Cyador’s Heirs

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “I’m pleased to meet you, ser,” replies Lerial.

  Before Dechund can say anything more, Altyrn continues, “There may be a dispatch for you about our mission. There may not. Duke Kiedron has dispatched us to train Lancers from among the hill people. They’ve pledged allegiance to him.”

  “Getting tired of Casseon, are they?” Dechund looks as if he were about to spit, then swallows.

  “Wouldn’t you?” replies Altyrn genially. “We’ll be here for two days, most likely, before we head out.” He extends the dispatch pouch. “This is yours, and the third wagon has your supplies. We also escorted your replacement squad.”

  “My appreciation. You’re welcome to what we have, Majer, Lord Lerial … It’s not much, but it’s yours.”

  “Undercaptain, please,” Lerial says firmly, but quietly.

  “As you wish, Undercaptain.”

  “No…” Lerial smiles. “As my father wishes … and as I understand, for I know far less than the captains and other senior and experienced Lancer officers.”

  “Undercaptain Lerial has already proved his ability with a sabre against Meroweyan raiders, limited as his experience is,” says Altyrn smoothly.

  Dechund nods once more, his smile not quite forced. “Once you’ve seen to what you must … my study is yours and at your convenience.”

  “Thank you. We will join you shortly.” Altyrn offers an easy smile before turning his mount toward the stable built against or into the west wall of the post.

  Lerial follows. He says nothing while unsaddling and grooming his mount.

  “Leave your gear with your saddle,” Altyrn tells Lerial as he finishes. “We should meet with the captain.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lerial follows the majer across the courtyard, feeling that more than a few eyes are on them, hoping that most rest on the majer. A junior squad leader in the anteroom of headquarters gestures to the open study door. “He’s expecting you, sers.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dechund’s study is like the few studies of Lancer officers that Lerial has already seen, with a narrow table-desk and a wooden armchair behind it, two straight-backed chairs, and a stack of file chests. A single bookcase holds few books, and assorted other items, including an odd-looking small brass lantern and several jars.

  Altyrn takes one of the armless chairs, and Lerial the other … after waiting for the two senior officers to seat themselves.

  “I’ve read the dispatches, Majer. It appears as though you have been assigned a difficult mission. It’s one for which the Tirminya post can offer little support, I fear.” Dechund offers an apologetic smile.

  “Your standing orders will offer sufficient support,” returns Altyrn. “It is more than likely that you will need to be more aware of incursions from the north.”

  “The north, ser?” Dechund is clearly puzzled.

  Lerial can sense that without even trying.

  “When Duke Atroyan discovers that the hill people are allying themselves with Duke Kiedron, what will be his likely response?”

  “I would think he would attack them, would he not?”

  “Is any small or company-sized force, or even two companies or three, likely to be successful in penetrating their forests without substantial casualties?”

  Dechund considers the question, then frowns. “Are you suggesting…?”

  “I would think it highly likely that raids on small hamlets to the north will commence about the time spring planting begins.” Altyrn smiles politely. “I have, of course, informed Captain Graessyr of that likelihood, as well as sent a dispatch to Majer Phortyn alerting him to the likelihood of such possibilities.”

  The captain nods slowly. “I suppose that is possible.”

  “I thought you might like my views on the matter. You are closer, these days, to the people and the hamlets here, and you will doubtless take the necessary steps as matters develop.”

  Lerial keeps a pleasant and interested expression on his face as he listens, even as he sees exactly what the majer has done.

  Abruptly, Dechund turns to Lerial. “Undercaptain, might I ask your thoughts on the matter?”

  Lerial waits a moment before answering. “I am far less experienced in knowing what raids or attacks may occur, or why, or when. Both you and the majer would know a great deal more than I would. I am under the impression that the majer has over the years undertaken some considerable scouting missions, or has at least commissioned them and studied the observations. I do not know what you have done, and so I cannot speak to that. But any thoughts I have on the matter would be mere opinion without facts, and I don’t feel that such opinion should be considered.” Lerial then smiles ruefully. “Put more bluntly, I don’t know enough to express thoughts on the matter, with the exception that Duke Atroyan is not to be trusted in much of anything.”

  After a moment, Dechund smiles in return. “I can see why you are accompanying the majer.”

  Lerial understands the veiled insult, but merely smiles. “I am here because, like any undercaptain, I am following orders and will do my best to carry out my duties and to learn as much as I can that will be useful to the Lancers, and to my father the Duke.”

  The time the captain nods, then smiles once more. “It is good to have you both here, and we certainly will do our best to support you in what lies ahead.” He looks to Altyrn. “You have only to ask, Majer.”

  “Thank you.” Altyrn rises. “We will not keep you longer, but perhaps you will be able to fill us in on recent happenings here at the evening mess.”

  “I would be more than pleased to do so,” replies Dechund, standing as he speaks.

  Lerial quickly stands as well, not wanting to do so before the captain, but not wishing to lag, either.

  Once Altyrn and Lerial leave the headquarters, the majer says, “You’ve met the captain. We’ll talk later … on the way west.”

  That tells Lerial more than enough.

  XL

  The dinner served at the officers’ mess on eightday evening only has two redeeming features. The burhka is hot enough that any taste is lost in the spices, and there is more than enough for the five officers, Altyrn, Dechund, and the three undercaptains—Whalyn, Seivyr, and Lerial. Both Whalyn and Seivyr are older, clearly officers who have been rankers and then squad leaders before being promoted to undercaptains.

  The conversation deals largely with the fact that there have been very few raiders or poachers during harvest or early winter, as is to be expected, but that if raiders or poachers show up over the coming eightdays, it will be a sign of poor harvests and lack of game. Lerial says very little, but asks a question or two to keep the conversation going … and to give him a better idea about the officers stationed at Tirminya post.

  After breakfast on oneday, largely porridge with dried fruit harder than eightday-old stale biscuits, strips of an unidentified meat dipped in hot spices and fried to a crisp, and fresh warm bread that is largely tasteless, Altyrn sets Lerial to studying the maps and reports about the area that had been collected at the post over the years. From a careful perusal of the maps, Lerial notices that towns, hamlets, he suspects, have been added to the main map over the years. This becomes obvious when he discovers an older map at the bottom that shows very little. Even more interesting is the fact that almost all of the “new” hamlets are to the north of Tirminya, ranging from perhaps ten kays north and across a range of almost eighty kays from east to west. The newest additions, if the brighter ink represents those, are the farthest north. Is that because the people have become more comfortable with the Lancers … or less so with Afrit?

  Somewhere close to midday, if slightly after, Altyrn returns to the study shared by the undercaptains of the post, although Lerial has been the only one there.

  “Ser?” Lerial looks up.

  Altyrn gestures at the map spread on the circular table before Lerial. “What can you tell me about the maps? What did they tell you? Besides what hamlet and what river or s
tream is where?”

  “Hamlets have been added to the main map almost every year. I don’t think they just appeared that year. Is it because the Lancers have been charged with scouting out such hamlets … or because the people made them aware?”

  “Some of each. Also, the lands to the north of Tirminya have been neglected for years by Atroyan and his sire. There are no good roads leading northeast to Swartheld, and there are plenty of forests and timberlands far closer.”

  “So the Lancers have begun to protect the people?”

  “As they can … but it’s far more than Atroyan has done.”

  “He’s far richer…”

  “No … his merchanters are far richer. There is a difference. What else did you learn from the maps?”

  “No Lancers seem to have gone west … or they’ve not reported anything from the west.”

  “Duke Casseon has claimed the lands to the west … as have all of his predecessors,” replies Altyrn mildly.

  “So Lancers have been ordered not to go into those lands?”

  “There are no maps of those lands in Lancer posts … except for the maps Duke Kiedron requested of Duke Casseon in order to know precisely where the borders are.”

  “Then … the official border is … what … ten kays west of here?”

  “Fifteen, I believe. Put the maps away. We’re going to take a ride through Tirminya. I’ve arranged to use mounts from the post.”

  After he returns the maps to the large flat wooden case, Lerial follows the majer to the stable, where his borrowed mount is a dark chestnut gelding, somewhat smaller than his own horse, but he has no difficulty saddling the chestnut, and before long, he and the majer, and four Lancers from the two squads accompanying them, are riding out through the open gates of the post and eastward toward the brick-and-timber bridge over the stream. While there are a few dwellings west of the stream, those are clearly newer, although Lerial had gained the impression the day before that most of the dwellings were of a more recent vintage, most likely the result of the establishment of the Lancer post.

  “Those are new?” asks Lerial, gesturing to the dwellings on his left.

  “New in the last five years.”

  The weather and the sun must be hard on dwellings, Lerial thinks, because the structures look older than five years.

  “I’ve been talking to Undercaptain Seivyr,” the majer says. “He’s the senior undercaptain here. Good man. Make a good captain already. I knew him when he was a raw recruit from Narthyl. He says that some of the people he’s talked to on his patrols have seen Afritan scouts within ten kays of Tirminya. They were wearing Afritan Guard uniforms.”

  “Isn’t the official border about that far north?” asks Lerial warily.

  “It is.” Altyrn frowns. “But there haven’t been any Afritan armsmen sighted there in years, and Graessyr hasn’t received any reports about scouts. I told Captain Dechund that Afritan armsmen had set up patrols just north of Penecca in the east. Then I asked him if any of his squads had seen any signs of that here.”

  And he said there weren’t any signs of that. But Lerial only asks, “What did he say?”

  “I expect you already know. He said he didn’t know of any Afritan armsmen being close.”

  “He didn’t know. That’s an … interesting way of putting it.”

  “I thought so as well.”

  Once across the bridge, the majer turns south along what passes for the main street of Tirminya. Lerial immediately picks out a tavern, its windows shuttered, unsurprisingly, since there would be few Lancers free to visit until after their duty day ends, especially since it is not an end-day. Beside the tavern is what might be a boardinghouse, but is most likely a brothel, at least at times.

  As he rides, Lerial tries to extend his order senses well away from his mount and to those around them. There are so few people on the street that he can sense, at least generally, something about their feelings … and the fact that there are only a few people in the boardinghouse. There is a narrow alley between the purported boardinghouse and a chandlery. An older man and woman stand on the narrow entry porch of the chandlery and look at the Lancers briefly, then turn away. Lerial can feel a sense of resignation coupled with something else. Perhaps grudging acceptance? He isn’t sure.

  Beside the chandlery is a carpentry shop, the kind, Lerial assumes, that in a small town handles everything from cooperage to cabinets and simple furniture. Across from the chandlery is a small café. Whether anyone is inside, Lerial cannot see, but he has the feeling he would rather eat at the officers’ mess than there. Next is what passes for a square, although there is no one selling anything except a boy standing beside a cart with a few bushels of potatoes.

  They continue through the square and down the main street for almost half a kay.

  Then Altyrn says, “We’ll ride back up and past the bridge road.”

  Lerial guides his gelding in a turn and ends up riding on the majer’s right as they head back north.

  Ahead, Lerial senses … something … in or near a narrow alleyway just short of the south end of the small square. He can’t quite determine who or what is there, but there is a sense of both chaos and purpose. Although he cannot say why, he draws his sabre.

  Behind him he hears one of the rankers murmur something, but he concentrates on the alleyway as he rides past, almost even with Altyrn. He can still sense purpose and chaos, but sees no one, even as he feels that there may be a man standing in the narrow shadow next to the building that has no signboard over its doorway.

  Then the man moves, and for a moment, Lerial can sense that he is an archer. Almost without thinking, he twists in the saddle and slashes with his sabre. He is astonished to see the two halves of the arrow tumbling in front of him, but not so astonished that he does not try to create a concealment as he wheels the gelding toward the alley. Yet as he rides toward the narrow alley, another shaft whistles toward him and strikes his upraised sabre, and the figure in the shadows turns and runs. That is what Lerial senses. He drops the concealment as he reaches the alley, where he reins up, because the narrow way appears empty, and he cannot sense anyone hiding in the nooks in the buildings on each side.

  After a moment, he turns the gelding back toward the street, where the four rankers wait, sabres out. Altyrn stands beside his mount, holding the remnants of the two arrows. As Lerial watches the majer slips the broken arrows into an otherwise empty saddlebag, then remounts.

  “Did you see him well enough to describe him?”

  “No, ser. He’s gone. I couldn’t see where.”

  Altyrn nods. “You scared him off. There’s not much else we can do here, and riding into a narrow alley isn’t the best idea after someone’s already taken a shot at us. We might as well head back to the post.”

  While Altyrn’s voice is calm, Lerial can sense a certain turmoil within the majer, that and a measure of worry and concern. Yet it is clear that the majer has no interest in trying to find an assassin who tried to kill him, and that puzzles Lerial.

  Lerial can also sense a certain fear and confusion from the rankers. He is afraid he knows why. Yet what else could you have done? He doesn’t know, but, as they ride up the main street and then west over the bridge, Lerial keeps trying to sense if there is anything else that presages dangers. He senses absolutely nothing else remotely chaotic or dangerous, only the irritation of an older man leading a mule pulling a cart as they ride past.

  Once they return to the post, Altyrn reins up outside the stable, dismounts, and hands the reins of his horse to one of the rankers, saying, “If you’d have someone unsaddle and groom him.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  The majer looks to Lerial, who has also dismounted. “Take care of your mount and wait for me. I’m going to tell Dechund what happened. As the post commander here, he needs to know that there are idiots who are careless with bows. There’s not much he can do, but he will have to send a report to Graessyr and to Lancer headquarters.”

&
nbsp; Lerial dutifully unsaddles and grooms the chestnut, then waits just outside the stable door. The winter sunlight feels good, perhaps because he has felt slightly chilled since the unknown archer had shot at the majer. He frowns. You knew he was targeting the majer. How? He is still thinking about that when Altyrn returns.

  “We need to take a short walk, Lerial,” Altyrn says. “To inspect the outer walls.”

  “Yes, ser.” Lerial knows full well the walk will have nothing to do with the walls.

  Neither says anything until they have walked back out through the open gates and around along the north wall. The majer gestures toward the wall, then asks, as he drops his hand, “How did you do that? In town.”

  “Do what, sir?”

  “You turned as if you knew that assassin was there. I’d looked at the alley as we neared, and it was empty.”

  “I have a little talent with order-sensing, ser. I’ve been practicing, and it’s easier when there aren’t many people around. I felt danger and drew my sabre and turned. The rest of it? I don’t know. When I saw the arrow, I just tried to knock it out of the air, and I rode toward him, but he was faster than I was.”

  “He likely ducked into one of those buildings, but by the time we could have gotten into them he’d have been gone. There also might have been another man just waiting for that.” Altyrn keeps walking, but looks directly at Lerial. “I could have sworn that, for a moment, you weren’t even there.”

  “I was very much there, ser. He shot a second arrow. It almost hit me.”

  “There is a reason, you know, why I told you to let Lancers do the charging.”

  “I know, ser, but I had the feeling you were the target.”

  “That won’t help, exactly, if you’re the one who gets shot, Lerial.”

  “Yes, ser.” Either way, you lose if I fail.

  “That said,” Altyrn adds with a smile, “I greatly appreciate what you did, and I have absolutely no doubts that Maeroja and my daughters would appreciate it even more, were they to find out. Which they will not until much, much later.” He pauses. “Do you understand?”