L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

“Ser?” asks the squad leader.

“To the lands of the olive-grower and lawbreaker Baryat, on the road that leads south of the harbor and into the low hills west of Biehl.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn urges the mare forward and leads the column out through the gates and downhill. He scans the harbor as the mixed company rides southward, but the piers remain yet empty of any trading vessels, even of the more local coasting schooners.

“A lawbreaker?” asks Tashqyt, after the company has ridden nearly a kay west of the harbor, as though he has been mulling over what Lorn said for some time.

“Yes.” Lorn moistens his lips. “Although it has been seldom required in recent years, whoever commands the Mirror Lancer garrison is responsible for enforcing the Emperor’s Code. I have some reason to believe that Baryat has broken several laws.” He smiles. “But we will talk to him and see.”

Tashqyt glances back at the full company. “He has a large family, but…they are most law-abiding.”

“I’d prefer that his family see the wisdom of not continuing the practices of the sire.” Lorn’s tone of voice is dry. “I also think they should understand that the force of His Mightiness stands behind the trade rules of the Emperor’s Code.”

“Ah…yes, ser.” Tashqyt is silent as they near the hill on which the grower’s dwelling is set.

The slopes of the low hills are covered with trees-olive trees with the light-green of new leaves and the off-green of the winter leaves that have returned to their summer hues. Two stone posts mark the entrance to the villa and the houses along the crest of the hill above. A lane winds up the hill from the gate in sweeping turns.

Lorn turns to Tashqyt. “When we reach the villa, have the men remain mounted, with their lances and sabres ready.”

“Firelances at the ready,” Tashqyt announces.

A young man standing outside the front privacy screen of the villa stares at the company of lancers as they pass the last of the olive trees.

Lorn reins up the chestnut short of the youth and the green ceramic privacy screen. “I am Overcaptain Lorn, commander of the Mirror Lancers in Biehl and the Emperor’s justicer of this district. I seek the grower Baryat. He is here. Tell him I seek him.”

The youth gulps.

“Have him come forth.”

“Yes, ser.” After a second swallow, the youth turns and scurries, not into the house, but downhill to the south.

“Stand by to discharge firelances,” Lorn orders quietly.

“Ready to discharge!” Tashqyt orders.

The lancers wait. Lorn remains mounted, studying the trees and the front of the villa.

A half-dozen men appear from the orchard area, led by the youth. Behind them, remaining at the edge of the olive trees, are several figures in gray, including a taller figure wearing a black vest. He remains behind the others, near the first of the olive trees. A broad-shouldered man, gray-haired and gray-bearded, muscular, and a half-head taller than Lorn, steps past the youth.

“My…my…an entire company to see an olive-grower. I am so flattered, Undercaptain.” Baryat bows deeply, mockingly. He holds a long pruning knife, almost as long as a shortsword, whose edge glistens, as if newly sharpened.

Lorn dismounts. “As I told the young fellow, I am Overcaptain Lorn, commander of the Mirror Lancer garrison at Biehl, and justicer of the Emperor.”

“For one carrying out justice, you bring many lancers.”

“Justice is best served when it can be enforced,” Lorn replies, watching the pruning knife.

“You’d not face me alone, Overcaptain. You’re nothing without those lancers and that uniform.”

Lorn steps forward until he is standing on the packed clay of the lane, less than three cubits from Baryat. He looks squarely at the grower. “I would be more than happy to face you alone, Baryat. You would die. You know that. But you are a cheat and a coward. You bribed the former enumerator with both golds and your daughter, and blame me for their failings and yours. I am not interested in being filled with shafts from hidden archers.” Lorn stops, and his smile is cold.

Baryat sneers. “Words, Overcaptain.”

“I am not interested in the past. I am also not interested in being assassinated in the dark. So I am here. Now…what do you choose? To keep lying and making plans to kill me when I am unaware? To fight me and die? Or to pay your tariffs fairly and forget the past?”

“I will…forget the past,” Baryat says slowly, as if the words are choked from him. His fingers clench, one into a fist, the other tightening on the long knife.

Lorn looks at the grower levelly. “You lie.” He glances at the tall man in the black vest who is slipping back toward the olive trees. “Tashqyt! Bring in those men in gray, especially the tall one. He’s an archer, and there’s probably a longbow nearby.” Lorn draws the Brystan sabre.

Baryat pales, and his hands shake. In rage, Lorn suspects.

One of the archers runs, but the tallest does not. Instead, he walks forward, accompanied by another slighter figure, also in gray. That the lead archer does not run is another indication to Lorn that the man is a mercenary of sorts. Instead, the tall man walks toward the Overcaptain and the lancers, and bows, then looks at the Overcaptain and his extended sabre. “Your wish, ser?”

“I assume you have a bow concealed in the grove there?”

“It is behind the second tree. It is a good bow, and if you must kill me, at least ensure that my son or some archer who will appreciate it will receive it.” The archer’s gray eyes mirror both humor and concern.

“Are there any other archers around here?” Lorn asks. “Besides the three of you?”

“None of which I know, ser,” answers the man.

“Or others paid to do so?”

“Again, none of which I know.” The archer shrugs.

Lorn nods. “How much were you paid to kill me?”

“Ten golds, ser.”

“And were you paid to kill anyone else?”

“The senior enumerator in Biehl-the new one.”

“How much?”

“Five golds.”

Lorn smiles ruefully. “I am most flattered to be considered worth ten golds.”

“He lies!” Baryat exclaims. “He lies to save his own soul.”

Lorn’s eyes are like ice as he regards the grower. “No. He tells the truth in hopes of saving his life.”

Lorn glances to the side as Tashqyt guides his mount toward Lorn, the third archer smiling sheepishly as he walks toward the overcaptain. His eyes return to Baryat. “Three archers?”

“You are no justicer. You kill in the dark.”

Lorn wonders how to respond, for, truly, Baryat is correct on one level. Lorn has killed in the dark. “Tell me, Baryat, how much Flutak reduced your tariffs for the use of your daughter. Two silvers a barrel?”

“Talk not to me of my daughter.” Baryat snorts.

“Why not? You loved her so much you sold her to an enumerator for lower tariffs. Did you not?” Scorn fills Lorn’s voice.

“I sold my daughter to no one,” snaps Baryat, after a long silence.

The sense of untruth is so great that Lorn can see even Tashqyt offer a minute headshake.

“And I suppose you didn’t accept lower tariffs, either?”

“If you had proof, you wouldn’t be asking.” Baryat offers a sneer.

“I’m not asking,” Lorn replies quietly. “I’m telling you.” The overcaptain looks from Baryat to the three younger men-the grower’s sons, if his visions in the screeing glass have been accurate. “You are his sons. You can understand that the Mirror Lancers have a problem. If I kill him, you will find every possible excuse to avoid tariffs, and to have me killed or removed. If I don’t, he will either kill me, or I’ll kill him later.”