L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“I don’t know that there’s that much more to say, ser. Majer Maran told me to use standard patrol tactics, and he said that I needed to contain the wild creatures without wasting chaos charges. He said that you expected I follow standard procedures. I told him what I just told you, and he said that sometimes junior officers needed to understand that not all accepted procedures were written out. He made that very clear. I told him I’d give up the extra firelance … if that would help.”

“And?”

“He got very polite, ser. He said that I was not quite hopeless and that I had better act like every other captain, and that he would be watching me closely. Except that he said all of that much more politely and indirectly, and very pleasantly.” Lorn shrugs. “I could not begin to repeat the way he said things.”

A faint smile crosses Hybyl’s lips.

“And what did you do after your ride?” asks Meylyd.

“I came back here. He said he needed a moment, and that he’d be back in a bit. I kept looking for him, but he didn’t come back. I’d thought at first he’d decided to ride to Westend, but when his lancers came back and said he hadn’t, we all went looking. We found his mount some three kays from where I left him, but we didn’t find him. We didn’t find any boot tracks either. You know that, I think, from the report I sent.”

“I think we’ll talk to your men, if you don’t mind, Captain. I’d appreciate your remaining here in your study.” Meylyd rises. “Then, I’ll be back to talk to you.”

Lorn stands. “Yes, ser. They’ll tell you everything they know.”

“I’m most certain that they will.” Meylyd smiles coldly.

Hybyl does not smile at all as the two leave.

After a long moment, Lorn shrugs and sits down. While it may make no difference, he returns to drafting the last patrol report.

He has long since finished it, and trusting that his analysis of the commander’s position is correct, grateful that, if his decision of how to deal with Maran was wrong, at least, the results will not directly affect Ryalth. As he is looking out his open window at the clouds that have gotten ever darker as the morning has turned into afternoon, he turns at the sound of voices and is standing behind his desk when Meylyd and Hybyl step back into the study.

Hybyl closes the door.

Meylyd motions for Lorn to sit down, then takes the larger chair and seats himself.

Both officers from Geliendra glance at the closed door.

“Everything appears as you have said, captain,” Meylyd begins. “And all the men are telling the truth. That presents a puzzle. Majer Maran was most capable. So, clearly, are you. Yet the majer had no reason to disappear, and you were the last to see him.”

Lorn waits.

“Do you have anything to say about this?”

“Nothing I haven’t said, ser. I know the majer intended todo something as far as I was concerned, but he didn’t tell me. And he never returned to the compound.”

“His lancers found his mount.”

“Yes, ser. I was with them. So was squad leader Shynt.”

Meylyd glances at the overcaptain. “If you would go, Hybyl, and make sure the outer study is empty, and stays that way.”

“Yes, ser.”

Meylyd studies Lorn as he waits for the two doors to close. His mouth smiles before he speaks, but his eyes are cold. “We have a difficult situation. On the one hand, there is a lancer captain who is holding the most difficult stretch of the ward-wall. He tends to, shall we say, use lancer techniques in a somewhat different manner. But his results are good, and all the local … eminences … are pleased. On the other hand, we have a distinguished lancer majer who is most concerned about the ward-wall and the captain. The two meet; the captain returns; the majer rides off and is never seen again. There is no evidence of anything. Even the horse tracks show that. Yes, I checked with the lancers on that. The two men rode together; they sat mounted and talked. One of them dismounted and walked and then remounted, and they rode southwest for a time and then they parted. And the majer vanished from his mount. Was he plucked from it by something from the Accursed Forest?” Meylyd shrugs.

Lorn remains silent, waiting.

“I asked for guidance from the Majer-Commander. I was told that it was best that I not act unless there were facts to support me. So … I guess there’s nothing more to be said, Captain.” Meylyd pauses. “It’s clear that the majer had something in mind. A pity that he didn’t tell me … or you. Whatever happened, it’s also clear that no one will ever know. Perhaps it’s better that way.” Meylyd looks out the study window for a long moment, as if considering whether he should say more, before turning back to Lorn. “I do expect you to follow the guidelines he laid out, to the very letter. Overcaptain Hybyl will be taking the majer’s place. He’ll be promoted to sub-majer shortly, and you’ll send your reportsto him. I cannot stress how accurate I expect those reports to be.”

“Yes, ser.”

“And, Captain, Majer Maran was very capable. I hope you understand that.”

“Yes, ser.”

“I intend to hold you to those standards.” Meylyd rises. “And, to ensure that there are no more deviations from lancer tactics, your replacements will arrive within the next few days. They are on their way from Westend.”

“Yes, ser. I understand, ser.”

Meylyd nods coldly. “Good day, Captain.” After a last cold stare, he turns and walks out, leaving both doors open.

Lorn wonders if the Majer-Commander of lancers really had been consulted, and if so, why?

Still, for the moment, there will be replacement lancers, even if every one has been ordered to report anything strange that Lorn does.

Lorn takes a deep breath.

Outside, a warm drizzle has begun to fall.

OUTSIDE THE JAKAAFRA compound’s stable, Lorn slowly dismounts from the gelding, noting again the long scratch along his mount’s shoulder, a scratch he has helped heal with minute amounts of the black order, as he had been taught so many years before by Myryan and Jerial. While in the lancers, of necessity, he has held his healing efforts to those which take little effort and which are little remarked.

His own uniform has rips in the trousers at boot level and more than a few splatters of blood from the latest attacks by giant cats and night leopards. He now has but one uniform left that is not soiled beyond repair and cleaning with blood or other gore-and that is only because it is the one that arrived from Ryalth with the latest shipment of wine. In hisnext scroll, he will have to ask if she can have another tailored and sent, although he dislikes asking for such, when she has given and risked so much for him already.

Lorn glances back across the courtyard, then shakes his head. He has already seen to the collection of the firelances and their storage in the armory, not that they pose much danger in their discharged state.

“Ser?” asks Suforis as Lorn leads the gelding into the stable. “You have another hard patrol?”

“Yes.” Lorn does not elaborate on the two latest lancers Second Company has lost, or upon the cold scrutiny that falls over his every move from many of the replacement lancers.

“Sorry to hear that, Captain.”

“Some patrols are like that.” Lorn unfastens his gear, and the spare sabre, easing the saddle bags onto his shoulder.

“Yes, ser.”

“That’s my problem, not yours. How is Lesyna?”

“She be fine, ser.” Suforis smiles.

“Good.” Lorn nods and, in the early twilight, walks from the stable toward the quarter’s building. The courtyard is almost empty, the lancers already in the meal hall, he suspects.