Scion of Cyador (38 page)

LXXIII

Lorn looks from the study window of the personal quarters at Inividra out into the purple twilight of a late-spring evening. He still has a trace of a headache, and every so often he has to blot his eyes.

He has finally completed a short version of his report, since there is little point in a longer version, which contains enough-the numbers of barbarians slain, towns sacked, blades seized, some six thousands golds recovered and being returned and, of course, a summary of the blade trade in Jera, and the profits going to Hamorian, Spidlarian, and, unfortunately, Cyadoran traders.

He takes out the chaos-glass and lays it on the desk. Then he pulls out the chair and sits down, concentrating. The silver mists form, then swirl aside into revealing an image-Ryalth is breast-feeding Kerial at a table- the lower inner dining area of Lorn’s parents’ dwelling, and Jerial, wearing a dark green or black tunic, is seated across the table from her.

Both women look up. Jerial says something, and Lorn swallows as he sees the tears roll down Ryalth’s cheeks. Jerial smiles, and Ryalth frees a hand and touches her fingers to her lips, as if to send a kiss across the hundreds of kays that separate them.

Lorn watches for several moments, wishing he could convey more than his presence or existence, before he finally releases the image.

They and Kerial are well, it appears, and at least, at least, they know he is alive.

He stands and walks nearer the open window, looking out and down at the courtyard.

“The Butcher of Nhais… and now the butcher of Jerans…” He shakes his head. Flutak and Baryat would have left Nhais defenseless, and Dettaur would have condemned three times as many lancers to die-and for what?

So that, in the first case, a corrupt enumerator and grower could gather more golds, and in the second, so that all the older lancer officers could rest assured that time-honored traditions did not change, even as the world did? Or so that traders in Summerdock and Swartheld could make more golds off those lancers’ deaths?

Even if the traders and cupritors of Cyad did make golds from selling blades, training more lancers and arming them would raise their tariffs, or shift the cost in golds to someone else’s tariffs. For those in Cyad, it makes no sense. Yet, is he the only one who sees such? Or the only one who is stupid enough to act on what he sees?

“The only one stupid enough…”

He turns from the window. He doubts he will sleep well, for all his self-justifications.

LXXIV

The guards outside the open gates of Assyadt look up as the Sixth Company of Mirror Lancers approaches, followed by a long column of lancers. The younger one’s eyes widen as he sees that the firelances are out and leveled.

“Sub-Majer Lorn. I’m here to see Majer Dettaur.” Lorn smiles coldly.

“Ah…” The younger guard swallows as the gray haired ranker elbows him.

“I’m sure you’re welcome, ser,” the older guard speaks firmly and quickly.

“Thank you.” Lorn inclines his head, then looks to Gyraet. “The first building is the commander’s. Go four-abreast at each door with the lances.”

“Rhalyt! Secure the stables!”

“Yes, ser.”

In the momentary silence that follows, as Lorn rides slowly across the stones of the courtyard, he catches the hard words of the senior guard.

“Near-on killed us! Don’t say a word to man like that… he be the butcher, they say… only officer brought the
Accursed
Forest
to its knees, slaughtered threescore raiders himself in Nhais… Black angels know why he be here… but that be for the commander and the majer…”

Lorn half winces, half smiles as he nears the first white-stone building, and then reins up. Reputations have their advantages, and disadvantages. He doubts his troubles will be with lower officers or rank-and-file lancers. Then, they never have been.

“You want a few lancers with you?” asks Gyraet.

Lorn pauses, then reluctantly nods. “It might make things… quieter.” After a moment, he looks up at Gyraet and Cheryk. “I shouldn’t have to say it, but anyone who attacks you is an enemy of all those lancers who have died.”

“Yes, ser,” affirms Cheryk.

“First half, first squad,” orders Gyraet. “Follow the majer… with lances. Use the lances against anyone who lifts a blade against him. Anyone, officer or ranker.”

“Yes, ser.”

Gryal is the squad leader who dismounts-a burly man with a slash that goes from ear to cheek. “Time we had a field commander lettin‘ ’em know, ser.”

“Thank you.”

Lorn gathers chaos around him as he steps through the square-arched door.

The three senior squad leaders in the open foyer freeze as Lorn walks in, followed by the armed lancers.

“Ser… ah… lances… not… here…” stumbles the older squad leader.

Lorn does not recall his name. “They are now. Is Majer Dettaur here?”

“I’m here, Sub-Majer Lorn.” As he draws out Loin’s title and name almost contemptuously, Dettaur moves from his open study door into the corridor. “I see you did bring a few lancers.”

“Gryal… I’d appreciate it if everyone else remained in their places,” Lorn says. “We’ll be finished with any unpleasantness much more quickly.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Dett…” Lorn replies, “we have some matters to discuss.” He lets his chaos-senses range toward Dettaur’s study, but can feel it is empty. “Majer Dettaur’s study is empty. We’ll be discussing the problems his ill-advised orders caused.” Lorn smiles, then inclines his head toward the open door. “Gryal… if the commander should appear, I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep him in his study.”

“Yes, ser!”

‘ Dettaur winces, if almost imperceptibly. “I suppose a private talk would be better.”

Lorn understands Dettaur’s hopes, but merely replies, “I think so. You first.”

Dettaur walks into the study, moving quickly as if to separate himself from Lorn. Lorn closes the door, his eyes on the majer.

“You were relieved of command by Sub-Majer Uflet…” Dettaur begins.

“He never got around to that, but then, we didn’t stay long in Inividra. I can honestly say that he never had a resignation ready for me to sign. To my knowledge, there are no orders in Inividra ordering my resignation.”

Dettaur’s lips tighten. “You… you think you can get away with anything. You always have. You think the rules don’t apply to you. You won’t. Not this time.”

“Dett… there are six companies of lancers that hold this outpost. They’ve seen the trading records. They’ve seen your stupid orders. They’ve seen how you sent them out to die by requiring tactics that were idiotic. You honestly don’t think I could force tenscore lancers to come here against their will, do you? They’re here because they know they’ll be dead unless things change. They wagering their lives on it.”

“Bad wager, Lorn. You’ll all die.”

“I don’t think so, Dett. Assyadt never has more than a company of lancers here, if that.”

“You know everything. You always did.” Dettaur smirks, and his hand edges toward the hilt of his sabre, oh so slowly.

“Dett, one question. Why did you block all Ryalth’s scrolls to me?”

“I never did a thing.”

“That’s the wrong answer. You can’t lie to me.”

Dettaur laughs, drawing his sabre and stepping forward. “You never were as good as I with a blade.”

“You’re wrong-twice, Dett.” Lorn lifts his own sabre, but as he does so he gathers chaos from around him, and there is more than enough, fueled by anger and hatred as well, to extend his blade so that it knocks aside Dettaur’s sabre and slices through his neck like a razor.

Dettaur does not even have time to look surprised.

Lorn leaves the body on the study floor and steps out into the corridor. He glances toward Gryal. “I think Majer Dettaur understands the problem. Finally.” With a crooked smile, Lorn steps across the corridor and into Commander Ikynd’s study.

The commander looks up from where he has been sitting behind his table desk. “When I saw the mounts and lances, I thought it might be you, Lorn.” Ikynd offers his genial smile, but remains seated behind the desk. “I didn’t expect you to return here in such force. I thought you would be patrolling. You’re dead, now. You just don’t know it. You couldn’t wait…”

“I almost waited too long, Commander. Another season, and most of those men would have been dead. They know it, too. Why else would they be here?”

“It really doesn’t matter, you know. Lancers and lancer officers are supposed to die. Don’t you know that? Anyway, Dettaur will come in and kill you, if I can’t. He’s very good at that.”

Lorn smiles lazily but does not lower the sabre. “Not good enough. Dett’s already had his say. He’s dead. You can be a hero, or you can be dead. Which?”

The genial expression drops. “If you can deliver, butcher boy, I’d prefer the hero. Wouldn’t any self-respecting lancer?”

“Of course. Especially if other people do the work and die,” Lorn replies, an indolent tone to his words.

“You’re rather insubordinate. That’s rebellion. The Majer-Commander won’t hesitate a moment to have you executed.”

“I don’t think so. He might have you executed, though. He’ll need someone to blame, and you’ll be more convenient.” Lorn smiles. “It might be best if you blamed Dettaur first, and commended me for bringing the problem to your attention.”

“Problem?” Ikynd raises his eyebrows theatrically. “What problem?”

“The
port
of
Jera
no longer exists. They’ll rebuild it-but that will take time. Outside, there are three wagons and a halfscore of packhorses. Almost fiftyscore Hamorian blades. That doesn’t count those we had to dump in the river. We took them from the warehouses in Jera. Then we burned the- the warehouses.” Lorn’s smile is humorless. “We also razed and burned somewhere around a halfscore other towns. And I brought back some trading records, along with fivescore cupridium blades-without lancer markings. The records show that they came from Summerdock-and I have the records and the weapons to prove that several Cyadoran trading houses helped transfer those weapons to the Jeranyi traders. Oh, and more than six thousand golds from those traders.”

“So… our corrupt traders… you know and the Emperor knows they’ve always been corrupt… they made a few golds. It’s been going on for generations. Our task isn’t to enforce the trade provisions of the Emperor’s Code. It’s to protect the people. Have you forgotten that?” The genial tone returns to Ikynd’s voice.

“Six thousand are more than a few golds.” Lorn laughs. “And I’ve saved more Cyadoran peasants than all the officers in Mirror Lancers combined, and you have the gall to suggest I’ve forgotten my duty?”

“It’s not what you do, Sub-Majer. It’s how you do it, and neither the Captain-Commander nor the Majer-Commander will like what you did.”

“You did it, too,” Lorn points out. “If you want to be a hero… that is. We’re going to compose scrolls, a great number. We report on the campaign, the results, and the proof-and the scrolls go to every lancer commander in Cyador.” Lorn smiles. “And to the Captain-Commander, the Majer-Commander, the First Three Magi’i, the Hand of the Emperor, the Merchanter Advisor, and to the head of every trading house in Cyador. And then we wait. And I’ll act in poor Dett’s place until we see what happens.”

“You’ll leave Inividra unprotected?”

“There won’t any raiding parties for a long time, Commander. That, you can be sure of.”

“Oh… you seem most sure of that.”

Lorn is, for his glass has shown him that no Jeranyi raiders are riding anywhere in the northwest Grass Hills-then, there are but a handful of raiders left alive in that area. “Without mounts and without weapons, the Jeranyi will have some problems. Besides, it’s spring, and if they don’t gather their scattered herds and plant-they’ll starve, and they know it.”

“A bigger wider blade…” Ikynd shakes his head. “Black-angel death… Alyiakal had nothing on you. He murdered half of Cerlyn, you know?”

“We had peace for a generation, then,” Lorn suggests.

“Do you really think that you’ll be promoted after this?” A note of curiosity infuses the commander’s voice.

“No. I think I’ll be summoned to Cyad. I’ll be offered a position advising the Majer-Commander. It’s too dangerous to leave me with lancers, and I’ve eliminated any immediate danger from the Jeranyi, and there are more lancers that can be brought from the
Accursed
Forest
.” Lorn shrugs. “It’s dangerous to overtly kill a hero who eliminates a threat-not immediately, anyway, and a lancer who discovers the complicity and corruption of leading trading houses. The Majer-Commander will wish to ensure that all is well with the traders, and that, or something else not involving lancers will be my job-which will give them all an incentive to have me assassinated after I am in Cyad and safely forgotten.” Lorn smiles coldly. “After all, I’m merely a butcher. I can’t possibly understand the intrigue.”

“I’d offer you my job, were I the Captain-Commander. I wouldn’t want you in Cyad.”

“He might, but the Majer-Commander won’t. Who would want me with twenty companies loyal to me?”

“You have a high opinion of yourself.”

Lorn shakes his head. “Your picked captain went with me to prove me wrong. He was one of those who urged me to come here. You forget one thing, Commander. Lancer officers don’t like being used as counters in a wagering game, and when they find out that’s happening, they want to put a stop to it. Without firelances, and without a change in lancer orders, they’re all dead, and they know it.”

Ikynd winces.

“You see?” Lorn waits. “Now… we have a number of scrolls to write- after you see the blades and the records. You’re going to write that you gave me the leeway to stop the raids, and I did, and you’re going to report that there hasn’t been a raid in all the northwest in almost an season… and there hasn’t. Then you’re going to suggest that, now that Sub-Majer Lorn has accomplished the task set forth by the Captain-Commander, that he be returned to Cyad for duty there.”