Magi'i of Cyador

XXXVI

AFTER A DINNER of heavy mutton, soft potatoes probably left from the harvest of almost a year earlier, and bread harder than some barbarian blades, Lorn has repaired to the officers’ study, where, under the sunlight of a summer evening pouring through the high windows, he rereads his patrol report, then nods, and sets it aside to submit to Overcaptain Zandrey in the morning.

Then he lifts the first of the personal scrolls that had been awaiting him on his return from patrol-the one from Myryan. While he has hurried through it once, he needs to reread it. His eyes fix on the graceful letters.

Dearest Lorn,

It seems so long since I saw you, and it is, more than three years ….

… have almost finished my training as a healer, and now I go to the lancers’ infirmary every fourth day, and to the Healers’ Indwelling every other day …. Healing is hard, but rewarding in its own way. Jerial said that a long time ago, but we get different rewards. An eightday ago, I received a healer’s pin, but I don’t know where it came from. I can’t wear it yet, not until after the ceremony next sixday. It’s beautiful, green lacquer over gold. A messenger brought it from Syang the goldsmith, but no one could say who had sent it, except that the purchase was arranged through a small merchanter house. It is all very strange, and I wish you could be here for the ceremony, but you won’t even get this until I am truly a healer ….

Lorn pauses. His warm and waifish little sister-a healer. And the golden pin … he has his ideas about that, too, but they are but ideas without confirmation-yet.

Vernt is finally seeing someone. He won’t tell anyone, except father, and I think father is the one who arranged it all.

… would have liked to have sent you a baked pearapple creamed tart, but they don’t travel. I remember how you sneaked them from the kitchen, and once you brought me one. They tasted better that way ….

After he finishes Myryan’s scroll, Lorn runs his hand through his short brown hair. What can he say? Finally, he picks up the bronze-nibbed pen and dips it, then slowly begins to write.

Your scroll was waiting when I came off patrol. I was glad to hear that you are finally a healer … like to tell you that I had something to do with the healer pin. I can’t. I would have liked to, but I’ve never even seen a healer’s pin …. Summer here is hot. It is hotter than Cyad, but drier … also would have liked that pearapple tart … miss things like that, but, mostly, I miss the family, and the way we talked, even with Father’s long lectures ….

When he finishes his reply to Myryan, he picks up the second scroll-the one he had received just before the last patrol, the one from his father that he had not had time to answer before riding out to Ram’s End, and the barbarian raid.

Lorn slowly unrolls it and rereads carefully, as if he had not seen it before.

… While I did heed your advice about Myryan’s need to mature more, in the end, I have decided that her being consorted to Ciesrt is far better than any of the alternatives, and they will be joined by the time this reaches you. I do know of your concerns, and they are good ones, and I do notwrite this to mollify you. All I ask is that you return to Cyad and see her before you judge too harshly …. Vernt is well-respected and appreciated by the older Magi’i … am comforted to know that you are now a captain. According to Luss’alt, the first two years are the most dangerous, although he says that any lancer’s life is dangerous ….

The scroll continues, with pleasantries, and then concludes:

… I can see the patterns of the Rational Stars, and some change and some do not, and some always shine brighter, no matter where in the heavens they swing.

Lorn purses his lips. His father has seldom talked of the Rational Stars, and never written of them, for the Rational Stars are the emperor’s heritage, and not that of magus or lancer. Then, there is the timing. Myryan’s scroll had been written later, yet it does not mention or even hint at Ciesrt. Lorn had decided not to mention what she had not. Jerial has not written at all. But that leaves the question of how should he respond to his father? He takes another sheet and once more dips the pen.

Father,

I am sorry that it has taken a while to write back, but I have been on patrol and have just returned ….

… I appreciate your waiting to formalize a consortship between Myryan and Ciesrt’elth, and I will follow your suggestions in that regard …

“Especially since there’s nothing else I can do,” Lorn murmurs under his breath, glancing around. “Not from here.”

The young and pale blond undercaptain-Cylit-enters the study and takes the desk-table farthest from Lorn to seathimself and peruse a single scroll. Beside the scroll Cyllt sets a nearly full bottle of the darker Byrdyn-not nearly so good as the amber Alafraan.

Lorn nods politely before dipping the pen in the inkwell and continuing his response.

I have not mentioned consorting in my messages to Myryan, since she has not brought that up ….

Patrolling takes special skills, and I have been lucky enough to serve with those who have been able to impart them to me ….

I have been told that after three full years, I will have a half-season’s home leave, whether I am to remain at Isahl or be posted elsewhere. What may be my next duty will be decided in the early fall, I would gather ….

He finally closes.

… and I look forward to seeing you this winter.

Lorn has saved the scroll from Ryalth for last, for those are as infrequent as they are welcome, and he wishes to reread it before replying. He notes again that the passage marks indicate it was sent from Fyrad, as are all her scrolls, and hence their infrequency, and after his earliest scrolls to her, has since dispatched his missives to the trading house address in Fyrad as well-a far wiser course, he suspects.

My dear lancer captain,

Your scrolls remain an unending surprise. This poor merchanter can scarce reply to your elegant words. I will not try. I will but say that the constancy which you never professed exceeds all that I have heard professed elsewhere.

The Ryalor Trading House-

Lorn still winces at the name she had chosen, despite thefact that he knows he provided most of the coins to give her the start.

— continues to flourish, and we now have shares in three coasters and two long-haul ocean traders. Some of those shares are great enough so that before long, we could well own one or more. The long contracts in copper have prospered so much that I have resold one at enough of a profit that we could lose all on the other and still come out with coins.

He laughs to himself. She writes as though he knows truly what she has done.

The word has been spread that my consort works the distant lands, and we know that is certainly true in some ways, if but for my unacknowledged merchanter partner … although I have accomplished some frivolities on his behalf.

Lorn’s forehead wrinkles at the mention of frivolities, for all Ryalth’s words carry messages between the lines, and that is probably wise. All he can do is wonder and shake his head. He is in Isahl, and Ryalth is in Cyad, and furloughs have allowed him only so far as Syadtar. He is a lancer officer, and she is a merchanter. He smiles. While a magus could not consort with a merchanter … it would be but a mere scandal if a lancer officer did.

At Lorn’s self-mocking and ironic laugh, Cyllt glances toward Lorn, then quickly down at his scroll for a moment, before the undercaptain refills his heavy goblet with the Byrdyn.

Ryalor House is consulted now and again by several Hamorian and Austran traders. It is almost as if it were one of the smaller clan houses. We are not that large, yet who ever would have imaginedthat oil and cotton would have led so far?

I have engaged an enumerator. He is nothing to compare to the first. He is most polite, but he keeps calling me sire. He says it is habit. There are but two other houses and no clans headed by merchanter women ….

“Here comes the overcaptain,” Cyllt murmurs.

Lorn slips Ryalth’s scroll under those from his father and Myryan but does not move the report or the blank paper on which he will reply to Ryalth.

The brown-haired and stocky Zandrey glances at the heavy goblet beside Cyllt. “Wine can become too much of a friend here in Isahl.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn keeps his nod to himself, recalling Jostyn, who’d taken to carrying bottles in his saddlebags-first Alafraan and then the cheapest fermented fruit dregs-until the barbarians had caught him off-guard. For a time, Sub-Majer Brevyl had banned all wine in the study and at Isahl, to punish the officers for not letting Brevyl know that Jostyn was a danger.

“You knew,” Brevyl had said to the remaining officers when he’d gathered them together. “You knew, and no one told me. Good lancers were killed, and that shouldn’t have happened.”

Besides the wine leaving Isahl-if but for a season-so had Overcaptain Chyorst, as a mere captain. And they’d later heard he’d died patroling the Accursed Forest, although his body had never been found.

“Ask Lorn there about what wine did to other officers,” Zandrey says. “Or not, as you choose.” His smile is mirthless, and he turns and walks toward Lorn.

Unlike Cyllt, Lorn stands, if easily. “Ser.”

“Sit down, Lorn.” Zandrey pulls out a chair.

Lorn re-seats himself.

“Nice patrol … Kielt talked to Dubrez,” the overcaptainsays conversationally, although in a low voice. “Over threescore barbarians … that’s a lot for Ram’s End. I checked the old reports. There hasn’t been a raiding party that large there in more than a score of years. Assyadt out west, yes, but not this far east and north.”

Lorn lifts the report. “Would you like this? I just finished it.”

The overcaptain shakes his head. “Drop it in my box in the morning. Did you notice anything different?”

“They formed a wedge to charge us. It wouldn’t have worked as well if we had full lance charges.”

“I got a scroll from Eghyr. He said they were doing that at Abyfel.” Zandrey’s lips form a crooked smile.

“He’s the overcaptain for the west sector there, isn’t he?”

“He is. He’ll probably make sub-majer in another two years.”

“He’s very sharp,” Lorn says.

“Not so sharp as you. You could be an overcaptain for one of Jeranyi sectors, Lorn,” observes Zandrey. “Another two years and you’d be ready.” A short laugh follows. “Two years after that, it might happen.”

“That’s what the younger sons of the Magi’i do, isn’t it? Most of them? Before they die, I mean?” Lorn’s words are gentle, almost flat.

“Those who aren’t talented enough to become Magi’i or stupid enough to get killed by the barbarians,” ripostes Zandrey. “Or who don’t get too fresh with their overcaptains.” The hint of laughter beneath his last words undercuts their seriousness.

“I don’t think I’ll be an overcaptain for a barbarian sector.” Lorn’s voice is languid, an ease of tone unmatched by the coldness in his amber eyes.

“You’re meant for something.” Zandrey shrugs as he stands. “Nothing ever seems to get to you.” Then he grins. “Just remember the rest of us poor struggling lancer officers when it happens.”

“If you’ll do the same for me, ser.” Lorn stands and returns the grin.

Cyllt’s eyes harden as he glances from Zandrey to Lorn and then back at the departing overcaptain.

Lorn reseats himself to finish the scroll to Ryalth, which will be sent to a trader in Fyrad, from there to make its way to her through some indirect route of which he is totally unaware. His lips curl in a slight smile. That is to protect her, except that she was the one to arrange it, to protect him. As in this, as in everything in Cyador, little is as it seems, even under an emperor of the Rational Stars.

At the other table, Cyllt takes a long swallow of the Byrdyn.