Scion of Cyador

LIV

In the late afternoon, Lorn steps into the front corridor and foyer of the square tower at Inividra, his saddlebags over his shoulder, sabre at his belt, and his winter jacket still fastened. He nods to Nesmyl. “We’re back.”

“Yes, ser. Were there any barbarians?”

“No. They know it’s winter. Only lancers are out now.” Lorn laughs ruefully. “Any dispatches from Assyadt?”

“No, ser. Captain Esfayl would like to see you. One of his men deserted, and was found in the local hamlet-with a local…entertainer.”

Lorn nods. “We’ll have to do something.” Since Esfayl’s Second Company wasn’t actually on patrol, Lorn may be able to just have the man given a few lashes, and have his pay docked for a season, but he will need to speak to Esfayl first. “Is there anything else?”

“No, ser.”

“Good.” Lorn gestures toward the narrow back stairs. “I’ll be in my quarters until dinner.”

“Yes, ser. If you do not need me…”

“Go.” Lorn laughs. “You’ll be doing long days come spring.”

Nesmyl smiles, as if reluctantly, then bows.

Lorn carries his gear up the narrow stairs. His legs ache from riding in the chill. Although the patrol from which he and the Fourth Company have just returned to Inividra has been short, the cold makes such patrols seem far longer. They had found no barbarians, as Lorn had known, and no tracks of such, but he will be able to report to Dettaur that he has indeed taken another patrol, for all must seem in accord with the Dettaur’s wishes, and those of Commander Ikynd.

Once in his quarters, Lorn pulls off the winter jacket, glad that one of the lancers has at least kept the stove stoked so that Lorn’s rooms are passably warm. Then he puts away his gear and unclips the sabre, setting it by the armoire.

The tired sub-majer stands for a moment at the foot of the bed and tries to stretch his legs. Then he walks to the small study, pausing behind the chair and desk to glance out through the half-frosted ancient panes. Outside, the gray clouds make it difficult to tell whether the flat and dim light is because of the clouds or the coming twilight.

With a wry twist to his lips, Lorn seats himself once more at the desk in the upper study of the square tower and takes out the maps. He has almost a bell before dinner, and he might as well accomplish something more fruitful than empty patrols required by a vengeful superior.

He pauses. In some ways…are the Jeranyi like Dettaur? Dettaur has forgotten that Lorn broke his fingers for a reason-because Dettaur had been bullying all the younger boys at the school. Yet all Dett recalls is that Lorn broke his fingers, not all the injuries and humiliations he had foisted upon others. All the Jeranyi recall is an ancient humiliation, and not all the endless deaths and mutilations that they have inflicted over the generations.

The sub-majer pushes those thoughts away, applicable as they may be, and concentrates on the maps and his ideas for dealing with the barbarians. On those maps before him on the desk, Lorn follows the track of the south branch of the Jeryna River, using the map calipers to check the distances, trusting that he has managed to keep the scales relatively consistent. He adds up the figures. Then he does the same for the west branch.

Finally, he nods. If it does not snow too late, and if the Sixth Company arrives as scheduled…then the travel aspects of what he is considering may work. Unhappily, that is only part of what he needs.

There are also twoscore extra firelances in the armory, and those will help.

Yet he must find exactly what he seeks, or all that he plans will be of little use to him-or to the Mirror Lancers. And even after two full eightdays of using the glass, he has not found what he needs.

Slowly, he pulls out the chaos-glass and sets it on the desk, half dreading the headache he will have before he is done. He squares his shoulders, and concentrates on the glass, letting the silver mists gather, and then give way to images, one after the other, until he has the building he wishes in view. He takes a deep breath and focuses his attention on the entry doors.

The image that appears is of two heavy, dark-stained doors, nothing more.

He tries again, focusing on a window that seems brighter than the others, and is rewarded with a view through a half-open shutter of a man in maroon and blue sitting at small table with a chest of some sort before him.

Lorn tries to catch and hold the image of the trader-or factor-and to focus on the room.

In time, he is rewarded, although his eyes are burning, and his headache is intensifying, but the scenes are indeed clear. The building does have chests with ledgers, and warehouse space, largely empty at the moment.

Lorn nods and sketches it in on the larger map he is drawing. He almost blurs the lines, for his hand has begun to tremble. He sets aside the pen and closes his eyes for a few moments, before he resumes drawing.

Then he halts, for he cannot afford to spoil the work he has done.

Yet his efforts are slow…so slow that some days he feels he will never accomplish what must be done before spring-not with patrols, and reports, and training, and inspections. Intensive use of the chaos-glass is far harder than merely raising chaos-at least for Lorn.

He shakes his head and closes his eyes once more, before opening them again. Before long he must descend and cross the courtyard for dinner, and he must not appear tired, or less than encouraging.