“That boy worries too much.”
“He worries when he should,” says Haesychya quietly. “Now you let Lerial look at you. You’re not as strong as you think you are.”
“Haven’t been for years, according to you, daughter.”
Lerial walks over beside Aenslem, all too conscious that Kyedra’s eyes are on him. He lets his order-senses range over the merchanter. While there is clearly less wound/poison chaos within the merchanter, there is still a pocket of more defined chaos lower in Aenslem’s abdomen. “There’s still something there. You’ll have to pardon me once more.” He extends his fingertips to the side of Aenslem’s throat, barely touching the skin, and directs a thin line of order down through the merchanter to the chaos.
He can feel some, if not all, of the chaos, dissipate, but he immediately stops as he senses the possibility of light-headedness.
“That feels better,” the merchanter admits.
“It’s not all gone,” Lerial says, “but that’s all I can do today. The rest of that may vanish on its own. If I can, I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
“If…?” Haesychya looks at Lerial.
“It appears that Duke Khesyn may not be done with his assaults on Afrit.”
“After all the killing … destruction…” Haesychya shakes her head. “I’m forgetting my hospitality. Let me bring you some lager.”
“That would be good,” Lerial admits.
“What have you heard about Khesyn?” demands Aenslem. “No one tells me anything.” The merchanter offers a mock glare at his granddaughter.
“Grandpapa…”
“He used Tourlegyn warriors in many of the battalions he sent against us, and it appears as though he is once more gathering more merchant vessels in Estheld. We’re likely down to the equivalent of perhaps six battalions after all the death and casualties.”
“I told Atroyan he needed warships.” Aenslem snorts.
“It’s hard to build warships without larger tariffs,” Lerial says cautiously.
“I’d pay ’em … so long as everyone else did. Maesoryk … never thought much of him … thought less of his father … he kept saying we didn’t need warships.”
“That’s interesting. The Heldyans used the pier at his tileworks to land their largest force.”
“That…” Redness suffuses Aenslem’s face, as if he is so angry he cannot express himself.
“Grandpapa!”
With Kyedra’s anguished cry, Aenslem exhales abruptly, then begins to cough. After several moments, he stops coughing and wipes spittle off his face with a large cloth. “Sorry … just … never thought much of him.” He looks at Lerial. “Did you kill the bastard?”
“No one’s been able to find him. Commander Sammyl thought he was either dead or a traitor, since he’s never appeared or sent word.”
“Death’d be too good for him.”
“Grandpapa.” This time Kyedra’s voice carries the iron of her mother’s.
“All right, Granddaughter.”
“Anyway,” Lerial adds quickly, “Sammyl’s sent out sail-galleys to scout out Estheld’s harbor. Even a few days’ respite would help. And we’ve sent a battalion to hold the tileworks pier. That would make landing easier.”
“Then they’ll sail to Baiet and march down the shore road. You couldn’t afford to send your battalions that far from Swartheld.”
That makes far too much sense.
“What will you do, then?” asks Kyedra.
“Whatever we can that’s necessary.”
Aenslem nods.
At that moment, Haesychya returns, followed by a serving girl carrying a tray with a large pitcher and four beakers, as well as a small platter of biscuits.
Lerial notices that the serving girl, rather beautiful and well formed, glances toward Aenslem, and then looks away immediately when Kyedra looks toward her.
“Everyone could use a biscuit … or two.” With the last two words Haesychya looks at Lerial.
“I wouldn’t think of not following your suggestion.” Lerial grins as he finishes speaking.
“Good idea,” says Aenslem.
Lerial does enjoy both the lager and the biscuits, and in the end, he has three, in between answering several questions about the Mirror Lancers. He does notice that, if but for a moment, Aenslem’s eyes follow the serving girl when she slips away after a gesture from Haesychya.
He has barely finished the last sip of the lager when Haesychya looks to Kyedra and says, “Why don’t you walk Lerial to the front terrace?”
Kyedra stiffens, if but for a moment, then rises and turns to Lerial.
Lerial stands and addresses Aenslem. “If I can, I’ll be here sometime tomorrow.” Then he turns to Haesychya. “Thank you for the lager and biscuits. They were excellent.”
“You’re more than welcome.” Haesychya inclines her head.