Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (59 page)

“How is Aenslem? I’m assuming he’s better, since I heard nothing from Haesychya.”

“He appeared much better yesterday afternoon. There was still some wound or poison chaos in his system.”

“Poison? You didn’t mention that he’d been poisoned,” declares Sammyl.

“Oh … I thought I had. Someone put something in his tonic. I don’t think it was accidental, but I haven’t pressed him on who might have done something or how.”

“You might … if you see him again.” Rhamuel frowns. “Perhaps you should visit him after we finish here.”

“If there’s nothing pressing.”

“How is my niece?”

“She is in much better spirits.”

“I imagine. A handsome heir and officer visiting might cheer her up.”

Handsome? When she thinks you have unruly hair?
“Have you heard from Ascaar?”

“We finally received a dispatch this morning.” Rhamuel smiles. “He managed to defeat three Heldyan battalions. Most were Tourlegyn warriors. About half a battalion managed to escape downstream on the flatboats they used. He did lose more than a full company in deaths and casualties.” The smile vanishes. “He sent this dispatch with three rankers on one of Fhastal’s river galleys, because it appeared that his first dispatch might not have arrived in Swartheld. That was because, a day after the battle, a certain Captain Jontarl had vanished, leaving behind certain indications suggesting that.”

“What do you know about Jontarl?”

“Other than he is a nephew of Merchanter Jhosef … not a great deal.”

“Isn’t Oestyn related to Jhosef?” asks Lerial.

“His youngest son, but you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“I thought I recalled something like that,” replies Lerial blandly. “Remember, all these families and names are new to me.”
Not that this one was, but questions make better points sometimes, even rhetorical questions.

“I doubt you forget much. Your point is taken, however.”

“Unfortunately, there’s much to it,” adds Sammyl, scowling. “But since he’s
merely
a nephew, and no proof that Jhosef was involved, there’s little we can do.”

“Not directly,” murmurs Rhamuel. “Not at the moment.”

The quiet iron in the arms-commander’s voice reminds Lerial that displeasing Rhamuel, crippled as he may turn out to be, is most unwise.

Rhamuel smiles, an expression similar to Kyedra’s, and the room is suddenly less oppressive. “Ascaar also indicated that he had sent on your message…”

Lerial notes the briefly puzzled look on Sammyl’s face, but does not intend to explain. “… and enclosed a dispatch to you. It originally went to Luba, and Majer Chorazt forwarded it to Ascaar at Shaelt. In turn…” Rhamuel extends the still-sealed missive to Lerial.

Lerial takes it and studies the outside, which merely bears his name and rank, with the words “Mirror Lancers of Cigoerne” beneath. Then he takes his belt knife, the one that had burned him—and shows no signs of it—and slits the envelope. He immediately checks the signature and seal: both of Major Jhalet.

Why from Majer Jhalet? Why not from Father? Because he doesn’t want anyone to know you’re related if the dispatch should fall into the wrong hands?
Lerial nods and—and then begins to read.

Overcaptain Lerial—

We have heard from the wounded you dispatched back to Cigoerne, as well as from a number of traders, that you and the Afritan Guard were successful in repulsing the Heldyan attack on Luba. We also understand that you have been requested to attend the duke of Afrit to receive his thanks, and trust that, once you have accomplished whatever is necessary, you and your companies will be returning to Cigoerne as soon as practicable.

It has also come to the duke’s attention, and to that of Overcaptain Lephi, that there has not been a single Heldyan incursion or attack along the entire river bordering Heldya for the past three eightdays. This is so unprecedented that the duke requested that I so inform you.

We trust that this information will prove useful. The duke and the Mirror Lancers look forward to your speedy return.

After a moment, Lerial hands the dispatch to Rhamuel. “You should read this.”

Rhamuel does. “Would you mind if Sammyl…?”

“Not at all.”

The commander reads the dispatch and then returns it to Lerial. “Khesyn must have pulled every Heldyan armsman from everywhere.”

“It looks that way,” admits Rhamuel.

“What have your scouts discovered?” asks Lerial.

“Two more merchanters have ported at Estheld. None have left. There may be more happening than that, but our sailing galley had to withdraw when the Heldyans sent out three of their sail-galleys armed with archers.”

“Were the merchanters preparing to sail?”

“It didn’t appear that way. Not then.”

“That reminds me,” Lerial says. “I mentioned the merchanters to Aenslem, and that you’d garrisoned the tileworks. He pointed out that the Heldyans could easily land at Baiet and march to Swartheld.”

“They could,” admits Rhamuel.

“It’d take two or three days,” replies Sammyl.

“But we don’t have enough battalions left to garrison Baiet,” says Rhamuel, “not and leave enough to defend Swartheld—and it would take us two days to get them there even if we did. Besides, there’s nowhere else that they could go besides here. We’re better off fighting closer to Swartheld.”

Except that means more deaths and even possible defeat if Khesyn can raise another force as large as the first.
“Can you keep a close watch on the ships?”

“As well as we can,” says Sammyl. “I’d guess it will be a few days. The merchanters didn’t start gathering again until yesterday, or late oneday at the earliest.”

“Let’s hope so.”
Because you won’t be able to do much any sooner.
“Oh … what about Maesoryk?”

“His villa is empty,” reports Sammyl. “Only a handful of retainers are there. They said he had repaired to his hill villa for the summer.”

“Summer?” Lerial frowns. “It isn’t even midspring.” Then he nods. “So that, if we defeat Khesyn, he can claim he wasn’t even around when all this happened, and that he had no idea about any of it.”

Rhamuel nods. “And there won’t even be any proof that he was involved.”

Lerial understands all too well. Even as duke, with no direct proof, Rhamuel would face immense difficulties in trying to hold Maesoryk responsible. Most likely, any retainer who could link him to the putative mislabeled barrels of cammabark has vanished, one way or another. He takes a slow deep breath, trying not to think about how hamstrung the dukes of Afrit have been. “I suppose I should pay another visit to Aenslem.”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” says Rhamuel. “You might press a bit about that tonic…”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Lerial makes his way back to the stables and Third Squad, and they set out for Aenslem’s villa under a sky that is only slightly hazy, the white-hot sun burning down on them with an intensity that is more like midsummer in Cigoerne, again reminding Lerial why he definitely would rather not be in Swartheld in full summer. Yet …

He pushes that thought away.

When they reach the iron gates, this time Aenslem’s guards admit them without difficulty, but the gates close quickly behind Third Squad, a quickness that comes from long practice.
Long practice and mistrust of anyone not known … and perhaps some known all too well.
When they reach the entrance to the villa, a single retainer, not a guard, waits by the steps.

“Lord Lerial, there are refreshments for your men and water for your horses in the rear courtyard.”

“Thank you.”

“It is Master Aenslem’s pleasure.”

Lerial dismounts and walks quickly up the steps, to the double doors, where a guard opens one for him. He is more than a little surprised to see Kyedra standing just inside the double doors. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Why not?” Kyedra’s tone is practical and matter-of-fact. “We’re perfectly safe here at Grandpapa’s. It appears it’s safer here than in the palace. His guards are well trained. Uncle Rham even said so.”

“Every one of them is trustworthy?” asks Lerial.

“You doubt me?”

“I’ve led many men for a few years. There are usually a few one has to watch or have watched. I doubt that is any different here.”
Especially with what you’ve learned about the merchanters of Afrit.

Kyedra frowns.

“I mean it. Think it over.”

After a moment, Kyedra nods … and that also surprises Lerial.

“You’re right. There is one. Well … he may not be here now. He did special duties for Grandpapa. That’s all Grandpapa would say. Sometimes, the way he looked at me scared me. So did the black gloves he always wore. I never saw him without them.”

Black gloves?
Lerial has an almost sinking feeling. “What was his name? What did he look like?”

“I never knew his name. I didn’t see him that much, but the few times I did he kept watching me.”

“His looks?”

“You are persistent. He was perhaps five years older than you, but he looked much older. He had a narrow face. Pinched really. He had floppy blond hair that looked dirty, and a dark mole on one cheek. Maybe it was a scar. He was thin. He always had a long blade at his side. Why are you asking?”

“I might have met him once.”

“When?”

“On the way to Swartheld. How is your grandfather?”

“You don’t want to talk about that man, do you?”

“Not until I know more. I’ll need to talk to your grandfather. How is he?”

“Much better. He’s beating me at plaques again.”

Lerial wonders if that is because plaques don’t matter than much to Kyedra.

“You have that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“It’s not a look, except your head tilts just a bit … as if you’re thinking.”

“I was. I was wondering whether you really care that much about winning at plaques.”

“I wouldn’t let even Grandpapa win.”

Lerial smiles. “That’s not the same thing.”

“I suppose not. Does that answer the question you didn’t ask?”

“With an answer you didn’t really give?”

Kyedra laughs, then smiles ruefully. “We had better get you to see him.” She turns and looks at him, then starts toward the north archway.

Lerial immediately takes two quick steps to catch up. “How are you and your mother doing?”

“As we can.” Kyedra looks sideways at him. “Thank you for asking.”

Later than you should have.
“All of this has to have been hard on you both.”

“Did your grandmere talk about it?”

For an instant, Lerial is disconcerted, before he makes the connection. “Not to me. I don’t know if she talked to my parents or my aunt.”

“Your aunt. Uncle Rham once said she was special. I think he still might be in love with her. What … I shouldn’t ask.”

“She never consorted. I think I might have mentioned that she’s the head of healing in Cigoerne.”

“That’s sad.”

Lerial nods, wishing he could say more, but knowing it is not his place to do so, especially if that knowledge could jeopardize Rhamuel’s position as duke.
But it is interesting that Kyedra thinks Rhamuel might still love Emerya.

When they enter the study, Lerial can tell even before he nears Aenslem that there is still some residual wound/poison chaos within the merchanter, but that it has diminished.

“So … am I better, Overcaptain and healer of sorts?” demands Aenslem in a gruffly cheerful voice from where he sits at the desk at the end of the study, surrounded by papers.

“You can answer that more accurately than I.”

“Better, but there’s still a touch of discomfort.”

“You’d recover without my doing more, but a little additional order will speed that up.” Lerial walks to the side of Aenslem’s chair. “Pardon me.” He touches Aenslem’s neck gently, directing a slight bit of order to the remaining chaos, immediately feeling it dissipate.

“It’s gone. That feels better.”

“You might still feel uncomfortable from time to time for a few days.” Lerial clears his throat. “Now … about that tonic…”

“Did Rhamuel put you up to asking?”

“As a matter of fact, he did. I also have my own reasons for asking.”

“Which are?”

“I’d like to know whom to watch out for.”

“It’s my own fault,” says Aenslem. “The tonic was recommended by Alaphyn. I take everything he says with a cask of salt. First I fed it to a sickly hound. The hound recovered. Then, I offered it to others—retainers—in small doses. Everyone prospered. I took it for a good half season, and when I ran out, I asked Alaphyn where he got it. He said it came from Cigoerne, and I could order it through Myrapol House…”

Myrapol House? Majer Jhalet had mentioned a connection … Could Veraan …

“… I did, and tested it again. The third jug … I did not…” Aenslem shakes his head.

“Could someone here … in the villa?”

“No. I kept it in a locked cabinet for that reason … and took certain … other precautions. No one has touched it beside me. The jugs were all sealed…”

How can they live like this, where no one can trust anyone?
Yet the way in which Aenslem has answered Lerial’s questions is worrisome, perhaps because the words are likely truthful, but not complete.

Aenslem laughs gruffly. “Do you have any more questions from Rhamuel … or should I say the duke?”

“No. I do have one of my own. You had a man serving you who wore black gloves—”

“One moment.” Aenslem clears his throat loudly and holds up his hand to stop Lerial from continuing. “Lord Lerial and I need to talk. Alone.”

“As you wish.” Haesychya gestures to Kyedra. “Let us know when you want more lager … or anything else.”

“Daughters…” Aenslem shakes his head, but says nothing else, watching as the study door closes. Then he looks at Lerial. “Are you the one?”

“The one what?”

“The one who killed Willem.”

“If Willem is the black-gloved, chaos-using assassin who killed Subcommander Valatyr, yes. He tried to kill me and two of my men rather than be taken captive.”

Aenslem nods. “I’m not surprised. You seem to be at the heart of everything. He didn’t know who you were, then?”