Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (73 page)

“Since the mages attacked me, I didn’t have much choice.”

“Still … you seem to have allowed some possibly unnecessary deaths, Lord Lerial.”

“Unnecessary? I think not. My duty is to do what is best for Cigoerne and for Afrit, and that means what is best for Duke Rhamuel, not merchanters who have committed treason for the sake of golds.”

“What a quaint concept of duty. Golds are what support a land.”

“Only when they are honestly obtained and used.”

“In some cases, honestly is a matter of perspective.” Maesoryk smiles. “Would you like a lager, Lord Lerial?”

“Not at the moment.”

“You are indeed determined to remain on serious matters, then. Am I suspected of some nefarious deed? Some rancid and revolting plot?”

“Suspected?” rejoins Lerial. “I wouldn’t say that.”
Involved or implicated, rather.
“But I must say that I hadn’t expected you to greet me so cheerfully. Especially after so many Heldyans were able to use the pier at your tileworks to land and begin their attack on Swartheld.”

“I cannot be held responsible for where Duke Khesyn landed his armsmen in this reprehensible attack on Afrit. I have suffered great damage, and that tileworks may well be ruined for any future use.”

At those words, Lerial realizes that, in all probability, Maesoryk lost little from the damage to the tileworks, but he presses on. “Certainly, if that use was contrary to your wishes, it would seem strange that you never let either the duke or arms-commander know that your tileworks had been occupied by the Heldyans.”

“How could I let the duke know when I myself did not know until after the fact?” The merchanter shakes his head. “By the time I knew, the duke was dead, and the arms-commander injured and reported likely to die, and many of the senior officers were also dead.”

Rather interesting, since those of us in the midst of the fighting didn’t even know that until later.

“So what did you do then?”

“I dispatched a messenger to Subcommander Klassyn, thinking he was the most senior officer left. The messenger told me he gave it to Subcommander Dhresyl, because he was in charge.”

“Dhresyl never received such a message.”

“I’d venture to say that he did,” returns Maesoryk. “He never did care for us, not after he tried to cheat us on tiles we supplied for the Harbor Post several years ago.”

Surprisingly, that statement carries a heavy sense of order.
But then, that doesn’t change anything, really.
“Do you have your family here often?” asks Lerial, sensing there is little point in continuing the charade.

Even Maesoryk seems disconcerted by the sudden change of topic, for he pauses a long moment before replying.

“Only when I’m here, if then. Not much these days. Nonsoryk is my youngest. He’s in Nubyat, rebuilding a tileworks we recently bought. The oldest is Bhalmaes. He’s in Luba at present. Well … a bit west of there on the new canal where he’s just completed our new ceramic works. From there, it’s easier to send goods downstream. We’ll be able to boat goods to some of the Heldyan river towns as well—Vyada, Thoerne, and some others. We have an arrangement with Kenkram that allows use of the canal for an annual fee, rather than for a levy on each barge or boat…”

“No daughters?”

“Just one. Maera. She was recently consorted to Kenkram’s eldest. We try to use family ties, you know.” The merchanter laughs again.

Lerial studies Maesoryk carefully, noting again the heavy gold chain around the merchanter’s neck. After a moment of consideration, he extends his order-senses and creates a variation on one of the patterns he has used in the past, a very small pattern linked to the chain that will slowly remove chaos, and only chaos, over the next glass or so … and possibly longer. “Do you believe in the power of order?”

“A man would be a fool to deny either order or chaos.”

“That’s true.” Lerial stands and smiles. “I believe you’ve answered my questions to the best of your ability, Merchanter Maesoryk. We won’t take any more of your time. We do have a long ride back to Swartheld, and Duke Rhamuel will wish to know about Merchanter Jhosef’s treachery as soon as possible.”

After a brief hesitation, Norstaan rises, unable to conceal a frown.

Maesoryk is more successful in concealing what he feels behind a pleasant smile. “I’m glad that I was able to address your questions.”

“So am I,” replies Lerial, smiling, if for a different reason. He can already sense what Maesoryk cannot yet feel. He looks to Norstaan. “We should be going.” Then his eyes turn to Maesoryk. “We can find our way out.” With those words, he leaves the merchanter before Maesoryk can protest.

Lerial says little except for the necessary commands as they leave Maesoryk’s grounds and ride back along the lake road that leads toward Lake Jhulyn.

Finally, Norstaan looks at Lerial. “He was lying, you know. Every word was a lie. Why did you let him get away with it?”

“There’s no proof … He’s right. He had great damage to his tileworks. No one will realize that he was likely going to destroy or close the works anyway. Why else would he be opening a new works near Luba and another in Nubyat? Even so, there will be a cloud on his reputation, no matter what he says, and everyone will look askance at him for the rest of his life.”

“But we all know that he was in as deep as Jhosef and Alaphyn. How could you let him get away with it, ser?”

Lerial looks at Norstaan. “He won’t get away with anything. You’ll see. Even Maesoryk won’t be able to live with himself.” That, of course, is absolutely true, but not in the way that Lerial is implying.

Norstaan offers a puzzled frown.

“Trust me. You’ll see. The important thing, now, is to return to Swartheld as quickly as possible.” Lerial isn’t about to explain.

LIV

Lerial takes his forces back to Jhosef’s villa, where they spend fourday night before setting out before dawn on fiveday morning on the return journey to Swartheld. As he rides through the gray before full light, Lerial considers what he has done with Maesoryk, wondering if he has acted too much like the scheming merchanters who have undermined Afrit. Yet, what else could he have done with Maesoryk? The man was a masterful prevaricator and deceiver, so masterful that there is not a decent shed of physical evidence against him. The other merchanters will not be able to complain about Lerial’s handling of Jhosef, because Jhosef was killed by his own son while Lerial was under attack—
or thought to be,
he reminds himself—by two chaos-mages. Any physical attack on Maesoryk would only have made relations between Rhamuel and the merchanters even worse, as well as made matters more difficult for Lerial’s father.

Self-justification?
Lerial laughs silently. It is just that, but it’s also absolutely true.

By midafternoon, they reach the Streamside, where Lerial calls for a rest stop while he seeks out the innkeeper and his consort. He does not have to search, because no sooner has he entered the inn than the stocky and graying Immar appears, his eyes moving from Lerial to the door behind him.

“Honored Overcaptain…”

“Please summon your consort. I am not here to make life harder for you, but to tell you what I have discovered. I will wait in the public room.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial does not wait long before the innkeeper returns to the public room with his consort, although both come from the kitchen entrance. He gestures to a square table in the middle of the room, then seats himself, waiting for them to do the same before speaking. “A wealthy merchanter was the one who sent the armsmen who kidnapped the heir and his friend. His acts led to his own death and that of the heir and his own son.”

“The merchanter … Jhosef?” Immar’s voice trembles.

“You don’t have to worry about him. He is dead. So are the chaos-mages who helped him, and so are most of his armsmen.” Lerial shifts his gaze to Jamara. “I cannot bring back your son. I told you that earlier, but I wanted you to know what had happened … and that the duke will know that all this evil was done against you as well as the heir.” He pauses as he sees a young and clearly new serving girl approaching the table with a mug. Lerial does not refuse the lager that she sets on the table before him. He
is
thirsty. “How much?”

“For you, ser…” begins Immar.

Lerial shakes his head. “You have already lost too much. I cannot add to that loss.” He takes three coppers from his personal wallet and sets them on the table, then looks at the girl. “Is that what he charges?”

The girl swallows. “Two, ser.” Her voice trembles.

Lerial smiles gently. “Take the extra copper for your honesty. The two go in Immar’s till.”

“Yes, ser.” She takes the coppers and retreats quickly.

Lerial turns back to Immar and Jamara. He senses that the lager holds no chaos and takes a small swallow, finding it better than he has expected. “This is a fair lager.”

“We’ve good water,” replies Jamara, almost proudly.

“I appreciate that.” After a moment, he goes on. “The new duke is a fair and honest man, and I think you will find him so. I have, I know.” He reaches for the provisions wallet and takes out five golds, setting them on the table. “One can never replace a child, nor a loved one. But all dukes pay death golds for those who have died in their service. These are the same, for you and your family provided services to the duke for years, and you should have some recognition of your loss beyond mere words.” Lerial takes another swallow of the lager, hoping that he is doing the right thing, for he does not wish to insult them … and yet there should be some recognition. “One other thing … Do you have some paper and a pen and ink I could use?”

“Ah … yes, ser.” Immar hurries away … not touching the golds that lie still on the table.

Lerial takes another swallow two of the lager while he waits for the innkeeper to return. When Immar does, he hands a single sheet to Lerial, and sets the pen and inkpot on the table, well away from the golds.

The paper is thick, but smooth enough for what Lerial has in mind as he begins to write. When he finishes, he reads over the words, set out in as precise a script as he can manage, good, if not quite as elegant as the hand of a true scrivener.

To All Men of Afrit—

Be it known from this day forth, the fourth fiveday of spring, in the year of the death of Duke Atroyan, that Immar the innkeeper has rendered service to Rhamuel, Duke of Afrit, and that he is held in regard by the Duke for that service.

Set forth in the Duke’s name.

Lerial,

Emissary of the Duke

Overcaptain

Lerial lays the sheet on the table for the ink to dry, turned and positioned so that the two can see it. “This might help with others who question you. If you like, I can read what I wrote.”

Immar shakes his head. “I know my letters, unlike some.”

Jamara’s eyes are bright as she looks to Lerial.

He eases back the chair and stands. “I need to press on and report to the duke. I likely will not see you again. I can only wish you well.”

He turns and leaves the public room, hoping that the less than formal proclamation will reduce the innkeeper’s concerns.

Once they leave the inn, by pressing on late on fiveday and beginning before dawn on sixday, they reach Swartheld just before seventh glass on sixday night.

As Lerial rides silently beside Norstaan through the twilit streets of the city, he continues to ponder those concerns that he has thought about over and over on the ride back from the lakes, realizing again that he cannot reveal much of what he has learned to almost anyone, possibly not everything even to Rhamuel, and certainly not to Haesychya or Kyedra. He doesn’t mind limiting what he says to Atroyan’s widow, but keeping things from Kyedra bothers him, even though he knows that is a foolish feeling, given that he remains the younger brother—the wrong brother.

While he had suspected that the merchanters of the council were far more powerful and influential than merchanters in Cigoerne, until the Heldyan attacks he had not realized that they controlled not only the trade and golds of Afrit, but the majority of the powerful mages.

The Magi’i of Cyador had been different … but why? Because they had been forced into a useful and required role? Because they had responsibilities along with power … or because the Mirror Lancers often also had officers with order-chaos abilities and equal power in some fashion? Or had there been some other reason? What his experiences in Afrit—and even what he had seen with Veraan, Myrapol House, and Majer Phortyn—have shown him is that, without structure and checks and balances, mages and wizards are far more likely to end up controlled by merchanters and their golds. The result, if Afrit is any example, is societal and personal loss and chaos for everyone beside the merchanters, with the majority, if not all, of the gain going to the most powerful merchanters.

The problem with his realization is that he doesn’t see a solution. While he could in fact return to Cigoerne and then lead the Mirror Lancers into Afrit and defeat what remains of the Afritan Guard, that would solve nothing, because, unless Lerial also destroyed all the merchanting houses in Afrit and took their golds, within a few years those same merchanters, or their successors, would effectively own not only everything in Afrit, but everything in Cigoerne as well. And if the merchanting houses were destroyed, then in a few years, both lands, not just Afrit, would again be easy prey for Khesyn and/or Casseon.
Unless the entire way in which merchanting is conducted in Afrit is changed, and you don’t have the knowledge or enough trained merchanters who aren’t Afritan to do that.

Lerial shudders at what Veraan and Myrapol House would do in such circumstances.
They’d be worse than Jhosef.
The problem is that Afrit has too much more wealth and too many more people, and Cigoerne too few, although, in time, Lerial knows that will change.
All you can do is buy that time … somehow.
Except he has no real idea of how to do that, only the understanding that it is necessary.