The ride on sevenday is long and warm enough, with spring only two days away, that Lerial would not wish to make such a ride in full summer. As he had surmised when he had surveyed the north of Luba, the road turns away from the river and climbs into rugged and dry hills that extend northward for almost twenty kays before descending into rolling grasslands, separated from the Swarth River by sandy hills. The road then takes a track along the top of a ridge for another ten kays before swinging back east toward the river … and the small town of Haal, which appears in the distance late in the afternoon.
“That is the first truly green land we’ve seen all day,” observes Lerial to Rhamuel as they ride along the dusty road as it gradually descends into the clearly fertile lands to the north of them. “There isn’t much south of Luba, either.” Not until south of Ensenla, anyway.
“Luba and the area around it do not truly represent the best of Afrit. See the trees here, the olives that have prospered for years, and the apricots, farther to the west, there?” Rhamuel gestures.
“I see them,” replies Lerial. “I also saw the same lushness in Guasyra. It is a lovely town, but that is a small area.”
“It was settled by people from Haal and Shaelt, and they have made it a garden as well.”
“But why are the lands so barren south of Guasyra?”
“The marshes there are so sandy that trying to turn the land fertile is not possible. Where there is soil that might be fertile, those places are too far from water, and where there is water…” Rhamuel shrugs. “Because Cigoerne is so far south and beyond the wasting lands, no one had thought that one could do what your grandmere envisioned.”
Lerial realizes that Rhamuel has just offered the longest set of statements since they rode out early that morning. “She envisioned a great deal, but you must have thought of things such as that, especially the way you just described the best lands of Afrit.”
“I would like to say that I have. I have a few times, but an arms-commander must concentrate on what makes the Afritan Guard strong.”
“Everything from supplies to weapons, and what all the other duchies may be doing?” prompts Lerial.
“To begin with.”
“What other orchards are there around Haal?”
“Farther to the north, there are date palms, but they require clean water. Once men thought they would thrive in the south, because they like sandy ground, but the date palms die if they are planted too near the salt marshes. The dates from near Shaelt are the best.”
“We don’t get many dates in Cigoerne. Usually those we do get are dried and not fresh.”
“We’ll have to have you eat real dates, then,” says Rhamuel with a light laugh. “And some good vintages. The grapes from the hills southwest of Swartheld produce a wonderful red wine.”
“What about white wines?”
“Ah … you would like Ascatyl. It comes from the small white grapes on the higher hills.”
“And too much Ascatyl,” adds Valatyr from where he rides on the other side of Rhamuel, “will have you liking everything … until you wake the next morning.”
“That’s true of everything in excess,” says Rhamuel mildly, “assuming you wake up. That doesn’t always happen in parts of Swartheld.”
“People doing things to excess in Cigoerne usually do wake up.” Lerial pauses. “That used to be true. I’m not so certain it always does now. Cigoerne has grown so much.”
“That’s one difference between towns and cities,” comments Valatyr. “Cigoerne’s likely a city now.”
“A very small one,” replies Lerial.
“How big compared to Luba?” asks Valatyr.
“At least twice as large, perhaps three times.”
“It’s grown that much?” Rhamuel is clearly surprised.
“It’s grown rapidly in the past few years. It was larger every time I rode there from Ensenla.”
“Rode there from Ensenla?” asks Valatyr.
“I’ve been posted to Ensenla for most of the past five years,” explains Lerial.
“Five years?” For a long moment, Valatyr says nothing. “Oh…” He looks to Rhamuel.
“Yes, I knew that,” replies the arms-commander. “The overcaptain likely has more combat experience than any officer now in the Afritan Guard. More successful combat experience.”
“And more mistakes,” adds Lerial dryly. He cannot but wonder why Rhamuel did not mention that Lerial had been the one to destroy the Afritan battalion years ago … and then has admitted to Valatyr that he knew all along. Because Valatyr had also observed what had happened to the Heldyans attacking the east wall? But if Valatyr had observed … Lerial wants to shake his head at the already-complex politics in the Afritan Guard, politics that he knows will only get messier the longer he is in Afrit. Yet he also knows he had no real choice but to accept Rhamuel’s offer. And perhaps Rhamuel had no real choice but to offer. That, too, is a frightening and all-too-real possibility.
“Experience is always paid for in mistakes,” counters Rhamuel.
“If you’re fortunate, someone else’s,” suggests Valatyr.
“No, that doesn’t count as experience.” Rhamuel shakes his head. “Profiting from someone else’s mistakes, especially when you’re young, gives you the feeling that you won’t make mistakes … and that’s sometimes even worse.”
“You know, ser,” says Valatyr with a smile, “you could give any man pause.”
“Some men, but not those who need that pause. Words never affect them.”