Heritage of Cyador

XVIII

Well before dawn on eightday morning, a quiet rap on the door of the small and narrow room that passes for an officer’s quarters awakens Lerial.

“Ser?”

Lerial bolts upright and walks to the door, finally focusing his order-senses on the single figure out in the hall outside. “Yes?”

“Undercaptain Kusyl thinks you’d best join him outside the stables, ser.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Lerial yanks on his uniform and boots, then stops and belts on his sabre, the cupridium-plated iron blade that Altyrn claimed had come from one of his ancestors, and hurries down the outside steps from the second level to the courtyard and then across to the stables, glad for his order-sensing abilities, given the darkness cloaking the way station. Even before he leaves the barracks building, he can sense a single figure outside the stable.

The ranker steps forward as Lerial nears the stable door, barely ajar. “Undercaptain Kusyl is inside, ser.”

“Thank you.” Lerial slips through the door and into the stable, where Kusyl and three rankers stand under the one small lamp. Between them is an Afritan ranker, his black-gloved hands bound before him.

“We found this fellow with a dispatch pouch trying to take a mount out,” says Kusyl. “We thought you ought to see him, ser.” As Lerial steps closer to the undercaptain, Kusyl murmurs, “Still have men watching, ser,”

Lerial can’t help but feel the trace of a wry smile. Kusyl trusts the Afritans-or some of them-less than you do. He nods and studies the captive.

The Afritan ranker is not young, but neither is he old, perhaps three or four years older than Lerial, with a narrow face hardened by experience. He has lank blond hair, and a mole or scar on one cheek. Lerial does not recognize him, but that is not surprising, since he wears a regular Afritan Guard uniform and not the slightly dressier version worn by Rhamuel’s personal squad. That suggests he is a member of the permanent cadre at the way station … except for the black leather gloves. Could he be a decoy? Or just a contact so that whoever is the spy in Rhamuel’s squad can pass off information.

“What’s your name?” asks Lerial pleasantly.

“I only answer to Squad Leader Phoraan or Afritan Guard officers, ser.”

How can you get him to reveal something … Lerial smiles. “I think we can manage that. Put a rope around his waist. Tightly.”

“You can’t do that. I’m not under your command.”

“You’re absolutely right,” returns Lerial as he watches one of the rankers slip a rope around the midsection of the Afritan. “And I’m about to return you to a superior officer. I wouldn’t think of doing anything else.” He turns to Kusyl. “Do you have the dispatch pouch?”

“Yes, ser.” The undercaptain holds up a black leather case.

“What do you think about this ranker?” Lerial asks in a low voice.

“He’s not a ranker … or not just one. His belt knife isn’t what most rankers wear. It’s too good, more like a bravo’s. Doesn’t carry himself like a ranker, either.”

“Not the way he answered me.” Lerial, sensing something like chaos, turns and draws his sabre. He sees that one of the Afritan ranker’s hands is free, but the other holds a shimmering blade unlike the dark iron weapons usually used by Afritan Guards. That blade flashes toward the ranker with the rope, who, most sensibly, drops it and jumps back.

In that moment, Lerial steps forward, and a small bolt of chaos flares toward him. Unthinkingly, Lerial parries the chaos with his blade, even before it reaches his shields.

In the momentary light of that flare, Lerial can see the surprise on the false ranker’s face, although that doesn’t stop the man from beginning a thrust against Lerial.

Lerial instinctively parries the thrust, moving into an attack.

The other gives ground, then suddenly jumps back. Another blast of chaos follows, a small one, aimed at the leather dispatch case in Kusyl’s left hand. A gout of fire envelops the undercaptain’s hand and forearm.

“Get your hand and arm in cold water! Now!” snaps Lerial, his eyes back on the mage or spy or whatever he may be, slipping the other’s blade, then launching a counter.

The Afritan parries the counter, his blade ending up to one side.

Lerial takes advantage of the error and slips a quick thrust to the other’s shoulder, then recovers to parry a possible counterthrust, even as he senses a darkness at the tip of his blade, a darkness that turns golden red and immediately fades.

A look of horror crosses the face of the false ranker. He tries to lift his blade, then shudders and topples forward. His blade leaves his hand as he strikes the packed earth of the stable floor face-first. An ugly black-silver miasma, one that Lerial senses, but does not see, issues from the inert form.

The three Mirror Lancer rankers stand as if frozen.

Lerial glances around and sees Kusyl a good ten yards away with his left hand and lower forearm in a bucket. He turns to the three rankers. “Watch the door.” Then he walks swiftly toward the undercaptain.

“It’s not too bad.”

“Leave it there for a bit,” Lerial says, extending his order-senses to the undercaptain’s hand and arm. From what he can sense, there is only a faint residue of wound chaos, if that, surrounding Kusyl’s hand, and none on his forearm, although his jacket sleeve is charred. “How does your hand feel?”

“The stinging’s stopped. Good thing I was wearing gloves.”

“Very good.” Lerial pauses. “Take it out of the water for just a moment. Tell me how it feels.”

“Wet.”

“No pain? No stinging?”

Kusyl frowns. “No.”

“Good. We need to see the arms-commander.” Lerial returns to the body and picks up the blade from the stable floor, examining it in the dim light. It is indeed cupridium, but slightly longer and narrower than a sabre, and the tip is sharpened for a good ten digits on both edges, although the remainder of the blade is one-edged. He has never seen a blade like it, but its purpose is clear enough. Bastard assassin’s weapon.

“Two of you carry the body. The arms-commander needs to see it now.”

Kusyl gestures with his right hand. “Maermyn, Dekkyr…”

In less than a tenth of a glass, the four have crossed the courtyard and made their way to the second level.

Two guards stand outside the door to the larger corner chambers that Rhamuel occupies. One looks from Lerial to Kusyl, and then to the two rankers lugging the body wearing the uniform of an Afritan Guard. “Ser … he’s not to be disturbed.”

“I’m afraid he’ll have to be,” Lerial says politely. “This can’t wait.”

The two guards exchange glances. One mouths a single word. Lerial thinks it might be “undercaptain.” Finally, the shorter one raps on the door. There is no response. His lips tighten and he raps harder.

Muffled words come from inside.

“Lord Lerial with something urgent, ser. He insists.”

After several moments, the door opens, but slightly.

Lerial can barely see Rhamuel’s eyes. “We need to show you something and then talk.”

The door opens a fraction wider. Rhamuel looks as though he might object, then asks, “Why might this be urgent?” His voice is hoarse.

“You’ll see.”

Rhamuel sighs, then steps back and opens the door. His eyes widen as he sees the two rankers carrying the uniformed body.

“Put it inside on the floor away from the door. Face up.” Lerial gestures, then turns to Rhamuel. “I’ll explain in a moment. You won’t like the explanation.”

Rhamuel steps farther from the door. He is barefoot and wearing an undertunic and trousers, only partly buttoned.

Once the body lies on the floor of Rhamuel’s chamber, an oblong space three times the size of the small room where Lerial had slept, Lerial nods to the two rankers. “Wait outside with Undercaptain Kusyl.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial closes the door.

When the door closes, Rhamuel looks at Lerial. “I’m waiting.”

“We have a dead ranker who isn’t a ranker at all. He was at least a minor wizard. Perhaps I’m overly cautious, ser, but when rankers who are not dispatch riders-or even if they are-try to slip out at third glass of the morning with a dispatch case, alone, without escorts, I tend to ask why. So do my men. And when such a ranker refuses even his name, I get more suspicious. And when he turns out to be a wizard with a cupridium blade that isn’t of Mirror Lancer or Afritan Guard forging, that’s worse.” He goes on to explain what else happened in the stable. “The worst part is that I have no idea what was in the dispatch case. I didn’t expect a wizard … or one that would use chaos to destroy the case.”

Rhamuel takes the single candleholder from the bedside table and carries it over to the body. He looks carefully, then straightens and shakes his head. “I’ve never seen him.”

“Neither have I. Nor have I seen a blade like this.” Lerial extends the blade carefully, presenting the hilt to Rhamuel.

The arms-commander lifts it. “Lighter than it looks. What’s so important about it?” He returns the weapon to Lerial.

“It’s difficult for a chaos-wizard to handle an iron blade, and the more powerful the wizard, the harder it is. That’s why Magi’i who used weapons once all bore cupridium blades. They’re almost impossible to forge because they require a strong ordermage and a skilled swordsmith. There are still a number in Cigoerne, but this isn’t like any weapon I’ve ever seen. It’s an assassin’s blade, but made for a wizard who’s an assassin, and it wasn’t forged in Cigoerne. There can’t be many of those.”

“If he is a wizard…” Rhamuel shakes his head. “How did he die? I only see a blot of red on his shoulder.”

“I put an iron-cored blade into his shoulder. That killed him. It likely unbalanced the order and chaos in his body.” That isn’t entirely accurate, Lerial knows, but it’s close enough for the circumstances.

“I noticed Undercaptain Kusyl appeared somewhat … charred.”

“He was holding the dispatch case when the wizard threw a small chaos-bolt and burned it.”

“He didn’t use chaos on you? He burned a case and let you take him down with a blade?”

“I can parry a small chaos-bolt with the blade,” Lerial says blandly, even as he marvels at what happened. “He was less successful with me.”

“Considerably less.” Rhamuel’s voice is dry. “None of this makes sense. Perhaps the way-station undercaptain can enlighten us.” He walks to the door and opens it slightly. “Send for Undercaptain Foerris. I want him here immediately.”

“Yes, ser.”

Rhamuel closes the door and walks to the narrow table desk, where he lifts a striker and, after several attempts, lights the lamp there. He sets the striker back on a brass plate that serves as its holder, then looks at Lerial. “What exactly did he say?”

“I asked him his name, and he replied that he answered only to Squad Leader Phoraan or Afritan officers.”

“I can’t imagine a ranker responding like that.”

“Neither could I,” replies Lerial.

“Did he know who you are?”

“He obviously knew I wasn’t an Afritan officer, but more than that … I don’t think so. He looked very surprised when I parried his firebolt. That was when he jumped back and used a small firebolt on the dispatch case.”

“What color was it?”

“Black.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m certain. Why?”

“All Afritan Guard dispatch cases are crimson with a black slash.”

For several moments, neither speaks.

“Undercaptain Foerris is here, ser.”

“Have him come in.” Rhamuel’s voice is cool.

The door opens, and an officer somewhat shorter than Lerial enters. Foerris is neither fresh-faced nor a grizzled veteran, but an undercaptain only a few years older than Lerial, slightly round-faced and soft in the middle, most likely a younger son of a prosperous merchant. His eyes widen as he beholds the body on the floor. “He broke in here?”

“No,” replies Rhamuel. “He attacked Overcaptain Lerial when the overcaptain asked him why he was taking a mount and trying to leave the way station. Is he one of yours?”

“Yes, ser. That’s Yussyl. I don’t understand…”

“What do you know about him?” asks Rhamuel.

“He came with the replacements three eightdays ago. He did his duties with all the others. I talked to him once or twice. He’s better spoken … he was … than many rankers, but it takes all kinds, and we don’t ask about their past.” After a pause, Foerris ventures, “Might I ask … ser?”

“He tried to sneak out of the way station less than a glass ago, and when Overcaptain Lerial’s men asked why he was leaving in the middle of the night, he tried to escape. He attacked the overcaptain. The overcaptain had to kill him.” Rhamuel looks at the undercaptain. “Can you explain any of this?”

Foerris swallows. “No, ser.”

“Find out everything you can about him from his squad and the others. I’ll expect a report before we leave.”

“Yes, ser.”

Once the clearly shaken undercaptain has left, Rhamuel turns back to Lerial. “Why would anyone send a wizard assassin here? No one even knew you were coming to Afrit then…”

“But they knew you’d pass through here.”

“It would have had to have been planned almost a season ago … Three eightdays ago, but why a wizard assassin … and why did he just try to leave, rather than kill someone?”

“He must have had a reason,” muses Lerial.

An urgent pounding on the door halts the conversation.

“Arms-Commander, ser!”

Lerial recognizes Norstaan’s voice … and the near-panic in it. He can also sense that there is no one else with the undercaptain, except for the two guards and the Mirror Lancers who were already outside.

“What is it?”

“Someone’s killed Subcommander Valatyr!”

“Frig!”

That is the first expletive Lerial recalls hearing from Rhamuel.

“Come in and tell me. Now!”

Norstaan enters, then lurches to a stop as he sees the body on the floor. He looks from Rhamuel to Lerial and then back to the arms-commander.

“He attacked the Mirror Lancers,” declares Rhamuel. “We’ll talk about that later. What happened to Subcommander Valatyr?”

“His neck was slashed … but … his sword hand was burned. His blade was on the floor.” Norstaan shakes his head.

“The subcommander was an outstanding blade, then, wasn’t he?” asks Lerial.

Both Norstaan and Rhamuel nod.

“The assassin had to know that. He probably tried to kill Valatyr just with a blade, and when that didn’t work, he likely tried a firebolt. The subcommander probably parried the firebolt, but some of it ran down the blade and burned his hand. That distracted him just enough. The assassin was very good with a blade from what little I saw.”

“How did you find out that the subcommander had been killed?” demands Rhamuel.

“I heard people in the courtyard and saw lights near the stable … and the stable door was open, but no one could tell me anything … The overcaptain wasn’t in his quarters. I didn’t want to bother you, sir. So I went to the subcommander’s room. I called for him, but he didn’t answer. I tried the door. It wasn’t bolted, and when I opened it … I saw him lying on the floor. I thought he might have fallen at first. Then I saw the blood. He was cold. I ran up here.”

“Set guards around his room. Don’t have anyone else enter,” orders Rhamuel. “We’ll be there in a few moments.”

Norstaan looks at the body.

“He’s likely the one who killed the subcommander. Overcaptain Lerial tried to stop him from leaving the way station. He attacked the overcaptain. The overcaptain killed him in trying to capture him. Go and post those guards.”

“Yes, ser.”

Norstaan does not so much leave as flee.

Once he and Rhamuel are alone, Lerial says slowly, “I think you have your answer. Valatyr was your closest and most trustworthy advisor, wasn’t he? You were never the target. He was.”

After several moments, Rhamuel shakes his head. “It makes sense. Too much sense. It was all planned in advance. Whoever did it had no idea you’d be returning with me.” A grim smile crosses his lips. “You had men watching for someone leaving, didn’t you?”

“I did. I thought someone might try to get word of my presence to Swartheld before we reached the city. I didn’t think that would be good for either of us.” But it was mostly for self-protection. Rhamuel may guess that, Lerial knows, but what he has said is true, nonetheless.

“We know a little more because you stopped the assassin,” says Rhamuel, almost testily, “but not much.”

“I didn’t know he had that much chaos in him. A shoulder wound wouldn’t have killed a normal assassin. And you know that whoever sent him has golds and is well placed. Otherwise, they couldn’t have gotten him into the replacements with the right uniform and training.”

“That limits the possibilities to a mere score,” replies the arms-commander dryly.

“Whoever it is has also lost a valuable assassin. One that valuable might be missed, and that could tell you more about who hired him.”

“True. We can think about this more later. We need to see to the subcommander.” Rhamuel sits on the edge of his bed and pulls on his boots, then rises. “Are you going to keep carrying both blades?”

“You ought to keep the assassin’s blade … and not show it to anyone yet.”

Rhamuel nods. “Put it on the desk. It will be safe enough here with guards in place.”

If it’s not, that will reveal something else … even worse. But Lerial only nods and lays the assassin’s blade on the table desk.

As he follows Rhamuel from the chamber, another thought occurs to him: the fact that his sabre-the one Altyrn said had come from one of his forebears-was forged so that it could be used to parry small chaos-bolts. But any iron blade can if the user is quick enough … except … Lerial nods. The blade had been created for and used by someone who was of the Magi’i and likely someone who could wield chaos. He wonders if Altyrn had realized that, but that is something Lerial will never know.