Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18)
Page 46
In less than a half glass, Lerial and his squad are outside the iron gates of Aenslem’s villa. The guards look suspiciously at Lerial and the Mirror Lancer squad.
“I’m Overcaptain Lerial, and I’m also a healer. I was the one who helped Merchanter Aenslem last night. You can ask him or Lady Haesychya. We’ll wait.”
Despite what Lerial has said, he and the lancers do have to wait almost a tenth of a glass before a guard comes running back down the lane and talks quietly to the head guard. After several moments, the head guard looks up.
“I’m sorry for the delay, ser. I didn’t know. With everything that’s happened…”
“I understand. You’re doing your duty.”
The guards open just one of the iron gates and watch as Lerial and Second Squad ride through.
While Lerial hopes that Kyedra might be the one to meet him at the entrance to the villa, Haesychya is the one waiting after he dismounts and walks up the steps to the double doors. “Thank you for coming. I’m glad you did.” She gestures toward the entry hall.
Lerial accompanies her into the coolness of the villa. “How is he?”
“Much better … but…”
“But not so much as you’d like?”
“He’s still pale to my eyes.”
“He may be for several days. I’ll see.”
Haesychya smiles gently as she walks through the archway into the north corridor. “I can see you hoped to see someone else. She’s playing plaques with her grandfather. He insisted on it.”
“That’s still a fair improvement. It’s not a strain on him?”
Haesychya shakes her head. “He’s just not … maybe I worry too much.”
All Lerial can say is, “I’ll have to see.”
“How are you doing?”
“Much better. How are you doing?”
“As I can. I doubt you’re back to full strength.”
Her words tell Lerial not to say more, even indirectly, about her loss of her consort and son. “Physically … I’m much, much better. In order-chaos terms, it will take a little longer.”
As close as he is to Haesychya, Lerial can sense, even without trying, a certain sense of chaotic feeling. About her losses? Or about you? About Kyedra? His lips twist into a wry smile. That makes sense, given that he’s possibly saved her father, yet is the “wrong brother.” Then, it’s more likely she’s not even thinking about you. She’s got far greater problems and losses.
As he steps into the study behind Haesychya, Lerial sees that Aenslem is now seated in one of the leather armchairs with the side table before him. Across the table from the merchanter sits Kyedra in a straight-backed chair. Both hold plaques in their hands, and there are small piles of plaques set facedown on each side of the small table. Kyedra looks up and toward the door. Then she smiles warmly as her eyes take in Lerial. Once again, Lerial is amazed at how her smile transforms her from an attractive young woman to a beautiful one, and he can’t help but return the smile.
“I didn’t know you’d be coming again,” Kyedra says, rising from the chair.
“I thought it wise. I wasn’t at my best yesterday afternoon, and I worried that I might have missed something.”
Aenslem chuckles. “Missed something, Lord Lerial?”
Lerial hopes he is not flushing too obviously as he replies. “Even Rhamuel thought I should come.”
“That boy worries too much.”
“He worries when he should,” says Haesychya quietly. “Now you let Lerial look at you. You’re not as strong as you think you are.”
“Haven’t been for years, according to you, daughter.”
Lerial walks over beside Aenslem, all too conscious that Kyedra’s eyes are on him. He lets his order-senses range over the merchanter. While there is clearly less wound/poison chaos within the merchanter, there is still a pocket of more defined chaos lower in Aenslem’s abdomen. “There’s still something there. You’ll have to pardon me once more.” He extends his fingertips to the side of Aenslem’s throat, barely touching the skin, and directs a thin line of order down through the merchanter to the chaos.
He can feel some, if not all, of the chaos, dissipate, but he immediately stops as he senses the possibility of light-headedness.
“That feels better,” the merchanter admits.
“It’s not all gone,” Lerial says, “but that’s all I can do today. The rest of that may vanish on its own. If I can, I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
“If…?” Haesychya looks at Lerial.
“It appears that Duke Khesyn may not be done with his assaults on Afrit.”
“After all the killing … destruction…” Haesychya shakes her head. “I’m forgetting my hospitality. Let me bring you some lager.”
“That would be good,” Lerial admits.
“What have you heard about Khesyn?” demands Aenslem. “No one tells me anything.” The merchanter offers a mock glare at his granddaughter.
“Grandpapa…”
“He used Tourlegyn warriors in many of the battalions he sent against us, and it appears as though he is once more gathering more merchant vessels in Estheld. We’re likely down to the equivalent of perhaps six battalions after all the death and casualties.”
“I told Atroyan he needed warships.” Aenslem snorts.
“It’s hard to build warships without larger tariffs,” Lerial says cautiously.
“I’d pay ’em … so long as everyone else did. Maesoryk … never thought much of him … thought less of his father … he kept saying we didn’t need warships.”
“That’s interesting. The Heldyans used the pier at his tileworks to land their largest force.”
“That…” Redness suffuses Aenslem’s face, as if he is so angry he cannot express himself.
“Grandpapa!”
With Kyedra’s anguished cry, Aenslem exhales abruptly, then begins to cough. After several moments, he stops coughing and wipes spittle off his face with a large cloth. “Sorry … just … never thought much of him.” He looks at Lerial. “Did you kill the bastard?”
“No one’s been able to find him. Commander Sammyl thought he was either dead or a traitor, since he’s never appeared or sent word.”
“Death’d be too good for him.”
“Grandpapa.” This time Kyedra’s voice carries the iron of her mother’s.
“All right, Granddaughter.”
“Anyway,” Lerial adds quickly, “Sammyl’s sent out sail-galleys to scout out Estheld’s harbor. Even a few days’ respite would help. And we’ve sent a battalion to hold the tileworks pier. That would make landing easier.”
“Then they’ll sail to Baiet and march down the shore road. You couldn’t afford to send your battalions that far from Swartheld.”
That makes far too much sense.
“What will you do, then?” asks Kyedra.
“Whatever we can that’s necessary.”
Aenslem nods.
At that moment, Haesychya returns, followed by a serving girl carrying a tray with a large pitcher and four beakers, as well as a small platter of biscuits.
Lerial notices that the serving girl, rather beautiful and well formed, glances toward Aenslem, and then looks away immediately when Kyedra looks toward her.
“Everyone could use a biscuit … or two.” With the last two words Haesychya looks at Lerial.
“I wouldn’t think of not following your suggestion.” Lerial grins as he finishes speaking.
“Good idea,” says Aenslem.
Lerial does enjoy both the lager and the biscuits, and in the end, he has three, in between answering several questions about the Mirror Lancers. He does notice that, if but for a moment, Aenslem’s eyes follow the serving girl when she slips away after a gesture from Haesychya.
He has barely finished the last sip of the lager when Haesychya looks to Kyedra and says, “Why don’t you walk Lerial to the front terrace?”
Kyedra stiffens, if but for a moment, then rises and turns to Lerial.
“You’re more than welcome.” Haesychya inclines her head.
Lerial returns the gesture, then follows Kyedra from the study. He waits until they are several yards from the study door before speaking. “I got your note this morning. You were kind to write, and you have an elegant hand.”
“Mother would not have it any other way.” Kyedra does not look at Lerial. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Might I ask what you mean by that?”
“You may.” There is a long pause, although she still does not look at him. “First, I thought you were just like … my brother, in a way, except older, more polished. Stronger, of course. Then … I heard about everything you’ve done … how many have died because of that … and I couldn’t understand … you seemed to care … but all the deaths…”
Lerial waits, not quite holding his breath.
“You risked your life to protect your men, didn’t you? You could have protected yourself without almost dying. Isn’t that so?”
“How can I answer that, Lady? If I say yes to either, it sounds boastful.”
“You could say no.”
Lerial thinks he detects a hint of mischievousness in her voice. “I’d rather not lie, especially to you.”
“Most men do.”
“I’d prefer not to be most men.”
“That’s what I mean. Mother says you’re older than your years in some ways, and younger in others.”
“Definitely younger in understanding women.” Lerial offers a wry smile.
“That’s also what she said.”
She also said I was the wrong brother. “I think your mother knows a great deal, a very great deal.”
“She doesn’t know everything.”
“None of us do.” Lerial cannot help but recall how little he understood what his parents—or Majer Altyrn—knew … until after Verdheln.
“Will you come tomorrow?”
“If I can. I promised … and I don’t think your grandpapa is as well as either of us would like.”
“You’re sounding like a healer, now.”
Lerial laughs softly. “I suppose I am.”
“I like that, too.”
When they reach the double doors, Kyedra stops. After a moment, she says, “You will take care.”
“As I can, Lady … Kyedra … and thank you.” Lerial realizes he may have stepped toward too much familiarity in using her name, yet “Lady” is too formal. He offers a smile and inclines his head. “Until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow.”
He turns and walks to where a ranker holds the reins to the gelding. He mounts and looks back to the doors where Kyedra still stands. He has the feeling that Kyedra’s eyes are on him until he rides past the hedgerow flanking the lane near the gates. Or is that just wistful thinking?
But you’re still the wrong brother.
XLI
By the time Lerial finishes breakfast at the mess on threeday, he is feeling physically close to full strength. Even the burn on his hip has subsided to a healing, but intermittently annoying, itch. He can also order-sense more than a hundred yards, perhaps farther, although it is difficult to tell within the walls of the Afritan Guard headquarters. He had not returned to the palace on threeday after leaving Kyedra, but had spent the remainder of the day with his officers and men, going over equipment and weapons, and seeing to repairs, while also making arrangements for reshoeing a number of mounts, including some of the twenty they had received as replacements from those abandoned by the Heldyans. He eats quickly, meets for a short time with Strauxyn, Kusyl, and Dhoraat, then leaves for the palace with Third Squad from Twenty-third Company as his escort.
As on threeday, the streets are busy with wagons, coaches, peddlers, and various pedestrians, all of them seemingly going about their day, as if unaware of the carnage that had occurred little more than ten kays away. At the palace, by comparison, the gates remain heavily guarded, although the Afritan officers no longer insist on an escort for Lerial, and only a single Lancer ranker accompanies him as he walks to the west wing to meet with Rhamuel—and Sammyl, if the commander happens to be there.
Both Sammyl and Rhamuel are in the sitting room, with Sammyl standing by the open window and Rhamuel at the table desk.
“Good morning,” offers Lerial.
“The same to you,” replies the arms-commander. “You didn’t come back here yesterday. Why not?”
“I had some matters to go over with my officers and men. I thought you’d know where I was.”
“How is Aenslem? I’m assuming he’s better, since I heard nothing from Haesychya.”
“He appeared much better yesterday afternoon. There was still some wound or poison chaos in his system.”
“Poison? You didn’t mention that he’d been poisoned,” declares Sammyl.
“Oh … I thought I had. Someone put something in his tonic. I don’t think it was accidental, but I haven’t pressed him on who might have done something or how.”
“You might … if you see him again.” Rhamuel frowns. “Perhaps you should visit him after we finish here.”
“If there’s nothing pressing.”
“How is my niece?”
“She is in much better spirits.”
“I imagine. A handsome heir and officer visiting might cheer her up.”
Handsome? When she thinks you have unruly hair? “Have you heard from Ascaar?”
“We finally received a dispatch this morning.” Rhamuel smiles. “He managed to defeat three Heldyan battalions. Most were Tourlegyn warriors. About half a battalion managed to escape downstream on the flatboats they used. He did lose more than a full company in deaths and casualties.” The smile vanishes. “He sent this dispatch with three rankers on one of Fhastal’s river galleys, because it appeared that his first dispatch might not have arrived in Swartheld. That was because, a day after the battle, a certain Captain Jontarl had vanished, leaving behind certain indications suggesting that.”
“What do you know about Jontarl?”
“Other than he is a nephew of Merchanter Jhosef … not a great deal.”
“Isn’t Oestyn related to Jhosef?” asks Lerial.
“His youngest son, but you knew that already, didn’t you?”
“I thought I recalled something like that,” replies Lerial blandly. “Remember, all these families and names are new to me.” Not that this one was, but questions make better points sometimes, even rhetorical questions.
“I doubt you forget much. Your point is taken, however.”
“Unfortunately, there’s much to it,” adds Sammyl, scowling. “But since he’s merely a nephew, and no proof that Jhosef was involved, there’s little we can do.”
“Not directly,” murmurs Rhamuel. “Not at the moment.”
The quiet iron in the arms-commander’s voice reminds Lerial that displeasing Rhamuel, crippled as he may turn out to be, is most unwise.
Rhamuel smiles, an expression similar to Kyedra’s, and the room is suddenly less oppressive. “Ascaar also indicated that he had sent on your message…”
Lerial notes the briefly puzzled look on Sammyl’s face, but does not intend to explain. “… and enclosed a dispatch to you. It originally went to Luba, and Majer Chorazt forwarded it to Ascaar at Shaelt. In turn…” Rhamuel extends the still-sealed missive to Lerial.
Lerial takes it and studies the outside, which merely bears his name and rank, with the words “Mirror Lancers of Cigoerne” beneath. Then he takes his belt knife, the one that had burned him—and shows no signs of it—and slits the envelope. He immediately checks the signature and seal: both of Major Jhalet.
Why from Majer Jhalet? Why not from Father? Because he doesn’t want anyone to know you’re related if the dispatch should fall into the wrong hands? Lerial nods and—and then begins to read.<
br />
Overcaptain Lerial—
We have heard from the wounded you dispatched back to Cigoerne, as well as from a number of traders, that you and the Afritan Guard were successful in repulsing the Heldyan attack on Luba. We also understand that you have been requested to attend the duke of Afrit to receive his thanks, and trust that, once you have accomplished whatever is necessary, you and your companies will be returning to Cigoerne as soon as practicable.
It has also come to the duke’s attention, and to that of Overcaptain Lephi, that there has not been a single Heldyan incursion or attack along the entire river bordering Heldya for the past three eightdays. This is so unprecedented that the duke requested that I so inform you.
We trust that this information will prove useful. The duke and the Mirror Lancers look forward to your speedy return.
After a moment, Lerial hands the dispatch to Rhamuel. “You should read this.”
Rhamuel does. “Would you mind if Sammyl…?”
“Not at all.”
The commander reads the dispatch and then returns it to Lerial. “Khesyn must have pulled every Heldyan armsman from everywhere.”
“It looks that way,” admits Rhamuel.
“What have your scouts discovered?” asks Lerial.
“Two more merchanters have ported at Estheld. None have left. There may be more happening than that, but our sailing galley had to withdraw when the Heldyans sent out three of their sail-galleys armed with archers.”
“Were the merchanters preparing to sail?”
“It didn’t appear that way. Not then.”
“That reminds me,” Lerial says. “I mentioned the merchanters to Aenslem, and that you’d garrisoned the tileworks. He pointed out that the Heldyans could easily land at Baiet and march to Swartheld.”
“They could,” admits Rhamuel.
“It’d take two or three days,” replies Sammyl.
“But we don’t have enough battalions left to garrison Baiet,” says Rhamuel, “not and leave enough to defend Swartheld—and it would take us two days to get them there even if we did. Besides, there’s nowhere else that they could go besides here. We’re better off fighting closer to Swartheld.”