Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

“As well as we can,” says Sammyl. “I’d guess it will be a few days. The merchanters didn’t start gathering again until yesterday, or late oneday at the earliest.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Because you won’t be able to do much any sooner. “Oh … what about Maesoryk?”

  “His villa is empty,” reports Sammyl. “Only a handful of retainers are there. They said he had repaired to his hill villa for the summer.”

  “Summer?” Lerial frowns. “It isn’t even midspring.” Then he nods. “So that, if we defeat Khesyn, he can claim he wasn’t even around when all this happened, and that he had no idea about any of it.”

  Rhamuel nods. “And there won’t even be any proof that he was involved.”

  Lerial understands all too well. Even as duke, with no direct proof, Rhamuel would face immense difficulties in trying to hold Maesoryk responsible. Most likely, any retainer who could link him to the putative mislabeled barrels of cammabark has vanished, one way or another. He takes a slow deep breath, trying not to think about how hamstrung the dukes of Afrit have been. “I suppose I should pay another visit to Aenslem.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” says Rhamuel. “You might press a bit about that tonic…”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Lerial makes his way back to the stables and Third Squad, and they set out for Aenslem’s villa under a sky that is only slightly hazy, the white-hot sun burning down on them with an intensity that is more like midsummer in Cigoerne, again reminding Lerial why he definitely would rather not be in Swartheld in full summer. Yet …

  He pushes that thought away.

  When they reach the iron gates, this time Aenslem’s guards admit them without difficulty, but the gates close quickly behind Third Squad, a quickness that comes from long practice. Long practice and mistrust of anyone not known … and perhaps some known all too well. When they reach the entrance to the villa, a single retainer, not a guard, waits by the steps.

  “Lord Lerial, there are refreshments for your men and water for your horses in the rear courtyard.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It is Master Aenslem’s pleasure.”

  Lerial dismounts and walks quickly up the steps, to the double doors, where a guard opens one for him. He is more than a little surprised to see Kyedra standing just inside the double doors. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Why not?” Kyedra’s tone is practical and matter-of-fact. “We’re perfectly safe here at Grandpapa’s. It appears it’s safer here than in the palace. His guards are well trained. Uncle Rham even said so.”

  “Every one of them is trustworthy?” asks Lerial.

  “You doubt me?”

  “I’ve led many men for a few years. There are usually a few one has to watch or have watched. I doubt that is any different here.” Especially with what you’ve learned about the merchanters of Afrit.

  Kyedra frowns.

  “I mean it. Think it over.”

  After a moment, Kyedra nods … and that also surprises Lerial.

  “You’re right. There is one. Well … he may not be here now. He did special duties for Grandpapa. That’s all Grandpapa would say. Sometimes, the way he looked at me scared me. So did the black gloves he always wore. I never saw him without them.”

  Black gloves? Lerial has an almost sinking feeling. “What was his name? What did he look like?”

  “I never knew his name. I didn’t see him that much, but the few times I did he kept watching me.”

  “His looks?”

  “You are persistent. He was perhaps five years older than you, but he looked much older. He had a narrow face. Pinched really. He had floppy blond hair that looked dirty, and a dark mole on one cheek. Maybe it was a scar. He was thin. He always had a long blade at his side. Why are you asking?”

  “I might have met him once.”

  “When?”

  “On the way to Swartheld. How is your grandfather?”

  “You don’t want to talk about that man, do you?”

  “Not until I know more. I’ll need to talk to your grandfather. How is he?”

  “Much better. He’s beating me at plaques again.”

  Lerial wonders if that is because plaques don’t matter than much to Kyedra.

  “You have that look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  “It’s not a look, except your head tilts just a bit … as if you’re thinking.”

  “I was. I was wondering whether you really care that much about winning at plaques.”

  “I wouldn’t let even Grandpapa win.”

  Lerial smiles. “That’s not the same thing.”

  “I suppose not. Does that answer the question you didn’t ask?”

  “With an answer you didn’t really give?”

  Kyedra laughs, then smiles ruefully. “We had better get you to see him.” She turns and looks at him, then starts toward the north archway.

  Lerial immediately takes two quick steps to catch up. “How are you and your mother doing?”

  “As we can.” Kyedra looks sideways at him. “Thank you for asking.”

  Later than you should have. “All of this has to have been hard on you both.”

  “Did your grandmere talk about it?”

  For an instant, Lerial is disconcerted, before he makes the connection. “Not to me. I don’t know if she talked to my parents or my aunt.”

  “Your aunt. Uncle Rham once said she was special. I think he still might be in love with her. What … I shouldn’t ask.”

  “She never consorted. I think I might have mentioned that she’s the head of healing in Cigoerne.”

  “That’s sad.”

  Lerial nods, wishing he could say more, but knowing it is not his place to do so, especially if that knowledge could jeopardize Rhamuel’s position as duke. But it is interesting that Kyedra thinks Rhamuel might still love Emerya.

  When they enter the study, Lerial can tell even before he nears Aenslem that there is still some residual wound/poison chaos within the merchanter, but that it has diminished.

  “So … am I better, Overcaptain and healer of sorts?” demands Aenslem in a gruffly cheerful voice from where he sits at the desk at the end of the study, surrounded by papers.

  “You can answer that more accurately than I.”

  “Better, but there’s still a touch of discomfort.”

  “You’d recover without my doing more, but a little additional order will speed that up.” Lerial walks to the side of Aenslem’s chair. “Pardon me.” He touches Aenslem’s neck gently, directing a slight bit of order to the remaining chaos, immediately feeling it dissipate.

  “It’s gone. That feels better.”

  “You might still feel uncomfortable from time to time for a few days.” Lerial clears his throat. “Now … about that tonic…”

  “Did Rhamuel put you up to asking?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. I also have my own reasons for asking.”

  “Which are?”

  “I’d like to know whom to watch out for.”

  “It’s my own fault,” says Aenslem. “The tonic was recommended by Alaphyn. I take everything he says with a cask of salt. First I fed it to a sickly hound. The hound recovered. Then, I offered it to others—retainers—in small doses. Everyone prospered. I took it for a good half season, and when I ran out, I asked Alaphyn where he got it. He said it came from Cigoerne, and I could order it through Myrapol House…”

  Myrapol House? Majer Jhalet had mentioned a connection … Could Veraan …

  “… I did, and tested it again. The third jug … I did not…” Aenslem shakes his head.

  “Could someone here … in the villa?”

  “No. I kept it in a locked cabinet for that reason … and took certain … other precautions. No one has touched it beside me. The jugs were all sealed…”

  How can they live like this, where no one can trust anyone? Yet the way in which Aenslem has answered Lerial’s questions is worrisome, perhaps because t
he words are likely truthful, but not complete.

  Aenslem laughs gruffly. “Do you have any more questions from Rhamuel … or should I say the duke?”

  “No. I do have one of my own. You had a man serving you who wore black gloves—”

  “One moment.” Aenslem clears his throat loudly and holds up his hand to stop Lerial from continuing. “Lord Lerial and I need to talk. Alone.”

  “As you wish.” Haesychya gestures to Kyedra. “Let us know when you want more lager … or anything else.”

  “Daughters…” Aenslem shakes his head, but says nothing else, watching as the study door closes. Then he looks at Lerial. “Are you the one?”

  “The one what?”

  “The one who killed Willem.”

  “If Willem is the black-gloved, chaos-using assassin who killed Subcommander Valatyr, yes. He tried to kill me and two of my men rather than be taken captive.”

  Aenslem nods. “I’m not surprised. You seem to be at the heart of everything. He didn’t know who you were, then?”

  “He knew I was a Mirror Lancer overcaptain. Nothing more. He didn’t give me a chance to say much more before he attacked me. I tried just to wound him, but there was too much chaos in his system.”

  “That really wasn’t your question, was it?”

  “No. Why Valatyr? He seemed to be quite competent, and I can’t believe you’re part of all the other assassinations of senior officers.”

  “I’m not. I wasn’t. Valatyr was in Maesoryk’s wallet. I didn’t know why. I did know that he accepted hundreds of golds. It could have been more. When that many golds change hands, it’s not good. I’d heard rumors, hints, that Valatyr would be a far better chief of staff than Sammyl. I’ve never cared much for Sammyl, but he was loyal to a fault, especially to Atroyan. Wrong, at times, but loyal.”

  Possibly for preferring Dhresyl over Drusyn as well … although … “Why didn’t you just send Willem after Maesoryk?”

  “It wouldn’t have worked. Maesoryk has two chaos-mages near him all the time, and when they’re not, he’s heavily guarded or someplace where success would be unlikely … and too obvious.”

  “Like the palace?”

  Aenslem nods.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You should know. That’s so you don’t make matters worse. After what Maesoryk seems to have done, can you say that removing Valatyr was wrong?”

  “Why not tell Rhamuel?”

  “That hasn’t worked in the past.” Aenslem’s voice is not only raspy, but dry. “Even if he had listened, he would have asked for proof, and I couldn’t have given it without revealing too much. You must have seen that Rhamuel and I are not exactly close.”

  While Lerial’s mind isn’t exactly reeling, he feels appalled at the currents and crosscurrents, schemes and counterschemes that run beneath the seemingly placid surface of Afritan merchanter society. He also understands that there are no witnesses to their conversation, and no real proof. For him to accuse Aenslem would indeed make matters worse—not to mention creating a rift between Cigoerne and Afrit. And it would accomplish nothing.

  “I think you’re beginning to understand,” observes the merchanter.

  “I doubt I understand near enough. I feel like I’m standing in a camma tree grove with a forest fire raging toward me.” At his own words, he starts … and then swallows, remembering just what he had forgotten about Maesoryk. “Frig! Frig! Frig!”

  “What is it?”

  “Cammabark. That’s why Maesoryk wanted those forest lands so filled with camma trees that most others didn’t. That’s most likely where the cammabark in the palace and at the Harbor Post came from.”

  Aenslem frowns. “I can’t believe … even Maesoryk…”

  “A merchanter, Shalaara, I think it was, borrowed golds from Fhastal to keep some forest lands infested with camma trees from falling into Maesoryk’s hands through debts a family owed. But he bought the lands anyway, paying much more for them. Shalaara got a profit from it, and Maesoryk was furious. Rhamuel told me that as a reason why Maesoryk dislikes Fhastal.”

  “I remember that … we all thought it was about the golds … and Maesoryk being forced to pay more for what he felt was rightly his.”

  “Maybe that was what you were supposed to think.” Hidden right out in the open.

  Aenslem nods again, almost reluctantly, it seems to Lerial, then asks, “Do you have any more questions?”

  Lerial shakes his head.

  “I have one for you. Why are you still here, risking yourself?”

  “Because, if Afrit falls, so will Cigoerne.”

  “So you’re the sacrificial goat to save Cigoerne?”

  Lerial does not reply for a moment, thinking about what Altyrn had written him. “More to save the best of Cyador that remains in Cigoerne, I think.”

  “That’s a strange answer.”

  Only if you’re a merchanter, thinking golds are both means and ends. “It’s the only one I can give.”

  “You can invite my daughter and granddaughter back in, if you wish.”

  “I should be going. The Heldyans may already be preparing their next attack, and I’d like to know what Sammyl and his scouts have discovered.”

  Aenslem nods. “I won’t keep you. You do have my thanks and gratitude for saving my life. I don’t forget.”

  Either good or evil. “Thank you. I’m glad I could do what I could.”

  “So am I … and so is my daughter. Whether she’ll say so … that’s another question.”

  Lerial isn’t about to comment on that. He just says, “Good day,” and leaves the study.

  Kyedra is the first to see him, and she emerges from the salon that is behind the next door in the long corridor. “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m certain he needs to get back to the palace,” says Haesychya from the salon door.

  “I’ll walk you to the door, then,” says Kyedra, not looking in her mother’s direction.

  “I’d appreciate that,” Lerial says immediately.

  Neither speaks until they are several yards from Haesychya.

  “You won’t tell me what you talked about?”

  “No. That’s up to your grandfather. If he wants to tell you, he will.”

  “You’re as bad as he is.”

  Lerial’s initial reaction is to deny the charge … but, unhappily, he realizes Kyedra is right, if not in the way she meant. “No. In some ways, I’m worse. I’ve certainly killed more men than he has, and the men under me have certainly killed more than those under him.”

  Kyedra offers a puzzled look before her mouth opens, then closes. Finally, she says, “That was a strange way of answering.”

  “No. Just accurate, and it might be best to leave it at that. I don’t want you to have illusions.”

  “About either of you, I presume.” Her tone is cool.

  “You know your grandfather. You scarcely know me. I’m more worried about any illusions you might have about me.”

  “Most men would rather women have illusions.” Kyedra stops well short of the double doors that lead out onto the entry terrace.

  “I’m not most men.”

  “I believe you mentioned that before.” Kyedra softens her words at the end, with a slight smile as well. “You seem very determined I not have illusions about you. Why?”

  “That’s a long story.”

  “I can stand here as long as necessary.” She glances around the entry hall of the villa.

  Lerial smiles. “I think I mentioned Majer Altyrn to you…”

  “You said his consort had a lovely smile.”

  “He was a great man. I don’t think many understood how great. She was great in a different way. They were very much in love, and despite many difficulties and very different backgrounds, they never argued, although they shared feelings that, from what I saw, had to have been very different in the past. I got the sense that they got on so well because neither had any illusions about either life or ea
ch other…”

  “You’re verging on the presumptuous, you know?”

  “I didn’t mean to. What I was trying to say was that I think that many troubles between people come from illusions that they hold.”

  “Perhaps. But you have no illusions about Duke Khesyn. He is ruthless and bloody. That lack of illusion doesn’t mean Afrit or Cigoerne will ever get on with him.”

  “The lack of illusion means that we know that.”

  “I think that might undermine your point.”

  Lerial shakes his head in a mock-serious fashion. “I should not debate with you.”

  “You respect the majer a great deal, don’t you?”

  “I did. I still do. I probably respect him even more after what I’ve seen and been through in the last season.”

  “You should tell him that.”

  “I can’t. He died just before I left for Afrit.”

  “Oh … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  “I never told you. You wouldn’t have known.” Lerial pauses, then says gently, “I should get back to the palace to see if Sammyl has discovered anything more about what Khesyn may be doing.” Lerial regrets having to leave, but he also worries about what may be happening in Estheld … or elsewhere in Heldya.

  “I suppose you should. I shouldn’t be keeping you.”

  “You will send word if your grandfather doesn’t improve?”

  “We will.”

  “Good.” Lerial smiles, hoping Kyedra will smile back, then turns when she just nods.

  She does not come out onto the entry terrace to watch as he departs.

  When Lerial returns to the palace and the sitting room, both Sammyl and Rhamuel are still there, each behind a table desk. Neither looks particularly pleased.

  “How is Aenslem?”

  “It appears as though he is largely recovered. It’s likely he was poisoned…” Lerial goes on to explain what Aenslem had said about the tonic. He does not mention Veraan or anything about Myrapol House, except what Aenslem has said.

  “Trusting Alaphyn … about anything…” Rhamuel shakes his head.

  “What is happening in Estheld?” Lerial asks.

  “Two more merchanters have arrived,” replies Sammyl. “So far as we can tell, none have left, and none appear ready to cast off. There’s no sign of flatboats on the river.”