L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

Neabyl shrugs. “I would not presume…”

“Are you not in charge here when Master Flutak is not?” Lorn asks.

“Ah, yes, Overcaptain.”

“And do not the accounts for the payroll list what should be paid?”

“I do not have those…” Neabyl’s voice is apologetic.

Lorn smiles. “I understand. I thought this might present a problem.” He extends the first sheet of paper, drawing it from his jacket. “Here is our account for payroll and our draw for expenses for the eightday. I checked these against the original authorization for the garrison, the one signed by the Majer-Commander, and by the head of the Emperor’s Enumerators in Cyad.”

Neabyl studies the paper. “I would not know.”

“I do. And the Majer-Commander would be most unhappy if his lancers were not paid. You do not have a record. So, if you will note, I will sign the paper so that all will know that you carried out your duty.” Lorn pauses. “And you will sign an identical one saying that you disbursed these golds, and only these golds, to me as the payroll authorized on this date. In that fashion, when Master Flutak returns, he will have records, and there will be no question as to what funds were disbursed.”

“Ah…”

“And you can use this as the basis for future accounts in the event that Master Flutak and your records cannot be found.”

“That is true…” muses Neabyl. After a moment, he nods. “Yes, that indeed might prove beneficial to all, and I must say, I do like the idea of exchanging account statements for disbursals. It might remove any future…unpleasantnesses.”

Lorn smiles. “One cannot undo the past, and change what has been, but one can change what will be.”

“You have a persuasive way with words-and accounts, Overcaptain.”

“Perhaps.” Lorn continues to smile, adding, almost casually, “And…Neabyl…if by any chance there might be some shortages in the accounts, and if by chance Enumerator Flutak indeed does not return, it might be wise to report such…with the steps you have taken, such as this, to ensure they do not recur.”

Neabyl’s face blanks. After a long moment, a forced smile returns. “Your advice is not only persuasive, ser, but most wise, and should such eventualities be such, you can be assured that I will follow your words to the letter.”

Lorn nods.

Neabyl returns the nod. “I will see that Comyr brings up a chest, and then we will count it, and sign your papers. I am sure none will fault our caution.”

“None will fault it, I am sure,” Lorn agrees.

As Neabyl leaves the large room, Helkyt glances at Lorn. “Ser…you talk as if Flutak will not return.”

“That is because Master Neabyl acts as if he will not. Otherwise, there would have been no difficulty. Neabyl would be happy doing as Flutak has always done. That he would not, suggests that Flutak may have departed, not to return.” Lorn adds in a lower voice, “Perhaps because all is not as well with the accounts as should be.”

Helkyt swallows.

“As I told Senior Enumerator Neabyl, we cannot change what was-only what will be. And that we will do.” Lorn continues to smile faintly as they wait for Neabyl to return. He knows he runs the risk of allowing Neabyl to seize golds and blame the shortage on Flutak, but there is nothing he can do about that, not without revealing more than he dares.

Nor can he ever reveal how he killed an innocent because he acted quickly against the guilty and the corrupt.

Lorn yawns as he leaves the kitchen in his quarters, after washing the dinner dishes. When he had been a mere lancer officer, under the command of others, he did not have to worry about dishes, but he had little space to himself, either. He yawns again as he walks toward the study. The day, and the previous night, have been long indeed, especially with the nightmare of the grower’s daughter, whose face resembles Myryan’s. Yet there is more that he must do…much more.

Even so, his thoughts drift back to Flutak…and the young woman. The woman was…is another matter, as his nightmares testify.

So far as Flutak was concerned, his mind is clear. While he may not have proof that would convince a justicer, he knows the depth of the enumerator’s corruption. Neabyl’s reaction was almost confirmation in itself. Lorn knows that, had he not acted against Flutak quickly, then any later action would be laid to his doorstep. One factor which removes him partly from suspicion is the unwillingness of most to believe a new officer would act so quickly and decisively…or that he would have the means so soon after arriving. Lorn takes a deep breath. For better and worse, he has acted, and cannot undo those actions. Nor has he yet discovered how better he might have acted.

Once in the study, he closes the inner shutters and slips the chaos-glass from the single drawer of the desk. After he sets it on the polished wood, he begins to concentrate, first on the name and image of Baryat, the olive-grower whose daughter Lorn has killed. The silver mists fill the glass, and then clear.

Baryat-gray-bearded and muscular-sits at a long table, flanked by three younger men, who appear to be his sons. The bearded man thumbs the edge of a knife, then speaks. While Lorn cannot hear the words, he can see the vehemence behind them. One of the sons brings a fist down on the table.

Lorn watches for but a short while, before letting the image lapse. Even so, his eyes are watering, and his head aches. For a time, he sits before the glass, his eyes closed, pondering. How much is the grower’s vehemence based on the loss of his daughter, and how much upon fear of discovery of corruption? Will Lorn ever know?

As he tries to rest before he uses the glass once more, Lorn’s thoughts skitter from Baryat to traders, to those in the Mirror Lancers like Maran who would see him dead and vanished.

Finally, he straightens, knowing that he must practice more, and become more adept at using the glass to see lands where he has not been, and to become able to translate those views into maps-and the other way around. He takes a deep breath, and concentrates once more upon the glass before him and upon controlling the silver mists.

The late spring afternoon is more like summer, damp and hot, as Lorn mounts in the courtyard of the Mirror Lancer compound. He studies the compound courtyard and buildings, quietly pleased that the leaves and dirt are gone, the stones are clean, the moss gone, even from between the pavement stones of the courtyard, and that the ancient windows now shine. Inside, more than a score of new recruits are housed in the north wing of the refurbished barracks.

A halfscore of recruits spar with padded blades in the open space to the west of the administration building, with Helkyt overseeing the training for the midday periods. Later, Lorn will return and take his rotation among the instructors.

The overcaptain urges the chestnut mare forward. As the six lancers ride through the gates, headed down to the harbor, beside Lorn rides the sharp-featured and black-haired Tashqyt, the more senior of the two junior squad leaders, and the one Lorn may consider for promotion to senior squad leader if and when he forms a second company at Biehl.

He stiffens in the saddle as the familiar chill of a screeing glass settles around him, and he wonders who might be watching. One of the Magi’i from Cyad-Ciesrt’s father? Or the First Magus? Whoever it may be, he is strong, although the scrutiny is brief and quickly lifts, even before Lorn reaches the bottom of the slope.

A single ship is tied at the outer ocean pier-three-masted, and square-rigged, the largest vessel Lorn has seen at Biehl in the season he has been there. The plaque on the stern reads, Lorava of Tyrhavven , and a Sligan ensign hangs limply in the warm air.