Scion of Cyador

LXIV

Lorn sits on a flat section of a stone wall by the side of the river road, under an oak that has barely begun to show new spring leaves and whose winter leaves remain mostly gray. He reads through the sheets of paper and parchment and bills of lading that Gyraet had discovered in the river town of Disfek. He has to squint in the early twilight to make out some of the words and figures. A few insects chirp in the low grass sprouting from under the brown stalks left from the previous year, and the occasional twirrp of a traitor bird berating some lancer drifts to Lorn as he reads.

“Ten sabres from Bluyet House, Summerdock…” Lorn shakes his head. After his experiences with Flutak or Baryat the olive-grower, he cannot say he is totally surprised. Some traders and functionaries will clearly sell anyone or anything to make golds. He takes a deep breath, recalling the grower’s daughter, and wondering how many other innocents will die as a result of his efforts to make things right.

“Right as you see them,” he murmurs to himself, before checking the dates on the records. The sabres were purchased recently-well after Lorn left Biehl, and after the Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor was replaced, Lorn thinks, although he is not certain about when that had occurred.

“Ser?”

Lorn looks up to see Emsahl, Gyraet, and Cheryk standing in the road. “Yes? I wanted to read these…in case there was something in there about blade sales in other towns.”

“Ah, ser…” Gyraet begins. “I said I thought there were traders from Cyad selling blades to the barbarians…and…” The captain shrugs.

“These two good captains had their doubts?” asks Lorn.

“Yes, ser,” answers Emsahl.

Lorn flips back through the pages, then proffers a sheet to the senior captain. “This is the first. There are about five…so far. I’m not quite through them all.”

Emsahl reads slowly, then hands the sheet to Cheryk. He looks at Lorn. “I’d be asking whether we might be better heading back.”

“A line of retreat?” Lorn raises his eyebrows.

“No lancer company has been this deep into barbarian lands.”

“That’s true, and if we have to, we can cross the river and take the south side back. Right now that would be most unwise.”

“Unwise?” asks Emsahl.

Lorn smiles, almost bitterly. “Captain, surely you don’t think that a few blades like this mean anything? Any trader could make a mistake. Besides, what difference does a halfscore or even a score of blades make when there are so many barbarians?”

“Ser!” Then Emsahl catches himself.

“That is what I’d be told right now if we returned,” Lorn says. “A halfscore of blades forged in Summerdock mean nothing.”

“He’s right,” Gyraet says. “They don’t care if we lose another score of lancers because there aren’t enough firelance recharges. Why would a halfscore of sabres forged in Summerdock change anything?”

“You knew this, ser?” asks Emsahl.

“I had a good idea. All the barbarians we killed east of Biehl had Hamorian blades, but they were new, and the traders were telling me everyone was trading blades in Jera. I’d seen a few Brystan sabres earlier, and I thought there would probably be others.” Lorn stands and shrugs, taking back the sheet from Cheryk after the older captain reads it. “Tales don’t mean much to lancer headquarters. The only thing they accepted was fifteenscore blades in the strongroom of the compound, attested to by two enumerators.”

“So…we’re hunting blades as well as Jeranyi, ser?” asks Emsahl.

“Both,” replies Lorn wearily. “Both.”