Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “He is simple in what he believes. He is not simple in how he moves to support those beliefs.”

  “What does he believe?” questions Luss, almost idly, as if he cares little for the answer, but feels he should ask the question.

  “That traders should be fair, and so should the Mirror Lancers and the Magi’i.” Kharl smiles. “He knows this is unlikely, yet he believes it, and will scheme and support those who come closest to those ideals.”

  “He might prove more dangerous than Bluoyal.”

  “Far more… especially when we do not know who will be the next Hand of the Emperor.”

  Luss raises his eyebrows. “I had not heard.”

  “It is never announced. There is but one Hand, and none know him… save some guess.”

  “I would not have guessed.”

  “Good.”

  “That may change matters… in Inividra.”

  “It may, but not to make matters for you better, Captain-Commander. The Hand tempered matters.”

  “When will…?”

  “There may not be one appointed soon.”

  “No Hand?” questions Luss. “Is this because Toziel becomes more tired, and his thoughts wander? What will you do?”

  “Captain-Commander… there is little any of the Magi’i can do. Not at this moment. The Emperor appoints the Hand, not the First Magus, and even if the First Magus were to press for young Rustyl, he is far too young and to direct to be a Hand, and far too well-known because of Chyenfel’s favors. And Chyenfel has groomed him to succeed Toziel, if necessary, not himself or the Hand.”

  “If you… once Toziel…”

  Kharl shakes his head, and laughs. “Would any accept a magus known to have been one of the Three on the Malachite Throne?”

  “They might accept you.”

  The Second Magus laughs. “Your flattery is welcome and most obvious.”

  “Yet the Empress… Toziel listens to her more and more.”

  Kharl laughs again. “He has always listened to her. As he has aged in these last seasons, he has become less able to conceal that he does. Do not worry about dear Ryenyel. She is sensible, and she will not long survive the Emperor.”

  Luss frowns.

  “It is not like that,” explains the red-haired Second Magus. “None of any sensibility would, I think, plot for her death. She can neither hold the Malachite Throne nor advise an heir of her body. And she understands Cyad, perhaps better than Toziel. They have been… so close… that she will follow him within eightdays, perhaps a season or so, but no longer. So… the Emperor will do without a Hand. None love the Hand, and so, none will complain. All will advance their candidates to be Toziel’s successor, but he likes none of them. So we wait, and hope that blood does not stain the sunstones of the Palace of Eternal Light. Or that what blood falls is but a few droplets and not a storm.”

  Luss frowns, but does not speak.

  LXXII

  As the Mirror Lancers ride toward the stables at Inividra, under the clear green-blue sky and hot sun of a late-spring day, Lorn reins up outside the square tower.

  The older sentry stiffens as his eyes take in Lorn’s blood-splattered uniform, “Ser!”

  “We’re back, Duytyl,” Lorn says.

  Before Lorn can make his way to the door to the tower, Nesmyl steps outside. “Ser. It’s been near-on five eightdays.” His eyes flick back toward the tower. “Much has happened.”

  “A great deal. We had a lot of ground to cover.” Lorn looks at the senior squad leader. “Did the commander send any replacement firelances?”

  “Yes, but just one set-not even that-fivescore.”

  “That will do. Have there been any raids anywhere, that you know of?”

  “No, ser. Not a one.”

  “Good.”

  “Ser… there is another sub-majer here.” Nesmyl coughs. “I… believe Majer Dettaur sent him… with orders.”

  “I’m not surprised. Majer Dettaur would do something like that.” Lorn smiles wryly. “I’ll go in and pay my respects.”

  Nesmyl glances at Lorn’s sabre and nods.

  “I doubt it will come to that.” Lorn steps toward the door and opens it. He blinks for several moments in the comparative gloom of the tower, then glances around. The foyer is empty. He walks easily toward the door to his official study and steps inside.

  A dark-haired officer, somewhat older than either Dettaur or Lorn, gracefully stands from behind Lorn’s desk. “You must be the errant Sub-Majer Lorn.” He has flat brown eyes similar to those of Majer Maran, and the unconscious arrogance of Dettaur.

  “I’m Lorn.” He steps forward. “I see that you’ve made yourself at home.”

  “I thought I might as well, since you were nowhere to be found, and I was sent to relieve you.”

  “I was out patrolling-as requested by both the Captain-Commander and Majer Dettaur.”

  “It matters not. Oh, I’m Sub-Majer Uflet, and your orders are there.” Uflet points to a green-ribboned scroll on the corner of the table desk.

  Lorn picks it up, breaks the seal, and begins to read, but without taking his attention away from Uflet.

  Sub-Majer Lorn, Mirror Lancers of Cyador, Commanding, Inividra,

  You are hereby relieved of your command, and of all rights and privileges associated therewith. This action is taken in accord with the previous directives of the Captain-Commander of Mirror Lancers for your failure to comply with directives, particularly those involving the use and deployment of lancers in the protection of the people of Cyador. You are to report immediately to Assyadt for reassignment.

  The signature and seal are those of Dettaur, Majer, Mirror Lancers.

  “It all seems pretty clear,” Lorn observes. “Dett’s usual approach.”

  “Majer Dettaur understands the traditions of the Mirror Lancers,” Uflet says stiffly. “I have found him to be honorable and trustworthy.”

  “Then you don’t know him very well.” Lorn laughs once. “Relieving a post commander for doing his duty is honorable?”

  Uflet smiles. “Major Dettaur would certainly not act so without a very good reason.”

  “That is certainly so.” Lorn nods, then looks at the dark-haired sub-majer. “I’d appreciate it if you’d wait here. I’ll tell the officers, those who are left. They, and I, deserve that courtesy.”

  “But… of course.” Uflet’s smile is as false as Dettaur’s or Maran’s. “I imagine those losses could have been avoided with the use of more traditional patrolling.”

  “With more traditional patrolling, we wouldn’t have lost more than a handful so far this year. I would have lost twice as many by the end of the year. As it is, I lost a captain and an undercaptain, along with a company of lancers.” Lorn smiles faintly. “We accomplished a great deal. We killed somewhere around twentyscore barbarians. More, probably, but those numbers we can attest to with great certainty. But, as you know, the numbers don’t matter. Especially not to Dett. He never could count.” Lorn pauses. “I’ll be back in a few moments, and we can take care of the formalities.”

  “Of course.” Uflet offers another smile, both false and smug.

  Lorn closes the study door as he leaves.

  Nesmyl glances at Lorn.

  “We’re working things out, Nesmyl. I need to tell the officers a few things. Then I’ll be back.”

  “They’re… waiting in the officers’ study. I thought that might be best.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lorn leaves the square tower and crosses the courtyard, his boots light on the paving stones, his brow wrinkled in thought. Then, he shrugs.

  The four officers stand as he enters the study.

  Lorn stops and looks at the four remaining officers, wishing that Emsahl were among them. Then he begins to speak. “Some of you may already have guessed that my approach to dealing with the barbarians has not found favor in Assyadt. Those of you who have guessed such were right. Majer Dettaur has decided-without even hearing the results of our eff
orts-that I should be relieved and disciplined. Of course, there haven’t been any raids in all of the northwest section of the Grass Hills-and that’s the first time in a generation that spring has passed without raids. We did lose a company and two officers. That’s also the fewest casualties in the spring in a score of years. But I am to be relieved.” Lorn smiles, wryly, then adds, “I’d like to go to Assyadt and present my case to the commander, since all the directives have come from Majer Dettaur. I’d also like to live through it.” Lorn grins. “Anyone like to come with me and bring a company or two?”

  Gyraet nods. “I would.”

  “Might be interesting,” suggests Cheryk.

  “That’s a rebellion,” ventures Esfayl.

  Rhalyt glances from Esfayl to Gyraet.

  “You don’t have to come, none of you,” Lorn says, “but I’ll put orders in writing that I ordered you all to come. That might work better anyway.”

  “If I’m ordered,” Esfayl suggests, with a wry smile, “what can I do?”

  “We’ll leave in the morning… oh… there are fivescore firelances in the armory. That’s all the commander could spare for the summer.”

  Esfayl glances at Cheryk. “I don’t know as I need orders, then. Patrolling under the old system with that few charges is suicide anyway.”

  “Like I said,” Cheryk observes, “going to Assyadt might be interesting.”

  “I need to deal with a few other problems, rather immediately,” Lorn says. “I’ll check with all of you before dinner.”

  “Yes, ser,” says Gyraet. “We’ll make sure the men are ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lorn bows his head, briefly, then turns and walks back out and across the courtyard and back into the square tower.

  Nesmyl leans forward as if to inquire.

  “I told them.” Lorn smiles. “I need to talk to Sub-Majer Uflet. Matters may change somewhat. So… if you would stand by?”

  “Ah… yes, ser.” Nesmyl’s eyebrows lift.

  Lorn makes sure the door is closed as he steps back into the study. “I’ve talked over matters with my officers, and they understand the situation.”

  “Then perhaps we should have Nesmyl draft the change-of-command letter,” suggests Uflet.

  Lorn smiles. “It seems, Sub-Majer Uflet, that I’ve been ordered to Assyadt, with my lancers. I would strongly suggest you remain here for their return.”

  “That’s rebellion. Major Dettaur would hardly be pleased.” Uflet eases around the side of the table desk with a serpentlike grace. “Then, he would not be surprised, either.”

  Gathering chaos around him, Lorn picks up Dettaur’s scroll. “Majer Dettaur decided that before I even returned. I’m sure you’re rather good with a sabre.”

  As if to prove the point, Uflet already has his sabre out and is moving toward Lorn before the younger sub-majer has even finished his words.

  Hssst! Uflet’s mouth is open, before his upper body flares into chaos-fire, and then ashes. The sabre clunks dully on the stones of the floor.

  Lorn looks at the headless corpse lying on the study floor and shakes his head. He wonders how many more there will be.

  Then he summons more chaos.

  When he is done, his head throbs, and his eyes are watering, but the only traces of the sub-majer are his sabre, some buckles, a small dagger, and a few coins-and dark marks and ashes on the stone floor. Lorn leans the sabre-warm to his touch-in the corner behind the desk, and then pockets the other warm metal items.

  He rubs his nose, trying not to sneeze at the fine ashes circulating in the room, before he walks to the windows and opens them. As an afterthought, he uses a touch of chaos to incinerate Dettaur’s scroll.

  He lets the fresher air from outside circulate through the room before he goes to the door and opens it.

  Nesmyl steps forward. “Ser?”

  “We’ll be leaving in the morning for Assyadt. The officers already know.”

  “Ah… ‘we’?”

  “All the lancers and I will be.”

  “What happened to the sub-majer?” asks Nesmyl, looking past Lorn to the apparently empty study.

  “He decided that he didn’t want to get involved quite yet,” Lorn says. “It’s possible that you won’t see him again. Then, you may. It is highly unlikely that you will see me again, one way or another.”

  “I didn’t see him come out.”

  Lorn shrugs. “You can imagine that I’m not terribly interested in the sub-majer at this point.”

  “No, ser.” Nesmyl tries to conceal an expression of bewilderment. “But Commander Ikynd and Majer Dettaur…”

  “Don’t worry, Nesmyl. The lancers and I are going to Assyadt, and I’ll be seeing both the Commander and the Majer. I wouldn’t have it any other way. If Sub-Majer Uflet doesn’t return, a new officer will come back with the lancers to take over Inividra.”

  “But the barbarians-”

  “I doubt very seriously if enough are left alive to consider riding into Cyador without starving their clans.” Lorn turns. “At the moment, I’m going to clean up and change uniforms. Then I’ll be down to start writing my report, at least until dinner.”

  “Very good, ser.” Nesmyl’s eyes stray toward the open study door.

  “You won’t find Uflet in there, but you can certainly look,” Lorn says with a lopsided grin.

  “Ah, no, ser. That’s all right.”

  Lorn walks to the front of the square tower, where he reclaims his saddlebags and extra sabre, and then carries his gear to the narrow rear stairs. As he climbs up to his quarters-his for one last night, he knows he can wash the blood from his uniforms-at least mostly-but he wonders what will wash the blood from his soul.

  LXXIII

  Lorn looks from the study window of the personal quarters at Inividra out into the purple twilight of a late-spring evening. He still has a trace of a headache, and every so often he has to blot his eyes.

  He has finally completed a short version of his report, since there is little point in a longer version, which contains enough-the numbers of barbarians slain, towns sacked, blades seized, some six thousands golds recovered and being returned and, of course, a summary of the blade trade in Jera, and the profits going to Hamorian, Spidlarian, and, unfortunately, Cyadoran traders.

  He takes out the chaos-glass and lays it on the desk. Then he pulls out the chair and sits down, concentrating. The silver mists form, then swirl aside into revealing an image-Ryalth is breast-feeding Kerial at a table- the lower inner dining area of Lorn’s parents’ dwelling, and Jerial, wearing a dark green or black tunic, is seated across the table from her.

  Both women look up. Jerial says something, and Lorn swallows as he sees the tears roll down Ryalth’s cheeks. Jerial smiles, and Ryalth frees a hand and touches her fingers to her lips, as if to send a kiss across the hundreds of kays that separate them.

  Lorn watches for several moments, wishing he could convey more than his presence or existence, before he finally releases the image.

  They and Kerial are well, it appears, and at least, at least, they know he is alive.

  He stands and walks nearer the open window, looking out and down at the courtyard.

  “The Butcher of Nhais… and now the butcher of Jerans…” He shakes his head. Flutak and Baryat would have left Nhais defenseless, and Dettaur would have condemned three times as many lancers to die-and for what?

  So that, in the first case, a corrupt enumerator and grower could gather more golds, and in the second, so that all the older lancer officers could rest assured that time-honored traditions did not change, even as the world did? Or so that traders in Summerdock and Swartheld could make more golds off those lancers’ deaths?

  Even if the traders and cupritors of Cyad did make golds from selling blades, training more lancers and arming them would raise their tariffs, or shift the cost in golds to someone else’s tariffs. For those in Cyad, it makes no sense. Yet, is he the only one who sees such? Or the only one
who is stupid enough to act on what he sees?

  “The only one stupid enough…”

  He turns from the window. He doubts he will sleep well, for all his self-justifications.

  LXXIV

  The guards outside the open gates of Assyadt look up as the Sixth Company of Mirror Lancers approaches, followed by a long column of lancers. The younger one’s eyes widen as he sees that the firelances are out and leveled.

  “Sub-Majer Lorn. I’m here to see Majer Dettaur.” Lorn smiles coldly.

  “Ah…” The younger guard swallows as the gray haired ranker elbows him.

  “I’m sure you’re welcome, ser,” the older guard speaks firmly and quickly.

  “Thank you.” Lorn inclines his head, then looks to Gyraet. “The first building is the commander’s. Go four-abreast at each door with the lances.”

  “Rhalyt! Secure the stables!”

  “Yes, ser.”

  In the momentary silence that follows, as Lorn rides slowly across the stones of the courtyard, he catches the hard words of the senior guard.

  “Near-on killed us! Don’t say a word to man like that… he be the butcher, they say… only officer brought the Accursed Forest to its knees, slaughtered threescore raiders himself in Nhais… Black angels know why he be here… but that be for the commander and the majer…”

  Lorn half winces, half smiles as he nears the first white-stone building, and then reins up. Reputations have their advantages, and disadvantages. He doubts his troubles will be with lower officers or rank-and-file lancers. Then, they never have been.

  “You want a few lancers with you?” asks Gyraet.

  Lorn pauses, then reluctantly nods. “It might make things… quieter.” After a moment, he looks up at Gyraet and Cheryk. “I shouldn’t have to say it, but anyone who attacks you is an enemy of all those lancers who have died.”

  “Yes, ser,” affirms Cheryk.

  “First half, first squad,” orders Gyraet. “Follow the majer… with lances. Use the lances against anyone who lifts a blade against him. Anyone, officer or ranker.”