Ciesrt holds Myryan’s arm as they climb the steps to the second level of the dwelling. His steps are so quick he is almost dragging her slight frame. “Please hurry… please…”
“I won’t be much help… not if I can’t breathe when I get there.” Myryan’s voice is low.
“I told you. Don’t you understand?” Ciesrt slows his climb to match her steps. “Father needs a healer… and you are one of the best.”
“You told me that.”
“A bravo attacked him coming back from the Quarter tonight,” Ciesrt explains. “He must have had an iron blade… or something.” He says nothing more, and they walk, silently, the last cubits up the steps and across the portico to the study.
Slightly behind her consort, Myryan follows Ciesrt into the lamplit study.
Kharl is half seated, half slumped, lying back in an armchair, his feet on a stool. His face is flour-white, and his breathing is fast and shallow, almost panting. His tunic and undertunic have been removed, and his chest would be bare, saving that it is covered with a blanket, except for his left shoulder and arm. His green eyes are open, and fierce, even as his form convulses into another shudder.
A woman in white, Kharl’s consort, places a damp cloth across the forehead of the magus, and another across the shoulder and the arm.
“The iron… Mother removed it as soon as he got here, but she has not your skill,” Ciesrt explains.
The new First Magus says nothing as Myryan bends and moves the cold damp cloth to inspect the wound. Her fingers brush his skin momentarily. Red lines spread from a small wound, no larger than a thumb, in his left upper arm just below the top of his shoulder. Heat radiates from the entire arm and shoulder.
“Well…” The normally smooth and modulated voice is raw.
“It is ferric poisoning.” Myryan’s face is drawn. “It is well along, but I think I can do something about it.”
“If you would…” Ciesrt says.
“Quickly,” rasps Kharl.
Myryan touches the skin of the magus once more, lightly. She winces, murmuring. “Order-spelled iron.”
“…would be…” mutters Kharl.
Myryan seats herself on the stool that Ciesrt has drawn from somewhere for her. A cloud of unseen darkness rises from the healer and gathers about the wound. The air within a quarter of a cubit of the center of the wound sparkles, as if tiny points of order and chaos collide in miniature firebolts.
All eyes in the study are upon the sparkling, and none notice the second veil of darkness that wells from the healer and slips into the ailing magus.
Myryan shivers on the stool, and Ciesrt must steady her.
“Better…” says the First Magus. “…can feel it already.”
“You’re wonderful,” Ciesrt tells Myryan. “No one could do that but you.”
The faintest of smiles appears and vanishes before she speaks. “I’m sorry.” Her head turns slowly to Ciesrt, as if it is a tremendous effort. “I can do no more, and… I must rest.”
“She is a good consort, son. Have her rest.” Kharl says.
She offers a wan smile in return. Her face is pale, and she leans on Ciesrt, as she steps from the study.
Behind her, the green eyes of the Second Magus are cold on her back.
CLIX
Mirror Lancer Court is almost empty when Lorn walks into the lower foyer not all that long after dawn and starts up the staircase to his study. Even the whispered impact of his light steps echoes in the vault of the open staircase.
“Ser?” calls Fayrken, even before Lorn’s foot touches the first tile of the fourth-floor foyer.
“What is it, Fayrken?” Lorn moves toward the senior squad leader.
“The Captain-Commander… he was already asking for you.”
“So early?”
“He said he needed to see you. As soon as you arrived. He had me send a messenger down to the warehouse barracks in case you went there first.”
A faint smile crosses Lorn’s face. “Do you know if the Majer-Commander is in yet?”
“Tygyl hasn’t seen him. He left the door to the portico open last night.”
The smile leaves Lorn’s face.
Fayrken steps back, almost involuntarily. “Ser?”
“I’d best see the Captain-Commander. Thank you, Fayrken. Thank you very much.” Lorn’s fingers brush the hilt of the Brystan sabre as he turns back toward the staircase. He takes his time ascending the last flight.
Once he reaches the open fifth-floor foyer, Lorn pauses by Tygyl’s open desk. “Tygyl… could I trouble you to have a messenger sent to Captain Cheryk? If you would, just tell him to have the men ready to ride. I should be there shortly, but I didn’t expect to be meeting with anyone this early.”
“Yes, ser. We can do that.” The senior-most of the senior squad leaders raises his eyebrows.
“It appears that the Dyjani usurper will be bringing in close to fifteenscore armed guards today… most likely by ship.”
“Yes, ser. I’ll send that message.”
“The Captain-Commander?”
“He’s in his study, ser. Commander Lhary is with him. They expect you.”
“I’m sure that they do. Thank you, Tygyl.” Lorn turns to the right and steps toward the door to Luss’s study.
As he steps inside the study, he closes the door, but keeps his eyes on the two men standing before Luss’s table desk. “Ser. You requested my presence.”
Luss looks at Lorn. Lhary stands behind the Captain-Commander’s right shoulder.
“Yes… I did, Majer.” Luss offers the warm and open smile of the type that Lorn distrusts. “You always do your duty, and in these times, we are grateful for officers such as you.” Luss pauses. “The Majer-Commander has vanished. He is not in his dwelling. Nor is he in his study, nor have any seen him. Have you any knowledge of this? You have been… familiar… with the disappearance of officers, it is said.”
Lorn smiles, lazily. “No, ser. I have not seen the Majer-Commander. Nor do I know aught about his disappearance. His disappearance would scarce benefit Cyador, and it would benefit me even less.”
“Yet you smile, Majer,” offers Lhary.
“I am a loyal Mirror Lancer officer, and I stand ready to carry out my duties to protect the Emperor and Cyador.” Lorn’s eyes continue to watch Luss.
“What do you intend, Majer?” Luss’s blue eyes seem to focus into the distance for a moment, even as he studies Lorn.
“My last orders from the Majer-Commander were to ensure that the merchanters did not threaten either the Emperor or the Palace of Light. I will carry them out.”
“The Emperor has died. There is no Emperor to protect. And there is no Majer-Commander.” After the briefest of pauses, Luss adds, “Not that can be found.”
“Yes, ser.”
“I believe we discussed this earlier, Majer.”
“We did, ser. There is still duty, ser.” Lorn ostentatiously touches the hilt of the Brystan sabre.
Lhary’s eyes tighten, and a frown begins.
Lorn’s sabre is in his hand, even before either man starts to react. The first chaos-aided cut goes through Luss’s throat. Luss tries to speak, then slowly crumples.
“No!” Lhary yells as he reaches for his sabre. He has his blade clear of his scabbard, if barely, when Lorn’s chaos-aided iron and cupridium runs through his chest.
Lorn looks at both bodies, then wipes his blade on Lhary’s tunic, even before the commander’s eyes turn dull. In turn, he takes Lhary’s blade from the dying man’s hand and runs the edge across Luss’s throat, before replacing it beside Lhary’s outstretched hand.
Then he stands and sheathes the Brystan sabre, wondering how Luss could ever have bested Rynst and disposed of the Majer-Commander’s body. Then, Lhary could have done it.
For a long moment, Lorn looks at the two bodies on the sunstone tiles. Then he steps out into the foyer.
Tygyl stands outside the door, sabre in hand, face blank. Behind him is
Fayrken.
Lorn shakes his head. “Commander Lhary attacked the Captain-Commander. I was a shade too slow to save Captain-Commander Luss. I was fast enough not to allow Commander Lhary to succeed in his treachery.”
“Ser… treachery?”
“The Majer-Commander is missing. Commander Lhary is the senior commander in the Mirror Lancers. I believe the idea was to insist I attacked the Captain-Commander. Commander Lhary would dispatch me for my treachery. After all, I am the Butcher. Then, as senior commander, he would be acting Majer-Commander, and a hero to all the traditional officers for removing me.”
Fayrken and Tygyl look at each other, but hold their sabres ready.
“According to the chain of command, I believe Commander Sypcal is now acting Majer-Commander.”
Lorn freezes for a moment as the chill of a chaos-glass sweeps across him, but forces himself to wait calmly for Tygyl’s response.
“He be ill still, ser.” Tygyl’s face remains blank, and he does not lower his sabre. “Are you not better fitted?”
“Tygyl… I am under the command of the Emperor, but I am not Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers. Nor should I be. Sypcal is a good officer, and a good man, and he was probably poisoned by Lhary… just because he is a good and loyal officer. If you and the other senior squad leaders would ensure his protection… I’m sure the Emperor-or his heir-will confirm Commander Sypcal. If they do not, there are other senior commanders of talent. Perhaps someday I might be one of them.” Lorn smiles grimly, half relieved as the sense of being observed in the chaos-glass vanishes. He wonders if the magus who has screed him is Kharl or Rustyl. “I need to get to the harbor before the ships carrying the merchanter guards arrive.”
Tygyl lowers his sabre. So does Fayrken.
“Best we get to Commander Sypcal, then…” Tygyl says.
“And perhaps you should sent a message to Commander Shykt in Dellash, as well.” Lorn frowns. “Would you ask Commander Sypcal if he would consider bringing Majer Brevyl to Cyad to serve? As my suggestion. A suggestion only.”
“Ah… yes, ser.”
“That’s the commander’s choice, but with a commander and the Captain-Commander dead, and the Majer-Commander missing, and probably dead through some plotting of Commander Lhary… Commander Sypcal and the Emperor may need some talented and loyal officers.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn turns and hurries down the steps.
“Not one officer in a score… turn down that…”
“…meant what he said…”
“…always does…”
Lorn only hopes that he can continue to keep his word, both to Rynst, and to himself.
CLX
Lorn glances at the cold blue sky to the south, above the harbor, as he rides downhill toward the maneuver grounds and the warehouse barracks beyond. He thinks he sees two ships under sail on the horizon, but that could be because he expects to see them. He looks again, standing in the stirrups, but still is not sure.
Cheryk is standing outside the barracks as Lorn reins up the gelding and dismounts.
“Ser… there was a messenger for you…”
“I already got it. The Captain-Commander wanted to see me. That’s why I’m late.”
“The messenger said we’d be posted to protect the Mirror Lancer Court,” Cheryk says in a level tone.
Lorn shakes his head. “Matters… The Majer-Commander has disappeared. Commander Lhary killed the Captain-Commander, and tried to kill me. Commander Sypcal is acting Majer-Commander.”
“Commander Lhary? Ser? They say he’s most excellent with a blade.”
“Not quite excellent enough. He’s dead.” Lorn’s voice is weary. “We’re still to protect access to the Palace.”
“After all that, ser?”
“Especially after all that. Our duty, and our orders from the Majer-Commander and the Emperor, were to protect the Palace and the city. That doesn’t change.” Lorn pauses. “And if anything happens to me, those are your orders, Captain.” Lorn’s voice is like cold ordered iron.
“Yes, ser.”
Esfayl steps out of the barracks. “Everyone’s mounted out back and ready to ride, ser.”
Lorn motions for Esfayl to join him and Cheryk, waiting until the younger captain steps closer. “Cheryk, I’d like you to take your company and Esfayl’s second squad to Second Harbor Way West-I’d say the coiner of Benevolent Commerce. That’s above the Dyjani compound where they’re mustering the greensuits already here in Cyad. That way, you’ll be between the greensuits and the Palace.”
“How do you want it handled?” asks the older captain.
“Have them lay down their arms and turn back or they get killed.” Lorn frowns. “Can your men aim the lances low enough to hit their legs if they use mirrorlike shields?”
“We practiced that last eightday. With short bursts. Ought to be good enough to tear holes in their shield wall somewhere. Then we’ll fire on the open sides of the gap.”
“Do what you can. If you can rout them quickly, try not to leave many survivors. We don’t want them re-forming later in the eightday. If you can’t hold them, fall back and send me a messenger. Esfayl and I will be supporting the firecannon to stop reinforcements from being landed on the piers. If we can stop them, then we’ll rejoin you. If you can stop the greensuits there, hold your position, but send Esfayl’s squad here to the piers.” Lorn glances from Cheryk to Esfayl, then back. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, ser,” the two reply.
“Then we’d better start. Esfayl, have your first squad meet me at the Mirror Engineer building.”
Esfayl nods, then turns and hurries into the barracks. Lorn remounts and rides the gelding the quarter-kay to the Mirror Engineer building, where Ghyrat, as Cheryk was, is waiting for Lorn. His breath steams in the cool morning air.
“Majer, we’re ready to move the cannon up to Mirror Lancer Court.”
Lorn does not dismount as he replies. “The Majer-Commander is missing, and the Captain-Commander was killed by Commander Lhary. Commander Sypcal is acting Majer-Commander, and our original orders stand, Captain. There are two ships coming into the piers. I’d guess the outermost deepwater pier. You’ll need to set up at the foot of the pier so that you can sweep it clear of any armsmen. We may have to fire the ships as well.”
“Cyadoran ships?”
“Cyadoran ships carrying armed guards to reinforce those already trying to storm the Palace. They would put a merchanter on the Malachite Throne.”
“You know this?”
“So did the Majer-Commander and the Captain-Commander. Our job is to hold Cyad for the Emperor.” Whoever he may be. “So… move the cannon to the foot of the outermost pier, but leave it ready to be moved again, if necessary.”
“Yes, ser.” Ghyrat bows and reenters the engineer building. Lorn turns in the saddle, waiting as Esfayl and his squad of lancers ride toward him.
As they near, Lorn calls, “To the outermost pier.” Without looking back, he urges the gelding past the engineer building, and then along the paved seawall road from which the piers jut into the water.
Just short of the foot of the outermost pier, Lorn reins up and again studies the harbor-and the Great Western Ocean to the south. The blue-gray water of the harbor itself bears a slight chop, with a scattered small whitecap here and there. Farther out are indeed the sails of two large trading vessels.
“Coming in for sure, ser,” Esfayl says from where he has reined up beside Lorn. “Not with the best wind, either.”
Lorn turns to Esfayl. “Once the firecannon is set up here, I don’t want your first squad in sight of the piers.”
“You want the guards on shore before we attack,” Esfayl suggests.
“I’d rather not have you attack at all. You’re here in case the cannon can’t destroy them. If necessary, I’ll have Ghyrat turn the cannon on the masts, or even the hulls, but I’d prefer to sweep the pier and save the ship.”
The black-haired captain
nods. “Treat them just like the Jeranyi.”
“These are worse,” Lorn says slowly. “The Jeranyi had no understanding of Cyador and did not know what it offers. These guards would destroy it for a handful of golds.”
“We can stand down behind the sheds between the piers,” Esfayl suggests.
Lorn nods. “If you would also take my mount… but you need to be the one who can watch for my orders, if we need you.”
“Yes, ser.”
Behind him, Lorn can hear the rumbling and whining of a small firewagon as it tows the cannon-like those once used against the Accursed Forest-along the seawall road. The small firewagon is but four-wheeled, and armored in cupridium plate. It tows an armored two-wheeled device with a tubular projection. When the firewagon halts, several engineers step from a hatch in the side, and unhitch the cannon, and slowly wheel it toward the pier.
Lorn turns the gelding and gestures as to where he wants the cannon placed. “Here… on a straight shot along the pier.”
“Yes, ser,” replies Ghyrat.
Once the cannon is positioned, one of the engineer rankers brings a crank out and inserts it into a fitting on the side of the cannon. He turns it rapidly, and, slowly, a small hatch opens on the side of the cannon. The engineer slips into the hatch. Another ranker rolls a long cable from the firewagon that has towed the cannon, to an assembly on the rear of the cannon. There, he fits the sheathed cupridium cable into a square bracket.
When Ghyrat has the cannon set up and positioned as Lorn desires, the majer waits until Ghyrat steps forward and looks up at the mounted lancer officer.
“You can hit anything on the pier, can you not?” Lorn asks, seeking a confirmation of what he has seen years earlier.
“Ah… yes, ser.”
“Stand by for a moment.” Lorn looks out from the foot of the outermost deepwater pier. The wind has shifted, and now blows from the south, much as Ryalth has predicted. The two vessels bearing no ensigns or banners make their way toward Cyad, along the wide main channel, under more than half-canvas, far more than most vessels coming into the piers.
Lorn looks at the engineer captain, then points to the ships. “Those will be Dyjani vessels. Or they will carry Dyjani guards. We will see.” Then he turns to Esfayl. “Best you pull the lancers back.” He dismounts and hands the gelding’s reins to the young curly-haired captain.
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