Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (22 page)

“I can’t imagine a ranker responding like that.”

“Neither could I,” replies Lerial.

“Did he know who you are?”

“He obviously knew I wasn’t an Afritan officer, but more than that … I don’t think so. He looked very surprised when I parried his firebolt. That was when he jumped back and used a small firebolt on the dispatch case.”

“What color was it?”

“Black.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m certain. Why?”

“All Afritan Guard dispatch cases are crimson with a black slash.”

For several moments, neither speaks.

“Undercaptain Foerris is here, ser.”

“Have him come in.” Rhamuel’s voice is cool.

The door opens, and an officer somewhat shorter than Lerial enters. Foerris is neither fresh-faced nor a grizzled veteran, but an undercaptain only a few years older than Lerial, slightly round-faced and soft in the middle, most likely a younger son of a prosperous merchant. His eyes widen as he beholds the body on the floor. “He broke in here?”

“No,” replies Rhamuel. “He attacked Overcaptain Lerial when the overcaptain asked him why he was taking a mount and trying to leave the way station. Is he one of yours?”

“Yes, ser. That’s Yussyl. I don’t understand…”

“What do you know about him?” asks Rhamuel.

“He came with the replacements three eightdays ago. He did his duties with all the others. I talked to him once or twice. He’s better spoken … he was … than many rankers, but it takes all kinds, and we don’t ask about their past.” After a pause, Foerris ventures, “Might I ask … ser?”

“He tried to sneak out of the way station less than a glass ago, and when Overcaptain Lerial’s men asked why he was leaving in the middle of the night, he tried to escape. He attacked the overcaptain. The overcaptain had to kill him.” Rhamuel looks at the undercaptain. “Can you explain any of this?”

Foerris swallows. “No, ser.”

“Find out everything you can about him from his squad and the others. I’ll expect a report before we leave.”

“Yes, ser.”

Once the clearly shaken undercaptain has left, Rhamuel turns back to Lerial. “Why would anyone send a wizard assassin here? No one even knew you were coming to Afrit then…”

“But they knew you’d pass through here.”

“It would have had to have been planned almost a season ago … Three eightdays ago, but why a wizard assassin … and why did he just try to leave, rather than kill someone?”

“He must have had a reason,” muses Lerial.

An urgent pounding on the door halts the conversation.

“Arms-Commander, ser!”

Lerial recognizes Norstaan’s voice … and the near-panic in it. He can also sense that there is no one else with the undercaptain, except for the two guards and the Mirror Lancers who were already outside.

“What is it?”

“Someone’s killed Subcommander Valatyr!”

“Frig!”

That is the first expletive Lerial recalls hearing from Rhamuel.

“Come in and tell me. Now!”

Norstaan enters, then lurches to a stop as he sees the body on the floor. He looks from Rhamuel to Lerial and then back to the arms-commander.

“He attacked the Mirror Lancers,” declares Rhamuel. “We’ll talk about that later. What happened to Subcommander Valatyr?”

“His neck was slashed … but … his sword hand was burned. His blade was on the floor.” Norstaan shakes his head.

“The subcommander was an outstanding blade, then, wasn’t he?” asks Lerial.

Both Norstaan and Rhamuel nod.

“The assassin had to know that. He probably tried to kill Valatyr just with a blade, and when that didn’t work, he likely tried a firebolt. The subcommander probably parried the firebolt, but some of it ran down the blade and burned his hand. That distracted him just enough. The assassin was very good with a blade from what little I saw.”

“How did you find out that the subcommander had been killed?” demands Rhamuel.

“I heard people in the courtyard and saw lights near the stable … and the stable door was open, but no one could tell me anything … The overcaptain wasn’t in his quarters. I didn’t want to bother you, sir. So I went to the subcommander’s room. I called for him, but he didn’t answer. I tried the door. It wasn’t bolted, and when I opened it … I saw him lying on the floor. I thought he might have fallen at first. Then I saw the blood. He was cold. I ran up here.”

“Set guards around his room. Don’t have anyone else enter,” orders Rhamuel. “We’ll be there in a few moments.”

Norstaan looks at the body.

“He’s likely the one who killed the subcommander. Overcaptain Lerial tried to stop him from leaving the way station. He attacked the overcaptain. The overcaptain killed him in trying to capture him. Go and post those guards.”

“Yes, ser.”

Norstaan does not so much leave as flee.

Once he and Rhamuel are alone, Lerial says slowly, “I think you have your answer. Valatyr was your closest and most trustworthy advisor, wasn’t he? You were never the target. He was.”

After several moments, Rhamuel shakes his head. “It makes sense. Too much sense. It was all planned in advance. Whoever did it had no idea you’d be returning with me.” A grim smile crosses his lips. “You had men watching for someone leaving, didn’t you?”

“I did. I thought someone might try to get word of my presence to Swartheld before we reached the city. I didn’t think that would be good for either of us.”
But it was mostly for self-protection.
Rhamuel may guess that, Lerial knows, but what he has said is true, nonetheless.

“We know a little more because you stopped the assassin,” says Rhamuel, almost testily, “but not much.”

“I didn’t know he had that much chaos in him. A shoulder wound wouldn’t have killed a normal assassin. And you know that whoever sent him has golds and is well placed. Otherwise, they couldn’t have gotten him into the replacements with the right uniform and training.”

“That limits the possibilities to a mere score,” replies the arms-commander dryly.

“Whoever it is has also lost a valuable assassin. One that valuable might be missed, and that could tell you more about who hired him.”

“True. We can think about this more later. We need to see to the subcommander.” Rhamuel sits on the edge of his bed and pulls on his boots, then rises. “Are you going to keep carrying both blades?”

“You ought to keep the assassin’s blade … and not show it to anyone yet.”

Rhamuel nods. “Put it on the desk. It will be safe enough here with guards in place.”

If it’s not, that will reveal something else … even worse.
But Lerial only nods and lays the assassin’s blade on the table desk.

As he follows Rhamuel from the chamber, another thought occurs to him: the fact that his sabre—the one Altyrn said had come from one of his forebears—was forged so that it could be used to parry small chaos-bolts.
But any iron blade can if the user is quick enough … except …
Lerial nods. The blade had been created for and used by someone who was of the Magi’i and likely someone who could wield chaos. He wonders if Altyrn had realized that, but that is something Lerial will never know.

XIX

At roughly third glass on threeday afternoon, Lerial, Rhamuel, and their forces are riding north on the river road, just past the stone marker indicating that Shaelt is less than a kay away, although the plots of land to the west of the road are modest and close together, each with a small mud-brick house and its grove of olive or lemon trees, if not both, suggesting that they are close indeed to Shaelt proper. He has also seen the best-designed canals since he entered Afrit, with well-maintained water gates, and even stone-walled channels and bridges immediately off the Swarth River.

Although Rhamuel and Lerial have discussed Valatyr’s assassination over the two-day ride and reviewed what they both observed, they have been able to ascertain no more than they did when they left Haal. “Yussyl’s” few possessions gave no clue as to his past, or his real name, again suggesting that the assassination was well planned and not a last-moment plot. They have little evidence, except the blade, and a sketch made of the assassin’s face soon after his death. That was fortunate, because his body was already discomposing into ash, as a result of the excess of chaos he had carried, Lerial suspects. While Rhamuel may have some surmises, based on what he knows of Swartheld, he has not shared those with Lerial, and all Lerial can do is watch carefully, make certain his shields are strong at all times, and bide his time.

He cannot help but worry about the fact that Rhamuel’s enemies have mages, that such mages are costly, and that someone was willing to risk such a valuable agent to kill the subcommander. Valatyr’s body has been packed in salt and tightly wrapped, then placed in one of the wagons for a return to Swartheld to his family. Those arrangements delayed their departure from Haal, but the weather has favored them, and they are approaching Shaelt close to when Rhamuel had originally predicted.

“We’ll be quartered at the Afritan Guard post on the north side of Shaelt,” Rhamuel says. “You’ll get a good look at the city as we pass through. You’ll have a better chance tomorrow.”

“You’re intending we stay here for a day? Or longer?”

“Just a day. I would that it were otherwise. Staying at least a day is a necessity, for a number of reasons.”

Lerial waits, hoping that Rhamuel will explain more without his having to ask.

After several moments, the arms-commander smiles and adds, “My brother does not travel that much these days. I must stand in for him at times, and this is one of those.”

“So far I’ve not…” Lerial smiles wryly. He had been about to say that he had not had to stand in for either his father or his brother, but why else had his presence in Verdheln been required? Or his posting to Ensenla, where his father had previously spent much time commanding companies and patrols?

“There will be more requirements like that for you in the years ahead,” predicts Rhamuel.

“You’re likely right.”

Ahead is a small square, with a pedestal in the middle. Rising from the pedestal is a statue of a man holding a long blade in the air, presumably in triumph. Just before Lerial, some hundred yards south of the square, he can see that the packed dirt and clay of the road ends, and a wider stone-paved way leads on to the square.

“This is the south river market square. Most growers from the south sell here, I’m told,” says Rhamuel.

“And the statue?”

“My great-grandsire. He paid to pave the square and the road from the south market square to the river-pier market square.”

“Did you know him?”

“He died when I was little more than an infant. Atroyan claims to recall him. I don’t.”

“That’s a rather war-like pose,” observes Lerial as they enter the small square. Carts and stalls are lined up, not quite haphazardly, on the east side of the square just a few yards from the river wall. Most of the peddlers and those looking at wares keep glancing at the Mirror Lancers, but slowly seem to return to the business of bargaining.

“There wasn’t much real fighting then. Khesyn’s grandsire was still struggling to gain control of Heldya, and was struggling to unite the followers of the God of the Balance and the believers in the Chaos Demons, when I doubt he believed in either, and no one ever heard much from the Meroweyans.” Rhamuel offers a wry smile. “Back then, I imagine everyone thought of Cyador as distant and mighty.”

“As opposed to having its heirs close and possibly troublesome?” asks Lerial lightly.

“Let’s just say independent, at least.”

To the north of the southern market square, the paved river road widens into an avenue bordering the river and an equally solid-looking river wall whose capstones stand a good five yards above the present water level. While there are horses, carts, and wagons on the river road, all of them immediately pull to one side or the other when they catch sight of the arms-commander’s banner.

Lerial would never have thought of the need for that.
But then, in Cigoerne, no one would think of not moving from the road for the Lancers.
“Has the river ever overtopped the wall?”

Rhamuel shakes his head. “Not here. That can’t happen. With the marshes to the south and lower ground on the eastern bank some ten kays to the north, even if it did rise that much, it would flood places where no one lives … or the oxbow lakes in Heldya.”

Lerial can see that a significant rise in the water level is unlikely most times, especially given the width of the Swarth, and if what Rhamuel says is correct, it would appear that Shaelt is safe from flooding. He wonders about Luba, however.

As Lerial rides along the river road, he looks westward, past the shops and crafters’ buildings, but all he can see are the roofs of dwellings, shops, and factorages, stretching seemingly to the horizon. Several hundred yards ahead are can see two low redstone towers, likely indicating what must be the trading piers off the main market square.

“I hadn’t realized just how large Shaelt is,” he finally says.

“It’s good-sized compared to most places in Hamor, but very modest compared to Swartheld.”

The main market square is impressive, a stone-paved area more than half a kay on a side, filled with large carts and small ones, and stalls on wheels. Two- and three-story factorages line the edges of the square on all sides but the river side, where two piers each extend fifty yards into the river, and two half piers extend three times that parallel to the river wall, one north of the piers out into the water, and one the same distance to the south. There are fifteen flatboats tied to the piers, and Lerial estimates that they could hold more than fifty without doubling up.

And Shaelt is modest compared to Swartheld.
Lerial wants to shake his head.
Against this, what can you and three companies do? Is this why Rhamuel wants you to come to Swartheld?
He also notices that very few of those shopping, bargaining, or trading in the main square give more than a passing glance to the riders and the wagons, as if armed troopers are an everyday occurrence.

Although factorages and shops line the west side of the river road for another half kay or so north of the market square, after that there are several blocks of modest two-story dwellings, if almost wall-to-wall, before those give way to much smaller dwellings. There is a certain odor, certainly not as objectionable as that he experienced in the northern quarter of Luba, but it is less than pleasant and possibly more obvious because there is almost no wind, except for an occasional light and vagrant breeze off the river.