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lines already radiate from the corners of those eyes, for all that he is but a
handful of years older than Lorn.
Lorn nods to the magus. Every few kays, a creaaaaking has filled the front
compartment of the firewagon that rolls along the Great Eastern Highway toward
Jakaafra. The sound seems to come from the front wheels and lasts but a few
moments before fading away.
 Firewagons should be silent, the magus continues.  Don t you think so,
Captain?
 They should be as well-maintained as possible, Lorn responds.
With a definitive nod, the magus looks to the undercaptain on Lorn s right.
 Don t you agree, Undercaptain?
 Yes, ser, replies the dark-haired undercaptain. A faint sheen of
perspiration covers his forehead, but he makes no move to blot it away.
Sitting on the left side of the compartment, facing forward, Lorn watches the
magus seated directly across from him, but the man in white shimmercloth
closes his eyes. After a time, so does the black-haired undercaptain.
Seemingly the only one even half-awake in the late afternoon, Lorn rubs his
chin, his fingers feeling the stubble and the griminess of the long trip in
the firewagon, and they are not scheduled to reach Geliendra until late
afternoon. He shifts his weight on the too-lightly padded and contoured bench
seat, then once again glances out through the window, a window whose ancient
glass creates the slightest of distortions, rendering the fields and dwellings
that they pass less substantial, as if they were not quite as they should be.
Once the firewagon had traversed those few kays of the Eastern Highway that
bordered the northeast corner of the southern grasslands-roughly halfway
between Cyad and Geliendra-the land beside the highway has become far more
lush than that through which Lorn had passed on his way to Syadtar-or even
that of the fertile areas around the lancer training base at Kynstaar. While
he has expected to see the furled gray leaves of winter, there is green
everywhere, much more than he would have expected. Yet Fyrad and the
southeastern lands of Cyador are warmer, far warmer, than cool Cyad, at least
in winter.
Wrapped in his own silence, Lorn watches, as outside the firewagon passes the
towns, and then the well-tended holdings. Yet, for all the prosperity of those
glazed brick dwellings with their intricate exterior green ceramic privacy
screens, their immaculate brick outbuildings, their woodlots with their
borders as neat as if they had been measured by a enumerator& Lorn feels
vaguely uneasy. Is it because those houses are more truly Cyador than the
massive sunstone and granite structures of Cyad itself? Or that such
regularity is somehow at odds with the chaos that supports it? Or something
deeper?
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He frowns, letting his order-chaos senses reach beyond the firewagon, beyond
the comforting warmth of the chaos cells at the back of the vehicle.
From what he senses, the regularity of the holdings that the firewagon carries
him past is what it seems. Yet& something does not feel right. Or is it that
he does not feel in accord with those regular holdings and what they
represent? He can almost sense the chaos glass in his bag, as if it burned to
be released. Yet he knows that the glass holds no chaos itself, and serves
merely as a focus.
Lorn takes a long slow breath, and closes his eyes, hoping that he can sleep
for some of the remaining ride to Geliendra.
LXI
As the carriage driver reins up the two horses, Lorn glances at the twin
pillared sunstone gates spaced wide enough for three carriages abreast, then
at the white oak gates themselves, oiled and polished, but clearly ancient
from their deep golden color. Two Mirror Lancer guards stand before each of
the ten-cubit-high pillars that hold the gates, and the gates themselves are
swung back into the compound, a sure indicator that they had not been built to
withstand a true siege.
 We stop at the gate, sers, announces the driver of the open-topped carriage.
 Be four for the two of you.
 Thank you. Lorn hands over five coppers, then opens the half-door, careful
to swing his sabre clear, and then stepping down to and walking across the
granite paving stones the open luggage rack on the back where he pulls out his
two green bags. He looks down, not quite sure why. While the paving stones are
smooth and clean, as are all paving stones in Cyador, these bear traceries of
fine hairline cracks.
 Ser& I could pay my own- begins the undercaptain, reaching for his single
bag.
 You could, Nythras, but consider it a favor that you ll repay when you re a
captain, replies Lorn with a smile.
 Thank you, ser.
Neither of the guards looks directly at the two officers as they walk through [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]