“For eating now, they are.” With her words, surprisingly, comes the hint of erhenflower scent, a fragrance Lorn would have thought too dear for most in Syadtar.
“How much?”
“A copper each for the small ones. Three coppers for two of the large.”
Three coppers find their way from Lorn’s belt wallet to the woman. “Thank you.” He takes two of the larger honey rolls. Before he is fully aware of it, he is licking the crumbs of the second off his fingers.
She extends a wooden cup of water. “You’ll need this.”
“Thank you.” Lorn forces himself to drink the water more slowly than he had gulped down the honey rolls. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re most welcome. If you would wait a moment …” She slips away from the counter, only to reappear with a bucket and a small towel. “You could use this, ser.”
“Ah … I wouldn’t wish to impose.”
“My brother was a lancer.” Her smile is strained.
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right.”
Lorn takes the towel and bucket, and washes his face and hands. He has to admit that he feels less grimy, and probably looks a bit more like an officer. “Thank you, lady.” He hands back the bucket and the towel.
“You know, I’ve seen a score of young officers walk by here in the last year or so, and not a one has stopped. Why did you … if I might ask?” She drops her eyes.
“I was hungry.” Lorn grins. “I don’t think well when I’m hungry, and … I stopped.” He pauses. “I don’t mean I stopped because I wasn’t thinking …”
The woman grins back. “You sound like Cailynt.”
Lorn shrugs helplessly.
“I’m glad you stopped,” she says, “but you’d best be on your way.” After the briefest of pauses, she adds, “Cailynt would have made a good officer.”
“He probably would have,” Lorn agrees.
“Calenena? We got a customer? You be ringing me … you hear!”
Lorn puts another pair of coppers on the counter, and says in a low voice, “Take care.” Then he grins warmly, and turns toward the door.
“I took care of it,” Calenena answers.
Lorn steps back into the bright sunlight, blinking as his eyes readjust.
Another block northward, he passes a potter’s shop. The smell of wood burning tells him that a kiln is being fired. His brows knit. Places like potters’ and coppersmiths’ shops aren’t allowed in the main section of Cyad, and some trades, like rendering and tanning, are not allowed anywhere in the city. Yet he sees the potter and has smelled the tannery. Is everything within the wall? Are the barbarians that much of a threat? Or had they been at one time?
He keeps walking, realizing as he does that there are few trees in Syadtar-no cylars or arymids, no straight or feathering conifers, just a few scattered scrub cedars here and there.
The Mirror Lancer enclave is clear enough. The street endsat another white granite wall and an archway with the two lancer guards, each under a projecting roof to shield them from the sun. Lorn shows the seal ring, and steps past them. Once inside the archway and past the open gates that are swung back inside the compound, Lorn glances around, then heads for the largest building.
After walking the hundred cubits from the gates, he slips through the open front archway into the coolness of a stonewalled corridor.
“Ser?” A lancer ranker looks up from behind a table a mere ten cubits inside the corridor. His left sleeve holds two green slashes a span or so above the cuff-showing he is a senior squad leader.
“Yes, squad leader?”
“If you’re reporting for duty, ser, you need to go to the next building.”
“I’m going to Isahl, but I’m supposed to pick up a squad leader, replacement lancers, and mounts.”
“They’ll help you there, ser. This is Commander Thiataphi’s headquarters, ser. The support centers for the outposts are in the next building.”
“Thank you.”
Lorn turns and makes his way to the next building, considerably smaller, with a plain weathered white oak door, standing ajar. He peers inside, at the two lancers who sit at opposite sides of a large table on which are stacked scrolls of various sizes and sorts.
“ … need three more for the replacement company …
“ … good thing you got the mounts …”
Lorn steps inside, and, at the slight whisper of his boots, the older and bearded squad leader stands, followed by the younger.
“Ser? Can we help you?” The senior squad leader pauses, studying the weary junior officer. “Would you be the new undercaptain for Isahl?”
“That I am,” Lorn admits. “Undercaptain Lorn’alt.” He shows the seal ring. “I’m supposed to find a squad leadernamed Nytral. I have his orders.” Lorn extracts the somewhat battered smaller scroll from his tunic.
“I’m Byrten, ser. Senior lancer clerk for the outposts.” As the man shifts his weight, Lorn can sense the stiffness and the pain in his motions.
“It’s good to meet you, Byrten.” Lorn shrugs. “I’m supposed to report here, but I wasn’t given much in the way of details.”
Byrten hides a smile. “Chorin … go find Nytral. Tell him his undercaptain’s here.”
“Ser? By your leave?”
Lorn nods and steps aside to let Chorin by him.
“Be the day after tomorrow afore all the supplies and replacement lancers be ready, ser. Till then, you’ll have a room in the officers’ building-that’s second back, and I’ll show you after you’re set with Nytral. Or he can show you.”
“How many replacement lancers are there?”
“Two score,” replies Byrten.
“And how often do they need replacements?”
“When Sub-Majer Brevyl needs them-sometimes once, sometimes twice a season.” Byrten’s smile is thin.
Two score lancers six times a year? From one outpost on the edge of the Grass Hills? Lorn nods thoughtfully, deciding not to ask how many undercaptains are needed as replacements.
“How long a ride is it to Isahl?”
“Three days, more or less.”
“And what sort of supplies will we be taking?”
“You’ll be escorting five wagons-four horse team on each.” Byrten glances toward the door, where the rail-thin Chorin reappears, followed by a ranker with a single green slash on his sleeve. Both halt just inside the door. Nytral is short and stocky, and his right cheek bears a faded purple starburst scar. His thick black hair is cut short, and his thick black eyebrows are bushy. The deep brown of his eyes conveys a flatness, as if Nytral has seen too much for his eyes to reveal. The flat eyes look at Lorn, eyes that are wary, waiting.
Lorn extends the set of smaller scrolls. “Undercaptain Lorn’alt. These are your orders.”
“Yes, ser.” Nytral takes the scrolls, then looks at Lorn’alt.
The two other lancer rankers watch, eyes flicking from Nytral to Lorn.
“You can unroll them,” Lorn says. “They’re yours, but one copy has to go to Commander Thiataphi’s clerk.”
“Ah …” suggests Byrten.
“You take it first?” asks Lorn.
“Works better that way, ser,” suggests Nytral. “Byrten draws us supplies, and he can’t draw for more than we got on roster.”
Lorn nods, wondering how much more he needs to learn, and whether he can-in time. “If there’s nothing else Byrten needs to tell me …?” He looks at the senior clerk.
“No, ser. Just check every morning. Tomorrow we should have the replacement roster done, and the supply list.”
“I’d like Nytral to look at those with me,” Lorn says.
“Yes, ser.”
The undercaptain looks at his squad leader. “Let’s go on outside, Nytral.”
“Yes, ser.” Nytral’s voice is deferential, but level.
After leaving the support building, Lorn crosses the small courtyard until he stands in the shadowed corner on the southeast side. Then he turns to Nytral. “I understand you’ll be able to let me know what I should know and don’t on the way to Isahl.” Lorn offers a smile, one simultaneously open and yet professional.