Magi'i of Cyador (49 page)

"We also need the time to ensure your project works," Kharl continues, "and that is another reason why I have not yet pressed for its implementation. All the while, the ward-wall must seem as strong as ever until we are most certain we can complete your project."

"I almost believe you, honored Second Magus." Chyenfel steeples his long delicate fingers before him.

"Are you convinced it will work, ser?" asks Kharl abruptly. "This great project of which you speak to the Emperor so intently?"

"Completely? No. But it matters not. If it does not work, then Cyad is better served by knowing such while other chaos towers yet remain. There will be no towers in a generation, and only a handful of firelances charged by the laborious concentration of the scattering of first-level adepts. Each year will find but a few score cupridium blades produced to hold back the barbarians of the north." The sungold eyes flare. "You know this. The risk is worth it." An ironic smile follows. "Except to those who wish to seize power now-or in the poor handful of years to come."

"I have never opposed you, ser." The warm smile plays once more across Kharl's face.

"But... knowing how I can truthread you, most honored Second Magus, you are most careful of what you say, and how you say it."

"As are you, ser," replies Kharl. "As are we all."

"Again, you are most accurate, Kharl, most accurate. I would that you consider turning your considerable charm and judgment to support what we must do to confine the Accursed Forest for more than the handful of years left to the chaos towers and their crystal wards."

"I hear, honored First Magus, and I will begin."

A faint smile once more appears on Chyenfel's lips, and he rises to signify the meeting is at an end.

Kharl also rises, and his smile could be a mirror of that on the lips of the First Magus.

Neither the sungold eyes nor those of dancing green with the intermittent gold cast bear any semblance of a smile.

LXXXI

The waystation is silent, under an early summer sky so cloudless, dark, and still that not even the stars overhead twinkle. Lorn does not look skyward as he slips silently across the granite stones of the courtyard to the small side postern that is neither locked nor guarded. Wearing the Brystan sabre on his right hip, in addition to his lancer sabre on his left, Lorn slides into the shadows, melding with them as he opens the gate and departs, walking silently southward on the stone walkway that flanks the walls.

Once clear of the walls, he places his boots as quietly as possible on the dry deadland soil, for he would rather not take the narrow road that leads from the front gates of the waystation past the perimeter road and inward to the ward-wall. Even so, his steps carry him steadily through the darkness toward the ward-wall and the presence that looms behind the whitened granite and the chaos-net that flares above it-a net unseen except by the Magi'i-and a lancer who remains magus.

He stops on the inner wall road, where he studies the subtly glowing granite, the chaos net, and the deep twining of black order and golden-red chaos. He wonders again how something that incorporates such chaos can be as evil as the Magi'i have depicted. Yet there is no denying the animosity that the forest creatures have toward the engineers and the lancers. Or is it exactly animosity?

"Do you want to try this?" he murmurs to himself, knowing as he does that merely continuing as a skillful lancer is not enough. After winter and spring, with summer continuing the same pattern of scattered Forest shoots and too many fallen trees, and escaping creatures too swift and numerous and dangerous for the numbers of lancers and firelances in Second Company, he knows that sooner or later, he will make a mistake that will be fatal-or that could be, and he has no wish to trust his future to fate alone.

He unsheathes the Brystan sabre, holding it before him. Then... Lorn concentrates, much as he once did in transferring chaos from the tower in the Quarter of the Magi'i to the chaos cells that power the firewagons of Cyad. Except this time, he merely shifts that energy away from a single ward, in order to create an unshuttered window-or a door temporarily open-to the Accursed Forest.

With the fading of the small section of chaos-net, Lorn can fully sense the power-the white chaos and dark order of the Forest that is greater in its own way than the combined energy of the all the chaos towers that weave the chaos web that holds the Forest within its bounds. And he understands, and he shudders.

A dark lance flares through the window in the ward-wall, straight at Lorn, attacking the lancer-magus as if he were the Forest's gaoler.

Lorn lifts the Brystan sabre, lifting untested chaos-order shields, shields he has practiced only in private since leaving the Quarter of the Magi'i, and letting the ordered iron within the cupridium catch the Forest's bolt of order-chaos... catch and turn it upward into a flare that flashes upwards.

Nonetheless, he staggers, and with his staggering releases his hold on the chaos diversions, and the chaos-net surges back, confining the Forest.

Lorn's face burns, and sweat drips from his forehead. He has been foolhardy... and survived by luck, and his own lack of chaos control. He smothers a bitter laugh, knowing he has barely begun to understand what he must learn.

As he walks back through the darkness he glances at the sabre once more. Within the shimmering cupridium is a core of ordered iron-and iron that feels darker, almost black, and far stronger than either the original wrought material iron of the blade or of the comparable cupridium lancer sabre that remains in his scabbard.

A faint glow surrounds the Brystan sabre. Lorn sheathes it carefully and walks even more silently and circuitously back toward the side gate from whence he had departed. Overhead, the stars have begun to twinkle once more with the slight breeze that helps to cool his fevered countenance.

Lorn slides through the shadows, and is walking across the courtyard, almost to the courtyard door that will lead to his quarters.

"Ser! That you, Captain?"

Footsteps cross the stones, and Lorn hears the hiss of a drawn sabre.

"Yes. I just wanted some air. It's all right." Lorn lets the lantern show his face.

"Ah... yes, ser." The sabre is sheathed. "You see that, ser?"

"See what?" Lorn temporizes.

"Been so quiet... then there was this flash out by the wall. I thought maybe another of those big trees falling. But nothing happened. Thought I heard footsteps, you know, but there was just a glow moving by the wall, and it vanished."

"You can't ever tell with the Accursed Forest," Lorn points out, truthfully.

"No, ser. Sorry to bother you, ser." The lantern is lowered.

"It's not a problem. I'm glad you're watching for us." Lorn inclines his head, though he doubts the lancer can see the gesture fully. "I'm going to turn in. We still have a long ride tomorrow." And again the day after, and the day after that-and for who knows how many more days and seasons of trees falling and creatures escaping.

LXXXII

Under high but thick gray clouds, Lorn watches as Olisenn orders his squad into the line abreast formation that runs inward from the perimeter road toward the line already formed by Kusyl's second squad. The heavy squad leader's voice is firm and carries, yet Lorn finds himself watching the senior squad leader more and more, trying never turning his back on the man at any time when firelances are in readiness. Even so, there have been a few times when Lorn has forgotten, and sooner or later, that will create problems.

Lorn reaches forward and pats the gelding, grateful that his mount has proven more trustworthy than all too many people in Cyador. Lorn frowns at his thought. It is not that so many have proven untrustworthy; it is that his observations, and those of his father, have shown that so many will prove untrustworthy. The gelding is what the gelding is, unlike people who change in response to their perceptions of events that may benefit or threaten their power.

He glances toward the clouds that do not seem to promise rain. Second Company has but one more day's patrol before reaching the compound at Jakaafra-and the two full days off they receive after every fourth complete patrol to Eastend and back.

As he turns the gelding northwest on the wall road, Lorn studies the white-granite wall to his left. The chaos-flows are once more irregular- the response to his efforts of two nights before? Or another fallen tree? Or both?

A faint smile crosses his lips.

There will be another tree trunk down. That he knows. And there will be more wild creatures-and another day on station before the Mirror Engineers arrive.

"Was it worth it?" he murmurs.

"Ser, you speaking to me?" asks Kusyl from the other side of the wall road to his right.

"No, Kusyl. I was thinking out loud. How I'll be glad when we finally get back to Jakaafra."

"You and me, too, ser. Been a long summer, and it's hardly been two eightdays since it even started."

Lorn nods. Will he ever see the ripening-of pears and praise-or of anything for which he has silently worked?

LXXXIII

The four officers sit around the small table in the dining area at the Jakaafra compound. Only a single lamp on the wall is lit, illuminating the table but dimly, to Lorn's advantage. Lorn takes a sip of the Fhynyco, then glances across the table at Gebynet, the Mirror Engineer majer, on his way through on one of the periodic inspections of the chaos tower that lies just beyond the compound. To Lorn's left is Captain Ilryk, a tall and blond officer, with a high forehead and an angular face and pointed chin. After a moment, Lorn's eyes travel to Undercaptain Juist, sitting to Lorn's left. "How do you like it?"

"Good!" The stocky Juist takes a solid swallow.

An enigmatic smile curls onto Ilryk's lips, but he does not offer an opinion.

"It's better than Byrdyn," admits Gebynet, after a more refined sip, and another sniff of the bouquet. "How did you get it here?"

"I have some contacts with merchanter houses," Lorn admits. "They have been kind enough to ship some items to a factor in Jakaafra."

"You don't look or act like you come from a merchanter clan," Juist states bluntly.

"I don't," Lorn says easily, taking what appears to be a deep swallow, but is not, more like a bare sip. "I just know a few people, and Captain Meisyl suggested that it would be wise to order in a few bottles of a decent wine for times like these." He laughs. "Few enough that they are with each of us gone off some place or another most days and nights."

"True," admits Gebynet.

"As I am when I am here," says Ilryk, who commands the Fifth Forest Patrol Company based in Westend. As Lorn patrols the northeast ward-wall, so does Ilryk patrol the northwest wall.

"We're all riding somewhere most of the time," Juist says after another swallow from his goblet of Fhynyco. "Leastwise, none of you have to chase bandits."

"I think, Juist," offers Ilryk sardonically, "Captain Lorn and I would prefer the handful of bandits to facing stun lizards, giant cats, and night leopards. The bandits fear firelances and lancers, and fight seldom."

"Most days... we ride longer," counters Juist.

"Through more pleasant surroundings," suggests Ilryk.

Gebynet laughs. "I've heard this before, and you two won't change. I'd rather enjoy the Fhynyco, if you don't mind."

Ilryk smiles, still sardonically, while Juist looks at this empty goblet mournfully.

Lorn half-fills the undercaptain's goblet, then addresses the Engineer majer. "Do you have to do more inspections when they send Majer Weylt off to work on the Great Canal? Or do they send him sometimes and you other times?"

"We do different things beside maintaining the chaos towers. Last year, after the storms, I spent almost a season in Fyrad, repairing the trading piers there." Gebynet sips more of the wine. "Rather good vintage, captain."

Lorn swallows obviously, then lifts the second bottle. "You should have some more. No sense in letting the bottles stand unused." He refills both goblets and appears to refill his own as well. "Not these days."

"You been having a lot of fallen trees, I hear," offers Juist.

"Have the local people been complaining to you about the escaped creatures?" Lorn's smile is crooked.

"We did get a night leopard last eightday, out east of here," Juist answers. "That made a big melon grower happy."

"Kylynzar, I'd wager," Lorn suggests.

Ilryk shakes his head. "It would be that one."

"How did you know?" asks Juist, glancing from Ilryk to Lorn.

"He's been writing scrolls to me." Lorn rolls his eyes, letting his words slur ever so slightly. "He wishes us to make sure that no creatures escape from the Accursed Forest. None at all. So I must risk lancers and myself- or risk myself even more." Lorn turns to Gebynet.

"You have been here the longest of us. Are more trees falling this year?"

"Quite a few more than normal," says Gebynet, adding quickly, "but not an unheard-of number."

"Not unheard of," Lorn says, looking blankly at the Mirror Engineer, "but how many companies have handled so many fallen trees in three seasons? Not quite three seasons," he corrects.

"We have seen more this year than last on our wall," interjects Ilryk, "but there are always more on the northeast. In he past two years, anyway."

"I would not know...." the majer answers slowly.

"Perhaps one?" asks Lorn idly, letting his truth-reading senses scan the Engineer.

"Three or four, I would say."

Lorn nods. Gebynet is lying, and unhappy about it as well. He lifts the bottle again. "Some more. No sense in letting the bottle stand unused."

Gebynet and Juist exchange glances, but allow Lorn to top off their goblets. Ilryk refuses, his amused smile still in place.

LXXXIV

In the mid-afternoon sun, Lorn stands in the stirrups to let damp trousers dry as much as to stretch his legs. As on every afternoon in the recent days nearing harvest, the few scattered clouds provide little relief from the damp heat, and the late-day rainstorms only add more moisture to the steamy heat. Each patrol day ends with uniforms soaked in sweat, and the soil of the deadland is powder under the hoofs of the patrol mounts, rising and infiltrating boots and uniforms, and leaving every lancer's skin dry and itchy from salt and sweat and dust.