Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18)

by Modesitt, L. E. , Jr.

  By seventh glass on fiveday morning, Lerial is once more riding beside Rhamuel on the river road, this time several kays north of Shaelt, under high gray clouds.

  “How did you enjoy the dinner?” asks the arms-commander.

  “The fare was excellent,” adds Lerial. This is doubtless true, given Rhamuel’s position and taste, but Lerial does not even remember much of anything but the taste of the lager, and the fact that the main dish was some form of beef wrapped in flaky pastry, similar to beef Fyrad, if with a creamy basil sauce, rather than a beef mushroom sauce.

  “And the lager?”

  “Yours is better,” replies Lerial with a smile.

  “Thank you. And the company?”

  “I learned a great deal about cordage, stonework, glassblowing, and, of course, countinghouses.” And about the power and influence of Aenian House. “I doubt the last was in the slightest accidental or coincidental. What else should I know about Fhastal, especially that which I’m not likely to find out from anyone but you?”

  “First, if you’d indulge me, tell me your impressions of him.”

  “Besides the fact that he’s powerful and dangerous? Or that he reveals nothing that he does not wish to? He mostly likely thinks out the implications of what he does much farther than almost anyone else. I doubt he forgets anything, but he mostly likely knows what grudges to forgive, and what never to forgive.”

  “That’s a fair summary. He’s also consorted to Haesychya’s sister.”

  Rhamuel’s response tells Lerial two things. First, that even more than he has anticipated the inner workings of everything in Swartheld are deeply connected. Second, that Rhamuel either knows almost everything that Lerial was told, or that he believes that Lerial knows more than he does, since Lerial had not known the name of Atroyan’s consort until Mesphaes mentioned it. Then, too, perhaps Emerya had told him, and he had forgotten. Even so, neither of the latter two possibilities is exactly encouraging. “And?”

  “He’s skilled and powerful enough that he always acts within the law and customary practices.”

  “Customary practices can provide great leeway,” Lerial ventures dryly.

  “I should have said that he does not engage in any practice, however customary, that is against the law.”

  “I suspect you wanted to see if I would remark upon that difference,” banters Lerial.

  “It’s always interesting to hear how people respond to what is said, and whether they actually listen.” Rhamuel pauses, then adds, “Some hear what they want to. Some hear every word and then fail to understand. Some hear nothing.”

  “And some hear every word and wonder if that is what the speaker meant.”

  Rhamuel nods. “Or if that speaker said anything at all beyond mere words. At times, that is necessary.”

  “Rather than uttering no words at all?”

  “There are times when silence is regarded as either agreement or disagreement. At some of such times it is unwise to allow either assumption to prevail.”

  “You didn’t want to leave Drusyn in Lubana, did you?”

  “You didn’t post anyone to watch for riders leaving in the middle of the night while we were in Shaelt. Why not?” counters Rhamuel.

  “After the dinner last night, and the size of Shaelt Post, I didn’t see any point in it.” Lerial turns to the arms-commander and waits. As he does, he realizes that there are circles under Rhamuel’s eyes. But the dinner ended early, and he retired immediately after we returned to the post. Did he remain awake … worrying?

  “I felt Subcommander Drusyn and his battalions would serve better if they were positioned to defend Swartheld.”

  “And so would the merchanters of Swartheld.”

  “Naturally.”

  They ride for another tenth of a glass before Lerial speaks again. “Would you tell me more about Haesychya? Besides the fact that she is either retiring, cautious, or shy, if not all three?”

  “She is the daughter of Aenslem. Although you probably know this or soon would have learned it, he is the head of Aenian House. Aenian House owns the largest fleet of merchant vessels, both river and deepwater, in Hamor, and ports some of those vessels out of other lands, not only in Hamor, but in Candar, Austra, and Nordla.”

  “You and your brother do not wish to be far from merchant power.”

  “It’s not a matter of wishing, Lerial. Their tariffs support a considerable proportion of the Afritan Guard.”

  “And with countinghouses and ships established elsewhere, they hold out the possibility of moving their operations elsewhere if the duke should pursue … policies or tariffs greatly to their dislike?”

  “Surely, that doesn’t surprise you?”

  “No. But some of that possibility has to be a bluff. Such a move, no matter how well planned, would entail near-ruinous costs.”

  “Substantial, but not near-ruinous. And all the Aenian House vessels are well armed.”

  “So they could effectively blockade Swartheld? That does sound ruinous … for Aenian House, I mean.”

  “Oh … that wouldn’t happen. Enough merchanters from other lands would occasionally vanish, without a trace, that there would be less trade. Duke Khesyn would look the other way if certain brigands used the river to prey only on Afritan traders.”

  “All of this has been so delicately intimated?”

  “Not even that. Merely understood.”

  And merchanters from other lands would be reluctant to establish houses in Afrit against such odds. “You have not told me much about your brother’s consort.”

  “Ah, yes. Haesychya. She is slender and fair. She is a most devoted mother, as well as a faithful and devoted consort. She does not speak Cyadoran, but then, neither does the duke, at least not well enough that he trusts himself to do so in any public place.”

  Lerial nods, waiting, a habit he has found serves him well.

  “She is fond of reading, particularly of history. She does not care for verse, although I did learn to like verse, at least in Cyadoran, when I was in Cigoerne. I may be the only one in the family who does, since it is regarded as an … effeminate pastime by many in Swartheld.”

  “That is interesting, since some of the most powerful emperors of Cyador were fond of verse, and a few even wrote it.”

  “Ah … but Cyador’s time has passed. At least, that is what many merchanters will say. Certainly, Duke Khesyn has also said that.”

  “I don’t suppose that he has suggested that any form of alliance with Cigoerne would merely weaken a duchy in Hamor.”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “What about Natroyor? He’s only … is it three years younger than Kyedra?”

  “That’s about right.”

  “So he’s around eighteen?”

  Rhamuel nods. “He looks a bit younger, although he is handsome enough.”

  “Does he look like Kyedra at all?”

  “They look like brother and sister. Kyedra is as tall as he is, and he’s not quite as tall as I am.”

  “I’m guessing that their mother is tall, then.”

  “She is. Kyedra takes after her in that.”

  “Is Haesychya older or younger than her sister? The one consorted to Fhastal?”

  “She’s younger. By several years.”

  “How large a ministry does the duke have?”

  “Ministry?” Rhamuel actually seems puzzled.

  “Advisors? Counselors? Those who act as justicers?”

  “Oh … matters are held more closely here. The duke only has three principal ministers, certainly not enough to comprise a ministry. Cyphret is minister for merchanting, Vaencyr for justice, and Dohaan for roads, harbors, and waterways. As senior minister, Cyphret keeps the master ledger of all the duke’s revenues and expenditures.”

  “And you’re in command of the Afritan Guard.” Lerial wonders how many of the three ministers are related to the more powerful merchanters, but decides that question should wait, since asking it will reveal m
ore than he wishes and gain him little.

  “I did say that matters are held more closely.”

  “I understand. Afrit is far older than Cigoerne.”

  “And far different from Cyador.”

  For now. Lerial cannot help but think of the words that the majer had left for him … and the magnitude of the task implied by those words.

  “You look doubtful,” observes Rhamuel.

  “Not doubtful at all. Thoughtful. I have much to learn and trust that I can come to understand what is necessary before making too many mistakes.”

  “In Afrit, there isn’t much space for mistakes.”

  “I’m getting that impression,” Lerial replies dryly. When Rhamuel does not immediately reply, Lerial adds, “Since we have a long ride yet, perhaps you could tell me more about Swartheld.”

  “Where does one begin?” muses the arms-commander. “Well … the harbor dominates the city. That is why there is a city there. It’s one of the finest natural harbors in Hamor, perhaps in the world. The piers are all of stone, and the water is deep enough so that the largest of merchant vessels can tie up to any of the piers. There are seldom less than a score of vessels in port at any one time, and usually a ship from every continent in the world. There is black wool from Montgren, and the best salted herring from Spidlar…”

  Lerial listens carefully as they ride along the dusty river road. Occasionally, he looks eastward, across the Swarth River, to Heldya, wondering just what Duke Khesyn has in mind in dealing with Afrit … and Cigoerne. And what, if anything, he can do about it.

  XXIII

  By the second glass of the afternoon on oneday, it is more than clear to Lerial that they are on the southern outskirts of Swartheld. Not only has the river widened, but there is a large expanse of water to the north, suggesting the mouth of the river and the harbor beyond. In addition, there are almost no open lands or fields of any size between hamlets bordering the river. Less than a kay ahead, on a short point extending out into the river, or perhaps the point is at the edge of where harbor and river meet, Lerial sees a run-down stone building, almost an abandoned fort or the like.

  “Is that an old fort?” He points.

  “Very old. It was a river patrol station, because it’s where the river enters the bay, but there are so many mudbars there now that it was abandoned well before my grandsire was born. Beyond that is the bay, and the harbor proper is well to the northwest. That’s where the water is deeper.”

  As they ride across the base of the point, Lerial studies the bay. Beyond the point the edge of the harbor angles west-northwest, although he can see that some distance ahead, it appears to turn back toward the north. After riding another half kay or so, Lerial spies a three-story structure on the left side of the river road, opposite a large stone pier, with a row of warehouses farther north. The road now runs parallel to the bay, with a gentle slope of some fifty yards between the east shoulder and water’s edge. Just a handful of yards ahead on the west side of the road are small dwellings, little more than huts, with only a few yards of open ground between them.

  “Is this part of Swartheld?” he asks Rhamuel.

  “How can it not be? There’s never been an official border. As the city has grown to include outlying hamlets, those hamlets have just become known as districts of the city.”

  “How many people are there in Swartheld?”

  “Years ago there were well over fifty thousand. Now, with all the outlying districts, who knows? There could be over a hundred thousand. I’ve suggested to the duke an enumeration might be helpful, especially if the enumeration listed the occupation of the residents.”

  “You might find a few more crafters and factors who owe tariffs … perhaps?”

  “That would be useful, I’d think,” replies Rhamuel. “But the duke keeps his own counsel on such matters.”

  “I can imagine that more than a few merchanters and factors are willing to advise him on the matter … especially on how all of Afrit benefits from lower tariffs.” Or other branches of merchanters that are not known.

  “Do I hear a slight note of cynicism, Lord Lerial?”

  “Most likely more than a slight note.”

  “Why might that be?” Rhamuel smiles.

  “Too often I’ve overheard protestation of factors and traders clad in fine cloth how the slightest increase in tariffs will render them poverty-struck. When the quality of their garments is noted, they then declare that they will not be able to keep all those who work for them.”

  “With the implication that tariffs will fall on the poorest, of course,” adds Rhamuel. “Unhappily, that is often true. Rather than pay higher tariffs from their profits, they will discharge some poor teamster’s assistant and then complain about those very same tariffs that help maintain the harbors and canals and roads that benefit them more than anyone.”

  “What does the duke say about that?”

  “Very little. Nor can I to him. And not often.”

  Rhamuel’s words are another indication to Lerial that the arms-commander treads a narrow path in dealing with his brother and the influence of the wealthy merchanters of Swartheld … and possibly even the duke’s consort.

  Although the structures ahead look imposing, Lerial finds those immediately nearer him on the west side of the river road cramped-looking and mean. There are small wooden docks set intermittently at the edge of the water, often amid the straggly reeds, with barely enough space for a boat to reach open water, and bare clay depressions in the slope down to the river, suggesting that small boats are regularly dragged down or hauled up from the water.

  The cots soon give way to small shops. One is even boarded up and looks to have been unused for seasons, if not years. After riding another few hundred yards, Lerial sees warehouses and factorages, solid and cared-for, but worn and certainly not new. The stone river piers are older than they had looked from a distance, with weathered bollards, although the larger stone factorage or warehouse opposite them looks to have been recently built, perhaps within the year.

  Lerial turns his thoughts from the buildings and asks, “What arrangements will be necessary for my lancers?”

  “They will be quartered at the headquarters post of the Afritan Guard in Swartheld. It is less than half a kay from the palace. I did sent word by river to expect a battalion for quartering. I did not specify what battalion. Had I mentioned three companies, that would have aroused immediate speculation. As for you and me … that is up to the duke, once he receives word of your arrival … although it is likely that he already has, since Fhastal and others who attended the dinner in Shaelt have fast river schooners, and any would like to gain slight favor with the duke.”

  From Rhamuel’s tone, matter-of-fact and slightly amused, it is clear that he fully expects exactly such a reaction from some of the merchanters.

  And he will determine who did so and keep that in mind. Lerial decides not to comment on that and goes on, “The location of the Guard headquarters is convenient for you, then.”

  “It’s been suggested that it is too convenient, but the duke prefers it that way, as do I. Most of the Guard troopers are quartered at the South Post or the Harbor Post. We’ll be riding by the South Post in a bit less than a glass.”

  The southern Guard post is a glass away? And we’re already in Swartheld? “How far is the southern post from the palace?”

  “Two kays, give or take a few hundred yards. The Guard headquarters is north along the bay and east from the palace.”

  “And how far north is the Harbor Post?”

  “Closer to two kays from headquarters.”

  Lerial’s calculations based on Rhamuel’s estimations suggest that Swartheld stretches at least ten kays along the river, enough to swallow Cigoerne four times over … and possibly more if it extends a greater distance than a kay west from the Swarth River.

  Almost imperceptibly, the buildings along the river, whether shops or dwellings, become closer together, and there are more that a
re larger. On the right of the road ahead is a walled structure, and just south of it is a line of warehouses and two piers extending out into the calm waters of the bay.

  “Is that the South Post?”

  “It is. Drusyn’s there with his battalions. The others are at the Harbor Post.”

  From what Lerial can tell, the South Post is easily three times the size of Mirror Lancer headquarters. And it’s just one of three posts here.

  A good kay west-northwest of the South Post, as they ride through a modest square, Rhamuel points to the northwest.

  “There. You can see the palace on that hill.”

  The palace is not so much on the hill, from what Lerial can see before the warehouses on the far side of the square block his view, as occupying the entire hill, with massive walls around it, and terraced gardens leading upward to a square structure with towers on each corner.

  “Rather larger than my sire’s,” Lerial says blandly, knowing his words are an extreme understatement.

  “Somewhat larger than necessary, but it was expanded by our great-grandsire, in an effort to show power.”

  “The larger the dwelling, the more powerful…?”

  “That … and also what is traded. Those who have great ships, like Aenslem, or trade in metals, like Fhastal, are considered higher. Those who trade in more common goods…”

  “Like produce or timber? They’re looked down upon?”

  “Usually not to their faces … but they know.”

  Lerial cannot say that such a differentiation makes sense to him, but it must to the Afritans. As they continue along the river road, he also notes that many of the streets and lanes leading off the road are narrow and anything but straight. Most of the dwellings and other structures are of brick, all with red tile roofs. Many of the tiles are cracked, and the bricks are often worn, not to mention stained with soot. In more than a few places, Lerial can pick out where bricks have been replaced. A slight brownish haze hangs over the city, and the air holds the mixed odors of cooking oil, grease, and a mixture of less appetizing smells, from rotten fish to mold, and other scents that Lerial has no interest in even contemplating.