L. Modesitt - The Chaos Balance

Piataphi waited.

“That in itself is no matter, Majer. No matter.” Lephi stood and stepped from behind the white-lacquered table desk that dated through at least eight generations of Lords of Cyador. The Emperor walked toward the tinted glass windows, then paused before the oiled wooden frames as his eyes ranged over Cyad, down from the hillside site of the White Palace, toward the harbor, toward the piers that once housed the White Fleet of the ancients, before his grandsire had decided that the barbarians around the Western Ocean had nothing to offer. He smiled faintly as he took in the cranes and the timbers at the shipworks to the west of the white stone piers.

The white-paved streets glistened, glistened from the hiss of brooms as the sweepers continued their endless work to ensure that the White City remained shimmering white. Those who walked the streets were well clad, clean, and scented with oils and spices, as they should have been.

Without turning back to face Piataphi, Lephi continued. “You will teach the barbarians the meaning of discourtesy. They have forgotten that all that they possess came from the ancients of Cyador. Since they have no gratitude, we must use fear. They have existed on the sufferance of Cyador, and we will not suffer that misapprehension to continue.”

“Yes, Sire.” Piataphi remained nearly motionless on the edge of the stool.

“Would that we had the fire cannons. Or the lances of light, but those will be with us again before long.”

“We cannot duplicate the fittings yet, Lord. Nor fill the reservoirs.”

“We cannot duplicate them now,” mused Lephi. “But that is changing. Already, we build a fireship. Then we will re-create the fire cannons. You will not need them now. Cyador is larger, more prosperous than in the time of my grandsire.” He turned back toward Piataphi. “We must have the copper mines of the north; those in Delapra will not last. Take all the even-numbered Mirror Lancers and the Shield Foot-”

“All, Your Mightiness?”

“I am not aware of any other challenges to Cyador. Are you?”

“No, Sire.”

“I wish the barbarians annihilated-those within fifty kays of the mines. The others you may handle as you see fit. If they will not respect us out of gratitude, they will respect the forces you command.”

“There are doubtless many more-they breed like lizards, Sire-than in years previous.”

“You may also take the Shining Foot.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

“Begin your preparations tomorrow. You may use half the steamwagons on the North Highway.”

“As you command, Sire.”

“As I command…yes, as I command, Majer. And I command you to leave a swath of destruction around any that oppose the might of Cyador. Or forget what we have bestowed upon them.”

The majer nodded.

“You may go.”

Piataphi stood and stiffened to attention. “All honor to Your Mightiness and to the glory of Cyador.”

“Go…” Lephi gestured, as if to wave away a fly.

The majer saluted, turned, and marched from the small receiving room.

Lephi’s brown eyes went to the ancient painting on the inside wall-the etched-metal depiction of a wheeled steamwagon with a fire cannon turning a section of trees and animals into ashes. Even a giant stun lizard was shown flaring into flame.

“Cyador will become yet more mighty,” he whispered. “We will have more steamwagons and fire cannon. We will. As I will it to be. As it was in the beginning, and will be evermore.”

The stream gurgled and splashed, not quite overflowing its banks, if well below the clay track that was something more than a trail and less than a road.

The gray leaves on the willowlike trees had spread but not turned to the fuller green of summer, and the new leaves were but half-open. A few starflowers bloomed in patches on the far side of the water, nestled in sun-warmed patches of green between the piles of weathered rock that had peeled off the canyon walls over the years. A steel-blue bird chittered from the top of a scrawny pine as the two horses carried their riders downhill and generally westward.

Nylan patted Weryl gently, trying to encourage the boy to keep sleeping. For whatever reason, carrying his son seemed to make him saddlesore more quickly, yet a year-old child didn’t weigh that much. Or was it the weight of two blades-or all of it together? He lifted his weight off the saddle a moment, and his knees protested.

“Do we have any ideas where we ought to be going-besides west?” Ayrlyn asked.

“No. I wish I did, but…” Nylan turned in the saddle and looked back over his shoulder toward the ice needle that was Freyja-now barely visible above the gray rock walls of the canyon that the road followed, downward and usually westward. He took a deep breath. “In a way, I feel lost. I always let someone else decide. The service needed engineers, and so I became one. Ryba and the marines needed a safe haven, and I built it. Now…” He shrugged as he looked toward Ayrlyn. “Now, I have to figure out where we’re going and what I want from life, and I can’t-or I haven’t so far.”

Ayrlyn nodded. “You’re getting more honest with yourself, and that’s a start.”

“Great. I now know that everyone else has been determining my destiny. It doesn’t make finding it any easier-on me or you.”

“We share that, Nylan.” She offered a soft smile. “We’ll work it out.”

“Even with Weryl?”

“In some ways, it’s easier. He’s so young.”

The smith moistened his lips, then asked, “How long will it take to get out of the Westhorns? You’ve traveled these roads more than I have.”

“Four or five trips don’t make me an expert. We didn’t exactly have a lot of time to learn about this place, and I was more worried about trading for the things we needed and avoiding the local armsmen.”

“This isn’t the most popular route.” So far as Nylan could tell, the only tracks on the narrow winding road were those of Skiodra’s traders, and those had been nearly weathered away. In places, the tracks of deer, and in one section, a bear, were superimposed over the traces of the traders’ carts. Clearly, not too many locals traveled the Westhorns-not in spring, anyway.

“It will get more popular. Ryba has made sure most of the brigands are dead, or they’ve gone elsewhere.”

“We hope. I’m not exactly convinced they’re all gone.” Nylan glanced ahead, at the narrow valley sloping away, and at the thick green canopy on the left side of the road, probably growing out of marshy ground beside the stream. The greenery was enough to hide anything, including bandits.

“Ryba will take care of any that are left,” Ayrlyn offered.

“In the same way she takes care of everything else,” Nylan added sardonically. “With a sharper blade applied more quickly.” He squinted at the road ahead. The mention of brigands bothered him, though he couldn’t say why.

“You’re bothered.”

The engineer nodded.

“We’ll just have to be careful.”

“I hope that will help.” After a moment, he added, “It would help if Ryba improved some of the stream fords, put in bridges.” Nylan wiped his forehead.

“Still the engineer, I see.” Ayrlyn laughed.

“I probably always will be.” He tried to loosen his jacket all the way, but stopped as Weryl, who had been sleeping, gave a lurch. Ayrlyn still wore her jacket mostly closed. He hoped the lowlands wouldn’t be too hot-there was a difference between being able to survive and surviving in something other than total misery.

“Waaa…” Weryl squirmed in the carrypak, and Nylan could sense his son’s discomfort-again! The odor confirmed Nylan’s senses.