Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (27 page)

“And you’re in command of the Afritan Guard.” Lerial wonders how many of the three ministers are related to the more powerful merchanters, but decides that question should wait, since asking it will reveal more than he wishes and gain him little.

“I did say that matters are held more closely.”

“I understand. Afrit is far older than Cigoerne.”

“And far different from Cyador.”

For now.
Lerial cannot help but think of the words that the majer had left for him … and the magnitude of the task implied by those words.

“You look doubtful,” observes Rhamuel.

“Not doubtful at all. Thoughtful. I have much to learn and trust that I can come to understand what is necessary before making too many mistakes.”

“In Afrit, there isn’t much space for mistakes.”

“I’m getting that impression,” Lerial replies dryly. When Rhamuel does not immediately reply, Lerial adds, “Since we have a long ride yet, perhaps you could tell me more about Swartheld.”

“Where does one begin?” muses the arms-commander. “Well … the harbor dominates the city. That is why there is a city there. It’s one of the finest natural harbors in Hamor, perhaps in the world. The piers are all of stone, and the water is deep enough so that the largest of merchant vessels can tie up to any of the piers. There are seldom less than a score of vessels in port at any one time, and usually a ship from every continent in the world. There is black wool from Montgren, and the best salted herring from Spidlar…”

Lerial listens carefully as they ride along the dusty river road. Occasionally, he looks eastward, across the Swarth River, to Heldya, wondering just what Duke Khesyn has in mind in dealing with Afrit … and Cigoerne. And what, if anything, he can do about it.

XXIII

By the second glass of the afternoon on oneday, it is more than clear to Lerial that they are on the southern outskirts of Swartheld. Not only has the river widened, but there is a large expanse of water to the north, suggesting the mouth of the river and the harbor beyond. In addition, there are almost no open lands or fields of any size between hamlets bordering the river. Less than a kay ahead, on a short point extending out into the river, or perhaps the point is at the edge of where harbor and river meet, Lerial sees a run-down stone building, almost an abandoned fort or the like.

“Is that an old fort?” He points.

“Very old. It was a river patrol station, because it’s where the river enters the bay, but there are so many mudbars there now that it was abandoned well before my grandsire was born. Beyond that is the bay, and the harbor proper is well to the northwest. That’s where the water is deeper.”

As they ride across the base of the point, Lerial studies the bay. Beyond the point the edge of the harbor angles west-northwest, although he can see that some distance ahead, it appears to turn back toward the north. After riding another half kay or so, Lerial spies a three-story structure on the left side of the river road, opposite a large stone pier, with a row of warehouses farther north. The road now runs parallel to the bay, with a gentle slope of some fifty yards between the east shoulder and water’s edge. Just a handful of yards ahead on the west side of the road are small dwellings, little more than huts, with only a few yards of open ground between them.

“Is this part of Swartheld?” he asks Rhamuel.

“How can it not be? There’s never been an official border. As the city has grown to include outlying hamlets, those hamlets have just become known as districts of the city.”

“How many people are there in Swartheld?”

“Years ago there were well over fifty thousand. Now, with all the outlying districts, who knows? There could be over a hundred thousand. I’ve suggested to the duke an enumeration might be helpful, especially if the enumeration listed the occupation of the residents.”

“You might find a few more crafters and factors who owe tariffs … perhaps?”

“That would be useful, I’d think,” replies Rhamuel. “But the duke keeps his own counsel on such matters.”

“I can imagine that more than a few merchanters and factors are willing to advise him on the matter … especially on how all of Afrit benefits from lower tariffs.”
Or other branches of merchanters that are not known.

“Do I hear a slight note of cynicism, Lord Lerial?”

“Most likely more than a slight note.”

“Why might that be?” Rhamuel smiles.

“Too often I’ve overheard protestation of factors and traders clad in fine cloth how the slightest increase in tariffs will render them poverty-struck. When the quality of their garments is noted, they then declare that they will not be able to keep all those who work for them.”

“With the implication that tariffs will fall on the poorest, of course,” adds Rhamuel. “Unhappily, that is often true. Rather than pay higher tariffs from their profits, they will discharge some poor teamster’s assistant and then complain about those very same tariffs that help maintain the harbors and canals and roads that benefit them more than anyone.”

“What does the duke say about that?”

“Very little. Nor can I to him. And not often.”

Rhamuel’s words are another indication to Lerial that the arms-commander treads a narrow path in dealing with his brother and the influence of the wealthy merchanters of Swartheld … and possibly even the duke’s consort.

Although the structures ahead look imposing, Lerial finds those immediately nearer him on the west side of the river road cramped-looking and mean. There are small wooden docks set intermittently at the edge of the water, often amid the straggly reeds, with barely enough space for a boat to reach open water, and bare clay depressions in the slope down to the river, suggesting that small boats are regularly dragged down or hauled up from the water.

The cots soon give way to small shops. One is even boarded up and looks to have been unused for seasons, if not years. After riding another few hundred yards, Lerial sees warehouses and factorages, solid and cared-for, but worn and certainly not new. The stone river piers are older than they had looked from a distance, with weathered bollards, although the larger stone factorage or warehouse opposite them looks to have been recently built, perhaps within the year.

Lerial turns his thoughts from the buildings and asks, “What arrangements will be necessary for my lancers?”

“They will be quartered at the headquarters post of the Afritan Guard in Swartheld. It is less than half a kay from the palace. I did sent word by river to expect a battalion for quartering. I did not specify what battalion. Had I mentioned three companies, that would have aroused immediate speculation. As for you and me … that is up to the duke, once he receives word of your arrival … although it is likely that he already has, since Fhastal and others who attended the dinner in Shaelt have fast river schooners, and any would like to gain slight favor with the duke.”

From Rhamuel’s tone, matter-of-fact and slightly amused, it is clear that he fully expects exactly such a reaction from some of the merchanters.

And he will determine who did so and keep that in mind.
Lerial decides not to comment on that and goes on, “The location of the Guard headquarters is convenient for you, then.”

“It’s been suggested that it is too convenient, but the duke prefers it that way, as do I. Most of the Guard troopers are quartered at the South Post or the Harbor Post. We’ll be riding by the South Post in a bit less than a glass.”

The southern Guard post is a glass away? And we’re already in Swartheld?
“How far is the southern post from the palace?”

“Two kays, give or take a few hundred yards. The Guard headquarters is north along the bay and east from the palace.”

“And how far north is the Harbor Post?”

“Closer to two kays from headquarters.”

Lerial’s calculations based on Rhamuel’s estimations suggest that Swartheld stretches at least ten kays along the river, enough to swallow Cigoerne four times over … and possibly more if it extends a greater distance than a kay west from the Swarth River.

Almost imperceptibly, the buildings along the river, whether shops or dwellings, become closer together, and there are more that are larger. On the right of the road ahead is a walled structure, and just south of it is a line of warehouses and two piers extending out into the calm waters of the bay.

“Is that the South Post?”

“It is. Drusyn’s there with his battalions. The others are at the Harbor Post.”

From what Lerial can tell, the South Post is easily three times the size of Mirror Lancer headquarters.
And it’s just one of three posts here.

A good kay west-northwest of the South Post, as they ride through a modest square, Rhamuel points to the northwest.

“There. You can see the palace on that hill.”

The palace is not so much on the hill, from what Lerial can see before the warehouses on the far side of the square block his view, as occupying the entire hill, with massive walls around it, and terraced gardens leading upward to a square structure with towers on each corner.

“Rather larger than my sire’s,” Lerial says blandly, knowing his words are an extreme understatement.

“Somewhat larger than necessary, but it was expanded by our great-grandsire, in an effort to show power.”

“The larger the dwelling, the more powerful…?”

“That … and also what is traded. Those who have great ships, like Aenslem, or trade in metals, like Fhastal, are considered higher. Those who trade in more common goods…”

“Like produce or timber? They’re looked down upon?”

“Usually not to their faces … but they know.”

Lerial cannot say that such a differentiation makes sense to him, but it must to the Afritans. As they continue along the river road, he also notes that many of the streets and lanes leading off the road are narrow and anything but straight. Most of the dwellings and other structures are of brick, all with red tile roofs. Many of the tiles are cracked, and the bricks are often worn, not to mention stained with soot. In more than a few places, Lerial can pick out where bricks have been replaced. A slight brownish haze hangs over the city, and the air holds the mixed odors of cooking oil, grease, and a mixture of less appetizing smells, from rotten fish to mold, and other scents that Lerial has no interest in even contemplating.

“Now you can see the headquarters Guard post, with the walls just slightly back from the shore road there beyond the Guard Square.”

The Guard Square is comparatively modest, a mere hundred yards on a side, with only handfuls of carts and peddlers scattered here and there.

“The hawkers are more numerous when there are more troopers quartered here. There will be more tomorrow … assuming your men have even a few coppers apiece.”

“They do have that,”
and more given their share of the spoils from the fallen Heldyans,
“although they may not last given the temptations of a true city.”

Beyond the square rise the walls of the Afritan Guard post, a good seven yards high, even though the post itself cannot be much larger than the Mirror Lancer headquarters in Cigoerne. The gates are only partly open as the combined forces near, but after the guards sight the arms-commander’s banner, they swing full open, and a series of horn calls echoes from somewhere on the wall above the gates.

Lerial can smell a miasma—and slight odor—of age permeating the entry courtyard, faint but definitely there as he rides past the gates. A half squad of Afritan Guards barely finishes forming up in front of the central building in the middle of the courtyard before Rhamuel and Lerial rein up. An Afritan captain, hardly much older than Lerial, then hurries forward.

“Arms-Commander, ser, you have a dispatch from the duke.” The officer reaches up and extends the missive.

“Thank you, Captain.” Rhamuel opens the sealed missive and unfolds it. An amused smile appears and then vanishes. He looks to Lerial. “The duke would earnestly hope that you and I would immediately take up residence at the palace for the duration of your stay. You can, of course, bring a half squad of your lancers, as you see fit. That might be … interesting.”

“A half squad. I can arrange that.”

“I need to send a messenger to notify Valatyr’s family and to set up the memorial for him. Shall we say … half a glass?”

Lerial nods.

“Good.” Rhamuel turns back to the captain. “Lord Lerial’s three companies are the ones that will need quarters. It turns out that he did not need to bring a full battalion. Once he’s free, you can brief him on what is available.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial immediately summons Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl and addresses them. “My presence has been requested at the duke’s palace. I’m allowed a personal guard of a half squad.”

Fheldar and Strauxyn exchange glances.

Then Strauxyn clears his throat. “Begging your pardon, ser, and yours, Undercaptain Kusyl, but your men have more experience around palaces than ours.”

“Not at a palace like Duke Atroyan’s, but I take your point. If you two agree…”

Both Strauxyn and Fheldar nod.

“I’d recommend Second Squad, under Polidaar,” Kusyl says. “He’s got a good head and is well-mannered but affable.”

“Good. If you’d pass that on to him, I’ll hear from the captain on billeting and stabling arrangements.” While Lerial has not met Squad Leader Polidaar, except in passing and in inspections, Kusyl knows his men well. He always has.

Lerial then rides forward to meet with the waiting Afritan Guard captain.

Slightly more than a glass later, Lerial and his half squad of Mirror Lancers and Rhamuel and his personal squad ride back out through the gates of Swartheld Post, or Afritan Guard headquarters, depending apparently on who was speaking about the post, riding generally southwest, as far as Lerial can determine, through streets that, while able to accommodate two wagons side by side, he would have considered far too narrow for Cigoerne, let alone a city the size of Swartheld. While the faintly unpleasant odor that surrounded the Afritan Guard headquarters slowly fades as they leave the post behind, it appears that the haze has thickened slightly by the time Lerial and Rhamuel emerge from the taller buildings bordering the wide paved avenue that circles the hill dominated by the walled palace of the Duke of Afrit.