Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (60 page)

“He knew I was a Mirror Lancer overcaptain. Nothing more. He didn’t give me a chance to say much more before he attacked me. I tried just to wound him, but there was too much chaos in his system.”

“That really wasn’t your question, was it?”

“No. Why Valatyr? He seemed to be quite competent, and I can’t believe you’re part of all the other assassinations of senior officers.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. Valatyr was in Maesoryk’s wallet. I didn’t know why. I did know that he accepted hundreds of golds. It could have been more. When that many golds change hands, it’s not good. I’d heard rumors, hints, that Valatyr would be a far better chief of staff than Sammyl. I’ve never cared much for Sammyl, but he was loyal to a fault, especially to Atroyan. Wrong, at times, but loyal.”

Possibly for preferring Dhresyl over Drusyn as well … although …
“Why didn’t you just send Willem after Maesoryk?”

“It wouldn’t have worked. Maesoryk has two chaos-mages near him all the time, and when they’re not, he’s heavily guarded or someplace where success would be unlikely … and too obvious.”

“Like the palace?”

Aenslem nods.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You should know. That’s so you don’t make matters worse. After what Maesoryk seems to have done, can you say that removing Valatyr was wrong?”

“Why not tell Rhamuel?”

“That hasn’t worked in the past.” Aenslem’s voice is not only raspy, but dry. “Even if he had listened, he would have asked for proof, and I couldn’t have given it without revealing too much. You must have seen that Rhamuel and I are not exactly close.”

While Lerial’s mind isn’t exactly reeling, he feels appalled at the currents and crosscurrents, schemes and counterschemes that run beneath the seemingly placid surface of Afritan merchanter society. He also understands that there are no witnesses to their conversation, and no real proof. For him to accuse Aenslem would indeed make matters worse—not to mention creating a rift between Cigoerne and Afrit.
And it would accomplish nothing.

“I think you’re beginning to understand,” observes the merchanter.

“I doubt I understand near enough. I feel like I’m standing in a camma tree grove with a forest fire raging toward me.” At his own words, he starts … and then swallows, remembering just what he had forgotten about Maesoryk. “Frig! Frig! Frig!”

“What is it?”

“Cammabark. That’s why Maesoryk wanted those forest lands so filled with camma trees that most others didn’t. That’s most likely where the cammabark in the palace and at the Harbor Post came from.”

Aenslem frowns. “I can’t believe … even Maesoryk…”

“A merchanter, Shalaara, I think it was, borrowed golds from Fhastal to keep some forest lands infested with camma trees from falling into Maesoryk’s hands through debts a family owed. But he bought the lands anyway, paying much more for them. Shalaara got a profit from it, and Maesoryk was furious. Rhamuel told me that as a reason why Maesoryk dislikes Fhastal.”

“I remember that … we all thought it was about the golds … and Maesoryk being forced to pay more for what he felt was rightly his.”

“Maybe that was what you were supposed to think.”
Hidden right out in the open.

Aenslem nods again, almost reluctantly, it seems to Lerial, then asks, “Do you have any more questions?”

Lerial shakes his head.

“I have one for you. Why are you still here, risking yourself?”

“Because, if Afrit falls, so will Cigoerne.”

“So you’re the sacrificial goat to save Cigoerne?”

Lerial does not reply for a moment, thinking about what Altyrn had written him. “More to save the best of Cyador that remains in Cigoerne, I think.”

“That’s a strange answer.”

Only if you’re a merchanter, thinking golds are both means and ends.
“It’s the only one I can give.”

“You can invite my daughter and granddaughter back in, if you wish.”

“I should be going. The Heldyans may already be preparing their next attack, and I’d like to know what Sammyl and his scouts have discovered.”

Aenslem nods. “I won’t keep you. You do have my thanks and gratitude for saving my life. I don’t forget.”

Either good or evil.
“Thank you. I’m glad I could do what I could.”

“So am I … and so is my daughter. Whether she’ll say so … that’s another question.”

Lerial isn’t about to comment on that. He just says, “Good day,” and leaves the study.

Kyedra is the first to see him, and she emerges from the salon that is behind the next door in the long corridor. “You’re leaving?”

“I’m certain he needs to get back to the palace,” says Haesychya from the salon door.

“I’ll walk you to the door, then,” says Kyedra, not looking in her mother’s direction.

“I’d appreciate that,” Lerial says immediately.

Neither speaks until they are several yards from Haesychya.

“You won’t tell me what you talked about?”

“No. That’s up to your grandfather. If he wants to tell you, he will.”

“You’re as bad as he is.”

Lerial’s initial reaction is to deny the charge … but, unhappily, he realizes Kyedra is right, if not in the way she meant. “No. In some ways, I’m worse. I’ve certainly killed more men than he has, and the men under me have certainly killed more than those under him.”

Kyedra offers a puzzled look before her mouth opens, then closes. Finally, she says, “That was a strange way of answering.”

“No. Just accurate, and it might be best to leave it at that. I don’t want you to have illusions.”

“About either of you, I presume.” Her tone is cool.

“You know your grandfather. You scarcely know me. I’m more worried about any illusions you might have about me.”

“Most men would rather women have illusions.” Kyedra stops well short of the double doors that lead out onto the entry terrace.

“I’m not most men.”

“I believe you mentioned that before.” Kyedra softens her words at the end, with a slight smile as well. “You seem very determined I not have illusions about you. Why?”

“That’s a long story.”

“I can stand here as long as necessary.” She glances around the entry hall of the villa.

Lerial smiles. “I think I mentioned Majer Altyrn to you…”

“You said his consort had a lovely smile.”

“He was a great man. I don’t think many understood how great. She was great in a different way. They were very much in love, and despite many difficulties and very different backgrounds, they never argued, although they shared feelings that, from what I saw, had to have been very different in the past. I got the sense that they got on so well because neither had any illusions about either life or each other…”

“You’re verging on the presumptuous, you know?”

“I didn’t mean to. What I was trying to say was that I think that many troubles between people come from illusions that they hold.”

“Perhaps. But you have no illusions about Duke Khesyn. He is ruthless and bloody. That lack of illusion doesn’t mean Afrit or Cigoerne will ever get on with him.”

“The lack of illusion means that we know that.”

“I think that might undermine your point.”

Lerial shakes his head in a mock-serious fashion. “I should not debate with you.”

“You respect the majer a great deal, don’t you?”

“I did. I still do. I probably respect him even more after what I’ve seen and been through in the last season.”

“You should tell him that.”

“I can’t. He died just before I left for Afrit.”

“Oh … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“I never told you. You wouldn’t have known.” Lerial pauses, then says gently, “I should get back to the palace to see if Sammyl has discovered anything more about what Khesyn may be doing.” Lerial regrets having to leave, but he also worries about what may be happening in Estheld … or elsewhere in Heldya.

“I suppose you should. I shouldn’t be keeping you.”

“You will send word if your grandfather doesn’t improve?”

“We will.”

“Good.” Lerial smiles, hoping Kyedra will smile back, then turns when she just nods.

She does not come out onto the entry terrace to watch as he departs.

When Lerial returns to the palace and the sitting room, both Sammyl and Rhamuel are still there, each behind a table desk. Neither looks particularly pleased.

“How is Aenslem?”

“It appears as though he is largely recovered. It’s likely he was poisoned…” Lerial goes on to explain what Aenslem had said about the tonic. He does not mention Veraan or anything about Myrapol House, except what Aenslem has said.

“Trusting Alaphyn … about anything…” Rhamuel shakes his head.

“What is happening in Estheld?” Lerial asks.

“Two more merchanters have arrived,” replies Sammyl. “So far as we can tell, none have left, and none appear ready to cast off. There’s no sign of flatboats on the river.”

“Not yet.” Rhamuel’s voice is dry and ironic, with a foreboding tone.

“All we can do is prepare and wait,” says Sammyl. “What else can we do?”

What else can we do?
Lerial is still pondering that question later that night as he lies in the bunk in the senior officer’s quarters at Afritan Guard headquarters, trying to go to sleep.

XLII

Lerial wakes up on fourday, his thoughts on Veraan and Myrapol House. Had Veraan’s father Apollyn actually created a chaos-based poison for the tainted tonic … or had Veraan just used a fast-acting tincture of some sort? And why would he have done that? Lerial can certainly understand why Alaphyn would have wanted Aenslem to order the deadly tonic directly from Myrapol House, but why would Veraan have agreed to it?
For golds?
The sum would have to have been quite significant.
Or perhaps, in an odd way, Veraan felt that the death of an Afritan merchanter would not hurt Cigoerne … or more likely, would reduce rivals to Myrapol House.

And then there was Maesoryk … who had to have been involved in the explosions and the invasion landings at his tileworks, but with no proof … except indirectly …

Lerial bolts upright in his bunk, recalling what Aenslem had said the afternoon before about Maesoryk—two
chaos-mages around him all the time.
“Of course,” he murmurs to himself, “the fog … the unnatural chaos-caused fog.” The fog that had enabled the ships to land had to have been created by a mage on land—at the tileworks. And there had been at least four mages when Lerial and Twenty-third Company had first faced the invaders.
That was how they knew they’d be covered.
Two mages from Maesoryk and those with the Heldyans. Except … again, the fact that the fog had been created on land wasn’t definitive proof of Maesoryk’s involvement or guilt. Even if Maesoryk should return to Swartheld without his mages, that would not constitute real proof.

Lerial shakes his head. Then he tries order-sensing, and is pleased to discover that he is finally much stronger, if not back to full strength. He is still thinking things over when he walks to the mess.

By half past seventh glass, he has eaten, met with his officers and Dhoraat, and is on his way to the palace under a blustery gray sky, accompanied by Fourth Squad from Eighth Company. They have barely covered half a kay before rain begins to fall—in large droplets that are almost warm. By the time Lerial has turned his gelding over to one of the palace stableboys, the air in the courtyard and likely across Swartheld is a mixture of moisture, mist, and fog … and the rain keeps failing.

For several moments, he stands under the edge of the stable roof, letting his order-senses range through the clouds, wondering if there will be strong thunderstorms that he can turn to his advantage—which would take much less effort than order-chaos separation. Yet he cannot sense the vortices of order and chaos that distinguish thunderstorms, just much milder flows and the heaviness of moisture.

He hurries across the courtyard in the rain, accompanied by two rankers, and makes his way to the west wing of the palace and Rhamuel’s sitting room. There he finds Norstaan, Sammyl, and Rhamuel.

“What have the scouts reported?” asks Lerial.

“The merchanters were prepared to load armsmen. It’s hard to tell.” Rhamuel looks to the closed window and the heavy droplets beating against it and the misty fog beginning to rise off the warm stone of the city’s buildings and streets. “But they cast off without doing so, from what the scouts saw before the rain closed in.”

“With rain and strong seas, they wouldn’t remain in Estheld,” adds Sammyl.

“If the storm dies down by midday,” asks Lerial, “how long before the merchanters could port?”

“Late afternoon, if the winds didn’t carry them too far east.”

“You had something in mind?” Rhamuel asks Lerial.

“I was thinking about asking for a fast sailing galley that could get me close to the harbor at Estheld late this afternoon. That’s if the storm does die down.”

“I don’t know … The sea might still be high by then.” Rhamuel frowns. “What do you have in mind?’

“I need to find out where those armsmen are, and how many they’ll be loading.” All that is true, but Lerial isn’t about to mention what else he has in mind.
If it’s even possible … What else can you do? You’re outnumbered and on the defense … and if they bring another five battalions or more …

“How do you expect to learn that offshore in fog and mist?”

“It’s likely to be easier in the mist. I’d like to know just how many troopers Khesyn is sending.”

“Do we know he’s sending any?” asks Sammyl.

“Not really,” admits Lerial. “That’s what I’d like to find out … before they land at Baiet or somewhere closer.”

“That wouldn’t hurt,” says Sammyl. “But can you get closer than the scouts did? Close enough to learn that?”

“I’ve got a good chance at that.”

“Then I’ll send word to the Harbor Post. The sail-galleys leave from the small pier there. Don’t try to go if the galley master says it’s too dangerous. We can’t afford to lose anyone else at this point.”

“I won’t.” Lerial has no intention of drowning. “How many battalions do you have that can fight?”