Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Cheryk, Emsahl, and Lorn all laugh. Quytyl flushes, and this time Rhalyt is the one to look down at the table.

  After the last chuckles die away, Lorn says, “The northeast ward-wall is the only one that has casualties anywhere close to a barbarian patrol company, and they ran about half what I had at Isahl. The southwest ward-wall company lost perhaps a quarter- to a halfscore of lancers a year.”

  “Why the northeast wall, ser?” asks Esfayl.

  “No one ever gave a good answer,” Lorn replies. “Some say it was the winds, some the way the wall was designed, some the fact that it is closest to the Westhorns…” He shrugs.

  Cheryk shakes his head. “You were assigned to Isahl, there, and here?”

  “And Biehl,” Lorn points out.

  “But those three are the toughest duty stations in each area, ser.”

  “I’m just lucky.” Lorn looks at Esfayl. “You’re from Summerdock, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Does it get as hot as here in the summer?”

  “No, ser. There’s always an ocean breeze…”

  Lorn nods for the young captain to continue. The rest of the dinner conversation will be uneventful. He can assure that much.

  After dinner, Lorn walks back across the courtyard, through a night wind that is considerably colder than earlier, and past the duty sentry at the tower. “Good evening.”

  “Evening, ser.”

  The lower level of the tower is dim, with but one lamp lit, and Lorn stops and turns down the wick to put it out before starting up the stairs. Although he would like to read the dispatches and scrolls, he forces himself to hang out his damp gear on the wall pegs by the stove first. Then he checks the sabres, drying and oiling them, before he returns to the study and the scrolls.

  He looks at the two official dispatches, then shrugs and breaks the seal on the one that looks shorter. He unrolls it and begins to read.

  …hereby inform all officers bearing commands throughout the Mirror Lancers that losses of provisions and other supplies have been reaching unacceptably high levels… strongly recommend that all commanders review the use and storage of such, and that the use of local supplies be adopted whenever possible…

  The seal and signature are those of Luss’alt, Captain-Commander of the Mirror Lancers.

  Lorn nods to himself as he sets the scroll aside and picks up the second one with a Mirror Lancer seal. It is addressed to him as, Commanding, Inividra.

  As noted in the scroll which you are receiving from the Captain-Commander of Mirror Lancers, the handling and storage of provisions has become a problem at many isolated stations, such as Inividra. Therefore, individual commanding officers must take a greater role in assuring that such provisions are stored and used with care and are not wasted…

  The commander has noted that your last request for supplies is somewhat higher than that of previous sub-majers, and has requested that you explain such.

  Lorn snorts. The answer is simple. He has more men still alive than did Sub-Majer Kysken, and more men require more food.

  …and request that you send a response with the next scheduled courier to Assyadt.

  The signature and seal are Dettaur’s, as Lorn has known even without reading them, for Dettaur is clearly trying to establish any possible grounds for proving Lorn is less than competent. Moreover, the odds are good that, sooner or later, Lorn will be out on a patrol when some request for something comes in, and Lorn’s response will be late, thus giving Dettaur yet another example of Lorn’s unresponsiveness. Dettaur is clearly very good at setting up officers to be discredited.

  The sub-majer looks out into the darkness beyond his study window and the inner shutters that he has not closed, despite the chill coming off the ancient panes of glass. He half stands and, shaking his head, closes the shutters. He reseats himself and opens his father’s scroll, reading slowly.

  We trust all is well with you at Inividra. Life continues here much as it has throughout the winter, and for those of us for whom the cooler weather is not such a joy as once it was…

  Although Mycela is expecting a child this summer, young Kerial is our first grandchild, and a delight he is. All of us can but hope you will be able to see him while he is still young. I can recall when you were that young, dark-haired and smiling as well, and it seems not that long ago. Life is fleeting and fragile, and we forget that when we are young and strong.

  Your consort continues to amaze all, and Ryalor House prospers. Her enumerators are known both for their probity and loyalty, and in these days, after the revelations about the former Merchanter Advisor to the Emperor, those qualities are more greatly respected than in recent years. It is interesting to note that none recall or have mentioned the events that led up to the disclosures, and for that we can be grateful, although it is said that the Emperor knows far more than any but those directly involved.

  Lorn frowns slightly. While he had sent a copy of his battle report to the Hand of the Emperor, with its references to Hamorian blades, he does not recall that he made any reports about the sorry state of the Emperor’s Enumerators in Biehl. Did Neabyl report more? He continues to read.

  Myryan is already planning for improvements to her garden for next year. Ciesrt and Vernt continue to work together, although I understand this may not continue when Vernt is advanced to a lower first. Your brother works hard, and that has made his understanding of chaos far deeper in some ways than those who are more facile. His understanding of the fundamentals of chaos application may prove most useful to the Mirror Lancers and to you in the years ahead.

  I trust you will be prepared for the spring with the barbarians and all that may ensue, and we both wish you well…

  Lorn finds himself frowning once more as he looks over the scroll. The words and the script are those of his father, yet there is a hint of shakiness about the characters that he does not recall, and that bothers him. Perhaps because of that shakiness, he recalls the questions his father had given him, questions to which he has yet to find satisfactory answers.

  Then… each day, he finds more questions for which he has no answers which satisfy him.

  Although he is tired, and it has been all too long a day, he eases aside his father’s scroll and slips out the chaos-glass. He will allow himself a quick screeing in the glass.

  He concentrates, and the silver mists form, and then part, to reveal two figures sleeping side by side in an ornate bed he recognizes only from the glass, and in the room he also has determined, but only through screeing, that is a part of newer and larger quarters for his consort. While Kerial does not move, Ryalth turns, almost as if she senses the chill of the glass, and Lorn releases the image.

  For a time, he sits in the dimness, his eyes closed, massaging the back of his neck and head with his left hand, then dropping his chin against his chest to stretch tight muscles in his neck and upper back.

  Finally, he stands, and twists down the lamp wick. Tomorrow promises another long day in catching up on reports from his last patrol and in composing a polite reply to Dettaur, yet one which will refute the hidden allegations, he hopes without angering his old schoolmate, at least not any more than Dettaur is already angered.

  LVI

  At the sound of the door opening, Kharl turns, a welcoming smile upon his face as he advances across the fourth-floor balcony of the west wing of the Palace of Eternal Light.

  The man who steps onto the sunstone floor tiles of the balcony is muscularly wiry, with black hair streaked with gray. His eyes, a pale and piercing blue, fix on the dancing green orbs of the Second Magus. He wears shimmercloth blues and bows. “Honored Second Magus.”

  “Honored Merchanter Advisor,” returns Kharl.

  “You suggested that it might be better to meet informally.” Vyanat gestures around the empty balcony and smiles. “Most informal. Neither furnishings, nor obvious eavesdroppers. You will pardon me, honored Kharl’elth, if I lack the polish and the obscuring language of my predece
ssor. I am a plain-spoken trader. What do you wish?” He slips toward the chest-high cupridium railing, where he leans forward into the slight breeze. “It is rather pleasant here. The air is not only warm, but fresh.”

  “Fresh, it is, and sometimes there is much to be said for forthrightness,” replies the red-haired Second Magus. “This may be such a time.” He smiles. “As with many in Cyad, there are certain aspects of my life over which I have no control, yet about which I must confess mat I have certain… concerns.”

  “As you say, most of us find that to be true. In what particular does this concern me? You would not have requested a meeting with me if it were not a matter of intrigue or trade.” Vyanat smiles. “And if you did, you are wasting time for both of us.”

  “As you may know,” Kharl begins, looking out across the winter-gray waters of the harbor, his eyes looking into the distance, “my eldest son is consorted to a healer, and she is from a most distinguished family. Her father is Kien’elth, of whom you are likely to have heard.”

  Vyanat nods, waiting.

  “And one of her brothers is likely to become a first-level adept magus in a season or two, if not sooner. The other was not destined for the life of a magus, but has become quite well-known as a most effective Mirror Lancer battle commander.”

  “And the one who inadvertently revealed my predecessor’s bribery schemes,” Vyanat observes. “For which the good Majer-Commander decided to reward him by assigning him as commanding officer of the most-attacked lancer outpost in the Grass Hills.”

  “That appears to be true, as you say,” Kharl continues, “if a Mirror Lancer matter. This young officer consorted himself to a young merchanter, and did so without the knowledge and consent of his family. A true love match, one might say. I have the smallest of requests, you understand, just that I would appreciate anything you might do to ensure that nothing that the lady merchanter does might be construed to reflect, shall we say, adversely, upon her family.”

  “Or upon you and your son, or your daughter and her new consort-to-be, by extension,” Vyanat replies. “I think I understand your position absolutely, most honored Second Magus.”

  “You understand, honored Merchanter Advisor, that with the growing… link with chaos effected by Kien, and the comparative inexperience of young Vernt, his magus son, I feel a certain responsibility…”

  “I am most certain you do, honored Second Magus, and I will assuredly do what I can to ensure that Ryalor House abides fully with the Emperor’s Code.”

  “One must look out for the consorts in one’s family…”

  “I do appreciate your feeling for family and your concerns. You need say no more.” Vyanat bows slightly. “And since I am, as I said, a plainspoken trader, unless you have other concerns, I must, alas, return to the Plaza, for being an advisor to His Mightiness does little to ensure that one’s business continues as it should.” He pauses. “Especially since His Mightiness and the Hand have made it most clear that merchanters must earn their golds in trading goods and not favors.” Vyanat bows once more, then steps away. Kharl does not frown until much later, well after the balcony door closes.

  LVII

  At the head of Fourth Company, with Cheryk to his left, Lorn rides through the light swirls of heavy snowflakes that have replaced the late-winter rain. The road is wet, but without snow or ice. Beyond the bare ground, the snow does not melt, but builds where it strikes the grasses in the fields on each side of the lane leading up to the outer gates of the outpost at Inividra.

  “Be glad to get dry again,” Cheryk says. “Sometimes, I’d rather have snow than rain.”

  “Especially if there’s a hard freeze coming.” Lorn nods in agreement as the two officers ride through the open outer gates, passing guards bundled in winter jackets.

  “Didn’t have to use any firelance charges.”

  “So far.” Lorn still worries about having enough firelances, as it is clear that the number of lances and recharges will be decreasing every year.

  Beyond the inner gate at Inividra, the stones of the courtyard are warm enough that the fat snowflakes have melted, and left the stones damp and not slushy or icy.

  “Not a bad patrol,” Lorn notes to Cheryk.

  “Any patrol without raiders is a good patrol, ser.”

  Lorn laughs. “We could hope for a long winter.”

  “Don’t know as which is worse.”

  “Raiders, as we both know.” Lorn reins up outside the stable.

  Before he dismounts, Hasmyr is standing by the stable door. “How be the mounts, sers?”

  “There’s a mare lame in the second squad,” Cheryk says.

  “I’ll be looking at her, then.”

  “Thank you, Hasmyr.” Lorn hands the gelding’s reins to the ostler, then unstraps his second sabre and his gear. After a nod to Cheryk, he crosses the courtyard and to the square tower, and the sentry. “Good afternoon, Wyett.”

  “Afternoon, ser.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t freeze after all this wet snow.”

  “No, ser. Rather not see that.”

  After a nod, Lorn slips into the door to the square tower, where his senior squad leader and administrative aide is standing by his desk, waiting.

  “A Captain Gyraet reported,” Nesmyl says. “With a full company of lancers. They’re in the old south bay. And there is a dispatch on your desk.”

  “Thank you.” Lorn nods as he walks back toward the rear staircase. “If you can find the captain, I’d like to talk to him before the evening meal. I’ll be down as soon as I unload my gear.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lorn slips up the stairs, where he stops but long enough to leave his gear and sabres in the bedchamber before descending to the commander’s study. There, he takes off the winter jacket and hangs it on the wall peg. For a moment, Lorn looks at the dispatch, sealed, and doubtless from Dettaur. His lips curl, and he lifts the scroll and breaks the seal, beginning to read.

  Now that the new Magi’i barrier is in place around the Accursed Forest, the Majer-Commander is sending an extra company to each outpost that is expected to receive heavy barbarian attacks. Captain Gyraet and his company are one of the first to arrive. I would caution you that because their mounts could not travel by Mirror Lancer firewagon, there are few spare mounts, and there will not be many for several eightdays.

  Lorn frowns. Inividra has close to a score - and - a - half spare mounts, mainly from those lost by the raiders in the fall. How many does Dettaur expect Lorn to lose in the next few eightdays?

  I have already cautioned Captain Gyraet about this as well.

  The sub-majer laughs. Trust Dettaur to find creative new ways to undermine Lorn, and trust him to tell Lorn as well. Dettaur has great skill at positioning himself. That is clear.

  Commander Ikynd and I look forward to the reports of your accomplishments once spring turns, and the barbarians begin their raids.

  “I wager you do, Dett. I wager you do,” Lorn murmurs to himself.

  Thrap.

  At the rap on the door, he turns. “Yes?”

  “Captain Gyraet, reporting for duty, ser.”

  “Come in.” Lorn motions for the officer to enter the study.

  Gyraet is the image of the popular lancer officer, slender but muscular, dark-haired, with a strong but not protruding squarish chin, and piercing green eyes. He bows to show just the proper amount of deference. “Sub-Majer.”

  Lorn gestures to the chairs on the other side of his desk. “Please sit down.” As he seats himself, he studies the officer and can sense the doubt buried behind the pleasant smile. Doubt-that is something Lorn would rather deal with than hostility. “I take it that your ride here was more damp than snowy.”

  “Yes, ser.” Gyraet offers a rueful smile. “I think I’d prefer the snow, were it not too deep.”

  “Most lancers would.” Lorn pauses. “Did you come from the Accursed Forest?”

  “Eastend, ser.”

  “Is Majer Weyl
t still there?”

  “He is. The word is that he may be going to Fyrad to be in charge of maintaining the southern part of the Great Canal.”

  “He was most helpful to me when I was at Jakaafra,” Lorn says.

  Gyraet frowns for a moment, then smiles. “You were that Captain Lorn.”

  Lorn laughs slightly. “I think I was the only Lorn assigned to Northpoint.”

  Gyraet nods. “Majer Weylt talked about the giant serpent you killed, and the time you killed a stun lizard by hurling a blade into its eye.”

  “Those are accomplishments I’d rather not have been remembered for, a combination of unwise audacity and ill chance.”

  Gyraet adds, more levelly, “It’s also said that you dealt with more treefalls than any captain ever, and that you lost fewer lancers for the number of wild creatures killed.”

  “That is possible. I don’t know about ever… but in the five years before and the years I was there that was true.”

  Gyraet moistens his lips.

  “Is Sub-Majer Hybyl still there?” Lorn asks, almost idly.

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lorn wonders how much he dares say or intimate. After a moment, he decides on another approach. “You’ve doubtless been briefed by Commander Ikynd and Majer Dettaur?”

  “Commander Ikynd was rather short.”

  “He probably said that I had a good record killing barbarians, and that was what you were being sent here to do.”

  “Something like that,” concedes Gyraet.

  “And he said it bluntly, and perhaps added a few words about the fact that you’d best be careful because I’ve been known to be hard on officers who don’t agree with me.”

  Gyraet remains silent, but Lorn can sense through truth-reading that he has been accurate enough.

  “Majer Dettaur, on the other hand, was doubtless more detailed, and suggested rather indirectly that while everyone is pleased with the results of what I do, that you be most careful in how you deal with me.”