Scion of Cyador (11 page)

Neabyl studies the paper. “I would not know.”

“I do. And the Majer-Commander would be most unhappy if his lancers were not paid. You do not have a record. So, if you will note, I will sign the paper so that all will know that you carried out your duty.” Lorn pauses. “And you will sign an identical one saying that you disbursed these golds, and only these golds, to me as the payroll authorized on this date. In that fashion, when Master Flutak returns, he will have records, and there will be no question as to what funds were disbursed.”

“Ah…”

“And you can use this as the basis for future accounts in the event that Master Flutak and your records cannot be found.”

“That is true…” muses Neabyl. After a moment, he nods. “Yes, that indeed might prove beneficial to all, and I must say, I do like the idea of exchanging account statements for disbursals. It might remove any future… unpleasantnesses.”

Lorn smiles. “One cannot undo the past, and change what has been, but one can change what will be.”

“You have a persuasive way with words-and accounts, Overcaptain.”

“Perhaps.” Lorn continues to smile, adding, almost casually, “And… Neabyl… if by any chance there might be some shortages in the accounts, and if by chance Enumerator Flutak indeed does not return, it might be wise to report such… with the steps you have taken, such as this, to ensure they do not recur.”

Neabyl’s face blanks. After a long moment, a forced smile returns. “Your advice is not only persuasive, ser, but most wise, and should such eventualities be such, you can be assured that I will follow your words to the letter.”

Lorn nods.

Neabyl returns the nod. “I will see that Comyr brings up a chest, and then we will count it, and sign your papers. I am sure none will fault our caution.”

“None will fault it, I am sure,” Lorn agrees.

As Neabyl leaves the large room, Helkyt glances at Lorn. “Ser… you talk as if Flutak will not return.”

“That is because Master Neabyl acts as if he will not. Otherwise, there would have been no difficulty. Neabyl would be happy doing as Flutak has always done. That he would not, suggests that Flutak may have departed, not to return.” Lorn adds in a lower voice, “Perhaps because all is not as well with the accounts as should be.”

Helkyt swallows.

“As I told Senior Enumerator Neabyl, we cannot change what was- only what will be. And that we will do.” Lorn continues to smile faintly as they wait for Neabyl to return. He knows he runs the risk of allowing Neabyl to seize golds and blame the shortage on Flutak, but there is nothing he can do about that, not without revealing more than he dares.

Nor can he ever reveal how he killed an innocent because he acted quickly against the guilty and the corrupt.

XIX

Lorn yawns as he leaves the kitchen in his quarters, after washing the dinner dishes. When he had been a mere lancer officer, under the command of others, he did not have to worry about dishes, but he had little space to himself, either. He yawns again as he walks toward the study. The day, and the previous night, have been long indeed, especially with the nightmare of the grower’s daughter, whose face resembles Myryan’s. Yet there is more that he must do… much more.

Even so, his thoughts drift back to Flutak… and the young woman. The woman was… is another matter, as his nightmares testify.

So far as Flutak was concerned, his mind is clear. While he may not have proof that would convince a justicer, he knows the depth of the enumerator’s corruption. Neabyl’s reaction was almost confirmation in itself. Lorn knows that, had he not acted against Flutak quickly, then any later action would be laid to his doorstep. One factor which removes him partly from suspicion is the unwillingness of most to believe a new officer would act so quickly and decisively… or that he would have the means so soon after arriving. Lorn takes a deep breath. For better and worse, he has acted, and cannot undo those actions. Nor has he yet discovered how better he might have acted.

Once in the study, he closes the inner shutters and slips the chaos-glass from the single drawer of the desk. After he sets it on the polished wood, he begins to concentrate, first on the name and image of Baryat, the olive-grower whose daughter Lorn has killed. The silver mists fill the glass, and then clear.

Baryat-gray-bearded and muscular-sits at a long table, flanked by three younger men, who appear to be his sons. The bearded man thumbs the edge of a knife, then speaks. While Lorn cannot hear the words, he can see the vehemence behind them. One of the sons brings a fist down on the table.

Lorn watches for but a short while, before letting the image lapse. Even so, his eyes are watering, and his head aches. For a time, he sits before the glass, his eyes closed, pondering. How much is the grower’s vehemence based on the loss of his daughter, and how much upon fear of discovery of corruption? Will Lorn ever know?

As he tries to rest before he uses the glass once more, Lorn’s thoughts skitter from Baryat to traders, to those in the Mirror Lancers like Maran who would see him dead and vanished.

Finally, he straightens, knowing that he must practice more, and become more adept at using the glass to see lands where he has not been, and to become able to translate those views into maps-and the other way around. He takes a deep breath, and concentrates once more upon the glass before him and upon controlling the silver mists.

XX

The late spring afternoon is more like summer, damp and hot, as Lorn mounts in the courtyard of the Mirror Lancer compound. He studies the compound courtyard and buildings, quietly pleased that the leaves and dirt are gone, the stones are clean, the moss gone, even from between the pavement stones of the courtyard, and that the ancient windows now shine. Inside, more than a score of new recruits are housed in the north wing of the refurbished barracks.

A halfscore of recruits spar with padded blades in the open space to the west of the administration building, with Helkyt overseeing the training for the midday periods. Later, Lorn will return and take his rotation among the instructors.

The overcaptain urges the chestnut mare forward. As the six lancers ride through the gates, headed down to the harbor, beside Lorn rides the sharp-featured and black-haired Tashqyt, the more senior of the two junior squad leaders, and the one Lorn may consider for promotion to senior squad leader if and when he forms a second company at Biehl.

He stiffens in the saddle as the familiar chill of a screeing glass settles around him, and he wonders who might be watching. One of the Magi’i from Cyad-Ciesrt’s father? Or the First Magus? Whoever it may be, he is strong, although the scrutiny is brief and quickly lifts, even before Lorn reaches the bottom of the slope.

A single ship is tied at the outer ocean pier-three-masted, and square-rigged, the largest vessel Lorn has seen at Biehl in the season he has been there. The plaque on the stern reads, Lorava of Tyrhavven, and a Sligan ensign hangs limply in the warm air.

“I don’t think I’ve seen a Sligan vessel here before,” Lorn says.

“Once they ported more often,” suggests Tashqyt.

“Before the previous senior enumerator?”

“He was here when I was leaving childhood.”

Lorn reins up the chestnut at the foot of the pier, then ties his mount to a timber supporting a railing. He waits as the five other lancers form up. Then, with Tashqyt beside him, and the four other lancers following, Lorn walks out the pier to the gangway of the Sligan vessel, and up the plank.

A bearded man with a single faded blue braid on a sleeveless tunic steps forward. Lorn’s eyes are like chaos-fire, and the third officer backs away.

“…don’t mess with them…”

“…white devils…”

Lorn ignores the murmurs.

Just beyond the quarterdeck, two older lancers from the original company stand behind Senior Enumerator Neabyl as he is returning the bills of lading apparently presented earlier by the vessel’s master. Beside the lancers stands the junior enumerator, Comyr. The master-holding a leather wallet-looks up abruptly.

Neabyl turns, then frowns. “Overcaptain.”

“Captain.” Lorn bows slightly to the ship’s master, then to Neabyl. “Senior Enumerator. It has been awhile since I have seen a Sligan vessel here, and I thought I might pay my respects.” He offers a polite smile. “I’m Overcaptain Lorn, the commander of the port detachment and garrison here in Biehl.”

“Pleased to see you, ser,” offers the Lorava’s master. “It has been a time since we ported here.”

»» “I hope we will see you more often in the seasons ahead.” Lorn’s smile is warmer than his first. His eyes go to Neabyl. “Have you assessed the tariffs yet?”

“Ah… yes, ser.”

“Are all the tariffs being collected as required?”

“Yes, ser.”

“And only as required?” Lorn asks, watching and using his chaos-senses to truth-read the enumerator.

“Yes, ser. That is the job of an enumerator.” Neabyl’s eyes are chill.

Lorn smiles, a smile he means. “Good. Very good.” He looks back at the captain. “Do you have any problems with the tariff collection?”

“Outside of paying ‘em? No, can’t say I do… these days, Majer.”

Lorn looks at Neabyl. “I think the master sees an improvement here. Perhaps he’ll tell others.” He looks at the captain. “After you finish with the enumerator, I would like a word with you.” Lorn adds quickly, “There are no problems, and no extra tariffs.”

“I’ll be here, ser.” The captain’s voice is wary.

Lorn steps back and down the plank, followed by Tashqyt. The lancers wait.

Neabyl walks down shortly, accompanied by Comyr. His carriage is stiff, and his face cold. The two lancers detailed to him follow.

“Senior Enumerator?” Lorn steps forward and speaks before Neabyl can speak or walk by him.

“Yes.”

“I trust you understand that my presence is not a reflection upon my lack of trust in you, but a necessity created by your predecessor.”

Neabyl remains stone-faced.

“I also regret that I did not inform you in advance, but I did not know that this ship was porting until you had already boarded, and, in my capacity as port commander, I could not let the opportunity pass.” He adds in a much lower voice, “And I have reported well of you to the Majer-Commander, for your efforts to improve the tariff collections here.”

“I would that you had been able to tell me such earlier.” Neabyl’s voice is fractionally less cool.

“Were I more familiar with trade,” Lorn continues, “I would create less awkwardness. I do appreciate your willingness to work with me to return Biehl to the port it was and should be again.”

Neabyl’s face relaxes a touch more. “I stand willing to do such.”

“Thank you.” Lorn pauses. “I am going to talk to the master about such matters as shipments of iron and weapons, and to see if he knows of such. The barbarians are raising larger forces.”

Neabyl nods. “That… I can understand.”

Lorn bows. “I will be meeting many ships, until we have convinced the traders that all has returned to what it should be, and I would ask your forbearance and your understanding that my presence is necessary not because of your conduct and actions.”

“You have made that clear, Overcaptain.” Neabyl pauses. “It is not an easy situation for either of us.”

“No. I wish my actions were not necessary. I truly do.”

Neabyl nods. “We should talk later.”

“Thank you.” Lorn bows.

So does Neabyl.

Once the enumerator has left the pier, Lorn turns to the junior squad leader. “Tashqyt… I shouldn’t be too long, but I’d appreciate it if you and the men would wait here.”

“Yes, ser.”

As Lorn walks back up the gangway, he can hear the murmurs.

“…never… heard an overcaptain take on an enumerator…”

“Overcaptain… wants things done right…”

“…first time in years around here…”

If, if Ryalth sends him any Alafraan, several bottles will have to go to Neabyl, and Lorn will have to visit the enumerator more than once to praise him.

At the top of the plank, the captain is waiting. The weathered face wears a slight smile. “Overcaptain, you be a far braver man than I be, were I in your boots.”

“Unlike you, Captain, I do not have my cargoes in the hands of the enumerators.” Lorn’s voice is wry.

“You wanted to talk.”

“I do. About trade, and about what you are seeing.” Lorn pauses. “I won’t ask about coins and what cargoes are most profitable, Captain.”

“Call me Svenyr.”

“I’m Lorn.”

Svenyr turns. “Might as well sit.”

Lorn follows him to a small cabin in the upper rear deck, almost under the wheel.

The wiry master with the gold-and-silver hair and the square beard rummages in a built-in cabinet before bringing forth a bottle, which he pours into two mugs set on a table bolted to the deck. He nods to the pair of chairs. “Sit and sip, Majer.”

Lorn takes one, and following Svenyr’s lead, takes a sip of the red liquid that passes for wine, ignoring the promotion to a rank he sometimes wonders if he will ever live to make. He studies the weathered face. “What be on your mind?”

“Several things. First, would you be willing to tell me if you know if more blades and iron are being shipped into Jera?”

“No secrets about that. Ultyn, master of the Grenver, was telling all he knew that he was carrying Brystan iron and shields there. Some local factors paying good coin for blades.”

Lorn sips again. “This has been going on for the past three, four years?”

“Maybe longer. Jeranyi couldn’t forge weapons iron if’n they sacrificed their firstborn and strongest cow. What else?”

“How long were the enumerators overtariffing here in Biehl?” Lorn concentrates again on truth-reading Svenyr.

“Truth be told, Biehl has not been the town it was once for near-on a halfscore years. I might be telling a few to give it another try. Be but one, though, less they see what I see.”

Lorn smiles guilelessly. “Neabyl seems most capable, and we of the lancers have been able to work with him.”