At the knock on the study door, Lerial turns. “Yes?”
Two lancers stand there. Between them is a round-faced and balding man of perhaps thirty-five years.
“The seneschal fled, ser. We have the assistant to the seneschal.”
“What’s your name?” asks Lerial.
“Baniel, ser, honored Lord.” The assistant seneschal’s bow almost prostrates him, and as he rises his eyes do not quite meet Lerial’s.
“Come in. We have a few matters to discuss, Baniel.”
The assistant seneschal steps into the study, stopping several yards short of Lerial.
“Was any other member of Merchanter Jhosef’s family here beside his son Oestyn?”
“No, ser.”
“Why not?”
“They do not come here. I do not know why. Kourast might know, but he fled with the merchanter’s personal guards.”
“Where was the heir staying while he was here?”
“In one of the guest chambers…”
“Was that the one with the iron-braced outside shutters and the door that could be barred only from outside?”
“Yes, ser.”
“How often is that chamber used?”
“I could not say, ser. It has not been used often in recent years, but how many times I could not say.”
“Were women housed there?”
“I know that happened once. The other times, I do not know. I do not know of any men who stayed there besides the heir.”
“Why not?”
“Kourast was in charge of the villa, ser. I was the assistant for the grounds.”
Lerial can sense no chaos or evasion with that statement. In fact, he has sensed little of that, except a trace when Baniel talked about not knowing whether those housed in the only barred guest chamber were women.
“What were your duties?”
“I was over those who worked in all of the outbuildings except for the spirits building, the guardhouse, and the gate buildings. The gardens and the orchards, and the grounds themselves. I had nothing to do with the merchanter’s grounds guards or personal guards. They reported to Oiden.”
“Was Oiden the chaos-mage?”
“Yes, ser.”
That doesn’t surprise Lerial, either.
Lerial’s questions last for another half glass before he asks, “Do you have any questions, Baniel?”
“Are you claiming the villa, honored Lord?” asks Baniel, his voice more obsequious than deferential.
“It’s not mine to claim. What happens to the villa and those in it is up to Duke Rhamuel. Your task is to maintain it for whoever will take possession. If anything is missing or damaged, beyond what has already occurred, everyone will suffer, especially you. Is that clear?”
Baniel swallows, not so much at the words, Lerial suspects, but at the tone in which Lerial has delivered them. “Yes, ser.”
“You may go. No one is to leave the grounds. That includes you. You are to relay my orders to the rest of the villa and grounds staff immediately.”
“Yes, ser.” Baniel’s bow is deep and obsequious.
“And your bows would be better if you weren’t so obviously excessively flattering,” Lerial adds dryly.
Baniel stiffens, then swallows again before asking, “By your leave, Lord Lerial?”
“You may go.”
Lerial watches as Baniel turns and leaves. He waits several moments, then follows, pausing beside the rankers. “Guard the study.” After those words to the pair of lancers, Lerial wraps a concealment around himself and follows the assistant seneschal.
“… wouldn’t want to be the seneschal,” murmurs one of the rankers.
Those words remind Lerial just how much more he is certain, the longer he is in Afrit, that he doesn’t want to be anyone or anything in the duchy. And yet every single day brings something that drags out your duty here.
Some fifty yards down the corridor toward the entry hall, Baniel turns into a narrower side hall and then descends the steps to the cellar level. Lerial continues to follow the assistant seneschal into a narrow hallway to a larger chamber. There, several women and an older man wait.
“Gather everyone you can find,” Baniel says in a voice that is firm but not overly loud.
Lerial eases against the wall beside the archway and waits almost a third of a glass as the servants’ hall fills.
Finally, Baniel steps forward and speaks. “I met with Lord Lerial. He is the second heir to the duchy of Cigoerne. He is an overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers and a great mage as well. He is the one who defeated the Heldyans and destroyed Merchanter Jhosef and his wizards. You all know how powerful Wizard Maastrik was. Lord Lerial’s orders are very simple. We are to remain and to carry on. No one is to leave the grounds. All of us will be punished if anything is damaged or missing.”
Baniel may not have known everything about what went on in the villa, Lerial observes, but the man knows more about Lerial himself than Lerial or the lancers had told him, and that suggests, if indirectly, that Jhosef had indeed been deeply involved in the events surrounding the Heldyan invasion.
“What if the armsmen take things?” asks a woman, older from her voice.
“You have not seen the Lord Lerial. He is not that old, but iron would bend sooner than him. His men will touch nothing.”
“There are Afritan Guards…”
“They have seen the overcaptain. They will likely touch nothing, either. If they remove anything, tell me. I will tell Lord Lerial.”
“What will happen after he leaves?”
“Duke Rhamuel will decide.”
“When a great Magi’i lord destroys Afritan merchanters…” says another voice, “everything we have known will change…”
Lerial certainly hopes so.
“We must leave the change to them,” declares Baniel. “Do what you always do, and do it well, and we will survive.”
Sometimes that is enough, reflects Lerial, and sometimes it’s not.
Other questions follow, but those deal with who will handle what duties, since some servitors fled with Seneschal Kourast before Lerial’s men sealed off the grounds. When it is clear that he will learn little more from listening and observing the servants with his order-senses, Lerial eases out of the lower chamber and makes his way back to the main level, where he drops the concealment.
By then, Strauxyn has gathered up those remaining merchanter guards who had not already been captured or fled. Although Lerial spends more than a glass questioning the five survivors, only one had accompanied the group that had attacked the Streamside and he cannot recall more than waiting outside the inn and then conveying the dead to the swamp and Mykel and Oestyn back to Jhosef’s villa.
In the end, Lerial and his men take over one wing of the villa and he sleeps in a modest guest room, if uneasily.
LIII
Although Maesoryk’s villa is not located on Lake Jhulyn, the lakes are not that far apart, and the ride north to Lake Leomyn takes slightly more than four glasses. With Lerial’s forces is an additional wagon, containing Mykel’s body, packed as much as possible in salt. Lerial leaves the arrangements for Jhosef and Oestyn to the villa staff, while all the guards who died at Jhosef’s villa are buried in a mass grave on the grounds.
Just after the first glass of the afternoon Norstaan points along the shore of the lake. “You see the large buff-colored building? That’s Merchanter Maesoryk’s villa.”
“Have you been there before?”
“Only once. I’ve never seen the inside. The arms-commander … the duke, I mean, said that it was impressive without being excessively lavish.”
“Unlike Jhosef’s villa, you mean.”
“He didn’t compare the two, ser.” Norstaan smiles. “He might have had that in mind, though.”
As Lerial rides up to the white-painted wrought-iron gates, he can see that Maesoryk’s summer villa is markedly different from Jhosef’s. The three-story buff stone building is set on a low rise les
s than fifty yards from the water, facing south, and it appears as if every other chamber facing the lake has its own railed and roofed balcony. The road leading to the gates is graveled, as it has been for the entire way since splitting from the main paved road that runs from Swartheld to Lake Jhulyn and then to Lake Reomer, although the narrow lane beyond the gates leading to the villa and outbuildings is paved. There are only three outbuildings, all comparatively modest, and the grounds are enclosed by a stone wall two yards high topped with another yard of the white iron grillework. The pier out into the lake is far shorter and narrower than the one at Jhosef’s villa.
The greatest difference is that the two guards at the gates immediately open them, proclaiming, “Welcome to Sorykan, Lord Lerial.”
That welcome in itself, with the quick recognition of Lerial, suggests Maesoryk has anticipated their arrival … or at least the arrival of someone dispatched by Rhamuel. The fact that Maesoryk himself appears at the entry to the villa almost as soon as the Mirror Lancers rein up reinforces Lerial’s suspicion, although he can sense no concentrations of order or chaos in or around the villa and its grounds, nor any sign of a shielded mage or wizard.
“Welcome! Welcome! I hadn’t expected you, Lord Lerial, of all people, to ride to Lake Leomyn, but when I heard that you had paid a call on Jhosef, I thought you might chance this way.” Maesoryk’s voice is warm and cheerful, but reminds Lerial of the insinuating feel of Jhosef’s mage. He also has more than a few doubts about Maesoryk’s just “hearing” of a visit more than fifteen kays away.
“We ended up paying more than a call on Jhosef,” Lerial says before dismounting and walking across the paving of the entry portico to meet the merchanter. He gestures for Norstaan to accompany him.
“Do come in and tell me all about it.” Maesoryk radiates curiosity. “It must be a fascinating story.”
“We might at that,” Lerial agrees, silently checking his shields, “although the story is more sordid than fascinating, but then some people do in fact find the sordid more fascinating than honorable accomplishments.”
“That is a fascinating observation as well.” Maesoryk gestures, then turns. “We can sit on the terrace outside the study.”
Lerial and Norstaan follow him through the square entry hall to a wide staircase and up that to the second level. The white walls are almost bare of decoration, except for two identical hangings, one on each side of the staircase,
“Are those your merchanting house crest?” asks Lerial.
“What else would they be? They’re a reminder of what makes all this possible.”
At the top of the staircase, the merchanter turns to his right, then takes the first door on the left, which leads into a comparatively modest study, one that is seven yards by five, with a small fireplace on the left wall, and a desk set against the wall on the right. Between the two is a plaques table with chairs for six people. Maesoryk eases around the table and out onto the roofed terrace, where four armchairs are set in an arc facing the balcony railing and the lake. The merchanter takes the chair on the end farthest from the door and gestures.
Lerial seats himself at the other end, and Norstaan sits beside Lerial.
“You were going to tell me about Jhosef and your call upon him?” prompts Maesoryk.
“We weren’t exactly welcomed,” Lerial begins, “and when we finally entered the grounds a company of armed guards attempted to stop us. When we reached the villa, Jhosef was waiting on a high terrace. When I suggested he might have had something to do with the death of Lord Mykel, he said that was the last thing on his mind, or words to that effect, and then he most pleasantly suggested that I join him in the villa to discuss the future of Afrit. He left the terrace, and we proceeded to the main entrance. Undercaptain Norstaan and I entered. In the main entry hall, we were met by Jhosef, Mykel, and Oestyn. Jhosef suggested that Duke Rhamuel’s rule would be short and that the only one of his lineage that the merchanters of Afrit would accept as duke would be Mykel. I begged to differ, whereupon a chaos-mage who had concealed himself with wizardry attacked me. I defended myself, and managed to lay a blade on him. Since he was steeped in chaos, that was sufficient to kill him.
“When that happened, young Oestyn appeared from nowhere and stabbed his father in the back. Jhosef ordered a second wizard to kill all of us as he struggled with Oestyn. The young wizard used chaos on Mykel and attempted that on me. He was unsuccessful, but by the time I had dealt with him, Oestyn had killed his father and then slit his own throat.”
“I suppose you were the only one to see this?”
“Hardly. Undercaptain Norstaan did, and so did a number of armsmen and some servitors.”
“Ah … so many witnesses that there is little doubt of what happened.” Maesoryk frowns. “Do you know why Jhosef acted as he did?”
“I thought you might have some idea,” replies Lerial. “He did say that the merchanters would never accept Rhamuel as duke.”
“‘Never’ is a dangerous word to bandy about.”
“I’ve thought that as well. But … you didn’t offer any thought as to why Jhosef did what he did.”
“It’s obvious that he was deluded enough to believe he could rule Afrit through Mykel. Only a produce merchanter could be that deluded,” Maesoryk finishes dryly.
“Were Jhosef’s mages acquainted with your mages?”
“I have no chaos-mages.”
The fact that Maesoryk’s statement comes across without chaos is only an indication that he has none at the moment. “I had heard that you did, and that you lost both of them in supporting Khesyn’s invasion of Afrit…”
Maesoryk laughs, an open and honest sound. “I see you believe what everyone thinks. I’ve never had a chaos-mage in my life. I told everyone that I did so that no one would try to kill me…”
There is enough chaos around Maesoryk as he speaks that Lerial is fascinated, because it is clear that there is at least some truth behind the merchanter’s words, but that chaos, combined with his earlier statement of not presently having chaos mages, is effectively a confirmation that he did in fact have such … before Lerial destroyed them. Lerial can almost—almost—admire the merchanter’s bold-faced effrontery and clever prevarication.
“Do you really think I could live with two mages close by? For them to be useful, they would have to be closer than I’d ever want one…” Maesoryk shakes his head. “You said you killed both of Jhosef’s mages? And that resulted in Jhosef’s and Oestyn’s deaths?”
“Since the mages attacked me, I didn’t have much choice.”
“Still … you seem to have allowed some possibly unnecessary deaths, Lord Lerial.”
“Unnecessary? I think not. My duty is to do what is best for Cigoerne and for Afrit, and that means what is best for Duke Rhamuel, not merchanters who have committed treason for the sake of golds.”
“What a quaint concept of duty. Golds are what support a land.”
“Only when they are honestly obtained and used.”
“In some cases, honestly is a matter of perspective.” Maesoryk smiles. “Would you like a lager, Lord Lerial?”
“Not at the moment.”
“You are indeed determined to remain on serious matters, then. Am I suspected of some nefarious deed? Some rancid and revolting plot?”
“Suspected?” rejoins Lerial. “I wouldn’t say that.” Involved or implicated, rather. “But I must say that I hadn’t expected you to greet me so cheerfully. Especially after so many Heldyans were able to use the pier at your tileworks to land and begin their attack on Swartheld.”
“I cannot be held responsible for where Duke Khesyn landed his armsmen in this reprehensible attack on Afrit. I have suffered great damage, and that tileworks may well be ruined for any future use.”
At those words, Lerial realizes that, in all probability, Maesoryk lost little from the damage to the tileworks, but he presses on. “Certainly, if that use was contrary to your wishes, it would seem strange that you never let e
ither the duke or arms-commander know that your tileworks had been occupied by the Heldyans.”
“How could I let the duke know when I myself did not know until after the fact?” The merchanter shakes his head. “By the time I knew, the duke was dead, and the arms-commander injured and reported likely to die, and many of the senior officers were also dead.”
Rather interesting, since those of us in the midst of the fighting didn’t even know that until later.
“So what did you do then?”
“I dispatched a messenger to Subcommander Klassyn, thinking he was the most senior officer left. The messenger told me he gave it to Subcommander Dhresyl, because he was in charge.”
“Dhresyl never received such a message.”
“I’d venture to say that he did,” returns Maesoryk. “He never did care for us, not after he tried to cheat us on tiles we supplied for the Harbor Post several years ago.”
Surprisingly, that statement carries a heavy sense of order. But then, that doesn’t change anything, really. “Do you have your family here often?” asks Lerial, sensing there is little point in continuing the charade.
Even Maesoryk seems disconcerted by the sudden change of topic, for he pauses a long moment before replying.
“Only when I’m here, if then. Not much these days. Nonsoryk is my youngest. He’s in Nubyat, rebuilding a tileworks we recently bought. The oldest is Bhalmaes. He’s in Luba at present. Well … a bit west of there on the new canal where he’s just completed our new ceramic works. From there, it’s easier to send goods downstream. We’ll be able to boat goods to some of the Heldyan river towns as well—Vyada, Thoerne, and some others. We have an arrangement with Kenkram that allows use of the canal for an annual fee, rather than for a levy on each barge or boat…”
“No daughters?”
“Just one. Maera. She was recently consorted to Kenkram’s eldest. We try to use family ties, you know.” The merchanter laughs again.
Lerial studies Maesoryk carefully, noting again the heavy gold chain around the merchanter’s neck. After a moment of consideration, he extends his order-senses and creates a variation on one of the patterns he has used in the past, a very small pattern linked to the chain that will slowly remove chaos, and only chaos, over the next glass or so … and possibly longer. “Do you believe in the power of order?”
Heritage of Cyador Page 57
