Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Lorn watches for but a short while, before letting the image lapse. Even so, his eyes are watering, and his head aches. For a time, he sits before the glass, his eyes closed, pondering. How much is the grower’s vehemence based on the loss of his daughter, and how much upon fear of discovery of corruption? Will Lorn ever know?

  As he tries to rest before he uses the glass once more, Lorn’s thoughts skitter from Baryat to traders, to those in the Mirror Lancers like Maran who would see him dead and vanished.

  Finally, he straightens, knowing that he must practice more, and become more adept at using the glass to see lands where he has not been, and to become able to translate those views into maps-and the other way around. He takes a deep breath, and concentrates once more upon the glass before him and upon controlling the silver mists.

  XX

  The late spring afternoon is more like summer, damp and hot, as Lorn mounts in the courtyard of the Mirror Lancer compound. He studies the compound courtyard and buildings, quietly pleased that the leaves and dirt are gone, the stones are clean, the moss gone, even from between the pavement stones of the courtyard, and that the ancient windows now shine. Inside, more than a score of new recruits are housed in the north wing of the refurbished barracks.

  A halfscore of recruits spar with padded blades in the open space to the west of the administration building, with Helkyt overseeing the training for the midday periods. Later, Lorn will return and take his rotation among the instructors.

  The overcaptain urges the chestnut mare forward. As the six lancers ride through the gates, headed down to the harbor, beside Lorn rides the sharp-featured and black-haired Tashqyt, the more senior of the two junior squad leaders, and the one Lorn may consider for promotion to senior squad leader if and when he forms a second company at Biehl.

  He stiffens in the saddle as the familiar chill of a screeing glass settles around him, and he wonders who might be watching. One of the Magi’i from Cyad-Ciesrt’s father? Or the First Magus? Whoever it may be, he is strong, although the scrutiny is brief and quickly lifts, even before Lorn reaches the bottom of the slope.

  A single ship is tied at the outer ocean pier-three-masted, and square-rigged, the largest vessel Lorn has seen at Biehl in the season he has been there. The plaque on the stern reads, Lorava of Tyrhavven, and a Sligan ensign hangs limply in the warm air.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen a Sligan vessel here before,” Lorn says.

  “Once they ported more often,” suggests Tashqyt.

  “Before the previous senior enumerator?”

  “He was here when I was leaving childhood.”

  Lorn reins up the chestnut at the foot of the pier, then ties his mount to a timber supporting a railing. He waits as the five other lancers form up. Then, with Tashqyt beside him, and the four other lancers following, Lorn walks out the pier to the gangway of the Sligan vessel, and up the plank.

  A bearded man with a single faded blue braid on a sleeveless tunic steps forward. Lorn’s eyes are like chaos-fire, and the third officer backs away.

  “…don’t mess with them…”

  “…white devils…”

  Lorn ignores the murmurs.

  Just beyond the quarterdeck, two older lancers from the original company stand behind Senior Enumerator Neabyl as he is returning the bills of lading apparently presented earlier by the vessel’s master. Beside the lancers stands the junior enumerator, Comyr. The master-holding a leather wallet-looks up abruptly.

  Neabyl turns, then frowns. “Overcaptain.”

  “Captain.” Lorn bows slightly to the ship’s master, then to Neabyl. “Senior Enumerator. It has been awhile since I have seen a Sligan vessel here, and I thought I might pay my respects.” He offers a polite smile. “I’m Overcaptain Lorn, the commander of the port detachment and garrison here in Biehl.”

  “Pleased to see you, ser,” offers the Lorava’s master. “It has been a time since we ported here.”

  »» “I hope we will see you more often in the seasons ahead.” Lorn’s smile is warmer than his first. His eyes go to Neabyl. “Have you assessed the tariffs yet?”

  “Ah… yes, ser.”

  “Are all the tariffs being collected as required?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “And only as required?” Lorn asks, watching and using his chaos-senses to truth-read the enumerator.

  “Yes, ser. That is the job of an enumerator.” Neabyl’s eyes are chill.

  Lorn smiles, a smile he means. “Good. Very good.” He looks back at the captain. “Do you have any problems with the tariff collection?”

  “Outside of paying ‘em? No, can’t say I do… these days, Majer.”

  Lorn looks at Neabyl. “I think the master sees an improvement here. Perhaps he’ll tell others.” He looks at the captain. “After you finish with the enumerator, I would like a word with you.” Lorn adds quickly, “There are no problems, and no extra tariffs.”

  “I’ll be here, ser.” The captain’s voice is wary.

  Lorn steps back and down the plank, followed by Tashqyt. The lancers wait.

  Neabyl walks down shortly, accompanied by Comyr. His carriage is stiff, and his face cold. The two lancers detailed to him follow.

  “Senior Enumerator?” Lorn steps forward and speaks before Neabyl can speak or walk by him.

  “Yes.”

  “I trust you understand that my presence is not a reflection upon my lack of trust in you, but a necessity created by your predecessor.”

  Neabyl remains stone-faced.

  “I also regret that I did not inform you in advance, but I did not know that this ship was porting until you had already boarded, and, in my capacity as port commander, I could not let the opportunity pass.” He adds in a much lower voice, “And I have reported well of you to the Majer-Commander, for your efforts to improve the tariff collections here.”

  “I would that you had been able to tell me such earlier.” Neabyl’s voice is fractionally less cool.

  “Were I more familiar with trade,” Lorn continues, “I would create less awkwardness. I do appreciate your willingness to work with me to return Biehl to the port it was and should be again.”

  Neabyl’s face relaxes a touch more. “I stand willing to do such.”

  “Thank you.” Lorn pauses. “I am going to talk to the master about such matters as shipments of iron and weapons, and to see if he knows of such. The barbarians are raising larger forces.”

  Neabyl nods. “That… I can understand.”

  Lorn bows. “I will be meeting many ships, until we have convinced the traders that all has returned to what it should be, and I would ask your forbearance and your understanding that my presence is necessary not because of your conduct and actions.”

  “You have made that clear, Overcaptain.” Neabyl pauses. “It is not an easy situation for either of us.”

  “No. I wish my actions were not necessary. I truly do.”

  Neabyl nods. “We should talk later.”

  “Thank you.” Lorn bows.

  So does Neabyl.

  Once the enumerator has left the pier, Lorn turns to the junior squad leader. “Tashqyt… I shouldn’t be too long, but I’d appreciate it if you and the men would wait here.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  As Lorn walks back up the gangway, he can hear the murmurs.

  “…never… heard an overcaptain take on an enumerator…”

  “Overcaptain… wants things done right…”

  “…first time in years around here…”

  If, if Ryalth sends him any Alafraan, several bottles will have to go to Neabyl, and Lorn will have to visit the enumerator more than once to praise him.

  At the top of the plank, the captain is waiting. The weathered face wears a slight smile. “Overcaptain, you be a far braver man than I be, were I in your boots.”

  “Unlike you, Captain, I do not have my cargoes in the hands of the enumerators.” Lorn’s voice is wry.

  “You wanted to talk.”


  “I do. About trade, and about what you are seeing.” Lorn pauses. “I won’t ask about coins and what cargoes are most profitable, Captain.”

  “Call me Svenyr.”

  “I’m Lorn.”

  Svenyr turns. “Might as well sit.”

  Lorn follows him to a small cabin in the upper rear deck, almost under the wheel.

  The wiry master with the gold-and-silver hair and the square beard rummages in a built-in cabinet before bringing forth a bottle, which he pours into two mugs set on a table bolted to the deck. He nods to the pair of chairs. “Sit and sip, Majer.”

  Lorn takes one, and following Svenyr’s lead, takes a sip of the red liquid that passes for wine, ignoring the promotion to a rank he sometimes wonders if he will ever live to make. He studies the weathered face. “What be on your mind?”

  “Several things. First, would you be willing to tell me if you know if more blades and iron are being shipped into Jera?”

  “No secrets about that. Ultyn, master of the Grenver, was telling all he knew that he was carrying Brystan iron and shields there. Some local factors paying good coin for blades.”

  Lorn sips again. “This has been going on for the past three, four years?”

  “Maybe longer. Jeranyi couldn’t forge weapons iron if’n they sacrificed their firstborn and strongest cow. What else?”

  “How long were the enumerators overtariffing here in Biehl?” Lorn concentrates again on truth-reading Svenyr.

  “Truth be told, Biehl has not been the town it was once for near-on a halfscore years. I might be telling a few to give it another try. Be but one, though, less they see what I see.”

  Lorn smiles guilelessly. “Neabyl seems most capable, and we of the lancers have been able to work with him.”

  “Ha! Much as told the little sneak he was spirted on cold steel-or your cuprite blades-if he cheated a copper.” Svenyr takes a long swallow of the vinegary wine.

  “I believe he understands.”

  “You be meeting all the ships?”

  “I told Neabyl that I would be… for a time, and when I can.” Lorn pauses. “What cargoes would you like to carry that you cannot obtain?”

  “Can’t say as telling you that’d cause problems with the shareholders.” The captain frowns, then worries his chin. “Always could use more dyestuffs, specially up along the northwest coast-Suthyans won’t let us land anywhere but Armat, where they tariff high. Understand folk bring carts all the way from Rulyarth. Dyestuffs are welcome elsewhere, east of Armat, or going longhaul to Austra. Bright ones. Everyone’s got brown.”

  “You know about the clay and china here?”

  “Is old Kahlyr still doing that?”

  “His son Jahlyr.”

  “Good to know.” Svenyr swallows the last of the goblet. “Oh… the other thing is good spirits.”

  “You port in Cyad ever?”

  “Times…” answers the captain, his voice wary.

  “There’s a newer house, Ryalor House-they have some good spirits you cannot find elsewhere.”

  “Hmmm…” Svenyr shrugs. “If I get there, I’ll look.”

  Lorn stands. “You’ve been most patient, and I trust we will see you in Biehl again.”

  “One more time, anyways. Never promise more ‘n once.” The Sligan laughs as he rises.

  The two walk out into the steamy heat of the afternoon. Lorn bows before he turns and leaves the Lorava.

  He rides back to the compound silently, thinking over his mistakes, and what he can do to rectify them-if he can. Some, like the grower’s daughter, he cannot.

  He has little time for further thought, not after he rides in through the gates, because it is his turn to lead the sabre drills for the new recruits, and he must hasten into a training tunic and then take up a padded sabre.

  By the time the drills are over, his brown training tunic is soaked, and his arms ache. So do his feet. He is so tired when he reaches his quarters that after he cleans up he can eat but half the emburhka that Daelya has prepared and left for him, and but a third of the fresh-baked bread.

  After eating he makes his way to his study, and sinks into the chair, sitting in the twilight.

  With a deep breath, he takes out the chaos-glass and concentrates, seeking out the olive-grower Baryat who, Lorn is convinced from his use of the chaos-glass, is hatching some plot against him. Baryat is still at table, stuffing in large quantities of some sort of casserole, and Lorn lets the image slip. He will try later.

  He takes out paper, and dips the pen before he begins to write.

  Dearest of Consorts-

  I have not heard yet from you, but I trust all is well with you and with those around you…

  We have recruited almost a squad of younger men for the lancers, and have begun training them… be a long summer, I fear, but many show skill already… and I hope to have them ready for duty elsewhere by fall, though that decision will be made by others…

  …might consider the possibility of sending dyestuffs through coasters or those traders who are welcome in the Suthyan port of Rulyarth… understand that many there would purchase… but cannot obtain dyestuffs, because the Suthyans insist all dyes come through the larger port of Armat… while I know not how a trading house might avoid this proscription, save through landing at nearby ports… it would appear that those who could might profit…

  Lorn takes a deep breath and once more dips the pen. He can but hope that what he has gleaned from the ship’s master and those factors he has visited around Biehl will prove useful to Ryalth.

  After he finishes, he must again seek out Baryat-and perhaps Neabyl-with the glass. And tired as he is, he must continue to work on seeking out lands he has not seen before, either in the glass or in person.

  XXI

  Chyenfel and Rynst stand alone in the high-ceilinged audience chamber of the Palace of Eternal Light, waiting for the Emperor Toziel to appear. Bluoyal has yet to join them, as is often the case in recent eightdays.

  The First Magus looks at Rynst and murmurs, “The sleep wards will be ready within less than half a season. At that time, but a few lancers will be needed around the Accursed Forest, as we had discussed earlier.”

  “What about patrolling the walls themselves?” asks the Majer-Commander in an equally muted voice. “Will not some protection be required for the new wards?”

  Chyenfel shakes his head, smiling. “No. That is their beauty. These wards cannot be seen nor touched.”

  “While I would be most pleased to be able to send more lancers to the north, I must question this sudden announcement. Why did the ancients not attempt such? Did they not know of such?” Doubt colors Rynst’s voice.

  “They did.” Chyenfel purses his lips, then tilts his head slightly, as if searching for an explanation. “Their words provided the knowledge and the keys to the sleep wards. Yet they feared that the wards would not work, and that the chaos-towers would be lost forever.”

  “And you know more than they?”

  “We have learned some that they did not know, honored Majer-Commander.” Chyenfel smiles briefly. “They had less experience with chaos, for chaos works not the same in the worlds of the Rational Stars. That we do know from what they wrote.”

  “And,” adds Rynst with a gentle laugh, “you will lose the towers shortly in any event if naught is done. So you of the Magi’i have little to lose.”

  “We lose more by providing the sleep wards, for we will not be able to provide as many charges for the firelances of your lancers, nor for the firewagons and the tow wagons of the Great Canal… and many will fault us for such. That alone should tell you that we act in the best interests of all Cyador, and not just of the Magi’i.”

  “That tells me that you have the best interests of Cyador at heart. You and the fourth magus.” Rynst’s words are low, careful.

  “Is that why you watch the overcaptain in Biehl?” asks Chyenfel. “Do you think the son shares the honesty of the father?”

  “He is
more honest than most. Perhaps more honest than his peer Rustyl.” Rynst smiles, watching for a reaction he does not get. “The overcaptain has begun to rebuild the garrison and the compound, without a word from me.”

  “He will face difficulties with the enumerators Bluoyal has suborned,” suggests Chyenfel. “And with the golds our Merchanter Advisor does not receive.”

  “The senior enumerator has vanished, as I am certain you already know,” Rynst points out. “And the overcaptain trains new lancers with his full payroll-or so I have heard.”

  “Bluoyal and the Emperor will not question such a ‘disappearance’?”

  “The Emperor may not discover such for a time, unless Bluoyal tells him or his consort, and that would lead to questions Bluoyal would best wish to avoid,” replies Rynst.

  “Yet you would let the overcaptain train his own Mirror Lancers? Would he dream of being… ?”

  “He is young.”

  “That did not halt Alyiakal, as I recall.”

  “I think the overcaptain is not cast from that mold, but we shall see. Biehl provides a safe… distance for observation.”

  “And from Cyad,” suggests Chyenfel.

  “Have you not done the same with Rustyl?” asks Rynst.

  “Like a good lancer officer, a good adept must see and do much throughout Cyador,” replies Chyenfel. “Your overcaptain has seen little but fighting, and there is more to Cyador than fighting outlanders.”

  “And more than manipulating chaos,” Rynst says smoothly. “He will learn trade in Biehl, as you well know.”

  “You’d best find him a consort,” suggests Chyenfel.

  “Although little has been said,” says Rynst with a smile, “you know, as do I, that he has already found one. Not that he will he have much leisure to enjoy such, with what he attempts.”

  “He is young,” observes the First Magus, his eyes flicking to the harbor. “Very young, even for his years.”

  “You worry about his consort, though he is but a lancer?” Rynst watches the First Magus.

  “Since he is a lancer, the worries are yours.” Chyenfel’s voice is firm and certain. He smiles. “You are rather fickle, are you not, Rynst? I thought that your favorite was the majer in Assyadt, the one your Captain-Commander has cultivated and placed so carefully.”