Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (9 page)

“South gate? Does it lead anywhere?”

“Just into the hunting park, but there’s a road beside the wall that goes all the way to the west gate, and then to the north gate.”

“That’s very thoughtful on his part.” Lerial understands. Rhamuel doesn’t want him to feel that his forces would be trapped. He turns in the saddle. “Fheldar … would you have the word passed to Undercaptain Kusyl and Undercaptain Strauxyn about the quartering arrangements.”

“Yes, ser.”

Before long, Lerial and the Cigoernean companies are riding down a cleared space in the middle of the rows of tents.

“The long tents are for your men—twenty-five pallets to each tent,” says Drusyn. “We weren’t certain whether you had twenty or twenty-five men to a squad. The smaller tent is for your company officers. The arms-commander has quarters for you and the other senior officers in the country house … at your discretion, of course.”

“I’ll be the only one staying at the country house. Otherwise, it will be hard to meet with the other senior officers … besides you, of course.”

“There are more than a few who would like to meet you. It’s been years since anything like that has happened.”

“I did meet a squad leader some six years ago, north of Tirminya,” comments Lerial. “Never any officers.”

“It’s said that Duke Kiedron insists that most of his junior officers be promoted from the senior rankers.”

“Quite a number are, but there’s no requirement for that. Not that many young men of altage or Magi’i birth survived the fall of Cyador.”

“Altage…?”

“Families with a tradition of service as officers in the Mirror Lancers. Quite a number of the junior officers are the sons of former squad leaders. From your question, I would guess that many of your officers come from families who are well established in one fashion or another … but that’s just a guess on my part.” Lerial smiles apologetically.

“That’s generally true, but the arms-commander has suggested to the senior officers that we should keep our eyes open for squad leaders who have the potential to be good officers, and I have several undercaptains in my battalion who came to rank that way.”

“And you have one of the more effective battalions?”

Drusyn laughs. “I’d like to think so … but doesn’t every commander?”

“Of course,” replies Lerial with a wide grin.

“It’s been said that you have a wider range of experience in combat than most other senior officers in the Mirror Lancers…”

Lerial represses a knowing smile. He has been wondering when the probing questions might begin. “A wider range … that’s a polite way of saying that I’ve had a greater opportunity to make more mistakes in different places … and that’s certainly true. I was fortunate to serve under Majer Altyrn in the Verdyn rebellion, and I learned a great deal from him, more than I can ever repay.”
And that is definitely true.
“He died just two eightdays ago … I don’t know if word has reached Afrit.”

Drusyn shakes his head. “Everyone in Hamor knew of him and his exploits. I never met him, although I was a junior undercaptain when … when the duke began to build Cigoerne.”

“And you had your doubts about the wisdom of the duke’s sire in selling lands to my grandmere?”

“I did. So, I understand, did a number of others.” The subcommander shrugs. “There’s nothing more dangerous for a junior officer to be right and say anything after something has already been decided. Even then, I knew that.”

“It’s even more dangerous for senior officers,” replies Lerial dryly.
Or junior heirs.

“There is that. I often thought that might have been why Commander Orekyn asked to be stipended. He died rather suddenly after that. The arms-commander—well, he wasn’t arms-commander then—he was rather upset at that … or so it’s said. I didn’t know him then.” Drusyn’s words are blandly spoken.

“Those things happen. Sometimes, it’s for the best.” Lerial could speak to that in the case of Majer Phortyn. He refrains. “Too often, it’s not.”

Drusyn gestures ahead. “Here are your tents and corrals.” There are fifteen tents set within fifty yards of the south wall, if east of all the corrals. The nearer corrals are empty.

Lerial surveys the heavy canvas tents.
If this is a trap …
He manages not to shake his head. The tents appear spacious and sturdy, far better than a mere bivouac. Given the preparations for his arrival, it’s most unlikely that Rhamuel intends direct treachery, which suggests Atroyan is truly desperate … or will employ indirect treachery, in letting Lerial and his forces face overwhelming odds against Khesyn’s forces.
Or both.
“They look far better than most places we’ve bivouacked … and better than most field quarters.”

“We think so.” Drusyn reins up. “The arms-commander believes in looking after his men.”

There is something behind those words, but Lerial cannot decipher what it might be as he halts the gelding. “That’s the sign of a good commander.”

“There are barrels of feed by the corrals … the blue tents are the ranker mess tents, the crimson one for the company officers…”

Lerial listens as the subcommander outlines the supplies and situation.

When Drusyn finishes with those details, he looks to Lerial and says, “I’ll ride back later to see how you and your men are faring and escort you over to the country house to get you settled before you meet with the arms-commander.”

“Thank you. We do appreciate it.”

“We appreciate your willingness to ride so far to assist us.”

Even with the tents awaiting them, along with several barrels of fresh water—which Lerial inspects with his order-senses—it takes him almost a glass and a half before he is satisfied. Then he meets again with Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl.

“For some necessary reasons, I’ll be staying in what the subcommander calls the ‘country house.’ I need to meet the other senior officers, and I’m supposed to meet with Arms-Commander Rhamuel before the evening senior officers’ mess. As the senior company officer among you, Kusyl will be in command in my absence…” While that is standard, because Kusyl has not been a part of Lerial’s command recently Lerial wants to emphasize that. He has barely finished going over what he expects should anything not go as anticipated when he sees Drusyn riding toward them. He remounts the gelding and rides to join the subcommander.

“The tents are quite solid,” Lerial says as he joins Drusyn.

The subcommander laughs. “They were created for a festival two years ago. The arms-commander stored them. They’re too heavy for real field use, but they have come in useful here.”

“What sort of festival?”

“I’ve forgotten the official name. It was a forest frolic or some such.”

Lerial decides against pursuing that and instead studies Atroyan’s country home, which sits on a raised knoll facing the Swarth River and rises three levels, although most likely the knoll was raised around the lower foundation. There are two wings extending from the central building, which looks to have been constructed around a center square. Those wings are parallel to the river, and comparatively narrow.

The two ride to a smaller side entrance to the north wing, with Drusyn taking the outer circular lane that curves around the paved plaza before the high pillared receiving portico before the main section of the small palace. As soon as the two officers rein up, a crimson-liveried footman hurries out, looking to Lerial and then to the subcommander.

“I trust Lord Lerial’s quarters are ready?”

“Yes, ser.” The footman turns to Lerial. “Will you be needing your mount soon, ser?”

“I may.”

“The ostlers can have him back here in less than a third of a glass,” says Drusyn quietly.

“I likely won’t need him that soon.” Lerial smiles cheerfully.

“Just let one of us know, ser.” The footman gestures, and a young stableboy in gray hurries from where he has been standing in the shadows of the entrance.

“I will see you later.” Drusyn nods, then turns his mount and rides back toward the troopers’ tents, again riding around the entry plaza.

Lerial would have been happy to carry his kit bag, but he understands the formalities and the need to let the young footman carry it inside the north wing and up a modestly wide staircase to the second level.

The chamber to which the crimson-liveried footman escorts him contains a wide double bed with an age-darkened golden oak bedstead and matching armoire, bedside tables, and writing desk, with even a weapons rack. There is a small washroom and jakes, and a tap for water. Emerya had mentioned that there was running water in the Palace of Light, but this is the first time Lerial has encountered it—
except water running in a stream.
Still, he makes good use of it, not only washing up, but using a damp cloth to rub away the dust and dirt on his uniforms.

He even has some time to look out the wide center window across the river toward Vyada, but outside of the tops of buildings, he can see nothing, and no sign of where Khesyn may have posted armsmen. Then there is a knock on the door.

“Lord Lerial, ser?”

“Yes?” Lerial walks to the door and opens it to see an Afritan Guard standing there, a man perhaps a year or so younger than Lerial himself.

“I’m to escort you to the arms-commander, ser.”

“Just a moment.” Lerial retrieves his father’s response to Atroyan’s “invitation” before returning. As he walks down the corridor beside the ranker, he says nothing for a few moments, then asks, “Are you attached to his staff or part of the household here?”

“His staff, ser.”

“Who are the senior officers who report to him? I’d rather not offend anyone by not knowing what everyone else does.”

“Yes, ser. I can understand that. Commander Sammyl is his chief of staff. Subcommander Valatyr is in charge of evolutions. Subcommander Klassyn runs logistics. Majer Prenyl and Captain Waell are assigned to the staff, but I don’t know their duties. I’m sorry, ser, but I’ve only been on the staff for an eightday. Oh … and the two battalion commanders are Subcommander Drusyn and Subcommander Ascaar.”

“Thank you. That will be a help.” Lerial can’t help but wonder why Drusyn greeted him, rather than the staff subcommanders, or even the majer or the captain, neither of whom would have been considered a slight. Another thought strikes him. “The Afritan Guards don’t have submajers, do they? I’ve never heard that rank mentioned.”

“No, ser. Not that I’ve ever heard, ser.”

The corridor ends at a staircase just short of what has to be the wall to the center section of the massive dwelling.
So that those quartered in the wings cannot reach family quarters directly?
Lerial follows the ranker to the main level and then through a set of heavy double doors guarded by two rankers who scarcely blink as the two walk into the center section of the building. The wider marble-floored corridor on the other side leads to a large central hall. From that center hall, Lerial sees the main entry to his left and another entry to a central garden courtyard down another corridor to his right. His guide takes him to a doorway on the south side of the main hall, where another guard is posted.

“Lord Lerial is here to see the arms-commander,” announces the junior ranker.

The guard raps on the door. “Lord Lerial, ser.”

After a moment, the guard opens the door. “You may go in, ser.”

Lerial steps through the door and finds himself in a small—small for the size of the dwelling—study no more than fifteen cubits by ten, containing little more than a small circular table with six chairs around it and a table desk set out from the south wall with a chair behind it … and several file chests.

Rhamuel stands, and then moves from behind the table desk toward Lerial. The arms-commander is not as tall as Lerial remembers from the one time they had met, but that was when Lerial had been only ten. The arms-commander is in fact several digits shorter than Lerial himself. His skin is perhaps a shade darker than that of Amaira, and his eyes are the same warm brown. “Welcome to Lubana, Lerial.” He speaks Cyadoran with a heavy accent, but smiles. “You’re rather taller than the last time we met, but you’ve the same red hair.”

“It has been a while, ser,” Lerial responds in Hamorian.

“‘Rhamuel’ while we’re alone, please.” This time, the arms-commander speaks in Hamorian.

“I’ll try. You’ve been the arms-commander of Afrit for as long as I can remember.” Lerial extends the document. “This is the official acceptance of Duke Atroyan’s invitation.”

Rhamuel takes the parchment and scans it quickly, then nods.

Lerial takes that moment to survey the study more thoroughly, but finds nothing of a personal nature that might reveal more about the arms-commander, although the lack of clutter and papers reveals much in itself.

“This is a bit small, but it’s mine.” Rhamuel motions toward the table, then takes one of the chairs and seats himself, setting the document on the table. “I prefer not to intrude upon my brother’s spaces whenever possible.”

Should you take the opening?
Lerial decides to. “I understand that all too well.” He offers a wry smile as he sits. “Also having an older brother.”

“You and I—and your aunt—have that similarity and a few others in life and position,” says Rhamuel pleasantly.

“Being the younger sibling, so to speak,” replies Lerial.

“There is that.”

“Speaking of similarities—” Lerial slides the cloth-wrapped miniature from his riding jacket, using a slight concealment to blur it, should there be eyes in the walls, so to speak, although he can sense no one near but the guard, then slips the miniature into the older man’s hand. “—there are more than a few.”

Rhamuel takes the miniature and slides it inside his tunic, then nods. “We should talk about them sometime. How was the ride from Cigoerne?”

“Most uneventful, thankfully, and the undercaptain of the Guard in Guasyra was most helpful.”

“He should have been. He was briefed that you might arrive. One never knows, though. One’s invitations are not always accepted.” Rhamuel glances to the document on the table. “Especially in spare but elegant words backed by valuable forces and an experienced commander.”