Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (10 page)

“And one never knows in what fashion any invitation might be reciprocated,” replies Lerial. “My father would prefer that you and your brother hold Afrit, particularly since Duke Khesyn has been a continuing irritation to Cigoerne.”

“I had thought that might be so.” Rhamuel pauses. “I understand that your brother is an overcaptain as well … and that he has been dealing with Heldyan … incursions.”

“He is; he has, and he is senior to me.”
If only by a few seasons.

Rhamuel nods once more. “How might your aunt be? As I am certain you have heard, I owe some injuries to your sire’s skill as a Mirror Lancer commander and my life and future to her healing abilities.”

“She is well. She heads the Hall of Healing in Cigoerne, and she is even more skilled now. She and my mother have trained a number of healers.”

Rhamuel nods. “They are reputed to be the greatest healers in Hamor. The trait must run in the blood. It is also said that you can do some field healing.”

Where did he hear that? From Emerya? Why would she reveal that? Because she thinks it will somehow help you?
“I have some skills in that, but I am far less skilled than she is.” He pauses but briefly before asking, “Can you tell me how many companies Duke Khesyn has gathered … and what might be likely?”

“By fiveday, he had twenty-five companies mustered south of Vyada, and far more than fifteen in Estheld, perhaps as many as five battalions. That means we cannot move the ten battalions in Swartheld, and Commander Nythalt would prefer even more companies there.” Rhamuel shakes his head. “Even six battalions should be enough to defend against forces that have almost a kay of open water to cross, but … for obvious reasons, the duke would prefer not to allow any more Guard forces to move from Swartheld to Luba. That is another reason why your companies are most welcome.”

“I’d heard that Duke Khesyn has been gathering flatboats in Vyada.”

“He has. He does not have enough … yet. He could embark half his forces and cross downstream in the dark…”

“And then use the same flatboats again a few days later.”

Rhamuel nods. “We’ll have to see.”

Lerial suspects that, if Duke Khesyn intends to attack, he will use some variation on what Rhamuel has suggested.

“I was sorry to hear of Majer Altyrn’s death. Some would say that, with your sire, and your Grandmere, he made Cigoerne what it has become.”

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 cleaned, 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.