Heritage of Cyador

IX

When Lerial awakes on eightday morning well before sixth glass, he reflects on the evening before, from the dinner in the private dining room that had been every bit as polite and unrevealing as he had expected, to his subsequent walk back through the de facto avenue in the middle of the tents to meet again with his officers, and his return to the “country house.” The fact that nothing untoward has occurred is almost more disturbing than if it had.

He washes and dresses and then heads for the private dining room, hoping, even on eightday, to see if he can talk to other officers on a more personal and less formal basis. On the way down, he notes the room where a ranker waits, and sees other uniforms there. Comparatively early as he arrives, there are already three officers in the dining chamber. One is Drusyn, seated next to Subcommander Ascaar, and the third, sitting slightly apart from the pair near the other end of the table, may be Subcommander Valatyr, by process of elimination, because Lerial does not recognize the man, and Valatyr had not been at the evening mess. But there might be another senior officer …

Drusyn immediately motions.

Lerial takes the chair beside him and across from Ascaar, offering a friendly “Good morning” to both.

“You may not think so after morning meetings every day for a season,” says Ascaar.

“Ascaar doesn’t care much for mornings.” Drusyn grins.

“Demons know why I put up with you in the morning.” Ascaar’s grumble is more genial than gruff.

“Because you need a friendly voice to cheer you up.”

“Ser?” offers the servitor standing almost at Lerial’s shoulder. “Juice or lager?”

“Lager … please,” Lerial says.

“Man after my own heart,” declares Ascaar. “How did you find your quarters?”

“More than adequate, but it’s a long walk to my companies.”

The two subcommanders exchange a quick glance, but neither speaks as the servitor arrives with a platter and a beaker of lager. On the platter are eggs, seemingly scrambled with a cheese so pungent Lerial can immediately smell it, along with some yellow peppers. There are thin strips of meat, fried crisply-mutton, Lerial suspects-and a small loaf of whitish bread. He takes a swallow of the lager, then says pleasantly, “I’m assuming that each of you commands two battalions, but I don’t know your command structure.”

“That’s right,” replies Drusyn. “Majers command battalions, subcommanders two to three battalions, and commanders four or more battalions. There have been exceptions.”

“Does anyone know exactly how many companies Khesyn has in Vyada?”

“Word is twenty-five.” Drusyn frowns. “I’d wager more than that. No offense…” He pauses as if unsure exactly how to address Lerial.

“‘Lerial’ here. ‘Overcaptain’ in the field.”

“No offense, Lerial,” adds Drusyn, “but the arms-commander wouldn’t have been able to persuade the duke to invite you to join us if we weren’t outnumbered.”

“The arms-commander told me that Khesyn also has more than fifteen companies held at Estheld, possibly five battalions.”

“Frig…” mutters Ascaar. “No wonder Rhamuel can’t pry any of the other companies from Swartheld … as if Khesyn would risk crossing almost a kay of water in flatboats … and some merchanters might help the duke.”

Might? That definitely concerns Lerial.

Drusyn glances around, then murmurs in a low voice, “The duke doesn’t want to be more indebted to them.”

“Whereas he feels Cigoerne might … just might … feel indebted for other reasons … or unwilling to exact repayment for helping him out?” asks Lerial lightly, if also quietly.

Drusyn laughs softly. “There might be something to that, but we won’t know that until after it doesn’t matter. One way or the other.”

Lerial takes a bite of the eggs, discovering that they taste better than they smell, followed by one of the mutton strips, which tastes exactly like mutton fried and heavily peppered. The bread is warm and slightly doughy.

“I take it that one of the reasons you were sent,” says Ascaar dryly, “is to limit the number of companies your sire felt he had to commit.”

“You can see why Ascaar isn’t on the arms-commander’s staff proper,” adds Drusyn.

“And why he must be a very good field commander?” returns Lerial as soon as he swallows.

“He is. He doesn’t like to admit it,” replies Drusyn.

“And so are you.”

“Why might you say that?” There is a hint of a smile around the corners of Drusyn’s mouth.

“Because you’re in command of battalions where it’s most likely that Khesyn will attack.” And it’s far more important that whoever commands the forces left in Swartheld be loyal to Rhamuel than be the best commander.

“That brings up the other reasons why you were sent,” says Drusyn.

“He’s the most effective field commander Duke Kiedron has,” interjects the subcommander sitting several chairs away.

Lerial hopes the two subcommanders with whom he is sitting don’t catch the slightest stress on the word “effective.”

“Thank you, Commander,” replies Drusyn.

Ascaar merely looks at Drusyn and shakes his head, then murmurs, “Valatyr knows everything.”

“How long…?”

“Have I been a Mirror Lancer? Close to seven years.”

“You don’t look that old.”

“I’m not,” Lerial admits. “I’ll be twenty-three just after the turn of summer.”

The two exchange glances.

“He killed his first raider when he was sixteen,” interjects Valatyr. “He destroyed more than three battalions in the last battle of the Verdyn rebellion. He wouldn’t have told you that, and neither of you needs to know more.”

Lerial understands fully why Valatyr has offered his last words. Obviously Rhamuel knows who the undercaptain was who also destroyed a full battalion of Afritan Guards at Ensenla … and would prefer that information remain unknown.

Ascaar tries to stifle a grin as he looks at Drusyn and says in a low voice, “You had to know.”

“Your sire obviously didn’t pamper you,” says Drusyn dryly.

“He didn’t pamper either of us … and he’s never indulged himself.” Before either subcommander can say more, Lerial asks, “What is the routine here? Is there an area where I could have my companies practice maneuvers-starting tomorrow? The horses need some rest.”

“The grasslands southwest of the hunting park are open for maneuvers,” answers Drusyn. “We have to get approval from Subcommander Valatyr. That’s just so we don’t interfere with each other and the arms-commander knows who’s doing what.”

“The routine?”

“It’s up to each commander to keep his forces ready in whatever manner he sees fit.”

“What about archers?”

“We each have a company. Each battalion has four companies of lancers that can double as mounted foot, and one company of archers who can do the same.” Ascaar looks to Lerial.

“My companies are lancers, who can attack with either lances or sabres, or be mounted foot. Two of the companies have one squad that can double as mounted archers.” Lerial pauses, then goes on. “The Meroweyans had companies of heavy foot and used a shield wall for advances against archers and even lancers. Do you have any heavy foot, or does Duke Khesyn?”

“We have two companies. They’re in Swartheld. They’re more suited to defending a city, according to Commander Nythalt.”

“He’s the commander in charge in Swartheld?”

Both subcommanders nod.

Lerial takes several more bites of his breakfast, and a swallow of lager.

“Do you have any other questions?” asks Drusyn.

“How many companies or battalions are still in Swartheld?”

“Ten battalions I’ve heard tell. No one’s said. Anything else?”

“Well…” Lerial grins. “There is one. Exactly where are the ironworks? The city didn’t look much like there were any there.”

Ascaar smiles in return. “There aren’t. The ironworks are more than ten kays to the west, at the end of the west road.”

“The wide east-west road?” asks Lerial.

Ascaar nods. “They mine it and smelt it there, and pound it into rough plate. The plate comes here. Some is sent downriver to Swartheld. Most is smithed here.”

“I just wondered, because everyone talks about the ironworks at Luba.”

“There’s really not a town there. Most of the heavy work at the works is done by lawbreakers.”

That makes a certain sense to Lerial, since the irrigation ditches in Cigoerne are dredged by lawbreakers and new canals dug in the same fashion.

As Valatyr rises and leaves the dining room, Ascaar glances in his direction, then back to Lerial. “It won’t be that long until the morning meeting, not if you want a quick word with your company officers. Commander Sammyl is prompt.”

“I told them not to expect me this morning until after the senior officers’ meeting. That won’t be a problem, not with the horses needing rest. They know where to find me.”

“They always do,” comments Drusyn, “especially when you’d prefer not to be found.”

Ascaar nods.

Before long, the three make their way to the salon.

The chairs and settees have been rearranged into three rows, facing away from the doorway. Lerial settles himself at the left end of the second row in a simple armless chair with a seat upholstered in slightly faded dull crimson, beside Subcommander Klassyn. “Good morning, Commander.”

“Good morning, Lord Lerial. I trust all is well with you and your men.”

“Everything seems to be settled. I imagine you have your hands full, though.”

“Full, but not overfull. That will happen when another two battalions arrive.”

“Are they expected soon?”

“They’re not expected at all, but I keep working to see what I can do if they show up. If I don’t, they’ll arrive tomorrow.” Klassyn glances toward the north end of the salon, where the chief of staff appears.

All the officers stand.

“As you were.” As Lerial and the others reseat themselves, Commander Sammyl takes a position facing the seated senior officers and clears his throat. “Good morning. There’s nothing new to report on the Heldyan forces. There are no indications of more forces arriving in Vyada.” He glances toward Klassyn, who shakes his head, and then toward Valatyr, who does the same. “Then I’ll go over the day’s evolutions. Overcaptain Lerial, if it is agreeable to you, I thought that Subcommander Valatyr might accompany you and one of our squads and give you a thorough orientation of this side of the river-before you have to join us in fighting here.”

“I’d very much appreciate that, ser.”

“Good.”

“Now … Subcommander Ascaar … you have the river patrols south of Lubana.”

“Yes, ser.”

“What do you have to report?”

“No change, ser. Riders in uniform on the east shore, but never more than a squad at a time. Three more large flatboats passed our patrols. They were empty and stayed close to the other shore. They tied up with the others at the new piers south of Vyada.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, ser.”

“Subcommander Drusyn?”

“It’s much the same on the east shore north of Vyada. Squad-sized patrols and sometimes lone riders. There haven’t been any flatboats going downstream. Late yesterday afternoon, there was a sail-galley that arrived from the north and docked at the new piers. It had the banner of Duke Khesyn. There weren’t any armsmen to greet the galley. That usually means that there was a message from the duke.”

“Suggesting that he is still in Estheld, you think?”

“He’s either there, ser, or wants us to think he is. I couldn’t say which from what my scouts saw.”

“Is there anything else? No? Good. Dismissed to duties.”

Everyone stands once more, while the commander leaves the salon.

Then, as most of the other officers follow, Commander Valatyr walks over to Lerial.

“Thank you for your comments earlier this morning.”

“You know why I made them, I trust?” Valatyr’s smile is somehow both wintry and wry, matching a countenance that seems stern when he is not smiling.

“I’d judge so. In the interests of harmony.”

Valatyr nods. “Quite so. Would you prefer to see the river area south of Lubana first or the area north first? We’ll provide a mount so that yours can rest.”

Although Lerial has brought some spare mounts, he merely nods. “Thank you. I’d prefer to see the area where we’d be most likely to fight, possibly downstream of Khesyn’s new piers, but since I don’t know the location of those piers…” He offers an apologetic shrug.

“The piers are about a kay south of Lubana, on the south side of a wide bend in the river. With the current, they could land on our side less than half a kay south of here.”

“At the edge of the hunting park?”

“More like the middle of the park. It’s … extensive.”

“Also … if I could drop off some uniforms to be cleaned and if we could stop for a moment so that I could brief my officers?”

“Naturally. I took the liberty of having the mounts brought to the north entrance.” Valatyr gestures, and the two leave the salon.

Waiting outside the salon are Captain Waell and several rankers, presumably to return the salon to its primary function.

Valatyr does not speak as the two cross the main hall to the north corridor and then continue to the north wing. Lerial hurries up to his chambers and reclaims the soiled uniforms. By the time he has dropped them off and made his way out the north entrance, Valatyr, a half squad of Afritan Guards, and Lerial’s gelding are waiting.

“It’s unlikely we’ll run into trouble, but one never knows,” the subcommander declares as he mounts.

True enough. Lerial nods, then rides beside the older officer as they circle around the circular entrance plaza toward the south. When they reach the Cigoernean area, Lerial reins up short of the officers’ tent, but he barely dismounts before Strauxyn, Kusyl, and Fheldar appear.

“Good morning, ser.”

“Good morning. This won’t take long. I’ve just come from the senior officers’ meeting, and I’ll be getting a tour of the areas where we might be called to fight…” Lerial quickly goes over not only what Commander Sammyl has said, but also some additional information about the current location of Heldyan forces. Then he lays out what he wants from the men for the day, including blade practice. Even so, he is finished in less than a third of a glass, and is back in the saddle.

One of the Afritan Guards opens the southern gate, and Valatyr leads the way through the gate, then immediately turns left, heading eastward toward the Swarth River, which has to be a half kay away.

A brisk wind, neither warm nor cool, sweeps out of the south, but given the hazy sky, the sun does not provide that much warmth, and Lerial is glad for his riding jacket. He studies the hunting park to his right, which seems to be a mixture of a woodlot with long-needled pines, well-trimmed groups of bushes and olive trees here and there at random, with browned grass covering the ground in most places, except around the bases of some of the pines.

“What sort of game does the duke hunt here?” he finally asks Valatyr.

“I don’t know that the duke has ever hunted here. His sire liked to hunt the small gazelles, it’s said. I’ve only seen a few. They’re fast and very wary.”

“How much of the edge of the river between Lubana and the point opposite Khesyn’s new piers is marsh, and how much is open water?”

“You’ll see. There’s open water immediately east of Lubana. That’s because Duke Natroyan had the marshes dredged away back to where there was bedrock. That’s where he built the east wall.”

“Natroyan?”

“Duke Atroyan’s grandsire.”

At the east end of the south wall there is another corner tower, and Valatyr reins up and points to the north. “You can see what he did.”

Lerial can indeed. The east wall of Lubana is the riverbank, although stone riprap perhaps three yards in width extends from the base of the wall then drops another two yards to the water’s surface. The marshes begin less than twenty yards south of the corner tower, largely rushes and reeds with only small patches of open water, and extend a good thirty to fifty yards out into the river. A graveled lane, with a low hedgerow-trimmed to a height of two yards-separating the lane from the park proper heads south along the western edge of the reed marshes, and Valatyr gestures. “The lane has been well maintained.”

“It looks like parts of the marsh were filled to make sure the lane is straight.”

“Duke Natroyan’s doing. Even then, when Heldya was far less strong, he wanted roads along the river.”

“All of the good roads along the Swarth were his doing?”

“Most of them,” Valatyr admits, turning his mount.

Lerial eases the mare alongside Valatyr. “You were a battalion commander once, I take it.”

“For a time.”

“Where, might I ask?”

“Here. Drusyn was my successor.”

“Does that mean that Ascaar’s forces are normally posted somewhere between Luba and Swartheld?”

“They are. At Shaelt. It’s a small river city, perhaps twice the size of Luba. It’s about seventy kays north.”

Lerial nods, his eyes taking in the marshes to the east and to the south. He can see the gradual turning of the river more toward the south and southwest, and his maps show that it actually flows from the west to the east before returning to its general flow from the southeast to the northwest, much as it does near Cigoerne, except the shift is larger there. Before long, the lane swings to the southwest, and the reed marshes give way to a shallow backwater. Across the grayish water he can see Vyada. At first, he has to wonder if it is as large as others have said, but then he realizes that the buildings and dwellings on the other side seem smaller because the Swarth is wider than at Cigoerne or Ensenla, close to three-quarters of a kay.

“The new piers are farther west.” Valatyr points. “There. Just below the point of that bluff that extends into the river.”

“I’d say they’re almost two kays from here.”

“That’s about right.”

Lerial studies the river. The current doesn’t look that strong. It’s usually not as fast where the land around the river is flat and the river is wide … but that would make crossing it here easier and possible in a shorter distance. His eyes go to the hunting park to his right. The ground is more open, with fewer trees than closer to the south gate. “If they landed here at night, they could make it to the main road without getting much nearer to Lubana.”

“They could. That’s why we have scouts posted there.” Valatyr points ahead to what appears to be a small timber house on piles set between the lane and the river. “They wouldn’t do that. They’d attack us. They might even wait for us to attack them.”

“To defeat and destroy the duke’s forces … and then begin to take and occupy every town and city along the river as they move toward Swartheld.”

“That’s my opinion. The arms-commander’s, too.” Valatyr makes a gesture to the rankers following them, but keeps riding until they are a good fifty yards ahead.

Lerial checks and reinforces his shields, but says nothing, doubting he will be attacked, but wondering what the subcommander might have to say that he does not wish overheard.

Valatyr reins up and looks appraisingly at Lerial for several moments before he finally speaks. “You know you’re not anything like anyone pictured.”

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never thought about it.”

“I should have said, ‘Anyone but the arms-commander.’ He did say right after you arrived that you were close to what he expected.”

“That’s not surprising. He has good sources in Cigoerne.”

For a moment, Valatyr is silent, as if Lerial has offered an unexpected comment. Then he smiles, faintly. “You know his sources?”

“At least one of them.”

“And your sire does as well?”

“Of course. It’s to our interest that he receives accurate information.” Lerial shrugs, although he knows his next words must be carefully chosen. “To my knowledge, neither of us has ever said a word to a source about their communications, or even hinted that we knew.” That is stretching matters slightly so far as Lerial is concerned, and more than that for his father, yet certainly his words do reflect the underlying truth.

Valatyr frowns for a moment. “Begging your pardon, Lord Lerial, but I have great difficulty in accepting that.”

“I can understand that, but what I said is true and reflects everything I know.”

“Yet you conceal all that you are.”

“Conceal, not lie. I certainly am not denying anything to you. I know as well as you do that, should Khesyn attack, I will not be able to conceal whatever abilities I may have. No officer can do that and survive.” Either the enemy or his commander.

“Why are you here?”

“Because Cigoerne cannot afford to have Afrit fall to Duke Khesyn.”

“Then why did your sire not send a greater force?”

“Because, had he done that, Khesyn would have attacked Cigoerne instead of Afrit. He might still.”

“And you will make the difference?” The subcommander’s voice is only faintly ironic.

“I have pledged to do all that I can.” Without giving up your own life … and trying not to lose your entire command.

Valatyr’s laugh is both harsh and soft. Then he shakes his head. “Come. Let me show you the rest of this end of the hunting park, and the various lanes and roads.”

Once more Lerial nods. He can sense that that his very presence in Afrit has unsettled the other officer, and that the subcommander is disturbed, but that he has not lied. All that reinforces the concerns that Emerya had once suggested about Afrit’s weaknesses. And you’re supposed to do something about that … with merely three companies?

Almost two glasses later, Valatyr and Lerial return to the “country house” and the salon, where they have a lager and some slices of bread and cheese before setting out again.

As the two ride toward the north entrance to Lubana, whose iron-grille gates are closed and guarded by at least a half a squad of Afritan troopers, Valatyr says, “We’ll just follow the river road north until we get to the hills and the north bluff. You can tour Luba proper on your own later.”

Three of the Afritan Guards hurry forward and swing open the heavy gates, then close them behind the two officers and the half squad of rankers escorting them. The lane beyond the gates is paved and extends due north for another kay through well-tended fields and pastures before it intersects the wide road that heads westward to the ironworks and eastward to Luba proper, seemingly less than a half kay away, assuming that the rows of houses that begin just ahead represent the town boundary.

Valatyr turns his mount eastward. “We’ll take the river road.”

The river road is almost exactly a half kay away, as it should be, reflects Lerial, given the dimensions of the wall surrounding Lubana, and the riders turn north on it, not that it extends south into the duke’s estate, although there is a narrow lane south along the river, but access is blocked by a gate set in a short stretch of wall, and a longer hedgerow extending westward.

There is a low rough-stone wall, no more than a yard high, perhaps two yards east of the road, and beyond it is a narrow strip of marshes and reeds.

For the first several blocks after they enter Luba, there are only small houses on the west side of the road, mostly of mud brick, with walls almost up to the road forming courtyards. From the trees Lerial can see, there are apparently walled gardens behind even the meanest and smallest of dwellings.

Just ahead Lerial spies a stone bridge over a canal.

“That’s the first canal. You’ll find cafés and shops beyond it … and the southern trading piers on the river side.”

Because it is eightday, many of the shops are shuttered, but most, generally with quarters above or behind them, do not look all that different from those in Cigoerne, except that a number are clearly older, with weathered wood and fading paint. The chandlery, directly across from the pair of river piers, at which only a single flatboat is tied, boasts new-and newly oiled-shutters and front door and has otherwise been recently refurbished, at least on the outside. It is open, as evidenced by a man entering as Lerial rides past, and two others standing under the roof of the narrow front porch and talking. Only one of the pair even glances in Lerial’s direction.

“The market square is just ahead. It won’t be quite as busy as on sevenday, but there will likely be some carts and peddlers there.” Valatyr laughs. “I’ve never seen a day when someone wasn’t here. Drusyn says there’s always someone here.”

That reminds Lerial of a question he’d meant to ask. “Are Drusyn’s battalions stationed at Lubana?”

“Just one of them. The other is split up. He has four companies at Guasyra, and one north of here at Haal. The barracks buildings will hold two battalions, but except at times like this, they’re half empty. Ascaar’s forces are usually more spread out, all across the western woods and hills.”

The river road runs through the middle of the paved market square, actually an oblong running north some hundred yards and perhaps twenty-five east to west. Many of the worn red stones are cracked, and in a few places, missing entirely. Lerial makes a rough and quick count of the small stalls and wagons scattered almost at random and comes up with some thirty sellers. He also uses his order-senses to try to pick up some of the comments from those in the square.

“… looks like a Mirror Lancer type…”

“… never thought I’d see that…”

“… duke must be worried…”

“… not enough brains left to be worried … his brother’s the one worried…”

“… three for the bag … not a copper less…”

“… sshh … high-ranking types…”

“… ignore ’em … never stop to buy anything…”

“… one in the strange uniform … younger than most…”

“… any potatoes not winter-soft…?”

Lerial wonders about the potatoes … cool sand in a root cellar should prevent softness.

Beyond the market square is a second canal, and immediately to the north of it and west of the river road, Lerial notes an area of much larger dwellings-also set on larger pieces of property with higher walls surrounding the mansions, mansions at least in comparison with anything else he has seen in Luba. “The more affluent merchants and others live just north of this next canal?”

“So I’ve heard,” replies Valatyr. “I can’t say that I’ve met any of them.”

“Are you usually posted in Swartheld?”

“Most of the time, but I go where the arms-commander wants me.”

“I’ve never been to Swartheld, but it must be filled with wealthy traders.”

Valatyr laughs. “More than you can believe, and they all want something, either to sell the Guard something or a favor for some relative.”

“Do you get many young officers from the merchanters?”

“Some. Usually second or third sons. Often from smaller merchanters. They’re usually very good or very bad.”

“And the ones from the wealthiest families are generally the very worst-except for the one that’s outstanding?”

“You’re obviously familiar with that problem.”

“I’ve seen it.” And Magi’i sons can be even worse.

Even before they approach the third canal, Lerial can smell the odors rising from the water. He glances toward Valatyr.

“It does smell,” replies the subcommander to Lerial’s quizzical look. “All the smiths-blacksmiths, tinsmiths, silversmiths, coppersmiths-must be located along the north canal. Most people live on the canals or lands upstream of here … for obvious reasons.”

Lerial represses a frown. He has not thought Cigoerne particularly advanced, especially after his aunt’s comments about all that she and his father lost when Cyad fell, but his grandmere and father had insisted that all factoring or smithing wastes be carted to the disposal ponds west of the city, ponds ringed with special lilies, or to a dryland gully to the northwest. Nightsoil also has to be collected, although it can be used to fertilize fields that grow fodder.

“You look skeptical,” observes Valatyr.

“We don’t have enough smiths for their waste to fill an entire canal,” Lerial temporizes.

“I’m sure that those who live near here wished that were true here.”

Roughly a third of a kay beyond the third canal, the dwellings come to an end. They continue riding, but to the west of the road is a gentle rise half covered with brown grass, with sandy ground between the patches of grass. Lerial can sense more rises farther west, but has the impression that they have even less grass. Ahead the road angles to the northwest as it climbs the west end of a bluff that the river curves eastward around before seemingly returning to its north-northwesterly course.

Valatyr finally reins up short of where the road steepens. “You can see how steep the incline is between the road and the river from here north. It’s at least that steep for a good fifteen kays. That’s why Khesyn will attack somewhere between the south end of the hunting park and here. That is, if he chooses to attack here at all.”

“Could he just be mustering forces from the south here before sending them downstream for an attack on Shaelt or Swartheld?”

“That’s possible. That’s why there are battalions being held in both places. But we can’t afford to lose the ironworks, either, and that would certainly happen if we didn’t have forces here.”

“I can see that.” And you’d have the dark angels’ time if they ever got a sizable force established on this side of the river.

“Now that you’ve seen what there is to see of Luba by the river, so to speak, we’ll head back.” Valatyr turns his mount.

So does Lerial.