Lorn looks up at the lancers. “If you’d let him ride the gelding back…?”
“Be a pleasure, ser.”
“Ser?” asks the undercaptain.
“I’m leaving. Rather than walk, you can ride my mount back to the compound. That’s where you going, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ser. That is, I’m going there on the way to Inividra.”
“You’re in luck,” Lorn says. “Second Company is leaving this morning with Captain Esfayl. He and Commander Ikynd will be very happy to see you.” He looks to the lancers. “Best you be getting the undercaptain to the compound. I’ll be fine.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn takes his bags and crosses the pavement to the portico and the waiting firewagon. He nods as he passes the undercaptain. “Have a good trip.”
“Yes, ser. Thank you, ser.”
“You’re welcome.”
Lorn steps onto the sunstone platform, catching the undercaptain’s words to the lancers.
“…was that?”
“Sub-Majer Lorn.”
“The Sub-Majer Lorn?”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn manages not to wince as he crosses the raised portico and turns toward the front compartment of the firewagon.
The driver glances at the insignia on Lorn’s collar. “Sub-Majer…ser…you wouldn’t be the one…?”
“ ‘The one’?” Lorn asks.
“The one who put the barbarians in their place, I mean, ser?”
“I’m Sub-Majer Lorn,” he admits. “The Butcher of Nhais, the Butcher of Jerans, I suppose, too.”
“Much obliged to you, ser,” the driver says. “Shoulda been done years ago. Used to be at Isahl years ago, when Majer Brevyl first got there. Sub-majer, he was then. Not bad, he was, but we just rode out and chased ’em away. Never hit ’em where it woulda done some good.” The driver smiles. “Long past time, you ask me.”
“I thought so,” Lorn replies. “Not all officers agreed.”
“They’re not…?”
“No. I did get a sort of a commendation, and a transfer to work for the Majer-Commander.”
“Good thing, ser. Way folks were talkin’, the drivers, we were fearin’ they’d lock you away for doing what oughta been done generations back.” The driver grins. “Sorry, ser. Just the way we feel.” He pauses. “You need anything, ser, you let us know.”
“I will…and thank you.”
As Lorn places his gear under the seat, he can feel how much lighter it is-by at least three uniforms-than when he had left Cyad more than a year before. It is difficult to believe that it is only a little more than a year and a season since he had left.
Yet everything has changed. He has a son, and no parents. He has become the first Mirror Lancer officer in generations to undertake a campaign outside Cyador, even if it had been a relatively short campaign, and he has slain two senior officers on this tour, even if but one can be confirmed, and made both enemies and admirers throughout the Mirror Lancers-and, apparently, throughout at least some of Cyador.
He slips into the front compartment and unfastens the Brystan sabre, setting it against the outside wall of the coach before seating himself on the far left side, in the seat facing forward.
“Last call for outbound passengers! Last call!” comes the voice of one of the drivers.
A portly figure in purple scrambles into the front compartment. “Hurry…hurry…act like Mirror Lancers, order folks around…” The white-bearded man sees Lorn’s uniform as he looks up, and swallows. “Begging your pardon, ser.” His eyes catch sight of the sub-majer’s insignia, and he swallows again. “I truly do, ser.”
Lorn smiles politely. “I’m sure you meant no offense, and I took none.”
“Thank you, ser. Thank you.”
Lorn wants to sigh. At least, once he gets away from Assyadt, he will be just another sub-majer, and not the sub-majer.
LXXX
In the dark-paneled office that is scarcely more than ten cubits by ten, Vyanat looks up from the antique ebony Hamorian desk at the sandy-haired man who steps into the room and slides into the equally antique ebon armchair.
“You requested I visit you, Vyanat,” Tasjan says pleasantly. “I could have refused, but I did not see the value in that. So I am here. What do you wish?”
“You are continuing to purchase blades from the cupritors in Summerdock,” Vyanat observes.
“I am. Every blade has remained in Cyador, I am sure you will be pleased to know.”
“For now.”
“For quite some time, I believe,” Tasjan says, his tone almost indolent. “Or aboard my vessels. I am training a somewhat larger number of guards for all vessels under the Dyjani ensign. With the decline in the number of fireships, and their voyages, this is but prudent, do you not think?”
“Were it any merchanter but you, Tasjan, I would have little difficulty believing that there would be a need for an additional fivescore guards. But you…and Sasyk…already, you have that many under arms, and that is in addition to the arms for the seamen on your vessels.” Vyanat’mer smiles, coldly.
“What can I say?” Tasjan laughs. “The warships being built by the Mirror Lancers will not be completed for yet several seasons, if then, and they look less than sufficient to protect our ships and cargoes. We of the Dyjani must look to our own interests in these days.”
“Yes, you must. That is why I hoped you would come.”
Tasjan’s eyes narrow. “You are being devious. What happened to the honest and straightforward Merchanter Advisor?”
“He occasionally has to use a devious phrase to get your attention.” The dark-haired merchanter’s smile is off-center. He waits, letting the silence fill the small study, before he finally speaks again. “Tasjan…do you want Rynst to bring the Mirror Lancers into Cyad and hint the harbor red with blood?”
“And leave the north unprotected? He won’t do that.”
“He can do exactly that. Don’t you listen? Don’t you read? Did you read that battle report from that sub-majer?”
“He razes Jera and kills a few score barbarians. It’s about time. The Hamorians will think twice about trading so close to Cyador.”
“He destroyed every town of any size close to the Grass Hills, and he slaughtered most of the barbarians. And he also brought back some six thousand golds, all too many of them coined in Cyador. For the next season or two, perhaps longer, there won’t be that many raids. There won’t be any, I’d wager, for a year.”
“And that will free Rynst to bring in more lancers and provide the coins to pay them-without raising our tariffs.” Tasjan smiles. “Who will command them? There’s not a decent field commander in Cyad. They’ve all been sitting at desks so long most couldn’t find the release on a firelance-if there are even any left in working order in a season. There haven’t been that many good field commanders anyway. Not in years-except perhaps for this fellow, and they’ll get him killed one way or another. Quickly, I’d wager.”
Vyanat nods. “I thought you might find it interesting that Sub-Majer Lorn is being ordered to Cyad to work for Rynst directly. Over the Captain-Commander’s objections.”
Tasjan smiles broadly. “That…that…my friend, is worth my honoring your request.” He nods. “Indeed. Indeed, it is.”
“So…now what will you do?” inquires Vyanat.
“What everyone else will do. Wait…and watch.”
LXXXI
Lorn paces back and forth in the small room at the waystation at Chulbyn, an ancient stone-walled room with a polished granite floor without any covering, a single bed, a low table, and a row of golden-oak pegs set shoulder-high in the stone for garments. There is one oil lamp in a bronze sconce, from which a low light suffuses the cramped space.
Lorn reaches out and slides closed the oak beam that is the bar for the door, then opens one of the two bags he has carried from Inividra. From it, he takes the wooden case that holds the chaos-glass. He places the glass on the low table.
He concentrates, and watches as the silver mists swirl and dissipate to reveal Ryalth and Kerial in the ornate bad he has not ever seen, except through the glass. He notes, for the first time, a smaller bed in the background, but both his consort and his son are sleeping, as they seem to, side by side, and they are safe. Lorn smiles as he releases that image.