Scion of Cyador (48 page)

“This time, it’s not so bad,” he points out. “I’m not leaving for someplace like Jakaafra or Biehl.”

“I wish I could have come to Biehl.”

“I do, too, but you would have been upset. The town was old, and slowly falling to ruin.”

“I’ll wager what you did changed matters.”

“I don’t know. I would hope so.”

“We’ve brought back some of the china you recommended. It’s sold well, and I’ve commissioned some silver-and-black sets for the Austrans.”

“Whhhaaa!” Kerial interjects.

“I know. I know.” Ryalth swallows the last of the ale in her beaker and sets it on the stone tiles of the veranda beside the settee, then takes Kerial from Lorn. “You always get fed before we do.”

“Mmmm…”

Lorn shakes his head as he watches Kerial begin to suck.

“When he’s hungry…” Ryalth says with a laugh. “But he won’t be protesting when we eat.”

“Or later,” Lorn says.

“You are very hopeful, dearest.”

Lorn flushes.

After a moment, so does Ryalth.

XCII

Lorn and Ryalth sit, propped up with pillows, in the triple-width bed with the headboard with the ornately-carved edges and the smooth and curved bedposts. Ryalth cradles Kerial in the crook of her arm. The sole light in the room is the wall lamp on Lorn’s side of the bed, which casts a golden glow.

“What will you do tomorrow when you report?” she asks.

“I’ll probably have to write reports and orders for outposts and things like that. Someone has to, and it won’t be the Majer-Commander. The one definite thing he said was that I’m supposed to develop a strategy for dealing with the Jeranyi. The only way I think we can deal with them is if Cyador takes over the
port
of
Jera
, but with the fireships failing, I have my doubts as to whether anyone will support that.” He chuckles. “The Majer-Commander said not to worry about that for my first draft. I don’t. It’s the second draft that I worry about.”

“You’ll think of something. You always do.”

Lorn raises his eyebrows.

“Is the book nearby?” she asks.

Lorn leans toward the bedside table, then straightens and flourishes the green-tinged silver-covered volume. “Right here. I left it here after we read last night.”

“Read me something… please.”

Lorn flips through the pages to find the verse that is their favorite. He smiles as he smooths the pages and begins to read.

Like a dusk without a cloud,

a leaf without a tree,

a shell without a sea…

the greening of the pear

slips by…

…to hold the sun-hazed days,

and wait for pears and praise

…and wait for pears and praise.

“I like that,” she says quietly, easing Kerial from her arms to her shoulder where she gently burps him. “I think he’s going to sleep.”

“Good,” murmurs Lorn. “He was supposed to have gone to sleep after dinner. And then after we walked him around the garden.”

“Now… he is your son.” Her low and soft voice cannot disguise the hint of laughter.

“Difficult, you mean?”

“You said it. I didn’t.” With an innocent smile, Ryalth slides to her feet, crosses the few cubits between the large bed and Kerial’s, and eases their son into his bed. After a moment, she slips back beside Lorn.

They both look toward the smaller bed.

Lorn stiffens as he hears a snuffling sort of snore. They both wait, but Kerial does not stir.

“Read me something else. I’d just like to lie her for a moment and listen. If you don’t mind…”

“I’ll read softly.” Lorn opens the book once more and turns until he finds the page for which he searches. “It’s not as cheerful as the one about the pear, but whenever I read it, it always made me think of you.” Lorn clears his throat gently.

Virtues of old hold fast.

Morning’s blaze cannot last;

and rose petals soon part.

Not so a steadfast heart.

“ ‘A steadfast heart’-I’ve always liked that. I’d forgotten it, though.” She leans her head against his shoulder. “I worry about you being here.”

“You worried about me being near the
Accursed
Forest
and fighting barbarians,” Lorn points out.

“It’s not the same. Cyad can be even more dangerous.”

About that, Lorn knows, she is certainly right. The dangers are not at all the same, for those of the
Forest and the barbarians could be seen, and fought with a blade or a firelance.

XCIII

Lorn barely has been assigned a table desk in a small study on the floor below the Majer-Commander-and been introduced to the squad leaders and senior squad leaders who will do his copying and other clerical tasks, and is looking out the single narrow window, uphill and away from the harbor-when there is a knock on his open door.

- A young-faced squad leader-one of those whose name Lorn has not caught-stands there. “Ser… the Majer-Commander wishes you in his study for the meeting.”

“Thank you.” Lorn grabs the small inkstand and a pen and a stack of paper and hurries up the stairs. He has no idea to what meeting he has been summoned.

As he reaches the open foyer outside Rynst’s study, Tygyl-the senior squad leader at the desk-says, “Go on in, ser. He’s expecting you.”

Lorn steps into the Majer-Commander’s large study, cautiously. “Ser.” He bows to Rynst, who stands by his table desk looking eastward at the
Palace
of
Eternal Light
, which stands out against the hillside and surrounding structures despite the overcast day.

Rynst glances at Lorn, then smiles. “I see you understand.” He points to the conference table. “I sit at this end, with my back to the Palace. It’s symbolic, but the Emperor does stand behind me. You sit at my left. You are to take notes on who says what, and why-unless I tell you that there will be no notes.”

“Yes, ser.”

“You are to sit. Because you are not officially part of any meeting, you do not stand when the Captain-Commander or the commanders enter. Once the meeting is dismissed, you are an officer and will behave according to protocol.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn slips toward the conference table and takes the straight-backed and armless chair to the left of the larger, armed chair. All the other chairs except the one in which he sits have arms.

“You are not to speak unless addressed directly, and only to return pleasantries or if I tell you to speak.” Rynst moves toward the conference table, but halts a few cubits back from his chair.

“Yes, ser.”

“I will introduce all the commanders this time. Remember them. After this morning, I will only introduce officers you have not met.”

Lorn nods, then checks the cupridium-tipped pen. He makes a mental note to bring two for any future meetings.

The first commander to enter the Majer-Commander’s study is a spare and tall man, with thinning brown hair that has almost disappeared from his skull except around his ears.

“Commander Inylt is the supply commander, in charge of allocating provisions,” Rynst says. “Inylt, this is Majer Lorn. He is my new strategic adjutant and aide.”

Inylt is wiry, even thinner than Rynst, and squints as he looks toward the younger majer. “Lorn…” He laughs as he says the name. “Fine report on blades and trade. Wish more field commanders understood that. Glad to see you.”

“Thank you, ser. I recall your name on provision draw orders. When I was at Biehl.”

Inylt nods and takes a seat near the foot of the table on the south side, spreading out his papers into three stacks.

Luss is the next officer to enter, and takes the position at the foot of the table, opposite Rynst, without addressing Lorn. As the other four commanders enter, Lorn notes each name, and puts a phrase about each next to the name on a separate sheet. He hopes he can keep the names straight.

When five commanders have entered and seated themselves, Rynst clears his throat.

Lorn glances at his list:

Inylt
-
Supply [thin, bald]

Sypcal
-
Eastern Region [red-haired]

Shykt
-
Ports and Facilities [thin face, curly brown hair]

Muyro
-
Mirror Engineers [dark, bearded]

Lhary
-
Western Region [blond, tall]

“Part of this meeting is for you to meet Majer Lorn. He will be working for me, directly, on a strategic plan we will be developing to deal with the barbarians to the north under the new conditions we face. He will also be my aide and adjutant for meetings.”

“I presume this plan will address fewer firelances and fewer firewagon transports?” asks Luss, although his question is almost more of a statement.

“Don’t forget the higher costs of provisions,” adds Inylt. “And more spoilage if they go by horse team.”

“If you have direct suggestions, submit them in writing to me, and I will pass those which are appropriate to the Majer.” Rynst smiles and glances down at a list that has appeared as if from nowhere. “What do the Mirror Engineers think can be done with the fireships with failed towers- if anything? Commander Muyro?”

Muyro fingers his square black beard before answering. “The hulls are too heavy for conversion to sailing vessels, ones that would have the speed necessary to protect trading vessels. They could be fitted with old-style cannon, either using a cammabark propellant or black powder or some hybrid, and stationed at the main harbors as stationary batteries.”

Rynst glances at the thin-faced and curly-haired man. “Commander Shykt?”

“I have discussed this with the Third Magus, as you suggested. Although chaos can be removed from the world itself and stored in cells such as those used for the firewagons, it would take the majority of the first-level adepts perhaps a year to amass enough chaos to power a single ship on a voyage from Cyad to Fyrad. Those are rough calculations, but adequate to prove that the Quarter of the Magi’i cannot offer a feasible solution.”

“Did he have any other suggestions?”

“He thought that use of chaos-cells might be possible on several vessels to power one firecannon on each of those vessels. It would still require much effort, and fabrication of the cells as older ones fail would likely not be possible without the equipment in the Quarter of the Magi’i.”

“That equipment is powered by the chaos-towers in the Quarter?” asks Luss.

“Yes, ser,” replies Shykt. “There is no way to replicate it?”

“No, ser. Not according to Senior Lector Liataphi.”

“You might wish to confirm that, Captain-Commander, say, with the Second Magus. I will bring up the matter with the First Magus.” Rynst pauses. “While we have suspected this, the failure of the chaos-cell replicating equipment will mean that, within a halfscore of years, the last firelances will be exhausted.” He turns to Inylt. “We had talked of this earlier. Have you any other thoughts?”

“The District Guards already use cupridium lances. They are two cubits longer than firelances, but lighter and stronger than iron or any combination of wood and iron. It appears likely that we will have operating chaos-towers for several years yet. The cupridium, once transformed from cuprite, is stable. I would suggest ordering and stocking a minimum of five hundred score cupridium lances over the next two to five years. The Magi’i can still form cupridium without the chaos-towers, but it is a laborious process-”

“And there will be many demands on those few Magi’i who can amass and manipulate natural chaos-forces,” adds Commander Muyro. “That will be most true in the first years.”

“We will need more Mirror Lancers,” Luss observes, “once the firelances are gone. Perhaps we should start to increase those forces now.”

Rynst nods. “We have discussed this before.” He tilts his head to the side. “Captain-Commander… perhaps you and Commander Lhary and Commander Sypcal could provide a short paper estimating the increased losses arising from using cupridium lances, and showing how many more Mirror Lancers and officers we will need once the firelances all fail.”

“Ser… that would be but a judgment,” Luss replies.

“We all make judgments, and offer opinions,” says Rynst mildly. “I wish no more opinions or discussion on the subject of the need for more lancers or foot until you have put your best judgment in writing and presented it to me.”

“Yes, ser.”

The red-haired Sypcal and the blond Lhary exchange glances, but neither speaks.

“Commander Inylt, have you a report on the progress in converting the captured Hamorian blades into golds in a way that will not have those blades being used against our lancers in less than a season?”

“Yes, ser. It cannot be done. The best we can do is break the blades and sell them for high-grade iron, preferably in Lydiar. That will net us perhaps the equivalent of fifty golds.”

“Fifty?” asks Sypcal. “Those would bring over a thousand as blades.”

“True,” replies Inylt. “But if we contract to have a trader ship them to Hamor, no one will bid on them for more than five hundred, and they will be shipped back to Jera or Rulyarth and sold for a thousand or fifteen hundred, and we will have our lancers dying by fall or next spring. Each lancer undercaptain costs us twenty golds to train, and another twenty to equip and send to his first station. If we lose a score of them over two years to those blades, we lose both the golds we gain and the experience of the officers. The training for a ranker is less costly-say, two to five golds-but I would judge that those blades might kill another hundred rankers.”