That statement gives Lerial pause, if for a moment, as he realizes just how true it is.
“There is a pleasant way station at Haal,” Rhamuel says cheerfully.
“It will be crowded, but it has held a full battalion,” interjects Valatyr.
As they ride closer to Haal, Lerial can see a network of smaller canals, presumably fed by larger canals from the river. The olive trees are stout and well tended, and the mud-brick cottages between the orchards also in good condition, although some of the roofs could use a rethatching. But where do they get the thatching? He hasn’t seen either long-stemmed wild grasses or wheat-corn fields. Then he smiles. Water reeds. There’s no shortage of those this close to the river.
“You can see the way station now,” announces Valatyr.
As at Guasyra, the way station is located south of the town, and when they approach it, Lerial can see that the simple plaster-covered mud-brick walls three yards high form a square some two hundred yards on a side. In the center of the square are two long buildings, one clearly a stable, the other a two-story barracks.
The main gates, manned by two Afritan Guards, are less than twenty yards west of the road and do not look to have been closed in years, not from the way they sag to the packed clay of the courtyard, observes Lerial as he rides past them.
“The officers’ quarters are on the north end,” Valatyr explains. “So is the officers’ mess. Very small.”
“There’s a mess staff here?” asks Lerial.
“No,” replies Rhamuel, “but there are supplies here for companies to use, and one of the rankers in my personal squad is an excellent cook. You might have noticed him. He does enjoy his own cooking.”
Lerial can’t help but smile as he recalls the hefty ranker.
“He can do wonders with very little,” adds Rhamuel. “You’ll see.” With that, he nods and turns his mount toward the officers’ end of the barracks building.
Once Lerial has accompanied his men to the stables and he is well away from the arms-commander, he draws his undercaptains aside. “We need to keep a close watch on the gates. I want someone watching at all times. Let me know if anyone saddles up and departs the way station.”
“You want to let them go, ser?” asks Fheldar.
“No, but we don’t want anyone harmed, either. We are guests.”
“Leave that to us, ser.” Kusyl smiles.
“If … if you can find someone sneaking out and you can detain them, let me know immediately. You can’t hurt them.”
“No, ser. We won’t.”
Lerial nods slowly. Are you certain this is wise? He shakes his head. Is anything wise?
“We’ll be very careful, ser,” adds Strauxyn.
“We’ll need to be very careful about everything from here on.” Lerial feels that he cannot emphasize that too much, then realizes the absurdity of his words and goes on, grinning wryly as he does, “Even when we’re doing something that’s exceedingly risky.”
“But necessary,” says Kusyl.
Lerial doesn’t contradict the seasoned undercaptain.
More than two glasses later, Rhamuel, Valatyr, Lerial, the three undercaptains, and Fheldar are seated around the oblong mess table, finishing a meal of noodles and mutton slices in a spicy but tasty brown sauce, accompanied by warm crusty loaves of freshly baked bread. The only beverage is a watery ale that Lerial finds barely drinkable.
“Arms-Commander, ser?” asks Kusyl. “Begging your pardon, ser…”
Lerial wants to wince, knowing that the older squad leader, while diplomatic and deferential, will not hesitate to ask a direct question on delicate subjects.
“… but how did you get to be arms-commander … besides, again begging your pardon, ser, being the duke’s brother?”
Rhamuel laughs. “I can see why it would never be a good idea to have Cigoerne as an enemy again.” A smile follows his words. “Being named arms-commander was easy. My sire, when he was duke, declared my older brother would succeed him, and that I would learn enough to be arms-commander—or that I would be exiled to Lydiar or dropped on the desert isle of Recluce. Like your overcaptain, I started lower than an undercaptain, as a provisional officer trainee. I did make captain before my brother became duke and installed me as arms-commander. I listened to senior officers and followed their advice. I learned whose words were valuable and whose were … less valuable. I made a number of mistakes, one of which ended up getting me wounded and captured by Duke Kiedron. I learned enough from that to decide that fighting Cigoerne and its Mirror Lancers was less than wise. Another episode, while I was laid low by a particularly nasty flux, reinforced that decision. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.”
“Good. Now, let me ask you one. Why do you think you and Overcaptain Lerial were sent to Afrit?”
Kusyl looks to Lerial.
Lerial nods.