Toziel laughs, then shakes his head. “That will matter little unless…What of the sub-majer?” He pauses. “You have more to say. That I can see. I should listen.”
“He had been on port detail in Biehl-watching ships, and talking to their captains and officers, I would gather. Then he conscripted the District Guards…” She smiles.
“He is that overcaptain?” Toziel shakes his head. “I think not so well as I should these days. Did not Rynst send him to Assyadt?”
“He did, after the Majer-Commander discovered that every lancer commander was apprised of the details of what happened at Biehl. He was directed, even as a sub-majer, to command company patrols.”
“I imagine the barbarians will attack in force there.” Toziel’s voice is simultaneously hoarse and wry.
Ryenyel smiles. “We shall see. We have some seasons.” She adds, almost as if it were an afterthought, “Ryalor House has been recognized as a clan house. That was one of Bluoyal’s last acts. It takes all of the uppermost level of the plaza building on the clan side. Do you not find that interesting?”
“Rather. So she is very sharp…and effective, I would judge, somewhat like someone else I know.”
The Empress smiles. “You are kind.”
“No. I know what I know.” Toziel massages his forehead before he speaks. “Do you think he can survive and prosper in-is it Inividra?”
“I would judge so, but he must do so against the opposition of almost all the senior Mirror Lancer officers.”
“If he can manage such over the next year or two, and is not discredited, suggest to Rynst that he would be a good assistant, you think?” Toziel leans back on the white divan and closes his eyes.
“If he can survive, our suggestion may not be necessary,” Ryenyel replies. “As for us, there are no others, save Rustyl and Dettaur, and neither has a consort, although it is likely that Rustyl will take the daughter of the Second Magus for a consort.”
“That will make matters difficult for Chyenfel.” Toziel laughs. “Or perhaps more so for Kharl.”
“I think not. The Second Magus will promise to both his son and to Rustyl, and then do as he pleases with the support of both.”
“They are both of the Magi’i.”
“Chyenfel thinks that times may change.”
“Not that quickly,” the Emperor says.
“One would hope Rustyl will see that, but he is like a shadow cast by a man none can see. As for Ciesrt, he is but a cipher for his sire. Dettaur, on the other hand, is a cipher for no one, but he has courted many ladies, and none will have him. For an esteemed lancer, that is a message one cannot ignore.”
“He seems to be ignoring such a message rather easily,” suggests Toziel.
“For now.” Ryenyel coughs, several times, then finally clears her throat. “Like you, I find the days are getting longer.”
“That is because you support me.”
She waves off the comment, then adds, “Dettaur dislikes this Lorn, and will attempt to place him where he cannot survive.”
“If one of them does not succeed, or Rustyl or Tasjan does, black order will follow us and raze Cyad…within a generation if not sooner. But you cannot give either anything, else he will not be strong enough to hold it.” Toziel sighs. “There have been possible scions…most with magus blood, Dymytri, Eghyr, Volynt…and something happened to each, and now we are not so young as we were or as we appear. And now the Magi’i, and even the merchanters, are seeking to advance their own to force me to acknowledge one.”
“Luss and Kharl arranged for the failure of most of those in the lancers.” Ryenyel shrugs wearily. “Yet how could any hold Cyad if they could not hold themselves against that pair?”
“You did not find this Lorn?”
“No. I would that I could say such, but until Maran disappeared I did not even consider him as a possibility. Nor his consort.”
“Many did not consider you.” Toziel laughs gently, but the laugh dies away. “I wonder if we see such worries as do those who have children.”
“Is there any question, my love? You are the father of Cyador.”
“A father without an heir.” Toziel’s voice is low and tired, and his eyes drift closed.
Ryenyel touches his forehead lightly, gently.
LI
Lorn looks out the commander’s study window at the heavy snow pelting the ancient panes of glass. The stones of the courtyard have turned white, and rime has formed on the inner corners of his windows. Winter has begun to settle in, and his chaos-glass shows little trace of raiders, only a few scouting and foraging parties, small enough that Lorn has reverted to single-company patrols, spacing them as far apart as he dares.
He finally picks up the scroll from Dettaur-the one that arrived with the replacement lancers at the turn of winter an eightday previously-and the one to which he has yet to reply, since he has no intention of sending a courier just for Dettaur.
Your reports have been well-received by the Commander, and, we understand, by the Captain-Commander on behalf of the Majer-Commander. Much credit is due you for your efforts carrying out the policies and strategies implemented by Commander Ikynd…The number of barbarian deaths as compared to Mirror Lancer losses remains acceptable, although the Commander would hope that you could improve those numbers by the time of the spring raids, as by then you will have become more familiar with the procedures and terrain around Inividra…
Good old Dettaur, Lorn reflects, always throwing in a dig and a suggestion of inadequacy. Some things hadn’t changed in more than ten years.
So long as you do not use an excess of patrols requiring two companies, occasional multi-company patrols are acceptable to keep the barbarians off-guard, but the Commander wishes to remind you that continual use of such is an unacceptable gamble with the safety of the herders and people of Cyador….
We also regret to inform you, and all other outpost commanders, that the Magi’i can but supply three firelance recharges for each lancer each season. In compensation, you will receive another company of lancers at Inividra at the turn of spring, before full barbarian raiding activities resume.
Lorn snorts. Another temptation for him to spend himself. If he does not use his abilities to recharge firelances-quietly-more lancers will die. Yet one lancer-magus can recharge comparatively few firelances for five companies, and he cannot afford to exhaust himself in that fashion, not with the amount of chaos-energy he must spend using the chaos-glass. As in everything, the higher he rises, the more demands there are that he has neither time nor energy to fulfill.
After a long slow breath, Lorn looks out at the snow once more. Well before spring he had best decide what he can do, and what he will need to do, for Jera is a port that remains ice-free throughout the winter, and trading vessels continue to tie to the piers there-and to bring in ever greater numbers of higher quality iron blades.
LII
In the late-winter afternoon, Lorn stares into the chaos-glass, painstakingly transferring details of the image he has called up onto the maps on his personal study desk, as he tries to trace the geography of where the Jeranyi raiders travel. After he finishes drawing in a section of river, and the low hills around it, he releases the image, sets the pen in its holder and closes his eyes. He massages his temples for a moment, then leans back, his eyes still closed.
His thoughts do not cease, and he has to wonder, even with his maps, how he can continue to fight against a seemingly endless enemy. How many new strategies will he be able to develop come spring and summer when the barbarians flood southward once again? How can he direct his patrols under such conditions without giving away the secret of his ability to find the barbarians?
His abilities, mighty as they might seem to some, are limited. If he concentrates greatly, he can summon images in a chaos-glass, or charge a firelance or so, or move a door latch from the other side of the door, or throw a handful of firebolts. He cannot do all at once, or even in succession. His abilities can only change the edges of what may be-so far as he can tell.