Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (11 page)

“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 Valatyr. “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.

“How many companies or battalions are still in Swartheld?”

“Ten battalions I’ve heard tell. No one’s said. Anything else?”

“Well…” Lerial grins. “There is one. Exactly where are the ironworks? The city didn’t look much like there were any there.”

Ascaar smiles in return. “There aren’t. The ironworks are more than ten kays to the west, at the end of the west road.”

“The wide east-west road?” asks Lerial.

Ascaar nods. “They mine it and smelt it there, and pound it into rough plate. The plate comes here. Some is sent downriver to Swartheld. Most is smithed here.”

“I just wondered, because everyone talks about the ironworks at Luba.”

“There’s really not a town there. Most of the heavy work at the works is done by lawbreakers.”

That makes a certain sense to Lerial, since the irrigation ditches in Cigoerne are dredged by lawbreakers and new canals dug in the same fashion.

As Valatyr rises and leaves the dining room, Ascaar glances in his direction, then back to Lerial. “It won’t be that long until the morning meeting, not if you want a quick word with your company officers. Commander Sammyl is prompt.”

“I told them not to expect me this morning until after the senior officers’ meeting. That won’t be a problem, not with the horses needing rest. They know where to find me.”

“They always do,” comments Drusyn, “especially when you’d prefer not to be found.”

Ascaar nods.

Before long, the three make their way to the salon.

The chairs and settees have been rearranged into three rows, facing away from the doorway. Lerial settles himself at the left end of the second row in a simple armless chair with a seat upholstered in slightly faded dull crimson, beside Subcommander Klassyn. “Good morning, Commander.”

“Good morning, Lord Lerial. I trust all is well with you and your men.”

“Everything seems to be settled. I imagine you have your hands full, though.”

“Full, but not overfull. That will happen when another two battalions arrive.”

“Are they expected soon?”

“They’re not expected at all, but I keep working to see what I can do if they show up. If I don’t, they’ll arrive tomorrow.” Klassyn glances toward the north end of the salon, where the chief of staff appears.

All the officers stand.

“As you were.” As Lerial and the others reseat themselves, Commander Sammyl takes a position facing the seated senior officers and clears his throat. “Good morning. There’s nothing new to report on the Heldyan forces. There are no indications of more forces arriving in Vyada.” He glances toward Klassyn, who shakes his head, and then toward Valatyr, who does the same. “Then I’ll go over the day’s evolutions. Overcaptain Lerial, if it is agreeable to you, I thought that Subcommander Valatyr might accompany you and one of our squads and give you a thorough orientation of this side of the river—before you have to join us in fighting here.”

“I’d very much appreciate that, ser.”

“Good.”

“Now … Subcommander Ascaar … you have the river patrols south of Lubana.”

“Yes, ser.”

“What do you have to report?”

“No change, ser. Riders in uniform on the east shore, but never more than a squad at a time. Three more large flatboats passed our patrols. They were empty and stayed close to the other shore. They tied up with the others at the new piers south of Vyada.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, ser.”

“Subcommander Drusyn?”

“It’s much the same on the east shore north of Vyada. Squad-sized patrols and sometimes lone riders. There haven’t been any flatboats going downstream. Late yesterday afternoon, there was a sail-galley that arrived from the north and docked at the new piers. It had the banner of Duke Khesyn. There weren’t any armsmen to greet the galley. That usually means that there was a message from the duke.”

“Suggesting that he is still in Estheld, you think?”

“He’s either there, ser, or wants us to think he is. I couldn’t say which from what my scouts saw.”

“Is there anything else? No? Good. Dismissed to duties.”

Everyone stands once more, while the commander leaves the salon.

Then, as most of the other officers follow, Commander Valatyr walks over to Lerial.

“Thank you for your comments earlier this morning.”

“You know why I made them, I trust?” Valatyr’s smile is somehow both wintry and wry, matching a countenance that seems stern when he is not smiling.

“I’d judge so. In the interests of harmony.”

Valatyr nods. “Quite so. Would you prefer to see the river area south of Lubana first or the area north first? We’ll provide a mount so that yours can rest.”

Although Lerial has brought some spare mounts, he merely nods. “Thank you. I’d prefer to see the area where we’d be most likely to fight, possibly downstream of Khesyn’s new piers, but since I don’t know the location of those piers…” He offers an apologetic shrug.

“The piers are about a kay south of Lubana, on the south side of a wide bend in the river. With the current, they could land on our side less than half a kay south of here.”

“At the edge of the hunting park?”

“More like the middle of the park. It’s … extensive.”

“Also … if I could drop off some uniforms to be cleaned and if we could stop for a moment so that I could brief my officers?”

“Naturally. I took the liberty of having the mounts brought to the north entrance.” Valatyr gestures, and the two leave the salon.

Waiting outside the salon are Captain Waell and several rankers, presumably to return the salon to its primary function.

Valatyr does not speak as the two cross the main hall to the north corridor and then continue to the north wing. Lerial hurries up to his chambers and reclaims the soiled uniforms. By the time he has dropped them off and made his way out the north entrance, Valatyr, a half squad of Afritan Guards, and Lerial’s gelding are waiting.

“It’s unlikely we’ll run into trouble, but one never knows,” the subcommander declares as he mounts.

True enough.
Lerial nods, then rides beside the older officer as they circle around the circular entrance plaza toward the south. When they reach the Cigoernean area, Lerial reins up short of the officers’ tent, but he barely dismounts before Strauxyn, Kusyl, and Fheldar appear.

“Good morning, ser.”

“Good morning. This won’t take long. I’ve just come from the senior officers’ meeting, and I’ll be getting a tour of the areas where we might be called to fight…” Lerial quickly goes over not only what Commander Sammyl has said, but also some additional information about the current location of Heldyan forces. Then he lays out what he wants from the men for the day, including blade practice. Even so, he is finished in less than a third of a glass, and is back in the saddle.

One of the Afritan Guards opens the southern gate, and Valatyr leads the way through the gate, then immediately turns left, heading eastward toward the Swarth River, which has to be a half kay away.

A brisk wind, neither warm nor cool, sweeps out of the south, but given the hazy sky, the sun does not provide that much warmth, and Lerial is glad for his riding jacket. He studies the hunting park to his right, which seems to be a mixture of a woodlot with long-needled pines, well-trimmed groups of bushes and olive trees here and there at random, with browned grass covering the ground in most places, except around the bases of some of the pines.

“What sort of game does the duke hunt here?” he finally asks Valatyr.

“I don’t know that the duke has ever hunted here. His sire liked to hunt the small gazelles, it’s said. I’ve only seen a few. They’re fast and very wary.”

“How much of the edge of the river between Lubana and the point opposite Khesyn’s new piers is marsh, and how much is open water?”

“You’ll see. There’s open water immediately east of Lubana. That’s because Duke Natroyan had the marshes dredged away back to where there was bedrock. That’s where he built the east wall.”

“Natroyan?”

“Duke Atroyan’s grandsire.”

At the east end of the south wall there is another corner tower, and Valatyr reins up and points to the north. “You can see what he did.”