L. Modesitt: Cyador’s Heirs

“Women in battle as archers.” Xeranya gives the tiniest shake of her head, and not a single strand of blond hair moves. “Barbaric.”

“But obviously necessary,” adds Emerya from the door to the breakfast room. “Welcome back.” Behind her are Ryalah and Amaira.

Ryalah grins at her brother.

“Thank you. I have to eat and leave. I need to make my report to Majer Phortyn.”

“Aren’t you the fortunate one.”

Lerial gulps down three more mouthfuls, some lager, and bolts for the stable.

“… and now you’re leaving…”

“He is a Lancer officer who has to report.” Emerya’s voice is soothing and reasonable in Lerial’s ears as he slips from the breakfast room

He hurries through saddling the mare, but it is almost half a glass later before he, Khersett, and Lavoyt are riding along the avenue toward Lancer headquarters. With them are two rankers from Woelyt’s second squad to accompany him back from headquarters. As he rides he thinks about Phortyn … and what he should do about the majer. Everything is so suggestive, but there’s no real proof. He considers the points-Phortyn’s excessive secrecy about Lerial and Altyrn’s mission, the assignment of Dechund to Tirminya and the events that followed, not to mention the punitive transfer of Seivyr to Tirminya in the first place, the recent assignment of Seivyr to Narthyl, the last-moment reassignment of Woelyt’s company to the northern border, and Veraan’s assignment to the Palace, Phortyn’s dinners with influential Magi’i … some of whom are less than esteemed for their integrity, not to mention the impressions he has gotten from more than a few people. Lerial doesn’t like what he sees, but then there’s been a lot he hasn’t cared for in the last season or so.

What if…? What if you’re right? Then what should you do?

One thing Lerial has learned, just from observing Altyrn, is that “unfortunate” events should appear when no one else is around and without any apparent motive. Still … how … especially with order …

Abruptly, he understands what he can do. He creates a pattern, one that he links to the iron beneath the cupridium of his sabre. It takes him several attempts before he can do what he has in mind. He can sense that the pattern, with order on the inside, as in a cloud, will attract chaos. He also knows that, as with all the iron-linked patterns, it will not last more than two glasses, three at the most. He releases the pattern and straightens in the saddle. If he has judged correctly, the next time he uses the pattern it will do what he intends for it to accomplish … if he needs it.

Should you do it? That is the question that will be determined … shortly or later. The gate guards make no comments as the five ride in. Lerial thanks the two headquarters Mirror Lancers, leaves the mare with the duty ostler, arranges for his gelding to be saddled, and walks quickly to the hexagonal headquarters building.

The squad leader at the desk outside the majer’s study looks up. “Ser … the majer said you were to go in as soon as you arrived.”

“Thank you.” Lerial slips the large envelope from his jacket, then walks to the study door, opens it and enters, closing it behind him.

Majer Phortyn looks up from behind the desk. “You’re not terribly late this morning, Undercaptain.”

Lerial steps forward. “Here is Majer Altyrn’s report, ser.”

Phortyn nods brusquely, but says nothing as he breaks the seal. His gray eyes are like flint as Lerial takes a seat across the desk from him. Then he lowers the sheaf of papers. “It is customary to send reports through the chain of command.”

“That was not possible. Both Majer Altyrn and your superior ordered me to deliver the report personally to both you and the Duke as soon as possible. You were not at headquarters when I arrived last night. I understand you were dining away from headquarters.”

“I do have to eat, at least upon occasion.”

Lerial can sense that something about his remark has stirred the majer’s flow of order and chaos. He represses any expression and says, “I’m certain that you’re much in demand, ser, with the position you hold, and that must leave you little time to yourself. But, given the nature of the report, and my orders, I obviously could not leave it.”

Lerial concentrates on sensing Phortyn, and there is a definite reaction to Lerial’s words, although the majer’s tone is level as he says, “I can see that placed you in a difficult position. Still…”

Lerial does not reply, only nodding in agreement.

“Do you intend to remain while I read the report?”

“I had thought to, ser. That way, if you wished more information, I might be able to supply it. If you wish me to leave, of course…” Lerial starts to rise.

“Never mind. You’re here.” Phortyn offers a smile. “There’s little sense in sending you off and then calling you back.”

Although Lerial watches as the majer reads the report, Phortyn’s posture and countenance offer little clue to his thoughts. The order-chaos flows around him are a better indication, and their flow becomes more agitated when Phortyn is reading the last page.

Finally, the majer looks up. “Rather remarkable, but then, it does show that Duke Casseon’s forces are not what they could be.” After a slight pause, he goes on. “You apparently performed credibly. I would have expected no less, given the intensive training provided by Majer Altyrn, but it is good to know that he has not lost his touch in training, both yours and that of the Verdyn. It always was his strongest point.”

Phortyn leans back just slightly, and Lerial catches a glint of golden green at his belt, above the scabbard that holds the majer’s belt knife. Golden green … in the hilt of a belt knife? A fire emerald … from a man who has been a Lancer his entire life and had nothing when he joined … and has no consort from whom he could have obtained something that valuable?

Lerial manages to nod politely, even as he uses his order-senses to verify that the fire emerald is indeed set in the hilt of a belt knife. “Yes, ser. Everyone, I’ve observed, has their strengths … and everyone their weaknesses.”

“The higher one rises,” the majer says evenly, “the more people seek out one’s weaknesses … particularly if they are young and apparently untried.”

“I’ve observed that as well, ser. Do you have any questions about the report?”

“Not at the moment, Undercaptain. I may after I consider the report. How many companies is Majer Altyrn planning to train? Do you know?”

“He had talked about beginning with another six or so to bring the Verdyn Lancers up to a full ten companies.”

“Once he has done that, perhaps we should dispatch a senior officer to relieve him and take command. Submajer Jhalet … or one of the senior overcaptains.”

“The majer thought that was likely. He had mentioned only remaining another season or so.”

“Wise man.” Phortyn smiles brightly. “I will not keep you. I’m certain your family would like to see more of you before your father and I decide on your next posting.”

Phortyn has said enough. Lerial reaches out with his order-senses and creates the pattern he had adapted from those used in creating clouds and lightnings-except this pattern is quite small and links securely to the iron in the major’s belt knife, with the fire emerald in its ornate hilt, the only place where a Lancer officer might wear such without much attention … unless one has seen a fire emerald and knows its worth.

Lerial stands. “Thank you, ser. I appreciate everything, especially your advice.” He nods slightly.

“You’re more than welcome.” The majer rises, his jacket sliding over the knife hilt.