“They all owe you.”
“They do, but I’ve noticed that there’s not exactly a great sense of obligation here in Afrit.” Nor of honor, honesty … or much of anything but a love of amassing golds. “Except for Rhamuel, the dukes appear to be constrained greatly by the power of the merchanters.”
“You might want to talk to him about what he could do about changing that.”
“I’ve thought about that … a great deal, but until…”
“Until you finished what had to be done, you didn’t want to bring those things up?”
“Not only that, but I knew how they ended up would affect what I could say.”
Emerya nods. “I’d say the time has come.” She stands. “We can go to the salon and have some refreshments. We don’t have to wait until they ring the glass. I have that on good authority.”
Good authority? Rhamuel? What else has been going on that she isn’t saying?
“Leave it at that, for now, Lerial,” she says warmly, if with a touch of humor.
Lerial wonders, but does not question, since it’s clear she’s not about to say more. He rises, and the two leave the study, walking toward the grand staircase up to the third level. As they climb the marble steps, he cannot but help noticing the dust on the top of the balustrade.
When he and Emerya enter the Blue Salon, Lerial is surprised to see a circular table, rather than the usual oblong, placed at one end of the room before the open windows, with a sideboard and servitor immediately to the left, just inside the salon. The only diner already in the salon is Aenslem, and he has a beaker of lager in his hand.
The merchanter walks toward them before stopping, nodding to Lerial, and smiling at Emerya. “Lady … I had no idea healers were so beautiful.”
“When most people need healers, they’re not inclined to notice how we look.” Both her words and her smile are gently warm.
“You’re looking more rested, Lerial,” adds the merchanter. “My daughter and granddaughter will be here shortly, now that they know you two have arrived.”
“More likely Lerial,” suggests Emerya.
“Both of you,” rejoins Aenslem. “Young Lerial has been fulsome in his praise of your healing abilities.”
Lerial doesn’t recall being fulsome, although he has said that she is the best in Cigoerne, but Aenslem may wish to embellish that for his own purposes. Rather say anything, he has the servitor pour two beakers of lager.
“Lerial might have been complimentary and honest, but I don’t recall him ever being fulsome in praise of anything. He tends to be rather understated.”
Aenslem laughs. “Is such directness a family trait?”
“No,” replies Emerya. “Only Lerial and I seem afflicted with it, one of the few attributes we share.” She takes the beaker of lager from Lerial. “Thank you.”
“The other being healing. I owe my life to him, you know?”
Lerial takes a small swallow of the lager, good, but still not as good as Altyrn’s lager.
“He did mention being of some assistance…”
Smiling, the merchanter shakes his head, but does not say more as Haesychya and Kyedra enter the salon. Kyedra still wears a long-sleeved black blouse and trousers, with a black-bordered white vest, but without the head scarf, and her mother is similarly attired. She and her mother immediately walk to meet Emerya, who sets the crystal beaker on the sideboard and turns to face the two.
“Welcome to Swartheld,” offers Haesychya. “I have wanted to meet you for so many years.”
“I wish it could have been at a less stressful time for you,” replies Emerya.
“We all have times of trouble. This is ours.” Haesychya’s smile is more than polite, but less than effusive.
“Thank you so much for coming,” offers Kyedra, the warmth in her tone obvious. “Lerial so hoped you could come and help Uncle Rham.”
“He made that rather clear.” Emerya’s tone is gently humorous. “I am glad I was able to come. At times, what one wishes and desires is not always possible.”
Lerial can almost hear the unspoken words—and one seldom gets a second chance. Yet he knows she will not stay merely to be Rhamuel’s healer … and that could make matters even more awkward—again—between Cigoerne and Afrit, especially if Lerial’s father feels Rhamuel has acted badly.
Kyedra smiles softly and again says, “Thank you,” before turning to Lerial.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, “and glad your mother came.”
“I couldn’t have come to dinner if she hadn’t.” Kyedra’s voice is barely above a murmur. “She didn’t want to come, but she did. Only for me, she said.”
Those words send a chill through Lerial because the implication is that he will not be seeing much—or any—of Kyedra before long. He manages not to swallow. “Would you like a lager?”
“Please.”
Lerial obtains two beakers of lager, presenting one to Haesychya and the other to Kyedra, before reclaiming the beaker from which he has barely sipped.
“When did you know you were a healer?” Haesychya asks Emerya.
“I was not quite ten…”
Lerial returns his full attention to Kyedra, but for several moments neither speaks. Finally, he says, “I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re at a loss for words?” Kyedra smiles, a forced expression, Lerial can tell. “You never are.”
“Almost never. This is one of those times.” He doesn’t want to mention anything about leaving Swartheld, and yet that is uppermost on his mind, with the knowledge that he does not control their fate, and neither does Kyedra.
As they stand there, unspeaking, the door opens, and two palace guards wheel Rhamuel into the salon. The duke still wears the dress uniform.
“Greetings, everyone.” Rhamuel’s voice is cheerful, and while he looks first and quickly at Emerya, his eyes do not linger on her, but turn to Haesychya. “I’m glad you came. Thank you.”
Haesychya does not speak, but nods in reply.
“Because I obviously can’t stand and talk,” Rhamuel continues cheerfully, “I suggest that we move to the table.”
When Lerial and Kyedra reach the table, he sees placards before each setting. Rhamuel is seated facing the window, with Emerya to his right and Haesychya on his left. Aenslem is to Emerya’s right, with Kyedra between her grandfather and Lerial and facing her uncle. As he sits down, Lerial takes in the platters and crystal, noting the eggshell-shaded porcelain banded at the edge in crimson and gold, and both crystal beakers and goblets at each place setting.
Once everyone is seated, the guards have left, and the servitors have filled either a goblet or a beaker for each diner, Rhamuel lifts his goblet. “To Mykel.”
The others raise their goblets or beakers, then drink.
At that point, Aenslem raises his beaker. “To Cigoerne and Afrit.”
There is no third toast, and the servitors begin serving.
Lerial turns to Haesychya and says, barely above a murmur, “I do appreciate your coming this evening.”
“Kyedra has asked for very little, Lerial. This is something I could do. There are others that I do not have the power to affect.”
“I understand.”
“You would. We will not speak more of that this evening.” Her voice strengthens. “Has anyone heard anything from that barbarian Khesyn?”
“Not a word or a dispatch,” replies Rhamuel, “but I cannot recall one in years. He prefers to make his point with blades. Now that we have replied more emphatically and effectively than he expected, I doubt we will hear anything in either fashion for a time.”
The server eases a split fowl breast covered in a thin glaze onto the eggshell-white porcelain plate. Normally, the thought of basil-cumin glazed fowl might have had Lerial’s mouth watering, but he is still thinking about Kyedra … and having to leave her.
“What does your brother think of the matter?” Haesychya asks Emerya. “Or has he discussed it with you?”
“He was greatly concerned when he heard of the scope of the battles involved. But he was pleased that it turned out as it did. He was saddened by the treachery that claimed so much of your family. He did say that there was no action too base that Khesyn wouldn’t attempt if he thought it might succeed.”
And none too base for some merchanters, either in Afrit or Cigoerne.
“That would be true, unhappily, for a few merchanters as well,” adds Aenslem dryly, a comment that vaguely surprises Lerial. “Have you thought about what to do with the assets Alaphyn left behind?” He looks to Rhamuel.
“What would you suggest?” asks the duke.
“Take them for the duchy, and perhaps a share of Jhosef’s as well.”
“We can talk that over in a day or so. Perhaps you might mention it … to others.”
“I can do that.”
“It’s said that there is some beautiful Cyadoran verse,” Haesychya begins, looking at Emerya.
“Very little remains…”
Lerial turns to Kyedra and asks dryly, “What pleasantries shall we discuss, being precluded from mentioning all that we would otherwise wish to share? Perhaps whether your grandfather has a summer villa?”
“Or whether your father has one?”
“Alas, few in Cigoerne have such, for we are a poor land compared to the riches possessed by the merchanters of the north.”
“Poor in golds, perhaps, but not in bravery and accomplishment,” she says in a voice low enough that the conversation of others keeps all but Lerial from hearing her words.
The diners eat and talk in pleasantries, and Lerial looks at Kyedra and talks with her, again in more pleasantries, with a few low asides, as much as he dares, and before long the servers remove the main course and serve each person dessert, almond-filled pastry crescents. Perhaps a third of a glass after the pastry crescents have vanished from most diners’ plates, but not Kyedra’s, Lerial notes, Haesychya throws a piercing glance at her father, one so direct that Aenslem stops what he is saying to Emerya in midsentence for a moment.
After finishing whatever it might have been, Aenslem clears his throat, then says, “Your Grace … this dinner has been a great honor, but the day has been long…”
“I understand, Aenslem.” Rhamuel turns to Haesychya. “My thanks for your coming. I would not keep you long. I will need just a few moments with your sire, but only a few.”
“We can manage,” replies Haesychya. “We will take our time going to the coach.”
Lerial almost smiles at her words and tone, which convey the sense that if whatever the two are going to discuss takes much longer, she will not be pleased. Lerial wouldn’t put it past her to just direct the coach back to the villa if Aenslem takes too much time with the duke. He turns to Kyedra and takes her hand, under the table, squeezing it gently. “Thank you … for everything.”
Her voice is firm, but low, as she replies, “I am the one who should offer thanks, for what you have done. I will not offer thanks for your departure.” She squeezes his hand in return, then slips her fingers from his.
“Nor I.”
“Kyedra,” offers Haesychya, “we do need to go.” She looks at Lerial, almost sadly, and nods. “Good evening, Lerial … and thank you, again, for my father’s life.”
Lerial stands with everyone else, and watches as Emerya departs with the other two women. Why is she going? But he really cannot ask. So, after several moments, he walks over to the duke, but before he can say anything, Rhamuel speaks.
“We’ll talk in the morning about your departure. I’d thought we might tonight, but it’s been a long day, and I need a few moments with Aenslem.” Rhamuel shakes his head ruefully. “There’s one thing that can’t wait, but I’m not getting into merchanter affairs tonight.”
“There are a few other things I’d also like to suggest.”
Rhamuel looks away, then motions to someone.
Lerial realizes that someone is Emerya, who obviously only spent a few moments with Haesychya and Kyedra before she returned. She moves to Rhamuel’s shoulder. The way she touches the duke’s shoulder tells Lerial that there is something else he has missed.
“Yes,” murmurs Emerya, “but you’re the first to know. Official word must wait for mourning to end.”
“I could not let her go, or leave her, not again,” murmurs Rhamuel, before smiling widely. “She will have the position she long deserved. And now, I need to talk to Aenslem. I’ll see you in the morning. Not too early. Say … eighth glass.”
That is an obvious dismissal, and Lerial inclines his head. “Eighth glass.”
As he walks from the chamber, then to the stables, and even as he rides back to Afritan Guard headquarters, he is still pondering how he missed what had occurred between his aunt and Rhamuel, but he is pleased for them, especially for Emerya.
All that doesn’t help him, especially since it doesn’t seem that there is anything he can do as far as Kyedra is concerned. You can’t ask for her hand, not as the younger brother of the heir, without your father’s consent, and she can’t consent without Rhamuel’s approval and Aenslem’s, and Aenslem won’t consent unless both Haesychya and Rhamuel agree … and Lephi would have a fit. Except Lerial really doesn’t care what Lephi thinks, nor does that matter unless their father agrees with Lephi. And then there is the other small problem that he has three companies of Mirror Lancers, or what is left of them, to look after as well.
He laughs softly. And all because she smiled … and that smile made you look at her more closely.
He shakes his head and keeps riding, not really hearing the echoes of the gelding’s hoofs on the paving stones.
LIX
When Lerial meets with his officers and senior squad leaders on twoday morning, after going over muster reports, Strauxyn asks, “Begging your pardon, ser, but do you know when we’ll be leaving?”
“That’s one of the things I hope to settle with the duke this morning. Now that he’s dealt with his brother’s memorial, we should be able to settle things.”
“You don’t like Swartheld so well?” asks Kusyl jestingly.
“It’s all right. It’s just…” Strauxyn breaks off his words.
“Who is she?” Kusyl grins.
Strauxyn flushes.
Lerial smiles. “It’s amazing what women can do.”
“Or what men will do for the ones they love,” adds Kusyl.
That comment shocks Lerial, because it’s not what he’d have expected from the sardonic older undercaptain. But there’s likely so much you don’t know, just like Aenslem and Atroyan, and perhaps even Rhamuel, who know so little of those below them. He pushes aside that sobering thought, as well as the near-continual thoughts about Kyedra, wondering if there is any way he can get his father to agree to letting him ask for Kyedra’s hand. That’s assuming Aenslem and Rhamuel—and Haesychya—would agree. And that is anything but certain.
“Ser … there is one thing,” ventures Dhoraat.
“Yes?”
“There are some rankers whose terms expire on eightday…”
Lerial should have remembered that. All rankers’ terms expire on one of ten days in the year—the last day of a season or the eightday of the fifth week of the season. “They can still travel back to Cigoerne with their company. It’s not as though we’re likely to be fighting, and they can draw pay for the travel time without agreeing to extend their term.”
“They know that, ser. There are a couple who want to stay here. They’ve found positions.”
“And lady-friends, I’d wager,” adds Kusyl.
“That can happen to any man, anywhere,” Lerial replies. “I don’t see a problem there. If there aren’t too many, I can find a way to cover their back pay.”
“Just three that want to stay, ser.”
“We can manage that. Anything else?”
“No, ser.”
“Then I need to get to the palace to meet with the duke.”
Lerial takes only a hal
f squad of rankers as an escort, and he doubts he needs more than two men, but there still is the question of appearances. When he reaches the anteroom outside the duke’s study, only Norstaan is there.
“Go right in, ser,” says Norstaan. “He’s alone. The commander is at South Post this morning.”
“Thank you.” Not without some trepidation, Lerial steps into the receiving study.
Rhamuel motions for him to take a chair, and Lerial does so, waiting.
“To begin with, I thought you’d like to know that five days ago, Maesoryk died peacefully in his sleep. The local healer could find no trace of chaos or poison.”
Lerial manages to avoid taking a deep breath. “I’m not surprised.”
“I didn’t think you would be. In fact, I think you’d only have been surprised if you had not heard of his death.” After a moment, Rhamuel continues, his voice firm and decisive, “I have some other things I’d like to discuss with you, but let’s go over what you had in mind first. Save the questions about your departure for last.”
Lerial again feels like taking a deep breath. He doesn’t. “You need to make some changes in what the merchanters can and cannot do.”
“Such as?”
“Powerful order-mages or chaos-mages should serve the duke and/or the Afritan Guard, not the merchanters. Less powerful mages or wizards should only serve merchanters with the knowledge and consent of the duke.”
“Why do you think that?” Rhamuel’s tone is even, not quite skeptical.
“Most of the treachery your brother faced was made possible by the fact that Duke Khesyn had control of chaos-mages and traitorous Afritan merchanters did also—”
“And the only thing that saved me and Afrit was one powerful magus loaned to me by the grace of the Duke of Cigoerne.”
“I’m not a full magus, and never will be.”
“Call you a war magus, then, but you were the difference. I’ll admit it. I also agree with your recommendation. There is, however, just one small problem with it. How exactly am I going to enforce it?” Rhamuel smiles.
“You make failure to comply treason against Afrit and execute anyone who fails to comply. It won’t work otherwise.”
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