The Second Magus bows once more before seating himself. Had he looked directly at the First Magus, he would not have seen his reflection in the eyes of the older magus, but only the blank sun-gold of an aging and powerful magus.
“You are so mannerly, Kharl,” offers Chyenfel. “It is one of your virtues, and I do most appreciate that.”
“You wished to see me? In private?”
“I did. The inner tower of the Magi’i will fail at any time. It could last a year, two at the outside, but it could collapse within a season. I thought you had best know this, for the Captain-Commander will doubtless press you when I announce that we will again be cutting back on the recharging of firelances and firewagon chaos-cells.”
The green eyes of the Second Magus flicker but once. “Can we not suggest that it is merely weakened?”
“You would have me lie to the Emperor and the Mirror Lancers? When the Hand of the Emperor will know, and when he will ask such of the Hand?”
“Neither the Hand nor the Emperor will long last, ser.”
“Nor will I, you are thinking.”
“I cannot deceive you.” Kharl shrugs. “Yet… in public I would counsel prudence. Any chaos-tower but that one can fail. That one, it must not be seen to fail.”
“And when the word is out, what then?” Chyenfel’s tone is mild. “We will have lied, and failed.”
“By then, ser, it will matter not. I warned you of this, years ago. I told you that we would need every chaos-tower. You assured me that the Accursed Forest was a greater danger. Now you have taken the towers of the ward-walls, and hidden them in the mists of time. Half the fireships are without chaos-towers, and we cannot hide that. We have but a handful left. Without the towers, Cyad as we know it will perish. Without the power of the firelances, for no magus can recharge but a handful a day, not and do aught else, without the speed of the firewagons, and without the might of the fireships…” Kharl tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. “What will we have?”
“We still have the cupridium blades, and lances such as are used by the District Guards. We have great roads and canals that none can match. We have a people of talent and wisdom.”
“For how long? Cupridium cannot be forged without the towers.”
“Kharl, that is not so. Tools of cupridium can be forged with the residual chaos of the world-and there is much of that.”
“It will take a magus for each blade, and each will have to be hand-forged-if there is anyone with the technique.”
Chyenfel leans back and smiles. “You surprise me, Second Magus. I would not have thought you so. What message are you conveying? That we pretend all is well?”
“I find it preferable to the flux chaos of the alternative.” The red-haired and green-eyed Second Magus pauses, then adds, “Then, the inner chaos-tower may last a few years.”
“Long enough for me to have returned to chaos, so that you may do as you see fit, I am sure.”
“I would not offend you, nor cross you, honored First Magus.”
“Not while I live.” Chyenfel smiles. “I may yet retain my vitality longer than you suppose. I did wish to tell you, in the event that your most creative mind might seek a more… encouraging approach.”
“I thank you, and I will think upon it.” Kharl inclines his head. “If you have no further requirement of me… ?”
“Not at the moment. Not at the moment. But… Kharl… what if the next Emperor is as Toziel, and not as, shall we say, the Captain-Commander? Or even a younger magus?”
“Such as Rustyl, you mean?”
“I know you would follow Toziel, but that will not and cannot happen. Content yourself with following me. For all your deviousness, you would make an effective First Magus. I suggest you consider such.”
“I will consider much, honored First Magus.”
“With more than polite lip service, I would suggest. While Toziel is far older than he appears, he is not yet failing, and he searches for a heir to the Malachite Throne-an heir who is not of the Magi’i.”
“He will search far, for there are none among the lancers, that he will ever find, and certainly, to elevate a merchanter would stain the sunstone of the Palace of Eternal Light with so much blood that it could never be scrubbed away.”
“I have learned, as you must have-or will-that ‘never’ and ‘none’ are most dangerous words, and that those who utter them often must swallow them most often.”
“I bow to your wisdom.” The Second Magus inclines his head, as if waiting.
“You may go.” A weariness infuses Chyenfel’s words, and he nods at the younger magus.
“I thank you, and wish you a pleasant rest.” Kharl stands and bows, before turning and easing his way from the austerity of the study.
The sungold eyes of the First Magus follow him out with the power of still-banked and massive chaos. A faint smile lingers on his lips.
LIV
In the late afternoon, Lorn steps into the front corridor and foyer of the square tower at Inividra, his saddlebags over his shoulder, sabre at his belt, and his winter jacket still fastened. He nods to Nesmyl. “We’re back.”
“Yes, ser. Were there any barbarians?”
“No. They know it’s winter. Only lancers are out now.” Lorn laughs ruefully. “Any dispatches from Assyadt?”
“No, ser. Captain Esfayl would like to see you. One of his men deserted, and was found in the local hamlet-with a local… entertainer.”
Lorn nods. “We’ll have to do something.” Since Esfayl’s Second Company wasn’t actually on patrol, Lorn may be able to just have the man given a few lashes, and have his pay docked for a season, but he will need to speak to Esfayl first. “Is there anything else?”
“No, ser.”
“Good.” Lorn gestures toward the narrow back stairs. “I’ll be in my quarters until dinner.”
“Yes, ser. If you do not need me…”
“Go.” Lorn laughs. “You’ll be doing long days come spring.”
Nesmyl smiles, as if reluctantly, then bows.
Lorn carries his gear up the narrow stairs. His legs ache from riding in the chill. Although the patrol from which he and the Fourth Company have just returned to Inividra has been short, the cold makes such patrols seem far longer. They had found no barbarians, as Lorn had known, and no tracks of such, but he will be able to report to Dettaur that he has indeed taken another patrol, for all must seem in accord with the Dettaur’s wishes, and those of Commander Ikynd.
Once in his quarters, Lorn pulls off the winter jacket, glad that one of the lancers has at least kept the stove stoked so that Lorn’s rooms are passably warm. Then he puts away his gear and unclips the sabre, setting it by the armoire.
The tired sub-majer stands for a moment at the foot of the bed and tries to stretch his legs. Then he walks to the small study, pausing behind the chair and desk to glance out through the half-frosted ancient panes. Outside, the gray clouds make it difficult to tell whether the flat and dim light is because of the clouds or the coming twilight.
With a wry twist to his lips, Lorn seats himself once more at the desk in the upper study of the square tower and takes out the maps. He has almost a bell before dinner, and he might as well accomplish something more fruitful than empty patrols required by a vengeful superior.
He pauses. In some ways… are the Jeranyi like Dettaur? Dettaur has forgotten that Lorn broke his fingers for a reason-because Dettaur had been bullying all the younger boys at the school. Yet all Dett recalls is that Lorn broke his fingers, not all the injuries and humiliations he had foisted upon others. All the Jeranyi recall is an ancient humiliation, and not all the endless deaths and mutilations that they have inflicted over the generations.
The sub-majer pushes those thoughts away, applicable as they may be, and concentrates on the maps and his ideas for dealing with the barbarians. On those maps before him on the desk, Lorn follows the track of the south branch of the Jeryna River, using the map calipers to check the distances
, trusting that he has managed to keep the scales relatively consistent. He adds up the figures. Then he does the same for the west branch.
Finally, he nods. If it does not snow too late, and if the Sixth Company arrives as scheduled… then the travel aspects of what he is considering may work. Unhappily, that is only part of what he needs.
There are also rwoscore extra firelances in the armory, and those will help.
Yet he must find exactly what he seeks, or all that he plans will be of little use to him-or to the Mirror Lancers. And even after two full eightdays of using the glass, he has not found what he needs.
‘v Slowly, he pulls out the chaos-glass and sets it on the desk, half dreading the headache he will have before he is done. He squares his shoulders, and concentrates on the glass, letting the silver mists gather, and then give way to images, one after the other, until he has the building he wishes in view. He takes a deep breath and focuses his attention on the entry doors.
The image that appears is of two heavy, dark-stained doors, nothing more.
He tries again, focusing on a window that seems brighter than the others, and is rewarded with a view through a half-open shutter of a man in maroon and blue sitting at small table with a chest of some sort before him.
Lorn tries to catch and hold the image of the trader-or factor-and to focus on the room.
In time, he is rewarded, although his eyes are burning, and his headache is intensifying, but the scenes are indeed clear. The building does have chests with ledgers, and warehouse space, largely empty at the moment.
Lorn nods and sketches it in on the larger map he is drawing. He almost blurs the lines, for his hand has begun to tremble. He sets aside the pen and closes his eyes for a few moments, before he resumes drawing.
Then he halts, for he cannot afford to spoil the work he has done.
Yet his efforts are slow… so slow that some days he feels he will never accomplish what must be done before spring-not with patrols, and reports, and training, and inspections. Intensive use of the chaos-glass is far harder than merely raising chaos-at least for Lorn.
He shakes his head and closes his eyes once more, before opening them again. Before long he must descend and cross the courtyard for dinner, and he must not appear tired, or less than encouraging.
LV
The snow that had fallen in the more northern valleys and plagued Lorn and Esfayl on their return ride has barely left a dusting around Inividra, and the paving stones in the courtyard are clear, with but small drifted piles of white in the corners of the walls and buildings, as the two officers rein up outside the stable at the outpost in the winter twilight.
Lorn turns to Esfayl. “Captain, remember… fighting the weather gains nothing. The storms always win.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn dismounts and leads the gelding toward the stable door, but Hasmyr the ostler has already started forward to take the white’s reins.
“Good to see you, ser, and with all your lancers and mounts,” offers the gray-bearded ostler. “Seen too many young captains lose men in the winter.” He winks at Lorn, then looks up at Esfayl. “I can take your mount, too, ser.”
“Oh, thank you,” replies the captain.
“Thank you, Hasmyr,” Lorn says as he quickly unfastens his gear from behind the saddle, as well as the spare sabre he has made it a habit to carry.
“Not being a problem, sers.”
Esfayl grins sheepishly at Lorn as the two officers step away from their mounts and the ostler. “I suppose I still think of the Mirror Lancer words about carrying on through the storms of life and the battles with the eternal forces of darkness.”
Lorn laughs. “I learned that it’s hard to fight nature when I was patrolling the Accursed Forest. It’s better when you can avoid it. With the Forest, we couldn’t, but there’s little point in it out here.”
“Ser… you didn’t say a word to Hasmyr.”
“He’s probably seen scores of captains here, and a halfscore sub-majers, I’d wager,” Lorn points out. “He likes the horses, and he doesn’t want them lost when they don’t have to be.” Lorn pauses. “I’ll see you and the others at table in a few moments.”
“Yes, ser.” Esfayl nods and bows his head. “Thank you, ser.”
As Lorn walks across the damp stones of the courtyard toward the square tower, he refrains from shaking his head. Duty… duty-as either a student magus or as a lancer, he’d never felt that blind obedience to the past or to some absolute belief was wise. Yet… why did so few see it that way?
He laughs, gently and ironically, to himself, noting that his ignoring such traditions has him walking a narrow path between two kinds of disasters, with Dettaur and, apparently, Captain-Commander Luss’alt waiting for some sort of transgression that will allow them to find an excuse to disgrace or discipline him.
His saddlebags on his shoulder, he walks past the duty sentry and into the square tower.
Nesmyl is waiting, and steps forward. “Ser, there were several dispatches and scrolls with the supply wagons. I put them all on your study desk.”
“Thank you. I’ll get to them after I eat.” Lorn shakes his head. “I think the officers are waiting for me.”
“That might be.” Nesmyl smiles. “I doubt they would wish to start when their commander has just returned from patrol.”
Lorn ducks into the study and glances at the desk, looking over the three scrolls. There are two official dispatchs, doubtless from Dettaur in Commander Ikynd’s name, and a scroll with the green seal of his father. While he is not surprised to find one from his father, he is equally surprised not to find one from Ryalth. He fingers his chin and nods. Just because he has not received such a scroll does not mean it does not exist. Her reactions to his use of the chaos-glass are proof enough for Lorn, both of her devotion and that she is more than even his father has seen.
He takes the scrolls in his free hand and slips back out of the study and up the narrow stairs, trying not to scrape the walls with saddlebags and sabres. Again… Nesmyl has made sure the stove is stoked, and that his quarters are warming. Some smoke has drifted into his quarters, for he can smell the smoky odor of peat, as though the stove had been opened and checked recently. Clearly he had not been expected to return early, but someone had seen them and hurried to refire the stove.
Lorn laughs. There are some benefits to being commander.
He leaves the three scrolls on his upper study desk-to read after dinner-and carries the gear to his bedchamber where he leaves the saddlebags on the footchest and the sabres leaning against the wall in their scabbards. He will need to clean and oil the blades later.
Leaving his winter jacket on, Lorn washes his face and hands, then hurries back down the narrow steps, out of the square tower, and across the courtyard. He is the last to reach the officers’ dining area, but then, he has no doubts that dinner was held after Nesmyl-or Emsahl or someone-had seen them coming down the road from the north.
“Good evening,” Lorn offers as he nears the end of the table at which the five other officers are standing. “Esfayl and I appreciate your waiting for us.” He seats himself quickly, and then serves himself a large helping of the mutton stew, wrinkling his nose at the heavy pepper scent, and hoping that the carrots and roots are neither too stringy nor too mushy. “At least it’s hot,” he says, nodding at Esfayl.
“Been warm here, ser,” says Cheryk. “Warm for winter, anyway.”
“It’s going to get colder.” Lorn passes the big casserole dish to Emsahl, then breaks off a chunk of the bread and passes the basket.
“When it’s cold,” Cheryk points out, “there aren’t any barbarians out. We’d be lucky if it stayed cold.”
“We’d still have to patrol,” Lorn says. “The commander and the assistant commander in Assyadt think that the barbarians will attack immediately if we don’t.”
“That’s true only in summer,” says Emsahl. “Or late spring, after they’ve done most of their planting.”
/>
A moment of silence follows, and Lorn eats several mouthfuls, ignoring the softness of the vegetables and the toughness of the mutton.
“Ser… ?” ventures Rhalyt from the end of the table, “one of the squad leaders said that you’d known Majer Dettaur for a long time.”
Cheryk and Emsahl both frown. Esfayl winces almost imperceptibly. Quytyl, his arm still bound in a light splint, looks down at the table.
“Actually, that’s true. We went to the same school, and my mother knew his. He was two years or so ahead of me.” Lorn takes a mouthful of the peppered stew, then adds, into the silence, “He was much then as he is now.”
“You will run across officers you know, Rhalyt,” Emsahl suggests. “There aren’t that many officers in the Mirror Lancers.”
Lorn nods. “I went through officer training with the captain who relieved me at Jakaafra.”
“Just wondered, ser,” says Rhalyt. “You know… with rumors…”
“Most rumors have a grain of truth in them,” Lorn observes wryly, “but sometimes it’s like a single grain of rye in a whole loaf of white.”
“Like the rumors of giant serpents along the ward-wall,” suggests Emsahl.
Lorn clears his throat.
Emsahl looks up, surprised.
“They do exist. They’re rare. We only came across one in the years I was there. But it was large, almost two cubits in breadth and close to forty in length.” Lorn laughs. “They’re not nearly so dangerous as the stun lizards or the giant cats… but seeing one was a shock.”
“Which was more dangerous?” asks Rhalyt, as if wanting to make sure the subject stays changed.
“The large stun lizards… if you’re facing only one. But the giant cats usually come in pairs or double pairs, and the night leopards in packs.” Lorn shrugs. “So… it’s hard to say.”
“How do they compare to barbarians?” asks Quytyl.
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