Scion of Cyador

XXV

In the orangish light of dawn, Lorn glances at the wide River Behla to his left, then at the scattered buildings of the town ahead. He and the squad that follows him have been riding since well before dawn, traveling upstream more than ten kays to reach the double bridges at Lower Island to cross to the eastern bank, and then traveling the east river road back toward Ehyla, the smaller sister town across the river from the port of Biehl. In Ehyla, at the guard station above the river, the District Guard Commander is supposed to meet with Lorn, according to the messages they have exchanged.

Lorn watches the river and the road, until he can at last see the single pier that juts into the river, a crooked and rickety structure whose upstream side appears blocked by a sandbar or mudbank. According to the messengers, the District Guard post is on a low hill directly east of the pier, halfway up the slope, and facing the river.

As they pass the kaystone that indicates Ehyla is but two kays away, Lorn studies the scattered dwellings, yellow brick affairs, most without privacy screens or hedges, some with the old-style thatched roofs instead of slate or tile, and the majority with unpainted and often sagging shutters.

A pack of four dogs appears from the low brush above the muddy river flats. The lead dog, a black-and-white mongrel, sniffs cautiously, then turns back into the brush. The others follow, although a smaller golden dog raises its nose for a last sniff before it, too, vanishes.

The guard post is indeed where the messengers have reported it to be, and Lorn and the second squad rein up outside the square two-story, and freshly whitewashed, plaster-walled building that dominates Ehyla.

Lorn looks to Whylyn, the other junior squad leader besides Tashqyt, and the one who leads the squad accompanying Lorn. “Have them stand down, but close enough to be ready to ride. See if you can find some water for the mounts.”

“Yes, ser.” The sandy-haired and beak-nosed squad leader nods.

Lorn dismounts, ties the chestnut to one of the hitching rings on the sunstone post below the steps to the stone-framed door, and checks his sabre. Then he walks up the steps and into the building.

In the small foyer sits a young, brown-clad guard. His eyes widen at the sight of the Mirror Lancer officer in cream and green standing before him. “Ser?”

“Overcaptain Lorn. I’m here to see the District Commander.”

“Ah…yes, ser. He’s expecting you.”

If he is expected, Lorn wonders at the surprise. Or were they expecting an aging officer in the last stages of his career? His lips twist momentarily as he follows the young guard past one open door on the right-what appears to be a carelessly-kept armory of sorts-to the first open door on the left.

“Overcaptain Lorn, ser.” The guard bows and back away, letting Lorn enter the largish study alone.

The District Commander of the local guards stands. He is black-haired, small, with fierce black eyes, and a thin mustache that curves upward from the corners of his mouth. His crimson-trimmed brown uniform is immaculate, and the silver stars on his collar shimmer brightly.

“Commander Repyl, Overcaptain.” Repyl gestures to a wooden armchair across the polished wide desk from him. He does not wait for Lorn to sit before reseating himself.

Lorn glances around the study, taking in the bookcase, nearly empty, and the four footchests that appear to have been recently polished, before seating himself.

“Well, Overcaptain, the word is that you are beefing up the Mirror Lancers in Biehl.” Repyl snorts. “Well past time for that.”

“There is a time for everything,” Lorn says mildly as he seats himself easily in the straight-backed chair. “The Majer-Commander has decided that much needed to be done at Biehl.”

“You have…what…somewhat less than a company?” The commander pauses. “You have brought a full squad. What would happen if a ship ported in your absence, or pirates appeared?”

“The lancers under Senior Squad Leader Helkyt would do their duty. We now have almost two full companies. That is double what we had last winter.” Lorn’s eyes fix on the commander. “We recently received the equipment necessary to add another half-company.”

“That is indeed a change.” The commander smiles tolerantly.

“How many guards have you, Commander?” Lorn asks. “Those with full gear and weapons who could be called up and give an account of themselves?”

“No one has ever asked that.” The District Commander draws himself up behind his ornate desk.

Lorn shrugs. “I am relatively new to the port detachment. I have spent most of my time in the Mirror Lancers as a fighting officer. Those questions come easily. Also, I was reviewing my statement of duties, and part of those duties is to inspect and verify the numbers and abilities of the District Guard forces. So I am here. That is why I sent that message to you.”

“Ah…yes.” The commander nods. “One cannot fault you for attention to duty. It has been long, I understand, since the full scope of those duties has been attempted. Tell me. How fares Senior Enumerator Flutak? A most imposing official.” Repyl smiles.

“The senior enumerator was discovered to have been accepting bribes from traders and from one of the larger olive-growers. He vanished, as did most of the records. He has not been seen in a season. The grower, an arrogant fellow by the name of Baryat…he hired some assassins, and when I went to inquire, he not only admitted to bribery and hiring the assassins, but he attacked me with a pruning knife in front of an entire squad. The new senior enumerator in charge is Neabyl. He is most honest, most devoted to carrying out the provisions of the Emperor’s Code. He has been commended by His Mightiness.” Lorn smiles coolly. “We work well together, and Biehl is again beginning to receive more ships.”

“Ah…yes…that is most interesting.”

“You were about to tell me how many guards you had ready to ride,” Lorn reminds the commander.

“The District Guard is near full-strength.”

Lorn’s eyes harden, and he waits.

“With two or three days’ advance notice, I can raise two companies. We use cupridium lances-not firelances. Otherwise, our equipment is the same.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Lorn stands. “You are busy; so am I. If you would show me the building-the armory, and the tackrooms…”

“I had not thought a man of your position…” the commander replies as he slowly stands.

“When one is sent to do a duty by the Majer-Commander,” Lorn says evenly, “it is best that he carry it out.”

“Yes…I can see that.” Repyl fingers the right end of his waxed mustache. “Yes…I can certainly see that.”

“The Majer-Commander has plans for Biehl,” Lorn adds. “That much I do know.” He gestures toward the door, then exits and crosses the hall to the armory he has seen earlier.

Someone has made a recent effort to organize the cupridium lances, and most have been polished, if hurriedly, and the sabres are racked as they should be. There is little in the way of supporting gear, such as small spades, water bottles, and saddlebags.

Lorn walks around the long and dim room without speaking until he is ready to leave. “The weapons are adequately cared for. More than half your guards would perish of thirst in any long ride-or you would have them scattered across the land seeking water. Best you find water bottles for them, and soon.”

“Soon?”

Lorn ignores the question, posing one of his own. “Mounts and tack?”

“Each guard keeps his own mount. If it dies of a fault of his, he must replace it with one inspected by the guard ostler. Their mounts are in excellent shape.”

Lorn senses the truth of the answer, both from Repyl and the system.

“The tackroom…” The commander leads Lorn to the north end of the building, where he unlocks a door with a simple brass key. “There is an outside door. It is barred except when we drill.”

The tack is racked properly, and has been recently cleaned, although Lorn can see dirt in cracks in the leather, but the equipment is not nearly so bad as it could be-nor in as poor condition as some of what he had found at Biehl.

Lorn nods as they leave the tackroom, then turns to Repyl. “Matters appear solid here. Sometime in the late summer or early fall, I will be here to inspect all your guards, and their mounts.” Lorn smiles. “I will require that they be equipped and provisioned for an eightday ride.”

“That is not…”

“It is,” Lorn says quietly. “I will give you an eightday’s notice. If you find that difficult…” He leaves the implication unspoken.

“Ah…no. With an eightday’s notice, we will be ready.”

“Good. It has been a pleasure meeting you, and to learn that you understand that as the world changes so must what has been accepted in the past. I look forward to seeing you on my inspection.”

“We will be ready, Overcaptain, when you arrive.”

“Thank you.” Lorn bows, then turns and walks past the nervous young guard and out to his waiting squad.

Without speaking, Lorn unties and mounts the chestnut. While Repyl is neither overtly dishonest nor hiding matters about the District Guards, the man is clearly upset by Lorn’s visit and the changes taking place in Biehl. That means that he will bear watching, through the glass, and that means more work and headaches for Lorn.

“Form up!” orders Whylyn.

The lancers reform into a column two-abreast that rides south and back toward the bridges at Lower Island.

“If I might ask…ser?” ventures Whylyn after they have ridden a kay or so.

“The commander was quite pleasant,” Lorn observes. “We’ll be returning in half a season or so, perhaps a bit longer, to inspect the guards.”

“They’ll not be liking that,” prophesies the squad leader.

They will like what Lorn has in mind even less, the overcaptain suspects.