“ … so why do the chestnuts breathe harder and lather earlier?”
“ … got you there, Helkar …”
“ … doesn’t matter now … not in winter …”
Lorn takes a bite of the overcooked beef, following it with a mouthful of equally overcooked noodles. The wine, while a plain red, is far better than either the beef or the noodles, but Lorn eats everything on the chipped brown platter before him, then waits for the senior officers to finish and take any second helpings.
“ … scouts say the Jeranyi are gathering the eastern tribes, the ones north of the cupric mines.”
“Some of them have started carrying polished iron shields-work almost as well as a mirror shield against the fire lances … with those iron-headed arrows …”
“Their bows aren’t that good, not from the saddle.”
“Yet …”
“Ought to go in and take the iron mines …”
“You want to get ferric poisoning … be my guest, Helkar. Besides, none of the barbarians work metal that well.”
“You don’t get it from the ore … only after it’s smelted and turned into weapons … Rather take out the mines than risk getting ferric poisoning and order death.”
Lorn keeps a polite smile on his face when he isn’t eating, taking in the attitudes of the lancers, partly amazed at some of the misconceptions that seem common, even among officers.
The serving dishes, after being refilled by the lancer servers, make their way down to Lorn, who takes additional slices of beef and a pile of the gravied noodles. He has eaten two mouthfuls of his seconds, then stops to break off a chunk of the moist brown bread.
“Undercaptain? Lorn’alt, is it not?” calls Commander Thiataphi.
Lorn swallows quickly. “Yes, ser.”
“You’re from Cyad, are you not?”
“Yes, ser.”
“How do you find the north?” asks the commander.
“Warmer than I would have thought in winter, ser.” Lorn offers a polite smile.
“That’s why the barbarians want our lands. One reason, anyway. On the other side of the Grass Hills, there’s snow. Or there was last eightday, according to the report from Sub-Majer Brevyl. Don’t forget to draw a winter jacket, and winter boots.”
“No, ser. I won’t.” Lorn hasn’t thought about either, and hopes his face does not show his ignorance.
“You from a lancer family?”
“No, ser.” Lorn decides against volunteering his background.
“That’s right,” Thiataphi says with a guffaw. “You’re one of the magus-born who’s good with a blade.” He shakes his head. “Do some of the Magi’i good to get out on the borderlands, see what the barbarians are doing.”
Not knowing how to respond to that, Lorn nods politely.
“You’ll see. Sub-Majer Brevyl will ensure you do. Just like he did with all the others here. Except me, and I made sure he saw just what they were.” The darkness in the commander’s words is scarcely concealed.
Lorn manages to finish the second helping on his chipped platter just before the servers clear the platters, and replace them with smaller plates, each bearing a rolled and fried paelunka that has been dipped in condensed sweetsap. He continues to listen as the conversation drifts away from him.
“ … all that snow to the north … grass’ll be green early, and that means more raids.”
“If it ever melts …”
“ … doesn’t melt early, stay green longer, and the raids’ll start later and last longer, either way, we need to draw more trainees.”
“ … could be right about that … need more undercaptains, too …”
Lorn finishes his paelunka and sips the wine, very slowly, listening.
Abruptly, Thiataphi rises, and so do the other officers. Even though caught unaware, Lorn rises with them.
One of the captains draws up to Lorn as they leave the officer’s dining hall.
“I’m Helkar, the one they’re always telling that I’m wrong.”
“Lorn.”
“I noticed you didn’t say much about ferric poisoning, but you have to know something about it, don’t you, if you were a magus.”
“I know something about it,” Lorn admits.
“Was I right about it? That it’s got to be used in a weapon?
“Mostly.” Lorn pauses. “And you have to have been using firelances, and directing them for a long time. Otherwise, you’ll probably only get a burn in addition to a slash or a cut.”
“Why do the Magi’i warn us so much? Bums, those I can handle.”
“The Magi’i handle more chaos than firelances, much more.”
“Ah …” Helkar frowns. “You’ll have to worry more about iron then?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Good.” Helkar laughs. “You’ll have enough to worry about with Brevyl anyway.”
“Is he that hard?”
“Is cupridium tough? Does a firelance burn?” The captain shakes his head. “He’s fair, but best you do as he orders, or you’ll find yourself leading a half-score of troublemakers who don’t know one end of a lance from the other against four score raiders.” Helkar laughs. “And if you make it through that, he’ll decide you’re the one to train and lash all the troublemakers in the whole outfit into formation.”
Lorn nods, stifling a yawn. He is still tired from three days’ travel in firewagons and wonders if one good night’ssleep will be enough to recover. “Is this your duty assignment now?”
“Me? Working for Commander Thiataphi? Not likely. I’m here like you, picking up replacement lancers, except I’m headed back to Pemedra tomorrow. A few less barbarians there, and a lot more snow. You can see the Westhorns from there, and that wind comes off them in winter, and it’ll cut right through you.”
“How many lancers are you taking back?”
“Four score, with two squad leaders.” Helkar shrugs.
“Takes near-on four days, and there’s always a chance of a raiding party, but it’s less early in the winter. The barbarians get bored or run out of food before spring, and they’ll start raiding while there’s still snow everywhere.” Another laugh follows. “Trailing them through snow and mud, we all enjoy that.”
Lorn nods.
“You look order-dead.” Helkar half-thumps Lorn’s shoulders and turns. “Good luck with Sub-Majer Brevyl.”
“Thank you.” Lorn walks slowly up the two flights of stone steps, concentrating so that his white boots do not scuff and so that he does not trip. A night’s sleep will be good. Very good.
XXI
LORN BENDS FORWARD in the saddle and pats the shoulder of the big white mare, then straightens and looks ahead along the road that curves its way between yet another set of hills. The grass that covers the hills is brown, but it does seem endless, with each hill that the detachment rides over giving way to yet another, and then another. After the first morning, for two days all Lorn and the lancers have seen are grass hills. Part of that sense of endlessness is because they are not crossing the hills directly, but angling northwest from Syadtar.
Every so often there are small copses of bushes or low trees bearing their gray winter leaves, generally along streams so small as to be almost invisible from more than a hundred cubits away. The wind is cold, but not bitter, and blows out of the northwest, almost into Lorn’s face, carrying a clear odor of wet grass and the hint of mold.
At the top of the hill on the north side of the road are two lancers Nytral has sent out as scouts. One remains reined up, watching the column of riders, while the second vanishes beyond the hill crest, shadowing and following the road from the heights as it winds generally northwest.
Lorn glances over his shoulder at the forty-odd new lancers riding behind them. Most appear painfully young, even to Lorn, and some struggle managing the firelances in the holders, even though the lances are little more than three cubits long. Lorn scarcely notices his any more.
“You ride pretty well, ser. You come from a lancer family?” asks Nytral.
Lorn turn in the saddle and looks at his squad leader. “I had to learn it on my own, Nytral. Spent a lot of extra time in officer training working with mounts. Seemed a good idea.”