“Your new commanding officer is a full majer-Majer Brevyl. I served under him at Isahl, several years ago. He was a good man, and one who rewarded accomplishment, and punished failure.
“I have to leave on the next firewagon, and that will be the day after tomorrow.” After a moment, the sub-majer adds, “I would like you to form up the men, first thing in the morning, so that I can address them.”
“Yes, ser,” Helkyt says.
“I’ll leave the draft training schedule for Majer Brevyl. I think all the other records and reports are current. For now, I’m going over to talk to Neabyl. He and the other enumerators should know.”
The squad leaders nod, and Lorn steps back into his study to claim his garrison cap before heading to the stable. Word travels faster than does Lorn, for Chulhyr has the chestnut saddled and waiting when Lorn reaches the stable.
“Ser…here she be.” Chulhyr’s eyes do not meet the new sub-majer’s as he hands Lorn the reins. “So much…you been doing for the compound and Biehl…almost seems like a shame that you be going, but I’d be guessing others need you more.”
“Thank you, Chulhyr.” Lorn offers a smile. “That’s certainly what the Majer-Commander thinks. Your new commander is Majer Brevyl, and I learned much from him. He can be hard, but he is fair.”
“ ‘Fair’…good words from you, ser.”
Lorn nods again and leads the chestnut out into the courtyard. He mounts and rides slowly out through the gates and down the hill to the harbor-and the enumerators’ building.
Neabyl is in, and the two walk back into the large room with the dais, where Lorn sits down on the short side of the long table.
Neabyl takes his own place before a stack of bills of lading and manifests. “A new promotion, I see.”
“Promotion and transfer,” Lorn says. “I’m being sent to command the outpost at Inividra.”
Neabyl laughs ruefully. “You had to be successful. With all the barbarian attacks, it’s not a surprise.” He pauses. “Do you know who your successor is?”
“Majer Brevyl-a good officer. I think the Majer-Commander is going to have to establish more outposts, in places like Nhais, I’d guess. He’s gotten my reports, and he’s likely to be cautious, but it will happen.”
The wiry Neabyl brushes a hand through his fine black hair, smoothing it back off his forehead, then fingers his chin. “You know things, Overcaptain…I mean, Sub-Majer. Others have to discover them.” He smiles. “What do you know that will affect me?”
“I’m not certain.” Lorn frowns. “There will be more Hamorian traders going to Jera, and more ships here. I’d guess there will be more Mirror Lancers and outposts to the east, closer to Jerans and the northern part of the Grass Hills. Some factors and growers may protest to my successor that I was unfair, but that will come to little with the majer.”
“All that I surmise. And what will happen in Cyad that may affect me? Do you know?”
Lorn smiles. “I can but guess. Why do you ask? What do you know that I should know?”
“I do not know for sure, but I received a command to provide copies of all remaining records involving Flutak. This came from the Hand of the Emperor.”
Lorn frowns again. The Hand of the Emperor-the one Imperial functionary never mentioned by name-a shadow figure who issues orders in the name of His Mightiness, and whose power is seldom exercised. Yet…
Lorn shakes his head.
“Exactly,” replies Neabyl. “I have sent those records which remained-those approved and signed by Flutak, especially those involving olives and a few other items.” The dark-haired enumerator pauses. “You know that Flutak was a cousin of Bluoyal’mer, the Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor, did you not?”
“I might have heard that, but that was years ago, and I hadn’t even thought about it. I should have,” Lorn says. “I wonder why the Hand is interested.”
“I do not know, but I do not think I would be in Bluoyal’s boots in this season.”
“Nor I.” Lorn laughs gently. “Would you like to ride up to my quarters so that I could present you with a few bottles of Alafraan?”
“I could not…”
“I have no way to take more than two or three with me,” Lorn points out, “and while I will leave a few for my successor, we have been through much together, and a few bottles are little enough thanks.” He stands.
Neabyl grins. “Put that way, I would not wish to see good wine wasted.”
The two leave the dais room, Lorn for the last time.
XLIII
Lorn sits at the desk in his quarters as twilight begins to fade. Once he has thought out and written down his remarks to the men he will leave, Lorn turns his pen to write the scroll to Ryalth. Write most carefully he must, since he has few doubts it runs the risk of being read somewhere along the way, and since he cannot wait for a trader ship.
My dearest,
You may recall that when I wrote you last, after I returned from dealing with the barbarian invaders of Cyad, I thought that the Mirror Lancers would need to create more outposts near Biehl. It would seem that the Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers also views matters in a similar way, for I have been promoted and, when you receive this, may well be at my new duty station at Inividra, where I am to take command of the outpost…
Matters are such that I am not being granted furlough or home leave at this time, but I have been assured that I will receive home leave as would have applied had I remained at Biehl. Furlough, I fear, is likely to be deferred.
You have offered so much in helping to rebuild Biehl, in so many ways, and while I know that Majer Brevyl will be grateful for what he will receive, I wish that you had been able to travel here and see what good your efforts have brought. I hope you recall when I saw you with Jerial at the evening meal, and will understand my desire to see such again.
Lorn pauses. He feels as though there is more that he needs to say, but his mind wanders, as he considers the implications of the command in his orders to personally lead patrols-and the implication from the Captain-Commander that he take command of a specific company. For what reason? Just until he is overmatched and killed? Or can he find a way to use his orders to strike at the base of the raiders as he had at Nhais, instead of driving them away, raid after raid, as he had at Isahl? He forces his thoughts back to the scroll.
I cannot say how much I miss you, and how I will regret not being there for you and our child…
The words come more slowly as the evening darkens into night, and as his eyes blur for all too many reasons.
Lorn’alt, Inividra Sub-Majer, Mirror Lancers
XLIV
Lorn steps out of the firewagon’s front compartment, glancing back at the six-wheeled and chaos-propelled vehicle. The shimmering canopy that covers the drivers reflects his image, if bulbously. With a wry smile, Lorn passes through the columned portico at Assyadt. While the connecting firewagon from Chulbyn runs but twice an eightday, Lorn was fortunate or unfortunate enough to have had to wait a single day at the changing station. There he had written letters to his parents, Myryan, and another to Ryalth.
Under an intense afternoon sun, a hot fall wind gusts around him as he reclaims his two bags and looks for a carriage or some form of transport to the headquarters compound. There are no carriages, and a single wagon where two men in brown are already loading crates from the firewagon’s freight compartment. Three lancers, one holding the reins to a riderless mount, are waiting on the far side of the firewagon platform.
The junior squad leader glances at Lorn, then at the shimmering insignia on his collar. He looks away, then back again. “Ser? Would you be Sub-Majer Lorn’alt?”
“I am.” Lorn nods.
“Commander Ikynd has requested that we offer you a mount, ser.”