L. Modesitt: Heritage of Cyador

Jhalet rises easily from behind the table desk. Lerial again notices how, over the past five years, the commander’s once jet-black hair has gained more and more strands of silver white, and his face has hardened somewhat, but he smiles pleasantly enough. “You made good time, Overcaptain.”

“We left at first light. Your dispatch suggested urgency.” Before Jhalet can reply, Lerial goes on. “Majer Altyrn? Do you know…?”

Jhalet shakes his head. “We got word from the palace lancers last night.” He gestures toward the chairs in front of the desk, then seats himself. “All we know is that he died at his villa.”

“If his death isn’t the reason I’ve been recalled…” Lerial seats himself, if slightly forward on the straight-backed armless chair. “Your dispatch did stress urgency.”

“That’s because your father the duke believes we face an urgent situation. I would prefer not to say more, but let him explain. He has requested that we both join him at the palace as soon as possible after you arrived.”

“I did not have my mount unsaddled, nor those of the rankers who accompanied me. We can leave as soon as you wish.”

“There is a mount standing by … and a half squad to accompany me back.” Jhalet offers a wry smile. “I have no doubt that you and your men will be quartered at the palace. We can leave now.” The commander rises.

Lerial is grateful not to sit longer and does so as well. “Before we go … how are matters in the southeast?”

“At Sudstrym Post? With the Heldyans?” Jhalet smiles. “Very quiet since midfall. Even the Meroweyan traders report fewer encounters with raiders or overzealous tariff inspectors.”

Lerial nods, but given the way Jhalet has spoken, his words do not totally reassure Lerial, except that they mean that Lephi has not been in any great danger … so far. Lerial also knows that can change almost in moments, even for an heir of Cyador who is of the Magi’i.

Jhalet slips on his Lancer riding jacket and picks up his visor cap, and he and Lerial leave the study. In less than a tenth of a glass they and a full squad of rankers-the ten from Eighth Company and ten from headquarters-are riding northwest on the paved boulevard that connects the Lancer compound with the Square of the Magi’i and the walled ducal palace that stands on the west side of the square. Half a glass later, they ride through the palace gates, also draped in white-edged black mourning cloth, and then to the north courtyard and the entrance in the middle of the north wing.

As they dismount, a comparatively small and wiry undercaptain steps forward. “Welcome back, ser. And congratulations.”

The man looks familiar, black-haired, brown-eyed, with a swarthy complexion and deeply tanned skin, but it takes Lerial a moment to place him. “Kusyl! What are you doing here?”

“The Lancers out west had enough of me.” Kusyl grins. “Commander said I deserved a pleasant tour heading up a new company here. These days, half of what I do is work with the newer men, bring them up to the level of the others.”

Lerial wonders just how many new companies are being formed.

“Now that I’ve got the whole company working well”-Kusyl shrugs-“the commander will send us to one of the border problem areas.” He grins again. “Might even be Ensenla.”

“That would be fine with me. Did you have any trouble with Duke Casseon?”

“Not a sign of his armsmen. They’ve left handling the grassland raiders to us. They just kill ’em if they enter his lands and attack his growers. Not many of them left anymore, not since they discovered that Casseon had no use for them and they had much shorter lives if they came north.”

“We need to talk, but not now. We’ve been summoned.”

“We…?” Kusyl’s eyes take in the officer behind Lerial. He smiles good-naturedly, if wryly. “Good afternoon, Commander. Might I ask how long before you’ll be needing the mounts?”

“That depends on the duke. Those who came with Lord Lerial will be quartered here. The others will return with me.”

“Yes, ser.”

Once Lerial and Jhalet are past the Lancer guards and walking down the corridor toward the duke’s main-floor study, the commander laughs softly. “He’s even better for this post than I thought.”

“He’s good in the field, too. Very good.”

“He’ll be promoted to captain next season.” Jhalet shakes his head. “And then I’ll likely hear from Magus Apollyn, indirectly of course, about the degradation of the proud heritage of the Mirror Lancers.”

“Magus Apollyn?” Then Lerial remembers. “Veraan’s father. Is he still angry about that?”

“Still? He was never just angry. He was furious about Veraan’s dismissal, and his fury likely hasn’t ever abated. Veraan’s really the one in charge of Myrapol House now. They say he’s quite effective as a merchanter … even worked out an arrangement with a big merchanting house in Swartheld. Alaphyn, or Alapyrt, something like that.”

Lerial nods, deciding against saying more, although his own recollections of Veraan are anything but pleasant, and those date back to well before the incident when Veraan tried to use an unblunted blade in sparring against Captain Woelyt-although Woelyt had still been an undercaptain then. Jhalet had cashiered Veraan. But then, Veraan’s slimy enough to succeed as a trader … for a while, anyway.

The guard outside the study sees the two coming and raps on the door, announcing, “Lord Lerial and Commander Jhalet, ser.” Then, presumably in response to Duke Kiedron, he opens the door and steps back, then closes it behind them.

Kiedron is standing by the widow that looks into the central palace courtyard, but faces the study door. “Lerial … Commander.” He smiles warmly, but only for a moment, then gestures to the small circular conference table at one end of the study.

Lerial looks at his father. Kiedron’s dark brown hair is thinning on top. Elsewhere, especially on the sides, where it is remains thick, the brown is shot with gray, when a year earlier there had been no sign of either. There are dark circles under his eyes. His broad shoulders seem to slump just a touch, and for the first time the duke looks his age, and that is surprising for Lerial, because, until now, Kiedron has looked younger than the years he has lived.

Just to make sure that something is not terribly wrong, as Lerial moves toward the table he immediately extends his order-senses, although he knows his mother and his aunt, as healers, surely would have noticed something amiss. There is no sign of rampant body chaos or illness, only the feeling of slightly weaker order that creeps up on all people as they age.

Has he changed that much? Or did you always just see him as strong and vital, almost indestructible? Lerial seats himself as the other two do, then waits for either Jhalet or his father to speak.

“You summoned us, ser,” Jhalet says quietly.

“I did.” Kiedron looks to his son. “I asked Commander Jhalet not to talk about this with anyone until we talked over matters. Duke Khesyn is moving armsmen to Vyada…”

Vyada … just across the river and south of Luba. Lerial nods and waits for his father to continue.

“… and he has already gathered a number of flatboats there.”

“Might I ask how you came to know this, ser?”

“Both indirectly and directly. The formal and direct notice came from Atroyan himself, or at least in a dispatch purportedly signed and sealed by him…”

Lerial doesn’t like the slight emphasis on the word “purportedly.”

“… but the information appears to be accurate from what various traders have reported and from other sources. The dispatch from Atroyan suggests that it might be to our benefit to send a force to Luba for joint friendly maneuvers.” Kiedron smiles pleasantly, although Lerial can sense from the chaos-order flows around him that he is not so composed as he appears.