Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “Yes, ser,” replies Lerial.

  “Oh … and you can use a spare mount to ride over to the majer’s villa afterward. He’s expecting you for dinner.”

  “Thank you, ser.”

  “Be the least we could do.”

  Lerial turns to Juist. “You have the squad.” While the words are a formality, they are also expected, Lerial knows. “And the paychest.” Those are not.

  “Yes, ser. I have the squad. We’ll put the paychest in the strongroom first off.”

  Lerial nods an acknowledgment.

  Once Lerial dismounts, he watches as the chest is carried into headquarters. Only then does he lead the gelding into the stable, where he unsaddles and grooms him before heading to the headquarters building. He leaves his kit with his saddle, uncertain where he will be sleeping.

  Graessyr is waiting for him in the captain’s study and gestures for Lerial to sit down in the straight-backed chair in front of the narrow table-desk.

  “What do you know about the hill towns?” The captain’s voice is direct and serious.

  “I know what the maps show. The majer had me study them until I could draw them from memory. I know what he told me, and that they’re almost independent. Other than that…” Lerial shrugs.

  “The maps aren’t as reliable as they could be. Oh … all the larger towns and hamlets are there. We’ve been sending out scouts for years. What do you know about the people?”

  “I don’t, ser.”

  “No one knows that much, but there are two or three things you need to keep in mind. First, make sure you and the Lancers keep your hands off their women. You won’t have any problem, but some Lancers might. The forest women are beautiful, but they’re all Kaordists, and they don’t play around, especially with strangers. They supposedly consort for life, and they have a tendency to slice people in half who don’t respect their women. Respect means keeping your hands off. The majer will fill you in on more, but it will take the two of you and the squad leaders to make sure the rankers don’t mess with the women. You think the Afritans are touchy about that … it’s nothing compared to the hill people. That’s another reason why their elders are approaching the Duke. His high and mightiness, Duke Casseon, thinks anyone north of Jabuti or Clyanaka is a peasant to be used in whatever way suits him or his men. He’s a strict ordist…”

  Ordist? It took Lerial a moment to place the term—a believer in the supremacy of order over chaos, who forbids the use of chaos.

  “… and the hill people are anything but.”

  With that statement, his father’s plans make much more sense. It’s also a possible reason why Duke Atroyan’s sire allowed the Magi’i to build Cigoerne.

  “Did your father ever say anything about that?”

  “He said that Duke Casseon didn’t believe as we do and outlawed the use of chaos as evil.”

  “By anyone except his own mages. That’s another problem that the hill people have with him.” Graessyr straightens. “That’s all I have, and I don’t want to keep you from a far better meal than you’d get here.”

  “It won’t be a problem…?”

  “No. I do appreciate your asking, but officers can eat where they want when they’re off-duty. So can rankers, but they need permission from their squad leaders.”

  “Ah … quarters, ser?”

  “There are two small chambers for junior officers. Take your pick … if that’s your choice.”

  Lerial has the sense that what Graessyr offers is another test, of sorts. “It would be best if I were here.” That is true for a number of reasons, and he also recalls that his father did not sleep at Kinaar.

  Graessyr nods. “I can see that.”

  After he leaves the captain, Lerial returns to the stable and carries his gear to the visiting junior officers’ quarters, then returns and saddles the spare mount—a mare. For perhaps the first time ever, he rides alone in making his way from the post to Kinaar.

  When he nears the north entrance to the villa, Altyrn steps out to greet him. “Welcome back.”

  “I didn’t expect to be here quite so soon.”

  “Expectations can be misleading.” Altyrn looks up at Lerial. “No one would ever know.”

  “What? That I’m who I am?”

  “Or that you’re as young as you are. That’s good. You didn’t mention your age to any of the Lancers, did you?”

  “No.” Lerial grins ruefully. “I never thought of it, one way or another.”

  “I shouldn’t be keeping you here. Maeroja will be happy to see you … and the girls, of course.”

  Lerial dismounts and walks the mare across the brick pavement to the stables. While he stalls her, he does not unsaddle her, since he will not be that long.

  “You’re staying at the post, I see,” offers Altyrn as they walk back to the villa.

  “It seemed to me that was best … for several reasons.”

  The majer nods. “I can see that.”

  “I’m sorry … I hope my being here isn’t what dragged you into training the hill Lancers.”

  Altyrn laughs, a gentle ironic sound. “I suggested making overtures to them years ago. Obviously, your father never forgot.”

  “Oh … I didn’t know.”

  “There’s no reason you would.” The majer pauses. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention it at dinner when the girls are present, though.”

  “They’re still upset about what happened in the south valley?”

  “Tyrna and Aylana have trouble with the concept that duty never truly ends.”

  “And Maeroja and Rojana understand it, but don’t like it?” asks Lerial.

  “Something like that,” replies Altyrn dryly. He leads the way through the north entrance into the courtyard and then around to the salon.

  Only Maeroja is there, and she rises from her chair and offers a warm smile. “It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to be here.” If not under the circumstances.

  “I imagine you’re thirsty.” Altyrn gestures toward the narrow table against the salon wall.

  “I am at that.” Lerial realizes that he didn’t even stop for a drink at the Lancer post. “Very thirsty.”

  “Go ahead. I have to finish up going over the girls’ lessons, Rojana’s especially.” With a cheerful smile, Altyrn turns and leaves the salon.

  Lerial pours himself a mug full of the dark lager, then takes one of the straight-backed chairs facing Maeroja. After a swallow of the lager, he looks directly at her. “I’m sorry about this.”

  “Things are as they are,” she replies.

  “But if my father had not sent me here…”

  “The hill people would still have petitioned your father. He would have requested the same of my consort … and you would likely not be with him.” She holds up a hand to forestall any objection Lerial might have. “Your father is sending you because you have done well here. Otherwise he would have sent your brother. You are the better choice. I cannot say that I am happy. I worry that every time he leaves Kinaar he will not return. Yet he has built the Lancers from two companies into a force that sustains a country. I cannot ask him to abandon all that he has built.”

  The implication is clear enough for Lerial—just as you cannot ask your father to abandon what he has created.

  After a moment of silence, Maeroja says. “I see you understand. But then, you would likely not be here if you did not.”

  “How … is Rojana?”

  “She will recover. All who harbor more than childish desires do.”

  Lerial nods thoughtfully. He wouldn’t have put it that way, but her words make sense.

  “Tell me … what did you do once you returned to Cigoerne?”

  “What the majer taught me how to do … keep working to get better…” Lerial describes what has happened in the season since he has left Kinaar. He has barely finished when Aylana bursts into the salon.

  “You did come back!”

  “Just for dinner,” L
erial replies.

  “You can’t stay longer?” asks Tyrna, close behind her younger sister.

  “No, he can’t,” says the majer, who accompanies Rojana into the salon. “We have to leave in the morning. What the Duke has asked of us is very important. It might mean the difference between our keeping Kinaar … or losing everything.”

  “That sounds important,” says Aylana solemnly.

  Both her sisters look at her.

  “It is indeed,” says Altyrn cheerfully. “And Lerial and I will tell you all about it when we return.”

  From that, and Maeroja’s slightly forced smile, Lerial understands that the conversation during refreshments and dinner will be light … and as cheerful as possible. He can’t blame either the majer or Maeroja.

  XXXIX

  Majer Altyrn arrives at the Teilyn post just before sunrise. He wears the riding uniform of a Lancer majer; that is, the same greens as all the Lancers, but with the collar insignia of a majer. Once he arrives, he gathers Lerial and the two squad leaders.

  First, Altyrn looks to Juist and Kusyl. “You know about the squad of replacement Lancers accompanying us as far as Tirminya?”

  Both squad leaders nod. Lerial does not, although he found out about the replacements that morning, only because, he suspects, Graessyr did not wish him to be surprised. He also learned that Altyrn had added a number of wooden wands of his own to those in the wagons and borrowed even more from Graessyr’s armory. That didn’t surprise him, either. What did was that he hadn’t even noticed the additional Lancers at the post, and that bothered him. Another reminder of what you don’t know … or what you don’t know enough about to notice.

  “They’ll ride in the middle. You two will alternate van and rearguard.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “What about the wagons, ser?” asks Juist.

  “We’ll take them as far as we can beyond Tirminya, except for the supply wagon for the post there. If we don’t get heavy rains, we might be able to bring them all the way.”

  “They have roads and wagons there?” asks Kusyl. “The hill people, I mean?”

  “They have better roads than in the south valley, and they use carts and small wagons.” The majer answers questions for almost a fifth of a glass before he says, “It’s time to head out.”

  From Altyrn’s replies and certainty, Lerial gets the strong impression that at least some, if not all, of the majer’s knowledge comes from his own observations, the result of many scouting trips beyond the “official” borders of Cigoerne, suggesting yet another reason why Maeroja and their daughters are concerned about him—the fact that he has already faced more than his share of danger. And why Father picked him … again.

  Once the squad leaders leave, the majer turns to Lerial. “We’ll be heading back into Teilyn, and then west out of town on the north valley road. It’s a half-decent road for close to fifty kays, and not bad for another ninety or so, until we reach Tirminya. After that … well, it’s like all the other trails.”

  “Tirminya is a border post, then?”

  “Of sorts. The hamlets for another twenty kays or so to the west claim allegiance to your father, and they’re so poor that Atroyan doesn’t care. He’ll care more once he learns that the hill people have agreed to allegiance with your father.” He pauses. “Time to mount up.”

  No sooner are Lerial and Altyrn in their saddles than Graessyr walks out from the headquarters building to Altyrn. He carries a dispatch bag that he hands to the majer. “Give my best to Captain Dechund.”

  “He’ll appreciate the gear as well.” Altyrn’s tone is dry.

  “He should.” Graessyr laughs genially. “He’s getting it and his replacements two eightdays earlier than he would have.”

  “Anything in the pouch I should know about?” asks the majer, as he straps the dispatch pouch to his saddle.

  “Approval of some promotions from junior squad leader to squad leader, and a warning to be aware of more raiders and poachers … and a notice that the paychest in the supply wagon has to last until the second eightday of spring.”

  “He won’t like that.”

  “No post commander does.” Graessyr steps back. “I won’t keep you.”

  Altyrn nods and turns his mount toward the head of the column. Lerial follows, and in less than a tenth of a glass, the column heads out through the gates.

  Over the next six days, as they ride along the north valley road, through hamlet after hamlet, the names of which few are familiar to Lerial, and those only as names on a map, roughly two-thirds of the time, at Altyrn’s suggestion, Lerial alternates riding with either Juist or Kusyl. The remaining time is spent riding with the majer at the head of the Lancers, if behind the scouts.

  At night when it is dark, and when no one is looking, Lerial continues to work to strengthen his ability to hold a concealment. While he feels he is improving, there is no way to tell because any use of it around the Lancers would reveal that ability … and the ability of an officer to vanish would not be the best talent to reveal.

  Close to midday on eightday, Lerial sees a line of dwellings ahead, in the middle of a patch of taller, if browning grass. To the northwest is an expanse of short brown and dusty grass as far as the eye can see. To the south, no more than three kays away, the ground rises into what must be the northern side of the western end of the Wooded Ridges, and just beyond the line of dwellings, west of a depression marked by a sparse line of trees, possibly a small stream, are the white walls, most likely mud brick, of a Lancer outpost.

  “Is that Tirminya?” Lerial asks Juist.

  “That’s Tirminya. Swore on the Rational Stars I’d never set eyes on the place again.”

  “Why not?”

  “No women, not to speak of, except in the taverns … and they’re not much to speak of. You’re always riding north to deal with poachers or south through the gap to deal with the Meroweyan raiders that sometimes hit the west end of the south valley.”

  “Did the raiders used to come this far north?”

  “That’s what all the older squad leaders said,” replies Juist.

  “But no one wanted to move the post?”

  “Move the post south, and you’d have more poachers from Afrit, maybe even come into Tirminya.”

  But why … Lerial swallows and asks, “And there aren’t enough Lancers to garrison two posts this far from Cigoerne?”

  “Not for as few raiders as there are.”

  “What about raids from the west?”

  “Never happened. Hill folk believe in live and let live. Poachers never came back. Neither did Meroweyan raiders, I heard tell.”

  Then why do the hill people want to declare allegiance to Cigoerne? The only answer that Lerial can come up with is that Duke Casseon has moved armsmen against the hill people … or threatened to do so. But Merowey is so much bigger than Cigoerne … Do they hate Casseon that much? Otherwise, why on earth would they ask for protection and allegiance from Cigoerne?

  After a moment, and upon reflection, Lerial understands. The hill people wouldn’t ask for allegiance with Afrit because Atroyan wouldn’t extend himself that far, and it’s more convenient for him to have the hill people as a buffer between his lands and the lands Casseon actually controls. Khesyn would see no benefit and only losses in doing so. Their only choice to maintain their way of life is to appeal to Cigoerne.

  You should have seen that earlier.

  At that moment, Altyrn rides forward from the rearguard and motions for Lerial to join him.

  Lerial eases the gelding forward. “Ser?”

  “You must know that’s Tirminya?”

  “I thought it was from the Lancer post, but I asked Juist if it happened to be,” Lerial confesses.

  “We’ll likely not get that warm a welcome here. The post has enough bunks, but Captain Dechund won’t relish feeding us and providing fodder. The mounts need rest. At least a day, maybe two.” Altyrn’s tone turns wry as he goes on. “We can’t afford to spend t
he golds your father sent to make the captain’s go farther … and Dechund will know that. He’ll understand, but he won’t like it, especially when he finds out who you are.”

  “Yes, ser.” Lerial almost asks why the captain has to know, but realizes not telling the officer in charge of the entire area who he is would indicate a total lack of trust … and that is something he—and Father—cannot afford.

  Their way leads to and through the northern third of Tirminya. The road is even more dusty as they ride through the town, a collection of mostly mud-brick structures, although there are at least two dwellings with log walls. Unlike in the hamlets to the east, and especially those near the Swarth River, most dwellings have split-wood shingle roofs, rather than tile or the thatch that Lerial has heard is used in other parts of Hamor. Only a few inhabitants are in the streets, even though it is midday and moderately warm, especially for midwinter. There is no one on the bridge or the road from it to the post.

  The gate guards at the post just watch as the three squads and wagons follow Lerial and the majer inside the tall mud-brick walls, walls covered with a mud plaster and then whitewashed. So white are the walls that Lerial feels that there must be years and years of whitewash covering the plaster. The inner courtyard of the fort is paved in mud brick, a patchwork of old solid bricks, some older cracked bricks, and newer bricks.

  Outside the center headquarters building waits a captain. Altyrn rides within a few yards and reins up. Lerial eases the gelding to a halt beside the majer and his mount. Dechund is a stocky man, not quite rotund, with short brown hair that is slicked down below the sides of his visor cap and deep-set eyes the color of which somehow Lerial cannot discern. His brow is lined, and Lerial would guess that he is at least fifteen, if not twenty, years older than Lerial himself. His uniform is immaculate, and his boots are polished to a shine that might well serve as a mirror. The captain looks from Altyrn to Lerial and back to the majer. “You’re back in uniform, Majer. Did something happen to Phortyn?”

  “No. He’s well, or was when Lord Lerial here left headquarters.”

  “Ser.” Dechund’s nod to Lerial is slightly more than perfunctory.