Heritage of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Because there might be more to it.”

  “Do you really think that anyone would be hiding an army at the lakes?”

  “That’s rather unlikely. I suspect that Rhamuel thinks my presence will cause them to reveal something.”

  “Of course. You’re a healer. Healers sense things. Most merchanters here in Swartheld know you have some abilities that way. If they have anything to hide, they won’t want you on their grounds. They won’t dare to deny you. So, if they do have something to hide, they’ll either conceal it in some place you won’t or can’t look … or they’ll try something to kill you … poison, rocks or trees falling on you.”

  “You’re cheerful.”

  “You don’t believe they’d do things like that?”

  “I believe you. From what I’ve seen, I definitely do. It saddens me, though.”

  “Golds are everything to them. Cigoerne’s a new duchy. In time, it will be the same there.” Kyedra’s voice carries a bleak tone.

  “There are already some merchanters there like that,” Lerial admits. And some who have already tried to subvert the Mirror Lancers. He’d just been fortunate enough to discover that plot and foil it. “I’d like to change that, but…”

  “You don’t think Father didn’t know…” Kyedra’s eyes are suddenly bright.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up memories.”

  “He just couldn’t do anything.”

  Lerial nods. “I’ve seen that.”

  “That’s why Uncle Rham is using you.”

  “I know that, too.”

  Kyedra frowns. “Then why are you letting him?”

  “Because the stronger he is, the stronger Afrit is. The stronger Afrit is … the less danger we both face from Heldya and Merowey” Lerial almost had said, The stronger Cigoerne is, but that had not felt right.

  “That’s not all, is it?”

  “No.”

  “You aren’t saying, are you?”

  “Right now … it’s better I don’t.”

  Kyedra looks at him more intently, then offers an enigmatic smile, one much like her mother’s, if a touch warmer. “That might be for the best … right now.”

  Lerial has no doubt that she understands his reluctance.

  “The early redberries might be ripe by the time you reach the lakes.”

  “Is that a recommendation for them or a warning against them?” Lerial asks cheerfully.

  “Very much for them … as long as you don’t eat the ones that still have traces of green…”

  Lerial knows that the remainder of their conversation will be most conventional … but he is in no hurry to depart … and from what he can sense, Kyedra is also in no hurry for that, either.

  XLIX

  While Lerial, Strauxyn, and Eleventh Company leave the headquarters gates well before seventh glass, it is closer to eighth glass by the time they have met Norstaan and his squad outside the palace and ride westward on a paved avenue that is barely half the width of the merchanters’ avenue. The shops and dwellings close to the palace are neat and well kept, but they exude a feel of age that Lerial can sense as well as see. Farther west, but still within Swartheld, the dwellings are less ancient, but not recently constructed, somewhat larger, and exhibit a differing range of style and size, as if some older buildings had been removed and replaced or rebuilt. In places, it appears that odd additions have been built onto older structures.

  “Who lives here?” Lerial asks Norstaan, riding on his left.

  “Tradespeople, crafters, some of the more successful artisans, those who do not need a patron or those who have chosen not to rely on one.”

  “Isn’t that chancy?” asks Strauxyn from where he rides on Lerial’s left. “An artisan not having a patron when they could?”

  “Swartheld is large enough to support quite a number of artisans. There are always some well-off tradesmen who would like to boast of having a painting or a bronze or a small sculpture. The smaller merchanters can easily afford art, but may not wish to limit themselves to a particular artisan. Maintaining a well-known artisan is not cheap.”

  Another glass passes as they ride through more shops and dwellings, and the farther they are from the river, the poorer both houses and shops become. The amount of poor and modest houses they pass again reminds Lerial, perhaps because of his visit to the cloth factorage, just how little he has come in contact with most of the people his father or Rhamuel rule. And you’ve likely seen far more than Rhamuel or Lephi. But that, he reminds himself, has largely been because of his father’s and his aunt’s requirements in teaching him healing … and working with rankers for years.

  The street gradually narrows but remains stone paved. After a time, Lerial can see that the ground is rising and that, several hundred yards ahead, the houses thin abruptly and only extend partway up the dry and sandy hills.

  “This is where Swartheld ends, then?” he asks Norstaan.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “What about the road? What is it like beyond the hills?”

  “It gets narrower. It is paved all the way to the lakes.”

  All the way to the lakes? “Is there that much trade this way? How did that happen?”

  “There is the date trade, and timber. Besides the duke, there are also quite a few prominent merchanters with villas on the lakes. The road was paved in the time of the present duke’s grandsire. That’s all I know.”

  Lerial nods. Looking to his right, he can see that the low hills that define the western border of Swartheld angle to the east as they run northward, which explains why they are closer to the bay near Maesoryk’s tileworks.

  It is well after noon before Lerial and his force finish crossing the low, dry hills and descend into a wide and flat valley that appears to contain little beside circular palm orchards, at least that is what they seem to be, linked by narrow stone canals, and surrounded by sandy, sparsely grassed flat land.

  In one orchard, and then another, Lerial notices figures climbing the tall palms. Finally, he asks, “What are they doing? It’s a bit late for pruning any tree, isn’t it?”

  “I think that must be the second pollination,” replies Norstaan. “The first one is usually around the second eightday of spring. The winds aren’t strong enough to assure that all the trees are pollinated, and having too many male trees just wastes water.”

  “How…?” Strauxyn breaks off the question.

  “My uncle grows dates. I overheard some of the talk when I was growing up.”

  Lerial looks westward, but as far as he can see, there are only the date orchards and the sandy grasslands. “How far west do the date orchards go?”

  “Another ten kays. Before too long, we’ll see the hills that mark the west side of the valley. They’re not very high.”

  “Does any one merchanter own all this?” asks Lerial.

  “Most of these belong to the House of Haen, I’m told. Merchanter Jhosef owns the orchards south of the road for the last two kays before the Low Pass. Those are the best lands, because he has the water shares from the river.”

  “We haven’t seen a river,” points out Strauxyn.

  Norstaan laughs. “You won’t. Jhosef built a dam, and all the water from the reservoir goes into the canals, according to who has how many water shares.”

  “What happens if someone takes or gets too much water?” asks Lerial. “I’d think it would be hard to gauge that.”

  “All the canals have to have the same width and depth, and there are special gates at the reservoir. One of the growers deepened his channels, years ago. Jhosef kept track of the extra water he took for two years. When it amounted to an entire year’s supply, he shut the man’s gate and demanded he buy another water share or do without for a year. The man could not afford the share. Many of his trees died. He could not afford to keep growing. Jhosef bought his lands for a fraction of their worth.”

  Very controlling and very well thought out. Lerial keeps those thoughts to himself, although
he wonders into how many other areas Jhosef’s fingers and golds reach, particularly since not a single person has mentioned the dates or even produce as a part of what Jhosef controls, almost as if a mere few kays of date orchards are insignificant.

  More than a glass later, after the road turns slightly southwest, Lerial catches sight of a line of gray against the reddish-colored low hills … or rather between two hills. As they ride closer, he can see that the gray is comprised of stone blocks, and that at the base of what must be a spillway is a stone-lined pond, from which runs a wide stone-lined canal, beside which runs a narrow graveled lane. The dam between the two hills extends hundreds of yards, perhaps a third of a kay, and at one end is a structure that resembles a stone fort.

  “That looks like a small Afritan Guard post.” Lerial points.

  “That’s where Jhosef’s guards and workers live. They patrol the canals,” replies Norstaan.

  “How many guards does he have?”

  “I couldn’t say. I’ve been told that there are a squad’s worth posted there. They don’t get paid as much as an Afritan Guard, but, after they serve a year, they can leave with two eightdays’ notice. A lot of bravos get their start with the private guards of the wealthier merchanters. A few Afritan Guards have, too, but the smarter ones just start with the Guard and stay.”

  “Because there’s no real hope of advancement?” asks Lerial.

  “That … and who wants to beat up helpless peasants and land-croppers?” Norstaan shakes his head.

  Lerial only nods slowly. The more he sees of the Afritan merchanters, the less he cares for them … and he didn’t feel that charitably toward them in the beginning.

  L

  On oneday, Lerial and his forces spend the night at an inn in Pondatyn, a village some ten kays west of the date valley. The inn, which Norstaan simply calls that, apparently has no other name, but clearly caters to large groups of travelers, if infrequently, because there are ample stables and several large floored sheds able to hold all of the rankers with room to spare. They depart early on twoday morning, under the hazy sky that indicates the day will again be hot.

  And it’s only midspring. While Lerial knows that Afrit is hotter than Cigoerne, he had not realized just how much hotter it is.

  For the first few glasses they ride through sparse pine forests that somehow have grown in the rocky and sandy soil and survived, but by noon they have passed though somewhat higher hills and entered an area where there are more trees, some small hamlets, and occasional plots of land that bear low greenery.

  “What do they grow here?” Lerial asks Norstaan.

  “They have melons … and the black-syrup plants … a small grain, I think. That is if there is some rain. It does not rain much here. It rains more near Swartheld.”

  “How far is the inn from where Mykel and Oestyn were taken?”

  “The Streamside? We won’t reach there until after second glass. Why?”

  “I’d like to talk to everyone there.”

  “They may not wish to talk to you.”

  “They don’t have much choice, I think.”

  Slightly more than two glasses later, just after they have ridden through a small hamlet, Lerial sees a cluster of buildings on the south side of the road, set in the middle of an area whose grasses barely reach calf high. There is a winding line of green meandering from the hills to the south past the buildings and then under a small stone bridge and to the northeast. He wonders if the stream actually goes anywhere or just ends in some dry valley.

  As they approach the Streamside, Lerial can see that it is similar enough to the inn at Pondatyn that it also must be a regular stopping point for large parties of travelers, such as when Atroyan took his family to Lake Reomer, and likely the retainers and guards of those merchanters who frequent the lakes in the summer.

  Lerial has barely reined to a halt in front of the main building when a man in gray rushes out through the door and flattens himself on the dusty clay in front of the inn. “Please, honorable sers! I did nothing wrong! I beg you!”

  “Is that the innkeeper?” Lerial asks Norstaan.

  “I think that’s Immar. I’ve only traveled this road twice. The arms-commander, I mean the duke, did not often visit Lake Reomer.”

  “Immar!” commands Lerial. “Stand up! Now! Enough groveling.”

  The innkeeper slowly rises, his eyes going from Norstaan to Lerial and then back to Lerial in puzzlement.

  “Duke Rhamuel has sent Lord Lerial to seek the truth,” offers the undercaptain.

  “We need to talk,” Lerial declares.

  Behind him, Strauxyn murmurs, “Permission to inspect the inn, ser?”

  “Granted.”

  From behind Lerial comes the command, “First Squad, First File, dismount.”

  “Once my men look around, you and I, Immar, are going to talk.”

  “Yes, ser. Yes, ser.” The innkeeper continues to glance at Norstaan.

  “Lord Lerial is the overcaptain who did the most to defeat the Heldyans. He stands high in the duke’s esteem and trust,” Norstaan explains. “He is the second son of the duke of Cigoerne.”

  “The people of the Rational Stars…” murmurs the innkeeper in a resigned voice, as if he has lost all hope.

  A third of a glass later, Lerial sits across a circular table from the innkeeper in the otherwise deserted public room, except for the pair of Lancers posted by the main door and the second pair by the kitchen door.

  “Why did you throw yourself in front of us, Immar?”

  “The Afritan Guard … the squad leader … the one who came searching for the heir … he told me we would pay if we were guilty.”

  “Are you?” asks Lerial, letting his senses range over the innkeeper.

  “No, ser. I have lost my only son to this evil. Many will not speak to me. Those from whom I must buy provisions demand silvers in advance. They fear I will not live to pay them.”

  Lerial doubts the man’s distress is feigned. “Perhaps you can tell me what happened on that night when the heir and his friend arrived with their guards.”

  “I will tell you all I know. All those here will tell you what they know.”

  “How many were in the party?”

  “The same number as there always were, ser. Lord Mykel and his friend, and ten Afritan Guards and two merchanter guards.”

  “Had any of the Afritan Guards been at the inn before? Did you remember any?”

  “No, ser. That was not strange. There was always a different group of Afritan Guards every year. They joked about it when I was not listening. They said that they had thrown lucky bones because they could spend the summer at the lakes.”

  Lerial looks to Norstaan. The undercaptain nods.

  “What about the merchanter guards?”

  “I have thought about that, ser. They were different. They were not the guards that had been with Lord Mykel’s friend every time in the two years before.”

  “Was there anything else different about them?”

  “I did not see anything different. They were guards. They had blades. They watched. They did not eat when the others did. Neither did two Afritan Guards. That was the way it always was.”

  “What happened after they ate?”

  “The heir and his friend sat here and talked. Then they went upstairs.”

  “What about the guards?”

  “Most of them went to their rooms. One guarded the upstairs, and another guarded the front door. That was the way it always was.”

  “What about you and your consort?”

  “She was tired. She went to bed early. I went upstairs to wait for Jahib. I fell asleep in the chair. When I woke it was light, and she was screaming that Jahib was missing. We began looking everywhere for him. Ottar found him at the bottom of the well.”

  Although Lerial continues to question the innkeeper for another half glass, he learns little more. Finally, he says, “I’d like to speak to your consort.”

  “Ser … I
beg of you. Do not be cruel. Jahib was our only child. She mourns. She will mourn always.”

  “I do need to speak to her.”

  “I will find her and bring her here.”

  “Thank you.”

  After the innkeeper leaves, Lerial reviews what Immar had said, but he can find no inconsistencies. We’ll see what his consort has to say.

  “Ser…” At the sound of the innkeeper’s voice, Lerial rises from the small table and turns.

  The woman who approaches from the entry hall archway wears a heavy black and white mourning head scarf, swirled around her head so that Lerial can see little except her eyes. She stops short of the table. Lerial gestures for her to sit, and she does. She does not speak, even after Lerial seats himself.

  “Your son is dead,” he says quietly. “I cannot restore him to you. I would ask your help in finding the sons of other mothers.”

  The woman still does not speak.

  Lerial reaches out, his hand just short of the woman’s forehead, then extends the smallest trace of order, along with what he hopes is a feeling of comfort. He lowers his hand.

  Her eyes widen, then brighten, as if with unshed tears. After a moment, she says, “You are a magus from the south, are you not?”

  “From the south and of the Magi’i,” he replies, for he does not consider himself a magus.

  “You can tell the truth of my words?”

  Lerial smiles, wryly. “I can tell if you do not believe your own words.”

  “They killed my Jahib. He was but twelve, and they killed him.”

  “I heard he was found in the well.”

  “They wanted me to think my son was stupid and careless. My son. He was dutiful and the most careful of boys.”

  “Who wanted you to think that?”

  “Those who killed him.”

  “Do you know who killed him? Or how? When?”

  “Someone with the heir. It could have been no one else.”

  “How do you know he was killed?”

  “His belt was caught in the bucket strap. He never stood that way in lifting water. He always set the bucket on the well wall. The wall is chest high. Immar built it that high so no one would ever fall in.”