Scion of Cyador (67 page)

Lorn shakes his head. “Bring our little friend up to the study. Let us see what we can discover.” He stands, then moves around the table and lifts Kerial from Ryalth’s lap. “Come on. Your father will carry up upstairs.”

“Maa…”

“Daaa… this time,” Lorn says. “Daaa…”

“Waaaa…”

Lorn shakes his head, mock-ruefully, and then shifts his son into his left arm and turns toward the stairs.

“Maaa…” Kerial repeats.

“I’m coming, dear. I’m coming,” Ryalth reassures him, following Lorn up the steps and along the upper corridor and into the study.

Once he has closed the study door-one-handed-Lorn transfers Kerial back to Ryalth and seats himself before the desk, sliding out the glass from the drawer. He concentrates on the image of the slender Tasjan.

As the silver mists dissipate, Lorn studies the glass, and Ryalth and Kerial watch over his shoulder.

Although he is alone, Tasjan paces back and forth in a capacious study, before a large carved desk that is of a style Lorn has never seen, with wooden flowers and garlands forming the legs.

When Tasjan continues to pace, Lorn lets the image lapse. “In a while, I’ll try again. Perhaps we’ll find him in a more compromising situation. I’ll try a few more people.”

The next image is that of the Captain-Commander. Once again, Luss is dining with the blond commander Lhary. Lorn releases that image almost as soon as it forms.

“Those two are far too close for my liking.”

“Lhary commands all the outposts in the west, does he not, all those close to Cyad?” asks Ryalth.

Lorn nods.

“That is why you report to the Majer-Commander and will hold the two companies.”

“One reason, certainly.”

Lorn tries yet another image, and finds Commander Muyro and a woman in green, presumably his consort, dining with a mage-Rustyl- and a young-faced, but red-haired and large-boned young woman, probably Rustyl’s consort Ceyla, although Lorn has never met the woman, but she looks much like a womanly version of Ciesrt.

The narrow-faced Rustyl glances up, and tilts his head, almost as if listening. Lorn releases the image, shaking his head.

“Everyone is tied to another, and all circle, waiting to see what will happen.” Ryalth laughs.

After letting the image in the glass lapse, Lorn leans forward and rubs the back of his neck with his left hand. He feels very much like the times are deciding what will occur, the times and not the men, for he can see nothing he dares do-not yet, anyway.

CXXXIV

In the midmorning of fourday, Lorn has just finished summarizing another meeting-this one between the Majer-Commander and Commander Muyro about the last details of installing the Mirror Lancer firecannon.

There is a knock on his study door, and, even before waiting for Lorn’s response, Fayrken steps inside. “Two lancer captains reporting to you, ser.” The senior squad leader’s eyebrows lift.

“They should be the captains for the two companies-the ones I’m the maneuvers coordinator for. That’s the latest official title.” After a wry smile, Lorn asks, “Do you know who they are?”

“Cheryk and Esfayl, I believe, were the names, ser.” Fayrken smiles. “They seemed to know you.”

“Have them come right in.” Lorn stands and waits for the two to enter. The older captain is thin-faced, gray-eyed, long-chinned, and has brown hair tinged with gray; the second has dark curly hair, and a boyish look to his features.

The long-chinned Cheryk sees Lorn and smiles. “Ser. Might have known it was you.”

“Ser.” Esfayl barely refrains from shaking his head.

“It’s good to see you both.” Lorn pauses, then asks, “Your orders didn’t say who your commander would be?”

“No, ser. We got here, and climbed up to the top floor, and the senior squad leader said that you were our commander. Here…” The veteran with the pale gray eyes extends the scroll.

Lorn takes the scroll and reads it.

…report to the Majer-Commander, lancer headquarters, for further assignment in Cyad as determined by the needs of the Mirror Lancers…

Then he hands the scroll back, wondering exactly how much to tell the two.

“Ser… before I forget… Majer Brevyl sent a message,” Cheryk offers.

“Majer Brevyl?” Lorn cannot help but frown. “He was at Biehl. What’s he doing in Inividra?”

“They sent him from Biehl for a season, ser. Something about making sure that everything was the way it was supposed to be.”

After a moment, Lorn asks, “The message?” He would wager that he knows the sort of message Brevyl would send.

Esfayl smiles, his expression confirming Lorn’s suspicions.

“He said, ser, that he still didn’t care for you personally, but that if you ever made commander, or higher rank, he’d accept serving under you just to see if you have the same nerve when you had power as when you didn’t.”

Lorn bursts into laughter. “He hasn’t changed a bit. How did you find him?”

Cheryk and Esfayl exchange glances. Finally, Cheryk speaks. “His words are rougher than yours, but no one noticed much difference, except that he seldom commands patrols. Gyraet does.”

“Did that work out?”

“Yes, ser. Good man. He’s a permanent overcaptain now.” Cheryk looks around the small study before speaking again. “The majer also said, ser, that we’d be the first Mirror Lancers stationed in Cyad in generations.”

“That’s true. One reason for that is that the Empire is losing its fireships, and that leaves the Mirror Lancers as the most powerful weapon remaining.”

“What about the Magi’i?” asks Esfayl.

“Individually, a number of them are very powerful, but there aren’t that many. That means you have a task to do. It’s necessary, and if everything goes right, unless someone’s really careless, it won’t get anyone killed.” Lorn smiles. “Call it a reward of sorts.”

“Ser?”

Lorn laughs at the dubious tone in Cheryk’s voice. “It’s simple enough. The outlanders have never seen any of the Morror Lancers’ powers, except the fireships, and most outlanders generally only port in places like Cyad, Fyrad, or Summerdock, where there aren’t many lancers, even though much of Cyador’s strength lies in the lancers. We will be conducting maneuvers-almost on a parade ground-with firelances, whenever the Majer-Commander thinks an important trader is around. Some will even be invited to watch.”

Cheryk nods. “Sort of following up on what we did in Jerans?”

“In a way. To show the outlanders that, whether we have the fireships or not, the Mirror Lancers are to be reckoned with.”

“Is that why the Majer-Commander brought you here, ser?” asks Esfayl.

“I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t presume to guess about what the Majer-Commander plans and how far he thinks into the future.” Lorn clears his throat before continuing. “Now… you’ll be billeted in a warehouse that they’ve converted into a barracks with officers’ quarters. I’ve seen it, and the quarters are not bad. If you have family here, or find a place to live… you can do that, but one of you has to be able to be reached by messenger at all times…”

Lorn goes on to explain the details, finally ending with, “…if you can’t find me, Fayrken can.” He pauses. “Oh… and the only one who can countermand my orders is the Majer-Commander or the Emperor.”

Cheryk looks hard at Lorn.

“Those are the near-exact words of the Majer-Commander,” Lorn answers.

“Ser…”

“I know… they’re strange orders, but that’s the way it is.”

Cheryk looks at Esfayl, then at Lorn. “You report directly to the Majer-Commander, ser?”

Lorn nods.

A slow smile fills the older captain’s face. “We’ll be having an interesting year, ser.”

“I hope not, but it could be.” Lorn waits for a moment, and then asks, “Any other questions?”

“No, ser. Both companies are supposed to be here day after tomorrow. When do you want us to start running drills?”

“How about the next day?” Lorn pauses. “Give it some thought. Why don’t you both come by after midday tomorrow? Then we’ll discuss the kind of drills that might serve our needs.”

“We’ll be here, ser.” Both captains bow.

After the two leave, Lorn goes to the doorway and looks into the foyer. Fayrken is alone at the central desk, and Lorn steps out to talk to the senior squad leader.

“Yes, ser?”

“I’ll need two copies of this for the Majer-Commander. It’s another meeting report, on firecannon transport to Cyad.” Lorn pauses for a moment. “Were you ever able to find anyone who’d heard of a lancer named Sasyk?”

“Yes, ser. Much easier-real sour pearapple, ser. He was a captain at one of the small outposts-Tyert… that’s one that used to report to Assyadt, but they closed it. Anyway, about ten years ago, he took his company and killed an entire settlement in the Grass Hills. He claimed they were barbarians posing as settlers. The Majer-Commander sent several commanders to look into it. They found barbarian weapons and some Jeranyi golds, and not much was said. Then, something else happened-no one seems to know what, except that he got cashiered there. He disappeared for a year or two and then came back to Cyad. He is the head of guards for one of the trading houses-someone said Dyjani. None of the senior squad leaders I could talk to knew much more, except that he was supposed to be very good with both a firelance and a sabre.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem, ser.”

Lorn does not frown until he returns to his study. Outside the ancient panes, although the sky is clear, the wind has begun to whistle as if heralding a storm.

CXXXV

As the carriage comes to a halt in the circular drive, Lorn opens the door from inside and steps out, extending a hand to Ryalth. She descends onto a white marble mounting block and looks over a halfscore of wide white marble steps that climb to a columned entrance portico. Behind the portico rises a two-story villa that stretches more than a hundred cubits north and south of the portico. Each level of the long dwelling is surrounded by shaded and columned porticos, and on the east side of the circular drive is a garden, enclosed by a hedge with a single entrance-and that entrance is a topiary gate.

Lorn steps down off the mounting block and around to the gray-haired coachman with the kindly and wrinkled face. He looks up and extends a half-silver. “If you could come back at around the eighth bell… ?”

“Be pleased to, ser.”

The carriage draws away and Ryalth turns to Lorn. “You said that golds ran in Tyrsal’s family. This is grander than any of the dwellings of the major clan heads.”

“I know,” Lorn says. “Tyrsal doesn’t like to talk about it. He feels it’s really still his mother’s dwelling, and he’s embarrassed that it’s his. Now that he’s consorted…” He looks up as Tyrsal hurries out of the portico and down the steps.

“Lorn, Ryalth! I was talking to Mother and Aleyar and didn’t hear the carriage at the gate. It’s good to see you both again.”

“Since three days ago?” asks Lorn.

“You know what I meant. Besides, this is the first time we’ve been able to have you for dinner.” Tyrsal leads them up the entry stairs, then through a blue marble-tiled entry foyer to another set of steps. At the top of the wide marble staircase, he turns right along another corridor to the first archway.

Aleyar rises from an old blue-upholstered armchair as the three step through an archway into a sitting room that is alone half the size of the entire first floor of Ryalth’s and Lorn’s dwelling. The healer smiles warmly. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“We are glad to be here,” replies Ryalth.

Tyrsal’s mother remains seated in the other upholstered armchair, adjoining the one where Aleyar had been sitting.

Tyrsal steps forward. “This is my mother, Ensra. Mother, you remember Ryalth.”

“She looks as charming and beautiful as before.”

Lorn inclines his head to the white-haired Ensra. “It’s good to see you again.”

Ensra smiles. “It’s good to have younger folk back in the house. The next time, perhaps you could bring your young one.”

“Mother Ensra…” Aleyar shakes her head gently. “Let the poor woman have a few moments to enjoy herself away from her son.”

“He must be a good child… with such parents.”

“Good, but he does keep her busy,” Lorn says.

“And Lorn, as well, at times,” Ryalth adds.

Aleyar gestures. “Please sit down.”

Lorn and Ryalth take the settee across from the armchair where Ensra sits. Tyrsal sits on the other settee.

“This dwelling… it is quite something.” Ryalth gestures around the sitting room, with the dozen or so blue-upholstered armchairs, the matching set of blue velvet settees, and the thick blue-and-gold carpet centered in the middle of the blue-tinged marble tiles.

“It should be,” replies Tyrsal with a grin. “My grandsire was the head of Dyjani House. My father was his only heir, and he was a magus.” Tyrsal shrugs. “You can imagine how the merchanters felt about that.”

“They felt that any merchanter who had the talents of a magus would have an unfair advantage, I’m sure,” Ryalth replies.

“He was not given that much of a choice,” adds Ensra. “Tasjan’s grandsire threatened to bring the matter before the Merchanter Advisor and the Traders’ Council.”

“You don’t hear much of Tasjan’s sire,” Lorn ventures.

“He died at sea when Tasjan was young,” replies Ensra. “Tasjan’s grandsire lived to be almost fourscore.”

“So the grandsire pushed your father into the Magi’i and became the head of Dyjani clan?” asks Lorn.

“Pretty much,” admits Tyrsal with a glance at his mother.

“Exactly so,” confirms Ensra.

“Your friend Husdryt… what does he think of Tasjan?” Lorn asks.

“Husdryt says very little,” Tyrsal replies.

“That alone suggests he has his concerns,” says Ensra. “Husdryt was never close-mouthed about that which he likes.”

“…uhhh…” Aleyar clears her throat. “If we do not begin dinner…”

“It will be cold,” Tyrsal says with a grin.

The five rise.

As they follow Tyrsal and Aleyar from the sitting room, Lorn wonders how matters might have turned out had Tyrsal’s father remained a merchanter.