Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Yes, ser.”

  Gryal is the squad leader who dismounts-a burly man with a slash that goes from ear to cheek. “Time we had a field commander lettin‘ ’em know, ser.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lorn gathers chaos around him as he steps through the square-arched door.

  The three senior squad leaders in the open foyer freeze as Lorn walks in, followed by the armed lancers.

  “Ser… ah… lances… not… here…” stumbles the older squad leader.

  Lorn does not recall his name. “They are now. Is Majer Dettaur here?”

  “I’m here, Sub-Majer Lorn.” As he draws out Loin’s title and name almost contemptuously, Dettaur moves from his open study door into the corridor. “I see you did bring a few lancers.”

  “Gryal… I’d appreciate it if everyone else remained in their places,” Lorn says. “We’ll be finished with any unpleasantness much more quickly.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “Dett…” Lorn replies, “we have some matters to discuss.” He lets his chaos-senses range toward Dettaur’s study, but can feel it is empty. “Majer Dettaur’s study is empty. We’ll be discussing the problems his ill-advised orders caused.” Lorn smiles, then inclines his head toward the open door. “Gryal… if the commander should appear, I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep him in his study.”

  “Yes, ser!”

  ‘ Dettaur winces, if almost imperceptibly. “I suppose a private talk would be better.”

  Lorn understands Dettaur’s hopes, but merely replies, “I think so. You first.”

  Dettaur walks into the study, moving quickly as if to separate himself from Lorn. Lorn closes the door, his eyes on the majer.

  “You were relieved of command by Sub-Majer Uflet…” Dettaur begins.

  “He never got around to that, but then, we didn’t stay long in Inividra. I can honestly say that he never had a resignation ready for me to sign. To my knowledge, there are no orders in Inividra ordering my resignation.”

  Dettaur’s lips tighten. “You… you think you can get away with anything. You always have. You think the rules don’t apply to you. You won’t. Not this time.”

  “Dett… there are six companies of lancers that hold this outpost. They’ve seen the trading records. They’ve seen your stupid orders. They’ve seen how you sent them out to die by requiring tactics that were idiotic. You honestly don’t think I could force tenscore lancers to come here against their will, do you? They’re here because they know they’ll be dead unless things change. They wagering their lives on it.”

  “Bad wager, Lorn. You’ll all die.”

  “I don’t think so, Dett. Assyadt never has more than a company of lancers here, if that.”

  “You know everything. You always did.” Dettaur smirks, and his hand edges toward the hilt of his sabre, oh so slowly.

  “Dett, one question. Why did you block all Ryalth’s scrolls to me?”

  “I never did a thing.”

  “That’s the wrong answer. You can’t lie to me.”

  Dettaur laughs, drawing his sabre and stepping forward. “You never were as good as I with a blade.”

  “You’re wrong-twice, Dett.” Lorn lifts his own sabre, but as he does so he gathers chaos from around him, and there is more than enough, fueled by anger and hatred as well, to extend his blade so that it knocks aside Dettaur’s sabre and slices through his neck like a razor.

  Dettaur does not even have time to look surprised.

  Lorn leaves the body on the study floor and steps out into the corridor. He glances toward Gryal. “I think Majer Dettaur understands the problem. Finally.” With a crooked smile, Lorn steps across the corridor and into Commander Ikynd’s study.

  The commander looks up from where he has been sitting behind his table desk. “When I saw the mounts and lances, I thought it might be you, Lorn.” Ikynd offers his genial smile, but remains seated behind the desk. “I didn’t expect you to return here in such force. I thought you would be patrolling. You’re dead, now. You just don’t know it. You couldn’t wait…”

  “I almost waited too long, Commander. Another season, and most of those men would have been dead. They know it, too. Why else would they be here?”

  “It really doesn’t matter, you know. Lancers and lancer officers are supposed to die. Don’t you know that? Anyway, Dettaur will come in and kill you, if I can’t. He’s very good at that.”

  Lorn smiles lazily but does not lower the sabre. “Not good enough. Dett’s already had his say. He’s dead. You can be a hero, or you can be dead. Which?”

  The genial expression drops. “If you can deliver, butcher boy, I’d prefer the hero. Wouldn’t any self-respecting lancer?”

  “Of course. Especially if other people do the work and die,” Lorn replies, an indolent tone to his words.

  “You’re rather insubordinate. That’s rebellion. The Majer-Commander won’t hesitate a moment to have you executed.”

  “I don’t think so. He might have you executed, though. He’ll need someone to blame, and you’ll be more convenient.” Lorn smiles. “It might be best if you blamed Dettaur first, and commended me for bringing the problem to your attention.”

  “Problem?” Ikynd raises his eyebrows theatrically. “What problem?”

  “The port of Jera no longer exists. They’ll rebuild it-but that will take time. Outside, there are three wagons and a halfscore of packhorses. Almost fiftyscore Hamorian blades. That doesn’t count those we had to dump in the river. We took them from the warehouses in Jera. Then we burned the- the warehouses.” Lorn’s smile is humorless. “We also razed and burned somewhere around a halfscore other towns. And I brought back some trading records, along with fivescore cupridium blades-without lancer markings. The records show that they came from Summerdock-and I have the records and the weapons to prove that several Cyadoran trading houses helped transfer those weapons to the Jeranyi traders. Oh, and more than six thousand golds from those traders.”

  “So… our corrupt traders… you know and the Emperor knows they’ve always been corrupt… they made a few golds. It’s been going on for generations. Our task isn’t to enforce the trade provisions of the Emperor’s Code. It’s to protect the people. Have you forgotten that?” The genial tone returns to Ikynd’s voice.

  “Six thousand are more than a few golds.” Lorn laughs. “And I’ve saved more Cyadoran peasants than all the officers in Mirror Lancers combined, and you have the gall to suggest I’ve forgotten my duty?”

  “It’s not what you do, Sub-Majer. It’s how you do it, and neither the Captain-Commander nor the Majer-Commander will like what you did.”

  “You did it, too,” Lorn points out. “If you want to be a hero… that is. We’re going to compose scrolls, a great number. We report on the campaign, the results, and the proof-and the scrolls go to every lancer commander in Cyador.” Lorn smiles. “And to the Captain-Commander, the Majer-Commander, the First Three Magi’i, the Hand of the Emperor, the Merchanter Advisor, and to the head of every trading house in Cyador. And then we wait. And I’ll act in poor Dett’s place until we see what happens.”

  “You’ll leave Inividra unprotected?”

  “There won’t any raiding parties for a long time, Commander. That, you can be sure of.”

  “Oh… you seem most sure of that.”

  Lorn is, for his glass has shown him that no Jeranyi raiders are riding anywhere in the northwest Grass Hills-then, there are but a handful of raiders left alive in that area. “Without mounts and without weapons, the Jeranyi will have some problems. Besides, it’s spring, and if they don’t gather their scattered herds and plant-they’ll starve, and they know it.”

  “A bigger wider blade…” Ikynd shakes his head. “Black-angel death… Alyiakal had nothing on you. He murdered half of Cerlyn, you know?”

  “We had peace for a generation, then,” Lorn suggests.

  “Do you really think that you’ll be promoted after this?” A note of curiosity infuses the
commander’s voice.

  “No. I think I’ll be summoned to Cyad. I’ll be offered a position advising the Majer-Commander. It’s too dangerous to leave me with lancers, and I’ve eliminated any immediate danger from the Jeranyi, and there are more lancers that can be brought from the Accursed Forest.” Lorn shrugs. “It’s dangerous to overtly kill a hero who eliminates a threat-not immediately, anyway, and a lancer who discovers the complicity and corruption of leading trading houses. The Majer-Commander will wish to ensure that all is well with the traders, and that, or something else not involving lancers will be my job-which will give them all an incentive to have me assassinated after I am in Cyad and safely forgotten.” Lorn smiles coldly. “After all, I’m merely a butcher. I can’t possibly understand the intrigue.”

  “I’d offer you my job, were I the Captain-Commander. I wouldn’t want you in Cyad.”

  “He might, but the Majer-Commander won’t. Who would want me with twenty companies loyal to me?”

  “You have a high opinion of yourself.”

  Lorn shakes his head. “Your picked captain went with me to prove me wrong. He was one of those who urged me to come here. You forget one thing, Commander. Lancer officers don’t like being used as counters in a wagering game, and when they find out that’s happening, they want to put a stop to it. Without firelances, and without a change in lancer orders, they’re all dead, and they know it.”

  Ikynd winces.

  “You see?” Lorn waits. “Now… we have a number of scrolls to write- after you see the blades and the records. You’re going to write that you gave me the leeway to stop the raids, and I did, and you’re going to report that there hasn’t been a raid in all the northwest in almost an season… and there hasn’t. Then you’re going to suggest that, now that Sub-Majer Lorn has accomplished the task set forth by the Captain-Commander, that he be returned to Cyad for duty there.”

  Lorn gestures toward the door with the sabre. “We’re going to look at what’s in the wagons we brought.”

  Ikynd stands. “You’d kill me, without blinking an eye, wouldn’t you?”

  “If necessary.”

  “The sabre’s in your left hand. All lancers…” Ikynd shakes his head. “You can use the sabre with either hand, can’t you?”

  “Yes. Dettaur never saw that.”

  “There was much he didn’t see.” Ikynd shakes his head, and the genial tone returns to his voice. “I will indeed recommend you return to Cyad. You won’t even have to force me.”

  “You might even mean it, after you see how many cupridium sabres the traders from Summerdock sold to the Jeranyi.”

  “The Captain-Commander is going to have trouble with someone like you who really cares for Cyad.”

  “Let’s go look at the wagons, and then we’ll have the lancers unload the records and invoices into Dettaur’s study. You’ll have to explain that poor Dett didn’t want to have this revealed.”

  “He didn’t, I imagine, because if it came out you discovered it, he’d never be promoted back to Cyad. He was always a city lancer.” Ikynd laughs. “You’re a true lancer, and you’ll never be happy in Cyad. You just don’t know it.”

  “You could be right.” Lorn smiles and steps back as Ikynd moves toward the door.

  LXXV

  In the late afternoon, Lorn sits in Dettaur’s study, although it is temporarily, if not technically, his for the moment. A light and pleasant spring breeze sifts through the window that is but partly ajar and brings a faint odor of a flower he does not recognize.

  His lips quirk, and he looks down at the copy of the report on his campaign and of the scroll he has sent to Cyad-and across Cyador. Then he looks up, blankly, at the ancient golden wooden panels of the wall.

  Outside, in the foyer, are a pair of lancers from Gyraet’s Sixth Company, detailed by the captain to protect Lorn. With them in the foyer are the senior squad leaders who continue the administrative work for the compound and the outposts it serves. The sub-majer shakes his head. The waiting is the hardest part, as if he were sitting on a chaos-tower that could flare at any moment. Yet he has done all that he can do.

  He stands and walks to the window, checking the lancers who patrol the compound, wondering how long he can command them and whether they will see scores upon scores of lancers arriving, or whether he will simply receive a scroll dispatching him to Cyad-or back to Biehl… or some other out-of-the-way place.

  He walks back to the desk and lifts the small bag he carries with him everywhere-along with the Brystan sabre. In the bag are the chaos-glass that had once been his father’s, and the silver-covered book, and the originals of the most incriminating of the trading papers taken from Jera.

  Lorn slips out the chaos-glass and sets it on the desk. He concentrates. The silver mists part, and reveal Ikynd standing by the window in his personal quarters looking out over the courtyard. The commander shakes his head and turns from the window. Lorn releases the image.

  Although he has kept a close watch on the commander, he still worries about the man, particularly since he knows Ikynd is true to only the principle of self-interest. At the moment, Lorn serves his self-interest, but anything could change that, nearly instantly.

  After a moment, Lorn slips the glass back into its wooden case, and the case back into the bag. Finally, he begins to write, although he has no idea whether this scroll will reach its destination.

  My dearest,

  There have been some difficulties with couriers and messages, and I have not received any of your scrolls, if there have been such, since the turn of winter. Nor have I received any others. So I know little of what may have happened to you or in Cyad.

  I trust that you and Kerial are well, and that your efforts with Ryalor House have been rewarded. We have been through an arduous campaign, and rode all the way to Jera, where we discovered that many of the blades that have been slaying lancers have come from not just Hamorian traders, but even from cupritors and traders in Summerdock. This was a shock, and when we returned to Inividra, I faced a greater shock, since there were some indications I might be relieved of command because of my efforts in the field.

  I came to Assyadt where Dettaur attempted to kill me. For reasons that are unclear, he did not want my report on the blades to go to the Majer-Commander. Much remains unclear, but Commander Ikynd and I have sent a report to the Majer-Commander, and to others, detailing my campaign and the blade-trading in Jera. The campaign was successful enough that for the season so far, there have been no raids from the northwest Grass Hills by barbarians. We also know of none in the areas of outposts controlled from Syadtar, but we would not receive such reports until much later.

  At the moment, I am acting as the deputy to Commander Ikynd in Assyadt, waiting to find out what my next assignment may be.

  You and Kerial are well, I trust, and I can but hope it will not be that long before I can see you both under pleasant circumstances.

  Lorn sets the scroll aside to dry. He reaches for another sheet of parchment for the one he will write to his parents. Then he pauses and looks out the narrow window and watches one of his lancers-mounted and riding a post. He can but hope that at least some of his dispatches have found their way beyond Captain-Commander Luss and that Majer-Commander Rynst will act as Lorn has predicted.

  With a deep breath, he smoothes the parchment and begins to write.

  Later, after he reviews the status reports from Pemedra and drafts a response for the commander’s seal, he will inspect the lancers and meet, once more, with his captains… and wait.

  LXXVI

  An eightday has passed since Lorn has sent out his dispatches. The headquarters compound at Assyadt has heard nothing, except standard dispatches about such matters as procurement of mounts, sent before Lorn’s report could have been received, and another caution about the declining number of firelances and recharges available-somewhat concerned-sounding reports from the outpost at Pemedra that there have been no barbarian attacks and no barbarians sighted
.

  Lorn has been acting as Ikynd’s deputy, drafting dispatch scrolls for provisions, inspecting the compound, drafting the request for replacement officers for Inividra, spending some time directing the arms drills he had scheduled for his lancers, and even, hard as it had been, drafting a letter to Dettaur’s family informing them of his death in the line of duty. Yet, still he has time to worry about what may come, and his eyes go from the study door to the window and back again.

  Thrap!

  Lorn looks up as Commander Ikynd steps into his temporary study, then stands. “Yes, ser?”

  “You are so formal.” Ikynd laughs, before his voice returns to its genial tone. “You’re the one in command.”

  “No, ser. You’re in command. I’m just not letting you do anything that will hurt the lancers in the outpost or the field until we hear from the Majer-Commander.”

  Ikynd shakes his head. “First, my command is run by a scheming city lancer who is favored by the Captain-Commander, and now by a Cyad-raised, magus-born, patrol commander who’s the opposite. You’d think you’d been raised in Assyadt and not Cyad.”

  Lorn shrugs, waiting for the commander to continue.

  “What will you do if the Majer-Commander sends ten companies?” asks Ikynd, still standing by the open door.

  “Walk out and surrender,” Lorn admits.

  “You wouldn’t try to go out in a blaze of glory or some such?”

  “That wouldn’t be fair to the men. I’ve tried to take the risks myself. They’ve done their tasks. I just didn’t want to get killed and have them die because someone like Dettaur was determined to put me in a position where I had to die or they did.” Lorn frowns and adds, “When it was totally unnecessary.”

  The commander laughs. “If no one had bothered you, I’d wager you’d have died somewhere doing your duty.”

  “I wasn’t looking for trouble,” Lorn admits, “but I couldn’t let lancers die when they didn’t have to. And I couldn’t let Dettaur keep doing what he was doing. If it hadn’t been me, sooner or later, it would have been someone else.”