Scion of Cyador

XLII

As he sits at the desk in the administration-building study, in an midafternoon far too hot for harvest, Lorn dips the pen in the ink and forces himself to write yet another line in the revised training schedule he is developing for the late fall and early winter-if he is still in Biehl and if he can recruit more lancers to replace the two squads he has lost in the battle against the Jeranyi raiders. Almost two eightdays have passed since Lorn and the lancers have returned to Biehl, and the early-fall weather remains warm, almost sultry.

“Ser!” Helkyt opens the study door without knocking.

“Yes?” Lorn looks up from the sheets of paper spread across his desk.

“This just came on the firewagon, ser.” Helkyt extends a narrow package wrapped in green shimmercloth-a cubit long and roughly cylindrical. “Said it had to go to you, urgent-like.”

“Thank you.” Lorn stands and takes the cloth-wrapped package, then sets it on the desk. He makes no effort to open it.

Helkyt remains standing opposite the desk.

“I’ll let you know,” Lorn says softly, adding once more, “Thank you.”

“Ah…yes, ser.” Helkyt bows and slips out, closing the door quietly.

Once alone inside his officer’s study, Lorn stands and looks at the package. Finally, he unwraps it. He looks at the set of two heavy scrolls with their green seals and ribbons, and then at the green felt pouch as if it contains a serpent or coiled chaos.

He opens the first scroll, heavily sealed and with ornate gilt lettering at the top and the shield and lance emblem of the Mirror Lancers. There are few words, and while they would bring satisfaction to many lancer officers, they chill him.

…hereby convey upon Lorn’alt of Cyad the rank of Sub-Majer in the Mirror Lancers of Cyador, and the role of protector and defender of the Land of Eternal Light, the Steps of Paradise…and all benefits and duties associated therewith…”

In short, he is a sub-majer, a good three to five years ahead of the normal promotion patterns. He sets aside the first scroll and breaks the green seal on the second. The second scroll is worse, and he has to read it twice because his eyes skip from line to line.

Sub-Majer Lorn’alt of Cyad, you are hereby assigned as commander, and officer in charge of the Mirror Lancer outpost at Inividra…The urgency of this commission is such that you are ordered to take the next available firewagon from Biehl. You are to report to Assyadt immediately, and to present yourself to Commander Ikynd…As outpost commander, you will also take immediate command of those patrols to your choosing and lead each company under your command on a significant number of patrols…No home leave or furlough period is allowable in connection with your travel and transfer to this assignment. Furlough and home leave will apply as if your new assignment were a continuation of your present assignment…

A third and smaller scroll is attached to his orders, and Lorn reads it in turn.

Your relief will be Majer Brevyl, who has been detached and should already be in transit by the time you leave. He has been briefed on the arms situation with Jera and has received a copy of all reports you have transmitted to the Majer-Commander. It is strongly recommended that you take actual command of a specific company…

There is a scrawled signature beneath the message: Luss’alt, Captain-Commander.

Lorn nods to himself, then laughs humorlessly. Finally, he opens the green pouch and takes out the triple bars, laying them on the training schedule papers. He removes the arched double bars from his uniform collar and replaces them with the sub-majer’s insignia. Then, he stands and walks to the door, opening it and stepping out. Tashqyt and Swytyl turn. The two have been talking to Helkyt. The senior squad leader’s eyes catch the new insignia instantly, as if he had suspected.

“Ser! Congratulations!”

“Congratulations, ser!” echo both junior squad leaders.

“Thank you. Thank you all.” He pauses. “Times…they are changing, and things are going to change more at Biehl. I’ve been transferred, immediately, to be the new commanding officer at Inividra…”

Tashqyt and Swytyl exchange glances, and the sharp-featured Tashqyt frowns.

Helkyt nods slowly, as if regretfully. “They want you back to fight the barbarians.”

“Your new commanding officer is a full majer-Majer Brevyl. I served under him at Isahl, several years ago. He was a good man, and one who rewarded accomplishment, and punished failure.

“I have to leave on the next firewagon, and that will be the day after tomorrow.” After a moment, the sub-majer adds, “I would like you to form up the men, first thing in the morning, so that I can address them.”

“Yes, ser,” Helkyt says.

“I’ll leave the draft training schedule for Majer Brevyl. I think all the other records and reports are current. For now, I’m going over to talk to Neabyl. He and the other enumerators should know.”

The squad leaders nod, and Lorn steps back into his study to claim his garrison cap before heading to the stable. Word travels faster than does Lorn, for Chulhyr has the chestnut saddled and waiting when Lorn reaches the stable.

“Ser…here she be.” Chulhyr’s eyes do not meet the new sub-majer’s as he hands Lorn the reins. “So much…you been doing for the compound and Biehl…almost seems like a shame that you be going, but I’d be guessing others need you more.”

“Thank you, Chulhyr.” Lorn offers a smile. “That’s certainly what the Majer-Commander thinks. Your new commander is Majer Brevyl, and I learned much from him. He can be hard, but he is fair.”

“ ‘Fair’…good words from you, ser.”

Lorn nods again and leads the chestnut out into the courtyard. He mounts and rides slowly out through the gates and down the hill to the harbor-and the enumerators’ building.

Neabyl is in, and the two walk back into the large room with the dais, where Lorn sits down on the short side of the long table.

Neabyl takes his own place before a stack of bills of lading and manifests. “A new promotion, I see.”

“Promotion and transfer,” Lorn says. “I’m being sent to command the outpost at Inividra.”

Neabyl laughs ruefully. “You had to be successful. With all the barbarian attacks, it’s not a surprise.” He pauses. “Do you know who your successor is?”

“Majer Brevyl-a good officer. I think the Majer-Commander is going to have to establish more outposts, in places like Nhais, I’d guess. He’s gotten my reports, and he’s likely to be cautious, but it will happen.”

The wiry Neabyl brushes a hand through his fine black hair, smoothing it back off his forehead, then fingers his chin. “You know things, Overcaptain…I mean, Sub-Majer. Others have to discover them.” He smiles. “What do you know that will affect me?”

“I’m not certain.” Lorn frowns. “There will be more Hamorian traders going to Jera, and more ships here. I’d guess there will be more Mirror Lancers and outposts to the east, closer to Jerans and the northern part of the Grass Hills. Some factors and growers may protest to my successor that I was unfair, but that will come to little with the majer.”

“All that I surmise. And what will happen in Cyad that may affect me? Do you know?”

Lorn smiles. “I can but guess. Why do you ask? What do you know that I should know?”

“I do not know for sure, but I received a command to provide copies of all remaining records involving Flutak. This came from the Hand of the Emperor.”

Lorn frowns again. The Hand of the Emperor-the one Imperial functionary never mentioned by name-a shadow figure who issues orders in the name of His Mightiness, and whose power is seldom exercised. Yet…

Lorn shakes his head.

“Exactly,” replies Neabyl. “I have sent those records which remained-those approved and signed by Flutak, especially those involving olives and a few other items.” The dark-haired enumerator pauses. “You know that Flutak was a cousin of Bluoyal’mer, the Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor, did you not?”

“I might have heard that, but that was years ago, and I hadn’t even thought about it. I should have,” Lorn says. “I wonder why the Hand is interested.”

“I do not know, but I do not think I would be in Bluoyal’s boots in this season.”

“Nor I.” Lorn laughs gently. “Would you like to ride up to my quarters so that I could present you with a few bottles of Alafraan?”

“I could not…”

“I have no way to take more than two or three with me,” Lorn points out, “and while I will leave a few for my successor, we have been through much together, and a few bottles are little enough thanks.” He stands.

Neabyl grins. “Put that way, I would not wish to see good wine wasted.”

The two leave the dais room, Lorn for the last time.