Scion of Cyador (65 page)

“I believe I do,” says Vyel.

“I would hate to see such invoices as these appear publicly. I do have a soft spot in my heart for you and your elder brother.” Tasjan shrugs. “Yet… in these troubled times, one must do as one can.”

“Most honored Tasjan… ?” Vyel inclines his head.

“You wish to know why I cannot deal with this myself?” Tasjan smiles. “Because the Magi’i follow my every movement with their chaos-glasses, and not being a magus, I know not when I am watched. So I can talk to other merchanters, my family, shopkeepers, and the like. I cannot act on my own behalf, not at the moment, much as I would prefer it, for there is less chance of failure when I can.” The smile fades. “My limits are your opportunity. The opportunity may not exist that long. And while you have good contacts, Vyel, my others are also good, and could accomplish… other ends, if indirectly. I would prefer to use a man who has much to gain, and who wishes to avoid disgrace, rather than one merely paid in golds. I’m sure you understand.”

“I understand. You must realize that matters such as you have suggested cannot occur overnight.”

“Not overnight. No. But these invoices will be either burned or public within the eightday. The choice is yours, Vyel.” Tasjan offers a last smile, and wraps his cloak about him. “Good day.”

The younger man stares along the stone pier, out toward the oncoming storm, for a time before he turns.

CXXVIII

As Lorn passes the fountain, its cold spray drifting around him, he wonders if they should shut off the water to it before long. Then he smiles as he sees Ryalth standing on the veranda, waiting for him. She is not smiling.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“Mryran sent a messenger, saying that she wasn’t feeling that well, and asking if she could come another time,” says the red-haired trader. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“I worry about her,” Lorn replies, stepping forward and hugging his consort.

Ryalth hugs him back, warmly, but for a moment. “She also sent word that she must have dinner with Ciesrt’s parents tomorrow, and that she will need to be strong for that.” She shakes her head. “I would not wish to wear her boots.”

“We’re all different. I doubt she’d wish to wear yours.” He glances around. “Where’s Kerial?”

“Sleeping. He was awake all afternoon. I didn’t have to meet with any outlanders, and that was fine. I just hope he isn’t awake all night.”

“Two of us share that wish,” Lorn affirms, following her into the foyer from the chill of the veranda.

“Don’t you think it’s strange?” Ryalth asks, turning as they stand in the sitting room just off the front foyer. “We’ve never met Ciesrt’s family. Vernt and Mycela have, but we haven’t.”

“We’re not Magi’i,” Lorn points out. “The honorable Kharl’elth appears to count that of great importance. Even to encouraging Ceyla to consort to Rustyl.”

“That was last eightday, Myryan said.”

Lorn shrugs. “You see. We weren’t considered important enough to invite.”

“I’m glad we’re not. I’m glad you’re not. You’re better than they are.”

“So are you,” Lorn replies with a smile. “So are you.” He embraces her again.

CXXIX

The only four sitting around the Majer-Commander’s conference table are Commander Muyro, Commander Shykt, Rynst, and Lorn. Although the morning sun streams through the windows behind the Majer-Commander, a cold wind whistles outside the closed windows.

“You had three of the large portable firecannon around the
Accursed
Forest
, and three smaller cannon, did you not?” Rynst looks at the dark-faced Muyro.

“Yes, ser. Two remain there. One of each has been stored in one of the Mirror Engineer warehouses in Fyrad, as you requested.”

“I would like you to make arrangements to bring those two now in Fyrad here to Cyad, as soon as you can.”

The faintest of nods comes from Shykt.

“Ser?” Muyro looks puzzled. “That will bring them farther from the
Accursed
Forest
.”

“The
Accursed
Forest
is not the problem it once was.” Rynst pauses, then goes on, almost wearily. “As you know, Commander, we now have four fireships, and perhaps we will have but three in the eightdays or seasons to come. But the firecannon will work so long as the Magi’i operate even a single chaos-tower. The Emperor has suggested that a firecannon or two might well provide greater protection for Cyad-and, upon occasion, its power could be demonstrated for the benefit of the outland traders.”

“Ah… yes, ser… but it could easily destroy… many things… here in Cyad.”

“In fact,” Rynst replies, “it may be used for such. We will be needing it… for a number of practical reasons here.”

Muyro glances across the table at Shykt, who shrugs to indicate he has no words to add.

“How soon could you arrange for the two to be transported here, Commander Shykt?”

“I would have to talk to Commander Inylt, ser, but it is no more than three days by fireship, if we could use one to bring them here. If we use a merchanter vessel, it will take an eightday, perhaps longer, if there are none with cargo space for something that large. And it will cost quite a few golds if we use a merchanter vessel.”

“You have permission to request a fireship… if that is what you were seeking.” Rynst’s smile is cold.

“Thank you, ser. We will work to have the two firecannon here as quickly as possible. Do you wish them kept in the Mirror Lancer supply warehouse?”

“Is there adequate space there-where they will be safe?” asks the Majer-Commander.

“Yes, ser. We can have an iron gate in place on the empty side in the time it will take to bring them here.”

“Good.” Rynst looks at Muyro. “You and Shykt work with Commander Inylt. I’ll expect the firecannon in less than two eightdays.”

“Yes, ser.”

“You all may go.” Rynst stands.

In the foyer outside the study, the bearded Muyro turns to Lorn. “You would not know what this is all about, would you, Majer?”

“I understand that the Emperor has asked the Majer-Commander to find a way to show the outlanders the power of Cyador,” Lorn replies. “I imagine, although no one has said anything to me, that a firecannon could be most impressive. Those used by the Mirror Engineers when I had a company at Jakaafra were extremely effective.”

Muyro shakes his head and turns, muttering to the curly-haired Shykt, “A firecannon, in Cyad. What order-fired good will that do?”

“We are not here to question the Majer-Commander, Muyro,” Shykt responds. “We are to make sure his orders are carried out. We should find Inylt before the Majer-Commander contacts him directly…”

Lorn turns toward the steps that will take him down to his study, and the short report he must write on the meeting.

CXXX

Six people sit around the long table that could easily hold twice that number. The three men all wear the white shimmercloth of the Magi’i, and two of the women wear white tunics and trousers, trimmed in pale green. The third woman-the one with curly black hair-wears the green of a healer.

The light cast from the shimmering cupridium reflectors of the wall lamps blankets the formal dining room with a warm glow, and turns the white linen into a pale gold. The golden-oak backs of the carved dining chairs are sculpted into smoothly interlocking arcs, none quite forming a complete circle.

The older magus who sits at the head of the table is the only one of the three with the crossed lightning bolts glimmering on the breast of his shimmercloth tunic. The others wear but a single such lightning bolt. After taking another small sip of the maroon Fhynyco, the older magus turns his eyes to the healer who sits to his left.

“Your brother Vernt… he is most dedicated to the Magi’i.”

“He always has been,” replies Myryan.

“And your older sister?” asks Kharl’elth politely.

“She remains a healer. As you know, she has found healing to be her calling.”

“Without a consort, alas.”

“There is a need for some healers who remain without consort.” Myryan smiles politely, lifting her glass of redberry, but barely sipping any of the juice.

Kharl inclines his head to the thin-faced healer. “Your ability to assist the… lower… healers, and your aid to the officers of the Mirror Lancers, are most remarkable, Myryan. And your actions have bestowed much honor upon your consort and this house.”

Myryan bows her head. “What little I do but is but a trifle in the light that already shines forth from this house.”

“Modest, she is, as well.” Kharl turns his eyes from Myryan to the tall and broad-shouldered Ciesrt. “Yet she is talented in healing, and in teaching her craft, and from a most distinguished lineage, and with a garden with which few compare.”

Myryan lowers her eyes.

“She is most remarkable as a consort.” Ciesrt beams. “In so very many ways. I look forward to coming home each day.”

“And you are most fortunate, my son,” adds the white-haired woman who sits at the end of the table opposite Kharl. “Remember that in years to come.”

Myryan covers her mouth and swallows quietly, her eyes remaining downcast.

In the dimness of the dining room, and against the distant lightning of the fall storm over the harbor, the vague unseen luminescence of chaos perceived by four of those around the table, and with the flickering of the lamps in wall sconces, none remark upon the faint and also unseen mist of darkness that lifts away from Kharl.

Nor do any note the sudden pallor that crosses Myryan’s face. The healer takes a slow sip of wine, and steadies herself beneath the level of the table with her left hand-the one that had been resting in her lap. Her eyes remain demurely downcast, not meeting those around the table for some time.

When she does raise her head, ever so slightly, an enigmatic smile plays across her lips momentarily.

CXXXI

SSsssssss… ssss… sssss…

Lorn is wide-awake even before the second hiss of the watchgeese, and the Brystan sabre is in his hand, even as he sends out his perceptions. The corridor outside the door is empty.

“What… ?” Ryalth sits bolt upright almost as quickly as Lorn has.

“Bolt the door after me,” he whispers to Ryalth as he holds the Brystan sabre ready and pads toward the bedchamber door.

She follows him to the door, wordlessly.

He pauses, letting his senses recheck the hall, but it is empty, and he steps out, blade ready. The door closes behind him, Ryalth sliding the latch into place. Step by quiet step, he descends to the main level, but the house remains empty, and he moves toward the foyer and the steps up to the veranda.

Rrrrr… eeeekkk… The dull squeaking, straining sound comes from the door from the veranda to the foyer.

Abruptly there is a single clanging sound, as if a long iron bar has fallen on the stone tiles of the veranda. Lorn’s perceptions tell him that two figures are beyond the heavy oak door. After waiting until his senses tell him that the two have turned from the door, he slides the latch-bar open and slips out, trying to use the blurring shield, then dropping it as he can sense it will distract him far too much.

Both intruders have blades in position and are moving toward the gray-haired form of Pheryk, who holds a lancer sabre at the ready.

Lorn steps forward silently, and from behind the two, his chaos-aided blade severs the taller man’s torso from his head.

The second figure glances sideways, momentarily, and both Lorn and Pheryk strike.

Pheryk’s blade cuts into the bravo’s sword arm, and the double-edged Austran blade clanks on the stones.

Lorn slashes through the man’s knee, using chaos as much as cupridium. “Don’t kill him.”

Two geese still hiss loudly-Lorn can see two other white shapes lying on the grass beside the walk.

As three other men in black appear on the edge of the veranda, longer blades flickering toward Lorn, he eases himself well around the fallen bravo, careful not to step on the fallen blade, and very glad of his ability to see in the darkness.

Two of the men attack Lorn, and the third goes for Pheryk.

Lorn parries the heavier Austran blade of the first to attack him, then steps back, mustering chaos, and flinging a crude firebolt in the face of the second.

“Aeeüi…” The man screams, dropping his blade.

The first bravo cannot help but gape, if but momentarily, at the chaos-fire, and that gaping is enough for Lorn’s chaos-aided sabre to slash up through gut and ribs. As the man staggers, trying to turn his blade, Lorn’s second cut takes his wrist.

Cluunnggg. The sound of the Austran blade echoes dully across the veranda.

The chaos-fire-ravaged figure staggers, then collapses, and the sound of yet another fallen blade reverberates through the night.

Lorn turns, just in time to see Pheryk’s blade slash through the neck of the third bravo. Lorn then glances around quickly, sending his perceptions out past the now-silent fountain, but he can sense no movement, hears no sounds but those of the geese hissing, and the moaning of the fallen bravo who lies on the stones of the veranda. He looks at Pheryk, who cleans his blade on the black cloth of the runic of the man he has dispatched.

Pheryk looks at Lorn. “Fine bladework, ser. Just bladework.”

“Just bladework, Pheryk,” Lorn agrees. “From what I can tell, there aren’t any more, and the geese are quieting.” He turns back to the one living figure lying on the stones, but addresses his words to the old lancer. “You watch the garden, just in case, please. I want some answers.”

“Yes, ser.” Pheryk, who, like Lorn, is barefoot, but who wears a pair of trousers, steps out to the edge of the veranda.

Lorn edges the fallen blade well out of reach of the badly wounded man. “Who sent you?”

The bravo grimaces and tries to spit. Lorn slashes his cheek.