Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18)

by Modesitt, L. E. , Jr.

  Clearly Drusyn has reported to Rhamuel—unless Emerya had dispatched a letter with a trader almost as soon as Lerial had left Cigoerne … and that is possible. “He was a great man, although few know all of his accomplishments, especially those not having to do with arms or tactics.”

  “I had not heard…”

  Lerial decides against saying too much, but replies, “He understood canals and irrigation systems, with watergates, and he even created a brewery and a brickworks. He was a superb tactician … but I’m certain you know that…”

  Rhamuel offers a wry smile. “That skill I know all too well.” He stands. “We will have to talk more, but I’m expecting Commander Sammyl momentarily with new information about Khesyn’s forces.”

  Lerial rises. “I look forward to that. It is good to see you again.”

  “I would hope that you will join me and the senior officers for dinner.” Rhamuel smiles, this time warmly, and adds, “And for all meals.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it … once I make certain my men are fed and comfortable.”

  “You should have time for that. In camp, and this is camp for those purposes, the rankers are fed at fourth glass, and the junior and senior officers at sixth glass.”

  “Might I ask where the senior officers’ mess is?”

  “Oh … the private dining room here in country house.”

  Country house. And what exactly might the duke’s palace in Swartheld look like, or his summer palace, wherever that might be? “Thank you.”

  “If you arrive early, we have refreshments in the salon across the entry hall here. Most officers manage to squeeze in a half glass before dinner.”

  In other words, no later than half past fifth glass. “I should be able to manage that.” As if there’s any real choice.

  Rhamuel is still smiling pleasantly when Lerial leaves, somewhat puzzled by Rhamuel’s warmth and apparent lack of deception. At least, there’s little sign of the chaos and order disruption that usually reveals deception. But then, Rhamuel has said very little, in fact nothing, that Lerial essentially does not know. Saying nothing may withhold information, but it is not providing false information.

  Lerial has to wait a time for the stableboy to return with the gelding—who has been well curried—but he does get back to his companies to see that his men are indeed being fed, and fed well, and that nothing seems amiss.

  Less than a glass later, after his return to the country house, he crosses the main hall from the north entrance and makes his way toward the unguarded doorway across from Rhamuel’s study. When he steps inside, he immediately surveys the salon, taking a quick count—eleven other officers, seated in various places.

  A servitor in crimson and gray immediately steps forward.

  “What would you prefer, ser?”

  “Light or amber lager.”

  “Very good, ser.” The servitor slips away.

  “You must be Overcaptain Lerial.”

  Lerial turns to find himself facing a black-haired officer wearing the same insignia as Drusyn wears, except the device is silver rather than bronze. “Commander Sammyl … perhaps?”

  The commander smiles. “Who described me?”

  “No one. The only commander anyone mentioned was you. So…” Lerial shrugs.

  “We need to talk.” Sammyl guides Lerial to a pair of armchairs separated from the settees and chairs in the middle of the salon.

  Lerial seats himself, accepts a beaker of lager from the servitor, who swiftly withdraws, and waits for the commander to speak.

  “I have to say that I’m surprised that Duke Kiedron decided to support Duke Atroyan … although I do believe such is in his interests.” Sammyl’s black eyes focus on Lerial.

  “My father, to my knowledge, has always put the interests of Cigoerne above personal feelings.” Even in dealing with family. “So did my grandmere.”

  The commander nods. “Your presence would suggest that in regards to your father. I have only heard stories about the empress, but those suggest a rather … powerful personality.”

  “I saw most of that in retrospect. She was unfailingly kind, if firm, in dealing with me.”

  “Your presence does present … certain challenges.”

  Lerial decides to let silence respond for him, although he nods and then waits, punctuating the silence with a sip of the amber lager … better than many he has tasted, but not quite so good as that brewed at Kinaar by the majer, although it had taken Lerial years to appreciate that.

  “Some five years ago, a certain Mirror Lancer undercaptain destroyed, and that is, from what can be determined, an accurate summary of what occurred, an entire battalion of Afritan Guards dispatched directly by Duke Atroyan. This has not been mentioned often, but it has not been forgotten either.”

  “As I recall, Commander, never has a Mirror Lancer force ever entered Afritan territory, except now, and that has only been by the invitation of the duke.” Or his seal.

  “That is true,” admits Sammyl, “but it still poses a certain difficulty.”

  “Because some officers might feel a certain concern? They shouldn’t, not unless they intend the Mirror Lancers or Cigoerne harm … and act on that intent.”

  “I thought you might say something like that. Still … it is good to hear those words. No one of your lineage has ever, to my knowledge, broken their word … unlike some other rulers.”

  Lerial has the feeling that Sammyl is not alluding to just Khesyn and Casseon. “My father has stressed the importance of keeping one’s word, regardless of the costs.” And the majer emphasized the great danger in making threats.

  “Subcommander Drusyn has expressed an interest in working with you, in any instance where he would require forces additional to his battalion. Would that be satisfactory to you?”

  “If it is acceptable to you and to the arms-commander,” replies Lerial, hoping his initial judgment of the subcommander is accurate.

  “Good. It may not come to that, but…”

  “Do you have any idea where Khesyn might first attack?”

  “It’s unlikely to be anywhere but here. My best judgment is that he will attack here in order to take Luba, gain complete control of the river, and then move north until he can bring his forces at Estheld across and attack Swartheld.”

  “Does he have that massive a force? What about white wizards or mages?”

  “He has gained the support of several war leaders of the western Tourlegyn clans. It’s likely he’s promised them spoils. The Tourlegyns love spoils and pillaging. He is also known to have mages and white wizards, but how many … and how talented … who knows?”

  “Might I ask about your forces?”

  Sammyl smiles wryly. “Afrit has never been endowed with many with chaos or healing talents. So few that most are jealously guarded by the merchanters who pay them handsomely.”

  Atroyan can’t command their use against invaders? That raises some disturbing concerns, but not ones that Lerial can afford to mention. Not at present.

  “As I am sure you understand,” Sammyl continues, “Khesyn is likely to have the tacit support of Duke Casseon. Your presence here will likely reinforce that support.”

  Wonderful! Casseon’s support of Khesyn can’t be considered unexpected after the Verdyn rebellion. Even as he thinks that, Lerial is also aware that all the other officers are keeping well away from the two of them, not that he wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing in their boots. “I doubt that he will commit armsmen.”

  “Not unless we are unsuccessful.”

  Lerial shakes his head. “He won’t even then. He wants Verdheln back, and he wants Cigoerne destroyed.”

  “You may be right about that, but…”

  “That will happen if Afrit falls … and that is why we are here.”

  “I’m glad we’re both clear on that.” Sammyl shifts his weight in the armchair. “I just thought we might have a few words.” He stands. “Oh … one other thing. If you want your uniforms cleane
d, bring them to the room at the foot of the stairs in the morning.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your courtesy and your directness, ser.” Lerial rises as well.

  “A few last things. First, senior officers staff meeting every morning at seventh glass. Breakfast is after sixth glass, when you can get there. Second, as Lord Lerial, you’ll be seated to the arms-commander’s right at the mess at the evening meals.”

  “I would trust, that in his absence, you would stand in for him,” Lerial replies. “Or the most senior Afritan Guard officer present.”

  Sammyl smiles, warmly, but ironically. “It appears as though we are in agreement in many matters.”

  Lerial nods. Most matters … at present.

  Once Sammyl has slipped away, Drusyn appears, beaker in hand. “I see you received the commander’s welcome chat.”

  “Something like that.” Lerial notes that, unless the subcommander has refilled the beaker, he has drunk very little. “Details, his general observations on Khesyn and Casseon, and where I’m to sit at the mess.”

  “Unlike some senior officers, he is good with both details and larger matters.”

  While Drusyn’s words are pleasant, Lerial understands the caution behind them. “I understand that can be a rare combination.”

  “Very rare.” The dryness of that reply might have turned grapes to raisins instantly.

  A bell chimes softly.

  Lerial looks to the older officer.

  Drusyn nods.

  The two follow the other officers from the salon directly toward the courtyard. The private dining chamber is through the last door on the right before the center courtyard. Lerial does find himself seated at Rhamuel’s right, even though all the officers in the entire mess officially outrank him. Although the rank of overcaptain doesn’t exist in the Afritan Guard, he supposes he ranks as a majer, but that would still put him at the bottom of the table.

  Once everyone is seated, Rhamuel lifts his goblet. “I’d like to offer a toast to Lord Lerial, who arrived this afternoon with three companies of Mirror Lancers. Welcome!”

  After what Sammyl said in the salon and what Lerial did not hear or overhear in the salon, Lerial suspects that the meal will be more than passable and that the conversation, at least near him, will be both polite and not terribly revealing.

  IX

  When Lerial awakes on eightday morning well before sixth glass, he reflects on the evening before, from the dinner in the private dining room that had been every bit as polite and unrevealing as he had expected, to his subsequent walk back through the de facto avenue in the middle of the tents to meet again with his officers, and his return to the “country house.” The fact that nothing untoward has occurred is almost more disturbing than if it had.

  He washes and dresses and then heads for the private dining room, hoping, even on eightday, to see if he can talk to other officers on a more personal and less formal basis. On the way down, he notes the room where a ranker waits, and sees other uniforms there. Comparatively early as he arrives, there are already three officers in the dining chamber. One is Drusyn, seated next to Subcommander Ascaar, and the third, sitting slightly apart from the pair near the other end of the table, may be Subcommander Valatyr, by process of elimination, because Lerial does not recognize the man, and Valatyr had not been at the evening mess. But there might be another senior officer …

  Drusyn immediately motions.

  Lerial takes the chair beside him and across from Ascaar, offering a friendly “Good morning” to both.

  “You may not think so after morning meetings every day for a season,” says Ascaar.

  “Ascaar doesn’t care much for mornings.” Drusyn grins.

  “Demons know why I put up with you in the morning.” Ascaar’s grumble is more genial than gruff.

  “Because you need a friendly voice to cheer you up.”

  “Ser?” offers the servitor standing almost at Lerial’s shoulder. “Juice or lager?”

  “Lager … please,” Lerial says.

  “Man after my own heart,” declares Ascaar. “How did you find your quarters?”

  “More than adequate, but it’s a long walk to my companies.”

  The two subcommanders exchange a quick glance, but neither speaks as the servitor arrives with a platter and a beaker of lager. On the platter are eggs, seemingly scrambled with a cheese so pungent Lerial can immediately smell it, along with some yellow peppers. There are thin strips of meat, fried crisply—mutton, Lerial suspects—and a small loaf of whitish bread. He takes a swallow of the lager, then says pleasantly, “I’m assuming that each of you commands two battalions, but I don’t know your command structure.”

  “That’s right,” replies Drusyn. “Majers command battalions, subcommanders two to three battalions, and commanders four or more battalions. There have been exceptions.”

  “Does anyone know exactly how many companies Khesyn has in Vyada?”

  “Word is twenty-five.” Drusyn frowns. “I’d wager more than that. No offense…” He pauses as if unsure exactly how to address Lerial.

  “‘Lerial’ here. ‘Overcaptain’ in the field.”

  “No offense, Lerial,” adds Drusyn, “but the arms-commander wouldn’t have been able to persuade the duke to invite you to join us if we weren’t outnumbered.”

  “The arms-commander told me that Khesyn also has more than fifteen companies held at Estheld, possibly five battalions.”

  “Frig…” mutters Ascaar. “No wonder Rhamuel can’t pry any of the other companies from Swartheld … as if Khesyn would risk crossing almost a kay of water in flatboats … and some merchanters might help the duke.”

  Might? That definitely concerns Lerial.

  Drusyn glances around, then murmurs in a low voice, “The duke doesn’t want to be more indebted to them.”

  “Whereas he feels Cigoerne might … just might … feel indebted for other reasons … or unwilling to exact repayment for helping him out?” asks Lerial lightly, if also quietly.

  Drusyn laughs softly. “There might be something to that, but we won’t know that until after it doesn’t matter. One way or the other.”

  Lerial takes a bite of the eggs, discovering that they taste better than they smell, followed by one of the mutton strips, which tastes exactly like mutton fried and heavily peppered. The bread is warm and slightly doughy.

  “I take it that one of the reasons you were sent,” says Ascaar dryly, “is to limit the number of companies your sire felt he had to commit.”

  “You can see why Ascaar isn’t on the arms-commander’s staff proper,” adds Drusyn.

  “And why he must be a very good field commander?” returns Lerial as soon as he swallows.

  “He is. He doesn’t like to admit it,” replies Drusyn.

  “And so are you.”

  “Why might you say that?” There is a hint of a smile around the corners of Drusyn’s mouth.

  “Because you’re in command of battalions where it’s most likely that Khesyn will attack.” And it’s far more important that whoever commands the forces left in Swartheld be loyal to Rhamuel than be the best commander.

  “That brings up the other reasons why you were sent,” says Drusyn.

  “He’s the most effective field commander Duke Kiedron has,” interjects the subcommander sitting several chairs away.

  Lerial hopes the two subcommanders with whom he is sitting don’t catch the slightest stress on the word “effective.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” replies Drusyn.

  Ascaar merely looks at Drusyn and shakes his head, then murmurs, “Valatyr knows everything.”

  “How long…?”

  “Have I been a Mirror Lancer? Close to seven years.”

  “You don’t look that old.”

  “I’m not,” Lerial admits. “I’ll be twenty-three just after the turn of summer.”

  The two exchange glances.

  “He killed his first raider when he was sixteen,” interjects Vala
tyr. “He destroyed more than three battalions in the last battle of the Verdyn rebellion. He wouldn’t have told you that, and neither of you needs to know more.”

  Lerial understands fully why Valatyr has offered his last words. Obviously Rhamuel knows who the undercaptain was who also destroyed a full battalion of Afritan Guards at Ensenla … and would prefer that information remain unknown.

  Ascaar tries to stifle a grin as he looks at Drusyn and says in a low voice, “You had to know.”

  “Your sire obviously didn’t pamper you,” says Drusyn dryly.

  “He didn’t pamper either of us … and he’s never indulged himself.” Before either subcommander can say more, Lerial asks, “What is the routine here? Is there an area where I could have my companies practice maneuvers—starting tomorrow? The horses need some rest.”

  “The grasslands southwest of the hunting park are open for maneuvers,” answers Drusyn. “We have to get approval from Subcommander Valatyr. That’s just so we don’t interfere with each other and the arms-commander knows who’s doing what.”

  “The routine?”

  “It’s up to each commander to keep his forces ready in whatever manner he sees fit.”

  “What about archers?”

  “We each have a company. Each battalion has four companies of lancers that can double as mounted foot, and one company of archers who can do the same.” Ascaar looks to Lerial.

  “My companies are lancers, who can attack with either lances or sabres, or be mounted foot. Two of the companies have one squad that can double as mounted archers.” Lerial pauses, then goes on. “The Meroweyans had companies of heavy foot and used a shield wall for advances against archers and even lancers. Do you have any heavy foot, or does Duke Khesyn?”

  “We have two companies. They’re in Swartheld. They’re more suited to defending a city, according to Commander Nythalt.”

  “He’s the commander in charge in Swartheld?”

  Both subcommanders nod.

  Lerial takes several more bites of his breakfast, and a swallow of lager.

  “Do you have any other questions?” asks Drusyn.