“Ser?”
There is no response, but Lerial’s senses give him the impression that Rhamuel has shaken his head. Then, after a moment, the arms-commander speaks again. “Who should we invite to dinner in Shaelt? Those that Lord Lerial should meet?”
“Is Graemaald still willing…”
“He will host it and invite anyone we wish. Even on less than a day’s notice.”
“I thought you might ask that. I have a list here.” Valatyr extends a sheet. “You can add others, of course.”
“You haven’t listed Vonacht.”
“He’s been stipended off.”
“Exactly. That’s why he needs to be there. Also, Kenkram, and, if possible, Shalaara.”
“Shalaara? That could be awkward…”
“She’s a woman, and she’s powerful and wealthy. We don’t have many, and he needs to see that there are some in Afrit.”
Lerial listens intently as the two mention other names, although not a single name is familiar to him.
Then, abruptly, the arms-commander yawns. “I need to get some sleep. Even rest would be helpful. It will be a long ride tomorrow.” Rhamuel rises.
So does Valatyr.
Lerial slips to the part of the corridor past the archway to the mess, where he waits for the other two to leave. Then he waits before leaving the lower level, still holding a concealment and pondering what he has overheard.
XVIII
Well before dawn on eightday morning, a quiet rap on the door of the small and narrow room that passes for an officer’s quarters awakens Lerial.
“Ser?”
Lerial bolts upright and walks to the door, finally focusing his order-senses on the single figure out in the hall outside. “Yes?”
“Undercaptain Kusyl thinks you’d best join him outside the stables, ser.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Lerial yanks on his uniform and boots, then stops and belts on his sabre, the cupridium-plated iron blade that Altyrn claimed had come from one of his ancestors, and hurries down the outside steps from the second level to the courtyard and then across to the stables, glad for his order-sensing abilities, given the darkness cloaking the way station. Even before he leaves the barracks building, he can sense a single figure outside the stable.
The ranker steps forward as Lerial nears the stable door, barely ajar. “Undercaptain Kusyl is inside, ser.”
“Thank you.” Lerial slips through the door and into the stable, where Kusyl and three rankers stand under the one small lamp. Between them is an Afritan ranker, his black-gloved hands bound before him.
“We found this fellow with a dispatch pouch trying to take a mount out,” says Kusyl. “We thought you ought to see him, ser.” As Lerial steps closer to the undercaptain, Kusyl murmurs, “Still have men watching, ser,”
Lerial can’t help but feel the trace of a wry smile. Kusyl trusts the Afritans—or some of them—less than you do. He nods and studies the captive.
The Afritan ranker is not young, but neither is he old, perhaps three or four years older than Lerial, with a narrow face hardened by experience. He has lank blond hair, and a mole or scar on one cheek. Lerial does not recognize him, but that is not surprising, since he wears a regular Afritan Guard uniform and not the slightly dressier version worn by Rhamuel’s personal squad. That suggests he is a member of the permanent cadre at the way station … except for the black leather gloves. Could he be a decoy? Or just a contact so that whoever is the spy in Rhamuel’s squad can pass off information.
“What’s your name?” asks Lerial pleasantly.
“I only answer to Squad Leader Phoraan or Afritan Guard officers, ser.”
How can you get him to reveal something … Lerial smiles. “I think we can manage that. Put a rope around his waist. Tightly.”
“You can’t do that. I’m not under your command.”
“You’re absolutely right,” returns Lerial as he watches one of the rankers slip a rope around the midsection of the Afritan. “And I’m about to return you to a superior officer. I wouldn’t think of doing anything else.” He turns to Kusyl. “Do you have the dispatch pouch?”
“Yes, ser.” The undercaptain holds up a black leather case.
“What do you think about this ranker?” Lerial asks in a low voice.
“He’s not a ranker … or not just one. His belt knife isn’t what most rankers wear. It’s too good, more like a bravo’s. Doesn’t carry himself like a ranker, either.”
“Not the way he answered me.” Lerial, sensing something like chaos, turns and draws his sabre. He sees that one of the Afritan ranker’s hands is free, but the other holds a shimmering blade unlike the dark iron weapons usually used by Afritan Guards. That blade flashes toward the ranker with the rope, who, most sensibly, drops it and jumps back.