Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (30 page)

Rhamuel nods as he takes an adjoining chair, while Haesychya and Kyedra share the settee.

“You don’t think he will launch an all-out attack?”

“Sooner or later, I think that is likely, ser.” Lerial smiles wryly. “I have no idea when sooner or later might be.” He wonders why Rhamuel has not spoken, but assumes that the brothers have already spoken about that.

“Neither does anyone else, I fear,” responds the duke. “It makes matters less certain than a throw of the bones.” He turns to Haesychya. “What do you think, my dear?”

“He will attack until he is stopped. That is his nature.”

“Why do you think that, Mother?” asks Kyedra.

The very fact that she asks the question suggests to Lerial that such matters are not normally discussed in the family salon.

“Khesyn wants to rule all of Hamor. Afrit is the greatest bar to that. He also dislikes Cigoerne because he blames Duke Kiedron for the loss of his niece.”

“The loss of his niece?” asks Lerial. “That is something I’ve not heard.”

“She fled his palace years and years ago, only a short time after Cigoerne … was … established. Word reached the duke that she had taken refuge with relatives in Amaershyn, but she and her sister attempted to flee once more before his men arrived. Somehow, the sister died, but the favored niece found a boat and paddled into the river. She headed for Cigoerne. The Heldyans gave chase. The Cyadoran fireship destroyed them, and days later the duke’s men found her ruined boat and some of her garments on a mudbar.”

Lerial manages only to nod, hoping he has concealed the shock at what Haesychya has revealed.
Was that niece Maeroja?
How could it not be? Yet … will he ever know?

“If she was so favored…?” Kyedra frowns, then goes on, “Or was it because she was perhaps too favored?”

Rhamuel hides an amused smile.

Haesychya’s expression turns cold for a moment. “We will not guess about such matters. What is of import is that Khesyn wishes to destroy both Duke Kiedron and your father, and all those related to either. I suggest we need not discuss that aspect of matters more.”

“As you wish, my dear,” replies Atroyan almost affably. “I will ask Lerial his opinion of the Heldyan armsmen, however.”

“From what I have seen,” Lerial says, “those we have fought in the south, and those who attacked Luba, are likely not the very best of his armsmen. Those who attacked Luba were better than some of those who have harassed Cigoerne, some of whom are from the nomad clans far to the south or from eastern Atla.”

“But your father only sent three companies,” interjects Natroyor, an interjection so smooth that Lerial has no doubts it was planned, since it is not a question Atroyan would wish to ask himself.

“It is not just the quality of armsmen that Heldya sends against us,” replies Lerial. “It is the number. The length of the west bank of the River Swarth that we must defend is almost as long as that which Afrit must defend, and we have far fewer people … and, I must admit, we are less prosperous. The Heldyans, if not intercepted immediately, lay waste to hamlets and individual dwellings and cots. Even with the companies we have posted along the river, we are often outnumbered. Fortunately, our men are better trained.”

“As I recall,” begins Atroyan, fingering his chin as if trying to remember something, “you are what, twenty-two?”

Lerial nods.

“Yet you were sent out as an undercaptain more than six years ago, and you have commanded lancers since then. Is that not so?”

“Yes, ser.”

For just a moment, Kyedra’s mouth opens, then quickly closes.

“How many men have you killed?” asks Natroyor.

This interruption was clearly not planned, because the heir’s mother and father both turn toward him. Even Rhamuel frowns.

Lerial lets the silence draw out for just a moment. “I have no idea. I was sixteen when I killed a Meroweyan raider who attacked me. I fought in pitched battles for two full seasons, generally near or at the front of my company. We fought two small battles or skirmishes at Luba.”

“He was at the front there, too,” adds Rhamuel.

“Were you … wounded?” murmurs Kyedra.

“Not here, and not enough not to recover in Verdheln,” Lerial replies lightly.

“The way you say that…” ventures Haesychya. “You were seriously wounded, were you not?”

“Without the healers, I would have died in Verdheln.” That is true, but not in the way Lerial hopes they will take it.

“Does that satisfy you, Natroyor?” Haesychya’s voice is like ice.

“I just wanted to know.” Natroyor’s reply holds a hint of both sulkiness and defiance.

“Now you do,” declares the duke with a heartiness that sounds a trifle forced. “It is about time to have dinner,” he announces, if after a glance from his consort. “And we will not talk further about war, or Heldya. Dinner should be for more pleasant topics.” His eyes fix on Natroyor. Then he stands.

As Lerial rises, he thinks about the strangeness of the conversation, staged to reveal some things, and yet obviously not totally controlled. All of it reminds him, again, of how careful he needs to be in what he reveals and what he does not.

Following Atroyan’s gesture, Lerial walks with the duke across the hallway to the family dining chamber, not all that larger than the salon in the ducal palace in Cigoerne. The duke sits at the head of the table, with Lerial at his right, and Rhamuel at his left. Kyedra is seated beside her uncle, while Natroyor sits beside Lerial. Haesychya sits at the end of the family table, facing her consort. A pleasant smile is on her thin lips, but the chaotic turmoil behind her expression suggests more than a little strain.

Is Natroyor that frail? Or do they worry that he is?
Then again, Lerial realizes, Atroyan himself does not appear all that hale and hearty, either. While Rhamuel is healthy, he has no sons, and his only child is Amaira, whose existence may not be known … and if known, certainly cannot be accepted. Lerial has heard no word about Mykel, except that he has no consort and no heirs … and Haesychya’s reaction to the name of his friend.

The other thing is that Haesychya has not been nearly so silent as Lerial has expected, as if he is not quite an outsider. As for Kyedra, she is more perceptive than she lets on … and he does like her smile.

The dinner conversation, it is clear, will be light and polite. After the crosscurrents in the salon, Lerial is more than ready for lighter subjects.

XXIV

When he wakes soon after dawn on twoday, Lerial does not rise immediately, but lies in the moderately comfortable bed big enough for three people—or a couple and several children—thinking over the conversations during refreshments and dinner the evening before. The conversation at dinner had been almost exactly as Atroyan had declared, with discussions of several poets that Lerial has never heard of, let alone read; a mock debate between Rhamuel and Atroyan over the merits of their favorite vintages—the hilltop white called Halyn against the Reoman red; and more than a little speculation about what sort of weather the spring and summer to come might bring, along with Haesychya’s observation that the spring was already unseasonably warm.

After just that meeting with the duke and his immediate family, Lerial can understand his aunt’s concerns about Afrit. Atroyan does not seem all that strong, and Lerial’s own impressions of Natroyor are not particularly favorable, and the youth seems constitutionally even weaker than his father. Rhamuel seems to be the most able male of the lot, but the arms-commander seems almost indifferent to the idea of ruling.

Is he just that good at concealing his feelings … or is he truly indifferent?
Lerial suspects the former, but cannot dismiss the latter.

After washing up, shaving, and dressing, Lerial leaves his rooms and goes to the family dining room for breakfast. There, Rhamuel is seated alone. The arms-commander gestures to the chair across from him.

“Will anyone else be joining us?”

“No. The duke and his immediate family always have breakfast alone in the breakfast room.”

“You’re not included?”

Rhamuel shakes his head. “Immediate family only. That’s a custom of Aenian House. Or so Haesychya informed me many years ago. Fhastal doesn’t know anything about it.”

Why would Fhastal … oh … he’s consorted to Haesychya’s older sister.

The arms-commander sips a mixture of greenberry juice and lager.

Wondering how anyone could drink such a mixture, Lerial merely pours himself a light lager. “I can see family only. That’s the case in Cigoerne, but family means all family in residence.”

“My brother is very firm about acceding to his consort on that.”

And other matters, I’d wager.

“Besides, I’m here so seldom that it’s not an issue.”

The more reason it should be.
But Lerial just nods and takes another swallow of lager. He
is
thirsty. Within moments, or so it seems, a server appears with a large platter of egg toast and ham strips, accompanied by a generous loaf of dark bread, rare indeed in Cigoerne. He takes several bites before speaking. “Can you tell me any more about the dinner this evening?”

“It will be small. There will be between ten and fifteen men, all important in Swartheld. Mostly merchanters, except for the duke and you and me. The official purpose will be to convey to them how decisively we defeated the Heldyans at Luba. Even though they all know it, and knew it within less than a day.”

“We did,” says Lerial, “but…”

Rhamuel raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. “But?”

“All the survivors took the flatboats downstream, and I’d wager they’re all at Estheld … or somewhere close.”

“I won’t take that wager … and I won’t point out that nine out of ten Heldyans who fought Ascaar and Drusyn’s battalions survived, while perhaps two out of ten of those who fought you did.”

“So … how many battalions do you think Khesyn has massed across the river?”

“Fifteen battalions.”

Seventy-five fairly well-trained companies.
“Assuming he does attack Swartheld, just how will he get them across the river?”

“The same way he did at Luba. He’ll most likely launch the flatboats upstream and use the current to cross. If I were trying to do that, I’d ground them in the shallow water off the point of the old river fort. The first attackers would get wet enough, but they could pull the boats farther in. The later attackers could walk from boat to boat.”

“Is that why Drusyn’s battalions are at South Post?”

“I told Commander Nythalt and the duke that we needed to protect the harbor from both ends.”

“I imagine that’s true enough,” replies Lerial evenly. “I heard that Commander Nythalt has seven battalions. Are they all at the Harbor Post?”

“Six are there. One is at South Post, with Subcommander Drusyn’s battalions.”

“So … if that’s likely…?”

“Why don’t I put men there? The place is a ruin, and Khesyn could wait eightdays … or longer. If I rebuild there, it costs golds the duke doesn’t have, and then Khesyn might just attack the harbor directly. The currents might even carry the flatboats that far anyway. South Post is only a bit more than two kays away, and the river watch will give us time to alert Drusyn.”

There is something Rhamuel isn’t saying. After a moment, Lerial realizes what that is. Rhamuel cannot allow Khesyn’s forces to attack the harbor proper, at least not first, and he cannot position his forces to make the harbor and the merchanting areas a more favorable target. “You want him to land at the point.”

“Of course. He can do less damage there.”

“But he can also establish a stronger position there.”

“There are advantages and disadvantages to every position.”

Lerial nods. That was the way the majer thought. “Did you ever talk with Majer Altyrn?”

“Regrettably, I did not. I was younger and more arrogant.” Rhamuel smiles. “You are less so than most successful young commanders, but you will also see what I came to see. The majer had to have done that also.”

“I would hope to learn from what I could have done better.”
As if your failures already have not cost too many lives.

A hint of a frown flickers across the arms-commander’s face.

“You never did say what the unofficial and real reason for the dinner was.”

“What do you think?”

“To show the possibility that hostilities between Cigoerne and Afrit have come to an end and that trade will be better … or that Afrit can now devote itself to dealing with Heldya without worrying about Cigoerne.”

“That’s close enough. It won’t even be stated. Your presence will imply it.” Rhamuel swallows the last of his lager and greenberry. “I’ll be leaving shortly. You can certainly wander through the palace. Well … except for the part Dafaal insists on refurbishing. That’s taken forever, but I suppose it’s because my brother insists they only work in the middle of the day. Or you can accompany me back to Swartheld Post.”

“I’d thought to check on my companies there.”

“I’ll meet you at the stables. You can return to the palace when you want. I’ll assign half a squad as an escort for your return. It will take some time for people—and the palace guard—to get used to seeing Mirror Lancers here in Swartheld.” The arms-commander eases back his chair and stands.

So does Lerial. “I appreciate that.”

“It’s the least I can do. You’ve come all the way here.”

As he watches the arms-commander leave, Lerial ponders the clear sincerity behind Rhamuel’s words, a sincerity that concerns him more than a glib tone would have. He reaches down and lifts his beaker, finishing the lager before returning to his quarters and immediately finding Polidaar.

“Ser?”

“We’re headed back to Swartheld Post with the arms-commander. We’ll likely be there all morning and some of the afternoon. I want you and your men to study the city as we ride through it. They need to look at everything. What do they see that’s the same as in Cigoerne? What’s not?” Lerial grins. “And not just the women.”

Polidaar tries to hide a smile, but does not succeed. “Yes, ser. Are you looking for something?”