“Thank you.” Lerial gestures at the white-edged black drape on each of the gateposts. “Not Commander Jhalet?””
“No, ser. Not him. It was the majer … I mean Commander Altyrn. We heard late last night.”
The ranker’s clearly regretful words go through Lerial like a lance of ice. Altyrn? The majer … the man who has made all that you have done possible. The man who taught you blade skills, who worked you until you understood what work truly was … and who gave you the sabre you still carry … telling you that he was restoring your own heritage …
“Ser…?”
Lerial manages to rein up the gelding, but cannot speak for a moment. “I’m sorry. I had no idea…”
“No one did, ser.”
“Do you know…?”
“No, ser. Commander Jhalet might.”
“Thank you.” Lerial rides directly to the hexagonal stone headquarters building, still trying to grapple with the idea of Altyrn’s death. The majer—that was always the way Lerial thought of him—had been anything but young. Lerial had never known his actual age, but he’d been close to the age of his Grandmere Mairena. Another thought strikes him. Could that be why you’re being recalled to Cigoerne? No, that couldn’t be, not when headquarters had only heard of the majer’s death late the night before.
Outside the headquarters building, he reins up, then turns to Dhoraat, the First Squad leader. “Have the horses watered and rested, but don’t unsaddle them until you hear from me. We may be quartering here or at the palace. I won’t know until I talk to the commander.” Assuming he’s here … but he should be … with Altyrn’s death, especially. Even as he thinks those thoughts, Lerial knows that they make little logical sense.
“Yes, ser.”
Lerial dismounts and hands the gelding’s reins to the nearest ranker, then walks into headquarters, taking off his lancer’s visor cap and tucking it under his arm as he crosses the anteroom.
The young ranker at the duty desk snaps to his feet. “Ser! The commander said you’re to go right in.”
“Thank you.” Lerial steps around the desk and pushes the door, already slightly ajar, open, enters the study, and closes it behind himself.
Jhalet rises easily from behind the table desk. Lerial again notices how, over the past five years, the commander’s once jet-black hair has gained more and more strands of silver white, and his face has hardened somewhat, but he smiles pleasantly enough. “You made good time, Overcaptain.”
“We left at first light. Your dispatch suggested urgency.” Before Jhalet can reply, Lerial goes on. “Majer Altyrn? Do you know…?”
Jhalet shakes his head. “We got word from the palace lancers last night.” He gestures toward the chairs in front of the desk, then seats himself. “All we know is that he died at his villa.”
“If his death isn’t the reason I’ve been recalled…” Lerial seats himself, if slightly forward on the straight-backed armless chair. “Your dispatch did stress urgency.”
“That’s because your father the duke believes we face an urgent situation. I would prefer not to say more, but let him explain. He has requested that we both join him at the palace as soon as possible after you arrived.”
“I did not have my mount unsaddled, nor those of the rankers who accompanied me. We can leave as soon as you wish.”
“There is a mount standing by … and a half squad to accompany me back.” Jhalet offers a wry smile. “I have no doubt that you and your men will be quartered at the palace. We can leave now.” The commander rises.
Lerial is grateful not to sit longer and does so as well. “Before we go … how are matters in the southeast?”
“At Sudstrym Post? With the Heldyans?” Jhalet smiles. “Very quiet since midfall. Even the Meroweyan traders report fewer encounters with raiders or overzealous tariff inspectors.”
Lerial nods, but given the way Jhalet has spoken, his words do not totally reassure Lerial, except that they mean that Lephi has not been in any great danger … so far. Lerial also knows that can change almost in moments, even for an heir of Cyador who is of the Magi’i.
Jhalet slips on his Lancer riding jacket and picks up his visor cap, and he and Lerial leave the study. In less than a tenth of a glass they and a full squad of rankers—the ten from Eighth Company and ten from headquarters—are riding northwest on the paved boulevard that connects the Lancer compound with the Square of the Magi’i and the walled ducal palace that stands on the west side of the square. Half a glass later, they ride through the palace gates, also draped in white-edged black mourning cloth, and then to the north courtyard and the entrance in the middle of the north wing.
As they dismount, a comparatively small and wiry undercaptain steps forward. “Welcome back, ser. And congratulations.”