On oneday, Lerial and his forces spend the night at an inn in Pondatyn, a village some ten kays west of the date valley. The inn, which Norstaan simply calls that, apparently has no other name, but clearly caters to large groups of travelers, if infrequently, because there are ample stables and several large floored sheds able to hold all of the rankers with room to spare. They depart early on twoday morning, under the hazy sky that indicates the day will again be hot.
And it’s only midspring. While Lerial knows that Afrit is hotter than Cigoerne, he had not realized just how much hotter it is.
For the first few glasses they ride through sparse pine forests that somehow have grown in the rocky and sandy soil and survived, but by noon they have passed though somewhat higher hills and entered an area where there are more trees, some small hamlets, and occasional plots of land that bear low greenery.
“What do they grow here?” Lerial asks Norstaan.
“They have melons … and the black-syrup plants … a small grain, I think. That is if there is some rain. It does not rain much here. It rains more near Swartheld.”
“How far is the inn from where Mykel and Oestyn were taken?”
“The Streamside? We won’t reach there until after second glass. Why?”
“I’d like to talk to everyone there.”
“They may not wish to talk to you.”
“They don’t have much choice, I think.”
Slightly more than two glasses later, just after they have ridden through a small hamlet, Lerial sees a cluster of buildings on the south side of the road, set in the middle of an area whose grasses barely reach calf high. There is a winding line of green meandering from the hills to the south past the buildings and then under a small stone bridge and to the northeast. He wonders if the stream actually goes anywhere or just ends in some dry valley.
As they approach the Streamside, Lerial can see that it is similar enough to the inn at Pondatyn that it also must be a regular stopping point for large parties of travelers, such as when Atroyan took his family to Lake Reomer, and likely the retainers and guards of those merchanters who frequent the lakes in the summer.
Lerial has barely reined to a halt in front of the main building when a man in gray rushes out through the door and flattens himself on the dusty clay in front of the inn. “Please, honorable sers! I did nothing wrong! I beg you!”
“Is that the innkeeper?” Lerial asks Norstaan.
“I think that’s Immar. I’ve only traveled this road twice. The arms-commander, I mean the duke, did not often visit Lake Reomer.”
“Immar!” commands Lerial. “Stand up! Now! Enough groveling.”
The innkeeper slowly rises, his eyes going from Norstaan to Lerial and then back to Lerial in puzzlement.
“Duke Rhamuel has sent Lord Lerial to seek the truth,” offers the undercaptain.
“We need to talk,” Lerial declares.
Behind him, Strauxyn murmurs, “Permission to inspect the inn, ser?”
“Granted.”
From behind Lerial comes the command, “First Squad, First File, dismount.”
“Once my men look around, you and I, Immar, are going to talk.”
“Yes, ser. Yes, ser.” The innkeeper continues to glance at Norstaan.
“Lord Lerial is the overcaptain who did the most to defeat the Heldyans. He stands high in the duke’s esteem and trust,” Norstaan explains. “He is the second son of the duke of Cigoerne.”
“The people of the Rational Stars…” murmurs the innkeeper in a resigned voice, as if he has lost all hope.
A third of a glass later, Lerial sits across a circular table from the innkeeper in the otherwise deserted public room, except for the pair of Lancers posted by the main door and the second pair by the kitchen door.
“Why did you throw yourself in front of us, Immar?”
“The Afritan Guard … the squad leader … the one who came searching for the heir … he told me we would pay if we were guilty.”
“Are you?” asks Lerial, letting his senses range over the innkeeper.
“No, ser. I have lost my only son to this evil. Many will not speak to me. Those from whom I must buy provisions demand silvers in advance. They fear I will not live to pay them.”
Lerial doubts the man’s distress is feigned. “Perhaps you can tell me what happened on that night when the heir and his friend arrived with their guards.”
“I will tell you all I know. All those here will tell you what they know.”
“How many were in the party?”
“The same number as there always were, ser. Lord Mykel and his friend, and ten Afritan Guards and two merchanter guards.”
“Had any of the Afritan Guards been at the inn before? Did you remember any?”
“No, ser. That was not strange. There was always a different group of Afritan Guards every year. They joked about it when I was not listening. They said that they had thrown lucky bones because they could spend the summer at the lakes.”
Lerial looks to Norstaan. The undercaptain nods.