Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “You can’t do this!” snaps Baryat. “Besides, you aren’t man enough to do anything except threaten.”

  “I’d like your answer, Sybyn,” Lorn continues, his eyes on the grower, rather than the son. “Will you obey the laws of Cyador and seek no revenge? If not for your sake, for the sake of your brothers, their consorts, and your children?”

  “I… must…” stammers the younger grower.

  “Coward! I disown you!” Baryat’s eyes flash at Lorn. “You are a cowardly little man, also. You hide behind your bars and your uniform.”

  “You have hidden behind your lands and your golds,” Lorn says quietly. “You bartered your daughter, and bribed enumerators. You have tried to buy my death, and you see nothing wrong with it.”

  “And I would have sooner than I did, the moment you arrived, had I known what you would do.” Baryat glares at Lorn.

  “All of you note his words,” Lorn says. “He admits all of his lawbreaking.”

  Baryat’s mouth closes abruptly. The three sons exchange glances.

  “Prove it!” snaps the grower.

  Lorn laughs. “I have seen Flutak’s ledgers. They show more than-”

  Abruptly, Baryat lunges forward with the glistening pruning knife slashing toward Lorn.

  Lorn’s blade flashes, with the smallest bit of chaos adding to its sharpness.

  The grower’s mouth is open, even as his head is separated from his neck.

  “As justicer I have heard this man declare his guilt. Not only did he declare that guilt, but he attacked a Mirror Lancer officer. More than twoscore witnesses have also seen and heard this.” Lorn lowers the sabre, but does not sheathe it, as his eyes seek out Sybyn. “I do not hold you or your brothers guilty of your father’s misdeeds. Nor will aught in harm befall you or these lands-unless there are other misdeeds after this moment for which you are responsible. Do you hear and understand?”

  “Yes… ser…” stumbles Sybyn, his face blank.

  Lorn wipes the sabre clean with the square of cloth he takes from his belt, then sheathes the weapon. Then he mounts, and nods to Tashqyt.

  For a time, the column rides silently, and they are nearing the harbor before Tashqyt, riding beside Lorn, clears his throat.

  “Yes, Tashqyt?”

  “You could have executed him even if he had not attacked you, could you not?” asks the squad leader.

  “I could have,” Lorn admits. “But I wanted as many lancers as possible to hear what he said.”

  “I thought as much, ser.”

  Lorn only hopes that the word spreads that he is fair as well as harsh, but he prefers to anticipate troubles, rather than react to such. While he has never seen Flutak’s missing ledgers, and doubts anyone ever will, he has no doubts-not now-about Baryat’s guilt.

  But he wonders how long he will dream about the daughter.

  XXIV

  At the thrap on the study door, Lorn glances up from the sheets that hold his calculations of the gear required for a lengthy ride by two full companies. While he would prefer to add another squad, he has no way at all to supply their gear, and many of the saddles his trainees use are barely serviceable. Two eightdays earlier, he had received a notice from the Majer-Commander, sealed by a Commander Inylt, that his provisions and equipment draw has been increased by five golds an eightday, and with that, he hopes, that he can upgrade the saddles and bridles, by summer’s end, and purchase some replacement saddles. “Yes?”

  “There is a ship flying the ensign of Cyad entering the harbor,” Helkyt announces as he peers into the study.

  “And you are here to tell me so that I may be at the piers before it lands to confer with the senior enumerator?” Lorn grins.

  “You had said that you wished to avoid unnecessary unpleasantnesses, ser.”

  “I did say that.” Lorn rises. “And I’d best be heading down there.”

  “Chulhyr is saddling the chestnut.”

  “Thank you.” Lorn inclines his head as he departs the outer study and heads down the corridor and out across the courtyard, under high, hazy summer clouds. His forehead is damp by the time he reaches the stable, but, as Helkyt had promised, the chestnut is waiting. So is a squad of mixed lancers and trainees, with Tashqyt leading them.

  The Cyadoran vessel has still not reached the pier, carefully tacking its way southward, when Lorn reins up in the harbor at the end of the pier, where Neabyl and Comyr stand in their enumerators’ uniforms, with two linemen dressed in brown behind them.

  Neabyl glances at Lorn and the lancers, but does not speak immediately.

  “Greetings, Senior Enumerator,” Lorn offers.

  “And to you, Overcaptain.”

  Lorn dismounts and looks at Tashqyt. “Just have the men stand by here, except for those to accompany the senior enumerator.” He turns to Neabyl. “I had thought I would announce to the master right away that we are both here to prevent the kind of misunderstandings that have occurred in the past about tariffs and their administration. Is that satisfactory to you?”

  Neabyl offers a pleasant smile. “It is, and I appreciate your present thoughtfulness.”

  “And I apologize once more for the earlier awkwardness.” Neabyl steps along the pier, away from the lancers and Comyr, inclining his head. Lorn follows.

  “I have received a scroll from the Hand of the Emperor,” Neabyl begins. “I have been confirmed as the senior enumerator in charge of this station, and commended for my initiative in supporting your efforts to improve the port of Biehl.” Neabyl smiles. “While this has not been easy, it is apparent that your… initiative has been regarded favorably in Cyad, and I wanted to thank you for understanding the full extent of the previous circumstances.”

  “Hello there, the pier!” comes a call from the vessel.

  The two linemen scurry toward the forward bollard, past the overcaptain and the enumerator.

  Lorn bows his head, slightly. “I thank you for sharing such. After meeting Flutak, I had felt it could not have been otherwise.” He pauses. “Did you ever have any success in locating the missing ledgers?”

  Neabyl offers a crooked smile. “There were ledgers in Flutak’s dwelling. They showed little resemblance to what they should have, but no entries that would establish anything beyond great irregularities. I took the precaution of sending them to the Hand of the Emperor, with copies to the senior enumerator. I have not heard about them.”

  Lorn nods.

  “Lines out!” comes the order from the three-masted vessel.

  “I appreciate your perception,” adds Neabyl.

  “Double up!”

  Lorn and Neabyl study the vessel as it is being tied to the pier. Red Lands is the name carved into the plaque on the stern. Once the vessel is tied to the pier, Lorn follows Neabyl up the gangway, and Comyr and two lancers follow him.

  “Senior Enumerator, Overcaptain.” The ship’s master, who wears a blue tunic with a double row of gold braid on his shoulder bows. “Captain Elvygg, at your service.” He looks at Lorn. “You would be Overcaptain Lorn?”

  “I am.”

  “Most excellent. Most excellent. Then I need not search you out.”

  Neabyl offers Lorn a sidelong glance.

  “It is good to see you, Captain,” Lorn says. “I might explain before you speak that both the senior enumerator and I are here, because, in the past, there have been… shall we say, some discrepancies in tariffs.”

  Elvygg smiles broadly. “Of that I had been appraised, and that, frankly, is why the Red Lands has risked a landing here. That, and the cargo, of course.”

  The captain extends the manifest and the supporting bills of lading to the enumerator. “Here you be, Enumerator. You will find them in order.”

  “Thank you.” Neabyl takes the manifest and separates it from the bills of lading, which he hands to Comyr.

  “Overcaptain.” The man in the blue tunic bows once more to Lorn, and extends a scroll. “From your consort and Lady Trader. We also have a small c
argo for you which we will offload once we have paid any tariffs due. Some wine, some baskets of goods…” He frowns, as if trying to recall the other items. “And also a halfscore of riding gear, saddles, and bridles in white leather.”

  Neabyl looks at Lorn. “You mentioned being related to traders and having an interest in trade, but not that your consort…”

  “She is a merchanter; I was not born such,” Lorn explains. “I have tried to have her explain trade to me, but we have had little time together.” He laughs ruefully. “Lancers see little of Cyad.”

  “That is so.”

  Lorn looks at Neabyl. “I would that you inspect any cargo due me with the utmost of care. I would not have it said that ever I escaped what was due.”

  “Ah… sers…”

  Both look at the captain.

  “The lady sent golds for the tariffs with me so that the overcaptain might not be troubled.”

  Neabyl smiles broadly. “Your lady is indeed thoughtful.”

  Lorn grins back, adding, “And wise.”

  While Neabyl and Comyr inspect the vessel and its documents, Lorn slips away to find Tashqyt.

  “Do we have a cart at the compound?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “If you’d send for it… we’re getting some riding gear, it appears.”

  “Yes, ser!” Tashqyt smiles for a moment. “Ser… we usually get gear on the firewagons.”

  “We have a different supplier, I think.” Lorn’s lips curl ironically.

  A lancer is riding up to the compound by the time Lorn has walked back to the base of the gangway, where he waits for the enumerators to finish their work.

  “How are the tariffs?” Lorn asks as Neabyl and Comyr come down the gangway.

  “All is well, both in terms of our collections and his papers.” Neabyl nods. “He is pleased, and the Emperor will be pleased. What more could any ask?”

  “That the enumerators be pleased,” Lorn suggests.

  “We are pleased.”

  “Good.”

  Neabyl looks at Lorn. “You have quite a cargo there,”

  “There are a few items which I requested for you,” Lorn admits.

  Neabyl lifts his eyebrows.

  “I am not suggesting anything improper,” Lorn says, “but you have been supportive, and I did not think you would take amiss a few bottles of a good vintage.”

  The enumerator laughs. “Overcaptain… no one would take amiss such as that, and I will accept in the spirit in which you offer it.”

  “As soon as we have it offloaded,” Lorn says, “you will have it.” He pauses. “I would let it sit for an eightday. It will taste better.”

  “For such as you received, I will wait.”

  It is well into afternoon before the saddles and bridles have been carted back to the stable and the two cases of Alafraan, the case of Fhynyco, and the three large baskets which Lorn suspects contain uniforms and clothing, have been carried up to his quarters.

  Lorn leaves them there and returns to his study in the administration building.

  “Tashqyt said we got more saddles. That right, ser?”

  “A halfscore, lancer-white.”

  Helkyt shakes his head. “First time since I been here.”

  Lorn just shrugs. “We do what we can.”

  Once he is back in his official study, Lorn opens the scroll from Ryalth.

  My dearest of lancers-

  I scarcely know how to begin. Your advice has proven its worth again and again, and Ryalor House is truly prospering. We have been accorded the rank of lower clan house, and so we have moved to the other side of the Plaza, with the smaller clan houses, but we have the topmost floor, once more, and some of the next floor down. I have three more junior traders, and Eileyt and two other enumerators, as well as those who act as our agents in other ports in Candar, Nordla, and Hamor.

  You and I have also begun a clan of our own, and your sister Jerial insists the child will be a son…

  Lorn swallows. Is he old enough, advanced enough in the lancers? He laughs. He could be penniless, not that he is, and Ryalor House would provide for the boy to come.

  …and that he feels to be healthy and strong.

  As you will know, I have also taken the liberty of sending some gear for your lancers, for an overcaptain cannot be at his best unless his men are well-equipped. If you need more, please do not be silent, for I would spend all I have to ensure your safety…

  All she has… Lorn looks out the window until his eyes clear.

  I dine perhaps twice an eightday with your parents, and your father will now even joke with me. Your mother asks if I would like more to eat, for she wants her grandchild to be healthy. Were I to eat as she would like, I could not walk…

  I met the day before yesterday with Husdryt of the Dyjani Clan. I was reluctant at first, since I have doubts about Tasjan, especially with his guard chief Sasyk hiring yet more green-shirts-but your friend Tyrsal had suggested the meeting and vouches for Husdryt. Husdryt said he had learned all he knew from Tyrsal’s father. We talked for some time, and some matters may come of it…

  Because of my condition, and for other reasons, I am reluctant to undertake a voyage at this time, and I trust you understand. Know that those are the reasons, for I would see you anywhere, were I the only one to consider…

  All my love, my dearest.

  Lorn considers the scroll, then shakes his head. Indeed he has been fortunate to find one such as Ryalth. He smiles briefly.

  When he is alone, in his quarters, he will seek her in the glass, if but briefly, because, for all the warmth in Ryalth’s words, there is also concern. Much concern.

  While Lorn has often felt as though he may have some small hand in forging his future and destiny, on days such as this, with messages such as from Ryalth and Neabyl, he feels more like a ship at the mercy of the winds-and the winds of intrigue blow strong in Cyad, and may yet blow more forcefully, if he reads correctly between the graceful lines Ryalth has penned.

  XXV

  In the orangish light of dawn, Lorn glances at the wide River Behla to his left, then at the scattered buildings of the town ahead. He and the squad that follows him have been riding since well before dawn, traveling upstream more than ten kays to reach the double bridges at Lower Island to cross to the eastern bank, and then traveling the east river road back toward Ehyla, the smaller sister town across the river from the port of Biehl. In Ehyla, at the guard station above the river, the District Guard Commander is supposed to meet with Lorn, according to the messages they have exchanged.

  Lorn watches the river and the road, until he can at last see the single pier that juts into the river, a crooked and rickety structure whose upstream side appears blocked by a sandbar or mudbank. According to the messengers, the District Guard post is on a low hill directly east of the pier, halfway up the slope, and facing the river.

  As they pass the kaystone that indicates Ehyla is but two kays away, Lorn studies the scattered dwellings, yellow brick affairs, most without privacy screens or hedges, some with the old-style thatched roofs instead of slate or tile, and the majority with unpainted and often sagging shutters.

  A pack of four dogs appears from the low brush above the muddy river flats. The lead dog, a black-and-white mongrel, sniffs cautiously, then turns back into the brush. The others follow, although a smaller golden dog raises its nose for a last sniff before it, too, vanishes.

  The guard post is indeed where the messengers have reported it to be, and Lorn and the second squad rein up outside the square two-story, and freshly whitewashed, plaster-walled building that dominates Ehyla.

  Lorn looks to Whylyn, the other junior squad leader besides Tashqyt, and the one who leads the squad accompanying Lorn. “Have them stand down, but close enough to be ready to ride. See if you can find some water for the mounts.”

  “Yes, ser.” The sandy-haired and beak-nosed squad leader nods.

  Lorn dismounts, ties the chestnut to one of the hitchin
g rings on the sunstone post below the steps to the stone-framed door, and checks his sabre. Then he walks up the steps and into the building.

  In the small foyer sits a young, brown-clad guard. His eyes widen at the sight of the Mirror Lancer officer in cream and green standing before him. “Ser?”

  “Overcaptain Lorn. I’m here to see the District Commander.”

  “Ah… yes, ser. He’s expecting you.”

  If he is expected, Lorn wonders at the surprise. Or were they expecting an aging officer in the last stages of his career? His lips twist momentarily as he follows the young guard past one open door on the right-what appears to be a carelessly-kept armory of sorts-to the first open door on the left.

  “Overcaptain Lorn, ser.” The guard bows and back away, letting Lorn enter the largish study alone.

  The District Commander of the local guards stands. He is black-haired, small, with fierce black eyes, and a thin mustache that curves upward from the corners of his mouth. His crimson-trimmed brown uniform is immaculate, and the silver stars on his collar shimmer brightly.

  “Commander Repyl, Overcaptain.” Repyl gestures to a wooden armchair across the polished wide desk from him. He does not wait for Lorn to sit before reseating himself.

  Lorn glances around the study, taking in the bookcase, nearly empty, and the four footchests that appear to have been recently polished, before seating himself.

  “Well, Overcaptain, the word is that you are beefing up the Mirror Lancers in Biehl.” Repyl snorts. “Well past time for that.”

  “There is a time for everything,” Lorn says mildly as he seats himself easily in the straight-backed chair. “The Majer-Commander has decided that much needed to be done at Biehl.”

  “You have… what… somewhat less than a company?” The commander pauses. “You have brought a full squad. What would happen if a ship ported in your absence, or pirates appeared?”

  “The lancers under Senior Squad Leader Helkyt would do their duty. We now have almost two full companies. That is double what we had last winter.” Lorn’s eyes fix on the commander. “We recently received the equipment necessary to add another half-company.”