“I am. Captain Lorn, squad leader.”
“Olisenn, ser.” Olisenn’s mouth smiles; his eyes do not. “Senior squad leader.”
“Pleased to see you, Olisenn.” Lorn swings out of his saddle and gestures to Kusyl. “Squad leader Kusyl. I believe he’ll be leading the second squad.”
Kusyl dismounts quickly.
“Good to meet you, Kusyl.” Olisenn nods to the junior squad leader before turning back to Lorn. “You have the second room in the officers’ section, ser. I’ll be taking Kusyl to show him the quarters, if that be to your agreement.”
“Once the mounts are set, that would be fine.” Lorn nods to both squad leaders.
Both bow before they turn away.
As in Westend, a stableboy scurries up to take Lorn’s gelding, and he has to remind himself to recover his gear.
Lorn walks from the stables, carrying his gear, and starts toward the end of the barracks building that should hold the officers’ quarters. As he nears the lamp-flanked door on the south end, another lancer captain emerges and struts toward Lorn.
The oncoming officer is dark-haired, slightly taller than Lorn, but slender, with a thin mustache, and black eyes. His uniform is tailored to show a narrow waist, and the custom white boots shimmer, reflecting the courtyard lamps. He stops a good five cubits from Lorn. “You must be the new Second Company officer, I take it.”
“That’s right. I’m Lorn.”
“Meisyl. I’m the one you’re relieving. You picked a good time to arrive. We just finished patrol.”
“So we’ll have tomorrow standing down.”
“Exactly.”
Belatedly, Lorn lifts the hand with the seal ring, and starts to reach for his orders.
“We can handle that in the morning.” Meisyl laughs, a languorous sound, as if he finds the exchange both amusing and boring simultaneously. “I’ll take you through the records and all the reports that Commander Meylyd so enjoys.”
“When you think it best,” Lorn demurs.
“Tomorrow is early enough. I won’t be leaving until tomorrow afternoon anyway.”
“How will you get back to Geliendra?” Lorn asks. “You aren’t riding back by yourself? Or taking a detachment of lancers for rotation?”
“Oh, no. The rotated lancers won’t leave for an eightday. I’ll catch a ride on the Engineer’s small firewagon on its next run for replacement wards or whatever.” Meisyl shrugs almost delicately. “It only takes two days to get to Geliendra from here that way.
“You have the second room. It’s the same as the first, and when I leave you can take your choice. The third is smaller, and that belongs to Undercaptain Juist. He heads the First Company; they do the domestic patrol. He’s been an undercaptain for a long while, but he was promoted from senior squad leader when they did such.” Meisyl dismisses Juist’s promotion with a graceful wave of his long-fingered left hand.
Lorn nods.
“I’ll see you in the officers’ dining room-just the two of us tonight-after you’re settled. Olisenn will take care of the incoming men.”
“We’ve discussed that,” Lorn says. “He was waiting for Kusyl and me.”
“Very conscientious, Olisenn is,” Meisyl replies. “Most knowledgeable about many matters as well.” With another smile he turns.
Lorn picks up the green bags and begins to cross the courtyard, following Meisyl’s steps. The wind has continued to rise, and the faint splatt of rain on stone begins to fill the courtyard.
The second room in the officers’ section is more spacious than that in Westend, and it even has a wardrobe and a narrow desk with a separate lamp in a bracket over the table desk.
After closing the white oak door behind him, Lorn unpacks his uniforms, hanging the tunics in the space in the wardrobe and the waterproof and winter jacket on the wallpegs. The screeing glass goes under his smallclothes in the wardrobe, but he leaves the Brystan sabre in one of the two green bags that he folds and slips into the shelf under the single bunk. Then he goes to find the wash chamber where he shaves and cleans up before repairing to the officers’ small dining room.
Meisyl is waiting, but does not stand as Lorn approaches, merely gesturing for him to seat himself. Meisyl has a bottle of wine before him, and there are two of the heavy goblets on the time-darkened but bare and smoothly polished white oak of the table.
“That’s one thing, Lorn. You have to make arrangements for your own ale or wine. I’d suggest the chandler in Jakaafra. His name is Duluk. Very fastidious about his wines. Sometimes he can even get Alafraan.”
“All the way from Escadr?” Lorn lifts his eyebrows.
Meisyl laughs. “I’ll win a gold from Juist on that.”
“The Alafraan’s better than Fhynyco. At least, I think so.”
“Depends on whether you like body or bouquet better.” Again, Meisyl’s tone is almost bored. “The Alafraan goes better with meat. I like the Fhynyco better with fowl. Only desperate men drink Byrdyn.” He fills the two goblets three-quarters full and nods to Lorn.
“Thank you.” Taking the nearest goblet, Lorn reflects that, while he enjoyed Zandrey’s Alafraan while he was stationed at Isahl, he has never been desperate for any kind of wine. “Desperate men do have strange tastes.”
A server in green appears with platters and cutlery which he sets on the side of the table, quickly leaving and then reappearing with a larger serving platter and two baskets. “Sers?”
“Just put it down,” Meisyl orders off-handedly.
“Thank you.” Lorn nods to the server, who bows and retreats.
Dinner is a platter with sliced mutton covered with a brown sauce and boiled potatoes in one of the baskets. The second basket holds bread-cool.
“The other company here? Juist’s?” asks Lorn. “They patrol the northeast perimeter?”
“Not except for the eightdays when.Second Company’s on furlough.” Meisyl shakes his head. “They’re the peacemaking company for the villages on the north side of the Accursed Forest. Juist acts as a justicer about half the time. They also chase bandits … when there are any.”
“Peacemaking?” Lorn raises his eyebrows.
“Once you get north of the Forest, there aren’t that many towns between here and the Westhorns or the Hills of Endless Grass. It’s almost like a province. So someone has to act as the Emperor’s Presence. Juist is good at it; he understands those people.” Meisyl offers a condescending sniff before he takes a small swallow of the purplish Alafraan.
“So there’s no Engineer detachment here? Just the two Lancer companies?”
“This is the only perimeter base that has no Engineers. They send a detachment here-every third day to check the tower. I’ll ride back on their firewagon.”
Lorn wonders. Is he stationed at Jakaafra for just that reason? That it is the only base without the engineers who are effectively low-level adept mages? Who else like him has been stationed at Jakaafra? How would he find out?
“How many engineers do they send up here?”
“Three or four, usually. Mostly officers.” Meisyl breaks off a chunk of bread and dips it in the brown sauce. “You’ll get to know them all … such as they are.”
“Has there been much trouble with the Accursed Forest lately?” Lorn takes a bite of the dry mutton, glad for the sauce.
“Not for a season. Oh, you always have shoots and seedlings popping up somewhere, but that’s to be expected. We haven’t seen a limb bridge in …” Meisyl frowns. “ … since late summer. There are always a few trunks falling over a season, but it’s been a while lately. So you won’t have many lancers left who are prepared for more than the occasional order-assault.”
“I suppose the records tell how long …. Where are therecords on the Second Company?” asks Lorn guilelessly.
“You have a study. Or you will tomorrow. It’s the building across from the north end of the barracks. Olisenn keeps the records on the men, and they’re in a chest in the outer study when he’s not working on them.” Meisyl looks at the already half-empty bottle of Alafraan. “It will be pleasant to return somewhere that one can get a decent wine besides Alafraan.”