Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “You look surprised, Lorn,” Jerial says.

  “I was just recalling something Father said along those lines years ago.”

  “I don’t recall him talking about peasants,” Vernt muses.

  “Not peasants,” Lorn replies. “About what allows Cyad to exist. And that’s food… except I think what he meant was that the lands of Cyador have to produce not only enough food for the peasants who grow it, but enough for the people of the cities. And there has to be enough that the peasants will sell it willingly.”

  “They never sell anything willingly, do they?” asks Mycela.

  “I think I see what Father meant,” Vernt says. “There are not that many Magi’i or Mirror Lancers…”

  “Exactly,” Jerial adds. “Nor healers. Nor Mirror Engineers.”

  “Nor gardens,” finishes Myryan.

  Ryalth merely nods, a knowing smile on her lips.

  Ciesrt frowns, and Mycela smiles blankly.

  Lorn lifts the bottle of Alafraan. “Would anyone like any more? Before we start on dessert?”

  Jerial grins at Ryalth, and, after a moment, so does Myryan. Vernt shakes his head ruefully.

  XCI

  Lorn has found the cushions to the wooden-framed settee that is on the front veranda of the house, a dwelling that is somehow both new and yet familiar to him, and has set them out. In the late afternoon of early summer, he sits there on the veranda, holding Kerial in his lap. He wears a stained pair of uniform trousers and an old undertunic-both more suited to caring for an infant than to a lancer’s study.

  “Your mother will be home before long.”

  “Gaa… ooo…” A chubby hand gropes toward Lorn’s mouth, and Lorn lets the boy touch his cheek and jaw.

  A dull clunk echoes across the front garden and past the fountain.

  Lorn smiles. “I think that’s her.” He lifts the boy to his shoulder and stands as the iron gate opens.

  Ryalth steps through it and out from behind the privacy screen.

  Lorn moves down the walkway and past the fountain and the mist of cool spray that fans from it in the hot afternoon sun.

  Ryalth smiles as she nears father and son. “Were you a good boy?” She bends forward and brushes Kerial’s cheek with her lips. “Were you good for your father?”

  “Gaaa… waaa…”

  “Yes,” Lorn translates.

  “I’m glad.”

  The two walk side by side past the fountain and then under the veranda roof. Lorn and Kerial follow Ryalth through the doorway and down the steps into the front foyer.

  “I need something to drink. I’m thirsty. But we can go back out on the veranda.” She smiles again. “I’m glad you found the cushions. That’s something I’ve been meaning to do.”

  Kysia appears as they step into the kitchen.

  “Do we have any juice?” asks Ryalth.

  “All we have is wine and ale-or water,” Kysia apologizes. “I’ve been looking for juices, but they’re all vinegar or wine right now. The peaches are late this year, and even the greenberries…”

  “Ale.” Ryalth says. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Ah… two, please,” Lorn adds.

  The gray-eyed Kysia grins, then scurries through the big kitchen, before returning with two beakers nearly filled with amber liquid.

  “Thank you.”

  “And supper?” asks Kysia.

  “Whenever it’s ready. I’m hungry, but not starving,” Ryalth says. “Don’t you and Ayleha hurry it and spoil anything. We’ll be on the front veranda.”

  The red-haired trader carries the two glass beakers and their amber contents back through the house and foyer, up the steps, and out to the veranda, where she settles onto one side of the settee. Lorn settles onto the other side, shifting Kerial so that the boy is on his lap, half facing his mother, held by Lorn’s right arm.

  With his left, Lorn takes the beaker Ryalth offers. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you for taking Kerial. It made the day much easier.”

  “Waa…” offers Kerial tentatively.

  “In a moment,” Ryalth says. “Let your mother have a sip of her drink. You can wait, you little piglet.” She takes a long swallow of the ale.

  “How did it go with the Austrans?”

  “Not that well.” Ryalth sighs after another swallow of the amber ale. “They’re talking about larger guarantees on the inbound cargoes, and unless we open a warehouse in Valmurl or send someone there… or unless I buy another long-haul ship or even two, which we don’t have the golds for…”

  “You’ll start losing coins one way or the other?” Lorn gives Kerial a gentle squeeze.

  “I fear so. Now that there are fewer fireships, we can see the lack of respect growing.”

  “I don’t think there ever was any in Hamor,” Lorn says.

  “There wasn’t anywhere, but people behaved as though there was.”

  “Whaa… ?” asks Kerial.

  “A few more moments, dear.” Ryalth takes another swallow of the ale.

  “Respect is always based on power, I think,” Lorn replies. “From the scrolls I did get, I thought we had lost the towers on four fireships, and other lands know that.”

  “Five, at least. They’re hiding them in a cove near Dellash-the end of the island away from Summerdock.”

  “We’ll start losing the towers in Cyad before long.”

  “Why the fireships first? Because the salt is harder on them?”

  “That, and the ships move. Over the years, even with the temporal barriers, that puts more strain on them. There won’t be one left in another five years, I would guess.”

  “No one is saying much, but they’ve laid the keels for warships with sail and cannon.”

  Lorn shakes his head. “We could build chaos-fired steamships. We should.”

  “Is that… ?”

  “It’s all in my father’s papers, even the plans he took from the forbidden archives. I’ll need to make copies… maybe for Vernt and Tyrsal, when the time comes.”

  “He thought you could make it happen.”

  “As a junior majer?”

  “You’ll be more than that,” she predicts.

  “That doesn’t look likely.”

  “It will happen. It has to.”

  “I won’t argue with you. I usually lose.” He grins, then adds, “If it does, I hope it’s in time to prevent the worst.”

  “You think it will be that bad?”

  “What do you think? You saw the way Ciesrt and Mycela reacted at dinner the other night. They don’t understand, and too many of the Magi’i and Mirror Lancer families are like that.”

  “Can you make the stone real?” she asks.

  He smiles at her reference to the first time he had told her his ambitions, but the smile fades. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I know how. I know what to do if I could get there, but getting there…” He shrugs. “The papers will help, if I can figure out how to apply what he’s given me… If I get the opportunity.”

  “See what you learn working for the Majer-Commander.” Ryalth shakes her head. “Your furlough has gone by so quickly. You’ll have to go back on duty in three days. Almost two eightdays doesn’t seem very much after all you did and all the time you were away.”

  “This time, it’s not so bad,” he points out. “I’m not leaving for someplace like Jakaafra or Biehl.”

  “I wish I could have come to Biehl.”

  “I do, too, but you would have been upset. The town was old, and slowly falling to ruin.”

  “I’ll wager what you did changed matters.”

  “I don’t know. I would hope so.”

  “We’ve brought back some of the china you recommended. It’s sold well, and I’ve commissioned some silver-and-black sets for the Austrans.”

  “Whhhaaa!” Kerial interjects.

  “I know. I know.” Ryalth swallows the last of the ale in her beaker and sets it on the stone tiles of the veranda beside the settee, then takes Kerial
from Lorn. “You always get fed before we do.”

  “Mmmm…”

  Lorn shakes his head as he watches Kerial begin to suck.

  “When he’s hungry…” Ryalth says with a laugh. “But he won’t be protesting when we eat.”

  “Or later,” Lorn says.

  “You are very hopeful, dearest.”

  Lorn flushes.

  After a moment, so does Ryalth.

  XCII

  Lorn and Ryalth sit, propped up with pillows, in the triple-width bed with the headboard with the ornately-carved edges and the smooth and curved bedposts. Ryalth cradles Kerial in the crook of her arm. The sole light in the room is the wall lamp on Lorn’s side of the bed, which casts a golden glow.

  “What will you do tomorrow when you report?” she asks.

  “I’ll probably have to write reports and orders for outposts and things like that. Someone has to, and it won’t be the Majer-Commander. The one definite thing he said was that I’m supposed to develop a strategy for dealing with the Jeranyi. The only way I think we can deal with them is if Cyador takes over the port of Jera, but with the fireships failing, I have my doubts as to whether anyone will support that.” He chuckles. “The Majer-Commander said not to worry about that for my first draft. I don’t. It’s the second draft that I worry about.”

  “You’ll think of something. You always do.”

  Lorn raises his eyebrows.

  “Is the book nearby?” she asks.

  Lorn leans toward the bedside table, then straightens and flourishes the green-tinged silver-covered volume. “Right here. I left it here after we read last night.”

  “Read me something… please.”

  Lorn flips through the pages to find the verse that is their favorite. He smiles as he smooths the pages and begins to read.

  Like a dusk without a cloud,

  a leaf without a tree,

  a shell without a sea…

  the greening of the pear

  slips by…

  …to hold the sun-hazed days,

  and wait for pears and praise

  …and wait for pears and praise.

  “I like that,” she says quietly, easing Kerial from her arms to her shoulder where she gently burps him. “I think he’s going to sleep.”

  “Good,” murmurs Lorn. “He was supposed to have gone to sleep after dinner. And then after we walked him around the garden.”

  “Now… he is your son.” Her low and soft voice cannot disguise the hint of laughter.

  “Difficult, you mean?”

  “You said it. I didn’t.” With an innocent smile, Ryalth slides to her feet, crosses the few cubits between the large bed and Kerial’s, and eases their son into his bed. After a moment, she slips back beside Lorn.

  They both look toward the smaller bed.

  Lorn stiffens as he hears a snuffling sort of snore. They both wait, but Kerial does not stir.

  “Read me something else. I’d just like to lie her for a moment and listen. If you don’t mind…”

  “I’ll read softly.” Lorn opens the book once more and turns until he finds the page for which he searches. “It’s not as cheerful as the one about the pear, but whenever I read it, it always made me think of you.” Lorn clears his throat gently.

  Virtues of old hold fast.

  Morning’s blaze cannot last;

  and rose petals soon part.

  Not so a steadfast heart.

  “ ‘A steadfast heart’-I’ve always liked that. I’d forgotten it, though.” She leans her head against his shoulder. “I worry about you being here.”

  “You worried about me being near the Accursed Forest and fighting barbarians,” Lorn points out.

  “It’s not the same. Cyad can be even more dangerous.”

  About that, Lorn knows, she is certainly right. The dangers are not at all the same, for those of the Forest and the barbarians could be seen, and fought with a blade or a firelance.

  XCIII

  Lorn barely has been assigned a table desk in a small study on the floor below the Majer-Commander-and been introduced to the squad leaders and senior squad leaders who will do his copying and other clerical tasks, and is looking out the single narrow window, uphill and away from the harbor-when there is a knock on his open door.

  - A young-faced squad leader-one of those whose name Lorn has not caught-stands there. “Ser… the Majer-Commander wishes you in his study for the meeting.”

  “Thank you.” Lorn grabs the small inkstand and a pen and a stack of paper and hurries up the stairs. He has no idea to what meeting he has been summoned.

  As he reaches the open foyer outside Rynst’s study, Tygyl-the senior squad leader at the desk-says, “Go on in, ser. He’s expecting you.”

  Lorn steps into the Majer-Commander’s large study, cautiously. “Ser.” He bows to Rynst, who stands by his table desk looking eastward at the Palace of Eternal Light, which stands out against the hillside and surrounding structures despite the overcast day.

  Rynst glances at Lorn, then smiles. “I see you understand.” He points to the conference table. “I sit at this end, with my back to the Palace. It’s symbolic, but the Emperor does stand behind me. You sit at my left. You are to take notes on who says what, and why-unless I tell you that there will be no notes.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “You are to sit. Because you are not officially part of any meeting, you do not stand when the Captain-Commander or the commanders enter. Once the meeting is dismissed, you are an officer and will behave according to protocol.”

  “Yes, ser.” Lorn slips toward the conference table and takes the straight-backed and armless chair to the left of the larger, armed chair. All the other chairs except the one in which he sits have arms.

  “You are not to speak unless addressed directly, and only to return pleasantries or if I tell you to speak.” Rynst moves toward the conference table, but halts a few cubits back from his chair.

  “Yes, ser.”

  “I will introduce all the commanders this time. Remember them. After this morning, I will only introduce officers you have not met.”

  Lorn nods, then checks the cupridium-tipped pen. He makes a mental note to bring two for any future meetings.

  The first commander to enter the Majer-Commander’s study is a spare and tall man, with thinning brown hair that has almost disappeared from his skull except around his ears.

  “Commander Inylt is the supply commander, in charge of allocating provisions,” Rynst says. “Inylt, this is Majer Lorn. He is my new strategic adjutant and aide.”

  Inylt is wiry, even thinner than Rynst, and squints as he looks toward the younger majer. “Lorn…” He laughs as he says the name. “Fine report on blades and trade. Wish more field commanders understood that. Glad to see you.”

  “Thank you, ser. I recall your name on provision draw orders. When I was at Biehl.”

  Inylt nods and takes a seat near the foot of the table on the south side, spreading out his papers into three stacks.

  Luss is the next officer to enter, and takes the position at the foot of the table, opposite Rynst, without addressing Lorn. As the other four commanders enter, Lorn notes each name, and puts a phrase about each next to the name on a separate sheet. He hopes he can keep the names straight.

  When five commanders have entered and seated themselves, Rynst clears his throat.

  Lorn glances at his list:

  Inylt - Supply [thin, bald]

  Sypcal - Eastern Region [red-haired]

  Shykt - Ports and Facilities [thin face, curly brown hair]

  Muyro - Mirror Engineers [dark, bearded]

  Lhary - Western Region [blond, tall]

  “Part of this meeting is for you to meet Majer Lorn. He will be working for me, directly, on a strategic plan we will be developing to deal with the barbarians to the north under the new conditions we face. He will also be my aide and adjutant for meetings.”

  “I presume this plan will address fewer firelances
and fewer firewagon transports?” asks Luss, although his question is almost more of a statement.

  “Don’t forget the higher costs of provisions,” adds Inylt. “And more spoilage if they go by horse team.”

  “If you have direct suggestions, submit them in writing to me, and I will pass those which are appropriate to the Majer.” Rynst smiles and glances down at a list that has appeared as if from nowhere. “What do the Mirror Engineers think can be done with the fireships with failed towers- if anything? Commander Muyro?”

  Muyro fingers his square black beard before answering. “The hulls are too heavy for conversion to sailing vessels, ones that would have the speed necessary to protect trading vessels. They could be fitted with old-style cannon, either using a cammabark propellant or black powder or some hybrid, and stationed at the main harbors as stationary batteries.”

  Rynst glances at the thin-faced and curly-haired man. “Commander Shykt?”

  “I have discussed this with the Third Magus, as you suggested. Although chaos can be removed from the world itself and stored in cells such as those used for the firewagons, it would take the majority of the first-level adepts perhaps a year to amass enough chaos to power a single ship on a voyage from Cyad to Fyrad. Those are rough calculations, but adequate to prove that the Quarter of the Magi’i cannot offer a feasible solution.”

  “Did he have any other suggestions?”

  “He thought that use of chaos-cells might be possible on several vessels to power one firecannon on each of those vessels. It would still require much effort, and fabrication of the cells as older ones fail would likely not be possible without the equipment in the Quarter of the Magi’i.”

  “That equipment is powered by the chaos-towers in the Quarter?” asks Luss.

  “Yes, ser,” replies Shykt. “There is no way to replicate it?”

  “No, ser. Not according to Senior Lector Liataphi.”

  “You might wish to confirm that, Captain-Commander, say, with the Second Magus. I will bring up the matter with the First Magus.” Rynst pauses. “While we have suspected this, the failure of the chaos-cell replicating equipment will mean that, within a halfscore of years, the last firelances will be exhausted.” He turns to Inylt. “We had talked of this earlier. Have you any other thoughts?”