“That’s one way of looking at it.”
Valatyr seems to shrug, although, since Lerial cannot make out facial expressions when he is using a concealment, that is a guess.
“You don’t want to say much, Subcommander.”
“No, ser. I dislike guessing about the intentions of those I do not know. Especially when they are more powerful than they appear. He might well be a mage.”
Sammyl’s snort is more than audible. “Of course he’s a mage. What else would he be? That whole family is descended from the Magi’i of Cyador. His father isn’t much of one, though, and the overcaptain can’t be too powerful, or he wouldn’t be an officer on point … so to speak. He does have some ability as a field healer, but probably not much more. You’ll notice Kiedron didn’t send his eldest.”
“I wouldn’t send the heir, either.”
“Nor would I, but Kiedron sent the overcaptain to Verdheln when he was sixteen or seventeen. If that demon-cursed Altyrn hadn’t been with him, there would be only one heir to Cigoerne, and our problems would be much fewer.”
Why would that be? What do you have to do with Afrit’s problems? Even as those thoughts cross Lerial’s mind, he realizes how much easier matters might be for Duke Atroyan if one heir had vanished years earlier.
“And Casseon wouldn’t be scared of his own shadow,” adds Valatyr.
“He doesn’t have anything to fear now that the majer’s safely dead.”
“Except that Altyrn trained and disciplined so many Verdyn Lancers that it would be a waste of armsmen for him to try to reclaim Verdheln.”
“For now. For now. Times change … and we’ll have to help them change.” After a moment, Sammyl speaks again. “You’re certain that Majer Chorazt is the best commander to leave here?”
“He’s good enough to be a battalion commander. He’s loyal. He’ll do anything to stop any Heldyan raiders, and he follows orders.”
“Good. Would that…”
Lerial gains the impression that Sammyl offers a minute shake of his head.
“I’ll convey that to the arms-commander, and I’ll see if he’s decided what else might be necessary.” After another pause, the commander adds, “No, he hasn’t said. He keeps his own counsel, and sometimes … sometimes … you understand?”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial is afraid he understands as well, but he eases himself into a corner and waits until the two leave the dining chamber before he follows, still holding the concealment.
XIV
For the remainder of threeday, Lerial busies himself with two main tasks: healing his wounded, as he can, and dealing with the mundane aspects of commanding three companies, from arranging for horses to be reshod and saddles to be repaired, to looking over the captured Heldyan weapons and gear, as well as arranging for the distribution of the coppers and silvers taken from the dead attackers.
All the time, one question remains unanswered. Now that the Heldyans have been repulsed … what do you do now? In theory, Lerial could claim his duties and responsibilities have been fulfilled and arrange for a return to Cigoerne. He hears nothing from Sammyl or the arms-commander, and since Rhamuel does not come to the officers’ mess on threeday evening, Lerial cannot even bring up the question indirectly. He does not want to press immediately for a meeting with the arms-commander, much as he would like to, feeling that, since his men and wounded, not to mention the horses, need time to recover, there is little to be gained by pressing and conceivably more to be lost by making the first move.
Nothing changes on fourday, a warm and blustery day that suggests spring is around the corner, except that it appears that all the wounded who have survived thus far will recover and will likely be able to return to full duty, if not for a season or so.
Breakfast and the senior officers meeting on fiveday are both uneventful, and Sammyl makes no reference at all to Lerial or his companies. After leaving the meeting and bidding a rather quiet Drusyn an uneventful ride to Swartheld, Lerial has turned to head out to report on events to his officers when a ranker approaches.
“Lord Lerial, ser?”
“Yes?”
“The arms-commander would like a word with you, ser … at your immediate convenience.”
Lerial withholds a smile at the oxymoronic terminology of “immediate convenience” and says, “Of course. Lead on.” He follows the ranker across the entry hall.
The guard outside Rhamuel’s private study nods politely to Lerial. “Ser, please go in.” He opens the door.
“Thank you.” Lerial smiles and enters, noticing how quickly and quietly the door closes behind him.
The arms-commander stands from behind the conference table, on which rests a large silver tray with what appear to be the remnants of his breakfast. “Please join me.”
“Thank you.” Lerial slips into the seat across from Rhamuel.
“How are your men?”
“The wounded who survived the first two nights all look as though as though they will recover completely. Given time, anyway.”
“And you?”
“I’m healthy enough.” Lerial isn’t about to admit how much the battles and the subsequent healing have drained him.
“You still look tired.”
“The healing takes effort,” Lerial admits, feeling that won’t reveal much.
“You accounted for the most Heldyan casualties, you know?” Rhamuel offers.
“I’ll take your word for that,” replies Lerial. “I didn’t see what happened anywhere else.”
He isn’t about to admit to the fact that he can sense what occurs beyond what he can see, if not in nearly the detail as with his eyes.
“Take it.” The arms-commander’s voice is dry. “Your success creates a slight problem for both of us.”
Lerial nods politely, fearing he knows what is coming next. “Commander Sammyl seemed almost displeased with our response to the Heldyan attacks.”
“The commander worries about the comparative effectiveness of the Afritan Guard. He has for some time.”
“I sense his concerns, but the duchy of Cigoerne has no desire to fight with Afrit. We never have wanted such a conflict.”
“I, especially, understand that.” Rhamuel pauses and presents a faint smile. “The duke insisted on the commander as my chief of staff. He puts great faith in him.”
“I can see that he must.”
“I believe you do. Like some of your more distant predecessors, you have talents beyond the obvious, much as you try to keep them very much unobvious. I presume you would prefer that they remain less obvious.”
Lerial manages a soft laugh. “You’re presuming I have such talents.”
“I’m presuming nothing.” Rhamuel’s voice is even. “I have not mentioned this to any, but I watched the Heldyan attack on the eastern wall from the midwall tower. My closeness to such a violent attack made Subcommander Valatyr very uneasy.”
“That would concern any officer in his position.” Especially if my thoughts about your brother are correct. “What about Commander Sammyl?”
“He was less concerned.”
Because he serves your brother?
“I think it would be in both our interests for you to accompany me back to Swartheld to be thanked personally by the duke. He will be informed only that you repulsed two of the four attacks on Luba.” Rhamuel holds up his hand. “There is no need to mention any specifics of how you managed to do so.”
Both our interests? Perhaps. “Wouldn’t my bringing three companies to Swartheld be viewed as … excessive?”
“Not at all. That is what is in my interest. If your companies escort me and my personal squad, then I can leave without further weakening the Afritan Guard in place here.” Rhamuel smiles. “We will not announce this until after Subcommander Ascaar departs tomorrow.”
“What about Commander Sammyl?”
“He is accompanying Subcommander Drusyn, and he believes I will accompany Ascaar. Commander Klassyn will accompany h
im, as Valatyr and my personal squad will accompany us. Sammyl does not like being in Luba, and so long as he is assured I will return shortly, he will be pleased. He will also wish to brief the duke.”
“To be the first to brief him?”
“Of course.”
“You think this was just the first battle of the attack against Afrit?”
“In one way or another. When and where the next attack will come is another matter. But if another attack comes soon, I would like to have you in Swartheld. Even if it does not, your presence will do much to improve relations between Afrit and Cigoerne.”
Again, Lerial suspects he knows what Rhamuel means but does not wish to say, and the implications suggest that he may have no choice but to escort the arms-commander. The fact that Rhamuel is willing to place himself in Lerial’s hands, so to speak, also suggests the gravity of the situation.
“There is also the problem of the Tourlegyns.”
“Oh?”
“The fact that there were a number in the Heldyan forces suggests that Duke Khesyn has reached some sort of … accommodation with them. That is not the best of news. They love to fight.”
“And fighting us means they don’t fight Heldya?”
“That was my thought. We will see. It is something to keep in mind.”
“What do you want from me?” asks Lerial.
“Your presence, that of your Mirror Lancers, and your best judgment about what will benefit Cigoerne … and your heritage.”
The last three words bother Lerial, because they imply far more than the first three desires expressed by Rhamuel. “My heritage?”
“A man with your background can be present and act with what he thinks is his best judgment and be mistaken. If he is also true to his heritage that is far less likely.”
“What about your heritage?”
Rhamuel laughs. “I would trust your heritage far more than mine. That is another reason why I would like you to see Swartheld, whether or not Khesyn attacks or refrains.”
“You make Swartheld sound so inviting.”
“I’m being honest, or as honest as I dare. I would say that your presence is necessary for your sake and for that of your heritage.”
“And if I don’t find it so?”
“You may leave. I have no intention of forcing you to remain, only to have you see Swartheld and meet my brother the duke … and a few others.”
Lerial offers a wry grin. “How can I refuse such an invitation?”
Rhamuel smiles in return. “You can’t. Or you shouldn’t.”
“I’ll need to send back some of my rankers, perhaps with a few of the riding wounded, with a dispatch detailing my acceptance of your invitation.”
“I can spare a squad to escort them to Ensenla.”
“That would be helpful.”
Rhamuel nods, and Lerial knows there is nothing else that needs to be said.
When Lerial leaves the country house, he can see Drusyn’s battalions of Afritan Guards already formed up and beginning to ride out of Lubana. He makes out a banner he has not seen before and wonders if that signifies Sammyl’s presence or just that of a battalion overcommander. He can’t say that he is unhappy to see Sammyl depart, but he has his doubts about what impressions Sammyl will convey of him and the Mirror Lancers. But then, that is exactly why you’re going to escort Rhamuel and why Sammyl isn’t being told that Lerial will be coming to Swartheld.
As he walks toward the Cigoernean encampment, another fact strikes Lerial. In a way, his own heritage and that of Rhamuel have been entwined for years. You just haven’t thought of it in that way. But does Rhamuel?
Even when he reaches the officers’ tent where his officers wait, Lerial doesn’t have an answer for that question.
“What is it, ser?” asks Kusyl. “You have that look.”
“We may be in Afrit for a time.”
“Another frigging Heldyan attack?”
“Not yet.” Lerial smiles wryly. “We’ve been invited to escort the arms-commander back to Swartheld … and he wants the duke to thank me personally for our supporting them.” He holds up a hand. “For the moment, you’re not to tell the men or the squad leaders anything except that we’ll be here for a few more days, and especially don’t say anything but that to anyone else, either.” While Rhamuel has not specifically asked for that silence, Lerial feels that, at present, some caution is wise, especially from what he has seen of Sammyl, and even possibly Drusyn.
Strauxyn and Kusyl exchange glances. Fheldar shakes his head. Then all three look to Lerial.
“I could refuse … but I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Ser?” asks Strauxyn after a moment.
“Think about it. Duke Khesyn wants to rule all of Hamor, and Duke Casseon still hasn’t forgotten what we did to him in Verdheln.”
“So we really don’t want to piss off Duke Atroyan, do we?” says Kusyl. “Frig!”
Lerial has no doubt that the two undercaptains would say more with even less complimentary language if they knew what he suspects. “We’ll leave on sevenday. We can send some of the riding wounded back to Ensenla with our letters and dispatches, along with the other wounded. The arms-commander will provide an escort squad that far.”
“That’s even worse,” comments Kusyl. “He’s got something even tougher in mind for us.”
“Most likely,” agrees Lerial. “But if we don’t stay allied against Khesyn…”
“Fragging mess,” mutters Kusyl.
Absolutely. Lerial shrugs … and then smiles. “We might as well go over what we’ll need.”
XV
Only a handful of senior officers remain in the private dining room on sixday morning—Lerial, Ascaar, Valatyr, Klassyn, and Majer Waell.
As they near finishing their meal, Lerial says to Ascaar, “I wish you and Subcommander Klassyn a pleasant and uneventful ride to Shaelt.”
“With the arms-commander accompanying us, one hopes for an uneventful journey even more than a pleasant one.”
Rhamuel hasn’t told him? Or have I been deceived? Lerial manages just to nod, but also feels glad that he has told his officers to say nothing about when the Mirror Lancers will be departing and what their plans may be.
“You will be leaving shortly, I presume.” Ascaar’s voice is cheerful, at least as close to cheerful as it ever is in the early morning.
“Tomorrow or eightday,” replies Lerial. “I don’t want to hurry the wounded.” What else can you say? His eyes go to Valatyr, but the operations commander’s face betrays nothing, one way or the other.
“Can most of them ride? I know you have some wagons, but…” Ascaar’s voice shows honest concern.
“Those that survived have broken arms and slashes, mostly. Three have broken legs, but with three wagons … we should be able to manage.” Lerial actually plans to send one wagon back to Ensenla with the wounded.
“Sounds as though you’ll manage.”
“So will you,” Lerial replies with a smile.
Since almost all the senior officers are leaving—except for Valatyr, assuming that Rhamuel has not deceived Lerial—there is no senior officers’ meeting. So, after breakfast, Lerial makes his way to the Cigoernean tents. More than half of those that had filled the area south of the main house have been struck and carted off, presumably to some form of storage, and the tents serving Lerial’s forces now stand quite separate from those that remained to shelter Ascaar’s now-departing battalion.
“Ser…” ventures Kusyl, “word is that the arms-commander—”
“Is leaving with Subcommander Ascaar’s battalion,” finishes Lerial. “We’ll have to see if that’s true, but why don’t you mount up Twenty-third Company in case they need some maneuvers exercise.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial strongly doubts that such “maneuvers” will be necessary, but … anything is possible. Rather than walk back to the house and have to summon an ostler or stableboy to saddle and bring his gelding,
he borrows a horse and saddle from the few spares they have brought and joins Kusyl as the company forms up, reining up a few yards away.
“You don’t think they’ll double-cross us, do you, ser?”
“No. But it’s better to be prepared.” Lerial glances to the east, where rankers with carts are clearing the toppled stones from the breach in the wall and others appear to be digging around the base of the wall, as if to ready the foundation for reinforcement before masons rebuild the damaged section.
Lerial and Kusyl continue to wait and watch as Ascaar’s first battalion forms up. Then, Lerial sees a dark-haired figure that can only be Rhamuel ride around the north side of the country home and rein up beside Ascaar. After a time, the arms-commander rides back to the main entrance, where he dismounts and hands the reins of his mount to an Afritan Guard and then walks through the main entrance.
A tenth of a glass or so passes, and then the column begins to move, riding toward the north entrance and the river road. Lerial continues to watch, but then sees an Afritan ranker riding toward him.
The ranker reins up several yards from Lerial. “Overcaptain Lerial, ser?”
“Yes?”
“I have a message for you, ser.” The ranker holds up a folded sheet, apparently sealed at the edge.
Lerial checks his shields, but they are firm.
Kusyl eases his mount toward the Afritan Guard. “I’ll give it to him.” He takes the extended envelope and rides the few yards to Lerial, handing him the sealed sheet.
Lerial takes it.
Kusyl looks to the guard. “He has it.”
“I’m supposed to wait until he reads it, ser.”
After using his order-senses to check the seal and the paper, and finding no chaos, Lerial breaks the seal and reads the few unsigned lines of Hamorian script.
You’re likely to have an eventful ride, especially if any of the arms-commander’s personal guards “vanish.” My condolences.
Lerial has no doubts who wrote it, but the words tell him who is more likely to be trusted and why Rhamuel has staged the withdrawal from Lubana in the way that he has. He looks up. “I’ve read it. Convey my thanks.”
Heritage of Cyador Page 14