Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Lerial lets the silence draw out for just a moment. “I have no idea. I was sixteen when I killed a Meroweyan raider who attacked me. I fought in pitched battles for two full seasons, generally near or at the front of my company. We fought two small battles or skirmishes at Luba.”

  “He was at the front there, too,” adds Rhamuel.

  “Were you … wounded?” murmurs Kyedra.

  “Not here, and not enough not to recover in Verdheln,” Lerial replies lightly.

  “The way you say that…” ventures Haesychya. “You were seriously wounded, were you not?”

  “Without the healers, I would have died in Verdheln.” That is true, but not in the way Lerial hopes they will take it.

  “Does that satisfy you, Natroyor?” Haesychya’s voice is like ice.

  “I just wanted to know.” Natroyor’s reply holds a hint of both sulkiness and defiance.

  “Now you do,” declares the duke with a heartiness that sounds a trifle forced. “It is about time to have dinner,” he announces, if after a glance from his consort. “And we will not talk further about war, or Heldya. Dinner should be for more pleasant topics.” His eyes fix on Natroyor. Then he stands.

  As Lerial rises, he thinks about the strangeness of the conversation, staged to reveal some things, and yet obviously not totally controlled. All of it reminds him, again, of how careful he needs to be in what he reveals and what he does not.

  Following Atroyan’s gesture, Lerial walks with the duke across the hallway to the family dining chamber, not all that larger than the salon in the ducal palace in Cigoerne. The duke sits at the head of the table, with Lerial at his right, and Rhamuel at his left. Kyedra is seated beside her uncle, while Natroyor sits beside Lerial. Haesychya sits at the end of the family table, facing her consort. A pleasant smile is on her thin lips, but the chaotic turmoil behind her expression suggests more than a little strain.

  Is Natroyor that frail? Or do they worry that he is? Then again, Lerial realizes, Atroyan himself does not appear all that hale and hearty, either. While Rhamuel is healthy, he has no sons, and his only child is Amaira, whose existence may not be known … and if known, certainly cannot be accepted. Lerial has heard no word about Mykel, except that he has no consort and no heirs … and Haesychya’s reaction to the name of his friend.

  The other thing is that Haesychya has not been nearly so silent as Lerial has expected, as if he is not quite an outsider. As for Kyedra, she is more perceptive than she lets on … and he does like her smile.

  The dinner conversation, it is clear, will be light and polite. After the crosscurrents in the salon, Lerial is more than ready for lighter subjects.

  XXIV

  When he wakes soon after dawn on twoday, Lerial does not rise immediately, but lies in the moderately comfortable bed big enough for three people—or a couple and several children—thinking over the conversations during refreshments and dinner the evening before. The conversation at dinner had been almost exactly as Atroyan had declared, with discussions of several poets that Lerial has never heard of, let alone read; a mock debate between Rhamuel and Atroyan over the merits of their favorite vintages—the hilltop white called Halyn against the Reoman red; and more than a little speculation about what sort of weather the spring and summer to come might bring, along with Haesychya’s observation that the spring was already unseasonably warm.

  After just that meeting with the duke and his immediate family, Lerial can understand his aunt’s concerns about Afrit. Atroyan does not seem all that strong, and Lerial’s own impressions of Natroyor are not particularly favorable, and the youth seems constitutionally even weaker than his father. Rhamuel seems to be the most able male of the lot, but the arms-commander seems almost indifferent to the idea of ruling.

  Is he just that good at concealing his feelings … or is he truly indifferent? Lerial suspects the former, but cannot dismiss the latter.

  After washing up, shaving, and dressing, Lerial leaves his rooms and goes to the family dining room for breakfast. There, Rhamuel is seated alone. The arms-commander gestures to the chair across from him.

  “Will anyone else be joining us?”

  “No. The duke and his immediate family always have breakfast alone in the breakfast room.”

  “You’re not included?”

  Rhamuel shakes his head. “Immediate family only. That’s a custom of Aenian House. Or so Haesychya informed me many years ago. Fhastal doesn’t know anything about it.”

  Why would Fhastal … oh … he’s consorted to Haesychya’s older sister.

  The arms-commander sips a mixture of greenberry juice and lager.

  Wondering how anyone could drink such a mixture, Lerial merely pours himself a light lager. “I can see family only. That’s the case in Cigoerne, but family means all family in residence.”

  “My brother is very firm about acceding to his consort on that.”

  And other matters, I’d wager.

  “Besides, I’m here so seldom that it’s not an issue.”

  The more reason it should be. But Lerial just nods and takes another swallow of lager. He is thirsty. Within moments, or so it seems, a server appears with a large platter of egg toast and ham strips, accompanied by a generous loaf of dark bread, rare indeed in Cigoerne. He takes several bites before speaking. “Can you tell me any more about the dinner this evening?”

  “It will be small. There will be between ten and fifteen men, all important in Swartheld. Mostly merchanters, except for the duke and you and me. The official purpose will be to convey to them how decisively we defeated the Heldyans at Luba. Even though they all know it, and knew it within less than a day.”

  “We did,” says Lerial, “but…”

  Rhamuel raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. “But?”

  “All the survivors took the flatboats downstream, and I’d wager they’re all at Estheld … or somewhere close.”

  “I won’t take that wager … and I won’t point out that nine out of ten Heldyans who fought Ascaar and Drusyn’s battalions survived, while perhaps two out of ten of those who fought you did.”

  “So … how many battalions do you think Khesyn has massed across the river?”

  “Fifteen battalions.”

  Seventy-five fairly well-trained companies. “Assuming he does attack Swartheld, just how will he get them across the river?”

  “The same way he did at Luba. He’ll most likely launch the flatboats upstream and use the current to cross. If I were trying to do that, I’d ground them in the shallow water off the point of the old river fort. The first attackers would get wet enough, but they could pull the boats farther in. The later attackers could walk from boat to boat.”

  “Is that why Drusyn’s battalions are at South Post?”

  “I told Commander Nythalt and the duke that we needed to protect the harbor from both ends.”

  “I imagine that’s true enough,” replies Lerial evenly. “I heard that Commander Nythalt has seven battalions. Are they all at the Harbor Post?”

  “Six are there. One is at South Post, with Subcommander Drusyn’s battalions.”

  “So … if that’s likely…?”

  “Why don’t I put men there? The place is a ruin, and Khesyn could wait eightdays … or longer. If I rebuild there, it costs golds the duke doesn’t have, and then Khesyn might just attack the harbor directly. The currents might even carry the flatboats that far anyway. South Post is only a bit more than two kays away, and the river watch will give us time to alert Drusyn.”

  There is something Rhamuel isn’t saying. After a moment, Lerial realizes what that is. Rhamuel cannot allow Khesyn’s forces to attack the harbor proper, at least not first, and he cannot position his forces to make the harbor and the merchanting areas a more favorable target. “You want him to land at the point.”

  “Of course. He can do less damage there.”

  “But he can also establish a stronger position there.”

  “There are advantages and disadvan
tages to every position.”

  Lerial nods. That was the way the majer thought. “Did you ever talk with Majer Altyrn?”

  “Regrettably, I did not. I was younger and more arrogant.” Rhamuel smiles. “You are less so than most successful young commanders, but you will also see what I came to see. The majer had to have done that also.”

  “I would hope to learn from what I could have done better.” As if your failures already have not cost too many lives.

  A hint of a frown flickers across the arms-commander’s face.

  “You never did say what the unofficial and real reason for the dinner was.”

  “What do you think?”

  “To show the possibility that hostilities between Cigoerne and Afrit have come to an end and that trade will be better … or that Afrit can now devote itself to dealing with Heldya without worrying about Cigoerne.”

  “That’s close enough. It won’t even be stated. Your presence will imply it.” Rhamuel swallows the last of his lager and greenberry. “I’ll be leaving shortly. You can certainly wander through the palace. Well … except for the part Dafaal insists on refurbishing. That’s taken forever, but I suppose it’s because my brother insists they only work in the middle of the day. Or you can accompany me back to Swartheld Post.”

  “I’d thought to check on my companies there.”

  “I’ll meet you at the stables. You can return to the palace when you want. I’ll assign half a squad as an escort for your return. It will take some time for people—and the palace guard—to get used to seeing Mirror Lancers here in Swartheld.” The arms-commander eases back his chair and stands.

  So does Lerial. “I appreciate that.”

  “It’s the least I can do. You’ve come all the way here.”

  As he watches the arms-commander leave, Lerial ponders the clear sincerity behind Rhamuel’s words, a sincerity that concerns him more than a glib tone would have. He reaches down and lifts his beaker, finishing the lager before returning to his quarters and immediately finding Polidaar.

  “Ser?”

  “We’re headed back to Swartheld Post with the arms-commander. We’ll likely be there all morning and some of the afternoon. I want you and your men to study the city as we ride through it. They need to look at everything. What do they see that’s the same as in Cigoerne? What’s not?” Lerial grins. “And not just the women.”

  Polidaar tries to hide a smile, but does not succeed. “Yes, ser. Are you looking for something?”

  Lerial shakes his head. “No. Not exactly. Call it a feeling. But I don’t know enough even to point out what might tell us something.” He shrugs. “Then, I might be too cautious, and what you and they see might tell me that. Anyway, ten more pair of eyes can’t hurt.”

  “No, ser.”

  Polidaar has the squad at the stables quickly enough that they can saddle and lead out their mounts—and Lerial’s—in time not to delay Rhamuel.

  Lerial rides beside the arms-commander as they leave the inner courtyard and then the smaller outer one. Once they are on the paved road around the palace’s outer walls, Rhamuel turns south, seemingly away from Guard headquarters, rather than east or north.

  At Lerial’s quizzical look, the arms-commander says, “It’s quicker this way. One block down this street and we’ll reach the old merchants’ way. It’s wider. It also goes straight—mostly—to headquarters.”

  Lerial studies the dwellings bordering the street, not so narrow as some of the ways they took the day before, but still not all that wide. He cannot help but wonder why Rhamuel had taken a longer way then. He pushes that aside for the moment and concentrates on his surroundings. For all their ornate stone facings and their two and three levels and red tile roofs, the dwellings are narrow for their height, perhaps as little as ten yards across and barely separated from their neighbors, with tiny front courtyards behind iron gates. At the same time, those dwellings extend more than three times their width back from the street and may have larger walled rear courtyards beyond that.

  Who would live here? Since he can see no one outside, and filmy curtains cloak the inside of the windows, there is no way to tell, except that whoever does inhabit the large dwellings cannot be poor.

  As Rhamuel has said, at the end of the single long block is a wider street, perhaps almost expansive enough to be called an avenue. The arms-commander turns his mount left, toward the water, and Lerial and the lancers and guards follow. There are no dwellings of any sort, just shops and cafés. Every few doors, or so it seems to Lerial, there is a café with an awning out over small tables and chairs at which a few people are eating … or drinking. He looks back over his shoulder for a moment and discovers that the shops extend for at least a block or two uphill as well.

  Most of those at the cafés are men, but one is frequented by women alone, all wearing their filmy head scarves, if loosely enough to sip whatever may be in their tumblers or goblets. One café has both men and head-scarfed women. The number of empty tables suggests that there will be more patrons later in the day, and a great deal more by evening, Lerial suspects. The shops and cafés continue for three long blocks, but by the fourth block shops and smaller factorages have replaced the cafés, except for one, its lonely and slightly tattered orange awning extended above empty chairs and tables. By then Lerial can see the walls of Swartheld Post ahead.

  Before long, they turn onto the bay road and then ride into the post.

  After they dismount at the Afritan Guard headquarters, Lerial turns to Rhamuel. “I don’t want to go behind your back. I’d like two of my officers to ride to the palace and then back with your escort so that they have a better idea of Swartheld. If you’re amenable, we could take a longer route.”

  Rhamuel nods, with the hint of a smile, before he replies. “That would be a good idea. It wouldn’t hurt to have people see more of you and your men, either. I’ll mention that to the squad leader.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If I don’t see you before then, I’ll see you at the duke’s reception before dinner. It’s at sixth glass in the west wing of the palace. Until then.” With a smile Rhamuel turns and hands his mount’s reins to a guard, then walks toward the door of the headquarters building.

  Lerial is about to ask Polidaar to send someone to find his officers when he sees the three walking toward him. Instead, he says, “You can have the men stand down and stable their mounts.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Overcaptain, ser!” calls out Fheldar.

  “All’s well, I trust.” Lerial hands the reins of his gelding to the nearest ranker and moves to join the three.

  “Yes, ser.”

  Strauxyn and Kusyl nod in agreement with Fheldar.

  Lerial draws the three aside, waiting until Polidaar has the half squad moving toward the stables, then asks, “What have you to report?” He looks to Fheldar.

  “Eighth Company is all accounted for. No illnesses, and no trouble with mounts…”

  Lerial listens.

  Once he has gone over the routine matters with Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl, and is satisfied that all is as it should be—or at least as close to that as possible in Swartheld—Lerial clears his throat. “There is one other thing. The arms-commander has told me that there are possibly fifteen Heldyan battalions across the river.”

  “Frig…” mutters Kusyl, “begging your pardon, ser.”

  Lerial offers a crooked smile. “I feel the same way. So does the arms-commander. But we don’t know Swartheld at all. So … the next thing we’re going to do is to inspect Swartheld Post. Then, after that, two of you will accompany me and the two half squads that will escort us around parts of Swartheld and back to the palace. I think we should be able to do this every day for the next two or three days, and I’ll rotate who accompanies me, because I want one of you here all the time.”

  “That makes sense,” says Strauxyn. “Who do you want today?”

  “Kusyl and Fheldar.”

  All three nod.


  “Now … let’s see about inspecting the post.”

  By the time the four of them have finished their informal inspection of Swartheld headquarters two glasses have passed, and Lerial gathers the three into an empty study in the main headquarters building, where they sit around a dusty table desk. He looks at Fheldar. “What do you think?”

  “It’s clean enough. Nothing’s coming apart. I don’t think you could close the main gates all the way, either.”

  “Wouldn’t matter if you had to,” adds Kusyl. “Not for long. They had to bring in provisions just to feed us. Really isn’t a working post. Just a headquarters post.”

  To keep Rhamuel away from the palace?

  “Ah…” Strauxyn clears his throat. “The armory is stocked. We didn’t go there because it was locked, but I talked to one of the undercaptains this morning. I saw him with one of their blades. They’re longer than ours. It looked new-forged. I asked. All the spare blades and weapons for the entire Afritan Guard are stored here.”

  That makes all too much sense … unfortunately. “Under the watchful eyes of the arms-commander or his trusted majer or captains.”

  “That smells, too,” declares Kusyl. “Another thing … they’ve got blade-training circles, but they haven’t been used, maybe in years.”

  “Not a fighting post.” Fheldar shakes his head.

  “In a way, that makes sense,” Lerial says. “It’s in the middle of the city. That’s why most of the Afritan Guard is posted on the north or south side of Swartheld. We’ll see what the Harbor Post looks like in a bit…”

  Outside of more details that confirm the impressions of all four, the discussion that follows adds little to Lerial’s understanding and concerns.

  Less than three glasses after riding out with Rhamuel, Lerial sends word to Polidaar and Jhacub, the squad leader whom Rhamuel has assigned to head the Afritan Guards serving as the day’s escort for Lerial.

  When they both arrive, Lerial addresses Jhacub. “We haven’t seen much of the city. Could we take a longer route back to the palace, perhaps riding by the harbor, the Harbor Post, and the trading area?”