Gyraet nods. “I would.”
“Might be interesting,” suggests Cheryk.
“That’s a rebellion,” ventures Esfayl.
Rhalyt glances from Esfayl to Gyraet.
“You don’t have to come, none of you,” Lorn says, “but I’ll put orders in writing that I ordered you all to come. That might work better anyway.”
“If I’m ordered,” Esfayl suggests, with a wry smile, “what can I do?”
“We’ll leave in the morning…oh…there are fivescore firelances in the armory. That’s all the commander could spare for the summer.”
Esfayl glances at Cheryk. “I don’t know as I need orders, then. Patrolling under the old system with that few charges is suicide anyway.”
“Like I said,” Cheryk observes, “going to Assyadt might be interesting.”
“I need to deal with a few other problems, rather immediately,” Lorn says. “I’ll check with all of you before dinner.”
“Yes, ser,” says Gyraet. “We’ll make sure the men are ready.”
“Thank you.”
Lorn bows his head, briefly, then turns and walks back out and across the courtyard and back into the square tower.
Nesmyl leans forward as if to inquire.
“I told them.” Lorn smiles. “I need to talk to Sub-Majer Uflet. Matters may change somewhat. So…if you would stand by?”
“Ah…yes, ser.” Nesmyl’s eyebrows lift.
Lorn makes sure the door is closed as he steps back into the study. “I’ve talked over matters with my officers, and they understand the situation.”
“Then perhaps we should have Nesmyl draft the change-of-command letter,” suggests Uflet.
Lorn smiles. “It seems, Sub-Majer Uflet, that I’ve been ordered to Assyadt, with my lancers. I would strongly suggest you remain here for their return.”
“That’s rebellion. Major Dettaur would hardly be pleased.” Uflet eases around the side of the table desk with a serpentlike grace. “Then, he would not be surprised, either.”
Gathering chaos around him, Lorn picks up Dettaur’s scroll. “Majer Dettaur decided that before I even returned. I’m sure you’re rather good with a sabre.”
As if to prove the point, Uflet already has his sabre out and is moving toward Lorn before the younger sub-majer has even finished his words.
Hssst! Uflet’s mouth is open, before his upper body flares into chaos-fire, and then ashes. The sabre clunks dully on the stones of the floor.
Lorn looks at the headless corpse lying on the study floor and shakes his head. He wonders how many more there will be.
Then he summons more chaos.
When he is done, his head throbs, and his eyes are watering, but the only traces of the sub-majer are his sabre, some buckles, a small dagger, and a few coins-and dark marks and ashes on the stone floor. Lorn leans the sabre-warm to his touch-in the corner behind the desk, and then pockets the other warm metal items.
He rubs his nose, trying not to sneeze at the fine ashes circulating in the room, before he walks to the windows and opens them. As an afterthought, he uses a touch of chaos to incinerate Dettaur’s scroll.
He lets the fresher air from outside circulate through the room before he goes to the door and opens it.
Nesmyl steps forward. “Ser?”
“We’ll be leaving in the morning for Assyadt. The officers already know.”
“Ah…‘we’?”
“All the lancers and I will be.”
“What happened to the sub-majer?” asks Nesmyl, looking past Lorn to the apparently empty study.
“He decided that he didn’t want to get involved quite yet,” Lorn says. “It’s possible that you won’t see him again. Then, you may. It is highly unlikely that you will see me again, one way or another.”
“I didn’t see him come out.”
Lorn shrugs. “You can imagine that I’m not terribly interested in the sub-majer at this point.”
“No, ser.” Nesmyl tries to conceal an expression of bewilderment. “But Commander Ikynd and Majer Dettaur….”
“Don’t worry, Nesmyl. The lancers and I are going to Assyadt, and I’ll be seeing both the Commander and the Majer. I wouldn’t have it any other way. If Sub-Majer Uflet doesn’t return, a new officer will come back with the lancers to take over Inividra.”
“But the barbarians-”
“I doubt very seriously if enough are left alive to consider riding into Cyador without starving their clans.” Lorn turns. “At the moment, I’m going to clean up and change uniforms. Then I’ll be down to start writing my report, at least until dinner.”
“Very good, ser.” Nesmyl’s eyes stray toward the open study door.
“You won’t find Uflet in there, but you can certainly look,” Lorn says with a lopsided grin.
“Ah, no, ser. That’s all right.”
Lorn walks to the front of the square tower, where he reclaims his saddlebags and extra sabre, and then carries his gear to the narrow rear stairs. As he climbs up to his quarters-his for one last night, he knows he can wash the blood from his uniforms-at least mostly-but he wonders what will wash the blood from his soul.
LXXIII
Lorn looks from the study window of the personal quarters at Inividra out into the purple twilight of a late-spring evening. He still has a trace of a headache, and every so often he has to blot his eyes.
He has finally completed a short version of his report, since there is little point in a longer version, which contains enough-the numbers of barbarians slain, towns sacked, blades seized, some six thousands golds recovered and being returned and, of course, a summary of the blade trade in Jera, and the profits going to Hamorian, Spidlarian, and, unfortunately, Cyadoran traders.
He takes out the chaos-glass and lays it on the desk. Then he pulls out the chair and sits down, concentrating. The silver mists form, then swirl aside into revealing an image-Ryalth is breast-feeding Kerial at a table-the lower inner dining area of Lorn’s parents’ dwelling, and Jerial, wearing a dark green or black tunic, is seated across the table from her.
Both women look up. Jerial says something, and Lorn swallows as he sees the tears roll down Ryalth’s cheeks. Jerial smiles, and Ryalth frees a hand and touches her fingers to her lips, as if to send a kiss across the hundreds of kays that separate them.
Lorn watches for several moments, wishing he could convey more than his presence or existence, before he finally releases the image.
They and Kerial are well, it appears, and at least, at least, they know he is alive.
He stands and walks nearer the open window, looking out and down at the courtyard.
“The Butcher of Nhais…and now the butcher of Jerans…” He shakes his head. Flutak and Baryat would have left Nhais defenseless, and Dettaur would have condemned three times as many lancers to die-and for what?
So that, in the first case, a corrupt enumerator and grower could gather more golds, and in the second, so that all the older lancer officers could rest assured that time-honored traditions did not change, even as the world did? Or so that traders in Summerdock and Swartheld could make more golds off those lancers’ deaths?
Even if the traders and cupritors of Cyad did make golds from selling blades, training more lancers and arming them would raise their tariffs, or shift the cost in golds to someone else’s tariffs. For those in Cyad, it makes no sense. Yet, is he the only one who sees such? Or the only one who is stupid enough to act on what he sees?
“The only one stupid enough…”
He turns from the window. He doubts he will sleep well, for all his self-justifications.
LXXIV
The guards outside the open gates of Assyadt look up as the Sixth Company of Mirror Lancers approaches, followed by a long column of lancers. The younger one’s eyes widen as he sees that the firelances are out and leveled.