“Captain Esfayl,” Lorn says quietly. “You look concerned.”
“Ah… no, ser.”
Lorn can sense the lie. “Don’t lie to me. I won’t pull it out of you, not here, but I can tell when you are.”
The pale gray eyes of the veteran Cheryk narrow, and Lorn meets them-and smiles before speaking. “We’re likely to receive the brunt of the attacks from the barbarians, and I’ll be changing patrol assignments. You’ll probably find yourself riding fewer patrols, but on those you do ride, you’ll find more barbarians.” His smile broadens slightly. “And I’m sure you’d want to know that I will be directing patrols in person, not from the safe confines of Inividra.”
“Ser…” ventures Emsahl, his voice slow and almost drawling. “Some had said that you’d be relieving a patrol commander or shuffling us around so that the five of us commanded four companies and you handled the fifth.”
Lorn shakes his head. “I don’t feel that’s a good idea. You know your companies, or you should, and you will”-his eyes fix on Rhalyt and Quytyl-“and I’ll need that experience and knowledge if we’re all to come through the next year with as few casualties as possible.”
The two older captains exchange puzzled looks.
“Don’t believe all the rumors. The truth is that I was brought here to be a hands-on field commander. That part is true. But I’m not taking over anyone’s company. That’s bad policy and worse tactics.
“Now… I’d like to meet with each of you individually, one at a time, in order of seniority. You’re the most senior, Emsahl?”
“Yes, ser.”
“Then you have the honor. If the rest of you would stand by out in the front foyer… ?”
Once the four others have left and the door shuts, Lorn motions for the gray-bearded captain to sit, then takes the chair behind the desk. It creaks as he sits. He laughs, softly, then looks at Emsahl. “Do you have any questions you didn’t want to raise in front of the others?”
Emsahl looks stolidly at the front of the desk, his eyes not quite meeting Lorn’s. Lorn waits.
“Ser… what they call you… lancers don’t like to think they’re blade fodder.” The captain looks down.
“A few officers have called me ‘the Butcher of Nhais’ or some such. Is that the name you heard?”
Emsahl nods.
Lorn offers a wintry smile. “You can check anywhere, from Majer Brevyl on… I lose fewer lancers than any other officer for the number of kills and battles. I’ve lost a few more than some companies, but many other companies, facing the numbers my forces have, lost more-a great deal more. I slaughtered all eighteenscore barbarians. They’d already killed fivescore men, women, and children, and you know what they did to the girls and women in the hamlets they sacked before we got them. I had them all killed because I couldn’t keep my forces that far from Biehl and I wanted to make sure that it was awhile before they could send another raiding party.” Lorn pauses, sees the unspoken next question, and answers. “I fight. I don’t command from the rear. You’ll see.”
Emsahl nods slowly. “Hoped it was something like that. You’re not a lancer born, ser?”
“No, and my consort-I have one-is a merchanter.” Before Emsahl can pursue those lines, Lorn asks, “What do you think our biggest problem will be?”
“Not enough firelance charges… and too many raiders attacking each company.”
Lorn nods. “We may start using two companies on each patrol.”
“With you in charge?”
“Yes. If the barbarians are raiding in larger groups, then they can’t be in as many places, either.”
“You make that work, ser… lot of lancers be glad to see it.”
“We’ll make it work.” Lorn pauses. “Anything else?”
“No, ser.”
“If you have things you see… or suggestions, I listen. Remember that.” Lorn stands. “If you’d have Cheryk come in…”
Emsahl smiles briefly. “Yes, ser.”
Lorn goes through a similar process with each of the officers, and the comments of the others are little different from those of Emsahl. They have obviously been sharing concerns and worries while waiting for him. At the end of the afternoon, for the most part, his initial assessments of each have changed little. He hopes that is because of the accuracy of those assessments, but only time will verify or disprove his judgment.
XLVI
The Emperor sits on the less massive malachite and silver throne that graces the smaller audience chamber. Behind his right shoulder, in her chair, sits his consort. Before him stands Bluoyal’mer, the Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor. Save for the guards, and a senior Imperial Enumerator in blue and green, with the gold slashes on his sleeves, who stands by one of the guards by the door, no others grace the chamber.
“You summoned me, Your Mightiness?” The Merchanter Advisor’s voice is clear and firm, and a faint smile follows his words.
“I did.” The Emperor Toziel leans forward in the malachite-and-silver throne. “Did you not affirm that you would support the Emperor’s Code, Bluoyal’mer?”
“Yes, Your Mightiness.” Bluoyal’s eyes do not meet the Emperor’s.
“It has come to my attention… and to the attention of the Hand, as well… There is a relative of yours, some sort of cousin. I believe his name is Flutak…”
“I am not certain I could recall all those who claim me as cousin, Your Mightiness.”
“Perhaps not, but you should recall this cousin. The Emperor’s Enumerators visited your trading house this morning, at the request of the Hand.” Toziel nods, and the senior enumerator in official blue and green, steps forward and hands several sheets of paper to the Emperor. The Emperor takes them with a faint smile, then continues. “These sections of ledgers offer that your house has paid a number of golds to a representative in Biehl.” The Emperor nods, this time toward the guard by the rear door, who opens it.
The First Magus steps through the doors to the audience chamber and walks forward, to stand several paces to the left of the Merchanter Advisor.
A thin sheen of perspiration is beginning to form on Bluoyal’s forehead.
“I trust you will not mind the observation of the First Magus,” suggests Toziel mildly.
“No, sire.”
“According to your own enumerators, your house does not have a representative in Biehl. Yet the ledgers show a number of payments to such a representative. Do you deny such?”
Bluoyal’s eyes flicker from the Emperor to the First Magus before he speaks. “There may have been such payments, sire, if the ledgers show such.”
“Did you know about these payments?”
“Yes, sire.” The voice of the Merchanter Advisor is resigned, flat.
“Were those payments made to this cousin of yours, this Flutak?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Were they made for the purpose of obtaining lower tariffs on goods landed at Biehl?”
“They were made for his services, sire.”
Toziel frowns, pausing. “Precisely what services did you require of the senior Emperor’s Enumerator in Biehl?”
“His assistance in assuring that cargoes were handled quickly and well, sire.” Bluoyal’s voice remains calm.
“Are you suggesting that the tariffing is not handled quickly and well without such gratuities? Or that your cousin is corrupt enough that he must be paid by the Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor to do his duty most properly?”
“All is sometimes not as it should be, sire.”
“That is most certainly true. Especially in this case.” Toziel’s eyes, ringed with black, focus on the merchanter. “Do you deny that you bribed a senior enumerator, even while you serve as the Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor?”
“I did not ask for special treatment for the house, sire.” Sweat has begun to darken the armpits of Bluoyal’s tunic, and the shimmering haze on his forehead is more pronounced.
“Did you bribe him, yes or no?”
B
luoyal glances sideways at Chyenfel, who continues to watch the Merchanter Advisor. “Yes, sire… but without ill intention.”
“At times, Bluoyal,” Toziel says quietly, “intention does not matter. You are hereby dismissed as the Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor. Your dismissal will be conveyed to the Traders’ Council, and to all the clanless traders as well, along with the reasons for my action. I will request three candidates from the Council to consider for the next Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor.”
Bluoyal drops his head.
“You may go.” Toziel’s words are like ice.
Toziel waits until both Chyenfel and Bluoyal have left the chamber before rising. The Empress follows him back to her salon, where he sits, carefully and slowly, upon the white divan. For a time, he does not speak.
“You disliked replacing Bluoyal,” Ryenyel finally says.
“I would that I had not been required to do such,” he replies. “Not at this time.”
“All the merchanter houses have such arrangements somewhere, my dear,” offers Ryenyel.
“I know… the larger ones, at least, and were I to act against all who do such, I would have no merchanters, or rebellion and chaos upon my hands.” Toziel shrugs tiredly. “Yet… when it is spread all over the Palace of Eternal Light… and across Cyad, that my own merchanter advisor has corrupted the senior enumerator of a port… ?”
“You must act. And you did.” Ryenyel smiles sadly. “I liked Bluoyal, but unless he flees quickly, he will perish in the dark. He has made enemies, and he has no protection now.”
The Emperor lowers his head, and massages the tight muscles in his neck with his left hand. “Who will they send me as candidates?”
“Vyanat’mer, Veljan’mer, and either Tasjan’mer, or more probably, one of the lesser clan heads, perhaps Kernys’mer or another.”
“The lady trader?”
Ryenyel shakes her head. “Ryalor House is far too recent, too small, and too untested. And the traders would not advance a woman.”
“If those be the candidates…” Toziel shakes his head. “Vyanat’mer is the one I must choose.”
“That is why those will be the candidates,” prophesies the Empress. “After this and all the scheming, none of the merchanters will trust Bluoyal’s clan, especially if Denys’mer is his successor. Few outside the merchanters will trust Tasjan and the Dyjani, not with the greenshirts Sasyk trains. The Jekseng and Kysan are too weak…”
“Vyanat’s house will also act with more care.”
“One trusts so. For a time.”
Toziel nods slowly. “Is it not always so?”
The Empress smiles sadly.
XLVII
Third Company, with Emsahl and Lorn riding in the van, makes its way through a warm drizzle more like summer than of fall, and along a narrow track that turns northwest as it rises out of a wide flat valley. A good two kays behind the column, and behind the last riders of Quytyl’s Fifth Company, lie the berms and barns of another small hamlet, and scattered fields already harvested.
The scouts ride a good three kays ahead, over the crest of the low pass between hills.
“Do you think we’ll see barbarians?” asks Emsahl. “With a force this large?”
“We’ll see them,” replies Lorn. “They’re less and less afraid of Mirror Lancers. That could be because they’re getting more and better blades from Hamor.”
Lorn is careful not to comment directly on what he knows, although he has studied the chaos-glass, in his private quarters, and has found two raiding parties in the Grass Hills. One was angling more toward the territories protecting Pemedra, the other clearly headed for a hamlet to the northwest of Inividra-one with lower berms-and more cattle-and farther from the normal raiding patterns. And that is the one toward which he and the two companies ride.
“You brought back such blades, it is said.”
“Over fourteenscore. I left them in the armory at Biehl, but I had the Emperor’s Enumerator there attest to their numbers. Most had Hamorian forge marks. A few were Brystan.”
“You have reduced the number of patrols in each eightday,” Emsahl probes gently.
“I think you’ll find that we will be just as effective with the newer patrol patterns and larger forces.” While Lorn is using the chaos-glass to target his patrols, he dares not explain, but one advantage of being commander is that he does not have to explain-except to Ikynd and Dettaur-and neither can ask that often or that directly unless they come to Inividra, and Lorn suspects that will be highly unlikely in the near future.
“That is true,” observes Emsahl, lapsing into silence.
Lorn blots the damp rain from his forehead and readjusts his garrison cap. Tomorrow-and the barbarians-will come soon enough.
XLVIII
Ahead of the column of lancers is a long, low rise that leads to the next of the endless valleys in the southwestern reaches of the Grass Hills. The drizzle of the previous day has been replaced with a clear green-blue sky and a chill breeze out of the north that reflects the season. Lorn touches the fully charged firelance in the holder before his right knee, just to ensure it remains charged for the task ahead. They should be nearing the raider force, but the scouts have not seen anything yet.
As he straightens, he looks to his left at Captain Emsahl. “How have you been facing the barbarians?” Lorn asks. “How wide a front?”
“Four-abreast.”
“Staggered or in columns?”
“Usually in columns.”
“When it’s right, we’ll try a staggered approach that’s five-abreast, and I’d like each lancer in the second and fourth lines with his mount’s nose almost to the rump of the lancers in the first and third lines. I want them to use the shortest firelance bursts they can. If they don’t hit a raider, then they need to aim again.”
Emsahl frowns.
“I know… they’re used to swinging the lance… but if they swing lances now, they won’t have any chaos left in their lances by the end of this patrol.” Lorn smiles ruefully. “And they’ll say that they’ll be dead so that it won’t matter.”
Emsahl laughs, the ironic sound of one veteran to another.
“Tell them to try it on the first burst,” Lorn suggests. “Then they can swing the lance, but try to do it in bursts.”
“That… that they might try… especially if I tell them that anyone who exhausts his lance before the battle is over will be in the first rank for the rest of the season.”
Both officers look up as a scout rides up from the trail on the right side of the column, then turns his mount toward them.
Lorn keeps riding as the messenger guides his mount around and up beside the sub-majer.
“You were right, ser. Barbarians… they be entering the valley ahead. Eightscore, mayhap nine-,” says the scout. “They carry the large blades in their shoulder harnesses, and blades like sabres at their waist.”
Eightscore-and Lorn has tenscore Mirror Lancers in all of Inividra. He smiles. “How are they riding. What sort of column?”
“Two-abreast, ser. Must run back near-on a quarter-kay. They be riding slow-like, real steady.”
Lorn nods to the lancer scout. “Fall in behind us for a bit.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Let’s try something.” Lorn smiles grimly at Emsahl. “They don’t know we’re sending out two companies together yet.”
“No, ser.”
“Quytyl and I will lead Fifth Company over the ridge-the way the scout came. There’s a woods along the other side… scrub oaks, but enough for cover…”
Emsahl frowns. “There be that, as I recall, but…”
- “I have good maps,” Lorn says quickly. “We’ll sweep out of the oaks as they come by and hit them on the run with the firelances. Then we’ll come charging back along the road. You have Third Company lined up on the upper slope right about there…” Lorn gestures toward the right side of the slope ahead. “First, people forget to look up, and even if they do, they have to com
e uphill.”
Emsahl nods. “That might work.”
“If they have scouts, you’ll have to make sure they don’t escape to warn them.” Lorn shrugs. “And if the ones we attack don’t follow, we don’t lose anyone because we’ll only come close enough to be in lance range. We’re bound to kill or wound some of them. If they do follow, your men will be steady enough to get more, and the hill will allow you to charge down if you have to.”
That gets a second nod from the veteran. “Might get ‘em mad enough to ride hard.”
“Let’s hope so. You set up your men, and I’ll take care of Fifth Company.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn rides back along the column to Quytyl. Several lancers watch carefully as he passes.
“…got that look… barbarians somewhere near…”
“…hope he’s as good as they say…”
Quytyl looks up from talking with his senior squad leader, Yusaet, as the undercaptain sees Lorn approach.
“Ser.” The undercaptain bows his head.
Yusaet starts to rein back his mount.
Lorn gestures for him to remain. “I need both of you and your other squad leader, Undercaptain. There’s a column of barbarians entering the next valley. We’re going to attack and set up an ambush. Call in your squad leaders.”
“I’ll get Syldn,” Yusaet offers, and eases his mount away.
“Halt the company. We won’t be taking the road much farther anyway.”
“Fifth Company! Halt! Column halt!” Quytyl raises his arm.
As the lancers rein up, the painfully-thin undercaptain again turns to Lorn and asks, “How many?”
“Eightscore, maybe nine-.”
“Yes, ser.” Despite his affirmation, the undercaptain’s eyes carry much doubt.
“Don’t worry, Quytyl. That’s my task. Yours is to get your company where it kills barbarians.”
Yusaet returns with Syldn, the junior squad leader, and Lorn motions them into a mounted semicircle facing him on the road, and begins to explain once more, ending with, “…we don’t want anyone to slow down or use a sabre. Use quick bursts on the lances, and then ride like the black angels were chasing you… just over the hill. Then we’ll re-form five-abreast blocking the road.”
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