“Why didn’t you know that something had happened to him?”
“I was so … tired. I didn’t know why. I asked Quiela to make sure that Jahib came upstairs after he swept the kitchen. That was his chore. When I woke the next morning, it was light. I never sleep past dawn.”
“Why did you then?”
“Someone must have put something in the lager. We all slept late, except Quiela.” Her eyes brighten once more. “The Afritan Guard—the mean one who beat Immar—he told me she was dead. She was a sweet girl. She hurt no one. She was not pretty, but she was so sweet.”
“How could anyone have put anything in the lager?” asks Lerial.
“When the heir comes, a guard always watches the kitchen and the food. It is true when a merchanter comes also.”
“Were there two men in the kitchen, then?”
She frowns, trying to remember. “No. There was only the merchanter guard.”
Lerial wants to nod. “Were you in the kitchen all the time?”
“No. I watched Ottar when he prepared the food. I watched Quiela and helped her serve the food.”
“Did the heir drink your lager?”
“The heir always brings casks of his own wine. He drank that. So did his friends. The guards drank our lager.”
“Did you or Immar drink any of the wine?”
“The heir offered some to Immar. He always does. Immar does not like wine, but he always drinks some. He would not wish to offend the heir.”
“You only drank the lager?”
“That was all. Our water is better than most, but the lager is always clean.”
“Did Jahib drink lager?”
“We made him water his lager.”
“What about Quiela?”
“She watered her lager. She said it was better that way.”
“Did you see anything else strange after you woke up?”
“My head hurt. So did Immar’s. So did Ottar’s. The front door to the inn was barred. So was the rear door, and the kitchen door.”
“Are those the only doors?”
She nods.
“How did anyone get out, then?”
“The shutters on the side window of the public room weren’t fastened.”
Lerial asks more questions of the innkeeper’s consort, but discovers nothing more, and then goes to the kitchen, where he questions Ottar the cook.
“What did you prepare for their dinner?”
“They had a young goat. I made the meat tender, seared it, and then put it in an iron pot with the spices for burhka. I served it all with pearl millet. Between the heir and his friend and their guards, there wasn’t much left. Just enough for small portions for the rest of us.”
“Everyone ate some of the goat, then?”
“The merchanter guard in the kitchen … he ate later, with the rest of us.”
“Did you drink much lager?”
Ottar snorts. “Can’t last in the kitchen without lager. It’s too hot.”
“You slept late?”
“Later than anyone, I guess. Immar was shaking me. My head was splitting. Never had a skull-ache like that before.”
“How did you find the boy?”
“The bucket is always hung on the post closest to the inn door. Jamara gets real upset if it’s not. It wasn’t there. When I looked down in the well, I saw something. It took both of us—Immar and me—to pull up the bucket, because Jahib’s belt was caught.”
“Was he wounded?”
“No, ser. He had a bump on the head. Like maybe he’d fallen and hit it. Don’t see how he could have done that. Soon as she saw him, Jamara started screaming that someone had killed him.”
“What did you think?”
“Someone bashed him, hooked his belt to the bucket, and lowered him into the well. Maybe they wanted him out of the way, figured he wouldn’t drown. Maybe they wanted him dead.” Ottar shrugs fatalistically.
Again, more questions bring little more information, and a half glass later, Lerial and Norstaan are sitting at the same small table where Lerial had questioned the innkeeper. Lerial looks at the dark lager in the heavy mug, then order-senses it, and finding no chaos takes a sip. The lager is even more bitter than it looks. He sets the mug down.
“What do you think, ser?” asks Norstaan.
“It wasn’t anyone here at the inn. One of Oestyn’s guards had to be the one who added sleeping draughts to the lager.” Lerial nods to the mug. “This is so bitter you could add anything. The wine might have been adulterated earlier. That’s most likely.”
“Why?”
“Oestyn and Mykel know wine. Whoever added something had to add it skillfully enough that it didn’t affect the taste too much. Or … maybe Jhosef sent a new or different vintage, one unfamiliar to the two.”
Norstaan nods. “Most inn lager is bitter, and it varies from place to place. Likely enough that the guards wouldn’t notice.”
“The boy wouldn’t be drinking as much, and his parents insisted on watering his lager … and the serving girl watered her own lager. The cook drank more lager than anyone, slept later, and woke with his head splitting.”
“And they did it here because they could get rid of the bodies fairly close,” suggests Norstaan.
“That means someone very familiar with the area.”
Like Jhosef. Except that Lerial does not voice that observation.
LI
Because Lerial can see no point in spending another day or even part of one at the Streamside, he and his force set out for Lake Jhulyn early on threeday. He does pay Immar two golds from the small bag with which Rhamuel has entrusted him, for which Immar again practically grovels thanks. Or relief, more likely, Lerial suspects.
As they ride away from the inn, Lerial cannot help but wonder whether Emerya will come to Swartheld. Father has to have received your dispatch by now. But there is also the question of whether he will even tell Emerya. Should you have sent a separate dispatch to her? But doing so would have meant going around his father … and that …
He shakes his head.
By the third glass of the afternoon they are approaching Merchanter Jhosef’s villa, set on the west edge of the lake near its northern tip. Even from over a kay away, the size of Jhosef’s grounds and summer villa are impressive, the villa itself a white structure set facing the lake, with lawn running down to a sandy beach. Walls a good three yards high run from fifty yards out into the water up each the side of the lawn past the villa and its outbuildings to a point a half kay higher on the long gentle slope leading down to the lake. The west wall, the one high on the hill, appears to be closer to four yards tall. The road leads to an entry gate in the north wall.
Flanking the gate, inside the walls, are several white stone buildings, and out of those buildings a white stone-paved lane leads due south, passing directly beside stone retaining walls, on the top of which are extensive terraces, before curving south and uphill around the villa, presumably to an uphill entrance on the west side.
Lerial cannot help but wonder why the entry road does not just angle directly across the slope to the entry on the west side of the villa, but then realizes that the existing approach is far more artistic. Oestyn’s idea? Or someone else’s earlier? Lerial cannot imagine it being Jhosef’s. As he rides closer to the gates, he continues to study the walls and the grounds, and the paved lanes connecting the gates and all the outbuildings, certainly enough outbuildings to quarter several companies of private guards.
“How do you plan to get in to see the merchanter, ser?” asks Strauxyn, riding on Lerial’s left. “Those walls are high and stout.”
“First, we’ll ask. Then we’ll see.”
“I can’t imagine them defying you, ser,” says Norstaan.
Lerial can, unhappily, given all he has witnessed since entering Afrit more than a season before, and especially after seeing the small stone fortress set beside Jhosef’s dam and above the water gates. He carries full shields as he rides up toward the
stout timbered gates, iron-bound and set into massive stone posts.
“Lord Lerial to see Merchanter Jhosef.”
“Merchanter Jhosef is not receiving visitors. He never receives unannounced visitors here.”
Lerial can sense … something beyond the walls—well beyond—almost a swirl of order and chaos. A very good shield! So Jhosef has a strong mage … something no one has ever mentioned, not that Lerial is especially surprised. He finds that he is angry. Aenslem had a low-level chaos-mage; Maesoryk had or has two or more. Jhosef has one … And you had to deal with the Heldyans and the traitor mages without any magely support because not a single merchanter would even admit to having mages or white wizards.
Except, Lerial realizes, he had never asked for such support, nor had he learned about who had any mages, until after most of the Heldyan attacks were over—and neither Atroyan nor Rhamuel had mentioned such a possibility, except in general terms, and none of the merchanters had volunteered their mages. Lerial knows why, or what they would have said—that they could not afford to give up any advantage to other merchanters. And that, too, feeds his anger.
“Then I suggest that you announce us. He will receive us,” Lerial states calmly. One way or another.
“I think not, ser.” Whoever is behind the iron-framed peephole closes it.
“We’ll move back,” Lerial says to Strauxyn, gesturing. “Around that curve in the lane.” He waits as Strauxyn gives the necessary orders, and the entire force withdraws a good quarter kay.
Lerial then concentrates and attempts what he hopes will be two very small order-chaos separations, one on each side of the heavy gates.
Crumppt!
Powdered stone cloaks the gates. Then there is a huge thud, and the paving stones under Lerial’s mount’s hoofs shudder. As the dust and stone subside, Lerial can see that the gates have toppled forward, leaving a narrow passage between the gateposts and the buildings directly behind them.
“Lances ready!” orders Strauxyn.
“Lances, ready, ser!”
“Forward!”
Lerial holds back slightly, letting the first rank of lancers precede him, although he does strengthen his shields, as well as mentally readies an order-line pattern in case the mage beyond the gates should attempt some sort of attack. A squad of men in white tunics and brown trousers is still forming up in the narrow stone-walled passage behind the entry gates to the villa, but at the sight of the lancers bearing down on them, most drop their pikes and attempt to flee. Those who are not quick enough are cut down. In moments, Twenty-third Company sweeps through the narrow space and up the paved lane. Lerial glances ahead, studying the approach to the villa, still almost half a kay away.
“Deliberate advance!” Lerial orders.
They have covered almost half of that distance at a fast walk when from out of nowhere comes a warm and comforting feeling … the sense that everything is fine. Then a voice says, You don’t need that knife among friends … just unstrap it … you’ll feel so much better without it … so much better …
Lerial feels his hand going down to his belt, even though he has not willed it to do so.
You’re among friends here … we all want you to feel welcome … your very good friends … such good friends.…
… yes … good friends … Somewhere … Lerial hears people talking, but their words don’t seem all that important … His hand brushes the highly ordered and tooled leather of the sheath … and the comforting words vanish … and he can sense a web of twisted order and chaos retreating from him … and that his shields are lowering. He immediately refreshes them, then concentrates on trying to locate the source of that probe … that insinuating attack that he has not even anticipated. He cannot determine the exact location of the chaos-mage, only the general feeling that he is near or in the villa proper.
Projecting feelings … over that distance? Lerial almost shudders as he rides closer to the villa, a low single-level structure that stretches close to a hundred and fifty yards, end to end. Below the east-facing terraces is a stone retaining wall that extends the length of the terraces, some fifty yards, and well beyond the terraces on both the north and south, and which rises from the west side of the road to the terrace floor. Above that is a waist-high stone balustrade, clearly placed to keep revelers or children or anyone from falling some three yards off the terrace to the road below. From the east side of the road, the lawn stretches down to the water, although there is a hedge maze of some sort in the middle of the lawn. Lerial does not recognize the bushes of the hedge that composes the diversion. A single white stone pier extends some twenty yards out into the water, with several small boats tied to bollards, and one much larger pleasure barge tied at the very end.
When they are less than fifty yards from the north end of the terrace, Lerial sees several figures move up to the balustrade. He almost swallows in amazement because, standing behind the middle of the terrace wall, several yards above an iron-bound door that doubtless blocks a staircase up from the road to the terraces, is Jhosef, flanked by two guards in brown and white uniforms. After denying us entrance, he can just stand there as if nothing happened?
“Company! Halt!” Lerial orders, looking up at the merchanter and past the retaining wall to the base of the sculpted and decorative balustrade that defines the end of the terrace. There’s no way to get up there quickly … not from here.
“That’s a very good idea, Lord Lerial. It is you, isn’t it? Who else would it be? Running errands for whelp Rhamuel again?”
“If you call seeing why you had Mykel killed running an errand,” replies Lerial sardonically.
“Killing Mykel? Perish the thought! Why would I ever wish to do that? That’s the last thing on my mind. You mistake me, Lord Lerial. I have only the highest interests of Afrit in mind. Killing young Mykel would scarcely further restoring the strength of Afrit, no matter what you younger sons think. Why don’t you ride up to the main entrance? From there you can easily enter the villa, and we can discuss what might be the best future for Afrit.” With that, Josef steps back, and in moments is out of sight.
For an instant, Lerial is dumbfounded. Now what? He had expected either more fighting, or Josef fleeing, or not being at his villa, or even some sort of attempt at a negotiated surrender. Unless those words are his way of offering such. Except Lerial trusts the merchanter not at all.
“Ser?” asks Strauxyn.
“Capture and tie up all Jhosef’s personal guards, everyone in those gate buildings. Send one squad up to the entrance immediately so that no one escapes, but keep them well back. Norstaan and I and his squad will follow that squad. Once we have the grounds secure, then we’ll look into the villa and consider Merchanter Josef’s kind invitation.” Lerial doesn’t keep the sarcasm from the last words.
“Yes, ser! First Squad, forward!”
While Lerial waits for Norstaan and his squad to move up behind First Squad, he makes certain he is maintaining his shields while he uses his order-senses to determine what pitfalls may lie farther along the approach road or on the terrace above. He can sense no other living beings in either place. There are more than a few people inside the villa, but how many are unarmed retainers, how many are armed guards, and where exactly the chaos-mage might be he cannot tell, except that he is somewhere nearby. Nor is there any indication of whether Mykel or Oestyn are even in the villa, but there is no way for him to pick them from the others within.
Before long, Lerial and Norstaan ride at the head of the Afritan squad, immediately behind First Squad. They encounter no one along the sweeping and gently rising stone-paved lane that curves around the south end of the villa, past low gardens and private terraces outside several rooms. Before long they rein up short of a columned portico in the middle of the west side of the villa. Lerial still sees no one. Nor can he sense exactly where the chaos mage might be, other than in the villa, somewhere near the entrance, he feels, although he cannot be certain.
As Lerial and the two
squads wait for Strauxyn and the remainder of Twenty-third Company to secure the grounds, Lerial continues to check his shields and use his eyes and order-senses, wondering whether he is being too cautious. Except there are the “small” problems that, first, despite the fact that Lerial knows Josef has to be behind whatever happened to Mykel and Oestyn, he has no proof, and, second, if Mykel is still alive, as Josef has indicated, simply storming into the villa might not be the best approach, especially with a chaos-mage in waiting. On the other hand, not storming the villa, given the mage, might be more than a little dangerous for Lerial personally. Either way, he’s not about to take any action until Strauxyn reports that the estate grounds are secure.
As he waits and considers, and reconsiders, no other guards or armsmen attempt to flee from the villa, nor from the outbuildings near the villa, from what he can see and sense. Before that long, Strauxyn returns with two of his three remaining squads, reins up, and reports, “All of the merchanter’s guards are taken care of.”
“Casualties?” asks Lerial.
“None from our side, ser. We had to kill three more of them, and several others are wounded. That doesn’t count a handful or so who fled. Fourth Squad has the others under guard.”
Lerial glances at the columned entrance to the villa. Finally, he smiles wryly. “I think I’m going to have to take Josef’s invitation.”
“Ser … after…?” Strauxyn breaks off before he can say more, but the concern is written across his face.
“We broke the gates to enter, but once we entered, the merchanter himself has not opposed us. Besides, we don’t know what has happened to the heir. I will take half a squad as personal support, and Undercaptain Norstaan should accompany us.” We just might need an Afritan officer as a witness. “Have another squad ready to follow immediately, just in case.”
“You’re certain, ser? You don’t want to have the Lancers go in first?”
“That wouldn’t be wise,” replies Lerial. “First, there’s a chaos-mage somewhere. If he’s hostile and attacks, without me there, that’s sentencing the lead rankers to certain death. I’d prefer not to lose any more Lancers in Afrit than we already have. Second, it’s not polite to honor an invitation with a Lancer squad preceding the invitee.”
Heritage of Cyador Page 55
