L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“Felt better, ser, and I’d feel even better iffn they’d let me go.”

Lorn can sense the points of red chaos beneath the stitches and the dressing. While they are small, without a healer, they will grow until Stynnet will be dying like the older lancer in the first bed.

“You’re not as well as you feel, lancer,” Lorn says gently. “Close your eyes. Keep them closed until I tell you to open them.”

“Ser?” Stynnet’s forehead crinkles. His mouth opens as if to protest.

“If you want …” Lorn stops and fixes his eyes on Stynnet. “Lancer … don’t argue. Just do it.”

Stynnet swallows. “Yes, ser.” He closes his eyes.

Lorn lets the tips of the fingers of his left hand rest lightly on Stynnet’s skin just above the top edge of the dressing. Trying to call up what little he has learned from Myryan and Jerial, Lorn tries to let the black mist of order-the order-death of chaos, but a necessary one here-around the pointsof wound chaos he can sense, one point after another, until they vanish. They may return, but Stynnet’s own chaos-order balance can cope by then-Lorn hopes. He straightens and takes a slow breath, not showing the momentary dizziness that swirls around and through him.

Stynnet’s eyes are still closed.

“You can open your eyes, lancer.”

“Ser … felt funny … what did you do?”

“Just offered some good thoughts ….” Lorn feels as though his smile is lopsided. “We want you back riding.”

“Ser …?”

“Yes?” Lorn waits, a more easy smile upon his lips.

“Nothing, ser.” Stynnet does not conceal a slight frown.

“You’ll be fine, Stynnet.” Lorn nods and turns. He still has to break the news to Dielbyn about the lancers of the Second Company being attached to the Fifth. Then, he will ensure that the promised lances are indeed charged and ready-perhaps slightly more charged than Brevyl anticipates. How much of that he can do he is far from certain, and it will entail another splitting headache-in more ways than one.

Once more … he must balance what he can do with what he would choose to do. And without overtly revealing any more than he must to survive.

THE HARVEST SUN is barely peering above the eastern wall of the outpost at Isahl when Lorn slips silently through the time-stained white oak door and into the north barracks for another one of his unannounced inspections before a patrol.

He can hear voices from the bunks past the columns on his right which separate the marshalling area from the bunking spaces of the company’s two squads. A slender brown-haired lancer walks past the columns barefooted, on his way to the jakes, Lorn suspects.

The lancer’s head jerks up. “Ser?”

“Quiet, Yubner,” Lorn murmurs, putting his index finger to his lips.

Yubner swallows.

Lorn smiles and motions for him to continue.

With a look back over his shoulder, Yubner hurries away, his bare feet slapping on the cool stone tiles of the barracks floor.

Lorn eases toward the square granite columns, listening as he does, recognizing the rough-edged voice.

“ … don’t know what he did … don’t care … they didn’t think I was going to walk out of there. Gwinnt died. Eltak and I didn’t ….”

“Maybe he’s a black one ….” The words choked off, as if they had been stopped by Stynnet’s angular hand around the other lancer’s neck.

Lorn has to strain to make out the words hissed by Stynnet. “You say one word … and you’ll end up with a lance in your back … I was dead … didn’t know it … don’t care if he’s the head of the Black Angels … first one in line and stands behind his men … angel-damned few officers do … you hear me?”

“Ulp … hear you …”

Lorn steps back toward the barracks door, where he turns and waits for Yubner to return, or for another lancer.

Yubner returns before another lancer appears, walking far more cautiously, eyes surveying the open marshalling space between the two ends of the barracks. The south end is empty, since the Fourth Company had left on patrol the day before. Yubner glances apprehensively at his captain, but does not speak.

Lorn steps toward Yubner. “You can announce me, Yubner. Make it loud.”

“Yes, ser.” Yubner squares his shoulders. “Captain in the barracks! Captain in the barracks.”

Boots scuffle. Several wooden foot chests shut, and the murmurs of various conversations die away as Lorn stepspast the pillars. His voice is not loud, but carries. “Let’s take a look at the gear you’ll be using today.”

Lancers stand beside their foot chests, waiting.

The barracks are standard. Each lancer has a pallet bunk, the head to the brick wall, the foot to the center, with the wooden uniform chest flush against the foot of the bed. On the wall beside each bunk are three pegs-one for the winter jacket, one for the uniform of the day, and one for the lancer’s garrison cap. Each bunk set opposite another and is separated from those that flank it by six cubits. A single narrow window also separates each bunk from the next. The aisle between the foot chests is six cubits. The first squad bunks on the east wall, the second on the west wall.

At the third bunk on his left, Lorn pauses, sensing as much as seeing a spot on the hilt of a sabre. “Westy … show me the blade, if you would?”

“Yes, ser.” The lancer swallows, but complies and lays the bare sabre out for Lorn to check.

Lorn studies the cupridium blade. “You’re not getting it clean under the guard.”

“Yes, ser.”

The captain nods and continues down the aisle. At times, he barely glances at a lancer’s pallet or gear. At other times, he stops.

“Would you open the foot chest, Sherzak?”

“Ah … yes, ser.” The muscular lancer flushes, but lifts the top, to reveal uniform tunics neatly folded.

“And the tunics, too, if you would.”

Under the trousers beneath the tunics are three bottles of Alafraan. Sherzak looks impassively at his captain.

“I could break them and have you clean up the mess,” Lorn says mildly. “Or I could make you scout alone on patrol today.” Lorn pauses, but not long enough for the lancer to speak. “But anything like that would hurt the Company and waste good wine. Take those to Kielt-right now-and tell him that I said they’re to go in the strong room, along with other personal valuables, until you have furlough. It is valuable.”Lorn’s smile is wintry. “There won’t be a next time, Sherzak. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn nods and continues down the center of the barracks, then halts opposite a foot chest. “If you would open the chest, Skyr?”

“Yes, ser.”

A muffled snicker comes from somewhere at the lancer’s resigned tone, but Skyr lifts the lid.

“At the bottom … in the rear.”

Skyr removes all the tunics and trousers and smallclothes. A slightly more curved sabre, another antique Brystan sabre, lies there in a worn dark brown scabbard.

Lorn lifts his eyebrows.

“Wanted a trophy, ser. I’m sorry, ser.”

Lorn smiles, not unpleasantly. “Just turn it in to Kielt. After patrol. Less questions that way.” He still wonders how the barbarians had obtained Brystan sabres, especially ones relatively new, like his, although the style of Lorn’s is antique, as is that of the one picked up by Skyr.

“Yes, ser!”

Lorn stops one more time, at the next-to-last bunk on the right side, where he addresses a stocky red-haired lancer.

“Teikyl, have those boots resoled after this patrol, and tell the bootmaker to use the thicker leather this time. Tell him that I said that.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn nods and checks the last two bunks. When he is finished, he turns and walks slowly back up the center space between the bunks, his eyes meeting those of each lancer once more as he passes. He stops and turns just short of the pillars that form the barrier separating Fifth Company’s space from the marshalling area. “You and your gear look good. Carry on.”