Cyador’s Heirs (46 page)

This time, as he has been after his near-disaster, he is careful to bank the coals and close the oven door. He also raises a concealment before he leaves the mess hall kitchen, one that he does not release until he is in deep shadows of the nearby barracks and he can sense no one nearby. Then he slowly walks back to the north end of the barracks that holds his quarters and Altyrn’s.

The majer steps out of his quarters, as if he had been listening for Lerial. “Working late, again?”

“As if you don’t,” replies Lerial with a smile that he has to make an effort to present. “You’re planning for the future. I’m trying to catch up in learning what I need to know to be an effective undercaptain.”

“A bit more than that, I think.”

“Some, but there’s still so much to learn.”

“The sabre instruction has been good for you.”

“Most of it is just basics.”

“That’s true, but you’re more comfortable with a wand or a blade. I’ve watched. So have Juist and Kusyl. None of us would want to face you now. You’re also more confident in dealing with rankers.”

“Those are just part of what an undercaptain does.”

“You’re right. That’s why I want you to work with Juist on maneuvers in the afternoon, starting on oneday.” Altyrn holds up his hand. “I know they’ve only had an eightday using actual sabres in their exercises, and they’re not sparring with them, but they need the maneuvers more now. We’ll have to rework the training schedule on eightday, but some of the rankers who are good with a blade can take over in running the recruits through drills. I’ve picked out three who will do it well enough.”

“Yes, ser.”

“I’m glad to see you’re getting more sleep. You looked like sowshit on twoday, and not much better on threeday.”

“There’s just a lot to do,” Lerial temporizes.

“There is, but you’ll do it badly if you’re exhausted. That can get you—and your men—killed if you make a practice of it.”

“I’m learning that, ser.”

“I think you are.” Altyrn smiles. “Good night.”

Lerial returns the smile. “Good night.” Then he enters his own quarters. He is so tired that he has no doubts he will sleep. Well, he hopes.

LI

For the first few days he is working with Juist, Lerial remains in the background, listening and observing, even though he will never carry a lance, unlike the officers of the Cyadoran Mirror Lancers.

But those were true firelances, not just well-wrought spear-lances.
He pushes away that thought and concentrates on Juist—and his commands—as the recruit squad charges forward toward a line of figures woven out of vines and branches and arranged as an opposing squad might be.

Lerial watches and listens as Juist talks with Dueven, the Lancer ranker acting as squad leader.

“They have to hold the line and keep an even interval. Your second rank is sagging in the middle. After a hundred yards, you’ll have a hole there. The moment they lag, you’ll have to order them to dress it up. They have to hold line and interval until it’s habit they don’t even have to think about. You should remember that.”

“Yes, ser.” Dueven, likely only five years older than Lerial, nods.

“You’re getting experience, Dueven. Be grateful. Do it again.”

Lerial can sense the exasperation behind Juist’s voice, and he almost smiles, not out of malice, but because the squad leader’s emotions mirror so much what he has been feeling in conducting blade training.

Once the practice charge through the vine figures is complete, Lerial comments, “They looked better this time.”

“They’re better,” Juist admits. “They’re actually holding the lances right, leaning forward, and using their stirrups.” He shakes his head. “Never thought I’d see a vine dummy unhorse someone.”

Lerial knows better than to ask whether that happened. He’s already seen two recruits knock themselves out with their own wands.

Three glasses later, when Lerial nears the stable on his return from maneuvers training, he reins up well short of the open door as a Verdyn Lancer recruit in his undress brown uniform hurries toward him.

“Ser! The majer would like to see you at your earliest convenience.”

Lerial can barely resist smiling at the use of “at your earliest convenience,” a phrase that he suspects dates from the oldest military organizations, even though he had never heard it until he started training with the Mirror Lancers. “Thank you. Carry on.”

He dismounts and turns the gelding over to one of the ostlers for unsaddling and grooming, rather than doing it himself, because, if Altyrn wants to speak with him that quickly, it’s likely to be important. He walks briskly through the chill air, across the central open space to the south end of the eastern barracks. He stops before the half-open door to Altyrn’s study, a square room with a table-desk and chairs and little else. He raps on the door frame.

Altyrn motions him to enter.

Lerial does, closing the door and taking the chair across from the desk. He sees the majer’s bow in the corner, unstrung, but not cased, as if he had just returned from working with the archers.

“We’ve finally gotten a dispatch from Majer Phortyn.” Altyrn’s voice is level. “It came back with the Mirror Lancers and the Verdyn who conveyed the golds to Cigoerne.”

“Ser?”

“Nothing much in Cigoerne has changed, and that’s not good. The Afritan armsmen are still patrolling the border just north of Penecca in force. Phortyn reports that they have at least three companies there at all times, sometimes five. There are more raids along the northern border farther to the west, and there are more Heldyan raiders crossing the Swarth and attacking the smaller hamlets to the south and east of Narthyl. I doubt they’re raiders, or even marauders, but Duke Khesyn would claim that they are … and that he is doing his best to control them.”

“He’d also suggest that any ruler who cannot control his own lands…” Lerial doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Of course, but only in the most veiled manner. I’d never be able to write something that indirect.”

Lerial knows full well Altyrn could; he just wouldn’t like doing it. He also wonders how Lephi is doing with the Lancers who must deal with those raids.

“He also reports that he’s had to promote Undercaptain Seivyr to captain,” Altyrn goes on quietly.

“‘Had to’? That’s an odd way of putting it.”

“He informed me that Captain Dechund came down with a nasty flux of some sort. He went out of his mind and wandered away from the post in the middle of the night. They found his body the next day.”

“That can happen. If we’d been there, maybe…”

“You can’t be everywhere. No one can. Seivyr will do better than Dechund, anyway.”

Lerial can detect no real sadness on the majer’s part. But then, Lerial hadn’t been at all impressed with Dechund, for all his perfect uniform and polished boots, and he suspected that the majer has been even less so. “Majer Phortyn doesn’t like Seivyr?”

Altyrn offers a sardonic smile. “Not since Seivyr was overheard saying that he needed to promote officers on their ability and not on the cleanliness of their uniforms.”

Lerial winces.

“It wasn’t an accident that Seivyr was posted to Tirminya … or that others with less ability or experience were promoted to captain.”

The majer is delivering more than one message with those words, Lerial realizes, but he only nods and says, “I think I understand.”

“Good.” Altyrn smiles warmly and hands an envelope to Lerial. “There is one other thing. This came for you.”

Lerial takes the missive and studies the handwritten address—“Lerial, Undercaptain, Lancer Detachment, Verdheln.” He does not recognize the handwriting. Although it looks feminine, it is not his mother’s, and it is too well formed to be Ryalah’s. Rather than guess, he will open it, alone. He nods to the majer. “Thank you, ser. Is there anything else?”

“Not until after you read the letter. You’ll be wondering who wrote it and why, rather than concentrating. Go read it and then come back.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial makes his way from the majer’s study to his own, a space even smaller than that of Altyrn’s, with only enough space for a table-desk and a chair, and perhaps one file chest, if Lerial even had one. The sole window fills almost all of the outside wall space. He doesn’t bother to sit, but leans against the desk, opens the letter with his belt knife, laying it on the desk, and looks to the signature—that of Emerya. He frowns. Why is she writing him? He begins to read.

Dear Lerial—

I trust this letter finds you well and hard at work. That is most likely because of your commander. I am writing because your mother requested it. Ryalah has suffered a terrible flux, but she is on the way to health, thanks be to the Rational Stars.

You may have heard that we are beset with annoyances on almost every border, but so far all has gone as well as might be expected. Your father continues to prevail in the north, and the raids in the southeast have not amounted to all that much to date. I did think you might be interested to know about one of the more unusual discoveries. It was made by a squad from Third Company. They were patrolling south of the border more than twenty kays west of Penecca because there had been raiders attacking and pillaging the hamlets. The squad surprised the raiders and killed a number. A few escaped. None were captured. Most of those killed were stripped of their weapons by their comrades, but one dead raider was not. The interesting thing was that his blade was the same kind of cavalry weapon used by Afritan armsmen …

Lerial lowers the letter and frowns.
Weapons stripped … an Afritan sabre.
While his aunt has given an explanation as to why she is writing him, he is still concerned. Surely, his mother must have had a few moments … or did Ryalah nearly die? Or was it that Emerya wanted to make sure word got to him—and the majer—as soon as possible? It’s also clear that his father is all too busy dealing with the Afritan problems … or Heldya … if not both.

… Amaira misses you and hopes you are eating well. The weather here has been chill and very dry. It is the driest winter I can recall, and the traders from the south are saying the same thing. From what we hear, that is true in Afrit as well …

In short, there will be more raids and trouble.

… I want to assure you that Ryalah is well on the way to full health, but it was a near thing, and it is another reason why I am writing, rather than your mother …

Another reason? That’s the only one she gives …
Lerial shakes his head. The other reasons lie in what else she has written.

… Undercaptain Woelyt also asked me to send his regards. He and his company are being posted to Narthyl in early summer. The Palace guard will be a new company composed of some recruits and some more experienced Lancers. That way they can train those who are not on guard duty …

More companies being formed?
Lerial worries about what he is reading.

One last caution from an overprotective aunt. When you are called on to do battlefield healing, you must be cold and ruthless. Do not waste order and strength on those who will die no matter what you do. And if you can save three men with lesser wounds, those that would turn to corruption and kill, or one man with a greater injury … you must choose the three. You are not only blessed with healing talent, but cursed with being a possible heir of Cyador. That, you must also remember.

The closing is “With Affection and Concern.”

When Lerial finishes reading, he walks the few steps back to Altyrn’s study. As close as it is to the evening meal, he knows the majer will not have left yet. Altyrn uses every moment. Lerial tries, but suspects he is not nearly so effective as is the majer.

Altyrn doesn’t even look surprised at Lerial’s swift return.

“Ser … I think you should read this. It’s from my aunt, but she usually knows more than she says.” Lerial extends the missive.

“I’m well aware of that,” Altyrn says wryly as he takes the letter and begins to read. He says nothing until he finishes and hands the letter back. “There’s a lot there.”

“There’s more there than she actually says.”

“That’s what I meant.” He looks at Lerial. “What do you make of it?”

“Duke Khesyn is doing as little as possible, but enough to keep all the Lancers in Cigoerne occupied. Somehow Majer Phortyn is creating more companies, one more at least.”

“And?” Altyrn raises his iron-gray eyebrows.

“Casseon is likely to move against Verdheln strongly but cautiously. He has probably sent enough scouts to discover that this post exists.”

“He has sent a few, remember? None recently, according to the wood-guards. Some might have sneaked past, but that won’t change matters any.”

“Do you think he knows we’re here?”

“To those like Casseon, it doesn’t matter. Two squads, an heir barely a man, if he even knows about you, and an ancient white-haired majer?”

“But our Lancers have proven better than theirs,” Lerial points out.

“Casseon would say that the people of the Verd are not fighters from the heritage of Cyador. I hope that is what he and his commanders believe. And he will lose men if it will gain him Verdheln and a better position from which to attack Atroyan, should the opportunity arise in the future.”

“You’re saying that Cigoerne has effectively saved Afrit from conquest. So why is Atroyan attacking us now?”

Altyrn laughs softly. “Who would come to Afrit’s aid if your father—or in years to come, your brother—decided to turn on Afrit? If Atroyan defeats your father, now, and is merciful, and he would be a fool not to be, and he’s not that much of a fool, who else could the people of Cigoerne support?”

“So that’s why Khesyn doesn’t want to commit many men to attacking us … so that if there’s a real war between Afrit and Cigoerne, at the end he can sweep down on Swartheld and take it?”

“Were I in his boots, that’s the way I’d plan it.” Altyrn stands. “We can’t do anything about any of that at the moment, and I’m hungry. I imagine you are, too.”