By the second glass of the afternoon on oneday, it is more than clear to Lerial that they are on the southern outskirts of Swartheld. Not only has the river widened, but there is a large expanse of water to the north, suggesting the mouth of the river and the harbor beyond. In addition, there are almost no open lands or fields of any size between hamlets bordering the river. Less than a kay ahead, on a short point extending out into the river, or perhaps the point is at the edge of where harbor and river meet, Lerial sees a run-down stone building, almost an abandoned fort or the like.
“Is that an old fort?” He points.
“Very old. It was a river patrol station, because it’s where the river enters the bay, but there are so many mudbars there now that it was abandoned well before my grandsire was born. Beyond that is the bay, and the harbor proper is well to the northwest. That’s where the water is deeper.”
As they ride across the base of the point, Lerial studies the bay. Beyond the point the edge of the harbor angles west-northwest, although he can see that some distance ahead, it appears to turn back toward the north. After riding another half kay or so, Lerial spies a three-story structure on the left side of the river road, opposite a large stone pier, with a row of warehouses farther north. The road now runs parallel to the bay, with a gentle slope of some fifty yards between the east shoulder and water’s edge. Just a handful of yards ahead on the west side of the road are small dwellings, little more than huts, with only a few yards of open ground between them.
“Is this part of Swartheld?” he asks Rhamuel.
“How can it not be? There’s never been an official border. As the city has grown to include outlying hamlets, those hamlets have just become known as districts of the city.”
“How many people are there in Swartheld?”
“Years ago there were well over fifty thousand. Now, with all the outlying districts, who knows? There could be over a hundred thousand. I’ve suggested to the duke an enumeration might be helpful, especially if the enumeration listed the occupation of the residents.”
“You might find a few more crafters and factors who owe tariffs … perhaps?”
“That would be useful, I’d think,” replies Rhamuel. “But the duke keeps his own counsel on such matters.”
“I can imagine that more than a few merchanters and factors are willing to advise him on the matter … especially on how all of Afrit benefits from lower tariffs.” Or other branches of merchanters that are not known.
“Do I hear a slight note of cynicism, Lord Lerial?”
“Most likely more than a slight note.”
“Why might that be?” Rhamuel smiles.
“Too often I’ve overheard protestation of factors and traders clad in fine cloth how the slightest increase in tariffs will render them poverty-struck. When the quality of their garments is noted, they then declare that they will not be able to keep all those who work for them.”
“With the implication that tariffs will fall on the poorest, of course,” adds Rhamuel. “Unhappily, that is often true. Rather than pay higher tariffs from their profits, they will discharge some poor teamster’s assistant and then complain about those very same tariffs that help maintain the harbors and canals and roads that benefit them more than anyone.”
“What does the duke say about that?”
“Very little. Nor can I to him. And not often.”
Rhamuel’s words are another indication to Lerial that the arms-commander treads a narrow path in dealing with his brother and the influence of the wealthy merchanters of Swartheld … and possibly even the duke’s consort.
Although the structures ahead look imposing, Lerial finds those immediately nearer him on the west side of the river road cramped-looking and mean. There are small wooden docks set intermittently at the edge of the water, often amid the straggly reeds, with barely enough space for a boat to reach open water, and bare clay depressions in the slope down to the river, suggesting that small boats are regularly dragged down or hauled up from the water.
The cots soon give way to small shops. One is even boarded up and looks to have been unused for seasons, if not years. After riding another few hundred yards, Lerial sees warehouses and factorages, solid and cared-for, but worn and certainly not new. The stone river piers are older than they had looked from a distance, with weathered bollards, although the larger stone factorage or warehouse opposite them looks to have been recently built, perhaps within the year.
Lerial turns his thoughts from the buildings and asks, “What arrangements will be necessary for my lancers?”
“They will be quartered at the headquarters post of the Afritan Guard in Swartheld. It is less than half a kay from the palace. I did sent word by river to expect a battalion for quartering. I did not specify what battalion. Had I mentioned three companies, that would have aroused immediate speculation. As for you and me … that is up to the duke, once he receives word of your arrival … although it is likely that he already has, since Fhastal and others who attended the dinner in Shaelt have fast river schooners, and any would like to gain slight favor with the duke.”
From Rhamuel’s tone, matter-of-fact and slightly amused, it is clear that he fully expects exactly such a reaction from some of the merchanters.
And he will determine who did so and keep that in mind. Lerial decides not to comment on that and goes on, “The location of the Guard headquarters is convenient for you, then.”
“It’s been suggested that it is too convenient, but the duke prefers it that way, as do I. Most of the Guard troopers are quartered at the South Post or the Harbor Post. We’ll be riding by the South Post in a bit less than a glass.”
The southern Guard post is a glass away? And we’re already in Swartheld? “How far is the southern post from the palace?”
“Two kays, give or take a few hundred yards. The Guard headquarters is north along the bay and east from the palace.”
“And how far north is the Harbor Post?”
“Closer to two kays from headquarters.”
Lerial’s calculations based on Rhamuel’s estimations suggest that Swartheld stretches at least ten kays along the river, enough to swallow Cigoerne four times over … and possibly more if it extends a greater distance than a kay west from the Swarth River.
Almost imperceptibly, the buildings along the river, whether shops or dwellings, become closer together, and there are more that are larger. On the right of the road ahead is a walled structure, and just south of it is a line of warehouses and two piers extending out into the calm waters of the bay.
“Is that the South Post?”
“It is. Drusyn’s there with his battalions. The others are at the Harbor Post.”
From what Lerial can tell, the South Post is easily three times the size of Mirror Lancer headquarters. And it’s just one of three posts here.
A good kay west-northwest of the South Post, as they ride through a modest square, Rhamuel points to the northwest.
“There. You can see the palace on that hill.”
The palace is not so much on the hill, from what Lerial can see before the warehouses on the far side of the square block his view, as occupying the entire hill, with massive walls around it, and terraced gardens leading upward to a square structure with towers on each corner.
“Rather larger than my sire’s,” Lerial says blandly, knowing his words are an extreme understatement.
“Somewhat larger than necessary, but it was expanded by our great-grandsire, in an effort to show power.”
“The larger the dwelling, the more powerful…?”
“That … and also what is traded. Those who have great ships, like Aenslem, or trade in metals, like Fhastal, are considered higher. Those who trade in more common goods…”
“Like produce or timber? They’re looked down upon?”
“Usually not to their faces … but they know.”
Lerial cannot say that such a differentiation makes sense to him, but it must to the Afritans. As they continue along the river road, he also notes that many of the streets and lanes leading off the road are narrow and anything but straight. Most of the dwellings and other structures are of brick, all with red tile roofs. Many of the tiles are cracked, and the bricks are often worn, not to mention stained with soot. In more than a few places, Lerial can pick out where bricks have been replaced. A slight brownish haze hangs over the city, and the air holds the mixed odors of cooking oil, grease, and a mixture of less appetizing smells, from rotten fish to mold, and other scents that Lerial has no interest in even contemplating.
“Now you can see the headquarters Guard post, with the walls just slightly back from the shore road there beyond the Guard Square.”
The Guard Square is comparatively modest, a mere hundred yards on a side, with only handfuls of carts and peddlers scattered here and there.
“The hawkers are more numerous when there are more troopers quartered here. There will be more tomorrow … assuming your men have even a few coppers apiece.”
“They do have that,” and more given their share of the spoils from the fallen Heldyans, “although they may not last given the temptations of a true city.”
Beyond the square rise the walls of the Afritan Guard post, a good seven yards high, even though the post itself cannot be much larger than the Mirror Lancer headquarters in Cigoerne. The gates are only partly open as the combined forces near, but after the guards sight the arms-commander’s banner, they swing full open, and a series of horn calls echoes from somewhere on the wall above the gates.
Lerial can smell a miasma-and slight odor-of age permeating the entry courtyard, faint but definitely there as he rides past the gates. A half squad of Afritan Guards barely finishes forming up in front of the central building in the middle of the courtyard before Rhamuel and Lerial rein up. An Afritan captain, hardly much older than Lerial, then hurries forward.
“Arms-Commander, ser, you have a dispatch from the duke.” The officer reaches up and extends the missive.
“Thank you, Captain.” Rhamuel opens the sealed missive and unfolds it. An amused smile appears and then vanishes. He looks to Lerial. “The duke would earnestly hope that you and I would immediately take up residence at the palace for the duration of your stay. You can, of course, bring a half squad of your lancers, as you see fit. That might be … interesting.”
“A half squad. I can arrange that.”
“I need to send a messenger to notify Valatyr’s family and to set up the memorial for him. Shall we say … half a glass?”
Lerial nods.
“Good.” Rhamuel turns back to the captain. “Lord Lerial’s three companies are the ones that will need quarters. It turns out that he did not need to bring a full battalion. Once he’s free, you can brief him on what is available.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial immediately summons Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl and addresses them. “My presence has been requested at the duke’s palace. I’m allowed a personal guard of a half squad.”
Fheldar and Strauxyn exchange glances.
Then Strauxyn clears his throat. “Begging your pardon, ser, and yours, Undercaptain Kusyl, but your men have more experience around palaces than ours.”
“Not at a palace like Duke Atroyan’s, but I take your point. If you two agree…”
Both Strauxyn and Fheldar nod.
“I’d recommend Second Squad, under Polidaar,” Kusyl says. “He’s got a good head and is well-mannered but affable.”
“Good. If you’d pass that on to him, I’ll hear from the captain on billeting and stabling arrangements.” While Lerial has not met Squad Leader Polidaar, except in passing and in inspections, Kusyl knows his men well. He always has.
Lerial then rides forward to meet with the waiting Afritan Guard captain.
Slightly more than a glass later, Lerial and his half squad of Mirror Lancers and Rhamuel and his personal squad ride back out through the gates of Swartheld Post, or Afritan Guard headquarters, depending apparently on who was speaking about the post, riding generally southwest, as far as Lerial can determine, through streets that, while able to accommodate two wagons side by side, he would have considered far too narrow for Cigoerne, let alone a city the size of Swartheld. While the faintly unpleasant odor that surrounded the Afritan Guard headquarters slowly fades as they leave the post behind, it appears that the haze has thickened slightly by the time Lerial and Rhamuel emerge from the taller buildings bordering the wide paved avenue that circles the hill dominated by the walled palace of the Duke of Afrit.
While the main gates, those on the east side of the hill, are not closed, they are guarded by four men in bright crimson uniforms and only open into a small walled courtyard, at the end of which is a set of iron-barred gates, closed and guarded by more guards in bright crimson livery. A separate guard beside the main gate studies Lerial-or his uniform-and then runs across the courtyard toward the second gates.
“Those who guard the palace aren’t under your command?” asks Lerial.
“No. They’re the duke’s personal guard. Seldom is the arms-commander of the Afritan Guard so closely related to the duke.”
“Often related … but not closely?”
“Everything in Afrit is related,” replied Rhamuel. “As you will see.”
As they ride across the courtyard toward the second set of gates, more guards in crimson appear and flank the way. Other guards open the gates, and a horn fanfare fills the space.
“That’s for you,” announces Rhamuel. “It’s the one they use for important visitors. I don’t merit a fanfare.”
“More likely that you’re here often enough that they decided not to play it for you,” suggests Lerial.
“I’m not here that often. This time will be interesting.”
“Do you have rooms at the headquarters?”
“I do, but those are for times I’m required there. I have a modest dwelling on the hill to the west of the palace.”
“Where those of more than modest means and rank also dwell?”
“More than modest second sons, mainly. Had the duke not requested your presence here, I would have turned my dwelling over to you.”
That surprises Lerial, although he can sense none of the chaos a blatant untruth often creates. “I appreciate that.”
“It would be the least I could do.”
Two of the palace guards appear on the far side of the gates. Beyond the gates is a larger courtyard, far larger, a good two hundred yards wide and a hundred deep, beyond which rises the palace, a redstone edifice of four levels, almost the width of the courtyard, and appearing to extend even farther than that to the west.
Rhamuel gestures to the pair of guards. “We follow them to a position below the receiving balcony.”
“The duke will receive us there?”
Rhamuel shakes his head. “You’ll get an initial welcome from Dafaal. He’s the duke’s personal scrivener and aide. He welcomes all visitors to the palace and escorts them to their quarters before they meet with Atroyan.”
“What about my men?”
“They’ll be quartered in chambers on the other side of the corridor from you. That’s the usual arrangement for the few truly important visitors.”
Just another indication of the size of the palace.
Once they rein up below the second-level balcony, less than two yards above Lerial’s head, a white-haired man, attired largely in black, but with a crimson scarf around his neck, steps out onto the narrow balcony. He smiles and begins to speak with a deep and resonant voice at odds with his almost frail appearance.
“On behalf of His Mightiness the Duke Atroyan of Afrit, I bid you welcome, Lord Lerial of Cigoerne. On behalf of the duke, I extend all privileges and graces for the duration of your stay. Both the arms-commander and I remain at your service.”
Lerial can sense a certain surprise in Rhamuel at the last phrase, but says nothing, although he has the feeling that Rhamuel may not be totally pleased at being placed in Lerial’s service, so to speak. Then, sensing that some reply is required, Lerial inclines his head, then responds. “I deeply appreciate the warmth and hospitality offered by the duke and look forward to closer relations between Afrit and Cigoerne.”
The briefest frown appears on Dafaal’s brow, then vanishes, as if Lerial had not been expected to offer anything substantive in reply. “I will meet you at the palace stables, Lord Lerial. I’m certain that Arms-Commander Rhamuel can show you the way.” Dafaal smiles, then retreats.
“Pompous old bastard,” murmurs Rhamuel. “Good-hearted, though.” He raises his voice as he continues. “It’s shorter if we ride past the entrance. It’s actually the rear entrance, but the front one is never open except for the handful of formal balls my brother holds here in the winter and early spring.” Rhamuel urges his mount forward and to the left.
Lerial follows, saying, “I take it that he has a summer retreat, then? Besides Lubana?”
“He hasn’t been to Lubana in years. He and Haesychya prefer his villa at Lake Reomer. They usually depart by the middle of spring, earlier if the weather is hot, but no later than the first eightday of summer.”
But will they this year? With the threats posed by Khesyn? Lerial knows that question will have to wait.
The inner courtyard, at least in the area to the east of the palace, is almost empty except for two men cleaning the windows of the palace and those in the combined forces of Rhamuel and Lerial. Even when they ride around the south end of the palace and under an arched stone bridge that offers access to the terraced gardens stepped down the hillside away from the palace, Lerial sees only two stableboys and an older man, presumably an ostler, standing before the building on the southwestern part of the inner courtyard, away from the palace proper.
“The household stables,” notes Rhamuel.
Lerial glances from the stables to his right, observing that a narrower structure extends perhaps another hundred yards from the broader section that held the receiving balcony, then again widens into another broader section that faces westward. “It’s almost two palaces connected by a third.”
“You could say that,” admits Rhamuel, reining up before the main stable door. “It all looks the same once you’re inside. Large rooms and small ones, all off seemingly endless hallways. Far too much crimson and gilt.” The arms-commander dismounts. “I’m off to brief the duke. We’ll all likely have dinner together, but one never knows.” He glances toward the palace. “Here comes Dafaal.”
Lerial dismounts quickly. “Until later, then.”
Rhamuel nods, then hands the reins of his mount to one of the stableboys.
“Lord Lerial, ser…” offers the ostler who steps forward.
“Thank you.” Lerial hands the reins of the gelding to him.
“Essen, Moertyn, you two accompany the overcaptain, and bring his gear,” orders Polidaar, from behind Lerial. “The rest of you take care of the mounts and gear.”
“Yes, Squad Leader.”
Lerial waits several moments until the elderly Dafaal reaches him, then nods politely.
“I’ll escort you to your chambers, Lord Lerial. Then, after you have washed up, in say a glass, I will send an escort to take you to see the duke. Once he has received you, there will be refreshments in the family salon, and then a small dinner-just you, the family, and the arms-commander. On threeday evening, there will be a dinner, and another … function … on fourday. There may be others, as well, but the duke has not yet informed me of such.”
“I appreciate the notice of what he has scheduled.”
“Now, if you will come with me…”
Two Mirror Lancers accompany Lerial, following behind him and Dafaal.
Just before they reach a door at the courtyard level of what Lerial thinks of as the east palace, Dafaal speaks again. “I must admit I never thought we would see an heir of Cigoerne here in Swartheld.”
“I never thought I would be here,” admits Lerial, “but given the invitation, I thought it was best for all concerned that I accept.”
“There are some who, shall we say, might have some reservations about the … appropriateness of your appearance.”
“I do hope that the duke is not one of those with reservations.”
“Stars, no. He was most surprised that your father dispatched you to the aid of the arms-commander, but that is certainly no secret.”
“Although…” prompts Lerial, just to see if he can gain any further information.
“Although?” Dafaal chuckles. “I doubt that he had any reservations about his appreciation. He has always felt that Duke Khesyn is a threat to the peace of all Hamor. Ever since Khesyn dredged the harbor at Estheld and built the deepwater piers there.” Dafaal goes through the door that a palace guard has opened and into a rather narrow corridor. “This isn’t the most well-appointed part of the palace, but it’s the quickest and easiest way to get to your chambers. Also, they’re doing work on the east side where the larger staircase is. We wouldn’t want to run into workmen carrying those heavy barrels. We’ll just take the back staircase here…”
“Work?”
“Refurbishing some rooms beneath the family quarters. It should have been done years ago.” The elderly functionary starts up the narrow steps.
“When did Khesyn improve the harbor at Estheld?” After speaking, Lerial notes that the plastered staircase walls could use another coat of wash or the like.
“A good six years ago. It was right after Duke Casseon lost Verdheln. You had something to do with that, as I recall.”
“Only a small part. Most of that was Majer Altyrn’s doing.” Lerial pauses. “I don’t know that you have heard. He died just before I set out for Luba.”
“Everyone says that he was a most effective commander. I never had the pleasure of meeting him.”
“He was quite a person as well. They’re not always the same.”
“No. You’re quite right about that.” Dafaal’s breathing becomes more labored, with hints of wheezing.
Lerial decides against saying more until they emerge from the staircase on the third level.
“Ah,” declares Dafaal after taking several deep breaths. “Those stairs get steeper every year. Your quarters are to the left at the end.”
The door to which Dafaal leads Lerial is less than fifteen yards away, at the end of a corridor stretching more than a hundred yards back to the north. The chambers awaiting Lerial consist of a sitting room-a corner chamber with windows on both outside walls-holding a circular table that could be used as a desk or for a meal, and four chairs, as well as two armchairs and a settee. The sleeping chamber is immediately to the north, with a bathing chamber and jakes beyond it. All the furnishings are of a whitish wood that Lerial has not seen before and are upholstered in crimson, if with cream trim that tends to vanish against the white wood.
“I hope these are to your satisfaction,” offers Dafaal.
“They are more than satisfactory, and I appreciate your concern.”
“There is warm water in the tub and a steaming kettle if you need it. I’ll send a footman to bring you to the receiving room in about a glass.” The functionary pauses, then adds, “The six chambers across the hall are for your men. There are two beds in each, and a communal bathing room at the end. They can bring up water from the kitchen or the courtyard.”
“Thank you.”
Lerial waits until Dafaal departs, then looks to the two lancers. “If one of you would watch the door, the other can check out the quarters to see if they’ll do.”
“Yes, ser,” replies Essen. “Let me bring in your gear.”
Moertyn nods, then says, “Checking the quarters won’t take long. We can each look in turn, see if one of us misses something.”
“Good thought,” says Lerial.
Once he has his gear, including a semiclean uniform, he closes the door and moves to the sleeping chamber, where he unpacks the kit bag. By the time he dabs away the worst of the soil on his uniforms and hangs them on the pegs in the armoire, the bathwater is barely lukewarm, but still welcome. So is a good shave.
Once he dresses, he looks in the full-length mirror on the interior wall of the bedchamber. The uniform is at least presentable, but his hair is longer than he prefers, and close to unruly, since the longer it gets, the wirier it is.
Because all of his cleaning up has taken longer than he thought, he doubts he has much time before he is summoned, but when he hears the lancers across the hall he steps out of the sitting room and approaches Polidaar.
“How are the quarters?”
The squad leader grins. “Good enough that I told the men not to say anything to the other lancers. Good beds, even with linens, and no sign of vermin.”
“Once in a while, we do get fortunate.”
“Do you want an escort to dinner, ser?”
“I doubt I’ll need it, but I’ll let you know if I do. Did you find out about messing for you and your rankers?”
“Yes, ser. We get fed in the palace guard mess. Fifth glass. Anyone on duty can get rations there until eighth glass.”
After finishing arrangements with the squad leader, Lerial waits less than a tenth of a glass before a young palace guard appears. “Lord Lerial, ser.”
Before stepping out into the hall, Lerial reinforces his shields, ensuring that they are tightly linked to the iron of his belt knife.
The escort leads him back along the long north-south corridor and then to the right and up a marble staircase to the fourth level, along a wide but short hallway to a double set of doors. They halt in front of the golden wooden doors, where a guard is posted.
“Lord Lerial to see the duke,” announces the guard who has escorted Lerial.
The duty guard turns and raps on the door, announcing, “Lord Lerial.”
“Have him come in.”
The guard opens the door and Lerial steps inside. The receiving room is not enormous, as Lerial had half expected, but neither is it small, a chamber some six yards wide and perhaps ten yards in length, the last yard and a half a dais raised perhaps two thirds of a yard, in the middle of which is an overlarge chair, not exactly a throne, constructed of the white wood oiled or tinted into a rich gold, with a seat upholstered in brilliant crimson. The walls are of while marble tiles shot with gold, with half pillars of the golden-tinted wood at regular intervals. The floor is of black marble tile, and scuffed in more than a few places, Lerial notes. A second look tells him that there are hairline cracks in the marble of the walls and the floor. Light comes from brass wall lamps and two narrow skylights. Stationed on each side of the chair where Atroyan sits are two tall palace guards, each holding a halberd, its base resting on the marble tiles, with a highly polished and visibly sharp blade.
Lerial walks forward until he is within two yards of Atroyan. He stops and inclines his head politely. “Duke Atroyan.”
Atroyan is not as Lerial remembers him. The one time Lerial had seen the duke had been in Cigoerne when Lerial was a child. Then Atroyan had seemed tall and lean, with dark brown hair and eyes. The man who sits on the throne-like chair, wearing black trousers and a gold and crimson jacket over a white shirt, has dark gray hair with but a few streaks of brown. His brown eyes are sunken, and his shoulders are stooped. His smile is warm, and his eyes light up as he looks over his visitor.
“Lerial … such a change from the last time, except for the unruly red hair. You look every bit the officer my brother has portrayed.” Even Atroyan’s voice is slightly raspy.
Was it that way when he came to Cigoerne? Although Lerial cannot be absolutely certain, he recalls Atroyan’s voice then being more like Rhamuel’s, warm and full. “I would hope so, ser, since I have served as such for the last six years.”
Atroyan does not laugh, but does smile, almost tentatively, then nods almost brusquely. “Rather effectively, I hear. This last time, I understand, most effectively against the hordes raised by that mongrel Khesyn.”
“We did the best we could, ser, as did Subcommander Ascaar and Subcommander Drusyn and their officers and men.”
“So I heard. So I heard. And that is good. Very good.” After a long pause, Atroyan asks, “Your family is well, I trust?”
“The last I heard, all were well, but that was almost half a season ago.”
“Does your father still command the Lancers?”
“He remains in overall command, ser. He has left most of the daily patrolling that he once did to Lephi and me.”
“Wise man. Fortunate man, too.” A brighter smile crosses the duke’s face, although his right eye twitches several times. “I should formally welcome you to Afrit and Swartheld … and I do. We must talk more in a less formal setting. You’ll have refreshments and then dinner with the family tonight, I would hope.”
“I’d be honored and delighted, ser.”
“Excellent! Excellent. Half past fifth glass in the family salon.” Atroyan nods once more. “I will see you then.”
“Thank you, ser. I look forward to that.” Lerial inclines his head politely once more. He does not intend to back out of the chamber, but neither does he wish to immediately turn his back on the duke. He compromises by taking two steps backward, inclining his head once more, and then turning and walking to the door-which opens as he nears it, suggesting that the outer door guard, or someone, has been watching.
Since it is just after fourth glass, Lerial has more than a little time, and not that much to do, before he is expected at the duke’s family salon … wherever that may be. Once the receiving room door is closed, he turns to his escort. “If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate a tour of the palace, not anywhere private, just so that I have a general idea where most places are that I might have to be.”
“Ah … yes, ser.”
“I’m supposed to meet the duke at the family salon later. Could you take us there, or reasonably close?”
“Yes, ser. As I can, ser.”
The one area it is clear he will not tour is the southeastern section of the fourth level, which is blocked off with heavy barrels. Lerial approaches the stacked barrels, all of which appear to be recently coopered, so recently that there is still an odd woody odor, something like a cross between cork and cinnamon. But the wood of neither tree is suitable for making barrels.
Maybe that’s incense to mute the smells of the ongoing work. Beyond the barrels, stacked two deep, he sees two palace guards, and beyond them a carpenter working on a crown molding.
Lerial nods and turns away, following his guide.
Just walking around the third and fourth levels of the palace takes more than a glass, but Lerial has a far better idea of the layout of the massive palace. The duke’s family quarters appear to comprise essentially the southern half of the “east palace’s” fourth level. Beyond that, Lerial gains the impression that a great many chambers, just on the two upper levels, are essentially empty or at best, used only occasionally, and in places there is a certain odor of mustiness. Even so, the time it takes just to walk around two levels emphasizes just how large the palace is. Certainly, all the chambers on all three levels of his father’s palace in Cigoerne would easily fit just within one of the upper levels of Swartheld palace.
By the time he approaches the family salon, a few moments before the appointed time, Lerial has spent more than enough time walking along corridors seemingly populated only by a palace guard or two or a servant hurrying one way or another.
He enters the family salon, past yet another guard, through a recessed archway. As soon as he steps into the chamber, he can see that it is far more cheerful than what else he has seen of the palace. The walls are plaster painted the palest shade of rose, and the far end has a set of double glass-paned doors that open onto a terrace facing the bay. There is a large oval carpet with a design of interwoven foliage and flowers in shades of rose and soft brown. Where the carpet does not cover the floor, the wood is also a polished light brown, as is the wood from which the furniture is made. All the chairs and settees are upholstered in rose, and there are two sideboards, on which are crystal goblets and beakers, and a number of crystal pitchers as well, with what appear to be red and white wines, as well as light and dark lager.
“Lord Lerial, welcome.” The greeting comes from the single person in the room, a slender woman with blond hair carrying a tint of rose, rather than the strawberry Mesphaes had mentioned. She does not wear a head scarf, but then, the palace is her home. Her eyes are a surprising black. Despite the fact that she must be at least the age of his mother, Lerial can see no hint of gray in her hair.
“Lady Haesychya … Thank you.” Lerial inclines his head. “And please, no ‘Lord.’”
“Then … no ‘Lady,’ either.”
“As you wish,” Lerial replies as warmly and gently as he can.
“Having heard of your exploits, I had forgotten how young you are. I suspect Kyedra has as well.”
Not wanting to address that, since any response he can immediately think of would be unsuitable, Lerial merely smiles and says, “I had not expected to find you here alone.”
“Oh … I’m not. Kyedra and Natroyor are out on the terrace. Atroyan will be here shortly. He’s always had difficulty in arriving on time for family affairs, even for refreshments or dinner.” She turns as a young woman steps through the open terrace doors. “Here comes Kyedra.”
Lerial inclines his head in greeting, taking in the young woman with the black hair and eyes, and the slightly olive skin. She is a digit or two shorter than her mother, but with slightly larger bones, Lerial thinks, making her somewhat more muscular, if still trim. Her nose is straight, if slightly stronger than he recalls, as is her chin, but her skin is clear and unblemished. Her face is a gentle oval, and she is pleasant to look at, if not a raving beauty. But neither are you the handsomest fellow to ride into town.
“You might remember Lerial from your time in Cigoerne.”
At that comment, Kyedra smiles, if slightly ruefully, but the expression transforms her face almost into radiance. “I must say I don’t recall much except your kindness … and, well, your hair. I wasn’t all that happy.”
“You did get a bit tart when I didn’t describe my grandmere to your satisfaction.” Lerial grins.
Kyedra drops her eyes. “I hoped you wouldn’t remember that.”
“That’s all right. I avoided answering some of your questions.”
“Not exactly. You just didn’t finish some sentences.”
Lerial laughs. “That’s true.”
“What, might I ask, is true?” asks Natroyor as he slips past his sister and stops, inclining his head in greeting to Lerial. The heir is actually a touch shorter than his sister, and more slightly built, with a narrower face, framed by straight dark brown hair. His eyes are a muddy brown, and there is a slight darkness under them.
Lerial immediately tries to sense the presence of chaos or wound chaos. He cannot, but he does gain the impression that the heir carries less order strength than he should. “That I left some sentences unfinished the last time your sister and I spoke.”
Natroyor does smile, and the expression is nearly identical to that of his father. “Welcome. I’ve heard about you. You must tell me how you’ve managed so much on the battlefield.”
“He will,” says Haesychya quickly, “but not at the moment. We’ll not be talking of fighting and war now or at dinner.”
“Why not?” asks Natroyor. “We’re fighting one now, and so is Cigoerne.”
Lerial detects a certain sulkiness in the young man’s words, but that is overshadowed by the chaotic feelings from his mother, although Haesychya’s face remains almost serene, and she says nothing. Since she does not speak, Lerial does. “Because your mother expressed a preference, and I intend to honor it.”
Natroyor looks stunned, if but for a moment.
Before the young man can speak, Lerial turns back to Kyedra. “You never met my sister, as I recall, nor my cousin Amaira.”
“I never had that privilege.”
“I’m not sure it would have been a privilege to meet Ryalah then,” Lerial replies, “since she was only two. Even Amaira would only have been four.”
“I didn’t meet your brother, either. They said he was ill with a flux.”
“You’d never know that now,” replies Lerial. “He’s also an overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers, in charge of the post at Sudstrym.”
“Which of you is better with a blade?” demands Natroyor.
“The answer would likely depend on which of us you asked … but I believe we were talking about family. Have you ever accompanied your uncles on hunting trips or elsewhere?”
“Just to Lake Reomer and a few other places. Mostly with Uncle Mykel and his friend Oestyn…”
The mention of Oestyn’s name, whoever he may be, and the flutter of chaos from Haesychya suggests certain … aspects of Mykel’s inclinations.
“… They say that since I’m the only heir, I must be careful. You and your bother are lucky to have each other.”
“We still have to be careful. None of us ever commands Lancers in the same place at the same time. That includes my father.”
“You see,” says Haesychya gently, “there are similar rules in other duchies.”
“I’m late … again!” calls Atroyan from the archway to the salon. “Or rather, we’re late.” He gestures to Rhamuel.
“Not terribly,” replies Haesychya. “We’ve been having a pleasant talk with Lerial.”
“Except he won’t talk about real things,” murmurs Natroyor, in such a low voice that Lerial doubts anyone hears his words other than Kyedra and himself.
With Natroyor’s words, Lerial cannot help but think about the times the silver mists of death have washed across him. You only think you want to hear about them.
“He’s seen a great deal,” says Rhamuel warmly, before turning to Kyedra. “You’re more beautiful every time I see you.”
Lerial can almost sense what Rhamuel has not said, that he wishes he could see his own daughter.
“Uncle Rham … you’re impossible,” banters Kyedra.
“No. Merely difficult. Unlike Lerial, who is neither impossible nor difficult … just inscrutable.”
“Pour yourself some wine, Rham,” orders Atroyan as he fills his goblet with a generous amount of the dark red wine, before looking at Lerial. “You don’t have anything to drink.”
“Which lager would you recommend?”
“If you like the bitters, the dark. If you don’t, the light.”
“Definitely the light,” suggests Rhamuel.
Lerial moves to the sideboard and looks to Haesychya and then Kyedra. “Might I pour something for either of you?”
“No, thank you,” replies Atroyan’s consort. “While I like either wine or lager, neither likes me.”
“The light lager, if you would.” Kyedra smiles and adds, “Just half a beaker, please.”
Lerial pours two half beakers of the light lager, a pale golden shade. The last thing he needs is to drink too much, especially inadvertently. He checks the beverages for chaos, but senses none, and then hands one beaker to Kyedra, waiting until she takes a sip before he does the same. He has to admit that the lager is excellent, possibly even better than that of the majer. “Excellent lager.”
“My father would have no other,” says Natroyor proudly.
“You have outstanding taste,” says Lerial to Atroyan, “I imagine the wines are just as superb.”
“The Reoman red-that’s what I have-is indeed,” replies the duke. “The Halyn white … it is merely good.”
Rhamuel makes a face. “That might be an exaggeration, on both counts. The Halyn white is as good a white as the Reoman is a red.”
Haesychya offers the smallest of headshakes, accompanied by a fondly rueful expression that vanishes immediately.
“What have you been telling my son?” asks Atroyan.
“Only about family … well, really, just about my sister Ryalah and my cousin Amaira, and a bit about my older brother Lephi.”
“Do you two look alike?” asks Haesychya.
“Most brothers share some likeness. I suppose we do, but he got the blond hair from our mother, and I got the freckles.”
“Is your father red-haired, then?” asks Natroyor. “It must come from somewhere.”
“From my grandmere and my aunt. They both had red hair.”
Natroyor looks at Rhamuel, almost dubiously.
The arms-commander nods. “They both do … did.”
“There were many redheads in Cyador, according to the history,” interjects Kyedra.
“There are still quite a few in Cigoerne,” replies Lerial. Among the Magi’i, anyway.
“What do you think Duke Khesyn will do?” asks Atroyan abruptly as he settles into one of the armchairs and motions for Lerial to take the one facing him.
The question startles Lerial, especially after Haesychya’s insistence on not speaking about fighting and war. Maybe that’s because she knew what her consort would want to talk about. “I’m not certain anyone can say what he will do,” Lerial says cautiously as he seats himself. “At the least, I think he will continue attacks of some sort, if only raids, on both Afrit and Cigoerne.”
Rhamuel nods as he takes an adjoining chair, while Haesychya and Kyedra share the settee.
“You don’t think he will launch an all-out attack?”
“Sooner or later, I think that is likely, ser.” Lerial smiles wryly. “I have no idea when sooner or later might be.” He wonders why Rhamuel has not spoken, but assumes that the brothers have already spoken about that.
“Neither does anyone else, I fear,” responds the duke. “It makes matters less certain than a throw of the bones.” He turns to Haesychya. “What do you think, my dear?”
“He will attack until he is stopped. That is his nature.”
“Why do you think that, Mother?” asks Kyedra.
The very fact that she asks the question suggests to Lerial that such matters are not normally discussed in the family salon.
“Khesyn wants to rule all of Hamor. Afrit is the greatest bar to that. He also dislikes Cigoerne because he blames Duke Kiedron for the loss of his niece.”
“The loss of his niece?” asks Lerial. “That is something I’ve not heard.”
“She fled his palace years and years ago, only a short time after Cigoerne … was … established. Word reached the duke that she had taken refuge with relatives in Amaershyn, but she and her sister attempted to flee once more before his men arrived. Somehow, the sister died, but the favored niece found a boat and paddled into the river. She headed for Cigoerne. The Heldyans gave chase. The Cyadoran fireship destroyed them, and days later the duke’s men found her ruined boat and some of her garments on a mudbar.”
Lerial manages only to nod, hoping he has concealed the shock at what Haesychya has revealed. Was that niece Maeroja? How could it not be? Yet … will he ever know?
“If she was so favored…?” Kyedra frowns, then goes on, “Or was it because she was perhaps too favored?”
Rhamuel hides an amused smile.
Haesychya’s expression turns cold for a moment. “We will not guess about such matters. What is of import is that Khesyn wishes to destroy both Duke Kiedron and your father, and all those related to either. I suggest we need not discuss that aspect of matters more.”
“As you wish, my dear,” replies Atroyan almost affably. “I will ask Lerial his opinion of the Heldyan armsmen, however.”
“From what I have seen,” Lerial says, “those we have fought in the south, and those who attacked Luba, are likely not the very best of his armsmen. Those who attacked Luba were better than some of those who have harassed Cigoerne, some of whom are from the nomad clans far to the south or from eastern Atla.”
“But your father only sent three companies,” interjects Natroyor, an interjection so smooth that Lerial has no doubts it was planned, since it is not a question Atroyan would wish to ask himself.
“It is not just the quality of armsmen that Heldya sends against us,” replies Lerial. “It is the number. The length of the west bank of the River Swarth that we must defend is almost as long as that which Afrit must defend, and we have far fewer people … and, I must admit, we are less prosperous. The Heldyans, if not intercepted immediately, lay waste to hamlets and individual dwellings and cots. Even with the companies we have posted along the river, we are often outnumbered. Fortunately, our men are better trained.”
“As I recall,” begins Atroyan, fingering his chin as if trying to remember something, “you are what, twenty-two?”
Lerial nods.
“Yet you were sent out as an undercaptain more than six years ago, and you have commanded lancers since then. Is that not so?”
“Yes, ser.”
For just a moment, Kyedra’s mouth opens, then quickly closes.
“How many men have you killed?” asks Natroyor.
This interruption was clearly not planned, because the heir’s mother and father both turn toward him. Even Rhamuel frowns.
Lerial lets the silence draw out for just a moment. “I have no idea. I was sixteen when I killed a Meroweyan raider who attacked me. I fought in pitched battles for two full seasons, generally near or at the front of my company. We fought two small battles or skirmishes at Luba.”
“He was at the front there, too,” adds Rhamuel.
“Were you … wounded?” murmurs Kyedra.
“Not here, and not enough not to recover in Verdheln,” Lerial replies lightly.
“The way you say that…” ventures Haesychya. “You were seriously wounded, were you not?”
“Without the healers, I would have died in Verdheln.” That is true, but not in the way Lerial hopes they will take it.
“Does that satisfy you, Natroyor?” Haesychya’s voice is like ice.
“I just wanted to know.” Natroyor’s reply holds a hint of both sulkiness and defiance.
“Now you do,” declares the duke with a heartiness that sounds a trifle forced. “It is about time to have dinner,” he announces, if after a glance from his consort. “And we will not talk further about war, or Heldya. Dinner should be for more pleasant topics.” His eyes fix on Natroyor. Then he stands.
As Lerial rises, he thinks about the strangeness of the conversation, staged to reveal some things, and yet obviously not totally controlled. All of it reminds him, again, of how careful he needs to be in what he reveals and what he does not.
Following Atroyan’s gesture, Lerial walks with the duke across the hallway to the family dining chamber, not all that larger than the salon in the ducal palace in Cigoerne. The duke sits at the head of the table, with Lerial at his right, and Rhamuel at his left. Kyedra is seated beside her uncle, while Natroyor sits beside Lerial. Haesychya sits at the end of the family table, facing her consort. A pleasant smile is on her thin lips, but the chaotic turmoil behind her expression suggests more than a little strain.
Is Natroyor that frail? Or do they worry that he is? Then again, Lerial realizes, Atroyan himself does not appear all that hale and hearty, either. While Rhamuel is healthy, he has no sons, and his only child is Amaira, whose existence may not be known … and if known, certainly cannot be accepted. Lerial has heard no word about Mykel, except that he has no consort and no heirs … and Haesychya’s reaction to the name of his friend.
The other thing is that Haesychya has not been nearly so silent as Lerial has expected, as if he is not quite an outsider. As for Kyedra, she is more perceptive than she lets on … and he does like her smile.
The dinner conversation, it is clear, will be light and polite. After the crosscurrents in the salon, Lerial is more than ready for lighter subjects.