Styphi. "I wouldn't mind that." Kyl smiles. "I wouldn't mind anything, actually."
Lorn is not so sure that he would be equally happy with all duties, but since he has no choice over his duty assignment, he sees no point in comparing the potential satisfaction of duty assignments he would be unlikely to get. "I'll talk to you later, and you can tell me where you're headed."
"I will," promises Kyl.
As Lorn turns, he overhears the comments.
"...good as he is... not many make it back from the Hills of Endless Grass...."
"...anyone who does makes full captain and majer quick though...."
"...maybe... but he was magus-born... some don't like that...." Lorn takes in the low words most would not have believed he has heard, then nods to several others as he passes, walking back to the small cubicle that contains his uniforms, his weapons, and his handful of personal items.
The firewagon to the north will not depart until the following morning, assuming it is on schedule, and that will leave him time to write scrolls to his parents, to Myryan... and to Ryalth... before he follows the majer's advice and talks a last time with the other new undercaptains.
And, as he promised, he will read from Ryalth's book, though he does not know if he understands the Firstborn any better for all the words he has read in the green-silver covered volume.
XIX
As the low orange light of dawn fills the front compartment of the fire-wagon, Lorn yawns and rubs his eyes. Although he had garnered a short night's sleep on a hard cot at the highway transfer station located in Ilypsya-a town beside the Great North Highway that Lorn had never heard of-after more than two days of near-continuous travel from Ilypsya, except for short comfort stops, Lorn is tired. The flickering chaos that envelops the vehicle bothers none of the other passengers, it seems, but Lorn finds himself still studying it. Even though he is no longer a student magus, in a strange fashion the flickering almost seems to nag at him, more so than when he had studied chaos.
The six wheels rumble more loudly than those of the lancer firewagon that had brought him to Ilypsya, but that might well have been because the regular coach carries a good fifty-score stone of goods in the hold between the small front compartment and the larger rear compartment, where a good half-score passengers are squeezed together.
A slight snoring comes from the merchanter in blue shimmercloth slumped in the bench facing Lorn. The trader is a young man no more than a handful of years older than Lorn, if that, but who sports a short brush mustache in a clear effort to appear older. Beside the young merchanter is an older man in deep brown-a wealthy miller returning to Syadtar, Lorn has gathered, and on the far left sleeps another mid-aged man also in brown who has spoken but little since Lorn joined the others at Ilypsya. The last man in the front compartment, to Lorn's left, also sleeping, wears the crimson-trimmed brown of a regional guard, but the silver stars in his collar signify that he is a district commander. As Lorn's eyes light on him, his head turns, and he emits a grunt.
Ignoring the ripe odor of male bodies confined in too warm a space for too long, Lorn stifles another yawn and shifts his weight on the curved and lightly padded white oak of the seat he has to share only with the district guard commander, at least until the next stop, unless that stop is Syadtar. Each firewagon, Lorn knows, can make but one run to Syadtar and back before the chaos in the cells in the back of the vehicle must be replenished, and the vehicle makes but two round trips every eightday. Were he not a lancer officer, Lorn's passage-fare would have been at least a gold-and in the crowded rear compartment.
Abruptly, the merchanter sits up and glances out the window. "Getting close to Syadtar, I see."
Lorn follows the other's eyes, but the hills to the north look no different to him from the ones he had seen the night
Lorn is not so sure that he would be equally happy with all duties, but since he has no choice over his duty assignment, he sees no point in comparing the potential satisfaction of duty assignments he would be unlikely to get. "I'll talk to you later, and you can tell me where you're headed."
"I will," promises Kyl.
As Lorn turns, he overhears the comments.
"...good as he is... not many make it back from the Hills of Endless Grass...."
"...anyone who does makes full captain and majer quick though...."
"...maybe... but he was magus-born... some don't like that...." Lorn takes in the low words most would not have believed he has heard, then nods to several others as he passes, walking back to the small cubicle that contains his uniforms, his weapons, and his handful of personal items.
The firewagon to the north will not depart until the following morning, assuming it is on schedule, and that will leave him time to write scrolls to his parents, to Myryan... and to Ryalth... before he follows the majer's advice and talks a last time with the other new undercaptains.
And, as he promised, he will read from Ryalth's book, though he does not know if he understands the Firstborn any better for all the words he has read in the green-silver covered volume.
XIX
As the low orange light of dawn fills the front compartment of the fire-wagon, Lorn yawns and rubs his eyes. Although he had garnered a short night's sleep on a hard cot at the highway transfer station located in Ilypsya-a town beside the Great North Highway that Lorn had never heard of-after more than two days of near-continuous travel from Ilypsya, except for short comfort stops, Lorn is tired. The flickering chaos that envelops the vehicle bothers none of the other passengers, it seems, but Lorn finds himself still studying it. Even though he is no longer a student magus, in a strange fashion the flickering almost seems to nag at him, more so than when he had studied chaos.
The six wheels rumble more loudly than those of the lancer firewagon that had brought him to Ilypsya, but that might well have been because the regular coach carries a good fifty-score stone of goods in the hold between the small front compartment and the larger rear compartment, where a good half-score passengers are squeezed together.
A slight snoring comes from the merchanter in blue shimmercloth slumped in the bench facing Lorn. The trader is a young man no more than a handful of years older than Lorn, if that, but who sports a short brush mustache in a clear effort to appear older. Beside the young merchanter is an older man in deep brown-a wealthy miller returning to Syadtar, Lorn has gathered, and on the far left sleeps another mid-aged man also in brown who has spoken but little since Lorn joined the others at Ilypsya. The last man in the front compartment, to Lorn's left, also sleeping, wears the crimson-trimmed brown of a regional guard, but the silver stars in his collar signify that he is a district commander. As Lorn's eyes light on him, his head turns, and he emits a grunt.
Ignoring the ripe odor of male bodies confined in too warm a space for too long, Lorn stifles another yawn and shifts his weight on the curved and lightly padded white oak of the seat he has to share only with the district guard commander, at least until the next stop, unless that stop is Syadtar. Each firewagon, Lorn knows, can make but one run to Syadtar and back before the chaos in the cells in the back of the vehicle must be replenished, and the vehicle makes but two round trips every eightday. Were he not a lancer officer, Lorn's passage-fare would have been at least a gold-and in the crowded rear compartment.
Abruptly, the merchanter sits up and glances out the window. "Getting close to Syadtar, I see."
Lorn follows the other's eyes, but the hills to the north look no different to him from the ones he had seen the night
Similar Books
Return to Winter: Russia, China, and the New Cold War Against America
Douglas E. Schoen, Melik Kaylan
