Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (63 page)

The commander frowns. “There’s that much damage?”

“It appears that almost everything in Estheld was built of wood. So are ships. Wood burns. There was so much fire, and it spread so quickly, that many could not escape, especially the armsmen already loaded onto the merchanters.” Lerial smiles, then stands. “I thought you’d like to know. I need to report to the arms-commander.” Without another word Lerial turns and leaves the makeshift study.

Toeryn hurries up as Lerial walks out of the study. “That didn’t take long, ser.”

“I told the commander what he needed to know.”

“Ser … I filled the water bottle, but the cook is bringing some bread and cheese and a beaker of lager…”

Lerial offers a crooked smile. “That is a very good idea.”

“I also persuaded one of the cooks’ boys to take a message to Squad Leader Fhuraan, that you’d be there shortly. That way, you can eat while they’re readying the horses.”

“Thank you.” Lerial doesn’t need any more urging to sit down at the end of the long mess table. As soon as the lager and the bread and cheese arrive, he takes a long swallow and then begins to eat, slowly and methodically.

Toeryn stands by the door to the mess, his hand on his sabre, the entire time that it takes Lerial to finish what is before him. He is no longer even in the slightest light-headed when he finally stands, but he cannot order-sense, and occasional flashes of light flicker across his eyes. Still, he feels much better as he walks from the mess to the stables, where Fhuraan waits with Fourth Squad.

“We saw smoke,” offers the squad leader. “Were you able…?”

“I doubt we’ll have to worry about the Heldyans for some time.”
The merchanters of Afrit are another question, especially once they’re no longer worried about Khesyn.

Fhuraan studies Lerial. “You’ll need guards, I think, even after we get to the palace?”

Lerial nods.

“Begging your pardon, ser, but should you even ride that far?”

“I may not be in the best of condition, but I’m in no danger of collapsing. Thanks to Toeryn, I had some food and lager after we returned. I trust you and the squad did as well.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Then we’d best head out.”

Lerial and Fourth Squad leave Harbor Post almost unnoticed, or so it seems to him, and then ride past what looks to be the last of the Heldyan prisoner burial details. When they come to that section of the road passing the harbor, Lerial notes that the loading of the various merchanters is continuing, unabated.
Do they think that Khesyn will attack because they believe the fires at Estheld aren’t that severe? Or because he’ll be enraged at an attack on his lands?
Lerial just hopes he is not mistaken in his belief that Khesyn will have his hands more than full with troubles in Heldya for several years to come.

The guards at the palace look at Lerial and the Mirror Lancers and wave them through, and the duty squad leader doesn’t even look askance as two lancers flank Lerial when he enters the building, before making his way up to Rhamuel’s chambers. The lancers plant themselves outside the sitting room—after looking in to see that only Sammyl and Rhamuel are inside.

“Escorts, yet?” murmurs Sammyl in a voice barely audible.

“They tend to be protective when I’m tired,” replies Lerial with a faint smile. “I am a bit tired. It’s been a rather long day.”

“The lookouts report a great deal of fire and smoke rising from Estheld,” says Rhamuel, his words clearly a bland understatement. “I presume you and your lancers had something to do with that.”

Lerial doesn’t feel like either boasting or demurring. “We did.”

“Won’t that just enrage Duke Khesyn?” asks Sammyl.

“I’m sure it will,” replies Lerial. “He’s bound to be enraged by the loss of all the merchanters tied or anchored at Estheld, somewhere around fifteen, not to mention the thousands of armsmen who died or the fact that it appeared that most of the harbor was burning to the ground when we departed. I could be wrong, but I believe he’s going to have more serious problems on his hands than trying to invade Afrit again.”

“Might I ask how … all that happened?” Sammyl doesn’t conceal his skepticism.

“A little chaos and order, placed here and there, combined with the fact that Khesyn built everything cheaply, believing that Estheld only had to last until he conquered Afrit and took Swartheld … with the encouragement of Maesoryk and a few other well-placed Afritan merchanters, of course.”

The commander’s skeptical expression gives way to one of puzzlement.

“He built everything of wood, and it was built close together. Seasoned wood burns very quickly, and if there’s a great deal of it, it burns hot and faster than people can escape, except into the water, and the water off Estheld, I’m told, is rather deep.” After taking in the appalled expression on Sammyl’s face, Lerial adds, “I don’t like fighting unnecessary battles against unprincipled enemies enabled by even less principled merchanters who are also traitors to their own land, because others have been more successful in amassing golds.”

“I believe Lord Lerial has an excellent point, Sammyl,” says Rhamuel. “Do you have any problems with what he has said?”

“Ah … there may well be traitors, but proving that they have acted in such a fashion might be difficult.”

“It might,” agrees Rhamuel, “but it’s to be preferred over sending an outnumbered Afritan Guard out to fight another battle against fresh Heldyan hordes. Is it not?”

“Yes, ser.”

“I do have one question,” Lerial adds. “Who bears the cost of the loss of all those merchanters that were destroyed at Estheld?”

“That depends on the contracts between the merchanters and Duke Khesyn. Unless there are special provisions, vessels used for purposes of warfare are not covered by any surety.”

“That would mean that the merchanters owning them would bear the losses, then?” asks Lerial.

“Some of them might have asked Khesyn for indemnity. He’d likely have agreed, but he won’t pay it. Of course,” Rhamuel adds, dryly, “Khesyn might attempt to claim Afrit was the cause of the fires.”

“If it comes to that, blame it on the god/goddess of the Kaordists,” suggests Lerial tiredly. “There were no ships attacking, and no troopers anywhere around.”

While Sammyl again looks appalled, Rhamuel laughs ironically. “It won’t come to that. Khesyn will be hard-pressed to maintain his borders against the Tourlegyns, especially when the spoils he most likely promised didn’t materialize.”

“There’s one other item,” Lerial says. “On our way out to Estheld, and then on the way back, I noticed several things. First, all the ships in the harbor here were loading goods on board. None were offloading. Second, almost half flew a maroon ensign with a golden key in the center.”

“Those had to be Alaphyn’s ships…” muses Rhamuel.

“It is suggestive,” points out Lerial. “Along with Maesoryk…”
And possibly Jhosef …

“There’s no proof…” declares Sammyl. “Without that … all the other merchanters will refuse to pay their tariffs if you act against Maesoryk and Alaphyn.”

We just might have to see about that,
thinks Lerial, if without speaking those words.

“There’s no proof, yet.” Rhamuel smiles. “It may not even come to that.” He looks to Sammyl. “I need a few words with Lord Lerial, about my healing … and a few other matters.”

“Yes, ser.” Before he turns and leaves the sitting room, Sammyl’s momentary glance at Lerial is one of a very worried man.

“Jaermyd tells me that my broken leg is healing, not quite so fast as I’d like, obviously.”

Lerial considers what Rhamuel has said, then realizes that, for all that has happened, not that much time has passed. “It’s been less than two eightdays. You’d probably have felt the pain diminish…” Lerial immediately regrets those words.

“If I could feel any pain, you’re doubtless right.” Rhamuel uses his hands and arms to shift his weight in the wooden armchair behind the table desk. “I’m not going to get the use of my legs back, am I?”

“It’s still too soon to tell. If you have no feeling in a season … then…”

“You aren’t putting me off, are you?”

“No … Emerya might be able to tell you, but I don’t have her skills. Nor do I have her years of knowledge.”

“Jaermyd is convinced my injuries would have been fatal without you.”

“He’s too kind. I’d agree that they’d have been worse, but I suspect you still would have survived.”

“He says no … that the chaos around the broken bone would have spread, and no one would have known in time.”

Lerial had not even thought of that, he realizes.

Rhamuel laughs. “Sometimes, you don’t even realize how much the little things you do ending up mattering.”

“I imagine that’s just as true of you.”

“Not quite as much. I do have a few more years of observing people.”

“I grant you that. What else did you wish to discuss?” Lerial definitely wants to change the subject.

“Your remaining in Swartheld for a time longer. Cigoerne certainly doesn’t need you at the moment. The dispatch from that majer, most likely penned for him by your father, shows that Khesyn doesn’t have any armsmen there. The Tourlegyns have lost too many warriors to raid Cigoerne. But … matters here are far from settled. They’ll get worse once it is known that I am crippled, and there will be muttered demands for a duke who can have offspring.”

“You’re not that crippled.”

“People will say that. That’s what matters. I can’t, obviously, require you to stay. First, you’re not an Afritan. Second, I doubt there’s any power left in Afrit that could force you and your lancers to remain. At the same time, I’d appreciate your presence and support until I am officially duke of Afrit.”

“Who else could be duke?” asks Lerial. “You’re older than Mykel … if he’s even alive, and you’ve already pointed out that Kyedra cannot rule in her own name.”

“But the lineage runs through her.”

“It also runs through you.”

“There will always be doubts if I am duke.”

“That’s absurd. You almost died. You could have.”

“It doesn’t matter. People will still believe that I had a hand in my brother’s death.” Rhamuel shakes his head. “I’ve never wanted to be duke. I’ve wanted other things … but never that.”

Even as Lerial wonders what those “other things” might be, he replies bluntly, “You don’t have any choice. Neither does Afrit.”

“Not now,” admits Rhamuel. “That brings up another question. You’ve been the one in the midst of all the battles. What do you suggest I do with the Afritan Guard … and its officers?”

“Keep Sammyl as your chief of staff. Praise him publicly for his firm hand and loyalty in a time of crisis. Promise him something … you’d know better than I what is possible and acceptable. Make Commander Dhresyl the one in charge of supplies and logistics, but let him remain a commander. Promote Ascaar to commander and make him the overall field commander. There’s a young majer named Paelwyr. Make him a subcommander and a battalion commander. Review all the other majers who need to be promoted to subcommander with Paelwyr and Ascaar. From what I’ve seen, possibly Majer Aerlyt might be a decent subcommander, but I’d defer to Ascaar on that.”

“What about a new arms-commander?”

“You need to remain arms-commander for now, possibly for at least another year. You can do that with Sammyl as your chief of staff.”

“You don’t trust Sammyl, do you? Why are you recommending him?”

“I don’t trust his judgment on military matters. I do trust his loyalty to you. Right now, that’s very important.”

“It’s a pity you’re the younger son.”

Lerial shakes his head. “Where did those words come from?”

“From what I’ve seen, and from what Emerya has written. And please don’t tell me you don’t know we’ve exchanged letters for years.”

Almost … almost, Lerial laughs. Finally, he smiles. “I thought that was so, but she never, ever said anything about it to me, or to anyone else that I know of. I suspect Father and Mother know. Probably Grandmere knew.”

“By sending that miniature, Emerya told you.”

“She confirmed what I already knew.”

“We need to talk of that … later.”

Lerial understands. “How long do you think you’ll need me?”

“It’s a little early to set dates … don’t you think? I won’t ask you to stay here any longer than necessary … but … would you be serving Cigoerne’s interests by leaving too soon?”

With a rueful smile, Lerial says, “No. You know that.”

“I just wanted to make sure you understand that as well.”

Lerial finds himself yawning, wondering why, when it’s only a bit past fifth glass. “It’s time for me to head back to Afritan Guard headquarters.”

“Get some rest or sleep,” suggests Rhamuel.

“I’d thought of that.”

“If you’re feeling better tomorrow morning, I’d suggest you go to Aenslem’s first. We’re going to need his knowledge and advice over the days ahead. I want to be certain he’s up to it.”

“I can do that.”

“If he is, escort him here, and we can go over some matters. Now … go and get some food and rest. Don’t worry. You can start that tomorrow.” Rhamuel spoils the stern words with a grin.

Lerial can’t help but smile back before he turns and leaves the sitting room. Outside, he smiles again, cheerfully, at Sammyl. “I think he has a few more things for you to do.”

Then he nods to the two rankers, and the three head for the palace stables. He hopes he won’t fall asleep before he can brief his own officers. At the same time, he also wonders, not for the first time, if his dispatch has reached Emerya. He shakes his head. It has only been a little more than a eightday.

XLV

Lerial manages to brief his officers and Dhoraat on the events at Estheld, but not about Rhamuel’s request, before retiring to his chamber in the officers’ quarters at Afritan Guard headquarters and falling asleep well before eighth glass, deeply enough that he does not dream. Then … in the darkness, he bolts awake, yet hears nothing. Half sitting up in the bunk, he glances around, but he can see only the vague outline of the room, the doorless armoire, the narrow table desk. He is relieved that he can order-sense, slightly, and only for a short distance, enough to discern no one outside the barred door.