Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “How long has Flutak been the senior enumerator?”

  Helkyt shrugs uneasily. “He has been such long before I was posted here.”

  “And you have been here?”

  “Near-on eight years, ser.”

  “Does Flutak spend much time with the local traders and merchants? Or does he have relations among any merchant house?”

  Helkyt moistens his lips. Finally, he speaks. “Not that I’d be knowing, ser, not for certain. Some say he has powerful relatives in Cyad. In Biehl, he is said to be close to the olive-grower Baryat… mayhap others, but those I’ve not heard.”

  Lorn nods. “What about Neabyl?”

  “He came but five years ago, and Comyr three.”

  “Do any of them have consorts here?”

  “Flutak has none, though it is said he has a mistress, the youngest daughter of Baryat. Baryat holds many lands to the south and west. There it is drier and more sunny.”

  “Are many barrels of olives shipped from Biehl?”

  “More olives than most anything else, ser. Excepting clay, and that is worth far less.”

  What Lorn does not understand-or fears he does-is the most obvious nature of what Helkyt reveals.

  “And Neabyl?”

  “His consort lives in Summerdock, and it is said that she will not so much as visit Biehl. Comyr-he is young, and has none, none that any would know.”

  “I don’t suppose you would know who those powerful relatives of Flutak might be, or whether they might be related to any in major trading houses?”

  “That I would not, ser.”

  “You can return to whatever you were working on, Helkyt. We’ll depart to see the enumerators in a bit. I have a few notes I would like to make.”

  “Yes, ser.” Helkyt rises gingerly.

  Lorn adds several items to the personal list that has gotten alarmingly long in less than the full day since he arrived in Biehl, then leaves his study.

  In the outer study, Helkyt looks up from a stack of papers. “Ser?”

  “I’ll meet you at the stable.”

  “Be there in a moment, ser, if you will.”

  Lorn nods and slips out, past the door to the unused room across the corridor, the room that seems designed to be an audience chamber or some sort of official function space. Outside, the wind is stronger than earlier, but warmer and out of the south.

  He is met at the stable by an ostler who, like many of those at Biehl, is older-white-haired and missing a good fraction of his teeth. “I be Chulhyr, ser.” He looks at the uniform speculatively.

  “I’m Lorn, the new overcaptain. I arrived yesterday, but you were not here, Helkyt said.” Lorn smiles. “I need a mount. If you could recommend a good one…”

  “You be wanting a stallion, ser?”

  Lorn laughs. “I’d like a mount that will do as I wish and not argue about it.”

  The ostler laughs back. “Yes, ser.”

  As Chulhyr is leading out a chestnut mare, Helkyt hurries across the courtyard and arrives, breathing heavily. The ostler looks at Lorn. “She be having a will, but a firm hand be all you need.”

  “Thank you.” Lorn studies the mare, then swings himself up into the saddle, where he checks the Brystan sabre. Then he and Helkyt ride across the courtyard.

  “Have you found anyone to cart off the rubbish?” Lorn asks as they ride through the compound gates and past another too-young lancer guard.

  “I’ll be knowing that this afternoon, ser.”

  “And you’ll have names for instructors?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lorn nods. “Tell me about the places we pass, if you would.”

  “Yes, ser.” Helkyt clears his throat. “There be the warehouse for the olive-growers, where they store the olives while they season, and beyond that be the potters, save that Aluyt casts but the large jars for seed oils and the like…”

  Lorn listens as they ride back toward the harbor, trying to fix the names and the structures in his mind, and match them to the map he has studied earlier. As when he had first entered Biehl, he sees few souls out and around the ancient town.

  The enumerators’ single-story building stands west of the piers, and slightly to the south of the chandlery, a square structure fifty cubits on a side, partly hidden from the rest of Biehl by a tall hedge. The green shutters are freshly painted, the panes of the windows clean of the salt that streaks the panes of the lancer barracks and, indeed, even of the windows of Lorn’s quarters.

  Lorn and Helkyt rein up at the side of the structure, where there are several stone hitching-posts, dismount, and tether their horses, before making their way to the square arched doorway. Inside is a narrow table, at which is seated a brown-haired young man in blue, whose tunic bears thin cream-and-green piping.

  “Master Squad Leader,” says the enumerator.

  “Comyr,” returns Helkyt, “this be Overcaptain Lorn. He is the new commander of the Mirror Lancers, and he has come to call on the senior enumerators.”

  “They had heard of such, and both will be glad to see you, Overcaptain.” Comyr bows. “If you would but come with me.” Comyr ushers them through a set of double doors into a large room, similar to the one in the lancers’ headquarters building, except two men are seated at the table on the dais, with several stacks of paper between them.

  The two rise. Both senior enumerators wear the same type of uniform: blue tunics over green trousers, with cream-colored web belts. On the forearms of their sleeves are two gold slashes.

  “Senior Enumerators, this is Overcaptain Lorn,” Helkyt announces. “Overcaptain, Flutak… and Neabyl.”

  Flutak bows. He is a broad man, almost totally bald, but with a muscular form that any barbarian might indeed admire. Although he is cleanshaven, his eyebrows are white and bushy, and white hairs straggle from his ears. “I am pleased to see that Biehl once more has a capable lancer officer.” His voice is a mellow tenor.

  “And I, too.” Although Neabyl is small, black-haired, and wiry, he speaks with a deep baritone.

  Lorn bows but slightly in response.

  “And what might we be doing for you, Overcaptain?” asks Flutak.

  “I was just here to tell you that I have been sent to Biehl by the Majer-Commander to train and rebuild the garrison, and to take a more active role in supporting the Emperor’s Enumerators.” Lorn smiles easily. “I thought it best you know that.”

  “Perhaps we should talk for a moment.” Flutak moves gracefully toward the corner of the room and returns with two armless oak chairs. He sets one at each end of the oblong table. All four men seat themselves at the narrow oblong table.

  Flutak looks at Lorn, as if suggesting he begin.

  “As you may know,” Lorn says slowly, “the barbarians have increased their attacks in many places on the northern borders of Cyad, and more trained lancers are needed to deal with these attacks. It was noted that Biehl has both the space and the facilities to recruit and train young lancers, and that the payroll is adequate to handle such.” Lorn smiles. “So it is that I find myself here.”

  Flutak smiles easily, a smile that reminds Lorn of the late Majer Maran. “We have indeed heard of the depredations that the Mirror Lancers have faced in the field against the barbarians, and many had thought that the compound might even be closed, and its lancers sent elsewhere, for certainly lancers are scarce needed in Biehl itself. So I am most glad that is not the case, and so will those merchants who sell to the compound and the lancers.”

  “Yet, it is passing strange that more have not arrived with you,” observes Neabyl.

  Lorn shrugs. “It is scarcely strange. The Majer-Commander believes this task can be accomplished by an overcaptain. If it cannot, doubtless a majer and an undercaptain will follow. There may be an undercaptain before long, in any event, but it makes little sense for him to arrive until there are tasks for him to undertake.”

  The faintest flicker of a shared glance passes between the two senior enumerators.

>   “I understand that you inspect the cargos being ported here, and collect the imposts on such, and ensure that contraband, such as iron weapons and the like, does not makes its way from vessels trading here. What other duties do you perform that a lancer would be unlikely to have great knowledge of?”

  “We provide the payroll for the compound,” says Neabyl with a smile.

  “That I understood, and for such we are grateful.” After a moment, Lorn asks, “And I suppose you keep records of the ships that port so that one may compare from season to season and year to year?”

  “That we do, and send the tariff revenues to Cyad.”

  “And perhaps with a stronger lancer presence, tariff revenues to the Emperor might indeed increase.”

  “The enumerators have never needed to rely on the lancers for that,” suggests Flutak.

  “Then, you are indeed fortunate here, for that is not so in all ports,” Lorn replies evenly. “In any case, I did wish to inform you of that, and to assure you that, because of my deep and abiding interest in trade, I am indeed willing to support your efforts to carry out your duties to the Emperor and the Land of Light, as may be required by the Emperor and the Majer-Commander…” Lorn pauses, then adds, “and, of course, by you… as necessary.”

  “Overcaptain Madlyr had begun to take some interest in tariffs and trade… but he died rather suddenly after taking such an interest,” observes Flutak smoothly.

  “That was most unfortunate.” Lorn smiles, his eyes cold. He concentrates on fixing the man’s face in his mind. “But perhaps it will be to everyone’s advantage that the garrison here is restored with the protection of trade in mind.”

  “We would all look to the advantages of all,” agrees Flutak. “I see you do not maintain quarters here,” Lorn observes before either enumerator can follow up on his last words.

  “There is little reason to do such. Biehl has heretofore been such a peaceful port, with little need of lancers and guards.”

  “Of that I am certain, and certain it will continue as such,” Lorn agrees, “for the lancers are being trained for their abilities against the barbarians, and there certainly are none here.”

  “No, indeed, Overcaptain.”

  Lorn rises. “I do thank you both, and I look forward to working with you as most necessary.” He bows fractionally. The enumerators rise more slowly. “It is good to see you, a young and vigorous overcaptain here in Biehl, and we do hope that our experience will prove of assistance to you, Overcaptain,” replies Flutak. “And that you will see fit to draw upon it.”

  “My thanks to you, and I am most certain that I will draw on your experience.” The overcaptain inclines his head a last time before he turns and departs.

  Lorn does not speak again until he has mounted the chestnut and they are passing the harbor piers on the return to the compound. “They have a new building, one of the few I have seen in Biehl.”

  “It is but four years since it was built.” Lorn studies the piers. The brig and one of the schooners have sailed, but a fishing boat is tied at the innermost wharf, where baskets of fish are being unloaded into a small cart.

  “They did not seem pleased,” suggests Helkyt.

  “I doubt they are.” Lorn laughs, “Lancer officers are never seen as totally welcome, but I am certain that they will be helpful and most supportive. I need to jot down several things, Helkyt, when we get back to the study. Then, after that, we may need the mounts again.”

  “Yes, ser.” Helkyt remains silent as they continue riding, the expressions on his face varying from concern to puzzlement as he occasionally casts a sidelong glance at Lorn.

  Two lancers are sparring almost desultorily in the shadowed northeast corner of the compound as Lorn and Helkyt ride to the stable. Lorn nods to himself.

  “How she be, Overcaptain?” asks the ostler after Lorn reins up outside the stable and dismounts.

  “Fine, but I will be needing her for a longer ride shortly.”

  “The exercise, that she can use.”

  “She will be getting more.” Lorn smiles before turning and walking quickly across the courtyard. Helkyt scurries to keep pace with him.

  Once back in his study, Lorn begins to jot down all his impressions, and where and about what the enumerators had lied. It seemed like almost every other sentence uttered by Flutak bore either a degree of untruth or a veiled threat, and Lorn has two sheets of paper before he is finished. He shakes his head before he calls the squad leader. “Yes, ser?”

  “Helkyt, we’re going to take a ride in a few moments. It may take a large part of this afternoon as well. Do you know where Flutak and Neabyl maintain their quarters?”

  “Ah… It is said…” Lorn raises his eyebrows. “Yes, ser.”

  “Good. We will take a ride, with several of the local lancers who may know about Biehl. You will point out all the places any overcaptain should know. Those will include the dwellings or quarters of the enumerators, prominent local merchanters, shipowners, factors… any crafters who might supply goods for the compound. It would be well for me to know such.”

  “Yes, ser. That I can see.”

  Lorn stands. “I will meet you in the stable in a few moments. I need to get something from my quarters.”

  Helkyt nods.

  “And you need to find two lancers who were raised here and know the town and the gossip.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Lorn ushers the senior squad leader out, then closes the door to his own study, and walks out into the courtyard, along the headquarters building until he reaches the main stairs to his own spaces at the north end. The dust has been swept from the quarters, and the aroma of baking bread comes from the antique oven, although Daelya is nowhere in sight.

  Lorn reclaims the chaos-glass from its hiding place in the armoire under his smallclothes and carries it into the front study. There, he closes the door and slides the bolt in place before he takes out the chaos-glass and concentrates.

  The silver mists appear, then fade, and a figure swims into view. Flutak sits alone at the oblong table. His brow furrows, and he glances out the window. The enumerator mutters something, but no one joins him while Lorn watches.

  Lorn finally releases the image. Flutak definitely bears watching.

  The overcaptain locks the door and hurries down the front steps to the courtyard and across to the stable where Helkyt and two lancers wait, already mounted. In the warm afternoon sunlight that pours through a clear green-blue sky, Chulhyr holds the reins to the chestnut.

  “Thank you, Chulhyr. She’s a good mount.”

  The ostler bows, and retreats.

  Helkyt gestures to the two lancers. “This is Nayhul, and this Kurbyl.” Nayhul is brown-haired and older, his face bearing a certain weathering, while Kurbyl is black-haired and fresh-faced.

  “Good.” Lorn mounts the chestnut. “You two and Squad Leader Helkyt are going to give me a tour of Biehl.”

  The three nod.

  “I’d like to ride back along the harbor road, and the piers, and have you show me the crafters and important factors in town first, then the dwellings of the more noted local families,” Lorn explains as the four ride out through the gates.

  As they head down the slope, Nayhul coughs gently. “What is it, Nayhul?”

  The older lancer gestures to the right, to the west, at a large section dug out of the hillside that adjoins the one on which the compound sits. “There be the clay quarries of Jahlyr and his family. Fine clay for china, and crockery, so fine that the Spidlarians ship it all the way to Spidlaria,” offers one of the young lancers. “And even some from Hamor.”

  “He is wealthy?” Lorn asks.

  “Most so. Beyond, you see the villa?”

  Lorn studies the brick structures on the far side of the hill, whose roofs and upper levels alone are visible from the road. “It looks large.”

  “They have many dwellings there, and stables, and a warehouse, and even a pool for bathing.”

  “Is t
here a large tariff on clay?” Lorn asks Helkyt.

  “That… I would not know.”

  They pass the olive warehouse and then near the ocean piers. At the outermost pier in the harbor rides a two-masted deep-sea vessel, with an ensign of red and gold-Hamorian. “Do you know what the Hamorians come here for?” Lorn asks. “I cannot imagine that there is great enough wealth here for them to offload large cargoes.”

  “They buy most of all salted fish,” offers Kurbyl. “My sire has sold some. And the china at times, and olives.”

  “I take it you didn’t like being a fisherman,” Lorn says. “I much prefer a mount to a boat, ser. And a dry bunk.” The other riders laugh at the wry tone of the youngest. “Anything else the Hamorians buy?”

  “Mayhap some scented oils,” ventures Helkyt. The other piers are empty.

  Lorn points to the crossed-candles sign, as if to ask about the chandlery. “The chandler, he is Reycuh, but he is not much of a chandler,” says Nayhul. “But Fuycyl, he is a most excellent cooper.”

  “Most excellent,” adds Kurbyl. “My sire pays a copper more for his barrels for the salted fish he sells to the Hamor traders.”

  At the chandlery they turn southward, and Lorn listens as Nayhul offers explanations and names for almost every structure or dwelling they pass.

  “The blue house… that be where the entertainer Fyella lived… old now, but my grandsire remembers her… the yellow shutters… the cabinetmaker… and over there be Systyl, the chemist, with his powders and potions… The firewagon portico… that all lancers know…”

  Before long they have left the center area of Biehl and follow a more winding road toward the southwest.

  “Here be the dwellings of those of import, ser,” offers Nayhul. “Over there, the reddish tower, that be the watchtower of Master Duplyr, above his mm.”

  In time, perhaps a kay more to the northwest, Lorn notes a long villa that sprawls across a low hill. “Whose dwelling might that be?”

  Helkyt shifts in the saddle, but does not answer.

  Nayhul finally answers. “That be the dwelling of one of the Emperor’s Enumerators, the big one with no hair.”