Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (21 page)

Rhamuel nods.

Lerial gestures for Norstaan to lead the way from the small mess, and, after a moment, the dark-haired and fresh-faced undercaptain does so, stepping into the short and narrow hallway. Lerial lags slightly, then pauses at the door to the courtyard, holding the door ajar.

“If you’d all check on the men and mounts,” Lerial says. “I need to check some other matters. I’ll meet you outside the stable in half a glass or so.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial waits until the undercaptains are well away and half swallowed by the late twilight gloom before he raises a concealment, and then slips back into the hallway, closing the door loudly. He eases his way back toward the mess.

“… all gone,” says Valatyr, whom Lerial can sense moving back to the mess table and seating himself. “Might I ask what that was all about?”

“Didn’t you see it?” Rhamuel’s voice contains a trace of irritation.

“That Lord Lerial is extraordinarily accomplished and talented? We knew that already.”

“No. His undercaptains. They’re all seasoned veterans. They’re not afraid to speak their minds, if deferentially … and they respect him absolutely. What does that tell you?”

“Besides the fact that he’d turn most of our battalions into raw meat?” Valatyr is silent for several moments. “He was candid about his shortcomings as a green undercaptain.”

“And?”

“He’s unlikely to have an excessive opinion of his own abilities, and his officers know that as well.”

“It will be interesting to see how he manages Swartheld,” muses Rhamuel.

“Because it’s far less direct than a battlefield?” Valatyr laughs. “Deadly as young Lerial may be, I’d wager that Maesoryk will have him charmed and bewildered in less than a glass.”

Maesoryk—you need to keep that name in mind.

“He well may … but the first glass is not what counts. It’s the last glass. The empress won the last glass against my sire.”

“And your brother has never forgotten that.”

“No. But that last glass may be our saving in the end.”

“Ser?”

There is no response, but Lerial’s senses give him the impression that Rhamuel has shaken his head. Then, after a moment, the arms-commander speaks again. “Who should we invite to dinner in Shaelt? Those that Lord Lerial should meet?”

“Is Graemaald still willing…”

“He will host it and invite anyone we wish. Even on less than a day’s notice.”

“I thought you might ask that. I have a list here.” Valatyr extends a sheet. “You can add others, of course.”

“You haven’t listed Vonacht.”

“He’s been stipended off.”

“Exactly. That’s why he needs to be there. Also, Kenkram, and, if possible, Shalaara.”

“Shalaara? That could be awkward…”

“She’s a woman, and she’s powerful and wealthy. We don’t have many, and he needs to see that there are some in Afrit.”

Lerial listens intently as the two mention other names, although not a single name is familiar to him.

Then, abruptly, the arms-commander yawns. “I need to get some sleep. Even rest would be helpful. It will be a long ride tomorrow.” Rhamuel rises.

So does Valatyr.

Lerial slips to the part of the corridor past the archway to the mess, where he waits for the other two to leave. Then he waits before leaving the lower level, still holding a concealment and pondering what he has overheard.

XVIII

Well before dawn on eightday morning, a quiet rap on the door of the small and narrow room that passes for an officer’s quarters awakens Lerial.

“Ser?”

Lerial bolts upright and walks to the door, finally focusing his order-senses on the single figure out in the hall outside. “Yes?”

“Undercaptain Kusyl thinks you’d best join him outside the stables, ser.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Lerial yanks on his uniform and boots, then stops and belts on his sabre, the cupridium-plated iron blade that Altyrn claimed had come from one of his ancestors, and hurries down the outside steps from the second level to the courtyard and then across to the stables, glad for his order-sensing abilities, given the darkness cloaking the way station. Even before he leaves the barracks building, he can sense a single figure outside the stable.

The ranker steps forward as Lerial nears the stable door, barely ajar. “Undercaptain Kusyl is inside, ser.”

“Thank you.” Lerial slips through the door and into the stable, where Kusyl and three rankers stand under the one small lamp. Between them is an Afritan ranker, his black-gloved hands bound before him.

“We found this fellow with a dispatch pouch trying to take a mount out,” says Kusyl. “We thought you ought to see him, ser.” As Lerial steps closer to the undercaptain, Kusyl murmurs, “Still have men watching, ser,”

Lerial can’t help but feel the trace of a wry smile.
Kusyl trusts the Afritans—or some of them—less than you do.
He nods and studies the captive.

The Afritan ranker is not young, but neither is he old, perhaps three or four years older than Lerial, with a narrow face hardened by experience. He has lank blond hair, and a mole or scar on one cheek. Lerial does not recognize him, but that is not surprising, since he wears a regular Afritan Guard uniform and not the slightly dressier version worn by Rhamuel’s personal squad. That suggests he is a member of the permanent cadre at the way station … except for the black leather gloves.
Could he be a decoy? Or just a contact so that whoever is the spy in Rhamuel’s squad can pass off information.

“What’s your name?” asks Lerial pleasantly.

“I only answer to Squad Leader Phoraan or Afritan Guard officers, ser.”

How can you get him to reveal something …
Lerial smiles. “I think we can manage that. Put a rope around his waist. Tightly.”

“You can’t do that. I’m not under your command.”

“You’re absolutely right,” returns Lerial as he watches one of the rankers slip a rope around the midsection of the Afritan. “And I’m about to return you to a superior officer. I wouldn’t think of doing anything else.” He turns to Kusyl. “Do you have the dispatch pouch?”

“Yes, ser.” The undercaptain holds up a black leather case.

“What do you think about this ranker?” Lerial asks in a low voice.

“He’s not a ranker … or not just one. His belt knife isn’t what most rankers wear. It’s too good, more like a bravo’s. Doesn’t carry himself like a ranker, either.”

“Not the way he answered me.” Lerial, sensing something like chaos, turns and draws his sabre. He sees that one of the Afritan ranker’s hands is free, but the other holds a shimmering blade unlike the dark iron weapons usually used by Afritan Guards. That blade flashes toward the ranker with the rope, who, most sensibly, drops it and jumps back.

In that moment, Lerial steps forward, and a small bolt of chaos flares toward him. Unthinkingly, Lerial parries the chaos with his blade, even before it reaches his shields.

In the momentary light of that flare, Lerial can see the surprise on the false ranker’s face, although that doesn’t stop the man from beginning a thrust against Lerial.

Lerial instinctively parries the thrust, moving into an attack.

The other gives ground, then suddenly jumps back. Another blast of chaos follows, a small one, aimed at the leather dispatch case in Kusyl’s left hand. A gout of fire envelops the undercaptain’s hand and forearm.

“Get your hand and arm in cold water! Now!” snaps Lerial, his eyes back on the mage or spy or whatever he may be, slipping the other’s blade, then launching a counter.

The Afritan parries the counter, his blade ending up to one side.

Lerial takes advantage of the error and slips a quick thrust to the other’s shoulder, then recovers to parry a possible counterthrust, even as he senses a darkness at the tip of his blade, a darkness that turns golden red and immediately fades.

A look of horror crosses the face of the false ranker. He tries to lift his blade, then shudders and topples forward. His blade leaves his hand as he strikes the packed earth of the stable floor face-first. An ugly black-silver miasma, one that Lerial senses, but does not see, issues from the inert form.

The three Mirror Lancer rankers stand as if frozen.

Lerial glances around and sees Kusyl a good ten yards away with his left hand and lower forearm in a bucket. He turns to the three rankers. “Watch the door.” Then he walks swiftly toward the undercaptain.

“It’s not too bad.”

“Leave it there for a bit,” Lerial says, extending his order-senses to the undercaptain’s hand and arm. From what he can sense, there is only a faint residue of wound chaos, if that, surrounding Kusyl’s hand, and none on his forearm, although his jacket sleeve is charred. “How does your hand feel?”

“The stinging’s stopped. Good thing I was wearing gloves.”

“Very good.” Lerial pauses. “Take it out of the water for just a moment. Tell me how it feels.”

“Wet.”

“No pain? No stinging?”

Kusyl frowns. “No.”

“Good. We need to see the arms-commander.” Lerial returns to the body and picks up the blade from the stable floor, examining it in the dim light. It is indeed cupridium, but slightly longer and narrower than a sabre, and the tip is sharpened for a good ten digits on both edges, although the remainder of the blade is one-edged. He has never seen a blade like it, but its purpose is clear enough.
Bastard assassin’s weapon.

“Two of you carry the body. The arms-commander needs to see it now.”

Kusyl gestures with his right hand. “Maermyn, Dekkyr…”

In less than a tenth of a glass, the four have crossed the courtyard and made their way to the second level.

Two guards stand outside the door to the larger corner chambers that Rhamuel occupies. One looks from Lerial to Kusyl, and then to the two rankers lugging the body wearing the uniform of an Afritan Guard. “Ser … he’s not to be disturbed.”

“I’m afraid he’ll have to be,” Lerial says politely. “This can’t wait.”

The two guards exchange glances. One mouths a single word. Lerial thinks it might be “undercaptain.” Finally, the shorter one raps on the door. There is no response. His lips tighten and he raps harder.

Muffled words come from inside.

“Lord Lerial with something urgent, ser. He insists.”

After several moments, the door opens, but slightly.

Lerial can barely see Rhamuel’s eyes. “We need to show you something and then talk.”

The door opens a fraction wider. Rhamuel looks as though he might object, then asks, “Why might this be urgent?” His voice is hoarse.

“You’ll see.”

Rhamuel sighs, then steps back and opens the door. His eyes widen as he sees the two rankers carrying the uniformed body.

“Put it inside on the floor away from the door. Face up.” Lerial gestures, then turns to Rhamuel. “I’ll explain in a moment. You won’t like the explanation.”

Rhamuel steps farther from the door. He is barefoot and wearing an undertunic and trousers, only partly buttoned.

Once the body lies on the floor of Rhamuel’s chamber, an oblong space three times the size of the small room where Lerial had slept, Lerial nods to the two rankers. “Wait outside with Undercaptain Kusyl.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial closes the door.

When the door closes, Rhamuel looks at Lerial. “I’m waiting.”

“We have a dead ranker who isn’t a ranker at all. He was at least a minor wizard. Perhaps I’m overly cautious, ser, but when rankers who are not dispatch riders—or even if they are—try to slip out at third glass of the morning with a dispatch case, alone, without escorts, I tend to ask why. So do my men. And when such a ranker refuses even his name, I get more suspicious. And when he turns out to be a wizard with a cupridium blade that isn’t of Mirror Lancer or Afritan Guard forging, that’s worse.” He goes on to explain what else happened in the stable. “The worst part is that I have no idea what was in the dispatch case. I didn’t expect a wizard … or one that would use chaos to destroy the case.”

Rhamuel takes the single candleholder from the bedside table and carries it over to the body. He looks carefully, then straightens and shakes his head. “I’ve never seen him.”

“Neither have I. Nor have I seen a blade like this.” Lerial extends the blade carefully, presenting the hilt to Rhamuel.

The arms-commander lifts it. “Lighter than it looks. What’s so important about it?” He returns the weapon to Lerial.

“It’s difficult for a chaos-wizard to handle an iron blade, and the more powerful the wizard, the harder it is. That’s why Magi’i who used weapons once all bore cupridium blades. They’re almost impossible to forge because they require a strong ordermage and a skilled swordsmith. There are still a number in Cigoerne, but this isn’t like any weapon I’ve ever seen. It’s an assassin’s blade, but made for a wizard who’s an assassin, and it wasn’t forged in Cigoerne. There can’t be many of those.”

“If he is a wizard…” Rhamuel shakes his head. “How did he die? I only see a blot of red on his shoulder.”

“I put an iron-cored blade into his shoulder. That killed him. It likely unbalanced the order and chaos in his body.” That isn’t entirely accurate, Lerial knows, but it’s close enough for the circumstances.

“I noticed Undercaptain Kusyl appeared somewhat … charred.”

“He was holding the dispatch case when the wizard threw a small chaos-bolt and burned it.”

“He didn’t use chaos on you? He burned a case and let you take him down with a blade?”

“I can parry a small chaos-bolt with the blade,” Lerial says blandly, even as he marvels at what happened. “He was less successful with me.”

“Considerably less.” Rhamuel’s voice is dry. “None of this makes sense. Perhaps the way-station undercaptain can enlighten us.” He walks to the door and opens it slightly. “Send for Undercaptain Foerris. I want him here immediately.”

“Yes, ser.”

Rhamuel closes the door and walks to the narrow table desk, where he lifts a striker and, after several attempts, lights the lamp there. He sets the striker back on a brass plate that serves as its holder, then looks at Lerial. “What exactly did he say?”

“I asked him his name, and he replied that he answered only to Squad Leader Phoraan or Afritan officers.”