Heritage of Cyador (saga of recluce Book 18) (75 page)

“No one knows whose bag it was?”

“Word is that someone thought it looked like a wallet the old retainer wore at his belt, but no one knows for certain.”

A hundred golds? Would that have been enough to buy Dafaal? Or was it cheap at the price as a way to shift blame?
Lerial doubts that he or anyone else will ever know.

When they reach Aenslem’s villa, the guards immediately open the gates, and shut them just as quickly. Then, at the door to the main entry, Lerial is greeted by a man a good fifteen years older than Lerial himself.

“Lord Lerial, I’m Cathylt. I’m Merchanter Aenslem’s ship master. He has requested a few moments of your time. He awaits you in his study.”

“Thank you. I take it you were here for other matters?”

“I’m here every day, unless he is at the merchanting building.”

“Ship master—the one who keeps track of what ships and cargoes are where?”

“As much as one can … yes.”

Cathylt walks with Lerial only so far as Aenslem’s study, then closes the door as Lerial steps inside.

Lerial lets his order-senses range over the merchanter as he walks toward Aenslem, who has risen to stand by his table desk, but he can detect no wound chaos or other overt injuries or illness. “You asked to see me.”

“I did. I’d prefer not to be surprised. Since you seem to create surprises, I thought the best way to avoid that was simply to ask you what you’re willing to tell me.” Aenslem offers a pleasant smile, then motions to the leather armchairs before walking to the nearest and seating himself.

“You’ve placed me in a difficult position,” Lerial says as he sits. “The duke requested that I inform Lady Haesychya of certain facts, but you are the head of the Merchanting Council, and this is your villa.”

“That does present a problem. If you will answer a question or two, I will not press you.”

“That depends on the questions, ser.”

“Do you intend to take advantage of your abilities and the Mirror Lancers of Cigoerne to invade or dominate Afrit?”

“That thought had never crossed my mind. In the end, I fear, such an attempt now, or any time in the near future, would eventually result in disaster for Cigoerne.”

Aenslem frowns. “Why do you say that?”

“The merchanters of Afrit have too many golds and too much experience in using them in ways to undermine simple lancers or even most Cigoernean factors and crafters.” That is not all he has learned, but all that he needs to say.

Aenslem laughs, heartily. “Stars! You’re wasted as an overcaptain. I suspected that from the beginning.” With that, he picks up a small silver bell that rests on the desk and rings it gently.

Lerial can sense a door opening and turns to discover that an entire panel in the south wall of the study has swung out, revealing a space and a circular staircase to a lower level. Stepping into the study is the serving girl he has seen before, who closes the panel behind herself.

“Murara, would you tell my daughter and granddaughter that I’d like to see them here in the study?”

The serving girl who is far more than that, Lerial knows, not only from Kyedra’s veiled references, but also from the look that passes between her and Aenslem, nods and departs. Lerial understands that what has just occurred is Aenslem’s way of showing a degree of trust in Lerial.

What else does he want?
Lerial isn’t even ashamed of himself for thinking that, not after a season in Afrit.

A small fraction of a glass passes before the study door opens again and Haesychya and Kyedra enter. Kyedra closes the door more firmly than necessary, and Haesycha moves to the leather couch and sits down.

As Kyedra passes Lerial to also take a seat on the leather couch, she glances at Lerial, not at all happily, and he can sense a feeling almost of betrayal.

“That was my doing,” says Aenslem, who has seen the look. “You can ask Cathylt. I left word that whenever Lord Lerial arrived, I was to see him first.”

“You could have let us know,” rejoins Haesychya coolly.

“I just have. It is my villa, as I recall.”

“That’s something that’s never been in question.” Haesychya’s tone remains cool.

“We’ll discuss that later, Daughter. I will assure you that he was sent to inform you of certain things, and that he has not told me one thing. In fact, the only thing he has said is that he has no intention of returning to Cigoerne in order to gather forces to invade Afrit.”

“That’s ridiculous,” snaps Haesychya. “They couldn’t do that.”

“Unfortunately you’re wrong, Daughter. As a result of the war with Heldya, we now have less than half the forces available to Duke Kiedron.” Aenslem turns to Lerial. “Is that not so?”

“We could muster nine full battalions at present. Although there are officially about twelve battalions of Afritan Guards, most are at far less than full complement. Some are battalions in name only. Neither I nor my sire has any such intent, as I told your father. It would be a victory we would not survive.”

“That’s all you told him?”

“That’s all.”

“Now that we have settled that matter,” Aenslem says gruffly, “I think we all would like to hear what Lerial has to report about his recent journey to the lakes.”

Lerial looks straight at Haesychya. “Duke Rhamuel asked that I inform you first. If you wish me to do that without others present, I will do so.”

Haesychya offers a faint and cool smile. “You actually would, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“There’s little point in that. I’d have to tell father and Kyedra what you said, and repeating it might be doubly painful. Go ahead.”

“The duke requested I travel to the lakes to see if I could discover what happened to his brother and whether certain merchanters might have been involved…” Lerial goes on to relate the story just as he had to Rhamuel, almost word for word.

When he finishes, for several moments, no one says anything. Then Aenslem clears his throat. “There’s no hard proof that Maesoryk did anything, but it’s clear he was as guilty as Jhosef or Alaphyn. You couldn’t do anything? Wasn’t that why Rhamuel sent you to the lakes, rather than one of his Afritan Guard commanders?”

“He never said so, but it doubtless was. The problem is that, just as you know that, so does every merchanter in Afrit. If I’d done anything obvious to Maesoryk, all the merchanters remaining in Afrit would be wondering when Rhamuel might turn on them, because, frankly, not a single one of you is without guilt in doing something against the duke or his predecessor.”

Haesychya nods, although she does not speak.

“You have an answer for everything,” declares Aenslem. “But Maesoryk will feel he can do anything now.”

“He’s likely ill. He doesn’t know it, but he is. We’ll just have to see how matters progress.”

“And you have no obligation to heal him. Is that it?” asks Aenslem.

“Do you think I do … after everything?” asks Lerial.

The merchanter shakes his head. “I just hope you’re right.”

“So do I.” Although Lerial is fairly certain he is, he hopes that matters “progress” as he has planned.

Haesychya looks to her father for a moment, and something passes between the two before she turns. “I have a few matters to discuss with your grandfather, Kyedra. If you would not mind entertaining Lerial for a few moments before he leaves, we would appreciate that. If you can stay,” she adds, looking to Lerial.

“I have some time before I need to return to Afritan Guard headquarters.” He turns to Kyedra. “If it would not be an imposition.”

“I believe I can manage,” returns Kyedra dryly. “At least for a time.”

Lerial manages not to wince, but he and Kyedra stand at the same time. Neither speaks as they leave Aenslem’s study.

Once they enter the lady’s study and Lerial closes the door, he turns to Kyedra. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to offend your grandfather.”

“You didn’t act that way before.”

“No, I didn’t, but I didn’t go out of my way to upset him, and I felt refusing to see him first would be seen that way.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. It does. Very much. I hope you know why. And I told the truth. I told him nothing but what he said I did.”

“I believe you … but…”

“Why am I so deferential to him, after all this? Because he’s your grandsire.”
And he’ll have a great say in whom you consort.
He may be hoping against hope, but he cannot help hoping.
You couldn’t help that after the first time you saw her smile.

Suddenly, she smiles. “You could have said that a long time ago.”

“I didn’t dare.”

Her smile vanishes, so abruptly its disappearance is painful to Lerial. “Mother likes you. She won’t say it. She won’t tell me, either. But she does. I can tell.” After another silence, she says, “You can’t ask, can you?”

“Not now. You know why.”

“Because your father is duke, and your brother will succeed him, and you cannot afford to risk the future of both lands.”

“After all that has happened … no.”

She reaches out and takes his hands. “I can be more forward than you. A little more forward.” Then she smiles.

That alone warms him, and he just looks at her.

“Even if … even if … things … don’t … aren’t … I’ll remember the way you’re looking at me. Always.”

“I’ve remembered your smile from the first…”

At that moment, there is a rap on the door.

Kyedra lets go of Lerial’s hands. “Yes?”

The door opens, and Haesychya stands there. “I don’t think we should delay Lerial any longer.”

“I suppose not.” Kyedra’s voice is slightly flat.

“We can both accompany him to the entry hall,” says Haesychya, not unkindly.

The three leave the study and walk several steps before Haesychya asks, “Do you know how much longer you will be in Swartheld?”

“Until after Lord Mykel’s memorial, at least several more days. The duke has asked me to remain for now.”

“Have you heard from Duke Kiedron?”

“Not in more than an eightday. I sent off a dispatch this morning, but it will likely be an eightday before he receives it, possibly longer.”

“Might I ask…?” ventures Haesychya.

“I only told him what happened so far as the Heldyans were concerned, and that a noted merchanter had been involved in the murder of Lord Mykel, and that such matters were likely to be resolved in the next eightday or so … and that I would not feel free to return until they were to the satisfaction of the duke … in the interests of renewed harmony between Afrit and Cigoerne.” Lerial had not quite written the last, but had implied it.

“You’re very cautious.”

“I would prefer to think I’m careful, Lady. Any commitment I make is likely to have to last for a very long time.”

“You are that sort,” says Haesychya, “and that is good.” She stops at the doors from the villa. “We trust it will not be that long before we see you again.”

At those words, Kyedra smiles again. So does Lerial, if more cautiously. Then he inclines his head. “I look forward to that.”

His smile is broader as he rides away from the villa beside Kusyl at the head of the Mirror Lancer squad.

LVI

Just before midday on an already hot and steamy eightday morning, Lerial is going over details of organizing the return ride to Cigoerne with Strauxyn, Kusyl, and Dhoraat, details that are necessary, but that feel unwelcome to him, when Norstaan rides into the courtyard of Afritan Guards headquarters with half a squad from Rhamuel’s personal company.

Lerial hurries over to the undercaptain, wondering why he has come, since there would be no need for him to ride from the palace if Rhamuel wishes to meet with him. “It must be important if you’re here.”

Norstaan smiles. “I’ve just received word that the healer you requested is arriving at the river piers just east of South Post. I thought you might wish to join us in welcoming the healer.”

Emerya? In Swartheld?
Lerial finds it hard to believe.
Could she have sent someone else?
That would be even harder to believe. “I would. Very much.” He turns and hurries back to the other three. “I need ten rankers from the duty squad to accompany me to escort a healer from Cigoerne to the palace. Oh … and a spare mount.”

“Duty squad is my second,” declares Kusyl. “Do you want Polidaar as well?”

“That would be good.” Lerial realizes he will need the squad leader.

Less than a tenth of a glass later, Norstaan and Lerial are riding south on the shore road at the head of the two half squads.

“The duke doesn’t know, does he?” asks Lerial, blotting his face with the back of his sleeve, wondering just how much hotter Swartheld will get, considering that it is barely past midspring.

“You requested that he not be told, and I’ve made as certain as I can that he does not.”

“Thank you. Do you know what kind of rivercraft it is? Or whose?”

“No. We just got a message by fast courier that the healer’s boat had passed the southern river piers and should make the piers west of South Point within the glass. They may have landed already, but they’ll wait for an escort to the palace.”

“I hope we won’t make them wait too long,” worries Lerial.

“It shouldn’t be that long.”

Even so, another third of a glass passes before they ride past South Post and turn onto the paved area that stretches from the base of one pier to the other. After a moment, Lerial spies a sail-galley tied up at the southern stone pier. It is half again as large as the one Lerial had taken to deal with Estheld, making it over fifteen yards from stem to stern, and has a small upper deck that extends some five yards forward from the stern. As he reins up at the base of the pier, Lerial can see several people standing on the pier beside the rivercraft.

Lerial dismounts quickly, followed by Norstaan. Leaving their mounts with the rankers, the two stride out the pier toward the sail-galley.

Lerial immediately recognizes the green head scarf of a Cigoernean healer and the pale green blouse and trousers, not to mention the darkness of order that still suffuses his aunt. She must sense him, because she turns from the man with whom she has been talking, possibly the master of the rivercraft, and steps toward hm.