Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “In the Mirror Lancers, an officer faces far more dangers. One must develop many successors. Then… one may survive who has the training and the talents. As you pointed out, not all of those possible successors have the same patrons or goals.” Rynst closes his mouth as the rear doors of the chamber open and as Bluoyal hurries toward them to wait for the arrival of the Emperor and his consort.

  XXII

  Lorn sits at the desk in his personal quarters, looking down at the glass as he has done so many evenings before. It has been nearly an eightday since the Sligan vessel ported and departed, and but a single coaster has shown up since-and no larger vessels.

  Still… it will take time for the word to spread, and longer yet for masters and traders to take risks, for they tend to trust little that is not certain. Lorn frowns, thinking about trust. In the end, is trade based as much upon trust as the value of the goods? He laughs. Another simple question with a simple answer. Of course it is, for no trader can verify in advance the true value of all goods. They may be poorly made within; or good grain may surround poor, good cotton be wrapped over that of lesser quality.

  With a deeper breath, Lorn looks back down at the glass, concentrating and seeking Baryat yet again.

  When the silver mists swirl and part, the image shows the grower talking to a tall and thin man wearing gray and a black leather vest, who holds a bow. Lorn frowns. Archers-good archers-can kill without being visible. Lorn understands the grower’s concern or anger, but he wonders again how much is grief over a missing daughter and how much is anger and fear over the loss of golds and possible discovery of past bribes. While Lorn remains troubled over the woman’s death, he has seen enough to know that all too many in Cyador do not value daughters over golds. Even that observation troubles him, true as he knows it to be.

  Lorn’s eyes drop as he considers the trade laws of Cyador that Baryat has already violated. It has taken Lorn almost the entire eightday to read the copy of the tariffs and laws he has borrowed from Neabyl and to find the sections which apply to Baryat. Those laws are most clear. One who bribes an enumerator can lose all his lands, and his life. Lorn’s problem is simple, however. He cannot prove such bribery, nor who bribed whom. The reaction of the Sligan ship master, however, was yet another confirmation of Flutak’s corruption.

  As for the grower Baryat, Lorn may be able to prove that Baryat has hired a mercenary to kill him-a different offense, and also punished by death.

  Finally, he shrugs. Tomorrow, he will act. There is little he can do at the moment that would further what he intends.

  He takes a sip of the water in the mug, then shifts the larger sheets of paper so they are beside his right hand before he refocuses his concentration upon the chaos-glass once more.

  When the image-that of a farm valley with a road along the ridge to the west-appears, Lorn looks from the image in the glass to the paper beside him on the quarters’ desk, slowly drawing in the course of the stream, and the position of the hamlet that lies a good hundred kays west of Jera, nearly on the edge of the Hills of Endless Grass.

  In nearly five eightdays of working with the glass daily-mainly in the evenings, he has developed both a series of maps, and a growing concern about the barbarian depredations. There are no Mirror Lancer outposts along the northwest coast of Cyador-not west of Biehl, in any case. Inividra is the closest main outpost to Biehl, and it lies a good two hundred kays east-southeast of Lorn’s compound.

  In the recent past, the Jeranyi barbarian attacks have been directed more at those sections of Cyador where the Grass Hills are narrow and more passable. The very ruggedness of that part of the Grass Hills that lies east of Biehl has been protection enough-that, and the fact that there is even less for raiders to seize that is close to the Grass Hills.

  Lorn pushes away those thoughts for the moment, and concentrates on transferring what he is seeing to the map he is creating.

  When the knives begin to jab into his eyes once more, he sets aside the glass, and stands, pacing around the small study of his quarters. As time has passed, he has become more adept, and can use the glass longer, but the end result is always the same. Or is that because he pushes until he reaches that point?

  He pauses in his pacing to take yet another sip from the mug.

  XXIII

  In the early morning light that fills the commander’s study, as he waits for Helkyt to appear, Lorn reads through the Emperor’s Code once more-the lines of the tariff and administrative laws. He shakes his head in wonderment. While he had known that Juist had acted as a justicer for the communities north of the Accursed Forest, he had not realized that the Emperor’s Code bestowed that right upon the senior Mirror Lancer officer in any district. And Lorn is the senior-and only officer-within two hundred kays.

  Could he have used the Code against Flutak? Hardly, because he would have needed hard evidence of the kind he didn’t have, and wouldn’t have had, assuming he had survived Flutak’s attempts to kill him, since Lorn had no doubts that Flutak would have stopped with one attempt.

  “Ser?” Helkyt peers into Lorn’s study. “You ever sleep, ser?”

  “Enough, Helkyt, enough.” Lorn pauses. “We need to pay the olive-grower Baryat a visit.”

  “Baryat, ser? He be most respected here.” The senior squad leader shifts his weight from one foot to the other, not quite meeting Lorn’s gaze.

  “He’s also bribed a few people, and done a few other acts against the Emperor’s Code.” Lorn lifts the volume he has borrowed from Neabyl.

  “Doing and proving… those be different, ser,” offers Helkyt.

  “That is true. That’s why we need to visit the fellow.” Lorn smiles.

  Helkyt shifts his weight again, looking down.

  “You have a consort here in Biehl, do you not?” asks Lorn.

  “Yes, ser. Dybnyt and I consorted sisters. My Gaelya is the sister to Daelya.”

  The overcaptain fingers his chin. “We’ll take the first squad, and the lancers in training, but have them wear uniforms, and not training tunics. With firelances for the first squad, but not the training squad. And a firelance for me.” Lorn frowns. “Best you remain here, in the event all does not go as it should. Tashqyt can be the squad leader, so long as I am there.”

  “Yes, ser. That might be best.”

  “I understand. Would you take care of telling Tashqyt and getting the squads ready? And let me know when they’re almost ready to ride.”

  “Yes, ser.” Helkyt bows and leaves the room.

  Lorn shifts his reading from one section of the Code to another, the one dealing with the relationship of the District Guards to the Mirror Lancers. In training, the undercaptain candidates had been taught that even District Guard Commanders had to answer to the senior Mirror Lancer officer in a region, but Lorn wants to check the exact words and provisions.

  “Blackest of angels…” he murmurs under his breath, for he had never thought he would be reading the laws of the land as a Mirror Lancer. Or using law like a sabre.

  “More like a club or a truncheon,” he mutters to himself.

  He has found the words he sought and just slipped a leather marker into the pages when Helkyt returns.

  “All are formed and waiting, ser.”

  “Thank you.” Lorn stands, reattaches his sabre to his belt, and makes his way out into the courtyard, where a column is drawn up in twos, the senior squad riding before, and the training squad behind. Tashqyt holds the reins to the saddled chestnut.

  “Thank you.” Lorn takes them and mounts, touching the firelance, and then checking his sabre.

  “Ser?” asks the squad leader.

  “To the lands of the olive-grower and lawbreaker Baryat, on the road that leads south of the harbor and into the low hills west of Biehl.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lorn urges the mare forward and leads the column out through the gates and downhill. He scans the harbor as the mixed company rides southward, but the piers remain yet empty of any tr
ading vessels, even of the more local coasting schooners.

  “A lawbreaker?” asks Tashqyt, after the company has ridden nearly a kay west of the harbor, as though he has been mulling over what Lorn said for some time.

  “Yes.” Lorn moistens his lips. “Although it has been seldom required in recent years, whoever commands the Mirror Lancer garrison is responsible for enforcing the Emperor’s Code. I have some reason to believe that Baryat has broken several laws.” He smiles. “But we will talk to him and see.”

  Tashqyt glances back at the full company. “He has a large family, but… they are most law-abiding.”

  “I’d prefer that his family see the wisdom of not continuing the practices of the sire.” Lorn’s tone of voice is dry. “I also think they should understand that the force of His Mightiness stands behind the trade rules of the Emperor’s Code.”

  “Ah… yes, ser.” Tashqyt is silent as they near the hill on which the grower’s dwelling is set.

  The slopes of the low hills are covered with trees-olive trees with the light-green of new leaves and the off-green of the winter leaves that have returned to their summer hues. Two stone posts mark the entrance to the villa and the houses along the crest of the hill above. A lane winds up the hill from the gate in sweeping turns.

  Lorn turns to Tashqyt. “When we reach the villa, have the men remain mounted, with their lances and sabres ready.”

  “Firelances at the ready,” Tashqyt announces.

  A young man standing outside the front privacy screen of the villa stares at the company of lancers as they pass the last of the olive trees.

  Lorn reins up the chestnut short of the youth and the green ceramic privacy screen. “I am Overcaptain Lorn, commander of the Mirror Lancers in Biehl and the Emperor’s justicer of this district. I seek the grower Baryat. He is here. Tell him I seek him.”

  The youth gulps.

  “Have him come forth.”

  “Yes, ser.” After a second swallow, the youth turns and scurries, not into the house, but downhill to the south.

  “Stand by to discharge firelances,” Lorn orders quietly.

  “Ready to discharge!” Tashqyt orders.

  The lancers wait. Lorn remains mounted, studying the trees and the front of the villa.

  A half-dozen men appear from the orchard area, led by the youth. Behind them, remaining at the edge of the olive trees, are several figures in gray, including a taller figure wearing a black vest. He remains behind the others, near the first of the olive trees. A broad-shouldered man, gray-haired and gray-bearded, muscular, and a half-head taller than Lorn, steps past the youth.

  “My… my… an entire company to see an olive-grower. I am so flattered, Undercaptain.” Baryat bows deeply, mockingly. He holds a long pruning knife, almost as long as a shortsword, whose edge glistens, as if newly sharpened.

  Lorn dismounts. “As I told the young fellow, I am Overcaptain Lorn, commander of the Mirror Lancer garrison at Biehl, and justicer of the Emperor.”

  “For one carrying out justice, you bring many lancers.”

  “Justice is best served when it can be enforced,” Lorn replies, watching the pruning knife.

  “You’d not face me alone, Overcaptain. You’re nothing without those lancers and that uniform.”

  Lorn steps forward until he is standing on the packed clay of the lane, less than three cubits from Baryat. He looks squarely at the grower. “I would be more than happy to face you alone, Baryat. You would die. You know that. But you are a cheat and a coward. You bribed the former enumerator with both golds and your daughter, and blame me for their failings and yours. I am not interested in being filled with shafts from hidden archers.” Lorn stops, and his smile is cold. Baryat sneers. “Words, Overcaptain.”

  “I am not interested in the past. I am also not interested in being assassinated in the dark. So I am here. Now… what do you choose? To keep lying and making plans to kill me when I am unaware? To fight me and die? Or to pay your tariffs fairly and forget the past?”

  “I will… forget the past,” Baryat says slowly, as if the words are choked from him. His fingers clench, one into a fist, the other tightening on the long knife.

  Lorn looks at the grower levelly. “You lie.” He glances at the tall man in the black vest who is slipping back toward the olive trees. “Tashqyt! Bring in those men in gray, especially the tall one. He’s an archer, and there’s probably a longbow nearby.” Lorn draws the Brystan sabre.

  Baryat pales, and his hands shake. In rage, Lorn suspects.

  One of the archers runs, but the tallest does not. Instead, he walks forward, accompanied by another slighter figure, also in gray. That the lead archer does not run is another indication to Lorn that the man is a mercenary of sorts. Instead, the tall man walks toward the overcaptain and the lancers, and bows, then looks at the overcaptain and his extended sabre. “Your wish, ser?”

  “I assume you have a bow concealed in the grove there?”

  “It is behind the second tree. It is a good bow, and if you must kill me, at least ensure that my son or some archer who will appreciate it will receive it.” The archer’s gray eyes mirror both humor and concern.

  “Are there any other archers around here?” Lorn asks. “Besides the three of you?”

  “None of which I know, ser,” answers the man.

  “Or others paid to do so?”

  “Again, none of which I know.” The archer shrugs.

  Lorn nods. “How much were you paid to kill me?”

  “Ten golds, ser.”

  “And were you paid to kill anyone else?”

  “The senior enumerator in Biehl-the new one.”

  “How much?”

  “Five golds.”

  Lorn smiles ruefully. “I am most flattered to be considered worth ten golds.”

  “He lies!” Baryat exclaims. “He lies to save his own soul.”

  Lorn’s eyes are like ice as he regards the grower. “No. He tells the truth in hopes of saving his life.”

  Lorn glances to the side as Tashqyt guides his mount toward Lorn, the third archer smiling sheepishly as he walks toward the overcaptain. His eyes return to Baryat. “Three archers?”

  “You are no justicer. You kill in the dark.”

  Lorn wonders how to respond, for, truly, Baryat is correct on one level. Lorn has killed in the dark. “Tell me, Baryat, how much Flutak reduced your tariffs for the use of your daughter. Two silvers a barrel?”

  “Talk not to me of my daughter.” Baryat snorts.

  “Why not? You loved her so much you sold her to an enumerator for lower tariffs. Did you not?” Scorn fills Lorn’s voice.

  “I sold my daughter to no one,” snaps Baryat, after a long silence.

  The sense of untruth is so great that Lorn can see even Tashqyt offer a minute headshake.

  “And I suppose you didn’t accept lower tariffs, either?”

  “If you had proof, you wouldn’t be asking.” Baryat offers a sneer.

  “I’m not asking,” Lorn replies quietly. “I’m telling you.” The overcaptain looks from Baryat to the three younger men-the grower’s sons, if his visions in the screeing glass have been accurate. “You are his sons. You can understand that the Mirror Lancers have a problem. If I kill him, you will find every possible excuse to avoid tariffs, and to have me killed or removed. If I don’t, he will either kill me, or I’ll kill him later.”

  “You… insufferable… little…” Baryat steps forward, his entire body trembling in anger, half-lifting the pruning knife.

  Lorn’s blade flashes, and a slash appears on the back of Baryat’s knife hand. “That could have been your neck.” He sighs… loudly.

  Baryat continues to shake, but lowers the knife.

  Lorn looks past the grower, but still watches the man. “Which of you is the eldest?”

  A sandy-haired man, square-bearded, steps forward. “I be such.”

  “Listen most carefully. A man has cheated on his tariffs. He has used golds an
d his daughter to bribe a senior enumerator. The enumerator and the daughter have vanished. The man blames the Emperor’s officials for their disappearance and vows revenge, even though the enumerator is guilty of accepting bribes. This man hires a mercenary archer to kill two officers of the Emperor who are looking into the bribery. Then he lies about doing so. He has cheated the Emperor and tried to kill two men for doing their duty.” Lorn’s eyes fix the eldest son. “Under the laws of Cyador, I could turn all your lands over to the Emperor. Should I?”

  The sandy-haired and bearded son looks down at the packed clay of the cart road.

  “Do your worst, and the black angels take you!” snaps Baryat. Blood continues to ooze from the slash on his hand.

  Lorn looks at the son, then motions for the three archers to step aside. “You, archers, will return to Biehl with us. You must leave Biehl-either for the Grass Hills or the lands north of the Accursed Forest.”

  The tall archer bows his head. After a moment, so do the two others.

  “And what of me, Overcaptain? Will you exile me?” Baryat’s voice rises, fills with anger. “Will you turn your trained dogs on me?”

  Lorn smiles sadly, ignoring the grower, and looking at his eldest son. “Should I turn your lands over to the Emperor, or will you keep his laws from henceforth?”

  “Sybyn! Don’t answer that. I’m the landholder,” rages Baryat. “The Emperor will hear of this.”

  “Indeed he will,” Lorn agrees. “He will receive a report of your bribery, your efforts to have two officials murdered, and your failure to pay proper tariffs. You no longer hold these lands. The question is whether your son will.” Lorn looks at Sybyn. “You cannot lie to me. I will know, even as I know of your father’s evils. If I allow these lands to pass to you, will you honor the laws of Cyador, and pay your just tariffs, and seek no further revenge against me or against any Mirror Lancer or enumerator?”