Heritage of Cyador

XXIV

When he wakes soon after dawn on twoday, Lerial does not rise immediately, but lies in the moderately comfortable bed big enough for three people-or a couple and several children-thinking over the conversations during refreshments and dinner the evening before. The conversation at dinner had been almost exactly as Atroyan had declared, with discussions of several poets that Lerial has never heard of, let alone read; a mock debate between Rhamuel and Atroyan over the merits of their favorite vintages-the hilltop white called Halyn against the Reoman red; and more than a little speculation about what sort of weather the spring and summer to come might bring, along with Haesychya’s observation that the spring was already unseasonably warm.

After just that meeting with the duke and his immediate family, Lerial can understand his aunt’s concerns about Afrit. Atroyan does not seem all that strong, and Lerial’s own impressions of Natroyor are not particularly favorable, and the youth seems constitutionally even weaker than his father. Rhamuel seems to be the most able male of the lot, but the arms-commander seems almost indifferent to the idea of ruling.

Is he just that good at concealing his feelings … or is he truly indifferent? Lerial suspects the former, but cannot dismiss the latter.

After washing up, shaving, and dressing, Lerial leaves his rooms and goes to the family dining room for breakfast. There, Rhamuel is seated alone. The arms-commander gestures to the chair across from him.

“Will anyone else be joining us?”

“No. The duke and his immediate family always have breakfast alone in the breakfast room.”

“You’re not included?”

Rhamuel shakes his head. “Immediate family only. That’s a custom of Aenian House. Or so Haesychya informed me many years ago. Fhastal doesn’t know anything about it.”

Why would Fhastal … oh … he’s consorted to Haesychya’s older sister.

The arms-commander sips a mixture of greenberry juice and lager.

Wondering how anyone could drink such a mixture, Lerial merely pours himself a light lager. “I can see family only. That’s the case in Cigoerne, but family means all family in residence.”

“My brother is very firm about acceding to his consort on that.”

And other matters, I’d wager.

“Besides, I’m here so seldom that it’s not an issue.”

The more reason it should be. But Lerial just nods and takes another swallow of lager. He is thirsty. Within moments, or so it seems, a server appears with a large platter of egg toast and ham strips, accompanied by a generous loaf of dark bread, rare indeed in Cigoerne. He takes several bites before speaking. “Can you tell me any more about the dinner this evening?”

“It will be small. There will be between ten and fifteen men, all important in Swartheld. Mostly merchanters, except for the duke and you and me. The official purpose will be to convey to them how decisively we defeated the Heldyans at Luba. Even though they all know it, and knew it within less than a day.”

“We did,” says Lerial, “but…”

Rhamuel raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. “But?”

“All the survivors took the flatboats downstream, and I’d wager they’re all at Estheld … or somewhere close.”

“I won’t take that wager … and I won’t point out that nine out of ten Heldyans who fought Ascaar and Drusyn’s battalions survived, while perhaps two out of ten of those who fought you did.”

“So … how many battalions do you think Khesyn has massed across the river?”

“Fifteen battalions.”

Seventy-five fairly well-trained companies. “Assuming he does attack Swartheld, just how will he get them across the river?”

“The same way he did at Luba. He’ll most likely launch the flatboats upstream and use the current to cross. If I were trying to do that, I’d ground them in the shallow water off the point of the old river fort. The first attackers would get wet enough, but they could pull the boats farther in. The later attackers could walk from boat to boat.”

“Is that why Drusyn’s battalions are at South Post?”

“I told Commander Nythalt and the duke that we needed to protect the harbor from both ends.”

“I imagine that’s true enough,” replies Lerial evenly. “I heard that Commander Nythalt has seven battalions. Are they all at the Harbor Post?”

“Six are there. One is at South Post, with Subcommander Drusyn’s battalions.”

“So … if that’s likely…?”

“Why don’t I put men there? The place is a ruin, and Khesyn could wait eightdays … or longer. If I rebuild there, it costs golds the duke doesn’t have, and then Khesyn might just attack the harbor directly. The currents might even carry the flatboats that far anyway. South Post is only a bit more than two kays away, and the river watch will give us time to alert Drusyn.”

There is something Rhamuel isn’t saying. After a moment, Lerial realizes what that is. Rhamuel cannot allow Khesyn’s forces to attack the harbor proper, at least not first, and he cannot position his forces to make the harbor and the merchanting areas a more favorable target. “You want him to land at the point.”

“Of course. He can do less damage there.”

“But he can also establish a stronger position there.”

“There are advantages and disadvantages to every position.”

Lerial nods. That was the way the majer thought. “Did you ever talk with Majer Altyrn?”

“Regrettably, I did not. I was younger and more arrogant.” Rhamuel smiles. “You are less so than most successful young commanders, but you will also see what I came to see. The majer had to have done that also.”

“I would hope to learn from what I could have done better.” As if your failures already have not cost too many lives.

A hint of a frown flickers across the arms-commander’s face.

“You never did say what the unofficial and real reason for the dinner was.”

“What do you think?”

“To show the possibility that hostilities between Cigoerne and Afrit have come to an end and that trade will be better … or that Afrit can now devote itself to dealing with Heldya without worrying about Cigoerne.”

“That’s close enough. It won’t even be stated. Your presence will imply it.” Rhamuel swallows the last of his lager and greenberry. “I’ll be leaving shortly. You can certainly wander through the palace. Well … except for the part Dafaal insists on refurbishing. That’s taken forever, but I suppose it’s because my brother insists they only work in the middle of the day. Or you can accompany me back to Swartheld Post.”

“I’d thought to check on my companies there.”

“I’ll meet you at the stables. You can return to the palace when you want. I’ll assign half a squad as an escort for your return. It will take some time for people-and the palace guard-to get used to seeing Mirror Lancers here in Swartheld.” The arms-commander eases back his chair and stands.

So does Lerial. “I appreciate that.”

“It’s the least I can do. You’ve come all the way here.”

As he watches the arms-commander leave, Lerial ponders the clear sincerity behind Rhamuel’s words, a sincerity that concerns him more than a glib tone would have. He reaches down and lifts his beaker, finishing the lager before returning to his quarters and immediately finding Polidaar.

“Ser?”

“We’re headed back to Swartheld Post with the arms-commander. We’ll likely be there all morning and some of the afternoon. I want you and your men to study the city as we ride through it. They need to look at everything. What do they see that’s the same as in Cigoerne? What’s not?” Lerial grins. “And not just the women.”

Polidaar tries to hide a smile, but does not succeed. “Yes, ser. Are you looking for something?”

Lerial shakes his head. “No. Not exactly. Call it a feeling. But I don’t know enough even to point out what might tell us something.” He shrugs. “Then, I might be too cautious, and what you and they see might tell me that. Anyway, ten more pair of eyes can’t hurt.”

“No, ser.”

Polidaar has the squad at the stables quickly enough that they can saddle and lead out their mounts-and Lerial’s-in time not to delay Rhamuel.

Lerial rides beside the arms-commander as they leave the inner courtyard and then the smaller outer one. Once they are on the paved road around the palace’s outer walls, Rhamuel turns south, seemingly away from Guard headquarters, rather than east or north.

At Lerial’s quizzical look, the arms-commander says, “It’s quicker this way. One block down this street and we’ll reach the old merchants’ way. It’s wider. It also goes straight-mostly-to headquarters.”

Lerial studies the dwellings bordering the street, not so narrow as some of the ways they took the day before, but still not all that wide. He cannot help but wonder why Rhamuel had taken a longer way then. He pushes that aside for the moment and concentrates on his surroundings. For all their ornate stone facings and their two and three levels and red tile roofs, the dwellings are narrow for their height, perhaps as little as ten yards across and barely separated from their neighbors, with tiny front courtyards behind iron gates. At the same time, those dwellings extend more than three times their width back from the street and may have larger walled rear courtyards beyond that.

Who would live here? Since he can see no one outside, and filmy curtains cloak the inside of the windows, there is no way to tell, except that whoever does inhabit the large dwellings cannot be poor.

As Rhamuel has said, at the end of the single long block is a wider street, perhaps almost expansive enough to be called an avenue. The arms-commander turns his mount left, toward the water, and Lerial and the lancers and guards follow. There are no dwellings of any sort, just shops and cafés. Every few doors, or so it seems to Lerial, there is a café with an awning out over small tables and chairs at which a few people are eating … or drinking. He looks back over his shoulder for a moment and discovers that the shops extend for at least a block or two uphill as well.

Most of those at the cafés are men, but one is frequented by women alone, all wearing their filmy head scarves, if loosely enough to sip whatever may be in their tumblers or goblets. One café has both men and head-scarfed women. The number of empty tables suggests that there will be more patrons later in the day, and a great deal more by evening, Lerial suspects. The shops and cafés continue for three long blocks, but by the fourth block shops and smaller factorages have replaced the cafés, except for one, its lonely and slightly tattered orange awning extended above empty chairs and tables. By then Lerial can see the walls of Swartheld Post ahead.

Before long, they turn onto the bay road and then ride into the post.

After they dismount at the Afritan Guard headquarters, Lerial turns to Rhamuel. “I don’t want to go behind your back. I’d like two of my officers to ride to the palace and then back with your escort so that they have a better idea of Swartheld. If you’re amenable, we could take a longer route.”

Rhamuel nods, with the hint of a smile, before he replies. “That would be a good idea. It wouldn’t hurt to have people see more of you and your men, either. I’ll mention that to the squad leader.”

“Thank you.”

“If I don’t see you before then, I’ll see you at the duke’s reception before dinner. It’s at sixth glass in the west wing of the palace. Until then.” With a smile Rhamuel turns and hands his mount’s reins to a guard, then walks toward the door of the headquarters building.

Lerial is about to ask Polidaar to send someone to find his officers when he sees the three walking toward him. Instead, he says, “You can have the men stand down and stable their mounts.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Overcaptain, ser!” calls out Fheldar.

“All’s well, I trust.” Lerial hands the reins of his gelding to the nearest ranker and moves to join the three.

“Yes, ser.”

Strauxyn and Kusyl nod in agreement with Fheldar.

Lerial draws the three aside, waiting until Polidaar has the half squad moving toward the stables, then asks, “What have you to report?” He looks to Fheldar.

“Eighth Company is all accounted for. No illnesses, and no trouble with mounts…”

Lerial listens.

Once he has gone over the routine matters with Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl, and is satisfied that all is as it should be-or at least as close to that as possible in Swartheld-Lerial clears his throat. “There is one other thing. The arms-commander has told me that there are possibly fifteen Heldyan battalions across the river.”

“Frig…” mutters Kusyl, “begging your pardon, ser.”

Lerial offers a crooked smile. “I feel the same way. So does the arms-commander. But we don’t know Swartheld at all. So … the next thing we’re going to do is to inspect Swartheld Post. Then, after that, two of you will accompany me and the two half squads that will escort us around parts of Swartheld and back to the palace. I think we should be able to do this every day for the next two or three days, and I’ll rotate who accompanies me, because I want one of you here all the time.”

“That makes sense,” says Strauxyn. “Who do you want today?”

“Kusyl and Fheldar.”

All three nod.

“Now … let’s see about inspecting the post.”

By the time the four of them have finished their informal inspection of Swartheld headquarters two glasses have passed, and Lerial gathers the three into an empty study in the main headquarters building, where they sit around a dusty table desk. He looks at Fheldar. “What do you think?”

“It’s clean enough. Nothing’s coming apart. I don’t think you could close the main gates all the way, either.”

“Wouldn’t matter if you had to,” adds Kusyl. “Not for long. They had to bring in provisions just to feed us. Really isn’t a working post. Just a headquarters post.”

To keep Rhamuel away from the palace?

“Ah…” Strauxyn clears his throat. “The armory is stocked. We didn’t go there because it was locked, but I talked to one of the undercaptains this morning. I saw him with one of their blades. They’re longer than ours. It looked new-forged. I asked. All the spare blades and weapons for the entire Afritan Guard are stored here.”

That makes all too much sense … unfortunately. “Under the watchful eyes of the arms-commander or his trusted majer or captains.”

“That smells, too,” declares Kusyl. “Another thing … they’ve got blade-training circles, but they haven’t been used, maybe in years.”

“Not a fighting post.” Fheldar shakes his head.

“In a way, that makes sense,” Lerial says. “It’s in the middle of the city. That’s why most of the Afritan Guard is posted on the north or south side of Swartheld. We’ll see what the Harbor Post looks like in a bit…”

Outside of more details that confirm the impressions of all four, the discussion that follows adds little to Lerial’s understanding and concerns.

Less than three glasses after riding out with Rhamuel, Lerial sends word to Polidaar and Jhacub, the squad leader whom Rhamuel has assigned to head the Afritan Guards serving as the day’s escort for Lerial.

When they both arrive, Lerial addresses Jhacub. “We haven’t seen much of the city. Could we take a longer route back to the palace, perhaps riding by the harbor, the Harbor Post, and the trading area?”

The squad leader grins. “Yes, ser. The arms-commander said you’d be doing that. He said to escort you wherever you needed to go.”

“I hope that won’t inconvenience you or the men. It might add quite some time.”

“No, ser. It’s a good change.” Jhacub pauses. “That’ll likely take a glass. Maybe longer. The men wouldn’t mind that. Is that satisfactory, ser?”

More than satisfactory. “That will be fine.” Lerial mounts, as do Kusyl and Fheldar.

From the gates of the post, Jhacub guides Lerial and the others northwest along the road that parallels the shore. There are several cafés west of the road, but none are apparently open, and their awnings are rolled up.

“Those open in the late afternoon?” Lerial gestures.

“They do. They’ll be pleased that your men are posted here. There used to be more than the two companies that took care of the post and headquarters.”

“When did that change?”

“Five years ago … it was after … well…” Jhacub looks embarrassed.

“After the Afritan Guard lost an entire battalion in an ill-advised attack on Cigoerne, you mean?”

“Ah … yes, ser.”

“Did anyone say why?”

“I don’t know, ser. I was just a ranker then. No one said anything to us.”

“What about this part of Swartheld?”

“It’s not what it used to be, ser.”

Lerial can see that. A number of the small buildings look to be empty, with shuttered doors and windows, with the wooden sidewalks in front of them sagging. “Because there are fewer guards posted here?”

“I don’t think that’s the only thing, ser.” After several moments, Jhacub adds, “In another kay we’ll enter the merchanting area. That’s after where the shore road joins the boulevard from the palace.”

After riding past almost a half score more blocks of less-than-well-maintained buildings and a few dilapidated dwellings, Lerial notices that the upkeep of the structures on the west side of the road improves notably and that there are solid if short stone and timber piers extending into the bay. Several have boats tied there.

Three blocks later the shore road merges into a wide stone-paved boulevard.

“That’s what they call the palace boulevard,” says the squad leader. “It goes right to the circular road around the palace.”

The best avenue or street you’ve seen, and it runs straight from the merchanting houses to the palace.

A block later the boulevard begins a wide curve more toward the north, again following the shoreline of the bay.

“This is where the merchanting area and the harbor begin,” offers Jhacub.

The merchanting quarter opposite the main piers definitely represents wealth. The shore road and the palace boulevard have combined into a paved avenue wide enough for three large wagons side by side. Even the sidewalks are of stone, not of wooden planks or brick. All of the buildings have glazed windows and heavy shutters.

“Do you happen to know which one of the buildings holds Aenian House?” Lerial asks Jhacub.

“Yes, ser. You can’t miss it. See the big three-story one in the next block, with the redstone front and the banners flying from those false towers?”

“I do. Is that it?” Lerial has no trouble picking out the merchanting house. Even from more than a block away, it dominates the other merchanters’ buildings, none of which are modest.

As the combined squad rides north on the avenue that also serves as the river road, past the first of the enormous stone piers, each of which extends more than two hundred yards out into the harbor, Lerial takes in the buildings one by one. The first in the block holding Aenian House is older, of gray stone and less than fifteen yards across the front. Chiseled into the stone are the words FINE SPIRITS. Above those words the stone is smooth and recessed, as if a name had been chiseled away. Lerial wonders if Mesphaes has taken over an older merchanting house, of if the building is owned by a competitor who also replaced someone. The next building is of yellow-brown brick, and is twice the size of the spirits building, but without identification, as if to indicate that none is needed. The redstone-fronted House of Aenian is not identified as such, although there is a stone medallion in the middle of the third level, between two windows, consisting of an ornate script “A” encircled by a wreath of leaves, possibly olive leaves, Lerial thinks. A paved lane wide enough for the largest of wagons leads along the west side of the Aenian building, between it and the unidentified structure. The building to the east of Aenian House is also of yellow-brown brick, but with redstone window frames, and is perhaps a third larger than the spirits building and is the last building on the block.

Lerial turns his attention to the piers. He counts almost a score of vessels tied up at the various piers, ranging from a large schooner to an enormous broad-beamed, three-masted square-rigger. He thinks there may be some smaller ships at the piers farther north, but, if so, they are lost behind the nearer ships.

“The harbor fort’s up there, ser,” announces Jhacub, pointing ahead, partway up the slope of a gentle bluff that extends almost a kay out into the bay and forms a huge natural breakwater on the north end of the harbor. It is also at the end of a wide paved road off the avenue that appears to revert to what Lerial now thinks of as the shore road. That shore road does not go out around the point of the bluff, but northwest across its base.

Lerial turns to Jhacub. “Does the shore road continue beyond the bluff?”

“Yes, ser. It goes all the way to Baiet.”

“How far is that?”

“I wouldn’t know exactly, sir. Two or three days’ ride, I hear. Small cove. Fishermen mostly. They port there, but sell their catch here.”

“Do you know why?”

“They say the fishing’s better there, but the selling’s better here.”

They continue to ride along the paved avenue, where the larger merchanting houses have given way to more modest factorages-modest by comparison, since most are built of the yellow-brown brick and are considerably larger than any in Cigoerne, reflects Lerial. It does strike him that all the roofs are of the red tile and he says so.

“Yes, ser. After the Great Fire, the duke’s great-grandsire made it a law. That’s what they say.”

“That makes sense.” Too much sense.

“Yes, ser. Hasn’t been a large fire since.”

The Harbor Post is the largest walled fortification that Lerial has ever seen, not counting Lubana, which really isn’t a post, with walls extending a half kay in each direction, and iron-bound gates inset between stout redstone towers. With its hillside location, Lerial doubts that even Khesyn’s fifteen battalions could take it.

But then, they wouldn’t have to. If they took the harbor, they’d just have to surround it and wait.

“Do you want to look into the post?”

Lerial shakes his head. “We’re just trying to get a better idea of where everything is. We can turn around and head back toward the palace. Can we take the avenue back?”

“Yes, ser. It’s the best way.”

Jhacub’s assessment of the route proves most accurate. The palace boulevard is paved and smooth. Well-appointed if smaller factorages and shops, as well as occasional cafés, line it for perhaps a kay, then give way to modest but neatly maintained single-level dwellings.

About a kay and a half southwest from the harbor piers on the boulevard, Lerial notes another wide avenue joining the boulevard. “Where does that go?”

“To merchanters’ hill. Well … that’s what they call it. It’s where all the wealthiest merchanters have their villas.”

Lerial looks back more intently. There are indeed several large structures on the hillside.

“You can’t see most of them,” adds the squad leader. “They planted the tall trees for shade. There’s a good breeze off the ocean that high, too.”

Lerial nods without speaking.

The rest of the ride to the palace takes them past more modest dwellings, except for the last few hundred yards, which are crowded with small shops and a number of cafés. At that moment, Lerial realizes that he has not seen anything resembling an inn-anywhere. He turns to Jhacub again. “I haven’t seen any inns. Are there any?”

“Yes, sir. There’s plenty, just not where we’ve been. Law says that no inn can be on the shore road or any main avenue, like the palace road or the old merchants’ way.”

“Don’t tell me. Another whim of a former duke?”

“Couldn’t say, ser. Just know that’s the law. Always been that way.”

Because of the duke … or the merchanters? Another question for which he would like an answer, and there are getting to be far too many of those, Lerial feels.

Before all that long, Lerial is reining up outside the palace stable-the one assigned to him and his men. Before dismounting he turns to the Afritan squad leader. “Thank you for the tour, Jhacub. I appreciate all for the information, and if you would, please convey my thanks and appreciation to your men as well.”

“Yes, ser.” Jhacub pauses meaningfully.

“Yes? You have a question? Ask. After all those I’ve asked you…”

“I was just thinking, ser. You speak Hamorian. You speak better than most officers, the way the arms-commander does. But you’re from Cigoerne.”

“My grandmere and my father insisted that all his children would speak perfect Hamorian as well as Cyadoran. That’s why. It’s necessary. Many”-most-“people in Cigoerne don’t speak Cyadoran.”

“Hadn’t thought of that, ser. Thank you, ser.”

“Thank you, again, Jhacub.”

“My pleasure, ser.”

Lerial dismounts, then watches the half squad of Afritan Guards ride back toward the outer courtyard. By half past third glass, Lerial is back in his quarters-if after refreshing his shields before entering and checking the room for errant chaos, of which he finds no sign. Once there he removes the road dust from his uniform and washes up. Then he steps out into the corridor to find Polidaar waiting.

“Ser … will you…”

“No escort. I won’t be leaving the palace. But I would appreciate someone watching my door. I wouldn’t want to return to any surprises.”

“We can do that, ser.”

As he leaves his rooms, Lerial has a specific initial destination in mind: the duke’s library, also on the third level but on the north end of the west wing of the palace. He would like to see if there is a code of laws or something similar there. Once more, as he walks the seemingly endless hallways, he sees servants and palace guards here and there, but far fewer than he would expect in an edifice the size of the palace.

A palace guard is seated at a table desk outside the library. He looks at Lerial warily for a moment, then nods abruptly. “Lord Lerial?”

“The same. I just wanted to look at the library, if I might.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Thank you.” Lerial nods politely, then steps past the table and opens the door, stepping into the library and closing the door behind himself. For a moment, he just stands there, surveying the room.

The duke’s library is an oblong chamber some ten yards by seven, with an alcove at one end that holds a table desk. Comfortable-looking leather armchairs are located here and there, sometimes alone, and in one place with a low table separating a pair. Two walls are filled with wooden shelves from a third of a yard off the floor almost to the ceiling, some three yards up. Lerial counts the volumes on one section of shelving, then estimates how many similar lengths there are in the library and mentally calculates. Some twenty-five hundred volumes. That’s certainly the largest collection of books he has ever seen in one place, although Emerya has assured him that there had been more than ten thousand in the great library in the Palace of Light.

Are they in any order? He begins to inspect the volumes on the shelves, discovering that while the area on the shelves in front of the books has been dusted, as have the tops of the pages, there is considerable dust behind each of the first score of books he removes from the shelves to inspect and see the subject, since most of the spines do not have a title. After a time, more than a glass, he does discover that one area holds histories, and another observations on nature, a third books on philosophy, and a rather larger section dealing with maps and map folios, with some that must be several hundred years old. While there are some volumes on practical healing, there is nothing on the use of order to heal. Nor can he find any section that deals with law, or even a single volume that does. But then, it would take him several more glasses, if not longer, just to take a quick look inside every volume in the library.

Abruptly, he hears voices, and he quickly raises a concealment, then moves toward the alcove.

Two figures step into the library.

“I don’t see anyone…” murmurs the woman, Kyedra, Lerial belatedly identifies from her voice, since his order-senses are not nearly so sharp as his vision.

“The guard said he was somewhere here…”

“… what can he do but look … besides, he seems pleasant enough … and good-looking.”

“Except for that awful red hair.” Natroyor’s scorn is withering

“… quiet. He’ll hear you … unruly … sometimes, yours is, too…”

Lerial gathers that he is obviously meant to hear some of what he does, although it is also clear that Kyedra and Natroyor have differing motives … or at least differing approaches. He steps into the alcove and then drops the concealment before stepping out, holding the last volume he has inspected-Natural Remedies of Afrit. “You were looking for me? I’m sorry. I was reading this.”

“What is it?” asks Kyedra, stepping toward him.

“A book on natural remedies. I wondered if there might be anything that would help with field healing.” Lerial smiles. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually,” replies Kyedra, “Father realized that he had not provided the details for this evening. He asked us to convey to you that the reception before the dinner will be in the west public hall beginning at sixth glass, and he would hope you would meet him at his study a tenth of a glass before that…”

“That is most kind of you. Your uncle had told me about the time of the reception, but not that I was to meet your father before then.”

“He wouldn’t have known that,” says Natroyor blandly.

Lerial can sense Kyedra stiffen, but she manages a pleasant expression and says, “They’re so busy that they don’t always tell each other everything.”

“Especially now, I imagine,” returns Lerial.

“Is it true that you’ve really killed hundreds of men?” asks Natroyor.

“I might have killed a score or more with my sabre,” replies Lerial, “but the forces under my command have killed thousands, not hundreds.”

“Your sire has let you be in the thick of battle? He really has?”

“It’s better that I am than he is.”

“Your brother hasn’t been in battles as dangerous as those you’ve been in, has he?” asks Kyedra.

Lerial understands what she wants him to say, but the plain truth she wishes for her brother’s sake will undermine Lephi … and possibly Cigoerne. “You put me in a delicate position, Lady. I have no idea what dangers he’s faced. He’s certainly led his companies against Heldyan raiders for years, and men under his command have died in front of and beside him. He’s been fortunate not to have been one of them, as I have been. My father, my brother, and I have all led Mirror Lancers in skirmishes and battles.” Lerial doubts Lephi has ever been in a battle, but the rest in certainly absolutely true, although, thankfully, it has been years since his father has done so.

“But there are three of you.”

“That’s true, but we’ve never fought at the same time or in the same place.” That … he can acknowledge.

“You see,” Kyedra says to her brother. “That’s why Uncle Rham can be arms-commander, and you cannot.”

“I don’t have to like it,” replies Natroyor.

“No, you don’t,” says Lerial, “but you do have to do the best you can do at the tasks your father needs done. Some of those tasks, now, may just be to learn all you can about what he does, how he does it, and why.”

“It’s so tedious…”

“Learning the basics is tedious,” replies Lerial, “even in the Mirror Lancers, but without mastering the basics, excellence isn’t possible. Most people don’t have the will to keep at it, and that’s why so few are truly good at anything.”

“I suppose you’re the exception.” Natroyor’s reply is just short of a sneer.

“I was black and blue almost all the time for almost two years when I was learning blade skills. That was after more than four years of even more basic training with wooden wands. I suppose there must be exceptions, but I don’t know of any.” Lerial smiles. “Thank you for conveying your father’s message. If I’m to meet him, I should be getting ready.” He inclines his head. “I look forward to seeing you soon.”

“You’re kind,” replies Kyedra, but Natroyor barely nods.

“Not kind. Truthful.” Lerial looks directly at Kyedra, if but for an instant. “Until then.”

Lerial turns and leaves the library, moving quickly away from the guard, but looking back occasionally until the guard turns his head. Then at the moment when he can see no one else around, he raises a concealment and waits.

Because the two do not appear immediately, he wonders what they might be discussing, but when they appear, walking past the guard without nodding, both are silent. Lerial remains motionless until they pass him, hidden in his concealment, then moves to follow them, walking as quietly as he can.

“… almost rude … the way he took his leave…” Natroyor snorts.

“You were insolent, and you know it. He was quite restrained. From what Uncle Rham says, he might be the best commander in all Hamor.”

“It doesn’t excuse his behavior. I am the heir.”

“He’s an heir also. Have you thought about that?”

“He’s second in line. He’ll never be duke.”

“You never know. You were second once.”

“That’s different.”

Kyedra is silent for a time as the two walk along the corridor back to the east wing of the palace.

“You like him, don’t you?” asks Natroyor abruptly, then continues, “That doesn’t matter. You’ll have to consort his older brother. Or Khesyn’s grandson. They’re the heirs. If anyone asks at all. Father won’t let you consort a younger son. Neither will Mother. Or Grandpapa Aenslem. Besides, you don’t even know if he likes you.”

“Do you like being cruel, Natroyor?” Kyedra’s voice is low, but not gentle.

“You’ll see what I like. You will.”

Kyedra remains silent as the two continue toward the east wing.

Since neither is talking, Lerial slips away as they take the main marble staircase up to the fourth level and then drops the concealment before making his way back to his quarters, not that he needs that much time to ready himself, but he has not had a chance to talk to Polidaar.

The squad leader appears as Lerial nears his quarters. “Ser?”

“Nothing’s amiss, is it?”

“No, ser.”

“Good. We need to talk.” Lerial opens the door to his sitting room and motions for Polidaar to join him.

The comparatively young squad leader is hesitant, but then steps inside.

Lerial closes the door and takes a seat, gesturing to one of the chairs. He can see that Polidaar has seldom been in such quarters, perhaps only these quarters and only to inspect them … and possibly he is worried that he may receive some critical words. Once the squad leader sits, only on the front of the chair, Lerial smiles warmly, then asks, “Have you had a chance to talk to your men about what they’ve seen and what they think about Swartheld?”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial nods and waits.

“Well … ah … they all think it’s not that clean a place. That’s excepting the fancy merchanting part of the palace road.” The squad leader offers a lopsided grin. “I know you said … about the women … but they’ve never seen a place with so few women on the streets, and all of them are … well dressed.”

Completely covered, you mean … or more so than in Cigoerne? “I have to say I noticed that as well. What else.”

“The Afritan Guards aren’t as well disciplined, either, and they talk … when they think no one’s listening … maybe because they don’t realize most of our rankers speak Hamorian. And … well … what they say about their officers … ah … you wouldn’t like it, ser.”

“They can say what they want, just so long as our rankers don’t … or our officers don’t give our men reason to speak that way.”

“No, ser … I mean, yes, sir…”

“Go on.”

“It’s just little things. One of the men saw a peddler whipping a boy so hard his back was bloody. Everyone just turned away. No dogs, either. I like dogs, ser. Grew up and used them for keeping the herd in line. You see dogs in any hamlet in Cigoerne … and in the city. I haven’t seen a one here in Swartheld. And the people. They’d give us a look and they just turn away. Not like they were afraid. Like they just didn’t care. Even the children.”

After Polidaar leaves, Lerial walks to the window, thinking. The people pay no attention to the Afritan Guard.…. or us … and no dogs in Swartheld? What does that all mean … if anything? And is what the Guard rankers have said about their officers the way it was in Cyador before the end? Or worse, for all Polidaar is denying, do they talk that way about Lancer officers now? There certainly have been some, like Veraan, who was forced out and is now a trader, or Captain Dechund, who was a traitor. Even Majer Phortyn … But they were only a few. Still … He shakes his head.

Then there is what little he has overheard between Kyedra and her brother. The more he sees and hears of Natroyor, the more appalled he is that the spoiled youth is the heir to the duchy. Lerial has had his problems with Lephi, but Lephi is without faults compared to Natroyor. As for Kyedra … She seems smarter and far nicer than her brother. She has a smile that lights up her face … He frowns. Does she agree with what Natroyor said about your hair? That shouldn’t bother him, but it does, at least a little.

He has to admit that he’s more impressed with Kyedra and her mother than with either Atroyan or Natroyor. But you haven’t seen enough yet … He smiles wryly. He has seen and heard enough about Natroyor, but he needs to reserve judgment on the duke. Anyone who’s managed to hold power for so many years with all the merchanter scheming has to have more abilities that he’s revealed.

Lerial washes up and uses a damp cloth to freshen up his uniform as well as he can … then frowns. Surely, he can get his uniforms cleaned … but no one has even mentioned that. It’s probably assumed.

He shakes his head, walks to the door, and looks to the duty guard. “If you’d pass on to the squad leader … have him find out what we need to do to get our uniforms cleaned.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Thank you.”

After waiting a bit more, Lerial sets out for the duke’s study. He arrives promptly and is immediately ushered in.

Atroyan, wearing what Lerial thinks must be the formal crimson uniform of the Afritan Guard, rises from behind the wide-and empty-table desk. He frowns. “No dress uniform?”

“I didn’t anticipate coming to Swartheld, ser. Then, it was rather late to send for a dress uniform.”

“Well … no one will be able to tell for certain.” The duke straightens. “We should go. Oh … before I forget. There is another function tomorrow evening. You’ll get a formal invitation later. Seventh glass. Now … how are you finding Swartheld?” He walks to the study door.

“Besides rather larger than Cigoerne? There are a number of differences. You have an excellent deepwater harbor and a much more extensive merchanting quarter. The palace is enormous. Your consort is most gracious, and you’ve certainly been welcoming. My men are well housed and well fed.” Lerial almost says something about what else he could ask for, but catches himself. He still wonders about the “other function.”

“Good. Good.”

“Might I ask who will be attending the reception and dinner?”

“Oh … I told you it would be the most important merchanters, and, of course, my brother the arms-commander.”

“You did, ser, but since I am not from Afrit and know almost nothing about Swartheld, I have no idea who the most important merchanters might be.”

“So you wouldn’t. So you wouldn’t. Let’s see. The most important is Aenslem. He’s the head of the Merchanting Council, not to mention Haesychya’s father. Then there’s Maesoryk; he has most of the kilns in Afrit, the good ones, everything from fine porcelain to … well … chamber pots. I think you may have met Mesphaes … no?”

“I met him in Shaelt.”

“He’s one of the few who’s not from Swartheld, but since Rhamuel said he’d be at his place here, nothing to compare to his villa in Shaelt, I hear, I thought he should be present…”

Rhamuel must have arranged that …

“… and then there’s Alaphyn … he’s mostly a shipper, not so many vessels as Aenslem, but more than anyone else. As a matter of fact, there’s not really anyone else … and, I almost forgot, there’s Lhugar. He has the largest interest in the ironworks at Luba…”

Lerial nods and listens to other names he hopes he can remember while they walk down the main staircase of the east wing of the palace.

When they near the reception room, Atroyan says, “Get a glass or beaker of what you want first. You likely won’t have a chance later, not without appearing rude, or having to accept whatever someone thrusts at you.”

There are already several men in the reception room; the only two Lerial recognizes are Rhamuel and Mesphaes. Like his brother, Rhamuel wears a dress uniform without rank insignia. Neither the arms-commander nor the spirits merchanter moves toward the duke or Lerial. The two other men in the room, attired in formal overtunics, one of a deep blue, the other of a muted maroon, immediately turn to face Atroyan, nodding and even bowing slightly. “Duke Atroyan…”

At the two approach, Lerial has the feeling that he is a bit underdressed for the occasion. But who would have thought … Except his mother had hinted at it. Still, the thought of packing a dress uniform off to battle …

“Merchanter Lhugar, Merchanter Nahaan … might I present you to Lord Lerial? He’s not only the younger heir to Cigoerne, but a most effective commander of Mirror Lancers who did us the signal honor of wiping out a battalion or so of Heldyan invaders and driving even more back to Heldya. At Luba, you know.”

Both merchanters nod.

Then Nahaan smiles apologetically, and without a word Atroyan walks toward the sideboard serving wine, Nahaan at his elbow.

“What will you be drinking, Lord Lerial?” asks Lhugar.

“Pale lager.” Lerial notes that the merchanter’s hands are empty. “Will you join me?”

“Naturally.”

Once Lerial has a pale lager and Lhugar a very dark brew, the two stand before an open window, through which blows a slight, but welcome, breeze.

“You’re in ironworks, if I heard the duke correctly.”

“More accurately, we’re in ironworks. The ducal family has a four-tenths interest in the ironworks my family and his own and that we operate.”

“Oh … I didn’t know that.”

“Most people don’t, but it’s no secret.”

In a fashion, that makes sense, Lerial thinks, especially in a land of merchanters, which Afrit certainly is. “You just smelt and process the iron into lengths and plates, then, and sell it to others?”

“We do pig iron, plates, and rods. The only finished things we sell are nails. Everyone needs nails.”

“You don’t have any iron-mages, then?”

Lhugar smiles and shakes his head. “There’s no need, unless you want black iron, and not many do. Besides, mages are rare in Afrit. Always have been. There’s not much sense in spending golds to make something almost no one wants. Your sire likely has more iron-mages than all the rest of Hamor.” He pauses. “I’d wager you don’t arm your lancers with black-iron blades.”

“You’re right about that,” Lerial replies lightly. “I don’t know that anyone else does, either.”

“Cupridium’s another thing. Can your iron-mages work it?”

Why is he interested in cupridium? It’s really only useful for weapons for chaos-mages and white wizards … or for blocking chaos-fire … or the chaos-lances that we can’t even build anymore. “I suppose they could. It takes so much effort to make it, though, that it’s seldom used anymore. Might I ask…?”

“There are always those who are interested. Your father got quite a few golds for what he sold when he dismantled that old fireship. Quite a few. Probably more than he collected in tariffs for years. If people want something, it never hurts to see if it’s available.” Lhugar pauses as another merchanter approaches, then says, “If ever … I can get a good price for it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Lord Lerial, Khamyst.” The newly arrived merchanter wears an overtunic of a green so dark it verges on black.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Khamyst.” Even repeating the man’s name doesn’t recall anything for Lerial.

“The duke won’t have mentioned me, and you’d have no reason to know who I am.”

Lerial smiles as winningly as he can. “Then you must give me one.”

“Well said. I will. I’m the one everyone needs and everyone wants to forget. We’re the ones who handle rendering and tallow and candles and hides and leather. We do it well away from Swartheld so that no one suffers.”

“And you do it well and are paid well,” suggests Lerial.

“Well enough to belong to the Merchanting Council.”

Lerial nods, not sure exactly what he should say.

“Most people think of tallow for poor folk’s candles, but a lot of what we render goes to Lhugar’s plate mills.”

Lerial has no idea what Khamyst means, and it must show, because the merchanter grins and adds, “It keeps the rollers from seizing up.”

Lhugar has rolling mills? Lerial had thought the only mills like that had been lost with the fall of Cyador.

“Have to admit, Lhugar stole the idea-well, his grandsire did-from Cyador. Not fancy, the way those were, but somehow they got it to work.”

“Trying to corner Lord Lerial, are you, Khamyst?” asks yet another merchanter, holding a full goblet of a dark red wine.

Lerial realizes that he has not even taken a sip of his lager, and does so, before looking to the pudgy and short blond man likely not more than a handful of years older than Lerial himself. “He’s been most polite, and you are?”

“Haensyn.”

“Haensyn represents the House of Haen…” begins Khamyst.

“… since his mother is not properly a merchanter,” murmurs Lhugar.

Lerial only hopes he can keep everything straight in his mind, but smiles and nods once more.

Before that long, but not before Lerial has exchanged pleasantries with three other merchanters, a set of chimes rings, presumably to announce the time for the dinner itself. As the merchanters move toward the dining room, Rhamuel appears, seemingly out of nowhere, although Lerial has not seen him except at the beginning of the reception, talking to Mesphaes. “How did your ride through Swartheld go?”

“Through a small portion of Swartheld,” Lerial replies with a laugh. “It was useful to learn where things are. I do have a question, though.”

“Yes?”

“How did your great-grandsire come up with the idea of requiring tile roofs for every dwelling and building in Swartheld?”

“Fires,” replies Rhamuel. “So we were told when we were boys. After the merchanting quarter burned down-that’s why all the buildings there are so well planned and the avenue is wider and paved-after that, he issued the law. Every new building had to have a tile roof, and all factorages and shops that didn’t already have tile roofs had to reroof with tile in two years. Houses had from five to ten years, depending on where they were.”

“It sounds like he thought it out.”

“He did, but not that way. He’d borrowed golds to pay the Guard because he’d kept tariffs low to please the merchants. After the fire, he couldn’t depend on tariffs to repay the golds. So he issued the law.”

“He borrowed the golds from the merchanters who made the tiles?”

“No, but he could tariff the tiles, and the law made it certain that the tariffs were sufficient to cover the payments.” Rhamuel shakes his head. “After the merchanters recovered, he did raise all tariffs. He died within the year, but our grandsire only reduced the tariffs a pittance.”

“And Maesoryk is still benefiting from the law?”

“So is everyone else,” replies Rhamuel almost sardonically as they enter the dining room. “Swartheld hasn’t had any large fires since.” He nods toward the table. “You’re on his right.”

“And you’re on the left?”

“Always.” After a moment, Rhamuel murmurs, “Aenslem will be beside you, and Maesoryk across from you.”

Lerial stands behind his chair until everyone is in position. Then Atroyan seats himself, followed by everyone else. Lerial notes that Lhugar is beside Aenslem, and another merchanter Lerial has not seen before, a heavy-lidded but narrow-faced man with thinning brown hair whose strands droop across a high forehead, is beside Maesoryk.

Once everyone has a full goblet or crystal beaker, Atroyan clears his throat. He does not stand, but lifts his goblet. “I’d like to thank you all for coming, and for doing so with little notice. On the other hand, it may be the only time in your lives where you can have dinner with not only a duke, but two younger sons to duchies … and, no offense to either, but I’d prefer they remain younger sons.” He pauses to allow a few chuckles to subside. “I’m always mindful of what makes a land strong, particularly Afrit, and that’s the skill and devotion of those who pay the tariffs to support the harbor and the river patrols, and the Afritan Guard. My brother, of course, is particularly glad for the support of the latter.” Another pause allows more chuckles. “I’m glad for all the support, and for your tireless efforts, not only to amass golds, but to continue to use some of it to pay your tariffs … so that we can put an end to the attempts by a certain duke to the east to impoverish it all. And, of course, we’re also here to commend the arms-commander and Lord Lerial for their success in defeating the Heldyans at Luba … which they accomplished most effectively.” Atroyan smiles broadly. “With that … well … enjoy the fare and the company.” He sips from his goblet, then lowers it.

Lerial slowly looks down the table. He has the feeling that he is missing something or someone. Fhastal! At the dinner at Shaelt, Rhamuel had introduced him as one of the foremost merchanters in either Shaelt or Swartheld.

The servers place small plates before each diner, on which thinly sliced strips of ham alternate with slivers of what must be an orangish fruit or vegetable.

“Ham and loquats,” murmurs someone.

Lerial watches for a moment and notes the other diners wrapping the thin ham slices around the fruit. He does the same … and finds the semisweet taste intriguing, and not unpleasant. In fact, he finds that he has finished the entire plate.

“Lord Lerial,” Maesoryk offers warmly, but not obsequiously or loudly, “it is a pleasure to meet you. It’s good to know that Cigoerne understands the dangers posed by Duke Khesyn … and that Afrit and Cigoerne can stand against him.” The merchanter’s smile is modest, but seemingly open, and his warm brown eyes match his mouth.

“It’s very much in Cigoerne’s interest that Afrit prevail in any struggle with Heldya,” replies Lerial. “My father has been quite clear about that.”

“He’s always shown he has good sense. So did the empress. I regret that I never met her and that I was absent from Swartheld during the brief time your father was here. But then, we were both rather young then.” He laughs jovially. “Enjoy your youth. It departs more quickly than you’ll ever have thought possible.”

In some ways, it already has. “I appreciate your thoughts on that. I’d like to say more … but I’m afraid that, if I do, I’ll reveal too much that I don’t know.”

From beside Lerial, Aenslem guffaws, then says, “How do you like that, Maesoryk?”

“He says it better than I could have when I was his age … and certainly better than I can now.”

“If I pretend to believe that,” replies Aenslem in a genially rough voice, “will you give me a better break on the next consignment of amphorae?”

“I’ll pretend to.”

Lerial cannot help but smile, as does Rhamuel, if ironically. Atroyan maintains a pleasant expression, not quite a smile.

“Well then, I’ll pretend to give you a break on shipping that gray clay you want from Atla.”

“For what you charge, you should be shipping it from Nordla or Spidlar.”

Despite the genial bantering, Lerial can sense the undercurrents that are anything but friendly.

“So what do you think of them all now, Lord Lerial?” asks Lhugar dryly.

“We’re all friends. It’s all in jest,” replies Maesoryk in his warm and winning voice. “How else dare we make our points?”

There’s some truth in that. “Better with friendly barbed words than barbed iron,” Lerial comments, dryly, adding after the slightest pause, “or chaos and blades.” The only one who reacts is the merchanter he does not know, who shakes his head, just slightly and almost sadly.

“Jhosef doesn’t much care for chaos. It curdles his milk, his cheeses,” says Atroyan.

“And everything else,” adds Jhosef. “Taints beef and mutton, too. Don’t care much for the tainted.”

For just an instant, Lerial thinks, the corners of Aenslem’s mouth almost curl into a sneer, while a faint hint of an ironic smile appears momentarily on Rhamuel’s lips.

From the comments, Lerial has gained the impression that practically all types of goods produced or traded in Swartheld, and many services, such as shipping, are controlled by one or two family trading houses. The only merchanting house in Cigoerne to compare with that, so far as Lerial knows, is Myrapol … and Veraan would certainly fit in with those around the table.

“Chaos is bad for almost anything in trade,” Maesoryk points out.

Even Aenslem nods to that. Rhamuel offers an enigmatic smile.

“Here comes dinner,” announces Atroyan.

Each diner is served half a small game hen, deeply browned, so that the skin is crispy, garnished with sliced honeyed pearapples, and accompanied with what Lerial guesses must be truffled rice, but a kind he has never seen before.

“Pearapples, no less,” declares Jhosef. “How did you come by those at this time of year?”

Atroyan grins and looks to Aenslem. “I have my sources. They know some traders from Merowey who infuse the pearapples with a honey liqueur that preserves them.”

“Quite good,” declares Jhosef.

Lerial thinks so as well, although his first bite of the unfamiliar rice is small, because he does not know what to expect, but he finds it tasty, although a touch saltier than he would ideally like. He is happy to eat and listen as the others talk about how to keep chaos out of goods, ships, warehouses, and the like.

“You’ve not said much, Lord Lerial,” says Maesoryk after a time.

“It’s more interesting to listen. Besides, what little I know deals with weapons and battle. Those are scarcely suited to such a meal, or those attending.”

“Will you follow the path of the duke’s brother and become the arms-commander of Cigoerne?” asks Maesoryk.

“That is a position my father holds. So long as he is duke that is his decision. When my brother becomes duke, and we both hope that is not any time soon, it will be his decision.”

“You’re sounding more like a merchanter than a man of arms,” comments Maesoryk.

“That might be because the best of both know when not to exceed their knowledge,” adds Aenslem in his deep rough voice. “Or to reveal what is not to their advantage. Tell me, Maesoryk, how much profit do you make on each amphora or each roof tile. Surely you know, down to the last portion of a copper.”

“Your point is well taken.” Maesoryk laughs genially. “Enough, or I wouldn’t be here. The same is true of all of us, save the three at the head of the table.”

“And we would not be here without the success of the merchanters in our respective duchies,” adds Lerial.

“That makes an excellent point to change the conversation to a subject I’d appreciate,” declares Atroyan, raising his voice and looking down the table. “Since we have Mesphaes here, and we seldom do, I’d like his opinion on the best wines.”

“Best, Your Grace, is often a matter of debate, and I will be pleased to give you my opinions in a moment.” The spirits merchant smiles. “I would say first, that more of the honored merchanters here at the table prefer red wines to white, and that the two red wines that most prefer are the better vintages of the Reoman or the Chalbec. The two whites that are most preferred are the Halyn and the Vhanyt. Personally, I prefer the cask-aged Reoman and the reserve Vhanyt.”

“You didn’t express a preference for the Reoman or the Vhanyt,” Atroyan points out.

“My preference is for the Reoman with beef and mutton, and the Vhanyt with fish and fowl. Because I do not like to switch from red to white, or the other way, I prefer to begin my evening refreshment with whichever fits the meal. I will, of course, take either of my favorites over a noticeably inferior vintage … if I have the choice. If I don’t, I will enjoy the best of what is available.”

Lerial cannot but note that Mesphaes has picked Atroyan’s favorite red … and not the white apparently favored by Rhamuel.

“What about the Cyandran white?” asks Lhugar.

“Or the amber Noorn?” suggests Jhosef.

“That’s a wine so perfumed with peach that it’s what merchanters’ press-gangs prefer,” declares Aenslem.

“They add sleeping draughts to it in low inns and taverns so as to drug unsuspecting young men and press them into ship’s crews,” explains Rhamuel quietly in response to Lerial’s raised eyebrows.

“Good Noorn is too dear for that,” counters Jhosef.

“What about the golden Chelios?” asks someone farther down the table.

While Lerial does not exactly relax, he is far more comfortable as the discussion of the various vintages proceeds, and trusts that the rest of the dinner will continue in the same pleasant but only marginally informative fashion.