“Your penmanship is adequate, but far from outstanding, and your ‘R’s are too sloppy.” The magus pauses, then asks, “What did you mean by this sentence? ‘The traders of Heldya have no idea of fairness’?”
“They’ll bargain for the cheapest price they can get, no matter what it costs to grow or make something.”
“That’s most likely true, but that doesn’t mean that they have no idea of fairness, does it?”
“No, ser.”
“Then you need to write what you told me, not what you wrote.” Saltaryn adds, “If you desire to be accurate. There are times when honesty should be tempered, as you will learn, but when you temper it, always remember what you are doing.”
More questions follow, almost line by line.
Finally, after Saltaryn has disposed of the essay, he reaches the part of the lessons that Lerial hates—the mental arithmetic problems that Saltaryn recites.
“If you have a company of ninety-seven men, with ten spare mounts, and each mount requires a minimum of a half-basket of grain a day, how much grain will you need for a nine-day patrol?”
“Four hundred eighty one and a half baskets.”
“What about your mount?”
Lerial manages not to sigh. “I’d need another four and a half baskets.”
“What about grain for the horses pulling the supply wagon?”
“Eighteen more baskets for two supply wagons. That’s … five hundred four baskets.”
Saltaryn nods. “You look at the payroll ledger for a company of Mirror Lancers, and the weekly payroll shows payment of two hundred twenty silvers? How many Lancers understrength is the company?”
Lerial blinks. Understrength? Then he remembers that the payroll has to include the captain, an undercaptain, and a senior squad leader in addition to the rankers. “Seventeen rankers, or seven rankers and no undercaptain.” He pauses. “Most likely, seven without an undercaptain.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because my father wouldn’t allow a company to patrol seventeen rankers below complement.” Not when we’re usually outnumbered anyway, for all the companies stationed on the borders.
“I’ll accept that.”
Lerial waits for the next problem, understanding the necessity for being able to handle figures in his head, but not particularly caring for the exercises.
After another half glass of exercises, Saltaryn smiles. “You’re showing much more discipline in studying. Your father will be pleased to hear that.”
Lerial nods politely, thinking, Not pleased. That’s what he expects.
When Saltaryn and Lerial leave the study, Lerial wonders if he should seek out Woelyt for another round of sparring.
How will you get better and be able to best Lephi if you don’t keep trying? Especially after Woelyt told you that you needed to practice more. He takes a deep slow breath, then walks along the main floor corridor that leads toward the outer courtyard and the Lancers’ practice area.
Unsurprisingly, Woelyt is available, as if the undercaptain has expected Lerial to appear, and Lerial suspects that the officer just may have … or that Saltaryn has informed him when Lerial would likely be finished with his lessons.
Although the soreness in his leg turns out not to hamper him as much as he had feared, he still has difficulty in responding to anything new or different that the undercaptain brings to bear. After the second round of sparring, while he is catching his breath and trying to cool down somewhat, he turns to Woelyt and asks, “How long do you think it will take before I can defend against something I’ve never seen before?”
“When you’re first sparring it seems to take forever,” replies Woelyt with a smile. “The longer and harder you practice, especially with those who are better than you are, the sooner you’ll recognize and be able to defend against moves you haven’t seen. It’s mostly recognition in time to use defenses you already know.”
That doesn’t give Lerial much cheer, true as he suspects the officer’s words are. Still, he perseveres until Woelyt has to leave on his rounds. Then he trudges back into the palace and makes his way to the north fountain court, which he finds empty. He isn’t certain whether he’s relieved or unhappy to find no one else there, although he wonders where his mother and sister might be … or Amaira, for that matter.
After he feels cool enough that he won’t start sweating heavily after he washes up, he heads for the bath chamber. He needs to write another essay for Saltaryn, who was less than pleased with his last effort, and that is likely to take much of what is left of the afternoon.
That night, after dinner, he makes his way to his aunt’s chambers.
Emerya does not invite him in, but steps into the corridor. “Amaira’s fighting a little flux.”
“What about tomorrow?”
She smiles and shakes her head. “For now, Lerial, I think you’ve learned enough.”
“Has Father or Mother—or Saltaryn—said anything? Is that why you don’t want to teach me more?”
“Saltaryn has expressed some concerns,” Emerya admits. “But I have taught you all you should know about order right now.”
“I don’t know that much.”
“You know enough … for now. We’ll see how you do with what I’ve showed you.”
Lerial can tell that there will be no changing her mind. After a moment, he ventures, “I understand, I think, but there is one thing…”
“Oh?”
“Saltaryn had me practicing lighting candles I couldn’t see from a distance…”
Emerya raises her eyebrows, so white that they are almost invisible.
“Just across the study. Even that isn’t easy. The candleholders were bright and polished when we started, but when we ended, they were tarnished.”
“Did Saltaryn handle them?”
“He did, but they were tarnished all over, not just where he touched them.”
Emerya nods. “Saltaryn doesn’t have the most precise personal control over his use of chaos. The best of the Magi’i handle chaos with order in a way that the chaos stays outside their bodies. They’re the ones who live the longest. I’ve told you about that, remember?”
“But they aren’t the strongest.”
“They don’t seem the strongest,” replies his aunt. “There’s a difference. That’s another reason why you need to follow the rules and techniques I’ve showed you. They’re harder, but they’ll serve you well.”
“I’ll never be a healer or an ordermage.”
“You can’t say that.” She pauses. “You can’t ever be known as a healer or an ordermage, especially not if you end up leading Mirror Lancers.”
“Because ordermages and healers aren’t supposed to kill people?”
“They’re not thought to be capable of it. That’s not quite the same thing … if you think about it. If I were you, I would think about it … a great deal.” She stops for a moment, then says, “You could be a healer, Lerial, but that wouldn’t be good for you, or for Cigoerne. For now, you’ve learned all you need to know.”
“I’m still having problems with my sparring.”
“It’s only been an eightday or so. Everything takes time.”
“But…”
“I need to see to Amaira, Lerial.”
“Oh … I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. Just keep working on what I showed you.” She smiles, then slips back into her chambers.
For a long moment, Lerial just stands there. Then, he turns and begins to walk back toward his own quarters, thinking.
… You can’t ever be known to be a healer or ordermage.… not if you end up leading Mirror Lancers … His aunt’s words keep running through his thoughts.
VI
For the next eightday, Lerial dutifully continues his lessons with Saltaryn, followed by sessions with Undercaptain Woelyt. While he feels he is getting better and is able to avoid the worst strikes and bruises, the undercaptain still disarms him regularly, even though Lerial has
taken to practicing even more by himself. He no longer gets that tired holding the wand, but he is all too aware that he does not have the physical strength of the undercaptain, or even of Lephi, who returned from his first patrol late the previous evening.
When Lerial rises on sevenday, he sees no sign of his brother, who does not rise for breakfast and is doubtless sleeping in, although their father has always insisted that sevenday morning is for work and that only on that afternoon and eightday itself are the two excused from duties and lessons. Lerial finds he is annoyed, but not especially surprised, since their father’s rules seem to him to be applied less rigidly to Lephi. That’s the way things are, and will always be.
He eats his breakfast quietly, with Ryalah, Amaira, and Emerya, although his mother arrives as he is finishing, then heads for his lessons with Saltaryn. The magus is less demanding on sevendays, and by late midmorning, Lerial is finished. Lephi is still not up.
So Lerial seeks out Undercaptain Woelyt and spends a good glass accumulating more bruises and, hopefully, getting better in using the sabre.
After cooling down and cleaning up, Lerial returns to his chambers to work on an even longer essay for Magus Saltaryn. Lephi does not come by, and Lerial is not about to go looking for him. Instead, he finishes the essay and practices some with the sabre wand, if not strenuously enough to work up much of a sweat. Finally, it is time to head down to the main courtyard for refreshments before dinner.
He reaches the east door to the courtyard just after Lephi. His older brother’s face is lightly tanned, as dark as it will likely ever get, but his short-cut hair is now almost white-blond, and his green eyes appear paler to Lerial. He even looks more confident as he fills a glass with red wine, not watering it, and settles into the chair across the large courtyard table from his mother.
Lerial moves toward the refreshment table where he half fills his glass with light lager, knowing that he can drink two half glasses without comments from his mother or aunt, when drawing a full glass would draw a cold look or a few words.
“Emerya!” calls his mother.
Lerial turns to see his aunt approaching with Amaira and Ryalah. Immediately, he sets down his glass and pours redberry from the crockery pitcher into two small tumblers, which he carries to the table where the girls usually sit.
“Thank you,” says Emerya quietly, before turning. “What do you say, girls?”
“Thank you,” chorus the two.
“You’re welcome.” Lerial smiles as he steps back and watches the girls sit down.
Ryalah sets the ubiquitous pegboard on the table, then takes a swallow of redberry, but Amaira takes only a small sip.
Lerial cannot sense any chaos in his cousin, but she is very quiet, even quieter than she had been at breakfast. Rather than say anything, he waits while Emerya takes a goblet and pours a small amount of white—or light amber—wine into it. Then he follows her to the large table and sits to his mother’s right, putting as much space between himself and Lephi as possible.
“How is Amaira?” asks Xeranya, looking to Emerya. “She seems better. A bit pale, though.”
Both women look at the smaller table where Amaira and Ryalah sip redberry juice from the small tumblers.
“Her fever is gone, and she’s eating now. She gets tired by the end of the day.” Emerya takes a deep breath. “It’s been a long eightday.”
Lerial nods. He’d been able to sense that just from his aunt’s demeanor over the past days.
“Tell us about your patrol,” says Xeranya, looking proudly at her older son.
“It was just a patrol,” replies Lephi. “We rode southwest from Cigoerne along the Thylan River road for almost four days. One day we rode through Teilyn, as you requested, ser.” Lephi looks at Kiedron, who has entered the courtyard from the west entrance unnoticed and who nods. “We didn’t see anyone we shouldn’t have, and none of the people along the road had been raided. It wasn’t until we got to Barteld that we heard about raiders. The captain said that was a bad sign. Usually they don’t come north of Narthyl.”
“That’s not good,” Emerya agrees.
From his studies with Saltaryn and glasses spent memorizing maps, Lerial also understands. One of the reasons his father has been able to claim the territory he has for the duchy of Cigoerne is that, except for the lands near the Swarth River immediately west of Cigoerne and along the smaller Thylan River that flows into the Swarth a kay or so south of the city, most of the land claimed by Kiedron consists of hills covered with sparse grass, with occasional wooded areas. Rather … most of it had been grassland, but Lerial’s grandmother had insisted on using the mages and the Lancers to build ditches and canals off the Thylan and a few smaller streams. Over just a few years, more people have appeared and begun to farm lands that only needed water, and the use of irrigation for some pasturage has also created some herds used for dairying and cheese-making. The fact that raiders are appearing some sixty kays north of Narthyl, which is the largest town in the south of Cigoerne, is definitely a cause for concern.
“What happened?” asks Lerial.
“I was going to get to that,” replies Lephi, “if you’d given me a moment.”
“You might let Lephi talk, dear,” adds Xeranya mildly.
Lerial nods, seething, and takes a sip of his lager.
Lephi does not immediately speak, clearly letting the silence speak for him.
Lerial takes another sip of his lager, thinking he’ll be angel-cursed if he’ll utter another word.
At last, Lephi clears his throat and says, “For two days we patrolled the area around Barteld. We saw some tracks, but we never saw the raiders. Then a herder sent word that he’d seen riders heading west…”
West? wonders Lerial.
“… and the captain figured out that they were riding toward a hamlet southwest of Bartheld where there’s a little lake, and they’ve got orchards and sheep there. He had us ride late that evening, and we got there before the raiders did. They didn’t show up until the next morning, and we ambushed them. Only a few got away. We only captured a handful, but all but one of them died of their wounds.”
That doesn’t surprise Lerial. The grassland raiders tended to fight to the death if they are surrounded.
“How big was the band, dear?” Xeranya inquires.
“About a score. There might have been a few more.”
“Did you fight any of them?” asks Ryalah loudly from the small table.
“No,” admits Lephi. “The captain had me with the reserve squad. We were posted between the raiders and the hamlet, just in case any raiders got by first squad.”
“What did the raiders look like?” asks Emerya.
“They wore those loose baggy white tunics and baggy trousers, like all the Meroweyans do.”
“Only the raiders in the north of Merowey do that,” offers Emerya gently. “That’s because the land is so dry there.”
Lerial could have said the same, but he is glad that his aunt does.
“Of course,” agrees Lephi genially. “That’s what I meant.”
“Did they look thin or gaunt?” presses Emerya.
Lephi frowns. “I don’t know.”
“What did the captain say about how they fought?”
Lerial can tell that Emerya is worried, but he doesn’t understand why.
“He did say something about it being easier than usual. Why?”
“They’re avoiding Narthyl because it has a garrison there. Your company was sent out to patrol an area north and west of Narthyl. That likely means that the grassland nomads are short of food. We didn’t have much rain this winter, and the hill grasses here are already browning.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, Emerya,” offers Kiedron as he nears the table. “The southlands are dry, and last fall’s harvest in the north of Merowey was scanty. That’s what all the traders have been saying as well. The Ministry records show we’ve been getting more hides as well.”
Hides? What do they
have to do with it? Lerial wonders, but does not ask, not with Lephi ready to show his superiority.
Kiedron walks to the serving table and pours himself a goblet of the red wine. “It’s not much better to the west of here. That’s where I’ve been with Fifth Company. We’re even seeing raiders and poachers from Afrit there, and the hill forests are drier than usual.” He sits down between his sister and his consort so that he is on Emerya’s right.
“Did you come across any raiders from Afrit?” asks Xeranya.
“One of the squads did, but we killed only two. The others fled into the woods. The area was rocky and dangerous, and I didn’t want to risk the mounts, not over raiders who were more like poachers.”
“They’re hungry,” observes Emerya.
“Then they should poach in Afrit,” retorts Kiedron, “except they know Atroyan—or Rhamuel—will execute their families if they’re caught. We can’t do that, because we’d have to go into Afrit to do it, and the poachers know that. So they try to steal game, crops, or livestock from Cigoerne. Even if they get caught, their families are safe.”
“A cruel choice,” says Emerya.
“It’s a cruel choice for us as well,” points out Kiedron after taking a swallow of wine and setting the goblet on the table. “If we don’t kill at least a few of them, even more will come sneaking into Cigoerne and steal from our people. We’re not a wealthy land, not yet. Duke Atroyan could spare some wheat-corn or maize flour for his people, but he chooses not to. You know we’ve sent what we can to Narthyl and some of the hamlets when we could.”
Emerya nods slowly, and Lerial gets the impression that she does not fully agree … or that there is something left unsaid, if not both. But then, that is often the case.
“Lephi’s patrol seemed to go well,” suggests Xeranya.
“That’s what Captain Jahaal told me at the Lancer headquarters. They did run into some raiders, but not as many as I feared from the earlier reports.”
“That may be because many are too weak to cross the hills.”
“It’s possible, and I’m grateful for that. We don’t need hordes of poachers, raiders, and beggars. It will be worse after harvest. The water level in the Thylan is low, and it’s continuing to drop. If it gets much lower, we won’t be able to use some of the older irrigation ditches unless they’re deepened, and some of the growers aren’t listening. By the time they do something, it will be too late.”
Cyador’s Heirs Page 6