Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  With another silent sigh, he eases back down the corridor and out the courtyard door, carrying the two pieces of the door bar. He climbs back over the wall, making a wide circuit of the villa.

  The chestnut remains tied to the golden oak sapling. “Easy there…” Lorn unties her and mounts quickly, still carrying the wooden bar.

  He rides slowly and carefully away from the villa. Neither the glass nor his chaos-senses had revealed the woman’s presence until he had killed the enumerator. Had he spared her, Lorn would likely have doomed himself. As it is, he treads a narrow and dangerous path.

  He can tell himself that the woman was not totally innocent. The fact that she was probably the daughter of the olive-grower Baryat, who has doubtless been receiving special treatment from Flutak, suggests that the conspiracy to divert tariffs is not solely Flutak’s doing. The elaborate luxury of the villa and the guards only testify to Flutak’s corruption. Any woman who partook of the fruits of that corruption has made a choice.

  But did she, really? Lorn knows his own sisters have few real choices. Was this woman any different?

  Yet… what choices did Lorn have? If he had spared her, she would have given an alarm, and all too soon the trail would have pointed to Lorn.

  Could Lorn have found some more clever way to deal with Flutak?

  Perhaps his father could have, but Lorn has already found that his strengths do not lie in scheming, but in acting. With all the schemes already laid against him, he fears that not to act swiftly would have been his undoing.

  And innocent men do not hire assassins immediately upon meeting a Mirror Lancer officer who only pledges to carry out his duty.

  But… that does not change the sickening feeling that twists Lorn’s guts. Nor the anger that goes with his sadness and regret. Anger that he is faced once more with situations where no choices are perfect, and anger at himself for not foreseeing the complications.

  Lorn rides slowly along the road back toward the compound.

  A kay farther along toward the harbor, he drops the door bar’s sections into a drainage ditch. His head throbs, and even in the darkness, he is seeing double images. He has drawn far more chaos from around him than is wise, and used it far more than he would have preferred, and partly in ways he regrets… and will always regret.

  XVIII

  Lorn is at his study desk early the next morning-though not at dawn, not after the long night he has had, and the dreams about the young woman, who has appeared in them… pleading, her face taking on Myryan’s countenance, perhaps because Lorn had never really seen her visage. For a time, he looks blankly in the direction of the open window.

  Trying to push away the image of the pleading figure, he tries to draft the phrases that may prove useful in dealing with Neabyl, the remaining senior enumerator, when Helkyt appears.

  “Ser?”

  “Yes, Helkyt?”

  “There be a problem, ser.”

  Lorn raises his eyebrows. He can think of several, though they seem trivial compared to his dreams of Flutak’s mistress. “Yes?”

  “Mayhap not a problem, but a matter most strange.”

  “What might it be?”

  “You see, ser, there is a man. His name is Drakyt. None knows how he lives, but folk die, usually from blades stuck in them in the dead of night, and thereafter Drakyt has coin enough for good raiment and the best ale.”

  Lorn nods for Helkyt to continue.

  “This morn, the guards heard mounts outside the walls, and when they went to see, there were three horses tethered there on the west side, well away from the gate. One of the mounts was a black that none but Drakyt can ride, or so ‘tis said.” The senior squad leader pauses, then continues as he sees that Lorn will not question. “There was also a hempen seaman’s rope, tarred black, fastened over the wall. But none have seen any men within the compound.”

  Lorn shrugs. “Perhaps the guards scared them off. Until they show up to claim their mounts, all we can do is stable the mounts. When they return, we’ll charge them for feeding their horses and put the charges in the payroll chest. Every copper will help. You might pass the word to the folk around the compound that’s what we’re doing.”

  “But… if they return not?”

  “Say… in half a season, the mounts belong to the Mirror Lancers.” Lorn looks at Helkyt. “Or do you think it should be longer?”

  “I know not…” Helkyt frowns. “This Drakyt is not one to anger.”

  Lorn laughs. “How would that anger this fellow? He leaves his mount, and the Emperor’s Mirror Lancers feed it and take care of it? And we ask to be paid for the feed and care?”

  “Ah… ser…”

  “Yes?”

  “It is said you went riding late last evening, and returned far later.” Helkyt purses his lips. “You did not see or hear the mounts?”

  “I didn’t see a soul around the courtyard or outside the walls,” Lorn replies most truthfully, if not with the entire truth. “If I had, I am certain all of the compound would have heard.”

  “Most strange.” Helkyt bows, still frowning. “I will tell Tashqyt to have the mounts stabled.”

  “Tashqyt? He’s one of the junior squad leaders? Dark-haired, with a square beard?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lorn nods. “I’m trying to put faces to names. Is there anything else?”

  “No, ser.”

  “Will we have a cart to carry off the rubbish from the north barracks?”

  “This very morn, ser. Two.” Helkyt smiles, an expression of relief.

  “Good. I knew you could do that.” Lorn rises. “All this talk about stray mounts reminded me. I need to talk to Chulhyr. I shouldn’t be gone long.”

  “Yes, ser. I be going to the enumerators for the payroll, after I task Tashqyt with the stray mounts.”

  Lorn nods, and the two men separate as they leave the administrative building. Helkyt heads for the barracks, while Lorn crosses the courtyard through the light but cold rain that has turned the paving stones a darker sheen of gray. Despite the rain, Lorn nods, smiling, at the younger lancers who already are carrying debris from the north wing of the barracks into a nondescript cart. A worn and near-swaybacked mule stands in the harness.

  At the stable, Lorn draws Chulhyr aside. “You know mounts well, do you not? Exceptionally well?”

  “I might say so, ser, better than all but the farrier, and Spherl.” Chulhyr frowns, waiting. “Have you found the chestnut wanting?”

  “Dark angels, no,” replies Lorn with a light laugh he does not feel. “We will be getting more lancers. We will be needing more mounts, and I would prefer it not be known yet. Can you scout around… ?”

  “Ah… that I can do. And now is a good time, for last year’s harvests and trading were not so good as in other years.” The ostler pauses. “How many?”

  “Enough for another company by autumn.”

  Helkyt and four other lancers enter the stable to find and saddle their mounts. The senior squad leader inclines his head as he passes the overcaptain. The lancer following him carries a small chest.

  “It might take that long unless you wished to pay more than such would be worth,” Chulhyr replies slowly.

  “We have some time, but that’s why I wanted you to begin looking as you can.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Let me know when you have some you think we should purchase. You know where my study is.”

  Chulhyr nods. “I will bring you word, ser.”

  “Thank you.”

  The overcaptain walks back across the courtyard under gray clouds that appear lighter than before. Behind him, he hears the sound of hoofs on stone as Helkyt and the lancers set out to pick up the payroll.

  Back in his study, Lorn writes several more thoughts on his list of items that need action. He had forgotten to ask Chulhyr about saddles and riding gear-whether there remained saddles from the time when two full companies had been quartered at Biehl and, if so, how usable they might be
. Each idea begets more problems, and more work.

  Then Lorn goes back to his plans for the enumerators.

  He has finished what he can plan, drafted a scroll to the District Guard Commander in Ehlya suggesting that he will be visiting in the near future, and is working on the outline of a lancer training program at Biehl when the door from the outer study opens, then closes.

  Thrap! Even before the sound of the knock dies away, Helkyt puffs into the inner study.

  “Ser… ser…”

  Lorn looks up from the draft of the training program.

  “Ser… ah… there is a problem… with the pay chest. Senior Enumerator Flutak cannot be found.”

  “Cannot be found?”

  “No, ser.”

  “Doesn’t anyone know where he is?”

  “All Neabyl would say is that he was missing from his villa and that no one knew where he had gone.” Helkyt shrugs.

  “Just because he’s gone off on furlough or whatever doesn’t mean we don’t get paid,” Lorn points out, forcing annoyance to creep into his voice.

  “He is not on leave or furlough, ser. That is what Neabyl says.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Lorn frowns. “Isn’t Neabyl a senior enumerator as well?”

  “Yes, ser. But he does not wish to release the payroll without the assent of Flutak.”

  Lorn stands, then walks to the window, as if considering what Helkyt has conveyed. After a time, he turns. “Helkyt… this is a problem. We are entitled to a full draw of two companies, is that not true?”

  “Yes, ser.” There is the hint of a quaver in the squad leader’s voice.

  “Then, copy out that which we are entitled to. Underneath that, write that Overcaptain Lorn certifies that this is the payroll to which the Mirror Lancers in Biehl are entitled on this date, and that he has signed for its receipt.” Lorn smiles. “We do not wish that our lancers not be paid, do we?”

  “No, ser.”

  “And make two copies. On the second, place a line for Neabyl to sign, saying that he has received a copy and disbursed exactly these funds.”

  Helkyt nods slowly. “But he will not sign such or hand over the payroll.”

  “After you have drawn these up, we both will ride over to the enumerators’ building, and I think we should take a full squad… say, in battle dress.”

  Helkyt swallows. “Ah…”

  “The Emperor’s Enumerators serve the Mirror Lancers, even as we support them.” Lorn gestures. “Now, if you would send out word for the squad to be ready, and then draft those two statements…”

  “Yes, ser.” Helkyt nods twice, quickly.

  It is nearing midmorning when the senior squad leader returns with the two drafts of the payroll account statements.

  After he has read them closely, Lorn stands. “These will do. If the squad is ready, we will go visit Senior Enumerator Neabyl.”

  “Yes, ser. They await us in the courtyard.”

  “Good.” Lorn slips on his winter jacket, waterproof at least, and follows Helkyt out.

  Although he has not asked, the chestnut is saddled and waiting. As Lorn and Helkyt ride out through the gates, through a rain that is changing to a light drizzle, in the column behind them, Lorn can hear the murmurs.

  “…enumerators not like this…”

  “…think I’d worry more about the overcaptain not liking it…”

  “…first time… had a commander with a blade for a backbone…”

  Lorn just hopes he won’t cut himself too badly with that blade, or that he has not done just that already.

  The waters of the harbor and the Northern Ocean beyond are flat and dark gray, and the piers are empty as the lancers ride past. At the enumerators’ building, Lorn reins up, and the lancers do as well.

  “Remain in formation, mounted,” Lorn orders. “We will be a bit, but I’m sure you won’t mind, since it is your pay we’re getting.”

  There are a few smiles.

  Lorn and Helkyt walk into the building, followed by an older lancer who carries the empty pay chest.

  Neabyl comes out from the large room to meet them. He glances from Helkyt to Lorn, then past them to the squad of lancers remaining mounted in formation before the building. He bows. “Overcaptain… I see that Squad Leader Helkyt has conveyed our difficulty.”

  Lorn nods at the doorway to the larger room with the dais, then walks past Neabyl and into the room. After a moment, the senior enumerator follows, an annoyed expression on his face. Behind him slips Helkyt. Lorn gestures for the squad leader to close the door, and Helkyt does.

  “Overcaptain…”

  “I see no great difficulty,” Lorn says mildly. “We are owed a payroll. You are a senior enumerator of the Emperor, and you can provide such.”

  Neabyl shrugs. “I would not presume…”

  “Are you not in charge here when Master Flutak is not?” Lorn asks.

  “Ah, yes, Overcaptain.”

  “And do not the accounts for the payroll list what should be paid?”

  “I do not have those…” Neabyl’s voice is apologetic.

  Lorn smiles. “I understand. I thought this might present a problem.” He extends the first sheet of paper, drawing it from his jacket. “Here is our account for payroll and our draw for expenses for the eightday. I checked these against the original authorization for the garrison, the one signed by the Majer-Commander, and by the head of the Emperor’s Enumerators in Cyad.”

  Neabyl studies the paper. “I would not know.”

  “I do. And the Majer-Commander would be most unhappy if his lancers were not paid. You do not have a record. So, if you will note, I will sign the paper so that all will know that you carried out your duty.” Lorn pauses. “And you will sign an identical one saying that you disbursed these golds, and only these golds, to me as the payroll authorized on this date. In that fashion, when Master Flutak returns, he will have records, and there will be no question as to what funds were disbursed.”

  “Ah…”

  “And you can use this as the basis for future accounts in the event that Master Flutak and your records cannot be found.”

  “That is true…” muses Neabyl. After a moment, he nods. “Yes, that indeed might prove beneficial to all, and I must say, I do like the idea of exchanging account statements for disbursals. It might remove any future… unpleasantnesses.”

  Lorn smiles. “One cannot undo the past, and change what has been, but one can change what will be.”

  “You have a persuasive way with words-and accounts, Overcaptain.”

  “Perhaps.” Lorn continues to smile, adding, almost casually, “And… Neabyl… if by any chance there might be some shortages in the accounts, and if by chance Enumerator Flutak indeed does not return, it might be wise to report such… with the steps you have taken, such as this, to ensure they do not recur.”

  Neabyl’s face blanks. After a long moment, a forced smile returns. “Your advice is not only persuasive, ser, but most wise, and should such eventualities be such, you can be assured that I will follow your words to the letter.”

  Lorn nods.

  Neabyl returns the nod. “I will see that Comyr brings up a chest, and then we will count it, and sign your papers. I am sure none will fault our caution.”

  “None will fault it, I am sure,” Lorn agrees.

  As Neabyl leaves the large room, Helkyt glances at Lorn. “Ser… you talk as if Flutak will not return.”

  “That is because Master Neabyl acts as if he will not. Otherwise, there would have been no difficulty. Neabyl would be happy doing as Flutak has always done. That he would not, suggests that Flutak may have departed, not to return.” Lorn adds in a lower voice, “Perhaps because all is not as well with the accounts as should be.”

  Helkyt swallows.

  “As I told Senior Enumerator Neabyl, we cannot change what was- only what will be. And that we will do.” Lorn continues to smile faintly as they wait for Neabyl to return. He knows he runs the
risk of allowing Neabyl to seize golds and blame the shortage on Flutak, but there is nothing he can do about that, not without revealing more than he dares.

  Nor can he ever reveal how he killed an innocent because he acted quickly against the guilty and the corrupt.

  XIX

  Lorn yawns as he leaves the kitchen in his quarters, after washing the dinner dishes. When he had been a mere lancer officer, under the command of others, he did not have to worry about dishes, but he had little space to himself, either. He yawns again as he walks toward the study. The day, and the previous night, have been long indeed, especially with the nightmare of the grower’s daughter, whose face resembles Myryan’s. Yet there is more that he must do… much more.

  Even so, his thoughts drift back to Flutak… and the young woman. The woman was… is another matter, as his nightmares testify.

  So far as Flutak was concerned, his mind is clear. While he may not have proof that would convince a justicer, he knows the depth of the enumerator’s corruption. Neabyl’s reaction was almost confirmation in itself. Lorn knows that, had he not acted against Flutak quickly, then any later action would be laid to his doorstep. One factor which removes him partly from suspicion is the unwillingness of most to believe a new officer would act so quickly and decisively… or that he would have the means so soon after arriving. Lorn takes a deep breath. For better and worse, he has acted, and cannot undo those actions. Nor has he yet discovered how better he might have acted.

  Once in the study, he closes the inner shutters and slips the chaos-glass from the single drawer of the desk. After he sets it on the polished wood, he begins to concentrate, first on the name and image of Baryat, the olive-grower whose daughter Lorn has killed. The silver mists fill the glass, and then clear.

  Baryat-gray-bearded and muscular-sits at a long table, flanked by three younger men, who appear to be his sons. The bearded man thumbs the edge of a knife, then speaks. While Lorn cannot hear the words, he can see the vehemence behind them. One of the sons brings a fist down on the table.