Lorn nods. “That is good.”
“And who be these folk, Captain?” Dustyn asks.
“I am one of them,” Lorn says quietly, “although it would be better if it were not widely known until afterwards.”
“I thought maybe it might be you, Captain,” Dustyn says slowly. “But when I asked some merchanters I know about you … no offense, you understand … they said best theysay little.” The factor frowns. “Seems like you have powerful friends and as many of power that may not be such, especially …”
“For a mere lancer captain, you mean?” Lorn offers a sardonic smile.
“Captain … none’d be calling you mere. Even old Kylynzar been mumbling about how he didn’t like much what you wrote him, but he couldn’t complain none about how you’d stopped the wild creatures. For him … well … he complains about aught any time.”
“I told him we did our best, and that I couldn’t guarantee killing every wild creature that escaped.”
“You been killing most of’em, isn’t it so?”
“So far,” Lorn admits, quickly changing the subject. “I haven’t been consorted before, and I was in Isahl when my sister was. So what do I do?”
“Consorting be simple enough. It be after the consorting that it be no longer simple.” Dustyn laughs hoarsely, then clears his throat. “Wasyk be the recorder of consorts and the tax farmer for the Emperor here in Jakaafra. Be easier’n I’d thought,’cause your havin’ a place of dwelling means no winking at whether you be proper in consorting here. Doesn’t say which dwelling, but a man’s supposed to be consorted where he has one. Anyway … you and your lady …” Dustyn frowns. “Don’t recall your saying her name, and I’ll be needing that to give to Wasyk.” He waits.
“Ryalth … she’s an independent trader, and the head of Ryalor House.”
Dustyn shakes his head, even as he smiles. “Now … some matters be making more sense. A lancer captain from a Magi’i family-I did find that out, not much more-consorting to one of the powerful rising trading houses … more’n a few not be pleased to see that kind of alliance ….”
“Why … because they worry about mage blood in merchanter offspring? The children can only claim either merage or altage heritage. So what do we have to do?”
“Plain forgot to finish … you sign the register in front ofWasyk and seal it there with a silver. That be it, so far as the Emperor’s concerned.”
Lorn somehow doubts that.
“And then your troubles are your own.”
“They’re always our own.” Lorn pauses, then adds, “I have to be on patrol starting tomorrow. If the lady should arrive … well, she has the welcome of the dwelling … if you understand and would assist in that?”
“That I can do with great pleasure.” Dustyn frowns. “She be truly the house leader of Ryalor House?”
“Absolutely.”
“Ryalth … Captain Lorn … Ryalor …” Dustyn shakes his head. “Should a’ figured … I should.”
Lorn forces a laugh. “Leave the figuring to others, Dustyn, and Ryalor House will continue to help you prosper.”
“Oh, that I will, ser. That I will. Owe you two far too much to be flapping my chin, outside a’ my own place, you see, that is ….”
“And to make sure you prosper …” Lorn slips a silver into Dustyn’s hand.
“Ser … you needn’t …”
“I need not, but times have not been easy for you.”
“Thank you, ser, and I will be taking the best care when the lady trader should arrive.”
“I know you will.” Lorn glances toward the door. “And I have to ready a company for another patrol.”
“You do that, ser, and I’ll be watching out for you.”
Lorn nods as he steps toward the door, and the cold ride back to the compound.
XCIX
FAT AND WET snowflakes swirl past Lorn, so heavily that he cannot see the ward-wall from the perimeter road from where he rides with Kusyl and the second squad, so thickly that he is continually brushing slush and water from his forehead.He ignores the headache that accompanies the snow.
After briefly considering stopping the patrol, he decides against it, at least for a time. The biggest danger is fallen tree trunks, and even the heaviest snow won’t hide anything that large.
“You think this will last, ser?”
“I hope not. Usually, the big flakes don’t. Then, we’re going on furlough after this patrol.” Lorn says with a rueful laugh that carries the fifteen cubits between their mounts. “With our luck, a cubit of it will fall on the deadland.”
They both know that while the green crowns of the giant trees of the Accursed Forest may accept some snow, it will neither remain nor filter into the warmer green below.
“Or it’ll turn to rain and freeze,” counters Kusyl.
“Let’s hope not.” Lorn has had enough of patrols in cold and wet rain.
“May not get any tree-falls.”
“Let’s hope not.”
Snow clings to the gelding’s mane, and creates wet splotches where it melts on the thighs of Lorn’s trousers. The two ride silently, through the hushed whiteness created by the fast-falling snow, and Lorn continues to brush away snow and water.
Then, as abruptly as it has started, within the space of riding less than a kay, the snow stops falling, leaving the deadland covered with white less than a fraction of a span deep. Only puddles of slush remain on the granite of the perimeter road itself.
Lorn looks to his right. White steam-like vapor rises from the heights of the Accursed Forest, creating a misty effect above the high crowns and around the ward-wall.
Above them, the heavy gray clouds move swiftly northward.
“We’ll get rain before we’re done,” predicts Kusyl.
Lorn has no doubts about that. He just hopes it does not create another fallen tree or delay the patrol too much.
C
LORN CHECKS THE locks on the armory door, then nods to the duty guard-from Juist’s company. “Everything’s secure. The Mirror Lancer firewagon should be here to replace these tomorrow. Pass that along to your relief. Squad leader Shynt knows already.” Shynt also knows how to send a message to Lorn through Dustyn, although Lorn does not wish any interruptions on his furlough.
“Yes, ser.”
The lancer captain offers a nod before turning and leaving the small white granite building. In the chill of late afternoon, Lorn walks quickly across the courtyard to pack his bag. As he nears the quarters building, he sees Kusyl standing by the door, waiting for Lorn.
“You be moving quickly, ser,” observes the senior squad leader, a hint of a smile running across his face.
“I am. What about you?”
“I be leaving early in the morning.”
“You’re riding to Geliendra and leaving the mount there?”
“Yes, ser. That be allowed.”
“I know. I wasn’t questioning.” Lorn offers a smile. “You’re glad Shynt’s the one staying, and not you?”
“Bein’ senior squad leader has some privileges, ser.” Kusyl grins. “What you be doing on furlough, Captain? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’ve got a place outside Jakaafra. I’m from Cyad, and it’s too far to try to get home without spending nearly half the time traveling. I’ll just try to enjoy myself here. It’ll be good not to be patrolling. What about you?”
“I’m from Fyrad. Only four or five days down. Want to see my family. So I’ll travel … and travel.”
“Have a safe journey.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Lorn slips into the quarters building and back to his ownroom. There, he begins to gather what he will need. He forces himself to pack the formal uniform carefully, although shimmercloth does not wrinkle easily, and he slips both the chaos glass and Ryalth’s book in with his other clothes. He certainly doesn’t want to leave them behind.
As the familiar mental chill of a chaos glass being used to scree him falls across his quarters, he concentrates on not allowing himself to stiffen, but instead fastens the bag and checks the wardrobe, as if to see what he may have forgotten. He already wears the Brystan sabre. The chill fades, but Lorn wonders how often he will feel it over the next two eightdays.