“Not so far.” What Lerial doesn’t say, but Kusyl knows, is that it’s a good eightday for a dispatch rider from Cigoerne, and it’s still winter. “Have your scouts reported anything happening around Yakaat?”
“They’ve seen some wagon teams and armsmen accompanying them, but there’s only a squad of armsmen staying in the town.”
“That sounds like they’re sending tools and equipment there.”
“Be my thought. Probably send armsmen and engineers right after spring planting … maybe before, if the weather holds, and there’s no rain.”
“If there’s rain…” Lerial shakes his head.
“Be a bitch either way, ser.”
Lerial nods. Even he understands that. Enough rain to slow the Meroweyans will also slow training the recruits.
“Begging your pardon, ser, but I’ve got another company coming up for maneuvers.”
“Don’t let me keep you.” Lerial needs to hurry himself, if he is to get back to the drill field in time for his next two squads.
XLIX
At roughly a third of past eighth glass on oneday night, Lerial lowers his ancient but still shining sabre after spending a half glass practicing moves using the blade left-handed. After several days, even the simplest moves still feel unwieldy, but not so awkward as when he began. After sheathing the sabre, he raises a concealment and eases open the door to his small sleeping chamber at the north end of the barracks that does not yet hold Lancer recruits. He tries to move as quietly as possible because he doesn’t want to disturb Altyrn, who has just returned to the adjoining quarters. While the majer would not see him, he might see a door opening and closing. While Altyrn already suspects that Lerial can do concealments, Lerial does not wish to reveal any more of his slowly emerging talents than he has to … especially since he is still working on developing and strengthening them.
That is why he is headed for the mess hall kitchen, for he needs to use one of the ovens. The kitchen is not deserted until after eighth glass, and the cooks and their helpers arrive well before fourth glass in the morning. The kitchen itself is not locked, although the storerooms holding provisions are, and Lerial has to wait in the shadows while one of the Lancer trainees patrolling the grounds passes by and out of sight.
Once inside, with the door closed behind him, he drops the concealment and makes his way to the bank of ovens. He chooses the center oven, selects several chunks of wood, opens the door, and feeds them to the embers, waiting until they catch fire. Then he sets to work.
He begins by forming order into a fine four-line pattern, similar to that created by the lodestone, then doubles that, and uses it to form a line of flame straight up the middle of the chimney. So far, he feels no strain, and that pleases him. That exercise has burned most of the two chunks of wood, and he goes to the wood bin, where he gets two more billets, and returns to the oven and adds them to the fire. Once they are burning, he concentrates once more, this time trying to focus on creating a twelve-line pattern-four lines of three, because multiples of three seem stronger, although he has no idea why.
He can feel heat from everywhere as he struggles to line up the arcs around the inside of the oven and direct the “order channel” upward through the chimney. Abruptly, a massive wave of … something … builds inside the oven, and Lerial struggles with order barriers to contain it … somehow … as chaos shoots up the chimney …
Somewhere, later, he hears voices.
Where are you?
Even that thought sends a flash of pain through his eyes and skull, but he remembers that he had been trying a twelve-line pattern of order when he’d felt incredible pain … and nothing. He can feel cold stone against his cheek.
You’re still in the kitchen? What time is it?
He struggles into a sitting position despite the increased pounding in his skull.
“… warm in here … lot warmer than it should be…”
“… Gormish didn’t bank the oven properly … again…”
“… swears he did…”
“Likely story…”
Because the speakers are on the other side of the long table, and carry a small single lantern, they have not yet seen Lerial. So far.
Lerial raises a concealment, despite the pain so intense that it leaves him almost dizzy, and struggles to his feet, trying to move around the table toward the rear door, away from the two cooks, likely bakers, who have entered the kitchen.
“Someone left the oven door open … idiots! Embers burned down to nothing.”
“Even Gormish wouldn’t do that.”
“Make sure they all understand. Can’t have this…”
The two are so engaged that Lerial manages to get through the door and ease it shut behind himself without them noticing. As soon as he can get more than a few steps away from the mess hall, he drops the concealment. The dizziness subsides; the pain does not.
His head is aching, and he can barely see as he walks through the darkness toward the north end of the barracks. He even has to concentrate on the effort to walk … all because he tried a pattern too far beyond his strength? You should have known … idiot …
“Ser?”
“Yes?” Lerial struggles to make out the figure of the trainee watch-stander, a figure he has neither seen nor sensed.
“Sorry, ser … I didn’t know…”
Lerial forces a smile. “I was walking, thinking things over. I should have let you know, but my mind was elsewhere.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Carry on.” Lerial smiles once more and resumes his progress back to his quarters such as they are. He hopes the little sleep he will get will suffice to allay the worst of the headache and the pain in his eyes.
He does manage to slip into his quarters and collapse on his bunk without waking Altyrn … or at least the majer does not come and inquire.
L
By sixday, almost three eightdays since he began arms instruction with the Verdyn recruits, Lerial is still wondering whether he can teach the would-be Lancers enough to survive, and more than to survive, to prevail against the Meroweyan armsmen. He is tired, exhausted, in fact, by the end of each day, as well as hoarse. Yet he cannot complain about the recruits. They are polite. They do everything he asks … and, then, by the next session, it is almost as if they have forgotten half of what they had learned before. At least, it’s two steps forward, and only one back. And both squad leaders and Altyrn had emphasized that repetition is the way to learning skills.
Unfortunately, that is also true of Lerial himself. That is why, tired as he is, especially after another short session practicing left-handed, he makes his way through the darkness toward the building that holds the mess hall and the adjoining kitchen. Given the incident with the recruit watch patrol on the previous oneday, he has decided that he does not need a concealment, except when he nears the mess hall. He can sense two of the recruits standing outside the nearest barracks, in the darkness a good fifteen yards away. How far he can sense people has also increased with practice. Almost absently, he uses his order-sense to try to hear what they might be saying of interest, if anything.
“… who’s that?”
“… undercaptain … walks like he knows where everything is … doesn’t have to see it…”
Lerial nods. He can definitely sense people and their words from farther away, but it has taken continual effort and practice.
“… same way with wands, blades, too, I suppose…”
“… and he’s the younger heir?… really scary…”
Lerial frowns. While his ability with a sabre is better than that of many, there are others with better technique, except perhaps on defense, but that is not his technique but his order-sensing skill. Admittedly, his order-senses have improved enough that he no longer needs a lantern or a candle, even in pitch darkness, but he wouldn’t have thought of that as scary. Except that you’ve grown up among the Magi’i.