Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (64 page)

What woke you so suddenly?
He shakes his head and lies back down. For a time he listens and order-senses, but the quarters remain still, and there are no loud sounds issuing from the headquarters courtyard outside and below his shuttered window, no wind, no rain or thunder.

How long will you have to stay here?
With that question, his mind is filled with all the complications—Rhamuel’s health, how the merchanters will react, how to deal with Maesoryk, if he even returns to Swartheld, Jhosef, and Alaphyn … or the possible problem with the fact that Aenslem has no sons … and that Fhastal has two, both Aenslem’s grandsons, but complicated because Aenslem cannot stand Fhastal … and the two are the wealthiest and most powerful merchanters in Afrit. He also has to tell his officers and men about Rhamuel’s request, something he avoided the night before, because he wanted to think about the matter more before he did.

Then too, he must admit, there is the question of what will happen to Kyedra. Certainly, no one in Afrit, especially not Rhamuel, would want her consorted to any heir in Heldya, and from what Lerial has seen of Casseon’s acts, any consorting to anyone in Merowey wouldn’t be much better.

She’s too good for Lephi … and you’re the wrong brother.

Finally, he falls back asleep, only to wake at the first glimmer of light through the cracks in the closed shutters. While he feels better than he did on fiveday, his neck and face are still warm and red, doubtless from all the sun he’d endured, something he had not even noticed the day before, and he has a faint headache, although the light-flashes across his eyes have stopped. So, he realizes, has the itching on his hip.

After eating a sizable if not particularly tasty breakfast, he gathers Strauxyn, Kusyl, and Dhoraat together in one of the small conference rooms in the headquarters building.

“This must be serious, ser,” says Kusyl, glancing around the chamber before taking a seat opposite Lerial across the circular table that could accommodate six at most.

“It is. You know I met with Arms-Commander Rhamuel early last evening to report on what happened at Estheld. There was one other matter I did not mention.” He pauses and looks at Kusyl, who is shaking his head, just slightly, then grins. “It’s not quite that bad, Kusyl. The arms-commander has requested that we remain here for a short time, just to make certain something else doesn’t happen.”

“There aren’t more Heldyan armsmen somewhere else, are there?” asks Strauxyn worriedly.

“Not that we know of. The problem he faces is that, right now, everything is up in the air in Swartheld. The Afritan Guard has suffered so many casualties and deaths that it doesn’t have a single intact battalion, and the only decent field commander is Subcommander Ascaar. He is on his way here, and I think that he’ll be very helpful in straightening out matters.”

“The new duke doesn’t trust some of his officers?” asks Kusyl.

“It’s not a question of trust. All those left are loyal.”

“Oh…” murmurs Strauxyn. “He wants someone who can lead who knows one end of a lance from the other—until Subcommander Ascaar gets here.”

“There’s also the problem that several merchanters may have been helping the Heldyans, and one may have a company of private guards and a chaos-mage or two.” Lerial has his doubts as to whether Maesoryk’s mages have survived, but he has no doubts that the merchanter’s private guards are still intact … and that no one seems to know where they are.

“Begging your pardon, ser,” Kusyl says slowly, “but it seems like trying to leave Afrit is like trying to swim out of a vat of molasses.”

Lerial can’t help but smile. “I’ve never tried, but…”

“I was pushed into one when I was ten. Starshit near drowned and died before they pulled me out. You don’t float and can’t swim, and can barely breathe.”

“What we face isn’t likely to be quite that bad,” Lerial replies, “but Cigoerne can’t afford to have Afrit fall apart after all this … and…” He isn’t quite sure what to say that is at least most accurate, yet persuasive.

“We’re the only ones the new duke is sure of, because all we want is to get out of here with as much skin left as we can keep,” says Kusyl.

“That’s partly what it comes down to,” admits Lerial. “The other part is that we’ve now got a duke who did his best to keep Afrit from attacking Cigoerne when he was arms-commander, and it would be a good thing to make sure he stays duke.”

Strauxyn’s face shows puzzlement.

“The only attack in the last five years was ordered by Duke Atroyan when Arms-Commander Rhamuel had such a bad flux they weren’t sure he’d recover.”

“Star-frigging thing, ser, when we got more interest in Afrit having a good duke than they do.” Kusyl shakes his head.

“So you can see why we need to be here a little longer.”
Too long, considering we left Cigoerne almost exactly a season ago … well … a few days short of a season.

All three men nod, Kusyl offering a sardonically disgusted expression as well.

“It’ll be a story you can tell for years,” Lerial says.

“The worst thing, ser,” adds Kusyl, “is that we’ll be telling the truth, and everyone will think we’re lying.”

“As for today,” Lerial goes on, “I need a squad to accompany me to Merchanter Aenslem’s and then to the palace. They’ll likely be gone most of the day.”

“My second squad hasn’t seen that fancy villa,” volunteers Kusyl.

“Then they will,” replies Lerial.

A third after seventh glass, Lerial and the Second Squad from Twenty-third Company ride out through the headquarters gates and take the shore road to the avenue leading to the merchanter’s hill, a route Lerial chooses so that he can observe the harbor. From what he can tell, more than half the merchanter vessels that had been tied at the piers have departed. While Lerial is not absolutely certain, he has the feeling that all of those that have set sail, or most of them, anyway, were ships belonging to Alaphyn.

Was he aboard one of them?
That wouldn’t have surprised Lerial in the slightest. But then, given the arrogance of at least some of the Afritan merchanters, it wouldn’t have surprised Lerial if Alaphyn remained, stoutly proclaiming his allegiance to Rhamuel.

Lerial can maintain only very slight shields, and does so, given what has happened to all too many senior officers … and also given his lack of trust, but no one even comes close to the Lancer squad on its way to Aenslem’s villa.

Haesychya is the one who meets Lerial in the circular entry hall of the villa.

“I understand we owe you once more.” Haesychya’s voice is cool.

“Lady, in some ways, we owe you, since we do not have to fight on our lands, and we have suffered far less than you have. Like Afrit, Cigoerne has had to fight off Heldyan depredations for years. Unlike Afrit, we have not faced the magnitude of betrayal and treachery that has been your lot.”

“Are all Cigoernean mages as skilled as you are in the ways of destruction?”

“There are some who are skilled in such. There have never been a great number.” Lerial looks directly into Haesychya’s black eyes. “I would appreciate not being considered one of the black angels.”

A momentary look of puzzlement crosses her face. “Black angels?”

“The ones who called down destruction and devastation upon Cyador from the heights of the Westhorns to the depths of the ocean. I am scarcely a mage compared to them.”

“But you are a mage.”

Lerial shakes his head. “None of the true Magi’i would consider me such. I have mastered a few destructive skills and some healing, but … there is much I cannot do and likely never will be able to do.”

“My consort wanted to reunite Cigoerne and Afrit, you know? You have made that impossible.”

“It was never possible the way in which he wanted to accomplish it.”

Haesychya looks away for an instant. Then she meets Lerial’s eyes again. “So why are you here this morning?”

“To see that your father is well and continuing to improve.”

“I think you will find him much improved.” She turns and begins to walk toward the archway to the north corridor. “You know, you’re not doing Kyedra any favors by coming here.”

“That may be … or it may not be, but I am here at Rhamuel’s request.”

“You would defy your parents’ wishes? They will certainly press for her hand for your brother.”

Lerial manages a rueful smile. “They have not … not yet, and I have found that assuming what others will do, in the absence of evidence of intent, can be most misleading.” What Lerial says is not wholly true, he knows, given his mother’s wishes, but his father has said nothing.

“The needs of power override intent or emotion. They override love, also, especially young love.”

“I will not question you on that, Lady. You have far more experience than I.” Again … this is true, and Lerial’s experience with Rojana would certainly support Haesychya’s point, but he does not wish to concede that directly. He wonders what else he can say when he sees a serving girl—the attractive one he has seen before—slipping out the study door. By the slight change in Haesychya’s walk and posture, Lerial can tell that she has seen as well … and that it is likely that the young woman is more than a mere serving girl.

“Still…” Haesychya says, seeming almost to muse, “we have just seen what two younger brothers have done, and few would have believed how events have turned out.”

“I would not underestimate the power of younger sisters, either,” replies Lerial.

“You have one in mind?”

“I have several,” he counters, pausing to allow her to enter Aenslem’s study first.

Aenslem is alone in the study, but Lerial still manages to smile and say, “You’re looking much better.” He moves closer to the merchanter, stopping short of the desk and letting his order-senses range over the older man. He almost nods as he can find no trace of the chaos that would indicate a lingering effect of the poison.

“You worry too much about me, young Lerial.”

“I worry less than Rhamuel does. He’s the one who asked that I stop and see how you are. He’s going to need your counsel and advice.”

“He’s never asked for it before.”

“He wasn’t duke before,” replies Lerial.

“He hasn’t proclaimed the title for himself. Most of Afrit still thinks his brother is.”

“He’s had a few other things to consider,” Lerial points out dryly. “Are you up to riding?”

“A short ride would do me good.”

“Are you sure, Father?” asks Haesychya.

“I’m sure. You can accompany us, if you’re that worried.”

“I’ll never set foot back in that prison.” Haesychya’s words are cool and matter-of-fact. “Never.”

“’Never’ is a dangerous word, Daughter,” says Aenslem as he rises from the chair behind the table desk.

“When will you be back?” asks Haesychya, as if she has talked about nothing but the weather or a pleasant afternoon.

“When I’m done with Rhamuel. Assuming he’ll listen.”

“He always listens,” replies Haesychya. “He seldom agrees with you.”

Aenslem snorts and turns to Lerial. “You can walk with me to the stables.”

Lerial addresses Haesychya. “Thank you for everything. I do appreciate your kindness and your insights.”

“You are leaving Swartheld soon, then?”

“The arms-commander has asked me to remain for a short time, at least until Subcommander Ascaar arrives in a few days. Perhaps longer, but that is his choice.”

“For now,” suggests Haesychya.

“For now,” Lerial agrees.

Haesychya inclines her head, and Lerial returns the gesture.

Aenslem and Lerial walk toward the entry hall.

“She’s worried that Kyedra will become attached to you, as if you don’t already know.”

“Is that her worry … or is it that Kyedra will become attached to a less powerful junior son when she might have more power in consorting his elder brother?”

“For someone your age, you don’t miss much.”

Lerial laughs. “I think that suggests that I still miss too much.”

This time Aenslem laughs.

When he finishes, Lerial asks, “What am I missing?”

“What do you think you’re missing?” As they enter the main entry hall, Aenslem heads for the west corridor.

“Besides the fact that Haesychya resents women being subservient to men, when she’s more perceptive than most?”
As if that is not often true.

“You’re close enough.” Aenslem turns down a small side corridor that leads to a door out into a walk that leads through a walled garden and out into the rear courtyard.

Neither speaks much until they are mounted and well away from the villa. Finally, Lerial ventures, “I didn’t realize Haesychya hated the palace so much.”

“I gave her and Sophrosynia too much freedom growing up. They thought they were the equal of any man.”

“I haven’t met Sophrosynia, but Haesychya certainly is.”

Aenslem shakes his head. “No. They’re both smarter and see more than most men, and most men don’t like that. Atroyan certainly didn’t. Fhastal doesn’t either, but, unlike Atroyan, he listens and weighs what Sophrosynia has to say.”

“Some have said you don’t much care for Fhastal, but that doesn’t sound as though that’s the case.”

“I don’t like him. He’s arrogant, and he’s cost me more than I want to count. But he’s the best at what he does, and he’s been good to Sophrosynia. She loves him, and he loves her. But I don’t have to like him.”

Lerial doesn’t know what to say to that, and he is silent for several long moments, thinking.

“I have my likes and dislikes, young Lerial, and I’ve got more than a few faults. My daughters and Kyedra could list them all, but they’re loyal, and they won’t. One thing I learned a long time ago was not to judge men—or women—on whether you like them. I’ll do business with a man I dislike who’s trustworthy, and I won’t with a man I like personally but distrust.” After a moment Aenslem smiles and adds, “Unless, of course, it’s golds in advance, and all the risk is on his part. Even then, I’m wary.”

Lerial nods, hoping Aenslem will say more.

After they have ridden a while longer and are on the road leading to the circle around the palace, the merchanter speaks again. “I heard you say that you’re remaining at Rhamuel’s request. Just how badly is he injured? The plain truth, now. Will he live?”