Magi'i of Cyador

CXIV

OUTSIDE THE JAKAAFRA compound’s stable, Lorn slowly dismounts from the gelding, noting again the long scratch along his mount’s shoulder, a scratch he has helped heal with minute amounts of the black order, as he had been taught so many years before by Myryan and Jerial. While in the lancers, of necessity, he has held his healing efforts to those which take little effort and which are little remarked.

His own uniform has rips in the trousers at boot level and more than a few splatters of blood from the latest attacks by giant cats and night leopards. He now has but one uniform left that is not soiled beyond repair and cleaning with blood or other gore-and that is only because it is the one that arrived from Ryalth with the latest shipment of wine. In hisnext scroll, he will have to ask if she can have another tailored and sent, although he dislikes asking for such, when she has given and risked so much for him already.

Lorn glances back across the courtyard, then shakes his head. He has already seen to the collection of the firelances and their storage in the armory, not that they pose much danger in their discharged state.

“Ser?” asks Suforis as Lorn leads the gelding into the stable. “You have another hard patrol?”

“Yes.” Lorn does not elaborate on the two latest lancers Second Company has lost, or upon the cold scrutiny that falls over his every move from many of the replacement lancers.

“Sorry to hear that, Captain.”

“Some patrols are like that.” Lorn unfastens his gear, and the spare sabre, easing the saddle bags onto his shoulder.

“Yes, ser.”

“That’s my problem, not yours. How is Lesyna?”

“She be fine, ser.” Suforis smiles.

“Good.” Lorn nods and, in the early twilight, walks from the stable toward the quarter’s building. The courtyard is almost empty, the lancers already in the meal hall, he suspects.

Juist walks from the small administrative building, glancing around, then calls, “Lorn!” The undercaptain motions, and Lorn forces himself into a walk demonstrating energy he does not feel, not after another patrol extended by a fallen tree.

As Lorn nears, Juist holds a scroll that he lifts. “Hybyl’s squad leader came with the Engineers. Dropped this off for you. Insisted I give it to you personally.” He grins and holds up a small leather pouch. “And this. If I be not mistaken, in here are the arched bars of an overcaptain.”

“After all the admonitions I’ve received?” Lorn asks.

“Could be, just might be, that the Majer-Commander likes results,” Juist suggests. “Meylyd likes to do things the way the Lancers always did’em. Doesn’t work so well, from what I’m hearing.”

Lorn offers a wry smile. “What are you hearing?”

“Other captains losing almost as many men, except they’re seeing half the tree-falls. Those reports go to Cyad, you know?”

“I know they go. I wasn’t sure anyone read them.”

Juist hands over the pouch. “Going to open it?”

Lorn shifts the saddle bags and takes the pouch, opening it gingerly. Juist is right. Inside are two sets of linked double bars, with the arch above them, signifying an overcaptain. He eases the insignia back into the pouch, and slips it inside his tunic.

“Told you,” says Juist. “You’re going to be someone, and I’ll be happy to tell everyone I knew you-’cept I’ll be doing it from in front of a hearthstove for years afore you’re out of the saddle.” The undercaptain grins.

“You’re not upset?”

“Me?” The shorter and older officer shakes his head. “Lucky to be an undercaptain. Don’t come from the right places, and don’t talk fancy, and except for covering furloughs a few times a year, I don’t have to mess with the Forest. Another three years, and I can take my pension. Few enough lancers get’em.” He glances at the scroll.

Lorn breaks the seal and reads quickly, squinting to make out the words in the dim light of the courtyard.

“Well … Overcaptain?” Juist asks after a moment.

“They’re sending me to Biehl, to head the port detachment there.”

Juist laughs. “Hard to believe. It makes sense. Give a good officer a tour where someone’s not out to kill him every day … maybe learn something besides tactics.”

Lorn shakes his head.

“Take the good, Lorn,” Juist advises. “You taken enough of the bad.”

The new overcaptain forces a smile. “Thank you. I’ll try.” Even as he speaks, he wonders just how good the promotion and transfer are. With a last nod to Juist, Lorn walks to his own quarters.

After lighting the lamp, he reads the order scroll again … and a third time. Then he washes up quickly, but does notchange out of his uniform, and he heads to the officers’ dining area, carrying a bottle of the Fhynyco. Juist and Ilryk have already begun to eat the mutton stew, overpeppered enough that Lorn can smell the seasonings even before he sits down.

“Didn’t know as you were coming, lucky fellow,” offers Juist, with a laugh.

“Is it true?” asks Ilryk.

“It looks to be,” Lorn says.

“The bottle he brings says so.’Sides, it was that sub-majer Hybyl’s squad leader that brought it. Sour face he had too.” Juist laughs.

Lorn uncorks the bottle and half-fills the three heavy goblets.

“At least with a sour face, you can read something. Maran always smiled, always looked like he cared.” Ilryk pauses, then turns to Lorn. “You saw him last. He was headed to Westend, wasn’t he?”

Lorn takes a sip of the Fhynyco before answering. “He was riding in that direction. He didn’t tell me what he had in mind. Except complaining about the way I handled Second Company.”

“He didn’t like the way I handle my company,” Ilryk replies. “He said I should always be well in the fore, so that my men could see me.” The blond captain shrugs. “I am always in the front rank, but too far forward, and I cannot see where they are, and that makes it difficult to give orders.”

Lorn shakes his head. “He told me not to be well in the fore. He said I was too far forward.”

Ilryk laughs. “Senior officers.” He raises his goblet. “May you not be as they, Overcaptain! May you remember what it was like to be a mere captain.”

“You’ll be an overcaptain before long,” Lorn suggests after accepting the impromptu toast. He breaks off a chunk of stale bread and dips it in the overseasoned stew.

“One never counts on a promotion until the emblem is on your collar. Not in the lancers.” Ilryk raises his glass. “One can but count on the wine one drinks today.”

“That be too true,” Juist agrees.

Lorn has to nod to that, and then he takes another mouthful of the mutton stew.

“Good wine,” Ilryk adds. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Although the day has been long, Lorn finds he can barely eat one helping of the thick and heavily spiced stew, and excuses himself early, leaving the remainder of the Fhynyco for the other two officers.

Back in his quarters, he reads the scroll again. From what it says, his promotion is already effective, and he can wear the new insignia immediately. While the next day is a stand-down day, he needs to get a message to Ryalth immediately.

He sits down at the narrow desk in his quarters, under the pool of light cast by the small lamp, and lays out one of the few remaining sheets of paper, then dips the pen in the inkwell. The scroll will definitely go by Suforis through Dustyn-early on the next day.

My dearest,

I have been notified rather suddenly that I am being promoted and transferred, almost two years before I expected such. Within three eightdays, I will be in Cyad, on my way to take over the Mirror Lancer port compound in Biehl …

He pauses, then continues.

I will only be in Cyad for an eightday and a few days, because I am not due for home leave for another two years, and I dearly hope that this does not find you traveling elsewhere. Still, we must take the opportunities we have in an uncertain world.

He can think of no news that may help her trading, nor of anything else of import as great as his coming to Cyad. Reluctantly, he adds another line.

If you would arrange for another three sets of uniforms for me, I will repay you when I arrive in Cyad. I will be there so short a time. I fear that they would not be ready were I to wait until I arrive.

He looks out his window, but the clouds block the stars. Finally, he picks up the pen and dips it again and closes.

I look to those moments we will have together, and to seeing you again far sooner than I had thought possible …. With all my affection and love …

Yawning, he sets aside the pen. He must still write his family, and, on the morrow, finish another set of patrol reports. The day after will be another patrol. There will be one more after that before he can leave Jakaafra, more than enough time to find himself in trouble if he does not maintain his guard and his skills in dealing with the Accursed Forest.

Then … will he ever not find himself facing trouble in such times, he being who he is and not what others would wish?

He looks into the darkness. Is that not what all men believe? How is he any different from them?

For that, he has no answer, not one that does not flatter his self-esteem.