Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “A man would be a fool to deny either order or chaos.”

  “That’s true.” Lerial stands and smiles. “I believe you’ve answered my questions to the best of your ability, Merchanter Maesoryk. We won’t take any more of your time. We do have a long ride back to Swartheld, and Duke Rhamuel will wish to know about Merchanter Jhosef’s treachery as soon as possible.”

  After a brief hesitation, Norstaan rises, unable to conceal a frown.

  Maesoryk is more successful in concealing what he feels behind a pleasant smile. “I’m glad that I was able to address your questions.”

  “So am I,” replies Lerial, smiling, if for a different reason. He can already sense what Maesoryk cannot yet feel. He looks to Norstaan. “We should be going.” Then his eyes turn to Maesoryk. “We can find our way out.” With those words, he leaves the merchanter before Maesoryk can protest.

  Lerial says little except for the necessary commands as they leave Maesoryk’s grounds and ride back along the lake road that leads toward Lake Jhulyn.

  Finally, Norstaan looks at Lerial. “He was lying, you know. Every word was a lie. Why did you let him get away with it?”

  “There’s no proof … He’s right. He had great damage to his tileworks. No one will realize that he was likely going to destroy or close the works anyway. Why else would he be opening a new works near Luba and another in Nubyat? Even so, there will be a cloud on his reputation, no matter what he says, and everyone will look askance at him for the rest of his life.”

  “But we all know that he was in as deep as Jhosef and Alaphyn. How could you let him get away with it, ser?”

  Lerial looks at Norstaan. “He won’t get away with anything. You’ll see. Even Maesoryk won’t be able to live with himself.” That, of course, is absolutely true, but not in the way that Lerial is implying.

  Norstaan offers a puzzled frown.

  “Trust me. You’ll see. The important thing, now, is to return to Swartheld as quickly as possible.” Lerial isn’t about to explain.

  LIV

  Lerial takes his forces back to Jhosef’s villa, where they spend fourday night before setting out before dawn on fiveday morning on the return journey to Swartheld. As he rides through the gray before full light, Lerial considers what he has done with Maesoryk, wondering if he has acted too much like the scheming merchanters who have undermined Afrit. Yet, what else could he have done with Maesoryk? The man was a masterful prevaricator and deceiver, so masterful that there is not a decent shed of physical evidence against him. The other merchanters will not be able to complain about Lerial’s handling of Jhosef, because Jhosef was killed by his own son while Lerial was under attack—or thought to be, he reminds himself—by two chaos-mages. Any physical attack on Maesoryk would only have made relations between Rhamuel and the merchanters even worse, as well as made matters more difficult for Lerial’s father.

  Self-justification? Lerial laughs silently. It is just that, but it’s also absolutely true.

  By midafternoon, they reach the Streamside, where Lerial calls for a rest stop while he seeks out the innkeeper and his consort. He does not have to search, because no sooner has he entered the inn than the stocky and graying Immar appears, his eyes moving from Lerial to the door behind him.

  “Honored Overcaptain…”

  “Please summon your consort. I am not here to make life harder for you, but to tell you what I have discovered. I will wait in the public room.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lerial does not wait long before the innkeeper returns to the public room with his consort, although both come from the kitchen entrance. He gestures to a square table in the middle of the room, then seats himself, waiting for them to do the same before speaking. “A wealthy merchanter was the one who sent the armsmen who kidnapped the heir and his friend. His acts led to his own death and that of the heir and his own son.”

  “The merchanter … Jhosef?” Immar’s voice trembles.

  “You don’t have to worry about him. He is dead. So are the chaos-mages who helped him, and so are most of his armsmen.” Lerial shifts his gaze to Jamara. “I cannot bring back your son. I told you that earlier, but I wanted you to know what had happened … and that the duke will know that all this evil was done against you as well as the heir.” He pauses as he sees a young and clearly new serving girl approaching the table with a mug. Lerial does not refuse the lager that she sets on the table before him. He is thirsty. “How much?”

  “For you, ser…” begins Immar.

  Lerial shakes his head. “You have already lost too much. I cannot add to that loss.” He takes three coppers from his personal wallet and sets them on the table, then looks at the girl. “Is that what he charges?”

  The girl swallows. “Two, ser.” Her voice trembles.

  Lerial smiles gently. “Take the extra copper for your honesty. The two go in Immar’s till.”

  “Yes, ser.” She takes the coppers and retreats quickly.

  Lerial turns back to Immar and Jamara. He senses that the lager holds no chaos and takes a small swallow, finding it better than he has expected. “This is a fair lager.”

  “We’ve good water,” replies Jamara, almost proudly.

  “I appreciate that.” After a moment, he goes on. “The new duke is a fair and honest man, and I think you will find him so. I have, I know.” He reaches for the provisions wallet and takes out five golds, setting them on the table. “One can never replace a child, nor a loved one. But all dukes pay death golds for those who have died in their service. These are the same, for you and your family provided services to the duke for years, and you should have some recognition of your loss beyond mere words.” Lerial takes another swallow of the lager, hoping that he is doing the right thing, for he does not wish to insult them … and yet there should be some recognition. “One other thing … Do you have some paper and a pen and ink I could use?”

  “Ah … yes, ser.” Immar hurries away … not touching the golds that lie still on the table.

  Lerial takes another swallow two of the lager while he waits for the innkeeper to return. When Immar does, he hands a single sheet to Lerial, and sets the pen and inkpot on the table, well away from the golds.

  The paper is thick, but smooth enough for what Lerial has in mind as he begins to write. When he finishes, he reads over the words, set out in as precise a script as he can manage, good, if not quite as elegant as the hand of a true scrivener.

  To All Men of Afrit—

  Be it known from this day forth, the fourth fiveday of spring, in the year of the death of Duke Atroyan, that Immar the innkeeper has rendered service to Rhamuel, Duke of Afrit, and that he is held in regard by the Duke for that service.

  Set forth in the Duke’s name.

  Lerial,

  Emissary of the Duke

  Overcaptain

  Lerial lays the sheet on the table for the ink to dry, turned and positioned so that the two can see it. “This might help with others who question you. If you like, I can read what I wrote.”

  Immar shakes his head. “I know my letters, unlike some.”

  Jamara’s eyes are bright as she looks to Lerial.

  He eases back the chair and stands. “I need to press on and report to the duke. I likely will not see you again. I can only wish you well.”

  He turns and leaves the public room, hoping that the less than formal proclamation will reduce the innkeeper’s concerns.

  Once they leave the inn, by pressing on late on fiveday and beginning before dawn on sixday, they reach Swartheld just before seventh glass on sixday night.

  As Lerial rides silently beside Norstaan through the twilit streets of the city, he continues to ponder those concerns that he has thought about over and over on the ride back from the lakes, realizing again that he cannot reveal much of what he has learned to almost anyone, possibly not everything even to Rhamuel, and certainly not to Haesychya or Kyedra. He doesn’t mind limiting what he says to Atroyan’s widow, but keeping things from
Kyedra bothers him, even though he knows that is a foolish feeling, given that he remains the younger brother—the wrong brother.

  While he had suspected that the merchanters of the council were far more powerful and influential than merchanters in Cigoerne, until the Heldyan attacks he had not realized that they controlled not only the trade and golds of Afrit, but the majority of the powerful mages.

  The Magi’i of Cyador had been different … but why? Because they had been forced into a useful and required role? Because they had responsibilities along with power … or because the Mirror Lancers often also had officers with order-chaos abilities and equal power in some fashion? Or had there been some other reason? What his experiences in Afrit—and even what he had seen with Veraan, Myrapol House, and Majer Phortyn—have shown him is that, without structure and checks and balances, mages and wizards are far more likely to end up controlled by merchanters and their golds. The result, if Afrit is any example, is societal and personal loss and chaos for everyone beside the merchanters, with the majority, if not all, of the gain going to the most powerful merchanters.

  The problem with his realization is that he doesn’t see a solution. While he could in fact return to Cigoerne and then lead the Mirror Lancers into Afrit and defeat what remains of the Afritan Guard, that would solve nothing, because, unless Lerial also destroyed all the merchanting houses in Afrit and took their golds, within a few years those same merchanters, or their successors, would effectively own not only everything in Afrit, but everything in Cigoerne as well. And if the merchanting houses were destroyed, then in a few years, both lands, not just Afrit, would again be easy prey for Khesyn and/or Casseon. Unless the entire way in which merchanting is conducted in Afrit is changed, and you don’t have the knowledge or enough trained merchanters who aren’t Afritan to do that.

  Lerial shudders at what Veraan and Myrapol House would do in such circumstances. They’d be worse than Jhosef. The problem is that Afrit has too much more wealth and too many more people, and Cigoerne too few, although, in time, Lerial knows that will change. All you can do is buy that time … somehow. Except he has no real idea of how to do that, only the understanding that it is necessary.

  According to Kyedra, Atroyan already understood the situation with the merchanters in Afrit, and Rhamuel certainly does … and has gone out of his way to cultivate powerful allies among the merchanters. Could the brothers’ concerns about merchanter power have been another factor in creating the alliance of Jhosef, Alaphyn, and Maesoryk with Khesyn? Lerial would be willing to wager on it … and give odds as well, but there’s no way to prove that, except indirectly.

  Much as he turns matters over in his mind, he has no workable solutions when he and Norstaan lead their men through the gates of the Afritan Guard headquarters around eighth glass that night. Almost another glass passes before the lancers and guards, and their mounts, are settled and Lerial, Strauxyn, and Norstaan sit down in one of the small conference rooms with Kusyl and Dhoraat. Lerial begins with a summary of what happened, and then asks the two who had remained in Swartheld, “Do you have any questions?”

  “Begging your pardon, ser,” begins Kusyl, “but there wasn’t anything you could do about that bastard Maesoryk?”

  “What we know about Maesoryk and what I, or anyone else, could prove are two different things. I may be carrying out Duke Rhamuel’s wishes, but to attack or use arms against Merchanter Maesoryk, when he was open and welcoming, would have been most unwise, and would have destroyed much of what we have accomplished here.” Lerial would like to have emphasized just slightly the words “use arms against,” but that, too, would have been unwise, because Norstaan is bound by loyalty and oath to report everything to Rhamuel, and Lerial would not have it any other way.

  “And he’ll get away with it?”

  “Not necessarily,” replies Lerial. “He still has to live with himself. Sometimes, that’s far harder than it appears. He also will have to live with the knowledge that the duke will not trust him at all, and there are likely options open to the duke that are not open to us.”

  Kusyl frowns, then abruptly nods. Dhoraat looks puzzled, and that is fine with Lerial, at least until the newly appointed senior squad leader has more experience in his current rank and responsibilities.

  “What about what has happened here?” asks Lerial. “What should I know?”

  “It’s mostly back to the way it was when we arrived,” says Kusyl. “We’ve been sending out squads and looking over everything, like you ordered, sort of city patrols. No one pays us much attention. There are more ships in the harbor now. They’ve got the Heldyan prisoners working on rebuilding the Harbor Post. We haven’t sent anyone to the palace, but the word is that the duke has started rebuilding the damaged part of the palace.”

  “Any dispatches from Cigoerne? Or from the duke or anyone in the Afritan Guard?”

  “No, ser.”

  “How are the wounded coming?”

  “Everyone left looks to recover.” Kusyl stops and looks at Lerial directly.

  “You’re wondering when we’ll be able to leave for Cigoerne.” Lerial shrugs. “I’ll meet with the duke tomorrow and see what we can work out.” He’s not about to promise anything, especially before talking to Rhamuel, not with more than a few matters unresolved, such as the entire question of what to do with the merchanters so that the same situation doesn’t reoccur in a few years, with even worse results. “If there’s nothing else … that’s all for now.”

  The yawn that Lerial stifles after his last words reminds him of just how tired he really is. He stands and manages to smile. As he walks back toward his quarters, the belated realization strikes him that he has never sent another dispatch to Cigoerne.

  Another thing to do tomorrow.

  LV

  As tired as he is on sixday night, Lerial still has trouble falling asleep, and what sleep he does get is filled with disturbing dreams, most of which he does not recall. The one fragment of a dream he does remember when he wakes at dawn on sevenday is one where Kyedra is telling him that she must either consort his brother Lephi or the son of Merchanter Maesoryk. Lerial does not recall whether the Kyedra of his dreams explained why, but recalling what that explanation might have been is unnecessary. Lerial understands all too well that her mother and grandfather or Rhamuel, if not all three, will choose her consort for either his power or his wealth.

  Lerial hurries to the mess to grab something to eat and finds Norstaan there, as if waiting for him.

  “Good morning, ser.”

  “Good morning.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, ser, I’d prefer to accompany you to the palace this morning so that we could both report to the duke at once.”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all. That way he won’t have to listen to two reports, and we’re likely to present a fuller picture together.” Lerial appreciates Norstaan’s deference, since the undercaptain could easily, and justifiably, have reported directly to Rhamuel. Then too, he suspects Norstaan might not want to be the one reporting Mykel’s death and the apparent lack of action in dealing with Maesoryk. Either way, a joint appearance and report will be better for all concerned.

  “We should eat, though. I’ll need to spend a moment with my captains after breakfast, and write a quick dispatch that I’ll have to impose on you to have sent, I fear. All that, I hope, won’t take long.”

  “However long it takes, ser.”

  After eating and then meeting briefly with Dhoraat, Strauxyn, and Kusyl, Lerial immediately writes a brief dispatch to his father, although it is formally addressed to “Kiedron, Duke of Cigoerne.” The dispatch is effectively a summary of what has happened with a conclusion stating that he will be remaining in Swartheld for at least several more days to assure that a few more matters are completed. He does not specify what those are.

  With Norstaan’s assurances that the dispatch will wend its way southward to Cigoerne, since Lerial does not wish to send a full squad, which is what would be necessary,
to convey it with Mirror Lancers, Lerial sets off for the palace with Norstaan and his squad, and Kusyl and his first squad from Twenty-third Company escorting the wagon that contains Mykel’s body. They enter the palace gates at a third past seventh glass.

  Norstaan makes arrangements for guards for the wagon. Lerial leaves Kusyl with his squad, having quietly suggested that the undercaptain find out what he can while waiting for Lerial.

  Lerial and Norstaan are climbing the staircase to the second level when Lerial senses someone hurrying after them. He glances back to see Ascaar and waits for the commander. Norstaan eases back down several steps and waits as well.

  “Do you have a moment before you meet with the duke?” asks Ascaar.

  “Since he hasn’t summoned me, I have as many moments as you need.” Lerial grins. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Just telling you a few things.”

  “Such as?”

  “While you were gone finishing up what I imagine were unpleasant details, I interviewed as many surviving captains and majers as I could.” Ascaar raises his eyebrows.

  “And?” Lerial doesn’t feel like guessing, not after having dealt with both Jhosef and Maesoryk.

  “They all believe that Atroyan was an idiot to even think of attacking Cigoerne and that Rhamuel was a genius to ask for your assistance. They’ll never say that. It’s what they meant. There were phrases like ‘I’d never want to face the overcaptain across a battlefield’ … little things like that.” Ascaar’s tone is gently sardonic. “A few would follow you to the Rational Stars. I also heard that you executed an insubordinate majer on the spot.”

  “Not the most diplomatic thing to do. Subcommander Drusyn was less than pleased.”