Scion of Cyador (13 page)

“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-