L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

Lorn slows the gelding until the first squad has eased toward him, closing the gap that had widened back to about seventy-five cubits, before he lets his mount resume a slightly faster walk southward and toward the creatures that await them.

The strange sense of melancholy passes over him, but he pushes it aside, his eyes and senses centered on the danger ahead.

The canopy branches rustle, then tremble, but no leopards appear. Lorn slows the gelding, knowing that the attack will and must come, that it will follow patterns that the Accursed Forest has set.

“Stand by to discharge lances! Short bursts!”

That command is barely repeated before the two packs of leopards emerge and accelerate toward the lancers.

“Discharge at will!”

Hhsst! Hssst! Hssst!

Firelance bursts flare across the packs. Lorn wheels the gelding to the right, charging just behind the first squad, moving to anticipate the pair of lagging leopards who will sprint northwest to escape the lancers.

Focusing his firelance on the leading black cat of the two that trail, he discharges the entire lance before the cat staggers and tumbles. The trailing cat, cut off by Lorn’s charge, abruptly shifts and springs straight toward the captain.

Lorn takes down the last leopard with the Brystan blade-or actually-the chaos-fire he extends beyond the cupridium tip of the curved blade. At the angle he has used, he doubts that his lancers have seen what he has done, and even if they have, few if any will understand or remember that the sabre seemed impossibly long for one short moment, but Lorn has no intention of allowing the cat close enough to harm him or his mount.

Breathing heavily, Lorn reins up the gelding. He still holds the depleted firelance and the Brystan sabre. Once he is certain both fleeing leopards are dead, he switches firelances, and turns the gelding back toward the point where, as he has ordered earlier, the two squads have drawn up facing and flanking the crushed canopy of the fallen tree.

The two squad leaders ride from their squads and toward Lorn, reining up perhaps fifteen cubits away from their captain.

“First squad reports, no creatures escaped, ser,” reports Shynt.

“Second squad reports, no creatures escaped, ser,” states Kusyl.

“Good.” Lorn nods. “I’ll have the message for the Mirror Engineers in a moment.” His eyes burn, and his head throbs from his use of order and chaos. As he continues to look at the two squad leaders, his vision blurs, and for a time, there are two images of the two men.

He blinks, and the images merge, but the headache remains. Also, he is aware that his uniform is far damper than those of his squad leaders and lancers, and even the muscles in his thighs are close to cramping. Still, he turns in the saddle and says easily, “Kusyl, Shynt, have the squads stand by with lances ready, but if there’s no movement for a while, then you can set up the sentries for the afternoon and evening.”

“Yes, ser,” reply both squad leaders in near-unison.

Lorn slowly replaces the sabre and the firelance, and then pulls out the message blank for the Engineers. Even at one tree-fall every three patrols, it will be a long winter.

LORN REINS UP under the green barrel and just beyond the narrow porch that leads into Dustyn’s establishment. As he dismounts, the lancer captain glances upward at the heavy gray clouds, hoping that his business with the factor will not take too long and that he can ride back to the compound before the downpour that threatens actually begins. He ties the gelding to the bronze ring of the hitching post outside Dustyn’s narrow porch, then climbs the steps and enters the narrow foyer.

He reaches to pick up the bell when the thin face of the factor appears.

“Morning, Captain,” offers Dustyn. “Must be a stand-down day for Second Company, seeing as you’d be here so early in the day.”

“It is one of those few days,” Lorn admits.

“You’d be wanting some of the Alafraan, I’d wager, not waiting for your messenger fellow to bring it.”

“I could do with a bottle or two,” Lorn admits, “but that’s not the reason I came.”

Dustyn opens the door and gestures for Lorn to follow him along the corridor and into a side study even smaller than the one assigned to Lorn at the northpoint compound. Besides the small high desk there are but two stools. The inner wall is stacked with foot chests, three abreast and two high. The gray curtains on the single window are dusty. Lorn ignores the cobwebs as he takes the proffered stool.

“And what can this poor factor in spirits and other liquids be doing for a mighty captain of lancers, might I ask?” Dustyn grins at his own words.

“Well might you ask,” Lorn returns, grinning as well, “for you are a well-respected factor, and one who can accomplish tasks that none would know or suspect, saving that they be accomplished, and none beside you could have done the same.”

Dustyn guffaws, shaking his head. “Aye, and you should a’ been a factor with such words, or stayed in the family trade, if’n that were their lineage.”

Lorn looks at Dustyn, continuing to grin. “Well … you are a factor, one who can arrange many things.”

“So it is said, but what is said is often more than I can do.” Dustyn chortles loudly. “And I tell folk that I can do anything!”

“Do your talents go so far as to arranging for a consorting, one to be recorded here in Jakaafra?”

Dustyn frowns. “One of the parties, the man to be sure, would have to live, say … in some proximity and be known by someone … if one of your lancers … you and I could … you know, such is frowned upon ….”

“But not forbidden,” Lorn points out. “All who have left their families’ households or established their own have the right to a consort of their choice.”

“Aye, and like as it is not always easy for such … should the households from which they come differ more than a fingertip in … shall we say, the style of their lace and their privacy screens?”

Lorn nods. “But I would have this arranged. You-or those respected in Jakaafra-know the man, and some even know of the woman.”

“Why would … I should not ask.”

“Let us just say that both the man and the woman wish this consorting, and both are old enough and established in their doings that consent is not required.”

“Consent is always required of woman of altage or elthage,” Dustyn suggests carefully, “and even of women who are merchanters, unless they hold the house.”

“Consent is not required,” Lorn emphasizes, with a grin, “although discretion may be advisable.”

Dustyn frowns.

“No ill will come to you,” Lorn says. “Has not your trading prospered from my suggestions?”

“Mightily, Captain, else I’d not be listening.” Dustyn’s face is expressionless, except for his eyes, which contain a hint of amusement. “Now … you want this to be a real consorting?”

“A very real one.”

“And am I to know the names of the parties?”

“Not until that day, or as close to it as possible.” Lorn smiles. “You understand merchanting, for you are an excellent factor, and you could call this consorting a matter of trade. It is, in a way, as you will see when the season is right.”

At the terms “a matter of trade,” the factor’s brow furrows slightly. “Now, Captain, I’d been thinking this might be a lancer officer consorting with a lovely lady from, some might take it, understand, a senior commander’s household or even a Magi’i hold or a high family … a love match, you might say.”

Lorn smiles. “It is a love match, Dustyn … and I promise that you will not be disappointed in either the match or the trade that benefits you which will come from it.”