Cyador’s Heirs (36 page)

“No post commander does.” Graessyr steps back. “I won’t keep you.”

Altyrn nods and turns his mount toward the head of the column. Lerial follows, and in less than a tenth of a glass, the column heads out through the gates.

Over the next six days, as they ride along the north valley road, through hamlet after hamlet, the names of which few are familiar to Lerial, and those only as names on a map, roughly two-thirds of the time, at Altyrn’s suggestion, Lerial alternates riding with either Juist or Kusyl. The remaining time is spent riding with the majer at the head of the Lancers, if behind the scouts.

At night when it is dark, and when no one is looking, Lerial continues to work to strengthen his ability to hold a concealment. While he feels he is improving, there is no way to tell because any use of it around the Lancers would reveal that ability … and the ability of an officer to vanish would not be the best talent to reveal.

Close to midday on eightday, Lerial sees a line of dwellings ahead, in the middle of a patch of taller, if browning grass. To the northwest is an expanse of short brown and dusty grass as far as the eye can see. To the south, no more than three kays away, the ground rises into what must be the northern side of the western end of the Wooded Ridges, and just beyond the line of dwellings, west of a depression marked by a sparse line of trees, possibly a small stream, are the white walls, most likely mud brick, of a Lancer outpost.

“Is that Tirminya?” Lerial asks Juist.

“That’s Tirminya. Swore on the Rational Stars I’d never set eyes on the place again.”

“Why not?”

“No women, not to speak of, except in the taverns … and they’re not much to speak of. You’re always riding north to deal with poachers or south through the gap to deal with the Meroweyan raiders that sometimes hit the west end of the south valley.”

“Did the raiders used to come this far north?”

“That’s what all the older squad leaders said,” replies Juist.

“But no one wanted to move the post?”

“Move the post south, and you’d have more poachers from Afrit, maybe even come into Tirminya.”

But why …
Lerial swallows and asks, “And there aren’t enough Lancers to garrison two posts this far from Cigoerne?”

“Not for as few raiders as there are.”

“What about raids from the west?”

“Never happened. Hill folk believe in live and let live. Poachers never came back. Neither did Meroweyan raiders, I heard tell.”

Then why do the hill people want to declare allegiance to Cigoerne?
The only answer that Lerial can come up with is that Duke Casseon has moved armsmen against the hill people … or threatened to do so.
But Merowey is so much bigger than Cigoerne … Do they hate Casseon that much?
Otherwise, why on earth would they ask for protection and allegiance from Cigoerne?

After a moment, and upon reflection, Lerial understands. The hill people wouldn’t ask for allegiance with Afrit because Atroyan wouldn’t extend himself that far, and it’s more convenient for him to have the hill people as a buffer between his lands and the lands Casseon actually controls. Khesyn would see no benefit and only losses in doing so. Their only choice to maintain their way of life is to appeal to Cigoerne.

You should have seen that earlier.

At that moment, Altyrn rides forward from the rearguard and motions for Lerial to join him.

Lerial eases the gelding forward. “Ser?”

“You must know that’s Tirminya?”

“I thought it was from the Lancer post, but I asked Juist if it happened to be,” Lerial confesses.

“We’ll likely not get that warm a welcome here. The post has enough bunks, but Captain Dechund won’t relish feeding us and providing fodder. The mounts need rest. At least a day, maybe two.” Altyrn’s tone turns wry as he goes on. “We can’t afford to spend the golds your father sent to make the captain’s go farther … and Dechund will know that. He’ll understand, but he won’t like it, especially when he finds out who you are.”

“Yes, ser.” Lerial almost asks why the captain has to know, but realizes not telling the officer in charge of the entire area who he is would indicate a total lack of trust … and that is something he—
and Father
—cannot afford.

Their way leads to and through the northern third of Tirminya. The road is even more dusty as they ride through the town, a collection of mostly mud-brick structures, although there are at least two dwellings with log walls. Unlike in the hamlets to the east, and especially those near the Swarth River, most dwellings have split-wood shingle roofs, rather than tile or the thatch that Lerial has heard is used in other parts of Hamor. Only a few inhabitants are in the streets, even though it is midday and moderately warm, especially for midwinter. There is no one on the bridge or the road from it to the post.

The gate guards at the post just watch as the three squads and wagons follow Lerial and the majer inside the tall mud-brick walls, walls covered with a mud plaster and then whitewashed. So white are the walls that Lerial feels that there must be years and years of whitewash covering the plaster. The inner courtyard of the fort is paved in mud brick, a patchwork of old solid bricks, some older cracked bricks, and newer bricks.

Outside the center headquarters building waits a captain. Altyrn rides within a few yards and reins up. Lerial eases the gelding to a halt beside the majer and his mount. Dechund is a stocky man, not quite rotund, with short brown hair that is slicked down below the sides of his visor cap and deep-set eyes the color of which somehow Lerial cannot discern. His brow is lined, and Lerial would guess that he is at least fifteen, if not twenty, years older than Lerial himself. His uniform is immaculate, and his boots are polished to a shine that might well serve as a mirror. The captain looks from Altyrn to Lerial and back to the majer. “You’re back in uniform, Majer. Did something happen to Phortyn?”

“No. He’s well, or was when Lord Lerial here left headquarters.”

“Ser.” Dechund’s nod to Lerial is slightly more than perfunctory.

“I’m pleased to meet you, ser,” replies Lerial.

Before Dechund can say anything more, Altyrn continues, “There may be a dispatch for you about our mission. There may not. Duke Kiedron has dispatched us to train Lancers from among the hill people. They’ve pledged allegiance to him.”

“Getting tired of Casseon, are they?” Dechund looks as if he were about to spit, then swallows.

“Wouldn’t you?” replies Altyrn genially. “We’ll be here for two days, most likely, before we head out.” He extends the dispatch pouch. “This is yours, and the third wagon has your supplies. We also escorted your replacement squad.”

“My appreciation. You’re welcome to what we have, Majer, Lord Lerial … It’s not much, but it’s yours.”

“Undercaptain, please,” Lerial says firmly, but quietly.

“As you wish, Undercaptain.”

“No…” Lerial smiles. “As my father wishes … and as I understand, for I know far less than the captains and other senior and experienced Lancer officers.”

“Undercaptain Lerial has already proved his ability with a sabre against Meroweyan raiders, limited as his experience is,” says Altyrn smoothly.

Dechund nods once more, his smile not quite forced. “Once you’ve seen to what you must … my study is yours and at your convenience.”

“Thank you. We will join you shortly.” Altyrn offers an easy smile before turning his mount toward the stable built against or into the west wall of the post.

Lerial follows. He says nothing while unsaddling and grooming his mount.

“Leave your gear with your saddle,” Altyrn tells Lerial as he finishes. “We should meet with the captain.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial follows the majer across the courtyard, feeling that more than a few eyes are on them, hoping that most rest on the majer. A junior squad leader in the anteroom of headquarters gestures to the open study door. “He’s expecting you, sers.”

“Thank you.”

Dechund’s study is like the few studies of Lancer officers that Lerial has already seen, with a narrow table-desk and a wooden armchair behind it, two straight-backed chairs, and a stack of file chests. A single bookcase holds few books, and assorted other items, including an odd-looking small brass lantern and several jars.

Altyrn takes one of the armless chairs, and Lerial the other … after waiting for the two senior officers to seat themselves.

“I’ve read the dispatches, Majer. It appears as though you have been assigned a difficult mission. It’s one for which the Tirminya post can offer little support, I fear.” Dechund offers an apologetic smile.

“Your standing orders will offer sufficient support,” returns Altyrn. “It is more than likely that you will need to be more aware of incursions from the north.”

“The north, ser?” Dechund is clearly puzzled.

Lerial can sense that without even trying.

“When Duke Atroyan discovers that the hill people are allying themselves with Duke Kiedron, what will be his likely response?”

“I would think he would attack them, would he not?”

“Is any small or company-sized force, or even two companies or three, likely to be successful in penetrating their forests without substantial casualties?”

Dechund considers the question, then frowns. “Are you suggesting…?”

“I would think it highly likely that raids on small hamlets to the north will commence about the time spring planting begins.” Altyrn smiles politely. “I have, of course, informed Captain Graessyr of that likelihood, as well as sent a dispatch to Majer Phortyn alerting him to the likelihood of such possibilities.”

The captain nods slowly. “I suppose that is possible.”

“I thought you might like my views on the matter. You are closer, these days, to the people and the hamlets here, and you will doubtless take the necessary steps as matters develop.”

Lerial keeps a pleasant and interested expression on his face as he listens, even as he sees exactly what the majer has done.

Abruptly, Dechund turns to Lerial. “Undercaptain, might I ask your thoughts on the matter?”

Lerial waits a moment before answering. “I am far less experienced in knowing what raids or attacks may occur, or why, or when. Both you and the majer would know a great deal more than I would. I am under the impression that the majer has over the years undertaken some considerable scouting missions, or has at least commissioned them and studied the observations. I do not know what you have done, and so I cannot speak to that. But any thoughts I have on the matter would be mere opinion without facts, and I don’t feel that such opinion should be considered.” Lerial then smiles ruefully. “Put more bluntly, I don’t know enough to express thoughts on the matter, with the exception that Duke Atroyan is not to be trusted in much of anything.”

After a moment, Dechund smiles in return. “I can see why you are accompanying the majer.”

Lerial understands the veiled insult, but merely smiles. “I am here because, like any undercaptain, I am following orders and will do my best to carry out my duties and to learn as much as I can that will be useful to the Lancers, and to my father the Duke.”

The time the captain nods, then smiles once more. “It is good to have you both here, and we certainly will do our best to support you in what lies ahead.” He looks to Altyrn. “You have only to ask, Majer.”

“Thank you.” Altyrn rises. “We will not keep you longer, but perhaps you will be able to fill us in on recent happenings here at the evening mess.”

“I would be more than pleased to do so,” replies Dechund, standing as he speaks.

Lerial quickly stands as well, not wanting to do so before the captain, but not wishing to lag, either.

Once Altyrn and Lerial leave the headquarters, the majer says, “You’ve met the captain. We’ll talk later … on the way west.”

That tells Lerial more than enough.

XL

The dinner served at the officers’ mess on eightday evening only has two redeeming features. The burhka is hot enough that any taste is lost in the spices, and there is more than enough for the five officers, Altyrn, Dechund, and the three undercaptains—Whalyn, Seivyr, and Lerial. Both Whalyn and Seivyr are older, clearly officers who have been rankers and then squad leaders before being promoted to undercaptains.

The conversation deals largely with the fact that there have been very few raiders or poachers during harvest or early winter, as is to be expected, but that if raiders or poachers show up over the coming eightdays, it will be a sign of poor harvests and lack of game. Lerial says very little, but asks a question or two to keep the conversation going … and to give him a better idea about the officers stationed at Tirminya post.

After breakfast on oneday, largely porridge with dried fruit harder than eightday-old stale biscuits, strips of an unidentified meat dipped in hot spices and fried to a crisp, and fresh warm bread that is largely tasteless, Altyrn sets Lerial to studying the maps and reports about the area that had been collected at the post over the years. From a careful perusal of the maps, Lerial notices that towns, hamlets, he suspects, have been added to the main map over the years. This becomes obvious when he discovers an older map at the bottom that shows very little. Even more interesting is the fact that almost all of the “new” hamlets are to the north of Tirminya, ranging from perhaps ten kays north and across a range of almost eighty kays from east to west. The newest additions, if the brighter ink represents those, are the farthest north.
Is that because the people have become more comfortable with the Lancers … or less so with Afrit?

Somewhere close to midday, if slightly after, Altyrn returns to the study shared by the undercaptains of the post, although Lerial has been the only one there.

“Ser?” Lerial looks up.

Altyrn gestures at the map spread on the circular table before Lerial. “What can you tell me about the maps? What did they tell you? Besides what hamlet and what river or stream is where?”

“Hamlets have been added to the main map almost every year. I don’t think they just appeared that year. Is it because the Lancers have been charged with scouting out such hamlets … or because the people made them aware?”