LXXIX
In the early-morning light, Lorn rides toward the firewagon portico in the center of Assyadt, followed by the two lancers from Esfayl’s Second Company. The two will return the white gelding to the stable at Assyadt before leaving with Esfayl to ride back to Inividra.
As the three lancers pass the south side of the square in the early-morning light, Lorn can see a number of people under the porch of the Cuprite Kettle, the largest inn in Assyadt. Most of those on the porch seem to be watching him. His chaos-trained ears pick up the low words he should not be able to hear.
“Sure enough… that’s him, the one they call the Butcher.”
“Looks young…”
“…rode all the way to Jera… sacked every town… killed scores and scores.”
“…say he took over the compound here… made the head of the lancers in Cyad meet his terms.”
“…can’t be… just a sub-majer.”
“That’s what they say.”
“…looks like a nice young officer…”
“…what’s a real killer look like? No different from anyone else…”
Lorn keeps his shoulders square, and a smile on his face, even as he wonders how the whole town knows. Then, how could they not know, not when six companies of lancers held the compound for an eightday?
The three ride through the square and toward the white sunstone portico that lies another three hundred kays ahead.
“We’ll wait, ser, until the firewagon pulls up,” offers one of the lancers.
“Thank you. I think it will be awhile before Captain Esfayl is ready, anyway.”
“Rather wait here than help load wagons,” suggests the second lancer.
“Ser… how long ‘fore the barbarians start raiding again?” asks the first.
“Midsummer, I’d judge. The raids will be small ones. I’d be surprised if you saw any large raids until next year. It might be longer if the Majer-Commander does something about Jera.”
The two lancers look at each other. Lorn understands the look. Neither ranker believes anyone will do anything. The three ride in silence to the smaller square that holds the firewagon portico. There, Lorn reins up on the far side of the paved way, in the shade of a weaver’s shop, waiting for the firewagon.
At the low rumbling of wheels on the stone pavement, Lorn turns, but he only watches as the firewagon comes to a stop under the portico. A handful of incoming passengers, which includes a young undercaptain, disembarks before Lorn dismounts and begins to unfasten his gear. “Undercaptain!” he calls to the thin red-haired young officer.
“Yes, ser?” The undercaptain glances toward Lorn.
Lorn looks up at the lancers. “If you’d let him ride the gelding back… ?”
“Be a pleasure, ser.”
“Ser?” asks the undercaptain.
“I’m leaving. Rather than walk, you can ride my mount back to the compound. That’s where you going, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ser. That is, I’m going there on the way to Inividra.”
“You’re in luck,” Lorn says. “Second Company is leaving this morning with Captain Esfayl. He and Commander Ikynd will be very happy to see you.” He looks to the lancers. “Best you be getting the undercaptain to the compound. I’ll be fine.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn takes his bags and crosses the pavement to the portico and the waiting firewagon. He nods as he passes the undercaptain. “Have a good trip.”
“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.”
“You’re welcome.”
Lorn steps onto the sunstone platform, catching the undercaptain’s words to the lancers.
“…was that?”
“Sub-Majer Lorn.”
“The Sub-Majer Lorn?”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn manages not to wince as he crosses the raised portico and turns toward the front compartment of the firewagon.
The driver glances at the insignia on Lorn’s collar. “Sub-Majer… ser… you wouldn’t be the one… ?”
“
“The one‘?” Lorn asks.
“The one who put the barbarians in their place, I mean, ser?”
“I’m Sub-Majer Lorn,” he admits. “The Butcher of Nhais, the Butcher of Jerans, I suppose, too.”
“Much obliged to you, ser,” the driver says. “Shoulda been done years ago. Used to be at Isahl years ago, when Majer Brevyl first got there. Sub-majer, he was then. Not bad, he was, but we just rode out and chased ‘em away. Never hit ’em where it woulda done some good.” The driver smiles. “Long past time, you ask me.”
“I thought so,” Lorn replies. “Not all officers agreed.”
“They’re not… ?”
“No. I did get a sort of a commendation, and a transfer to work for the Majer-Commander.”
“Good thing, ser. Way folks were talkin‘, the drivers, we were fearin’ they’d lock you away for doing what oughta been done generations back.” The driver grins. “Sorry, ser. Just the way we feel.” He pauses. “You need anything, ser, you let us know.”
“I will… and thank you.”
As Lorn places his gear under the seat, he can feel how much lighter it is-by at least three uniforms-than when he had left Cyad more than a year before. It is difficult to believe that it is only a little more than a year and a season since he had left.
Yet everything has changed. He has a son, and no parents. He has become the first Mirror Lancer officer in generations to undertake a campaign outside Cyador, even if it had been a relatively short campaign, and he has slain two senior officers on this tour, even if but one can be confirmed, and made both enemies and admirers throughout the Mirror Lancers-and, apparently, throughout at least some of Cyador.
He slips into the front compartment and unfastens the Brystan sabre, setting it against the outside wall of the coach before seating himself on the far left side, in the seat facing forward.
“Last call for outbound passengers! Last call!” comes the voice of one of the drivers.
A portly figure in purple scrambles into the front compartment. “Hurry… hurry… act like Mirror Lancers, order folks around…” The white-bearded man sees Lorn’s uniform as he looks up, and swallows. “Begging your pardon, ser.” His eyes catch sight of the sub-majer’s insignia, and he swallows again. “I truly do, ser.”
Lorn smiles politely. “I’m sure you meant no offense, and I took none.”
“Thank you, ser. Thank you.”
Lorn wants to sigh. At least, once he gets away from Assyadt, he will be just another sub-majer, and not the sub-majer.
LXXX
In the dark-paneled office that is scarcely more than ten cubits by ten, Vyanat looks up from the antique ebony Hamorian desk at the sandy-haired man who steps into the room and slides into the equally antique ebon armchair.
“You requested I visit you, Vyanat,” Tasjan says pleasantly. “I could have refused, but I did not see the value in that. So I am here. What do you wish?”
“You are continuing to purchase blades from the cupritors in Summerdock,” Vyanat observes.
“I am. Every blade has remained in Cyador, I am sure you will be pleased to know.”
“For now.”
“For quite some time, I believe,” Tasjan says, his tone almost indolent. “Or aboard my vessels. I am training a somewhat larger number of guards for all vessels under the Dyjani ensign. With the decline in the number of fireships, and their voyages, this is but prudent, do you not think?”
“Were it any merchanter but you, Tasjan, I would have little difficulty believing that there would be a need for an additional fivescore guards. But you… and Sasyk… already, you have that many under arms, and that is in addition to the arms for the seamen on your vessels.” Vyanat’mer smiles, coldly.
“What can I say?” Tasjan laughs. “The warships being built by the Mirror Lancers will not be completed for yet several seasons, if then, and they look less than sufficient to protect our ships and cargoes. We of the Dyjan
i must look to our own interests in these days.”
“Yes, you must. That is why I hoped you would come.”
Tasjan’s eyes narrow. “You are being devious. What happened to the honest and straightforward Merchanter Advisor?”
“He occasionally has to use a devious phrase to get your attention.” The , dark-haired merchanter’s smile is off-center. He waits, letting the silence fill the small study, before he finally speaks again. “Tasjan… do you want Rynst to bring the Mirror Lancers into Cyad and turn the harbor red with blood?”
“And leave the north unprotected? He won’t do that.”
“He can do exactly that. Don’t you listen? Don’t you read? Did you read that battle report from that sub-majer?”
“He razes Jera and kills a few score barbarians. It’s about time. The Hamorians will think twice about trading so close to Cyador.”
“He destroyed every town of any size close to the Grass Hills, and he slaughtered most of the barbarians. And he also brought back some six thousand golds, all too many of them coined in Cyador. For the next season or two, perhaps longer, there won’t be that many raids. There won’t be any, I’d wager, for a year.”
“And that will free Rynst to bring in more lancers and provide the coins to pay them-without raising our tariffs.” Tasjan smiles. “Who will command them? There’s not a decent field commander in Cyad. They’ve all been sitting at desks so long most couldn’t find the release on a firelance-if there are even any left in working order in a season. There haven’t been that many good field commanders anyway. Not in years-except perhaps for this fellow, and they’ll get him killed one way or another. Quickly, I’d wager.”
Vyanat nods. “I thought you might find it interesting that Sub-Majer Lorn is being ordered to Cyad to work for Rynst directly. Over the Captain-Commander’s objections.”
Tasjan smiles broadly. “That… that… my friend, is worth my honoring your request.” He nods. “Indeed. Indeed, it is.”
“So… now what will you do?” inquires Vyanat.
“What everyone else will do. Wait… and watch.”
LXXXI
Lorn paces back and forth in the small room at the waystation at Chulbyn, an ancient stone-walled room with a polished granite floor without any covering, a single bed, a low table, and a row of golden-oak pegs set shoulder-high in the stone for garments. There is one oil lamp in a bronze sconce, from which a low light suffuses the cramped space.
Lorn reaches out and slides closed the oak beam that is the bar for the door, then opens one of the two bags he has carried from Inividra. From it, he takes the wooden case that holds the chaos-glass. He places the glass on the low table.
He concentrates, and watches as the silver mists swirl and dissipate to reveal Ryalth and Kerial in the ornate bad he has not ever seen, except through the glass. He notes, for the first time, a smaller bed in the background, but both his consort and his son are sleeping, as they seem to, side by side, and they are safe. Lorn smiles as he releases that image.
For a long moment he waits, before trying to call forth a second image, and then a third. He still obtains but a silver blankness in trying to call up images of either parent-and a faint throbbing in his skull and dampness across his brow.
Finally, he releases the glass, shaking his head. He replaces the glass in its wooden case, and the case in the bag. From the other bag, he pulls forth the green-tinged and silver-covered volume that he has carried for so long across Cyador-and even across Jerans.
He opens the book, reading and paging slowly, seeking a verse, one that somehow seems right for the night, right for a journey whose end could be indeed anything. A verse that he might read in a new way, one that offers that melancholy insight of the ancient writer. There is a short verse, vaguely comforting, and he smiles.
Virtues of old hold fast.
Morning’s blaze cannot last;
and rose petals soon part.
Not so a steadfast heart.
“ ‘Not so a steadfast heart…’” Lorn murmurs. But how difficult it is to maintain a steadfast heart in a world where chaos reigns and the only thing steadfast seems the dark order of death.
He continues to turn the pages until he finds a poem he must have read, but does not recall.
Though some will find their fears in depths of night,
noon’s pitiless sun brings the deepest fright.
While they who sing of good and truth, and praise
bright chaos for the coming light of days,
then cite the Mirror Towers of a distant earth,
yet forget their children’s and their gardens’ worth,
I strive in this strange sun’s chaotic light,
to lift from souls war’s endless bitter blight.
So elthage men turn their eyes to glasses,
blank silver for the future as it passes;
those of chaos hold altage high above
as though alone white fire kindled love.
Yet their white-lit chaos will bring with rue,
but destruction to those whose way is true.
Like sunstone walls, the truth will also fall,
for the future lies beyond any wall
in the green skies, open fields and dreaming nights,
where unfettered thoughts are free for endless flights.
I can but strive, and act with flame and blade,
to break down bitter truths that time has made,
and striving, lay my soul before the fire,
in hopes of exceeding mere vain desire.
Lorn shakes his head. The ancient writer had few illusions about Cyad, about men and women, or about himself - and yet, whoever he had been, he had persevered in the hope that what he strove for in building and strengthening Cyad would prove greater than he had been. Can Lorn attempt less?
He closes the book, replaces it in the bag.
In time… in time, he will sleep.
Part IV
Lorn’alt, Cyad
Sub-Majer, Mirror Lancers
LXXXII
Lorn shifts his weight on the hard seat of the firewagon, his eyes going out the window as the vehicle rumbles downhill along the smooth stones of the granite way that will pass west of the Palace of Eternal Light. Outside, a light warm mist filters out of gray clouds, leaving a shimmering sheen over the white granite and sunstone buildings and streets of Cyad. The trees are full-leaved, and the green-and-white awnings are spread.
Lorn smiles as he beholds each facet of the City of Eternal Light as the firewagon carries him past the upper merchanters’ quarter, as the Palace of Eternal Light appears, and as he can see the blue-gray waters of the harbor. For all its intrigue and problems, Cyad is truly a city of light and one of hope for the world. He finally leans back from the window.
Inside the firewagon, on the right side of the compartment, is a round-faced magus, at least a second-level adept, for he wears the lightning emblem on the breast of his tunic. The magus is older, with gray at his temples and the hint of the sungold eyes that distinguishes many of those Magi’i who work heavily with chaos. His eyes and chaos-senses have lighted upon Lorn occasionally, and more than once in the past hundred kays of the journey has puzzlement crossed his face.
The sole other occupant of the front compartment is a silver-haired merchanter who continues to sleep quietly in the corner opposite Lorn’s, directly across from the magus. Abruptly, he sits up-when the firewagon begins to slow as it approaches its final stop at the harbor portico. After a moment, he looks around, then out into the mist, nodding as he catches sight of the larger merchanter mansions on the hill. He turns to his travel companions. “Majer, Magus… I wish you both well.” His eyes twinkle as he looks at Lorn. “You will find much has changed, Majer.”
“I imagine it has,” Lorn responds, wondering exactly how much the merchanter knows, for the man has scarcely spoken to him since they boarded at Chulbyn the day before, and Lorn has only given his name and his previous duty station.
“The essentials of Cyad change but little,” replies the magus.
There is the slightest of lurches as the firewagon brakes to a complete stop under the portico.
“They will change more than even the Magi’i can know, honored ser,” suggests the older merchanter. “My best to you both.” With a sprightliness that belies his appearance, the merchanter is the first to leave the firewagon.
Although Lorn reaches for his sabre immediately, he waits for the older magus to depart the firewagon before he extracts his bags from under the seat and slips out into the warm moist air of Cyad. Once outside on the platform portico, he sets down the bags and clips his sabre to his green web belt before looking toward the carriage-hire lane across the narrow way from him. Since there are several carriages, he lifts his bags and crosses to the first, addressing the driver. “The Traders’ Plaza.”
“Yes, ser.”
The driver leans back and opens the carriage door for Lorn, who sets the two duffels that hold his gear-and his chaos-glass and Ryalth’s book-on the floor of the covered carriage. The carriage feels confined and stuffy, yet damp, and Lorn is glad when the short ride ends and he can step out into the misty warmth outside the Traders’ Plaza, where he tenders three coppers, before making his way across the outside Plaza toward the clan side.
Once again, he has no idea of what to expect, except that Ryalor House is on the uppermost level. Figures in shimmercloth blue glance at him, then glance away at the sight of the cream-and-green Mirror Lancer uniform.
“…don’t see many senior lancers here…”
“…family, probably…”
Family indeed. Lorn smiles as he walks up the steps-wider and older than those on the clanless side of the Plaza, with depressions in the center of the granite risers. On the uppermost level he finds the doorway with the Ryalor House emblem above it-the inverted triangle with the intertwined R and L-and steps through the open doors of ancient and polished golden oak.
He does not even quite make three steps into the open space inside the door before Eileyt has two junior enumerators taking his bags and ushering him toward the private study-or office, as Ryalth calls it-that is his consort’s. As he walks toward the rear corner, he can see that Ryalor House now occupies several rooms.
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