L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“That’s fine.”

“A copper for each uniform, you know.”

Lorn nods. “There is just one.”

She bobs her head and takes the uniform. “Tomorrow night.”

“Thank you.” Even before he finishes his words, the washerwoman has set his whites on a table by the tub and is back at work with the wooden paddle. He steps outside, into a gentle, but unseasonably warm breeze for winter in Syadtar-that is what he feels. He checks the white garrison cap, although the breeze is scarcely strong enough to worry about.

There is time before dinner. So he walks around the compound, studying more carefully what Nytral had shown him earlier. Under grayish-green tiled roofs, the buildings are of clean-lined granite and sunstone, the granite for the main walls, and the sunstone for the minimal trim and arches. Both types of stone have been bleached out by time and the residual impact of the chaos-chisel cutting used to shape the stone blocks. With the late afternoon sun glinting on the windows of Thiataphi’s headquarters, Lorn can see that some of the window panes are clearer than others, by the reflection of both light and the chaos within the sunlight. The window casements are all of stained and weathered white oak, but barely visible, since all the shutters in the compound are inside the windows.

The outpost building, although old, has been added to the compound later.

Lorn smiles as Chorin hurries out the door and scurries toward Thiataphi’s headquarters.

“ … two, three …”

At the sound of cadence-calling, Lorn turns to watch a line of men in white marching along the west wall of the compound, just outside the shade.

“ … have to march before you ride … two, three … keep the chaos on your side … two, three …” calls a burly squad leader, breaking the cadence to add, “You’re not tough, and the barbarians will eat you like honeycakes … pick it up in the rear!”

Hoofs clatter on the stones, and a Mirror Lancer in white, wearing the red sash of a messenger, rides up to the hitching post outside Thiataphi’s headquarters, dismounts, hurriedly ties his mount, and rushes inside carrying a white leather dispatch pouch.

As Chorin eases out through the stone archway, the Lancer clerk’s head turns as if he is trying to hear what the messenger might be saying or what he brought.

Lorn smiles, watching.

When Chorin sees Lorn, he begins to walk quickly backto the outpost building, without looking back at the junior officer.

At the sound of the fifth bell of afternoon, Lorn turns back toward the quarters building. By the time he reaches the dining area, a small hall with a table long enough for a score and a half, and folds his garrison cap and tucks it in his belt, there are already a number of officers gathering within the sunstone finished room. The fireplace behind the head of the table is dark, and the walls are bare, except for a series of miniature mirror shields on the north wall, each with a design color-etched into the polished cupridium. The cupridium catches the indirect early evening light coming through the windows on the south wall, enough so that light plays across the shields.

From the rank insignia he can see, he is the only undercaptain, with six captains, two overcaptains, one sub-majer, and one majer standing at places around the table, and with the gray-haired Commander Thiataphi himself at the head of the table.

As the other officers seat themselves, Lorn watches, then moves so that he is at the very foot of the table on the left side.

Each place has a brown platter and a heavy glass wine goblet-glass, not crystal nor metal. The servers are lancers, but each wears a green overtunic. On the serving platter first presented to the commander are slices of beef, covered with a brown sauce. The second platter is heaped with yellow noodles, and four large baskets of dark bread are set at intervals along the table. Then comes a deeper dish filled with something green.

Lorn waits and takes as much as he dares of the beef, noodles, bread, and ackar, a bitter leafy vegetable he had seen far too much of as a boy. The server fills his goblet with a maroon wine.

Commander Thiataphi lifts his goblet, and the other officers begin to eat. Lorn follows their example, listening to their conversation as he does.

“White mounts handle the sun better … chaos-colored, you know, and the white reflects better ….”

“ … darker coats shield them better …”

“ … so why do the chestnuts breathe harder and lather earlier?”

“ … got you there, Helkar …”

“ … doesn’t matter now … not in winter …”

Lorn takes a bite of the overcooked beef, following it with a mouthful of equally overcooked noodles. The wine, while a plain red, is far better than either the beef or the noodles, but Lorn eats everything on the chipped brown platter before him, then waits for the senior officers to finish and take any second helpings.

“ … scouts say the Jeranyi are gathering the eastern tribes, the ones north of the cupric mines.”

“Some of them have started carrying polished iron shields-work almost as well as a mirror shield against the fire lances … with those iron-headed arrows …”

“Their bows aren’t that good, not from the saddle.”

“Yet …”

“Ought to go in and take the iron mines …”

“You want to get ferric poisoning … be my guest, Helkar. Besides, none of the barbarians work metal that well.”

“You don’t get it from the ore … only after it’s smelted and turned into weapons … Rather take out the mines than risk getting ferric poisoning and order death.”

Lorn keeps a polite smile on his face when he isn’t eating, taking in the attitudes of the lancers, partly amazed at some of the misconceptions that seem common, even among officers.

The serving dishes, after being refilled by the lancer servers, make their way down to Lorn, who takes additional slices of beef and a pile of the gravied noodles. He has eaten two mouthfuls of his seconds, then stops to break off a chunk of the moist brown bread.

“Undercaptain? Lorn’alt, is it not?” calls Commander Thiataphi.

Lorn swallows quickly. “Yes, ser.”

“You’re from Cyad, are you not?”

“Yes, ser.”

“How do you find the north?” asks the commander.

“Warmer than I would have thought in winter, ser.” Lorn offers a polite smile.

“That’s why the barbarians want our lands. One reason, anyway. On the other side of the Grass Hills, there’s snow. Or there was last eightday, according to the report from Sub-Majer Brevyl. Don’t forget to draw a winter jacket, and winter boots.”

“No, ser. I won’t.” Lorn hasn’t thought about either, and hopes his face does not show his ignorance.

“You from a lancer family?”

“No, ser.” Lorn decides against volunteering his background.

“That’s right,” Thiataphi says with a guffaw. “You’re one of the magus-born who’s good with a blade.” He shakes his head. “Do some of the Magi’i good to get out on the borderlands, see what the barbarians are doing.”

Not knowing how to respond to that, Lorn nods politely.

“You’ll see. Sub-Majer Brevyl will ensure you do. Just like he did with all the others here. Except me, and I made sure he saw just what they were.” The darkness in the commander’s words is scarcely concealed.

Lorn manages to finish the second helping on his chipped platter just before the servers clear the platters, and replace them with smaller plates, each bearing a rolled and fried paelunka that has been dipped in condensed sweetsap. He continues to listen as the conversation drifts away from him.

“ … all that snow to the north … grass’ll be green early, and that means more raids.”