Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18)

by Modesitt, L. E. , Jr.

  “Not the most diplomatic thing to do. Subcommander Drusyn was less than pleased.”

  “And then you led his battalion to victory at South Point.”

  Lerial shakes his head. “That took the Mirror Lancers, his battalion, and Majer Aerlyt’s battalion.”

  “You realize that there’s not a single officer left in the Afritan Guard that would willingly attack Cigoerne at this point?”

  “That might be an overstatement. In any case, what would be the point? Afrit is far more prosperous, and an attack on Cigoerne would gain little.”

  “Except new opportunities for merchanters.” Ascaar’s tone is dry.

  Lerial understands exactly what Ascaar is conveying … and the fact that the older commander knows the dangers of saying it directly. “Some opportunities cost far more than the most powerful of merchanters understand. Why don’t you join us? You should be there when I report to the duke.” Lerial knows very well that is exactly what Ascaar wants, but Ascaar’s presence will be more than just helpful. It may well be vital in keeping the Afritan merchanters in line, at least as much in line as the duke can do under the conditions with which he is faced.

  When the three arrive at the anteroom outside the duke’s receiving study, Commander Sammyl looks up from a side desk, then stands with an ironic smile. “I’ll tell the duke that you’re all here.”

  In moments, the four are in the duke’s receiving study, with Lerial seated in the middle chair facing the desk, flanked by Ascaar and Sammyl, and Norstaan standing to the side.

  “I didn’t expect you back quite so soon.” Rhamuel’s voice is quiet.

  “I thought you would like to know what happened to your brother…”

  “He’s dead, then? How did it happen?”

  Lerial explains, going through events beginning with what he learned from the innkeeper and then all that happened at Jhosef’s villa—except for some of the details surrounding how Lerial dealt with the chaos mages. When he finishes, he waits, uneasily, for Rhamuel’s reaction.

  For a long moment, the duke says nothing. Finally, he speaks. “There wasn’t any chance for anyone to do anything?”

  “We were more than ten yards away when the first chaos-mage attacked … and I was still ten yards away after dealing with the first chaos-mage. Oestyn couldn’t act to save Mykel until it was too late, and then he killed himself before we could get closer. One moment Jhosef was talking about how Mykel would be duke, the next about how I should leave, and the moment I said I wasn’t about to just depart on his whim, the first chaos-mage attacked me. After that…” Lerial spreads his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “I find one thing … strange. Why would Oestyn allow Mykel to be captured … but then kill his father?”

  “From what I’ve learned,” Lerial replies, “Jhosef changed the merchanter guards accompanying Oestyn, and the wine both Oestyn and Mykel drank at the Streamside had to have been drugged. After that … I’m guessing, but based on what Jhosef said and what Oestyn said before he slit his throat, Oestyn didn’t know what his father had in mind and tried to protect Mykel.”

  “That makes a sad kind of sense,” Rhamuel says. “I might let it be known that Oestyn was killed trying to protect Mykel.”

  Sammyl looks surprised and about to object.

  “That way, I won’t have to seize Jhosef’s holdings. Regardless of what he did, that wouldn’t be the wisest course. Also, enough people saw what happened that we might as well put the best face on it. If what Oestyn did gets out, and it will, and I seize Jhosef’s holdings, people will claim that I ignored Oestyn’s efforts for my own personal gain. After what’s already happened, we don’t need more problems. Shortly, the Merchanting Council will affirm Jhosef’s eldest as his heir, and we’ll meet. I’ll suggest that Jhosef’s eldest son cannot afford to allow any suspicion of trying to follow his father’s efforts. I’m certain he won’t.”

  “Not any time soon,” adds Ascaar.

  “That should suffice.” After a pause, Rhamuel goes on in a smooth tone, almost devoid of expression. “It’s too bad you couldn’t do anything about Maesoryk, but, without proof, that made it difficult.”

  “I don’t think Maesoryk is in the best of health,” Lerial offers blandly.

  “You didn’t offer your services as a healer?” Sammyl frowns.

  “He didn’t ask, and I didn’t volunteer. Given that he was likely a conspirator with Jhosef and Alaphyn, and likely others we may never know, I didn’t feel I had to go out of my way for him.”

  “How ill is he?”

  “It’s a wasting illness. Those are hard to predict.” Lerial shrugs. “He might already be dead, or he might live for a few more seasons … or even longer.” The last is a flat lie, but Lerial is not about to predict Maesoryk’s death, because, in his absence, something might have gone wrong with his order manipulation. By claiming the merchanter does have a wasting illness, if his first effort has not worked, Lerial does not destroy his own credibility.

  “You don’t think so, do you?”

  “I think it unlikely, but stranger things have happened.”

  “Indeed.” Rhamuel nods. “We now need to plan for Mykel’s memorial and contact the Merchanting Council.” He looks to Lerial. “I trust you will remain for the memorial? After that, we can discuss your departure from Swartheld. I realize I am imposing somewhat, but you and your men have traveled hard and fast, and a day or two would rest them and their mounts.”

  “Of course.” What else can Lerial say?

  “I would also request that while the commanders and I discuss the details of the memorial you inform Lady Haesychya and Merchanter Aenslem of what happened at the lakes. They would be more inclined to hear it from you than from me, particularly since the lady has no interest in visiting the palace any time soon.”

  “I would be pleased to undertake that duty.” Lerial rises.

  “Thank you.”

  After making his way back down to the stables, Lerial has to wait for a time before Kusyl returns. Then the two mount up and lead the squad out of the palace onto the ring road and then onto the avenue that leads to the merchanters’ hill.

  “Did you find out anything?” asks Lerial.

  “Not much. The duke has replaced a number of retainers in the palace staff. He’s ordered a special saddle that will hold his legs so that he can ride again. They’ve promoted some majers to subcommander.”

  “Any we know?”

  “Aerlyt and Paelwyr. Oh … and they made Captain Grusart a majer.”

  For a moment, Lerial struggles to remember Grusart, then smiles. “Good. Anything else?”

  “One of the masons rebuilding the palace found a leather bag with a hundred golds in it.”

  “And he didn’t keep it?”

  “He said that if he showed up with so much as one gold in his house, everyone would think he stole it. The duke gave him twenty silvers and a letter saying that he’d earned every one of them through his honesty.”

  “No one knows whose bag it was?”

  “Word is that someone thought it looked like a wallet the old retainer wore at his belt, but no one knows for certain.”

  A hundred golds? Would that have been enough to buy Dafaal? Or was it cheap at the price as a way to shift blame? Lerial doubts that he or anyone else will ever know.

  When they reach Aenslem’s villa, the guards immediately open the gates, and shut them just as quickly. Then, at the door to the main entry, Lerial is greeted by a man a good fifteen years older than Lerial himself.

  “Lord Lerial, I’m Cathylt. I’m Merchanter Aenslem’s ship master. He has requested a few moments of your time. He awaits you in his study.”

  “Thank you. I take it you were here for other matters?”

  “I’m here every day, unless he is at the merchanting building.”

  “Ship master—the one who keeps track of what ships and cargoes are where?”

  “As much as one can … yes.”

 
Cathylt walks with Lerial only so far as Aenslem’s study, then closes the door as Lerial steps inside.

  Lerial lets his order-senses range over the merchanter as he walks toward Aenslem, who has risen to stand by his table desk, but he can detect no wound chaos or other overt injuries or illness. “You asked to see me.”

  “I did. I’d prefer not to be surprised. Since you seem to create surprises, I thought the best way to avoid that was simply to ask you what you’re willing to tell me.” Aenslem offers a pleasant smile, then motions to the leather armchairs before walking to the nearest and seating himself.

  “You’ve placed me in a difficult position,” Lerial says as he sits. “The duke requested that I inform Lady Haesychya of certain facts, but you are the head of the Merchanting Council, and this is your villa.”

  “That does present a problem. If you will answer a question or two, I will not press you.”

  “That depends on the questions, ser.”

  “Do you intend to take advantage of your abilities and the Mirror Lancers of Cigoerne to invade or dominate Afrit?”

  “That thought had never crossed my mind. In the end, I fear, such an attempt now, or any time in the near future, would eventually result in disaster for Cigoerne.”

  Aenslem frowns. “Why do you say that?”

  “The merchanters of Afrit have too many golds and too much experience in using them in ways to undermine simple lancers or even most Cigoernean factors and crafters.” That is not all he has learned, but all that he needs to say.

  Aenslem laughs, heartily. “Stars! You’re wasted as an overcaptain. I suspected that from the beginning.” With that, he picks up a small silver bell that rests on the desk and rings it gently.

  Lerial can sense a door opening and turns to discover that an entire panel in the south wall of the study has swung out, revealing a space and a circular staircase to a lower level. Stepping into the study is the serving girl he has seen before, who closes the panel behind herself.

  “Murara, would you tell my daughter and granddaughter that I’d like to see them here in the study?”

  The serving girl who is far more than that, Lerial knows, not only from Kyedra’s veiled references, but also from the look that passes between her and Aenslem, nods and departs. Lerial understands that what has just occurred is Aenslem’s way of showing a degree of trust in Lerial.

  What else does he want? Lerial isn’t even ashamed of himself for thinking that, not after a season in Afrit.

  A small fraction of a glass passes before the study door opens again and Haesychya and Kyedra enter. Kyedra closes the door more firmly than necessary, and Haesycha moves to the leather couch and sits down.

  As Kyedra passes Lerial to also take a seat on the leather couch, she glances at Lerial, not at all happily, and he can sense a feeling almost of betrayal.

  “That was my doing,” says Aenslem, who has seen the look. “You can ask Cathylt. I left word that whenever Lord Lerial arrived, I was to see him first.”

  “You could have let us know,” rejoins Haesychya coolly.

  “I just have. It is my villa, as I recall.”

  “That’s something that’s never been in question.” Haesychya’s tone remains cool.

  “We’ll discuss that later, Daughter. I will assure you that he was sent to inform you of certain things, and that he has not told me one thing. In fact, the only thing he has said is that he has no intention of returning to Cigoerne in order to gather forces to invade Afrit.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” snaps Haesychya. “They couldn’t do that.”

  “Unfortunately you’re wrong, Daughter. As a result of the war with Heldya, we now have less than half the forces available to Duke Kiedron.” Aenslem turns to Lerial. “Is that not so?”

  “We could muster nine full battalions at present. Although there are officially about twelve battalions of Afritan Guards, most are at far less than full complement. Some are battalions in name only. Neither I nor my sire has any such intent, as I told your father. It would be a victory we would not survive.”

  “That’s all you told him?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Now that we have settled that matter,” Aenslem says gruffly, “I think we all would like to hear what Lerial has to report about his recent journey to the lakes.”

  Lerial looks straight at Haesychya. “Duke Rhamuel asked that I inform you first. If you wish me to do that without others present, I will do so.”

  Haesychya offers a faint and cool smile. “You actually would, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s little point in that. I’d have to tell father and Kyedra what you said, and repeating it might be doubly painful. Go ahead.”

  “The duke requested I travel to the lakes to see if I could discover what happened to his brother and whether certain merchanters might have been involved…” Lerial goes on to relate the story just as he had to Rhamuel, almost word for word.

  When he finishes, for several moments, no one says anything. Then Aenslem clears his throat. “There’s no hard proof that Maesoryk did anything, but it’s clear he was as guilty as Jhosef or Alaphyn. You couldn’t do anything? Wasn’t that why Rhamuel sent you to the lakes, rather than one of his Afritan Guard commanders?”

  “He never said so, but it doubtless was. The problem is that, just as you know that, so does every merchanter in Afrit. If I’d done anything obvious to Maesoryk, all the merchanters remaining in Afrit would be wondering when Rhamuel might turn on them, because, frankly, not a single one of you is without guilt in doing something against the duke or his predecessor.”

  Haesychya nods, although she does not speak.

  “You have an answer for everything,” declares Aenslem. “But Maesoryk will feel he can do anything now.”

  “He’s likely ill. He doesn’t know it, but he is. We’ll just have to see how matters progress.”

  “And you have no obligation to heal him. Is that it?” asks Aenslem.

  “Do you think I do … after everything?” asks Lerial.

  The merchanter shakes his head. “I just hope you’re right.”

  “So do I.” Although Lerial is fairly certain he is, he hopes that matters “progress” as he has planned.

  Haesychya looks to her father for a moment, and something passes between the two before she turns. “I have a few matters to discuss with your grandfather, Kyedra. If you would not mind entertaining Lerial for a few moments before he leaves, we would appreciate that. If you can stay,” she adds, looking to Lerial.

  “I have some time before I need to return to Afritan Guard headquarters.” He turns to Kyedra. “If it would not be an imposition.”

  “I believe I can manage,” returns Kyedra dryly. “At least for a time.”

  Lerial manages not to wince, but he and Kyedra stand at the same time. Neither speaks as they leave Aenslem’s study.

  Once they enter the lady’s study and Lerial closes the door, he turns to Kyedra. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to offend your grandfather.”

  “You didn’t act that way before.”

  “No, I didn’t, but I didn’t go out of my way to upset him, and I felt refusing to see him first would be seen that way.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. It does. Very much. I hope you know why. And I told the truth. I told him nothing but what he said I did.”

  “I believe you … but…”

  “Why am I so deferential to him, after all this? Because he’s your grandsire.” And he’ll have a great say in whom you consort. He may be hoping against hope, but he cannot help hoping. You couldn’t help that after the first time you saw her smile.

  Suddenly, she smiles. “You could have said that a long time ago.”

  “I didn’t dare.”

  Her smile vanishes, so abruptly its disappearance is painful to Lerial. “Mother likes you. She won’t say it. She won’t tell me, either. But she does. I can tell.” After another silence, she says, “You
can’t ask, can you?”

  “Not now. You know why.”

  “Because your father is duke, and your brother will succeed him, and you cannot afford to risk the future of both lands.”

  “After all that has happened … no.”

  She reaches out and takes his hands. “I can be more forward than you. A little more forward.” Then she smiles.

  That alone warms him, and he just looks at her.

  “Even if … even if … things … don’t … aren’t … I’ll remember the way you’re looking at me. Always.”

  “I’ve remembered your smile from the first…”

  At that moment, there is a rap on the door.

  Kyedra lets go of Lerial’s hands. “Yes?”

  The door opens, and Haesychya stands there. “I don’t think we should delay Lerial any longer.”

  “I suppose not.” Kyedra’s voice is slightly flat.

  “We can both accompany him to the entry hall,” says Haesychya, not unkindly.

  The three leave the study and walk several steps before Haesychya asks, “Do you know how much longer you will be in Swartheld?”

  “Until after Lord Mykel’s memorial, at least several more days. The duke has asked me to remain for now.”

  “Have you heard from Duke Kiedron?”

  “Not in more than an eightday. I sent off a dispatch this morning, but it will likely be an eightday before he receives it, possibly longer.”

  “Might I ask…?” ventures Haesychya.

  “I only told him what happened so far as the Heldyans were concerned, and that a noted merchanter had been involved in the murder of Lord Mykel, and that such matters were likely to be resolved in the next eightday or so … and that I would not feel free to return until they were to the satisfaction of the duke … in the interests of renewed harmony between Afrit and Cigoerne.” Lerial had not quite written the last, but had implied it.

  “You’re very cautious.”

  “I would prefer to think I’m careful, Lady. Any commitment I make is likely to have to last for a very long time.”