Scion of Cyador

LVII

At the head of Fourth Company, with Cheryk to his left, Lorn rides through the light swirls of heavy snowflakes that have replaced the late-winter rain. The road is wet, but without snow or ice. Beyond the bare ground, the snow does not melt, but builds where it strikes the grasses in the fields on each side of the lane leading up to the outer gates of the outpost at Inividra.

“Be glad to get dry again,” Cheryk says. “Sometimes, I’d rather have snow than rain.”

“Especially if there’s a hard freeze coming.” Lorn nods in agreement as the two officers ride through the open outer gates, passing guards bundled in winter jackets.

“Didn’t have to use any firelance charges.”

“So far.” Lorn still worries about having enough firelances, as it is clear that the number of lances and recharges will be decreasing every year.

Beyond the inner gate at Inividra, the stones of the courtyard are warm enough that the fat snowflakes have melted, and left the stones damp and not slushy or icy.

“Not a bad patrol,” Lorn notes to Cheryk.

“Any patrol without raiders is a good patrol, ser.”

Lorn laughs. “We could hope for a long winter.”

“Don’t know as which is worse.”

“Raiders, as we both know.” Lorn reins up outside the stable.

Before he dismounts, Hasmyr is standing by the stable door. “How be the mounts, sers?”

“There’s a mare lame in the second squad,” Cheryk says.

“I’ll be looking at her, then.”

“Thank you, Hasmyr.” Lorn hands the gelding’s reins to the ostler, then unstraps his second sabre and his gear. After a nod to Cheryk, he crosses the courtyard and to the square tower, and the sentry. “Good afternoon, Wyett.”

“Afternoon, ser.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t freeze after all this wet snow.”

“No, ser. Rather not see that.”

After a nod, Lorn slips into the door to the square tower, where his senior squad leader and administrative aide is standing by his desk, waiting.

“A Captain Gyraet reported,” Nesmyl says. “With a full company of lancers. They’re in the old south bay. And there is a dispatch on your desk.”

“Thank you.” Lorn nods as he walks back toward the rear staircase. “If you can find the captain, I’d like to talk to him before the evening meal. I’ll be down as soon as I unload my gear.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn slips up the stairs, where he stops but long enough to leave his gear and sabres in the bedchamber before descending to the commander’s study. There, he takes off the winter jacket and hangs it on the wall peg. For a moment, Lorn looks at the dispatch, sealed, and doubtless from Dettaur. His lips curl, and he lifts the scroll and breaks the seal, beginning to read.

Now that the new Magi’i barrier is in place around the Accursed Forest, the Majer-Commander is sending an extra company to each outpost that is expected to receive heavy barbarian attacks. Captain Gyraet and his company are one of the first to arrive. I would caution you that because their mounts could not travel by Mirror Lancer firewagon, there are few spare mounts, and there will not be many for several eightdays.

Lorn frowns. Inividra has close to a score-and-a-half spare mounts, mainly from those lost by the raiders in the fall. How many does Dettaur expect Lorn to lose in the next few eightdays?

I have already cautioned Captain Gyraet about this as well.

The sub-majer laughs. Trust Dettaur to find creative new ways to undermine Lorn, and trust him to tell Lorn as well. Dettaur has great skill at positioning himself. That is clear.

Commander Ikynd and I look forward to the reports of your accomplishments once spring turns, and the barbarians begin their raids.

“I wager you do, Dett. I wager you do,” Lorn murmurs to himself.

Thrap.

At the rap on the door, he turns. “Yes?”

“Captain Gyraet, reporting for duty, ser.”

“Come in.” Lorn motions for the officer to enter the study.

Gyraet is the image of the popular lancer officer, slender but muscular, dark-haired, with a strong but not protruding squarish chin, and piercing green eyes. He bows to show just the proper amount of deference. “Sub-Majer.”

Lorn gestures to the chairs on the other side of his desk. “Please sit down.” As he seats himself, he studies the officer and can sense the doubt buried behind the pleasant smile. Doubt-that is something Lorn would rather deal with than hostility. “I take it that your ride here was more damp than snowy.”

“Yes, ser.” Gyraet offers a rueful smile. “I think I’d prefer the snow, were it not too deep.”

“Most lancers would.” Lorn pauses. “Did you come from the Accursed Forest?”

“Eastend, ser.”

“Is Majer Weylt still there?”

“He is. The word is that he may be going to Fyrad to be in charge of maintaining the southern part of the Great Canal.”

“He was most helpful to me when I was at Jakaafra,” Lorn says.

Gyraet frowns for a moment, then smiles. “You were that Captain Lorn.”

Lorn laughs slightly. “I think I was the only Lorn assigned to North-point.”

Gyraet nods. “Majer Weylt talked about the giant serpent you killed, and the time you killed a stun lizard by hurling a blade into its eye.”

“Those are accomplishments I’d rather not have been remembered for, a combination of unwise audacity and ill chance.”

Gyraet adds, more levelly, “It’s also said that you dealt with more tree-falls than any captain ever, and that you lost fewer lancers for the number of wild creatures killed.”

“That is possible. I don’t know about ever…but in the five years before and the years I was there that was true.”

Gyraet moistens his lips.

“Is Sub-Majer Hybyl still there?” Lorn asks, almost idly.

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn wonders how much he dares say or intimate. After a moment, he decides on another approach. “You’ve doubtless been briefed by Commander Ikynd and Majer Dettaur?”

“Commander Ikynd was rather short.”

“He probably said that I had a good record killing barbarians, and that was what you were being sent here to do.”

“Something like that,” concedes Gyraet.

“And he said it bluntly, and perhaps added a few words about the fact that you’d best be careful because I’ve been known to be hard on officers who don’t agree with me.”

Gyraet remains silent, but Lorn can sense through truth-reading that he has been accurate enough.

“Majer Dettaur, on the other hand, was doubtless more detailed, and suggested rather indirectly that while everyone is pleased with the results of what I do, that you be most careful in how you deal with me.”

“Ah…something like that.” Gyraet tries not to shift his weight in the chair, and his eyes do not meet Lorn’s.

“I could be most charming and welcoming,” Lorn goes on, “and mislead you, and cast doubts about the characterizations that have been made. I don’t think I will, because you’re obviously perceptive, and feel you’re in a most difficult situation, being assigned to command a company under the Butcher of Nhais.” He smiles. “Have you read the battle report about Nhais?”

“Ah…no, ser.”

Lorn walks to the end chest, which he opens, and from which he extracts one of the copies he has brought to Inividra with him. He closes the chest and then tenders the report to Gyraet. “Read it. Now. I’ll wait.”

“Yes, ser.” Gyraet doesn’t conceal his puzzlement, but takes the report.

As Gyraet begins to read, Lorn scans Dettaur’s scroll again, then sets it aside and glances toward the window. While his old acquaintance’s tone bothers Lorn, he has to ask himself whether Dettaur is so bent on revenge that he will take any opportunity to goad Lorn, or whether his missives are designed to push Lorn into early and unwise action.

Lorn frowns. Dettaur certainly had been unable to see Jerial’s disgust with him, but bright enough to understand exactly how Lorn had managed the Biehl situation. Then, Lorn reflects, does he have any choice but earlier action when firelance charges are becoming ever scarcer and the numbers of barbarian raiders growing?

“Ser?”

Lorn glances up. “I’m sorry. I was thinking.” He pauses. “You’ve finished it?”

“Yes, ser.”

“As you can see, many of the details of the report were authenticated by others, including various officers and enumerators. I wanted you to read it so that you would have some idea of what is happening north of the Grass Hills and why you’ve been assigned here.”

“Majer Dettaur did not mention the Hamorian blades.”

“He probably didn’t mention the fivescore herders and women and children they slaughtered, either.”

“Ah…no, ser.”

“And I doubt he mentioned that we usually have plenty of spare mounts here-close to twoscore at the moment.”

“No, ser.”

Lorn smiles once more, then nods. “That’s all for now, Captain. You might want to talk to the other officers, especially the more senior ones. I’m sure each has his own view of matters.” He stands. “I’ll see you shortly, at dinner.”

“Yes, ser.” Gyraet stands, then bows before he departs.

Lorn walks to the study window and looks out at the intermittent fat flakes that drift by the ancient panes of glass.

Did the ancients have to deal with the same kind of infighting? Or had they pulled together more because they had been required to in carving a land out of the wilderness and in fighting against the Accursed Forest?

Somehow, Lorn suspects that what he sees in the Mirror Lancers, and with Dettaur, is scarcely new. The melancholy tone of the silver volume of ancient verse attests to that.

And yet…the melancholy ancient was one of those who built the City of Light, of which there is no equal.