L. Modesitt: Cyador’s Heirs

“Good evening, Mother, Aunt Emerya!” Lephi’s cheerful voice comes from behind Lerial. He strides past Lerial toward the refreshment table. There he picks up a glass carafe-the crystal carafes are reserved for meals with officials from Swartheld or with important merchanters-and starts to fill a squarish tumbler with a pale red vintage.

“If you’re going to drink wine, Lephi,” Xeranya says, “water it.”

“Yes, Mother.” Lephi smiles.

Lerial can order-sense his brother’s anger, and that means both his aunt, and possibly his mother, can as well, but no one says a word.

Lephi pours a small amount of water into the wine and swirls it, then walks over to the large round table that will seat eight, but is occupied only by the two women. He takes a seat on the far side of the table, facing the nearest fountain in the courtyard, a fountain with a set of nozzles that encircle a statue of Lerial and Lephi’s grandsire, the Emperor Lephi, and spray a mist that both shrouds the statue and helps cool the courtyard. In turn, Lerial steps to the refreshment table and half fills a pewter mug with the light lager. He joins the others at the “adult” table, taking a place beside Emerya.

“It’s been a cool spring, don’t you think?” asks Xeranya, clearly changing the subject from whatever she and Emerya had been discussing.

“Cooler than last year, but warmer than two years ago,” replies Emerya. “I still think we’ll have a hot summer. The river’s lower, too, a good yard.”

“You think that will affect the maize?”

“Not here, but it will farther downstream, especially south of Luba.” Emerya glances toward the archway that leads to the main corridor of the palace.

“Will that mean raiders from Afrit?” asks Lephi.

Lerial can sense the eagerness in his brother’s voice. Because Father has said he can ride on some Lancer patrols?

“The arms-commander of Afrit has sent a dispatch to your father saying that, if there are raiders, he will be pleased to execute publicly any who are captured, either by our Lancers or his armsmen.” Xeranya smiles. “I suspect that dispatch was posted in every Afritan town on our northern border.”

“That might not stop them,” Lephi declares.

“It will,” says Emerya. “The Duke’s arms-commander is a man of his word, for better or worse.”

Lephi starts to say something-until Xeranya looks at him.

“We don’t have problems with Afrit, and we don’t need them,” Xeranya says, as though Lephi had not even opened his mouth. “If there’s a hot summer again this year, we’ll have to deal with more marauders from Merowey … and who knows what the Duke of Heldya will do?”

Emerya nods.

At that moment, Xeranya glances in the direction of the archway, then smiles in pleasure as a tall and broad-shouldered figure steps onto the terrace. “Kiedron, dear, I was getting worried.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” The Duke of Cigoerne offers a smile in return as he nears the table. His dark brown hair still shows not a sign of silver, nor do his thick dark eyebrows, nor would any beard he grew, although he has never grown one, not that Lerial recalls. “The tariff inspectors found finished cloth inside cotton bales in a Meroweyan flatboat headed to Swartheld. The trader who owns the flatboat insisted that he’d taken the cargo on good faith…”

“I still don’t like the idea of the Duke of Cigoerne acting as a tariff justicer for Afrit,” declares Xeranya.

“We can use the golds, and they only call for me when it’s a question of law.”

“But Afrit gets half the golds,” says Xeranya.

“We’d both suffer if they paid tariffs to us and then to Afrit,” replies Kiedron. “We’d have to patrol the Swarth day and night. Whether they port here or in Swartheld or any of the Afrit river towns, we get a share of the tariffs.”

“Not a huge share,” rejoins Xeranya. “And we have to rely on the Duke’s count.”

That, Lerial knows, is always less than it should be, but it is another matter never mentioned except among family-and never by any children.

“It’s better than fighting over it, don’t you think? Besides, the arrangement means that more traders from the south stop here for provisions and other goods that they can sell downriver without paying tariffs. That’s helped build Cigoerne. We can’t afford to dream about what cannot yet be. We just need to build, brick by brick. Those tariffs are what funded the ministry building and what pay for not only the river port inspectors but also for some of the tariff collectors and others.”

“What did you decide on the cloth smuggler?” asks Emerya smoothly before Xeranya can say more.

“We took a tenth part of the cloth and fined him two golds. He should consider himself fortunate.”

Even Lerial knows that the cloth or the proceeds from its sale will not be reported to Duke Atroyan’s inspectors. The golds will, because they are recorded on the passage documents.

“He should indeed,” declares Xeranya.

“And for dinner?” asks Kiedron, before turning to the refreshment table and pouring a full tumbler of the deep red wine.

“Goat biastras,” replies Xeranya. “Young goat.”

Lerial wonders from where the cooks had obtained the marinated sweet peppers that surround the strips of braised goat before each tube is batter-dipped and fried. It seems early for peppers.

“The peppers came from the sheltered garden on the south side of the palace, Lerial,” explains Emerya.

Her reply to his unspoken question reminds him, again, of how really good healers can sense how people feel even when they say nothing or their faces reveal little, although he suspects his expression might well have been less than impassive.

“Better biastras than burhka,” says Kiedron with a smile.

“I think I’d actually prefer the burhka.” Xeranya smiles. “We’re having that for dinner tomorrow, but I’ll tell the cooks to be sparing with the chilies.”

Before long, everyone is seated at the long dining table, with Lerial’s father at the head, and his mother to his right, and Lephi to his left. Emerya sits beside Lephi and Lerial beside his mother and across from his aunt. Amaira is seated on Lerial’s other side, with Ryalah beside Emerya.

Because he serves Amaira before himself, Lerial is one of the last to try a biastra. He hopes that the “young” goat is less gamey than what he has tasted before. Not only is it barely gamey, but the white cream sauce he has drizzled over the biastra is excellent, with the piquancy of a good cheese and a hint of mint. He finishes the first and begins on the second, noting that Amaira has also finished her first. He serves her a second one.

“I see this version of biastra meets with your approval,” murmurs his mother with a smile.

“It’s excellent,” he returns in an equally low voice.

“Have the river patrols seen any signs of raiders or Heldyan patrols?” Lephi asks Kiedron.

“Not so far, but it’s not likely to be long. The planting season is over, and usually that’s when the raids begin.” Kiedron turns to Xeranya. “This is a great improvement, dear. If the cooks can do the same in the future, we should have biastras more often.”

“I think that can be managed,” replies Xeranya warmly.

“Excellent.” Kiedron looks to Emerya. “Have you found any more healers for your school?”

“There are two village girls from Ensenla. They show great promise.”

“Ensenla? That’s in Afrit,” declares Lephi.

“They slipped away because they would not be allowed as healers in Afrit,” explains Emerya. “They are from a peasant background. I’m not about to turn away girls who could be good healers.”