Scion of Cyador (27 page)

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 rwoscore 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.

‘v 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.

LV

The snow that had fallen in the more northern valleys and plagued Lorn and Esfayl on their return ride has barely left a dusting around Inividra, and the paving stones in the courtyard are clear, with but small drifted piles of white in the corners of the walls and buildings, as the two officers rein up outside the stable at the outpost in the winter twilight.

Lorn turns to Esfayl. “Captain, remember… fighting the weather gains nothing. The storms always win.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn dismounts and leads the gelding toward the stable door, but Hasmyr the ostler has already started forward to take the white’s reins.

“Good to see you, ser, and with all your lancers and mounts,” offers the gray-bearded ostler. “Seen too many young captains lose men in the winter.” He winks at Lorn, then looks up at Esfayl. “I can take your mount, too, ser.”

“Oh, thank you,” replies the captain.

“Thank you, Hasmyr,” Lorn says as he quickly unfastens his gear from behind the saddle, as well as the spare sabre he has made it a habit to carry.

“Not being a problem, sers.”

Esfayl grins sheepishly at Lorn as the two officers step away from their mounts and the ostler. “I suppose I still think of the Mirror Lancer words about carrying on through the storms of life and the battles with the eternal forces of darkness.”

Lorn laughs. “I learned that it’s hard to fight nature when I was patrolling the
Accursed
Forest
. It’s better when you can avoid it. With the
Forest, we couldn’t, but there’s little point in it out here.”

“Ser… you didn’t say a word to Hasmyr.”

“He’s probably seen scores of captains here, and a halfscore sub-majers, I’d wager,” Lorn points out. “He likes the horses, and he doesn’t want them lost when they don’t have to be.” Lorn pauses. “I’ll see you and the others at table in a few moments.”

“Yes, ser.” Esfayl nods and bows his head. “Thank you, ser.”

As Lorn walks across the damp stones of the courtyard toward the square tower, he refrains from shaking his head. Duty… duty-as either a student magus or as a lancer, he’d never felt that blind obedience to the past or to some absolute belief was wise. Yet… why did so few see it that way?

He laughs, gently and ironically, to himself, noting that his ignoring such traditions has him walking a narrow path between two kinds of disasters, with Dettaur and, apparently, Captain-Commander Luss’alt waiting for some sort of transgression that will allow them to find an excuse to disgrace or discipline him.

His saddlebags on his shoulder, he walks past the duty sentry and into the square tower.

Nesmyl is waiting, and steps forward. “Ser, there were several dispatches and scrolls with the supply wagons. I put them all on your study desk.”

“Thank you. I’ll get to them after I eat.” Lorn shakes his head. “I think the officers are waiting for me.”

“That might be.” Nesmyl smiles. “I doubt they would wish to start when their commander has just returned from patrol.”

Lorn ducks into the study and glances at the desk, looking over the three scrolls. There are two official dispatchs, doubtless from Dettaur in Commander Ikynd’s name, and a scroll with the green seal of his father. While he is not surprised to find one from his father, he is equally surprised not to find one from Ryalth. He fingers his chin and nods. Just because he has not received such a scroll does not mean it does not exist. Her reactions to his use of the chaos-glass are proof enough for Lorn, both of her devotion and that she is more than even his father has seen.

He takes the scrolls in his free hand and slips back out of the study and up the narrow stairs, trying not to scrape the walls with saddlebags and sabres. Again… Nesmyl has made sure the stove is stoked, and that his quarters are warming. Some smoke has drifted into his quarters, for he can smell the smoky odor of peat, as though the stove had been opened and checked recently. Clearly he had not been expected to return early, but someone had seen them and hurried to refire the stove.

Lorn laughs. There are some benefits to being commander.

He leaves the three scrolls on his upper study desk-to read after dinner-and carries the gear to his bedchamber where he leaves the saddlebags on the footchest and the sabres leaning against the wall in their scabbards. He will need to clean and oil the blades later.

Leaving his winter jacket on, Lorn washes his face and hands, then hurries back down the narrow steps, out of the square tower, and across the courtyard. He is the last to reach the officers’ dining area, but then, he has no doubts that dinner was held after Nesmyl-or Emsahl or someone-had seen them coming down the road from the north.

“Good evening,” Lorn offers as he nears the end of the table at which the five other officers are standing. “Esfayl and I appreciate your waiting for us.” He seats himself quickly, and then serves himself a large helping of the mutton stew, wrinkling his nose at the heavy pepper scent, and hoping that the carrots and roots are neither too stringy nor too mushy. “At least it’s hot,” he says, nodding at Esfayl.

“Been warm here, ser,” says Cheryk. “Warm for winter, anyway.”

“It’s going to get colder.” Lorn passes the big casserole dish to Emsahl, then breaks off a chunk of the bread and passes the basket.

“When it’s cold,” Cheryk points out, “there aren’t any barbarians out. We’d be lucky if it stayed cold.”

“We’d still have to patrol,” Lorn says. “The commander and the assistant commander in Assyadt think that the barbarians will attack immediately if we don’t.”

“That’s true only in summer,” says Emsahl. “Or late spring, after they’ve done most of their planting.”

A moment of silence follows, and Lorn eats several mouthfuls, ignoring the softness of the vegetables and the toughness of the mutton.

“Ser… ?” ventures Rhalyt from the end of the table, “one of the squad leaders said that you’d known Majer Dettaur for a long time.”

Cheryk and Emsahl both frown. Esfayl winces almost imperceptibly. Quytyl, his arm still bound in a light splint, looks down at the table.

“Actually, that’s true. We went to the same school, and my mother knew his. He was two years or so ahead of me.” Lorn takes a mouthful of the peppered stew, then adds, into the silence, “He was much then as he is now.”

“You will run across officers you know, Rhalyt,” Emsahl suggests. “There aren’t that many officers in the Mirror Lancers.”

Lorn nods. “I went through officer training with the captain who relieved me at Jakaafra.”

“Just wondered, ser,” says Rhalyt. “You know… with rumors…”

“Most rumors have a grain of truth in them,” Lorn observes wryly, “but sometimes it’s like a single grain of rye in a whole loaf of white.”

“Like the rumors of giant serpents along the ward-wall,” suggests Emsahl.

Lorn clears his throat.

Emsahl looks up, surprised.

“They do exist. They’re rare. We only came across one in the years I was there. But it was large, almost two cubits in breadth and close to forty in length.” Lorn laughs. “They’re not nearly so dangerous as the stun lizards or the giant cats… but seeing one was a shock.”

“Which was more dangerous?” asks Rhalyt, as if wanting to make sure the subject stays changed.

“The large stun lizards… if you’re facing only one. But the giant cats usually come in pairs or double pairs, and the night leopards in packs.” Lorn shrugs. “So… it’s hard to say.”

“How do they compare to barbarians?” asks Quytyl.

Cheryk, Emsahl, and Lorn all laugh. Quytyl flushes, and this time Rhalyt is the one to look down at the table.

After the last chuckles die away, Lorn says, “The northeast ward-wall is the only one that has casualties anywhere close to a barbarian patrol company, and they ran about half what I had at Isahl. The southwest ward-wall company lost perhaps a quarter- to a halfscore of lancers a year.”

“Why the northeast wall, ser?” asks Esfayl.

“No one ever gave a good answer,” Lorn replies. “Some say it was the winds, some the way the wall was designed, some the fact that it is closest to the Westhorns…” He shrugs.

Cheryk shakes his head. “You were assigned to Isahl, there, and here?”

“And Biehl,” Lorn points out.

“But those three are the toughest duty stations in each area, ser.”

“I’m just lucky.” Lorn looks at Esfayl. “You’re from Summerdock, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Does it get as hot as here in the summer?”

“No, ser. There’s always an ocean breeze…”

Lorn nods for the young captain to continue. The rest of the dinner conversation will be uneventful. He can assure that much.

After dinner, Lorn walks back across the courtyard, through a night wind that is considerably colder than earlier, and past the duty sentry at the tower. “Good evening.”

“Evening, ser.”

The lower level of the tower is dim, with but one lamp lit, and Lorn stops and turns down the wick to put it out before starting up the stairs. Although he would like to read the dispatches and scrolls, he forces himself to hang out his damp gear on the wall pegs by the stove first. Then he checks the sabres, drying and oiling them, before he returns to the study and the scrolls.

He looks at the two official dispatches, then shrugs and breaks the seal on the one that looks shorter. He unrolls it and begins to read.

…hereby inform all officers bearing commands throughout the Mirror Lancers that losses of provisions and other supplies have been reaching unacceptably high levels… strongly recommend that all commanders review the use and storage of such, and that the use of local supplies be adopted whenever possible…

The seal and signature are those of Luss’alt, Captain-Commander of the Mirror Lancers.

Lorn nods to himself as he sets the scroll aside and picks up the second one with a Mirror Lancer seal. It is addressed to him as, Commanding, Inividra.

As noted in the scroll which you are receiving from the Captain-Commander of Mirror Lancers, the handling and storage of provisions has become a problem at many isolated stations, such as Inividra. Therefore, individual commanding officers must take a greater role in assuring that such provisions are stored and used with care and are not wasted…

The commander has noted that your last request for supplies is somewhat higher than that of previous sub-majers, and has requested that you explain such.

Lorn snorts. The answer is simple. He has more men still alive than did Sub-Majer Kysken, and more men require more food.

…and request that you send a response with the next scheduled courier to Assyadt.