L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn turns and trudges up the steps, ignoring the squad leaders who step away from him as he walks into the lower foyer and starts up the staircase that seems all too long.

“Ser?” Tygyl looks at Lorn as the majer reaches the topmost level and takes several deep breaths.

Lorn looks down. His uniform is stained everywhere with blood and other, less-sightly remnants of the battle. “We won. If you consider the loss of a company, the slaughter of nearly thirtyscore greensuits, and the total destruction of two good merchant vessels a victory.” He takes a deep breath. “Is the acting Majer-Commander here?”

“Yes, ser. He’s pretty weak, but he said he’d see you when you returned.” Tygyl offers a tight smile. “He said you would.”

Lorn nods slightly and turns toward the fifth-floor study that had been Rynst’s. He opens the door and steps inside.

“You can close it, Majer.” Sypcal sits in one of the armchairs in front of the desk. His feet are propped on a stool. He still wears a commander’s insignia, and the uniform collar is not tight. “You will pardon me if I do not stand.”

“I doubt you should, ser.” Lorn stops five paces back from the senior officer, and bows. “For now, we hold Cyad, and Sasyk is dead. So are almost all of his armsmen.”

Sypcal takes a long look at Lorn. “When I heard the first reports and how many armsmen Sasyk had gathered…I wasn’t sure even you could break them.”

“We almost didn’t. According to a rough count, they had thirtyscore under arms with mirror shield men, archers, and pikes.”

Sypcal smiles. “Vyanat’mer has already been here. He said that all the merchanters would accept whoever the Emperor’s testament named as heir.” Sypcal’s laugh is weak, but his eyes are bright. “He said that, thanks to the Mirror Lancers and Ryalor House, there were no dissidents left. The Traders’ Council will pick the heir to Dyjani Clan. Sasyk murdered all those next in line.”

Ryalor House? Lorn will discover that later, he fears. He decides against raising that question on a day that has raised all too many. “What about the Magi’i?”

Sypcal shakes his head once. “We have heard nothing. I doubt we will anytime soon. Possibly not until the heir is officially announced.”

“Is there any word on who that might be?”

“None. It may be that the heir named by Toziel is already dead.”

Lorn winces. “Then what?”

“Then…Then, matters will become more interesting.” Sypcal coughs before speaking, and Lorn can sense the weakness in the man. “I suggest, Majer, that a half-squad of your lancers…no…I am ordering a full-squad to guard your dwelling. Go to it, and rest. We may need you and your skills again.” There is another smile. “I doubt it will be again today, and probably not tomorrow. After that…who knows?”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn bows.

“And Majer…the Mirror Lancers owe you more than they can ever repay. I tell you this because I cannot afford to have all of what you did made known. But we pay our debts. Now…get some rest.”

“Yes, ser.” Lorn turns and walks slowly from the study of the Majer-Commander.

Hoping that Sypcal can hold himself and Mirror Lancer Court together, Lorn slowly makes his way down the stairs. Several of the senior rankers make their way to the balcony railings and watch. Lorn can hear the murmurs.

“…see why…Rynst brought him here…”

“…talking to the lancers came with him…said he broke a shield wall himself…killed nearly twoscore himself, giving orders and directions the whole time…none of ’em ever saw anything like it…”

“…don’t take on the Butcher…”

“…Butcher…maybe…but none more honest…”

Lorn winces but keeps descending the white stone stairs, feeling that every eye around the open foyers is upon him.

Is that what it takes to keep Cyador from falling into anarchy? Lorn asks himself. The ability to butcher mercilessly? He laughs once, harshly. Who is he to judge, with the blood on his hands and spirit?

He mounts slowly for the ride back to the barracks…for he still has much to do before he can rest.

The sun dips below the dwellings and the hills in the west as he rides slowly back down to the harbor. Behind him, the four lancers are silent.

Outlined in the green-maroon sky of dusk, Lorn steps down from the veranda door and into the foyer. Ryalth hurries through the archway from the sitting room, then stops, relief flooding her face.

“Thank chaos…you’re all right,” Lorn says.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she says almost at the same moment. “You’re…you’re not wounded…are you?” Ryalth looks at him, at the blood on his uniform and the tiredness in his eyes.

“Not in body.” He sees the blackness in her eyes. “I heard that there are no dissidents among the merchanters, thanks to Ryalor House. Kernys and Denys?”

She nods slowly.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks.

“I’m fine. What I did was easy.”

Again…her words are not fully true, yet he can sense the concern behind what she says…and the tiredness. “I’m not sure about that. That was why you were worried last night.”

“And about you.”

“I’m fine. Mostly,” he adds.

“You can barely stand or see, and your head is splitting.”

“How do you know?” he asks.

“I can sense that, remember?”

“Kernys and Denys?” he asks again.

“I had them over to Ryalor House, on the promise to ask for your support. Brinn and tyacl in wine. It takes about a half-day, and it is tasteless.” She takes a deep breath. “They had promised another fivescore armsmen to support Sasyk and the Dyjani Clan.” She pauses. “You look exhausted. At least come into the sitting room and sit down.”

“Where dare I sit?” Lorn glances down at his uniform. “Kerial? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. Ayleha is feeding him mashed pearapples in the kitchen.” Her lips curl into a semblance of a smile, if but momentarily. “He does take after you in that.”

“Let me get out of this uniform. I want it burned.”

She but nods once more as he walks heavily toward the stairs, and up to the bedchamber, and then into the washroom, where he begins to peel off the stained and bloody tunic. “Sasyk murdered all the heirs to Dyjani House, Sypcal told me. I assume that means Husdryt and Torvyl.”

“Yes.” She frowns. “Sypcal? Why Sypcal?”

Lorn sits on the washstool and pulls off his boots, one at a time. His hands come away dull red. His once-white boots are mottled pink and dull red. He sighs. “Someone killed Rynst. I think. He vanished last night. It’s likely it was Luss and Lhary, but if they were the ones, I won’t know.” Lorn looks down. Even his undertunic is splotched with blood in several places. He pulls it off, and his trousers as well, and begins to wash.

“You won’t know?”

“I told the lancers that Lhary killed Luss, and tried to set me up as the killer. They believed me, maybe because I insisted that Sypcal be acting Majer-Commander. He’s capable and honest. That was even before the piers or the street battles.”

“I think you’d better tell me more,” the redhead says.

As he washes, Lorn recounts the day, ending with his meeting with Sypcal: “…then I checked with Cheryk at the barracks and rode home. Oh…as Sypcal said, we are guarded by a squad of lancers tonight.” He looks down. The basin water is pinkish. “A squad will stop any armed men left in Cyad. Nothing might stop the Magi’i, but I don’t see why they would come after me.”

She shakes her head. “Half the merchanter heirs gone, one way or another, most of the high command of the Mirror Lancers gone, the First Magus dead, the Second Magus attacked, and the Emperor dead. It’s stupid.”