L. Modesitt: Heritage of Cyador

He is still worrying, sitting behind his desk and looking at maps, two glasses later when the duty ranker calls out, “Ser! There’s a dispatch rider coming through the gates.”

Lerial does not quite bolt to his feet, but he is waiting by the duty desk as a dispatch rider he does not recognize hurries into headquarters.

“Captain Lerial, ser?”

Lerial nods. “Yes?”

“These are for you, ser.” The rider hands over two sealed dispatches and a small leather pouch. “They’re from Commander Jhalet, ser.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, ser.”

“If you’d arrange for food…” Lerial looks to the duty ranker.

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial turns and takes the dispatch and pouch back into his small study, closing the door behind himself. Then he breaks the seal and unfolds the first dispatch, a single sheet, and begins to read.

The message is brief, and the key sentence is simple and direct: “In view of your service and ability to keep the north border secure, you are hereby promoted to Overcaptain, effective immediately.” The signature at the bottom is that of Commander Jhalet.

The small pouch that has come with the dispatch contains the insignia of an overcaptain.

The unexpected promotion troubles Lerial greatly, because in the normal course of events he would not have been considered for promotion for roughly another year and a half, and also because his older brother Lephi has been an overcaptain for less than a year, having spent the full five years as a captain.

Lerial looks at the second dispatch, then opens it. The substance of that dispatch, also from Jhalet-and, unlike the first, written in the commander’s own hand-is equally brief and direct.

You are hereby temporarily recalled to Mirror Lancer headquarters for consultation, to leave no later than fiveday morning and to make deliberate speed. Undercaptain Strauxyn will act as temporary post commander in your absence.

The two dispatches could easily have been written on a single sheet, but Jhalet had not done so, most likely because a duplicate of the promotion dispatch would be in Lerial’s files, and that means that the recall dispatch is not something that Jhalet wishes to share with anyone at the moment.

An early promotion and a recall for consultations, whatever that means? Lerial has grave doubts that it means anything good. The only question is how bad the trouble is and where.

Just after first light on fiveday, Lerial rides south from Ensenla, accompanied by half a squad from Eighth Company. While the river road is not paved until it is within five kays of the city of Cigoerne, it has been traveled so much over the past ten years, with sand added periodically, that the mixed sand and clay is packed hard. Duke Kiedron had also insisted that the road be set on the highest relatively level surfaces and that all bridges be wide enough for a least a wagon and a horse side by side.

Even making good speed, Lerial does not catch sight of the city until the second glass of the afternoon, when he reaches the north side of the rise that holds, on its southern end, the Hall of Healing, where he had spent so many days learning what he could from his aunt. The reddish sandstone building, surrounded by its sandstone walls, looks no different to him, but to the west of the hall stretches a good half kay’s worth of smaller dwellings that over the past five years have crept northward from the boulevard that links the hall with the palace. Every time that Lerial returns to the city, he is surprised at the additional growth.

As he and the lancers ride past the Hall of Healing, heading south on the paved avenue that runs along the river toward the Mirror Lancer headquarters, Lerial wonders if he should stop briefly, then shakes his head. He will certainly see Emerya at the palace later that afternoon … and the dispatch conveyed urgency.

South of the hall, but north of the River Square, are the factorages of the larger merchanters in Cigoerne. Not only are they busier than he recalls, but he could swear that there are more factorages, and that some new ones have been built, taking the place of smaller factorages or perhaps crafters’ shops.

There is also a new, longer stone pier south of the two piers that had projected from the stone levee walls protecting the city for almost as long as Lerial could remember-and all three piers have rivercraft of various sorts tied there. There are no Lancer sailing craft, either. At that, he frowns … and looks farther south along the river, but the buildings flanking the avenue block his view. Extending his order-senses, he discovers another pier, several hundred yards north of the Mirror Lancer headquarters compound. So much trading that they had to add a pier for the river patrols?

Before long, he and the rankers near headquarters. Even from the River Avenue, Lerial can see the white-edged black draping on the headquarters’ gateposts. Who died? It cannot be Jhalet, unless it happened in the last day, and that would be unlikely. Nor would it be anyone from his family … again, unless it has happened in the last few glasses. Majer Chaen? Lerial hopes not, but then, he wouldn’t like it to be any of those whose names have passed through his thoughts.

He rides more slowly up the stone causeway toward the gates, trying to think over who it might have been.

“Welcome to headquarters, Captain, oh … excuse me, ser, Overcaptain,” calls out the ranker posted on the east side of the headquarters compound gate.

“Thank you.” Lerial gestures at the white-edged black drape on each of the gateposts. “Not Commander Jhalet?””

“No, ser. Not him. It was the majer … I mean Commander Altyrn. We heard late last night.”

The ranker’s clearly regretful words go through Lerial like a lance of ice. Altyrn? The majer … the man who has made all that you have done possible. The man who taught you blade skills, who worked you until you understood what work truly was … and who gave you the sabre you still carry … telling you that he was restoring your own heritage …

“Ser…?”

Lerial manages to rein up the gelding, but cannot speak for a moment. “I’m sorry. I had no idea…”

“No one did, ser.”

“Do you know…?”

“No, ser. Commander Jhalet might.”

“Thank you.” Lerial rides directly to the hexagonal stone headquarters building, still trying to grapple with the idea of Altyrn’s death. The majer-that was always the way Lerial thought of him-had been anything but young. Lerial had never known his actual age, but he’d been close to the age of his Grandmere Mairena. Another thought strikes him. Could that be why you’re being recalled to Cigoerne? No, that couldn’t be, not when headquarters had only heard of the majer’s death late the night before.

Outside the headquarters building, he reins up, then turns to Dhoraat, the First Squad leader. “Have the horses watered and rested, but don’t unsaddle them until you hear from me. We may be quartering here or at the palace. I won’t know until I talk to the commander.” Assuming he’s here … but he should be … with Altyrn’s death, especially. Even as he thinks those thoughts, Lerial knows that they make little logical sense.

“Yes, ser.”

Lerial dismounts and hands the gelding’s reins to the nearest ranker, then walks into headquarters, taking off his lancer’s visor cap and tucking it under his arm as he crosses the anteroom.

The young ranker at the duty desk snaps to his feet. “Ser! The commander said you’re to go right in.”

“Thank you.” Lerial steps around the desk and pushes the door, already slightly ajar, open, enters the study, and closes it behind himself.