Heritage of Cyador

VIII

On sevenday morning, Lerial is a bit surprised when it takes his force a good glass to reach the center of Guasyra, not because the road is rutted and blocked, but because the Afritan Guard post is more than four kays south of the town. The second surprise is the almost total lack of interest in the Mirror Lancers-except from several small boys who stare at the lancers from behind a porch railing on the north side of the town, which seems as though it might be a third the size of Cigoerne.

North of Guasyra are rocky hills that are closer to small mountains, and the road winds back and forth so much so that it takes the three companies almost two glasses to reach the low pass and then descend-a distance that might be less than three kays from point to point. As the road finally straightens, Lerial can make out a triangle of roads below, standing out amid the browned grass and the scattered fields and orchards. Near the bottom of the incline the road splits, with one fork heading northwest and the other northeast, but perhaps three or four kays north another and wider road running east to west connects both forks, so that the three roads create a triangle. Beyond where the western road disappears over a low rise, Lerial can see a haze of what appears to be smoke. To the east, at the edge of what appears to be the Swarth River, he can make out what must be the city of Luba, and there is only a faint blurring of the air above and around the city. He can barely see two large wagons on the east-west road, both heading east.

After another half glass, the Cigoernean force reaches the bottom of the long incline and turns onto the northeast fork. Lerial loosens his riding jacket. Somehow, the air is far warmer in the valley than it had been in Guasyra or on the top of the rocky rise. But spring is still four eightdays away. He tends to forget how much warmer it gets the farther north one travels.

They ride another three kays before the northeast fork joins the east-west road and continue on for another kay or so before entering an area where there are more fields and orchards and almost no meadows or grasslands-and where there are irrigation ditches that appear to branch off an actual canal from the Swarth River. Lerial can sense riders moving in his direction, but says nothing, since the numbers indicate only a squad.

“Riders headed this way, ser!” calls out Naedar, one of the Eighth Company scouts. “Look to be Afritan Guards.”

A third of a glass more riding, just past the first roadstone-inscribed LUBA 2K-that Lerial has seen in Afrit, brings him and his forces to another fork in the road. There a squad of Afritan Guards has reined up.

An officer rides forward and halts his mount a few yards short of Lerial. “Lord Lerial … or is it Overcaptain?” His words are in halting Cyadoran.

For a moment, Lerial does not recognize the insignia, but then he realizes that the officer greeting him is a subcommander, a rank that does not exist and never has in the Mirror Lancers, even in Cyador.

“Overcaptain, if you please.” Lerial replies in Hamorian.

“That does make matters simpler,” replies the graying officer, switching back to Hamorian.

“It’s also accurate. I’ve spent the last six years in the Mirror Lancers.” Or close enough.

“So I’ve heard.”

How much else have he and the other officers heard?

The subcommander smiles. “By the way, I’m Drusyn. Arms-Commander Rhamuel sent us to escort you to the staging area.”

“Staging area? That sounds like you’ve mustered more than a few companies here.”

“Twenty so far … officially. The arms-commander says with your three we’ll have more than five battalions.”

For just an instance, Lerial is puzzled by the figures that don’t add up. Then he grins. “I’m afraid that he’s thinking of my father.”

“From what we’ve seen, it doesn’t seem to matter which of you is in command.” Drusyn delivers the words wryly. “Your presence alone is likely to give Khesyn some pause.” After the slightest hesitation, he goes on. “We can talk later. The arms-commander would like to meet with you once you have your men settled. Oh … and I have to say that your Hamorian is absolutely perfect.”

“Speaking Hamorian well is something my grandmere insisted upon.”

“You’ll find that will be more helpful than you know.”

Because other senior officers would think you’re a barbarian if you don’t speak well. Lerial finds that amusing, given that some of the senior Magi’i in Cigoerne still believe that Hamorian is a totally barbarous tongue.

“I take it that Duke Atroyan remains in Swartheld at present.”

“He does.”

Lerial can sense that there is more that the subcommander is not saying … and likely not to offer even if asked, at least not at the moment. He also wonders about the proper time to present the miniature portrait of Amaira to Rhamuel, and if he will be able to meet with the arms-commander privately enough to slip him the portrait of his daughter. “Where are we headed?”

“The staging area is set on the duke’s lands south of Luba, right on the river. It’s at the end of the causeway that serves as a river road. This road goes there directly. That way we don’t have to ride through Luba.” A twisted smile follows those words. “It’s better that way.”

Lerial immediately worries about being directed away from the city itself, but he can sense no falsehoods or evasions … and no shields. That worries him. You’d better be ready for anything. He renews and reinforces his own shields, nodding politely. “If you would lead…”

“Of course.” Drusyn nods, then turns his mount, and starts down the more southern of the two roads, followed by the squad of Afritan Guards.

For all of Lerial’s concerns, he can sense nothing out of the ordinary for the roughly three kays that they ride before approaching a gray stone wall, with stone gateposts three yards high. The stone wall stretches a half kay in each direction before coming to a corner surmounted by a low stone tower. The walls extend eastward to the Swarth River, from what Lerial can sense. There is also another set of gates on the north wall that front the causeway that Drusyn has mentioned. The grilled iron gates in the middle of the west wall are swung open, but four Afritan Guards man them, two by each post. The guards do not move as the Afritans ride through, followed by Lerial’s three companies and the three wagons that bring up the rear. The lane beyond the gates is stone-paved, the first paved way Lerial has seen since entering Afrit almost an eightday before.

Once through the gates, Lerial can not only sense but see a structure more than twice the size of the palace in Cigoerne, if not even larger, surrounded by a score of outbuildings, all of gray stone. In the southwest corner of the walled compound is a hill, and upon it a round tower, rising higher than the main building. For a moment, Lerial is puzzled; then he nods. A water tower. To the south of the seasonal or regional palace, for that is what it must be, or something similar, are rows upon rows of tents, and south of the tents are railed corrals, filled with mounts.

Just what sort of attack does Rhamuel anticipate? What if Khesyn actually intends to attack Swartheld itself from Estheld? Or does Rhamuel have forces mustered in both places? The last possibility may be why Rhamuel-and Lerial is fairly certainly it was Rhamuel, using his brother’s seal-requested aid from Cigoerne. You’ll find out sooner or later.

Lerial’s speculations are cut short as Drusyn rides back along the paved lane and then turns his mount to ride alongside Lerial. “The arms-commander has bivouacked your forces beside the south gate. That’s a bit separate from ours, but he thought it might be best that way.”

“South gate? Does it lead anywhere?”

“Just into the hunting park, but there’s a road beside the wall that goes all the way to the west gate, and then to the north gate.”

“That’s very thoughtful on his part.” Lerial understands. Rhamuel doesn’t want him to feel that his forces would be trapped. He turns in the saddle. “Fheldar … would you have the word passed to Undercaptain Kusyl and Undercaptain Strauxyn about the quartering arrangements.”

“Yes, ser.”

Before long, Lerial and the Cigoernean companies are riding down a cleared space in the middle of the rows of tents.

“The long tents are for your men-twenty-five pallets to each tent,” says Drusyn. “We weren’t certain whether you had twenty or twenty-five men to a squad. The smaller tent is for your company officers. The arms-commander has quarters for you and the other senior officers in the country house … at your discretion, of course.”

“I’ll be the only one staying at the country house. Otherwise, it will be hard to meet with the other senior officers … besides you, of course.”

“There are more than a few who would like to meet you. It’s been years since anything like that has happened.”

“I did meet a squad leader some six years ago, north of Tirminya,” comments Lerial. “Never any officers.”

“It’s said that Duke Kiedron insists that most of his junior officers be promoted from the senior rankers.”

“Quite a number are, but there’s no requirement for that. Not that many young men of altage or Magi’i birth survived the fall of Cyador.”

“Altage…?”

“Families with a tradition of service as officers in the Mirror Lancers. Quite a number of the junior officers are the sons of former squad leaders. From your question, I would guess that many of your officers come from families who are well established in one fashion or another … but that’s just a guess on my part.” Lerial smiles apologetically.

“That’s generally true, but the arms-commander has suggested to the senior officers that we should keep our eyes open for squad leaders who have the potential to be good officers, and I have several undercaptains in my battalion who came to rank that way.”

“And you have one of the more effective battalions?”

Drusyn laughs. “I’d like to think so … but doesn’t every commander?”

“Of course,” replies Lerial with a wide grin.

“It’s been said that you have a wider range of experience in combat than most other senior officers in the Mirror Lancers…”

Lerial represses a knowing smile. He has been wondering when the probing questions might begin. “A wider range … that’s a polite way of saying that I’ve had a greater opportunity to make more mistakes in different places … and that’s certainly true. I was fortunate to serve under Majer Altyrn in the Verdyn rebellion, and I learned a great deal from him, more than I can ever repay.” And that is definitely true. “He died just two eightdays ago … I don’t know if word has reached Afrit.”

Drusyn shakes his head. “Everyone in Hamor knew of him and his exploits. I never met him, although I was a junior undercaptain when … when the duke began to build Cigoerne.”

“And you had your doubts about the wisdom of the duke’s sire in selling lands to my grandmere?”

“I did. So, I understand, did a number of others.” The subcommander shrugs. “There’s nothing more dangerous for a junior officer to be right and say anything after something has already been decided. Even then, I knew that.”

“It’s even more dangerous for senior officers,” replies Lerial dryly. Or junior heirs.

“There is that. I often thought that might have been why Commander Orekyn asked to be stipended. He died rather suddenly after that. The arms-commander-well, he wasn’t arms-commander then-he was rather upset at that … or so it’s said. I didn’t know him then.” Drusyn’s words are blandly spoken.

“Those things happen. Sometimes, it’s for the best.” Lerial could speak to that in the case of Majer Phortyn. He refrains. “Too often, it’s not.”

Drusyn gestures ahead. “Here are your tents and corrals.” There are fifteen tents set within fifty yards of the south wall, if east of all the corrals. The nearer corrals are empty.

Lerial surveys the heavy canvas tents. If this is a trap … He manages not to shake his head. The tents appear spacious and sturdy, far better than a mere bivouac. Given the preparations for his arrival, it’s most unlikely that Rhamuel intends direct treachery, which suggests Atroyan is truly desperate … or will employ indirect treachery, in letting Lerial and his forces face overwhelming odds against Khesyn’s forces. Or both. “They look far better than most places we’ve bivouacked … and better than most field quarters.”

“We think so.” Drusyn reins up. “The arms-commander believes in looking after his men.”

There is something behind those words, but Lerial cannot decipher what it might be as he halts the gelding. “That’s the sign of a good commander.”

“There are barrels of feed by the corrals … the blue tents are the ranker mess tents, the crimson one for the company officers…”

Lerial listens as the subcommander outlines the supplies and situation.

When Drusyn finishes with those details, he looks to Lerial and says, “I’ll ride back later to see how you and your men are faring and escort you over to the country house to get you settled before you meet with the arms-commander.”

“Thank you. We do appreciate it.”

“We appreciate your willingness to ride so far to assist us.”

Even with the tents awaiting them, along with several barrels of fresh water-which Lerial inspects with his order-senses-it takes him almost a glass and a half before he is satisfied. Then he meets again with Fheldar, Strauxyn, and Kusyl.

“For some necessary reasons, I’ll be staying in what the subcommander calls the ‘country house.’ I need to meet the other senior officers, and I’m supposed to meet with Arms-Commander Rhamuel before the evening senior officers’ mess. As the senior company officer among you, Kusyl will be in command in my absence…” While that is standard, because Kusyl has not been a part of Lerial’s command recently Lerial wants to emphasize that. He has barely finished going over what he expects should anything not go as anticipated when he sees Drusyn riding toward them. He remounts the gelding and rides to join the subcommander.

“The tents are quite solid,” Lerial says as he joins Drusyn.

The subcommander laughs. “They were created for a festival two years ago. The arms-commander stored them. They’re too heavy for real field use, but they have come in useful here.”

“What sort of festival?”

“I’ve forgotten the official name. It was a forest frolic or some such.”

Lerial decides against pursuing that and instead studies Atroyan’s country home, which sits on a raised knoll facing the Swarth River and rises three levels, although most likely the knoll was raised around the lower foundation. There are two wings extending from the central building, which looks to have been constructed around a center square. Those wings are parallel to the river, and comparatively narrow.

The two ride to a smaller side entrance to the north wing, with Drusyn taking the outer circular lane that curves around the paved plaza before the high pillared receiving portico before the main section of the small palace. As soon as the two officers rein up, a crimson-liveried footman hurries out, looking to Lerial and then to the subcommander.

“I trust Lord Lerial’s quarters are ready?”

“Yes, ser.” The footman turns to Lerial. “Will you be needing your mount soon, ser?”

“I may.”

“The ostlers can have him back here in less than a third of a glass,” says Drusyn quietly.

“I likely won’t need him that soon.” Lerial smiles cheerfully.

“Just let one of us know, ser.” The footman gestures, and a young stableboy in gray hurries from where he has been standing in the shadows of the entrance.

“I will see you later.” Drusyn nods, then turns his mount and rides back toward the troopers’ tents, again riding around the entry plaza.

Lerial would have been happy to carry his kit bag, but he understands the formalities and the need to let the young footman carry it inside the north wing and up a modestly wide staircase to the second level.

The chamber to which the crimson-liveried footman escorts him contains a wide double bed with an age-darkened golden oak bedstead and matching armoire, bedside tables, and writing desk, with even a weapons rack. There is a small washroom and jakes, and a tap for water. Emerya had mentioned that there was running water in the Palace of Light, but this is the first time Lerial has encountered it-except water running in a stream. Still, he makes good use of it, not only washing up, but using a damp cloth to rub away the dust and dirt on his uniforms.

He even has some time to look out the wide center window across the river toward Vyada, but outside of the tops of buildings, he can see nothing, and no sign of where Khesyn may have posted armsmen. Then there is a knock on the door.

“Lord Lerial, ser?”

“Yes?” Lerial walks to the door and opens it to see an Afritan Guard standing there, a man perhaps a year or so younger than Lerial himself.

“I’m to escort you to the arms-commander, ser.”

“Just a moment.” Lerial retrieves his father’s response to Atroyan’s “invitation” before returning. As he walks down the corridor beside the ranker, he says nothing for a few moments, then asks, “Are you attached to his staff or part of the household here?”

“His staff, ser.”

“Who are the senior officers who report to him? I’d rather not offend anyone by not knowing what everyone else does.”

“Yes, ser. I can understand that. Commander Sammyl is his chief of staff. Subcommander Valatyr is in charge of evolutions. Subcommander Klassyn runs logistics. Majer Prenyl and Captain Waell are assigned to the staff, but I don’t know their duties. I’m sorry, ser, but I’ve only been on the staff for an eightday. Oh … and the two battalion commanders are Subcommander Drusyn and Subcommander Ascaar.”

“Thank you. That will be a help.” Lerial can’t help but wonder why Drusyn greeted him, rather than the staff subcommanders, or even the majer or the captain, neither of whom would have been considered a slight. Another thought strikes him. “The Afritan Guards don’t have submajers, do they? I’ve never heard that rank mentioned.”

“No, ser. Not that I’ve ever heard, ser.”

The corridor ends at a staircase just short of what has to be the wall to the center section of the massive dwelling. So that those quartered in the wings cannot reach family quarters directly? Lerial follows the ranker to the main level and then through a set of heavy double doors guarded by two rankers who scarcely blink as the two walk into the center section of the building. The wider marble-floored corridor on the other side leads to a large central hall. From that center hall, Lerial sees the main entry to his left and another entry to a central garden courtyard down another corridor to his right. His guide takes him to a doorway on the south side of the main hall, where another guard is posted.

“Lord Lerial is here to see the arms-commander,” announces the junior ranker.

The guard raps on the door. “Lord Lerial, ser.”

After a moment, the guard opens the door. “You may go in, ser.”

Lerial steps through the door and finds himself in a small-small for the size of the dwelling-study no more than fifteen cubits by ten, containing little more than a small circular table with six chairs around it and a table desk set out from the south wall with a chair behind it … and several file chests.

Rhamuel stands, and then moves from behind the table desk toward Lerial. The arms-commander is not as tall as Lerial remembers from the one time they had met, but that was when Lerial had been only ten. The arms-commander is in fact several digits shorter than Lerial himself. His skin is perhaps a shade darker than that of Amaira, and his eyes are the same warm brown. “Welcome to Lubana, Lerial.” He speaks Cyadoran with a heavy accent, but smiles. “You’re rather taller than the last time we met, but you’ve the same red hair.”

“It has been a while, ser,” Lerial responds in Hamorian.

“‘Rhamuel’ while we’re alone, please.” This time, the arms-commander speaks in Hamorian.

“I’ll try. You’ve been the arms-commander of Afrit for as long as I can remember.” Lerial extends the document. “This is the official acceptance of Duke Atroyan’s invitation.”

Rhamuel takes the parchment and scans it quickly, then nods.

Lerial takes that moment to survey the study more thoroughly, but finds nothing of a personal nature that might reveal more about the arms-commander, although the lack of clutter and papers reveals much in itself.

“This is a bit small, but it’s mine.” Rhamuel motions toward the table, then takes one of the chairs and seats himself, setting the document on the table. “I prefer not to intrude upon my brother’s spaces whenever possible.”

Should you take the opening? Lerial decides to. “I understand that all too well.” He offers a wry smile as he sits. “Also having an older brother.”

“You and I-and your aunt-have that similarity and a few others in life and position,” says Rhamuel pleasantly.

“Being the younger sibling, so to speak,” replies Lerial.

“There is that.”

“Speaking of similarities-” Lerial slides the cloth-wrapped miniature from his riding jacket, using a slight concealment to blur it, should there be eyes in the walls, so to speak, although he can sense no one near but the guard, then slips the miniature into the older man’s hand. “-there are more than a few.”

Rhamuel takes the miniature and slides it inside his tunic, then nods. “We should talk about them sometime. How was the ride from Cigoerne?”

“Most uneventful, thankfully, and the undercaptain of the Guard in Guasyra was most helpful.”

“He should have been. He was briefed that you might arrive. One never knows, though. One’s invitations are not always accepted.” Rhamuel glances to the document on the table. “Especially in spare but elegant words backed by valuable forces and an experienced commander.”

“And one never knows in what fashion any invitation might be reciprocated,” replies Lerial. “My father would prefer that you and your brother hold Afrit, particularly since Duke Khesyn has been a continuing irritation to Cigoerne.”

“I had thought that might be so.” Rhamuel pauses. “I understand that your brother is an overcaptain as well … and that he has been dealing with Heldyan … incursions.”

“He is; he has, and he is senior to me.” If only by a few seasons.

Rhamuel nods once more. “How might your aunt be? As I am certain you have heard, I owe some injuries to your sire’s skill as a Mirror Lancer commander and my life and future to her healing abilities.”

“She is well. She heads the Hall of Healing in Cigoerne, and she is even more skilled now. She and my mother have trained a number of healers.”

Rhamuel nods. “They are reputed to be the greatest healers in Hamor. The trait must run in the blood. It is also said that you can do some field healing.”

Where did he hear that? From Emerya? Why would she reveal that? Because she thinks it will somehow help you? “I have some skills in that, but I am far less skilled than she is.” He pauses but briefly before asking, “Can you tell me how many companies Duke Khesyn has gathered … and what might be likely?”

“By fiveday, he had twenty-five companies mustered south of Vyada, and far more than fifteen in Estheld, perhaps as many as five battalions. That means we cannot move the ten battalions in Swartheld, and Commander Nythalt would prefer even more companies there.” Rhamuel shakes his head. “Even six battalions should be enough to defend against forces that have almost a kay of open water to cross, but … for obvious reasons, the duke would prefer not to allow any more Guard forces to move from Swartheld to Luba. That is another reason why your companies are most welcome.”

“I’d heard that Duke Khesyn has been gathering flatboats in Vyada.”

“He has. He does not have enough … yet. He could embark half his forces and cross downstream in the dark…”

“And then use the same flatboats again a few days later.”

Rhamuel nods. “We’ll have to see.”

Lerial suspects that, if Duke Khesyn intends to attack, he will use some variation on what Rhamuel has suggested.

“I was sorry to hear of Majer Altyrn’s death. Some would say that, with your sire, and your Grandmere, he made Cigoerne what it has become.”

Clearly Drusyn has reported to Rhamuel-unless Emerya had dispatched a letter with a trader almost as soon as Lerial had left Cigoerne … and that is possible. “He was a great man, although few know all of his accomplishments, especially those not having to do with arms or tactics.”

“I had not heard…”

Lerial decides against saying too much, but replies, “He understood canals and irrigation systems, with watergates, and he even created a brewery and a brickworks. He was a superb tactician … but I’m certain you know that…”

Rhamuel offers a wry smile. “That skill I know all too well.” He stands. “We will have to talk more, but I’m expecting Commander Sammyl momentarily with new information about Khesyn’s forces.”

Lerial rises. “I look forward to that. It is good to see you again.”

“I would hope that you will join me and the senior officers for dinner.” Rhamuel smiles, this time warmly, and adds, “And for all meals.”

“I wouldn’t miss it … once I make certain my men are fed and comfortable.”

“You should have time for that. In camp, and this is camp for those purposes, the rankers are fed at fourth glass, and the junior and senior officers at sixth glass.”

“Might I ask where the senior officers’ mess is?”

“Oh … the private dining room here in country house.”

Country house. And what exactly might the duke’s palace in Swartheld look like, or his summer palace, wherever that might be? “Thank you.”

“If you arrive early, we have refreshments in the salon across the entry hall here. Most officers manage to squeeze in a half glass before dinner.”

In other words, no later than half past fifth glass. “I should be able to manage that.” As if there’s any real choice.

Rhamuel is still smiling pleasantly when Lerial leaves, somewhat puzzled by Rhamuel’s warmth and apparent lack of deception. At least, there’s little sign of the chaos and order disruption that usually reveals deception. But then, Rhamuel has said very little, in fact nothing, that Lerial essentially does not know. Saying nothing may withhold information, but it is not providing false information.

Lerial has to wait a time for the stableboy to return with the gelding-who has been well curried-but he does get back to his companies to see that his men are indeed being fed, and fed well, and that nothing seems amiss.

Less than a glass later, after his return to the country house, he crosses the main hall from the north entrance and makes his way toward the unguarded doorway across from Rhamuel’s study. When he steps inside, he immediately surveys the salon, taking a quick count-eleven other officers, seated in various places.

A servitor in crimson and gray immediately steps forward.

“What would you prefer, ser?”

“Light or amber lager.”

“Very good, ser.” The servitor slips away.

“You must be Overcaptain Lerial.”

Lerial turns to find himself facing a black-haired officer wearing the same insignia as Drusyn wears, except the device is silver rather than bronze. “Commander Sammyl … perhaps?”

The commander smiles. “Who described me?”

“No one. The only commander anyone mentioned was you. So…” Lerial shrugs.

“We need to talk.” Sammyl guides Lerial to a pair of armchairs separated from the settees and chairs in the middle of the salon.

Lerial seats himself, accepts a beaker of lager from the servitor, who swiftly withdraws, and waits for the commander to speak.

“I have to say that I’m surprised that Duke Kiedron decided to support Duke Atroyan … although I do believe such is in his interests.” Sammyl’s black eyes focus on Lerial.

“My father, to my knowledge, has always put the interests of Cigoerne above personal feelings.” Even in dealing with family. “So did my grandmere.”

The commander nods. “Your presence would suggest that in regards to your father. I have only heard stories about the empress, but those suggest a rather … powerful personality.”

“I saw most of that in retrospect. She was unfailingly kind, if firm, in dealing with me.”

“Your presence does present … certain challenges.”

Lerial decides to let silence respond for him, although he nods and then waits, punctuating the silence with a sip of the amber lager … better than many he has tasted, but not quite so good as that brewed at Kinaar by the majer, although it had taken Lerial years to appreciate that.

“Some five years ago, a certain Mirror Lancer undercaptain destroyed, and that is, from what can be determined, an accurate summary of what occurred, an entire battalion of Afritan Guards dispatched directly by Duke Atroyan. This has not been mentioned often, but it has not been forgotten either.”

“As I recall, Commander, never has a Mirror Lancer force ever entered Afritan territory, except now, and that has only been by the invitation of the duke.” Or his seal.

“That is true,” admits Sammyl, “but it still poses a certain difficulty.”

“Because some officers might feel a certain concern? They shouldn’t, not unless they intend the Mirror Lancers or Cigoerne harm … and act on that intent.”

“I thought you might say something like that. Still … it is good to hear those words. No one of your lineage has ever, to my knowledge, broken their word … unlike some other rulers.”

Lerial has the feeling that Sammyl is not alluding to just Khesyn and Casseon. “My father has stressed the importance of keeping one’s word, regardless of the costs.” And the majer emphasized the great danger in making threats.

“Subcommander Drusyn has expressed an interest in working with you, in any instance where he would require forces additional to his battalion. Would that be satisfactory to you?”

“If it is acceptable to you and to the arms-commander,” replies Lerial, hoping his initial judgment of the subcommander is accurate.

“Good. It may not come to that, but…”

“Do you have any idea where Khesyn might first attack?”

“It’s unlikely to be anywhere but here. My best judgment is that he will attack here in order to take Luba, gain complete control of the river, and then move north until he can bring his forces at Estheld across and attack Swartheld.”

“Does he have that massive a force? What about white wizards or mages?”

“He has gained the support of several war leaders of the western Tourlegyn clans. It’s likely he’s promised them spoils. The Tourlegyns love spoils and pillaging. He is also known to have mages and white wizards, but how many … and how talented … who knows?”

“Might I ask about your forces?”

Sammyl smiles wryly. “Afrit has never been endowed with many with chaos or healing talents. So few that most are jealously guarded by the merchanters who pay them handsomely.”

Atroyan can’t command their use against invaders? That raises some disturbing concerns, but not ones that Lerial can afford to mention. Not at present.

“As I am sure you understand,” Sammyl continues, “Khesyn is likely to have the tacit support of Duke Casseon. Your presence here will likely reinforce that support.”

Wonderful! Casseon’s support of Khesyn can’t be considered unexpected after the Verdyn rebellion. Even as he thinks that, Lerial is also aware that all the other officers are keeping well away from the two of them, not that he wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing in their boots. “I doubt that he will commit armsmen.”

“Not unless we are unsuccessful.”

Lerial shakes his head. “He won’t even then. He wants Verdheln back, and he wants Cigoerne destroyed.”

“You may be right about that, but…”

“That will happen if Afrit falls … and that is why we are here.”

“I’m glad we’re both clear on that.” Sammyl shifts his weight in the armchair. “I just thought we might have a few words.” He stands. “Oh … one other thing. If you want your uniforms cleaned, bring them to the room at the foot of the stairs in the morning.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your courtesy and your directness, ser.” Lerial rises as well.

“A few last things. First, senior officers staff meeting every morning at seventh glass. Breakfast is after sixth glass, when you can get there. Second, as Lord Lerial, you’ll be seated to the arms-commander’s right at the mess at the evening meals.”

“I would trust, that in his absence, you would stand in for him,” Lerial replies. “Or the most senior Afritan Guard officer present.”

Sammyl smiles, warmly, but ironically. “It appears as though we are in agreement in many matters.”

Lerial nods. Most matters … at present.

Once Sammyl has slipped away, Drusyn appears, beaker in hand. “I see you received the commander’s welcome chat.”

“Something like that.” Lerial notes that, unless the subcommander has refilled the beaker, he has drunk very little. “Details, his general observations on Khesyn and Casseon, and where I’m to sit at the mess.”

“Unlike some senior officers, he is good with both details and larger matters.”

While Drusyn’s words are pleasant, Lerial understands the caution behind them. “I understand that can be a rare combination.”

“Very rare.” The dryness of that reply might have turned grapes to raisins instantly.

A bell chimes softly.

Lerial looks to the older officer.

Drusyn nods.

The two follow the other officers from the salon directly toward the courtyard. The private dining chamber is through the last door on the right before the center courtyard. Lerial does find himself seated at Rhamuel’s right, even though all the officers in the entire mess officially outrank him. Although the rank of overcaptain doesn’t exist in the Afritan Guard, he supposes he ranks as a majer, but that would still put him at the bottom of the table.

Once everyone is seated, Rhamuel lifts his goblet. “I’d like to offer a toast to Lord Lerial, who arrived this afternoon with three companies of Mirror Lancers. Welcome!”

After what Sammyl said in the salon and what Lerial did not hear or overhear in the salon, Lerial suspects that the meal will be more than passable and that the conversation, at least near him, will be both polite and not terribly revealing.