Sammyl smiles. “That would be most appropriate and easy enough to arrange.”
Less than half a glass later, Lerial, Kusyl, Strauxyn, Fheldar, four Mirror Lancer rankers, and four Afritan Guards ride out through the north gate of Lubana, with Lerial leading the officers and Fheldar, followed by the Afritan Guards, with the Mirror Lancers bringing up the rear.
Lerial says very little on the ride along the river road, past the piers and market square, all the way to where the road swings inland and begins its climb over and around the bluff. Once there, he turns the gelding west, and leads his group up the grassy rise to the crest, where he reins up. As he has suspected, the eastern slope of the next rise presents more reddish sand than grass. So he turns south and rides along the crest until he nears the line of dwellings and small plots that mark the northern edge of Luba, finding his way to a narrow lane that leads south.
Seemingly within moments after Lerial re-enters the small city, the stench becomes far more pronounced, close to unbearable in the still air, cool as it is, and Lerial wonders just what it must be like in the heat of summer. He leads his group on a wandering ride through the city, slowly leaving the stench behind and heading generally westward until they eventually reach the road to the ironworks. Rather than head eastward, Lerial heads west, studying the canals and ditches and the irrigated plots and olive orchards that are everywhere, continuing until the road intersects the side road that leads to the west gate of Lubana.
As he rides back through the gate slightly before second glass in the afternoon, Lerial considers what he has learned from his ride north from Cigoerne … and from his tours around the Luba area. Luba itself is markedly smaller than Cigoerne, less than half its size, not nearly so neat or well kept, and definitely smells much worse. There seem to be more hamlets in Afrit than in Cigoerne, but of all those Lerial has seen, Guasyra and Luba are the only ones that appear prosperous. But then, it could just be that everywhere prosperous is north of here … and that’s why Rhamuel doesn’t much care about southeastern Afrit.
A glass later, Lerial is busy watching lancers spar, occasionally offering advice to the squad leaders, and despite the coolness having to open his riding jacket. Just how warm will Luba be by spring, let alone summer?
By the time he enters the officers’ mess in the private dining room that evening, Lerial cannot help but wonder, even more, exactly what Duke Khesyn has in mind. Are the boats tied up at Vyada a decoy? If they aren’t, how long will it be before Khesyn attacks? And why would he attack where Rhamuel has amassed so many troopers? Because he wants to destroy Atroyan’s Afritan Guard in order to make conquest of Afrit easier? Or because it’s easier to cross the river here?
After the opening toast by Rhamuel, this time to “patient officers,” Lerial quietly asks just those questions once the arms-commander has been served—some sort of sliced beef in a cream cheese sauce over sliced boiled potatoes, with turnips on the side.
Rhamuel smiles, looking up from his platter. “You’re not terribly interested in dinner, are you?”
“I’ll eat it, ser, but I’ve been watching and thinking…”
“So have we all.”
“And being patient doesn’t necessarily bring one answers.”
“Sometimes insisting on an answer brings the one least appreciated.”
Lerial laughs softly. “And sometimes waiting does.”
Rhamuel shakes his head, obviously amused, then takes a sip of the hearty red wine he prefers before speaking. “Khesyn has two objectives. The first is to decimate, if not destroy, the Afritan Guard. The second is to conquer Afrit. If he can achieve the second without achieving the first, he will. My task is to make certain that he has to attempt the first before doing anything else.”
“And because Swartheld is the key to Afrit, you have more guards there and in Shaelt than is commonly known. The guards here are to stop his forces from gaining this side of the river where there are roads that lead to Shaelt and Swartheld.”
Rhamuel nods. “We should have brandy—or better lager—in my study after dinner.”
“I’d be honored.”
The arms-commander smiles, ironically. “Perhaps.”
That suggests that while Lerial may be honored, he won’t necessarily be pleased. He returns the smile. “Your lager is good. If your private stock is better, it must be quite good.”
“It’s excellent, if I do say so. You haven’t mentioned much about Cigoerne, you know.”
“Well … since the last time you were there—”
“The only time,” interjects Rhamuel mildly.