Scion of Cyador (73 page)

Lorn continues westward on the unnamed lane at the back of the dwelling until he reaches the gnarled tree that stands perhaps fifty cubits east of the west corner. He thinks the tree is a lorken, whose dark wood resists most axes and all but the sharpest saws. The tree is far shorter than the others, and its topmost branches barely reach the top of the second-level portico columns. Those short branches are sturdy, and the remaining leaves barely move despite the cold wind blowing northward off the harbor.

Lorn eases the blurring shield around himself. He has to jump to grasp the lowermost branch, and then levers himself into the tree. His scabbard slams against his leg, hard enough that it will probably leave a bruise, and he sits on the branch in the fading light, catching his breath for a moment.

Then he begins to climb, testing each branch. The wind that rustles the branches of the taller trees will help, both in disguising any movement of the leaves of the lorken, and in concealing any sounds he may make.

When he stands as high as he can safely go, he is three cubits from the stone railing. To reach the railing will take a leap-one that must be successful or he will fall close to twenty cubits onto hard stone. He extends his chaos-senses, and listens closely, as well. A single guard walks past. Once the man is more than fifteen cubits away, still pacing eastward, Lorn takes a deep breath, then leaps.

Again he must lever himself up and over the railing, and he stands in the shadows of the portico pillars, catching his breath, while he waits for the return of the single guard in green who patrols the corner post of the second-level covered portico that encloses the garden

As the man passes, Lorn steps out, and using his chaos-enhanced Brystan blade, takes a single cut. There is little more than a muted cry, a gurgle, and the sound of a body falling on pebbles.

Lorn wipes his blade on the green tunic of the dead guard, then eases the shortsword from the man’s scabbard. He glances around, letting his chaos-senses scan the area, but no one is near.

He concentrates, and chaos flares across the body. All that remain are some coins, some iron nails, and a few metal studs. Using his kerchief to protect his fingers from the lingering heat, Lorn scoops up the items and tosses them out and over the railing. The faint clink of the coins on the stones below cannot even be heard.

The use of chaos leaves him with a headache-not as bad as some, but one that is more than a mere dull ache. He slips the shortsword through his belt and eases his way along the railing and past one pillar and then another until he reaches the east side of the garden. Then, concealed by his blur-shield, he waits until the next green-clad guard passes before he climbs onto the railing and lifts himself onto the brick step of the chimney. He makes his way up the three huge stepped sides of the chimney.

Tasjan should still be dining. Above him, the study windows are dark yet. While using the blur-shield, Lorn could still follow the trader, anywhere in the dwelling, until he has an opportunity-but the study would be best.

There are three windows. He can reach two from where he stands. The first is shut firmly. The second is closed, but there is a crack there. Slowly, with the back edge of the shortsword, Lorn wiggles it wider, and then wider, until he can pull it open.

Then he jumps and grabs the sill, and slowly drags himself up and into the empty study. He closes the window, slowly and gently, then makes his way to a corner behind the carved desk, a corner where the built-in bookshelves meet.

While there is a temptation to look at the papers and folders on the desk, Lorn refrains and merely stands in the corner. He lets the blur-shield down while he waits. There is little sense in using the effort when none are around to see him.

He waits for some time-so long that he has begun to debate whether he should strike out with his chaos-senses and try to locate Tasjan. Then, he reflects, waiting in another’s dwelling to murder someone may well slow time.

The sound of steps, and a click, alerts Lorn, and he cloaks himself in aversion and waits.

The door opens, and dim light from the corridor oozes into the study. A slender figure stands in the door, looking across the study. With the door still open, Tasjan takes the striker from his belt, and clicks it, once, twice, before light creeps from the lamp set in the sconce beside the doorway.

Tasjan glances around the study, once, then again. His brow furrows, and he looks almost directly at Lorn, but his eyes pass by the lancer in blue.

Finally, the merchanter closes the door and slides the bolt. He steps toward the table desk.

Lorn moves from the corner, and with the borrowed blade, slashes across the left side of the merchanter’s unprotected neck.

Tasjan barely has the time to look surprised.

Lorn manages to grab part of the merchanter’s tunic and swings the body so that it falls onto the carpet, rather than into the desk or the chair before it. Then he lowers the shortsword with the green leather grip to the carpet beside the dead merchanter.

Standing quickly, he slides the window back open. Then, regathering the blur-shield back around him, he slides out, lowering himself down to the first ledge. He leaves the window wide open. Slowly, in the growing twilight, he makes his way down the stepped sections of the chimney to the portico roof. There he freezes, blur-shield around him.

Two guards have stopped on the far side of the railing, and are talking.

“You see Wyst?”

“No. You’re on his post. Thought he got the flux or something.”

“…just disappeared… Gyan’s asking all the guards… be not happy…”

“…something up… don’t know what… calling in the guards off the ships…”

“Double guards at the Plaza building, too.”

“Sasyk whipped someone in the second squad… doesn’t do that ‘less he’s frettin’.”

“Look up there… he’s at it again. Light still on in the study.”

“Not that warm… he’s got the window open…”

“Where he sits these days, it’s warm enough.” The first guard laughs.

“Funny, though. Cold out here, and it’ll be colder ‘afore Vansyn comes on relief. Give anything to be inside and warm, and he’s inside and warm, and trying to get cooler.”

“Life is like that, friend. Better keep moving. Don’t want to get on Cyan’s bad side.”

“Nor Sasyk’s.”

The two part and walk back along their separate posts, away from the corner. Lorn slips from the deeper shadows and with one hand holding the stone rail, he leaps across the emptiness, and slides through greenery, finally managing to clutch a branch. He can feel the scratches on his hands and on his neck. He keeps clutching the branch, letting stretched muscles rest, and breathing deeply.

Even after he reaches the base of the tree, he holds the blurring shield until he is two blocks away, despite the pain in his eyes that has grown into sharp daggers jabbing into his skull, intensifying the headache he already suffers. He uses a kerchief from his belt wallet to blot the blood from the scratches on his neck.

It feels as though every eye is on him as he walks back down Eighth Harbor Way West, yet the streets are almost empty, and, so far as he can tell, neither eyes nor screeing glasses are upon him.

As he turns onto the narrow way that holds their dwelling, he can sense the chill of a chaos-glass. There is little he can do but continue walking, and the feeling passes even before he reaches the iron gate.

He can but wonder what magus was screeing him-wonder and hope. At least he was not observed by a glass while near Tasjan’s dwelling.

He double-checks the locking on the iron gate before he makes his way along the marble walk toward the veranda. “Ser?” calls a voice. “It’s me, Pheryk. I’m back.”

“The lady asked me to watch for you, and to let the geese out of the pen once you returned.”

“Thank you. You can do that. I’m not going out again. It’s been a long day.”

“Good night, ser ”

“Good night.” Lorn opens the veranda door, then slides the bolt behind him and steps down into the foyer. “Is that you, Lorn?”

“It’s me.”

Ryalth waits in the sitting room, a goblet of Alafraan in her hand, a second goblet on the table. Lorn looks at the goblet.

“I thought you might need it. You look like it was harder than you planned.”

“You didn’t ask how it went.”

“I could tell that when you entered. There’s a coldness about you. It was there after Shevelt, but I didn’t recognize it as such then. You’ve got some cuts, and your eyes are watering. Are any…”

“No… the cuts are from a lorken tree I was climbing. I got them climbing down. They’re just scratches.” Lorn takes up the goblet. “Thank you.”

“And you used enough chaos that your head is splitting and your eyes water?”

“That, too.” He sits on the front edge of the chair across from Ryalth, who leans forward on the settee. “It’s all a mess.” After the smallest sip of Alafraan, he adds, “Tasjan blackmails Vyel to kill you. He releases papers so that all would believe Vyanat murdered his own brother to save himself, when Vyanat had killed his brother to show he would not countenance favoritism and ill-doing by his brother. Now I act so that Tasjan cannot create a cause…”

“…and Sasyk will use it as such in some way?”

“Possibly,” Lorn admits. “Or someone else.”

“Did you leave something to tie the death to Sasyk?”

“A green-wrapped blade and an open window-and one guard is missing.”

Ryalth nods. “That will suffice.” Her blue eyes are as sad and hard as Lorn’s amber orbs.

They each take another sip of the Alafraan.

CL

The blond and broad-shouldered first-level adept magus steps into the study in the private dwelling. He bows to the older magus who stands by the window, looking down across Cyad itself at the gray winter waters of the harbor.

“You suggested we talk before dinner, ser?” asks the tall and blond first-level adept.

“It would be opportune,” answers Kharl as he turns. “How is Ceyla?”

“Your daughter is in good health, and talks with your consort in the sitting room.” Rustyl smiles politely.

“A magnificent harbor, is it not?” Kharl gestures to the scene framed in the window. “It is a pity that, unless some action is taken soon, it will fall to the outlanders, and within your life, Rustyl, perhaps sooner.”

“The First Magus has suggested such can be averted if the Magi’i gain greater control of Cyad.”

“It is rather late for Chyenfel to think of such,” Kharl snorts. “He is the one who buried the chaos-towers of the Accursed Forest in the mists of time, and now we have too few towers to power the firewagons, or to charge the firelances of the Mirror Lancers when we need them most. We have no tow-wagons on the Great Canal, and soon will have no fireships.”

“But… would not the Accursed Forest-”

“The Accursed Forest… what was it? A place that bred large animals that occasionally killed livestock and a few peasants? A place whose name was used to frighten children? There were twelve chaos-towers there. And ten still functioned. We have but three left in Cyad, and the tower that serves the Quarter is failing. And Chyenfel gave away years of good use of the towers so that a few peasants might live? He gave away much of the power of the Magi’i.” The second snort is far louder. “Did he not keep you from that project? Why? I wonder. Or was it because you might see that Chyenfel wanted to be known for a great deed-a deed that for its greatness would cost Cyador and those of the Magi’i who follow him dearly? And now he says that the Magi’i should seek greater control?” After a moment of silence, the Second Magus adds, “I fear that it will take the Magi’i far greater control than Chyenfel believes, for us to redeem Cyad. You know the Emperor will not last a half a season, do you not?” Kharl’s green eyes focus upon the younger magus.

“Who does not know that?” Rustyl laughs.

“Most outside the Magi’i do not. Do not assume others know what you do.” Kharl’s warm smile returns. “Now that you have a consort… you could have heirs.”

“We do so hope.”

“I know you do, and they will be welcome. Most welcome.” The Second Magus smiles warmly. “You have been favored by Chyenfel-to the point that there has been talk about your becoming First Magus.” Kharl holds up his hand. “No… do not deny such. Chyenfel has made his favoritism clear within the Magi’i.” He frowns. “There is a problem with that.”

“Oh… ?”

“Chyenfel remains First Magus.”

“He cannot do so forever.” Rustyl smiles, the twisting of his lips providing an ironic edge to his words.

“If he remains First Magus long enough, his support of you can only harm you. If he is First Magus when the Emperor’s heir takes the Malachite Throne…” Kharl shrugs. “Then… it may be that the new Emperor will also favor Chyenfel, as Toziel has.”

“Who do you favor for the successor?” asks Rustyl. “Or think it may be?”

“The most honorable Tasjan was playing for that, and the word is that a former lancer named Sasyk is rallying the tenscore armed guards he trained for Tasjan-as well as others within the merchanters-to force a merchanter upon the Malachite Throne.”

“A merchanter emperor?” Rustyl sneers.

“That is why the Majer-Commander has two companies of trained lancers in Cyad, under his best and bloodiest field commander.”

“What is to prevent Lorn from seeking the throne? His lancers will support him.” Rustyl watches the older magus.

“Majer Lorn has removed himself from serious consideration as the Mirror Lancer heir,” Kharl says.

“Removed himself? He is yet on duty.” Rustyl frowns. “No. I found him entering his dwelling-wearing merchanter blues. Two nights ago. The very night that Tasjan was murdered by one of his guards. That is… a guard is missing, and his weapon murdered Tasjan within his own study.”

“One could scarcely advance a charge such as that against the majer and expect many to believe it,” Rustyl points out. “Not after all he is perceived to have done for Cyador over the years.”

“One need not prove such, only point out that such an action benefits Ryalor House and Majer Lorn. Vyanat can offer no support to any, not after all that has occurred with Hyshrah Clan, and if one were to point out that he has specially favored Ryalor House… and Rynst were persuaded to step aside… and if all the Magi’i opposed Lorn…”