Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18)

by Modesitt, L. E. , Jr.

  “He’s an heir also. Have you thought about that?”

  “He’s second in line. He’ll never be duke.”

  “You never know. You were second once.”

  “That’s different.”

  Kyedra is silent for a time as the two walk along the corridor back to the east wing of the palace.

  “You like him, don’t you?” asks Natroyor abruptly, then continues, “That doesn’t matter. You’ll have to consort his older brother. Or Khesyn’s grandson. They’re the heirs. If anyone asks at all. Father won’t let you consort a younger son. Neither will Mother. Or Grandpapa Aenslem. Besides, you don’t even know if he likes you.”

  “Do you like being cruel, Natroyor?” Kyedra’s voice is low, but not gentle.

  “You’ll see what I like. You will.”

  Kyedra remains silent as the two continue toward the east wing.

  Since neither is talking, Lerial slips away as they take the main marble staircase up to the fourth level and then drops the concealment before making his way back to his quarters, not that he needs that much time to ready himself, but he has not had a chance to talk to Polidaar.

  The squad leader appears as Lerial nears his quarters. “Ser?”

  “Nothing’s amiss, is it?”

  “No, ser.”

  “Good. We need to talk.” Lerial opens the door to his sitting room and motions for Polidaar to join him.

  The comparatively young squad leader is hesitant, but then steps inside.

  Lerial closes the door and takes a seat, gesturing to one of the chairs. He can see that Polidaar has seldom been in such quarters, perhaps only these quarters and only to inspect them … and possibly he is worried that he may receive some critical words. Once the squad leader sits, only on the front of the chair, Lerial smiles warmly, then asks, “Have you had a chance to talk to your men about what they’ve seen and what they think about Swartheld?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lerial nods and waits.

  “Well … ah … they all think it’s not that clean a place. That’s excepting the fancy merchanting part of the palace road.” The squad leader offers a lopsided grin. “I know you said … about the women … but they’ve never seen a place with so few women on the streets, and all of them are … well dressed.”

  Completely covered, you mean … or more so than in Cigoerne? “I have to say I noticed that as well. What else.”

  “The Afritan Guards aren’t as well disciplined, either, and they talk … when they think no one’s listening … maybe because they don’t realize most of our rankers speak Hamorian. And … well … what they say about their officers … ah … you wouldn’t like it, ser.”

  “They can say what they want, just so long as our rankers don’t … or our officers don’t give our men reason to speak that way.”

  “No, ser … I mean, yes, sir…”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s just little things. One of the men saw a peddler whipping a boy so hard his back was bloody. Everyone just turned away. No dogs, either. I like dogs, ser. Grew up and used them for keeping the herd in line. You see dogs in any hamlet in Cigoerne … and in the city. I haven’t seen a one here in Swartheld. And the people. They’d give us a look and they just turn away. Not like they were afraid. Like they just didn’t care. Even the children.”

  After Polidaar leaves, Lerial walks to the window, thinking. The people pay no attention to the Afritan Guard.… . or us … and no dogs in Swartheld? What does that all mean … if anything? And is what the Guard rankers have said about their officers the way it was in Cyador before the end? Or worse, for all Polidaar is denying, do they talk that way about Lancer officers now? There certainly have been some, like Veraan, who was forced out and is now a trader, or Captain Dechund, who was a traitor. Even Majer Phortyn … But they were only a few. Still … He shakes his head.

  Then there is what little he has overheard between Kyedra and her brother. The more he sees and hears of Natroyor, the more appalled he is that the spoiled youth is the heir to the duchy. Lerial has had his problems with Lephi, but Lephi is without faults compared to Natroyor. As for Kyedra … She seems smarter and far nicer than her brother. She has a smile that lights up her face … He frowns. Does she agree with what Natroyor said about your hair? That shouldn’t bother him, but it does, at least a little.

  He has to admit that he’s more impressed with Kyedra and her mother than with either Atroyan or Natroyor. But you haven’t seen enough yet … He smiles wryly. He has seen and heard enough about Natroyor, but he needs to reserve judgment on the duke. Anyone who’s managed to hold power for so many years with all the merchanter scheming has to have more abilities that he’s revealed.

  Lerial washes up and uses a damp cloth to freshen up his uniform as well as he can … then frowns. Surely, he can get his uniforms cleaned … but no one has even mentioned that. It’s probably assumed.

  He shakes his head, walks to the door, and looks to the duty guard. “If you’d pass on to the squad leader … have him find out what we need to do to get our uniforms cleaned.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Thank you.”

  After waiting a bit more, Lerial sets out for the duke’s study. He arrives promptly and is immediately ushered in.

  Atroyan, wearing what Lerial thinks must be the formal crimson uniform of the Afritan Guard, rises from behind the wide—and empty—table desk. He frowns. “No dress uniform?”

  “I didn’t anticipate coming to Swartheld, ser. Then, it was rather late to send for a dress uniform.”

  “Well … no one will be able to tell for certain.” The duke straightens. “We should go. Oh … before I forget. There is another function tomorrow evening. You’ll get a formal invitation later. Seventh glass. Now … how are you finding Swartheld?” He walks to the study door.

  “Besides rather larger than Cigoerne? There are a number of differences. You have an excellent deepwater harbor and a much more extensive merchanting quarter. The palace is enormous. Your consort is most gracious, and you’ve certainly been welcoming. My men are well housed and well fed.” Lerial almost says something about what else he could ask for, but catches himself. He still wonders about the “other function.”

  “Good. Good.”

  “Might I ask who will be attending the reception and dinner?”

  “Oh … I told you it would be the most important merchanters, and, of course, my brother the arms-commander.”

  “You did, ser, but since I am not from Afrit and know almost nothing about Swartheld, I have no idea who the most important merchanters might be.”

  “So you wouldn’t. So you wouldn’t. Let’s see. The most important is Aenslem. He’s the head of the Merchanting Council, not to mention Haesychya’s father. Then there’s Maesoryk; he has most of the kilns in Afrit, the good ones, everything from fine porcelain to … well … chamber pots. I think you may have met Mesphaes … no?”

  “I met him in Shaelt.”

  “He’s one of the few who’s not from Swartheld, but since Rhamuel said he’d be at his place here, nothing to compare to his villa in Shaelt, I hear, I thought he should be present…”

  Rhamuel must have arranged that …

  “… and then there’s Alaphyn … he’s mostly a shipper, not so many vessels as Aenslem, but more than anyone else. As a matter of fact, there’s not really anyone else … and, I almost forgot, there’s Lhugar. He has the largest interest in the ironworks at Luba…”

  Lerial nods and listens to other names he hopes he can remember while they walk down the main staircase of the east wing of the palace.

  When they near the reception room, Atroyan says, “Get a glass or beaker of what you want first. You likely won’t have a chance later, not without appearing rude, or having to accept whatever someone thrusts at you.”

  There are already several men in the reception room; the only two Lerial recognizes are Rhamuel and Mesphaes. Like his brother, Rhamuel wears a dress uniform without r
ank insignia. Neither the arms-commander nor the spirits merchanter moves toward the duke or Lerial. The two other men in the room, attired in formal overtunics, one of a deep blue, the other of a muted maroon, immediately turn to face Atroyan, nodding and even bowing slightly. “Duke Atroyan…”

  At the two approach, Lerial has the feeling that he is a bit underdressed for the occasion. But who would have thought … Except his mother had hinted at it. Still, the thought of packing a dress uniform off to battle …

  “Merchanter Lhugar, Merchanter Nahaan … might I present you to Lord Lerial? He’s not only the younger heir to Cigoerne, but a most effective commander of Mirror Lancers who did us the signal honor of wiping out a battalion or so of Heldyan invaders and driving even more back to Heldya. At Luba, you know.”

  Both merchanters nod.

  Then Nahaan smiles apologetically, and without a word Atroyan walks toward the sideboard serving wine, Nahaan at his elbow.

  “What will you be drinking, Lord Lerial?” asks Lhugar.

  “Pale lager.” Lerial notes that the merchanter’s hands are empty. “Will you join me?”

  “Naturally.”

  Once Lerial has a pale lager and Lhugar a very dark brew, the two stand before an open window, through which blows a slight, but welcome, breeze.

  “You’re in ironworks, if I heard the duke correctly.”

  “More accurately, we’re in ironworks. The ducal family has a four-tenths interest in the ironworks my family and his own and that we operate.”

  “Oh … I didn’t know that.”

  “Most people don’t, but it’s no secret.”

  In a fashion, that makes sense, Lerial thinks, especially in a land of merchanters, which Afrit certainly is. “You just smelt and process the iron into lengths and plates, then, and sell it to others?”

  “We do pig iron, plates, and rods. The only finished things we sell are nails. Everyone needs nails.”

  “You don’t have any iron-mages, then?”

  Lhugar smiles and shakes his head. “There’s no need, unless you want black iron, and not many do. Besides, mages are rare in Afrit. Always have been. There’s not much sense in spending golds to make something almost no one wants. Your sire likely has more iron-mages than all the rest of Hamor.” He pauses. “I’d wager you don’t arm your lancers with black-iron blades.”

  “You’re right about that,” Lerial replies lightly. “I don’t know that anyone else does, either.”

  “Cupridium’s another thing. Can your iron-mages work it?”

  Why is he interested in cupridium? It’s really only useful for weapons for chaos-mages and white wizards … or for blocking chaos-fire … or the chaos-lances that we can’t even build anymore. “I suppose they could. It takes so much effort to make it, though, that it’s seldom used anymore. Might I ask…?”

  “There are always those who are interested. Your father got quite a few golds for what he sold when he dismantled that old fireship. Quite a few. Probably more than he collected in tariffs for years. If people want something, it never hurts to see if it’s available.” Lhugar pauses as another merchanter approaches, then says, “If ever … I can get a good price for it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Lord Lerial, Khamyst.” The newly arrived merchanter wears an overtunic of a green so dark it verges on black.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Khamyst.” Even repeating the man’s name doesn’t recall anything for Lerial.

  “The duke won’t have mentioned me, and you’d have no reason to know who I am.”

  Lerial smiles as winningly as he can. “Then you must give me one.”

  “Well said. I will. I’m the one everyone needs and everyone wants to forget. We’re the ones who handle rendering and tallow and candles and hides and leather. We do it well away from Swartheld so that no one suffers.”

  “And you do it well and are paid well,” suggests Lerial.

  “Well enough to belong to the Merchanting Council.”

  Lerial nods, not sure exactly what he should say.

  “Most people think of tallow for poor folk’s candles, but a lot of what we render goes to Lhugar’s plate mills.”

  Lerial has no idea what Khamyst means, and it must show, because the merchanter grins and adds, “It keeps the rollers from seizing up.”

  Lhugar has rolling mills? Lerial had thought the only mills like that had been lost with the fall of Cyador.

  “Have to admit, Lhugar stole the idea—well, his grandsire did—from Cyador. Not fancy, the way those were, but somehow they got it to work.”

  “Trying to corner Lord Lerial, are you, Khamyst?” asks yet another merchanter, holding a full goblet of a dark red wine.

  Lerial realizes that he has not even taken a sip of his lager, and does so, before looking to the pudgy and short blond man likely not more than a handful of years older than Lerial himself. “He’s been most polite, and you are?”

  “Haensyn.”

  “Haensyn represents the House of Haen…” begins Khamyst.

  “… since his mother is not properly a merchanter,” murmurs Lhugar.

  Lerial only hopes he can keep everything straight in his mind, but smiles and nods once more.

  Before that long, but not before Lerial has exchanged pleasantries with three other merchanters, a set of chimes rings, presumably to announce the time for the dinner itself. As the merchanters move toward the dining room, Rhamuel appears, seemingly out of nowhere, although Lerial has not seen him except at the beginning of the reception, talking to Mesphaes. “How did your ride through Swartheld go?”

  “Through a small portion of Swartheld,” Lerial replies with a laugh. “It was useful to learn where things are. I do have a question, though.”

  “Yes?”

  “How did your great-grandsire come up with the idea of requiring tile roofs for every dwelling and building in Swartheld?”

  “Fires,” replies Rhamuel. “So we were told when we were boys. After the merchanting quarter burned down—that’s why all the buildings there are so well planned and the avenue is wider and paved—after that, he issued the law. Every new building had to have a tile roof, and all factorages and shops that didn’t already have tile roofs had to reroof with tile in two years. Houses had from five to ten years, depending on where they were.”

  “It sounds like he thought it out.”

  “He did, but not that way. He’d borrowed golds to pay the Guard because he’d kept tariffs low to please the merchants. After the fire, he couldn’t depend on tariffs to repay the golds. So he issued the law.”

  “He borrowed the golds from the merchanters who made the tiles?”

  “No, but he could tariff the tiles, and the law made it certain that the tariffs were sufficient to cover the payments.” Rhamuel shakes his head. “After the merchanters recovered, he did raise all tariffs. He died within the year, but our grandsire only reduced the tariffs a pittance.”

  “And Maesoryk is still benefiting from the law?”

  “So is everyone else,” replies Rhamuel almost sardonically as they enter the dining room. “Swartheld hasn’t had any large fires since.” He nods toward the table. “You’re on his right.”

  “And you’re on the left?”

  “Always.” After a moment, Rhamuel murmurs, “Aenslem will be beside you, and Maesoryk across from you.”

  Lerial stands behind his chair until everyone is in position. Then Atroyan seats himself, followed by everyone else. Lerial notes that Lhugar is beside Aenslem, and another merchanter Lerial has not seen before, a heavy-lidded but narrow-faced man with thinning brown hair whose strands droop across a high forehead, is beside Maesoryk.

  Once everyone has a full goblet or crystal beaker, Atroyan clears his throat. He does not stand, but lifts his goblet. “I’d like to thank you all for coming, and for doing so with little notice. On the other hand, it may be the only time in your lives where you can have dinner with not only a duke, but two younger sons
to duchies … and, no offense to either, but I’d prefer they remain younger sons.” He pauses to allow a few chuckles to subside. “I’m always mindful of what makes a land strong, particularly Afrit, and that’s the skill and devotion of those who pay the tariffs to support the harbor and the river patrols, and the Afritan Guard. My brother, of course, is particularly glad for the support of the latter.” Another pause allows more chuckles. “I’m glad for all the support, and for your tireless efforts, not only to amass golds, but to continue to use some of it to pay your tariffs … so that we can put an end to the attempts by a certain duke to the east to impoverish it all. And, of course, we’re also here to commend the arms-commander and Lord Lerial for their success in defeating the Heldyans at Luba … which they accomplished most effectively.” Atroyan smiles broadly. “With that … well … enjoy the fare and the company.” He sips from his goblet, then lowers it.

  Lerial slowly looks down the table. He has the feeling that he is missing something or someone. Fhastal! At the dinner at Shaelt, Rhamuel had introduced him as one of the foremost merchanters in either Shaelt or Swartheld.

  The servers place small plates before each diner, on which thinly sliced strips of ham alternate with slivers of what must be an orangish fruit or vegetable.

  “Ham and loquats,” murmurs someone.

  Lerial watches for a moment and notes the other diners wrapping the thin ham slices around the fruit. He does the same … and finds the semisweet taste intriguing, and not unpleasant. In fact, he finds that he has finished the entire plate.

  “Lord Lerial,” Maesoryk offers warmly, but not obsequiously or loudly, “it is a pleasure to meet you. It’s good to know that Cigoerne understands the dangers posed by Duke Khesyn … and that Afrit and Cigoerne can stand against him.” The merchanter’s smile is modest, but seemingly open, and his warm brown eyes match his mouth.

  “It’s very much in Cigoerne’s interest that Afrit prevail in any struggle with Heldya,” replies Lerial. “My father has been quite clear about that.”

  “He’s always shown he has good sense. So did the empress. I regret that I never met her and that I was absent from Swartheld during the brief time your father was here. But then, we were both rather young then.” He laughs jovially. “Enjoy your youth. It departs more quickly than you’ll ever have thought possible.”