L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“Ser?”

“Yes?” answers Lorn politely.

“Being as you’re new, the sub-majer’d be seeing you afore you go to quarters.” The young orderly’s voice is firm, if high.

“Where do I go?” asks Lorn politely.

“The corner tower in the right … where there’s a guard at the door. There’s a hitching post there.”

“Thank you.” Lorn nods his head, then urges the mare forward.

A lancer with the double slashes of a senior squad leader on his sleeves appears from the barracks building closest to the gate, his eyes lighting on Nytral. “Nytral’s back! Even brought some wagons.”

Lorn glances at Nytral. “You can settle things while I report to the sub-majer?”

“Yes, ser. They’ll be fine.”

“Thank you.”

“My job, ser.”

Lorn guides the mare to the right, toward the tower that indeed has a single guard standing by the square-arched doorway. There, he dismounts and ties the mare to the unused hitching post, then steps forward toward the lancer.

“Through the door, ser. Kielt will see to you, ser.”

“Thank you.” Lorn steps out of the mild but chilly wind and into the narrow corridor. A dozen cubits down the corridor yet another lancer sits at a small table beside a closed door.

Lorn steps forward and offers the seal ring to the lancer.“Undercaptain Lorn’alt reporting for duty.” The formality of the words sounds almost pompous to Lorn, but he waits.

“One moment, ser.” The bearded older lancer slips through the door and closes it.

He returns almost immediately. “Sub-Majer Brevyl will see you now, ser.” The lancer holds the ancient but spotless white oak door for Lorn to enter the sub-majer’s study.

“Thank you, Kielt.” Lorn ignores the slight flicker of the lancer’s eyes and steps through the door.

The study is not large for an officer who commands an outpost as large as Isahl, for the room is less than fifteen cubits by ten, and contains but a table-desk, a single scroll case, the wooden armchair from which Brevyl rises, and four armless straight-backed wooden chairs that face the desk. There are two other chairs in the corners. High windows on the wall behind the desk offer the sole source of outside light, although two wall sconces contain unlit oil lamps.

Sub-Majer Brevyl is a short and slender man, half a head shorter than Lorn, with a thin white brush mustache. His short-cut white hair is thick, and his green eyes dominate fine features and an even nose.

“Ser, Undercaptain Lorn’alt.” Lorn offers the order scroll to the sub-majer.

Brevyl lays the scroll on the corner of the desk, unopened. “Please sit down, Undercaptain. It is a long ride from Syadtar.” He pauses, then asks, as Lorn seats himself, “Did you see any barbarians along the road?”

“One group, ser. They were about a kay away, and they turned north when they saw us.”

“Too bad they didn’t get closer.” A wry smile crosses the sub-majer’s face as he picks up the scroll, unrolls it, and sits down to read through it. After a moment, he looks at Lorn, all traces of a smile vanishing from his face. “Do you know why you’re here, Undercaptain Lorn’alt?”

“Because there’s nowhere else I can be,” Lorn says evenly. “Except perhaps Pemedra or the Accursed Forest.”

“Or Inividra in the spring or fall,” adds the sub-majer. “And you’ll see all four before you make majer. Withoutreturning to Cyad except on leave between assignments.” He pauses. “Doesn’t seem exactly fair, does it?”

Lorn waits, attentively.

“I’d like an answer, Undercaptain.”

“What’s considered ‘fair’ has to defer to what is necessary for the well-being of Cyad, ser.”

A frown replaces the bluff humoring look on the sub-majer’s face. “I didn’t ask for a student answer, Undercaptain.”

“Absolute loyalty is required of both lancers and the Magi’i, ser. Any lancer seeking to become a magus or any student magus seeking to become a lancer comes from outside and has to demonstrate both ability and absolute loyalty.”

“You’re testing my patience.”

Lorn represses a sigh. “Ser, it’s not fair. It can’t be fair, and you know that, and I know that. Ser … what do you want from me?”

Brevyl smiles, crookedly. “Just that. The reasons don’t matter. The politics don’t matter. Your background and obvious education don’t matter. All that matters is that you know that you’ll get the nastiest assignments you can handle. They won’t be more than you can handle because that wastes lancers and endangers other officers. Are you up to that, Undercaptain?”

“I don’t know, ser. I think I am, but what I do is what counts.”

“You’re honest, Undercaptain Lorn. Let’s hope you’re as good as you think you are. You’ll ride patrols for the first four eightdays with Zandrey. You’ll be the second-in-command, and that means you do exactly what he says-unless the barbarians get him. You’d better make sure they don’t, because you don’t know dung about the way they operate.”

“Yes, ser.”

“You listen and you ask questions, quietly and when there aren’t any rankers around. You carry out Zandrey’s orders and learn all you can. It won’t be as much as you shouldknow, but it might be enough if you work hard and learn fast. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ser.”

“No …” Brevyl shakes his head. “All undercaptains just think they understand. On your way out, tell Kielt to set you up on the officers’ level of the barracks, and then go find Zandrey. He’s not on patrol today. He’ll be here somewhere.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Formality is fine, Undercaptain. Ability and luck count more.”

Lorn waits, deciding against another polite response.

“At least you listen.” Brevyl snorts. “Go get yourself settled. Zandrey’s next patrol is the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes, ser. By your leave, ser.”

Brevyl gives a dismissive nod, and Lorn stands, offers a slight bow, and turns. He closes the door behind’him.

Outside, Kielt waits, standing beside his table.

“The sub-majer said that I was to ask you about being set up on the officers’ level of the barracks.”

“Very good, ser.” Kielt rings the handbell on the table, turning as another lancer appears. “If you would take over, Rueggr?”

Rueggr nods once.

Lorn follows Kielt out of the brick-walled tower. Now that the sun has dropped behind the hills, the wind sweeping out of the north is chill, and he is glad of the winter jacket.

THE OFFICERS’ STUDY at Isahl contains several flat tables that can serve as desks, as well as a good half score of battered armless oak chairs. The polished stone floors are largely covered with worn green wool rugs that take the chill from the stone and muffle the sound of boots. The south windows are high, but large, and on a long table against the smooth stonesof the north wall are eight large strongboxes, each with a cupridium lock. Each has a bronze plate on it with the name of a company. Lorn’s company is Fifth Company, and the bronze key to his lock is fastened inside his green web officer’s belt.

He sits on the opposite side of a table from Captain Zandrey. Zandrey is black-haired, brown-eyed and stocky. Like most lancer officers, he is clean-shaven, but in the afternoon light, his dark beard is beginning to show. “Sub-Majer Brevyl has decided that Nytral will be your company squad leader. Each squad is a score, and there’s a squad leader for each.”

Lorn nods, wondering if it had taken a promotion for Nytral to agree to serve under Lorn. He almost shook his head. Nytral could have been ordered to serve. Was the promotion to encourage Nytral?