Heritage of Cyador

XXV

On threeday morning, before leaving for breakfast, Lerial turns over his most soiled uniforms to one of the palace staff, a youth barely grown, and proceeds to the family dining room, where he breakfasts by himself, since Rhamuel is nowhere to be found. Because the arms-commander was thoughtful enough to leave five of his personal squad, they serve as escorts when Lerial and his half squad set out for the headquarters post once more, taking a circuitous route heading southwest of the palace and then circling back to the shore road before riding north to Afritan Guard headquarters.

Although Lerial is getting a better feel for Swartheld each day, he cannot say that increasing familiarity is leading to a greater appreciation of the city, for all of what is for sale. He is reminded of the array of what is indeed for sale when, on one of the less-frequented streets, they ride past a building that displays open windows with both men and women in filmy garments that leave almost nothing to the imagination, and some of those “men” and “women” look to be barely out of childhood. Lerial cannot repress a shudder.

Everything, indeed, is for sale.

Once Lerial reaches Swartheld Post, he inquires, almost offhandedly, as to whether the arms-commander has arrived, only to learn that Rhamuel arrived early and soon departed for the Harbor Post. Lerial needs little time with his officers-less than a glass-and is soon ready for another and longer exploratory ride around the city before returning to the palace. He thinks about taking a very long route back to the palace, one that winds up the merchanters’ road and back, but decides that would serve no purpose but to satisfy his own curiosity, and might well create problems without improving his understanding and knowledge of Swartheld. Instead, he decides on taking the shore road north.

As he and his combined squad ride out of the old post and head north, Lerial can see that one of the cafés that had been closed in the morning on previous days is now open. He turns and looks back, grinning, at Strauxyn, who rides beside Fheldar. “I see you’ve encouraged one of the cafés to stay open.”

“Yes, ser. They have good pastries. We didn’t see any harm in sending a ranker or two over and suggesting they might earn a little more if they opened earlier.”

“And you’re giving the men breaks to enjoy those pastries.”

“Yes, ser. They can’t go alone, though.”

“Good thought.”

“The permanent cadre at the post are enjoying that, too, ser,” adds Jhacub.

Just beyond the open café, Lerial notices a modest cloth factorage, but he does not see any shimmersilk on display. Too dear? The prices he had overheard his father, Altyrn, and Maeroja mentioning to him years earlier suggest that few cloth merchants might carry the shimmersilk. Or perhaps they simply fear displaying it?

When they pass the harbor piers, Lerial cannot help but notice that there are less than half a score of ships tied there, the fewest he has seen in the days since he arrived in Swartheld. Not only that, but several of those at the piers appear to be making preparations to cast off. Is it because the masters of the departed vessels have seen something, either at Estheld or on the river? Or something else? That possibility concerns him. You need to keep watch on that.

That part of the shore road that runs northwest across the base of the broad point or peninsula on which the harbor fort is located affords a gentle slope, one that is not too taxing on mounts and one that would not be that difficult for wagons. Beyond the point, the road swings closer to the shore, but is a good two hundred yards back from the water and a good five yards higher.

After riding another kay and seeing nothing of great interest, just small plots of land and cots, pastures, and scattered small woodlots, Lerial is about to order a return to Swartheld proper when he sees what looks to be a small harbor in the distance to the north, possibly five kays or more away, with buildings and a mound of some sort behind them. Smoke rises from one of the structures. “I thought there weren’t any harbors between here and Baiet.”

“There aren’t, ser,” replies Jhacub.

“What’s that up there in the distance with the pier?”

“That’s the tileworks … well, I guess they make more than tiles there.”

“Do you know which merchanter?”

“No, ser.”

Lerial would be willing to wager that the owner is Maesoryk, but he supposes it doesn’t make any difference where Maesoryk’s kilns are located, except it makes sense that they’re near where there’s clay and a river or the shore. Shipping by water is far cheaper, especially for heavy goods that aren’t that high in value for their weight.

When Lerial finally returns to the palace, after circling to the west once past the road to the merchanters’ hill and taking in another, more modest area of Swartheld, where there are a profusion of small shops producing various kinds of cotton and muslin cloth, among other goods, it is slightly past third glass of the afternoon. Once back in his rooms, he finds not only clean uniforms carefully hung in the armoire in the bedroom, but an envelope on the writing desk. On the outside are two lines in ornate script:

Lerial opens it and reads the same ornate script on a simple heavy white card.

Why hadn’t Atroyan told him that the “other function” was a ball? Why such comparatively short notice? Because he doesn’t want you in Swartheld any longer … or to prove that he can put together something this ornate so quickly? Or to put you in the embarrassing position of being underdressed once more?

The last possibility seems unlikely, only because Lerial cannot see how that would benefit Atroyan, but the duke has to be more devious than he appears. Otherwise, how could he have survived, surrounded by merchanters such as those Lerial has already met?

By late afternoon, Lerial has walked more of the palace halls, visited the library once more, and found no trace of anything that resembles a legal codex. He has been standing at the west window, looking toward the west wing of the palace, for a good fifth of a glass when there is a knock on his door.

Who could that be? He checks his shields, then walks to the door and opens it.

Rhamuel stands in the corridor. “Would you like to have an early dinner with me? I’ve arranged something in the family dining room. It’s not elaborate, but it’s likely to be a long evening. Mykel and Oestyn are already there. I thought you might like to meet them in a less formal setting.”

Lerial has his doubts about whether any setting in which he finds himself in Swartheld is likely to be less formal. He smiles. “I’d appreciate that. Now?”

Rhamuel nods. “Then we’ll have time to attire ourselves more suitably.”

“More suitably in my case is merely a clean uniform.”

“The ladies may find that more appealing than excessive gilt. Shall we go?”

Lerial nods and steps out into the hallway, closing the door behind himself. As they begin to walk, he says slowly, “I have to admit that I’ve been to all of a handful of balls in my entire life, and that I know only the basics of dancing … and none of the protocols or customs of an Afritan ball. Am I supposed to arrive early, on time, or slightly late? With whom am I supposed to dance? In what order?”

Rhamuel smiles. “You obviously know enough to ask the right questions.”

“Well?”

“You shouldn’t be early, but only slightly late, and you should arrive before the duke. No one dances until he and Haesychya do. Then, since you’re the second most important person there, you should ask her for the second dance … while I dance with my niece, and then we switch partners. If you had a consort, of course, Atroyan would dance with her, but since there is no one of suitable rank he will watch the second and third dances. He may reclaim Haesychya from me during the third dance. After that, you may dance with whom you please, but without obviously favoring any man’s consort.”

“What about Natroyor? Who will he dance with and when?”

“There’s no one here appropriate for him in the first three dances. After that he can dance with whomever he wishes. There will certainly be some unconsorted young women.”

“What about those unconsorted young women? How do I tell the difference?”

“How do you tell in Cigoerne?”

“Their head scarves are edged in silver.”

“That’s no different here.”

“And I presume no more than two dances in a row with the same partner, unless that partner is one’s own consort.”

“You see … you know how it works.” Rhamuel pauses. “I understand that you rode through other parts of Swartheld today.”

“We rode past the harbor and a ways north…”

“The duty rankers at Harbor Post reported seeing you.”

“It seemed to me that there weren’t many ships tied at the harbor piers. Several still in port were casting off, and I didn’t see any others coming in.”

“Sometimes that happens.”

“But if it doesn’t change…”

“You think that it means Khesyn is up to something?” asks the arms-commander almost rhetorically. “I’ve thought of that, but he may just be spreading rumors to scare off ships.That can prove costly. If they think there is likely to be war, outland merchanters won’t port in Estheld or Dolari, either.”

“Speaking of merchanters,” ventures Lerial, “I have a question about the dinner last night.”

“Only one?”

“Several, but one in particular struck me. In Shaelt, you introduced me to Fhastal, as one of the most important merchanters in Afrit…”

“But he wasn’t at table last night. You wish to know why?”

“It might be useful,” replies Lerial dryly.

“There are two reasons. First, he is a Kaordist. Second, he and Aenslem cannot stand each other.”

“But you said … Fhastal’s consorted to his daughter.”

“That doesn’t matter. His daughters are consorted to the two most powerful men in Afrit, besides himself.”

How can it not matter? And a Kaordist? A follower of the dual god/goddess? “Is his dislike so strong because of Fhastal’s belief?”

“Partly, I suppose. Aenslem says that order and chaos just are, and to make a deity out of them is just foolish. For your information, he doesn’t believe in the Rational Stars, either.”

“If belief is only one reason…”

“The other is that Fhastal has advanced credit to several merchanters in difficulty at a time when, had they failed, Aenslem could have purchased their merchanting houses for a fraction of their worth.”

“But his daughter would benefit.”

Rhamuel shrugs. “I don’t pretend to understand.”

“He can’t have only advanced credit to those whom Aenslem wanted to buy or take over.”

“No … Fhastal has a few more-I wouldn’t call them enemies-but those less charitably inclined.”

“Who else might be foremost? Perhaps Maesoryk?”

“Why do you think that?”

“From his position at the table, he must be one of the more powerful and wealthy merchanters. He’d have the golds to do the same thing.”

“Thanks true. He’s certainly one of those who doesn’t view Fhastal as favorably as he might. He wanted to buy some timberlands west of Baiet from an old landholding family. They were heavily in debt to a countinghouse out of Estheld. Why there, I never knew. Shalaara got wind of it somehow and advanced golds so they could pay off the debts. No one else would, and she had to borrow the golds she advanced from Fhastal. Maesoryk must have wanted the lands badly. The family had already had a few spot fires, possibly camma trees, since the lands weren’t that well managed, but Maesoryk ended up buying the lands anyway. It cost him more, and he’s not forgiven either Shalaara or Fhastal.”

“Why did she do it? Were they friends?”

Rhamuel shakes his head. “More golds. They got a quarter more than they would have, so I heard, and she got a fifth of that plus the usury charges refunded.”

In a way, Lerial has to admire Shalaara, even as he reminds himself that trusting any of the Afritan merchanters is chancy … and dangerous … as witness what happened to Valatyr … although he still has no idea which merchanter had hired the assassin … or why, except possibly to weaken Rhamuel. “Why did Maesoryk want the lands? Do you know? I thought he was into kilns and ceramics and tiles. Or did he need to provide for a younger son … or heir?”

“He’s never said, except that he thought they’d pay off in time. It couldn’t be for a younger son. He only has one. Three daughters, though. Maybe he worked out something on transport with Alaphyn. Those two are close.”

“So … one way or another, Fhastal’s credit has cost both Aenslem and Maesoryk golds, and likely resulted in Fhastal getting some of the smaller merchanting houses anyway because they couldn’t pay him?”

“He wins either way. He either gets the usury or whatever they put up to get the golds.”

“That suggests that he’s as wealthy as Aenslem.”

“He may be wealthier. He’s not as powerful. Too many people dislike him.”

Lerial nods. “Thank you. I see.” What he doesn’t see is why Rhamuel maintains a close relationship with Fhastal, or one that seems close. Keeping close to a potential enemy of the duke … or cultivating an ally not close to Atroyan and Aenslem … just in case? He does have one other question. “How does Aenslem feel about Jhosef?”

Rhamuel laughs softly and sardonically. “Not at all. Neither does Atroyan.”

“But why…?”

“Favor at table results in lower prices for the palace. Jhosef knows the feelings, but wants the position. He’ll be here this evening, although you’ll only see a brief encounter between him and Aenslem. Fhastal will be also, but he and Aenslem may not even meet. If they do meet…”

“It will be most cordial and polite.” Because neither will give the other the satisfaction of being upset or giving way to poor manners.

“Everything will be polite and cordial this evening.” Rhamuel stops outside the open door to the dining room. “There will only be the four of us eating.” Then he leads the way inside.

Two men stand near a serving sideboard on which are arrayed several platters with food, although Lerial cannot see what that might be from the other side of the chamber.

“Mykel … this is Lord Lerial. Lerial, my younger brother Mykel.”

For some reason, Lerial has pictured Mykel as slight, almost feminine, but the youngest of the three brothers is barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, with an open smile and the same warm brown eyes and hair as Rhamuel. He is perhaps a digit or so taller than his older brother, and definitely taller than the duke. His face is smooth-shaven and youthful, suggesting he is one of those men who look youthful until they suddenly age, although Lerial doubts Mykel is more than fifteen years older than Lerial himself, at the most. He also carries more of the black of order than most people, almost enough that he might have some slight order-handling skills.

Mykel inclines his head and says, “I’m very pleased to meet you. Rham has spoken of you most favorably, particularly of your prowess with arms.” He shakes his head self-deprecatingly. “Much to our sire’s regret, and that of my brothers, I have proved less than adept with any form of weapon.”

“But he is most skilled with a paintbrush,” says Rhamuel. “The fellow with him is Oestyn, the youngest son of merchanter Jhosef, whom you met the other night…”

“The largest merchanter in dairy and cheese and related goods?”

“The very same,” replies Oestyn. “The uncoroneted deity of all things caprine and bovine, and, of course, dried mutton, the staple of the crafter and peasant. He is a great supporter of what he calls natural.” Oestyn is slightly shorter than any of the others, and more slender, if muscular, with bright green eyes and short but curly blond hair.

“We have wine and lager, and the food on the sideboard,” announces Mykel, “thanks to Rham’s persuasiveness with the palace cooks. And some excellent provisions from Oestyn’s sire.”

Oestyn murmurs something into Mykel’s ear.

“As the honored guest, Lord Lerial, perhaps you would begin,” Mykel goes on.

“‘Lerial,’ please, except where required by custom and ceremony.” Lerial cannot say what prompts his qualification, other than perhaps Oestyn’s description of his father, and he quickly adds, “Certainly not here.” He takes one of the large plates stacked at one end of the sideboard and moves toward the platters. He pauses, looking at the platters. He recognizes the rice as the same kind that had been truffled at the dinner the night before, but it has been prepared with mushrooms and a butter sauce. There are also new green beans with slivered almonds, and slices of fowl with a tannish sauce. He does not recognize the last dish-some sort of shredded meat with a pale green sauce.

His hesitation must have been noted, because Oestyn says, “The last dish is shredded pork with green saffron. It’s an Atlan dish and very spicy.”

Lerial serves himself a small portion, then adds more of the rice, after which he pours himself a beaker of light lager. When he turns back to the table, he sees that four places have been set, two on each side of one end of the table. He lets Rhamuel take a seat, and then sits across from him, leaving Mykel to sit beside him, and Oestyn, who sits down last, beside Rhamuel.

“No toasts, no formality,” says Rhamuel.

Mykel nods.

“I hadn’t heard that you were here in Swartheld at present,” Lerial says, looking to Mykel.

“Not for long. We’ll be leaving for Lake Reomer early tomorrow morning,” Mykel replies. “We’re staying because Oestyn likes the music at the balls. So do I, but that’s because he’s taught me about it.”

“Music was not to be studied in the palace, not by sons, at least, and since Father had no daughters … there was little music,” explains Rhamuel.

“And not verse, either?” suggests Lerial after taking a swallow of the lager.

“Verse was worse,” declares Mykel. “As bad as marionettes and puppetry.” A certain irony infuses his last phrase.

“Yet,” says Oestyn with knowing smile,

“When words spoken come from the soul,

All praise to the man who is whole.”

“That’s from Maorym,” says Mykel. “He’s one of the best poets in Afrit, indeed in all Hamor. The lines of his that I like best are these:

“Fair words, like trees, must seek receptive ground,

For logic’s chill is worse than stony ground.”

“But then, Father wouldn’t have understood that, would he?” With the question, Mykel looks not to Rhamuel, but to Oestyn.

“From what you’ve said…” demurs Oestyn gently.

“Did you study verse and the great poets of Cyador?” Mykel asks Lerial.

“My father is not the greatest enthusiast of verse,” replies Lerial, and that is an understatement, “but I have read some of the old Cyadoran verse.” Rather than say more, Lerial takes a small bite of the Atlan pork, followed by some of the rice.

“Can you quote any?”

His mouth full, Lerial shakes his head.

“That’s too bad. I’d hoped…”

“Some of us have been trained in skills that allow others the liberty of writing and enjoying verse,” Rhamuel says dryly.

“What else have you studied?” presses Mykel.

Lerial finishes what he is eating, then takes a swallow of the lager before replying, since the Atlan pork is not so much spicy as throat-searing and nose-burning, small as the mouthful he took had been. Finally, he speaks. “History, geography, practical mathematics, grammar and logic, the basics of engineering. Later on, with Majer Altyrn, I learned about strategy, tactics, and maps … And … of course, blades.”

“The education of an officer,” says Oestyn blandly.

“You should be glad of it,” Rhamuel responds. “He kept Luba from suffering great destruction.”

“No great loss,” sniffs Mykel.

Oestyn nods, if only slightly.

Lerial understands that the purpose of the dinner is not just to make sure he is fed. Even so, he is hungry, and he takes a bite of the more succulent fowl, a far larger bite, and far more to his taste, he discovers.

“Perhaps not to the builders of poetic epics,” says Rhamuel, “but that damage would have resulted in reduced tariffs … and you know how the duke would have felt about that.”

The duke? Very interesting. Rhamuel’s choice of words in what is almost a family dinner is most suggestive.

“He’d use it to cut my stipend. You don’t have to remind me, Rham.”

“Sometimes, I do.” The arms-commander’s words are gentle.

“You’d think verse and painting were an offense against the laws.”

“Just a privilege allowed by the laws,” Lerial finds himself saying, “and made possible by those who defend them.”

“Lerial … you sound like my brother here. No wonder he likes you.”

“We share many similarities.” Lerial makes his words both light and wry.

Oestyn smiles, but Lerial finds the expression both defensive and somehow predatory.

“Are you here to court my niece?” asks Mykel.

“Not that I know of,” replies Lerial. “I was invited by your brother, and according to his invitation, it was because I rendered some assistance to Afrit against Duke Khesyn.”

“The barbarian of Heldya,” sniffs Oestyn. “He pursues anything with a head scarf, especially those close to him or his favorite merchanters, and if his pursuit is not successful, then those merchanters fall out of favor … and sometimes permanently out of sight. Some men can be so…”

“Uncultured?” suggests Lerial.

“Precisely,” agrees Oestyn.

“Khesyn wouldn’t know a verse if it paraded before him wearing nothing but a head scarf,” adds Mykel.

“Especially if it wore nothing but a head scarf,” corrects Oestyn.

“I understand you also paint,” Lerial says, trying not to hurry, but definitely wanting to change the subject.

“Mykel is quite adept with pastels,” says Rhamuel. “He did a beautiful portrait of Kyedra.”

“It was one of my best,” admits Mykel. “I don’t do many portraits. I prefer landscapes. There’s a beautiful scene at the lake…”

Less than a third of a glass later, Rhamuel clears his throat and rises. “I’m glad we could get together, but I have several matters to attend to before tonight’s entertainment, and I believe Lerial does as well.”

“Unfortunately, I do.” Lerial stands. “I do appreciate the chance to meet both of you. I assume you will be at the ball.”

“We will be,” replies Mykel. “Oestyn and I wouldn’t wish to displease our brother the duke.”

“Then I’m sure we will see each other there.” Lerial inclines his head politely, then leaves with Rhamuel.

Neither man speaks until they are well away from the dining room.

“I thought you should hear what Mykel has to say in less formal circumstances.”

Lerial isn’t quite sure what to say, but finally manages, “He’s not quite what I’d thought. After meeting everyone else, I’d expected someone … less robust-looking.”

“Oh … for all his love of painting and verse, he’s an excellent rider, and he’s swum across Lake Reomer any number of times. He could be good with a blade. He’s actually rather accomplished with a staff, but he says blades make him ill.”

They might at that. Lerial just nods and says, “I’ve heard that edged weapons, even knives, can do that to some people.”

“It’s a good thing you and I don’t have that problem.” Rhamuel stops at the foot of the staircase. “I’ll see you tonight. I do have to check and see if there are any dispatches.”

“Until then.”

Lerial makes his way back to his quarters at a measured pace, thinking. He is more than a little confused by Mykel. While he can understand Mykel’s inclinations, he wonders why the youngest brother is so outspoken, when both Rhamuel and Atroyan are so much more cautious in their language. Does he really feel that way … or is it a way of removing himself from any consideration as a successor to Atroyan? And then there was the remark about puppetry, offhand, and yet said ironically. Because he feels his father made him feel like a marionette on strings? One thing continues to remain true, and that is that nothing in Swartheld is quite what it seems to be, or that what it seems to be is far from all that it is.

Once he is back at his rooms, he immediately checks with Polidaar, but there are no messages or problems. So, after washing up and donning one of his newly cleaned uniforms, Lerial departs from his quarters. He takes a narrow staircase in the middle of the palace, well away from the duke’s personal quarters, to head up to the fourth level, which, for some reason, is where the Crimson Ballroom is located, on the southwest end of the west wing of the palace. As he walks up the steps, he raises a concealment, only after letting his order-senses let him know when no one is near the stairway door. Then he continues to the west wing, where he positions himself outside the vaulted arch leading into the ballroom. From what he can tell, it is about a third before seventh glass when he arrives. There are already a number of people in the ballroom. That, he can sense. He can also hear the musicians playing, but a slow melody unsuited to dancing.

A couple arrives, and they are greeted by Dafaal, at least, from the voice and posture, Lerial believes that to be the functionary.

“Minister Cyphret … welcome to the ball.”

Behind them is another couple, and several others are walking toward the ballroom from the top of the grand staircase. Others seem to be standing around the top of the staircase. Lerial eases along the side of the corridor back toward the staircase, where he takes up a position behind one of the ornate stone balustrades that curve away from the top of the steps and all the way around the balcony overlooking the staircase. From there he hopes to overhear what at least some of the people might say.

“… ridiculous … climbing three flights of steps to a ballroom…”

“… there’s more of a breeze up here … cooler…”

“… nuisance … don’t care if he owes something to the young heir of Cigoerne…”

“… yes, dear … you look wonderful … and we’re only a bit early. I’m only a subcommander, and that means I mustn’t be late…”

Lerial wonders who the officer is, because his voice is unfamiliar … but then with close to ten battalions in and around Swartheld, there have to be at least several senior officers that he has not met.

“… said to be young and ruthless in battle…”

“… so bad about that in dealing with that barbarian from Heldya?”

He can also sense that the women all wear ankle-length dresses or gowns, the first time he has seen that in Swartheld, but it would have been the same in Cigoerne.

“… just like the duke … ball with little notice … have to come…”

“… you like being invited … don’t complain … be far worse if you weren’t…”

While Lerial has hoped to glean at least some passing information, he only hears what he had already half expected to hear, and at just slightly before seventh glass, he slips to the side of the corridor almost in a corner and drops the concealment, then follows a white-haired couple-something he can see since the woman has let her head scarf drop into a filmy shawl.

Once Dafaal ushers the older pair into the ballroom, he turns to Lerial. “If you would wait just a moment, ser,” says Dafaal. “You and the duke must be announced.”

“Whatever is necessary,” replies Lerial.

A young-faced but gray-haired man with a younger woman approaches.

“Minister Dohaan, Lady…” offers Dafaal before Lerial can step back, “since you are both here, might I present you to Lord Lerial.”

Dohaan? Oh … the minister for roads and harbors.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lord Lerial.” Dohaan smiles politely and inclines his head.

His consort merely inclines her head, letting the head scarf slip off her black hair and around her shoulders, permissible inside and at a ball.

“And I’m pleased to meet the minister responsible for highways and harbors, especially since we have no harbors whatsoever … and to see you, Lady.”

As Dohaan and his consort pass, Dafaal looks back along the corridor, then smiles. “Here comes the duke.”

Lerial catches sight of Atroyan and Haesychya, flanked by a pair of palace guards. Atroyan wears a crimson dress uniform, trimmed in gold, but one somewhat different from the one he had worn the evening before. Haesychya wears a silver-streaked deep purple silk that flows yet suggests a still-youthful figure. Her head scarf is not even over her hair, but is draped loosely around her neck. Behind them are Natroyor and Kyedra.

“You’ll be announced first. Just walk to the dais that holds the musicians,” says Dafaal, then turn and wait for the duke and his lady.

“And once he’s there, he starts the dancing?”

“More or less,” interjects Rhamuel, who has approached from the staircase, rather than from the side corridor used by Atroyan and Haesychya.

Atroyan smiles pleasantly as he nears, then looks to Dafaal.

“All is ready, ser.”

“Then we should proceed.”

Dafaal steps into the chamber and waits for a moment. The musicians stop playing. Then a hornist steps forward and plays a short fanfare.

“The honorable Lord Lerial, overcaptain of the Mirror Lancers of Cigoerne.”

As he enters the Crimson Ballroom, Lerial is aware that most, but not all, of those gathered have turned in his direction. He walks deliberately, trying not to hurry, but not to be unduly and solemnly slow. His eyes take in the musicians on the dais, most of whom appear to be holding largely stringed instruments ranging from violin to cello, with the exception of two horns and a flute. When he reaches a spot below the dais, he stops and turns.

The hornist plays a second fanfare, longer and more elaborate.

“His Excellency Atroyan, Duke of Afrit, and the Lady Haesychya.”

Lerial watches as Atroyan and Haesychya enter the ballroom. Kyedra, with Rhamuel on her right and Natroyor on her left, follows, several yards behind. Lerial takes the time to study the duke thoroughly with his order-senses. Then he nods. Like his youngest brother, the duke is not order/chaos-balanced, but just faintly weighted toward order. Not so much overweighted to order, as underweighted in chaos.

Once the duke and Haesychya and those following him join Lerial, the couples in the middle of the ballroom move to the sides. Atroyan gestures to the musicians, and they begin to play, a melody with an almost stately rhythm. The couple moves, if not gracefully, with a certain ease around the ballroom, making three circuits and coming to a halt in front of the musicians. The music ends.

As instructed by Rhamuel, Lerial eases toward Haesychya. “If I might have the honor of the next dance…” His words are ambiguous because he does not know whether he should be asking Atroyan or his consort.

“She’ll be more than pleased,” declares Atroyan.

“I’d be honored.” Haesychya’s voice is low, but firm, and Lerial catches a glimpse of iron in the momentary glance she levels at the duke.

As the music starts again, Lerial takes Haesychya’s hand, noticing that Rhamuel has appeared from somewhere with Kyedra. “I trust you will pardon any missteps I might make, but I’ve danced less than a handful of times over the past five years.” He has no real idea what the dance might be, but follows the movements of others.

“Then you won’t have made a habit of stepping on your partner’s feet.”

Lerial finds himself surprised by the warmth and gentle humor in those words. “That’s true, and I’ll try not to begin such a habit.”

After a few moments of feeling awkward, Lerial suddenly realizes that dancing is much like sparring, in that he only has to let himself sense the flow of order around Haesychya and respond to that flow.

“For a man so young,” Haesychya says after several moments, “you reveal less than most.”

“You mean that most young men reveal everything, and I’m somewhat less open than that.”

“You’re open enough. That openness reveals surprisingly little.”

“Perhaps because there’s little more to reveal.” Lerial keeps his words light, almost sardonic.

“I have my doubts about that, Lord Lerial.”

“Please … no titles … even if it is in public … or half public. How did you meet Atroyan?”

“It wasn’t a matter of meeting.” Her words are cool.

“I see.” Just as whoever you consort, assuming you survive to consort, will not be a matter of meeting.

“I think you do.”

“How could I not? I apologize for the thoughtlessness of the question.”

“It must be the dancing. That’s the first time I’ve heard, or heard of, a thoughtless comment from you. Perhaps I should keep you dancing and ask you questions.”

“You can ask any question you like.”

“What do you think of Kyedra?”

“I scarcely know her. I like what I’ve seen, and especially what I’ve heard.”

“And my consort?”

Lerial smiles. “I’ve seen more of him, and yet I’ve seen less. He seems to be a man walking a narrow path whose greatest abilities are those best left unseen.”

Haesychya laughs so softly that Lerial can barely hear her. After a moment, she shakes her head. “I fear you are wasted as the second heir, necessary as you are as the real arms-commander of Cigoerne.”

“I’m not the arms-commander. In time, perhaps, but not now.”

“I might better have said the champion of Cigoerne. Do not argue with that.”

“Since that is a command, I shall obey.” Lerial keeps his voice light.

“You mistake me, Lerial. I never command.”

“Then I accede to your wishes. Certainly, you have wishes?”

“Don’t we all?”

“What else do you wish for?”

“That the ceaseless fighting would end.”

“It will end only when Hamor is one land … and then it will resume intermittently with other lands.”

“Are you a prophet?”

“I’ve been tutored in history, and that is one of its lessons.”

“Yet you don’t claim to be a historian.”

“I don’t know enough to claim that.”

“You noticed that Mykel is not able to bear weapons, not those with blades…”

Lerial avoids the trap by saying, “That is what he has told me. I have no reason to doubt that.”

“Why not? It is clear you have no aversion to doubting … when necessary.”

“I am most certain that his stance on weapons has been put to the test. Rhamuel has informed me that Mykel is most adept with a staff. That suggests that he is not averse to violence, or even killing, only to edged weapons.”

“A staff…” Haesychya gives the tiniest of headshakes.

“Hardly the weapon of a ducal legacy, you fear.”

“I know … sadly.”

Why is she bringing this up? “A lance is little more than a longer staff with a point.”

“If I’m not mistaken, Mirror Lancer officers do not carry lances.”

“Not any longer. The Emperor Lorn did. So did the Emperor Alyiakal. The lesson might be that we should,” Lerial keeps his tone light.

“Times change.”

“They do.”

“Are you always so agreeable?”

“In public I do my best not to be disagreeable. In private, I try harder. I don’t always succeed.”

Before Lerial knows it, the dance is ending, and Haesychya turns to him.

“For someone who has seldom danced, you’re excellent.”

“Thank you, but it’s only because you’re an excellent dancer. I just followed what you wished to do.”

A faint smile crosses Haesychya’s face. “Wise man. Would that more understood that.” She inclines her head. “Thank you. I did enjoy that.”

“Perhaps later?”

“Perhaps, but now…”

“I should see to Kyedra.”

Haesychya nods.

Lerial inclines his head. “My thanks for the dance, Lady.”

Haesychya does not reply, except by inclining her head in return.

Lerial steps back, then turns to where Kyedra stands beside Rhamuel, the arms-commander almost guarding his niece, or so it seems. Lerial can well imagine Rhamuel doing the same with Amaira … and he swallows.

Studying Kyedra as he steps toward her, Lerial sees that she is also wearing a gown of flowing silk, of a color he can only describe as an intense pale green with the slightest hint of golden lime, trimmed, of course, in silver, with a matching silver-trimmed head scarf. He cannot imagine a color that would look any better on her, although there must be some. He can also sense the strength of the black order within her, far the deepest of all of her family.

“Might I have the honor of the dance?” Lerial smiles as warmly as he can.

“You might, Lord Lerial.”

“Thank you, Lady Kyedra.” His words are gentle, if with just a touch of humor.

“I’m not…”

“And neither am I. ‘Lerial,’ please.”

“Then you might … Lerial.”

“Thank you, Kyedra.”

The music begins, and Rhamuel is already dancing with Haesychya before Lerial takes Kyedra’s hand, or rather barely more than her fingertips. For several steps, he is hesitant, until he can adjust to her reactions to the music, a piece just slightly faster than the previous one.

“Have you been to many balls?”

“Every one since I turned eighteen. Father only allowed me two a year after I was sixteen.”

“I doubt if I’ve been to as many in my entire life as you were between sixteen and eighteen.”

“That is not the greatest of losses.”

Several couples away, Lerial sees Mykel dancing with a much older woman.

“Who might that be with your Uncle Mykel?”

“That’s Nelyani. She’s Maesoryk’s consort. Properly speaking, he ought to be dancing with the consort of the head of the Merchanting Council. That would have been Grandmother, but…”

“She’s … no longer with you?”

“She never was. Not with me. She died having Uncle Mykel.”

“Thank you. I’d wondered about that.” Lerial pauses, then asks, “Your grandfather never took another consort?”

“No.”

The reply is so cold and short than Lerial immediately says, “I’m sorry. I did not mean to pry.”

“It’s not you. Some other time, if you would, we might talk about it.”

“You dance well … far better than I.”

“I don’t notice you having any trouble, and you haven’t stepped on my shoes the way Uncle Rham did.”

“That’s because I’m following the hints you give.”

For a moment, Kyedra stiffens.

“I mean, if I start to go the wrong way, you move away. So I just stay with you.”

“You can sense that?” There is a hint of surprise in her voice.

“If I pay attention, and I’m trying very hard to do that.”

A smile crosses her face, and Lerial can’t help but smile back. He says, “You have a lovely smile.”

“I suppose you tell all the women that.”

Lerial manages not to frown as he considers the question. “No. I’ve only told my cousin that.”

“You actually thought about it. I’m flattered. Or were you thinking about who else you said that to and whether I’d find out?”

“I haven’t told anyone that they have a lovely smile except Amaira.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m particular, I suppose.”

“What about women who did and you didn’t tell?”

“Majer Altyrn’s consort has a lovely smile, but she’s almost old enough to be my mother.”

“And you’re comparing me to her?”

Lerial grins, then says slowly, “Well … there are some similarities…”

Kyedra laughs. “I like that.”

As the music comes to an end, Lerial guides her back to where Rhamuel and Haesychya stand, then inclines his head. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.” There is just the slightest emphasis on the word “you.”

Mykel steps up to take Kyedra’s hand, and Lerial moves away.

For the next glass or so, Lerial dances with a number of women, ranging in age from unconsorted girls to dowagers with white hair, making certain to dance only once with each, and being careful to limit his comments to pleasantries. He sees both Oestyn and Mykel dancing with a number of women, but notes that neither Atroyan nor Rhamuel-nor Haesychya-dance that often.

Then, Lerial notices Dafaal moving across the ballroom to Rhamuel. The functionary leans toward the arms-commander and says something. Rhamuel nods, and the two walk toward the ballroom entry. Lerial cannot determine what happens next because of the swirl of dancers, but he doesn’t like what he has seen.

He puts on a smile and asks the bored-looking consort of a merchanter, who is talking to another merchanter, to dance. The brunette immediately smiles and inclines her head. Her consort barely glances in her direction as Lerial leads her out into the dancers.

Two dances pass before Rhamuel returns, and Lerial immediately makes his way to join the arms-commander.

“You have a worried look,” Lerial says.

“The piers at Estheld are crowded with merchanters. This afternoon until just before sunset a number set sail, all heading northwest out of the bay.”

“That doesn’t make sense. You don’t have any ports or places they could land to the northwest, do you?”

“Only Baiet, and if Khesyn were going to attack Swartheld, there’s little point in landing more than fifty kays northwest and then march back.”

“Do you think he’s going to attack Nubyat and try to take over Merowey?”

“That would be a problem for us both,” Rhamuel points out.

“We don’t want to support Casseon, and we don’t want Khesyn surrounding us on all borders. I assume that’s what you mean.”

Rhamuel nods.

“Where are the flatboats?”

“We don’t know. They left Luba. We all saw them leave Luba. They’re not at Estheld, not now, anyway.”

“Could they be upstream somewhere south of Swartheld?”

“It’s possible. It’s also possible that all those troopers are being loaded onto the merchanters. All we can do is watch … and wait.”

“You didn’t tell the duke.”

“I’ll tell him after the ball is over, in the family quarters, when everyone is gone. Otherwise…” Rhamuel shakes his head.

Atroyan will tell too many people? Or his reaction will be public and unpleasant? “You can’t do anything now, anyway, can you?”

“Nothing that we should. I have sent word to cancel all leaves and passes until further notice. Your men are all at headquarters, and you’re here. So enjoy what’s left of the ball.” Rhamuel smiles.

Lerial can sense that the smile is forced, but he nods. “I think it’s time to ask your niece for another dance.”

“That’s a very good idea.”

Lerial waits until the music dies, then approaches the dais, where Kyedra stands, talking to Oestyn and Mykel. “If you would…”

“I would like that.” Kyedra turns to Mykel, beside her. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I can’t compete with Lerial,” replies Mykel with a broad smile. “Nor would I wish to.”

Lerial takes her hand, and as the music begins, he takes a step, then slips into following her rhythms.

“You did wait a while.”

Lerial can see the glint in her eyes and replies, “I was instructed not to inflict my presence upon you or your mother too often.”

“Too little is as bad as too often. For that, you should pay.”

“Oh?”

“You must dance the next one with Mother, and then again with me.”

“I can do that.”

“Can?”

“I can dance with your mother and would enjoy dancing with you after that.”

Kyedra offers a shy smile, but does not look directly at Lerial.

As they continue to dance, he finds even the shy smile charming, especially the warmth beneath it.

“You didn’t dance with any unconsorted girls, did you?”

“Only once with any one.”

“Why not more often?”

“It didn’t seem … appropriate.”

“Do you care what other people think?”

“It all depends on what they think and why. Sometimes, they have good reasons. Sometimes, they don’t. And sometimes, even when they have the worst of reasons, you can cause even worse problems by not considering why they think the way they do.”

“You sound like Mother.”

“Not like your father?”

“No … my mother … but we shouldn’t talk about that.”

“Thank you.” Lerial’s words are low, but warm, trying to convey that he understands what she has revealed by the way in which she has changed the subject.

“You understand, don’t you?”

Lerial is afraid he does. “People always think that men are the wisest. Often men should listen to their sisters, aunts, mothers, or consorts … and have the wisdom to know whom to heed and to what degree. Not that they shouldn’t listen to men as well, but they should be skeptical.”

“Why should they be more skeptical of men?” There is a hint of amusement in Kyedra’s voice.

“Anyone who has power needs to be skeptical, but a sister, a consort, or a daughter is more likely to have a man’s interest at heart.”

“Because his successes or failures will affect her more?”

“Isn’t that true?” Lerial asks gently.

“From what little I have seen, I fear so.”

“And you dislike being a hostage to any man’s weaknesses?”

“Or his strengths,” Kyedra replies firmly, if quietly. “Do you think that is awful?”

“No.” Lerial struggles for a moment, trying to think who it is that Kyedra reminds him of. Emerya! They’re not the same, but there is a definite similarity. “Your mother is a strong person, in a quiet way.”

“She has to be.”

“Both quiet and strong?”

Lerial can feel and sense Kyedra’s nod, although she does not speak.

“I haven’t seen your brother…”

“He’s taking advantage of his position and that he can go anywhere in the palace.”

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

“Not for him,” replies Kyedra dryly. “He does have enough sense-or cunning-to offer to show the palace to women who are already consorted and whose consorts don’t seem to care. They’re the men who have other interests.”

As the music of the dance dies away, Lerial guides Kyedra back to the edge of the dais, where Rhamuel stands. Lerial glances at the arms-commander, who gives a small shake of his head, then turns to Kyedra. “Thank you. I enjoyed the dance.”

She only smiles and inclines her head.

Lerial turns to Haesychya, who has been standing between Rhamuel and Atroyan. “If I might have the next dance?”

Like her daughter, Haesychya merely smiles and nods, belatedly murmuring, “Of course, Lord Lerial.”

Neither speaks for several moments, and Lerial finally says, once they are out of earshot of Kyedra and Atroyan, “You have a lovely daughter, you know?”

“Lovely? That is a word men use when they don’t know what else to say.”

For an instant, Lerial is taken aback and can say nothing. “Perhaps I should have said that she has a lovely smile and that she is quite perceptive and very good-looking.”

“Perhaps you should have.”

Lerial thinks there is a hint of amusement in her words, but he is anything but certain about that. “As are you, Lady.”

“Flattery, yet.”

“Truth … and you and I both know it.”

“As far as the duke is concerned, you’re the wrong brother, you know?”

“I’ve known that for years.”

“Is he as charming as you are?”

“Since I don’t consider myself charming, he’s likely more so.” That is certainly true, because, so far as Lerial is concerned, charm embodies a certain elegant dishonesty, and he tries, not always successfully, he fears, to avoid dishonesty. He has some doubts about his brother on that count.

Haesychya is silent for several moments, and from the change in the patterns of order around her, Lerial has the feeling that he has surprised her, at least slightly.

“You have a sister, I understand,” he says after some silence. “I would guess that you share some attributes, and not others.”

“That is true.”

“But neither of you says more than is necessary?” he prods lightly.

“Oh, no,” Haesychya says with an amused lilt in her voice. “Sophrosynia speaks often and most cheerfully. She has to, you know. Fhastal is most sober.”

“I’d wager that for all her cheer, she says not one word that is not exactly what she meant, and that most of her words reveal nothing.”

“For someone who has not met her, that assumes much.”

Lerial laughs lightly. “Then you must tell me that I am wrong, for I wouldn’t want to hang on to a mistaken notion.”

“Ser…” After the single word, she shakes her head and laughs as well, if also quietly. After a silence, she says, “You should leave Swartheld soon. It would be for the best.”

“I was commanded, in effect, by the duke to remain until after the ball.”

“He could do no less.”

“Then I will make plans to depart soon and when it seems appropriate.” Even as he says those words, Lerial wonders if uttering them is wise.

“There is such a thing as…”

“Overstaying one’s welcome? I worry greatly about that, Lady.”

“Then we are agreed.”

“We are.” In principle, at least.

When Lerial turns from Haesychya at the end of the dance, Kyedra actually steps forward into his arms, but Lerial can sense a certain dismay from Atroyan, as well as observe a fleeting frown. Haesychya’s face reveals nothing.

“What did Mother say? She looked rather stern.”

“Besides suggesting that it is likely that I will be leaving soon?”

“She said that?”

“In effect.” Lerial does not wish to lie, but neither does he wish to depict Haesychya as unduly harsh, concerned as she is for her daughter. “I had not meant to come to Swartheld at all, but your father’s invitation was not to be refused, and I cannot overstay my welcome. That would be good for no one.”

“You’re right. One must consider these things.”

“One certainly must,” Lerial banters. “We must, must we not? Oh, the tragedy of being born into a ducal line, the endless responsibility, the unending stream of polite phrases concealing murderous thoughts … or terminal boredom with continued trivialities, punctuated with occasional unforeseen disasters, and family fallings-out that must be concealed at all costs … while smiling so often that one risks snaring bugs with one’s teeth…”

For an instant, Kyedra stiffens, and Lerial worries that he may have gone too far, but then he realizes that he must have gotten the tone just right, because the stiffness is the result of her trying to contain her laughter. Finally, she looks at him. “You’ve been so sweet, so polite, and with only a hint of not being absolutely proper … I didn’t expect…”

“Mostly … I am proper … mostly.”

“I’m glad it’s not all the time.”

“And you’re proper all the time … in public.”

“I’m to be proper all the time, anywhere.”

“Is that the dictum from your mother?”

“She doesn’t have to say anything. She just has to look.”

“I’m familiar with that.”

Kyedra doesn’t say anything for a time, and Lerial just enjoys dancing with her, realizing that it has been almost two years since he last danced, and that was at the year-turn ball at the palace, but he has no recollection of those with whom he danced, except Ryalah and Amaira.

“What are you thinking?” Kyedra finally asks.

“That it’s been years since I danced, and the only ones I remember dancing with are my sister and cousin.”

“You’re the only one I’ve danced with who isn’t either an older merchanter or officer who’s consorted … or my uncles.”

“Then I am fortunate indeed.”

“You are.” The slight hint of a smile softens the arch tone of the words.

When the dance ends, Lerial asks, “Might I have the last dance?”

“You may. It won’t be long now. Dafaal will announce the last dance, and Father and Mother will dance it together. It’s a very short dance. Father believes endings should be quick.”

After relinquishing Kyedra, Lerial glances toward Haesychya, who offers the slightest of headshakes, to which Lerial responds with a smile and a nod. He turns away and moves to a sideboard, where he takes a beaker of lager and sips it, watching and waiting.

When Lerial finally sees Dafaal stepping up onto the dais he makes his way to Kyedra.

Atroyan looks at the pair, then glances at his consort. In turn, she bends forward and murmurs something, and the duke nods, if clearly reluctantly.

Once they have moved away from the dais, letting the duke and his consort dance away from them, Lerial looks to Kyedra.

“Father says that I am not to become attached to you. At least, not now.”

“That has many meanings.”

“I’m sure you have thought of them all.”

“And you haven’t?”

Kyedra’s smile turns mischievous. “I might have missed one or two.”

“There are only so many heirs in Hamor.”

“What if I don’t want to consort an heir?”

“Then I imagine you’ll have to settle for an old and very wealthy merchanter,” replies Lerial.

Kyedra grimaces.

“Unless, of course, Khesyn poisons his consort, or Casseon needs another one.”

“You don’t mention Cigoerne,” she banters back.

“My mother is most healthy, and as a healer, with my aunt the head healer watching over her, she is unlikely to suffer any strange maladies.” Lerial tilts his head. “There might be a tall barbarian among the Tourlegyn clans of Atla, one who worships the Chaos Demons most assiduously.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Just exploring the possibilities.”

Lerial realizes that the duke and Haesychya are approaching the dais, and that Dafaal is stepping out in front of the musicians. “The last dance is very short.”

“I did tell you Father believed in swift endings.”

When the music ends, Dafaal announces, “The duke bids you all good evening.”

After the last dance, Lerial looks around to see if he can find Rhamuel, but the arms-commander is nowhere to be seen. There’s nothing you can do in the middle of the night.

“Who are you looking for?” asks Kyedra as Lerial escorts her toward her parents.

“Your uncle Rhamuel.”

“He never stays to the end.”

“And your brother?”

Kyedra shrugs. “I cannot speak for him.”

“Then I should escort you back to your quarters.”

“That would be most gracious,” interjects Haesychya, her voice pleasant, but not especially warm.

Given that permission, Lerial begins to walk with Kyedra and her parents back to the family quarters, where he hopes Rhamuel is waiting. He cannot help but notice that Mykel and Oestyn have vanished as well.

“Too bad your brother couldn’t have come,” observes Atroyan, looking back at Lerial. “Is he much like you?”

“I’m not the best one to answer that. Brothers can be very alike, but they’re still very different people.” As you should know.

“We’ll have to see about a visit … or perhaps we could send Kyedra to Cigoerne before too long.”

“All things in their time, dear,” says Haesychya warmly. “That is what you always say. You do need to see this dreadful situation with Khesyn resolved before anyone goes anywhere, don’t you think?”

“Would that I didn’t.” Atroyan shakes his head.

“He is an awful man,” Haesychya adds. “He’s likely worse than Casseon, and you know what I think of him.”

“I do indeed,” says the duke.

When they reach the guards posted at the double doors, Kyedra turns to Lerial. “I’m glad you walked back with us.”

“So am I.”

She smiles again, then turns and enters the quarters under Haesychya’s watchful eyes, for Atroyan has already preceded his consort and daughter.

Lerial nods to Haesychya, then turns and makes his way down to his own rooms, where one lancer remains on duty.

“Keep an ear out for anything strange. Wake me if there’s anything like that.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial hopes that there isn’t, but the thought of almost no ships at Swartheld and scores at Estheld still preys on his mind.