Lerial can maintain only very slight shields, and does so, given what has happened to all too many senior officers … and also given his lack of trust, but no one even comes close to the Lancer squad on its way to Aenslem’s villa.
Haesychya is the one who meets Lerial in the circular entry hall of the villa.
“I understand we owe you once more.” Haesychya’s voice is cool.
“Lady, in some ways, we owe you, since we do not have to fight on our lands, and we have suffered far less than you have. Like Afrit, Cigoerne has had to fight off Heldyan depredations for years. Unlike Afrit, we have not faced the magnitude of betrayal and treachery that has been your lot.”
“Are all Cigoernean mages as skilled as you are in the ways of destruction?”
“There are some who are skilled in such. There have never been a great number.” Lerial looks directly into Haesychya’s black eyes. “I would appreciate not being considered one of the black angels.”
A momentary look of puzzlement crosses her face. “Black angels?”
“The ones who called down destruction and devastation upon Cyador from the heights of the Westhorns to the depths of the ocean. I am scarcely a mage compared to them.”
“But you are a mage.”
Lerial shakes his head. “None of the true Magi’i would consider me such. I have mastered a few destructive skills and some healing, but … there is much I cannot do and likely never will be able to do.”
“My consort wanted to reunite Cigoerne and Afrit, you know? You have made that impossible.”
“It was never possible the way in which he wanted to accomplish it.”
Haesychya looks away for an instant. Then she meets Lerial’s eyes again. “So why are you here this morning?”
“To see that your father is well and continuing to improve.”
“I think you will find him much improved.” She turns and begins to walk toward the archway to the north corridor. “You know, you’re not doing Kyedra any favors by coming here.”
“That may be … or it may not be, but I am here at Rhamuel’s request.”
“You would defy your parents’ wishes? They will certainly press for her hand for your brother.”
Lerial manages a rueful smile. “They have not … not yet, and I have found that assuming what others will do, in the absence of evidence of intent, can be most misleading.” What Lerial says is not wholly true, he knows, given his mother’s wishes, but his father has said nothing.
“The needs of power override intent or emotion. They override love, also, especially young love.”
“I will not question you on that, Lady. You have far more experience than I.” Again … this is true, and Lerial’s experience with Rojana would certainly support Haesychya’s point, but he does not wish to concede that directly. He wonders what else he can say when he sees a serving girl—the attractive one he has seen before—slipping out the study door. By the slight change in Haesychya’s walk and posture, Lerial can tell that she has seen as well … and that it is likely that the young woman is more than a mere serving girl.
“Still…” Haesychya says, seeming almost to muse, “we have just seen what two younger brothers have done, and few would have believed how events have turned out.”
“I would not underestimate the power of younger sisters, either,” replies Lerial.
“You have one in mind?”
“I have several,” he counters, pausing to allow her to enter Aenslem’s study first.
Aenslem is alone in the study, but Lerial still manages to smile and say, “You’re looking much better.” He moves closer to the merchanter, stopping short of the desk and letting his order-senses range over the older man. He almost nods as he can find no trace of the chaos that would indicate a lingering effect of the poison.
“You worry too much about me, young Lerial.”
“I worry less than Rhamuel does. He’s the one who asked that I stop and see how you are. He’s going to need your counsel and advice.”
“He’s never asked for it before.”
“He wasn’t duke before,” replies Lerial.
“He hasn’t proclaimed the title for himself. Most of Afrit still thinks his brother is.”
“He’s had a few other things to consider,” Lerial points out dryly. “Are you up to riding?”
“A short ride would do me good.”
“Are you sure, Father?” asks Haesychya.
“I’m sure. You can accompany us, if you’re that worried.”
“I’ll never set foot back in that prison.” Haesychya’s words are cool and matter-of-fact. “Never.”
“’Never’ is a dangerous word, Daughter,” says Aenslem as he rises from the chair behind the table desk.
“When will you be back?” asks Haesychya, as if she has talked about nothing but the weather or a pleasant afternoon.
“When I’m done with Rhamuel. Assuming he’ll listen.”
“He always listens,” replies Haesychya. “He seldom agrees with you.”
Aenslem snorts and turns to Lerial. “You can walk with me to the stables.”
Lerial addresses Haesychya. “Thank you for everything. I do appreciate your kindness and your insights.”
“You are leaving Swartheld soon, then?”
“The arms-commander has asked me to remain for a short time, at least until Subcommander Ascaar arrives in a few days. Perhaps longer, but that is his choice.”
“For now,” suggests Haesychya.
“For now,” Lerial agrees.
Haesychya inclines her head, and Lerial returns the gesture.
Aenslem and Lerial walk toward the entry hall.
“She’s worried that Kyedra will become attached to you, as if you don’t already know.”
“Is that her worry … or is it that Kyedra will become attached to a less powerful junior son when she might have more power in consorting his elder brother?”
“For someone your age, you don’t miss much.”
Lerial laughs. “I think that suggests that I still miss too much.”
This time Aenslem laughs.
When he finishes, Lerial asks, “What am I missing?”
“What do you think you’re missing?” As they enter the main entry hall, Aenslem heads for the west corridor.
“Besides the fact that Haesychya resents women being subservient to men, when she’s more perceptive than most?” As if that is not often true.
“You’re close enough.” Aenslem turns down a small side corridor that leads to a door out into a walk that leads through a walled garden and out into the rear courtyard.
Neither speaks much until they are mounted and well away from the villa. Finally, Lerial ventures, “I didn’t realize Haesychya hated the palace so much.”
“I gave her and Sophrosynia too much freedom growing up. They thought they were the equal of any man.”
“I haven’t met Sophrosynia, but Haesychya certainly is.”
Aenslem shakes his head. “No. They’re both smarter and see more than most men, and most men don’t like that. Atroyan certainly didn’t. Fhastal doesn’t either, but, unlike Atroyan, he listens and weighs what Sophrosynia has to say.”
“Some have said you don’t much care for Fhastal, but that doesn’t sound as though that’s the case.”
“I don’t like him. He’s arrogant, and he’s cost me more than I want to count. But he’s the best at what he does, and he’s been good to Sophrosynia. She loves him, and he loves her. But I don’t have to like him.”
Lerial doesn’t know what to say to that, and he is silent for several long moments, thinking.
“I have my likes and dislikes, young Lerial, and I’ve got more than a few faults. My daughters and Kyedra could list them all, but they’re loyal, and they won’t. One thing I learned a long time ago was not to judge men—or women—on whether you like them. I’ll do business with a man I dislike who’s trustworthy, and I won’t with a man I like personally but distrust.” After a m
oment Aenslem smiles and adds, “Unless, of course, it’s golds in advance, and all the risk is on his part. Even then, I’m wary.”
Lerial nods, hoping Aenslem will say more.
After they have ridden a while longer and are on the road leading to the circle around the palace, the merchanter speaks again. “I heard you say that you’re remaining at Rhamuel’s request. Just how badly is he injured? The plain truth, now. Will he live?”
“He’s as likely to live as any of us. He may not walk again, but it’s early to say on that.”
“What about children? Even if he weren’t crippled, he’s no longer a young man.”
“It’s possible, so far as I can tell.”
“Possible doesn’t mean there’ll be an heir.”
“That may be, but Afrit needs a duke.”
Aenslem nods, cautiously, and Lerial doesn’t press.
Less than half a glass later, Lerial and Aenslem walk into the sitting room that has effectively become Rhamuel’s study. The arms-commander is looking at a map.
“Rhamuel, I brought someone to see you.”
The surprise in the arms-commander’s eyes is unfeigned as he catches sight of the merchanter. “Aenslem!”
“It seems I’m up and around sooner than you, Rhamuel.”
“It would seem so.” Rhamuel gestures to one of the chairs before the table desk.
Aenslem takes one and Lerial the other.
“Where’s Sammyl?” asks Lerial.
“Visiting South Point, South Post, and Harbor Post. We both thought his presence would confirm that matters are stable here in Swartheld.”
“That will help, but you need to proclaim yourself duke,” declares Aenslem.
“I thought it wise to discuss the matter with the head of the Merchanting Council … after I was certain that it appeared likely I’d survive long enough for it to matter,” says Rhamuel dryly. “Otherwise … what would be the point?”
“You’ve always been practical. I’ll grant you that,” says Aenslem. “I’ll be the same. I’ll support you, and so will Fhastal. Maesoryk doesn’t matter, if he’s even still alive, and Lhugar has to back you. You have Maephaes on your side. Alaphyn won’t. He hated your brother, and he doesn’t like you any better—”
“He’s not in Swartheld. He may not even be in Afrit,” Rhamuel says, looking to Lerial.
“Five of his ships loaded cargo on sixday and departed from Swartheld.”
“I sent a messenger to his villa here, but there is no one there but a handful of retainers, and they don’t know where he and his family are,” adds Rhamuel.
“Then that leaves Jhosef,” concludes Aenslem, “and he’ll do whatever benefits him.”
“We have some doubts about Jhosef,” says Rhamuel, who goes on to explain about Oestyn and Mykel’s disappearance, as well as the missing dispatch and the missing Captain Jontarl.
Aenslem nods when Rhamuel finishes. “Then he won’t be here in Swartheld for some time. Put out proclamations. Affirm Atroyan’s and Natroyor’s deaths in the explosion, declare an eightday of proper mourning, and note that there was a private memorial for them because of the Heldyan attacks on Swartheld. Blame the explosions in the palace and Harbor Post on Duke Khesyn. Don’t mention Mykel yet. It’s not necessary, because you’d be the heir in any case. There’s no point in waiting any longer in letting people know.”
“Not after I’ve consulted with you, but it seemed best not to rush matters.”
“Now that you’ve consulted, don’t dither.”
“Have I ever?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t.”
Lerial is quickly seeing why frequent meetings between Aenslem and Rhamuel might not be the wisest course. He turns to Aenslem. “Is there anything else you’d recommend?”
“Wait a few days. Send out letters to all the merchanters—except Alaphyn and Jhosef and Maesoryk—commending them on their levelheadedness and forbearance … and then note that there will likely be some changes in the way the duchy is governed as a result of the war with Heldya.”
“Do you have suggestions on what those might be?”
“That’s your task, not mine. I told your brother to raise tariffs and build a few warships. He didn’t. A few warships would have made things almost impossible for Khesyn. I don’t like tariffs, but war is even worse for merchanting than tariffs. Listen to young Lerial. He might have a good idea or two.” Aenslem stands. “I’ll send you a note if I think of anything else. Oh … and in a few days, get yourself seen around the city. You can ride in an open coach. Let it be known that’s because your leg was broken in the palace explosion. Then get a special saddle made so that you can ride.”
Rhamuel nods. “Thank you for coming. I do appreciate it.”
“I couldn’t do any less.”
“I still appreciate it.”
Since it is clear that Aenslem will need an escort back to his villa, Lerial has also risen. He looks to Rhamuel. “After we escort Merchanter Aenslem back, I’ll be at headquarters, unless you need anything.”
“If I do, I’ll let you know. Thank you.”
Lerial and Aenslem walk back to the stables without talking, except in pleasantries, and they ride to the avenue leading up to Aenslem’s villa before the merchanter speaks again.
“He might work out as duke, after all. It’d be better if you could stay here. I understand it can’t happen. You’ve done more than enough.” Aenslem shakes his head, and then is silent.
When they reach the villa’s stables, Aenslem dismounts, then looks up. “He didn’t ask me to come there today, did he?”
“He said he needed to consult with you. I took care of the details.”
Aenslem laughs, gruffly, but cheerfully, then shakes his head once more. “Good day, young Lerial.”
“Good day, ser.”
Lerial turns the gelding. On his way to the villa gates, he does not catch sight of either Kyedra or Haesychya, not that he really expects to, but …
XLVI
Lerial spends the remainder of sixday, as well as sevenday morning, on preparations for the Mirror Lancers’ departure and return journey to Cigoerne, making certain that the wagons are in good condition, and arranging with Captain Dhallyn to obtain provisions and other supplies when the time comes that they can finally leave. As he sits in the small conference room at Afritan Guard headquarters that he is using as his personal command center, he has to admit, if only to himself, that he has mixed feelings about departing.
Why? Is it just because he feels that what he and the Lancers have accomplished in Afrit has been worthwhile for both Afrit and Cigoerne … and has doubts about what of equal worth he can do in Cigoerne? Or the fact that he isn’t looking forward to returning to wondering about what Lephi is doing … and dealing with the unvoiced comparisons. Or … how much does Kyedra play into your feelings? More, he suspects, than he had ever thought, possibly because for years he has recalled her as she was when she had visited Cigoerne with her father as a young girl … most likely just to make her familiar with Cigoerne in the event she ended up as Lephi’s consort. Yet now that he has seen her … she’s too good for Lephi …
Lerial can’t help shaking his head. You’re still the second son.
He turns his attention back to the supply lists and logistical requirements, but less than a third of a glass later, a ranker knocks on the conference room door.
“Yes?”
“There’s a messenger from Arms-Commander Rhamuel, ser. He would appreciate your coming to the palace at your earliest convenience.”
“Thank you.” That doesn’t sound good. “If you’d ask Squad Leader Dhoraat to select a squad to accompany me, I’d appreciate it. I’ll be at the stables shortly.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial jots a note to himself to check on grain for mounts. Given that it’s late spring, just about as far as possible from most grain harvests, supplies are likely to be short in many places on their return, and he’d pref
er to carry more with them, just in case. Then he takes all his papers back to his quarters before making his way to the stables, where Eighth Company’s Third Squad and his own gelding are already forming up.
A half glass later, just before the first glass of the afternoon, he and Third Squad rein up outside the palace stables. Lerial does notice that white and black mourning drapes have been hung on the gates and the main entrances. From the stables, he makes his way to the west wing of the palace, but before he can turn toward the sitting room Rhamuel has been using, an Afritan Guard ranker hurries up to him.
“Overcaptain, ser, the duke is now in his receiving study. This way, if you would, ser.”
Lerial follows the ranker to another door, still on the second level, but overlooking the west entrance to the palace. Inside the door is an anteroom, with two table desks. A palace guard sits at the table desk set directly facing the door, while Norstaan is seated at the other desk, set well to one side.
“For the moment, Commander Sammyl and I are sharing this one,” Norstaan explains. “Go on in. He’s expecting you.”
Lerial opens the door to the inner chamber and steps into a much larger room. At one end is a circular conference table with six chairs around it, and at the other is a large table desk, behind which Rhamuel is seated, with stacks of papers arrayed around him. In the corner of the study is a chair on wheels, essentially a chair fastened to a frame to which small cart wheels or the like have been attached.
“You’ve moved, I see.”
“Norstaan pointed out that, now that I’m duke, I’ll need to see more people at one time, and that I needed a more proper receiving study. The wheeled chair was his idea. One person can push it, and I can even move the wheels sitting in it. For a short distance, anyway. It’s a great improvement, even if it does squeak and squeal. Sit down.” The pleasant expression on Rhamuel’s face vanishes.
“Trouble?” asks Lerial.
Rhamuel nods. “The palace guards I sent looking for Mykel and Oestyn…”
“Yes?” replies Lerial cautiously.
“They’ve found the bodies of some of his escort guards—what’s left of them.”
“What about Mykel and Oestyn?”
“There’s no trace of them.” Rhamuel shakes his head. “Ghersen—he’s the squad leader I sent—he’s very methodical. He stopped at every village and hamlet along the way. He found the inn where they stayed the second night … and the innkeeper said that they had left very early, before dawn.” Rhamuel offers a sardonic smile. “Neither Mykel nor Oestyn would leave that early. Not willingly, and Ghersen knew that. I imagine he was rough on the innkeeper. He’s now convinced that the innkeeper had nothing to do with it—especially since his son was found at the bottom of the well the next morning, and one of the serving maids was missing. The innkeeper said that everyone slept late that morning. Ghersen questioned some locals, and several said that the inn wasn’t open until midmorning.”
Heritage of Cyador Page 51
