"Modesitt, L E - Recluce 10 - Magi'i Of Cyador" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

Chyorst nods. "Can't hurt. Might help so long as you remember that maps are only an incomplete representation of what's out there." The overcaptain looks around the study once more before asking, "Have you seen Jostyn, undercaptain?"
"No, ser. Not since last night."
"Thank you." Without another word, the overcaptain steps away from Lorn, and then leaves the officers' study.
Lorn waits for a time before he returns to his letters.


XXXII

After entering the square tower that holds the sub-majer's study, removing his winter jacket and brushing the dampness from the oiled white leather, Lorn hangs it on one of the pegs on the wall rack set forward of Kielt's table.
"Go ahead, ser," says the senior squad leader. "He's waiting."
"Thank you, Kielt." With a nod to the lancer ranker, Lorn opens the white oak door and steps into the oblong room on the first floor of the square tower. As usual, Sub-Majer Brevyl looks up from the table desk with the hard green eyes that are half-bemused, half-impatient. The submajer's thick white hair has been trimmed shorter than normal, shorter even than that of a new lancer recruit. He motions for Lorn to take one of the armless chairs facing him.
Although the late afternoon is cloudy, with the indirect light from the high windows weak, only one of the lamps in the pair of wall sconces is lit, and the single lamp does little to dispel the gloom. Sleet patters on the glass of the windows, briefly.
Lorn eases himself into the proffered chair, then waits for his whip-thin commanding officer to speak.
"Undercaptain," says the sub-majer dryly, "your next patrols will be the most dangerous for some time."
"Ser?" Lorn eases forward in the chair, knowing that reaction is exactly the opposite of what Brevyl intends.
"It's simple. You've survived a raid or two. You're beginning to know the land and your men and squad leaders, and it's almost spring. You think you know something." The white-haired officer barely pauses. "Don't you?"
"More than when I came, but I have more to learn, ser." Lorn can sense that an answer of some sort is required.
"So much more that you might as well say you still know nothing. If you think the winter patrols were nasty, you don't know what a tough patrol is. If you thought freezing to and from Ram's End was disagreeable..." Brevyl shakes his head. "In another eightday, the barbarians will begin their spring raids. Everyone has been telling you how tough that will be, but I'd wager that no one has told you why. Do you know why?"
"No, ser."
"Because a raider's life isn't worth dung until he's killed three lancers-or more. He can't take a woman from his own clan-they do know about inbreeding-and he can't take a woman from another clan without those kills. So he has to kill lancers to get laid, because their women are property, and playing around with a proven warrior's daughter could cost him his personal jewels or his life. And if he takes a Cyadoran woman, she's fair game to be stolen or raped by any blooded warrior. Same thing if he takes a woman from one of those dirty hamlets or villages they call towns."
Lorn nods slowly.
"Their women aren't any great prizes, and the few good ones go to the proven warriors or the young ones crazy enough to take on a Mirror Lancer company... or smart enough to get away with it." Bervyl shakes his head. "All you are is an obstacle in the way of some young barbarian buck's crotch-ambitions, a game counter to add to the stack so he can stop having damp dreams and start in on the real thing."
"You make it sound like they don't think life is worth much, ser." Lorn says quietly.
"Until a barbarian gets to be a full-blooded warrior, it isn't," Brevyl replies dryly. "I tell this to every young undercaptain who comes through. They all hear me out, and then more than half of them die in their first spring or summer." A snort follows a brief pause. "I don't care about the stupid ones dying. Better that way than letting them grow up and getting entire outposts all killed off. But stupid officers can kill good lancers, and good lancers are getting hard to come by these days."
"Yes, ser."
Brevyl draws a deep breath.
The mannerism is deliberate. Lorn can't imagine Brevyl being that dramatic naturally. The undercaptain waits for the next verbal riposte.
"One other thing... Undercaptain."
Despite his resolve, Lorn stiffens ever so slightly within himself.
"No lancer officer with magus blood leaves Isahl until I say he does, just like none leave the Geliendra outpost until Maran says he does. No lancer with magus blood gets to be a majer until we both let him go on, not that there have ever been many of you." Brevyl smiles. "Tomorrow, you're headed east. The attacks are later there, and the raider bands smaller. Plan on being out an eightday, and being attacked twice. At least. So be careful how you use your firelances."
Lorn nods respectfully.
Brevyl stands to dismiss the undercaptain. "Just try to remember half what I told you, and you'll live longer and save more of your lancers. And they're the ones who will keep you alive." Brevyl inclines his head toward the study door.
"Thank you, ser."
"Don't thank me, Undercaptain. Just remember."
Lorn leaves the study, nodding to Kielt as he closes the door behind him. He takes his jacket and dons it before walking from the square tower out to the courtyard and into the sleet that has returned to pelt roofs, stones, and lancers like.


XXXIII

In the cold sun of late morning, the brown grass stretches unmarked for at least three kays in every direction from the narrow road on which Lorn and Nytral ride eastward. Nearly two kays ahead of them are two scouts, large black dots on the brown line of the road that slowly climbs the long swell that is not steep enough to be a ridge or hill. Behind Nytral and Lorn ride the two squads of the Fifth Company.
"Still another ten kays to Pregyn," Nytral says.
The senior squad leader's words are barely audible above the impacts of hoofs on the road and the rising whistling of the wind that sweeps southward across the fields that only hold last year's browned and flattened grass. With the wind comes the odor of vegetation that has molded, frozen, and thawed-an acrid scent, sour but slightly sweet.
"The maps show that the road's flat. Is it?" asks Lorn. He has never been northeast of this unnamed valley, let alone to Pregyn, a hamlet a good forty kays to the north of Isahl and the northernmost and most isolated of the communities south of the Grass Hills to claim allegiance to Cyad and the Emperor.
"Most ways. The climb out of Four-Holders-next valley-is steeper than the way in, but it's flat after that, bog-like until you get to the real hills that border the Westhorns."
At the crest of the hill, Lorn slows his mount and studies the long and sinuous valley that holds four families-a clan structure almost, Lorn suspects, from the layout of the holdings with their multiple dwellings and community stock barns. Each holding has an earthen berm around its buildings and stock pens-earthen because trees are far too scarce and more valuable for shade or fruit or windbreaks than for timber.
In the depression on the northern side of the valley, a kay from where the Fifth Company descends the hill, there are long parallel trenches. Lorn nods-peatworks. The two scouts have now almost ridden to a point on the road abreast of the peat diggings, although the road is more than a kay south of the boggy depression, and little more than a thin lane winds over the rolling grasslands from the main road to the bog.
Slightly flattened by the wind, trails of smoke rise from the chimneys of all four holdings. A good sign, reflects the undercaptain.
"Not real friendly-like here," cautions Nytral about the time when they reach the beginning of the valley floor and the road turns more to the northeast, angling across the long and curving valley.
"Any reason?"
"Say we don't come here enough, let 'em take the barbarian attacks by themselves."