“A few last things. First, senior officers staff meeting every morning at seventh glass. Breakfast is after sixth glass, when you can get there. Second, as Lord Lerial, you’ll be seated to the arms-commander’s right at the mess at the evening meals.”
“I would trust, that in his absence, you would stand in for him,” Lerial replies. “Or the most senior Afritan Guard officer present.”
Sammyl smiles, warmly, but ironically. “It appears as though we are in agreement in many matters.”
Lerial nods. Most matters … at present.
Once Sammyl has slipped away, Drusyn appears, beaker in hand. “I see you received the commander’s welcome chat.”
“Something like that.” Lerial notes that, unless the subcommander has refilled the beaker, he has drunk very little. “Details, his general observations on Khesyn and Casseon, and where I’m to sit at the mess.”
“Unlike some senior officers, he is good with both details and larger matters.”
While Drusyn’s words are pleasant, Lerial understands the caution behind them. “I understand that can be a rare combination.”
“Very rare.” The dryness of that reply might have turned grapes to raisins instantly.
A bell chimes softly.
Lerial looks to the older officer.
Drusyn nods.
The two follow the other officers from the salon directly toward the courtyard. The private dining chamber is through the last door on the right before the center courtyard. Lerial does find himself seated at Rhamuel’s right, even though all the officers in the entire mess officially outrank him. Although the rank of overcaptain doesn’t exist in the Afritan Guard, he supposes he ranks as a majer, but that would still put him at the bottom of the table.
Once everyone is seated, Rhamuel lifts his goblet. “I’d like to offer a toast to Lord Lerial, who arrived this afternoon with three companies of Mirror Lancers. Welcome!”
After what Sammyl said in the salon and what Lerial did not hear or overhear in the salon, Lerial suspects that the meal will be more than passable and that the conversation, at least near him, will be both polite and not terribly revealing.
IX
When Lerial awakes on eightday morning well before sixth glass, he reflects on the evening before, from the dinner in the private dining room that had been every bit as polite and unrevealing as he had expected, to his subsequent walk back through the de facto avenue in the middle of the tents to meet again with his officers, and his return to the “country house.” The fact that nothing untoward has occurred is almost more disturbing than if it had.
He washes and dresses and then heads for the private dining room, hoping, even on eightday, to see if he can talk to other officers on a more personal and less formal basis. On the way down, he notes the room where a ranker waits, and sees other uniforms there. Comparatively early as he arrives, there are already three officers in the dining chamber. One is Drusyn, seated next to Subcommander Ascaar, and the third, sitting slightly apart from the pair near the other end of the table, may be Subcommander Valatyr, by process of elimination, because Lerial does not recognize the man, and Valatyr had not been at the evening mess. But there might be another senior officer …
Drusyn immediately motions.
Lerial takes the chair beside him and across from Ascaar, offering a friendly “Good morning” to both.
“You may not think so after morning meetings every day for a season,” says Ascaar.
“Ascaar doesn’t care much for mornings.” Drusyn grins.
“Demons know why I put up with you in the morning.” Ascaar’s grumble is more genial than gruff.
“Because you need a friendly voice to cheer you up.”
“Ser?” offers the servitor standing almost at Lerial’s shoulder. “Juice or lager?”
“Lager … please,” Lerial says.
“Man after my own heart,” declares Ascaar. “How did you find your quarters?”
“More than adequate, but it’s a long walk to my companies.”
The two subcommanders exchange a quick glance, but neither speaks as the servitor arrives with a platter and a beaker of lager. On the platter are eggs, seemingly scrambled with a cheese so pungent Lerial can immediately smell it, along with some yellow peppers. There are thin strips of meat, fried crisply—mutton, Lerial suspects—and a small loaf of whitish bread. He takes a swallow of the lager, then says pleasantly, “I’m assuming that each of you commands two battalions, but I don’t know your command structure.”
“That’s right,” replies Drusyn. “Majers command battalions, subcommanders two to three battalions, and commanders four or more battalions. There have been exceptions.”
“Does anyone know exactly how many companies Khesyn has in Vyada?”
“Word is twenty-five.” Drusyn frowns. “I’d wager more than that. No offense…” He pauses as if unsure exactly how to address Lerial.
“‘Lerial’ here. ‘Overcaptain’ in the field.”