and out the courtyard door, carrying the two pieces of the door bar. He climbs back over the wall, making a wide circuit of the villa.
The chestnut remains tied to the golden oak sapling. “Easy there…” Lorn unties her and mounts quickly, still carrying the wooden bar.
He rides slowly and carefully away from the villa. Neither the glass nor his chaos-senses had revealed the woman’s presence until he had killed the enumerator. Had he spared her, Lorn would likely have doomed himself. As it is, he treads a narrow and dangerous path.
He can tell himself that the woman was not totally innocent. The fact that she was probably the daughter of the olive-grower Baryat, who has doubtless been receiving special treatment from Flutak, suggests that the conspiracy to divert tariffs is not solely Flutak’s doing. The elaborate luxury of the villa and the guards only testify to Flutak’s corruption. Any woman who partook of the fruits of that corruption has made a choice.
But did she, really? Lorn knows his own sisters have few real choices. Was this woman any different?
Yet… what choices did Lorn have? If he had spared her, she would have given an alarm, and all too soon the trail would have pointed to Lorn.
Could Lorn have found some more clever way to deal with Flutak?
Perhaps his father could have, but Lorn has already found that his strengths do not lie in scheming, but in acting. With all the schemes already laid against him, he fears that not to act swiftly would have been his undoing.
And innocent men do not hire assassins immediately upon meeting a Mirror Lancer officer who only pledges to carry out his duty.
But… that does not change the sickening feeling that twists Lorn’s guts. Nor the anger that goes with his sadness and regret. Anger that he is faced once more with situations where no choices are perfect, and anger at himself for not foreseeing the complications.
Lorn rides slowly along the road back toward the compound.
A kay farther along toward the harbor, he drops the door bar’s sections into a drainage ditch. His head throbs, and even in the darkness, he is seeing double images. He has drawn far more chaos from around him than is wise, and used it far more than he would have preferred, and partly in ways he regrets… and will always regret.
XVIII
Lorn is at his study desk early the next morning-though not at dawn, not after the long night he has had, and the dreams about the young woman, who has appeared in them… pleading, her face taking on Myryan’s countenance, perhaps because Lorn had never really seen her visage. For a time, he looks blankly in the direction of the open window.
Trying to push away the image of the pleading figure, he tries to draft the phrases that may prove useful in dealing with Neabyl, the remaining senior enumerator, when Helkyt appears.
“Ser?”
“Yes, Helkyt?”
“There be a problem, ser.”
Lorn raises his eyebrows. He can think of several, though they seem trivial compared to his dreams of Flutak’s mistress. “Yes?”
“Mayhap not a problem, but a matter most strange.”
“What might it be?”
“You see, ser, there is a man. His name is Drakyt. None knows how he lives, but folk die, usually from blades stuck in them in the dead of night, and thereafter Drakyt has coin enough for good raiment and the best ale.”
Lorn nods for Helkyt to continue.
“This morn, the guards heard mounts outside the walls, and when they went to see, there were three horses tethered there on the west side, well away from the gate. One of the mounts was a black that none but Drakyt can ride, or so ‘tis said.” The senior squad leader pauses, then continues as he sees that Lorn will not question. “There was also a hempen seaman’s rope, tarred black, fastened over the wall. But none have seen any men within the compound.”
Lorn shrugs. “Perhaps the guards scared them off. Until they show up to claim their mounts, all we can do is stable the
The chestnut remains tied to the golden oak sapling. “Easy there…” Lorn unties her and mounts quickly, still carrying the wooden bar.
He rides slowly and carefully away from the villa. Neither the glass nor his chaos-senses had revealed the woman’s presence until he had killed the enumerator. Had he spared her, Lorn would likely have doomed himself. As it is, he treads a narrow and dangerous path.
He can tell himself that the woman was not totally innocent. The fact that she was probably the daughter of the olive-grower Baryat, who has doubtless been receiving special treatment from Flutak, suggests that the conspiracy to divert tariffs is not solely Flutak’s doing. The elaborate luxury of the villa and the guards only testify to Flutak’s corruption. Any woman who partook of the fruits of that corruption has made a choice.
But did she, really? Lorn knows his own sisters have few real choices. Was this woman any different?
Yet… what choices did Lorn have? If he had spared her, she would have given an alarm, and all too soon the trail would have pointed to Lorn.
Could Lorn have found some more clever way to deal with Flutak?
Perhaps his father could have, but Lorn has already found that his strengths do not lie in scheming, but in acting. With all the schemes already laid against him, he fears that not to act swiftly would have been his undoing.
And innocent men do not hire assassins immediately upon meeting a Mirror Lancer officer who only pledges to carry out his duty.
But… that does not change the sickening feeling that twists Lorn’s guts. Nor the anger that goes with his sadness and regret. Anger that he is faced once more with situations where no choices are perfect, and anger at himself for not foreseeing the complications.
Lorn rides slowly along the road back toward the compound.
A kay farther along toward the harbor, he drops the door bar’s sections into a drainage ditch. His head throbs, and even in the darkness, he is seeing double images. He has drawn far more chaos from around him than is wise, and used it far more than he would have preferred, and partly in ways he regrets… and will always regret.
XVIII
Lorn is at his study desk early the next morning-though not at dawn, not after the long night he has had, and the dreams about the young woman, who has appeared in them… pleading, her face taking on Myryan’s countenance, perhaps because Lorn had never really seen her visage. For a time, he looks blankly in the direction of the open window.
Trying to push away the image of the pleading figure, he tries to draft the phrases that may prove useful in dealing with Neabyl, the remaining senior enumerator, when Helkyt appears.
“Ser?”
“Yes, Helkyt?”
“There be a problem, ser.”
Lorn raises his eyebrows. He can think of several, though they seem trivial compared to his dreams of Flutak’s mistress. “Yes?”
“Mayhap not a problem, but a matter most strange.”
“What might it be?”
“You see, ser, there is a man. His name is Drakyt. None knows how he lives, but folk die, usually from blades stuck in them in the dead of night, and thereafter Drakyt has coin enough for good raiment and the best ale.”
Lorn nods for Helkyt to continue.
“This morn, the guards heard mounts outside the walls, and when they went to see, there were three horses tethered there on the west side, well away from the gate. One of the mounts was a black that none but Drakyt can ride, or so ‘tis said.” The senior squad leader pauses, then continues as he sees that Lorn will not question. “There was also a hempen seaman’s rope, tarred black, fastened over the wall. But none have seen any men within the compound.”
Lorn shrugs. “Perhaps the guards scared them off. Until they show up to claim their mounts, all we can do is stable the
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