Magi'i of Cyador

XXII

THE ROAD CLIMBS over a low rise between two hills, running westward. From the saddle of the white mare, Lorn can see a long and shallow valley ahead, one with more than a handful of Cyadoran-style brick dwellings dotting the eastern end of the valley, all with thin plumes of smoke rising through the cold air toward the cloudless green-blue sky overhead. The only trees are the infrequent and scraggly scrub cedars.

“There you are, ser,” said Nytral. “Isahl’s at the far west end. Be a bit afore we can see the outpost.”

“We haven’t seen that many farms until now,” Lorn says, hoping Nytral will offer more information or opinion.

“Ha! Wouldn’t see any here, except that they’re all welcome in the walls if the raiders did come. They won’t though. Not while Sub-Majer Brevyl’s here.”

“How many lancers are assigned here?”

“Don’t tell me that, ser, not in figures, but we got five companies, and that’s ten squads. When we’re all lined up in formation-happens once in a while-I counted near-on tenscore, and that didn’t take in the cooks and such.”

“That should allow plenty of patrols.”

“Not that many. Figure you need a company for a recon patrol; and a company to deal with a small raider band, and near-on everyone if all the barbarians in a tribe join a raid.”

“Does that happen often?” Lorn leans forward and pats the mare on the neck.

“A full-tribe raid? Nah … not more than once every few years, if that. Once three summers afore last, but it was dry in the north. Figure they were hungry … or something.”

“The raids, have they been happening for years? Or just in recent times?”

“Long time. Once heard Commander Thiataphi say he’d been an undercaptain out here. You tell me how many years that is, ser.” Nytral laughs.

“More than a few.” About fifty cubits back from the road, on both sides, Lorn notes the even irrigation ditches, bricklined, and the miniature dams and sluice gates designed to channel the water to the fields, though the ditches are empty under the winter sun. “The barbarians try to tear the irrigation systems?”

“No. Mostly, they’re after women and weapons, and horses-and whatever lancers they can kill while they’re at it.” Nytral lapses into silence.

Lorn looks northward as they pass a homestead, one with a house that could have been dropped into the outskirts of Cyad or Syadtar, with its green ceramic privacy screen before the front door, privacy hedges in the rear of the dwelling, and green shutters. The two outbuildings are of brick, but larger than those Lorn has seen elsewhere in Cyador. Theone barn is nearly a hundred cubits long and twenty high-at the top of its tiled roof.

Even after riding two kays into the valley, Lorn has to squint against the glare of the late afternoon sun for a time before he can make out the general outline of the outpost, far larger in the ground it covers than the compound in Syadtar or the officers’ training base in Kynstaar.

After another kay or so, Nytral offers, “There, ser, you can see it better.”

The outpost has been built around a hillock at the west end of the long and shallow valley. The outer sunstone walls are a good eight cubits high and enclose corrals, barns, and an inner wall that holds an armory, and several long barracks-all built of stone and roofed in tile. On the lower part of the hillside, Lorn can see both a raised water cistern and what appears to be a spring with protective walls running from the spring to the armory.

“Have the barbarians ever breached the walls?” asks the undercaptain.

“Stories are that they killed most of the first garrison, generations back. Emperor said it wouldn’t happen again … so they built Isahl to stop any attack. Patterned after Assyadt, except the west Jeranyi haven’t caused as much trouble in a few years. Anyway … no attacks … leastwise, haven’t happened since.”

Lorn nods.

A kay from the outpost, they turn northward onto a short road leading to the gates in the approximate center of the southernmost east-west wall. There are four guards stationed at the closed gates at the end of the road. Two stand outside the closed gates and two above them on the low parapets. All four watch as Lorn and the replacement lancers approach,

Nytral glances at Lorn.

Lorn rides toward the gate alone, offers the seal ring for inspection to the square-faced and older guard who steps forward. “Undercaptain Lorn’alt … reporting to Sub-Majer Brevyl with supplies and replacement lancers.”

“Good to see you, ser.” The sentry steps back, and the gates swing open.

Once inside the extensive outer walls, which could only stop a small raiding party or discourage a larger band of barbarians, Lorn can see more clearly the second inner wall that surrounds the main compound, set at the base of the low hill perhaps a third of a kay northward.

The inner gates, while guarded by a halfscore of lancers, are open. One steps forward.

“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.