Heritage of Cyador

L

On oneday, Lerial and his forces spend the night at an inn in Pondatyn, a village some ten kays west of the date valley. The inn, which Norstaan simply calls that, apparently has no other name, but clearly caters to large groups of travelers, if infrequently, because there are ample stables and several large floored sheds able to hold all of the rankers with room to spare. They depart early on twoday morning, under the hazy sky that indicates the day will again be hot.

And it’s only midspring. While Lerial knows that Afrit is hotter than Cigoerne, he had not realized just how much hotter it is.

For the first few glasses they ride through sparse pine forests that somehow have grown in the rocky and sandy soil and survived, but by noon they have passed though somewhat higher hills and entered an area where there are more trees, some small hamlets, and occasional plots of land that bear low greenery.

“What do they grow here?” Lerial asks Norstaan.

“They have melons … and the black-syrup plants … a small grain, I think. That is if there is some rain. It does not rain much here. It rains more near Swartheld.”

“How far is the inn from where Mykel and Oestyn were taken?”

“The Streamside? We won’t reach there until after second glass. Why?”

“I’d like to talk to everyone there.”

“They may not wish to talk to you.”

“They don’t have much choice, I think.”

Slightly more than two glasses later, just after they have ridden through a small hamlet, Lerial sees a cluster of buildings on the south side of the road, set in the middle of an area whose grasses barely reach calf high. There is a winding line of green meandering from the hills to the south past the buildings and then under a small stone bridge and to the northeast. He wonders if the stream actually goes anywhere or just ends in some dry valley.

As they approach the Streamside, Lerial can see that it is similar enough to the inn at Pondatyn that it also must be a regular stopping point for large parties of travelers, such as when Atroyan took his family to Lake Reomer, and likely the retainers and guards of those merchanters who frequent the lakes in the summer.

Lerial has barely reined to a halt in front of the main building when a man in gray rushes out through the door and flattens himself on the dusty clay in front of the inn. “Please, honorable sers! I did nothing wrong! I beg you!”

“Is that the innkeeper?” Lerial asks Norstaan.

“I think that’s Immar. I’ve only traveled this road twice. The arms-commander, I mean the duke, did not often visit Lake Reomer.”

“Immar!” commands Lerial. “Stand up! Now! Enough groveling.”

The innkeeper slowly rises, his eyes going from Norstaan to Lerial and then back to Lerial in puzzlement.

“Duke Rhamuel has sent Lord Lerial to seek the truth,” offers the undercaptain.

“We need to talk,” Lerial declares.

Behind him, Strauxyn murmurs, “Permission to inspect the inn, ser?”

“Granted.”

From behind Lerial comes the command, “First Squad, First File, dismount.”

“Once my men look around, you and I, Immar, are going to talk.”

“Yes, ser. Yes, ser.” The innkeeper continues to glance at Norstaan.

“Lord Lerial is the overcaptain who did the most to defeat the Heldyans. He stands high in the duke’s esteem and trust,” Norstaan explains. “He is the second son of the duke of Cigoerne.”

“The people of the Rational Stars…” murmurs the innkeeper in a resigned voice, as if he has lost all hope.

A third of a glass later, Lerial sits across a circular table from the innkeeper in the otherwise deserted public room, except for the pair of Lancers posted by the main door and the second pair by the kitchen door.

“Why did you throw yourself in front of us, Immar?”

“The Afritan Guard … the squad leader … the one who came searching for the heir … he told me we would pay if we were guilty.”

“Are you?” asks Lerial, letting his senses range over the innkeeper.

“No, ser. I have lost my only son to this evil. Many will not speak to me. Those from whom I must buy provisions demand silvers in advance. They fear I will not live to pay them.”

Lerial doubts the man’s distress is feigned. “Perhaps you can tell me what happened on that night when the heir and his friend arrived with their guards.”

“I will tell you all I know. All those here will tell you what they know.”

“How many were in the party?”

“The same number as there always were, ser. Lord Mykel and his friend, and ten Afritan Guards and two merchanter guards.”

“Had any of the Afritan Guards been at the inn before? Did you remember any?”

“No, ser. That was not strange. There was always a different group of Afritan Guards every year. They joked about it when I was not listening. They said that they had thrown lucky bones because they could spend the summer at the lakes.”

Lerial looks to Norstaan. The undercaptain nods.

“What about the merchanter guards?”

“I have thought about that, ser. They were different. They were not the guards that had been with Lord Mykel’s friend every time in the two years before.”

“Was there anything else different about them?”

“I did not see anything different. They were guards. They had blades. They watched. They did not eat when the others did. Neither did two Afritan Guards. That was the way it always was.”

“What happened after they ate?”

“The heir and his friend sat here and talked. Then they went upstairs.”

“What about the guards?”

“Most of them went to their rooms. One guarded the upstairs, and another guarded the front door. That was the way it always was.”

“What about you and your consort?”

“She was tired. She went to bed early. I went upstairs to wait for Jahib. I fell asleep in the chair. When I woke it was light, and she was screaming that Jahib was missing. We began looking everywhere for him. Ottar found him at the bottom of the well.”

Although Lerial continues to question the innkeeper for another half glass, he learns little more. Finally, he says, “I’d like to speak to your consort.”

“Ser … I beg of you. Do not be cruel. Jahib was our only child. She mourns. She will mourn always.”

“I do need to speak to her.”

“I will find her and bring her here.”

“Thank you.”

After the innkeeper leaves, Lerial reviews what Immar had said, but he can find no inconsistencies. We’ll see what his consort has to say.

“Ser…” At the sound of the innkeeper’s voice, Lerial rises from the small table and turns.

The woman who approaches from the entry hall archway wears a heavy black and white mourning head scarf, swirled around her head so that Lerial can see little except her eyes. She stops short of the table. Lerial gestures for her to sit, and she does. She does not speak, even after Lerial seats himself.

“Your son is dead,” he says quietly. “I cannot restore him to you. I would ask your help in finding the sons of other mothers.”

The woman still does not speak.

Lerial reaches out, his hand just short of the woman’s forehead, then extends the smallest trace of order, along with what he hopes is a feeling of comfort. He lowers his hand.

Her eyes widen, then brighten, as if with unshed tears. After a moment, she says, “You are a magus from the south, are you not?”

“From the south and of the Magi’i,” he replies, for he does not consider himself a magus.

“You can tell the truth of my words?”

Lerial smiles, wryly. “I can tell if you do not believe your own words.”

“They killed my Jahib. He was but twelve, and they killed him.”

“I heard he was found in the well.”

“They wanted me to think my son was stupid and careless. My son. He was dutiful and the most careful of boys.”

“Who wanted you to think that?”

“Those who killed him.”

“Do you know who killed him? Or how? When?”

“Someone with the heir. It could have been no one else.”

“How do you know he was killed?”

“His belt was caught in the bucket strap. He never stood that way in lifting water. He always set the bucket on the well wall. The wall is chest high. Immar built it that high so no one would ever fall in.”

“Why didn’t you know that something had happened to him?”

“I was so … tired. I didn’t know why. I asked Quiela to make sure that Jahib came upstairs after he swept the kitchen. That was his chore. When I woke the next morning, it was light. I never sleep past dawn.”

“Why did you then?”

“Someone must have put something in the lager. We all slept late, except Quiela.” Her eyes brighten once more. “The Afritan Guard-the mean one who beat Immar-he told me she was dead. She was a sweet girl. She hurt no one. She was not pretty, but she was so sweet.”

“How could anyone have put anything in the lager?” asks Lerial.

“When the heir comes, a guard always watches the kitchen and the food. It is true when a merchanter comes also.”

“Were there two men in the kitchen, then?”

She frowns, trying to remember. “No. There was only the merchanter guard.”

Lerial wants to nod. “Were you in the kitchen all the time?”

“No. I watched Ottar when he prepared the food. I watched Quiela and helped her serve the food.”

“Did the heir drink your lager?”

“The heir always brings casks of his own wine. He drank that. So did his friends. The guards drank our lager.”

“Did you or Immar drink any of the wine?”

“The heir offered some to Immar. He always does. Immar does not like wine, but he always drinks some. He would not wish to offend the heir.”

“You only drank the lager?”

“That was all. Our water is better than most, but the lager is always clean.”

“Did Jahib drink lager?”

“We made him water his lager.”

“What about Quiela?”

“She watered her lager. She said it was better that way.”

“Did you see anything else strange after you woke up?”

“My head hurt. So did Immar’s. So did Ottar’s. The front door to the inn was barred. So was the rear door, and the kitchen door.”

“Are those the only doors?”

She nods.

“How did anyone get out, then?”

“The shutters on the side window of the public room weren’t fastened.”

Lerial asks more questions of the innkeeper’s consort, but discovers nothing more, and then goes to the kitchen, where he questions Ottar the cook.

“What did you prepare for their dinner?”

“They had a young goat. I made the meat tender, seared it, and then put it in an iron pot with the spices for burhka. I served it all with pearl millet. Between the heir and his friend and their guards, there wasn’t much left. Just enough for small portions for the rest of us.”

“Everyone ate some of the goat, then?”

“The merchanter guard in the kitchen … he ate later, with the rest of us.”

“Did you drink much lager?”

Ottar snorts. “Can’t last in the kitchen without lager. It’s too hot.”

“You slept late?”

“Later than anyone, I guess. Immar was shaking me. My head was splitting. Never had a skull-ache like that before.”

“How did you find the boy?”

“The bucket is always hung on the post closest to the inn door. Jamara gets real upset if it’s not. It wasn’t there. When I looked down in the well, I saw something. It took both of us-Immar and me-to pull up the bucket, because Jahib’s belt was caught.”

“Was he wounded?”

“No, ser. He had a bump on the head. Like maybe he’d fallen and hit it. Don’t see how he could have done that. Soon as she saw him, Jamara started screaming that someone had killed him.”

“What did you think?”

“Someone bashed him, hooked his belt to the bucket, and lowered him into the well. Maybe they wanted him out of the way, figured he wouldn’t drown. Maybe they wanted him dead.” Ottar shrugs fatalistically.

Again, more questions bring little more information, and a half glass later, Lerial and Norstaan are sitting at the same small table where Lerial had questioned the innkeeper. Lerial looks at the dark lager in the heavy mug, then order-senses it, and finding no chaos takes a sip. The lager is even more bitter than it looks. He sets the mug down.

“What do you think, ser?” asks Norstaan.

“It wasn’t anyone here at the inn. One of Oestyn’s guards had to be the one who added sleeping draughts to the lager.” Lerial nods to the mug. “This is so bitter you could add anything. The wine might have been adulterated earlier. That’s most likely.”

“Why?”

“Oestyn and Mykel know wine. Whoever added something had to add it skillfully enough that it didn’t affect the taste too much. Or … maybe Jhosef sent a new or different vintage, one unfamiliar to the two.”

Norstaan nods. “Most inn lager is bitter, and it varies from place to place. Likely enough that the guards wouldn’t notice.”

“The boy wouldn’t be drinking as much, and his parents insisted on watering his lager … and the serving girl watered her own lager. The cook drank more lager than anyone, slept later, and woke with his head splitting.”

“And they did it here because they could get rid of the bodies fairly close,” suggests Norstaan.

“That means someone very familiar with the area.”

Like Jhosef. Except that Lerial does not voice that observation.