“That is indeed a change.” The commander smiles tolerantly.
“How many guards have you, Commander?” Lorn asks. “Those with full gear and weapons who could be called up and give an account of themselves?”
“No one has ever asked that.” The District Commander draws himself up behind his ornate desk.
Lorn shrugs. “I am relatively new to the port detachment. I have spent most of my time in the Mirror Lancers as a fighting officer. Those questions come easily. Also, I was reviewing my statement of duties, and part of those duties is to inspect and verify the numbers and abilities of the District Guard forces. So I am here. That is why I sent that message to you.”
“Ah… yes.” The commander nods. “One cannot fault you for attention to duty. It has been long, I understand, since the full scope of those duties has been attempted. Tell me. How fares Senior Enumerator Flutak? A most imposing official.” Repyl smiles.
“The senior enumerator was discovered to have been accepting bribes from traders and from one of the larger olive-growers. He vanished, as did most of the records. He has not been seen in a season. The grower, an arrogant fellow by the name of Baryat… he hired some assassins, and when I went to inquire, he not only admitted to bribery and hiring the assassins, but he attacked me with a pruning knife in front of an entire squad. The new senior enumerator in charge is Neabyl. He is most honest, most devoted to carrying out the provisions of the Emperor’s Code. He has been commended by His Mightiness.” Lorn smiles coolly. “We work well together, and Biehl is again beginning to receive more ships.”
“Ah… yes… that is most interesting.”
“You were about to tell me how many guards you had ready to ride,” Lorn reminds the commander.
“The District Guard is near full-strength.”
Lorn’s eyes harden, and he waits.
“With two or three days’ advance notice, I can raise two companies. We use cupridium lances-not firelances. Otherwise, our equipment is the same.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Lorn stands. “You are busy; so am I. If you would show me the building-the armory, and the tackrooms…”
“I had not thought a man of your position…” the commander replies as he slowly stands.
“When one is sent to do a duty by the Majer-Commander,” Lorn says evenly, “it is best that he carry it out.”
“Yes… I can see that.” Repyl fingers the right end of his waxed mustache. “Yes… I can certainly see that.”
“The Majer-Commander has plans for Biehl,” Lorn adds. “That much I do know.” He gestures toward the door, then exits and crosses the hall to the armory he has seen earlier.
Someone has made a recent effort to organize the cupridium lances, and most have been polished, if hurriedly, and the sabres are racked as they should be. There is little in the way of supporting gear, such as small spades, water bottles, and saddlebags.
Lorn walks around the long and dim room without speaking until he is ready to leave. “The weapons are adequately cared for. More than half your guards would perish of thirst in any long ride-or you would have them scattered across the land seeking water. Best you find water bottles for them, and soon.”
“Soon?”
Lorn ignores the question, posing one of his own. “Mounts and tack?”
“Each guard keeps his own mount. If it dies of a fault of his, he must replace it with one inspected by the guard ostler. Their mounts are in excellent shape.”
Lorn senses the truth of the answer, both from Repyl and the system.
“The tackroom…” The commander leads Lorn to the north end of the building, where he unlocks a door with a simple brass key. “There is an outside door. It is barred except when we drill.”
The tack is racked properly, and has been recently cleaned, although Lorn can see dirt in cracks in the leather, but the equipment is not nearly so bad as it could be-nor in as poor condition as some of what he had found at Biehl.
Lorn nods as they leave the tackroom, then turns to Repyl. “Matters appear solid here. Sometime in the late summer or early fall, I will be here to inspect all your guards, and their mounts.” Lorn smiles. “I will require that they be equipped and provisioned for an eightday ride.”
“That is not…”
“It is,” Lorn says quietly. “I will give you an eightday’s notice. If you find that difficult…” He leaves the implication unspoken.
“Ah… no. With an eightday’s notice, we will be ready.”
“Good. It has been a pleasure meeting you, and to learn that you understand that as the world changes so must what has been accepted in the past. I look forward to seeing you on my inspection.”
“We will be ready, Overcaptain, when you arrive.”
“Thank you.” Lorn bows, then turns and walks past the nervous young guard and out to his waiting squad.
Without speaking, Lorn unties and mounts the chestnut. While Repyl is neither overtly dishonest nor hiding matters about the District Guards, the man is clearly upset by Lorn’s visit and the changes taking place in Biehl. That means that he will bear watching, through the glass, and that means more work and headaches for Lorn.
“Form up!” orders Whylyn.
The lancers reform into a column two-abreast that rides south and back toward the bridges at Lower Island.
“If I might ask… ser?” ventures Whylyn after they have ridden a kay or so.
“The commander was quite pleasant,” Lorn observes. “We’ll be returning in half a season or so, perhaps a bit longer, to inspect the guards.”
“They’ll not be liking that,” prophesies the squad leader.
They will like what Lorn has in mind even less, the overcaptain suspects.
XXVI
The breakfast room is hot, even though the late-afternoon sun is dropping below the brick walls of the Mirror Lancer compound at Biehl. Despite the heat and still air, Lorn finishes his dinner-a breast of fowl smothered in sawdustlike slivers of quilla. The bread is a dry rye that is not much better than the quilla. The single glass of Fhynyco he allows himself makes the bread and quilla half-palatable.
After he washes and stacks the dishes, he walks slowly into his study, where he sits at the narrow desk and takes out the scroll he has received from his father earlier in the day. He unrolls it and begins to reads it once more, this time more carefully and slowly.
All remains well with us, although we are not quite so active as those younger… Kysia has continued to help in ways we had not anticipated, and I am certain that, whenever you do return to Cyad, she will wish to serve you and Ryalth…
We are pleased to have dinner with your lovely consort often, generally once or twice an eightday, if not more often. She and Jerial have gotten rather close, and at times, even Myryan will join them.
Myryan’s garden prospers, and she often shares her bounty with us, and upon occasion Ciesrt will join us, although he and Vernt are most occupied, now that they are now adepts of the full second level, with the growing and myriad challenges that face those of the Magi’i in these days…Your young friend Tyrsal, although a lower second, is beginning to show a certain promise, if delayed. I am glad to see that, given the attention that the First Magus has showered upon Rustyl, who shares some of the deportment of the lancer officer who continues to write your sister. It is said that an arrangement is close for consorting Rustyl to Ciesrt’s younger sister, Ceyla. The older sister recently consorted with Zubyl…
More lancers are likely to be reassigned from the Accursed Forest in late summer or early fall… if all goes well.
Myryan and Jerial have been pressed into extra time at the infirmary once more, as a result of the chaos-tower failure on the First Star…
Lorn frowns. For his father to mention that chaos-tower failure so openly must mean all of Cyad knows about the failure, and that there were indeed many casualties. There is also the hint that the ward-wall project, whatever it may be, is about to be completed.
Will tha
t have an effect on the barbarians? Will they find out? Or will they mount attacks before lancers can be transferred? Or shift their attacks elsewhere? Lorn glances out through the window at the growing twilight, a twilight that has yet to bring coolness to the still air that enfolds the lancer compound.
After a time, he lifts the scroll once more, frowning, as his eyes drift back up to the lines about Tyrsal and Rustyl. His father never mentions anything quite idly, and that means, for some reason, he must keep Rustyl in mind in the seasons and years ahead.
After he writes his reply, and another scroll to Ryalth, he will take out the glass again, and make a greater effort to determine where the barbarians are gathering forces-if they are-and to draw part of yet another map.
And he will have to plan how to best use the forces of the District Commander…
He rubs his forehead, glancing out into the summer darkness he has not seen creep across the compound. The rest of the summer will be long, and tiring, for he has much to do with the lancers, his screeing of the barbarians, and his maps-and with ensuring all ships that port in Biehl are treated well and fairly. And with occasionally checking on the olive-growers and other traders and factors.
None of these are exciting, nor glamorous. All are necessary, and the energy required leaves little for himself-or for using the glass, if briefly, to view Ryalth.
XXVII
The two men meet on the balcony on the north side of the fifth level of the Palace of Eternal Light. Even the lightest breeze whispers loudly across this balcony, making eavesdropping difficult. The Captain-Commander of the Mirror Lancers nods to the Second Magus.
“There will be changes in the coming year,” Luss suggests.
“There are always changes,” returns Kharl with a laugh. The breeze disarranges his reddish hair. He smoothes it back from his face. “Everything changes, and yet everything is the same, and that is how it has been, and how it will be. Do not deceive yourself, my valiant lancer officer.”
“The Emperor’s audiences are brief,” Luss points out.
“There is nothing new to be said, and he waits for the results of the ward-wall effort of the First Magus.”
“You opposed such; do you still?”
“I opposed that effort because I fear the loss of power for the Magi’i and for the Mirror Lancers, and because I had doubts that the plan would do little more than cost us the chaos-towers before they failed in their time. Chyenfel has convinced all, and there is now little merit in opposing what will be. It will be Chyenfel’s last great accomplishment, and who am I to deny him such?” Kharl smiles. “It appears as though it may indeed succeed, and if it does, then the Accursed Forest will sleep for generations, and the Mirror Lancers will be free to send greater forces to the north. But your casualties will be much greater, I fear.”
“Since we will have fewer firelances, we will need more lancers than even those stationed around the Accursed Forest,” counters Luss. “Will you support such?”
“When you speak of the need for more lancers, I am reminded that your young overcaptain is most ambitious,” Kharl observes.
“My overcaptain? I do not recall any being assigned to me recently.”
“The young one who was dispatched to Biehl. I believe we had some discussion about the poor fellow,” Kharl suggests, his green eyes seemingly laughing as he views both the harbor and the Captain-Commander of the Mirror Lancers.
“Ah… yes, that one, the one who is related by consorting to you, and who the Majer-Commander was kind enough to offer a less trying… position to.” Luss smiles politely.
Kharl returns the smile with one equally bland. “I understand he has been quite successful in returning the outpost to some semblance of discipline, and even in beginning to recruit and train new lancers who can be used to replace those who have fallen to the barbarians.” After the briefest of pauses, he adds, “And that the Majer-Commander was pleased with your initiative in sending him there.”
“I am most gratified that my understanding of the officer’s capabilities was recognized,” Luss’s eyes narrow slightly, “although I would expect nothing less of an officer so capable and of one related to you, even through consortship.”
“I am pleased that my son’s choice of a consort meets your approval. Although her brother is a lancer, and was not considered suitable to become one of the Magi’i, he comes from an old and worthy family, and it is clear he is a capable and hardworking lancer.”
“He has risked his life for Cyador on many occasions, and any lancer who has done such is most suitable for reward and promotion,” replies Luss.
“As you have ensured.” Kharl nods politely. “You might also find some other information concerning him of slight interest. I have been informed by… certain sources… that the tariff collections of Emperor’s Enumerators in Biehl have nearly doubled in the past season.” Kharl frowns. “Yet Bluoyal has informed me that the number of vessels porting in Biehl has changed little. He seemed rather amused when I suggested that perhaps matters had been amiss previously. It is interesting that the collections improved once the senior enumerator disappeared. He was a cousin to Bluoyal, I believe.”
“That is a matter that might be of interest to the Majer-Commander.”
“I thought it might be so. And to the Hand of the Emperor, should the Majer-Commander think it worthy to be carried so far.”
“He will determine that. Of course, you could tell the Hand.”
“Me? No Hand would scarce believe a word I said, were I even permitted to speak to him in the shadows.”
“The wisdom of the Hand is legendary, I am told,” Luss says. “I will pass on the information, and the powers above me will do as they please.”
“As they always do.” Kharl laughs so softly that the sound is lost in the breeze that rustles around the balcony of the Palace of Light.
XXVIII
Despite the midday heat, after leaving the administration building, Lorn takes the steps to his quarters two at a time. There, he quickly eats some bread and cheese in the kitchen and then walks quickly to his study to use the chaos-glass.
He closes the shutters so that the silvered image will not pale against the bright summer light. After that, he pulls the old glass that had been his father’s from the drawer and concentrates on its shimmering surface. He ignores the sweat that begins to form on his brow, from both the effort he makes and from the closeness of the study without any breeze from the shuttered windows. The silver mists form and vanish quickly, leaving a view of the port of Jera. There are two ships at the long rickety pier that winds out into the calm and nearly flat waters of the harbor. Both appear to have arrived recently, with carts on the pier, and goods being carried down the gangways.
Lorn concentrates on the vessel with the Hamorian lines. The pier seems to bow under the weight of the cart. Lorn tries to coax a better image of the long objects wrapped in cloth from his glass, but cannot. Still, they are wrapped separately; they are of iron, and there is little of value to be shipped from Hamor that would be handled such, except the large and heavy blades preferred by the barbarians.
He releases the image, and slips the glass into the drawer before opening the shutters. While he can draw maps in the late afternoon, and indeed, the shadows often make that task easier, he cannot follow ships and their trading in darkness. Nor, he reflects, at all, once they are at sea and beyond any harbor.
From his maps and his conversations with the captains of the trading vessels that have once again begun to frequent Biehl, Lorn can better understand the large image he is forming within his mind. That picture he likes not at all, although there is little he can do about it, and, at times, he wonders why he expends the effort. Yet he feels he must.
The barbarians trade tooled leather goods, often artistic; worked copper; and large baskets of some form of roasted nuts that must keep well. These reach Jera by the three branches of the river. In return, they purchase large amounts of iron blades better than they could
forge. And those blades are used to kill Mirror Lancers.
More important to him, some of those blades are making their way west of Jera, with ever-increasing numbers of barbarians. So far, the barbarians have made no raids beyond the Grass Hills in the direction of Ehyla and Biehl. That also concerns Lorn, for when before have the barbarians failed to raid when they have had weapons and largely undefended hamlets?
True… the Grass Hills to the east of Biehl and to the west of Jera might better be termed “Stone Hills” for their steepness and for streams that are few and widely separated. And the barbarians have preferred to attack through the wider passes and vales of the southwest where grass and water are more abundant.
Lorn shakes his head. He can think about such later. For the moment, he needs to work with Tashqyt, Helkyt, and Whylyn on a better system for accustoming the trainees to firelances-without discharging the twoscore that are all that they hold in the compound.
After that, they will conduct more sabre drills… and Lorn will take up the padded heavy hand-and-a-half sword that he has had to learn to master in order to accustom the trainees to facing the barbarian blades.
XXIX
The hot late-summer sun beats down on Lorn, and the sweat oozes from every pore, soaking the brown tunic he wears for training. Even after eightdays of training that he has made ever more rigorous, he still pours forth sweat. Now he can handle the big blade as easily as a sabre, though he prefers the smaller one for use while mounted.
“Break off!” he orders, glancing sideways at the two-on-three exercise on the flat sandy expanse of the beach to his left. He reins up the chestnut and lets the breeze off the Northern Ocean cool his fevered brow.
The squad leader-Tashqyt-reforms his squad before letting his lancers rest. Lorn nods.
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