Rhamuel nods. “They are reputed to be the greatest healers in Hamor. The trait must run in the blood. It is also said that you can do some field healing.”
Where did he hear that? From Emerya? Why would she reveal that? Because she thinks it will somehow help you? “I have some skills in that, but I am far less skilled than she is.” He pauses but briefly before asking, “Can you tell me how many companies Duke Khesyn has gathered … and what might be likely?”
“By fiveday, he had twenty-five companies mustered south of Vyada, and far more than fifteen in Estheld, perhaps as many as five battalions. That means we cannot move the ten battalions in Swartheld, and Commander Nythalt would prefer even more companies there.” Rhamuel shakes his head. “Even six battalions should be enough to defend against forces that have almost a kay of open water to cross, but … for obvious reasons, the duke would prefer not to allow any more Guard forces to move from Swartheld to Luba. That is another reason why your companies are most welcome.”
“I’d heard that Duke Khesyn has been gathering flatboats in Vyada.”
“He has. He does not have enough … yet. He could embark half his forces and cross downstream in the dark…”
“And then use the same flatboats again a few days later.”
Rhamuel nods. “We’ll have to see.”
Lerial suspects that, if Duke Khesyn intends to attack, he will use some variation on what Rhamuel has suggested.
“I was sorry to hear of Majer Altyrn’s death. Some would say that, with your sire, and your Grandmere, he made Cigoerne what it has become.”
Clearly Drusyn has reported to Rhamuel—unless Emerya had dispatched a letter with a trader almost as soon as Lerial had left Cigoerne … and that is possible. “He was a great man, although few know all of his accomplishments, especially those not having to do with arms or tactics.”
“I had not heard…”
Lerial decides against saying too much, but replies, “He understood canals and irrigation systems, with watergates, and he even created a brewery and a brickworks. He was a superb tactician … but I’m certain you know that…”
Rhamuel offers a wry smile. “That skill I know all too well.” He stands. “We will have to talk more, but I’m expecting Commander Sammyl momentarily with new information about Khesyn’s forces.”
Lerial rises. “I look forward to that. It is good to see you again.”
“I would hope that you will join me and the senior officers for dinner.” Rhamuel smiles, this time warmly, and adds, “And for all meals.”
“I wouldn’t miss it … once I make certain my men are fed and comfortable.”
“You should have time for that. In camp, and this is camp for those purposes, the rankers are fed at fourth glass, and the junior and senior officers at sixth glass.”
“Might I ask where the senior officers’ mess is?”
“Oh … the private dining room here in country house.”
Country house. And what exactly might the duke’s palace in Swartheld look like, or his summer palace, wherever that might be? “Thank you.”
“If you arrive early, we have refreshments in the salon across the entry hall here. Most officers manage to squeeze in a half glass before dinner.”
In other words, no later than half past fifth glass. “I should be able to manage that.” As if there’s any real choice.
Rhamuel is still smiling pleasantly when Lerial leaves, somewhat puzzled by Rhamuel’s warmth and apparent lack of deception. At least, there’s little sign of the chaos and order disruption that usually reveals deception. But then, Rhamuel has said very little, in fact nothing, that Lerial essentially does not know. Saying nothing may withhold information, but it is not providing false information.
Lerial has to wait a time for the stableboy to return with the gelding—who has been well curried—but he does get back to his companies to see that his men are indeed being fed, and fed well, and that nothing seems amiss.
Less than a glass later, after his return to the country house, he crosses the main hall from the north entrance and makes his way toward the unguarded doorway across from Rhamuel’s study. When he steps inside, he immediately surveys the salon, taking a quick count—eleven other officers, seated in various places.
A servitor in crimson and gray immediately steps forward.
“What would you prefer, ser?”
“Light or amber lager.”
“Very good, ser.” The servitor slips away.
“You must be Overcaptain Lerial.”
Lerial turns to find himself facing a black-haired officer wearing the same insignia as Drusyn wears, except the device is silver rather than bronze. “Commander Sammyl … perhaps?”
The commander smiles. “Who described me?”
“No one. The only commander anyone mentioned was you. So…” Lerial shrugs.
“We need to talk.” Sammyl guides Lerial to a pair of armchairs separated from the settees and chairs in the middle of the salon.