L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

But that wonder lasts but for a moment as their lips meet, and another type of marvel replaces the wonder.

As Lorn walks northward from the square in Biehl where the firewagon stops, within two blocks, he reaches the harbor area. To his right are the piers, and to his left-westward-is a short row of structures-their lower levels plastered and whitewashed. Both plaster and whitewash are worn away in places, exposing the old yellow brick beneath. The second stories of those buildings that have upper levels are of weathered planks, whose whitewash has mostly flaked away.

His eyes flick from the faded sign bearing the crossed candles of a chandlery, to a cooper’s shop, and then to another building with no sign. Turning, his gear in hand, Lorn studies the three harbor piers-crude timber structures, weathered and splintered in places, not at all like the white stone piers of Cyad, Fyrad, or Summerdock. The piers jut out into the river that begins somewhere in the western reaches of the Hills of Endless Grass. Two schooners are tied at the middle pier, and an oceangoing brig at the outer one. The innermost, although empty, is more for smaller craft, Lorn suspects, and perhaps for fishing vessels unloading.

Both piers and the small city of Biehl lie on the western side of the River Behla. On the eastern side, there is a smaller town, and but what appears to be a dilapidated single pier, part of its shoreward side rising out of a mudbank or sandbar. From what the firewagon drivers had told him, the Mirror Lancer compound lies north of the piers and farther west on a low bluff overlooking the Northern Ocean, or that stretch of water where the Northern and Great Western Oceans meet.

The odors of dead fish, mud, and salt water mix in the cool breeze blowing off the blue-black water north beyond the harbor. Streaks of white top the short and choppy waves in the harbor.

Since Biehl has no carriage for hire, not that the firewagon drivers knew, Lorn resumes walking, past the outermost pier, and the brig that bears a dark blue ensign-that of Spidlar, he thinks. Ahead the ground rises, and the uneven cobblestones of the road give way to granite paving stones, cracked and no longer set evenly but still more level than the stones of the road that flanks the harbor. The handful of trees yet bear winter-gray leaves, showing that spring comes later in Biehl.

The bluff is little more than a hill less than twenty cubits higher than the water of the harbor, and the Mirror Lancer port compound is small. That Lorn can tell even as he walks toward the gates. The yellow brick walls stand little more than five cubits, and extend less than a eighty cubits on a side away from the gates-oiled golden oak, and open.

A single guard looks warily at the approaching Mirror Lancer officer. Finally, the stripling speaks. “Ser?” His voice squeaks.

“I’m Overcaptain Lorn.” He shows the lancer the seal ring. “I couldn’t find a carriage; so I walked.”

“Ah…ser…there be none for hire here.”

“I suspected such. Which is the headquarters building?”

“On the left, ser, but there be no one there but Squad Leader Helkyt, ser.”

“That’s fine.” As he steps through the gates, Lorn realizes that the young guard doesn’t equate him with an incoming detachment commander.

He studies the two weathered yellow-brick buildings in the middle of the compound, each long and narrow, and what appears to be a stable set against the rear wall. The roofs of all the structures are of a split gray slate, and there are patches of moss growing from between splits in the slate. Some moss also grows in the cracks between the ancient granite paving stones of the courtyard.

An open door beckons from the headquarters building to Lorn’s left, and he walks toward it. There, he steps into the foyer and sets down his gear, then moves through the archway into a corridor. On the right-hand side of the corridor is another door, ajar, and Lorn peers in. The gloomy room is shallow and broad with a dais on which is a table desk with two chairs behind it. The space before the dais is vacant, and the stone tiles of the floor are dusty. Faint cobwebs adorn the closed window shutters.

The overcaptain turns to the door on the other side of the corridor, also ajar. He looks through the span-wide opening. Inside what appears to be a study, a senior squad leader leans back in the weathered oak chair, his boots propped on a footchest of the type that contains Mirror Lancer records. His eyes are closed, and he snores, intermittently. To his right is a closed door, presumably to the commander’s inner study.

Lorn backs away from the doorway, wondering what else he may find. He leaves his gear in the foyer and walks slowly along the side of the building. Leaves have drifted into the corners between the courtyard paving stones and the bricks of the walls, scattered over dirt packed against the cracked and faded yellow bricks.

From the building across from the one containing the port-detachment studies, three lancers emerge. They stop and look at each other. Lorn can hear the murmurs.

“…young officer…”

“…overcaptain’s bars…”

“…some senior commander’s son…think it’s the new commander?”

“…nah…too young…only send old dungblowers here.”

As Lorn turns toward the three, the murmurs die away, and they walk briskly toward the guard at the compound gate. Lorn turns back toward the door leading into the headquarters, but before he goes more than a halfscore of steps, the squad leader who had been snoring scurries from the building toward Lorn, fumbling a soiled green garrison cap into place over thinning gray hair.

“Ser?” The heavyset senior squad leader stops, then bows.

“I’m Overcaptain Lorn. I’m here to take over command of the port detachment. Is there a commanding officer here, or did he leave before I reported?”

“Ah, ser…Overcaptain Madlyr, he died of a flux…almost half a season ago. We’d been wondering when someone would come.”

“I’m here.” Lorn pulls forth the order scroll. “I didn’t get your name, Squad Leader.”

“Helkyt, ser. Helkyt.” He takes the scroll.

Lorn shows the seal ring.

“Ah, yes, ser.” Helkyt pauses. “That your gear in the headquarters foyer, ser?”

“It is. I thought I’d take a look around…while you were resting.”

Helkyt flushes, but continues. “If you’d like, we can go to your quarters, and you can drop your gear there first.”

“That would be fine.”

Lorn steps past the squad leader with the thinning blond hair and the overround, jowled face, and walks into the headquarters foyer, where he reclaims his bags. He nods to Helkyt, who turns and walks northward along the side of the building.

The commander’s quarters are on the second level of the headquarters building at the end away from the entrance Lorn had found first. There is a staircase directly up from the foyer, and the hollowed sunstone steps are dusty. The six-paneled door is of golden oak, and there are separations in the wood around the panels.

With the bronze key Helkyt has produced, Lorn unlocks and opens the door and steps into a small square foyer. The floor is of alternating green and cream diamond-shaped ceramic tiles. Lorn looks to the right. Through the archway is a small room, a study with a built-in bookcase, and a narrow desk. Before the desk is a straight-backed oak chair with a scrolled back-an ancient chair, or an old chair with an ancient design.

On the left is an open door that shows a small bedchamber with a narrow single bed.

Lorn steps ahead into the large main room, which contains two settees, upholstered in a green velvet, two armchairs and a low table, and several armless chairs set against the walks. Two of the chairs flank a sideboard.