“Yes, ser.”
Both Lerial and Rojana stand immediately. Rojana inclines her head to her father and then offers a long look at Lerial before she leaves, moving in the direction of the study.
A thoughtful expression appears on the majer’s face, then vanishes. He gestures toward the south corridor from the courtyard, and he and Lerial walk side by side toward it. “Maeroja said you were very quick-thinking this morning.”
“Rojana made certain I was,” says Lerial dryly.
“She’s like her mother in more than looks. Listening to the right woman can save a man, and listening to the wrong one will like as not destroy him. So will not listening at all, but it takes longer.” Altyrn pauses. “Listening to any young woman at your age is dangerous … but you’ll learn that soon enough, and nothing I say will change that.”
A tenth of a glass later, Lerial is wielding off attacks by Altyrn and trying to mount his own. For a time, he feels as though he is barely holding off the older man. Then, Altyrn recovers with his wand too low.
Lerial reacts by beating down Altyrn’s wand and thrusting, only to find that the majer has dropped to his knees and come up under Lerial’s wand with his own.
“That’s another trap. Be wary of any opening when your blade is higher than the other man’s.”
Lerial wants to shake his head. The more he learns, the more he discovers it can be used against him.
“Don’t look so hangdog,” says Altyrn dryly. “I have learned a few things over forty years as a Lancer.”
Forty years … and his face is wrinkled and his hair is gray and thinning, and you still have trouble laying a blade on him. “Yes, ser.”
“Just remember … the same thing will happen to you. If you learn what I’m trying to teach you, someday you’ll be looking at a worried young fellow, wondering if you looked that green.” Altyrn raises his wand. “Try again.”
Lerial takes a slow deep breath, squares his shoulders, and lifts his wand.
A good glass later, after Altyrn has run Lerial through learning another set of responses to various attacks, and called an end to the sparring for the day, Lerial washes up, changes into dry garments and makes his way down to the study.
“You’re getting better,” Altyrn announces as Lerial enters, then motions for him to sit down at the round table. “You can’t see it yet, but I have to use more and more things you haven’t come across to surprise you. That’s good.”
Lerial hasn’t thought of it that way.
“You do need a lot more practice, though. Every move needs to be smoother and without hesitation. In another few eightdays, we’ll go over to the post, and I’ll have some of the better blades there spar with you.”
Another few eightdays? How long are you going to be here?
“There’s still so much that you need to learn. I wish that I had some of the books that were lost in Cyad…” Altyrn glances in the direction of the courtyard, his expression almost morose. “That’s why you have to listen to me, because so much of what we had only remains in memory.”
Lerial does not comment, since the majer has said something similar several times over the past season. He also knows what Altyrn has said before, that when those who hold those memories die, even less of the knowledge and lore of Cyador will remain.
The majer straightens. “What sort of a stream path or road is dangerous to follow?”
“If there are trees close to the road, especially if the stream is deep.” That much, Lerial knows. “Or if the road is muddy.”
“There’s another kind of stream road to be wary of, especially in the drylands,” adds Altyrn. “Those are the roads in narrow and dry canyons, if you can see a storm in the upstream direction. Drylands don’t hold water, and a strong cloudburst can fill a small canyon and drown an entire company.”
Lerial frowns.
“Take my word for it. Every few years, it happened in the Grass Hills. It’s happened once here, about five years back. The only thing that didn’t make it worse was that the patrol was only a single squad. Still … losing twenty-one men at once…”
A good two glasses later, Lerial retreats to the courtyard with a small volume written in Hamorian—Necessary Skills of War—one of the few Hamorian books on tactics worth reading, according to Altyrn.
He has some time before dinner, and the courtyard is quiet. He opens the book and begins to read.…
How battles are waged is of the greatest importance to a land. Their outcome is a matter of life or death, the path to either survival or destruction. For these reasons, one must approach battles and their conduct only after studying all that lies behind and beyond them.…
True enough … but obvious. Lerial winces and leafs through the book to another section.
Victory is the only object of battle. If a victory cannot be obtained expeditiously, weapons are blunted and morale depressed. For there has never been a war that is drawn out from which a land has benefited. Likewise when armsmen attack cities and not warriors, their strength will be exhausted without commensurate reward.…
Lerial has no doubt that reading Necessary Skills of War will indeed be a battle. Still, he turns back to the first page and begins again … taking a deep breath.
Dinner comes … and goes, and there is no mention of the accident with the boy, but Altyrn and Maeroja do talk about the reports of more Meroweyan raiders near Narthyl and even crossing the hills to the northeast of the Clyan River.
As Lerial listens, the question that had come to him that morning resurfaces in his thoughts. Who had spoken like Maeroja? Who?
During the remainder of dinner … and afterward, Lerial tries to recall who it might have been. Then … as he is about to drift off to sleep, the answer comes—Kyedra! The daughter of Duke Atroyan. Yet it wasn’t quite the same.
He is still pondering when sleep claims him.
XV
By the middle of harvest, Lerial has worked at some aspect of bringing in every crop on the majer’s extensive lands, but under the majer’s direct supervision, and seldom with Rojana anymore, although he sees her doing harvest chores as well. As part of his studies, he also has to draw up orders of battle for the company stationed at the Teilyn outpost, as well as organization plans for a company and a battalion, make up equipment lists, and plan logistics for campaigns into Merowey and Heldya … and those are just the beginning.
“So far as I know, your father is not planning anything like that,” Altyrn tells Lerial, “but he might … or your brother might.”
Much more likely Lephi, thinks Lerial.
On the fourth threeday of harvest, after breakfast, Altyrn says, “We’re going over to the outpost at midmorning. You need to spar with someone besides me. I’ve already talked to the captain. They aren’t riding out this eightday. They didn’t have orders yesterday, anyway. Wear your oldest pair of greens and riding boots, not work clothes.”
“Yes, ser. What do you want me to do before that?”
“I don’t recall that you’ve written your father since you’ve been here. This would be a good time. That way, you can have it sent with the next dispatch pouch to Cigoerne.”
Lerial would rather dig ditches or be battered in sparring than write a letter to his father, but only says, “I’ll do that, ser.”
“It doesn’t have to be long,” replies Altyrn, “but give him an idea of what you’ve been doing.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial returns to his room, where he looks out the small, high window for a short time, trying to work out what he might say that is true, but that does not reveal his feelings. Finally, he seats himself at the small table-desk and begins.
Dear Father—
I should have written sooner, but I have been working hard. I am learning all the aspects of how an estate must work. Commander Altyrn has made certain I know exactly how each task must be done. I have dug ditches and helped build brick walls. I have harvested olives and barley, and seen all the processes by which you
r venture is conducted. The commander has also instructed me in arms, logistics, and tactics.
His family has been most gracious, and my quarters are more than adequate for all my needs …
After that, finding words is more difficult, but Lerial adds another few paragraphs describing the villa and the grounds, mostly in case his father chooses to share the letter with his mother and the rest of the family. When he finishes, he signs and seals it, then dresses in the greens and boots and makes his way down to the inner courtyard.
He has been there only a few moments before the majer appears.
“Since you’re ready, we might as well ride out now. Go saddle your horse. I’ll be with you in a few moments.”
“Yes, ser.” Lerial nods, then makes his way from the courtyard, sensing the majer’s eyes on him.
After grooming and saddling his mount, Lerial leads the gelding out of the stable into the paved area he still thinks of as the outer courtyard, for all that the only walls are those of the villa and the outbuildings. He has ridden very little since he arrived at Kinaar, and only around the majer’s lands. He also realizes the fact that he has not ridden much hasn’t bothered him in the slightest.
“Where are you going?”
He turns to see Aylana and Tyrna walking toward the villa from the cocoonery, although it is properly no longer that, since all the worms have spun their cocoons, and now all those involved are extracting the strands from the cocoons and turning them into proper silk thread. “Your father and I are riding over to the Mirror Lancer post in a bit. How is the threading going?”
“It’s boring,” declares Aylana, offering an exaggerated sigh. “I’d rather gather rotten apricots.”
“You’ll be gathering overripe olives in a day or two,” interjects the majer, who has ridden into the unwalled courtyard from the south. “Those few that there are.”
From that, it dawns on Lerial just how long the majer has been working on his lands … and that he had to have been doing some of it while he was still heading the Lancers … or Maeroja did.
Both girls make faces at their father’s words.
Lerial represses a grin, then immediately mounts and rides to join the majer, watching as the two girls hurry into the villa. “They do have opinions.”
“They’ll have to learn when to express them and when not to,” replies Altyrn. “Fairly soon. Almost no men like women who appear strong-willed, but there are some who like honest opinions in private.” He turns his mount toward the lane leading to the main road and the Lancer post.
The two are on the road before Altyrn asks, “Did you meet Captain Graessyr? Or Undercaptain Shastan?”
“No, ser. We rode straight to Kinaar.”
“They’re both altage, through and through, for all that Shastan is the son of a local grower. Graessyr’s mother is from altage stock, but don’t ask about his father.”
“Yes, sir.” Lerial understands both what Altyrn means and why Graessyr has been posted in Teilyn.
“They’d take a charge single-handedly to save you or your father. One of your responsibilities will always be to avoid putting officers in such a situation. You need to be able to handle a blade well enough so that it is absolutely clear to your Lancers that you do not need special protection. Do you know why?”
“Because we don’t have enough Lancers and any that are protecting me cannot be used to deal with raiders or attackers. That weakens the force.” Lerial remembers that from something Lephi had said.
Altyrn nods. “It also gives them confidence to see that you know something about the business of arms.” He does not say more, and before long, they are riding up to the open gates of the brick-walled post.
“Good morning, Majer,” calls out one of the guards from his shaded post beside the gate.
“Good morning, Seimyrt. Is the captain around?”
“He’s in his study … or somewhere in headquarters.”
“Good. We’ll find him.”
“Headquarters” turns out to be a small yellow brick structure in the middle of the walls, directly across from the stables before which Altyrn reins up. Lerial ties his mount next to the majer’s horse, and the two walk across the brick pavement.
Two rankers nod and murmur “ser,” as they cross paths with Lerial and Altyrn.
The majer responds with a nod and a smile.
The interior of the headquarters building is simple. Behind the entry door is a large room, empty except for a table-desk at one end, behind which is seated a squad leader who stands as Altyrn enters. There are two half-open doors in the wall at the end of the room.
“He’s in his study, ser.”
“Thank you.” Altyrn makes a gesture that takes in the space around them. “This is where the officers brief their men. The officers’ studies are behind those doors.” He strides toward the door on the right, opens it full, and motions for Lerial to step inside, then enters and closes the door.
“Can’t stay away from here, can you, Majer?” The black-haired captain stands as he speaks.
“You’re not rid of me yet.” Altyrn grins, then eases to one side, leaving a clear path to the table-desk. “I don’t believe you’ve met Lord Lerial.”
Lerial takes the hint and steps forward. “I’m pleased to meet you, ser.”
“And I you.” Graessyr smiles pleasantly. “Your father said you would be staying at the majer’s. You’ve been there quite a while.”
“I’ve had much to learn, ser.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Altyrn says, moving forward slightly. “As I told you the other day, I think that Lerial needs to spar with someone a bit younger than me … someone with more energy.”
The captain laughs, a raucous barking sound that lasts but a few moments. Then he shakes his head. “I’ll spar with him, but don’t give me those words that suggest you’re a tired old man. I see how hard you work.”
Altyrn cannot hide the faintest hint of a smile. “He does need to spar with someone besides me.”
“That’s something I can accept. Blunted blades and padding or wands?”
“Let’s try blunted blades and padding. He hasn’t done that.” The majer grins. “Might be because I don’t have either.” He pauses. “One other thing. Lerial has a letter for his sire. Could you send it with the next dispatch rider?”
“We can do that.”
Lerial takes out the sealed missive and hands it to the captain. “Thank you, ser.”
“That’s not a problem. Might as well get started.” Graessyr slips from behind the desk with an easy grace, for all that he is not only broad but more than half a head taller than Lerial, and leads the way from the study, and headquarters, to the armory.
In less than a quarter of a glass, Lerial is wearing what amounts to padded armor, with plates sewn into the padding in strategic places. The padding is thick enough that he is sweating even before he thinks of picking up the blunted blade that Altyrn has set on the wooden bench.
He reaches out and grasps the blade, lifting and turning it. It feels lighter than the wand he has been using in sparring with the majer … and yet it doesn’t.
“You shouldn’t have a problem with that,” Altyrn says.
“Is that why…?”
The majer nods. “Let’s go.”
The captain is waiting outside at the edge of the sparring circle, marked in black bricks and wider than the circles at the Palace, Lerial notes.
“Yes, it is wider,” Altyrn says. “That makes it harder.”
Everything here in Teilyn is harder. Why should this be any different? Lerial takes a position inside the edge of the circle opposite Graessyr.
“No leg cuts,” Altyrn orders. “You make the first attack, Lerial.”
Lerial prefers to have others move first so that he can observe and gain an idea of what they have in mind, but then Altyrn knows that. He moves forward, careful to watch the captain with both eyes and order-senses.
Graessyr keeps his blade slightly
lower than the majer does, but Lerial suspects that is only because Lerial is shorter, and the difference in height would make it easier for him to attack the majer’s legs, even though there will be no leg cuts—not with blades, blunted as they are.
Lerial feints, but the captain only shifts his sabre slightly. Then Lerial begins what he hopes looks like a feint, but is actually an attack.
The captain’s blade flicks almost effortlessly to deflect Lerial’s thrust, and Lerial has to dance aside and retreat, then finds himself defending against a sabre that seems to come from everywhere for the next moments … until he begins to get a sense from the order flows of what the captain’s intentions are. Even so, Lerial finds himself on the defensive most of the time, taking hits on the padded armor, and blows he knows have been pulled.
He keeps working, though, and feels that, after a time, he is getting better at defending, and he actually manages a partial strike on the captain before he’s forced back into fighting defensively.
“That’s enough,” Altyrn finally calls out.
Lerial steps back, but keeps his blade up until he is well away from the captain.
“Good!” says Graessyr, lowering his blade. “Stay in the habit of keeping your blade ready until you’re sure that you don’t need it.” He hands his blade to Altyrn. “You can take this. I need to get out of the padding before I boil myself.”
Lerial feels the same way, but walks to the bench beside the armory door, where he lays the blade before beginning to struggle out of the damp and heavy padded armor.
“I can see the majer’s been working you hard,” observes the captain from beside Lerial as he also pulls off his own padding. “You’ve got the basics down well, and they’re smooth, but you have to back off too much when something you don’t recognize comes at you…”
Lerial listens as Graessyr explains. He tries not to move too much, despite the feeling that his legs could cramp any moment, and the stinging in his eyes from the sweat that still flows down his brow and face. When the captain finishes his comments, Lerial nods and says, “Thank you, ser.”
Cyador’s Heirs Page 13
