Scion of Cyador (15 page)

More lancers are likely to be reassigned from the
Accursed
Forest
in late summer or early fall… if all goes well.

Myryan and Jerial have been pressed into extra time at the infirmary once more, as a result of the chaos-tower failure on the First Star…

Lorn frowns. For his father to mention that chaos-tower failure so openly must mean all of Cyad knows about the failure, and that there were indeed many casualties. There is also the hint that the ward-wall project, whatever it may be, is about to be completed.

Will that have an effect on the barbarians? Will they find out? Or will they mount attacks before lancers can be transferred? Or shift their attacks elsewhere? Lorn glances out through the window at the growing twilight, a twilight that has yet to bring coolness to the still air that enfolds the lancer compound.

After a time, he lifts the scroll once more, frowning, as his eyes drift back up to the lines about Tyrsal and Rustyl. His father never mentions anything quite idly, and that means, for some reason, he must keep Rustyl in mind in the seasons and years ahead.

After he writes his reply, and another scroll to Ryalth, he will take out the glass again, and make a greater effort to determine where the barbarians are gathering forces-if they are-and to draw part of yet another map.

And he will have to plan how to best use the forces of the District Commander…

He rubs his forehead, glancing out into the summer darkness he has not seen creep across the compound. The rest of the summer will be long, and tiring, for he has much to do with the lancers, his screeing of the barbarians, and his maps-and with ensuring all ships that port in Biehl are treated well and fairly. And with occasionally checking on the olive-growers and other traders and factors.

None of these are exciting, nor glamorous. All are necessary, and the energy required leaves little for himself-or for using the glass, if briefly, to view Ryalth.

XXVII

The two men meet on the balcony on the north side of the fifth level of the
Palace
of
Eternal Light
. Even the lightest breeze whispers loudly across this balcony, making eavesdropping difficult. The Captain-Commander of the Mirror Lancers nods to the Second Magus.

“There will be changes in the coming year,” Luss suggests.

“There are always changes,” returns Kharl with a laugh. The breeze disarranges his reddish hair. He smoothes it back from his face. “Everything changes, and yet everything is the same, and that is how it has been, and how it will be. Do not deceive yourself, my valiant lancer officer.”

“The Emperor’s audiences are brief,” Luss points out.

“There is nothing new to be said, and he waits for the results of the ward-wall effort of the First Magus.”

“You opposed such; do you still?”

“I opposed that effort because I fear the loss of power for the Magi’i and for the Mirror Lancers, and because I had doubts that the plan would do little more than cost us the chaos-towers before they failed in their time. Chyenfel has convinced all, and there is now little merit in opposing what will be. It will be Chyenfel’s last great accomplishment, and who am I to deny him such?” Kharl smiles. “It appears as though it may indeed succeed, and if it does, then the
Accursed
Forest
will sleep for generations, and the Mirror Lancers will be free to send greater forces to the north. But your casualties will be much greater, I fear.”

“Since we will have fewer firelances, we will need more lancers than even those stationed around the
Accursed
Forest
,” counters Luss. “Will you support such?”

“When you speak of the need for more lancers, I am reminded that your young overcaptain is most ambitious,” Kharl observes.

“My overcaptain? I do not recall any being assigned to me recently.”

“The young one who was dispatched to Biehl. I believe we had some discussion about the poor fellow,” Kharl suggests, his green eyes seemingly laughing as he views both the harbor and the Captain-Commander of the Mirror Lancers.

“Ah… yes, that one, the one who is related by consorting to you, and who the Majer-Commander was kind enough to offer a less trying… position to.” Luss smiles politely.

Kharl returns the smile with one equally bland. “I understand he has been quite successful in returning the outpost to some semblance of discipline, and even in beginning to recruit and train new lancers who can be used to replace those who have fallen to the barbarians.” After the briefest of pauses, he adds, “And that the Majer-Commander was pleased with your initiative in sending him there.”

“I am most gratified that my understanding of the officer’s capabilities was recognized,” Luss’s eyes narrow slightly, “although I would expect nothing less of an officer so capable and of one related to you, even through consortship.”

“I am pleased that my son’s choice of a consort meets your approval. Although her brother is a lancer, and was not considered suitable to become one of the Magi’i, he comes from an old and worthy family, and it is clear he is a capable and hardworking lancer.”

“He has risked his life for Cyador on many occasions, and any lancer who has done such is most suitable for reward and promotion,” replies Luss.

“As you have ensured.” Kharl nods politely. “You might also find some other information concerning him of slight interest. I have been informed by… certain sources… that the tariff collections of Emperor’s Enumerators in Biehl have nearly doubled in the past season.” Kharl frowns. “Yet Bluoyal has informed me that the number of vessels porting in Biehl has changed little. He seemed rather amused when I suggested that perhaps matters had been amiss previously. It is interesting that the collections improved once the senior enumerator disappeared. He was a cousin to Bluoyal, I believe.”

“That is a matter that might be of interest to the Majer-Commander.”

“I thought it might be so. And to the Hand of the Emperor, should the Majer-Commander think it worthy to be carried so far.”

“He will determine that. Of course, you could tell the Hand.”

“Me? No Hand would scarce believe a word I said, were I even permitted to speak to him in the shadows.”

“The wisdom of the Hand is legendary, I am told,” Luss says. “I will pass on the information, and the powers above me will do as they please.”

“As they always do.” Kharl laughs so softly that the sound is lost in the breeze that rustles around the balcony of the
Palace
of
Light
.

XXVIII

Despite the midday heat, after leaving the administration building, Lorn takes the steps to his quarters two at a time. There, he quickly eats some bread and cheese in the kitchen and then walks quickly to his study to use the chaos-glass.

He closes the shutters so that the silvered image will not pale against the bright summer light. After that, he pulls the old glass that had been his father’s from the drawer and concentrates on its shimmering surface. He ignores the sweat that begins to form on his brow, from both the effort he makes and from the closeness of the study without any breeze from the shuttered windows. The silver mists form and vanish quickly, leaving a view of the
port
of
Jera
. There are two ships at the long rickety pier that winds out into the calm and nearly flat waters of the harbor. Both appear to have arrived recently, with carts on the pier, and goods being carried down the gangways.

Lorn concentrates on the vessel with the Hamorian lines. The pier seems to bow under the weight of the cart. Lorn tries to coax a better image of the long objects wrapped in cloth from his glass, but cannot. Still, they are wrapped separately; they are of iron, and there is little of value to be shipped from Hamor that would be handled such, except the large and heavy blades preferred by the barbarians.

He releases the image, and slips the glass into the drawer before opening the shutters. While he can draw maps in the late afternoon, and indeed, the shadows often make that task easier, he cannot follow ships and their trading in darkness. Nor, he reflects, at all, once they are at sea and beyond any harbor.

From his maps and his conversations with the captains of the trading vessels that have once again begun to frequent Biehl, Lorn can better understand the large image he is forming within his mind. That picture he likes not at all, although there is little he can do about it, and, at times, he wonders why he expends the effort. Yet he feels he must.

The barbarians trade tooled leather goods, often artistic; worked copper; and large baskets of some form of roasted nuts that must keep well. These reach Jera by the three branches of the river. In return, they purchase large amounts of iron blades better than they could forge. And those blades are used to kill Mirror Lancers.

More important to him, some of those blades are making their way west of Jera, with ever-increasing numbers of barbarians. So far, the barbarians have made no raids beyond the Grass Hills in the direction of Ehyla and Biehl. That also concerns Lorn, for when before have the barbarians failed to raid when they have had weapons and largely undefended hamlets?

True… the Grass Hills to the east of Biehl and to the west of Jera might better be termed “Stone Hills” for their steepness and for streams that are few and widely separated. And the barbarians have preferred to attack through the wider passes and vales of the southwest where grass and water are more abundant.

Lorn shakes his head. He can think about such later. For the moment, he needs to work with Tashqyt, Helkyt, and Whylyn on a better system for accustoming the trainees to firelances-without discharging the twoscore that are all that they hold in the compound.

After that, they will conduct more sabre drills… and Lorn will take up the padded heavy hand-and-a-half sword that he has had to learn to master in order to accustom the trainees to facing the barbarian blades.

XXIX

The hot late-summer sun beats down on Lorn, and the sweat oozes from every pore, soaking the brown tunic he wears for training. Even after eightdays of training that he has made ever more rigorous, he still pours forth sweat. Now he can handle the big blade as easily as a sabre, though he prefers the smaller one for use while mounted.

“Break off!” he orders, glancing sideways at the two-on-three exercise on the flat sandy expanse of the beach to his left. He reins up the chestnut and lets the breeze off the
Northern
Ocean
cool his fevered brow.

The squad leader-Tashqyt-reforms his squad before letting his lancers rest. Lorn nods.

Helkyt eases his mount up beside Lorn. “They are much improved, even the new lads from Vyun and those from Ehyla.”

“They’re getting there,” Lorn says. “They’re still not ready to face the best of the barbarians, but most aren’t that good.”

“Ah… ser… no one’s attacked a port detachment here in two-odd generations.”

“That may be.” Lorn’s eyes fix on the squad leader. “And how many lancers end up back in the Grass Hills?”

“Less ‘n a third, ser.”

“Can you tell me which third?” Lorn feels another chill-the kind that provides no real cooling, but the mental coldness of a chaos-glass trained upon him. He ignores it.

“Ah… no ser.”

“Do you want to condemn those men to die in the first skirmish they have with barbarian raiders?”

“No, ser.” Helkyt’s tone is resigned. “Just being that it is so hot…”

“The barbarians don’t fight much when it’s cool and comfortable, as I recall.” Lorn pauses and blots his steaming forehead. “There’s something else. Have you noticed the way the lancers act when they accompany Neabyl and Comyr and the new enumerator… Gyhl, that’s it… on board vessels?”

Helkyt frowns.

“They’re acting like lancers again. They’re trained, and ready, and their carriage shows it. That makes the enumerators’ tasks easier. It also tells the Hamorians and the other barbarians that Cyador is not to be a target.”

“That be true, ser,” the senior squad leader admits. “Neabyl be far cheerier these days, and even his consort came to see him.”

Lorn suspects that has more to do with Flutak’s disappearance than with the greater professionalism of the port-detachment lancers. “There are other reasons, as well.”

Helkyt’s eyebrows lift.

“The barbarian attacks have continued to increase, and we may be called upon. Or,” Lorn smiles wryly, “I may find that my next duty will be there with some of these very same lancers.”

Helkyt winces.

“You do your duty here, Helkyt, and after such a record of faithful service and a long career, I would doubt you will be transferred before you can claim your pension.” Lorn blots his forehead again, aware that whoever used the chaos-glass has let the image lapse. Who could it be? It does not feel like Tyrsal, or his father, but Lorn has no sense of who the unknown magus might be.

“No offense, ser, but I’d be hoping your words be true.” The senior squad leader laughs uneasily.

“They are not certain, but I’d wager that way.” Lorn eases the chestnut toward Tashqyt’s squad, lifting the huge padded hand-and-a-half blade that he will once again use one-on-one against the younger lancers to accustom them to fighting the long swords of the barbarians. “The one-on-one drills!”

Ignoring the sigh from Helkyt, Lorn hopes he can turn each of the recruits into at least a semblance of a lancer before too long. He has already sent a messenger to Commander Repyl, moving up the inspection date for the District Guards by two eightdays, and that means he and most of the Mirror Lancers will be leaving Biehl within three days.

From what he sees and has seen in his chaos-glass, he has less time than anyone else in Biehl knows, and his fate rests in large part on his judgments of what he has observed in his chaos-glass. Yet for all that his fate and the fates of many others rest on his calculations and observations, what he sees cannot be reported to anyone.