In the dim light filtering through the closed shutters he can see his uniform laid out across a chair. He frowns. Hadn’t Kusyl said something about his uniform being charred?
A pitcher and a bowl are set on the narrow table desk, along with a small towel and soap and his personal gear. He stands and moves to the table desk, where he washes up and shaves, very carefully, given that his face is still warm, and tender, and the mirror reveals that his skin remains reddened. The ends of the hair on his sideburns, what is left of them, are frizzy, and he uses the razor to trim the flame-crisped ends away, as well as he can.
Next he eases into the uniform. Even sitting and bending to pull on his boots is painful. When he touches the knife sheath, he is surprised to find, although the leather has darkened almost to black, it is still flexible and the tooled “L” is now silver. Using order … or are the silver and black a reminder of all the deaths? He does have to move the sheath farther back on his belt so that it doesn’t rub against the dressing over the blistered spot on his hip … which is still tender and painful.
Once he is dressed, except for his visor cap, he sits there for a moment, his eyes surveying the room. On one of the two shelves designed to hold clothes he sees another uniform, but the shade is wrong. When he stands and walks over to the shelves, he can see that the front of the shirt and the trousers are a dark brown, and the fabric gives and crumbles in places as he fingers it. Sitting on the shelf is his cap. The fabric around the Lancer device also looks charred. It will have to do for now.
“Ser? Are you all right?” calls one of the lancers acting as a guard.
“I’m doing well enough to get along. If one of you wouldn’t mind sending for the undercaptains, I’d like to talk to them.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial sits down on the edge of the bed to wait, but he doesn’t wait long before there is a rap on the door.
“Ser? It’s Kusyl. Strauxyn’s with me.”
“Come on in.”
Kusyl enters, followed by Strauxyn, who closes the door.
“You look better this morning,” offers the older undercaptain.
“I’d hate to think I’d look worse,” Lerial replies dryly. “What else has happened since then? Oh … I’ve lost track of time. What glass…?”
“A bit past half after sixth glass,” says Strauxyn.
“Not much new. Then, they don’t tell undercaptains much,” adds Kusyl. “There is one thing. Last night … there was a healer who said the arms-commander had sent him.” The undercaptain shakes his head. “Didn’t feel right. I said you had your own healer. He made some fuss about coming all the way from the palace.”
“What did he do then?”
“He kept insisting, and the more he insisted, the more it seemed wrong. Then … he left, all huffy. I tried to find Commander Dhresyl, but he wasn’t around. Then the healer wasn’t around, either.”
Despite the heat of his face, Lerial feels a chill go down his spine. “What did he look like?”
“Thin fellow. Black hair.”
Lerial thinks back. The only healer in the palace had been Jaermyd, and he was more square-faced and gray-haired. And Norstaan had said there were few true healers in Swartheld. “You did right. There’s no black-haired healer at the palace. Was this before or after I woke up?”
“Before, ser. Maybe half a glass.”
“How would anyone from the palace even have known by then,” muses Lerial. “Maybe they could have. When did you get me here, and when did Commander Dhresyl find out about me?”
“He didn’t get back to the post until almost second glass of the afternoon.”
Lerial shakes his head. There’s really no way to tell, not with what he knows so far, but it’s clear that someone seems out to remove any officer with any ability. Will they remove Dhresyl as well … or do they intend that he remain in command? All that raises even more questions.
“Before I make any decisions, I need to see Commander Dhresyl…”
“We’ll escort you. The post isn’t exactly organized,” says Kusyl.
“Not in any way you could see,” adds Strauxyn. “Almost makes you wonder how they managed to beat the Heldyans.”
“Are we sure they did?” asks Lerial, almost sardonically.
“They did.” Kusyl snorts. “Bodies everywhere. Think they did it to get any coins the Heldyans had.”
Lerial manages not to wince. Is everything in Afrit about coins? “We might as well head out.”
When they leave the officers’ quarters and emerge into the wide courtyard of the post, Lerial is flanked by the undercaptains. They are bombarded by the cacophony, a mixture of moans, groans, horses and wagons moving, other sounds, all punctuated by occasional orders and a vague feeling of death, although Lerial cannot sense the silver-gray mists. That might be for the best right now.