Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (7 page)

“That much is true.”

“Good! Then we are agreed. You will have orders for Undercaptain Kusyl shortly and three supply wagons ready to accompany Twenty-third Company at dawn tomorrow. And you’ll have two squads here at the palace by then.” Kiedron pauses. “You probably ought to send a squad to hold Ensenla Post as well in the absence of Eighth and Eleventh Company.”

“Yes, ser.”

Kiedron rises from the table and bestows a warm smile on the commander. “Excellent! I’ll walk with you to the courtyard.” As he moves toward the door, he looks back and gives Lerial a glance that indicates he should remain in the study.

While he waits for his father to return, Lerial considers the possibilities. Even with further thought, he doesn’t like any of them.

“What do you think?” are the first words from Kiedron’s mouth when he returns to the study.

“There’s one possibility you overlooked,” ventures Lerial.

“Only one?”

Lerial ignores the jocular question and says, “Atroyan could place me and my companies in a position where Khesyn’s forces could accomplish what he dares not.”

“I’m sure that’s exactly what he’ll attempt, hoping that you’ll die a glorious death while wiping out most of Khesyn’s forces and thereby saving him. And that’s what you must avoid.”

“You’re asking—”

“That’s something you can do. Lephi can’t. He doesn’t think the way you do.” He pauses, then goes on. “There are risks in everything, but there are also great opportunities. If you succeed in Afrit and Lephi succeeds in beating back the Heldyans along the Swarth, then that tells all of Hamor that you are both capable and to be feared and respected. It also makes it clear to Khesyn that attacking either Afrit or Cigoerne is not in his interest.”

“And you expect him to stop being what he is?”

Kiedron shakes his head. “I cannot guess what he will do, but if he is wise, he will turn his attentions to the east, or to the south … east of the river. He could gain great territory and some riches and goods with far less cost. And I’d rather have a ruler who ostensibly believes in the God of the Balance than deal with the Tourlegyns and their Chaos Demon. He shrugs. “We don’t have the men or the wealth to do that, and we’d have to cross his territory or Casseon’s even to try. It will be a strain to send you off with fifty golds for what you may have to purchase.”

“If we succeed…”

“When you succeed.” Kiedron smiles. “Go on.”

“When we succeed, that will show how weak Atroyan is … and how much he needs us.”

Kiedron nods.

“You’ve had that in mind all along, haven’t you?”

Kiedron smiles wryly. “I have, but it was your grandmere who pointed out that possibility. She saw it first.”

Grandmere. Of course.

Kiedron looks at Lerial. “There is one thing I want to be very clear about. You can lose almost all your force—if you have to—but I do not want you to make a needless sacrifice of yourself. It is not necessary, and it is anything but wise. We are so outnumbered that no one will think less of you if you have to withdraw, provided you inflict substantial casualties upon any who attack you and your forces.”

Lerial cannot help but wonder if Maeroja and his father have talked about him, but, given the edginess that her name brings up, he does not ask, because it does not matter in this case. Both Maeroja and his father share the same view, and that suggests that they’re likely right.
Except … all those lancers trust you, and that means you have to bring most of them back or, before long, you won’t be followed with any great loyalty.
And Lerial suspects his father knows that as well.

“I trust you understand, Lerial.”

“Yes, ser.”
I understand exactly what you want.

VI

After Lerial mounts up in the dim light before dawn on sevenday, he checks the dispatch pouch once more to make certain that he has the “request” from Atroyan inside it as well as his father’s response authorizing one Overcaptain Lerial, his son, to act in reply to Atroyan’s communiqué … and, of course, the golds hidden in slots in his belt. Then he rides to the north entrance to the palace where Emerya and the girls stand, the only ones to see him off.

Ryalah looks up at her brother. “Be careful.”

“I’ll be as careful as I can. You, too.” Lerial offers a smile, then looks to Emerya.

“The more charming anyone is, the less you should trust them.”

“Honesty doesn’t require charm?” he quips back.

“Desperate rulers in debt can’t afford honesty.” Emerya reaches up and hands Lerial a small object heavily wrapped in cloth. “You’ll know what to do with this when the time comes.”

He takes the object, seemingly oval beneath the cloth padding and not even quite the size of his hand, then slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He glances toward Amaira and then back to Emerya, raising his eyebrows, knowing that the metal oval must hold a miniature portrait of her daughter.

His aunt nods.

“I’ll make certain. Is there anything else?”

“Nothing else that I haven’t already told you.”

Lerial looks to Amaira. “Take care.”

“I always do. Mother insists on it.”

Lerial offers a last smile, then turns the gelding back toward Twenty-third Company, almost formed up, with the three supply wagons in the rear.

“Twenty-third Company mounted and ready, ser,” declares Kusyl as Lerial reins up beside him.

“Then let’s head out.”

“Yes, ser.” Kusyl calls out, “Company! Forward!”

Once the company has left the palace gates and is riding smoothly on the boulevard that leads toward the Hall of Healing, the two officers riding side by side behind two outriders ten yards ahead of them and the main body, Lerial turns to Kusyl. “Tell me more about the company, if you would.”

“Better than any new companies, and some old ones, a lot better than what we had to do in Verdheln. Four solid squad leaders. Maylat—he’s Third Squad—might be a touch too solid, if you know what I mean.”

“He’ll carry out any order just the way you order it?”

“If he has doubts … yes, ser.”

“What else?” prompts Lerial.

“We’ve got maybe two or three rankers with some fighting experience in each squad. That’s helped.”

“But they’re usually not the brightest ones?”

“Half of each, I’d say.”

“How long have you been working them?”

“A couple of eightdays less than a season.”

“How are they doing?”

“Half as well as your company, if that.”

“You’ve never seen Eighth Company.”

“Don’t have to. You were in Verdheld. I saw what you did there with troopers as green as saplings.”

“I was almost as green.”

“Begging your pardon, ser … you weren’t. Young … but never green. You spent years learning from the majer.”

Not years … a year at most, even if it felt like years.

“Also heard watertalk about what you did at Ensenla four years back.”

“You can’t believe all you hear,” replies Lerial with a genial laugh.

“No, ser. That’s not so with you. Have to figure you did a lot more than anyone knows. It was that way in Verdheln, and you’re likely better at keeping things quiet.”

“It’s usually better that way.”

“Most times. Not always.”

Lerial nods. “I’d agree to that.”

They ride almost another third of a glass before Kusyl speaks again. “Tell me, ser. Is this going to be as bad as Verdheln?”

“How can you say something like that?” Lerial laughs. “Didn’t we win a great victory there?”

Kusyl grins. “Except we lost every battle except the last two … and pretty near half our lancers. That’s the kind of victory every old lancer dreads.”

“I have no idea, except that it won’t be good. We’re supposed to help Atroyan and keep Khesyn from even thinking about taking Luba when he’s been eying it and Afrit for years.”

“Worse than Verdheln, then.” The not-quite-wizened undercaptain gives a theatrical groan. After a moment, he asks, “Why Luba … and not Swartheld?”

“The ironworks, I’d guess. Also, taking Luba would split Afrit in two, if not so much in terms of people, and there’s a paved highway from Luba to Swartheld that Khesyn could use. If Khesyn can take and hold Luba, that would make things more difficult for us, too, because he’d control both sides of the river there, and we’d lose access to the traders who come upriver from Swartheld, especially the outland traders.”

“You’re not making this old lancer feel any younger, ser.”

“You’re not that old, Kusyl.”

“Maybe not, ser, but we’d all like to get older.”

Lerial can definitely agree with that, but he says, “Tell me more about Twenty-third Company. Start with more about your squad leaders.”

“I can do that. First Squad leader is Elsyor. Quiet type. Thinks things through. Better with a blade than a lance…”

Lerial listens intently.

VII

By midafternoon on sixday, Lerial is more concerned than ever about what faces them in Luba. They have followed the river road for five days since leaving Ensenla, except, after the first two days, the road cannot truly be called a river road, as it has moved farther and farther from the river, presumably to avoid the sandy desert-like ground along the river that is periodically interrupted with marshy areas. They have come across no towns to speak of, just poor hamlet after poor hamlet, set amid browned and overgrazed grasslands, and scattered plots too small to be proper fields set next to creeks, with triangle-pole waterlifts … and not even proper irrigation ditches, let alone canals. Almost all the dwellings are of wind-worn mud brick with branch and reed-grass roofs.

Lerial has not loitered, nor has he pressed, since he does not wish to tire the horses, because, while they have brought a score of spare mounts, that number would only suffice for less than a squad. One of the scouts always rides with a parley banner in his lance holder at all times. Even after seeing the green-edged white banner—a narrow cloth triangle a yard in length and half that in width next to the staff, if tapering to a point—no one has come close to them, although Lerial has kept his forces well clear of the local people, except when they ride through a hamlet. At those times, every shutter and door is closed, and the only animal Lerial ever sees is an occasional scrawny cat. Away from the hamlets, there are few tracks in the road, scarcely surprising, since the land is largely sere, brown, and dusty. Dust is everywhere, rising into clouds when the wind picks up, at times so thick that Lerial can see scarcely more than a score of yards, so that he must rely on his order-sensing to determine what lies ahead. All he can smell is dust, and it sifts into his uniform and down into his boots.

Now there is but the slightest hint of a breeze. Even so, that is enough that fine dust drifts across the road. From where he rides at the head of Eighth Company, Lerial scans the gentle slope that leads to the crest of a rise perhaps two kays away. If his maps are correct, before long, they should be nearing Guasyra—the only large town between Cigoerne and Luba. Still, he has his doubts about the maps, a doubt that Altyrn instilled in him.

Hard to believe he’s gone.

He forces his thoughts from that and studies the bent brown grasses and the dust that coats them, then shakes his head.
How can people live here? Then, not many do.
At those thoughts, he recalls what his grandmere had told him about the original lands she had purchased from Atroyan’s sire, lands so dusty and dry that the old duke had little compunction in selling them … or little enough that the golds outweighed his concerns.
Was Cigoerne like this then?
He looks north once more and frowns, because he sees dust beyond the crest of the road. He immediately extends his order-senses … and discovers a squad of men riding toward them.

“There’s an Afritan Guard squad riding toward us. Ready arms!” he orders. “Pass it back, Fheldar. Send a messenger to the undercaptains.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial concentrates on the riders he can sense, but not see. He can discern only eleven, with no others farther north. Absently, he wonders if the Afritans have been waiting for them … or if the riders represent a force stationed in Guasyra and he and his companies have been sighted by a routine patrol.
Does it matter?
After a moment, he answers himself.
Probably not.

Before long the road dust becomes a hazy brown mist over the rise ahead, and then riders appear, moving at a fast walk. Lerial squints to make out the numbers, but there are still just eleven, and his order-senses reveal no others nearby. He also can barely sense the Afritan Guard post some four kays to the north, but gains a feeling that it is close to being empty.

When the oncoming riders, all wearing the dull crimson uniforms of the Afritan Guard, are less than a hundred yards away, Lerial calls a halt, then renews his own shields, linked as always to the ordered iron of the knife he received from the High Council of Verdheln. Absently, he wishes he had figured a better way to maintain his shields, but even after five years and discreet inquiries to Saltaryn and other Magi’i he has not found a more effective way of maintaining strong shields without that link to some form of iron, not without continually concentrating on maintaining them.

“They don’t look too happy, ser,” murmurs Fheldar.

“In their boots, would you be?”

The senior squad leader’s laugh is more of a snort.

Before long, the hard-faced undercaptain, older and clearly a former ranker, reins up some five yards from Lerial. “Parley banner? A hundred kays into Afrit? Isn’t that stretching things, Overcaptain?”

“No,” replies Lerial pleasantly. “We’re here at Duke Atroyan’s request.”

“It would be helpful if you had some way of proving that…”

Lerial can sense no surprise, almost as if the undercaptain has expected them but has to fulfill an unpleasant duty. “We can do that.” Lerial extracts the two documents from the dispatch case fastened to his saddle, then turns to Fheldar. “If you’d have someone convey these…” Lerial could do that himself, perfectly safely, but that would reveal too much, besides compromising his position.