Scion of Cyador (7 page)

Lorn shakes his head, ruefully, yawning. Such philosophical speculations will not help in accomplishing what he must. He yawns once more, then stands and turns out the light. He has much to do on the morrow, as he does on every morrow.

XV

The two men stand on the end of a white stone pier at which no vessels are tied. Under the heavy clouds of a chill spring day, the wind creates small whitecaps on the choppy gray-blue waters of the
harbor
of
Cyad
. Halfway toward the shore are two groups of guards, each by a separate bollard. One set of guards is clad in green uniforms, with gold trim, the second and smaller group in shapeless blue. All the guards watch the two merchanters who face each other.

Both men are beardless and wear blue shimmercloth. One is ponderous, tall, heavy, and his brown eyes seem almost hidden by heavy lids. His dark brown hair, though trimmed carefully, is thinning and lank and flops in the wind. The second merchanter is of average height, and trim. His hair is sandy-colored, tinged with silver-gray, and his eyes are hazel.

The heavy merchanter looks down at the smaller man. “Most honored Clan Head Tasjan, I have heard that there are those in the Dyjani Clan who murmur about the need for change among the merchanters.”

“There are always those who wish change.” Tasjan’s voice is a mellow and deep bass, surprisingly for one so slender.

“The words are for more than change. There is talk about who will be Emperor.”

“There have always been some who ask, ‘Is it not time for a merchanter Emperor? Can we not support with our blades and golds someone who will live in the years to come? Can we not do away with those who revere the cracked and failing vase of the past?’ ” Tasjan laughs. “I have heard such questions since I was a boy. So have you.”

“Such questions are dangerous now,” Bluoyal observes. “Because the Emperor is aging, Bluoyal? Or because he is less than satisfied with his Merchanter Advisor?”

“Remember, Tasjan, I was the one who calmed Fuyol when he wo have hired blades to dismember you and your heirs, and the one who counseled patience.”

“I appreciate your efforts, my old and valued friend.” Tasjan shrugs. “Yet none would accept his golds, and now he is dying, and all look the other way.”

“There was the matter of a Dyjani trade plaque,” Bluoyal points out. “And a Brystan sabre refinished in cupridium. And the Dyjani are the ones who trade most in sabres from Brysta-the only ones, as I recall.”

“Everyone knows we alone trade in such arms, excepting, of course, Bluyet House, which also does, but we know that the Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor is far above suspicion,” Tasjan replies. “That is why it was meaningless. It was an easy way to cast suspicion.”

“And why,” asks Bluoyal with a laugh, “would anyone wish to cast suspicion upon the most honorable Dyjani Clan? Because you are all so beloved?”

Tasjan returns the laugh. “We are most beloved, for we are the most successful at competing with the Hamorians in all that they do.”

“Beloved or not, most honored and ancient friend, now is not the time for merchanters to raise questions. Time favors us more than action. Rynst grows older by the day, and without him, the Mirror Lancers will not know which way to point their blades. Chyenfel holds to life by sheer force of will against chaos, and when Kharl succeeds him, chaos will meet chaos, for the Second Magus will not support young Rustyl as a successor to the Malachite Throne-nor anyone supported by Rynst.” Bluoyal shakes his head. “The Second Magus would be Emperor, and yet he cannot see that few even within the Quarter of the Magi’i will support him.”

“He is a powerful mage, as is his son,” Tasjan counters. “The fourth magus, who has balanced all, is failing, many say, and his daughter is consorted to Kharl’s son. Many would support Kharl because he has a son, and for the sake of the daughter of the fourth magus, and to ensure that there would be an heir. The Empire cannot stand another Emperor without heirs, not in these times.”

“And when the Second Magus fails… then what?” asks Bluoyal. “Will you then offer yourself as the man of the merchanters-or of the people?”

“I cannot imagine that happening,” Tasjan replies.

Despite the cool wind, Bluoyal blots his forehead with a pale blue square of cloth that momentarily covers his entire visage. His brown eyes are hard as he studies the slender, sandy-haired merchanter. “You have talked of the failure of the Magi’i to others. Why will you not admit it to me?”

“Because you meet too often with Chyenfel and Kharl.” Tasjan shrugs. “I will not admit such even now. I do believe, as do you, that there will come a time when a merchanter must sit upon the Malachite Throne. When that time will be, I do not know. Nor do you.”

“You wager that time will be soon, and you are the merchanter, and your guards under Sasyk will make sure that at least some will make you such an offer.”

Tasjan smiles. “While I would scarce refuse such, who would ever offer that to me-the head of the oh-so-beloved Dyjani Clan? As for Sasyk, you know that he is but to protect the interests of the House.”

The older and heavier merchanter shakes his head ponderously. “You play with chaos-flame, my friend.”

“You will be burned by such flames sooner than I, Bluoyal, for you are far closer to them, and Cyad is less than kind to those who cannot balance the chaos of chaos and the chaos of man.”

“You seem most concerned for my welfare.”

“I am, indeed, for if you fail, who will be Merchanter Advisor?” asks Tasjan. “I would not wish it to be Veljan, for reasons we all know. Nor Vyanat, who is all that you claim I am. And beloved as I am, who would wish me? Does that mean we would see someone like Kernys? Or the lady trader, the one who makes us look magnanimous in our petty revenges? No… I would much prefer you not fail.”

“For now,” suggests Bluoyal.

“But, of course.” Tasjan laughs. “Would you have me lie outright?”

Bluoyal laughs as well, even as he lifts the wide blue cloth to blot his perspiring face once more.

XVI

In the early-morning light that brightens his overcaptain’s study, Lorn pores over the map of Biehl before him, trying to link what he has seen so far in the town with the old cartographic information. Some material he can see is outdated, for the map shows four piers in the harbor, and several structures that may have been warehouses that exist no longer.

His earlier perusal of the records in Helkyt’s study also shows that at one time, the commandant of the compound had been a majer or sub-majer, and that there had been three companies quartered in the compound. He straightens and shakes his head, knowing he must act quickly and decisively, even before he knows enough to do so. He also knows that such actions must show as little as possible, for an intelligent officer who is young for his rank is already suspect.

“Ser?” Helkyt peers in the study door. “Have you been here long?”

“Since around dawn, I think.” Lorn laughs. “Come on in and tell me about the Emperor’s Enumerators. Close the door.”

Helkyt closes the door and takes the seat nearest the wall. He brushes back a thin and long strand of blond hair, unconsciously swirling it over the top of his scalp where most of his hair has already vanished. “Mayhap… mayhap, ser, as you said, best you know about the Emperor’s Enumerators here in Biehl, afore you visit such.” Helkyt’s brow is perspiring, despite the cool air in the study.

“Tell me,” Lorn says easily.

“There be three enumerators-Flutak, Neabyl, and Comyr. Senior Enumerator Flutak,” Helkyt says, “he is in charge of administering and collecting the tariffs here. Neabyl inspects the vessels to ensure they carry no contraband, and Comyr is the most junior. He will do whatever the elder enumerators request.”

“How long has Flutak been the senior enumerator?”

Helkyt shrugs uneasily. “He has been such long before I was posted here.”

“And you have been here?”

“Near-on eight years, ser.”

“Does Flutak spend much time with the local traders and merchants? Or does he have relations among any merchant house?”

Helkyt moistens his lips. Finally, he speaks. “Not that I’d be knowing, ser, not for certain. Some say he has powerful relatives in Cyad. In Biehl, he is said to be close to the olive-grower Baryat… mayhap others, but those I’ve not heard.”

Lorn nods. “What about Neabyl?”

“He came but five years ago, and Comyr three.”

“Do any of them have consorts here?”

“Flutak has none, though it is said he has a mistress, the youngest daughter of Baryat. Baryat holds many lands to the south and west. There it is drier and more sunny.”

“Are many barrels of olives shipped from Biehl?”

“More olives than most anything else, ser. Excepting clay, and that is worth far less.”

What Lorn does not understand-or fears he does-is the most obvious nature of what Helkyt reveals.

“And Neabyl?”

“His consort lives in Summerdock, and it is said that she will not so much as visit Biehl. Comyr-he is young, and has none, none that any would know.”

“I don’t suppose you would know who those powerful relatives of Flutak might be, or whether they might be related to any in major trading houses?”

“That I would not, ser.”

“You can return to whatever you were working on, Helkyt. We’ll depart to see the enumerators in a bit. I have a few notes I would like to make.”

“Yes, ser.” Helkyt rises gingerly.

Lorn adds several items to the personal list that has gotten alarmingly long in less than the full day since he arrived in Biehl, then leaves his study.

In the outer study, Helkyt looks up from a stack of papers. “Ser?”

“I’ll meet you at the stable.”

“Be there in a moment, ser, if you will.”

Lorn nods and slips out, past the door to the unused room across the corridor, the room that seems designed to be an audience chamber or some sort of official function space. Outside, the wind is stronger than earlier, but warmer and out of the south.

He is met at the stable by an ostler who, like many of those at Biehl, is older-white-haired and missing a good fraction of his teeth. “I be Chulhyr, ser.” He looks at the uniform speculatively.

“I’m Lorn, the new overcaptain. I arrived yesterday, but you were not here, Helkyt said.” Lorn smiles. “I need a mount. If you could recommend a good one…”

“You be wanting a stallion, ser?”

Lorn laughs. “I’d like a mount that will do as I wish and not argue about it.”

The ostler laughs back. “Yes, ser.”

As Chulhyr is leading out a chestnut mare, Helkyt hurries across the courtyard and arrives, breathing heavily. The ostler looks at Lorn. “She be having a will, but a firm hand be all you need.”

“Thank you.” Lorn studies the mare, then swings himself up into the saddle, where he checks the Brystan sabre. Then he and Helkyt ride across the courtyard.

“Have you found anyone to cart off the rubbish?” Lorn asks as they ride through the compound gates and past another too-young lancer guard.

“I’ll be knowing that this afternoon, ser.”

“And you’ll have names for instructors?”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn nods. “Tell me about the places we pass, if you would.”

“Yes, ser.” Helkyt clears his throat. “There be the warehouse for the olive-growers, where they store the olives while they season, and beyond that be the potters, save that Aluyt casts but the large jars for seed oils and the like…”

Lorn listens as they ride back toward the harbor, trying to fix the names and the structures in his mind, and match them to the map he has studied earlier. As when he had first entered Biehl, he sees few souls out and around the ancient town.

The enumerators’ single-story building stands west of the piers, and slightly to the south of the chandlery, a square structure fifty cubits on a side, partly hidden from the rest of Biehl by a tall hedge. The green shutters are freshly painted, the panes of the windows clean of the salt that streaks the panes of the lancer barracks and, indeed, even of the windows of Lorn’s quarters.

Lorn and Helkyt rein up at the side of the structure, where there are several stone hitching-posts, dismount, and tether their horses, before making their way to the square arched doorway. Inside is a narrow table, at which is seated a brown-haired young man in blue, whose tunic bears thin cream-and-green piping.

“Master Squad Leader,” says the enumerator.

“Comyr,” returns Helkyt, “this be Overcaptain Lorn. He is the new commander of the Mirror Lancers, and he has come to call on the senior enumerators.”

“They had heard of such, and both will be glad to see you, Overcaptain.” Comyr bows. “If you would but come with me.” Comyr ushers them through a set of double doors into a large room, similar to the one in the lancers’ headquarters building, except two men are seated at the table on the dais, with several stacks of paper between them.

The two rise. Both senior enumerators wear the same type of uniform: blue tunics over green trousers, with cream-colored web belts. On the forearms of their sleeves are two gold slashes.

“Senior Enumerators, this is Overcaptain Lorn,” Helkyt announces. “Overcaptain, Flutak… and Neabyl.”

Flutak bows. He is a broad man, almost totally bald, but with a muscular form that any barbarian might indeed admire. Although he is cleanshaven, his eyebrows are white and bushy, and white hairs straggle from his ears. “I am pleased to see that Biehl once more has a capable lancer officer.” His voice is a mellow tenor.

“And I, too.” Although Neabyl is small, black-haired, and wiry, he speaks with a deep baritone.

Lorn bows but slightly in response.

“And what might we be doing for you, Overcaptain?” asks Flutak.

“I was just here to tell you that I have been sent to Biehl by the Majer-Commander to train and rebuild the garrison, and to take a more active role in supporting the Emperor’s Enumerators.” Lorn smiles easily. “I thought it best you know that.”

“Perhaps we should talk for a moment.” Flutak moves gracefully toward the corner of the room and returns with two armless oak chairs. He sets one at each end of the oblong table. All four men seat themselves at the narrow oblong table.