As he rides, junior squad leader Jhubyl beside him, Lerial studies the houses and shops that flank the boulevard. He cannot help but think about his aunt’s words. The largely brick dwellings, with their reddish tile roofs, even those of two stories, look somehow shorter and more squat than he remembers. But how much of what you see is colored by what Emerya said about Cyad?
Abruptly, he turns in the saddle. “Jhubyl … what other towns have you seen along the river?”
“Ser? On the Swarth? Not all that many. Naemersuh, Penecca, Saarthyn.”
Of course he wouldn’t have seen that many. Most of the towns in Cigoerne aren’t on the Swarth. That was because it had always been too easy for the Heldyans to raid towns on the west bank of the Swarth. So most towns were on the Thylan or the Lynaar, or on smaller streams. The continual Heldyan raids were also another reason why Duke Atroyan’s sire had been willing to allow Lerial’s grandmere to purchase lands on the west bank.
“What other towns have you been through or posted in?”
“Been in Bartheld, Brehaal, Teilyn … lots of hamlets … places without names…”
“How many have brick houses like the ones in Teilyn or here in Cigoerne?”
“They all have some … excepting maybe Penecca. Not many have lots, though.”
“Have you ever seen Amaershyn?”
“Just from across the river. There are some bigger places there. Leastwise, looks that way. Hard to tell with the walls, though.”
Lerial thinks about asking what Jhubyl recalls of Cyad, but then realizes that the squad leader likely isn’t old enough to recall anything, if he even came from Cyador, and that is unlikely, given his slightly darker complexion.
As they ride up to the gates of the Lancer compound, one of the duty guards calls out, “Jhubyl! See you got caught bringing back the mount the Duke’s boy borrowed.”
Before the squad leader can answer, Lerial replies good-naturedly, “No, he got tasked with escorting the Duke’s boy who’s bringing back the mount himself.”
The duty guard, who looks younger than Lerial himself, gulps visibly and looks to Lerial. “Ah … sorry, ser.”
“It’s a fair question,” Lerial adds to the guard as he rides past, “but better asked more privately.” He smiles politely.
“Yes, ser.”
Once they’re well past the young guard, Jhubyl shakes his head and laughs softly. “He’ll think twice before wising off on duty again.”
“At least, wising off loudly,” replies Lerial. “You’ll have to lead the way to the stable. I’ve not been here before.”
“You haven’t, ser?” Jhubyl is clearly surprised.
“The only Lancer posts I’ve visited are the ones at Brehaal and Teilyn.” Lerial does not point out that he is only barely old enough at sixteen—much closer to seventeen now—to be considered for a beginning Lancer ranker. “I’d also like to see Majer Phortyn … or whoever’s in charge if he’s not here. Where would I find him?”
“In the headquarters building. That’s the six-sided one in the middle of the courtyard there.” Jhubyl points. “Might be better if I went with you. Begging your pardon, ser, but you look much like a green recruit.”
“That might be for the best.”
Once Lerial has turned the bay over to the duty ostler and made temporary arrangements for his gelding, he and Jhubyl walk across the courtyard from the stable to the headquarters building.
Once inside, Jhubyl steps forward, toward the older ranker who is seated behind a table-desk in the foyer, then halts. “Lord Lerial, here, just got back from Teilyn.”
The look of boredom vanishes from the ranker’s face.
“If Major Phortyn has a moment,” says Lerial politely, “I’d like to talk to him, if he’s here, or whoever’s in charge, if he’s not.”
“He’s here, ser. If you’ll let me see if he has a moment.”
“Thank you.”
The ranker knocks on the study door, then opens it, and slips inside, returning almost immediately. “Please go in, ser.”
“Thank you.” Lerial eases past the table-desk and through the open study door, closing it behind him.
Phortyn stands behind a table-desk only slightly larger than that of the ranker’s in the receiving area. He is a small and wiry man at least several digits shorter than Lerial, with the weathered face of a fair-skinned man who has seen too much sun in his life. His gray eyes are hard. “Lord Lerial. You wished to see me?”
“I did, ser.” Lerial waits.
“You’re wearing Lancer gear, I notice.”
And not all that favorably. “That is what Majer Altyrn and Captain Graessyr suggested. I’m not wearing insignia, and I know I’m not a Lancer.”
“Then why the gear and why are you here, if I might ask?”
Lerial doesn’t care for the majer’s tone, but he smiles apologetically. “Majer Altyrn felt that my wearing Lancer gear would call less attention to me and create fewer problems for the Lancers who escorted me. I’m here because Captain Graessyr was concerned about the raiders we encountered and felt that there would be more trouble over the winter. When I returned to Cigoerne, I discovered that my father is dealing with raiders in the north, and my brother is riding patrols in the south.”
“And might I ask what that has to do with your presence?”
“It’s likely that I may be called to do something earlier than my father thought would be necessary. I’ve spent the last two seasons working with a sabre under Majer Altyrn and Captain Graessyr. They think my technique is sound, but that I need more experience against other experienced Lancers. I’d like to see if that is possible.”
Phortyn’s expression remains impassive, but Lerial can sense that the majer feels strongly. About what, Lerial cannot tell, and he again waits.
“Why now?”
“So that I can learn enough to be effective on patrols when the time comes and so that those Lancers with whom I may have to ride will be confident in my abilities and will not feel that I am a burden that detracts from their duties.”
“You’re practical. I can see that. Two seasons with Altyrn?”
“Yes, ser.”
A wintry smile crosses Phortyn’s lined face. “I suppose we should see. Because you are the Duke’s son, I’d like to see what you can do with wooden wands first. I’ll match you with Captain Chaen. He’s in charge of blade training.”
“That’s fair,” replies Lerial. “You only have my unsupported word.” And I need you to trust my word.
“Scarcely unsupported, but no man is the best judge of his own abilities.”
Lerial does not contest that.
“Well … let’s find the captain.”
Captain Chaen is near the armory. He is also wiry, as many Lancers appear to be, but is a good head taller than Majer Phortyn. A quizzical look crosses his narrow face and vanishes almost immediately as Phortyn and Lerial approach.
“Captain … I’d like you to spar with Lord Lerial here. He’s requested the opportunity to spar with more experienced Lancers. I’d like your opinion as to whether that would be beneficial for him at present. I thought you might start with wands.”
“Yes, ser.” Chaen looks Lerial over. “You’ve had some experience?”
“I’ve spent the last two seasons training under Majer Altyrn in Teilyn.”
Another quizzical look appears and vanishes even more quickly than the first as the captain says, “Let me get a pair of wands.” He steps into the armory and returns carrying several wands. “If you’d choose one?”
Lerial immediately decides against the smallest wand, then takes the largest and hefts it, then sets it aside. There is something wrong about its balance. The third wand is acceptable, although lighter than he would ideally prefer. “This one.”
Chaen nods slightly and returns the other two wands to the armory, returning with yet another wand similar to the one Lerial has taken, if somewhat more battered. “The nearest exercise circle is over there.�
��
Lerial follows the captain and takes a position on the south edge, but to the west, so that neither he nor the captain would directly face the morning sun.
Chaen advances, and Lerial steps forward, concentrating, then slipping Chaen’s opening attack and countering. The captain parries the counter, and Lerial forces Chaen’s wand down, but has to retreat and slip Chaen’s counterattack—simply because the captain is stronger. Even so, Lerial manages to avoid being struck, although twice he has to move quickly and is almost hit.
After less than a quarter glass, Chaen steps back, then lowers his wand. “You’ve trained with more than wands, haven’t you?”
“Blunted blades and padded armor,” Lerial admits.
Chaen turns to the majer. “I’d like to see what he can do with a blade and not a wand.”
Phortyn nods, almost grudgingly, Lerial feels, then walks away. Chaen motions for Lerial to enter the armory.
Lerial is glad for the respite as he dons the padded armor and selects a blunted sabre from among those hung on one wall of the armory. Chaen is noticeably stronger than either Graessyr or Majer Altyrn, although Lerial questions whether Chaen’s actual technique is as good as the older majer’s. Then, strength is a form of technique as well, since a stronger man can wear down one with less strength and stamina, assuming that the technique of the stronger fighter is not significantly worse.
Majer Phortyn is nowhere to be seen when Lerial takes the circle again against the captain. For the first few engagements, Lerial feels hard-pressed, as though he is barely avoiding being struck or being maneuvered into ever more dangerous positions, but he slowly begins to gain an awareness, a sense of knowing, and then, for several moments, perhaps longer, Lerial has the absolute sense of knowing where the captain’s blade is going to be … and for those moments, he is able to slip, deflect, or parry, and even attack once and score a solid but not overpowering strike on Chaen’s breastplate.
The captain dances back. “Would have been better with a side cut there.”
Lerial nods. “I can see that, ser, but I didn’t know how to get there from the parry.”
“Oh…” Chaen shakes his head. “For a time there, I forgot you haven’t been at this that long. Let me show you how to go from either a block or parry into a side cut that won’t expose you.”
Lerial concentrates as the captain demonstrates and then walks Lerial through the moves. It takes several times before Lerial feels he knows what to do … and he hopes he can remember when the next opportunity arises.
After that, Chaen steps back and walks over to Majer Phortyn, who has reappeared.
“Well?”
“He’s better than most juniors. He even pressed me once or twice. He’s right, though. He needs more experience against different people. He was a bit awkward with me to begin with, but once he saw what I was doing, he got better quickly.”
Phortyn frowns, if momentarily.
“If he can be here early every morning,” Chaen goes on, “we can work him in with the officers. It would be good for them as well.”
The majer turns to Lerial. “Can you be here at seventh glass every morning? Every morning but eightday mornings?”
“Yes, ser.” One way or another, Lerial will work that out.
“Then we’ll see you at seventh glass tomorrow.”
“Yes, ser.”
The majer turns and walks several yards away from the sparring circle, beckoning for the captain to join him. Lerial waits, uncertain of what to do, not wanting to turn his back on the officers and knowing he should not interrupt their conversation. He listens, as well as he can, low as their voices are.
“… could be a problem … want to take that on…”
“… wish more of them were like that…”
“… least knows what he has to prove … most don’t…” Phortyn says more before he turns and walks back toward the headquarters building, but Lerial cannot catch the words.
Even so, that grudging and limited approval from the majer is encouraging, in the sense that he is willing to look, if skeptically, at what Lerial can and will do.
Chaen walks back toward Lerial, then halts. “Might I ask why you did this yourself, Lord Lerial?”
“Because I fear that I may be needed sooner than expected, and because my father may not return from the north that soon. If I waited, that time would be lost, and perhaps some of the skills I have learned so far, if they are not reinforced.”
Chaen offers a faint smile. “I hope you are wrong. Even if you are, more training and experience cannot hurt.”
The two walk back toward the armory, Lerial hoping that he has not stepped too far out of line, but feeling that he is doing what is right … and necessary.
XXVII
When he returns to the palace, Lerial simply tells his mother and his aunt, and Undercaptain Woelyt, that he is supposed to continue the training begun by Majer Altyrn by learning more about arms at Lancer headquarters. While Emerya hides a faint smile, she says nothing. His mother merely says, “Doing what your father arranged is for the best.”
Undercaptain Woelyt nods approvingly, especially after Lerial tells him that Captain Chaen is in charge of his sparring and training. “Good man. Strong as an ox with a blade. You hold your own against him, and no one will beat you down just on strength.”
On sevenday, Lerial spars first against Chaen—with blunted blades and padded armor, and then against Veraan, a young undercaptain, “young” meaning likely only a few years older than Lerial himself. Lerial discovers that what Altyrn and Chaen had earlier observed is indeed true because it is quickly clear that Lerial is far better than the young officer. He also understands Chaen’s reasoning about the two pairings. The first is to show the other officers that Lerial is good enough to go against the senior captain, and the second is to show the junior officers that Lerial is already above them … and that his working with more experienced officers is not a result of favoritism, but skill.
While he does not spar on eightday, he is at Lancer headquarters before seventh glass on oneday, twoday, threeday, and fourday, and he spends more than a glass in padded armor working against various officers. Then he returns to the palace and studies the handful of tactics books from his father’s small study, as well as the maps of the areas around the lands held by his father. He does write as gracious a letter as he can to Majer Altyrn, thanking him for his hospitality and all the instruction provided, and arranges for it to be dispatched.
In his sparring, one thing does not change immediately. For the first few moments, even for a fraction of a glass, of each session with an officer with whom Lerial has not sparred, he feels awkward and has to be especially alert and careful, although by the end of his session on fourday morning, he is beginning to feel as though the awkwardness and uneasiness is not lasting as long as it once did.
Because his presence at Lancer headquarters rests on both his position and a certain sufferance by Majer Phortyn, Lerial makes a continuing effort to be polite and deferential to all the Lancer officers, without being obsequious or fawning. He does make a practice of taking a second set of greens with him to headquarters and washing up in the officers’ quarters after his sessions, because he is invariably soaked and smelly when he finishes.
On fourday, this is especially necessary, because he has promised to meet Emerya at the Hall of Healing after he has finished his sessions at Lancer headquarters and to spend the day at the Hall.
He is just finishing donning clean and dry greens when Lauxyn, one of the older undercaptains, appears. He is the only undercaptain, besides Veraan, whom Chaen has allowed to spar with Lerial, perhaps because Lauxyn is clearly more experienced, and most likely a former squad leader recently promoted to undercaptain because of his skills.
“Might I ask why you work so hard, ser?”
Sensing honest curiosity, rather than scheming or some other chaos, Lerial decides to answer, if cautiously. “I don’t ever wish to be a burden on any Lan
cers.” He grins ruefully. “At least not any burden that I can possibly avoid. Being as good as I can with a blade and learning as much as I can might just help.”
“They say the Duke is good with a blade.”
“He is. That’s another reason.”
Lauxyn nods politely. “How long will you be doing this? Do you know?”
“At least until my father returns from the north. After that, he’ll decide. He wanted me to improve my training in his absence.” That is somewhere between a guess and a fabrication, but it is certainly not impossible, given his father’s expectations.
“You could ride some patrols now.”
“I hope I’ve learned enough for that, but that’s for my father and Majer Phortyn to decide.”
Lauxyn offers a brief smile. “You should be ready when they decide.” He slips away, leaving Lerial alone in the small chamber.
After Lauxyn leaves, Lerial straps on his sabre, then dons his unmarked Lancer visor cap and stuffs his damp training greens into the kit bag, before making his way to the stable and his waiting escort, again headed by Jhubyl, who alternates with Fhanyd, the other junior squad leader in the company assigned to the palace.
In moments, the five riders are outside the headquarters’ gates and following the river boulevard north toward the Hall of Healing.
“You’re sure you don’t mind riding around with me?” asks Lerial.
“No, ser. It beats the duties at the Palace. Besides, that’s part of what we’re there for. It’s more interesting than checking guard posts … or making sure the younger rankers aren’t messing with the kitchen girls … on duty, that is.”
As they ride through the River Square—almost due east of the palace—Lerial glances at the river piers … and frowns. There is not a single flatboat tied up there. And the only sailing craft are two used by the Lancers on their patrols. He cannot remember a time when he has seen the piers so empty.
Cyador’s Heirs Page 21
