Magi'i of Cyador (48 page)

Lorn does need to borrow some cord to fasten the straw-padded sack with the brandy and wine and the two baskets to the gelding, and he ties them securely behind his saddle.

With a nod and a wave, he turns the gelding back toward the compound. Concentrating on all that must be done, his thoughts flicking from one problem to another, the return ride seems far shorter.

Once he is back in his quarters, with the three bottles of wine-one of Fhynyco and two of Alafraan-and the brandy sitting on his small desk, he opens the brandy and pours a finger width of it into his mug.

Then he sniffs it, slowly. The aroma barely holds the scent of melon, and there is a deeper and warmer flavor there. He takes a sip, and cannot help but smile. If Ryalor House can arrange matters quietly, there will be more golds from the brandy. If...

Then... all of life holds its ifs.

Lorn bends down and opens the first basket. On top is a set of smallclothes, and then a lightweight summer shimmercloth Lancer tunic. Under that is a second set of smallclothes. Within the second set is a folded and sealed paper. He smiles and sets aside the clothing for the words written in Ryalth's bold script.

My dearest captain,

As promised, here are some goods that may be of value in the seasons ahead.

Much gossip came of the death of Shevelt. I believe that occurred after you departed. The Dyjani Clan offered its respects to the new heir, in golds. They also presented an exquisite Hamorian tapestry. At the moment, all is calm.

Ryalor House suffered some loss when the Redwind Courser foundered in a storm in the Gulf, but not so much as many, and recouped some of that in other trades....

Lorn nods. While he had hoped the ship would last for a few voyages, he had warned Ryalth, and she had acted accordingly. He would like to wait to respond to Ryalth, to take time to answer properly, but time he does not have, not when he will ride out on the morrow for another patrol out and back, another eightday before he can send a scroll in a manner he knows will reach its destination with far less chance of being read than sending it through the lancer courier system.

Still... he had the forethought to make arrangements with Dustyn- the forethought, and the luck, he reminds himself.

Below the garments, and wrapped in heavy oiled leather are several other packages-some cheeses, dried fruits, and nuts. The second basket holds a package of fine linen paper, three bottles of ink, and a cupridium-tipped pen that has clearly come from a craftsman. Concealed in the middle of the paper are ten golds. Also at the bottom of the second basket are more dried fruits and nuts.

Lorn smiles at the clear reminder that he is expected to write, and at the suggestion that the golds are to be used to ensure such missives arrive.

Once he has emptied the baskets and stored their goods, Lorn lights the lamp in the bracket above the desk, seats himself, and begins to write, using the new pen and ink.

My dearest lady trader,

Thank you for the Alafraan and the Fhynyco... and for all the manner of fine goods you have sent. You are truly amazing.... I have made arrangements, through Dustyn the factor, to send you a small case of a gold melon brandy. Dustyn recommended it, and I have tried one bottle. It has a good and mellow taste, strong as it is, and I've never seen it before. Perhaps it might prove useful and profitable as an item to sell to the Austrans or Hamorians....

I also suggest you look into the timber gleaned from the Accursed Forest. It's carried down the Great Canal and sold to coastal traders and Hamorians... wouldn't be surprised if it made good shipbuilding timber, but couldn't tell you why. The Brystans might be interested....

Lorn pauses, holding the pen, wishing he could offer her more insight, for it seems that is all he can offer in these days. Finally, he adds a few more lines and closes it.

From your faithful partner, one most appreciative of the clothing, the sustenance, and the wines and the spirit in which they were all conveyed.

He lays that scroll aside for the ink to dry while he begins the second, also overdue, to his family, but that will go through the lancer courier system, where it will doubtless be read, and will say little that is not expected.

It was a long trip to Jakaafra, and it has taken some time to become familiar with all that it necessary here. My immediate senior officer, Majer Maran, is most friendly, and reminds me of my old school-mate Dettaur....

Only Jerial will understand the full meaning of that.... and his mother....

...patrols here different from those in Isahl... we ride three days, have a day of stand-down, then ride three more- unless there is a problem.... Jakaafra is the smallest of the compounds around the Forest.... I have met some Mirror Engineers and am developing great respect for their work....

After he adds more pleasantries, and allows the second scroll to dry, Lorn seals both scrolls and sets them on the corner of the desk, for dispatch, in their differing ways, in the morning.

Then, he stands and stretches, before moving to the wardrobe, and slipping the chaos glass out and setting it upon his desk. He frowns. He has only felt one magus screeing him since he came to Jakaafra. Does the Forest inhibit such? Or does no one care about his actions in distant eastern Cyador?

Laying the glass on the golden-aged white oak, Lorn concentrates on the silvered glass, trying to call up the image of Ryalth. The mists appear, and swirl for what seems an inordinately long time, but they do clear and present an image.

A red-haired woman walks along Second Harbor Way in the fading light of early evening. Abruptly, her step hesitates and she turns. For a moment, Lorn looks full into the face in the glass, then lets the image go. He does not wish to disturb her-not too much.

His forehead is beaded with sweat from that short effort, and he can tell he will need practice, much more practice.

What of Maran? He shakes his head.

Then he smiles and concentrates on recalling Dustyn the factor.

When the mists clear, Lorn finds himself blushing, for Dustyn is within a bedchamber, and not alone. He quickly allows that image to fade.

Does the Forest inhibit a chaos glass?

He concentrates on the last tree trunk that had fallen across the ward-wall, trying to recall the location near the midpoint chaos tower and even the shape of the trunk that remained after the engine captain had fired the crown.

The mists take far, far longer to clear, and Lorn can feel the heat pouring from his brow, but he continues to seek the image.

Finally, he is rewarded with an image. Four wagons flank a trunk that appears half what it had been. A score of men labor with shimmering long saws. Lorn tries to shift the image to see beyond the wall, but nothing appears except a black-silver curtain. He tries again.

His head feels light, and tiny stars flash before his eyes. He sits on the edge of his narrow bed until the flashing and dizziness subside. Then he stands and replaces the glass in the wardrobe.

He needs to find something to eat. He reclaims the opened brandy bottle and steps out into the corridor, turning and locking his door. Then he starts for the dining area, where he knows he can find bread and cheese, at least. Perhaps Juist has returned and will like some of the brandy.

Lorn shrugs, smiling. The day has not gone that badly, and he does not have to think of the morrow's patrol. Not yet.

LXXIX

The spring-like breeze gusts past Lorn as the lancer captain rides along the perimeter road just north of white granite structure that holds the northwest midpoint chaos tower-the tower that Lorn is convinced has not operated perhaps in several years. The gelding's hoofs barely tap on the smooth granite of the road, and the faint chirping of insects in the fields to his left occasionally lifts above the sighing of the wind in the meadow grass that is already knee-high there.

With the breeze, Lorn feels cooler, and the perspiration he has blotted from his forehead does not return, not until the breeze dies down. To his right, the second squad continues riding forward in their line abreast formation, looking for signs of any Forest incursions, but in the three patrols since the last fallen tree, there have been no shoots or any additional fallen trees.

Behind Lorn's saddle is fastened a second sabre in a battered sheath. All the men know it is there, and none remark upon it, not after seeing that their captain had lost his first sabre battling a stun lizard. Yet that is not why Lorn carries it. He can sense the dark order within the cupridium forged-exterior of the blade, and he knows that, in some instances, it will have greater effect against the order-backed attacks and creatures of the Accursed Forest, for it has become all too clear that the Forest employs linked order and chaos, and that such is far more effective than either order or chaos alone. Where and how-of the exact circumstances-he is less certain.

He readjusts his garrison cap.

"Going to be a hot summer, ser," Kusyl says, raising his voice to cross the stretch of road that separates the two men. "All the signs point to it, every one. Vytly says the grapes are coming in early, and not a late frost to nip 'em, either. Melons, too, and even the redberries are fruiting early."

"I hope it's not as hot as the Grass Hills," Lorn answers with a laugh. "I could do without that."

"No, ser. Nothing that hot. Maybe feels hotter here, though, 'cause the air's damper, you know." Kusyl gestures to his left, toward the silent bulk of the Accursed Forest. "Always rains more around the Forest. Be why folk live here, even worrying 'bout the creatures." The junior squad leader pauses, then asks, "Heard any more about the big cats?"

"Every so often, I get a scroll complaining that a bullock or a sheep's been killed. I try to explain."

"They should be out here, looking at one of them trunks after it falls. Give 'em a real different look at things. Wager none of them be pensioned lancers."

A murmur rises from the lancer fifty cubits to Kusyl's left, one that Lorn barely hears, and Kusyl does not. "...such a man as a pensioned lancer... not Paradise likely!"

"I'm sure they're not," Lorn answers across the ten cubits between them. "I doubt a pensioned lancer would stay too close to the ward-wall."

Kusyl laughs. "Not me. Be going back to Kynstaar, I am, when that day comes. Open a tavern there, and take golds from lancer officers."

Lorn smiles.

Ahead is the place where the last tree had fallen, but, as Majer Weylt had told him eightdays before, there is no sign that a Forest tree had ever toppled across the ward-wall. The wind has filled in the depressions in the deadland with loose salty soil and carried away the sawdust. Poorer peasants have crept out into the deadland at dawn and at twilight and carried off the remaining branches for firewood. And the wind and the insects have removed the leaves. To the south, Lorn can discern no noticeable gap in the huge trunks that comprise a second wall behind the ward-wall itself.

It is almost as though no tree had ever fallen across the ward-wall.

Except... Lorn recalls that there are dead lancers, strange animals roaming the northern lands of Cyad, and farm animals killed and dragged off into the dark. And he knows that other trees will fall, as falls the rain, as blows the wind.

LXXX

In the bright light supplied by the wall lamps and their polished cupridium reflectors that are unnecessary for those within the chamber, First Magus Chyenfel moves deliberately, almost cautiously, to the armchair beside the desk in the austere study on the uppermost level of the tower that crowns the Quarter of the Magi'i. It is a tower in name only, for it rises but five levels, far less imposing than the Palace of Light-except to the Senior Lectors of the Magi'i and those who know what transpires within the Quarter. Silently, Chyenfel'elth seats himself, then waits for the Second Magus to take the chair before the desk.

"Ser?" asks Kharl'elth. "You do not summon often in the evening."

"When I am tired, and less on guard? You are right. I do not." A smile appears and vanishes. "I wish to know why you discourage Captain-Commander Luss from voicing his support of the sleep-ward project to the Majer-Commander, and why you have likewise discouraged the Emperor's Merchanter Advisor."

Kharl smiles warmly, his green eyes dancing. "I have said not one word against this effort. Not one word against it to anyone, ser."

Chyenfel offers a dramatic sigh. "That is the same as discouraging it, and we both know it. I have held my counsel, believing that we had time, and that in the fullness of that time, the need would become obvious without having to raise one's voice or the power of the Magi'i."

"That was wise, ser, for the replenishment towers here in the Quarter may fail soon, if one by one, and the barbarian attacks are increasing, requiring more firelances, and more charges for those lances." Kharl's words are bland. "As you know, I fear the barbarians more than the Accursed Forest."

"Failing to deal with the Accursed Forest may be wise for a season or so, perchance, even a year, but not longer." The sungold eyes of the First Magus lock upon the green eyes of the Second Magus, which carry but a shade of the sungold sheen. "Yet you know as do I that the ward-wall on the northeast side of the Accursed Forest is barely holding, and that we have lost yet another chaos-tower there."

"I have read the reports from the Mirror Engineers that have suggested such." Kharl shrugs offhandedly. "We both understand the dangers. Yet we do not wish to incur the Emperor's displeasure-or that of the Majer-Commander of Lancers-by limiting further the chaos charges we supply to the Mirror Lancers. Or by reducing the number of firewagons that travel the Highways of Cyador. We have already limited the use of tow-wagons on the Great Canal."

The First Magus waits.

"That is why we... intimated that Captain Lorn-or should I say, Lorn'elth?-be assigned such patrols on the northeast ward-wall border." Kharl brushes back a stray reddish hair, almost absently, yet affectedly. "He is likely to be... more effective."

Chyenfel'elth's mouth smiles, but his sungold eyes are politely intent, never leaving the Second Magus. "That was indeed wise, Kharl, if not precisely for the reasons you discussed with Captain-Commander Luss."