Scion of Cyador

XLIX

Lorn sits at the head of the single table in the officers’ dining area. Emsahl is on his right, Cheryk on his left, then Esfayl beside Emsahl, and the two undercaptains at the end across from each other. Quytyl’s arm remains in a splint, but he can move his hand, if gingerly.

The sub-majer looks at the large casserole dish, from which emanates the odor of very strong and very heavily seasoned mutton emburhka. He raises his eyebrows and takes a ladleful, easing it onto the battered brown platter before him, then leaves the ladle in the dish for Emsahl, and breaks off a large chunk of warm and crusty bread.

A cold rain outside pelts on the tile roof, and a thin line of water wends its way down one wall near the corner of the room.

Lorn waits for Quytyl to serve himself before starting to eat.

The six officers eat silently for several moments.

“Ser?” asks Cheryk. “Do you have any idea what the patrol schedule will be like next eightday?”

“Not for sure. I’ll have it ready in the next day or so. I was hoping for some dispatches on what’s happened at Pemedra and the other outposts.” Lorn smiles wryly. “If there’s a large raider group there, we’re less likely to get one. They all fit together.”

“Ser…it seems strange, but we haven’t missed a single raider party,” Esfayl says between bites. “Last eightday, we didn’t get to that valley until they were already there…but they didn’t get away, either. And we’re not riding as many patrols.”

Emsahl and Cheryk both nod their agreement.

“I think that’s because the raiders have more weapons, and they’re riding in bigger groups. They have to raid larger hamlets, or there’s not enough loot for them. That makes it easier to figure where they’ll go.” Lorn laughs. “If they go back to smaller groups, then I’m not sure how we’ll do.”

“They’ll have to, won’t they?” asks the curly-haired junior captain. “When we can use two companies, they lose a lot more.”

“I’d think so,” Lorn says, “but I’m not going to tell them that. This way is easier on us.”

“I heard that we might get another company,” ventures Cheryk.

Lorn nods and swallows the tough mutton in the emburhka. “That’s very likely. The Magi’i have some project with the Accursed Forest, and they say that, if it works, they won’t need as many Mirror Lancers.” He frowns. “But we’ll need them, especially if they keep cutting back on firelance recharges.” His eyes go to Emsahl. “How is the training on shorter bursts with the lances going?”

“They’re getting it.” Emsahl offers a slow, sardonic smile. “Some of them finally figured out that if they have more chaos charges left, they don’t have to spend as much time using a sabre against one of those iron bars.”

“Even when they don’t hit square, those big blades hurt,” affirms Quytyl, glancing down at his arm.

“You can’t block them. You have to parry or slide,” points out Esfayl. “The newer blades the raiders are carrying hold an edge longer, too.”

“Why can’t the fireships do something about those traders, ser?” asks Rhalyt. “It doesn’t seem right that we let them sail right past our ports and ship those blades to the Jeranyi.”

“The fireships don’t know which ships are carrying blades, and they can’t stop all the traders,” Lorn says. “So long as the Jeranyi will pay golds for blades, and there’s a place to land them, some trader from somewhere is going to do it. We don’t have enough fireships to cover our own ports, let alone the Eastern and Western Oceans.”

“Still seems wrong…”

Lorn nods, and lets the other officers carry the conversation.

After the meal, Lorn walks back through the rain that is beginning to dwindle into splatters on the stone pavement, and then slowly up the narrow steps from the corridor behind the first level study.

He has been at Inividra five eightdays, and he has made patrols with all the companies. One of the patrols was without incident; the other five encountered barbarians, although one raider group was less than a score-perhaps scouting-and turned back north well before Lorn’s forces could pursue.

Once he is in his small quarters’ study, Lorn extracts the screeing glass, knowing that trying to use it in the rain will tire him more and leave him with a headache, but he wishes to see another scene, one not of valleys, and roads, and rivers, and barbarians, but one of more immediate need.

Looking at the glass, Lorn concentrates, ignoring the immediate headache as the silver mists form and then swirl aside.

Ryalth is propped in a large and ornate bed, an infant at her breast. She glances around, then her eyes narrow. Abruptly, she smiles and briefly lifts the fingers of her left hand to her lips.

Lorn smiles, then, after another long look, releases the image. He frowns, for although Ryalth looks healthy, Lorn recognizes neither the bed nor the room, and yet she has not written him about moving quarters. Then, perhaps because she senses when he can see her and knows that others may well read what she writes, she may have chosen not to convey such information.

As for Lorn, he must spare chaos-energy for more screeing of lands and barbarians-while it is yet light in the late afternoon and early evening, and in the morning, before he goes down for the day-and for maps, and all that he can to kill barbarians while losing as few lancers as possible.

After a time, he puts the glass away, then descends the stairs once more, and crosses the rain-slicked stones of the courtyard. Above him the clouds are beginning to part and to show stars.

He walks along the corridor and then into the officers’ study, noting that the only officer there is Rhalyt and that he has a bottle of Byrdyn set beside the mug at his elbow. As Rhalyt sees Lorn, he slips something under his patrol report and stands.

Lorn smiles, recalling that he had often done the same. He walks toward the red-haired undercaptain.

“Ser.”

“Undercaptain…if you want to hide something, don’t call attention to it by moving it as soon as a senior officer appears.”

Rhalyt flushes.

“I used to hide scrolls I was writing to my consort that way,” Lorn continues. “That was before we were consorted.” He smiles. “So long as you get your reports done, you can write whoever you wish…and don’t be afraid or ashamed of it.”

“Yes, ser.”

“You have a couple of lancers who are spraying their lances all over the place. Have your squad leaders talk to them. And talk to Emsahl about the training he’s doing. You need to follow his example once he has it worked out. We may need that chaos-energy later this season.”

“Yes, ser.” Rhalyt nods.

Lorn half-turns, then adds, “And don’t let me stop you from writing scrolls. They’re important, too.” He smiles to himself as he leaves the study, and walks toward the north lancer barracks.

There, he has not taken one step inside before someone calls, “Majer in the barracks!”

Lorn shakes his head, and walks the north wing, then the south, saying little, just looking, before leaving. He finds nothing he should not, and has not since his second informal inspection. While he does not wish to intrude or interfere too much, he also knows that his presence shows he wants to maintain order and discipline, and that he cares.

He walks slowly back to the study, and the maps, except he pushes them aside as he seats himself at the narrow desk. Instead, he pulls out and rereads Ryalth’s last scroll.

My dearest lancer,

We are well, as I know you know, but still must I write you such. Your son Kerial is healthy and strong, and I believe he looks more like you, with his brown hair and amber eyes….

I do not know that you would have heard, but the Emperor now has a new Merchanter Advisor. That is Vyanat’mer, of the Hyshrah Clan, a house nearly as strong as the Dyjani. Veljan was also considered. Bluoyal was dismissed because he had been discovered paying bribes to a senior enumerator in the port of Biehl. As you know, the enumerator has vanished, but not the record of the payments. Bluoyal has also vanished, but none can say whether by flight or by his many enemies. When one falls from power, enemies multiply…

Ryalor House has had some profitable commerce with the Hyshrah traders, and have found them to be most careful folk, and I trust that Vyanat’mer will prove like them….

We had once talked about iron trade, but Ryalor House has never engaged in such, although I have heard of those who have, particularly in northern ports, but after your adventures, it is most certain that we will not follow that course, even were it profitable. As poor Bluoyal has discovered, there are always records somewhere, for a trader cannot determine whether he profits or fails without such.

Lorn frowns for a moment, then smiles at Ryalth’s observations and indirect advice. There are always records-somewhere. He finishes the scroll, and then takes out paper and his own pen.

Dearest,

As well you know, patience is scarcely my greatest virtue, yet all I do in these days requires such, for the barbarians seem endless at times, and, as in all new situations, there is much I must learn…

Winter is coming, with the cold rains, and chill winds, and with it, I would hope, fewer attacks by the barbarians, and more time to plan and consider how to deal with these changing times, times that change even as most turn their eyes from the change…

From what I can calculate and have seen, in your words, as well, you and Kerial must be doing well. I cannot tell you how much I miss not being with you in these times…but I am glad that Jerial and Myryan were there to help you, and while I have also written them to express my deep gratitude, would you also again convey it for me?

Would that I could be there in person, but you know you are always in my mind and thoughts.

He rereads his scroll once more, then rolls it and seals it, heating the wax with a touch of chaos.

Then he takes out the silver volume and pages through it, settling on the verse he selects for reasons he cannot articulate.

I look to the hills whence cometh no aid;

my god is not divine, for he is made-

made of man, made of fire, filled with salt.

His eyes are a single star long since set.

He does not praise the lame and halt.

He judges not, nor yet does he forget.

Is there such? A great being presiding over the Steps of Paradise? The ancient writer certainly had doubts about such-and more than a slight suggestion that mankind makes its own gods and images to worship.

When he sets aside the volume and finally slips into his cool bed, he does not sleep well.