Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The guards at the palace look at Lerial and the Mirror Lancers and wave them through, and the duty squad leader doesn’t even look askance as two lancers flank Lerial when he enters the building, before making his way up to Rhamuel’s chambers. The lancers plant themselves outside the sitting room—after looking in to see that only Sammyl and Rhamuel are inside.

  “Escorts, yet?” murmurs Sammyl in a voice barely audible.

  “They tend to be protective when I’m tired,” replies Lerial with a faint smile. “I am a bit tired. It’s been a rather long day.”

  “The lookouts report a great deal of fire and smoke rising from Estheld,” says Rhamuel, his words clearly a bland understatement. “I presume you and your lancers had something to do with that.”

  Lerial doesn’t feel like either boasting or demurring. “We did.”

  “Won’t that just enrage Duke Khesyn?” asks Sammyl.

  “I’m sure it will,” replies Lerial. “He’s bound to be enraged by the loss of all the merchanters tied or anchored at Estheld, somewhere around fifteen, not to mention the thousands of armsmen who died or the fact that it appeared that most of the harbor was burning to the ground when we departed. I could be wrong, but I believe he’s going to have more serious problems on his hands than trying to invade Afrit again.”

  “Might I ask how … all that happened?” Sammyl doesn’t conceal his skepticism.

  “A little chaos and order, placed here and there, combined with the fact that Khesyn built everything cheaply, believing that Estheld only had to last until he conquered Afrit and took Swartheld … with the encouragement of Maesoryk and a few other well-placed Afritan merchanters, of course.”

  The commander’s skeptical expression gives way to one of puzzlement.

  “He built everything of wood, and it was built close together. Seasoned wood burns very quickly, and if there’s a great deal of it, it burns hot and faster than people can escape, except into the water, and the water off Estheld, I’m told, is rather deep.” After taking in the appalled expression on Sammyl’s face, Lerial adds, “I don’t like fighting unnecessary battles against unprincipled enemies enabled by even less principled merchanters who are also traitors to their own land, because others have been more successful in amassing golds.”

  “I believe Lord Lerial has an excellent point, Sammyl,” says Rhamuel. “Do you have any problems with what he has said?”

  “Ah … there may well be traitors, but proving that they have acted in such a fashion might be difficult.”

  “It might,” agrees Rhamuel, “but it’s to be preferred over sending an outnumbered Afritan Guard out to fight another battle against fresh Heldyan hordes. Is it not?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I do have one question,” Lerial adds. “Who bears the cost of the loss of all those merchanters that were destroyed at Estheld?”

  “That depends on the contracts between the merchanters and Duke Khesyn. Unless there are special provisions, vessels used for purposes of warfare are not covered by any surety.”

  “That would mean that the merchanters owning them would bear the losses, then?” asks Lerial.

  “Some of them might have asked Khesyn for indemnity. He’d likely have agreed, but he won’t pay it. Of course,” Rhamuel adds, dryly, “Khesyn might attempt to claim Afrit was the cause of the fires.”

  “If it comes to that, blame it on the god/goddess of the Kaordists,” suggests Lerial tiredly. “There were no ships attacking, and no troopers anywhere around.”

  While Sammyl again looks appalled, Rhamuel laughs ironically. “It won’t come to that. Khesyn will be hard-pressed to maintain his borders against the Tourlegyns, especially when the spoils he most likely promised didn’t materialize.”

  “There’s one other item,” Lerial says. “On our way out to Estheld, and then on the way back, I noticed several things. First, all the ships in the harbor here were loading goods on board. None were offloading. Second, almost half flew a maroon ensign with a golden key in the center.”

  “Those had to be Alaphyn’s ships…” muses Rhamuel.

  “It is suggestive,” points out Lerial. “Along with Maesoryk…” And possibly Jhosef …

  “There’s no proof…” declares Sammyl. “Without that … all the other merchanters will refuse to pay their tariffs if you act against Maesoryk and Alaphyn.”

  We just might have to see about that, thinks Lerial, if without speaking those words.

  “There’s no proof, yet.” Rhamuel smiles. “It may not even come to that.” He looks to Sammyl. “I need a few words with Lord Lerial, about my healing … and a few other matters.”

  “Yes, ser.” Before he turns and leaves the sitting room, Sammyl’s momentary glance at Lerial is one of a very worried man.

  “Jaermyd tells me that my broken leg is healing, not quite so fast as I’d like, obviously.”

  Lerial considers what Rhamuel has said, then realizes that, for all that has happened, not that much time has passed. “It’s been less than two eightdays. You’d probably have felt the pain diminish…” Lerial immediately regrets those words.

  “If I could feel any pain, you’re doubtless right.” Rhamuel uses his hands and arms to shift his weight in the wooden armchair behind the table desk. “I’m not going to get the use of my legs back, am I?”

  “It’s still too soon to tell. If you have no feeling in a season … then…”

  “You aren’t putting me off, are you?”

  “No … Emerya might be able to tell you, but I don’t have her skills. Nor do I have her years of knowledge.”

  “Jaermyd is convinced my injuries would have been fatal without you.”

  “He’s too kind. I’d agree that they’d have been worse, but I suspect you still would have survived.”

  “He says no … that the chaos around the broken bone would have spread, and no one would have known in time.”

  Lerial had not even thought of that, he realizes.

  Rhamuel laughs. “Sometimes, you don’t even realize how much the little things you do ending up mattering.”

  “I imagine that’s just as true of you.”

  “Not quite as much. I do have a few more years of observing people.”

  “I grant you that. What else did you wish to discuss?” Lerial definitely wants to change the subject.

  “Your remaining in Swartheld for a time longer. Cigoerne certainly doesn’t need you at the moment. The dispatch from that majer, most likely penned for him by your father, shows that Khesyn doesn’t have any armsmen there. The Tourlegyns have lost too many warriors to raid Cigoerne. But … matters here are far from settled. They’ll get worse once it is known that I am crippled, and there will be muttered demands for a duke who can have offspring.”

  “You’re not that crippled.”

  “People will say that. That’s what matters. I can’t, obviously, require you to stay. First, you’re not an Afritan. Second, I doubt there’s any power left in Afrit that could force you and your lancers to remain. At the same time, I’d appreciate your presence and support until I am officially duke of Afrit.”

  “Who else could be duke?” asks Lerial. “You’re older than Mykel … if he’s even alive, and you’ve already pointed out that Kyedra cannot rule in her own name.”

  “But the lineage runs through her.”

  “It also runs through you.”

  “There will always be doubts if I am duke.”

  “That’s absurd. You almost died. You could have.”

  “It doesn’t matter. People will still believe that I had a hand in my brother’s death.” Rhamuel shakes his head. “I’ve never wanted to be duke. I’ve wanted other things … but never that.”

  Even as Lerial wonders what those “other things” might be, he replies bluntly, “You don’t have any choice. Neither does Afrit.”

  “Not now,” admits Rhamuel. “That brings up another question. You’ve been the one in the midst of all the battles. What do you sugg
est I do with the Afritan Guard … and its officers?”

  “Keep Sammyl as your chief of staff. Praise him publicly for his firm hand and loyalty in a time of crisis. Promise him something … you’d know better than I what is possible and acceptable. Make Commander Dhresyl the one in charge of supplies and logistics, but let him remain a commander. Promote Ascaar to commander and make him the overall field commander. There’s a young majer named Paelwyr. Make him a subcommander and a battalion commander. Review all the other majers who need to be promoted to subcommander with Paelwyr and Ascaar. From what I’ve seen, possibly Majer Aerlyt might be a decent subcommander, but I’d defer to Ascaar on that.”

  “What about a new arms-commander?”

  “You need to remain arms-commander for now, possibly for at least another year. You can do that with Sammyl as your chief of staff.”

  “You don’t trust Sammyl, do you? Why are you recommending him?”

  “I don’t trust his judgment on military matters. I do trust his loyalty to you. Right now, that’s very important.”

  “It’s a pity you’re the younger son.”

  Lerial shakes his head. “Where did those words come from?”

  “From what I’ve seen, and from what Emerya has written. And please don’t tell me you don’t know we’ve exchanged letters for years.”

  Almost … almost, Lerial laughs. Finally, he smiles. “I thought that was so, but she never, ever said anything about it to me, or to anyone else that I know of. I suspect Father and Mother know. Probably Grandmere knew.”

  “By sending that miniature, Emerya told you.”

  “She confirmed what I already knew.”

  “We need to talk of that … later.”

  Lerial understands. “How long do you think you’ll need me?”

  “It’s a little early to set dates … don’t you think? I won’t ask you to stay here any longer than necessary … but … would you be serving Cigoerne’s interests by leaving too soon?”

  With a rueful smile, Lerial says, “No. You know that.”

  “I just wanted to make sure you understand that as well.”

  Lerial finds himself yawning, wondering why, when it’s only a bit past fifth glass. “It’s time for me to head back to Afritan Guard headquarters.”

  “Get some rest or sleep,” suggests Rhamuel.

  “I’d thought of that.”

  “If you’re feeling better tomorrow morning, I’d suggest you go to Aenslem’s first. We’re going to need his knowledge and advice over the days ahead. I want to be certain he’s up to it.”

  “I can do that.”

  “If he is, escort him here, and we can go over some matters. Now … go and get some food and rest. Don’t worry. You can start that tomorrow.” Rhamuel spoils the stern words with a grin.

  Lerial can’t help but smile back before he turns and leaves the sitting room. Outside, he smiles again, cheerfully, at Sammyl. “I think he has a few more things for you to do.”

  Then he nods to the two rankers, and the three head for the palace stables. He hopes he won’t fall asleep before he can brief his own officers. At the same time, he also wonders, not for the first time, if his dispatch has reached Emerya. He shakes his head. It has only been a little more than a eightday.

  XLV

  Lerial manages to brief his officers and Dhoraat on the events at Estheld, but not about Rhamuel’s request, before retiring to his chamber in the officers’ quarters at Afritan Guard headquarters and falling asleep well before eighth glass, deeply enough that he does not dream. Then … in the darkness, he bolts awake, yet hears nothing. Half sitting up in the bunk, he glances around, but he can see only the vague outline of the room, the doorless armoire, the narrow table desk. He is relieved that he can order-sense, slightly, and only for a short distance, enough to discern no one outside the barred door.

  What woke you so suddenly? He shakes his head and lies back down. For a time he listens and order-senses, but the quarters remain still, and there are no loud sounds issuing from the headquarters courtyard outside and below his shuttered window, no wind, no rain or thunder.

  How long will you have to stay here? With that question, his mind is filled with all the complications—Rhamuel’s health, how the merchanters will react, how to deal with Maesoryk, if he even returns to Swartheld, Jhosef, and Alaphyn … or the possible problem with the fact that Aenslem has no sons … and that Fhastal has two, both Aenslem’s grandsons, but complicated because Aenslem cannot stand Fhastal … and the two are the wealthiest and most powerful merchanters in Afrit. He also has to tell his officers and men about Rhamuel’s request, something he avoided the night before, because he wanted to think about the matter more before he did.

  Then too, he must admit, there is the question of what will happen to Kyedra. Certainly, no one in Afrit, especially not Rhamuel, would want her consorted to any heir in Heldya, and from what Lerial has seen of Casseon’s acts, any consorting to anyone in Merowey wouldn’t be much better.

  She’s too good for Lephi … and you’re the wrong brother.

  Finally, he falls back asleep, only to wake at the first glimmer of light through the cracks in the closed shutters. While he feels better than he did on fiveday, his neck and face are still warm and red, doubtless from all the sun he’d endured, something he had not even noticed the day before, and he has a faint headache, although the light-flashes across his eyes have stopped. So, he realizes, has the itching on his hip.

  After eating a sizable if not particularly tasty breakfast, he gathers Strauxyn, Kusyl, and Dhoraat together in one of the small conference rooms in the headquarters building.

  “This must be serious, ser,” says Kusyl, glancing around the chamber before taking a seat opposite Lerial across the circular table that could accommodate six at most.

  “It is. You know I met with Arms-Commander Rhamuel early last evening to report on what happened at Estheld. There was one other matter I did not mention.” He pauses and looks at Kusyl, who is shaking his head, just slightly, then grins. “It’s not quite that bad, Kusyl. The arms-commander has requested that we remain here for a short time, just to make certain something else doesn’t happen.”

  “There aren’t more Heldyan armsmen somewhere else, are there?” asks Strauxyn worriedly.

  “Not that we know of. The problem he faces is that, right now, everything is up in the air in Swartheld. The Afritan Guard has suffered so many casualties and deaths that it doesn’t have a single intact battalion, and the only decent field commander is Subcommander Ascaar. He is on his way here, and I think that he’ll be very helpful in straightening out matters.”

  “The new duke doesn’t trust some of his officers?” asks Kusyl.

  “It’s not a question of trust. All those left are loyal.”

  “Oh…” murmurs Strauxyn. “He wants someone who can lead who knows one end of a lance from the other—until Subcommander Ascaar gets here.”

  “There’s also the problem that several merchanters may have been helping the Heldyans, and one may have a company of private guards and a chaos-mage or two.” Lerial has his doubts as to whether Maesoryk’s mages have survived, but he has no doubts that the merchanter’s private guards are still intact … and that no one seems to know where they are.

  “Begging your pardon, ser,” Kusyl says slowly, “but it seems like trying to leave Afrit is like trying to swim out of a vat of molasses.”

  Lerial can’t help but smile. “I’ve never tried, but…”

  “I was pushed into one when I was ten. Starshit near drowned and died before they pulled me out. You don’t float and can’t swim, and can barely breathe.”

  “What we face isn’t likely to be quite that bad,” Lerial replies, “but Cigoerne can’t afford to have Afrit fall apart after all this … and…” He isn’t quite sure what to say that is at least most accurate, yet persuasive.

  “We’re the only ones the new duke is sure of, because all we want is to get out of here with as m
uch skin left as we can keep,” says Kusyl.

  “That’s partly what it comes down to,” admits Lerial. “The other part is that we’ve now got a duke who did his best to keep Afrit from attacking Cigoerne when he was arms-commander, and it would be a good thing to make sure he stays duke.”

  Strauxyn’s face shows puzzlement.

  “The only attack in the last five years was ordered by Duke Atroyan when Arms-Commander Rhamuel had such a bad flux they weren’t sure he’d recover.”

  “Star-frigging thing, ser, when we got more interest in Afrit having a good duke than they do.” Kusyl shakes his head.

  “So you can see why we need to be here a little longer.” Too long, considering we left Cigoerne almost exactly a season ago … well … a few days short of a season.

  All three men nod, Kusyl offering a sardonically disgusted expression as well.

  “It’ll be a story you can tell for years,” Lerial says.

  “The worst thing, ser,” adds Kusyl, “is that we’ll be telling the truth, and everyone will think we’re lying.”

  “As for today,” Lerial goes on, “I need a squad to accompany me to Merchanter Aenslem’s and then to the palace. They’ll likely be gone most of the day.”

  “My second squad hasn’t seen that fancy villa,” volunteers Kusyl.

  “Then they will,” replies Lerial.

  A third after seventh glass, Lerial and the Second Squad from Twenty-third Company ride out through the headquarters gates and take the shore road to the avenue leading to the merchanter’s hill, a route Lerial chooses so that he can observe the harbor. From what he can tell, more than half the merchanter vessels that had been tied at the piers have departed. While Lerial is not absolutely certain, he has the feeling that all of those that have set sail, or most of them, anyway, were ships belonging to Alaphyn.

  Was he aboard one of them? That wouldn’t have surprised Lerial in the slightest. But then, given the arrogance of at least some of the Afritan merchanters, it wouldn’t have surprised Lerial if Alaphyn remained, stoutly proclaiming his allegiance to Rhamuel.