L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“Right,” murmurs someone. “Dark-angel-right …”

“You won’t get Forest duty, Kyl,” Lorn says. “You know trade. They’ll probably assign you to one of the coast patrols to deal with smugglers or something like that.”

“I’ll know in a bit.” The sandy-haired undercaptain inclines his head toward the building door and Majer Styphi. “I wouldn’t mind that.” Kyl smiles. “I wouldn’t mind anything, actually.”

Lorn is not so sure that he would be equally happy with all duties, but since he has no choice over his duty assignment, he sees no point in comparing the potential satisfaction of duty assignments he would be unlikely to get. “I’ll talk to you later, and you can tell me where you’re headed.”

“I will,” promises Kyl.

As Lorn turns, he overhears the comments.

“ … good as he is … not many make it back from the Hills of Endless Grass ….”

“ … anyone who does makes full captain and majer quick though ….”

“ … maybe … but he was magus-born … some don’t like that ….”

Lorn takes in the low words most would not have believed he has heard, then nods to several others as he passes, walking back to the small cubicle that contains his uniforms, his weapons, and his handful of personal items.

The firewagon to the north will not depart until the following morning, assuming it is on schedule, and that will leave him time to write scrolls to his parents, to Myryan … and to Ryalth … before he follows the majer’s advice and talks a last time with the other new undercaptains.

And, as he promised, he will read from Ryalth’s book, though he does not know if he understands the Firstborn any better for all the words he has read in the green-silver covered volume.

As THE LOW orange light of dawn fills the front compartment of the firewagon, Lorn yawns and rubs his eyes. Although he had garnered a short night’s sleep on a hard cot at the highway transfer station located in Ilypsya-a town beside the Great North Highway that Lorn had never heard of-after more than two days of near-continuous travel from Ilypsya, except for short comfort stops, Lorn is tired. The flickering chaos that envelops the vehicle bothers none of the other passengers, it seems, but Lorn finds himself still studying it. Even though he is no longer a student magus, in a strange fashion the flickering almost seems to nag at him, more so than when he had studied chaos.

The six wheels rumble more loudly than those of the lancer firewagon that had brought him to Ilypsya, but that might well have been because the regular coach carries a good fifty-score stone of goods in the hold between the small front compartment and the larger rear compartment, where a good half-score passengers are squeezed together.

A slight snoring comes from the merchanter in blue shimmercloth slumped in the bench facing Lorn. The trader is a young man no more than a handful of years older than Lorn, if that, but who sports a short brush mustache in a clear effort to appear older. Beside the young merchanter is an older man in deep brown-a wealthy miller returning to Syadtar, Lorn has gathered, and on the far left sleeps another mid-aged man also in brown who has spoken but little since Lorn joined the others at Ilypsya. The last man in the front compartment, to Lorn’s left, also sleeping, wears the crimson-trimmed brown of a regional guard, but the silver stars in his collar signify that he is a district commander. As Lorn’s eyes light on him, his head turns, and he emits a grunt.

Ignoring the ripe odor of male bodies confined in too warm a space for too long, Lorn stifles another yawn and shifts his weight on the curved and lightly padded white oak of the seat he has to share only with the district guard commander, at least until the next stop, unless that stop is Syadtar. Each firewagon, Lorn knows, can make but one run to Syadtar and back before the chaos in the cells in the back of the vehicle must be replenished, and the vehicle makes but two round trips every eightday. Were he not a lancer officer, Lorn’s passage-fare would have been at least a gold-and in the crowded rear compartment.

Abruptly, the merchanter sits up and glances out the window. “Getting close to Syadtar, I see.”

Lorn follows the other’s eyes, but the hills to the north look no different to him from the ones he had seen the night before-or not enough different to indicate anything. But he is used to the forests and irregular hills north of Cyad itself-not the scattered farms and the grasslands of the east that are north of the Accursed Forest and the Great Canal that links the fertile lands between the rivers with Fyrad. “Because the farms are closer together?”

The merchanter shakes his head. “The hills. They’re longer here-like they’ve been stretched out. They get shorter and steeper as you go west. Much more rugged, they are.”

Lorn nods.

“You’ll see. Are you going to Isahl or Pemedra?”

“Are those the only two choices?” Lorn counters.

“For a new undercaptain, they are. You’re probably pretty good with a blade and a firelance, I’d wager. No?”

“Better than many,” Lorn admits.

“That’s why you’re there. Glad you are. Wouldn’t travel this route weren’t for the lancers. Barbarians be through Syadtar like grease through a goose.” The merchanter laughs. “Grease through a goose. Faster than coin spent by a pleasure girl.”

The miller sits up. “Begging your pardon, trader, but it be early, and Syadtar is not here yet. Some of us lack the endurance we once had.”

“My apologies,” offers the young merchanter. “My apologies, ser.”

The miller grunts and closes his eyes.

“You’ll see,” murmurs the trader to Lorn, leaning back with a wry look at the miller before closing his own eyes.

Lorn closes his eyes for a time, but he can no longer sleep to the rumbling of the wheels, and his eyes stray back to the window.

The first sign that the firewagon is approaching Syadtar is the appearance of scattered farmhouses-similar in their green tile roofs, green ceramic privacy screens before the front doors, and the green shutters open but ready to be closed against night or weather. Yet each is subtly different, with a lighter or darker shade of cream or off-white plaster on its walls and with different types of bushes and trees planted to create privacy areas behind the dwellings where the girls and the women may appear without being revealed to passers-by.

Then comes something Lorn has not seen before in Cyador-a white sunstone city wall-one nearly ten cubits high. There are no guards, but the firewagon passes through the open heavy oak gates and well-kept ramparts and twin guard towers.

Past the gates are the wide white-granite streets of thesmall city, with the scattered green and white awnings, although those are furled in the early light of day, except for one, which signifies a coffee house. Lorn frowns momentarily.

“You’re right,” says the merchanter, stretching. “Won’t be many coffee houses afore long, not with the blight.”

“Blight?” Lorn asks involuntarily.

“Order blight-blacks spots on the underside of the leaves, then, poof! No more coffee plants.”

“Magi’i will find something to stop it, or the healers,” rumbles the district guard commander, slowly straightening on his part of the bench he shares with Lorn.

The firewagon is slowing, and Lorn’s eyes go back to the buildings they pass. Syadtar is a miniature of Cyad, at least in that the buildings are all of white sunstone, but smaller than those of the great City of Eternal Light-and there are far fewer of more than one level. The light is more intense, even early, perhaps because there are no trees within Syadtar. Lorn sees none, at least.