If it’s not, that will reveal something else … even worse. But Lerial only nods and lays the assassin’s blade on the table desk.
As he follows Rhamuel from the chamber, another thought occurs to him: the fact that his sabre—the one Altyrn said had come from one of his forebears—was forged so that it could be used to parry small chaos-bolts. But any iron blade can if the user is quick enough … except … Lerial nods. The blade had been created for and used by someone who was of the Magi’i and likely someone who could wield chaos. He wonders if Altyrn had realized that, but that is something Lerial will never know.
XIX
At roughly third glass on threeday afternoon, Lerial, Rhamuel, and their forces are riding north on the river road, just past the stone marker indicating that Shaelt is less than a kay away, although the plots of land to the west of the road are modest and close together, each with a small mud-brick house and its grove of olive or lemon trees, if not both, suggesting that they are close indeed to Shaelt proper. He has also seen the best-designed canals since he entered Afrit, with well-maintained water gates, and even stone-walled channels and bridges immediately off the Swarth River.
Although Rhamuel and Lerial have discussed Valatyr’s assassination over the two-day ride and reviewed what they both observed, they have been able to ascertain no more than they did when they left Haal. “Yussyl’s” few possessions gave no clue as to his past, or his real name, again suggesting that the assassination was well planned and not a last-moment plot. They have little evidence, except the blade, and a sketch made of the assassin’s face soon after his death. That was fortunate, because his body was already discomposing into ash, as a result of the excess of chaos he had carried, Lerial suspects. While Rhamuel may have some surmises, based on what he knows of Swartheld, he has not shared those with Lerial, and all Lerial can do is watch carefully, make certain his shields are strong at all times, and bide his time.
He cannot help but worry about the fact that Rhamuel’s enemies have mages, that such mages are costly, and that someone was willing to risk such a valuable agent to kill the subcommander. Valatyr’s body has been packed in salt and tightly wrapped, then placed in one of the wagons for a return to Swartheld to his family. Those arrangements delayed their departure from Haal, but the weather has favored them, and they are approaching Shaelt close to when Rhamuel had originally predicted.
“We’ll be quartered at the Afritan Guard post on the north side of Shaelt,” Rhamuel says. “You’ll get a good look at the city as we pass through. You’ll have a better chance tomorrow.”
“You’re intending we stay here for a day? Or longer?”
“Just a day. I would that it were otherwise. Staying at least a day is a necessity, for a number of reasons.”
Lerial waits, hoping that Rhamuel will explain more without his having to ask.
After several moments, the arms-commander smiles and adds, “My brother does not travel that much these days. I must stand in for him at times, and this is one of those.”
“So far I’ve not…” Lerial smiles wryly. He had been about to say that he had not had to stand in for either his father or his brother, but why else had his presence in Verdheln been required? Or his posting to Ensenla, where his father had previously spent much time commanding companies and patrols?
“There will be more requirements like that for you in the years ahead,” predicts Rhamuel.
“You’re likely right.”
Ahead is a small square, with a pedestal in the middle. Rising from the pedestal is a statue of a man holding a long blade in the air, presumably in triumph. Just before Lerial, some hundred yards south of the square, he can see that the packed dirt and clay of the road ends, and a wider stone-paved way leads on to the square.
“This is the south river market square. Most growers from the south sell here, I’m told,” says Rhamuel.
“And the statue?”
“My great-grandsire. He paid to pave the square and the road from the south market square to the river-pier market square.”
“Did you know him?”
“He died when I was little more than an infant. Atroyan claims to recall him. I don’t.”
“That’s a rather war-like pose,” observes Lerial as they enter the small square. Carts and stalls are lined up, not quite haphazardly, on the east side of the square just a few yards from the river wall. Most of the peddlers and those looking at wares keep glancing at the Mirror Lancers, but slowly seem to return to the business of bargaining.