the arms-commander of the Afritan Guard so closely related to the duke.”
“Often related … but not closely?”
“Everything in Afrit is related,” replied Rhamuel. “As you will see.”
As they ride across the courtyard toward the second set of gates, more guards in crimson appear and flank the way. Other guards open the gates, and a horn fanfare fills the space.
“That’s for you,” announces Rhamuel. “It’s the one they use for important visitors. I don’t merit a fanfare.”
“More likely that you’re here often enough that they decided not to play it for you,” suggests Lerial.
“I’m not here that often. This time will be interesting.”
“Do you have rooms at the headquarters?”
“I do, but those are for times I’m required there. I have a modest dwelling on the hill to the west of the palace.”
“Where those of more than modest means and rank also dwell?”
“More than modest second sons, mainly. Had the duke not requested your presence here, I would have turned my dwelling over to you.”
That surprises Lerial, although he can sense none of the chaos a blatant untruth often creates. “I appreciate that.”
“It would be the least I could do.”
Two of the palace guards appear on the far side of the gates. Beyond the gates is a larger courtyard, far larger, a good two hundred yards wide and a hundred deep, beyond which rises the palace, a redstone edifice of four levels, almost the width of the courtyard, and appearing to extend even farther than that to the west.
Rhamuel gestures to the pair of guards. “We follow them to a position below the receiving balcony.”
“The duke will receive us there?”
Rhamuel shakes his head. “You’ll get an initial welcome from Dafaal. He’s the duke’s personal scrivener and aide. He welcomes all visitors to the palace and escorts them to their quarters before they meet with Atroyan.”
“What about my men?”
“They’ll be quartered in chambers on the other side of the corridor from you. That’s the usual arrangement for the few truly important visitors.”
Just another indication of the size of the palace.
Once they rein up below the second-level balcony, less than two yards above Lerial’s head, a white-haired man, attired largely in black, but with a crimson scarf around his neck, steps out onto the narrow balcony. He smiles and begins to speak with a deep and resonant voice at odds with his almost frail appearance.
“On behalf of His Mightiness the Duke Atroyan of Afrit, I bid you welcome, Lord Lerial of Cigoerne. On behalf of the duke, I extend all privileges and graces for the duration of your stay. Both the arms-commander and I remain at your service.”
Lerial can sense a certain surprise in Rhamuel at the last phrase, but says nothing, although he has the feeling that Rhamuel may not be totally pleased at being placed in Lerial’s service, so to speak. Then, sensing that some reply is required, Lerial inclines his head, then responds. “I deeply appreciate the warmth and hospitality offered by the duke and look forward to closer relations between Afrit and Cigoerne.”
The briefest frown appears on Dafaal’s brow, then vanishes, as if Lerial had not been expected to offer anything substantive in reply. “I will meet you at the palace stables, Lord Lerial. I’m certain that Arms-Commander Rhamuel can show you the way.” Dafaal smiles, then retreats.
“Pompous old bastard,” murmurs Rhamuel. “Good-hearted, though.” He raises his voice as he continues. “It’s shorter if we ride past the entrance. It’s actually the rear entrance, but the fro
nt one is never open except for the handful of formal balls my brother holds here in the winter and early spring.” Rhamuel urges his mount forward and to the left.
Lerial follows, saying, “I take it that he has a summer retreat, then? Besides Lubana?”
“He hasn’t been to Lubana in years. He and Haesychya prefer his villa at Lake Reomer. They usually depart by the middle of spring, earlier if the weather is hot, but no later than the first eightday of summer.”
But will they this year? With the threats posed by Khesyn? Lerial knows that question will have to wait.
The inner courtyard, at least in the area to the east of the palace, is almost empty except for two men cleaning the windows of the palace and those in the combined forces of Rhamuel and Lerial. Even when they ride around the south end of the palace and under an arched stone bridge that offers access to the terraced gardens stepped down the hillside away from the palace, Lerial sees only two stableboys and an older man, presumably an ostler, standing before the building on the southwestern part of the inner courtyard, away from the palace proper.
“The household stables,” notes Rhamuel.
Lerial glances from the stables to his right, observing that a narrower structure extends perhaps another hundred yards from the broader section that held the receiving balcony, then again widens into another broader section that faces westward. “It’s almost two palaces connected by a third.”
“You could say that,” admits Rhamuel, reining up before the main stable door. “It all looks the same once you’re inside. Large rooms and small ones, all off seemingly endless hallways. Far too much crimson and gilt.” The arms-commander dismounts. “I’m off to brief the duke. We’ll all likely have dinner together, but one never knows.” He glances toward the palace. “Here comes Dafaal.”
Lerial dismounts quickly. “Until later, then.”
Rhamuel nods, then hands the reins of his mount to one of the stableboys.
“Lord Lerial, ser…” offers the ostler who steps forward.
“Thank you.” Lerial hands the reins of the gelding to him.
“Essen, Moertyn, you two accompany the overcaptain, and bring his gear,” orders Polidaar, from behind Lerial. “The rest of you take care of the mounts and gear.”
“Yes, Squad Leader.”
Lerial waits several moments until the elderly Dafaal reaches him, then nods politely.
“I’ll escort you to your chambers, Lord Lerial. Then, after you have washed up, in say a glass, I will send an escort to take you to see the duke. Once he has received you, there will be refreshments in the family salon, and then a small dinner—just you, the family, and the arms-commander. On threeday evening, there will be a dinner, and another … function … on fourday. There may be others, as well, but the duke has not yet informed me of such.”
“I appreciate the notice of what he has scheduled.”
“Now, if you will come with me…”
Two Mirror Lancers accompany Lerial, following behind him and Dafaal.
Just before they reach a door at the courtyard level of what Lerial thinks of as the east palace, Dafaal speaks again. “I must admit I never thought we would see an heir of Cigoerne here in Swartheld.”
“I never thought I would be here,” admits Lerial, “but given the invitation, I thought it was best for all concerned that I accept.”
“There are some who, shall we say, might have some reservations about the … appropriateness of your appearance.”
“I do hope that the duke is not one of those with reservations.”
“Stars, no. He was most surprised that your father dispatched you to the aid of the arms-commander, but that is certainly no secret.”
“Although…” prompts Lerial, just to see if he can gain any further information.
“Although?” Dafaal chuckles. “I doubt that he had any reservations about his appreciation. He has always felt that Duke Khesyn is a threat to the peace of all Hamor. Ever since Khesyn dredged the harbor at Estheld and built the deepwater piers there.” Dafaal goes through the door that a palace guard has opened and into a rather narrow corridor. “This isn’t the most well-appointed part of the palace, but it’s the quickest and easiest way to get to your chambers. Also, they’re doing work on the east side where the larger staircase is. We wouldn’t want to run into workmen carrying those heavy barrels. We’ll just take the back staircase here…”
“Work?”
“Refurbishing some rooms beneath the family quarters. It should have been done years ago.” The elderly functionary starts up the narrow steps.
“When did Khesyn improve the harbor at Estheld?” After speaking, Lerial notes that the plastered staircase walls could use another coat of wash or the like.
“A good six years ago. It was right after Duke Casseon lost Verdheln. You had something to do with that, as I recall.”
“Only a small part. Most of that was Majer Altyrn’s doing.” Lerial pauses. “I don’t know that you have heard. He died just before I set out for Luba.”
“Everyone says that he was a most effective commander. I never had the pleasure of meeting him.”
“He was quite a person as well. They’re not always the same.”
“No. You’re quite right about that.” Dafaal’s breathing becomes more labored, with hints of wheezing.
Lerial decides against saying more until they emerge from the staircase on the third level.
“Ah,” declares Dafaal after taking several deep breaths. “Those stairs get steeper every year. Your quarters are to the left at the end.”
The door to which Dafaal leads Lerial is less than fifteen yards away, at the end of a corridor stretching more than a hundred yards back to the north. The chambers awaiting Lerial consist of a sitting room—a corner chamber with windows on both outside walls—holding a circular table that could be used as a desk or for a meal, and four chairs, as well as two armchairs and a settee. The sleeping chamber is immediately to the north, with a bathing chamber and jakes beyond it. All the furnishings are of a whitish wood that Lerial has not seen before and are upholstered in crimson, if with cream trim that tends to vanish against the white wood.
“I hope these are to your satisfaction,” offers Dafaal.
“They are more than satisfactory, and I appreciate your concern.”
“There is warm water in the tub and a steaming kettle if you need it. I’ll send a footman to bring you to the receiving room in about a glass.” The functionary pauses, then adds, “The six chambers across the hall are for your men. There are two beds in each, and a communal bathing room at the end. They can bring up water from the kitchen or the courtyard.”
“Thank you.”
Lerial waits until Dafaal departs, then looks to the two lancers. “If one of you would watch the door, the other can check out the quarters to see if they’ll do.”
“Yes, ser,” replies Essen. “Let me bring in your gear.”
Moertyn nods, then says, “Checking the quarters won’t take long. We can each look in turn, see if one of us misses something.”
“Good thought,” says Lerial.
Once he has his gear, including a semiclean uniform, he closes the door and moves to the sleeping chamber, where he unpacks the kit bag. By the time he dabs away the worst of the soil on his uniforms and hangs them on the pegs in the armoire, the bathwater is barely lukewarm, but still welcome. So is a good shave.
Once he dresses, he looks in the full-length mirror on the interior wall of the bedchamber. The uniform is at least presentable, but his hair is longer than he prefers, and close to unruly, since the longer it gets, the wirier it is.
Because all of his cleaning up has taken longer than he thought, he doubts he has much time before he is summoned, but when he hears the lancers across the hall he steps out of the sitting room and approaches Polidaar.
“How are the quarters?”
The squad leader grins. “Good enough that I told the men not to say anything to the other lancers. Good
beds, even with linens, and no sign of vermin.”
“Once in a while, we do get fortunate.”
“Do you want an escort to dinner, ser?”
“I doubt I’ll need it, but I’ll let you know if I do. Did you find out about messing for you and your rankers?”
“Yes, ser. We get fed in the palace guard mess. Fifth glass. Anyone on duty can get rations there until eighth glass.”
After finishing arrangements with the squad leader, Lerial waits less than a tenth of a glass before a young palace guard appears. “Lord Lerial, ser.”
Before stepping out into the hall, Lerial reinforces his shields, ensuring that they are tightly linked to the iron of his belt knife.
The escort leads him back along the long north-south corridor and then to the right and up a marble staircase to the fourth level, along a wide but short hallway to a double set of doors. They halt in front of the golden wooden doors, where a guard is posted.
“Lord Lerial to see the duke,” announces the guard who has escorted Lerial.
The duty guard turns and raps on the door, announcing, “Lord Lerial.”
“Have him come in.”
The guard opens the door and Lerial steps inside. The receiving room is not enormous, as Lerial had half expected, but neither is it small, a chamber some six yards wide and perhaps ten yards in length, the last yard and a half a dais raised perhaps two thirds of a yard, in the middle of which is an overlarge chair, not exactly a throne, constructed of the white wood oiled or tinted into a rich gold, with a seat upholstered in brilliant crimson. The walls are of while marble tiles shot with gold, with half pillars of the golden-tinted wood at regular intervals. The floor is of black marble tile, and scuffed in more than a few places, Lerial notes. A second look tells him that there are hairline cracks in the marble of the walls and the floor. Light comes from brass wall lamps and two narrow skylights. Stationed on each side of the chair where Atroyan sits are two tall palace guards, each holding a halberd, its base resting on the marble tiles, with a highly polished and visibly sharp blade.
Lerial walks forward until he is within two yards of Atroyan. He stops and inclines his head politely. “Duke Atroyan.”
Heritage of Cyador Page 22
