“Yes, ser.”
“You don’t have to say, but what was his opinion of you?”
Lorn’s eyes are hard as he fixes them on the senior officer. “Ser, he said I was one of the best captains he ever had, that I got more out of my men with fewer losses than anyone, and that he’d never liked me and probably never would.”
Ikynd laughs, a deep rolling chuckle. Then he shakes his head. “Old Grind ‘Em and Gut ’Em… always making sure a compliment has a thorn in it.”
Lorn waits.
“You’ve got both kinds of guts, Lorn. The kind that’ll risk telling the truth when people don’t want to hear it, and the kind to take on a job everyone looks the other way on. My orders for you are simple. Give you Inividra, and make sure you lead a company as often as any buck captain. Give you adequate support, but nothing special, and keep you here until you do something stupid enough to get killed.” The commander’s lips curl. “And my second-in-command, the most honorable Dettaur’alt, with all his connections in Cyad, is sitting on his most esteemed rump, ready to report to the Captain-Commander if I deviate from those orders. Even if I’d never met you, I think I’d respect you for the class of your enemies. My respect won’t help you much, not with everyone looking over my shoulder.”
Lorn nods. “I think I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Not so much as you do, I think, but enough.” Lorn pauses. “What are the limits of what I can do?”
“You’re the outpost commander. So long as you kill lots of barbarians, and you kill more than four for every man you lose, I can replace your lancers seasonally. If you lose a lot, regardless of the barbarian kills, that will depend on the Majer-Commander, though, because we only hold about accompany here in Assyadt in reserve for the unexpected. You drop below three kills for every lost lancer, and the Captain-Commander, through your friend Dettaur, will have you out for some trumped-up disciplinary action.”
All of what Ikynd says is the truth, but Lorn can sense, almost without truth-reading the officer, that there is more, far more, left unsaid.
“How far can I take patrols?” Lorn asks warily.
“The patrol jurisdictions are on the maps-so far as the lands of Cyador go. Stay out of the other outposts’ Cyadoran patrol lands. If you want to risk going into Jeranyi territory, I don’t care-just so long as you bring back your men, and there aren’t too many lancer bodies left behind. And there aren’t any District Guards to conscript.”
“What about firelances and recharges?”
“We’re down to three, perhaps four recharges a season.”
Lorn winces visibly.
“It’s tight and getting tighter, Sub-Majer.”
“Mounts?”
“Those shouldn’t be a problem. Before he left yesterday, Sub-Majer Kysken reported that he had twoscore extra from captures.”
“Officers and companies?”
“You have five companies at full strength. Two undercaptains, and three captains. You rate an overcaptain, but you won’t get him, not for several seasons, at least.”
“What sort of raids is the area taking?”
“The numbers aren’t much different than before. Say two raids every three eightdays in your territories. The difference is that the raiding parties are larger.”
“More blades,” Lorn suggests.
“Could be. Could be anything.”
Lorn catches the off-balance feel of the response, but merely nods. “Is there anything else of special importance to you that I should know, ser?”
The genial smile reappears. “I don’t like reading long and puffed-up reports. I liked your battle report. Keep them like that, and we’ll be on the same step.”
“Yes, ser.”
Abruptly, Ikynd stands. “Not much more to say. Dettaur’s study is across the corridor. Good luck.”
Lorn stands and bows. “Thank you, ser.”
As Ikynd watches with an amused smile, Lorn opens the door and departs.
He crosses the corridor and steps into Dettaur’s immaculate and smaller study. The taller man smiles and stands, slowly, from behind his study desk. Several stacks of papers are set on the left side, although Dettaur does not seem to have been reading them.
“You look good, Lorn.”
“So do you.” Lorn smiles. “And you’ve made Majer.”
“Last season.” Dettaur motions to a chair and reseats himself. “You’ve met with the commander. What did you think?”
“He’s very direct,” Lorn observes as he sits down.
Dettaur nods. “He hides as much as he reveals, but he never lies. You present a real problem for him. He likes officers who kill barbarians-he was born in Syadtar-and you are obviously quite good at that.” The majer smiles. “You have also created a certain unrest, shall we say, in Mirror Lancer headquarters.”
“By killing Jeranyi who were murdering people all across the countryside?” Lorn raises his eyebrows.
“No. By using the powers of a senior lancer commander to clean up the dirty little bribery games of the Emperor’s Enumerators, to conscript the District Guards, and to call attention to how badly the Mirror Lancers had run the port compound by managing to double its size and turn it back into a fighting unit without costing Cyador a single additional gold.” Dettaur shakes his head slowly. “There is such a thing as being too effective, Lorn. I haven’t forgotten the lesson you gave me when we were in school. I know it was you.” A smile follows. “That is history, and we have a job to do here.”
“We do. What do you suggest?”
Dettaur purses his lips as if thinking, although Lorn knows that Dettaur has his response prepared. “Be careful. You’re going to be here a long time. The commander can’t give you any more support than any other outpost, and Inividra takes the most raids of all. We’ve also been told to expect fewer firelance recharges-something about the Accursed Forest chaos-towers.”
Lorn nods.
“You were right about the Hamorian blades. At least, I think you were, and that’s why the Jeranyi raiding parties will get bigger. When they get enough blades, more will go eastward, and Syadtar’s outposts will see bigger raids then, too.”
“While we have fewer firelances,” Lorn says.
“Exactly. That’s being a lancer.”
Except Dettaur won’t be out leading patrols, Lorn reflects silently.
“And don’t expect any brilliant tactics to get you out of here. It won’t happen.”
The sub-majer senses both the partial lie and the other’s unease with the statement, but only replies, dryly, “I’ve noticed that already.”
“You would. You’re here. I’ve never seen you make the same mistake twice.”
“I try to avoid that.”
“Good.” Dettaur gestures vaguely toward the open window. “You can have the senior officer’s visiting quarters tonight, and your pick of any mount in the stable that’s free. In the morning, you’ll take your own replacements out to Inividra. It’s a good two-day ride to the northwest.”
Lorn laughs. “Like all outposts.”
Dettaur stands.
So does Lorn.
“There’s one other thing, Lorn.”
“Yes, ser?”
“Ah, you anticipated me. That’s right. But best you also remember that what you do reflects on the commander and me. So if you do well, so do we.” Dettaur smiles.
“Then I’ll have to do well, ser.” Lorn understands that all too well. If he fails, it will be his fault, and if he succeeds, Dettaur will claim credit. And with Dettaur writing the final reports, and all couriers going through Assyadt, Lorn has yet another problem.
“I’m sure you will, and good luck, if I don’t see you later.” Dettaur flashes a last false smile, yet one more sincere to Lorn than many.
Lorn walks out of Dettaur’s study and through the foyer to reclaim his gear. He has a long ride to Inividra, and a great deal to consider in an extremely short time, contrary to what Dettaur has urged
. It is most clear that, if he does not act quickly-somehow-he will end up being slowly constricted into an impossible situation. Yet if he acts too quickly, he will not have the support of his men and enough knowledge to succeed.
It is also obvious that the commander and the majer dislike each other, that both lie in different ways, and that they can be trusted only so far as their own self-interests will take them. Nothing has changed with Dettaur since he left Cyad to become a Mirror Lancer officer years before, except that he has become more adept in using others.
As Lorn lifts the bags, before asking for directions to his temporary quarters, he laughs.
The senior squad leader looks up. “Ser?”
“Just thinking, Squad Leader. Which way to the senior-officer visiting quarters?”
“Third building back. The second set of steps. They’re unlocked and the key hangs behind the door, ser.”
“Thank you.” Still smiling, Lorn turns toward the outer double doors of the headquarters building.
XLV
Lorn rides beside Yusaet, the senior squad leader being dispatched to Inividra as a replacement squad leader for the Fifth Company there. Yusaet is fair-haired, almost boyish-appearing, except for gray eyes that are as cold as the iron of a barbarian blade. The noontime post-harvest sun beats down on them as they lead the column through the narrow swale that enters the valley holding the outpost.
“…still another five kays,” notes Yusaet.
“They mostly herders in the valley?”
“Sheep… some goats, some cattle, and some do nothing except offer their daughters for the amusement of the lancers.”
Lorn winces. “That is not good.”
“What can one do, ser? The duty is hard; the men are lonely; most have no consorts, and many will not live to have such. As for the peasants, and they are such, their daughters are also livestock, for many are no different from the Jeranyi. They look the same, and they act the same, save our peasants obey the Emperor’s Code, even if we must enforce it with a firelance or a cupridium blade.”
“Years ago, I was told that the raids near Inividra were the worst in the fall. Do you know if this remains so?”
Yusaet gestures over his shoulder, at the column of threescore replacement lancers, and the five wagons behind that carry recharged firelances and rations.
Lorn laughs. “There could be that many going to Pemedra.”
“Nearly so many, but not quite, ser.”
“It’s getting worse.”
“I would judge that be so.”
For a time, both men are silent, and the sounds that fill the valley are the murmurs of lancers, the hiss and whisper of the hot wind across browning grasses, the muffled clopping of hoofs on the hard and dusty road, and the creaking of the wagons.
As they near the outpost at the northeastern end of the valley, Lorn studies it with care. The compound at Inividra could have been a duplicate of that at Isahl, except that it is set upon a broader hill, rather than enclosing one with its walls, and that the valley in which the compound is set is narrower, with more rugged and drier-looking hills to north and east.
The outpost is at the east end of the long valley. The outer sunstone walls are a good eight cubits high and enclose corrals and barns. The inner wall contains, as at Isahl, the armory and several long barracks-all built of stone and roofed in tile. There is also a raised water cistern and a spring, with protective walls running from the spring to the armory.
Lorn guides the big white gelding northward onto the short road toward to the compound gates. As at Isahl, four guards hold the gates-two standing outside and two above them on the low parapets. All four watch as Yusaet, Lorn, and the replacement lancers approach.
With a nod to the senior squad leader, Lorn eases the gelding forward toward the two fresh-faced lancers who stand by the open gates. “Sub-Majer Lorn, reporting to take command.”
“Yes, ser.” Both stiffen at his words and at the sight of the triple bars on his uniform collar. So do the pair on the low parapets.
Once inside both the outer wall and, a third of a kay farther north, the inner one, Lorn guides the gelding to the right, toward the square tower he feels he knows, even though he has never seen it. He dismounts a dozen cubits from the square-arched doorway and ties the gelding to the unused hitching post. He leaves his gear on his mount for the moment.
The single guard standing in a narrow patch of shade inclines his head. “Ser!”
“Sub-Majer Lorn, Lancer.”
“Lancer Weit, ser.”
“Who is the senior staff squad leader here?”
“That be Nesmyl, ser. Inside, ser.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn steps into the tower and takes several steps along the dimmer inner corridor as his eyes adjust.
A senior squad leader appears from the back corridor. His eyes widen.
“You’re Nesmyl? I’m Sub-Majer Lorn.”
“Yes, ser.” Nesmyl is slender, brown-haired and balding. His brown eyes survey Lorn rapidly. “How would you like to proceed, ser?”
“Let’s see the study, and get my gear and put it someplace, and then I’d like to meet some people.”
Nesmyl nods and turns. Lorn follows a half-dozen steps past the narrow table that is Nesmyl’s duty station.
The study is not large for an officer who commands an outpost as large as Inividra, for the room is less than fifteen cubits by ten, and contains but a table desk, a single scroll case, the wooden armchair behind the desk, and four armless straight-backed wooden chairs that face the desk. High windows on the wall behind the desk offer the sole source of outside light, although two wall sconces contain unlit oil lamps.
Lorn shakes his head, remembering how Majer Brevyl had pointed out that the most dangerous outpost was “Inividra in the fall.”
“You can see, ser. Everything is ready for you.”
“First, I’d like to meet all the officers who aren’t on patrol.”
“Ah… none are, ser. They were ordered to stand by for you.”
“There are five, then, three captains and two undercaptains?”
“Yes, ser.”
The sub-majer nods. “Where are my quarters?”
“Up above here. There’s a back stair.”
“All right. I’ll unload my gear, and leave it there, while you summon the officers.”
“As you wish, ser.” Nesmyl follows Lorn down the corridor and out into the hot harvesttime afternoon.
The senior squad leader walks across the courtyard toward the barracks building that holds the officers’ quarters and the large officers’ study.
Lorn unfastens his bags from behind the gelding’s saddle, and then carries them back past the sentry, into the tower, and along the short back corridor to the rear staircase. He has to put one bag in front of him and one behind him to make his way up to the next level.
As Nesmyl had said, the commander’s quarters are in the upper level of the square tower, above his official study. They are also far smaller than those at Biehl, comprising but a small kitchen with an eating area, an equally small study, and a bedchamber barely large enough for the double-width bed and a narrow armoire.
Lorn sets his bags at the foot of the bed, extracts his orders and the few documents and reports he has brought, and heads back down the steps to his study.
He has barely set his orders and papers on the table desk when the senior squad leader returns.
“They will all be here shortly, ser.” Nesmyl bows.
“Good. Once they’re all here, show them in, if you would.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn looks around the study. The built-in shelves are mostly empty, except for a worn copy of the Emperor’s Code, the thin Mirror Lancer manual, and several other volumes he does not recognize, including one entitled The Navigator. He picks it up, leafs through the pages, and sets it aside. Then he opens the first footchest on the left. It contains patrol reports- tho
se of the First Company. He smiles. There are six footchests lined against the back wall, and he can guess the contents of five. He moves to the one at the right end. It contains accounts of supplies, mounts, provisions, firelances. Lorn closes it. Those records he will need to study.
Thrap.
Lorn looks up at the gentle knock. “Yes?”
“The officers are here.”
“Have them come in.” Lorn stands behind his desk as the five file in. Then he waits for Nesmyl to depart and close the study door. He remains standing. “I’m Sub-Majer Lorn. If you would each introduce yourself so that I can put a name to a face, I’d appreciate it.”
“Captain Emsahl…”
“Captain Cheryk…”
“Captain Esfayl…”
“Undercaptain Rhalyt…”
“Undercaptain Quytyl…”
Lorn looks over the five. Two of the three captains-Emsahl and Cheryk-are veterans, older than he is, clearly. Esfayl looks to be newly promoted to captain, while Rhalyt and Quytyl are recent undercaptains. In short-two competent senior captains, one captain that might have promise, and two undercaptains who need watching.
“I’m not the kind who keeps much hidden,” Lorn says. “So… since I’m sure there are rumors about me, I’ll fill in the details. I’m from Cyad. My first three-year tour was at Isahl, under Majer Brevyl. Then came a tour on the northeast ward-wall of the Accursed Forest. We had the dubious distinction of handling more creatures and tree-falls than all the other three companies combined over that period. After that, I was commander of the port detachment at Biehl, and in charge of rebuilding it from less than a company to more than two. We were the ones who discovered the first Jeranyi raiding party trying to go through that part of the Grass Hills. They had eighteenscore. We had two lancer companies and two District Guard companies. They lost all eighteenscore, we lost a company and a half.” Lorn smiles. “When the Majer-Commander found out, from what we captured, that Hamorian blades were being traded into Jera, I was transferred here.”
Lorn looks over the five. The gray-bearded Emsahl nods. Cheryk fingers his long and pointed chin. The curly-haired Esfayl tries to conceal a frown. The red-haired Rhalyt and the whip-thin Quytyl merely look wide-eyed.
Scion of Cyador Page 19
