XX

 

The late spring afternoon is more like summer, damp and hot, as Lorn mounts in the courtyard of the Mirror Lancer compound. He studies the compound courtyard and buildings, quietly pleased that the leaves and dirt are gone, the stones are clean, the moss gone, even from between the pavement stones of the courtyard, and that the ancient windows now shine. Inside, more than a score of new recruits are housed in the north wing of the refurbished barracks.

   A halfscore of recruits spar with padded blades in the open space to the west of the administration building, with Helkyt overseeing the training for the midday periods. Later, Lorn will return and take his rotation among the instructors.

   The overcaptain urges the chestnut mare forward. As the six lancers ride through the gates, headed down to the harbor, beside Lorn rides the sharp-featured and black-haired Tashqyt, the more senior of the two junior squad leaders, and the one Lorn may consider for promotion to senior squad leader if and when he forms a second company at Biehl.

   He stiffens in the saddle as the familiar chill of a screeing glass settles around him, and he wonders who might be watching. One of the Magi'i from Cyad-Ciesrt's father? Or the First Magus? Whoever it may be, he is strong, although the scrutiny is brief and quickly lifts, even before Lorn reaches the bottom of the slope.

   A single ship is tied at the outer ocean pier-three-masted, and square-rigged, the largest vessel Lorn has seen at Biehl in the season he has been there. The plaque on the stern reads, Lorava of Tyrhavven, and a Sligan ensign hangs limply in the warm air.

   "I don't think I've seen a Sligan vessel here before," Lorn says.

   "Once they ported more often," suggests Tashqyt.

   "Before the previous senior enumerator?"

   "He was here when I was leaving childhood."

   Lorn reins up the chestnut at the foot of the pier, then ties his mount to a timber supporting a railing. He waits as the five other lancers form up. Then, with Tashqyt beside him, and the four other lancers following, Lorn walks out the pier to the gangway of the Sligan vessel, and up the plank.

   A bearded man with a single faded blue braid on a sleeveless tunic steps forward. Lorn's eyes are like chaos-fire, and the third officer backs away.

   "...don't mess with them..."

   "...white devils..."

   Lorn ignores the murmurs.

   Just beyond the quarterdeck, two older lancers from the original company stand behind Senior Enumerator Neabyl as he is returning the bills of lading apparently presented earlier by the vessel's master. Beside the lancers stands the junior enumerator, Comyr. The master-holding a leather wallet-looks up abruptly.

   Neabyl turns, then frowns. "Overcaptain."

   "Captain." Lorn bows slightly to the ship's master, then to Neabyl. "Senior Enumerator. It has been awhile since I have seen a Sligan vessel here, and I thought I might pay my respects." He offers a polite smile. "I'm Overcaptain Lorn, the commander of the port detachment and garrison here in Biehl."

   "Pleased to see you, ser," offers the Lorava's master. "It has been a time since we ported here."

   »» "I hope we will see you more often in the seasons ahead." Lorn's smile is warmer than his first. His eyes go to Neabyl. "Have you assessed the tariffs yet?"

   "Ah... yes, ser."

   "Are all the tariffs being collected as required?"

   "Yes, ser."

   "And only as required?" Lorn asks, watching and using his chaos-senses to truth-read the enumerator.

   "Yes, ser. That is the job of an enumerator." Neabyl's eyes are chill.

   Lorn smiles, a smile he means. "Good. Very good." He looks back at the captain. "Do you have any problems with the tariff collection?"

   "Outside of paying 'em? No, can't say I do... these days, Majer."

   Lorn looks at Neabyl. "I think the master sees an improvement here. Perhaps he'll tell others." He looks at the captain. "After you finish with the enumerator, I would like a word with you." Lorn adds quickly, "There are no problems, and no extra tariffs."

   "I'll be here, ser." The captain's voice is wary.

   Lorn steps back and down the plank, followed by Tashqyt. The lancers wait.

   Neabyl walks down shortly, accompanied by Comyr. His carriage is stiff, and his face cold. The two lancers detailed to him follow.

   "Senior Enumerator?" Lorn steps forward and speaks before Neabyl can speak or walk by him.

   "Yes."

   "I trust you understand that my presence is not a reflection upon my lack of trust in you, but a necessity created by your predecessor."

   Neabyl remains stone-faced.

   "I also regret that I did not inform you in advance, but I did not know that this ship was porting until you had already boarded, and, in my capacity as port commander, I could not let the opportunity pass." He adds in a much lower voice, "And I have reported well of you to the Majer-Commander, for your efforts to improve the tariff collections here."

   "I would that you had been able to tell me such earlier." Neabyl's voice is fractionally less cool.

   "Were I more familiar with trade," Lorn continues, "I would create less awkwardness. I do appreciate your willingness to work with me to return Biehl to the port it was and should be again."

   Neabyl's face relaxes a touch more. "I stand willing to do such."

   "Thank you." Lorn pauses. "I am going to talk to the master about such matters as shipments of iron and weapons, and to see if he knows of such. The barbarians are raising larger forces."

   Neabyl nods. "That... I can understand."

   Lorn bows. "I will be meeting many ships, until we have convinced the traders that all has returned to what it should be, and I would ask your forbearance and your understanding that my presence is necessary not because of your conduct and actions."

   "You have made that clear, Overcaptain." Neabyl pauses. "It is not an easy situation for either of us."

   "No. I wish my actions were not necessary. I truly do."

   Neabyl nods. "We should talk later."

   "Thank you." Lorn bows.

   So does Neabyl.

   Once the enumerator has left the pier, Lorn turns to the junior squad leader. "Tashqyt... I shouldn't be too long, but I'd appreciate it if you and the men would wait here."

   "Yes, ser."

   As Lorn walks back up the gangway, he can hear the murmurs.

   "...never... heard an overcaptain take on an enumerator..."

   "Overcaptain... wants things done right..."

   "...first time in years around here..."

   If, if Ryalth sends him any Alafraan, several bottles will have to go to Neabyl, and Lorn will have to visit the enumerator more than once to praise him.

   At the top of the plank, the captain is waiting. The weathered face wears a slight smile. "Overcaptain, you be a far braver man than I be, were I in your boots."

   "Unlike you, Captain, I do not have my cargoes in the hands of the enumerators." Lorn's voice is wry.

   "You wanted to talk."

   "I do. About trade, and about what you are seeing." Lorn pauses. "I won't ask about coins and what cargoes are most profitable, Captain."

   "Call me Svenyr."

   "I'm Lorn."

   Svenyr turns. "Might as well sit."

   Lorn follows him to a small cabin in the upper rear deck, almost under the wheel.

   The wiry master with the gold-and-silver hair and the square beard rummages in a built-in cabinet before bringing forth a bottle, which he pours into two mugs set on a table bolted to the deck. He nods to the pair of chairs. "Sit and sip, Majer."

   Lorn takes one, and following Svenyr's lead, takes a sip of the red liquid that passes for wine, ignoring the promotion to a rank he sometimes wonders if he will ever live to make. He studies the weathered face. "What be on your mind?"

   "Several things. First, would you be willing to tell me if you know if more blades and iron are being shipped into Jera?"

   "No secrets about that. Ultyn, master of the Grenver, was telling all he knew that he was carrying Brystan iron and shields there. Some local factors paying good coin for blades."

   Lorn sips again. "This has been going on for the past three, four years?"

   "Maybe longer. Jeranyi couldn't forge weapons iron if'n they sacrificed their firstborn and strongest cow. What else?"

   "How long were the enumerators overtariffing here in Biehl?" Lorn concentrates again on truth-reading Svenyr.

   "Truth be told, Biehl has not been the town it was once for near-on a halfscore years. I might be telling a few to give it another try. Be but one, though, less they see what I see."

   Lorn smiles guilelessly. "Neabyl seems most capable, and we of the lancers have been able to work with him."

   "Ha! Much as told the little sneak he was spirted on cold steel-or your cuprite blades-if he cheated a copper." Svenyr takes a long swallow of the vinegary wine.

   "I believe he understands."

   "You be meeting all the ships?"

   "I told Neabyl that I would be... for a time, and when I can." Lorn pauses. "What cargoes would you like to carry that you cannot obtain?"

   "Can't say as telling you that'd cause problems with the shareholders." The captain frowns, then worries his chin. "Always could use more dyestuffs, specially up along the northwest coast-Suthyans won't let us land anywhere but Armat, where they tariff high. Understand folk bring carts all the way from Rulyarth. Dyestuffs are welcome elsewhere, east of Armat, or going longhaul to Austra. Bright ones. Everyone's got brown."

   "You know about the clay and china here?"

   "Is old Kahlyr still doing that?"

   "His son Jahlyr."

   "Good to know." Svenyr swallows the last of the goblet. "Oh... the other thing is good spirits."

   "You port in Cyad ever?"

   "Times..." answers the captain, his voice wary.

   "There's a newer house, Ryalor House-they have some good spirits you cannot find elsewhere."

   "Hmmm..." Svenyr shrugs. "If I get there, I'll look."

   Lorn stands. "You've been most patient, and I trust we will see you in Biehl again."

   "One more time, anyways. Never promise more 'n once." The Sligan laughs as he rises.

   The two walk out into the steamy heat of the afternoon. Lorn bows before he turns and leaves the Lorava.

   He rides back to the compound silently, thinking over his mistakes, and what he can do to rectify them-if he can. Some, like the grower's daughter, he cannot.

   He has little time for further thought, not after he rides in through the gates, because it is his turn to lead the sabre drills for the new recruits, and he must hasten into a training tunic and then take up a padded sabre.

   By the time the drills are over, his brown training tunic is soaked, and his arms ache. So do his feet. He is so tired when he reaches his quarters that after he cleans up he can eat but half the emburhka that Daelya has prepared and left for him, and but a third of the fresh-baked bread.

   After eating he makes his way to his study, and sinks into the chair, sitting in the twilight.

   With a deep breath, he takes out the chaos-glass and concentrates, seeking out the olive-grower Baryat who, Lorn is convinced from his use of the chaos-glass, is hatching some plot against him. Baryat is still at table, stuffing in large quantities of some sort of casserole, and Lorn lets the image slip. He will try later.

   He takes out paper, and dips the pen before he begins to write.

 

Dearest of Consorts-

   I have not heard yet from you, but I trust all is well with you and with those around you...

   We have recruited almost a squad of younger men for the lancers, and have begun training them... be a long summer, I fear, but many show skill already... and I hope to have them ready for duty elsewhere by fall, though that decision will be made by others...

   ...might consider the possibility of sending dyestuffs through coasters or those traders who are welcome in the Suthyan port of Rulyarth... understand that many there would purchase . . . but cannot obtain dyestuffs, because the Suthyans insist all dyes come through the larger port of Armat... while I know not how a trading house might avoid this proscription, save through landing at nearby ports... it would appear that those who could might profit....

 

   Lorn takes a deep breath and once more dips the pen. He can but hope that what he has gleaned from the ship's master and those factors he has visited around Biehl will prove useful to Ryalth.

   After he finishes, he must again seek out Baryat-and perhaps Neabyl-with the glass. And tired as he is, he must continue to work on seeking out lands he has not seen before, either in the glass or in person.

 

 

XXI

 

Chyenfel and Rynst stand alone in the high-ceilinged audience chamber of the Palace of Eternal Light, waiting for the Emperor Toziel to appear. Bluoyal has yet to join them, as is often the case in recent eightdays.

   The First Magus looks at Rynst and murmurs, "The sleep wards will be ready within less than half a season. At that time, but a few lancers will be needed around the Accursed Forest, as we had discussed earlier."

   "What about patrolling the walls themselves?" asks the Majer-Commander in an equally muted voice. "Will not some protection be required for the new wards?"

   Chyenfel shakes his head, smiling. "No. That is their beauty. These wards cannot be seen nor touched."

   "While I would be most pleased to be able to send more lancers to the north, I must question this sudden announcement. Why did the ancients not attempt such? Did they not know of such?" Doubt colors Rynst's voice.

   "They did." Chyenfel purses his lips, then tilts his head slightly, as if searching for an explanation. "Their words provided the knowledge and the keys to the sleep wards. Yet they feared that the wards would not work, and that the chaos-towers would be lost forever."

   "And you know more than they?"

   "We have learned some that they did not know, honored Majer-Commander." Chyenfel smiles briefly. "They had less experience with chaos, for chaos works not the same in the worlds of the Rational Stars. That we do know from what they wrote."

   "And," adds Rynst with a gentle laugh, "you will lose the towers shortly in any event if naught is done. So you of the Magi'i have little to lose."

   "We lose more by providing the sleep wards, for we will not be able to provide as many charges for the firelances of your lancers, nor for the firewagons and the tow wagons of the Great Canal... and many will fault us for such. That alone should tell you that we act in the best interests of all Cyador, and not just of the Magi'i."

   "That tells me that you have the best interests of Cyador at heart. You and the fourth magus." Rynst's words are low, careful.

   "Is that why you watch the overcaptain in Biehl?" asks Chyenfel. "Do you think the son shares the honesty of the father?"

   "He is more honest than most. Perhaps more honest than his peer Rustyl." Rynst smiles, watching for a reaction he does not get. "The overcaptain has begun to rebuild the garrison and the compound, without a word from me."

   "He will face difficulties with the enumerators Bluoyal has suborned," suggests Chyenfel. "And with the golds our Merchanter Advisor does not receive."

   "The senior enumerator has vanished, as I am certain you already know," Rynst points out. "And the overcaptain trains new lancers with his full payroll-or so I have heard."

   "Bluoyal and the Emperor will not question such a 'disappearance'?"

   "The Emperor may not discover such for a time, unless Bluoyal tells him or his consort, and that would lead to questions Bluoyal would best wish to avoid," replies Rynst.

   "Yet you would let the overcaptain train his own Mirror Lancers? Would he dream of being... ?"

   "He is young."

   "That did not halt Alyiakal, as I recall."

   "I think the overcaptain is not cast from that mold, but we shall see. Biehl provides a safe... distance for observation."

   "And from Cyad," suggests Chyenfel.

   "Have you not done the same with Rustyl?" asks Rynst.

   "Like a good lancer officer, a good adept must see and do much throughout Cyador," replies Chyenfel. "Your overcaptain has seen little but fighting, and there is more to Cyador than fighting outlanders."

   "And more than manipulating chaos," Rynst says smoothly. "He will learn trade in Biehl, as you well know."

   "You'd best find him a consort," suggests Chyenfel.

   "Although little has been said," says Rynst with a smile, "you know, as do I, that he has already found one. Not that he will he have much leisure to enjoy such, with what he attempts."

   "He is young," observes the First Magus, his eyes flicking to the harbor. "Very young, even for his years."

   "You worry about his consort, though he is but a lancer?" Rynst watches the First Magus.

   "Since he is a lancer, the worries are yours." Chyenfel's voice is firm and certain. He smiles. "You are rather fickle, are you not, Rynst? I thought that your favorite was the majer in Assyadt, the one your Captain-Commander has cultivated and placed so carefully."

   "In the Mirror Lancers, an officer faces far more dangers. One must develop many successors. Then... one may survive who has the training and the talents. As you pointed out, not all of those possible successors have the same patrons or goals." Rynst closes his mouth as the rear doors of the chamber open and as Bluoyal hurries toward them to wait for the arrival of the Emperor and his consort.

 

 

XXII

 

Lorn sits at the desk in his personal quarters, looking down at the glass as he has done so many evenings before. It has been nearly an eightday since the Sligan vessel ported and departed, and but a single coaster has shown up since-and no larger vessels.

   Still... it will take time for the word to spread, and longer yet for masters and traders to take risks, for they tend to trust little that is not certain. Lorn frowns, thinking about trust. In the end, is trade based as much upon trust as the value of the goods? He laughs. Another simple question with a simple answer. Of course it is, for no trader can verify in advance the true value of all goods. They may be poorly made within; or good grain may surround poor, good cotton be wrapped over that of lesser quality.

   With a deeper breath, Lorn looks back down at the glass, concentrating and seeking Baryat yet again.

   When the silver mists swirl and part, the image shows the grower talking to a tall and thin man wearing gray and a black leather vest, who holds a bow. Lorn frowns. Archers-good archers-can kill without being visible. Lorn understands the grower's concern or anger, but he wonders again how much is grief over a missing daughter and how much is anger and fear over the loss of golds and possible discovery of past bribes. While Lorn remains troubled over the woman's death, he has seen enough to know that all too many in Cyador do not value daughters over golds. Even that observation troubles him, true as he knows it to be.

   Lorn's eyes drop as he considers the trade laws of Cyador that Baryat has already violated. It has taken Lorn almost the entire eightday to read the copy of the tariffs and laws he has borrowed from Neabyl and to find the sections which apply to Baryat. Those laws are most clear. One who bribes an enumerator can lose all his lands, and his life. Lorn's problem is simple, however. He cannot prove such bribery, nor who bribed whom. The reaction of the Sligan ship master, however, was yet another confirmation of Flutak's corruption.

   As for the grower Baryat, Lorn may be able to prove that Baryat has hired a mercenary to kill him-a different offense, and also punished by death.

   Finally, he shrugs. Tomorrow, he will act. There is little he can do at the moment that would further what he intends.

   He takes a sip of the water in the mug, then shifts the larger sheets of paper so they are beside his right hand before he refocuses his concentration upon the chaos-glass once more.

   When the image-that of a farm valley with a road along the ridge to the west-appears, Lorn looks from the image in the glass to the paper beside him on the quarters' desk, slowly drawing in the course of the stream, and the position of the hamlet that lies a good hundred kays west of Jera, nearly on the edge of the Hills of Endless Grass.

   In nearly five eightdays of working with the glass daily-mainly in the evenings, he has developed both a series of maps, and a growing concern about the barbarian depredations. There are no Mirror Lancer outposts along the northwest coast of Cyador-not west of Biehl, in any case. Inividra is the closest main outpost to Biehl, and it lies a good two hundred kays east-southeast of Lorn's compound.

   In the recent past, the Jeranyi barbarian attacks have been directed more at those sections of Cyador where the Grass Hills are narrow and more passable. The very ruggedness of that part of the Grass Hills that lies east of Biehl has been protection enough-that, and the fact that there is even less for raiders to seize that is close to the Grass Hills.

   Lorn pushes away those thoughts for the moment, and concentrates on transferring what he is seeing to the map he is creating.

   When the knives begin to jab into his eyes once more, he sets aside the glass, and stands, pacing around the small study of his quarters. As time has passed, he has become more adept, and can use the glass longer, but the end result is always the same. Or is that because he pushes until he reaches that point?

   He pauses in his pacing to take yet another sip from the mug.

 

 

XXIII

 

In the early morning light that fills the commander's study, as he waits for Helkyt to appear, Lorn reads through the Emperor's Code once more-the lines of the tariff and administrative laws. He shakes his head in wonderment. While he had known that Juist had acted as a justicer for the communities north of the Accursed Forest, he had not realized that the Emperor's Code bestowed that right upon the senior Mirror Lancer officer in any district. And Lorn is the senior-and only officer-within two hundred kays.

   Could he have used the Code against Flutak? Hardly, because he would have needed hard evidence of the kind he didn't have, and wouldn't have had, assuming he had survived Flutak's attempts to kill him, since Lorn had no doubts that Flutak would have stopped with one attempt.

   "Ser?" Helkyt peers into Lorn's study. "You ever sleep, ser?"

   "Enough, Helkyt, enough." Lorn pauses. "We need to pay the olive-grower Baryat a visit."

   "Baryat, ser? He be most respected here." The senior squad leader shifts his weight from one foot to the other, not quite meeting Lorn's gaze.

   "He's also bribed a few people, and done a few other acts against the Emperor's Code." Lorn lifts the volume he has borrowed from Neabyl.

   "Doing and proving... those be different, ser," offers Helkyt.

   "That is true. That's why we need to visit the fellow." Lorn smiles.

   Helkyt shifts his weight again, looking down.

   "You have a consort here in Biehl, do you not?" asks Lorn.

   "Yes, ser. Dybnyt and I consorted sisters. My Gaelya is the sister to Daelya."

   The overcaptain fingers his chin. "We'll take the first squad, and the lancers in training, but have them wear uniforms, and not training tunics. With firelances for the first squad, but not the training squad. And a firelance for me." Lorn frowns. "Best you remain here, in the event all does not go as it should. Tashqyt can be the squad leader, so long as I am there."

   "Yes, ser. That might be best."

   "I understand. Would you take care of telling Tashqyt and getting the squads ready? And let me know when they're almost ready to ride."

   "Yes, ser." Helkyt bows and leaves the room.

   Lorn shifts his reading from one section of the Code to another, the one dealing with the relationship of the District Guards to the Mirror Lancers. In training, the undercaptain candidates had been taught that even District Guard Commanders had to answer to the senior Mirror Lancer officer in a region, but Lorn wants to check the exact words and provisions.

   "Blackest of angels..." he murmurs under his breath, for he had never thought he would be reading the laws of the land as a Mirror Lancer. Or using law like a sabre.

   "More like a club or a truncheon," he mutters to himself.

   He has found the words he sought and just slipped a leather marker into the pages when Helkyt returns.

   "All are formed and waiting, ser."

   "Thank you." Lorn stands, reattaches his sabre to his belt, and makes his way out into the courtyard, where a column is drawn up in twos, the senior squad riding before, and the training squad behind. Tashqyt holds the reins to the saddled chestnut.

   "Thank you." Lorn takes them and mounts, touching the firelance, and then checking his sabre.

   "Ser?" asks the squad leader.

   "To the lands of the olive-grower and lawbreaker Baryat, on the road that leads south of the harbor and into the low hills west of Biehl."

   "Yes, ser."

   Lorn urges the mare forward and leads the column out through the gates and downhill. He scans the harbor as the mixed company rides southward, but the piers remain yet empty of any trading vessels, even of the more local coasting schooners.

   "A lawbreaker?" asks Tashqyt, after the company has ridden nearly a kay west of the harbor, as though he has been mulling over what Lorn said for some time.

   "Yes." Lorn moistens his lips. "Although it has been seldom required in recent years, whoever commands the Mirror Lancer garrison is responsible for enforcing the Emperor's Code. I have some reason to believe that Baryat has broken several laws." He smiles. "But we will talk to him and see."

   Tashqyt glances back at the full company. "He has a large family, but... they are most law-abiding."

   "I'd prefer that his family see the wisdom of not continuing the practices of the sire." Lorn's tone of voice is dry. "I also think they should understand that the force of His Mightiness stands behind the trade rules of the Emperor's Code."

   "Ah... yes, ser." Tashqyt is silent as they near the hill on which the grower's dwelling is set.

   The slopes of the low hills are covered with trees-olive trees with the light-green of new leaves and the off-green of the winter leaves that have returned to their summer hues. Two stone posts mark the entrance to the villa and the houses along the crest of the hill above. A lane winds up the hill from the gate in sweeping turns.

   Lorn turns to Tashqyt. "When we reach the villa, have the men remain mounted, with their lances and sabres ready."

   "Firelances at the ready," Tashqyt announces.

   A young man standing outside the front privacy screen of the villa stares at the company of lancers as they pass the last of the olive trees.

   Lorn reins up the chestnut short of the youth and the green ceramic privacy screen. "I am Overcaptain Lorn, commander of the Mirror Lancers in Biehl and the Emperor's justicer of this district. I seek the grower Baryat. He is here. Tell him I seek him."

   The youth gulps.

   "Have him come forth."

   "Yes, ser." After a second swallow, the youth turns and scurries, not into the house, but downhill to the south.

   "Stand by to discharge firelances," Lorn orders quietly.

   "Ready to discharge!" Tashqyt orders.

   The lancers wait. Lorn remains mounted, studying the trees and the front of the villa.

   A half-dozen men appear from the orchard area, led by the youth. Behind them, remaining at the edge of the olive trees, are several figures in gray, including a taller figure wearing a black vest. He remains behind the others, near the first of the olive trees. A broad-shouldered man, gray-haired and gray-bearded, muscular, and a half-head taller than Lorn, steps past the youth.

   "My... my... an entire company to see an olive-grower. I am so flattered, Undercaptain." Baryat bows deeply, mockingly. He holds a long pruning knife, almost as long as a shortsword, whose edge glistens, as if newly sharpened.

   Lorn dismounts. "As I told the young fellow, I am Overcaptain Lorn, commander of the Mirror Lancer garrison at Biehl, and justicer of the Emperor."

   "For one carrying out justice, you bring many lancers."

   "Justice is best served when it can be enforced," Lorn replies, watching the pruning knife.

   "You'd not face me alone, Overcaptain. You're nothing without those lancers and that uniform."

   Lorn steps forward until he is standing on the packed clay of the lane, less than three cubits from Baryat. He looks squarely at the grower. "I would be more than happy to face you alone, Baryat. You would die. You know that. But you are a cheat and a coward. You bribed the former enumerator with both golds and your daughter, and blame me for their failings and yours. I am not interested in being filled with shafts from hidden archers." Lorn stops, and his smile is cold. Baryat sneers. "Words, Overcaptain."

   "I am not interested in the past. I am also not interested in being assassinated in the dark. So I am here. Now... what do you choose? To keep lying and making plans to kill me when I am unaware? To fight me and die? Or to pay your tariffs fairly and forget the past?"

   "I will... forget the past," Baryat says slowly, as if the words are choked from him. His fingers clench, one into a fist, the other tightening on the long knife.

   Lorn looks at the grower levelly. "You lie." He glances at the tall man in the black vest who is slipping back toward the olive trees. "Tashqyt! Bring in those men in gray, especially the tall one. He's an archer, and there's probably a longbow nearby." Lorn draws the Brystan sabre.

   Baryat pales, and his hands shake. In rage, Lorn suspects.

   One of the archers runs, but the tallest does not. Instead, he walks forward, accompanied by another slighter figure, also in gray. That the lead archer does not run is another indication to Lorn that the man is a mercenary of sorts. Instead, the tall man walks toward the overcaptain and the lancers, and bows, then looks at the overcaptain and his extended sabre. "Your wish, ser?"

   "I assume you have a bow concealed in the grove there?"

   "It is behind the second tree. It is a good bow, and if you must kill me, at least ensure that my son or some archer who will appreciate it will receive it." The archer's gray eyes mirror both humor and concern.

   "Are there any other archers around here?" Lorn asks. "Besides the three of you?"

   "None of which I know, ser," answers the man.

   "Or others paid to do so?"

   "Again, none of which I know." The archer shrugs.

   Lorn nods. "How much were you paid to kill me?"

   "Ten golds, ser."

   "And were you paid to kill anyone else?"

   "The senior enumerator in Biehl-the new one."

   "How much?"

   "Five golds."

   Lorn smiles ruefully. "I am most flattered to be considered worth ten golds."

   "He lies!" Baryat exclaims. "He lies to save his own soul."

   Lorn's eyes are like ice as he regards the grower. "No. He tells the truth in hopes of saving his life."

   Lorn glances to the side as Tashqyt guides his mount toward Lorn, the third archer smiling sheepishly as he walks toward the overcaptain. His eyes return to Baryat. "Three archers?"

   "You are no justicer. You kill in the dark."

   Lorn wonders how to respond, for, truly, Baryat is correct on one level. Lorn has killed in the dark. "Tell me, Baryat, how much Flutak reduced your tariffs for the use of your daughter. Two silvers a barrel?"

   "Talk not to me of my daughter." Baryat snorts.

   "Why not? You loved her so much you sold her to an enumerator for lower tariffs. Did you not?" Scorn fills Lorn's voice.

   "I sold my daughter to no one," snaps Baryat, after a long silence.

   The sense of untruth is so great that Lorn can see even Tashqyt offer a minute headshake.

   "And I suppose you didn't accept lower tariffs, either?"

   "If you had proof, you wouldn't be asking." Baryat offers a sneer.

   "I'm not asking," Lorn replies quietly. "I'm telling you." The overcaptain looks from Baryat to the three younger men-the grower's sons, if his visions in the screeing glass have been accurate. "You are his sons. You can understand that the Mirror Lancers have a problem. If I kill him, you will find every possible excuse to avoid tariffs, and to have me killed or removed. If I don't, he will either kill me, or I'll kill him later."

   "You... insufferable... little..." Baryat steps forward, his entire body trembling in anger, half-lifting the pruning knife.

   Lorn's blade flashes, and a slash appears on the back of Baryat's knife hand. "That could have been your neck." He sighs... loudly.

   Baryat continues to shake, but lowers the knife.

   Lorn looks past the grower, but still watches the man. "Which of you is the eldest?"

   A sandy-haired man, square-bearded, steps forward. "I be such."

   "Listen most carefully. A man has cheated on his tariffs. He has used golds and his daughter to bribe a senior enumerator. The enumerator and the daughter have vanished. The man blames the Emperor's officials for their disappearance and vows revenge, even though the enumerator is guilty of accepting bribes. This man hires a mercenary archer to kill two officers of the Emperor who are looking into the bribery. Then he lies about doing so. He has cheated the Emperor and tried to kill two men for doing their duty." Lorn's eyes fix the eldest son. "Under the laws of Cyador, I could turn all your lands over to the Emperor. Should I?"

   The sandy-haired and bearded son looks down at the packed clay of the cart road.

   "Do your worst, and the black angels take you!" snaps Baryat. Blood continues to ooze from the slash on his hand.

   Lorn looks at the son, then motions for the three archers to step aside. "You, archers, will return to Biehl with us. You must leave Biehl-either for the Grass Hills or the lands north of the Accursed Forest."

   The tall archer bows his head. After a moment, so do the two others.

   "And what of me, Overcaptain? Will you exile me?" Baryat's voice rises, fills with anger. "Will you turn your trained dogs on me?"

   Lorn smiles sadly, ignoring the grower, and looking at his eldest son. "Should I turn your lands over to the Emperor, or will you keep his laws from henceforth?"

   "Sybyn! Don't answer that. I'm the landholder," rages Baryat. "The Emperor will hear of this."

   "Indeed he will," Lorn agrees. "He will receive a report of your bribery, your efforts to have two officials murdered, and your failure to pay proper tariffs. You no longer hold these lands. The question is whether your son will." Lorn looks at Sybyn. "You cannot lie to me. I will know, even as I know of your father's evils. If I allow these lands to pass to you, will you honor the laws of Cyador, and pay your just tariffs, and seek no further revenge against me or against any Mirror Lancer or enumerator?"

   "You can't do this!" snaps Baryat. "Besides, you aren't man enough to do anything except threaten."

   "I'd like your answer, Sybyn," Lorn continues, his eyes on the grower, rather than the son. "Will you obey the laws of Cyador and seek no revenge? If not for your sake, for the sake of your brothers, their consorts, and your children?"

   "I... must..." stammers the younger grower.

   "Coward! I disown you!" Baryat's eyes flash at Lorn. "You are a cowardly little man, also. You hide behind your bars and your uniform."

   "You have hidden behind your lands and your golds," Lorn says quietly. "You bartered your daughter, and bribed enumerators. You have tried to buy my death, and you see nothing wrong with it."

   "And I would have sooner than I did, the moment you arrived, had I known what you would do." Baryat glares at Lorn.

   "All of you note his words," Lorn says. "He admits all of his lawbreaking."

   Baryat's mouth closes abruptly. The three sons exchange glances.

   "Prove it!" snaps the grower.

   Lorn laughs. "I have seen Flutak's ledgers. They show more than-"

   Abruptly, Baryat lunges forward with the glistening pruning knife slashing toward Lorn.

   Lorn's blade flashes, with the smallest bit of chaos adding to its sharpness.

   The grower's mouth is open, even as his head is separated from his neck.

   "As justicer I have heard this man declare his guilt. Not only did he declare that guilt, but he attacked a Mirror Lancer officer. More than twoscore witnesses have also seen and heard this." Lorn lowers the sabre, but does not sheathe it, as his eyes seek out Sybyn. "I do not hold you or your brothers guilty of your father's misdeeds. Nor will aught in harm befall you or these lands-unless there are other misdeeds after this moment for which you are responsible. Do you hear and understand?"

   "Yes... ser..." stumbles Sybyn, his face blank.

   Lorn wipes the sabre clean with the square of cloth he takes from his belt, then sheathes the weapon. Then he mounts, and nods to Tashqyt.

   For a time, the column rides silently, and they are nearing the harbor before Tashqyt, riding beside Lorn, clears his throat.

   "Yes, Tashqyt?"

   "You could have executed him even if he had not attacked you, could you not?" asks the squad leader.

   "I could have," Lorn admits. "But I wanted as many lancers as possible to hear what he said."

   "I thought as much, ser."

   Lorn only hopes that the word spreads that he is fair as well as harsh, but he prefers to anticipate troubles, rather than react to such. While he has never seen Flutak's missing ledgers, and doubts anyone ever will, he has no doubts-not now-about Baryat's guilt.

   But he wonders how long he will dream about the daughter.

 

 

XXIV

 

At the thrap on the study door, Lorn glances up from the sheets that hold his calculations of the gear required for a lengthy ride by two full companies. While he would prefer to add another squad, he has no way at all to supply their gear, and many of the saddles his trainees use are barely serviceable. Two eightdays earlier, he had received a notice from the Majer-Commander, sealed by a Commander Inylt, that his provisions and equipment draw has been increased by five golds an eightday, and with that, he hopes, that he can upgrade the saddles and bridles, by summer's end, and purchase some replacement saddles. "Yes?"

   "There is a ship flying the ensign of Cyad entering the harbor," Helkyt announces as he peers into the study.

   "And you are here to tell me so that I may be at the piers before it lands to confer with the senior enumerator?" Lorn grins.

   "You had said that you wished to avoid unnecessary unpleasantnesses, ser."

   "I did say that." Lorn rises. "And I'd best be heading down there."

   "Chulhyr is saddling the chestnut."

   "Thank you." Lorn inclines his head as he departs the outer study and heads down the corridor and out across the courtyard, under high, hazy summer clouds. His forehead is damp by the time he reaches the stable, but, as Helkyt had promised, the chestnut is waiting. So is a squad of mixed lancers and trainees, with Tashqyt leading them.

   The Cyadoran vessel has still not reached the pier, carefully tacking its way southward, when Lorn reins up in the harbor at the end of the pier, where Neabyl and Comyr stand in their enumerators' uniforms, with two linemen dressed in brown behind them.

   Neabyl glances at Lorn and the lancers, but does not speak immediately.

   "Greetings, Senior Enumerator," Lorn offers.

   "And to you, Overcaptain."

   Lorn dismounts and looks at Tashqyt. "Just have the men stand by here, except for those to accompany the senior enumerator." He turns to Neabyl. "I had thought I would announce to the master right away that we are both here to prevent the kind of misunderstandings that have occurred in the past about tariffs and their administration. Is that satisfactory to you?"

   Neabyl offers a pleasant smile. "It is, and I appreciate your present thoughtfulness."

   "And I apologize once more for the earlier awkwardness." Neabyl steps along the pier, away from the lancers and Comyr, inclining his head. Lorn follows.

   "I have received a scroll from the Hand of the Emperor," Neabyl begins. "I have been confirmed as the senior enumerator in charge of this station, and commended for my initiative in supporting your efforts to improve the port of Biehl." Neabyl smiles. "While this has not been easy, it is apparent that your... initiative has been regarded favorably in Cyad, and I wanted to thank you for understanding the full extent of the previous circumstances."

   "Hello there, the pier!" comes a call from the vessel.

   The two linemen scurry toward the forward bollard, past the overcaptain and the enumerator.

   Lorn bows his head, slightly. "I thank you for sharing such. After meeting Flutak, I had felt it could not have been otherwise." He pauses. "Did you ever have any success in locating the missing ledgers?"

   Neabyl offers a crooked smile. "There were ledgers in Flutak's dwelling. They showed little resemblance to what they should have, but no entries that would establish anything beyond great irregularities. I took the precaution of sending them to the Hand of the Emperor, with copies to the senior enumerator. I have not heard about them."

   Lorn nods.

   "Lines out!" comes the order from the three-masted vessel.

   "I appreciate your perception," adds Neabyl.

   "Double up!"

   Lorn and Neabyl study the vessel as it is being tied to the pier. Red Lands is the name carved into the plaque on the stern. Once the vessel is tied to the pier, Lorn follows Neabyl up the gangway, and Comyr and two lancers follow him.

   "Senior Enumerator, Overcaptain." The ship's master, who wears a blue tunic with a double row of gold braid on his shoulder bows. "Captain Elvygg, at your service." He looks at Lorn. "You would be Overcaptain Lorn?"

   "I am."

   "Most excellent. Most excellent. Then I need not search you out."

   Neabyl offers Lorn a sidelong glance.

   "It is good to see you, Captain," Lorn says. "I might explain before you speak that both the senior enumerator and I are here, because, in the past, there have been... shall we say, some discrepancies in tariffs."

   Elvygg smiles broadly. "Of that I had been appraised, and that, frankly, is why the Red Lands has risked a landing here. That, and the cargo, of course."

   The captain extends the manifest and the supporting bills of lading to the enumerator. "Here you be, Enumerator. You will find them in order."

   "Thank you." Neabyl takes the manifest and separates it from the bills of lading, which he hands to Comyr.

   "Overcaptain." The man in the blue tunic bows once more to Lorn, and extends a scroll. "From your consort and Lady Trader. We also have a small cargo for you which we will offload once we have paid any tariffs due. Some wine, some baskets of goods..." He frowns, as if trying to recall the other items. "And also a halfscore of riding gear, saddles, and bridles in white leather."

   Neabyl looks at Lorn. "You mentioned being related to traders and having an interest in trade, but not that your consort..."

   "She is a merchanter; I was not born such," Lorn explains. "I have tried to have her explain trade to me, but we have had little time together." He laughs ruefully. "Lancers see little of Cyad."

   "That is so."

   Lorn looks at Neabyl. "I would that you inspect any cargo due me with the utmost of care. I would not have it said that ever I escaped what was due."

   "Ah... sers..."

   Both look at the captain.

   "The lady sent golds for the tariffs with me so that the overcaptain might not be troubled."

   Neabyl smiles broadly. "Your lady is indeed thoughtful."

   Lorn grins back, adding, "And wise."

   While Neabyl and Comyr inspect the vessel and its documents, Lorn slips away to find Tashqyt.

   "Do we have a cart at the compound?"

   "Yes, ser."

   "If you'd send for it... we're getting some riding gear, it appears."

   "Yes, ser!" Tashqyt smiles for a moment. "Ser... we usually get gear on the firewagons."

   "We have a different supplier, I think." Lorn's lips curl ironically.

   A lancer is riding up to the compound by the time Lorn has walked back to the base of the gangway, where he waits for the enumerators to finish their work.

   "How are the tariffs?" Lorn asks as Neabyl and Comyr come down the gangway.

   "All is well, both in terms of our collections and his papers." Neabyl nods. "He is pleased, and the Emperor will be pleased. What more could any ask?"

   "That the enumerators be pleased," Lorn suggests.

   "We are pleased."

   "Good."

   Neabyl looks at Lorn. "You have quite a cargo there,"

   "There are a few items which I requested for you," Lorn admits.

   Neabyl lifts his eyebrows.

   "I am not suggesting anything improper," Lorn says, "but you have been supportive, and I did not think you would take amiss a few bottles of a good vintage."

   The enumerator laughs. "Overcaptain... no one would take amiss such as that, and I will accept in the spirit in which you offer it."

   "As soon as we have it offloaded," Lorn says, "you will have it." He pauses. "I would let it sit for an eightday. It will taste better."

   "For such as you received, I will wait."

   It is well into afternoon before the saddles and bridles have been carted back to the stable and the two cases of Alafraan, the case of Fhynyco, and the three large baskets which Lorn suspects contain uniforms and clothing, have been carried up to his quarters.

   Lorn leaves them there and returns to his study in the administration building.

   "Tashqyt said we got more saddles. That right, ser?"

   "A halfscore, lancer-white."

   Helkyt shakes his head. "First time since I been here."

   Lorn just shrugs. "We do what we can."

   Once he is back in his official study, Lorn opens the scroll from Ryalth.

 

My dearest of lancers-

   I scarcely know how to begin. Your advice has proven its worth again and again, and Ryalor House is truly prospering. We have been accorded the rank of lower clan house, and so we have moved to the other side of the Plaza, with the smaller clan houses, but we have the topmost floor, once more, and some of the next floor down. I have three more junior traders, and Eileyt and two other enumerators, as well as those who act as our agents in other ports in Candar, Nordla, and Hamor.

   You and I have also begun a clan of our own, and your sister Jerial insists the child will be a son...

 

   Lorn swallows. Is he old enough, advanced enough in the lancers? He laughs. He could be penniless, not that he is, and Ryalor House would provide for the boy to come.

 

...and that he feels to be healthy and strong.

   As you will know, I have also taken the liberty of sending some gear for your lancers, for an overcaptain cannot be at his best unless his men are well-equipped. If you need more, please do not be silent, for I would spend all I have to ensure your safety ...

 

   All she has... Lorn looks out the window until his eyes clear.

 

   I dine perhaps twice an eightday with your parents, and your father will now even joke with me. Your mother asks if I would like more to eat, for she wants her grandchild to be healthy. Were I to eat as she would like, I could not walk...

   I met the day before yesterday with Husdryt of the Dyjani Clan. I was reluctant at first, since I have doubts about Tasjan, especially with his guard chief Sasyk hiring yet more green-shirts-but your friend Tyrsal had suggested the meeting and vouches for Husdryt. Husdryt said he had learned all he knew from Tyrsal's father. We talked for some time, and some matters may come of it....

   Because of my condition, and for other reasons, I am reluctant to undertake a voyage at this time, and I trust you understand. Know that those are the reasons, for I would see you anywhere, were I the only one to consider ...

All my love, my dearest.

 

   Lorn considers the scroll, then shakes his head. Indeed he has been fortunate to find one such as Ryalth. He smiles briefly.

   When he is alone, in his quarters, he will seek her in the glass, if but briefly, because, for all the warmth in Ryalth's words, there is also concern. Much concern.

   While Lorn has often felt as though he may have some small hand in forging his future and destiny, on days such as this, with messages such as from Ryalth and Neabyl, he feels more like a ship at the mercy of the winds-and the winds of intrigue blow strong in Cyad, and may yet blow more forcefully, if he reads correctly between the graceful lines Ryalth has penned.

 

 

XXV

 

In the orangish light of dawn, Lorn glances at the wide River Behla to his left, then at the scattered buildings of the town ahead. He and the squad that follows him have been riding since well before dawn, traveling upstream more than ten kays to reach the double bridges at Lower Island to cross to the eastern bank, and then traveling the east river road back toward Ehyla, the smaller sister town across the river from the port of Biehl. In Ehyla, at the guard station above the river, the District Guard Commander is supposed to meet with Lorn, according to the messages they have exchanged.

   Lorn watches the river and the road, until he can at last see the single pier that juts into the river, a crooked and rickety structure whose upstream side appears blocked by a sandbar or mudbank. According to the messengers, the District Guard post is on a low hill directly east of the pier, halfway up the slope, and facing the river.

   As they pass the kaystone that indicates Ehyla is but two kays away, Lorn studies the scattered dwellings, yellow brick affairs, most without privacy screens or hedges, some with the old-style thatched roofs instead of slate or tile, and the majority with unpainted and often sagging shutters.

   A pack of four dogs appears from the low brush above the muddy river flats. The lead dog, a black-and-white mongrel, sniffs cautiously, then turns back into the brush. The others follow, although a smaller golden dog raises its nose for a last sniff before it, too, vanishes.

   The guard post is indeed where the messengers have reported it to be, and Lorn and the second squad rein up outside the square two-story, and freshly whitewashed, plaster-walled building that dominates Ehyla.

   Lorn looks to Whylyn, the other junior squad leader besides Tashqyt, and the one who leads the squad accompanying Lorn. "Have them stand down, but close enough to be ready to ride. See if you can find some water for the mounts."

   "Yes, ser." The sandy-haired and beak-nosed squad leader nods.

   Lorn dismounts, ties the chestnut to one of the hitching rings on the sunstone post below the steps to the stone-framed door, and checks his sabre. Then he walks up the steps and into the building.

   In the small foyer sits a young, brown-clad guard. His eyes widen at the sight of the Mirror Lancer officer in cream and green standing before him. "Ser?"

   "Overcaptain Lorn. I'm here to see the District Commander."

   "Ah... yes, ser. He's expecting you."

   If he is expected, Lorn wonders at the surprise. Or were they expecting an aging officer in the last stages of his career? His lips twist momentarily as he follows the young guard past one open door on the right-what appears to be a carelessly-kept armory of sorts-to the first open door on the left.

   "Overcaptain Lorn, ser." The guard bows and back away, letting Lorn enter the largish study alone.

   The District Commander of the local guards stands. He is black-haired, small, with fierce black eyes, and a thin mustache that curves upward from the corners of his mouth. His crimson-trimmed brown uniform is immaculate, and the silver stars on his collar shimmer brightly.

   "Commander Repyl, Overcaptain." Repyl gestures to a wooden armchair across the polished wide desk from him. He does not wait for Lorn to sit before reseating himself.

   Lorn glances around the study, taking in the bookcase, nearly empty, and the four footchests that appear to have been recently polished, before seating himself.

   "Well, Overcaptain, the word is that you are beefing up the Mirror Lancers in Biehl." Repyl snorts. "Well past time for that."

   "There is a time for everything," Lorn says mildly as he seats himself easily in the straight-backed chair. "The Majer-Commander has decided that much needed to be done at Biehl."

   "You have... what... somewhat less than a company?" The commander pauses. "You have brought a full squad. What would happen if a ship ported in your absence, or pirates appeared?"

   "The lancers under Senior Squad Leader Helkyt would do their duty. We now have almost two full companies. That is double what we had last winter." Lorn's eyes fix on the commander. "We recently received the equipment necessary to add another half-company."

   "That is indeed a change." The commander smiles tolerantly.

   "How many guards have you, Commander?" Lorn asks. "Those with full gear and weapons who could be called up and give an account of themselves?"

   "No one has ever asked that." The District Commander draws himself up behind his ornate desk.

   Lorn shrugs. "I am relatively new to the port detachment. I have spent most of my time in the Mirror Lancers as a fighting officer. Those questions come easily. Also, I was reviewing my statement of duties, and part of those duties is to inspect and verify the numbers and abilities of the District Guard forces. So I am here. That is why I sent that message to you."

   "Ah... yes." The commander nods. "One cannot fault you for attention to duty. It has been long, I understand, since the full scope of those duties has been attempted. Tell me. How fares Senior Enumerator Flutak? A most imposing official." Repyl smiles.

   "The senior enumerator was discovered to have been accepting bribes from traders and from one of the larger olive-growers. He vanished, as did most of the records. He has not been seen in a season. The grower, an arrogant fellow by the name of Baryat... he hired some assassins, and when I went to inquire, he not only admitted to bribery and hiring the assassins, but he attacked me with a pruning knife in front of an entire squad. The new senior enumerator in charge is Neabyl. He is most honest, most devoted to carrying out the provisions of the Emperor's Code. He has been commended by His Mightiness." Lorn smiles coolly. "We work well together, and Biehl is again beginning to receive more ships."

   "Ah... yes... that is most interesting."

   "You were about to tell me how many guards you had ready to ride," Lorn reminds the commander.

   "The District Guard is near full-strength."

   Lorn's eyes harden, and he waits.

    "With two or three days' advance notice, I can raise two companies. We use cupridium lances-not firelances. Otherwise, our equipment is the same."

   "I'm glad to hear that." Lorn stands. "You are busy; so am I. If you would show me the building-the armory, and the tackrooms..."

   "I had not thought a man of your position..." the commander replies as he slowly stands.

   "When one is sent to do a duty by the Majer-Commander," Lorn says evenly, "it is best that he carry it out."

   "Yes... I can see that." Repyl fingers the right end of his waxed mustache. "Yes... I can certainly see that."

   "The Majer-Commander has plans for Biehl," Lorn adds. "That much I do know." He gestures toward the door, then exits and crosses the hall to the armory he has seen earlier.

   Someone has made a recent effort to organize the cupridium lances, and most have been polished, if hurriedly, and the sabres are racked as they should be. There is little in the way of supporting gear, such as small spades, water bottles, and saddlebags.

   Lorn walks around the long and dim room without speaking until he is ready to leave. "The weapons are adequately cared for. More than half your guards would perish of thirst in any long ride-or you would have them scattered across the land seeking water. Best you find water bottles for them, and soon."

   "Soon?"

   Lorn ignores the question, posing one of his own. "Mounts and tack?"

   "Each guard keeps his own mount. If it dies of a fault of his, he must replace it with one inspected by the guard ostler. Their mounts are in excellent shape."

   Lorn senses the truth of the answer, both from Repyl and the system.

   "The tackroom..." The commander leads Lorn to the north end of the building, where he unlocks a door with a simple brass key. "There is an outside door. It is barred except when we drill."

   The tack is racked properly, and has been recently cleaned, although Lorn can see dirt in cracks in the leather, but the equipment is not nearly so bad as it could be-nor in as poor condition as some of what he had found at Biehl.

   Lorn nods as they leave the tackroom, then turns to Repyl. "Matters appear solid here. Sometime in the late summer or early fall, I will be here to inspect all your guards, and their mounts." Lorn smiles. "I will require that they be equipped and provisioned for an eightday ride."

   "That is not..."

   "It is," Lorn says quietly. "I will give you an eightday's notice. If you find that difficult..." He leaves the implication unspoken.

   "Ah... no. With an eightday's notice, we will be ready."

   "Good. It has been a pleasure meeting you, and to learn that you understand that as the world changes so must what has been accepted in the past. I look forward to seeing you on my inspection."

   "We will be ready, Overcaptain, when you arrive."

   "Thank you." Lorn bows, then turns and walks past the nervous young guard and out to his waiting squad.

   Without speaking, Lorn unties and mounts the chestnut. While Repyl is neither overtly dishonest nor hiding matters about the District Guards, the man is clearly upset by Lorn's visit and the changes taking place in Biehl. That means that he will bear watching, through the glass, and that means more work and headaches for Lorn.

   "Form up!" orders Whylyn.

   The lancers reform into a column two-abreast that rides south and back toward the bridges at Lower Island.

   "If I might ask... ser?" ventures Whylyn after they have ridden a kay or so.

   "The commander was quite pleasant," Lorn observes. "We'll be returning in half a season or so, perhaps a bit longer, to inspect the guards."

   "They'll not be liking that," prophesies the squad leader.

   They will like what Lorn has in mind even less, the overcaptain suspects.

 

 

XXVI

 

The breakfast room is hot, even though the late-afternoon sun is dropping below the brick walls of the Mirror Lancer compound at Biehl. Despite the heat and still air, Lorn finishes his dinner-a breast of fowl smothered in sawdustlike slivers of quilla. The bread is a dry rye that is not much better than the quilla. The single glass of Fhynyco he allows himself makes the bread and quilla half-palatable.

   After he washes and stacks the dishes, he walks slowly into his study, where he sits at the narrow desk and takes out the scroll he has received from his father earlier in the day. He unrolls it and begins to reads it once more, this time more carefully and slowly.

 

   All remains well with us, although we are not quite so active as those younger... Kysia has continued to help in ways we had not anticipated, and I am certain that, whenever you do return to Cyad, she will wish to serve you and Ryalth ...

   We are pleased to have dinner with your lovely consort often, generally once or twice an eightday, if not more often. She and Jerial have gotten rather close, and at times, even Myryan will join them.

   Myryan's garden prospers, and she often shares her bounty with us, and upon occasion Ciesrt will join us, although he and Vernt are most occupied, now that they are now adepts of the full second level, with the growing and myriad challenges that face those of the Magi'i in these days...Your young friend Tyrsal, although a lower second, is beginning to show a certain promise, if delayed. I am glad to see that, given the attention that the First Magus has showered upon Rustyl, who shares some of the deportment of the lancer officer who continues to write your sister. It is said that an arrangement is close for consorting Rustyl to Ciesrt's younger sister, Ceyla. The older sister recently consorted with Zubyl...

   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.

 

 

XXX

 

Lorn looks up briefly and out the window of his first-floor administration-building study. The post-dawn air is still and warm, without too strong a breeze. He hopes the dry weather will hold, at least for a few days. Then he turns back to the papers before him. He is yet writing out the last of his scrolls, orders, and rough copies of maps when he hears Helkyt enter the outer study.

   "Helkyt?"

   "Yes, ser." The senior squad leader shakes his head as he steps into Lorn's study and sees the various stacks of papers. "You ever be sleeping, ser?"

   "Not so much as I'd like, but that's not for trying." The overcaptain gestures to the chair across the table desk.

   Helkyt sits down, almost gingerly.

   "I'm going to impose some duties on you. I wish it could be otherwise, but you're the only one with the experience."

   The senior squad leader's eyebrows lift.

   "Tomorrow is when we go to inspect the District Guards, as you may recall."

   "Yes, ser."

   "I will be taking all the Mirror Lancers except for a halfscore of senior lancers, and the halfscore of the most recent trainees."

   "Ser?" Helkyt shifts his weight in the chair, uneasily.

   "I have heard from some traders that there may be some barbarian raiders riding into the lands west of Ehyla. I thought that we might check that out while putting the District Guards through maneuvers."

   "Best you take all the firelances, then, ser. Those we can do without- more so than you, if there be barbarians coming into Cyador."

   "I appreciate your thought. I hope I am mistaken, but one never knows." Lorn shrugs. "My sources are usually good, but barbarians aren't always predictable, except in that they like to attack the lancers and people of Cyador."

   "Ser... beggin' yer pardon, but in more 'n two seasons, I've yet to see you mistaken, and though I be no wagering man, were I one, I'd wager on what you know." He pauses. "And you be wanting me to keep things as you have?"

   "That's right." Lorn leans forward. "We're before harvest, and there shouldn't be too many ships porting, either to buy or sell, except for clay and china, and most traders won't come in just for that."

   "The olive-grower Baryat's son-he been behaving himself?"

   "So far as I can tell. But if he has any problems, they won't be with you." Lorn laughs ruefully. "We might get some orders transferring lancers to Assyadt or something," Lorn muses, "but don't transfer anyone until I get back. Or until it's clear I won't be back."

   "Don't be talking that way, ser."

   "I don't plan it that way, but I'd be a poor overcaptain if I didn't plan for the worst." Lorn points to the corner of the desk. "Those are the training plans for the next season, and some other papers that might be helpful."

   "Yes, ser."

   Lorn continues to brief Helkyt until nearly midmorning. He could have waited until later in the day, but he wants Helkyt to have some time to consider what he has told the senior squad leader so that if the older man has any questions, Lorn will still be in Biehl to answer them.

 

 

XXXI

 

Again, behind closed shutters, in the late afternoon, Lorn studies the image in the glass. A long column of riders follows a narrow and dusty road- barely that-eastward through a long valley. Their destination is a narrow track through the most rugged and least hospitable section of the Grass Hills. At one time, from the look of the track, the way may have been more traveled, but its abandoned state and raggedness are not likely to stop the barbarians.

   Lorn shakes his head. As he has already determined, the destination has to be one of the towns west of the Grass Hills in Cyador, for there are no other Jeranyi towns west of the barbarian column. At their pace, they will enter the lands of Cyador in less than three days, perhaps four.

   The Mirror Lancers leave to inspect the District Guards at Ehyla in the morning, and he has done what he can. His lancers know that they are headed out on maneuvers, and a possible scouting effort. Some of the older ones nodded knowingly. Several had already cached extra food, and the cooks have lodged a complaint with Helkyt.

   Lorn smiles at that thought.

   He lets the image fade, then calls up another image-this one of a trader in blue. Despite the lateness of the day, she remains in the large room he has come to recognize as her trading office. His lips curl as he recalls her lecture on the difference between studies and offices.

   He lets that image fade quickly, for he does not wish to disturb her, although she glances up, her eyes narrowing, just before the image fades. As he sets the glass aside, Lorn wonders again what secrets lie in her ancestry-for she has sensed a chaos-glass searching when he was with her-and only those with abilities of the Magi'i can do such.

   After a moment, Lorn reaches for paper and the pen he must substitute for being with Ryalth. In time, he writes slowly, trying to take care with each word.

 

My dearest,

   When you receive this, it is likely I will be in the lands just east of the Grass Hills, west of Biehl and east of Jera. I have learned that a large group of barbarians may be massing and preparing to attack Cyador itself in an area where they have not attacked in generations, if ever.

   There is no way to verify what I know, except by traders' words, and thus, we will be scouting, not knowing what we may find. If we do find barbarians, there will be no way to warn the Majer-Commander. What I attempt is a great risk, not only for me, but for you and for our son-to-be. Yet I fear the danger to Cyad and to us will be far greater if I do not act. I know you understand whereof I speak ...

   The barbarians have begun to attack in greater and greater numbers. It will not be long before the Majer-Commander requests that the young lancers I have trained be transferred to Assyadt or elsewhere, and then there will not be the forces necessary to turn away any attack through this, the most rugged section of the Grass Hills. So I must act while I have the forces to do so, and prevent the depredations that I fear will come if I do not.

   I have heard from my parents that you have been kind to visit them and dine often with them and with Jerial, and for this latest kindness I am also grateful. When I will have furlough or home leave is most uncertain, and that I will not know until winter, at the earliest, if then.

 

   He closes with the words, My love, and his signature, although it yet feels strange to be able to say such safely, for expressing love to one's consort is certainly acceptable, even in the Mirror Lancers.

   The scroll will go to Helkyt in the morning, to be dispatched by firewagon. Even if it is read along the way, Lorn will have acted, and the results will be known, one way or the other, before any other officers can do anything to harm or assist.

   He stands, and begins to roll the few maps he knows he will need. While he would like to take the glass, here in Biehl, unlike in a larger Mirror Lancer outpost, the glass will be safer left behind, for a camp is open to all, and lancer Magi'i are still most unwelcome to all too many Mirror Lancers-and especially to District Guards.

 

 

XXXII

 

In the light of early morning, on the flat below the District Guard headquarters at Ehyla, the First and Second Companies of the Mirror Lancer garrison at Biehl remain in near-perfect ranks as Lorn studies the lines of District Guards. He rides the chestnut mare down each line, occasionally stopping to check for riding rations and especially for water bottles. Only Tashqyt rides with him.

   Commander Repyl remains on his own mount, before his two companies, and the partial squad of newer guards.

   Lorn finishes the inspection, and nods to Tashqyt. "I will not be but a moment. While they are ready for maneuvers, I doubt Commander Repyl is ready to transfer his command." Lorn turns and rides toward the commander.

   "And how do you find them, Overcaptain?" asks Repyl, even before Lorn reins up.

   "In good order, Commander." Lorn gestures toward the guard building. "I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you. If you would accompany me?"

   Commander Repyl's thin and perfect eyebrows lift. "This whole matter has been unusual."

   "Perhaps unusual in recent years, but the requirement has been in the Emperor's Code for many, many years," Lorn says quietly, turning his mount eastward.

   When they are a good hundred cubits from the nearest lancer, Repyl reins up. "I trust this will provide the... discretion... you wish?"

   "For both of us." Lorn hands over a scroll. "I thought you would prefer to read this in a more private setting."

   "Oh?" Repyl begins to flush even before he has finished the first section. Finally, the District Commander stares at the overcaptain. "You are within your rights, Overcaptain, but the Majer-Commander will hear of this."

   "I am certain he will." A lazy smile crosses Lorn's lips. "Since I fully intend to tell him." Lorn waits. "I would suggest that you not be too hasty, Commander. If all goes well on these maneuvers, and your guards are as effective as they look, then you are likely to be well-regarded. If, somehow, I make pottage of the maneuvers, then you can claim you were being cooperative, as is your duty, and still appear fair and just."

   The flush fades slowly. "I cannot say I am pleased."

   "I wish it were otherwise," Lorn admits. "Do you wish to announce that your companies are being transferred to my command, and offer them your praise and support? Or would you rather that I do so?"

   "I will do so-with grace, and I hope, skill." Repyl smiles tightly. "I trust you know what you are doing."

   "I am trying to protect Biehl... and Cyador."

   "With maneuvers?"

   ; "I have received word that there is a large band of barbarians riding into the area east of here. We are the only forces available, and it will be better to stop them before they commit many depredations."

   "You trust mere word?" Repyl's eyebrows lift.

   "Commander, I could wait until I were absolutely sure. Then... if I wait, many will die, and much will be lost. If I am wrong, your guards obtain some riding and some training. If those who would have me wait are wrong, then the Mirror Lancers will be faulted for failing to protect the people." Lorn does not mention that the chaos-glass is seldom wrong, or that he has already seen the raiders massing to the northeast, moving along the narrow valleys into the Grass Hills and toward Biehl. His lips curl slightly. "I trust you understand."

   "I fear I do, Overcaptain, and I fear even more that you may be right than wrong." Repyl nods. "I shall do my duty with grace, and hope you are wrong, not because I wish you ill, but, as I have just said, because, if you are right, we, too, will soon face the continuing attacks that have so far graced Assyadt and Syadtar."

   Not if I act swiftly. Lorn does not voice the thought. "Thank you."

   The two turn their mounts back toward the assembled Mirror Lancers and District Guards.

 

 

XXXIII

 

The sun is little more than a hand above the golden brown grasses of the rolling hills as Lorn finishes checking his map. After using the northern beaches as a highway, he and his force have headed inland. They now ride to the southeast, toward where he calculates the barbarians should be making their way out of the Grass Hills-along a narrow creek that meanders out of the rugged terrain and then dries up less than twenty kays from where it emerges. There may be scattered holds along the way, but small individual huts are hard to pick out using a chaos-glass-especially for Lorn when he is trying to map lands he has not seen. He hopes there are not too many such holds along the route the barbarians may take-or may have already taken.

   Once off the beaches, the progress of Lorn's force has been slower than Lorn had thought, because the route he has chosen, while without gorges or larger barriers to travel, has no roads and no streams, just the kays of grass-covered plains set between distant higher hills.

   "Ser," offers Tashqyt quietly. "Up ahead."

   Lorn glances up from his efforts to roll his map and ride. He has to squint against the low and rising sun to make out the thinnest of lines of grayish smoke rising through the clear morning air. Its source is blocked by the low ridge before Lorn's force. He nods. "Let's see what the scouts report. Could be just an isolated holding, or herder's place."

   They have ridden almost another kay up the gentle slope that is far longer than Lorn had thought, so gradual is its incline, and still have at least a kay to go before they reach the crest, when Lorn spies two lancers riding their mounts at a quicker walk than normal. He fears he knows what the smoke signifies, but he says nothing and keeps riding.

   Swytyl rides up from the head of his squad and lets his mount flank Tashqyt's on the right as the three wait for the scouts to meet them.

   When they near Lorn, the two lancer scouts swing their mounts around to ride parallel to Lorn on the left.

   "Ser... there's a hamlet over the rise... along the stream," offers the scout closer to Lorn.

   "The barbarians have already been there?" Lorn asks.

   "Ah... yes, ser." The scout's quizzical look begs for an answer.

   "The smoke," Lorn says, "and your haste in reporting. They aren't there now, though, or you would have been galloping back."

   "No, ser. Didn't see none. Didn't see no one moving," answers the second scout.

   "Just in case," Lorn glances at Tashqyt. "Four-abreast, firelances ready."

   Tashqyt stands in his stirrups and half turns in the saddle. "Four-abreast! Firelances at the ready!"

   The other squad leaders echo the orders, except that the District Guard squad leaders merely command, "Lances ready!"

   The barbarians have moved faster than Lorn has thought, and his forces have been slower in coming across the grasslands south of the northern beaches, and the small hamlet may have been one of the first results of his miscalculations. His lips tighten, and his fingers brush the half of the firelance. He can feel sweat forming under his garrison cap and oozing down his sunburned neck and then his back.

   As the chestnut carries Lorn over the crest of the grassy rise, he can make out the stream that he had tracked with the chaos-glass-and to his left, a gap in the rugged hills, from which the stream runs. Below them is a hamlet.

   Lorn shakes his head. Thin lines of smoke and mist hug the ground around the hamlet. There are perhaps a dozen dwellings, if that, earth- or sod-walled. The roofs of most are caved in-burned out from within, as shown by the smoke that fills the hollow.

   "Ser?" questions Tashqyt.

   "Barbarians," Lorn affirms. "Yesterday, I'd guess. Everything's almost burned out."

   Nothing moves in the hamlet, except the smoke, drifting on a breeze so light that Lorn cannot feel it as he leads the Mirror Lancers and District Guards down the grass-covered hillside and toward the stream.

   The streambed is northwest of the hamlet and separates Lorn's force from the hamlet with a miniature gorge perhaps four cubits deep. Lorn turns the chestnut northwest and rides for almost half a kay before finding a place where livestock have crumbled the edges into a ford of sorts. The scouts cross first, and the water is less than a cubit deep on the legs of their mounts.

   On the other side, Lorn sees a movement and turns to his right. There, a reddish-colored dog turns and slinks down the side of a dry irrigation ditch whose banks have been trampled down. A figure in brown lies sprawled facedown in the flattened grass beyond the ditch. The back of his tunic is covered in large splotches of darker brown. The flies buzz around the dead man.

   Lorn gently urges the mare away from the body and rides parallel to the ditch, along the livestock path and toward the easternmost hut. The two scouts ride almost two hundred cubits ahead, but rein up by the hut, glancing back at Lorn and the main force.

   Again, Lorn suspects he knows why. As the mare nears the dwelling- earth-walled, with a single window on the east side-Lorn swallows as he catches sight of another body. As he guides the chestnut onto the dirt lane that leads southwest toward the other dwellings, he moves his head slowly from the half-naked body of a woman, perhaps nearly as old as his mother, lying as if flung against the sod wall of the hut. He does not look closely to see exactly how she was killed. Nor does it matter, save that she suffered greatly and was slain in pain.

   "Just follow the track past the dwellings," Lorn orders the two scouts. "Keep an ear for anything." He pauses, then turns to Swytyl. "Have your lancers check each dwelling, by pairs, just to see if there's a child or someone alive. And have different ones do each hut."

   "Yes, ser." Swytyl turns to ride back to his squad, which is still on the livestock trail.

   "You don't think anyone's alive, do you?" asks Tashqyt.

   "No. But I wouldn't want to go off and leave a child or an infant to die because we didn't look." As Lorn speaks, once more, he senses the chill of a chaos-glass, a chill that lasts but moments before it vanishes.

   The sharp-featured squad leader shakes his head as the four-abreast column, lances still ready, rides along the dirt lane that approximates a road through the hamlet.

   There are bodies everywhere-far more than Lorn would have imagined for a hamlet so small-but the pattern is the same around each dwelling. The men have been slain quickly, as have small children. The women have been used and killed, even girls too small to be women and women who are grandmothers.

   The overcaptain could have done without riding through the hamlet, having seen the work of the barbarians too often in years previous, but few of the Mirror Lancers he leads, and none of the District Guards, have seen such. So he rides slowly past each sod dwelling, letting the chestnut carry him back toward the southwest and away from the Grass Hills. Behind him, there are no murmurs from his force, none that he can hear.

   In the grassy expanse to the south, Lorn sees scattered dark shapes, cattle that have scattered after the carnage, and some grayer forms-sheep.

   As they pass the last dwelling, Lorn reins up. "We'll wait to hear from Swytyl."

   "Halt!" orders Tashqyt.

   Lorn sits on the mare, under the increasingly hot and bright harvest sun. "The stream goes along the road. We'll water farther on. The barbarians didn't mess it, and the locals kept their jakes away from it."

   Tashqyt nods.

   Shortly, Swytyl rides up. The squad leader is pale.

   Lorn looks at Swytyl.

   Swytyl shakes his head. "No, ser. There be not a soul living." He swallows hard. "Even... even babes."

   "You see why..." Lorn does not finish the sentence.

   "Yes, ser." After a moment, Swytyl adds, "Ser... there be many bodies..."

   "We'll have to leave them," Lorn says. "We don't have the spades or the time, and if we delay here, what happens if they get to another hamlet?"

   Tashqyt and Drayl, who has eased his mount forward to hear Swytyl's report, both nod.

   "We'll follow this." Lorn points to the narrow road or track that heads southwest, generally following the stream. Hoofprints on hoofprints cover the dusty trail. "We'll stand down and water in a bit."

   He urges the chestnut forward, after the barbarians, wondering how many more miscalculations he will make, hoping there will not be too many more.

 

 

XXXIV

 

The sweat oozes down the back of Lorn's neck, and the sun beats on the right side of his face as he rides southwest through the valley so wide and long that the Grass Hills that surround it on three sides are mere smudges on the horizon. Only to the southwest are no true hills visible, and that is where the river is.

   Tashqyt rides to Lorn's left, as they make their way through the early afternoon, and as Swytyl rides up to join them.

   "What did they find?" asks Lorn.

   "Scouts say that the tracks ahead circle to the west, and that hill over there," the round-faced Swytyl reports. "There's a burned-out stead at the base of the rise. Bodies, too. Not pleasant. Like that hamlet."

   "They were already there before we left the beaches. At the hamlet," Lorn adds, after a moment.

   While the first hamlet that the Jeranyi had raided was little more than a group of dwellings and barns where herders grazed and raised cattle, so small that it had no name beyond its borders, Lorn still regrets that they had not been there when the raiders arrived. Now the nameless hamlet will remain so, since the Jeranyi had left no survivors. Had such a hamlet existed near Isahl, there would have been walls and berms, and frequent patrols by Mirror Lancers. East of Biehl, folk are not prepared for the raiders.

   The trail that Lorn and the lancers and guards have followed southwest from the hamlet indicate that cattle or other livestock have been driven regularly toward a tributary of the River Behla, some forty kays southwest, where presumably they were added to those floated downstream on railed rafts for sale in Biehl and Ehyla. Intermittently, hides come with the cattle, according to Neabyl.

   Taking such a small hamlet as the raiders have already would not have satisfied such a large group of Jeranyi, as Lorn is certain, and the raiders are following the livestock tracks and dirt roads to a larger town on the tributary-Nhais was once the name, although Lorn is far from certain that the name has continued, so old was the map he had found in the back room of the administration building. His glass-screed and hand-drafted maps have so far proven more accurate than those few surviving in the Biehl lancer compound.

   Beyond Nhais to the south and west are other, and richer targets, such as the vintner's warehouses at Escadr and the cuprite mines at Dyeum. Whether the barbarians will dare to travel that far is yet another question. But if none stop them, Lorn fears the worst.

   Lorn glances across the browning grass that reaches above the chestnut's knees. As if to underscore Swytyl's words about the barbarian atrocities, a thin line of smoke circles into a green-blue sky that holds but high and thin hazy clouds. The air is hot and still. "Did they see any signs of riders?"

   "No, ser. Not even dust."

   The dust would not rise high in the still air, but with no dust in sight, the barbarians are at least four or five kays west or southwest of Lorn's force.

   Lorn nods. "We'll catch them."

   He hopes to reach Nhais and the river before they do, circling around and in front of them. He also hopes he has not waited too long in setting forth, but he has pushed Commander Repyl as much as he had dared without revealing exactly what he had known beforehand.

 

 

XXXV

 

Lorn has reined up, turning the chestnut more to the south so that he is no longer squinting against the low afternoon sun that has been angling into his eyes from the right. His neck is red and raw, and burns from sun and sweat. The sweat that oozes from under his garrison cap keeps stinging the corners of his eyes. Yellowish dust coats his trousers and those of all the lancers, as well as the legs of all their mounts. The eight squad leaders and Lorn form a rough semicircle, listening to the sandy-haired and round-faced Swytyl.

   "They are but little more than five kays before us, and they will be drawing up into their camp before long. We can reach them if we hasten- before they reach Nhais..." suggests Swytyl.

   Several heads around the circle nod. The black-haired Tashqyt is not one of them. Nor is the grizzle-bearded senior squad leader of the District Guards.

   "They ride slowly," Lorn says. "We have been hastening, and the day has been long. What if they turn, and what happens to our mounts and their riders?"

   This rime both the older District Guard squad leader and Tashqyt do nod.

   "We are not looking for a battle a quickly as possible. We wish a great victory with few casualties," Lorn points out. "We will catch them on the morrow-when they reach the river there. The town is west, but the river winds. They will follow the river. So we will turn more westerly, and arrive at the town before they do."

   "If they do not follow the river?" asks Swytyl.

   "Then we are between them and the town, and the town will not suffer, and there will be no heaps of bodies of the people of Cyador."

   The other squad leaders nod.

   "There is always the chance that they may find another hamlet," Lorn says slowly. "The maps do not show such, but it could happen. But we are the only force here, and we dare not let the barbarians by us to ravage a town such as Nhais, with scores of folk."

   Tashqyt nods, then the other squad leaders.

   Not for the first time does Lorn hope he is correct, but if he is wrong this time, the herders and the townspeople will suffer less. The last time, a hamlet suffered because his screeing had not picked out that the herding hamlet even existed-and because, he reminds himself, he had miscalculated his force's abilities and those of the raiders.

   Still, while he would not have wished harm on the people, fighting there at the base of the Grass Hills would have been difficult, and impossible to contain the raiders.

   Lorn looks around at the faces that study his. Is he putting too much trust in plans and maps? Doubtless he is, but the tracks across the grasslands show he faces more than tenscore barbarians, perhaps as many as fifteenscore, and his four companies could number little more than half the barbarians, and half his men have no firelances. Yet there is Nhais, undefended except for him, and Escadr and Dyeum beyond. So he must try to pick where and how he fights.

   If he can.

 

 

XXXVI

 

Lorn had forgotten what patrols are like in the heat of the Grass Hills-or the valleys nearby. Dust is everywhere, settling into boots, clothing, ears, eyes, and nose. His exposed skin is red, and his neck is peeling. Sweat burns his eyes, and they water much of the time. While the wind is welcome for its cooling, it brings more grit to his eyes and nostrils. Water must be rationed, and finding water for the mounts and then watering them in the scattered streams takes more time than he had recalled.

   Even though it is harvest, and not the height of summer, heat rises in waves off the browned grasses by late afternoon. Then, by late at night, the air is chill, and Lorn and the lancers shiver under their single blankets.

   In the hot early afternoon, he has reined up the chestnut mare on a low rise overlooking one of the few narrow streams feeding the river. Below him, the companies are finishing watering their mounts. While they do, Lorn studies the maps and the terrain around him, now becoming more hilly as they approach the river, and the town of Nhais. From what his maps show, Lorn judges that Nhais lies another twenty kays or so to the southwest, while the river is no more than ten to south. He and the lancers should be able to reach the town, or within five kays of it well before twilight-if his maps are accurate, and if the dirt track remains passable.

   He looks up as three riders near-Swytyl and two of the lancers used as scouts. The lancers bear a look of concern, but Lorn waits until they rein up. Then he only says, "You have something new?"

   "Ser... the barbarians have forded the river, and they have raided another small hamlet, perhaps of halfscore dwellings. They have halted..." Swytyl pauses, and Lorn understands all too well why the barbarians have halted.

   "There is little we can do now." Lorn nods and keeps his sigh to himself. Another miscalculation, of sorts, but not one that would change his course, even had he known, for in the heat, he cannot push his men too hard and expect them to fight their best. And that they must do, outnumbered as his force is.

   "They look to be traveling tomorrow along the south side," Swytyl adds. "The hills are high, and the river narrower and deeper to the south. There are several hamlets on that side, and none on this, not before Nhais. Not that we can see."

   "There is a way to cross the river at the town, a ford less than a kay south," Lorn says. "We will ride longer tonight. For if we cannot cross the river to attack them, neither can they cross to attack us, even if they know we are here. We will rise and move earlier in the morning, while it is cool, and we will cross the ford and travel upstream. We will also check to see where the river is deepest along a certain bend."

   Swytyl raises his eyebrows.

   "We will try to circle and attack them where they cannot ford the river to retreat." Lorn offers a grim smile. "After all their efforts, I believe we owe them that."

   Swytyl nods. "Yes, ser."

   "Have someone watch the river, though, as we ride toward Nhais."

   "Yes, ser/Again... Lorn can but do his best, and hope. He does not mention that, if he fails, the way lies open to Escadr and Dyeum. It is enough that he knows.

 

 

XXXVII

 

The sun has not even risen when Lorn and his force ride in along the dusty north road and into the center square of Nhais, into a square consisting of little more than an open dirt plaza, surrounded by low buildings, but the gray light is bright enough to show the poverty of the place. On the west side is an inn, with a front porch covered by a sagging roof and supported by peeling, whitewashed timbers. The inn's signboard depicts a brown bull. On the north side of the square are a chandlery and a cooper's. On the east is a long low building, with boards nailed across the windows and the door. The whitewash has peeled away from the shutters, and the wood is cracked and weathered. The south side of the square has three buildings of two stories each hunched together. The end two structures lean into the center one, but none bears a sign, and the shutters and doors of all three are closed.

   The structures, except for the inn, show walls of a reddish brown brick. The inn has mud-plaster over the brick. That Lorn can tell from where the whitewashed plaster has broken away. All the roofs but that of the inn are of some form of woven withies, Lorn thinks, something he has not seen before in Cyador. The inn's roof is of ancient and cracked red tiles.

   Nhais is not the kind of town that Lorn thinks of as Cyadoran. The dwellings are unkempt, without hedges or privacy screens. Many are without shutters. The streets are unpaved and dusty now, and will be muddy in rain and snow.

   Lorn glances toward the inn once more, where three men stand under the sagging porch. Otherwise, the square is empty.

   "Poor town," whispers Tashqyt.

   "Poorer still if we don't stop the raiders," Lorn murmurs back.

   As Lorn and the first squad of Mirror Lancers pass the inn porch, the murmurs of the three men drift toward the riders. Lorn listens, his hearing chaos-sense aided.

   "...Mirror Lancers... an overcaptain. What they doing here?"

   "...you want to ask?"

   "Jerem said... raiders in the north..."

   "...let 'em go... less said the better."

   "Better lancers 'n raiders..."

   "Some choice..."

   If they had seen what Lorn has seen, he reflects, they would not think such. But most folk do not reckon well what they have not seen.

   Lorn and Tashqyt turn down the street leading southward, toward the ford, the dust-muted sounds of hoofs drowning out the murmurs of the men on the inn's porch. The houses by the square give way to huts, then a handful of hovels near the river.

   The town is set on a low bluff, and less than twenty cubits above the river, and beyond the last poor hut, there is a slope down to the water. The river is lined with bushes and low willow trees, and the leaves of both are dust-covered. From bank to bank is less than a hundred and fifty cubits, and, in the dry time of early harvest, the river is low. Mudbanks protrude from the brownish water. Wagon tracks lead down the slope and up the far side a hundred cubits away.

   Lorn turns in the saddle. "We'll cross in single-file by squads. Then we'll head back east along the river. Upstream of the town, we'll find a place to water the mounts."

   "Well upstream," suggests Tashqyt.

   Lorn nods.

   "Cross by squads, single-file!"

   "By squads, single-file," echo the squad leaders.

   The chestnut sidesteps slightly as she takes a first step into the brownish water, but the river is so shallow at the ford that Lorn's boots never touch the water's surface. He reins up at the top of the bluff on the southern shore, scanning the river and the land and hills to the east. But he sees no one, not even animals or livestock, just a few scattered dwellings farther to the south and west.

   Once the entire force has crossed, Lorn gestures to Swytyl, then waits for the squad leader to near before speaking. "Send out the scouts... at least five kays east of here. We'll ride along the river road here until we find a good place to water the mounts. Then, we'll keep moving north."

   "Yes, ser." With a nod, the round-faced squad leader rides toward his squad and the lancers in it used as scouts.

   "Forward, two-abreast, by columns!" Lorn orders.

   Orange light is seeping over the low hills as the column begins to move eastward on the narrow and rutted dirt road that roughly parallels the river.

   The sun stands just above the low trees and hills on the horizon when Lorn's force of Mirror Lancers and Guards halts on the south bank of the river, almost two kays east of Nhais. Lorn glances back, to the west, where the town is partly obscured by a slight haze, perhaps from a combination of moisture from the river and dust. To the east, low hills undulate beside the river, getting steeper more to the south. There are neither signs of the barbarians nor recent hoofprints in the dust of the road, except those placed there by Swytyl's scouts.

   "Water by squads!" Tashqyt orders. "Keep the mounts out of the water."

   After watering the chestnut, Lorn blots his face with a dampened cloth, then remounts and rides to the top of the low bluff that forms the southern bank of the river. So far as he can tell, as his maps had indicated, the river narrows and deepens as the hills steepen a kay or so east of where the force rests.

   Shortly, he is joined by Tashqyt, Swytyl, Whylyn, and Drayl-the Mirror Lancer squad leaders, and by Wharalt-the grizzle-bearded senior squad leader of the District Guards.

   Wharalt looks straight at Lorn. "Ser... you been most careful in not pushing us. But you got scouts out, and we be heading toward where the raiders were going. We going to meet them soon?"

   "Today or tomorrow," Lorn says. "Today, I would judge, but the scouts will tell us. I am hoping to circle south slightly, and then head northeast about five kays east of here."

   "Ah... ser, why not wait for them? If I might ask?"

   "Because there is a bend in the river that has high bluffs, and we are going to trap them there, if at all possible."

   Wharalt raises his eyebrows.

   "Wharalt... we are the only force of lancers east of Biehl. If we allow any to escape, there will be more raids of the type we have seen. I cannot keep a large force here and leave the port unprotected, and I don't think you and the District Guards wish to spend the next several seasons chasing barbarians until the Majer-Commander can move more lancers here. So..." Lorn shrugs. "...we will attempt to remove them all at once. If that does not work, then we will be spending at least several more eightdays tracking and chasing those who escape." The overcaptain offers a wintry smile. "I would prefer none escape."

   "When you put it that way... ser... there's more light on what we been doing." Wharalt nods slowly and evenly. "Mind if I pass that along?"

   "No. They should know." Lorn pauses, then adds, "I'd also prefer that the raiders not know we're here or what we have in mind. The other thing you'd best tell your men, all of you, is that barbarians don't back down, and that they hate us all. What you saw in that hamlet and those steads is what all lancers find everywhere after a barbarian raid."

   "What my brother said," adds Swytyl. "Came back without his arm. Said he was lucky. Said what they did to the women-"

   "That's right." Lorn overrides the squad leader quietly. "You all saw that, and we don't want it to happen in Nhais. We need to move on now."

   "Yes, ser." The assents are almost in unison.

   The day continues to warm as they ride eastward along the river. By early midmorning, in the distance to the east, Lorn sees dark birds circling, but cannot make out whether they are vulcrows or smaller scavengers. Outside of the tracks of their own scouts, the road dust shows no signs of riders.

   As they ride, once more the feel of a chaos-glass sweeps across Lorn and is gone. The overcaptain purses his lips and keeps riding, silently.

   They have ridden another five kays when the first of Swytyl's lancer scouts returns.

   Lorn has the column stand down, and sends a handful of men down the steeper slope to the river to fill water bottles while he hears the scout report.

   "You were right, ser. They're a-comin' down this road, slow-like, maybe another five kays, on the far side of the road."

   "On the other side of this hill here-that's where the road and the river bend north, is it not?" asks Lorn. "And then here's another hill farther along?"

   The scout looks at Swytyl, then at the overcaptain. "Yes, ser. Runs that way near-on two kays, maybe like three, 'cause there be another hill there."

   "How far are they from that far hill, the one the road goes over?"

   "Another six kays, mayhap."

   Lorn nods and turns in his saddle. "Swytyl! Get me the squad leaders." While they gather, Lorn dismounts and checks his maps, and then hands the chestnut's reins to one of the younger new lancers. He glances up toward Tashqyt. "We'll need a few lancers to hold mounts. I want you all to look at a map."

   "Yes, ser."

   Once the four Mirror Lancer squad leaders and Wharalt are gathered, Lorn spreads the map on the dusty grass beside the road and outlines the geography. "Here we are... and that is about where the barbarians are. They probably are going to stay near the road here, and swing along the river like so... I can't see them climbing the hills there, as they're getting steeper, when there's a flatter and easier way to Nhais by the river road..." He pauses, and glances at the grizzled Wharalt. "Can your men hold a line until the barbarians are within a hundred cubits before you mount a charge against them?"

   "Aye, we can do that."

   Lorn nods and begins to outlines what he has in mind. "Wharalt... the barbarians have scouts, but they only ride about a kay or so ahead of the main body. They'll probably ride past the bend until where the road looks clear to Nhais. You wait behind that slope there, either until they turn back or until they're a good kay farther west..."

   "Then we come up and block the space between the steep hill and the river, so they either charge us or turn into that space in the bend?"

   Lorn nods. "If the scouts pass you, you'll have to have a man or two detailed to watch for them."

   "We can do that."

   The overcaptain gestures toward the river. "The road curves to follow the river, and because there's a hill to the south. We'll circle the back side of the hill, so there aren't any tracks on the road, and wait. Once they're past, we'll use the firelances to push them west, and they can either ride into the guards or draw up defensively on the flat ground of the bluff with their backs to the river-"

   "If they don't push, ser... ?" asks Wharalt.

   Lorn laughs. "Then we reverse the plan, and we hold the line and you charge."

   "That be splitting our forces."

   "We won't be that far apart," Lorn points out.

   "They'll fight like black angels, you don't give them anywhere to go," suggests Drayl.

   "They do anyway." Lorn points to the east where the vulcrows still circle. "That's another hamlet filled with bodies, I wager. We don't want them going anywhere."

   "Yes, ser."

   Lorn rolls up the map. "Get the water bottles filled, and the squads ready." He walks toward the chestnut, slips the map into the case behind his saddle.

   "...never seen maps like that..."

   "...around the overcaptain much, and there be much you never saw..."

   Not too much, Lorn hopes, as he mounts.

   He leads the two companies around the back side of the hill, far slower going as they dodge brush and patches of thorny green cacti that Lorn has not seen before.

   Still... it is well before midday when they reach the back side of the slope that overlooks where the road turns north into the bend in the river. There, just below the crest of the hill, Lorn and Tashqyt wait, listening for hoofs, voices... anything. Below and behind them are the two companies of Mirror Lancers from Biehl.

   The sun is more like that of late midsummer than of late summer or early fall, and sweat continues to collect under the brow of Lorn's garrison cap. The perspiration oozes toward his eyes, and he continues to blot it away with the back of his sleeve. Beside him, Tashqyt shifts his weight in the saddle.

   The chestnut whuffs, and Lorn leans forward and pats her shoulder. "Easy... easy, there. Waiting is hard on all of us."

   Lorn almost senses someone, something, and eases the chestnut uphill, just enough that he can peer eastward if he stands in his stirrups.

   A pair of barbarians ride along the road, moving at a quick walk. Lorn ducks and eases the chestnut back farther downhill, out of sight.

   As he and Tashqyt wait-as do the Mirror Lancers behind them-the sound of low voices carries over the crest of the hill, but not the meaning of whatever the two warriors are discussing. Tashqyt looks at Lorn. Lorn shakes his head, and gestures toward the east. "Not long," he murmurs, hoping he is correct.

   The sun rises higher, and more sweat oozes down the back of Lorn's sunburned neck. He wishes there were trees or cliffs or some form of shelter, but the only types of vegetation that are more than shoulder-high are a very few straggly trees and the willows that intermittently flank the river.

   A low murmuring drifts toward them, and Lorn straightens in the saddle. So does Tashqyt. Both wait until it is far louder, seemingly right below them.

   Lorn continues to wait, then edges the chestnut forward up the slope.

   The rough column of barbarians-riding three- and four-abreast-is more than halfway past Lorn. He ducks and eases his mount back downslope. From his single quick survey, he believes there are closer to fifteenscore riders.

   Finally, he raises his arm-and drops it. Tashqyt does the same.

   Behind them the squads, riding four-abreast in each squad, move up and over the crest of the hill, coming downhill at a quick trot before increasing their speed on the road and the flat that flanks it.

   Three barbarian warriors trailing the main party look back and uphill at the charging lancers. All three wheel.

   Lorn levels his firelance.

   Hssst! Hsst! One of the men drops; the one on the far right twists in the saddle.

   Hssst! Hsst!

   "Short bursts! Short bursts!" Lorn orders.

   "Short bursts!" echo Tashqyt, Swytyl, Whylyn, and Drayl.

   Ahead, shouts come from the barbarian warriors.

   As he rides toward the end of the barbarian column, Lorn watches as the barbarian force seems to separate-the leading riders spur their mounts and swing northward off the road, while perhaps twoscore of the trailing riders wheel to attempt to stop the Mirror Lancers.

   With the Bristan sabre in his left hand, and firelance in his right, Lorn finds he is still leading the charge. He also senses the presence of a chaos-glass, then pushes that thought and feeling away.

   Hssst! Hssst! The short bursts of lances flare through the already-hot midday air, and more than half the defenders are dead even before the first two squads of lancers plow through them-though not without casualties.

   Lorn parries a big blade with the sabre, ducks, and backhands the raider who has tried to bring the large blade to bear on the overcaptain.

   Still, the defenders have created enough of a delay-as has another group farther westward along the road-that the barbarians have reformed in a bowed semicircle in the bend area to the south of the road.

   Lorn also doesn't like the ragged breaking-up of his own forces, and he barks out the orders. "Halt! Halt and re-form! Five-abreast! Five-abreast!"

   His orders are echoed, and within moments... across a space of two hundred cubits, two forces face each other.

   The sound of hoofs tells of the arrival of the brown-clad District Guards, their cupridium lances gleaming in the noonday sun.

   Lorn-still in the front center of his re-forming Mirror Lancers-snaps, "Half the Guard on each flank! Half the Guard on each flank!"

   Surprisingly, to Lorn, the barbarians do not charge, even as the red-trimmed brown tunics of the guards move into position on each side of the two Mirror Lancer companies. That they do not charge bothers Lorn, but he waits, ready to order a charge at any moment, but wanting to make sure that the guards cover the flanks.

   In the hot stillness, four barbarians ride forward, reining up a good hundred cubits from Lorn. The lead rider-a bearded blond giant-holds a figure before him in the saddle-that of a small girl. He holds a dull dark blade at the girl's throat.

   "See, white demons! We have your women, more than a score. You let us return, white demon, and we will not harm these..."

   Lorn stiffens inside. He glances to his left, then his right. The guards to his right are not quite in position, but all his other forces look to be. "You have invaded our land, and I should let you leave untouched, after all those you have killed?" He calls back to the blond warrior, easing the chestnut forward as he does, so that he is a good twenty cubits forward of his forces, where he can be seen. He has not spied any archers, and he hopes there are none. He keeps his lance low, although he has raised it some.

   "These lands you took from our forefathers. They are not your lands. They were never yours, and soon they will again be the lands of the Jeranyi." The Jeranyi leader jerks his head sideways. To his left is another rider holding a child, and Lorn can see women bound to mounts farther back in the barbarian forces. "We have your women, you see."

   Lorn eases the chestnut farther forward.

   "Do not raise your devil lance, or she will die. So will the others!"

   Lorn forces himself and his lance swings up. Hssst!

   The chaos-bolt drives through the bearded blond's chest. Almost as quickly, the big blade of the warrior beside the leader and the captive slashes through the girl's neck.

   Hssst! The barbarian who has slain the woman slumps across his mount's mane.

   "Charge! Discharge firelances at will!" Lorn orders. "Charge!" Lorn urges the chestnut forward, hoping the charge will force at least some of the barbarians to choose between righting lancers and killing captives.

   "Kill them!" shouts a barbarian, and the tall warriors charge to meet the Mirror Lancers.

   Hssst! Hssst! Firelance bolts flash across the less-than-hundred cubits separating the two forces.

   A high-pitched scream disabuses Lorn of the delusion that a few hostages might survive even before the firebolts from his lance rake across two barbarians. Then he is alternating slashes and parries with the sabre and triggering short blasts of chaos-fire on those few occasions when he can find enough space to take on a barbarian without striking a lancer or guard.

   Dust swirls up, and horses scream. Men yell.

   Lorn finds he is behind the barbarians, somehow alone for a moment. He lifts the lance.

   Hssst! Hsst! Two bolts in succession drill through the back and neck of two barbarians.

   Lorn turns to his right and looses another bolt, to bring down yet a third barbarian from behind. He gets in three more bolts before a giant of a figure with a blade nearly so long as Lorn's firelance comes charging past a dying lancer and toward the overcaptain.

   Lorn barely manages to slide the other's blade off his sabre. The firelance crumples as he uses it to parry the barbarian's backswing, but the big blade remains caught in the thin cupridium of the lance long enough for Lorn to jab the point of the sabre through the other's neck, and wrench it back out. At times, the point he had added to the Brystan sabre has made the difference. He drops the lance and manages to yank clear the second sabre, smiling mirthlessly. Then he urges the chestnut toward a lancer beset by three barbarians.

   Lorn takes the first from behind, and the second from the side with the official lancer sabre, and then he is past and fighting off another huge figure.

   The dull sound of metal on metal becomes more common, and the hssting of firelances dies away.

   Abruptly-or so it seems-there are but lancers and guards looking blankly at each other, eyes darting this way and that, seeking another barbarian.

   Lorn reins up, and looks across the grassy grass, grass now splashed with splotches of blood and other substances, and littered with bodies, some of horses, but mostly of men-and a handful of children and women. He tightens his lips and sheathes his lancer sabre, switching the Brystan one to his right hand. He is aware that whichever magus has been using a chaos-glass to view the battle is no longer doing so. "I hope you saw enough blood..." he murmurs under his breath.

   After scanning the field, he reins up by a fallen barbarian, his eye caught by the shimmer of the blade beside the body, and dismounts. He takes the blade and studies it slowly.

   "Ser! Ser!" Tashqyt guides his mount up beside the overcaptain's.

   Lorn glances up at Tashqyt.

   "It's over," the squad leader reports. "We even checked the edge of the bluff, but no one escaped that way."

   "I know." Lorn lifts the big blade, Hamorian-forged and -ground, from the workmanship. "I want all the blades collected and saved. Put them on the spare and captured mounts. The Majer-Commander will need proof."

   "Proof?"

   "That Hamorian traders are sending blades to Jera, and that those blades are being used to kill lancers." Lorn mounts slowly. His legs are tired, and his eyes stab. Then he glances down at the body of a woman, sprawled on the grass. He does not see how she died, but she is barely younger than Ryalth or Myryan. Or the grower's daughter he had killed.

   After a long moment, he looks up and meets Tashqyt's eyes. "This time... it's over." He clears his throat. "What about our men?"

   "Ah... we took some losses, ser."

   Lorn waits.

   "A good score - and - a - half from the lancers, almost a score from the guards. And Whylyn, and two of the Guard squad leaders."

   "Threescore..." Lorn's smile is tight. "Too many, but not bad for a first battle for most of them, and not at all bad against fifteenscore."

   "Eighteenscore, ser. Ah... I thought we needed to know." Tashqyt looks down. "They killed most of the captives, ser. Almost a score. Five survived."

   Eighteenscore dead-more than in some small towns in Cyador. Lorn nods slowly. "Do we have any captive barbarians?"

   "Halfscore, a bit more. They're all wounded."

   "Where are they?" Lorn remounts the mare.

   "Over by the bluff. There." The sharp-featured Tashqyt gestures.

   In the late-afternoon light, Lorn rides toward the captives. He dismounts and hands the chestnut's reins to Tashqyt. He walks forward. There are fifteen men, all bearded, all with their hands bound behind them. One lies unconscious, on his side, in the dusty grass. The captives are surrounded by Drayl's squad-half dismounted with sabres drawn; the others mounted, also with blades drawn.

   One of the captives lurches toward Lorn. "White demon!"

   "You killed women and children who could not have harmed you." Lorn draws the Brystan sabre.

   "You are all demons." The bound captive spits toward Lorn.

   Lorn's face is like ice as he steps forward, and there is a dull clunk as the chaos-enhanced blade separates the barbarian's head from his torso. Both drop onto the blood-stained dust.

   "My blood is on them all," Lorn looks up at Drayl, mounted. "Not yours. Kill the others."

   "Ser?"

   "If we release them, they'll think we're weak. Also, they killed those captives as certainly as if they had held the blades-and some probably did. We're not killing captives. We're killing the people who did." Lorn takes the chestnut's reins back from Tashqyt. "Do you want me to kill each of them myself?"

   Drayl looks down. "No, ser."

   "Then do your duty." Lorn mounts, then turns the chestnut and leaves the squad leader and the lancers who had been guarding captives. He ignores the scattered curses and yells of the captives as they die.

   His guts are tight, but his movements are graceful. His head throbs, and he can feel the tiredness in his arms and legs. Tiny knives stab at his eyes, a reminder that he has apparently used chaos in fighting, although he does not specifically remember doing so.

   "...say one thing... doesn't ask... what he won't do..."

   "...butcher..."

   "...they any better?... saw those steads... what they did here..."

   Lorn has no answers, for every answer he had before the battle was wrong, and so is every one after it. He can but hope, once more, that he has chosen the lesser of evils, and the one that will cost Cyad the least in the years to come. But he knows that the wars with the Jeranyi have come to Biehl, fueled by old hatreds and new Hamorian blades, and before long, no matter what he could have done, there will be more raids and more destruction, and more deaths.

   Is he but a puppet of the times? One reacting to old hatreds? Or is his evil worse, because he has the freedom to act, and has chosen to annihilate an entire force of barbarians in hopes of preserving Cyadoran lives, when he has no way of truly knowing whether his actions will? And whether he can make the times different from what they would have been without him?

 

 

XXXVIII

 

Lorn's Mirror Lancers and the District Guards ride along the north bank of the River Behla, westward toward Ehyla. They had traveled so far south and west in pursuing the raiders that the dusty river-road is a far shorter return than retracing their tracks to the northeast and along the beaches would have been.

   Lorn studies the muddy river, a good hundred cubits across, but still not much deeper than four or five cubits in most places, except for the occasional narrows where the depths may reach twenty cubits. The willows are taller, and more abundant, and a scattering of other trees mixes with them along the bank. There are now some woodlots along the north bank, although the land beyond the south bank remains flat grassland interspersed with ever more frequent fields.

   As he passes particular landmarks, he adds them to his maps, lightly and carefully with a charcoal stick, although he doubts he will use them again. While losing threescore-and-ten is not unreasonable against eighteenscore, the losses are more than have been seen in Biehl in generations. Despite the Hamorian-forged blades packed on the spare and captured mounts, he has no doubts that the outcry will be equally loud, and provide ample reason for his swift replacement. For if he is believed-that there is a true Jeranyi danger-the Majer-Commander must dispatch a more senior officer-and if Lorn is not, then he will be relieved to face some form of discipline.

   Behind him the lancers still murmur, as they have for the last two days, almost as if they cannot believe what has happened, and must keep talking about it.

   "...still don't believe... overcaptain... must have slaughtered more 'n score himself..."

   "...did all right yerself..."

   "Just let 'em kill her, he did. Pretty little thing..."

   Lorn winces, but continues to watch the river.

   "Got 'em all, didn't he?"

   "...know... but don't seem right..."

   "...let 'em loose, and they'd kill more... couldn'ta caught 'em all. You know that."

   "...you saw that hamlet... want 'em doing that to yer folk?"

   "...still don't seem right..."

   After a battle such as the last, Lorn doubts anything is right. He glances to the northwest. After two days of riding from Nhais, they still have more than a day's ride to reach Ehyla, if not two. And then his newest set of problems will begin.

 

 

XXXIX

 

As the Mirror Lancers and the District Guards form up outside the guard building in Ehyla, a light drizzle falls from the low gray clouds moving in off the Northern Ocean and over the River Behla. While the clouds are dark, and getting blacker, so far, the rain has not even wet the dust on the road. Lorn rides to where the guard squads have reined up, and halts the chestnut before the grizzled Wharalt.

   "Ser?" The senior guard looks steadily at the overcaptain.

   "You and your men did a good job-a very good job, and we could not have stopped the barbarians without you. Some of them-and you-may ask in the future whether what we did was necessary." Lorn's eyes hold Wharalt's. "I spent three years in the Grass Hills, and I would judge so. I am returning your command to Commander Repyl, but I will also tell him how valiantly you all behaved. Also, under the Emperor's Code, death golds are paid to the families of District Guards who die under the command of the Mirror Lancers, It is not enough, and they will be slow in coming, but they will come, and that is why I asked for their names. I would not deny them what they paid for with their lives. I would that you would watch for such and ensure that the families receive those golds."

   "That I will, ser." Wharalt bows his head. "Ser... even I can see what must be done. None like it, but none will gainsay it. Many would have cost us more, I fear. You and your lancers took the brunt of the attacks. And that I be telling all, ser."

   "Thank you." Lorn returns the bow, then guides the chestnut toward the building entrance.

   Commander Repyl waits on the steps as Lorn dismounts and ties his mount to a brass ring.

   Lorn walks forward and bows to the commander. "Commander Repyl, I am pleased to return your companies to your command. They have performed valiantly and well, and your training and organization are to be commended."

   Repyl's mouth tightens as he takes in the more than a score of missing mounts and empty saddles. For a time, he does not speak. "I am certain you did your very best, Overcaptain, valiant lancer officer that you are, but since I was not there, would you care to explain the casualties, Overcaptain?"

   Lorn nods. "I will. I will also send you a copy of the report I will be dispatching to the Majer-Commander." He clears his throat. "We were fortunate enough to intercept a barbarian raiding force. There were about twentyscore. They were well inside Cyad, almost to Nhais when we were able to catch them on the south bank of the river. They had already burned at least three hamlets, a halfscore steads and holdings. They killed all but a score of the people living there."

   "Three hamlets?"

    "You can ask your guards. Those hamlets and steads were the ones we saw. There may have been other smaller places. We forced them into a corner, and they refused to surrender. In fact, they demanded that we give them all safe passage back to Jerans-or they would kill all the hostages." Lorn shrugs. "After all that they had killed already, I could not accede to that."

   "You let them kill hostages?"

   "We did save a handful, and those we left with friends and families in Nhais."

   "You gave battle, and how many escaped?"

   "None that we know of. We counted more than eighteenscore dead. I had your two remaining squad leaders verify that. We also returned with all their blades."

   Repyl swallows. "You slaughtered eighteenscore?"

   "I wouldn't call it a slaughter. We lost three-and-a-half score, and the lancers lost nearly twice what the Guard did," Lorn says mildly. "Nor had we much choice when the barbarians were headed west to sack Nhais."

   "I... see."

   Lorn doubts that the District Commander really does, but nods just the same.

   Repyl lowers his voice as his eyes fix on Lorn. "You knew before you left."

   "I did not know," Lorn says evenly. "I thought it highly likely, but I could not prove it. If I told anyone, people might have acted unwisely. There has not been a raid here in generations, and there will not be another soon."

   "Acting such is dangerous."

   "Not to act would have been more so, Commander. And in not acting, the danger was far greater to the people of Cyador." Lorn's eyes are flat as he adds, "I expect I will be relieved. Sooner or later, but most possibly sooner."

   Repyl frowns. "Did you think of such before you left?"

   "I did. But, after seeing what I saw in the Grass Hills for three years, I could see no other choice."

   "Truly... truly amazing. An honest and effective overcaptain in Biehl. One who serves his land before himself." Repyl shakes his head slowly. "You are right, Overcaptain. You not likely to remain here."

   "I would expect not." Lorn smiles. "I wish you well with my successor if it should come to that. And... you did a good job training them. I meant that. I will also report that I exercised my power, and that you were most cooperative, and that our success would not have been possible without your work."

   "I would appreciate such."

   For a moment, the two look at each other. Then Lorn bows. "Good day, Commander."

   "Good day, Overcaptain."

   Lorn turns and walks down the steps to remount the chestnut for the long ride back to the compound at Biehl and the longer wait for his replacement-or transfer-or disciplinary hearing, although he will be taking steps to ensure that a punitive discipline is unlikely, including scrolls to his brother, parents, and Ryalth, as well as copies of his battle report to the commanders at Assyadt, Syadtar, and Isahl, warning them of the stepped-up barbarian attacks, and the growing prevalence of Hamorian weapons that he has found. He may seek other means to ensure he is merely transferred to a dangerous command, rather than disciplined publicly-if he can think of such.

   Perhaps even a report to the Hand of the Emperor, although he knows not if one so addressed will reach the shadowy figure.

 

 

XL

 

In the quiet of the twilight, two days after returning to Biehl and after writing scores of letters to families, drafting and dispatching battle reports, and persuading Neabyl and Comyr to authenticate the numbers and sources of captured weapons, Lorn sits at the desk in his personal quarters, sipping a glass of Alafraan and studying the chaos-glass. He finds no other raiders along the trails and tracks, but there is yet another Hamorian ship in the harbor at Jera.

   Will all his efforts and all the deaths just fuel more hatred and allow the traders to sell more blades in Jera? Will the Majer-Commander have to establish outposts east of Biehl, or near Nhais, to protect the town and Escadr and the cuprite mines?

   Releasing a deep breath, he lets that image of the harbor at Jera fade, for there is little he could do now, even were he to find another group of raiders riding through the Grass Hills or toward Nhais. There are none, he knows... not yet.

   After another sip of Alafraan, and with a smile, he uses the glass to take a brief look at a lady trader, who dines on the upper portico of his parents' dwelling-alone except for Jerial. The two are laughing, but the laughs die away, as he realizes they-both of them-sense the chaos-glass.

   Abruptly, Jerial smiles, and murmurs something, and Ryalth touches her fingers to her lips.

   Hundreds of kays away, Lorn smiles, then releases the image, wondering again at his consort's sensitivity to the glass. His eyes stare, unfocused, into the twilight, as the momentary warmth the image of Ryalth has given him fades, and he considers again the past eightdays.

   Perhaps fivescore Cyadoran men, women, and children have died. Nearly eighteenscore Jeranyi warrior raiders died because Lorn acted, and more than threescore Mirror Lancers and District Guards.

   Why? Lorn can offer reasons, but the reasons make little sense. The Jeranyi feel that lands they have not lived upon for more than ten generations-if not longer-belong to them, and they wish to kill all those who now live there. Lorn has killed those Jeranyi, for they died because of his planning and tactics, to try to stop them from killing even greater numbers of Cyadorans innocent of anything but living where their ancestors lived.

   After having seen the people who live east of Biehl, Lorn suspects many are of pure Jeranyi blood, yet they are considered white demons as much as he is, for all the years they and their families have been there.

   Will those deaths change anything? Anything at all?

   Without an answer, he picks up the silver-covered book and pages through it, slowly, scanning the lines. His lips curl ruefully as his eyes light on one of the verses that suddenly makes a great deal more sense to him. He reads the words, softly, but aloud.

 

   I wish that

   in this twisted land

   there existed a prayer

   as solid as my disbelief,

   or failing that,

   as solid as my

      uncertainty.

 

   Is that the job of a lancer or a magus of Cyad-to create certainty in an uncertain world? In a world where reasons seem distant, and insubstantial? Was that the purpose laid out by the refugees from the Rational Stars for the City of Eternal Light?

   Lorn slowly closes the book and looks out into the darkness.

 

 

XLI

 

With the indirect light passing through the antique panes of the ancient windows, the polished white-oak table desk reflects the faces of Rynst and Luss as they sit across from each other in a long and windowed room on the fifth and highest floor of the Mirror Lancer Court, the room that is the inner study of the Majer-Commander.

   Rynst looks at Luss, then speaks. "You are telling me that this overcaptain took the District Guards and two companies of barely equipped and half-trained Mirror Lancers and rode out for an eightday-leaving the port unprotected-and ambushed and somehow killed most-all of some barbarian raiders no one has ever seen or heard of? And he claims that they were planning to sack the town of Nhais, and then the vintners' warehouses at Escadr and the cuprite mines at Dyeum? And that they were doing this with fresh-forged Hamorian blades? Is that what you are telling me, Captain-Commander?"

   "Yes, ser. Overcaptain Lorn insists that the barbarians were planning such. There was no proof, of course, on which he could base his actions."

   Rynst frowns, and his eyes harden.

   Luss's eyes drop. "He does say that he has fifteenscore of their blades in the armory at Biehl."

   "Fifteenscore?" Rynst nods. "He has them, then, for he would not dare assert such, were it not so. Does he present any proof of such?"

   "He sent a confirmation sealed by both of the Emperor's Enumerators in Biehl," Luss admits. "Fourteenscore-and-eleven, exactly, and all but five with recent forge markings."

   "You did not mention that, Luss. Most amazing, most amazing, and you almost had me believing that he had fabricated it all. What else did he say?" Rynst pauses, before adding, "Not that I will not read his report myself, after all this."

   "He wrote that there were more than eighteenscore barbarians, and that he and his forces killed them all, at the cost of three-and-a-halfscore in lancers and guards, ser." Luss smiles blandly. "That there were no survivors seems... unusual." Luss adds. "He did attach statements from all the surviving squad leaders, verifying the numbers and that there were no survivors."

   "Does he say why there were no survivors?"

   "There is a brief statement that survivors were not in the interest of Cyad, since there were no outposts nearby to deal with any follow-up raids that might occur."

   "So he and his men killed eighteenscore barbarians, and he killed any captives. These barbarians were within the boundaries of Cyador?"

   "That is what the overcaptain says."

   "And what says the Second Magus?" Rynst's eyebrows lift. "I am certain you consulted him, since he is related to the overcaptain, albeit rather indirectly."

   "He says that the battle took place well west of the Grass Hills, on a river east of Nhais. Overcaptain Lorn rode the beaches, then followed them down the valley, and struck them from behind, we believe. His glass indicates none of the barbarians survived."

   "So... the honorable Kharl is so worried about the overcaptain that he took time to follow him in his chaos-glass." Rynst folds his hands together, then leans back in his chair. "Overcaptain Lorn left no survivors, and in the middle of nowhere, with no maps, no Magi'i, he managed to find them and kill six for every man he lost? Would that we had more like him."

   "He did it without authorization of any sort, ser, and then he sent copies of his battle report to Assyadt, Inividra, Pemedra, Isahl, and Syadtar. His cover letter to those commanders suggested that they be wary as well, since he had discovered large numbers of Hamorian-forged weapons, and that as the commander of the port detachment he had heard reports from numerous captains that weapons were being shipped to Jera."

   Rynst winces. "He is clever. One could not discipline an officer who kills barbarians and discovers from whence come their weapons, not without many officers questioning us."

   "No, ser. That is why I thought you should know."

   "So that the full responsibility will be mine, no doubt."

   "It is always, ser."

   "Perhaps we should transfer Overcaptain Lorn to a duty station where he can use his skills doing what he does best." Rynst glances at Luss. "What think you, Captain-Commander?"

   "The overcaptain is rather good at killing barbarians, ser."

   "And Biehl has become a worthy station, has it not?"

   "Yes, ser."

   "Perhaps Majer Brevyl should enjoy it... Sub-Majer Lorn will report immediately, without furlough or leave, to Assyadt and will be assigned command of the companies at Inividra. Oh... make it clear that our new sub-majer is to personally command at least some of the patrols. It is what he does best. You may go and ensure this occurs as swiftly as possible."

   "Yes, ser." Luss smiles and stands.

   Watching Luss depart, Rynst smiles as well.

 

 

XLII

 

As he sits at the desk in the administration-building study, in an midafternoon far too hot for harvest, Lorn dips the pen in the ink and forces himself to write yet another line in the revised training schedule he is developing for the late fall and early winter-if he is still in Biehl and if he can recruit more lancers to replace the two squads he has lost in the battle against the Jeranyi raiders. Almost two eightdays have passed since Lorn and the lancers have returned to Biehl, and the early-fall weather remains warm, almost sultry.

   "Ser!" Helkyt opens the study door without knocking.

   "Yes?" Lorn looks up from the sheets of paper spread across his desk.

   "This just came on the firewagon, ser." Helkyt extends a narrow package wrapped in green shimmercloth-a cubit long and roughly cylindrical. "Said it had to go to you, urgent-like."

   "Thank you." Lorn stands and takes the cloth-wrapped package, then sets it on the desk. He makes no effort to open it.

   Helkyt remains standing opposite the desk.

   "I'll let you know," Lorn says softly, adding once more, "Thank you."

   "Ah... yes, ser." Helkyt bows and slips out, closing the door quietly.

   Once alone inside his officer's study, Lorn stands and looks at the package. Finally, he unwraps it. He looks at the set of two heavy scrolls with their green seals and ribbons, and then at the green felt pouch as if it contains a serpent or coiled chaos.

   He opens the first scroll, heavily sealed and with ornate gilt lettering at the top and the shield and lance emblem of the Mirror Lancers. There are few words, and while they would bring satisfaction to many lancer officers, they chill him.

 

...hereby convey upon Lorn'alt of Cyad the rank of Sub-Majer in the Mirror Lancers of Cyador, and the role of protector and defender of the Land of Eternal Light, the Steps of Paradise... and all benefits and duties associated there with..."

 

   In short, he is a sub-majer, a good three to five years ahead of the normal promotion patterns. He sets aside the first scroll and breaks the green seal on the second. The second scroll is worse, and he has to read it twice because his eyes skip from line to line.

 

   Sub-Majer Lorn'alt of Cyad, you are hereby assigned as commander, and officer in charge of the Mirror Lancer outpost at Inividra... The urgency of this commission is such that you are ordered to take the next available firewagon from Biehl. You are to report to Assyadt immediately, and to present yourself to Commander Ikynd...As outpost commander, you will also take immediate command of those patrols to your choosing and lead each company under your command on a significant number of patrols... No home leave or furlough period is allowable in connection with your travel and transfer to this assignment. Furlough and home leave will apply as if your new assignment were a continuation of your present assignment...

 

   A third and smaller scroll is attached to his orders, and Lorn reads it in turn.

 

   Your relief will be Majer Brevyl, who has been detached and should already be in transit by the time you leave. He has been briefed on the arms situation with Jera and has received a copy of all reports you have transmitted to the Majer-Commander. It is strongly recommended that you take actual command of a specific company...

 

   There is a scrawled signature beneath the message: Luss'alt, Captain-Commander.

   Lorn nods to himself, then laughs humorlessly. Finally, he opens the green pouch and takes out the triple bars, laying them on the training schedule papers. He removes the arched double bars from his uniform collar and replaces them with the sub-majer's insignia. Then, he stands and walks to the door, opening it and stepping out. Tashqyt and Swytyl turn. The two have been talking to Helkyt. The senior squad leader's eyes catch the new insignia instantly, as if he had suspected.

   "Ser! Congratulations!"

   "Congratulations, ser!" echo both junior squad leaders.

   "Thank you. Thank you all." He pauses. "Times... they are changing, and things are going to change more at Biehl. I've been transferred, immediately, to be the new commanding officer at Inividra..."

   Tashqyt and Swytyl exchange glances, and the sharp-featured Tashqyt frowns.

   Helkyt nods slowly, as if regretfully. "They want you back to fight the barbarians."

   "Your new commanding officer is a full majer-Majer Brevyl. I served under him at Isahl, several years ago. He was a good man, and one who rewarded accomplishment, and punished failure.

   "I have to leave on the next firewagon, and that will be the day after tomorrow." After a moment, the sub-majer adds, "I would like you to form up the men, first thing in the morning, so that I can address them."

   "Yes, ser," Helkyt says.

   "I'll leave the draft training schedule for Majer Brevyl. I think all the other records and reports are current. For now, I'm going over to talk to Neabyl. He and the other enumerators should know."

   The squad leaders nod, and Lorn steps back into his study to claim his garrison cap before heading to the stable. Word travels faster than does Lorn, for Chulhyr has the chestnut saddled and waiting when Lorn reaches the stable.

   "Ser... here she be." Chulhyr's eyes do not meet the new sub-majer's as he hands Lorn the reins. "So much... you been doing for the compound and Biehl... almost seems like a shame that you be going, but I'd be guessing others need you more."

   "Thank you, Chulhyr." Lorn offers a smile. "That's certainly what the Majer-Commander thinks. Your new commander is Majer Brevyl, and I learned much from him. He can be hard, but he is fair."

   " 'Fair'... good words from you, ser."

   Lorn nods again and leads the chestnut out into the courtyard. He mounts and rides slowly out through the gates and down the hill to the harbor-and the enumerators' building.

   Neabyl is in, and the two walk back into the large room with the dais, where Lorn sits down on the short side of the long table.

   Neabyl takes his own place before a stack of bills of lading and manifests. "A new promotion, I see."

   "Promotion and transfer," Lorn says. "I'm being sent to command the outpost at Inividra."

   Neabyl laughs ruefully. "You had to be successful. With all the barbarian attacks, it's not a surprise." He pauses. "Do you know who your successor is?"

   "Majer Brevyl-a good officer. I think the Majer-Commander is going to have to establish more outposts, in places like Nhais, I'd guess. He's gotten my reports, and he's likely to be cautious, but it will happen."

   The wiry Neabyl brushes a hand through his fine black hair, smoothing it back off his forehead, then fingers his chin. "You know things, Overcaptain... I mean, Sub-Majer. Others have to discover them." He smiles. "What do you know that will affect me?"

   "I'm not certain." Lorn frowns. "There will be more Hamorian traders going to Jera, and more ships here. I'd guess there will be more Mirror Lancers and outposts to the east, closer to Jerans and the northern part of the Grass Hills. Some factors and growers may protest to my successor that I was unfair, but that will come to little with the majer."

   "All that I surmise. And what will happen in Cyad that may affect me? Do you know?"

   Lorn smiles. "I can but guess. Why do you ask? What do you know that I should know?"

   "I do not know for sure, but I received a command to provide copies of all remaining records involving Flutak. This came from the Hand of the Emperor."

   Lorn frowns again. The Hand of the Emperor-the one Imperial functionary never mentioned by name-a shadow figure who issues orders in the name of His Mightiness, and whose power is seldom exercised. Yet...

   Lorn shakes his head.

   "Exactly," replies Neabyl. "I have sent those records which remained- those approved and signed by Flutak, especially those involving olives and a few other items." The dark-haired enumerator pauses. "You know that Flutak was a cousin of Bluoyal'mer, the Emperor's Merchanter Advisor, did you not?"

   "I might have heard that, but that was years ago, and I hadn't even thought about it. I should have," Lorn says. "I wonder why the Hand is interested."

   "I do not know, but I do not think I would be in Bluoyal's boots in this season."

   "Nor I." Lorn laughs gently. "Would you like to ride up to my quarters so that I could present you with a few bottles of Alafraan?"

   "I could not..."

   "I have no way to take more than two or three with me," Lorn points out, "and while I will leave a few for my successor, we have been through much together, and a few bottles are little enough thanks." He stands.

   Neabyl grins. "Put that way, I would not wish to see good wine wasted."

   The two leave the dais room, Lorn for the last time.

 

 

XLIII

 

Lorn sits at the desk in his quarters as twilight begins to fade. Once he has thought out and written down his remarks to the men he will leave, Lorn turns his pen to write the scroll to Ryalth. Write most carefully he must, since he has few doubts it runs the risk of being read somewhere along the way, and since he cannot wait for a trader ship.

 

My dearest,

   You may recall that when I wrote you last, after I returned from dealing with the barbarian invaders of Cyad, I thought that the Mirror Lancers would need to create more outposts near Biehl. It would seem that the Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers also views matters in a similar way, for I have been promoted and, when you receive this, may well be at my new duty station at Inividra, where I am to take command of the outpost...

   Matters are such that I am not being granted furlough or home leave at this time, but I have been assured that I will receive home leave as would have applied had I remained at Biehl. Furlough, I fear, is likely to be deferred.

   You have offered so much in helping to rebuild Biehl, in so many ways, and while I know that Majer Brevyl will be grateful for what he will receive, I wish that you had been able to travel here and see what good your efforts have brought. I hope you recall when I saw you with Jerial at the evening meal, and will understand my desire to see such again.

 

   Lorn pauses. He feels as though there is more that he needs to say, but his mind wanders, as he considers the implications of the command in his orders to personally lead patrols-and the implication from the Captain-Commander that he take command of a specific company. For what reason? Just until he is overmatched and killed? Or can he find a way to use his orders to strike at the base of the raiders as he had at Nhais, instead of driving them away, raid after raid, as he had at Isahl? He forces his thoughts back to the scroll.

 

   I cannot say how much I miss you, and how I will regret not being there for you and our child ...

 

   The words come more slowly as the evening darkens into night, and as his eyes blur for all too many reasons.

 

 

Part III - Lorn'alt, Inividra Sub-Majer, Mirror Lancers

 

 

XLIV

 

Lorn steps out of the firewagon's front compartment, glancing back at the six-wheeled and chaos-propelled vehicle. The shimmering canopy that covers the drivers reflects his image, if bulbously. With a wry smile, Lorn passes through the columned portico at Assyadt. While the connecting firewagon from Chulbyn runs but twice an eightday, Lorn was fortunate or unfortunate enough to have had to wait a single day at the changing station. There he had written letters to his parents, Myryan, and another to Ryalth.

   Under an intense afternoon sun, a hot fall wind gusts around him as he reclaims his two bags and looks for a carriage or some form of transport to the headquarters compound. There are no carriages, and a single wagon where two men in brown are already loading crates from the firewagon's freight compartment. Three lancers, one holding the reins to a riderless mount, are waiting on the far side of the firewagon platform.

   The junior squad leader glances at Lorn, then at the shimmering insignia on his collar. He looks away, then back again. "Ser? Would you be Sub-Majer Lorn'alt?"

   "I am." Lorn nods.

   "Commander Ikynd has requested that we offer you a mount, ser."

   "Thank you." Lorn crosses the platform and straps his gear behind the saddle. He mounts easily.

   As he rides with the three lancers along the granite-paved street, far dryer and dustier than those of Biehl, he looks around the town. Assyadt is a smaller version of Syadtar, the headquarters town for his first assignment at Isahl under Majer Brevyl. Like Syadtar, Assyadt has clean and square stone or white-plastered buildings, green shutters, and tile roofs. He sees none of the slate roofs so prevalent in Biehl.

   The compound is less than a kay from the firewagon portico, and yet is on the north edge of the town. As in Syadtar, the gates are open, with little sign that they have ever been closed. The lancers halt outside the first building inside the walls. "This be the commander's headquarters, ser."

   Lorn dismounts, and unfastens his bags. "Thank you."

   "No problem, ser. Best of luck, ser."

   As Lorn turns and walks up the steps and through the square stone arch, with his chaos-heightened hearing, Lorn catches a few whispered remarks.

   "...young for a sub-majer... really young..."

   "...doesn't look like a butcher..."

   The new sub-majer keeps a pleasant smile on his lips as he carries his gear through the open double doors and into the foyer.

   "Ser!" The squad leader behind the foyer desk is on his feet. "You must be Sub-Majer Lorn."

   "I am," Lorn admits.

   "Both Commander Ikynd and Majer Dettaur would like to see you. If you would let me tell the commander you are here... ? Oh... you can set your gear on the bench there. I'll be just a moment, ser."

   Lorn has barely set his bags on the golden oak bench and straightened his uniform as best he can when the lanky senior squad leader is back.

   "This way, ser."

   Lorn follows the squad leader down the short corridor and to the door on the left, and into a study smaller than the one Lorn had as commander at Biehl.

   Ikynd stands as Lorn enters. He is a squarish man, clean-shaven, with short-cut salt-and-pepper hair and unruly and bushy eyebrows. His black eyes survey Lorn for a long moment, until the squad leader closes the study door. Then he grins and shakes his head. "Sub-Majer.... a pleasure to meet the Butcher of Nhais."

   Lorn offers a rueful smile. "Ser, I cannot say I had heard the term before."

   "Sit down." Ikynd gestures to the chairs before his wide table desk. "I'm sure that you haven't. Majer Dettaur coined it. We'll talk about that later."

   Lorn seats himself, keeping a faint and pleasant smile on his lips.

   "First... congratulations. You did what most thinking lancer officers are trying to do on every angel-cursed patrol." Ikynd raises his bushy eyebrows. "How did you manage it?"

   Lorn shrugs self-deprecaringly. "Luck, having the right information at the right time, good lancers, and good District Guards..."

   Ikynd smiles broadly, genially, before speaking. "That's a good line for Cyad. It's horsedung here. You want to try again?"

   Lorn studies the commander for a long moment. "I exploited the rules of the Emperor's Code, invoked the authority of the Majer-Commander, found some old maps and updated them, used surplus payroll to recruit and train additional lancers, and gambled that the information I had was correct. I slaughtered every last raider because I knew no one would be sending any patrols after me. It cost me half my command, a third of the guards, and the lives of fivescore Cyadorans. Is that what you wanted to hear, Commander?"

   Ikynd nods. "Almost." The smile returns. "How did you know the barbarians were even there?"

   "I wasn't totally sure," Lorn lies, "but I knew that the Hamorians were landing scores and scores of blades, and the trading captains had heard that the raiders were going to strike where they never had before. To me, that meant the area east of Biehl. I told everyone that I needed the maneuvers for training and to test the District Guards. If I hadn't found the raiders, that's all that would have been known-and I'd have been able to recommend a company's worth of lancers for transfer to the Grass Hills." Another shrug follows. "Once we left the north beaches, the smoke was an obvious sign to anyone who'd done patrols in the Grass Hills, and we just followed them until I could trap them."

   "Ingenious-and dangerous," observes the commander. "You were a captain under Brevyl, weren't you?"

   "Yes, ser."

   "You don't have to say, but what was his opinion of you?"

   Lorn's eyes are hard as he fixes them on the senior officer. "Ser, he said I was one of the best captains he ever had, that I got more out of my men with fewer losses than anyone, and that he'd never liked me and probably never would."

   Ikynd laughs, a deep rolling chuckle. Then he shakes his head. "Old Grind 'Em and Gut 'Em... always making sure a compliment has a thorn in it."

   Lorn waits.

   "You've got both kinds of guts, Lorn. The kind that'll risk telling the truth when people don't want to hear it, and the kind to take on a job everyone looks the other way on. My orders for you are simple. Give you Inividra, and make sure you lead a company as often as any buck captain. Give you adequate support, but nothing special, and keep you here until you do something stupid enough to get killed." The commander's lips curl. "And my second-in-command, the most honorable Dettaur'alt, with all his connections in Cyad, is sitting on his most esteemed rump, ready to report to the Captain-Commander if I deviate from those orders. Even if I'd never met you, I think I'd respect you for the class of your enemies. My respect won't help you much, not with everyone looking over my shoulder."

   Lorn nods. "I think I understand."

   "Do you?"

   "Not so much as you do, I think, but enough." Lorn pauses. "What are the limits of what I can do?"

   "You're the outpost commander. So long as you kill lots of barbarians, and you kill more than four for every man you lose, I can replace your lancers seasonally. If you lose a lot, regardless of the barbarian kills, that will depend on the Majer-Commander, though, because we only hold about accompany here in Assyadt in reserve for the unexpected. You drop below three kills for every lost lancer, and the Captain-Commander, through your friend Dettaur, will have you out for some trumped-up disciplinary action."

   All of what Ikynd says is the truth, but Lorn can sense, almost without truth-reading the officer, that there is more, far more, left unsaid.

   "How far can I take patrols?" Lorn asks warily.

   "The patrol jurisdictions are on the maps-so far as the lands of Cyador go. Stay out of the other outposts' Cyadoran patrol lands. If you want to risk going into Jeranyi territory, I don't care-just so long as you bring back your men, and there aren't too many lancer bodies left behind. And there aren't any District Guards to conscript."

   "What about firelances and recharges?"

   "We're down to three, perhaps four recharges a season."

   Lorn winces visibly.

   "It's tight and getting tighter, Sub-Majer."

   "Mounts?"

   "Those shouldn't be a problem. Before he left yesterday, Sub-Majer Kysken reported that he had twoscore extra from captures."

   "Officers and companies?"

   "You have five companies at full strength. Two undercaptains, and three captains. You rate an overcaptain, but you won't get him, not for several seasons, at least."

   "What sort of raids is the area taking?"

   "The numbers aren't much different than before. Say two raids every three eightdays in your territories. The difference is that the raiding parties are larger."

   "More blades," Lorn suggests.

   "Could be. Could be anything."

   Lorn catches the off-balance feel of the response, but merely nods. "Is there anything else of special importance to you that I should know, ser?"

   The genial smile reappears. "I don't like reading long and puffed-up reports. I liked your battle report. Keep them like that, and we'll be on the same step."

   "Yes, ser."

   Abruptly, Ikynd stands. "Not much more to say. Dettaur's study is across the corridor. Good luck."

   Lorn stands and bows. "Thank you, ser."

   As Ikynd watches with an amused smile, Lorn opens the door and departs.

   He crosses the corridor and steps into Dettaur's immaculate and smaller study. The taller man smiles and stands, slowly, from behind his study desk. Several stacks of papers are set on the left side, although Dettaur does not seem to have been reading them.

   "You look good, Lorn."

   "So do you." Lorn smiles. "And you've made Majer."

   "Last season." Dettaur motions to a chair and reseats himself. "You've met with the commander. What did you think?"

   "He's very direct," Lorn observes as he sits down.

   Dettaur nods. "He hides as much as he reveals, but he never lies. You present a real problem for him. He likes officers who kill barbarians-he was born in Syadtar-and you are obviously quite good at that." The majer smiles. "You have also created a certain unrest, shall we say, in Mirror Lancer headquarters."

   "By killing Jeranyi who were murdering people all across the countryside?" Lorn raises his eyebrows.

   "No. By using the powers of a senior lancer commander to clean up the dirty little bribery games of the Emperor's Enumerators, to conscript the District Guards, and to call attention to how badly the Mirror Lancers had run the port compound by managing to double its size and turn it back into a fighting unit without costing Cyador a single additional gold." Dettaur shakes his head slowly. "There is such a thing as being too effective, Lorn. I haven't forgotten the lesson you gave me when we were in school. I know it was you." A smile follows. "That is history, and we have a job to do here."

   "We do. What do you suggest?"

   Dettaur purses his lips as if thinking, although Lorn knows that Dettaur has his response prepared. "Be careful. You're going to be here a long time. The commander can't give you any more support than any other outpost, and Inividra takes the most raids of all. We've also been told to expect fewer firelance recharges-something about the Accursed Forest chaos-towers."

   Lorn nods.

   "You were right about the Hamorian blades. At least, I think you were, and that's why the Jeranyi raiding parties will get bigger. When they get enough blades, more will go eastward, and Syadtar's outposts will see bigger raids then, too."

   "While we have fewer firelances," Lorn says.

   "Exactly. That's being a lancer."

   Except Dettaur won't be out leading patrols, Lorn reflects silently.

   "And don't expect any brilliant tactics to get you out of here. It won't happen."

   The sub-majer senses both the partial lie and the other's unease with the statement, but only replies, dryly, "I've noticed that already."

   "You would. You're here. I've never seen you make the same mistake twice."

   "I try to avoid that."

   "Good." Dettaur gestures vaguely toward the open window. "You can have the senior officer's visiting quarters tonight, and your pick of any mount in the stable that's free. In the morning, you'll take your own replacements out to Inividra. It's a good two-day ride to the northwest."

   Lorn laughs. "Like all outposts."

   Dettaur stands.

   So does Lorn.

   "There's one other thing, Lorn."

   "Yes, ser?"

   "Ah, you anticipated me. That's right. But best you also remember that what you do reflects on the commander and me. So if you do well, so do we." Dettaur smiles.

   "Then I'll have to do well, ser." Lorn understands that all too well. If he fails, it will be his fault, and if he succeeds, Dettaur will claim credit. And with Dettaur writing the final reports, and all couriers going through Assyadt, Lorn has yet another problem.

   "I'm sure you will, and good luck, if I don't see you later." Dettaur flashes a last false smile, yet one more sincere to Lorn than many.

   Lorn walks out of Dettaur's study and through the foyer to reclaim his gear. He has a long ride to Inividra, and a great deal to consider in an extremely short time, contrary to what Dettaur has urged. It is most clear that, if he does not act quickly-somehow-he will end up being slowly constricted into an impossible situation. Yet if he acts too quickly, he will not have the support of his men and enough knowledge to succeed.

   It is also obvious that the commander and the majer dislike each other, that both lie in different ways, and that they can be trusted only so far as their own self-interests will take them. Nothing has changed with Dettaur since he left Cyad to become a Mirror Lancer officer years before, except that he has become more adept in using others.