After a moment of silence, the commander adds, “You will step forward as your name is called.” He pauses, then announces, “Undercaptain Bruk’alt.”
When the commander calls Lorn’s name, the former student magus steps forward as had the others. The commander hands the two silver bars to Lorn.
“Thank you, ser.”
“Don’t thank me, Undercaptain. You earned them, and you will continue to earn them every day you are on duty in the service of Cyador-and even when you are not.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Lorn’alt …” the commander offers in an even lower voice.
“Yes, ser?”
“Perchance I am wrong, but you could easily have been first in the training company.” The flint-gray eyes never leave Lorn’s.
“Ser … I wanted to do well, but I also was more concerned about learning everything I could. I made mistakes that way, ser.”
The faintest of smiles crinkles the commander’s lined face. “I hope that’s the truth, Undercaptain Lorn. The Lancers have no place for officers who let someone else be first to blunt the charge, and then rise to take credit. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, ser.”
The commander nods brusquely, and Lorn turns and steps back to his place in the formation.
“Undercaptain Jykan’alt …”
XVIII
LORN STANDS IN the narrow hallway, sabre at his side, white garrison cap tucked in his belt, waiting for his interview with the majer who will inform Lorn just what duty he will undertake for the Mirror Lancers in the service of Cyador. Although it is early winter, nearly a year after he had left the Quarter of the Magi’i, the air flowing through the outside arch to his left is warm and moist, more like spring in Cyad,carrying with it a hint of arymid. But then, Kynstaar is actually south and east of Cyad, where the southern currents of the Great Western Ocean first touch Candar before swinging westward and north.
Lorn shifts his weight, trying to hear the conversation beyond the door, but even his magus-honed skills can only enable him to catch phrases.
“ … being posted to Hristak … Great Canal south to Fyrad … Majer Derin’alt … two scrolls … and seal ring … understand?”
“Yes, ser!” Rydenber’s words are far louder and clearer than the majer’s.
After Rydenber steps out through the open white oak door, Lorn waits a moment before entering Majer Styphi’s office. Light floods into the small space from an open window to Lorn’s right and the majer’s left. The office contains little besides the desk, an oil lamp set head-high in a bronze bracket on the stone wall, and two chairs.
Majer Styphi sits on one chair, behind the small desk that he dominates. At his right hand is a neat stack of scrolls. His cream and green tunic is slightly wrinkled, and darkness fills the hollows under his eyes, but his green eyes are hard and fix on Lorn. “Undercaptain Lorn’alt?”
“Yes, ser.”
“You’re being posted to Isahl. First, you will take the lancer firewagon tomorrow morning. It will take you and a number of others to the transfer station on the Great North Highway. There you will wait and take the regular firewagon to Syadtar. That’s where you will pick up the replacement lancers and Nytral-he’s a seasoned squad leader. Then you’ll take the lancers and the replacement mounts on the trade road northwest to Isahl. Sub-majer Brevyl is the area commander. You’ll report to him.” The majer hands a scroll to Lorn. “This scroll confirms that.” He hands a cupridium seal ring to Lorn. “There’s your seal ring. Don’t lose it. Nytral will ask to see it, just like every other good squad leader you’ll command when you’re coming in alone.” A second smaller scroll follows. “Here are his posting orders. Thereare two copies there for you-one goes to Commander Thiataphi’s clerk in Syadtar, the other to Nytral. You understand?”
“Yes, ser.” Lorn slips the seal ring onto the third finger of his right hand. The ring fits well enough that it will not slip off.
“You’ll draw a mount in Syadtar. Choose it carefully.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Get your kit together. Then spend some time with your fellows. Most of you won’t see each other for some time.”
Lorn bows once more before he turns and leaves.
Kyl is waiting outside in the group of undercaptains who have yet to see Majer Styphi. He glances inquiringly at Lorn. “Where are you headed?”
Lorn grins. “Where every good lancer goes. To fight the barbarians of the Grass Hills. In a town called Isahl.”
“It’s better than the guard detail in Geliendra where you have to patrol the borders of the Accursed Forest,” volunteers Kyl.
“Right,” murmurs someone. “Dark-angel-right …”
“You won’t get Forest duty, Kyl,” Lorn says. “You know trade. They’ll probably assign you to one of the coast patrols to deal with smugglers or something like that.”
“I’ll know in a bit.” The sandy-haired undercaptain inclines his head toward the building door and Majer Styphi. “I wouldn’t mind that.” Kyl smiles. “I wouldn’t mind anything, actually.”
Lorn is not so sure that he would be equally happy with all duties, but since he has no choice over his duty assignment, he sees no point in comparing the potential satisfaction of duty assignments he would be unlikely to get. “I’ll talk to you later, and you can tell me where you’re headed.”
“I will,” promises Kyl.
As Lorn turns, he overhears the comments.
“ … good as he is … not many make it back from the Hills of Endless Grass ….”
“ … anyone who does makes full captain and majer quick though ….”
“ … maybe … but he was magus-born … some don’t like that ….”
Lorn takes in the low words most would not have believed he has heard, then nods to several others as he passes, walking back to the small cubicle that contains his uniforms, his weapons, and his handful of personal items.
The firewagon to the north will not depart until the following morning, assuming it is on schedule, and that will leave him time to write scrolls to his parents, to Myryan … and to Ryalth … before he follows the majer’s advice and talks a last time with the other new undercaptains.
And, as he promised, he will read from Ryalth’s book, though he does not know if he understands the Firstborn any better for all the words he has read in the green-silver covered volume.
XIX
As THE LOW orange light of dawn fills the front compartment of the firewagon, Lorn yawns and rubs his eyes. Although he had garnered a short night’s sleep on a hard cot at the highway transfer station located in Ilypsya-a town beside the Great North Highway that Lorn had never heard of-after more than two days of near-continuous travel from Ilypsya, except for short comfort stops, Lorn is tired. The flickering chaos that envelops the vehicle bothers none of the other passengers, it seems, but Lorn finds himself still studying it. Even though he is no longer a student magus, in a strange fashion the flickering almost seems to nag at him, more so than when he had studied chaos.
The six wheels rumble more loudly than those of the lancer firewagon that had brought him to Ilypsya, but that might well have been because the regular coach carries a good fifty-score stone of goods in the hold between the small front compartment and the larger rear compartment, where a good half-score passengers are squeezed together.
A slight snoring comes from the merchanter in blue shimmercloth slumped in the bench facing Lorn. The trader is a young man no more than a handful of years older than Lorn, if that, but who sports a short brush mustache in a clear effort to appear older. Beside the young merchanter is an older man in deep brown-a wealthy miller returning to Syadtar, Lorn has gathered, and on the far left sleeps another mid-aged man also in brown who has spoken but little since Lorn joined the others at Ilypsya. The last man in the front compartment, to Lorn’s left, also sleeping, wears the crimson-trimmed brown of a regional guard, but the silver stars in his collar signify that he is a district commander. As Lorn’s eyes light on him, his head turns, and he emits a grunt.