Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (26 page)

“That would be fine.”

Lerial meets briefly with Fheldar and his officers, but all is as well as can be expected, and he makes his way to his quarters, thinking about several things. First, there is the question about why not a single person at the dinner mentioned the battles at Luba. Nor did anyone mention the assassination of Valatyr. The second might be because neither Lerial nor Rhamuel mentioned it … but Lerial has to wonder. As for the first, the impact on all the merchanters in Afrit would have been enormous had the Heldyans succeeded in gaining a foothold on the west side of the river … and no one had said anything.

Lerial is still puzzling over the strangeness of what was not mentioned at the dinner when he hears a knock. He checks his shields and renews them, then moves to the door and opens it.

Ascaar stands there holding a pitcher of lager and two beakers. “I thought you might like something to drink. It’s not nearly what the arms-commander can offer, but it’s not bad.”

“It’s very welcome … and I am thirsty.” Lerial closes the door behind Ascaar and walks over to stand by one of the two armchairs.

The subcommander sets the beakers and pitcher on the low table between the chairs, turns one chair so that the chairs almost face, and settles himself. Lerial checks the pitcher and beakers with his order-senses, then fills both beakers two-thirds full, before sitting and gesturing to Ascaar to take a beaker.

The subcommander does, taking a swallow. Then he looks at Lerial. “Details … or what you heard or didn’t hear at the dinner? Or something else.”

“All that.” Lerial drinks some of the lager. “This is better than you said.” He sets the beaker on the low table. “On the ride back from Graemaald’s villa, I finally realized what bothered me about the dinner, something I couldn’t put my finger on at the time.”

Ascaar tilts his head, but doesn’t speak, clearly waiting for Lerial to explain.

“We fought a series of battles only an eightday ago, and if we’d failed all Afrit would be in danger. But no one said a thing. At least, not that I heard. Did you hear anything—besides from the commander, I mean?”

Ascaar offers an amused smile. “I wouldn’t have, except from him. That happened almost two eightdays ago. For a wealthy merchanter to talk about something more than an eightday old would suggest that he was not well informed and could hurt him. They all have fast river schooner-galleys. They need information quickly. I’m certain they’ve all talked about it in private. Some have likely already changed their goods or what they do as a result. But talk about it? Not likely with other merchanters around. I’m sure Graemaald had words in private with the arms-commander.”

Lerial has not even thought of that … but it also explains why there are no large towns or cities in Afrit that are not on the river or very close to it. The river is not only the major source of water for much of what is grown, but it’s also the fastest means of travel, especially downstream.

Ascaar goes on. “I asked the same question years ago. Everyone laughed.” He snorts. “All the undercaptains from merchanter families sneered.”

“Thank you.” Lerial nods. “That answers one question, but not another. No one mentioned Valatyr.”

“They wouldn’t have. Not in a public setting. There’s a different reason for that. If they let it be known they knew…”

“Oh … the only way they could have found out is by revealing that they have an informant in the Afritan Guard on their payroll.”

“Exactly. And commenting on the death of even a high-ranking subcommander isn’t worth possibly compromising an informant whose information would be worth golds…”

“Rather than momentary prestige,” finishes Lerial.

“You picked that up quickly.”

“I hope I’m not too slow. I just hadn’t thought of it that way.” Lerial pauses, then goes on. “I assume you mentioned Valatyr’s death to Commander Vonacht. I’d be most interested in hearing what he might have said.”

“You didn’t mention it to anyone?”

“I thought it would be taken badly, except to Vonacht. Was I wrong?” asks Lerial.

Ascaar shakes his head. “Especially the way it happened.” He pauses. “It did happen that way, didn’t it?”

“Except for one thing. I had men posted to watch for anyone leaving at odd times.”

Ascaar offers a sardonic grin. “For a young overcaptain and a junior heir who looks so honest, you don’t trust people much.”

“I trust based on the way I see people. That’s why I trust you.” Lerial can only hope he is seeing Ascaar correctly.

“Vonacht wasn’t surprised. Valatyr has a good idea which merchanters provide better supplies at a more reasonable cost, and Subcommander Klassyn has been listening to Valatyr.”

“That’s enough to risk losing a chaos-handling assassin?” Lerial has strong doubts about that, cutthroat as the merchanters of Afrit appear to be.

“No.” Ascaar grins sardonically. “It’s a good cover for whatever the real reason might be. That’s why Vonacht has heard it, and another reason why none of them talked about it.”

“Why do you think he was killed, really?”

“What I said earlier. It’s clear the arms-commander relied on Valatyr. Commander Sammyl’s loyalties are to the duke and those who support the duke. Klassyn knows supplies and logistics. He never was much good at tactics and strategy.”

“He knows supplies … or he knows the suppliers?” asks Lerial warily.

“That’s a good question. I don’t know … not for certain … but you can’t know anything about supplies without knowing the suppliers.”

“Which gives two possible reasons for Valatyr’s death, and neither is likely to be the right one.”

“That’s the way I’d see it.”

Lerial takes a deep swallow of the lager. It’s more bitter than he’d thought. Or maybe other things make it taste that way. “What did you think of Valatyr?”

“When he was a battalion commander, he was firm and direct. Let you know where you stood and what he thought. He changed some of the river patrol schedules.” Ascaar grins again. “Didn’t catch that many more Heldyan raiders, but he did catch a few flatboats that never paid tariffs anywhere.”

“Is anything in Afrit simple?”

“That’s another reason why I stayed in the Guard. Two or three merchanters asked if I’d be interested in shaping up their private forces.”

“Do they all have private companies of guards?”

Ascaar shakes his head. “Only the biggest. Aenian House, Fhastal, Maesoryk, maybe Jhosef. And especially Mesphaes … he has to. Everyone would steal spirits if they weren’t guarded.”

By the time they finish the lager and Ascaar leaves, Lerial has a headache … and not from the lager.

XXII

By seventh glass on fiveday morning, Lerial is once more riding beside Rhamuel on the river road, this time several kays north of Shaelt, under high gray clouds.

“How did you enjoy the dinner?” asks the arms-commander.

“The fare was excellent,” adds Lerial. This is doubtless true, given Rhamuel’s position and taste, but Lerial does not even remember much of anything but the taste of the lager, and the fact that the main dish was some form of beef wrapped in flaky pastry, similar to beef Fyrad, if with a creamy basil sauce, rather than a beef mushroom sauce.

“And the lager?”

“Yours is better,” replies Lerial with a smile.

“Thank you. And the company?”

“I learned a great deal about cordage, stonework, glassblowing, and, of course, countinghouses.”
And about the power and influence of Aenian House.
“I doubt the last was in the slightest accidental or coincidental. What else should I know about Fhastal, especially that which I’m not likely to find out from anyone but you?”

“First, if you’d indulge me, tell me your impressions of him.”

“Besides the fact that he’s powerful and dangerous? Or that he reveals nothing that he does not wish to? He mostly likely thinks out the implications of what he does much farther than almost anyone else. I doubt he forgets anything, but he mostly likely knows what grudges to forgive, and what never to forgive.”

“That’s a fair summary. He’s also consorted to Haesychya’s sister.”

Rhamuel’s response tells Lerial two things. First, that even more than he has anticipated the inner workings of everything in Swartheld are deeply connected. Second, that Rhamuel either knows almost everything that Lerial was told, or that he believes that Lerial knows more than he does, since Lerial had not known the name of Atroyan’s consort until Mesphaes mentioned it. Then, too, perhaps Emerya had told him, and he had forgotten. Even so, neither of the latter two possibilities is exactly encouraging. “And?”

“He’s skilled and powerful enough that he always acts within the law and customary practices.”

“Customary practices can provide great leeway,” Lerial ventures dryly.

“I should have said that he does not engage in any practice, however customary, that is against the law.”

“I suspect you wanted to see if I would remark upon that difference,” banters Lerial.

“It’s always interesting to hear how people respond to what is said, and whether they actually listen.” Rhamuel pauses, then adds, “Some hear what they want to. Some hear every word and then fail to understand. Some hear nothing.”

“And some hear every word and wonder if that is what the speaker meant.”

Rhamuel nods. “Or if that speaker said anything at all beyond mere words. At times, that is necessary.”

“Rather than uttering no words at all?”

“There are times when silence is regarded as either agreement or disagreement. At some of such times it is unwise to allow either assumption to prevail.”

“You didn’t want to leave Drusyn in Lubana, did you?”

“You didn’t post anyone to watch for riders leaving in the middle of the night while we were in Shaelt. Why not?” counters Rhamuel.

“After the dinner last night, and the size of Shaelt Post, I didn’t see any point in it.” Lerial turns to the arms-commander and waits. As he does, he realizes that there are circles under Rhamuel’s eyes.
But the dinner ended early, and he retired immediately after we returned to the post. Did he remain awake … worrying?

“I felt Subcommander Drusyn and his battalions would serve better if they were positioned to defend Swartheld.”

“And so would the merchanters of Swartheld.”

“Naturally.”

They ride for another tenth of a glass before Lerial speaks again. “Would you tell me more about Haesychya? Besides the fact that she is either retiring, cautious, or shy, if not all three?”

“She is the daughter of Aenslem. Although you probably know this or soon would have learned it, he is the head of Aenian House. Aenian House owns the largest fleet of merchant vessels, both river and deepwater, in Hamor, and ports some of those vessels out of other lands, not only in Hamor, but in Candar, Austra, and Nordla.”

“You and your brother do not wish to be far from merchant power.”

“It’s not a matter of wishing, Lerial. Their tariffs support a considerable proportion of the Afritan Guard.”

“And with countinghouses and ships established elsewhere, they hold out the possibility of moving their operations elsewhere if the duke should pursue … policies or tariffs greatly to their dislike?”

“Surely, that doesn’t surprise you?”

“No. But some of that possibility has to be a bluff. Such a move, no matter how well planned, would entail near-ruinous costs.”

“Substantial, but not near-ruinous. And all the Aenian House vessels are well armed.”

“So they could effectively blockade Swartheld? That does sound ruinous … for Aenian House, I mean.”

“Oh … that wouldn’t happen. Enough merchanters from other lands would occasionally vanish, without a trace, that there would be less trade. Duke Khesyn would look the other way if certain brigands used the river to prey only on Afritan traders.”

“All of this has been so delicately intimated?”

“Not even that. Merely understood.”

And merchanters from other lands would be reluctant to establish houses in Afrit against such odds.
“You have not told me much about your brother’s consort.”

“Ah, yes. Haesychya. She is slender and fair. She is a most devoted mother, as well as a faithful and devoted consort. She does not speak Cyadoran, but then, neither does the duke, at least not well enough that he trusts himself to do so in any public place.”

Lerial nods, waiting, a habit he has found serves him well.

“She is fond of reading, particularly of history. She does not care for verse, although I did learn to like verse, at least in Cyadoran, when I was in Cigoerne. I may be the only one in the family who does, since it is regarded as an … effeminate pastime by many in Swartheld.”

“That is interesting, since some of the most powerful emperors of Cyador were fond of verse, and a few even wrote it.”

“Ah … but Cyador’s time has passed. At least, that is what many merchanters will say. Certainly, Duke Khesyn has also said that.”

“I don’t suppose that he has suggested that any form of alliance with Cigoerne would merely weaken a duchy in Hamor.”

“Not in so many words.”

“What about Natroyor? He’s only … is it three years younger than Kyedra?”

“That’s about right.”

“So he’s around eighteen?”

Rhamuel nods. “He looks a bit younger, although he is handsome enough.”

“Does he look like Kyedra at all?”

“They look like brother and sister. Kyedra is as tall as he is, and he’s not quite as tall as I am.”

“I’m guessing that their mother is tall, then.”

“She is. Kyedra takes after her in that.”

“Is Haesychya older or younger than her sister? The one consorted to Fhastal?”

“She’s younger. By several years.”

“How large a ministry does the duke have?”

“Ministry?” Rhamuel actually seems puzzled.

“Advisors? Counselors? Those who act as justicers?”

“Oh … matters are held more closely here. The duke only has three principal ministers, certainly not enough to comprise a ministry. Cyphret is minister for merchanting, Vaencyr for justice, and Dohaan for roads, harbors, and waterways. As senior minister, Cyphret keeps the master ledger of all the duke’s revenues and expenditures.”