Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (31 page)

Lerial shakes his head. “No. Not exactly. Call it a feeling. But I don’t know enough even to point out what might tell us something.” He shrugs. “Then, I might be too cautious, and what you and they see might tell me that. Anyway, ten more pair of eyes can’t hurt.”

“No, ser.”

Polidaar has the squad at the stables quickly enough that they can saddle and lead out their mounts—and Lerial’s—in time not to delay Rhamuel.

Lerial rides beside the arms-commander as they leave the inner courtyard and then the smaller outer one. Once they are on the paved road around the palace’s outer walls, Rhamuel turns south, seemingly away from Guard headquarters, rather than east or north.

At Lerial’s quizzical look, the arms-commander says, “It’s quicker this way. One block down this street and we’ll reach the old merchants’ way. It’s wider. It also goes straight—mostly—to headquarters.”

Lerial studies the dwellings bordering the street, not so narrow as some of the ways they took the day before, but still not all that wide. He cannot help but wonder why Rhamuel had taken a longer way then. He pushes that aside for the moment and concentrates on his surroundings. For all their ornate stone facings and their two and three levels and red tile roofs, the dwellings are narrow for their height, perhaps as little as ten yards across and barely separated from their neighbors, with tiny front courtyards behind iron gates. At the same time, those dwellings extend more than three times their width back from the street and may have larger walled rear courtyards beyond that.

Who would live here?
Since he can see no one outside, and filmy curtains cloak the inside of the windows, there is no way to tell, except that whoever does inhabit the large dwellings cannot be poor.

As Rhamuel has said, at the end of the single long block is a wider street, perhaps almost expansive enough to be called an avenue. The arms-commander turns his mount left, toward the water, and Lerial and the lancers and guards follow. There are no dwellings of any sort, just shops and cafés. Every few doors, or so it seems to Lerial, there is a café with an awning out over small tables and chairs at which a few people are eating … or drinking. He looks back over his shoulder for a moment and discovers that the shops extend for at least a block or two uphill as well.

Most of those at the cafés are men, but one is frequented by women alone, all wearing their filmy head scarves, if loosely enough to sip whatever may be in their tumblers or goblets. One café has both men and head-scarfed women. The number of empty tables suggests that there will be more patrons later in the day, and a great deal more by evening, Lerial suspects. The shops and cafés continue for three long blocks, but by the fourth block shops and smaller factorages have replaced the cafés, except for one, its lonely and slightly tattered orange awning extended above empty chairs and tables. By then Lerial can see the walls of Swartheld Post ahead.

Before long, they turn onto the bay road and then ride into the post.

After they dismount at the Afritan Guard headquarters, Lerial turns to Rhamuel. “I don’t want to go behind your back. I’d like two of my officers to ride to the palace and then back with your escort so that they have a better idea of Swartheld. If you’re amenable, we could take a longer route.”

Rhamuel nods, with the hint of a smile, before he replies. “That would be a good idea. It wouldn’t hurt to have people see more of you and your men, either. I’ll mention that to the squad leader.”

“Thank you.”

“If I don’t see you before then, I’ll see you at the duke’s reception before dinner. It’s at sixth glass in the west wing of the palace. Until then.” With a smile Rhamuel turns and hands his mount’s reins to a guard, then walks toward the door of the headquarters building.

Lerial is about to ask Polidaar to send someone to find his officers when he sees the three walking toward him. Instead, he says, “You can have the men stand down and stable their mounts.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Overcaptain, ser!” calls out Fheldar.

“All’s well, I trust.” Lerial hands the reins of his gelding to the nearest ranker and moves to join the three.

“Yes, ser.”

Strauxyn and Kusyl nod in agreement with Fheldar.

Lerial draws the three aside, waiting until Polidaar has the half squad moving toward the stables, then asks, “What have you to report?” He looks to Fheldar.

“Eighth Company is all accounted for. No illnesses, and no trouble with mounts…”

Lerial listens.

Once he has gone over the routine matters with Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl, and is satisfied that all is as it should be—or at least as close to that as possible in Swartheld—Lerial clears his throat. “There is one other thing. The arms-commander has told me that there are possibly fifteen Heldyan battalions across the river.”

“Frig…” mutters Kusyl, “begging your pardon, ser.”

Lerial offers a crooked smile. “I feel the same way. So does the arms-commander. But we don’t know Swartheld at all. So … the next thing we’re going to do is to inspect Swartheld Post. Then, after that, two of you will accompany me and the two half squads that will escort us around parts of Swartheld and back to the palace. I think we should be able to do this every day for the next two or three days, and I’ll rotate who accompanies me, because I want one of you here all the time.”

“That makes sense,” says Strauxyn. “Who do you want today?”

“Kusyl and Fheldar.”

All three nod.

“Now … let’s see about inspecting the post.”

By the time the four of them have finished their informal inspection of Swartheld headquarters two glasses have passed, and Lerial gathers the three into an empty study in the main headquarters building, where they sit around a dusty table desk. He looks at Fheldar. “What do you think?”

“It’s clean enough. Nothing’s coming apart. I don’t think you could close the main gates all the way, either.”

“Wouldn’t matter if you had to,” adds Kusyl. “Not for long. They had to bring in provisions just to feed us. Really isn’t a working post. Just a headquarters post.”

To keep Rhamuel away from the palace?

“Ah…” Strauxyn clears his throat. “The armory is stocked. We didn’t go there because it was locked, but I talked to one of the undercaptains this morning. I saw him with one of their blades. They’re longer than ours. It looked new-forged. I asked. All the spare blades and weapons for the entire Afritan Guard are stored here.”

That makes all too much sense … unfortunately.
“Under the watchful eyes of the arms-commander or his trusted majer or captains.”

“That smells, too,” declares Kusyl. “Another thing … they’ve got blade-training circles, but they haven’t been used, maybe in years.”

“Not a fighting post.” Fheldar shakes his head.

“In a way, that makes sense,” Lerial says. “It’s in the middle of the city. That’s why most of the Afritan Guard is posted on the north or south side of Swartheld. We’ll see what the Harbor Post looks like in a bit…”

Outside of more details that confirm the impressions of all four, the discussion that follows adds little to Lerial’s understanding and concerns.

Less than three glasses after riding out with Rhamuel, Lerial sends word to Polidaar and Jhacub, the squad leader whom Rhamuel has assigned to head the Afritan Guards serving as the day’s escort for Lerial.

When they both arrive, Lerial addresses Jhacub. “We haven’t seen much of the city. Could we take a longer route back to the palace, perhaps riding by the harbor, the Harbor Post, and the trading area?”

The squad leader grins. “Yes, ser. The arms-commander said you’d be doing that. He said to escort you wherever you needed to go.”

“I hope that won’t inconvenience you or the men. It might add quite some time.”

“No, ser. It’s a good change.” Jhacub pauses. “That’ll likely take a glass. Maybe longer. The men wouldn’t mind that. Is that satisfactory, ser?”

More than satisfactory.
“That will be fine.” Lerial mounts, as do Kusyl and Fheldar.

From the gates of the post, Jhacub guides Lerial and the others northwest along the road that parallels the shore. There are several cafés west of the road, but none are apparently open, and their awnings are rolled up.

“Those open in the late afternoon?” Lerial gestures.

“They do. They’ll be pleased that your men are posted here. There used to be more than the two companies that took care of the post and headquarters.”

“When did that change?”

“Five years ago … it was after … well…” Jhacub looks embarrassed.

“After the Afritan Guard lost an entire battalion in an ill-advised attack on Cigoerne, you mean?”

“Ah … yes, ser.”

“Did anyone say why?”

“I don’t know, ser. I was just a ranker then. No one said anything to us.”

“What about this part of Swartheld?”

“It’s not what it used to be, ser.”

Lerial can see that. A number of the small buildings look to be empty, with shuttered doors and windows, with the wooden sidewalks in front of them sagging. “Because there are fewer guards posted here?”

“I don’t think that’s the only thing, ser.” After several moments, Jhacub adds, “In another kay we’ll enter the merchanting area. That’s after where the shore road joins the boulevard from the palace.”

After riding past almost a half score more blocks of less-than-well-maintained buildings and a few dilapidated dwellings, Lerial notices that the upkeep of the structures on the west side of the road improves notably and that there are solid if short stone and timber piers extending into the bay. Several have boats tied there.

Three blocks later the shore road merges into a wide stone-paved boulevard.

“That’s what they call the palace boulevard,” says the squad leader. “It goes right to the circular road around the palace.”

The best avenue or street you’ve seen, and it runs straight from the merchanting houses to the palace.

A block later the boulevard begins a wide curve more toward the north, again following the shoreline of the bay.

“This is where the merchanting area and the harbor begin,” offers Jhacub.

The merchanting quarter opposite the main piers definitely represents wealth. The shore road and the palace boulevard have combined into a paved avenue wide enough for three large wagons side by side. Even the sidewalks are of stone, not of wooden planks or brick. All of the buildings have glazed windows and heavy shutters.

“Do you happen to know which one of the buildings holds Aenian House?” Lerial asks Jhacub.

“Yes, ser. You can’t miss it. See the big three-story one in the next block, with the redstone front and the banners flying from those false towers?”

“I do. Is that it?” Lerial has no trouble picking out the merchanting house. Even from more than a block away, it dominates the other merchanters’ buildings, none of which are modest.

As the combined squad rides north on the avenue that also serves as the river road, past the first of the enormous stone piers, each of which extends more than two hundred yards out into the harbor, Lerial takes in the buildings one by one. The first in the block holding Aenian House is older, of gray stone and less than fifteen yards across the front. Chiseled into the stone are the words
FINE SPIRITS
. Above those words the stone is smooth and recessed, as if a name had been chiseled away. Lerial wonders if Mesphaes has taken over an older merchanting house, of if the building is owned by a competitor who also replaced someone. The next building is of yellow-brown brick, and is twice the size of the spirits building, but without identification, as if to indicate that none is needed. The redstone-fronted House of Aenian is not identified as such, although there is a stone medallion in the middle of the third level, between two windows, consisting of an ornate script “A” encircled by a wreath of leaves, possibly olive leaves, Lerial thinks. A paved lane wide enough for the largest of wagons leads along the west side of the Aenian building, between it and the unidentified structure. The building to the east of Aenian House is also of yellow-brown brick, but with redstone window frames, and is perhaps a third larger than the spirits building and is the last building on the block.

Lerial turns his attention to the piers. He counts almost a score of vessels tied up at the various piers, ranging from a large schooner to an enormous broad-beamed, three-masted square-rigger. He thinks there may be some smaller ships at the piers farther north, but, if so, they are lost behind the nearer ships.

“The harbor fort’s up there, ser,” announces Jhacub, pointing ahead, partway up the slope of a gentle bluff that extends almost a kay out into the bay and forms a huge natural breakwater on the north end of the harbor. It is also at the end of a wide paved road off the avenue that appears to revert to what Lerial now thinks of as the shore road. That shore road does not go out around the point of the bluff, but northwest across its base.

Lerial turns to Jhacub. “Does the shore road continue beyond the bluff?”

“Yes, ser. It goes all the way to Baiet.”

“How far is that?”

“I wouldn’t know exactly, sir. Two or three days’ ride, I hear. Small cove. Fishermen mostly. They port there, but sell their catch here.”

“Do you know why?”

“They say the fishing’s better there, but the selling’s better here.”

They continue to ride along the paved avenue, where the larger merchanting houses have given way to more modest factorages—modest by comparison, since most are built of the yellow-brown brick and are considerably larger than any in Cigoerne, reflects Lerial. It does strike him that all the roofs are of the red tile and he says so.

“Yes, ser. After the Great Fire, the duke’s great-grandsire made it a law. That’s what they say.”

“That makes sense.”
Too much sense.

“Yes, ser. Hasn’t been a large fire since.”

The Harbor Post is the largest walled fortification that Lerial has ever seen, not counting Lubana, which really isn’t a post, with walls extending a half kay in each direction, and iron-bound gates inset between stout redstone towers. With its hillside location, Lerial doubts that even Khesyn’s fifteen battalions could take it.