“Yes, ser.”
Lerial looks toward the shore end of the Harbor Post pier and then to the far end, where waves break over the stone, normally a good three to four yards above the surface of the water, swirling around the bollards, leaving them momentarily protruding from white-foamed waters. To his left and farther down the slope is the shallow-draft sailing galley, still in its launch cradle, clearly dragged farther up from the turbulent waves pounding the pier.
“Ser, there’s no way we can go out in this weather,” declares Elphred. “We’d get swamped before we got half a kay.”
“That’s clear enough,” replies Lerial. “Once the weather subsides, I will need the galley.”
“Yes, ser. We’ll stand by.” The squad leader gestures to the crew, who begin to winch the cradle even farther up the launching ramp.
“Thank you.”
In turn, Lerial uses his order-senses on the clouds. The actual storm center is too far away for him to sense, but it is clearly strong enough to create the winds that drive the waves against the piers. He is certainly not a sailor, but it stands to reason that if he cannot get out of Swartheld Harbor, it is most unlikely that any of Khesyn’s merchanters will be able to return to Estheld and load the armsmen. If that’s even what Khesyn has in mind. Lerial pauses. But what else could he be planning?
He hurries out of the rain that is already beginning to diminish, although the waves have shown no sign of that yet, back through the tunnel toward the makeshift headquarters of the post. The intermittent rain has flowed off his borrowed oilskin jacket and dampened his trousers, not quite all the way through. By the time he has seated himself in the small chamber that serves as Dhresyl’s study, he hopes they will dry some before he ventures forth again.
“I understand you’re going to take the sail-galley to look at Estheld,” offers Dhresyl. “Isn’t that likely to expose you unduly?”
“So long as I don’t have to worry about high waves, I think we’ll be able to manage. I’d be interested to know how matters are coming here. The last time we talked, I wasn’t in the best of condition and you were busy trying to hold everything together.”
“We’re using the more able of the Heldyan prisoners to clear the rubble here in the post and we’ve begun some limited repairs. We’ve recovered as many weapons as we could from the areas where we fought, and we have the armorers repairing those that can be used. I’ve combined some companies and battalions so that those we have are closer to full strength…”
Lerial listens, intently and carefully.
When Dhresyl finally finishes, he just says, “… and that’s where we stand.” He does not ask anything about Lerial and the Mirror Lancers.
Lerial does not volunteer anything and politely takes his leave. While he waits to see if the weather and waves will moderate, he considers what Dhresyl has said and wonders why the commander’s words have left him vaguely disturbed. Certainly, everything Dhresyl is undertaking makes sense …
Then, after almost a glass of pondering and stewing, Lerial realizes what has troubled him. Everything that Dhresyl had said related to organization and logistics. There had not been a single word about what the commander might do if the Heldyans attacked again, or what preparations or plans he had made.
By the sixth glass of the afternoon, the winds out of the north are dying down and the waves are subsiding, but are still too rough for the sail-galleys to set out, not that doing so would help Lerial much, since the Harbor Post lookouts have informed Lerial that it appears likely that none of the merchanters that left Estheld to ride out the rough weather at sea have yet returned … or are even in sight.
Given that information, the fact that the waves are likely to remain high for at least several glasses more, and that a night voyage would be dangerous without allowing Lerial to accomplish much of what he has in mind, Lerial gathers his squad for the ride back to Afritan Guard headquarters. When they finally set out, the air is damp and cooler, and little remains of the clouds that had brought the earlier downpour. The high winds have dropped off to a stiff breeze, but the waves crashing against the piers of the main harbor are still high and strong enough that there seems to be more foam than water.
So much for using the mist and fog to get close to Estheld without being seen.
Lerial looks from the harbor toward the merchanter buildings, all shuttered tight for the night, wondering if any of the merchanters really care all that much about Afrit, or Swartheld, except as a base from which they can make more golds.
XLIII