Scion of Cyador (5 page)

Lorn finds his eyebrows lifting. Questions?

“There are but three questions. These are: ” ‘What is it that allows Cyad to exist?’

“ ‘Could all the might of the Mirror Lancers here in Cyad, or all the might of the Iron Legions in Hamor, prevail against the will of those who live in such lands?’ ” ‘Are those who direct power or chaos the source of either?’ “

Lorn concentrates on the questions, trying to hold them in mind.

Kien extends a single sheet of paper. “I have held this for a time, but you are old enough to ponder these.”

Lorn takes the sheet, and sees that it holds the questions his father has just asked.

“My son… these are not idle questions. Nor are they the overly philosophical musings of an aging magus. They are not mine, by the way, and you may, in time, discover the source. That source is not important, but pondering the questions is most important for a Mirror Lancer who aspires to command beyond a patrol company. You are leaving for what may be your most dangerous duty.”

Lorn frowns.

“Dangerous, because you will have time to think, because you will be flattered, and because you will discover, if you have not already, that the world is both far simpler than you have ever imagined, and far more complex.” His father laughs. “Call the last my question. ‘How can the world be more simple and yet more complex?’ I leave that to you, for now.”

The overcaptain nods slowly.

“I do not need to tell you to be most careful, and to listen more than you speak. You have learned that already. Remember that silence can be either a truth or a lie. Make certain your silence is taken as you mean it.” Kien stands. “I could prattle on into the night, and your consort would be upset with me. So I will not, but know that I wish you well, and that no matter who you may have believed, I always have.” He steps around the desk, awkwardly.

Lorn understands, and he hugs his father for the first time in years. “Thank you.”

Kien nods, not speaking, and his eyes are bright. Finally, he says, “Best you go to Ryalth, and enjoy what time you have left.”

As Lorn steps away from the study door, he can sense the cold chill of a screeing glass, and that chill is not that manifested by his father.

Keeping an pleasant expression, he hugs his mother a last time before he starts down the steps to the front door.

Again, Jerial is the one who stands by the door. “Be good to Ryalth tonight.”

“I will.”

“I know.” Her smile is softer, not the professional expression of a healer.

He gives her a hug. “Thank you for being so good to her.”

“She is good for you. Far better than any could imagine. She and I understand each other, and that is good.” Jerial squeezes Lorn tightly. “You be most careful.”

“I will.”

Lorn finally releases his older sister and steps around the privacy screen and down the steps to the Road of Perpetual Light.

How is the world simpler and yet more complex? His father’s last question rolls through his mind.

X

Honored ser, you summoned me.“ The tall man is slender, and his blond hair is both thick and fine, and shimmers as the light from the study window strikes it. His green eyes are pale, intent, as he straightens from his bow to the First Magus.

“Please be seated, Rustyl.” Chyenfel’s sun-gold eyes do not waver as he watches the handsome younger magus settle into the golden oak armchair across the table from him. “Being a discerning young magus,” the First Magus finally adds with a deliberate emphasis on each word, “you have noticed that all is not as it once was in Cyador. I would have your thoughts on such.”

“Honored ser, it would be presumptuous to assume that you have not already noted all I might say. So I will but touch on each matter. First, the chaos-towers are failing, yet all of Cyador depends on the energies of those towers. Few feel that the towers are failing, because they cannot imagine that. Instead, they feel as though the Magi’i are using the chaos-towers as a weapon to gain more influence over the Mirror Lancers and the Malachite Throne. Second, the outlanders have noticed that there are fewer fireships. We see more Hamorian traders and greater numbers of raids by the barbarians of the north. Third, the older merchanter houses and clans, those who have supported and understood Cyador, are being supplanted by newer houses, and, for the first time in memory, a trading house of note has been founded and operated by a lady trader.” Rustyl smiles. “I have little against her, for she embodies the spirit of what once all merchanters in Cyad embodied, but it is disturbing that one of the newer and stronger houses must be created by a woman, when there are so many young men among the merchanters.”

“Go on.” The voice of the First Magus remains calm. “What else?”

“The Emperor is aging, rapidly, yet hides such, and has taken no steps to name a successor, perhaps for fear that such will disturb all of Cyad. He relies ever more on his consort, and turns from the main advisors-you, the honorable Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers, and even from his once-favored Merchanter Advisor.” Rustyl offers a far fainter smile. “Then there are those who have the skills to serve the Magi’i, but have placed themselves ahead of the calling of chaos.” Rustyl shrugs. “I doubt not that there are many other manifestations that all is not well, and those may be beyond my knowledge and experience, but these are among those that I see.”

“You see much of what others see and of which they will not speak.” Chyenfel steeples his fingers before him, purses his lips, and pauses for a long moment, which stretches into silence before he finally speaks again. “There are also other cities in Cyador where your observations would be valuable. And where your presence would be noted, most quietly.”

A pleasant smile remains on Rustyl’s face as he waits. “On threeday,” Chyenfel says, “you will go to Fyrad to work with the Mirror Engineers.”

Rustyl nods, if slightly. “I stand ready to carry out your wishes.”

“You will be most helpful and most deferential, as you have been here.

You will attempt to grant others any credit for what you accomplish. When you cannot do such, you will share such credit. If aught goes wrong, you will take the blame and find yet another solution, for which someone else will share the credit.“

“Yes, ser.”

“You will not proceed to the
Accursed
Forest
, and you will disavow any knowledge of the sleep wards. You may note politely that such is the project and the work of the First Magus. Do you understand why?”

“Would that be because the chaos-towers surrounding the Forest will no longer be able to charge the firelances of the lancers and the entire project will be regarded less than favorably?”

“It would appear so.” Chyenfel nods. “After several seasons, when it appears appropriate, you will be dispatched to Summerdock, where you will employ your skills and powers to assist the Mirror Engineers in improving the port facilities there. Throughout Cyador, over the few coming years, all must know of you, but only in passing, only as one who is experienced and trustworthy, as one who is young enough not to be totally bound to the old ways, but one who can use and help others with those ways in meeting the needs of the present.”

Rustyl bows his head. “I understand and appreciate your foresight and wisdom.”

Chyenfel laughs. “May you always do so, but old as I am, I do not see that you will. Remember that, should you reach my exalted age. The young always demur to power, even as they scheme to obtain it and consider how they could employ it in far better or more effective ways than their elders.” A second laugh follows. “If we are successful, both in your work and your consorting, your turn will come, Rustyl. But mine is not over yet.” The First Magus gestures. “You may go.”

As the blond magus closes the study door, the smile fades from Chyenfel’s lips.

XI

Lorn places the bronze key in the lock of the upper-floor quarters that had been Ryalth’s and are now theirs, but the door has already been unlocked. He steps inside. Ryalth stands just behind the privacy screen.

“You surprised me. You made your way here from Ryalor House earlier than I had thought,” he admits.

“This is our last night together. I thought you would be awaiting me.” Her smile is nervous, tentative. “I hastened from the Plaza.”

“I am sorry. I was saying good-bye to my parents and Jerial, and before that, Myryan. She wasn’t at their dwelling, and I had to find her at the infirmary. I returned as quickly as I could.” He steps forward and hugs her, brushing her cheek with his lips and murmuring in her ear, “I’m glad you’re here.”

After a moment, she returns the embrace, and they remain pressed to each other for yet a time. Then she eases back, her hands holding his, his fingers cool around hers, her fine eyebrows lifting. “You took a while.”

“My father had more than a few words of advice.” He forces a wry smile. “And some questions. He gave me a sheet of them.” Lorn raises the parchment. “He told me to consider them, to ponder them on the firewagon trip to Biehl.”

“He accepts you for what you are, yet can offer but little assistance- unlike your brother, for whom he can do much,” suggests the redhead.

“That may be.” Lorn frowns. “He also offered an observation, almost as if I were a child, that while Cyad is a marvelous city, the people are as others. Why would they be otherwise?”

“Because, dearest, you still believe that a great city must come from great people.” She offers a sad smile. “A great city can come from but a handful of great people, and the acceptance of the rest, who are grateful and pleased to benefit from the labors of the few. You have said as much yourself, yet I am not sure you believe it.” Ryalth slips her hands from his and crosses the main chamber to the cooler, where she bends and searches, before lifting out an amber bottle of Alafraan. “I did save a few bottles for us here.”

“ ‘Save’?”

“You will need some in Biehl.” She grins. “Someone has to take care of those details.” The grin fades. “You are worried.”

“My father. He does not look strong… and he insisted on having a private talk with me.” Lorn shakes his head. “Some of it, I don’t understand. He practically threatened me years ago to stay away from you. He told me I must break off the relation with you, that it was not appropriate, and now he says I could not have picked a better consort anywhere, and my truthreading shows that he means such.”

“For that, for us, I am most glad.” Ryalth uncorks the Alafraan and half fills two goblets, then recorks the bottle. “Perhaps the warning was to assure that you followed your heart and beliefs, and not custom.”

“It has to be… but… that would mean…” Lorn shakes his head once more. “It would mean that he doubted from the first that I would be a magus. Yet he pressed me to excel in those studies and kept telling me how a magus must love the study and use of chaos above all.”

“Is all that not true? Would you be what you are had you not done so well in those studies?”

“No,” Lorn admits. “But that would mean he expected… all that from the beginning.”

“He is your father. How could he not know?” Ryalth laughs gently. “We never expect the perception from our parents that we do from others who are wise.”

“He has given me hints, but I seldom felt his use of the chaos-glass in following me.”

“He knows you well enough that he needs no glass.”

Lorn’s smile is rueful. “And all these years, I thought I directed my own course.”

“We never direct our courses solely, dearest of lancers.” Ryalth extends a goblet to her consort. “Not even the highest do.”

“We like to think so.” He takes the goblet. “We like to think that the man-or the woman-makes the times, not that the times make them.”

Ryalth’s smile is gentle. “Thank you for including women. The original saying does not.” She raises her goblet, then sips. “Much of what we think is illusion, dear consort, grasped for comfort.”

Lorn lifts his goblet as she does, then sips the Alafraan. “I’m glad I didn’t have to wait another year to see you. Or have you travel all the way to the
Accursed
Forest
.”

“As am I, but… An eightday is scarce enough to greet, let alone part.”

“Better an eightday than no time together at all.”

She nods slowly, then looks at Lorn for a long time. “I can travel to Biehl more easily… than to Jakaafra… or someplace like Syadtar or Assyadt.”

“Because it’s a port city?”

“I can make a trading run. I know Fyrad, for I grew up there, but Biehl I do not know, and it would be best for Ryalor House that I do.”

“Why Biehl?” he asks in spite of himself.

“Jera is the closest barbarian port, and many of the coasters run between the two. I would see what they trade that we know little of.” She takes another swallow of the Alafraan, far larger than is her custom. Her deep blue eyes are large and near-luminous as she looks once more at Lorn. “I will write you of trade, for I can ensure my scrolls go but to you while you are in Biehl. I would not talk more of trade this evening. Nor of duty.”

She sets the goblet on the table and moves around it toward him.

He sets down his goblet. As their arms go around each other, Lorn wonders at the sense of vulnerability he senses beneath her competent exterior… What is he missing?

But that wonder lasts but for a moment as their lips meet, and another type of marvel replaces the wonder.

XII

As Lorn walks northward from the square in Biehl where the firewagon stops, within two blocks, he reaches the harbor area. To his right are the piers, and to his left-westward-is a short row of structures-their lower levels plastered and whitewashed. Both plaster and whitewash are worn away in places, exposing the old yellow brick beneath. The second stories of those buildings that have upper levels are of weathered planks, whose whitewash has mostly flaked away.

His eyes flick from the faded sign bearing the crossed candles of a chandlery, to a cooper’s shop, and then to another building with no sign. Turning, his gear in hand, Lorn studies the three harbor piers-crude timber structures, weathered and splintered in places, not at all like the white stone piers of Cyad, Fyrad, or Summerdock. The piers jut out into the river that begins somewhere in the western reaches of the Hills of Endless Grass. Two schooners are tied at the middle pier, and an oceangoing brig at the outer one. The innermost, although empty, is more for smaller craft, Lorn suspects, and perhaps for fishing vessels unloading.

Both piers and the small city of
Biehl lie on the western side of the River Behla. On the eastern side, there is a smaller town, and but what appears to be a dilapidated single pier, part of its shoreward side rising out of a mud-bank or sandbar. From what the firewagon drivers had told him, the Mirror Lancer compound lies north of the piers and farther west on a low bluff overlooking the
Northern
Ocean
, or that stretch of water where the Northern and
Great
Western
Oceans
meet.

The odors of dead fish, mud, and salt water mix in the cool breeze blowing off the blue-black water north beyond the harbor. Streaks of white top the short and choppy waves in the harbor.

Since Biehl has no carriage for hire, not that the firewagon drivers knew, Lorn resumes walking, past the outermost pier, and the brig that bears a dark blue ensign-that of Spidlar, he thinks. Ahead the ground rises, and the uneven cobblestones of the road give way to granite paving stones, cracked and no longer set evenly but still more level than the stones of the road that flanks the harbor. The handful of trees yet bear winter-gray leaves, showing that spring comes later in Biehl.

The bluff is little more than a hill less than twenty cubits higher than the water of the harbor, and the Mirror Lancer port compound is small. That Lorn can tell even as he walks toward the gates. The yellow brick walls stand little more than five cubits, and extend less than a eighty cubits on a side away from the gates-oiled golden oak, and open.

A single guard looks warily at the approaching Mirror Lancer officer.

Finally, the stripling speaks. “Ser?” His voice squeaks.

“I’m Overcaptain Lorn.” He shows the lancer the seal ring. “I couldn’t find a carriage; so I walked.”

“Ah… ser… there be none for hire here.”

“I suspected such. Which is the headquarters building?”

“On the left, ser, but there be no one there but Squad Leader Helkyt, ser.”

“That’s fine.” As he steps through the gates, Lorn realizes that the young guard doesn’t equate him with an incoming detachment commander.

He studies the two weathered yellow-brick buildings in the middle of the compound, each long and narrow, and what appears to be a stable set against the rear wall. The roofs of all the structures are of a split gray slate, and there are patches of moss growing from between splits in the slate. Some moss also grows in the cracks between the ancient granite paving stones of the courtyard.

An open door beckons from the headquarters building to Lorn’s left, and he walks toward it. There, he steps into the foyer and sets down his gear, then moves through the archway into a corridor. On the right-hand side of the corridor is another door, ajar, and Lorn peers in. The gloomy room is shallow and broad with a dais on which is a table desk with two chairs behind it. The space before the dais is vacant, and the stone tiles of the floor are dusty. Faint cobwebs adorn the closed window shutters. : The overcaptain turns to the door on the other side of the corridor, also ajar. He looks through the span-wide opening. Inside what appears to be a study, a senior squad leader leans back in the weathered oak chair, his boots propped on a footchest of the type that contains Mirror Lancer records. His eyes are closed, and he snores, intermittently. To his right is a closed door, presumably to the commander’s inner study.

Lorn backs away from the doorway, wondering what else he may find. He leaves his gear in the foyer and walks slowly along the side of the building. Leaves have drifted into the corners between the courtyard paving stones and the bricks of the walls, scattered over dirt packed against the cracked and faded yellow bricks.

From the building across from the one containing the port-detachment studies, three lancers emerge. They stop and look at each other. Lorn can hear the murmurs.

“…young officer…”

“…overcaptain’s bars…”

“…some senior commander’s son… think it’s the new commander?”

“…nah… too young… only send old dungblowers here.”

As Lorn turns toward the three, the murmurs die away, and they walk briskly toward the guard at the compound gate. Lorn turns back toward the door leading into the headquarters, but before he goes more than a halfscore of steps, the squad leader who had been snoring scurries from the building toward Lorn, fumbling a soiled green garrison cap into place over thinning gray hair.

“Ser?” The heavyset senior squad leader stops, then bows. “I’m Overcaptain Lorn. I’m here to take over command of the port detachment. Is there a commanding officer here, or did he leave before I reported?”

“Ah, ser… Overcaptain Madlyr, he died of a flux… almost half a season ago. We’d been wondering when someone would come.”

“I’m here.” Lorn pulls forth the order scroll. “I didn’t get your name, Squad Leader.”

“Helkyt, ser. Helkyt.” He takes the scroll. Lorn shows the seal ring.

“Ah, yes, ser.” Helkyt pauses. “That your gear in the headquarters foyer, ser?”

“It is. I thought I’d take a look around… while you were resting.” Helkyt flushes, but continues. “If you’d like, we can go to your quarters, and you can drop your gear there first.”

“That would be fine.”

Lorn steps past the squad leader with the thinning blond hair and the overround, jowled face, and walks into the headquarters foyer, where he reclaims his bags. He nods to Helkyt, who turns and walks northward along the side of the building.

The commander’s quarters are on the second level of the headquarters building at the end away from the entrance Lorn had found first. There is a staircase directly up from the foyer, and the hollowed sunstone steps are dusty. The six-paneled door is of golden oak, and there are separations in the wood around the panels.

With the bronze key Helkyt has produced, Lorn unlocks and opens the door and steps into a small square foyer. The floor is of alternating green and cream diamond-shaped ceramic tiles. Lorn looks to the right. Through the archway is a small room, a study with a built-in bookcase, and a narrow desk. Before the desk is a straight-backed oak chair with a scrolled back- an ancient chair, or an old chair with an ancient design.

On the left is an open door that shows a small bedchamber with a narrow single bed.

Lorn steps ahead into the large main room, which contains two settees, upholstered in a green velvet, two armchairs and a low table, and several armless chairs set against the walks. Two of the chairs flank a sideboard. On the left outer wall are four narrow windows. On the right inner wall is a set of open double doors that show a larger bedchamber. Lorn steps through the doors and sets the bags on the green-tiled floor. A modest double-sized bed without posts and with a low headboard is flanked by two tables with tarnished bronze lamps set on each. A faded green shimmercloth spread covers the bed. On one side of the small door that leads to a bathing chamber is a dressing table. On the other are two oversized armoires, set side by side. The bedchamber also has four narrow windows that match those in the main room.

“Ser… Some commanders, years back, ser, they brought their consorts.”

“Mine might visit,” Lorn says, “but she won’t stay long.”

“Ser?”

“She’s the head of a trading house.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn turns and leaves the bedchamber.

“Ser… ah… I’ll tell Daelya that you’ll be needing the quarters cleaned.”

Lorn nods. “If she could do that this afternoon while you and I talk over the situation here…”

“Yes, ser. She is your cook, also, ser.”

The remaining rooms of the quarters consist of a dining room with a table large enough to seat a dozen, a kitchen with a huge ceramic stove that must be generations old, a breakfast room, and a back pantry, off which are service side stairs down to the courtyard.

Lorn nods to himself as he completes the quick tour and studies Helkyt. “I’d like to look at the barracks, and the stables, and everything else.”

“Now… ser?”

“Now.” Lorn smiles. “How will I know what you are talking about unless I see it?”

“Yes, ser.” Helkyt’s professional tone does not quite cover the dismay and resignation in his voice, but he turns and leads Lorn back down the steps. They cross the dusty paved courtyard to the other long building, entering through the double doors in the middle.

The odors of age, urine, and spoiled food assault Lorn before he has taken his second step into the barracks building. He glances around. The plan is similar to that of the barracks at Isahl, with two barracks areas flanking an open center mustering area.

Lorn turns left.

“Ah, ser… The north end has been closed for some time.”

Lorn nods and keeps walking past the columns. While the bunk frames remain, it is almost impossible to discern them for the discarded materials scattered over and around them. Lorn can make out rotted timbers, empty and broken barrels, a twisted firelance shaft, several sets of shutters, and splotches of liquids on the tiles.

He turns and walks back through the mustering area, heading toward the area in use.

“Officer in the barracks!” Helkyt announces.

The first two bunks are unoccupied, bare horsehair mattresses sitting in frames, without even footchests at their base.

Two lancers stand before footchests at the next set of bunks. Both are young, certainly younger than Lorn had been when he began lancer training. They wear but smallclothes. Lorn raises his eyebrows.

“They had guard duty at the gates last night, ser.”

Lorn nods. “You can get some rest for now.”

“Yes, ser,” the two reply in near unison.

The remainder of the bunks are empty, but blankets lie strewn carelessly over mattresses, and dust has gathered in corners. Three of the footchests are open, and one lacks hinges and a lid.

Lorn’s boots find sticky patches on the tiles as he walks along the barracks bay. He turns and walks back past the reclining lancers and out through the mustering area. Finally, he stands in the clean air outside the barracks.

He looks at Helkyt. “Let’s see the rest.”

“Yes, ser.”

As he follows the rotund squad leader, Lorn only hopes that the stables, the armory, the storerooms, and other sections of the compound will prove less in need of cleaning and repair.

XIII

On the first morning after his arrival in Biehl, Lorn sets the list he has written up on the wide desk in the administrative headquarters. Then he surveys the room more carefully than he had the day before. Like everything else in the Mirror Lancer compound at Biehl, the study Lorn has as a compound commander is larger than those he has seen elsewhere-and far older. None of the five manuals in the built-in oak bookcase has been opened in years, if not generations, as Lorn discovers when lifting one and discovering that a thin strip of leather from the binding remains stuck to the wood of the shelves.

Fine cracks adorn the antique golden oak table desk, and he has never seen the like of either the ornate swirled bronze lamps or the wall sconces in which they rest. The chair behind the desk is large-and heavy. Dust puffs from the wide green cushion that covers the seat when Lorn plumps it. He rubs his nose, managing not to sneeze.

The window is stiff, but he eases it open enough to let in some of the moister and cleaner outside air. Then he reseats himself behind the desk, glancing toward the two chests filled with less than perfectly kept records, the study of which had occupied much of the previous evening.

After a deep breath, he clears his throat and calls, “Helkyt!”

The door opens, and the squad leader appears. “Yes, ser?”

Lorn motions for Helkyt to take one of the chairs on the other side of the table desk. He waits for the man to seat himself, and for a bit longer, before he begins. “We have more than a few matters to take care of around here, Helkyt,” Lorn says with a cheer he scarcely feels.

“Yes, ser.” Helkyt’s voice is even, wary.

“First, best you know why I was sent here.”

“That had puzzled me, ser, I must admit.”

“You may have heard that the barbarians have been increasing their attacks to the east and the south of here. Isahl, Inividra, Assyadt-they’ve all had more and more attacks by larger and larger groups.”

“I hadn’t heard that, ser, but there’s much we don’t hear in Biehl.”

“The Majer-Commander needs more trained lancers.” Lorn waits.

“Ah… so…”

Lorn nods. “You understand that with the barbarians becoming more active… well… the Emperor does need more lancers in Assyadt… and we can either train them or find ourselves being transferred. All of us.”

Helkyt tries to avoid swallowing.

“We both would rather recruit and train more lancers. That means we’ll have to clean up the north wing of the barracks, and start acquiring more mounts, and sabres. We can only do a little of the firelance training here, because those lances are needed elsewhere, but I’ll be seeing if we can be sent a few more, just in case the barbarians decide to come westward from Jera. It also means that we’ll have to be ready to begin training no later than the turn of summer.”