Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (55 page)

“Commander Dhresyl indicated you and your men defeated three battalions,” says Sammyl.

“More like five, according to my officers and several of the commander’s majers. That doesn’t count the battalion or so on sevenday.”

“That sounds about right,” interjects Rhamuel before Sammyl can speak. “Is there anything else we should know?”

“Commander Dhresyl has close to a thousand prisoners. Most are wounded. One mounted battalion managed to withdraw to a merchanter at the tileworks and had set sail. They left almost three hundred mounts. Commander Dhresyl and I questioned a wounded Heldyan majer. He was most adamant that we would pay for the way we slaughtered Khesyn’s troops … and that Khesyn had more than enough battalions in reserve to do so.”

“How could he after…?” Sammyl does not say more.

“After what we’ve been through, anything is possible,” suggests Rhamuel. “Khesyn has been planning this for a long time.”

Lerial notices that neither man mentions the amount of treason that has occurred, but that’s not something he wants to bring up before Sammyl. Instead, he says, “I would recommend getting a scouting report as to how many merchanters might be tied up or anchored off Estheld, and if anyone has seen more flatboats on the river. Khesyn would need ships or boats or both to get enough men here. If there aren’t many merchanters, we might have some time before the next attack.”

“If there even is one,” comments Sammyl.

“Do you think that, if he has that many more armsmen, they are already attacking Shaelt?” Rhamuel’s tone is almost matter-of-fact.

“I doubt it. I would judge that the attack on Shaelt is to keep you from moving more of your forces to defend Swartheld.”

“Commander,” says Rhamuel, “I’d appreciate it if you’d make arrangements to find out about boats and merchanters right now.”

Sammyl stiffens. “Yes, ser.”

Rhamuel smiles indulgently. “I’m not plotting or planning to replace you. I am worried that Khesyn might try another attack. If there aren’t any ships to speak of at Estheld and no sign of flatboats on the river, we can rest easier … at least for a little while. That would be good to know.”

Sammyl nods, then leaves.

Once the door closes, Lerial says, “He’s worried.”

“
He’s
worried? After all the treachery … and the assassination of Subcommander Drusyn…” Rhamuel shakes his head.

“Any word on Mykel?”

“Not a thing, but I wouldn’t expect anything for another day at the soonest, possibly two or three days if they made good time.”

And even longer if something untoward has occurred.
“Are Haesychya and Kyedra back in the palace?”

“They’re still at Aenslem’s. I didn’t think we all should be together.” Rhamuel offers a sardonic smile. “I know. That blade cuts both ways, but since daughters cannot succeed as duke … who ever heard of a duchess?”

“There have been empresses…”

“Your grandmere was the only one who actually ruled, I believe.” Rhamuel laughs softly. “If she had been the ruler earlier, we might not even be here together. You’d be in Cyad worrying about things that no one will worry about again for centuries … and I’d likely be dead.”

“Have you heard from Maesoryk?”

“Should I have?”

“I can’t believe that the Heldyans landed at his tileworks without his involvement.” There is something else about Maesoryk, but Lerial cannot remember what it might be, just a vague feeling that something else ties Maesoryk to the treachery.
You’re too tired to think as clearly as you should.

“Neither can I. But I haven’t heard.”

“Has anyone seen Dafaal?”

“You didn’t hear? The palace guards found his body in the lower cellars. He’d been garroted. They also found fuses and a striker.”

“He was either part of the plot … or someone wants you to think he was.”

“Right now, there’s no way to tell. He wasn’t part of the memorial. He’s not family, and that had to be family only … or…”

Lerial understands. If Dafaal had been included, then Rhamuel can’t claim the memorial was family and private. “Dafaal could have been part of the plot, and whoever was in charge wants to remove all links…”

“I fear that is the most likely. We won’t ever know for certain, I suspect.”

“What other merchanters have you heard from?”

“Fhastal. He’s pledged whatever golds I need, for Afritan Guard pay, rebuilding, whatever. Aenslem, although he’s not well … flux is hanging on…”

It is the second time Lerial has heard about Aenslem’s illness, and that disturbs him.

“… Mesphaes and Lhugar, of course, and Jhosef, but he would toady up to whoever is in power…”

“Not … Alaphyn?” Lerial has to struggle for the merchanter’s name.

“You think he might have been with Maesoryk?”

“It took a number of merchant vessels to carry those troopers from Estheld, and we can be fairly sure Aenslem’s ships weren’t involved.”

“Frig … should have thought about that. Those two have always been close.”

“Those two? Alaphyn and Maesoryk?”

Rhamuel nods.

Although they discuss more about the merchanters over the next third of a glass or so, in the end, Lerial does not discover anything new, and he forces himself to sit down and wait for Sammyl to return. He hopes it won’t be too long before the commander can discover what is happening in Estheld … and whether there are more merchant ships gathering there.

Another attack is all we need.

XXXIX

By fourth glass of the afternoon, Lerial is ready to pace around the outer sitting room, despite feeling still tired, although he can order-sense a bit farther away. Rhamuel is resting in the bedchamber. While Sammyl has sent out scouts to see what can be determined about the harbor at Estheld, he has cautioned Lerial that it may take several glasses, or possibly until twoday morning. In the meantime, he has departed to meet with Dhresyl and to see the situation at the Harbor Post for himself.

So Lerial sits behind the table desk, thinking, and waiting for either the scouting reports or for Norstaan to return, since the undercaptain has been summoned to the courtyard for some reason.
What if Khesyn is readying another attack? Why would he do that? Especially after losing so many men?
Lerial knows he is missing something … and just hopes he can recall that in time.
Maybe by tomorrow …

He looks up as the outer door opens and Norstaan steps into the sitting room, accompanied by a youth wearing a riding jacket that looks to be a uniform of sorts, along with a soft felt hat of the kind worn by merchanter guards, and a broad leather belt. The blade at the youth’s waist looks to be slightly shorter than a sabre, the kind claimed to be more effective in dealing with ruffians at close range. That is the rationale, Lerial knows, although he has his doubts about the greater effectiveness of a shorter blade, suspecting that it is a tacit acknowledgment that merchanter guards should not bear longer weapons than the Afritan Guard … or the Mirror Lancers.

Those thoughts vanish as he sees the smile on Norstaan’s face and belatedly recognizes Kyedra. He bolts to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“Grandpapa is ill. He may be dying. Mother sent me.”

“Alone? Why did you have to come?”

Kyedra shakes her head impatiently. “Of course not. I had two palace guards and two of Grandpapa’s guards. I wore men’s riding trousers and a guard’s jacket—an Aenian House jacket. Besides, no one thinks a woman in man’s clothing without a head scarf could be anything but a youth. I came so that you’d know it wasn’t a ruse or a trap … after all the … after everything…”

“And you can handle that blade?”

“I can. Uncle Rham saw to that.” She looks directly at Lerial. “Mother wants you to tend to Grandpapa.”

“I can see what I can do.” Lerial refrains from frowning, because he has never mentioned anything about his being able to heal to Haesychya.
Rhamuel must have told her.

“See?”

“Look at him, Lady,” Norstaan says, his voice barely above a murmur.

For the first time, Kyedra studies Lerial. Then she asks, “What happened?”

“I got caught in the backlash of a huge chaos-explosion.”

“It destroyed more than three battalions of Heldyan troops,” Norstaan says. “Commander Dhresyl doubts we would have prevailed otherwise.”

Lerial looks to Norstaan. “I don’t think we should wake the arms-commander.”
For a number of reasons.
“There’s nothing else the Mirror Lancers can do today, and my squad should certainly provide enough protection for Lady Kyedra. If Commander Sammyl should return before the arms-commander wakes…” Lerial ponders what he should say.

“Ser?”

“I will most likely be returning to Guard headquarters before I come back to the palace. So you can tell him that something’s come up, and I needed to return to my men.”
That will be true so far as it goes.

“Yes, ser.” A trace of a smile lurks around Norstaan’s lips.

“When the arms-commander wakes, you can tell him exactly what happened—alone.”

“Yes, ser.” With the words, Norstaan offers a vigorous nod.

Lerial turns to Kyedra. “We’d best go.”

Between Kyedra’s two guards and the two Mirror Lancers, and one Afritan Guard, the seven make quite a procession down to the stables. At least, that’s the thought Lerial has.

Once Lerial and Fourth Squad leave the palace, the two Aenian House guards take the lead, with Lerial and Kyedra directly behind, followed by Fhuraan and his squad. Lerial studies the people and riders and wagons moving on the circular road around the palace, but no one gives them more than a casual glance.

“Can you do anything?” When Kyedra finally speaks again, her voice is low. “I’m sorry. Mother and I had hoped…”

“I can likely sense what might be the problem. Perhaps more.”

“Have you heard more about Natroyor?”

Hasn’t anyone told her or Haesychya?
“I asked your uncle about Mykel. He hasn’t heard anything.”

“Lord … I mean Lerial, you didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“He’s dead, too, isn’t he?”

“I’m sorry. Rhamuel told me he was crushed when the palace collapsed. He was likely asleep.”

There is low moment of silence that drags out … and out.

Finally, there is only the slightest catch, a small roughness in Kyedra’s voice as she asks, “Why? Why does someone want us all dead?”

“Why do you think that?”

“I could answer that simply. That’s not what you meant, was it?”

Lerial cannot help but smile slightly at Kyedra’s response. “Perhaps the better question would be who in Afrit has the most to gain from the death of the duke and all his heirs, as well as from the death of all of his best commanders.”

“All of his best commanders?”

“Of his best commanders, only your uncle and Subcommander Ascaar are still alive or able to command. The explosions at the Harbor Post, a poisoning, and an assassination have accounted for the rest. The senior remaining commander freely admits he is the least qualified commander for battles, and wishes that Ascaar were in command—except Ascaar is tied up fighting more Heldyans in Shaelt.”

“What about you?”

“Someone sent a false healer last night, supposedly from the palace. I was unconscious, but my officers wouldn’t let him see me.”

“There have to be traitors within the Afritan Guard. How else would they know?”

“There might be another way,” Lerial admits, “but I can’t think of it. I think there have to be more than one or two.” After several moments of silence, he asks, “What can you tell me about what ails your grandfather?”

“He’s hot, but not burning up. His stomach aches all the time, and his head hurts.”

That could be almost anything.
“He’s not coughing or sneezing?”

“No. It’s not like a cold or consumption.”

“We’ll just have to see.”

After riding little more than a half kay on the boulevard that leads to the merchanting quarter opposite the harbor, they reach the wide road that heads westward up a gentle grade. The first several villas that they pass are modest, perhaps not even half the size of the palace in Cigoerne, but the next several are larger. After riding another half kay, the Aenian House guards turn up a paved lane. Thirty yards off the road is a pair of sturdy ironwork gates not quite three yards tall, which open as the two guards approach. Lerial and Kyedra ride through. Lerial can hear … and sense … when the gates closes behind the last riders in the squad. He thinks his order-sensing has increased slightly over the course of the day, but knows that could be wistful thinking.

While the grounds and gardens surrounding the redstone villa are shaded, the sprawling two-level structure is set on a low rise away from the trees and extends more than a hundred yards across the front. Lerial wonders about the lack of trees until they ride up to the main entrance, where, despite the seeming stillness of the day, he feels a cooler breeze coming from the north.

The entrance is on the east side of the villa, positioned so that it is shaded by the villa and the columns flanking the stone steps. The two Aenian house guards rein up at the north end of the wide steps, so that Lerial and Kyedra are opposite the middle of the steps when they halt.

“Ser…” murmurs Fhuraan, “I’d prefer you be accompanied.”

Much as he dislikes the idea, Lerial has to admit that the squad leader is right. He turns to look at Fhuraan. “For both the lady and me. She is likely in just as much danger.”

“Four men, then.”

Kyedra looks to Lerial as if to protest, then nods, almost sadly.

Lerial dismounts quickly, handing the gelding’s reins to a ranker who rides forward, then offers a hand to Kyedra.

She takes it, but places no pressure on him when she dismounts, her voice almost inaudible as she murmurs. “I don’t need the aid, but I appreciate the courtesy.”

He replies in an equally low voice. “I know that, but I’d hate to seem like a boor for not offering, especially in front of your grandfather’s retainers.”

She lifts her eyebrows as if to question.