Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The squad leader grins. “Yes, ser. The arms-commander said you’d be doing that. He said to escort you wherever you needed to go.”

  “I hope that won’t inconvenience you or the men. It might add quite some time.”

  “No, ser. It’s a good change.” Jhacub pauses. “That’ll likely take a glass. Maybe longer. The men wouldn’t mind that. Is that satisfactory, ser?”

  More than satisfactory. “That will be fine.” Lerial mounts, as do Kusyl and Fheldar.

  From the gates of the post, Jhacub guides Lerial and the others northwest along the road that parallels the shore. There are several cafés west of the road, but none are apparently open, and their awnings are rolled up.

  “Those open in the late afternoon?” Lerial gestures.

  “They do. They’ll be pleased that your men are posted here. There used to be more than the two companies that took care of the post and headquarters.”

  “When did that change?”

  “Five years ago … it was after … well…” Jhacub looks embarrassed.

  “After the Afritan Guard lost an entire battalion in an ill-advised attack on Cigoerne, you mean?”

  “Ah … yes, ser.”

  “Did anyone say why?”

  “I don’t know, ser. I was just a ranker then. No one said anything to us.”

  “What about this part of Swartheld?”

  “It’s not what it used to be, ser.”

  Lerial can see that. A number of the small buildings look to be empty, with shuttered doors and windows, with the wooden sidewalks in front of them sagging. “Because there are fewer guards posted here?”

  “I don’t think that’s the only thing, ser.” After several moments, Jhacub adds, “In another kay we’ll enter the merchanting area. That’s after where the shore road joins the boulevard from the palace.”

  After riding past almost a half score more blocks of less-than-well-maintained buildings and a few dilapidated dwellings, Lerial notices that the upkeep of the structures on the west side of the road improves notably and that there are solid if short stone and timber piers extending into the bay. Several have boats tied there.

  Three blocks later the shore road merges into a wide stone-paved boulevard.

  “That’s what they call the palace boulevard,” says the squad leader. “It goes right to the circular road around the palace.”

  The best avenue or street you’ve seen, and it runs straight from the merchanting houses to the palace.

  A block later the boulevard begins a wide curve more toward the north, again following the shoreline of the bay.

  “This is where the merchanting area and the harbor begin,” offers Jhacub.

  The merchanting quarter opposite the main piers definitely represents wealth. The shore road and the palace boulevard have combined into a paved avenue wide enough for three large wagons side by side. Even the sidewalks are of stone, not of wooden planks or brick. All of the buildings have glazed windows and heavy shutters.

  “Do you happen to know which one of the buildings holds Aenian House?” Lerial asks Jhacub.

  “Yes, ser. You can’t miss it. See the big three-story one in the next block, with the redstone front and the banners flying from those false towers?”

  “I do. Is that it?” Lerial has no trouble picking out the merchanting house. Even from more than a block away, it dominates the other merchanters’ buildings, none of which are modest.

  As the combined squad rides north on the avenue that also serves as the river road, past the first of the enormous stone piers, each of which extends more than two hundred yards out into the harbor, Lerial takes in the buildings one by one. The first in the block holding Aenian House is older, of gray stone and less than fifteen yards across the front. Chiseled into the stone are the words FINE SPIRITS. Above those words the stone is smooth and recessed, as if a name had been chiseled away. Lerial wonders if Mesphaes has taken over an older merchanting house, of if the building is owned by a competitor who also replaced someone. The next building is of yellow-brown brick, and is twice the size of the spirits building, but without identification, as if to indicate that none is needed. The redstone-fronted House of Aenian is not identified as such, although there is a stone medallion in the middle of the third level, between two windows, consisting of an ornate script “A” encircled by a wreath of leaves, possibly olive leaves, Lerial thinks. A paved lane wide enough for the largest of wagons leads along the west side of the Aenian building, between it and the unidentified structure. The building to the east of Aenian House is also of yellow-brown brick, but with redstone window frames, and is perhaps a third larger than the spirits building and is the last building on the block.

  Lerial turns his attention to the piers. He counts almost a score of vessels tied up at the various piers, ranging from a large schooner to an enormous broad-beamed, three-masted square-rigger. He thinks there may be some smaller ships at the piers farther north, but, if so, they are lost behind the nearer ships.

  “The harbor fort’s up there, ser,” announces Jhacub, pointing ahead, partway up the slope of a gentle bluff that extends almost a kay out into the bay and forms a huge natural breakwater on the north end of the harbor. It is also at the end of a wide paved road off the avenue that appears to revert to what Lerial now thinks of as the shore road. That shore road does not go out around the point of the bluff, but northwest across its base.

  Lerial turns to Jhacub. “Does the shore road continue beyond the bluff?”

  “Yes, ser. It goes all the way to Baiet.”

  “How far is that?”

  “I wouldn’t know exactly, sir. Two or three days’ ride, I hear. Small cove. Fishermen mostly. They port there, but sell their catch here.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “They say the fishing’s better there, but the selling’s better here.”

  They continue to ride along the paved avenue, where the larger merchanting houses have given way to more modest factorages—modest by comparison, since most are built of the yellow-brown brick and are considerably larger than any in Cigoerne, reflects Lerial. It does strike him that all the roofs are of the red tile and he says so.

  “Yes, ser. After the Great Fire, the duke’s great-grandsire made it a law. That’s what they say.”

  “That makes sense.” Too much sense.

  “Yes, ser. Hasn’t been a large fire since.”

  The Harbor Post is the largest walled fortification that Lerial has ever seen, not counting Lubana, which really isn’t a post, with walls extending a half kay in each direction, and iron-bound gates inset between stout redstone towers. With its hillside location, Lerial doubts that even Khesyn’s fifteen battalions could take it.

  But then, they wouldn’t have to. If they took the harbor, they’d just have to surround it and wait.

  “Do you want to look into the post?”

  Lerial shakes his head. “We’re just trying to get a better idea of where everything is. We can turn around and head back toward the palace. Can we take the avenue back?”

  “Yes, ser. It’s the best way.”

  Jhacub’s assessment of the route proves most accurate. The palace boulevard is paved and smooth. Well-appointed if smaller factorages and shops, as well as occasional cafés, line it for perhaps a kay, then give way to modest but neatly maintained single-level dwellings.

  About a kay and a half southwest from the harbor piers on the boulevard, Lerial notes another wide avenue joining the boulevard. “Where does that go?”

  “To merchanters’ hill. Well … that’s what they call it. It’s where all the wealthiest merchanters have their villas.”

  Lerial looks back more intently. There are indeed several large structures on the hillside.

  “You can’t see most of them,” adds the squad leader. “They planted the tall trees for shade. There’s a good breeze off the ocean that high, too.”

  Lerial nods without speaking.

  The rest of the ride to the palac
e takes them past more modest dwellings, except for the last few hundred yards, which are crowded with small shops and a number of cafés. At that moment, Lerial realizes that he has not seen anything resembling an inn—anywhere. He turns to Jhacub again. “I haven’t seen any inns. Are there any?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s plenty, just not where we’ve been. Law says that no inn can be on the shore road or any main avenue, like the palace road or the old merchants’ way.”

  “Don’t tell me. Another whim of a former duke?”

  “Couldn’t say, ser. Just know that’s the law. Always been that way.”

  Because of the duke … or the merchanters? Another question for which he would like an answer, and there are getting to be far too many of those, Lerial feels.

  Before all that long, Lerial is reining up outside the palace stable—the one assigned to him and his men. Before dismounting he turns to the Afritan squad leader. “Thank you for the tour, Jhacub. I appreciate all for the information, and if you would, please convey my thanks and appreciation to your men as well.”

  “Yes, ser.” Jhacub pauses meaningfully.

  “Yes? You have a question? Ask. After all those I’ve asked you…”

  “I was just thinking, ser. You speak Hamorian. You speak better than most officers, the way the arms-commander does. But you’re from Cigoerne.”

  “My grandmere and my father insisted that all his children would speak perfect Hamorian as well as Cyadoran. That’s why. It’s necessary. Many”—most—“people in Cigoerne don’t speak Cyadoran.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that, ser. Thank you, ser.”

  “Thank you, again, Jhacub.”

  “My pleasure, ser.”

  Lerial dismounts, then watches the half squad of Afritan Guards ride back toward the outer courtyard. By half past third glass, Lerial is back in his quarters—if after refreshing his shields before entering and checking the room for errant chaos, of which he finds no sign. Once there he removes the road dust from his uniform and washes up. Then he steps out into the corridor to find Polidaar waiting.

  “Ser … will you…”

  “No escort. I won’t be leaving the palace. But I would appreciate someone watching my door. I wouldn’t want to return to any surprises.”

  “We can do that, ser.”

  As he leaves his rooms, Lerial has a specific initial destination in mind: the duke’s library, also on the third level but on the north end of the west wing of the palace. He would like to see if there is a code of laws or something similar there. Once more, as he walks the seemingly endless hallways, he sees servants and palace guards here and there, but far fewer than he would expect in an edifice the size of the palace.

  A palace guard is seated at a table desk outside the library. He looks at Lerial warily for a moment, then nods abruptly. “Lord Lerial?”

  “The same. I just wanted to look at the library, if I might.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Thank you.” Lerial nods politely, then steps past the table and opens the door, stepping into the library and closing the door behind himself. For a moment, he just stands there, surveying the room.

  The duke’s library is an oblong chamber some ten yards by seven, with an alcove at one end that holds a table desk. Comfortable-looking leather armchairs are located here and there, sometimes alone, and in one place with a low table separating a pair. Two walls are filled with wooden shelves from a third of a yard off the floor almost to the ceiling, some three yards up. Lerial counts the volumes on one section of shelving, then estimates how many similar lengths there are in the library and mentally calculates. Some twenty-five hundred volumes. That’s certainly the largest collection of books he has ever seen in one place, although Emerya has assured him that there had been more than ten thousand in the great library in the Palace of Light.

  Are they in any order? He begins to inspect the volumes on the shelves, discovering that while the area on the shelves in front of the books has been dusted, as have the tops of the pages, there is considerable dust behind each of the first score of books he removes from the shelves to inspect and see the subject, since most of the spines do not have a title. After a time, more than a glass, he does discover that one area holds histories, and another observations on nature, a third books on philosophy, and a rather larger section dealing with maps and map folios, with some that must be several hundred years old. While there are some volumes on practical healing, there is nothing on the use of order to heal. Nor can he find any section that deals with law, or even a single volume that does. But then, it would take him several more glasses, if not longer, just to take a quick look inside every volume in the library.

  Abruptly, he hears voices, and he quickly raises a concealment, then moves toward the alcove.

  Two figures step into the library.

  “I don’t see anyone…” murmurs the woman, Kyedra, Lerial belatedly identifies from her voice, since his order-senses are not nearly so sharp as his vision.

  “The guard said he was somewhere here…”

  “… what can he do but look … besides, he seems pleasant enough … and good-looking.”

  “Except for that awful red hair.” Natroyor’s scorn is withering

  “… quiet. He’ll hear you … unruly … sometimes, yours is, too…”

  Lerial gathers that he is obviously meant to hear some of what he does, although it is also clear that Kyedra and Natroyor have differing motives … or at least differing approaches. He steps into the alcove and then drops the concealment before stepping out, holding the last volume he has inspected—Natural Remedies of Afrit. “You were looking for me? I’m sorry. I was reading this.”

  “What is it?” asks Kyedra, stepping toward him.

  “A book on natural remedies. I wondered if there might be anything that would help with field healing.” Lerial smiles. “What can I do for you?”

  “Actually,” replies Kyedra, “Father realized that he had not provided the details for this evening. He asked us to convey to you that the reception before the dinner will be in the west public hall beginning at sixth glass, and he would hope you would meet him at his study a tenth of a glass before that…”

  “That is most kind of you. Your uncle had told me about the time of the reception, but not that I was to meet your father before then.”

  “He wouldn’t have known that,” says Natroyor blandly.

  Lerial can sense Kyedra stiffen, but she manages a pleasant expression and says, “They’re so busy that they don’t always tell each other everything.”

  “Especially now, I imagine,” returns Lerial.

  “Is it true that you’ve really killed hundreds of men?” asks Natroyor.

  “I might have killed a score or more with my sabre,” replies Lerial, “but the forces under my command have killed thousands, not hundreds.”

  “Your sire has let you be in the thick of battle? He really has?”

  “It’s better that I am than he is.”

  “Your brother hasn’t been in battles as dangerous as those you’ve been in, has he?” asks Kyedra.

  Lerial understands what she wants him to say, but the plain truth she wishes for her brother’s sake will undermine Lephi … and possibly Cigoerne. “You put me in a delicate position, Lady. I have no idea what dangers he’s faced. He’s certainly led his companies against Heldyan raiders for years, and men under his command have died in front of and beside him. He’s been fortunate not to have been one of them, as I have been. My father, my brother, and I have all led Mirror Lancers in skirmishes and battles.” Lerial doubts Lephi has ever been in a battle, but the rest in certainly absolutely true, although, thankfully, it has been years since his father has done so.

  “But there are three of you.”

  “That’s true, but we’ve never fought at the same time or in the same place.” That … he can acknowledge.

  “You see,” Kyedra says to her brother. “That’s why Uncle Rham can be arms-commander, and you can
not.”

  “I don’t have to like it,” replies Natroyor.

  “No, you don’t,” says Lerial, “but you do have to do the best you can do at the tasks your father needs done. Some of those tasks, now, may just be to learn all you can about what he does, how he does it, and why.”

  “It’s so tedious…”

  “Learning the basics is tedious,” replies Lerial, “even in the Mirror Lancers, but without mastering the basics, excellence isn’t possible. Most people don’t have the will to keep at it, and that’s why so few are truly good at anything.”

  “I suppose you’re the exception.” Natroyor’s reply is just short of a sneer.

  “I was black and blue almost all the time for almost two years when I was learning blade skills. That was after more than four years of even more basic training with wooden wands. I suppose there must be exceptions, but I don’t know of any.” Lerial smiles. “Thank you for conveying your father’s message. If I’m to meet him, I should be getting ready.” He inclines his head. “I look forward to seeing you soon.”

  “You’re kind,” replies Kyedra, but Natroyor barely nods.

  “Not kind. Truthful.” Lerial looks directly at Kyedra, if but for an instant. “Until then.”

  Lerial turns and leaves the library, moving quickly away from the guard, but looking back occasionally until the guard turns his head. Then at the moment when he can see no one else around, he raises a concealment and waits.

  Because the two do not appear immediately, he wonders what they might be discussing, but when they appear, walking past the guard without nodding, both are silent. Lerial remains motionless until they pass him, hidden in his concealment, then moves to follow them, walking as quietly as he can.

  “… almost rude … the way he took his leave…” Natroyor snorts.

  “You were insolent, and you know it. He was quite restrained. From what Uncle Rham says, he might be the best commander in all Hamor.”

  “It doesn’t excuse his behavior. I am the heir.”

  “He’s an heir also. Have you thought about that?”

  “He’s second in line. He’ll never be duke.”