L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

Lorn laughs. “I’d like a mount that will do as I wish and not argue about it.”

The ostler laughs back. “Yes, ser.”

As Chulhyr is leading out a chestnut mare, Helkyt hurries across the courtyard and arrives, breathing heavily. The ostler looks at Lorn. “She be having a will, but a firm hand be all you need.”

“Thank you.” Lorn studies the mare, then swings himself up into the saddle, where he checks the Brystan sabre. Then he and Helkyt ride across the courtyard.

“Have you found anyone to cart off the rubbish?” Lorn asks as they ride through the compound gates and past another too-young lancer guard.

“I’ll be knowing that this afternoon, ser.”

“And you’ll have names for instructors?”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn nods. “Tell me about the places we pass, if you would.”

“Yes, ser.” Helkyt clears his throat. “There be the warehouse for the olive-growers, where they store the olives while they season, and beyond that be the potters, save that Aluyt casts but the large jars for seed oils and the like….”

Lorn listens as they ride back toward the harbor, trying to fix the names and the structures in his mind, and match them to the map he has studied earlier. As when he had first entered Biehl, he sees few souls out and around the ancient town.

The enumerators’ single-story building stands west of the piers, and slightly to the south of the chandlery, a square structure fifty cubits on a side, partly hidden from the rest of Biehl by a tall hedge. The green shutters are freshly painted, the panes of the windows clean of the salt that streaks the panes of the lancer barracks and, indeed, even of the windows of Lorn’s quarters.

Lorn and Helkyt rein up at the side of the structure, where there are several stone hitching-posts, dismount, and tether their horses, before making their way to the square arched doorway. Inside is a narrow table, at which is seated a brown-haired young man in blue, whose tunic bears thin cream-and-green piping.

“Master Squad Leader,” says the enumerator.

“Comyr,” returns Helkyt, “this be Overcaptain Lorn. He is the new commander of the Mirror Lancers, and he has come to call on the senior enumerators.”

“They had heard of such, and both will be glad to see you, Overcaptain.” Comyr bows. “If you would but come with me.” Comyr ushers them through a set of double doors into a large room, similar to the one in the lancers’ headquarters building, except two men are seated at the table on the dais, with several stacks of paper between them.

The two rise. Both senior enumerators wear the same type of uniform: blue tunics over green trousers, with cream-colored web belts. On the forearms of their sleeves are two gold slashes.

“Senior Enumerators, this is Overcaptain Lorn,” Helkyt announces. “Overcaptain, Flutak…and Neabyl.”

Flutak bows. He is a broad man, almost totally bald, but with a muscular form that any barbarian might indeed admire. Although he is clean-shaven, his eyebrows are white and bushy, and white hairs straggle from his ears. “I am pleased to see that Biehl once more has a capable lancer officer.” His voice is a mellow tenor.

“And I, too.” Although Neabyl is small, black-haired, and wiry, he speaks with a deep baritone.

Lorn bows but slightly in response.

“And what might we be doing for you, Overcaptain?” asks Flutak.

“I was just here to tell you that I have been sent to Biehl by the Majer-Commander to train and rebuild the garrison, and to take a more active role in supporting the Emperor’s Enumerators.” Lorn smiles easily. “I thought it best you know that.”

“Perhaps we should talk for a moment.” Flutak moves gracefully toward the corner of the room and returns with two armless oak chairs. He sets one at each end of the oblong table. All four men seat themselves at the narrow oblong table.

Flutak looks at Lorn, as if suggesting he begin.

“As you may know,” Lorn says slowly, “the barbarians have increased their attacks in many places on the northern borders of Cyad, and more trained lancers are needed to deal with these attacks. It was noted that Biehl has both the space and the facilities to recruit and train young lancers, and that the payroll is adequate to handle such.” Lorn smiles. “So it is that I find myself here.”

Flutak smiles easily, a smile that reminds Lorn of the late Majer Maran. “We have indeed heard of the depredations that the Mirror Lancers have faced in the field against the barbarians, and many had thought that the compound might even be closed, and its lancers sent elsewhere, for certainly lancers are scarce needed in Biehl itself. So I am most glad that is not the case, and so will those merchants who sell to the compound and the lancers.”

“Yet, it is passing strange that more have not arrived with you,” observes Neabyl.

Lorn shrugs. “It is scarcely strange. The Majer-Commander believes this task can be accomplished by an overcaptain. If it cannot, doubtless a majer and an undercaptain will follow. There may be an undercaptain before long, in any event, but it makes little sense for him to arrive until there are tasks for him to undertake.”

The faintest flicker of a shared glance passes between the two senior enumerators.

“I understand that you inspect the cargos being ported here, and collect the imposts on such, and ensure that contraband, such as iron weapons and the like, does not makes its way from vessels trading here. What other duties do you perform that a lancer would be unlikely to have great knowledge of?”

“We provide the payroll for the compound,” says Neabyl with a smile.

“That I understood, and for such we are grateful.” After a moment, Lorn asks, “And I suppose you keep records of the ships that port so that one may compare from season to season and year to year?”

“That we do, and send the tariff revenues to Cyad.”

“And perhaps with a stronger lancer presence, tariff revenues to the Emperor might indeed increase.”

“The enumerators have never needed to rely on the lancers for that,” suggests Flutak.

“Then, you are indeed fortunate here, for that is not so in all ports,” Lorn replies evenly. “In any case, I did wish to inform you of that, and to assure you that, because of my deep and abiding interest in trade, I am indeed willing to support your efforts to carry out your duties to the Emperor and the Land of Light, as may be required by the Emperor and the Majer-Commander…” Lorn pauses, then adds, “and, of course, by you…as necessary.”

“Overcaptain Madlyr had begun to take some interest in tariffs and trade…but he died rather suddenly after taking such an interest,” observes Flutak smoothly.

“That was most unfortunate.” Lorn smiles, his eyes cold. He concentrates on fixing the man’s face in his mind. “But perhaps it will be to everyone’s advantage that the garrison here is restored with the protection of trade in mind.”

“We would all look to the advantages of all,” agrees Flutak.

“I see you do not maintain quarters here,” Lorn observes before either enumerator can follow up on his last words.

“There is little reason to do such. Biehl has heretofore been such a peaceful port, with little need of lancers and guards.”

“Of that I am certain, and certain it will continue as such,” Lorn agrees, “for the lancers are being trained for their abilities against the barbarians, and there certainly are none here.”

“No, indeed, Overcaptain.”

Lorn rises. “I do thank you both, and I look forward to working with you as most necessary.” He bows fractionally.

The enumerators rise more slowly.

“It is good to see you, a young and vigorous overcaptain here in Biehl, and we do hope that our experience will prove of assistance to you, Overcaptain,” replies Flutak. “And that you will see fit to draw upon it.”