“Not yet.” Rhamuel’s voice is dry and ironic, with a foreboding tone.
“All we can do is prepare and wait,” says Sammyl. “What else can we do?”
What else can we do? Lerial is still pondering that question later that night as he lies in the bunk in the senior officer’s quarters at Afritan Guard headquarters, trying to go to sleep.
XLII
Lerial wakes up on fourday, his thoughts on Veraan and Myrapol House. Had Veraan’s father Apollyn actually created a chaos-based poison for the tainted tonic … or had Veraan just used a fast-acting tincture of some sort? And why would he have done that? Lerial can certainly understand why Alaphyn would have wanted Aenslem to order the deadly tonic directly from Myrapol House, but why would Veraan have agreed to it? For golds? The sum would have to have been quite significant. Or perhaps, in an odd way, Veraan felt that the death of an Afritan merchanter would not hurt Cigoerne … or more likely, would reduce rivals to Myrapol House.
And then there was Maesoryk … who had to have been involved in the explosions and the invasion landings at his tileworks, but with no proof … except indirectly …
Lerial bolts upright in his bunk, recalling what Aenslem had said the afternoon before about Maesoryk—two chaos-mages around him all the time. “Of course,” he murmurs to himself, “the fog … the unnatural chaos-caused fog.” The fog that had enabled the ships to land had to have been created by a mage on land—at the tileworks. And there had been at least four mages when Lerial and Twenty-third Company had first faced the invaders. That was how they knew they’d be covered. Two mages from Maesoryk and those with the Heldyans. Except … again, the fact that the fog had been created on land wasn’t definitive proof of Maesoryk’s involvement or guilt. Even if Maesoryk should return to Swartheld without his mages, that would not constitute real proof.
Lerial shakes his head. Then he tries order-sensing, and is pleased to discover that he is finally much stronger, if not back to full strength. He is still thinking things over when he walks to the mess.
By half past seventh glass, he has eaten, met with his officers and Dhoraat, and is on his way to the palace under a blustery gray sky, accompanied by Fourth Squad from Eighth Company. They have barely covered half a kay before rain begins to fall—in large droplets that are almost warm. By the time Lerial has turned his gelding over to one of the palace stableboys, the air in the courtyard and likely across Swartheld is a mixture of moisture, mist, and fog … and the rain keeps failing.
For several moments, he stands under the edge of the stable roof, letting his order-senses range through the clouds, wondering if there will be strong thunderstorms that he can turn to his advantage—which would take much less effort than order-chaos separation. Yet he cannot sense the vortices of order and chaos that distinguish thunderstorms, just much milder flows and the heaviness of moisture.
He hurries across the courtyard in the rain, accompanied by two rankers, and makes his way to the west wing of the palace and Rhamuel’s sitting room. There he finds Norstaan, Sammyl, and Rhamuel.
“What have the scouts reported?” asks Lerial.
“The merchanters were prepared to load armsmen. It’s hard to tell.” Rhamuel looks to the closed window and the heavy droplets beating against it and the misty fog beginning to rise off the warm stone of the city’s buildings and streets. “But they cast off without doing so, from what the scouts saw before the rain closed in.”
“With rain and strong seas, they wouldn’t remain in Estheld,” adds Sammyl.
“If the storm dies down by midday,” asks Lerial, “how long before the merchanters could port?”
“Late afternoon, if the winds didn’t carry them too far east.”
“You had something in mind?” Rhamuel asks Lerial.
“I was thinking about asking for a fast sailing galley that could get me close to the harbor at Estheld late this afternoon. That’s if the storm does die down.”
“I don’t know … The sea might still be high by then.” Rhamuel frowns. “What do you have in mind?’
“I need to find out where those armsmen are, and how many they’ll be loading.” All that is true, but Lerial isn’t about to mention what else he has in mind. If it’s even possible … What else can you do? You’re outnumbered and on the defense … and if they bring another five battalions or more …
“How do you expect to learn that offshore in fog and mist?”
“It’s likely to be easier in the mist. I’d like to know just how many troopers Khesyn is sending.”
“Do we know he’s sending any?” asks Sammyl.
“Not really,” admits Lerial. “That’s what I’d like to find out … before they land at Baiet or somewhere closer.”
“That wouldn’t hurt,” says Sammyl. “But can you get closer than the scouts did? Close enough to learn that?”
“I’ve got a good chance at that.”
“Then I’ll send word to the Harbor Post. The sail-galleys leave from the small pier there. Don’t try to go if the galley master says it’s too dangerous. We can’t afford to lose anyone else at this point.”
“I won’t.” Lerial has no intention of drowning. “How many battalions do you have that can fight?”
“Right now?” Sammyl shakes his head. “Three at the most. That doesn’t include Ascaar, but he has less than three full companies left after the last attack, and it would take him at least three days to get here, and at that speed, they wouldn’t be in the best shape to fight. I’ve already sent orders for him to join us at deliberate speed.”
“Including your Mirror Lancers and his companies,” Rhamuel says, “that’s four battalions. If you’re as effective as before…”
“We might … just might … defeat Khesyn again. Is that what you think?” asks Lerial.
“It’s better than the alternative.”
None of the three mentions the difficulties Afrit will face with only what likely would remain after such a battle.
By the second glass of the afternoon, the rain has diminished to intermittent showers, but showers driven by strong winds, and Lerial, wearing a borrowed oiled leather waterproof, rides with his squad from the palace to the Harbor Post. He leaves the squad under cover and walks with one of the seamen assigned to the galleys down a tunnel corridor that opens onto a boatyard above the pier.
He has barely stepped out of the tunnel when another Afritan Guard, wearing an oilskin jacket, moves toward him.
“Squad Leader Elphred, ser. Commander Dhresyl assigned me to your reconnaissance voyage.”
“You’re the galley master?”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial looks toward the shore end of the Harbor Post pier and then to the far end, where waves break over the stone, normally a good three to four yards above the surface of the water, swirling around the bollards, leaving them momentarily protruding from white-foamed waters. To his left and farther down the slope is the shallow-draft sailing galley, still in its launch cradle, clearly dragged farther up from the turbulent waves pounding the pier.
“Ser, there’s no way we can go out in this weather,” declares Elphred. “We’d get swamped before we got half a kay.”
“That’s clear enough,” replies Lerial. “Once the weather subsides, I will need the galley.”
“Yes, ser. We’ll stand by.” The squad leader gestures to the crew, who begin to winch the cradle even farther up the launching ramp.
“Thank you.”
In turn, Lerial uses his order-senses on the clouds. The actual storm center is too far away for him to sense, but it is clearly strong enough to create the winds that drive the waves against the piers. He is certainly not a sailor, but it stands to reason that if he cannot get out of Swartheld Harbor, it is most unlikely that any of Khesyn’s merchanters will be able to return to Estheld and load the armsmen. If that’s even what Khesyn has in mind. Lerial pauses. But what else could he be planning?
He hurries out of the rain that is already begin
ning to diminish, although the waves have shown no sign of that yet, back through the tunnel toward the makeshift headquarters of the post. The intermittent rain has flowed off his borrowed oilskin jacket and dampened his trousers, not quite all the way through. By the time he has seated himself in the small chamber that serves as Dhresyl’s study, he hopes they will dry some before he ventures forth again.
“I understand you’re going to take the sail-galley to look at Estheld,” offers Dhresyl. “Isn’t that likely to expose you unduly?”
“So long as I don’t have to worry about high waves, I think we’ll be able to manage. I’d be interested to know how matters are coming here. The last time we talked, I wasn’t in the best of condition and you were busy trying to hold everything together.”
“We’re using the more able of the Heldyan prisoners to clear the rubble here in the post and we’ve begun some limited repairs. We’ve recovered as many weapons as we could from the areas where we fought, and we have the armorers repairing those that can be used. I’ve combined some companies and battalions so that those we have are closer to full strength…”
Lerial listens, intently and carefully.
When Dhresyl finally finishes, he just says, “… and that’s where we stand.” He does not ask anything about Lerial and the Mirror Lancers.
Lerial does not volunteer anything and politely takes his leave. While he waits to see if the weather and waves will moderate, he considers what Dhresyl has said and wonders why the commander’s words have left him vaguely disturbed. Certainly, everything Dhresyl is undertaking makes sense …
Then, after almost a glass of pondering and stewing, Lerial realizes what has troubled him. Everything that Dhresyl had said related to organization and logistics. There had not been a single word about what the commander might do if the Heldyans attacked again, or what preparations or plans he had made.
By the sixth glass of the afternoon, the winds out of the north are dying down and the waves are subsiding, but are still too rough for the sail-galleys to set out, not that doing so would help Lerial much, since the Harbor Post lookouts have informed Lerial that it appears likely that none of the merchanters that left Estheld to ride out the rough weather at sea have yet returned … or are even in sight.
Given that information, the fact that the waves are likely to remain high for at least several glasses more, and that a night voyage would be dangerous without allowing Lerial to accomplish much of what he has in mind, Lerial gathers his squad for the ride back to Afritan Guard headquarters. When they finally set out, the air is damp and cooler, and little remains of the clouds that had brought the earlier downpour. The high winds have dropped off to a stiff breeze, but the waves crashing against the piers of the main harbor are still high and strong enough that there seems to be more foam than water.
So much for using the mist and fog to get close to Estheld without being seen.
Lerial looks from the harbor toward the merchanter buildings, all shuttered tight for the night, wondering if any of the merchanters really care all that much about Afrit, or Swartheld, except as a base from which they can make more golds.
XLIII
Fiveday morning dawns bright and clear, and Lerial is at the palace shortly after seventh glass, again meeting with Sammyl and Rhamuel.
“The merchanters put to sea before the storm hit,” Sammyl reports. “Now that the weather has calmed, they’re all returning. There wasn’t any great damage to the piers here, and there likely wasn’t much to the piers at Estheld.”
“How long will it take to load the first ships?” asks Lerial, shifting his weight in the uncomfortable straight-backed chair.
“Most of today, I’d say. That’s if they’re not carrying cargo. Could be days if they’re loading cargo,” ventures Sammyl.
“The only cargo will be weapons and mounts,” declares Rhamuel, his forearms resting on the wooden surface of the table desk.
“If they’re headed to Baiet, they’ll want to cast off by second or third glass at the latest. That’s if they want to port before dark.”
“Then I need to be going,” says Lerial. “I need to get very close to Estheld.” The city of Heldya would be better, but it’s hundreds of kays away over hostile ground, not water, and we don’t have time for that.
“You’re planning what…” begins Sammyl, his voice dropping off at the look from the arms-commander.
“I think we can trust Overcaptain Lerial to act in both our interests and his,” Rhamuel says firmly.
Lerial can tell that Sammyl wants to know what he has in mind. For that reason alone, he doesn’t want to say much, in part because he has no idea if he can do what he has in mind. “The more I know, the more we’ll know what to do … and when.”
“We have sent scouts in other sail-galleys…”
Lerial smiles and rises. “For that I’m very grateful. I’ll let you know what I’ve found out when I return.”
Sammyl looks as though he wants to say something, but then just nods, as though he has decided against it.
“We’ll look forward to your report,” says Rhamuel.
Fhuraan and Fourth Squad from Eighth Company are waiting in the palace courtyard when Lerial reaches the stables.
“You’ve already got the squad mounted?” asks Lerial.
“I didn’t think you’d be long this morning, ser.”
The squad, with Fhuraan and Lerial immediately behind two outriders, takes the wide merchant avenue from the ring road around the palace along the base of the merchanters’ hill, where Kyedra remains with her mother and grandfather, then past the harbor. Lerial is surprised to see a good ten merchanters tied up at the piers, and crews and loaders very busily carrying goods on board the vessels.
Lerial frowns. The last time the Heldyans invaded, the harbor was empty. Why is it different now? He looks at the piers. All the goods are going on the ships. He nods. That, unfortunately, makes sense. It is also suggestive of the lack of confidence at least some of the merchanters have in Rhamuel and the Afritan Guard. But then, it could be that they are simply coppering their bets, sending goods out just in case matters do turn out badly for Swartheld.
As they ride up the road toward the Harbor Post, Lerial sees that groups of Heldyan prisoners, under guard, are still engaged in burying the dead from the fighting that ended almost an eightday ago. So many dead … or such lack of organization? Given that Dhresyl seems stronger on logistics than battle planning and anticipation, Lerial would wager on the former. And for what? And the fighting and the deaths are far from over, no matter who triumphs.
“Ser? You’re going to take a sail-galley out, aren’t you?”
For a moment, Lerial wonders how Fhuraan knows that, since he has not mentioned that specifically, but then realizes that the squad leaders must talk among themselves, and there was no secret about the fact that he’d tried to take one the day before. “Yes.”
“I’d feel better if you’d take Toeryn with you. He comes from a river family, and knows boats … and he’s good with weapons.”
“That’s a good idea.” Lerial grins. “I wish I’d thought of it.”
“I wish I had, ser,” admits Fhuraan. “Dhoraat suggested it.”
“I’m glad you two came up with it.”
When Lerial arrives at the stables at Harbor Post, he and Toeryn, a wiry ranker half a head shorter than Lerial, dismount, leave the squad, cross the southern end of the courtyard, and walk down the tunnel corridor to the boatyard and the pier. Lerial carries a water bottle filled with slightly watered lager. After they walk from the dimness of the tunnel into the bright early-morning sunlight, Lerial has to look around before he sees any of the Afritan Guards. Then, from the far side of the boatyard, Elphred hurries toward them.
“Overcaptain, ser! No one told us you were coming so early.”
“You’re right about that, galley master. I didn’t. That’s my fault. How soon can you be ready to set out?”
“Might be a half glass,
ser.”
“Oh, this is Toeryn. He’ll be accompanying us. Unlike me, he has some experience on the water.”
“Just two of you, ser … that won’t be a problem. If you’ll excuse me…”
“Of course.”
Lerial watches as the sailing galley is released from its cradle and then moved alongside the stone pier. It is a narrow double-ended craft some ten yards long and slightly less than two wide, with benches for twelve oarsmen, a steering oar at the end that is presumably the stern, and a single mast, which is raised and stepped after the galley is tied in place beside the pier. Lerial is conscious of how small the craft is, given the expanse of water between him and Estheld. And how shallow a draft it has, most likely only about a yard.
After a time, Elphred walks from the pier to where Lerial waits, trying to stay out of the men’s way as they prepare. “You wouldn’t be minding, ser, if you were in the bow, and your ranker in the stern with me.”
“It’s your vessel, Elphred. That would be fine with me. How long will it take for us to get to Estheld?”
“There’s not much wind. Might be three glasses. Or we could row the whole way…”
“But you’d prefer to save the men in case we have to depart quickly?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Unless matters change, you can use the sail.”
“Yes, ser. We’re ready for you, then.”
“There is one thing you need to tell your men. I may have to place a concealment over the galley when we get close to Estheld. That means that the Heldyans won’t be able to see us. It also means that we’ll be surrounded by darkness deeper than the blackest night. I’ll be able to direct the vessel, but … no one else will be able to see. I hope it’s not necessary, but it could be.”
“Yes, ser. I’ll tell them.”
Lerial waits for Elphred to brief his crew before he and Toeryn board the sail-galley. When the galley pulls away from the pier, propelled by twelve oarsmen, Lerial is seated on a narrow bench just aft of the bow, his knees tucked under the triangle of polished wood that extends a half yard back from the stem, a spray shield too small for much protection and not wide enough for much motion for his legs and knees. He puts the water bottle between his boots.
Heritage of Cyador Page 48
