L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“Maybe they will, honored ser, but shipments of the beans have dropped to nothing from the fields north of Fyrad, and those from Geliendra are half what they were last year.”

“Don’t be underestimating the Magi’i, trader,” suggests the district guard commander. “Most of those that have are ashes.”

“Ah … yes, your honor.” The merchanter’s mustache bobs as he swallows.

“Bah … not that much honor in being a district guard. The lancers have the honor.” The older man’s eyes twinkle as he winks at Lorn.

Lorn hides a smile, but says, “Without the guard, the lancers would be spread far thinner.”

The merchanter looks from one armsman to the other, bewildered, then looks to the window. “We are here, sers.”

“Good.” The commander winks once more at Lorn.

The firewagon slows under a large covered sunstone portico.

After a moment, one of the green-uniformed drivers opensthe door of the front compartment. “Syadtar, officers, kind sers.”

Lorn glances to the District Commander.

“Go ahead, Undercaptain. Let a stiff commander take his time. You have much farther to go than do I.”

“Thank you, ser.” With that, Lorn reaches under the curved and lightly padded bench seat and pulls out his kit, then steps out into the sunlight, for it is far too early for the tile roof above to shade passengers or the firewagon itself. After slipping the white garrison cap from his belt and donning it, he glances at the firewagon driver, or one of the two, standing beside the open glass cupola. “Do you know which way to the Lancer headquarters?”

“Go one block east, to the Avenue of the Square, then head toward the hills. It’s about a kay north.”

“Thank you.”

Carrying his kit in his left hand, Lorn begins.to walk eastward, feeling a hint of dampness on his forehead where the front of the garrison cap rests.

“Poor bastard …”

Lorn holds in a wince at the pity in the driver’s voice. He thinks he knows what he is facing, but more than a few people seem to think his assignment is a death sentence.

Two youths in faded blue undertunics and trousers careen down the street, then, seeing Lorn, abruptly dash down a side alley. An older man in a brown tunic so faded it is closer to tan leans on a walking stick and shuffles down the other side of the white-paved street, his eyes fixed on the paving stories. The creaking of a cart echoes from somewhere up the alley Lorn passed, but he sees neither cart nor whatever pulls it.

One block east, as the driver had said, is a small square. In the center is a statue, the figure purportedly of Keif’elth’alt, the first Emperor of Light. Lorn doubts that the original emperor had possessed such heroic proportions. On the south side of the square is an inn, its side porch shaded by a green and white awning. The scent of roasted fowl drifts toward Lorn, and he stops, then shakes his head, before turningnorthward. He does take the shaded eastern side of the street.

He passes a coppersmith’s shop, then a cooper’s, but both doors are closed. The door to the chandlery a block later is open. Lorn pauses, then steps inside. After his eyes adjust to the dimness, he moves toward the side counter, trying to keep both his kit and his scabbarded sabre from banging into the table that holds various leather goods. He pauses to study the travel foods on the counter, looking over the differing shapes, all covered in wax.

“Those not be what you’d be wanting, ser, I’d wager,” offers a cheerful voice. A woman stands behind another counter, to Lorn’s left. She points at a tray before her. “Fresh honey-rolls … well … not that fresh … baked late yesterday.”

Lorn takes in her smiling face, and the short-cut but tight-curled black hair and the clear but dark skin. “They look better than the travel fare.”

“For eating now, they are.” With her words, surprisingly, comes the hint of erhenflower scent, a fragrance Lorn would have thought too dear for most in Syadtar.

“How much?”

“A copper each for the small ones. Three coppers for two of the large.”

Three coppers find their way from Lorn’s belt wallet to the woman. “Thank you.” He takes two of the larger honey rolls. Before he is fully aware of it, he is licking the crumbs of the second off his fingers.

She extends a wooden cup of water. “You’ll need this.”

“Thank you.” Lorn forces himself to drink the water more slowly than he had gulped down the honey rolls. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re most welcome. If you would wait a moment …” She slips away from the counter, only to reappear with a bucket and a small towel. “You could use this, ser.”

“Ah … I wouldn’t wish to impose.”

“My brother was a lancer.” Her smile is strained.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.”

Lorn takes the towel and bucket, and washes his face and hands. He has to admit that he feels less grimy, and probably looks a bit more like an officer. “Thank you, lady.” He hands back the bucket and the towel.

“You know, I’ve seen a score of young officers walk by here in the last year or so, and not a one has stopped. Why did you … if I might ask?” She drops her eyes.

“I was hungry.” Lorn grins. “I don’t think well when I’m hungry, and … I stopped.” He pauses. “I don’t mean I stopped because I wasn’t thinking …”

The woman grins back. “You sound like Cailynt.”

Lorn shrugs helplessly.

“I’m glad you stopped,” she says, “but you’d best be on your way.” After the briefest of pauses, she adds, “Cailynt would have made a good officer.”

“He probably would have,” Lorn agrees.

“Calenena? We got a customer? You be ringing me … you hear!”

Lorn puts another pair of coppers on the counter, and says in a low voice, “Take care.” Then he grins warmly, and turns toward the door.

“I took care of it,” Calenena answers.

Lorn steps back into the bright sunlight, blinking as his eyes readjust.

Another block northward, he passes a potter’s shop. The smell of wood burning tells him that a kiln is being fired. His brows knit. Places like potters’ and coppersmiths’ shops aren’t allowed in the main section of Cyad, and some trades, like rendering and tanning, are not allowed anywhere in the city. Yet he sees the potter and has smelled the tannery. Is everything within the wall? Are the barbarians that much of a threat? Or had they been at one time?

He keeps walking, realizing as he does that there are few trees in Syadtar-no cylars or arymids, no straight or feathering conifers, just a few scattered scrub cedars here and there.

The Mirror Lancer enclave is clear enough. The street endsat another white granite wall and an archway with the two lancer guards, each under a projecting roof to shield them from the sun. Lorn shows the seal ring, and steps past them. Once inside the archway and past the open gates that are swung back inside the compound, Lorn glances around, then heads for the largest building.

After walking the hundred cubits from the gates, he slips through the open front archway into the coolness of a stonewalled corridor.

“Ser?” A lancer ranker looks up from behind a table a mere ten cubits inside the corridor. His left sleeve holds two green slashes a span or so above the cuff-showing he is a senior squad leader.

“Yes, squad leader?”

“If you’re reporting for duty, ser, you need to go to the next building.”

“I’m going to Isahl, but I’m supposed to pick up a squad leader, replacement lancers, and mounts.”

“They’ll help you there, ser. This is Commander Thiataphi’s headquarters, ser. The support centers for the outposts are in the next building.”