Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (67 page)

“Sometimes … seems like the Rational Stars aren’t so rational.”

“Sometimes, I’ve thought the same thing,” replies Lerial with a laugh. “Let’s go get some food and lager. It’s been a long day.”

That night, after he climbs into his bunk, Lerial’s thoughts go back to his conversation with Kusyl.
Only Kusyl could have dared to bring up what he did … and only most likely outside of Cigoerne. But he’s right. It’s already been a bit of a problem, and it’s going to get worse.
The only solution Lerial can see is for him, once he returns to Cigoerne, to remain at posts well away from the palace, perhaps even as far away as in Verdheln … or for him to switch duties with Lephi so that Lephi will be closer to the city of Cigoerne itself.
You’re going to have to talk that over with Father …
And that is not something to which he is looking forward.

Nor is he looking forward to leaving Kyedra, he realizes, even as he knows that, as Altyrn has pointed out, there are great responsibilities involved in being even the junior heir …
and the wrong brother.

Finally, he does drift off to sleep.

XLVIII

Lerial wakes early on eightday, and with no real solutions to the problems awaiting him in leaving Afrit and returning to Cigoerne, spends almost a glass after breakfast and morning muster, both sparring against Kusyl and Strauxyn—left-handed, since neither can match him right-handed—and then giving blade instruction to those picked out by their squad leaders as needing improvement. All that effort requires washing up and a clean uniform. It does not help his mood that much, although he feels slightly more virtuous, since he has not done that much one-on-one bladework since arriving in Afrit.

Then he decides to do something that has flitted in and out of his mind for days. When he steps out of his quarters, he glances around. Seeing no one, he raises a concealment, and then carefully makes his way out of the quarters and across the courtyard and, very slowly, and very carefully, past the guards at the gates, not fully closed, but open only enough for a single horse and rider to pass. He turns north onto the uneven stone walk flanking the wall. When he reaches the narrow lane at the north end of the wall, he steps into it, and sensing no one near, drops the concealment before continuing on past the café, still open, despite it being eightday, and to the cloth factorage that he has ridden past so often in recent days. When he reaches it, he tries the door, and finding it open, steps inside, where the air seems slightly drier, but not at all musty. Bolts of cloth are held in old but clean wooden racks. Before he can really survey the range of cloth on the racks, a voice rises from his left.

“This isn’t the café … or Madam Kula’s place … oh … I’m sorry, ser.” The older woman who had spoken frowns as she steps from behind one of the wooden racks. “You’re not a Guard ranker. Not a Guard officer, either.”

“No. I’m a Mirror Lancer overcaptain.” Lerial keeps his voice pleasant. “I just wanted to see what range of cloth you have.”

“Doesn’t seem that you’d have need for such.”

“Not now, but I once worked for a shimmersilk grower, and I didn’t see any of that in the window. Is that because it’s so dear?”

“Golds are cheaper than shimmersilk.”

A white-haired man eases from behind a counter on which are stacked bolts of what look to be differing cottons. He stops several yards away, but says nothing.

“They always have been, I’m told, at least since the fall of Cyador.”

“No one makes shimmersilk in Hamor.”

“There’s one grower in Cigoerne, but what they produce goes to Candar and Austra.”

“They say it comes from moths,” offers the woman.

Lerial has a feeling that her words are an invitation for him to reveal ignorance. “Not quite. It comes from the cocoons made by the worms that would turn into moths. Except they boil the cocoons and then tease out the strands for thread.” He pauses for an instant, trying to think of what to say to turn the conversation to what he wants to know. “It’s difficult, and that’s one reason why, I was told, anyway, that shimmersilk is so costly. I doubt that even the duke has many shimmercloth garments … or did, anyway.”

“Not as though we’d know,” says the white-haired man.

“I noticed some places have mourning cloths hanging, and others don’t. Is there a reason for that?” asks Lerial, adding, “I’m not from here, and I wondered.”

“I couldn’t say,” replies the woman. “We serve honest tradespeople. Probably years since I gave the palace more than a passing glance.”

The older man offers a piercing glance to the woman and asks, genially, “That’s quite a blade you sport, ser. It must have seen some use in the past few days.”

Lerial offers a polite smile. “Far too much, I fear. I notice most of your cloth is cotton or linen. Do you have much need of wool?”

“In Swartheld?” The man chuckles. “Most folks might have a wool blanket or two, and it’s handed down from mother to daughter.” After a pause, he asks, “Where was the silkmaker you worked for, if I might ask?”

“In Teilyn, southwest some two days from the city of Cigoerne.”

The man nods. “Is there anything in which we might interest you?”

“No, thank you. You’ve been most indulgent of my curiosity.” Lerial inclines his head.

“Glad we could help,” grudges the woman. She turns her back as Lerial walks toward the door. He opens it, and seeing that neither she nor the older man who is likely her consort is looking, he raises a concealment shield and closes the door without leaving the factorage. He moves back to where he can listen to anything they might say.

“Mite strange, Shaera, mite strange, especially that bit about mourning the duke,” says the older man.

“Paah … every duke’s like the one before. So long as they don’t raise tariffs and leave our granddaughters alone … it doesn’t much matter. Think that fellow really knew about shimmersilk?”

“He’s done more’n hold it. Didn’t hesitate to say where the grower was.”

“Can’t have done much more. Too young to be an officer worked up from a ranker.”

“Maybe not, but there’s a toughness there … not just a rich merchanter’s younger brat like so many Guard officers. See how cold his eyes got when I asked about that blade?”

“They say Cigoerne’s a tougher place.”

“Could be…” The older man signs. “Enough chatter. Need to see about that dun cotton … see if we can save it … or something…”

“You save that … and I’ll make you duke…” The woman does not quite cackle as the two move farther back in the factorage.

Lerial makes his way to the front door, drops the concealment, opens the door, and then slips outside, closing the door as gently as he can, before turning and walking briskly back toward the headquarters post.

The rest of the morning and the early afternoon he spends going over equipment and preparing the spare weapons—those recovered from the field and from casualties—and switching out poorer or damaged blades being used by various lancers with better ones, as well as going over details of the forthcoming trip to Lake Jhulyn with Strauxyn and obtaining a map from Dhallyn of the area. He is almost relieved when a messenger arrives in midafternoon, requesting his presence at the palace.

Kusyl sends his First Squad as Lerial’s escort, and as they ride through the streets leading to the palace, Lerial does notice a few mourning drapes hung here and there, almost haphazardly, and he wonders whether all the merchanters’ buildings near the harbor will hang the drapes, not that he intends to take time to make a special trip to see.

He has barely dismounted outside the palace stables when an officer in an Afritan Guard uniform—Ascaar—hurries across the courtyard to meet him.

Lerial grins. “You made a fast trip from Shaelt.”

“Commander Sammyl indicated all deliberate speed, but apparently it wasn’t necessary. I heard that you dealt with the Heldyans all by yourself … something about turning Estheld into an inferno and destroying ships and men…”

“Matters worked out better than I’d hoped. Thankfully,” Lerial says. “We didn’t see your men riding by Guard headquarters.”

“I quartered them at South Post. It was almost empty … and that seemed better.”

“And you’d rather not deal with Dhresyl?”

“I had that thought. It appears that matters less now.” Ascaar glances toward the west wing of the palace. “I wanted to talk to you before we both meet with the duke. I only had a few moments with him. He said the rest could wait until you arrived. I gather he’s also still arms-commander as well.”

“I told him I thought he should be for a time yet.”

“You’ve told him a few things, I can tell.”

“Not just me. Merchanter Aenslem has as well.”

“You’re the one who’s given me more headaches than any old officer needs.”

“Me? What did I do?”

“Insisted that I have field command of all Afritan Guard battalions.”

“I didn’t insist. I suggested.”

“Given who you are … it’s the same thing.”

That is indeed a chilling thought.
Just who does he think I am?
That is not a thought on which Lerial wishes to long dwell. “Given Sammyl or Dhresyl, would you want to serve under either in a fight? Would you want anyone else to?”

Ascaar offers a mock groan. “You would ask something like that.”

Lerial shrugs. “Better a Lancer officer who won’t be here long than an Afritan Guard officer who will.”

“We’d better get to the duke’s study and find out what he wants to tell us,” Ascaar says. “I doubt I want to know.”

Lerial almost asks,
What else could happen?
, but realizes even uttering those words is an invitation for another disaster to occur. “What else is new?”

Ascaar shakes his head.

Less than a tenth of a glass later, Lerial and Ascaar are seated before Rhamuel’s table desk in the receiving study, the door closed firmly behind them.

“As you both know,” Rhamuel says, “we need to clean up a few loose ends here in Afrit. Lerial has taken care of those dealing with Heldya, but the Afritan Guard needs restructuring. We also need quite a number of replacements, who will need training. That will have to be your immediate priority, Commander Ascaar.” The duke turns to Lerial. “The matter of my younger brother’s disappearance also needs attention, the sooner the better. When can you leave?”

“The first thing in the morning.”

“So soon?”

“We started making preparations as soon as you made your request.” Lerial smiles. “Some supplies, as well as reimbursement for supplies along the way … might be useful.”

Rhamuel offers a wry smile. “Draw what you need in travel supplies. You’ll have some golds before you leave.”

“Thank you, ser.”

“I’d best supply you. I wouldn’t want you imposing on my people. That wouldn’t be good, especially for a new duke.”

“What do you expect from us?” Lerial asks bluntly.

“To find Mykel. If you cannot do that, discover what happened to him and why, and deal with those that caused it to happen. If that is not possible, discover all you can about what Jhosef and Maesoryk have had to do with the Heldyan attack on Afrit.”

“And if you can’t do that,” adds Ascaar dryly, “leave the bastards shitless so that they won’t make more trouble.”

Rhamuel frowns, then abruptly shakes his head with a wry smile. “Becoming a full commander hasn’t changed you at all, Ascaar.”

“Be a shame if it had, ser.”

The duke laughs. “You’re right about that.” He turns to Lerial. “I would suggest that you personally inform Lady Haesychya of your mission this afternoon.”

“Thank you for the suggestion.”
And the excuse to visit Aenslem’s villa.
“I will do so.”

“Good.” Rhamuel smiles. “I don’t have anything else for you. I do have a long list of matters to take up with Commander Ascaar.”

“Then I will take my leave.” Lerial smiles and stands.

Before that long, he and Kusyl’s First Squad are riding out through the gates and onto the ring road. Lerial does notice more mourning drapes on houses and buildings to the north and west of the palace.
Because it’s a more affluent part of Swartheld?
And when they reach Aenslem’s villa, there are also drapes on the gates.
But not until Rhamuel proclaimed mourning. That’s interesting.

While he is grateful for the opportunity to see Kyedra again, he worries about doing so.
Is this just a futile hope? Will you make matters worse with Haesychya by appearing again on such a thin pretext?
He is still fretting when he dismounts and walks to the villa.

A retainer greets Lerial at the entry. “Might I inform whoever you’re here to see that you are here, Lord Lerial?”

“I’m here to see Lady Haesychya, first, and then Lady Kyedra … on a different matter.”

“If you would not mind waiting in the entry hall, ser?”

“I’ll wait.”

Although Lerial doubtless waits only a small fraction of a glass—a very small fraction—it seems as though a good third or half glass has passed before Haesychya appears, coming from the north wing of the Villa.

Lerial inclines his head to her. “Lady.”

“I understand that you are here on two separate matters, Lerial. What is the one that concerns me, might I ask?”

“Duke Rhamuel has requested that I travel, with one Mirror Lancer company, escorted by one of his personal squads and Undercaptain Norstaan, to the area of Lake Jhulyn to look into the role certain merchanters may have played in the death of your consort and son and the disappearance of Lord Mykel.”

“I’m not interested in vengeance, Lerial.”

“Neither am I, Lady. I am interested in discovering anyone who cares so little about Afrit, its Guards, and its ruler that they would kill so many for mere personal gain and drag all the duchies in Hamor into war. If such is the case, they remain a danger to all Afrit, indeed all Hamor. I also don’t particularly wish to see them escape the consequences of their actions, because that would set a very poor example for which both Afrit and Cigoerne will pay dearly in years to come.”

“That is a rather eloquent statement. It is not exactly direct.”