Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  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 mo
re 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 eyebrow
s. “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?”