Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (69 page)

“Immar!” commands Lerial. “Stand up! Now! Enough groveling.”

The innkeeper slowly rises, his eyes going from Norstaan to Lerial and then back to Lerial in puzzlement.

“Duke Rhamuel has sent Lord Lerial to seek the truth,” offers the undercaptain.

“We need to talk,” Lerial declares.

Behind him, Strauxyn murmurs, “Permission to inspect the inn, ser?”

“Granted.”

From behind Lerial comes the command, “First Squad, First File, dismount.”

“Once my men look around, you and I, Immar, are going to talk.”

“Yes, ser. Yes, ser.” The innkeeper continues to glance at Norstaan.

“Lord Lerial is the overcaptain who did the most to defeat the Heldyans. He stands high in the duke’s esteem and trust,” Norstaan explains. “He is the second son of the duke of Cigoerne.”

“The people of the Rational Stars…” murmurs the innkeeper in a resigned voice, as if he has lost all hope.

A third of a glass later, Lerial sits across a circular table from the innkeeper in the otherwise deserted public room, except for the pair of Lancers posted by the main door and the second pair by the kitchen door.

“Why did you throw yourself in front of us, Immar?”

“The Afritan Guard … the squad leader … the one who came searching for the heir … he told me we would pay if we were guilty.”

“Are you?” asks Lerial, letting his senses range over the innkeeper.

“No, ser. I have lost my only son to this evil. Many will not speak to me. Those from whom I must buy provisions demand silvers in advance. They fear I will not live to pay them.”

Lerial doubts the man’s distress is feigned. “Perhaps you can tell me what happened on that night when the heir and his friend arrived with their guards.”

“I will tell you all I know. All those here will tell you what they know.”

“How many were in the party?”

“The same number as there always were, ser. Lord Mykel and his friend, and ten Afritan Guards and two merchanter guards.”

“Had any of the Afritan Guards been at the inn before? Did you remember any?”

“No, ser. That was not strange. There was always a different group of Afritan Guards every year. They joked about it when I was not listening. They said that they had thrown lucky bones because they could spend the summer at the lakes.”

Lerial looks to Norstaan. The undercaptain nods.

“What about the merchanter guards?”

“I have thought about that, ser. They were different. They were not the guards that had been with Lord Mykel’s friend every time in the two years before.”

“Was there anything else different about them?”

“I did not see anything different. They were guards. They had blades. They watched. They did not eat when the others did. Neither did two Afritan Guards. That was the way it always was.”

“What happened after they ate?”

“The heir and his friend sat here and talked. Then they went upstairs.”

“What about the guards?”

“Most of them went to their rooms. One guarded the upstairs, and another guarded the front door. That was the way it always was.”

“What about you and your consort?”

“She was tired. She went to bed early. I went upstairs to wait for Jahib. I fell asleep in the chair. When I woke it was light, and she was screaming that Jahib was missing. We began looking everywhere for him. Ottar found him at the bottom of the well.”

Although Lerial continues to question the innkeeper for another half glass, he learns little more. Finally, he says, “I’d like to speak to your consort.”

“Ser … I beg of you. Do not be cruel. Jahib was our only child. She mourns. She will mourn always.”

“I do need to speak to her.”

“I will find her and bring her here.”

“Thank you.”

After the innkeeper leaves, Lerial reviews what Immar had said, but he can find no inconsistencies.
We’ll see what his consort has to say.

“Ser…” At the sound of the innkeeper’s voice, Lerial rises from the small table and turns.

The woman who approaches from the entry hall archway wears a heavy black and white mourning head scarf, swirled around her head so that Lerial can see little except her eyes. She stops short of the table. Lerial gestures for her to sit, and she does. She does not speak, even after Lerial seats himself.

“Your son is dead,” he says quietly. “I cannot restore him to you. I would ask your help in finding the sons of other mothers.”

The woman still does not speak.

Lerial reaches out, his hand just short of the woman’s forehead, then extends the smallest trace of order, along with what he hopes is a feeling of comfort. He lowers his hand.

Her eyes widen, then brighten, as if with unshed tears. After a moment, she says, “You are a magus from the south, are you not?”

“From the south and of the Magi’i,” he replies, for he does not consider himself a magus.

“You can tell the truth of my words?”

Lerial smiles, wryly. “I can tell if you do not believe your own words.”

“They killed my Jahib. He was but twelve, and they killed him.”

“I heard he was found in the well.”

“They wanted me to think my son was stupid and careless. My son. He was dutiful and the most careful of boys.”

“Who wanted you to think that?”

“Those who killed him.”

“Do you know who killed him? Or how? When?”

“Someone with the heir. It could have been no one else.”

“How do you know he was killed?”

“His belt was caught in the bucket strap. He never stood that way in lifting water. He always set the bucket on the well wall. The wall is chest high. Immar built it that high so no one would ever fall in.”

“Why didn’t you know that something had happened to him?”

“I was so … tired. I didn’t know why. I asked Quiela to make sure that Jahib came upstairs after he swept the kitchen. That was his chore. When I woke the next morning, it was light. I never sleep past dawn.”

“Why did you then?”

“Someone must have put something in the lager. We all slept late, except Quiela.” Her eyes brighten once more. “The Afritan Guard—the mean one who beat Immar—he told me she was dead. She was a sweet girl. She hurt no one. She was not pretty, but she was so sweet.”

“How could anyone have put anything in the lager?” asks Lerial.

“When the heir comes, a guard always watches the kitchen and the food. It is true when a merchanter comes also.”

“Were there two men in the kitchen, then?”

She frowns, trying to remember. “No. There was only the merchanter guard.”

Lerial wants to nod. “Were you in the kitchen all the time?”

“No. I watched Ottar when he prepared the food. I watched Quiela and helped her serve the food.”

“Did the heir drink your lager?”

“The heir always brings casks of his own wine. He drank that. So did his friends. The guards drank our lager.”

“Did you or Immar drink any of the wine?”

“The heir offered some to Immar. He always does. Immar does not like wine, but he always drinks some. He would not wish to offend the heir.”

“You only drank the lager?”

“That was all. Our water is better than most, but the lager is always clean.”

“Did Jahib drink lager?”

“We made him water his lager.”

“What about Quiela?”

“She watered her lager. She said it was better that way.”

“Did you see anything else strange after you woke up?”

“My head hurt. So did Immar’s. So did Ottar’s. The front door to the inn was barred. So was the rear door, and the kitchen door.”

“Are those the only doors?”

She nods.

“How did anyone get out, then?”

“The shutters on the side window of the public room weren’t fastened.”

Lerial asks more questions of the innkeeper’s consort, but discovers nothing more, and then goes to the kitchen, where he questions Ottar the cook.

“What did you prepare for their dinner?”

“They had a young goat. I made the meat tender, seared it, and then put it in an iron pot with the spices for burhka. I served it all with pearl millet. Between the heir and his friend and their guards, there wasn’t much left. Just enough for small portions for the rest of us.”

“Everyone ate some of the goat, then?”

“The merchanter guard in the kitchen … he ate later, with the rest of us.”

“Did you drink much lager?”

Ottar snorts. “Can’t last in the kitchen without lager. It’s too hot.”

“You slept late?”

“Later than anyone, I guess. Immar was shaking me. My head was splitting. Never had a skull-ache like that before.”

“How did you find the boy?”

“The bucket is always hung on the post closest to the inn door. Jamara gets real upset if it’s not. It wasn’t there. When I looked down in the well, I saw something. It took both of us—Immar and me—to pull up the bucket, because Jahib’s belt was caught.”

“Was he wounded?”

“No, ser. He had a bump on the head. Like maybe he’d fallen and hit it. Don’t see how he could have done that. Soon as she saw him, Jamara started screaming that someone had killed him.”

“What did you think?”

“Someone bashed him, hooked his belt to the bucket, and lowered him into the well. Maybe they wanted him out of the way, figured he wouldn’t drown. Maybe they wanted him dead.” Ottar shrugs fatalistically.

Again, more questions bring little more information, and a half glass later, Lerial and Norstaan are sitting at the same small table where Lerial had questioned the innkeeper. Lerial looks at the dark lager in the heavy mug, then order-senses it, and finding no chaos takes a sip. The lager is even more bitter than it looks. He sets the mug down.

“What do you think, ser?” asks Norstaan.

“It wasn’t anyone here at the inn. One of Oestyn’s guards had to be the one who added sleeping draughts to the lager.” Lerial nods to the mug. “This is so bitter you could add anything. The wine might have been adulterated earlier. That’s most likely.”

“Why?”

“Oestyn and Mykel know wine. Whoever added something had to add it skillfully enough that it didn’t affect the taste too much. Or … maybe Jhosef sent a new or different vintage, one unfamiliar to the two.”

Norstaan nods. “Most inn lager is bitter, and it varies from place to place. Likely enough that the guards wouldn’t notice.”

“The boy wouldn’t be drinking as much, and his parents insisted on watering his lager … and the serving girl watered her own lager. The cook drank more lager than anyone, slept later, and woke with his head splitting.”

“And they did it here because they could get rid of the bodies fairly close,” suggests Norstaan.

“That means someone very familiar with the area.”

Like Jhosef.
Except that Lerial does not voice that observation.

LI

Because Lerial can see no point in spending another day or even part of one at the Streamside, he and his force set out for Lake Jhulyn early on threeday. He does pay Immar two golds from the small bag with which Rhamuel has entrusted him, for which Immar again practically grovels thanks.
Or relief, more likely,
Lerial suspects.

As they ride away from the inn, Lerial cannot help but wonder whether Emerya will come to Swartheld.
Father has to have received your dispatch by now.
But there is also the question of whether he will even tell Emerya.
Should you have sent a separate dispatch to her?
But doing so would have meant going around his father … and that …

He shakes his head.

By the third glass of the afternoon they are approaching Merchanter Jhosef’s villa, set on the west edge of the lake near its northern tip. Even from over a kay away, the size of Jhosef’s grounds and summer villa are impressive, the villa itself a white structure set facing the lake, with lawn running down to a sandy beach. Walls a good three yards high run from fifty yards out into the water up each the side of the lawn past the villa and its outbuildings to a point a half kay higher on the long gentle slope leading down to the lake. The west wall, the one high on the hill, appears to be closer to four yards tall. The road leads to an entry gate in the north wall.

Flanking the gate, inside the walls, are several white stone buildings, and out of those buildings a white stone-paved lane leads due south, passing directly beside stone retaining walls, on the top of which are extensive terraces, before curving south and uphill around the villa, presumably to an uphill entrance on the west side.

Lerial cannot help but wonder why the entry road does not just angle directly across the slope to the entry on the west side of the villa, but then realizes that the existing approach is far more artistic.
Oestyn’s idea? Or someone else’s earlier?
Lerial cannot imagine it being Jhosef’s. As he rides closer to the gates, he continues to study the walls and the grounds, and the paved lanes connecting the gates and all the outbuildings, certainly enough outbuildings to quarter several companies of private guards.

“How do you plan to get in to see the merchanter, ser?” asks Strauxyn, riding on Lerial’s left. “Those walls are high and stout.”

“First, we’ll ask. Then we’ll see.”

“I can’t imagine them defying you, ser,” says Norstaan.

Lerial can, unhappily, given all he has witnessed since entering Afrit more than a season before, and especially after seeing the small stone fortress set beside Jhosef’s dam and above the water gates. He carries full shields as he rides up toward the stout timbered gates, iron-bound and set into massive stone posts.

“Lord Lerial to see Merchanter Jhosef.”

“Merchanter Jhosef is not receiving visitors. He never receives unannounced visitors here.”

Lerial can sense … something beyond the walls—well beyond—almost a swirl of order and chaos.
A very good shield!
So Jhosef has a strong mage … something no one has ever mentioned, not that Lerial is especially surprised. He finds that he is angry. Aenslem had a low-level chaos-mage; Maesoryk had or has two or more. Jhosef has one …
And you had to deal with the Heldyans and the traitor mages without any magely support because not a single merchanter would even admit to having mages or white wizards.