Magi'i of Cyador

XIX

As THE LOW orange light of dawn fills the front compartment of the firewagon, Lorn yawns and rubs his eyes. Although he had garnered a short night’s sleep on a hard cot at the highway transfer station located in Ilypsya-a town beside the Great North Highway that Lorn had never heard of-after more than two days of near-continuous travel from Ilypsya, except for short comfort stops, Lorn is tired. The flickering chaos that envelops the vehicle bothers none of the other passengers, it seems, but Lorn finds himself still studying it. Even though he is no longer a student magus, in a strange fashion the flickering almost seems to nag at him, more so than when he had studied chaos.

The six wheels rumble more loudly than those of the lancer firewagon that had brought him to Ilypsya, but that might well have been because the regular coach carries a good fifty-score stone of goods in the hold between the small front compartment and the larger rear compartment, where a good half-score passengers are squeezed together.

A slight snoring comes from the merchanter in blue shimmercloth slumped in the bench facing Lorn. The trader is a young man no more than a handful of years older than Lorn, if that, but who sports a short brush mustache in a clear effort to appear older. Beside the young merchanter is an older man in deep brown-a wealthy miller returning to Syadtar, Lorn has gathered, and on the far left sleeps another mid-aged man also in brown who has spoken but little since Lorn joined the others at Ilypsya. The last man in the front compartment, to Lorn’s left, also sleeping, wears the crimson-trimmed brown of a regional guard, but the silver stars in his collar signify that he is a district commander. As Lorn’s eyes light on him, his head turns, and he emits a grunt.

Ignoring the ripe odor of male bodies confined in too warm a space for too long, Lorn stifles another yawn and shifts his weight on the curved and lightly padded white oak of the seat he has to share only with the district guard commander, at least until the next stop, unless that stop is Syadtar. Each firewagon, Lorn knows, can make but one run to Syadtar and back before the chaos in the cells in the back of the vehicle must be replenished, and the vehicle makes but two round trips every eightday. Were he not a lancer officer, Lorn’s passage-fare would have been at least a gold-and in the crowded rear compartment.

Abruptly, the merchanter sits up and glances out the window. “Getting close to Syadtar, I see.”

Lorn follows the other’s eyes, but the hills to the north look no different to him from the ones he had seen the night before-or not enough different to indicate anything. But he is used to the forests and irregular hills north of Cyad itself-not the scattered farms and the grasslands of the east that are north of the Accursed Forest and the Great Canal that links the fertile lands between the rivers with Fyrad. “Because the farms are closer together?”

The merchanter shakes his head. “The hills. They’re longer here-like they’ve been stretched out. They get shorter and steeper as you go west. Much more rugged, they are.”

Lorn nods.

“You’ll see. Are you going to Isahl or Pemedra?”

“Are those the only two choices?” Lorn counters.

“For a new undercaptain, they are. You’re probably pretty good with a blade and a firelance, I’d wager. No?”

“Better than many,” Lorn admits.

“That’s why you’re there. Glad you are. Wouldn’t travel this route weren’t for the lancers. Barbarians be through Syadtar like grease through a goose.” The merchanter laughs. “Grease through a goose. Faster than coin spent by a pleasure girl.”

The miller sits up. “Begging your pardon, trader, but it be early, and Syadtar is not here yet. Some of us lack the endurance we once had.”

“My apologies,” offers the young merchanter. “My apologies, ser.”

The miller grunts and closes his eyes.

“You’ll see,” murmurs the trader to Lorn, leaning back with a wry look at the miller before closing his own eyes.

Lorn closes his eyes for a time, but he can no longer sleep to the rumbling of the wheels, and his eyes stray back to the window.

The first sign that the firewagon is approaching Syadtar is the appearance of scattered farmhouses-similar in their green tile roofs, green ceramic privacy screens before the front doors, and the green shutters open but ready to be closed against night or weather. Yet each is subtly different, with a lighter or darker shade of cream or off-white plaster on its walls and with different types of bushes and trees planted to create privacy areas behind the dwellings where the girls and the women may appear without being revealed to passers-by.

Then comes something Lorn has not seen before in Cyador-a white sunstone city wall-one nearly ten cubits high. There are no guards, but the firewagon passes through the open heavy oak gates and well-kept ramparts and twin guard towers.

Past the gates are the wide white-granite streets of thesmall city, with the scattered green and white awnings, although those are furled in the early light of day, except for one, which signifies a coffee house. Lorn frowns momentarily.

“You’re right,” says the merchanter, stretching. “Won’t be many coffee houses afore long, not with the blight.”

“Blight?” Lorn asks involuntarily.

“Order blight-blacks spots on the underside of the leaves, then, poof! No more coffee plants.”

“Magi’i will find something to stop it, or the healers,” rumbles the district guard commander, slowly straightening on his part of the bench he shares with Lorn.

The firewagon is slowing, and Lorn’s eyes go back to the buildings they pass. Syadtar is a miniature of Cyad, at least in that the buildings are all of white sunstone, but smaller than those of the great City of Eternal Light-and there are far fewer of more than one level. The light is more intense, even early, perhaps because there are no trees within Syadtar. Lorn sees none, at least.

“Maybe they will, honored ser, but shipments of the beans have dropped to nothing from the fields north of Fyrad, and those from Geliendra are half what they were last year.”

“Don’t be underestimating the Magi’i, trader,” suggests the district guard commander. “Most of those that have are ashes.”

“Ah … yes, your honor.” The merchanter’s mustache bobs as he swallows.

“Bah … not that much honor in being a district guard. The lancers have the honor.” The older man’s eyes twinkle as he winks at Lorn.

Lorn hides a smile, but says, “Without the guard, the lancers would be spread far thinner.”

The merchanter looks from one armsman to the other, bewildered, then looks to the window. “We are here, sers.”

“Good.” The commander winks once more at Lorn.

The firewagon slows under a large covered sunstone portico.

After a moment, one of the green-uniformed drivers opensthe door of the front compartment. “Syadtar, officers, kind sers.”

Lorn glances to the District Commander.

“Go ahead, Undercaptain. Let a stiff commander take his time. You have much farther to go than do I.”

“Thank you, ser.” With that, Lorn reaches under the curved and lightly padded bench seat and pulls out his kit, then steps out into the sunlight, for it is far too early for the tile roof above to shade passengers or the firewagon itself. After slipping the white garrison cap from his belt and donning it, he glances at the firewagon driver, or one of the two, standing beside the open glass cupola. “Do you know which way to the Lancer headquarters?”

“Go one block east, to the Avenue of the Square, then head toward the hills. It’s about a kay north.”

“Thank you.”

Carrying his kit in his left hand, Lorn begins.to walk eastward, feeling a hint of dampness on his forehead where the front of the garrison cap rests.

“Poor bastard …”

Lorn holds in a wince at the pity in the driver’s voice. He thinks he knows what he is facing, but more than a few people seem to think his assignment is a death sentence.

Two youths in faded blue undertunics and trousers careen down the street, then, seeing Lorn, abruptly dash down a side alley. An older man in a brown tunic so faded it is closer to tan leans on a walking stick and shuffles down the other side of the white-paved street, his eyes fixed on the paving stories. The creaking of a cart echoes from somewhere up the alley Lorn passed, but he sees neither cart nor whatever pulls it.

One block east, as the driver had said, is a small square. In the center is a statue, the figure purportedly of Keif’elth’alt, the first Emperor of Light. Lorn doubts that the original emperor had possessed such heroic proportions. On the south side of the square is an inn, its side porch shaded by a green and white awning. The scent of roasted fowl drifts toward Lorn, and he stops, then shakes his head, before turningnorthward. He does take the shaded eastern side of the street.

He passes a coppersmith’s shop, then a cooper’s, but both doors are closed. The door to the chandlery a block later is open. Lorn pauses, then steps inside. After his eyes adjust to the dimness, he moves toward the side counter, trying to keep both his kit and his scabbarded sabre from banging into the table that holds various leather goods. He pauses to study the travel foods on the counter, looking over the differing shapes, all covered in wax.

“Those not be what you’d be wanting, ser, I’d wager,” offers a cheerful voice. A woman stands behind another counter, to Lorn’s left. She points at a tray before her. “Fresh honey-rolls … well … not that fresh … baked late yesterday.”

Lorn takes in her smiling face, and the short-cut but tight-curled black hair and the clear but dark skin. “They look better than the travel fare.”

“For eating now, they are.” With her words, surprisingly, comes the hint of erhenflower scent, a fragrance Lorn would have thought too dear for most in Syadtar.

“How much?”

“A copper each for the small ones. Three coppers for two of the large.”

Three coppers find their way from Lorn’s belt wallet to the woman. “Thank you.” He takes two of the larger honey rolls. Before he is fully aware of it, he is licking the crumbs of the second off his fingers.

She extends a wooden cup of water. “You’ll need this.”

“Thank you.” Lorn forces himself to drink the water more slowly than he had gulped down the honey rolls. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re most welcome. If you would wait a moment …” She slips away from the counter, only to reappear with a bucket and a small towel. “You could use this, ser.”

“Ah … I wouldn’t wish to impose.”

“My brother was a lancer.” Her smile is strained.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.”

Lorn takes the towel and bucket, and washes his face and hands. He has to admit that he feels less grimy, and probably looks a bit more like an officer. “Thank you, lady.” He hands back the bucket and the towel.

“You know, I’ve seen a score of young officers walk by here in the last year or so, and not a one has stopped. Why did you … if I might ask?” She drops her eyes.

“I was hungry.” Lorn grins. “I don’t think well when I’m hungry, and … I stopped.” He pauses. “I don’t mean I stopped because I wasn’t thinking …”

The woman grins back. “You sound like Cailynt.”

Lorn shrugs helplessly.

“I’m glad you stopped,” she says, “but you’d best be on your way.” After the briefest of pauses, she adds, “Cailynt would have made a good officer.”

“He probably would have,” Lorn agrees.

“Calenena? We got a customer? You be ringing me … you hear!”

Lorn puts another pair of coppers on the counter, and says in a low voice, “Take care.” Then he grins warmly, and turns toward the door.

“I took care of it,” Calenena answers.

Lorn steps back into the bright sunlight, blinking as his eyes readjust.

Another block northward, he passes a potter’s shop. The smell of wood burning tells him that a kiln is being fired. His brows knit. Places like potters’ and coppersmiths’ shops aren’t allowed in the main section of Cyad, and some trades, like rendering and tanning, are not allowed anywhere in the city. Yet he sees the potter and has smelled the tannery. Is everything within the wall? Are the barbarians that much of a threat? Or had they been at one time?

He keeps walking, realizing as he does that there are few trees in Syadtar-no cylars or arymids, no straight or feathering conifers, just a few scattered scrub cedars here and there.

The Mirror Lancer enclave is clear enough. The street endsat another white granite wall and an archway with the two lancer guards, each under a projecting roof to shield them from the sun. Lorn shows the seal ring, and steps past them. Once inside the archway and past the open gates that are swung back inside the compound, Lorn glances around, then heads for the largest building.

After walking the hundred cubits from the gates, he slips through the open front archway into the coolness of a stonewalled corridor.

“Ser?” A lancer ranker looks up from behind a table a mere ten cubits inside the corridor. His left sleeve holds two green slashes a span or so above the cuff-showing he is a senior squad leader.

“Yes, squad leader?”

“If you’re reporting for duty, ser, you need to go to the next building.”

“I’m going to Isahl, but I’m supposed to pick up a squad leader, replacement lancers, and mounts.”

“They’ll help you there, ser. This is Commander Thiataphi’s headquarters, ser. The support centers for the outposts are in the next building.”

“Thank you.”

Lorn turns and makes his way to the next building, considerably smaller, with a plain weathered white oak door, standing ajar. He peers inside, at the two lancers who sit at opposite sides of a large table on which are stacked scrolls of various sizes and sorts.

“ … need three more for the replacement company …

“ … good thing you got the mounts …”

Lorn steps inside, and, at the slight whisper of his boots, the older and bearded squad leader stands, followed by the younger.

“Ser? Can we help you?” The senior squad leader pauses, studying the weary junior officer. “Would you be the new undercaptain for Isahl?”

“That I am,” Lorn admits. “Undercaptain Lorn’alt.” He shows the seal ring. “I’m supposed to find a squad leadernamed Nytral. I have his orders.” Lorn extracts the somewhat battered smaller scroll from his tunic.

“I’m Byrten, ser. Senior lancer clerk for the outposts.” As the man shifts his weight, Lorn can sense the stiffness and the pain in his motions.

“It’s good to meet you, Byrten.” Lorn shrugs. “I’m supposed to report here, but I wasn’t given much in the way of details.”

Byrten hides a smile. “Chorin … go find Nytral. Tell him his undercaptain’s here.”

“Ser? By your leave?”

Lorn nods and steps aside to let Chorin by him.

“Be the day after tomorrow afore all the supplies and replacement lancers be ready, ser. Till then, you’ll have a room in the officers’ building-that’s second back, and I’ll show you after you’re set with Nytral. Or he can show you.”

“How many replacement lancers are there?”

“Two score,” replies Byrten.

“And how often do they need replacements?”

“When Sub-Majer Brevyl needs them-sometimes once, sometimes twice a season.” Byrten’s smile is thin.

Two score lancers six times a year? From one outpost on the edge of the Grass Hills? Lorn nods thoughtfully, deciding not to ask how many undercaptains are needed as replacements.

“How long a ride is it to Isahl?”

“Three days, more or less.”

“And what sort of supplies will we be taking?”

“You’ll be escorting five wagons-four horse team on each.” Byrten glances toward the door, where the rail-thin Chorin reappears, followed by a ranker with a single green slash on his sleeve. Both halt just inside the door. Nytral is short and stocky, and his right cheek bears a faded purple starburst scar. His thick black hair is cut short, and his thick black eyebrows are bushy. The deep brown of his eyes conveys a flatness, as if Nytral has seen too much for his eyes to reveal. The flat eyes look at Lorn, eyes that are wary, waiting.

Lorn extends the set of smaller scrolls. “Undercaptain Lorn’alt. These are your orders.”

“Yes, ser.” Nytral takes the scrolls, then looks at Lorn’alt.

The two other lancer rankers watch, eyes flicking from Nytral to Lorn.

“You can unroll them,” Lorn says. “They’re yours, but one copy has to go to Commander Thiataphi’s clerk.”

“Ah …” suggests Byrten.

“You take it first?” asks Lorn.

“Works better that way, ser,” suggests Nytral. “Byrten draws us supplies, and he can’t draw for more than we got on roster.”

Lorn nods, wondering how much more he needs to learn, and whether he can-in time. “If there’s nothing else Byrten needs to tell me …?” He looks at the senior clerk.

“No, ser. Just check every morning. Tomorrow we should have the replacement roster done, and the supply list.”

“I’d like Nytral to look at those with me,” Lorn says.

“Yes, ser.”

The undercaptain looks at his squad leader. “Let’s go on outside, Nytral.”

“Yes, ser.” Nytral’s voice is deferential, but level.

After leaving the support building, Lorn crosses the small courtyard until he stands in the shadowed corner on the southeast side. Then he turns to Nytral. “I understand you’ll be able to let me know what I should know and don’t on the way to Isahl.” Lorn offers a smile, one simultaneously open and yet professional.

Nytral does not return the smile. “Could be, ser.”

Lorn laughs, gently. “I know chaos, firelances, and blades. I don’t know lancers and barbarians, and you do, or you wouldn’t be a squad leader assigned to a green officer. I also don’t know what supplies we should have, and what we might get shorted. You do.”

Nytral’s lips crinkle slightly. “There be that, ser.”

“More than that, I’m sure.” Lorn laughs self-deprecatingly. “Do you know where I draw a mount? And how we can find out about just what our replacement lancers are like?”

“Wouldn’t be much good to you, if’n I didn’t, ser.”

“Let’s start with finding my room so I can drop off this kit, and then look for the kind of mount that will be best for Isahl.” Lorn smiles. “Lead on.”

Nytral gestures toward the three-story, narrow, barracklike building in the northeast corner of the compound. “There.” He walks out of the shade across the white paving stones of the courtyard. “Front entrance there is to the officer’s rooms. You can take whatever one you want on the top level. Stables are out back, beyond the wall ….”

Lorn matches steps with the squad leader, listening, and yet studying the compound, trying to memorize where everything is.