Cyador’s Heirs

XLI

The remainder of oneday and twoday are far less eventful. Lerial spends more time studying maps. He also watches closely as the post rankers replace an axle on one of the post’s supply wagons. By the time he and the majer join the three other officers for dinner on twoday night, Lerial is more than ready to leave Tirminya post, and he can certainly see why Juist was not impressed with the time he had spent there.

When the five gather at the small table, with Altyrn at the head, and Dechund to his right, and Lerial his left, Dechund smiles broadly. “I did break out some of the better lager for dinner tonight. It’ll be a while before you see it’s like again, I’d wager.”

“I won’t be taking that wager,” returns the majer. “We do appreciate the lager.”

The meal is better than that of the previous two nights, if marginally, consisting of tenderized mutton cutlets and sliced boiled potatoes, both smothered in a brown cream sauce, with boiled turnips. There is more than enough, even though Sevier and Whalen take rather substantial helpings.

Lerial even finds the lager not bad at all, although he would not call it good, but, rather, adequate.

“What do you think you’ll be able to do with those forest types?” asks Dechund after taking what looks to be the last swallow of lager from his mug.

“Who knows?” replies the majer. “We have orders, and we’ll do the best we can. Predicting about what you don’t know isn’t a good idea for any officer.” He looks to Lerial. “For that matter, it’s not a good idea for anyone.”

“They said the women are beautiful,” says the captain. “That could be why the Meroweyans are thinking of moving north. You think that’s why you ran into raiders in the south valley? That they’re having to move out as more small growers move north?”

“That could be.”

“You never said much about what happened with the raiders. I mean with you and the raiders this last time.”

Altyrn clears his throat, then looks to Lerial. “There’s a dispatch I left on the table-desk in my quarters. I meant to give it to Captain Dechund before dinner. Would you mind? I’d rather not put that off until later. Especially not in the morning. Things get misplaced in dim light when you’re setting out.”

Lerial can sense that, again, Altyrn is telling the truth, but in a somewhat shaded way, and it puts him in an awkward position. As an undercaptain, he should immediately jump up. As the Duke’s son and potential heir … Lerial decides he’s still an undercaptain and likely will be for some years yet.

“I’d be happy to get that, ser,” he says as he rises.

“Thank you. I do appreciate that.” Altyrn lowers his voice and murmurs, “And take plenty of time.”

Lerial can tell that the majer truly does appreciate his fetching the dispatch, and that not only surprises Lerial, but concerns him as he leaves the small mess room and hurries toward the guest officers’ quarters. Why does he need plenty of time?

The quarters that the majer has been occupying are not any larger than those in which Lerial has been sleeping, and scarcely any better furnished, save that the table-desk looks newer and the pallet firmer.

The dispatch that lies on the table-desk, weighed down by a small brown leather-bound book, is a single sheet of paper, not folded or sealed. Lerial reads it, since he assumes it is not that confidential. It is addressed to Captain Graessyr.

… pleased to inform you that we have arrived at Tirminya post without any untoward events, and that we are leaving on threeday morning of the fifth eightday of winter. We have delivered the paychest to post Commander Dechund, and have escorted his replacement Lancers to the post. We have seen no sign of raiders or of Afritan troops thus far.

The Mina River is running lower than in the past, and that may be a sign of difficulties in the seasons ahead, unless there is more rain …

When he finishes reading, Lerial lowers the dispatch. It is signed and sealed at the bottom, but not folded and sealed again. He can’t help but frown. Exactly why does the majer need such an innocuous dispatch so immediately? Or what does he want to tell Dechund and the two undercaptains without Lerial around?

His eyes go to the small volume, and he wonders what it might be. He does not pick it up, but does look at the front cover and the spine, but there is no title or other indication as to what the volume is. Lerial decides against opening it, but does take some time to survey the small room. There isn’t much to observe, except that the chamber is neat, and nothing is out of place, and not a piece of gear or clothing is visible. In fact, the only personal items in plain view are the dispatch and the brown book. All of that suggests that Altyrn had in fact planned to leave the dispatch and then send Lerial to fetch it.

After a time, during which he does nothing but stand and think about why the majer may have done what he did, Lerial takes the dispatch and steps out of the small quarters, gently closing the door and then walking from the quarters across the courtyard back to the mess.

When he nears the half-open door to the mess he slows and listens.

“… and that’s why I sent him off … Good lager … have to admit…”

“… better lager than you’ll get at most messes…”

“… we do appreciate it … knows what they drink in the hills?”

Lerial frowns at that statement by Altyrn, since he is more than certain that the majer knows full well what beverages are drunk by the hill people.

“… but you need more of your own lager. I’ll even pour it…”

Lerial coughs as he nears the door, then steps inside. “I’m sorry, ser, it took a few moments.” He offers an embarrassed smile as he extends the dispatch. “The lager…”

“It happens to the best of us.” Altyrn takes the dispatch and looks to the captain. “Didn’t even put the final seal on it. You can do that and send it, though.”

“I’d be happy to,” replies Dechund.

“Well … be up early tomorrow morning.” Altyrn stands abruptly, and his jacket sleeve catches the edge of the lager pitcher, but he grabs the pitcher with his other hand, catching it before it can tumble to the floor. Even so, most of the remaining lager, not that there was apparently much, sloshes out onto the wooden floor. “Sorry about that. There wasn’t much left, though, and I did save the pitcher.” The majer sets the pitcher on the table. “Our thanks again.”

Lerial is impressed at Altyrn’s quickness in catching the pitcher, but he can also sense a certain worry from the majer as they leave the mess, but he does not ask or speak, even after they are crossing the courtyard back to the officers’ quarters.

When the two are well away from any building, apparently alone, Altyrn says quietly, “I hope you didn’t mind, but I wanted to tell the others about what occurred in the south valley, without you present, because, if you were, they’d be skeptical about my version of events.”

That statement is clearly true and unshaded. Yet that leaves Lerial even more puzzled about Altyrn’s motives and why he needed Lerial out of the mess room, because Altyrn had definitely been concerned about something … and Lerial has his doubts about what that might be. All he says in reply is, “I can see that, ser.”

“We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“Yes, ser.” One thing about which Lerial is certain is that the majer neither likes nor trusts Dechund … and from what Lerial has seen and sensed, he shares Altyrn’s concerns.

Still … it is a while before sleep finds him.