Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Although Lerial cannot see more than glimpses of the site of yesterday’s battle, those few patches of ground he can see through the scattered trees and above a low stone wall and the shoulder of the shore road are little more than blackened ground. Thin wisps of grayish white smoke drift upward from the site of Lerial’s use of order-chaos separation, soon lost in the thin high haze of a spring day that already seems more like a day in early summer.

  Several companies of Afritan Guards are posted at the east end of the hamlet where the Heldyans had encamped, some still mounted, others on foot. Lerial doubts they will find much of use, except for the neatly bundled tents. But you could be wrong. He also puzzles over the Heldyan majer’s cryptic references and half statements. Against whom? But if the majer is suggesting that Khesyn did not send his best troops … why wouldn’t Khesyn? Why would he send less than the best? It doesn’t make sense. Yet Lerial could sense a hint of truth … or at least that the majer believes what he almost said was true.

  At the end of the road down from the Harbor Post, Lerial leads the lancers south on the shore road, back toward Swartheld, and for all his musing, he cannot come up with a reason why Khesyn would not have sent his best troopers.

  Even before Lerial reaches the north end of the harbor, and the beginning of the merchanting district, he sees people walking the streets, going about whatever they are doing as if there had not been a massive battle less than four kays to the north. There are even a few vessels tied up at the piers, if far fewer than there had been an eightday before. All of the merchanting buildings appear open and unshuttered, and Lerial cannot help but recall the scathing observations of the wounded Heldyan majer. Even the small cloth factorage near the Afritan Guard headquarters is open.

  The troopers guarding the gates at headquarters look surprised, if only briefly, as they see Lerial and the Mirror Lancers approaching.

  Captain Dhallyn, again, is the first officer to come out to meet Lerial once he reins up outside the headquarters building. “Overcaptain, ser … ah…”

  “We’ll be here for a time, I suspect. Harbor Post was getting overcrowded, what with Heldyan prisoners and the companies from South Post. I’ll be leaving in a few moments with one squad to head to the palace to meet with Commander Sammyl and the arms-commander. How is he? Do you know? We haven’t heard anything.”

  “Undercaptain Norstaan sent word yesterday that the arms-commander was doing well, but that he’s likely not leaving the palace for a time yet.”

  Meaning that he still can’t walk or ride, most likely. “Have you heard any word about Subcommander Ascaar?”

  “No, ser. Only that he had engaged the Heldyans at Shaelt.”

  Once Lerial is convinced that nothing is amiss at the headquarters, he immediately leaves the post, accompanied by the Fourth Squad from Eighth Company—the one that has suffered the fewest losses out of all three companies. Again, on the way to the palace, he notices that very little is different from when he had first arrived in Swartheld. You’d think that there might be some change when there was a battle less than ten kays north of here, especially after an explosion at the palace.

  The one thing that has changed is that there are more Afritan Guards stationed at both the inner and the outer gates to the palace. As Lerial turns to ride to the stables, he notices a platform built of stones, obviously from the rubble of the damaged section of the palace, and the hint of soot and ashes on top of the stones. A private memorial to Atroyan and Natroyor?

  Something was probably necessary, given the heat. Still, Lerial worries. Also, Dhallyn must have dispatched a messenger immediately, because Lerial has barely reined up outside the inside west entrance to the palace when Norstaan hurries to meet him.

  “Good morning, ser.”

  “Good morning, Norstaan. Are Commander Sammyl and the arms-commander in the same chambers as before?”

  “Yes, ser. They’re expecting you.”

  “I take it Captain Dhallyn sent a messenger.”

  Norstaan looks puzzled for a moment. “No, ser. Commander Dhresyl did. He told the commander that you were returning to Afritan Guard headquarters.”

  Lerial nods. You should have thought of that. Dhresyl wouldn’t want Sammyl surprised. He dismounts and hands the gelding’s reins to the ranker beside Fhuraan, the squad leader. “I need to see them.”

  “Yes, ser. The commander thought you would. Will you and your squad be staying at the palace?”

  “I think that’s unlikely, but I won’t know until after I meet with the arms-commander. They could use a bite to eat and water for the mounts.”

  “We’ll take care of it, ser.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh … do you know if that dispatch reached Subcommander Ascaar?”

  “No, ser. Might be a day or two…”

  Lerial nods.

  Norstaan gestures, and an Afritan Guard ranker walks toward them. “Seilyn will escort you, ser.”

  Fhuraan gestures, in turn, and two older rankers immediately dismount and join Lerial.

  Norstaan blinks, but says nothing.

  “Everyone will feel better this way,” Lerial says blandly. Especially you, since you can’t hold shields for more than a moment or so.

  “Ser … it was Commander Sammyl’s order that everyone have an escort.”

  “And I do.” Lerial smiles. “Shall we go?”

  The Afritan trooper leads the way, and the two lancers flank Lerial. When they reach the guards outside the sitting room, all three remain in the corridor as Lerial enters.

  “How is the arms-commander?” asks Lerial, looking at Sammyl, who has stood as Lerial enters the sitting room.

  “Tired of being confined to a bed or a star-fired chair!” comes Rhamuel’s voice from where he is seated at a table desk in the corner of the sitting room, one that has been added to the chamber.

  Lerial turns. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’d feel better if my leg hurt.”

  “So would I,” admits Lerial, walking toward Rhamuel and studying him. From his limited order-senses, the arms-commander seems to be better. Even the knot of chaos at the end of his backbone seems smaller … but not that much smaller. There is no trace of wound chaos around the break in his leg.

  “You look worse for the wear,” Rhamuel observes.

  “The last few days have been hard.” Lerial pauses. “I noticed a stone platform…”

  “We had to have a memorial for Atroyan and Natroyor … It’s been five days. I sent word to Haesychya, but she declined, saying that her father needed her. He’s still not well.”

  “You didn’t attend?”

  “I did. Norstaan found an old sedan chair, and they carted me down. I had all the officers I could find witness the memorial, but I’ve held off sending out any proclamations yet.”

  Lerial isn’t certain of the wisdom of that, but then, refraining from making public pronouncements while the Heldyans are still attacking might be for the best. “Have you heard anything from Ascaar?”

  Sammyl shakes his head.

  “That’s not good.”

  “His second dispatch said that there were three Heldyan battalions—all foot.”

  “Were they well trained?” asks Lerial. “Or did Ascaar say?”

  “He did say that they weren’t the best of Khesyn’s forces, but the numbers made it difficult. He didn’t say much more, except that he had the better position, if he could hold it.”

  “We can’t do anything about that yet,” says Rhamuel.

  “Did you send a healer to the Harbor Post last night?”

  Immediate puzzled looks cross both men’s faces.

  “No, why?” asks Rhamuel.

  “One showed up, claiming the palace sent him, then vanished when my men tried to question him.” Lerial watches Sammyl closely, with both eyes and order-senses, but the commander seems as disconcerted as Rhamuel.

  “Trying to get to you, then?” asks the arms-commander.

  “It
would seem so. I was still unconscious then.”

  “Unconscious?” asks Sammyl.

  “The last part of the battle was harder than I’d thought it would be.” And that’s an understatement.

  Rhamuel shakes his head. “It just keeps getting worse.” He offers a brief and sardonic smile. “Dwelling on that won’t resolve it. Tell us what happened in the north—as you saw it, and how you ended up unconscious.”

  The way the arms-commander has phrased his inquiry tells Lerial that Rhamuel has his doubts about whatever Dhresyl has already reported.

  “The Mirror Lancers and I made the first attack on sevenday…” Lerial describes what he and the Lancers did on both days. The only matter about which he is less than forthcoming is how he dealt with the chaos-wizards, merely saying that he was able to turn their chaos back on them and continuing, “I wasn’t completely successful, because some of it came back at me and part of the Mirror Lancers. The blow knocked me out, and I lost one officer and fifty men, with fifteen wounded. My squad leaders and undercaptains had to finish the fight.”

  “Commander Dhresyl indicated you and your men defeated three battalions,” says Sammyl.

  “More like five, according to my officers and several of the commander’s majers. That doesn’t count the battalion or so on sevenday.”

  “That sounds about right,” interjects Rhamuel before Sammyl can speak. “Is there anything else we should know?”

  “Commander Dhresyl has close to a thousand prisoners. Most are wounded. One mounted battalion managed to withdraw to a merchanter at the tileworks and had set sail. They left almost three hundred mounts. Commander Dhresyl and I questioned a wounded Heldyan majer. He was most adamant that we would pay for the way we slaughtered Khesyn’s troops … and that Khesyn had more than enough battalions in reserve to do so.”

  “How could he after…?” Sammyl does not say more.

  “After what we’ve been through, anything is possible,” suggests Rhamuel. “Khesyn has been planning this for a long time.”

  Lerial notices that neither man mentions the amount of treason that has occurred, but that’s not something he wants to bring up before Sammyl. Instead, he says, “I would recommend getting a scouting report as to how many merchanters might be tied up or anchored off Estheld, and if anyone has seen more flatboats on the river. Khesyn would need ships or boats or both to get enough men here. If there aren’t many merchanters, we might have some time before the next attack.”

  “If there even is one,” comments Sammyl.

  “Do you think that, if he has that many more armsmen, they are already attacking Shaelt?” Rhamuel’s tone is almost matter-of-fact.

  “I doubt it. I would judge that the attack on Shaelt is to keep you from moving more of your forces to defend Swartheld.”

  “Commander,” says Rhamuel, “I’d appreciate it if you’d make arrangements to find out about boats and merchanters right now.”

  Sammyl stiffens. “Yes, ser.”

  Rhamuel smiles indulgently. “I’m not plotting or planning to replace you. I am worried that Khesyn might try another attack. If there aren’t any ships to speak of at Estheld and no sign of flatboats on the river, we can rest easier … at least for a little while. That would be good to know.”

  Sammyl nods, then leaves.

  Once the door closes, Lerial says, “He’s worried.”

  “He’s worried? After all the treachery … and the assassination of Subcommander Drusyn…” Rhamuel shakes his head.

  “Any word on Mykel?”

  “Not a thing, but I wouldn’t expect anything for another day at the soonest, possibly two or three days if they made good time.”

  And even longer if something untoward has occurred. “Are Haesychya and Kyedra back in the palace?”

  “They’re still at Aenslem’s. I didn’t think we all should be together.” Rhamuel offers a sardonic smile. “I know. That blade cuts both ways, but since daughters cannot succeed as duke … who ever heard of a duchess?”

  “There have been empresses…”

  “Your grandmere was the only one who actually ruled, I believe.” Rhamuel laughs softly. “If she had been the ruler earlier, we might not even be here together. You’d be in Cyad worrying about things that no one will worry about again for centuries … and I’d likely be dead.”

  “Have you heard from Maesoryk?”

  “Should I have?”

  “I can’t believe that the Heldyans landed at his tileworks without his involvement.” There is something else about Maesoryk, but Lerial cannot remember what it might be, just a vague feeling that something else ties Maesoryk to the treachery. You’re too tired to think as clearly as you should.

  “Neither can I. But I haven’t heard.”

  “Has anyone seen Dafaal?”

  “You didn’t hear? The palace guards found his body in the lower cellars. He’d been garroted. They also found fuses and a striker.”

  “He was either part of the plot … or someone wants you to think he was.”

  “Right now, there’s no way to tell. He wasn’t part of the memorial. He’s not family, and that had to be family only … or…”

  Lerial understands. If Dafaal had been included, then Rhamuel can’t claim the memorial was family and private. “Dafaal could have been part of the plot, and whoever was in charge wants to remove all links…”

  “I fear that is the most likely. We won’t ever know for certain, I suspect.”

  “What other merchanters have you heard from?”

  “Fhastal. He’s pledged whatever golds I need, for Afritan Guard pay, rebuilding, whatever. Aenslem, although he’s not well … flux is hanging on…”

  It is the second time Lerial has heard about Aenslem’s illness, and that disturbs him.

  “… Mesphaes and Lhugar, of course, and Jhosef, but he would toady up to whoever is in power…”

  “Not … Alaphyn?” Lerial has to struggle for the merchanter’s name.

  “You think he might have been with Maesoryk?”

  “It took a number of merchant vessels to carry those troopers from Estheld, and we can be fairly sure Aenslem’s ships weren’t involved.”

  “Frig … should have thought about that. Those two have always been close.”

  “Those two? Alaphyn and Maesoryk?”

  Rhamuel nods.

  Although they discuss more about the merchanters over the next third of a glass or so, in the end, Lerial does not discover anything new, and he forces himself to sit down and wait for Sammyl to return. He hopes it won’t be too long before the commander can discover what is happening in Estheld … and whether there are more merchant ships gathering there.

  Another attack is all we need.

  XXXIX

  By fourth glass of the afternoon, Lerial is ready to pace around the outer sitting room, despite feeling still tired, although he can order-sense a bit farther away. Rhamuel is resting in the bedchamber. While Sammyl has sent out scouts to see what can be determined about the harbor at Estheld, he has cautioned Lerial that it may take several glasses, or possibly until twoday morning. In the meantime, he has departed to meet with Dhresyl and to see the situation at the Harbor Post for himself.

  So Lerial sits behind the table desk, thinking, and waiting for either the scouting reports or for Norstaan to return, since the undercaptain has been summoned to the courtyard for some reason. What if Khesyn is readying another attack? Why would he do that? Especially after losing so many men? Lerial knows he is missing something … and just hopes he can recall that in time. Maybe by tomorrow …

  He looks up as the outer door opens and Norstaan steps into the sitting room, accompanied by a youth wearing a riding jacket that looks to be a uniform of sorts, along with a soft felt hat of the kind worn by merchanter guards, and a broad leather belt. The blade at the youth’s waist looks to be slightly shorter than a sabre, the kind claimed to be more effective in dealing with ruffians at close range. That is the rationale, Lerial kno
ws, although he has his doubts about the greater effectiveness of a shorter blade, suspecting that it is a tacit acknowledgment that merchanter guards should not bear longer weapons than the Afritan Guard … or the Mirror Lancers.

  Those thoughts vanish as he sees the smile on Norstaan’s face and belatedly recognizes Kyedra. He bolts to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

  “Grandpapa is ill. He may be dying. Mother sent me.”

  “Alone? Why did you have to come?”

  Kyedra shakes her head impatiently. “Of course not. I had two palace guards and two of Grandpapa’s guards. I wore men’s riding trousers and a guard’s jacket—an Aenian House jacket. Besides, no one thinks a woman in man’s clothing without a head scarf could be anything but a youth. I came so that you’d know it wasn’t a ruse or a trap … after all the … after everything…”

  “And you can handle that blade?”

  “I can. Uncle Rham saw to that.” She looks directly at Lerial. “Mother wants you to tend to Grandpapa.”

  “I can see what I can do.” Lerial refrains from frowning, because he has never mentioned anything about his being able to heal to Haesychya. Rhamuel must have told her.

  “See?”

  “Look at him, Lady,” Norstaan says, his voice barely above a murmur.

  For the first time, Kyedra studies Lerial. Then she asks, “What happened?”

  “I got caught in the backlash of a huge chaos-explosion.”

  “It destroyed more than three battalions of Heldyan troops,” Norstaan says. “Commander Dhresyl doubts we would have prevailed otherwise.”