“Yes, ser. The overcaptain is the best commander the duke has. I know that, and so do Fheldar and Strauxyn, and the duke knows we know that.”
“So why do you think the duke sent his best commander, and his son, to help Afrit?”
“Because Duke Khesyn is a bastard, ser.”
Rhamuel bursts into laughter and laughs for several long moments. Then he shakes his head. “Oh … oh…” He turns to Valatyr. “I would that…” He breaks off and looks at Norstaan. “Would you have said that, Undercaptain?”
“Ah … ser…” The undercaptain swallows. “No, ser.”
Rhamuel shakes his head again, this time ruefully, before turning and looking down the table at Kusyl. “Thank you.” He pauses. “Were you in Verdheln, Undercaptain?”
“Yes, ser. Squad leader, acting undercaptain.”
“Serving under Lord Lerial?”
“No, ser. He was undercaptain of Second Company, and I was acting undercaptain of Fourth Company. Those were Verdyn Lancers, not Mirror Lancers, ser. Majer Altyrn was commanding.”
“How many companies did the majer command?”
“Six, ser.”
“How many Meroweyan companies were there?”
“Eight battalions, the majer said.”
Rhamuel looks to Norstaan. “I won’t put you on the spot.” His eyes go to Valatyr. “What would you gather from what Undercaptain Kusyl said, Subcommander?”
“Might I ask one more question of the undercaptain, ser?”
Rhamuel nods.
“How experienced were the Verdyn Lancers?”
“They’d never held a blade when we got there.” Kusyl smiles. “The majer, the overcaptain—he was a green undercaptain, barely seventeen—and two of us squad leaders trained them for less than a season before Duke Casseon attacked.”
Valatyr offers a tight smile. “I’d draw the conclusion you’re asking for, ser … that it is unwise to underestimate the Mirror Lancers.”
“What part of the training did you do?” Rhamuel asks Lerial.
“Blade training. That’s the only skill I really knew then. I had to learn about maneuvers, supplies, scouting, as fast as I could.”
Valatyr glances at Kusyl. “How good a blade is he?”
“Then … he was one of the best. Now…” Kusyl shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want to be in the same sparring ring.”
“Might I ask how good a blade your brother is?” asks Rhamuel.
“I couldn’t say,” replies Lerial. “We were close to evenly matched when I became an undercaptain.” That’s stretching matters, but … “We’ve never sparred since then. We seldom even see each other. He’s posted to Sudstrym, and I’ve spent most of my time at Ensenla or along the north border.”
Rhamuel frowns slightly. “It’s later than I thought. If you wouldn’t mind leaving the mess to the subcommander and me … we need to go over a few things…”
“By your leave, ser?” Lerial stands, followed by all the undercaptains and Fheldar.
Rhamuel nods.
Lerial gestures for Norstaan to lead the way from the small mess, and, after a moment, the dark-haired and fresh-faced undercaptain does so, stepping into the short and narrow hallway. Lerial lags slightly, then pauses at the door to the courtyard, holding the door ajar.
“If you’d all check on the men and mounts,” Lerial says. “I need to check some other matters. I’ll meet you outside the stable in half a glass or so.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial waits until the undercaptains are well away and half swallowed by the late twilight gloom before he raises a concealment, and then slips back into the hallway, closing the door loudly. He eases his way back toward the mess.
“… all gone,” says Valatyr, whom Lerial can sense moving back to the mess table and seating himself. “Might I ask what that was all about?”
“Didn’t you see it?” Rhamuel’s voice contains a trace of irritation.
“That Lord Lerial is extraordinarily accomplished and talented? We knew that already.”
“No. His undercaptains. They’re all seasoned veterans. They’re not afraid to speak their minds, if deferentially … and they respect him absolutely. What does that tell you?”
“Besides the fact that he’d turn most of our battalions into raw meat?” Valatyr is silent for several moments. “He was candid about his shortcomings as a green undercaptain.”
“And?”
“He’s unlikely to have an excessive opinion of his own abilities, and his officers know that as well.”
“It will be interesting to see how he manages Swartheld,” muses Rhamuel.
“Because it’s far less direct than a battlefield?” Valatyr laughs. “Deadly as young Lerial may be, I’d wager that Maesoryk will have him charmed and bewildered in less than a glass.”
Maesoryk—you need to keep that name in mind.
“He well may … but the first glass is not what counts. It’s the last glass. The empress won the last glass against my sire.”
“And your brother has never forgotten that.”
“No. But that last glass may be our saving in the end.”