Scion of Cyador (10 page)

Hssst! The firelance flares once.

From the far side of the bulky enumerator’s body, a more slender figure bolts upright, her mouth opening.

Hsst! The firelance flares again, although Lorn’s fingers are shaking as he lowers the weapon. He stands stock-still for a moment, swallowing silently. He knows he had no real choice, not after killing Flutak. Had Lorn not used the lance a second time, all would know what he has done, with a witness-and probably escaping servants who would also know, not to mention the guards in the front.

Nor can he afford to ride out, night after night, not after killing a mastiff and a guard. His lips tighten, even as his eyes burn momentarily. Why were there always innocents caught up with those who are less than honest?

Could he have done aught else? He knows that he will ask that question more than once as, slowly, he sets the firelance against the wall. Then, as he has done before in his own quarters, Lorn drags both figures onto a space of tile clear of rugs and upholstery, and plays the firelance across both, using his chaos mastery to direct and intensify the chaos-flames. There are no metal items to worry about. There are brown patches on the bed linens, but he can do nothing about those. Nor can he change what he has done, instantly reacting to kill the woman.

With another silent sigh, he eases back down the corridor and out the courtyard door, carrying the two pieces of the door bar. He climbs back over the wall, making a wide circuit of the villa.

The chestnut remains tied to the golden oak sapling. “Easy there…” Lorn unties her and mounts quickly, still carrying the wooden bar.

He rides slowly and carefully away from the villa. Neither the glass nor his chaos-senses had revealed the woman’s presence until he had killed the enumerator. Had he spared her, Lorn would likely have doomed himself. As it is, he treads a narrow and dangerous path.

He can tell himself that the woman was not totally innocent. The fact that she was probably the daughter of the olive-grower Baryat, who has doubtless been receiving special treatment from Flutak, suggests that the conspiracy to divert tariffs is not solely Flutak’s doing. The elaborate luxury of the villa and the guards only testify to Flutak’s corruption. Any woman who partook of the fruits of that corruption has made a choice.

But did she, really? Lorn knows his own sisters have few real choices. Was this woman any different?

Yet… what choices did Lorn have? If he had spared her, she would have given an alarm, and all too soon the trail would have pointed to Lorn.

Could Lorn have found some more clever way to deal with Flutak?

Perhaps his father could have, but Lorn has already found that his strengths do not lie in scheming, but in acting. With all the schemes already laid against him, he fears that not to act swiftly would have been his undoing.

And innocent men do not hire assassins immediately upon meeting a Mirror Lancer officer who only pledges to carry out his duty.

But… that does not change the sickening feeling that twists Lorn’s guts. Nor the anger that goes with his sadness and regret. Anger that he is faced once more with situations where no choices are perfect, and anger at himself for not foreseeing the complications.

Lorn rides slowly along the road back toward the compound.

A kay farther along toward the harbor, he drops the door bar’s sections into a drainage ditch. His head throbs, and even in the darkness, he is seeing double images. He has drawn far more chaos from around him than is wise, and used it far more than he would have preferred, and partly in ways he regrets… and will always regret.

XVIII

Lorn is at his study desk early the next morning-though not at dawn, not after the long night he has had, and the dreams about the young woman, who has appeared in them… pleading, her face taking on Myryan’s countenance, perhaps because Lorn had never really seen her visage. For a time, he looks blankly in the direction of the open window.

Trying to push away the image of the pleading figure, he tries to draft the phrases that may prove useful in dealing with Neabyl, the remaining senior enumerator, when Helkyt appears.

“Ser?”

“Yes, Helkyt?”

“There be a problem, ser.”

Lorn raises his eyebrows. He can think of several, though they seem trivial compared to his dreams of Flutak’s mistress. “Yes?”

“Mayhap not a problem, but a matter most strange.”

“What might it be?”

“You see, ser, there is a man. His name is Drakyt. None knows how he lives, but folk die, usually from blades stuck in them in the dead of night, and thereafter Drakyt has coin enough for good raiment and the best ale.”

Lorn nods for Helkyt to continue.

“This morn, the guards heard mounts outside the walls, and when they went to see, there were three horses tethered there on the west side, well away from the gate. One of the mounts was a black that none but Drakyt can ride, or so ‘tis said.” The senior squad leader pauses, then continues as he sees that Lorn will not question. “There was also a hempen seaman’s rope, tarred black, fastened over the wall. But none have seen any men within the compound.”

Lorn shrugs. “Perhaps the guards scared them off. Until they show up to claim their mounts, all we can do is stable the mounts. When they return, we’ll charge them for feeding their horses and put the charges in the payroll chest. Every copper will help. You might pass the word to the folk around the compound that’s what we’re doing.”

“But… if they return not?”

“Say… in half a season, the mounts belong to the Mirror Lancers.” Lorn looks at Helkyt. “Or do you think it should be longer?”

“I know not…” Helkyt frowns. “This Drakyt is not one to anger.”

Lorn laughs. “How would that anger this fellow? He leaves his mount, and the Emperor’s Mirror Lancers feed it and take care of it? And we ask to be paid for the feed and care?”

“Ah… ser…”

“Yes?”

“It is said you went riding late last evening, and returned far later.” Helkyt purses his lips. “You did not see or hear the mounts?”

“I didn’t see a soul around the courtyard or outside the walls,” Lorn replies most truthfully, if not with the entire truth. “If I had, I am certain all of the compound would have heard.”

“Most strange.” Helkyt bows, still frowning. “I will tell Tashqyt to have the mounts stabled.”

“Tashqyt? He’s one of the junior squad leaders? Dark-haired, with a square beard?”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn nods. “I’m trying to put faces to names. Is there anything else?”

“No, ser.”

“Will we have a cart to carry off the rubbish from the north barracks?”

“This very morn, ser. Two.” Helkyt smiles, an expression of relief.

“Good. I knew you could do that.” Lorn rises. “All this talk about stray mounts reminded me. I need to talk to Chulhyr. I shouldn’t be gone long.”

“Yes, ser. I be going to the enumerators for the payroll, after I task Tashqyt with the stray mounts.”

Lorn nods, and the two men separate as they leave the administrative building. Helkyt heads for the barracks, while Lorn crosses the courtyard through the light but cold rain that has turned the paving stones a darker sheen of gray. Despite the rain, Lorn nods, smiling, at the younger lancers who already are carrying debris from the north wing of the barracks into a nondescript cart. A worn and near-swaybacked mule stands in the harness.

At the stable, Lorn draws Chulhyr aside. “You know mounts well, do you not? Exceptionally well?”

“I might say so, ser, better than all but the farrier, and Spherl.” Chulhyr frowns, waiting. “Have you found the chestnut wanting?”

“Dark angels, no,” replies Lorn with a light laugh he does not feel. “We will be getting more lancers. We will be needing more mounts, and I would prefer it not be known yet. Can you scout around… ?”

“Ah… that I can do. And now is a good time, for last year’s harvests and trading were not so good as in other years.” The ostler pauses. “How many?”

“Enough for another company by autumn.”

Helkyt and four other lancers enter the stable to find and saddle their mounts. The senior squad leader inclines his head as he passes the overcaptain. The lancer following him carries a small chest.

“It might take that long unless you wished to pay more than such would be worth,” Chulhyr replies slowly.

“We have some time, but that’s why I wanted you to begin looking as you can.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Let me know when you have some you think we should purchase. You know where my study is.”

Chulhyr nods. “I will bring you word, ser.”

“Thank you.”

The overcaptain walks back across the courtyard under gray clouds that appear lighter than before. Behind him, he hears the sound of hoofs on stone as Helkyt and the lancers set out to pick up the payroll.

Back in his study, Lorn writes several more thoughts on his list of items that need action. He had forgotten to ask Chulhyr about saddles and riding gear-whether there remained saddles from the time when two full companies had been quartered at Biehl and, if so, how usable they might be. Each idea begets more problems, and more work.

Then Lorn goes back to his plans for the enumerators.

He has finished what he can plan, drafted a scroll to the District Guard Commander in Ehlya suggesting that he will be visiting in the near future, and is working on the outline of a lancer training program at Biehl when the door from the outer study opens, then closes.

Thrap! Even before the sound of the knock dies away, Helkyt puffs into the inner study.

“Ser… ser…”

Lorn looks up from the draft of the training program.

“Ser… ah… there is a problem… with the pay chest. Senior Enumerator Flutak cannot be found.”

“Cannot be found?”

“No, ser.”

“Doesn’t anyone know where he is?”

“All Neabyl would say is that he was missing from his villa and that no one knew where he had gone.” Helkyt shrugs.

“Just because he’s gone off on furlough or whatever doesn’t mean we don’t get paid,” Lorn points out, forcing annoyance to creep into his voice.

“He is not on leave or furlough, ser. That is what Neabyl says.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Lorn frowns. “Isn’t Neabyl a senior enumerator as well?”

“Yes, ser. But he does not wish to release the payroll without the assent of Flutak.”

Lorn stands, then walks to the window, as if considering what Helkyt has conveyed. After a time, he turns. “Helkyt… this is a problem. We are entitled to a full draw of two companies, is that not true?”

“Yes, ser.” There is the hint of a quaver in the squad leader’s voice.

“Then, copy out that which we are entitled to. Underneath that, write that Overcaptain Lorn certifies that this is the payroll to which the Mirror Lancers in Biehl are entitled on this date, and that he has signed for its receipt.” Lorn smiles. “We do not wish that our lancers not be paid, do we?”

“No, ser.”

“And make two copies. On the second, place a line for Neabyl to sign, saying that he has received a copy and disbursed exactly these funds.”

Helkyt nods slowly. “But he will not sign such or hand over the payroll.”

“After you have drawn these up, we both will ride over to the enumerators’ building, and I think we should take a full squad… say, in battle dress.”

Helkyt swallows. “Ah…”

“The Emperor’s Enumerators serve the Mirror Lancers, even as we support them.” Lorn gestures. “Now, if you would send out word for the squad to be ready, and then draft those two statements…”

“Yes, ser.” Helkyt nods twice, quickly.

It is nearing midmorning when the senior squad leader returns with the two drafts of the payroll account statements.

After he has read them closely, Lorn stands. “These will do. If the squad is ready, we will go visit Senior Enumerator Neabyl.”

“Yes, ser. They await us in the courtyard.”

“Good.” Lorn slips on his winter jacket, waterproof at least, and follows Helkyt out.

Although he has not asked, the chestnut is saddled and waiting. As Lorn and Helkyt ride out through the gates, through a rain that is changing to a light drizzle, in the column behind them, Lorn can hear the murmurs.

“…enumerators not like this…”

“…think I’d worry more about the overcaptain not liking it…”

“…first time… had a commander with a blade for a backbone…”

Lorn just hopes he won’t cut himself too badly with that blade, or that he has not done just that already.

The waters of the harbor and the
Northern
Ocean
beyond are flat and dark gray, and the piers are empty as the lancers ride past. At the enumerators’ building, Lorn reins up, and the lancers do as well.

“Remain in formation, mounted,” Lorn orders. “We will be a bit, but I’m sure you won’t mind, since it is your pay we’re getting.”

There are a few smiles.

Lorn and Helkyt walk into the building, followed by an older lancer who carries the empty pay chest.

Neabyl comes out from the large room to meet them. He glances from Helkyt to Lorn, then past them to the squad of lancers remaining mounted in formation before the building. He bows. “Overcaptain… I see that Squad Leader Helkyt has conveyed our difficulty.”

Lorn nods at the doorway to the larger room with the dais, then walks past Neabyl and into the room. After a moment, the senior enumerator follows, an annoyed expression on his face. Behind him slips Helkyt. Lorn gestures for the squad leader to close the door, and Helkyt does.

“Overcaptain…”

“I see no great difficulty,” Lorn says mildly. “We are owed a payroll. You are a senior enumerator of the Emperor, and you can provide such.”

Neabyl shrugs. “I would not presume…”

“Are you not in charge here when Master Flutak is not?” Lorn asks.

“Ah, yes, Overcaptain.”

“And do not the accounts for the payroll list what should be paid?”

“I do not have those…” Neabyl’s voice is apologetic.

Lorn smiles. “I understand. I thought this might present a problem.” He extends the first sheet of paper, drawing it from his jacket. “Here is our account for payroll and our draw for expenses for the eightday. I checked these against the original authorization for the garrison, the one signed by the Majer-Commander, and by the head of the Emperor’s Enumerators in Cyad.”