Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “That’s a rather war-like pose,” observes Lerial as they enter the small square. Carts and stalls are lined up, not quite haphazardly, on the east side of the square just a few yards from the river wall. Most of the peddlers and those looking at wares keep glancing at the Mirror Lancers, but slowly seem to return to the business of bargaining.

  “There wasn’t much real fighting then. Khesyn’s grandsire was still struggling to gain control of Heldya, and was struggling to unite the followers of the God of the Balance and the believers in the Chaos Demons, when I doubt he believed in either, and no one ever heard much from the Meroweyans.” Rhamuel offers a wry smile. “Back then, I imagine everyone thought of Cyador as distant and mighty.”

  “As opposed to having its heirs close and possibly troublesome?” asks Lerial lightly.

  “Let’s just say independent, at least.”

  To the north of the southern market square, the paved river road widens into an avenue bordering the river and an equally solid-looking river wall whose capstones stand a good five yards above the present water level. While there are horses, carts, and wagons on the river road, all of them immediately pull to one side or the other when they catch sight of the arms-commander’s banner.

  Lerial would never have thought of the need for that. But then, in Cigoerne, no one would think of not moving from the road for the Lancers. “Has the river ever overtopped the wall?”

  Rhamuel shakes his head. “Not here. That can’t happen. With the marshes to the south and lower ground on the eastern bank some ten kays to the north, even if it did rise that much, it would flood places where no one lives … or the oxbow lakes in Heldya.”

  Lerial can see that a significant rise in the water level is unlikely most times, especially given the width of the Swarth, and if what Rhamuel says is correct, it would appear that Shaelt is safe from flooding. He wonders about Luba, however.

  As Lerial rides along the river road, he looks westward, past the shops and crafters’ buildings, but all he can see are the roofs of dwellings, shops, and factorages, stretching seemingly to the horizon. Several hundred yards ahead are can see two low redstone towers, likely indicating what must be the trading piers off the main market square.

  “I hadn’t realized just how large Shaelt is,” he finally says.

  “It’s good-sized compared to most places in Hamor, but very modest compared to Swartheld.”

  The main market square is impressive, a stone-paved area more than half a kay on a side, filled with large carts and small ones, and stalls on wheels. Two- and three-story factorages line the edges of the square on all sides but the river side, where two piers each extend fifty yards into the river, and two half piers extend three times that parallel to the river wall, one north of the piers out into the water, and one the same distance to the south. There are fifteen flatboats tied to the piers, and Lerial estimates that they could hold more than fifty without doubling up.

  And Shaelt is modest compared to Swartheld. Lerial wants to shake his head. Against this, what can you and three companies do? Is this why Rhamuel wants you to come to Swartheld? He also notices that very few of those shopping, bargaining, or trading in the main square give more than a passing glance to the riders and the wagons, as if armed troopers are an everyday occurrence.

  Although factorages and shops line the west side of the river road for another half kay or so north of the market square, after that there are several blocks of modest two-story dwellings, if almost wall-to-wall, before those give way to much smaller dwellings. There is a certain odor, certainly not as objectionable as that he experienced in the northern quarter of Luba, but it is less than pleasant and possibly more obvious because there is almost no wind, except for an occasional light and vagrant breeze off the river.

  Ahead, a good kay away, is a redstone-walled fortification that looks to be a good half kay on a side, with walls that tower a good eight yards above the flat surface of the low bluff on which it stands, a bluff that is in turn a good five yards above the level of the river road where it nears the fort and the stone-paved causeway leading from the river road west up through a sloping cut in the bluff.

  Lerial studies the walls as they continue to ride past increasingly meaner dwellings, and finally says, “Quite an impressive post. I imagine there are few anywhere in Hamor that compare.”

  “The Afritan Guard’s Harbor Post in Swartheld is considerably larger, and South Post somewhat so,” replies Rhamuel. “I know of no others.” After a pause, he adds. “I haven’t visited Merowey or Heldya. So my observations likely mean little. There are no Heldyan posts this large visible from our side of the river.”

  As they turn and ride up the causeway to the massive iron-bound timber gates, drawn back at present, Lerial can see stains on the gate timbers, especially below the heavy iron straps and braces. He also notes that the mortar joins in places in the walls could use repointing. Two Afritan Guards are posted on each side of the entrance, under a short roof that is there to protect them from the sun. Lerial can see that one’s head turns from the arms-commander’s banner to the Mirror Lancers following the Afritan Guards and back to the banner. The area inside the gates is paved and open, a space several hundred yards on a side. Lerial notes that more than a few of the paving stones are cracked, some severely. Directly ahead is a square two-level building of the same redstone.

  Rhamuel gestures. “That’s the headquarters building. The rear holds the officers’ quarters. The guest quarters are behind that, and the main barracks are along the north wall with the stables on the west wall. All the workshops supporting are along the south wall. You’ll be staying in the guest quarters with me. Since one of Ascaar’s battalions is still at Lubana, there will be plenty of space in the main barracks and stables for your Lancers.”

  “What about Subcommander Klassyn? Is he normally posted here?” Lerial is unclear about exactly which senior officers are where.

  “He should be on a sailing galley back to Swartheld,” says Rhamuel dryly. “After what happened at Luba, he’ll need to deal with a great deal of resupply, without as many golds as he’ll claim he needs.”

  Not so many golds? That sounds like Atroyan is having tariff shortfalls, but Lerial does not comment.

  As they ride past the headquarters’ building, the guest quarters come into view, a gray stone building of two levels with a pillared portico shielding the east entrance. The wide roofed porch surrounds the entire second level, with a low pillared and railed wall as well, clearly designed to catch any possible breeze from whatever direction it might blow. The windows on the lower level are barely more than slits, but those on the upper level are far wider.

  Even before they near the small two-story palace that Rhamuel has termed the guest quarters, Lerial sees a familiar figure—Ascaar—standing before the pillars of the entry portico.

  “Column halt!” Lerial orders.

  “Welcome to Shaelt Post!” Ascaar steps forward. “Your quarters are ready, Arms-Commander, Lord Lerial. We also have made the west end of the barracks ready for the Mirror Lancers.”

  “Thank you,” replies Rhamuel warmly.

  “We do appreciate it,” adds Lerial. “It has been a long ride.”

  Rhamuel rides forward, gesturing for Lerial to accompany him, then reins up just short of the steps to the guest quarters. “Subcommander, I hope Lord Lerial and I will have the pleasure of your company at dinner here.”

  “I’d be very pleased, ser.”

  “Good. Half past sixth glass.” Rhamuel nods, then dismounts.

  “I’ll be seeing to my men, ser,” Lerial says.

  Rhamuel nods to that as well.

  Only after making sure that his men are indeed settled and that there are messing arrangements, and that the stables and barracks are suitable, does Lerial actually enter the Shaelt Post guest quarters, where he is escorted to the second level by an Afritan ranker. There he finds himself with three spacious rooms—a sitting room with a writing desk, a bedcha
mber holding a bedstead and mattress wide enough for three, flanked by two bedside tables with polished brass lamps, a large dresser, and an armoire … and a small bathing room. All the wooden furniture is of polished dark golden oak, carved with designs depicting river lilies.

  He has barely looked around when there is a knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Ascaar. Might I come in?”

  “Of course.” Lerial walks to the sitting room door and opens it.

  Ascaar steps inside, but does not speak until Lerial closes the door. “How did you manage arriving with the arms-commander?”

  “I didn’t. It was his idea.”

  “He’s never done something like that before.”

  “You’d know that better than I would. He told me he wanted me to meet the duke and receive thanks from him personally.” Lerial offers a crooked smile. “It likely has more to do with who I am than what I did.”

  “Because you’re who you are, you had no choice.”

  “That’s the way I saw it.”

  “I didn’t see Valatyr.”

  “You did … in a way. In the first wagon, packed in salt and wrapped in linen. Someone sent an assassin after him in Haal. The assassin had been planted there as a ranker replacement for almost half a season. We caught him trying to escape … and then Norstaan found Valatyr’s body. The assassin was a minor chaos-wizard who was also skilled with a blade.”

  “Why Valatyr? Why not the arms-commander?” Ascaar frowns, then nods. “Take out someone close to him. Someone he relies on. Much easier.”

  Lerial cannot help but note Ascaar’s description of Valatyr as someone Rhamuel relied on, not as someone he trusted. Keep that in mind. “Has anything like this happened before?”

  “I don’t think so. If it has, I don’t know about it. What about the assassin?”

  “My men caught him as he was trying to escape. He attacked me. He had so much chaos in his system that the iron in my blade killed him. I was trying just to wound him.”

  Ascaar frowns. “A chaos-wizard assassin? Can’t say as I like that.”

  “Not given that…” Lerial pauses. “I could be wrong, but I’m getting the impression that, outside of the arms-commander, Valatyr had a better grasp of tactics and strategy than anyone above the battalion-commander level.”

  “You put that so delicately.”

  “I could be mistaken,” Lerial admits. “I only know what I saw at Luba.”

  “Many would wish you were, but wishes don’t fill the pot.”

  “No … they don’t.” Again, Lerial is getting the feeling that Ascaar comes from a less exalted background than any of the other commanders and subcommanders—at least those Lerial has met so far. That doesn’t mean he’s either more or less trustworthy. All the same, it does suggest he may be more able, because to rise to a battalion commander with a background unlike that of most other officers suggests that greater ability in at least some areas is likely.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Ascaar says, “I need to report to the arms-commander. He has some additional duties for me.”

  “I trust they won’t be too onerous.”

  Ascaar only raises his eyebrows.

  After the subcommander leaves, Lerial goes to find his officers, now that he has given them some time to finish the details of settling their companies. He finds Strauxyn near the stables.

  “Ser … we’ve got some mounts that need reshoeing.”

  “Do they have a farrier?”

  “Yes, ser, but he’s not from the Afritan Guard. They have to pay him as well.”

  “How much?” asks Lerial, knowing that he will have to pay whatever the cost.

  “A silver a mount, plus the cost of the shoes.”

  Lerial winces.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Arrange for it, but it will have to be done early tomorrow.”

  Strauxyn nods.

  Lerial sends for Fheldar and Kusyl, and in less than a fraction of a glass, both join him and Strauxyn.

  “I need you and some men you can trust to see what you can find out about Subcommander Ascaar and anything else about Shaelt and the post. Quietly, of course. We’ll be here another day, probably not longer.”

  After going over other company needs, Lerial dismisses the three and heads back to his spacious rooms to clean up for dinner. He is both looking forward to it and worried about what he may learn … or that he may learn nothing.

  At half past sixth glass Ascaar and Lerial join Rhamuel in the small private dining room of the guest quarters. Lerial would like to make an indirect inquiry about Ascaar’s additional duties, but that is not possible, because Rhamuel appears just before Ascaar does and ushers them into the dining room.

  As soon as the three are seated at one end of a table that could easily hold ten, Rhamuel says, “I can’t provide something as elaborate as Ascatyl, but both the red wine and the lager are good. The white…” The arms-commander shakes his head.

  After Rhamuel pours himself a goblet of red wine, Lerial and Ascaar fill their beakers with lager.

  “To uneventful travels,” offers Rhamuel, lifting his goblet.

  “To uneventful travels.”

  After the toast, Rhamuel smiles. “I’ve had my cook prepare a recipe from Cyador. Beef Fyrad.”

  “I must admit that I’ve never had it,” Lerial says.

  “Excellent,” replies Rhamuel. “Then you can’t tell whether it’s authentic, only whether it’s tasty.”

  “I’m certain it will be excellent,” replies Lerial.

  A hint of a smile crosses Ascaar’s face, but he does not speak.

  “By the way,” Lerial says, “some of my mounts need reshoeing, but I was led to understand that the farrier here in the post…”

  Ascaar snorts. “Cantayl is a barefoot relative of Kenkram, and that’s the way it’s been for years.”

  Lerial lifts his eyebrows in puzzlement, hoping that will spur some further explanation. He also thinks he’s heard the name Kenkram before, but he doesn’t recall where.

  “Kenkram is a merchanter and an advocate who also trades in water shares,” explains Rhamuel. “He’s very wealthy as a result.”

  Water shares? They trade in access to the river? “Water shares?”

  “Those who built the main canals offer shares of their profits. By selling shares, they can extend and repair the canals. Also, at times, those who own shares … they fall on hard times and need more golds than the shares bring in.”

  Is everything in Afrit for sale in one way or another? Lerial does not voice the thought, but just nods. “I see.”

  “Everything is about golds,” Ascaar says blandly, although the slight wave of chaos around the subcommander suggests to Lerial that Ascaar feels anything but bland.

  “Better about golds than the edge of a blade,” replies Rhamuel. “That is often the alternative. At least, it appears to be in Heldya.” He looks up as two rankers appear, each with a platter.

  Beef Fyrad turns out to be slices of beef browned and then baked in a flaky pastry crust, apparently in a hot oven, with a dark mushroom sauce or gravy over the pastry. On the other platter are two other items, on one side the thinnest strips of potatoes and on the other early yellow beans, sautéed and sprinkled with what look to be crushed nuts.

  Lerial waits until Rhamuel takes a bite, then follows. He has to admit that the beef is excellent. But then, so are the potatoes and beans, as well as the dark bread that arrived in a basket.

  “Are you certain you haven’t had this? Perhaps under another name?” asks Rhamuel, with a smile that could only be called sardonically mischievous.

  “If I did, I had it when I was too young to remember it or its name,” replies Lerial. “It is quite good, and I’d certainly not mind having it again.”

  “I’m glad I can show you some of your heritage that you haven’t experienced.”

  “I wish that I could do the same for you.”

  “You’re young. Y
ou may yet,” replies Rhamuel lightly.

  “Then I’ll have to be most careful.”

  “I doubt that you’ve ever been otherwise.”

  “With that I’ll have to disagree. I’ve just been fortunate to have had good senior officers and the additional fortune to escape what could have been folly.”

  “That’s true of most senior officers who’ve fought and survived,” adds Ascaar dryly.

  “So true.” Rhamuel turns back to Lerial. “Matters have been … disrupted by Valatyr’s death. Because of that, I’ve had to turn to Subcommander Ascaar. I had already planned a dinner here in Shaelt tomorrow evening so that you could meet some of the more influential merchanters and a few others, but I wasn’t certain it would be possible. That is why I didn’t mention it until now, when I just learned that Ascaar has been most successful.”

  Lerial doubts some of that, but merely says, “I understand.” That is true. “And I appreciate both your efforts.”

  “Merchanter Graemaald has been kind enough to offer his villa, and we will leave here just after fifth glass tomorrow. His villa is west of the city and offers a view of Shaelt and the river. If you squint, you can even see the eastern shore…”

  For the rest of the comparatively short meal, Rhamuel talks pleasantries and offers a few tidbits about Shaelt.

  “… great-great-great-grandsire wanted to build a canal to the valley some twenty kays to the west … died before more than two kays were finished, and his son sold the canal and lands to merchanters to raise the golds for an expedition to seize Estheld … expedition failed … canal turned to irrigation and didn’t fail …

  “… fort here was then a way station … but Atoryl wanted his consort to accompany him … felt she needed better quarters … build this very building for her … and she still refused to come…”

  “… almonds here said to be the best in Hamor…”

  When he returns to his quarters, Lerial thinks over the dinner, and the comments Rhamuel has made, but the one that sticks in his thoughts is the idea that, somehow, Lerial might yet show the arms-commander some of his heritage.