Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (36 page)

“The education of an officer,” says Oestyn blandly.

“You should be glad of it,” Rhamuel responds. “He kept Luba from suffering great destruction.”

“No great loss,” sniffs Mykel.

Oestyn nods, if only slightly.

Lerial understands that the purpose of the dinner is not just to make sure he is fed. Even so, he is hungry, and he takes a bite of the more succulent fowl, a far larger bite, and far more to his taste, he discovers.

“Perhaps not to the builders of poetic epics,” says Rhamuel, “but that damage would have resulted in reduced tariffs … and you know how the duke would have felt about that.”

The duke? Very interesting.
Rhamuel’s choice of words in what is almost a family dinner is most suggestive.

“He’d use it to cut my stipend. You don’t have to remind me, Rham.”

“Sometimes, I do.” The arms-commander’s words are gentle.

“You’d think verse and painting were an offense against the laws.”

“Just a privilege allowed by the laws,” Lerial finds himself saying, “and made possible by those who defend them.”

“Lerial … you sound like my brother here. No wonder he likes you.”

“We share many similarities.” Lerial makes his words both light and wry.

Oestyn smiles, but Lerial finds the expression both defensive and somehow predatory.

“Are you here to court my niece?” asks Mykel.

“Not that I know of,” replies Lerial. “I was invited by your brother, and according to his invitation, it was because I rendered some assistance to Afrit against Duke Khesyn.”

“The barbarian of Heldya,” sniffs Oestyn. “He pursues anything with a head scarf, especially those close to him or his favorite merchanters, and if his pursuit is not successful, then those merchanters fall out of favor … and sometimes permanently out of sight. Some men can be so…”

“Uncultured?” suggests Lerial.

“Precisely,” agrees Oestyn.

“Khesyn wouldn’t know a verse if it paraded before him wearing nothing but a head scarf,” adds Mykel.

“Especially if it wore nothing but a head scarf,” corrects Oestyn.

“I understand you also paint,” Lerial says, trying not to hurry, but definitely wanting to change the subject.

“Mykel is quite adept with pastels,” says Rhamuel. “He did a beautiful portrait of Kyedra.”

“It was one of my best,” admits Mykel. “I don’t do many portraits. I prefer landscapes. There’s a beautiful scene at the lake…”

Less than a third of a glass later, Rhamuel clears his throat and rises. “I’m glad we could get together, but I have several matters to attend to before tonight’s entertainment, and I believe Lerial does as well.”

“Unfortunately, I do.” Lerial stands. “I do appreciate the chance to meet both of you. I assume you will be at the ball.”

“We will be,” replies Mykel. “Oestyn and I wouldn’t wish to displease our brother the duke.”

“Then I’m sure we will see each other there.” Lerial inclines his head politely, then leaves with Rhamuel.

Neither man speaks until they are well away from the dining room.

“I thought you should hear what Mykel has to say in less formal circumstances.”

Lerial isn’t quite sure what to say, but finally manages, “He’s not quite what I’d thought. After meeting everyone else, I’d expected someone … less robust-looking.”

“Oh … for all his love of painting and verse, he’s an excellent rider, and he’s swum across Lake Reomer any number of times. He could be good with a blade. He’s actually rather accomplished with a staff, but he says blades make him ill.”

They might at that.
Lerial just nods and says, “I’ve heard that edged weapons, even knives, can do that to some people.”

“It’s a good thing you and I don’t have that problem.” Rhamuel stops at the foot of the staircase. “I’ll see you tonight. I do have to check and see if there are any dispatches.”

“Until then.”

Lerial makes his way back to his quarters at a measured pace, thinking. He is more than a little confused by Mykel. While he can understand Mykel’s inclinations, he wonders why the youngest brother is so outspoken, when both Rhamuel and Atroyan are so much more cautious in their language.
Does he really feel that way … or is it a way of removing himself from any consideration as a successor to Atroyan?
And then there was the remark about puppetry, offhand, and yet said ironically.
Because he feels his father made him feel like a marionette on strings?
One thing continues to remain true, and that is that nothing in Swartheld is quite what it seems to be, or that what it seems to be is far from all that it is.

Once he is back at his rooms, he immediately checks with Polidaar, but there are no messages or problems. So, after washing up and donning one of his newly cleaned uniforms, Lerial departs from his quarters. He takes a narrow staircase in the middle of the palace, well away from the duke’s personal quarters, to head up to the fourth level, which, for some reason, is where the Crimson Ballroom is located, on the southwest end of the west wing of the palace. As he walks up the steps, he raises a concealment, only after letting his order-senses let him know when no one is near the stairway door. Then he continues to the west wing, where he positions himself outside the vaulted arch leading into the ballroom. From what he can tell, it is about a third before seventh glass when he arrives. There are already a number of people in the ballroom. That, he can sense. He can also hear the musicians playing, but a slow melody unsuited to dancing.

A couple arrives, and they are greeted by Dafaal, at least, from the voice and posture, Lerial believes that to be the functionary.

“Minister Cyphret … welcome to the ball.”

Behind them is another couple, and several others are walking toward the ballroom from the top of the grand staircase. Others seem to be standing around the top of the staircase. Lerial eases along the side of the corridor back toward the staircase, where he takes up a position behind one of the ornate stone balustrades that curve away from the top of the steps and all the way around the balcony overlooking the staircase. From there he hopes to overhear what at least some of the people might say.

“… ridiculous … climbing three flights of steps to a ballroom…”

“… there’s more of a breeze up here … cooler…”

“… nuisance … don’t care if he owes something to the young heir of Cigoerne…”

“… yes, dear … you look wonderful … and we’re only a bit early. I’m only a subcommander, and that means I mustn’t be late…”

Lerial wonders who the officer is, because his voice is unfamiliar … but then with close to ten battalions in and around Swartheld, there have to be at least several senior officers that he has not met.

“… said to be young and ruthless in battle…”

“… so bad about that in dealing with that barbarian from Heldya?”

He can also sense that the women all wear ankle-length dresses or gowns, the first time he has seen that in Swartheld, but it would have been the same in Cigoerne.

“… just like the duke … ball with little notice … have to come…”

“… you like being invited … don’t complain … be far worse if you weren’t…”

While Lerial has hoped to glean at least some passing information, he only hears what he had already half expected to hear, and at just slightly before seventh glass, he slips to the side of the corridor almost in a corner and drops the concealment, then follows a white-haired couple—something he can see since the woman has let her head scarf drop into a filmy shawl.

Once Dafaal ushers the older pair into the ballroom, he turns to Lerial. “If you would wait just a moment, ser,” says Dafaal. “You and the duke must be announced.”

“Whatever is necessary,” replies Lerial.

A young-faced but gray-haired man with a younger woman approaches.

“Minister Dohaan, Lady…” offers Dafaal before Lerial can step back, “since you are both here, might I present you to Lord Lerial.”

Dohaan? Oh … the minister for roads and harbors.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Lerial.” Dohaan smiles politely and inclines his head.

His consort merely inclines her head, letting the head scarf slip off her black hair and around her shoulders, permissible inside and at a ball.

“And I’m pleased to meet the minister responsible for highways and harbors, especially since we have no harbors whatsoever … and to see you, Lady.”

As Dohaan and his consort pass, Dafaal looks back along the corridor, then smiles. “Here comes the duke.”

Lerial catches sight of Atroyan and Haesychya, flanked by a pair of palace guards. Atroyan wears a crimson dress uniform, trimmed in gold, but one somewhat different from the one he had worn the evening before. Haesychya wears a silver-streaked deep purple silk that flows yet suggests a still-youthful figure. Her head scarf is not even over her hair, but is draped loosely around her neck. Behind them are Natroyor and Kyedra.

“You’ll be announced first. Just walk to the dais that holds the musicians,” says Dafaal, then turn and wait for the duke and his lady.

“And once he’s there, he starts the dancing?”

“More or less,” interjects Rhamuel, who has approached from the staircase, rather than from the side corridor used by Atroyan and Haesychya.

Atroyan smiles pleasantly as he nears, then looks to Dafaal.

“All is ready, ser.”

“Then we should proceed.”

Dafaal steps into the chamber and waits for a moment. The musicians stop playing. Then a hornist steps forward and plays a short fanfare.

“The honorable Lord Lerial, overcaptain of the Mirror Lancers of Cigoerne.”

As he enters the Crimson Ballroom, Lerial is aware that most, but not all, of those gathered have turned in his direction. He walks deliberately, trying not to hurry, but not to be unduly and solemnly slow. His eyes take in the musicians on the dais, most of whom appear to be holding largely stringed instruments ranging from violin to cello, with the exception of two horns and a flute. When he reaches a spot below the dais, he stops and turns.

The hornist plays a second fanfare, longer and more elaborate.

“His Excellency Atroyan, Duke of Afrit, and the Lady Haesychya.”

Lerial watches as Atroyan and Haesychya enter the ballroom. Kyedra, with Rhamuel on her right and Natroyor on her left, follows, several yards behind. Lerial takes the time to study the duke thoroughly with his order-senses. Then he nods. Like his youngest brother, the duke is not order/chaos-balanced, but just faintly weighted toward order.
Not so much overweighted to order, as underweighted in chaos.

Once the duke and Haesychya and those following him join Lerial, the couples in the middle of the ballroom move to the sides. Atroyan gestures to the musicians, and they begin to play, a melody with an almost stately rhythm. The couple moves, if not gracefully, with a certain ease around the ballroom, making three circuits and coming to a halt in front of the musicians. The music ends.

As instructed by Rhamuel, Lerial eases toward Haesychya. “If I might have the honor of the next dance…” His words are ambiguous because he does not know whether he should be asking Atroyan or his consort.

“She’ll be more than pleased,” declares Atroyan.

“I’d be honored.” Haesychya’s voice is low, but firm, and Lerial catches a glimpse of iron in the momentary glance she levels at the duke.

As the music starts again, Lerial takes Haesychya’s hand, noticing that Rhamuel has appeared from somewhere with Kyedra. “I trust you will pardon any missteps I might make, but I’ve danced less than a handful of times over the past five years.” He has no real idea what the dance might be, but follows the movements of others.

“Then you won’t have made a habit of stepping on your partner’s feet.”

Lerial finds himself surprised by the warmth and gentle humor in those words. “That’s true, and I’ll try not to begin such a habit.”

After a few moments of feeling awkward, Lerial suddenly realizes that dancing is much like sparring, in that he only has to let himself sense the flow of order around Haesychya and respond to that flow.

“For a man so young,” Haesychya says after several moments, “you reveal less than most.”

“You mean that most young men reveal everything, and I’m somewhat less open than that.”

“You’re open enough. That openness reveals surprisingly little.”

“Perhaps because there’s little more to reveal.” Lerial keeps his words light, almost sardonic.

“I have my doubts about that, Lord Lerial.”

“Please … no titles … even if it is in public … or half public. How did you meet Atroyan?”

“It wasn’t a matter of meeting.” Her words are cool.

“I see.”
Just as whoever you consort, assuming you survive to consort, will not be a matter of meeting.

“I think you do.”

“How could I not? I apologize for the thoughtlessness of the question.”

“It must be the dancing. That’s the first time I’ve heard, or heard of, a thoughtless comment from you. Perhaps I should keep you dancing and ask you questions.”

“You can ask any question you like.”

“What do you think of Kyedra?”

“I scarcely know her. I like what I’ve seen, and especially what I’ve heard.”

“And my consort?”

Lerial smiles. “I’ve seen more of him, and yet I’ve seen less. He seems to be a man walking a narrow path whose greatest abilities are those best left unseen.”

Haesychya laughs so softly that Lerial can barely hear her. After a moment, she shakes her head. “I fear you are wasted as the second heir, necessary as you are as the real arms-commander of Cigoerne.”

“I’m not the arms-commander. In time, perhaps, but not now.”

“I might better have said the champion of Cigoerne. Do not argue with that.”

“Since that is a command, I shall obey.” Lerial keeps his voice light.

“You mistake me, Lerial. I never command.”

“Then I accede to your wishes. Certainly, you have wishes?”

“Don’t we all?”

“What else do you wish for?”

“That the ceaseless fighting would end.”

“It will end only when Hamor is one land … and then it will resume intermittently with other lands.”