“Why don’t I put men there? The place is a ruin, and Khesyn could wait eightdays … or longer. If I rebuild there, it costs golds the duke doesn’t have, and then Khesyn might just attack the harbor directly. The currents might even carry the flatboats that far anyway. South Post is only a bit more than two kays away, and the river watch will give us time to alert Drusyn.”
There is something Rhamuel isn’t saying. After a moment, Lerial realizes what that is. Rhamuel cannot allow Khesyn’s forces to attack the harbor proper, at least not first, and he cannot position his forces to make the harbor and the merchanting areas a more favorable target. “You want him to land at the point.”
“Of course. He can do less damage there.”
“But he can also establish a stronger position there.”
“There are advantages and disadvantages to every position.”
Lerial nods. That was the way the majer thought. “Did you ever talk with Majer Altyrn?”
“Regrettably, I did not. I was younger and more arrogant.” Rhamuel smiles. “You are less so than most successful young commanders, but you will also see what I came to see. The majer had to have done that also.”
“I would hope to learn from what I could have done better.” As if your failures already have not cost too many lives.
A hint of a frown flickers across the arms-commander’s face.
“You never did say what the unofficial and real reason for the dinner was.”
“What do you think?”
“To show the possibility that hostilities between Cigoerne and Afrit have come to an end and that trade will be better … or that Afrit can now devote itself to dealing with Heldya without worrying about Cigoerne.”
“That’s close enough. It won’t even be stated. Your presence will imply it.” Rhamuel swallows the last of his lager and greenberry. “I’ll be leaving shortly. You can certainly wander through the palace. Well … except for the part Dafaal insists on refurbishing. That’s taken forever, but I suppose it’s because my brother insists they only work in the middle of the day. Or you can accompany me back to Swartheld Post.”
“I’d thought to check on my companies there.”
“I’ll meet you at the stables. You can return to the palace when you want. I’ll assign half a squad as an escort for your return. It will take some time for people—and the palace guard—to get used to seeing Mirror Lancers here in Swartheld.” The arms-commander eases back his chair and stands.
So does Lerial. “I appreciate that.”
“It’s the least I can do. You’ve come all the way here.”
As he watches the arms-commander leave, Lerial ponders the clear sincerity behind Rhamuel’s words, a sincerity that concerns him more than a glib tone would have. He reaches down and lifts his beaker, finishing the lager before returning to his quarters and immediately finding Polidaar.
“Ser?”
“We’re headed back to Swartheld Post with the arms-commander. We’ll likely be there all morning and some of the afternoon. I want you and your men to study the city as we ride through it. They need to look at everything. What do they see that’s the same as in Cigoerne? What’s not?” Lerial grins. “And not just the women.”
Polidaar tries to hide a smile, but does not succeed. “Yes, ser. Are you looking for something?”
Lerial shakes his head. “No. Not exactly. Call it a feeling. But I don’t know enough even to point out what might tell us something.” He shrugs. “Then, I might be too cautious, and what you and they see might tell me that. Anyway, ten more pair of eyes can’t hurt.”
“No, ser.”
Polidaar has the squad at the stables quickly enough that they can saddle and lead out their mounts—and Lerial’s—in time not to delay Rhamuel.
Lerial rides beside the arms-commander as they leave the inner courtyard and then the smaller outer one. Once they are on the paved road around the palace’s outer walls, Rhamuel turns south, seemingly away from Guard headquarters, rather than east or north.
At Lerial’s quizzical look, the arms-commander says, “It’s quicker this way. One block down this street and we’ll reach the old merchants’ way. It’s wider. It also goes straight—mostly—to headquarters.”
Lerial studies the dwellings bordering the street, not so narrow as some of the ways they took the day before, but still not all that wide. He cannot help but wonder why Rhamuel had taken a longer way then. He pushes that aside for the moment and concentrates on his surroundings. For all their ornate stone facings and their two and three levels and red tile roofs, the dwellings are narrow for their height, perhaps as little as ten yards across and barely separated from their neighbors, with tiny front courtyards behind iron gates. At the same time, those dwellings extend more than three times their width back from the street and may have larger walled rear courtyards beyond that.