A young and worried-looking guard stands on each side of the post entrance as Lerial and Eighth Company ride through. Lerial surveys the post, with its stables set against the south wall, and another set of buildings extending from the north wall, all of them showing a certain lack of repair. Nowhere is there any paving in the open courtyard in the middle of the walls and buildings. The windows he sees have shutters of worn wood that has not been painted or recently oiled, nor do any appear to be glazed, and there are drifts of dust in the corners where buildings join the walls.
A single figure in a crimson uniform, presumably a senior squad leader, stands in front of a long building whose rear wall is also the rear wall of the post. When Lerial reins up, he says, “Welcome to Guasyra Post, Overcaptain, ser.”
“Thank you.”
Lerial smiles politely. If Guasyra is a “nice” post, he shudders inside to think what a post that isn’t nice might be. Still, any hospitality is better than none.
VIII
On sevenday morning, Lerial is a bit surprised when it takes his force a good glass to reach the center of Guasyra, not because the road is rutted and blocked, but because the Afritan Guard post is more than four kays south of the town. The second surprise is the almost total lack of interest in the Mirror Lancers—except from several small boys who stare at the lancers from behind a porch railing on the north side of the town, which seems as though it might be a third the size of Cigoerne.
North of Guasyra are rocky hills that are closer to small mountains, and the road winds back and forth so much so that it takes the three companies almost two glasses to reach the low pass and then descend—a distance that might be less than three kays from point to point. As the road finally straightens, Lerial can make out a triangle of roads below, standing out amid the browned grass and the scattered fields and orchards. Near the bottom of the incline the road splits, with one fork heading northwest and the other northeast, but perhaps three or four kays north another and wider road running east to west connects both forks, so that the three roads create a triangle. Beyond where the western road disappears over a low rise, Lerial can see a haze of what appears to be smoke. To the east, at the edge of what appears to be the Swarth River, he can make out what must be the city of Luba, and there is only a faint blurring of the air above and around the city. He can barely see two large wagons on the east-west road, both heading east.
After another half glass, the Cigoernean force reaches the bottom of the long incline and turns onto the northeast fork. Lerial loosens his riding jacket. Somehow, the air is far warmer in the valley than it had been in Guasyra or on the top of the rocky rise. But spring is still four eightdays away. He tends to forget how much warmer it gets the farther north one travels.
They ride another three kays before the northeast fork joins the east-west road and continue on for another kay or so before entering an area where there are more fields and orchards and almost no meadows or grasslands—and where there are irrigation ditches that appear to branch off an actual canal from the Swarth River. Lerial can sense riders moving in his direction, but says nothing, since the numbers indicate only a squad.
“Riders headed this way, ser!” calls out Naedar, one of the Eighth Company scouts. “Look to be Afritan Guards.”
A third of a glass more riding, just past the first roadstone—inscribed LUBA 2K—that Lerial has seen in Afrit, brings him and his forces to another fork in the road. There a squad of Afritan Guards has reined up.
An officer rides forward and halts his mount a few yards short of Lerial. “Lord Lerial … or is it Overcaptain?” His words are in halting Cyadoran.
For a moment, Lerial does not recognize the insignia, but then he realizes that the officer greeting him is a subcommander, a rank that does not exist and never has in the Mirror Lancers, even in Cyador.
“Overcaptain, if you please.” Lerial replies in Hamorian.
“That does make matters simpler,” replies the graying officer, switching back to Hamorian.
“It’s also accurate. I’ve spent the last six years in the Mirror Lancers.” Or close enough.
“So I’ve heard.”
How much else have he and the other officers heard?
The subcommander smiles. “By the way, I’m Drusyn. Arms-Commander Rhamuel sent us to escort you to the staging area.”
“Staging area? That sounds like you’ve mustered more than a few companies here.”
“Twenty so far … officially. The arms-commander says with your three we’ll have more than five battalions.”
For just an instance, Lerial is puzzled by the figures that don’t add up. Then he grins. “I’m afraid that he’s thinking of my father.”
“From what we’ve seen, it doesn’t seem to matter which of you is in command.” Drusyn delivers the words wryly. “Your presence alone is likely to give Khesyn some pause.” After the slightest hesitation, he goes on. “We can talk later. The arms-commander would like to meet with you once you have your men settled. Oh … and I have to say that your Hamorian is absolutely perfect.”
“Speaking Hamorian well is something my grandmere insisted upon.”