When he wakes soon after dawn on twoday, Lerial does not rise immediately, but lies in the moderately comfortable bed big enough for three people—or a couple and several children—thinking over the conversations during refreshments and dinner the evening before. The conversation at dinner had been almost exactly as Atroyan had declared, with discussions of several poets that Lerial has never heard of, let alone read; a mock debate between Rhamuel and Atroyan over the merits of their favorite vintages—the hilltop white called Halyn against the Reoman red; and more than a little speculation about what sort of weather the spring and summer to come might bring, along with Haesychya’s observation that the spring was already unseasonably warm.
After just that meeting with the duke and his immediate family, Lerial can understand his aunt’s concerns about Afrit. Atroyan does not seem all that strong, and Lerial’s own impressions of Natroyor are not particularly favorable, and the youth seems constitutionally even weaker than his father. Rhamuel seems to be the most able male of the lot, but the arms-commander seems almost indifferent to the idea of ruling.
Is he just that good at concealing his feelings … or is he truly indifferent? Lerial suspects the former, but cannot dismiss the latter.
After washing up, shaving, and dressing, Lerial leaves his rooms and goes to the family dining room for breakfast. There, Rhamuel is seated alone. The arms-commander gestures to the chair across from him.
“Will anyone else be joining us?”
“No. The duke and his immediate family always have breakfast alone in the breakfast room.”
“You’re not included?”
Rhamuel shakes his head. “Immediate family only. That’s a custom of Aenian House. Or so Haesychya informed me many years ago. Fhastal doesn’t know anything about it.”
Why would Fhastal … oh … he’s consorted to Haesychya’s older sister.
The arms-commander sips a mixture of greenberry juice and lager.
Wondering how anyone could drink such a mixture, Lerial merely pours himself a light lager. “I can see family only. That’s the case in Cigoerne, but family means all family in residence.”
“My brother is very firm about acceding to his consort on that.”
And other matters, I’d wager.
“Besides, I’m here so seldom that it’s not an issue.”
The more reason it should be. But Lerial just nods and takes another swallow of lager. He is thirsty. Within moments, or so it seems, a server appears with a large platter of egg toast and ham strips, accompanied by a generous loaf of dark bread, rare indeed in Cigoerne. He takes several bites before speaking. “Can you tell me any more about the dinner this evening?”
“It will be small. There will be between ten and fifteen men, all important in Swartheld. Mostly merchanters, except for the duke and you and me. The official purpose will be to convey to them how decisively we defeated the Heldyans at Luba. Even though they all know it, and knew it within less than a day.”
“We did,” says Lerial, “but…”
Rhamuel raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. “But?”
“All the survivors took the flatboats downstream, and I’d wager they’re all at Estheld … or somewhere close.”
“I won’t take that wager … and I won’t point out that nine out of ten Heldyans who fought Ascaar and Drusyn’s battalions survived, while perhaps two out of ten of those who fought you did.”
“So … how many battalions do you think Khesyn has massed across the river?”
“Fifteen battalions.”
Seventy-five fairly well-trained companies. “Assuming he does attack Swartheld, just how will he get them across the river?”
“The same way he did at Luba. He’ll most likely launch the flatboats upstream and use the current to cross. If I were trying to do that, I’d ground them in the shallow water off the point of the old river fort. The first attackers would get wet enough, but they could pull the boats farther in. The later attackers could walk from boat to boat.”
“Is that why Drusyn’s battalions are at South Post?”
“I told Commander Nythalt and the duke that we needed to protect the harbor from both ends.”
“I imagine that’s true enough,” replies Lerial evenly. “I heard that Commander Nythalt has seven battalions. Are they all at the Harbor Post?”
“Six are there. One is at South Post, with Subcommander Drusyn’s battalions.”
“So … if that’s likely…?”