Lerial shakes his head. “That took the Mirror Lancers, his battalion, and Majer Aerlyt’s battalion.”
“You realize that there’s not a single officer left in the Afritan Guard that would willingly attack Cigoerne at this point?”
“That might be an overstatement. In any case, what would be the point? Afrit is far more prosperous, and an attack on Cigoerne would gain little.”
“Except new opportunities for merchanters.” Ascaar’s tone is dry.
Lerial understands exactly what Ascaar is conveying … and the fact that the older commander knows the dangers of saying it directly. “Some opportunities cost far more than the most powerful of merchanters understand. Why don’t you join us? You should be there when I report to the duke.” Lerial knows very well that is exactly what Ascaar wants, but Ascaar’s presence will be more than just helpful. It may well be vital in keeping the Afritan merchanters in line, at least as much in line as the duke can do under the conditions with which he is faced.
When the three arrive at the anteroom outside the duke’s receiving study, Commander Sammyl looks up from a side desk, then stands with an ironic smile. “I’ll tell the duke that you’re all here.”
In moments, the four are in the duke’s receiving study, with Lerial seated in the middle chair facing the desk, flanked by Ascaar and Sammyl, and Norstaan standing to the side.
“I didn’t expect you back quite so soon.” Rhamuel’s voice is quiet.
“I thought you would like to know what happened to your brother…”
“He’s dead, then? How did it happen?”
Lerial explains, going through events beginning with what he learned from the innkeeper and then all that happened at Jhosef’s villa—except for some of the details surrounding how Lerial dealt with the chaos mages. When he finishes, he waits, uneasily, for Rhamuel’s reaction.
For a long moment, the duke says nothing. Finally, he speaks. “There wasn’t any chance for anyone to do anything?”
“We were more than ten yards away when the first chaos-mage attacked … and I was still ten yards away after dealing with the first chaos-mage. Oestyn couldn’t act to save Mykel until it was too late, and then he killed himself before we could get closer. One moment Jhosef was talking about how Mykel would be duke, the next about how I should leave, and the moment I said I wasn’t about to just depart on his whim, the first chaos-mage attacked me. After that…” Lerial spreads his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“I find one thing … strange. Why would Oestyn allow Mykel to be captured … but then kill his father?”
“From what I’ve learned,” Lerial replies, “Jhosef changed the merchanter guards accompanying Oestyn, and the wine both Oestyn and Mykel drank at the Streamside had to have been drugged. After that … I’m guessing, but based on what Jhosef said and what Oestyn said before he slit his throat, Oestyn didn’t know what his father had in mind and tried to protect Mykel.”
“That makes a sad kind of sense,” Rhamuel says. “I might let it be known that Oestyn was killed trying to protect Mykel.”
Sammyl looks surprised and about to object.
“That way, I won’t have to seize Jhosef’s holdings. Regardless of what he did, that wouldn’t be the wisest course. Also, enough people saw what happened that we might as well put the best face on it. If what Oestyn did gets out, and it will, and I seize Jhosef’s holdings, people will claim that I ignored Oestyn’s efforts for my own personal gain. After what’s already happened, we don’t need more problems. Shortly, the Merchanting Council will affirm Jhosef’s eldest as his heir, and we’ll meet. I’ll suggest that Jhosef’s eldest son cannot afford to allow any suspicion of trying to follow his father’s efforts. I’m certain he won’t.”
“Not any time soon,” adds Ascaar.
“That should suffice.” After a pause, Rhamuel goes on in a smooth tone, almost devoid of expression. “It’s too bad you couldn’t do anything about Maesoryk, but, without proof, that made it difficult.”
“I don’t think Maesoryk is in the best of health,” Lerial offers blandly.
“You didn’t offer your services as a healer?” Sammyl frowns.
“He didn’t ask, and I didn’t volunteer. Given that he was likely a conspirator with Jhosef and Alaphyn, and likely others we may never know, I didn’t feel I had to go out of my way for him.”
“How ill is he?”
“It’s a wasting illness. Those are hard to predict.” Lerial shrugs. “He might already be dead, or he might live for a few more seasons … or even longer.” The last is a flat lie, but Lerial is not about to predict Maesoryk’s death, because, in his absence, something might have gone wrong with his order manipulation. By claiming the merchanter does have a wasting illness, if his first effort has not worked, Lerial does not destroy his own credibility.
“You don’t think so, do you?”