Once in the study, he closes the inner shutters and slips the chaos-glass from the single drawer of the desk. After he sets it on the polished wood, he begins to concentrate, first on the name and image of Baryat, the olive-grower whose daughter Lorn has killed. The silver mists fill the glass, and then clear.
Baryat-gray-bearded and muscular-sits at a long table, flanked by three younger men, who appear to be his sons. The bearded man thumbs the edge of a knife, then speaks. While Lorn cannot hear the words, he can see the vehemence behind them. One of the sons brings a fist down on the table.
Lorn watches for but a short while, before letting the image lapse. Even so, his eyes are watering, and his head aches. For a time, he sits before the glass, his eyes closed, pondering. How much is the grower’s vehemence based on the loss of his daughter, and how much upon fear of discovery of corruption? Will Lorn ever know?
As he tries to rest before he uses the glass once more, Lorn’s thoughts skitter from Baryat to traders, to those in the Mirror Lancers like Maran who would see him dead and vanished.
Finally, he straightens, knowing that he must practice more, and become more adept at using the glass to see lands where he has not been, and to become able to translate those views into maps-and the other way around. He takes a deep breath, and concentrates once more upon the glass before him and upon controlling the silver mists.
XX
The late spring afternoon is more like summer, damp and hot, as Lorn mounts in the courtyard of the Mirror Lancer compound. He studies the compound courtyard and buildings, quietly pleased that the leaves and dirt are gone, the stones are clean, the moss gone, even from between the pavement stones of the courtyard, and that the ancient windows now shine. Inside, more than a score of new recruits are housed in the north wing of the refurbished barracks.
A halfscore of recruits spar with padded blades in the open space to the west of the administration building, with Helkyt overseeing the training for the midday periods. Later, Lorn will return and take his rotation among the instructors.
The overcaptain urges the chestnut mare forward. As the six lancers ride through the gates, headed down to the harbor, beside Lorn rides the sharp-featured and black-haired Tashqyt, the more senior of the two junior squad leaders, and the one Lorn may consider for promotion to senior squad leader if and when he forms a second company at Biehl.
He stiffens in the saddle as the familiar chill of a screeing glass settles around him, and he wonders who might be watching. One of the Magi’i from Cyad-Ciesrt’s father? Or the First Magus? Whoever it may be, he is strong, although the scrutiny is brief and quickly lifts, even before Lorn reaches the bottom of the slope.
A single ship is tied at the outer ocean pier-three-masted, and square-rigged, the largest vessel Lorn has seen at Biehl in the season he has been there. The plaque on the stern reads, Lorava of Tyrhavven, and a Sligan ensign hangs limply in the warm air.
“I don’t think I’ve seen a Sligan vessel here before,” Lorn says.
“Once they ported more often,” suggests Tashqyt.
“Before the previous senior enumerator?”
“He was here when I was leaving childhood.”
Lorn reins up the chestnut at the foot of the pier, then ties his mount to a timber supporting a railing. He waits as the five other lancers form up. Then, with Tashqyt beside him, and the four other lancers following, Lorn walks out the pier to the gangway of the Sligan vessel, and up the plank.
A bearded man with a single faded blue braid on a sleeveless tunic steps forward. Lorn’s eyes are like chaos-fire, and the third officer backs away.
“…don’t mess with them…”
“…white devils…”
Lorn ignores the murmurs.
Just beyond the quarterdeck, two older lancers from the original company stand behind Senior Enumerator Neabyl as he is returning the bills of lading apparently presented earlier by the vessel’s master. Beside the lancers stands the junior enumerator, Comyr. The master-holding a leather wallet-looks up abruptly.
Neabyl turns, then frowns. “Overcaptain.”
“Captain.” Lorn bows slightly to the ship’s master, then to Neabyl. “Senior Enumerator. It has been awhile since I have seen a Sligan vessel here, and I thought I might pay my respects.” He offers a polite smile. “I’m Overcaptain Lorn, the commander of the port detachment and garrison here in Biehl.”
“Pleased to see you, ser,” offers the Lorava’s master. “It has been a time since we ported here.”
“I hope we will see you more often in the seasons ahead.” Lorn’s smile is warmer than his first. His eyes go to Neabyl. “Have you assessed the tariffs yet?”
“Ah…yes, ser.”
“Are all the tariffs being collected as required?”
“Yes, ser.”
“And only as required?” Lorn asks, watching and using his chaos-senses to truth-read the enumerator.
“Yes, ser. That is the job of an enumerator.” Neabyl’s eyes are chill.
Lorn smiles, a smile he means. “Good. Very good.” He looks back at the captain. “Do you have any problems with the tariff collection?”
“Outside of paying ’em? No, can’t say I do…these days, Majer.”
Lorn looks at Neabyl. “I think the master sees an improvement here. Perhaps he’ll tell others.” He looks at the captain. “After you finish with the enumerator, I would like a word with you.” Lorn adds quickly, “There are no problems, and no extra tariffs.”
“I’ll be here, ser.” The captain’s voice is wary.
Lorn steps back and down the plank, followed by Tashqyt. The lancers wait.
Neabyl walks down shortly, accompanied by Comyr. His carriage is stiff, and his face cold. The two lancers detailed to him follow.
“Senior Enumerator?” Lorn steps forward and speaks before Neabyl can speak or walk by him.
“Yes.”
“I trust you understand that my presence is not a reflection upon my lack of trust in you, but a necessity created by your predecessor.”
Neabyl remains stone-faced.
“I also regret that I did not inform you in advance, but I did not know that this ship was porting until you had already boarded, and, in my capacity as port commander, I could not let the opportunity pass.” He adds in a much lower voice, “And I have reported well of you to the Majer-Commander, for your efforts to improve the tariff collections here.”
“I would that you had been able to tell me such earlier.” Neabyl’s voice is fractionally less cool.
“Were I more familiar with trade,” Lorn continues, “I would create less awkwardness. I do appreciate your willingness to work with me to return Biehl to the port it was and should be again.”
Neabyl’s face relaxes a touch more. “I stand willing to do such.”
“Thank you.” Lorn pauses. “I am going to talk to the master about such matters as shipments of iron and weapons, and to see if he knows of such. The barbarians are raising larger forces.”
Neabyl nods. “That…I can understand.”
Lorn bows. “I will be meeting many ships, until we have convinced the traders that all has returned to what it should be, and I would ask your forbearance and your understanding that my presence is necessary not because of your conduct and actions.”
“You have made that clear, Overcaptain.” Neabyl pauses. “It is not an easy situation for either of us.”
“No. I wish my actions were not necessary. I truly do.”
Neabyl nods. “We should talk later.”
“Thank you.” Lorn bows.
So does Neabyl.
Once the enumerator has left the pier, Lorn turns to the junior squad leader. “Tashqyt…I shouldn’t be too long, but I’d appreciate it if you and the men would wait here.”
“Yes, ser.”
As Lorn walks back up the gangway, he can hear the murmurs.
“…never…heard an overcaptain take on an enumerator…”