Scion of Cyador

Lorn’alt, Inividra Sub-Majer, Mirror Lancers
XLIV

Lorn steps out of the firewagon’s front compartment, glancing back at the six-wheeled and chaos-propelled vehicle. The shimmering canopy that covers the drivers reflects his image, if bulbously. With a wry smile, Lorn passes through the columned portico at Assyadt. While the connecting firewagon from Chulbyn runs but twice an eightday, Lorn was fortunate or unfortunate enough to have had to wait a single day at the changing station. There he had written letters to his parents, Myryan, and another to Ryalth.

Under an intense afternoon sun, a hot fall wind gusts around him as he reclaims his two bags and looks for a carriage or some form of transport to the headquarters compound. There are no carriages, and a single wagon where two men in brown are already loading crates from the firewagon’s freight compartment. Three lancers, one holding the reins to a riderless mount, are waiting on the far side of the firewagon platform.

The junior squad leader glances at Lorn, then at the shimmering insignia on his collar. He looks away, then back again. “Ser? Would you be Sub-Majer Lorn’alt?”

“I am.” Lorn nods.

“Commander Ikynd has requested that we offer you a mount, ser.”

“Thank you.” Lorn crosses the platform and straps his gear behind the saddle. He mounts easily.

As he rides with the three lancers along the granite-paved street, far dryer and dustier than those of Biehl, he looks around the town. Assyadt is a smaller version of Syadtar, the headquarters town for his first assignment at Isahl under Majer Brevyl. Like Syadtar, Assyadt has clean and square stone or white-plastered buildings, green shutters, and tile roofs. He sees none of the slate roofs so prevalent in Biehl.

The compound is less than a kay from the firewagon portico, and yet is on the north edge of the town. As in Syadtar, the gates are open, with little sign that they have ever been closed. The lancers halt outside the first building inside the walls. “This be the commander’s headquarters, ser.”

Lorn dismounts, and unfastens his bags. “Thank you.”

“No problem, ser. Best of luck, ser.”

As Lorn turns and walks up the steps and through the square stone arch, with his chaos-heightened hearing, Lorn catches a few whispered remarks.

“…young for a sub-majer…really young…”

“…doesn’t look like a butcher…”

The new sub-majer keeps a pleasant smile on his lips as he carries his gear through the open double doors and into the foyer.

“Ser!” The squad leader behind the foyer desk is on his feet. “You must be Sub-Majer Lorn.”

“I am,” Lorn admits.

“Both Commander Ikynd and Majer Dettaur would like to see you. If you would let me tell the commander you are here…? Oh…you can set your gear on the bench there. I’ll be just a moment, ser.”

Lorn has barely set his bags on the golden oak bench and straightened his uniform as best he can when the lanky senior squad leader is back.

“This way, ser.”

Lorn follows the squad leader down the short corridor and to the door on the left, and into a study smaller than the one Lorn had as commander at Biehl.

Ikynd stands as Lorn enters. He is a squarish man, clean-shaven, with short-cut salt-and-pepper hair and unruly and bushy eyebrows. His black eyes survey Lorn for a long moment, until the squad leader closes the study door. Then he grins and shakes his head. “Sub-Majer…. a pleasure to meet the Butcher of Nhais.”

Lorn offers a rueful smile. “Ser, I cannot say I had heard the term before.”

“Sit down.” Ikynd gestures to the chairs before his wide table desk. “I’m sure that you haven’t. Majer Dettaur coined it. We’ll talk about that later.”

Lorn seats himself, keeping a faint and pleasant smile on his lips.

“First…congratulations. You did what most thinking lancer officers are trying to do on every angel-cursed patrol.” Ikynd raises his bushy eyebrows. “How did you manage it?”

Lorn shrugs self-deprecatingly. “Luck, having the right information at the right time, good lancers, and good District Guards…”

Ikynd smiles broadly, genially, before speaking. “That’s a good line for Cyad. It’s horsedung here. You want to try again?”

Lorn studies the commander for a long moment. “I exploited the rules of the Emperor’s Code, invoked the authority of the Majer-Commander, found some old maps and updated them, used surplus payroll to recruit and train additional lancers, and gambled that the information I had was correct. I slaughtered every last raider because I knew no one would be sending any patrols after me. It cost me half my command, a third of the guards, and the lives of fivescore Cyadorans. Is that what you wanted to hear, Commander?”

Ikynd nods. “Almost.” The smile returns. “How did you know the barbarians were even there?”

“I wasn’t totally sure,” Lorn lies, “but I knew that the Hamorians were landing scores and scores of blades, and the trading captains had heard that the raiders were going to strike where they never had before. To me, that meant the area east of Biehl. I told everyone that I needed the maneuvers for training and to test the District Guards. If I hadn’t found the raiders, that’s all that would have been known-and I’d have been able to recommend a company’s worth of lancers for transfer to the Grass Hills.” Another shrug follows. “Once we left the north beaches, the smoke was an obvious sign to anyone who’d done patrols in the Grass Hills, and we just followed them until I could trap them.”

“Ingenious-and dangerous,” observes the commander. “You were a captain under Brevyl, weren’t you?”

“Yes, ser.”

“You don’t have to say, but what was his opinion of you?”

Lorn’s eyes are hard as he fixes them on the senior officer. “Ser, he said I was one of the best captains he ever had, that I got more out of my men with fewer losses than anyone, and that he’d never liked me and probably never would.”

Ikynd laughs, a deep rolling chuckle. Then he shakes his head. “Old Grind ’Em and Gut ’Em…always making sure a compliment has a thorn in it.”

Lorn waits.

“You’ve got both kinds of guts, Lorn. The kind that’ll risk telling the truth when people don’t want to hear it, and the kind to take on a job everyone looks the other way on. My orders for you are simple. Give you Inividra, and make sure you lead a company as often as any buck captain. Give you adequate support, but nothing special, and keep you here until you do something stupid enough to get killed.” The commander’s lips curl. “And my second-in-command, the most honorable Dettaur’alt, with all his connections in Cyad, is sitting on his most esteemed rump, ready to report to the Captain-Commander if I deviate from those orders. Even if I’d never met you, I think I’d respect you for the class of your enemies. My respect won’t help you much, not with everyone looking over my shoulder.”

Lorn nods. “I think I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Not so much as you do, I think, but enough.” Lorn pauses. “What are the limits of what I can do?”

“You’re the outpost commander. So long as you kill lots of barbarians, and you kill more than four for every man you lose, I can replace your lancers seasonally. If you lose a lot, regardless of the barbarian kills, that will depend on the Majer-Commander, though, because we only hold about a company here in Assyadt in reserve for the unexpected. You drop below three kills for every lost lancer, and the Captain-Commander, through your friend Dettaur, will have you out for some trumped-up disciplinary action.”

All of what Ikynd says is the truth, but Lorn can sense, almost without truth-reading the officer, that there is more, far more, left unsaid.

“How far can I take patrols?” Lorn asks warily.

“The patrol jurisdictions are on the maps-so far as the lands of Cyador go. Stay out of the other outposts’ Cyadoran patrol lands. If you want to risk going into Jeranyi territory, I don’t care-just so long as you bring back your men, and there aren’t too many lancer bodies left behind. And there aren’t any District Guards to conscript.”

“What about firelances and recharges?”

“We’re down to three, perhaps four recharges a season.”

Lorn winces visibly.

“It’s tight and getting tighter, Sub-Majer.”

“Mounts?”

“Those shouldn’t be a problem. Before he left yesterday, Sub-Majer Kysken reported that he had twoscore extra from captures.”

“Officers and companies?”

“You have five companies at full strength. Two undercaptains, and three captains. You rate an overcaptain, but you won’t get him, not for several seasons, at least.”

“What sort of raids is the area taking?”

“The numbers aren’t much different than before. Say two raids every three eightdays in your territories. The difference is that the raiding parties are larger.”

“More blades,” Lorn suggests.

“Could be. Could be anything.”

Lorn catches the off-balance feel of the response, but merely nods. “Is there anything else of special importance to you that I should know, ser?”

The genial smile reappears. “I don’t like reading long and puffed-up reports. I liked your battle report. Keep them like that, and we’ll be on the same step.”

“Yes, ser.”

Abruptly, Ikynd stands. “Not much more to say. Dettaur’s study is across the corridor. Good luck.”

Lorn stands and bows. “Thank you, ser.”

As Ikynd watches with an amused smile, Lorn opens the door and departs.

He crosses the corridor and steps into Dettaur’s immaculate and smaller study. The taller man smiles and stands, slowly, from behind his study desk. Several stacks of papers are set on the left side, although Dettaur does not seem to have been reading them.

“You look good, Lorn.”

“So do you.” Lorn smiles. “And you’ve made Majer.”

“Last season.” Dettaur motions to a chair and reseats himself. “You’ve met with the commander. What did you think?”

“He’s very direct,” Lorn observes as he sits down.

Dettaur nods. “He hides as much as he reveals, but he never lies. You present a real problem for him. He likes officers who kill barbarians-he was born in Syadtar-and you are obviously quite good at that.” The majer smiles. “You have also created a certain unrest, shall we say, in Mirror Lancer headquarters.”

“By killing Jeranyi who were murdering people all across the countryside?” Lorn raises his eyebrows.

“No. By using the powers of a senior lancer commander to clean up the dirty little bribery games of the Emperor’s Enumerators, to conscript the District Guards, and to call attention to how badly the Mirror Lancers had run the port compound by managing to double its size and turn it back into a fighting unit without costing Cyador a single additional gold.” Dettaur shakes his head slowly. “There is such a thing as being too effective, Lorn. I haven’t forgotten the lesson you gave me when we were in school. I know it was you.” A smile follows. “That is history, and we have a job to do here.”

“We do. What do you suggest?”

Dettaur purses his lips as if thinking, although Lorn knows that Dettaur has his response prepared. “Be careful. You’re going to be here a long time. The commander can’t give you any more support than any other outpost, and Inividra takes the most raids of all. We’ve also been told to expect fewer firelance recharges-something about the Accursed Forest chaos-towers.”

Lorn nods.

“You were right about the Hamorian blades. At least, I think you were, and that’s why the Jeranyi raiding parties will get bigger. When they get enough blades, more will go eastward, and Syadtar’s outposts will see bigger raids then, too.”

“While we have fewer firelances,” Lorn says.

“Exactly. That’s being a lancer.”

Except Dettaur won’t be out leading patrols, Lorn reflects silently.

“And don’t expect any brilliant tactics to get you out of here. It won’t happen.”

The sub-majer senses both the partial lie and the other’s unease with the statement, but only replies, dryly, “I’ve noticed that already.”

“You would. You’re here. I’ve never seen you make the same mistake twice.”

“I try to avoid that.”

“Good.” Dettaur gestures vaguely toward the open window. “You can have the senior officer’s visiting quarters tonight, and your pick of any mount in the stable that’s free. In the morning, you’ll take your own replacements out to Inividra. It’s a good two-day ride to the northwest.”

Lorn laughs. “Like all outposts.”

Dettaur stands.

So does Lorn.

“There’s one other thing, Lorn.”

“Yes, ser?”

“Ah, you anticipated me. That’s right. But best you also remember that what you do reflects on the commander and me. So if you do well, so do we.” Dettaur smiles.

“Then I’ll have to do well, ser.” Lorn understands that all too well. If he fails, it will be his fault, and if he succeeds, Dettaur will claim credit. And with Dettaur writing the final reports, and all couriers going through Assyadt, Lorn has yet another problem.

“I’m sure you will, and good luck, if I don’t see you later.” Dettaur flashes a last false smile, yet one more sincere to Lorn than many.

Lorn walks out of Dettaur’s study and through the foyer to reclaim his gear. He has a long ride to Inividra, and a great deal to consider in an extremely short time, contrary to what Dettaur has urged. It is most clear that, if he does not act quickly-somehow-he will end up being slowly constricted into an impossible situation. Yet if he acts too quickly, he will not have the support of his men and enough knowledge to succeed.

It is also obvious that the commander and the majer dislike each other, that both lie in different ways, and that they can be trusted only so far as their own self-interests will take them. Nothing has changed with Dettaur since he left Cyad to become a Mirror Lancer officer years before, except that he has become more adept in using others.

As Lorn lifts the bags, before asking for directions to his temporary quarters, he laughs.

The senior squad leader looks up. “Ser?”

“Just thinking, Squad Leader. Which way to the senior-officer visiting quarters?”

“Third building back. The second set of steps. They’re unlocked and the key hangs behind the door, ser.”

“Thank you.” Still smiling, Lorn turns toward the outer double doors of the headquarters building.