“Good thought,” says Lerial.
Once he has his gear, including a semiclean uniform, he closes the door and moves to the sleeping chamber, where he unpacks the kit bag. By the time he dabs away the worst of the soil on his uniforms and hangs them on the pegs in the armoire, the bathwater is barely lukewarm, but still welcome. So is a good shave.
Once he dresses, he looks in the full-length mirror on the interior wall of the bedchamber. The uniform is at least presentable, but his hair is longer than he prefers, and close to unruly, since the longer it gets, the wirier it is.
Because all of his cleaning up has taken longer than he thought, he doubts he has much time before he is summoned, but when he hears the lancers across the hall he steps out of the sitting room and approaches Polidaar.
“How are the quarters?”
The squad leader grins. “Good enough that I told the men not to say anything to the other lancers. Good beds, even with linens, and no sign of vermin.”
“Once in a while, we do get fortunate.”
“Do you want an escort to dinner, ser?”
“I doubt I’ll need it, but I’ll let you know if I do. Did you find out about messing for you and your rankers?”
“Yes, ser. We get fed in the palace guard mess. Fifth glass. Anyone on duty can get rations there until eighth glass.”
After finishing arrangements with the squad leader, Lerial waits less than a tenth of a glass before a young palace guard appears. “Lord Lerial, ser.”
Before stepping out into the hall, Lerial reinforces his shields, ensuring that they are tightly linked to the iron of his belt knife.
The escort leads him back along the long north-south corridor and then to the right and up a marble staircase to the fourth level, along a wide but short hallway to a double set of doors. They halt in front of the golden wooden doors, where a guard is posted.
“Lord Lerial to see the duke,” announces the guard who has escorted Lerial.
The duty guard turns and raps on the door, announcing, “Lord Lerial.”
“Have him come in.”
The guard opens the door and Lerial steps inside. The receiving room is not enormous, as Lerial had half expected, but neither is it small, a chamber some six yards wide and perhaps ten yards in length, the last yard and a half a dais raised perhaps two thirds of a yard, in the middle of which is an overlarge chair, not exactly a throne, constructed of the white wood oiled or tinted into a rich gold, with a seat upholstered in brilliant crimson. The walls are of while marble tiles shot with gold, with half pillars of the golden-tinted wood at regular intervals. The floor is of black marble tile, and scuffed in more than a few places, Lerial notes. A second look tells him that there are hairline cracks in the marble of the walls and the floor. Light comes from brass wall lamps and two narrow skylights. Stationed on each side of the chair where Atroyan sits are two tall palace guards, each holding a halberd, its base resting on the marble tiles, with a highly polished and visibly sharp blade.
Lerial walks forward until he is within two yards of Atroyan. He stops and inclines his head politely. “Duke Atroyan.”
Atroyan is not as Lerial remembers him. The one time Lerial had seen the duke had been in Cigoerne when Lerial was a child. Then Atroyan had seemed tall and lean, with dark brown hair and eyes. The man who sits on the throne-like chair, wearing black trousers and a gold and crimson jacket over a white shirt, has dark gray hair with but a few streaks of brown. His brown eyes are sunken, and his shoulders are stooped. His smile is warm, and his eyes light up as he looks over his visitor.
“Lerial … such a change from the last time, except for the unruly red hair. You look every bit the officer my brother has portrayed.” Even Atroyan’s voice is slightly raspy.
Was it that way when he came to Cigoerne? Although Lerial cannot be absolutely certain, he recalls Atroyan’s voice then being more like Rhamuel’s, warm and full. “I would hope so, ser, since I have served as such for the last six years.”
Atroyan does not laugh, but does smile, almost tentatively, then nods almost brusquely. “Rather effectively, I hear. This last time, I understand, most effectively against the hordes raised by that mongrel Khesyn.”
“We did the best we could, ser, as did Subcommander Ascaar and Subcommander Drusyn and their officers and men.”
“So I heard. So I heard. And that is good. Very good.” After a long pause, Atroyan asks, “Your family is well, I trust?”
“The last I heard, all were well, but that was almost half a season ago.”
“Does your father still command the Lancers?”