Scion of Cyador (75 page)

“He would have the Magi’i strong. You merely wished to be recalled for a great deed, and care little for what happens to those who follow you.” The taller mage casts a bolt of chaos at the older man.

The older magus merely stands and lets the firebolt splatter into nothingness across his order-chaos shield. “You were the Magi’i candidate to be Toziel’s heir. I can see my hopes exceeded my reason.”

“You tell me that now to save yourself.” Rustyl sneers. Another firebolt begins to form.

“I need no words to save myself from an ungrateful whelp such as you.” A searing white-red flame rips the air in the corridor, throwing Rustyl against the granite wall, his shield diminished to a mere shadow of that which he had raised but moments before.

“You are a demented old man, who would ruin Cyad for your own glory,” Rustyl snaps as he straightens, frowning. His body begins to glow, even as the shimmer that filters through the black glass portal to the chaos-tower chamber begins to diminish.

Chyenfel’s mouth opens, but momentarily. “No… you must not. You will destroy yourself as well.”

“Again… you throw words to save yourself. I will do as I must!” Rustyl returns, a broad smile crossing his face.

A massive bolt of blue-white chaos appears before Rustyl, and incandescence fills the corridor, expanding in all directions as elemental chaos sears the corridor and further whitens the granite.

In the granite structure behind the now-empty corridor, the chaos-tower glows blue, if momentarily, before it begins to melt into itself.

At the far end of the Quarter of the Magi’i, the Second Magus smiles, then nods to himself, murmuring in words that do not leave his study, “If Chyenfel can use a halfscore failing towers, then one is a fair price to save Cyad from weakness.”

CLV

Rynst stands by the study window, half-turned toward the Palace of Light, its white walls seeming less crisp than normal in the hazy midmorning light of a day in early winter. His eyes ease to Lorn, but the Majer-Commander does not move from the window.

“Ser?” Lorn bows after closing the door to the Majer-Commander’s study. Then he steps past the conference table and halts before the desk, waiting.

“One of the chaos-towers of the Magi’i failed last night,” Rynst begins, without looking at Lorn. “The First Magus was killed, as was another magus. They were attempting to stabilize the chaos-tower, according to the Second Magus, but something went astray. So… now there are but two chaos-towers operating in all of Cyador, save the three on the remaining fireships.”

Lorn swallows silently, waiting.

Finally, Rynst turns from the closed and ancient glass panes. He does not step toward the desk. “That is not the worst. The Emperor has canceled all audiences. It is unlikely he will survive the eightday. The Empress has announced that the heir has been decided and will be named shortly. That could be before or after the Emperor’s death. It may not matter. You should have your lancers in readiness, Majer.”

Lorn nods his acknowledgment.

“I have not heard how the Magi’i will choose a successor to Chyenfel, but it is likely that the Second Magus will become the First Magus, and the Third the Second, and that a Third Magus will be named at a later time.” Rynst smiles, briefly, and without meaning. “For these reasons, and others, I have approved your request to put the Mirror Engineers operating the firecannon directly under your command. That order is good for three eightdays. That should be sufficient.” The Majer-Commander offers a cold smile. “I have also informed Majer Hrenk and Captain Ghyrat that you are their superior in the chain of command, and that whatever orders you give regarding the use and placement of the firecannon are to be obeyed and carried out without delay.”

“I hope it is not necessary, ser.”

“So do I, but it is appearing more so. Former captain Sasyk appears to have seized control of the guards of Dyjani House. Word is that he has killed the two most notable candidates to succeed Tasjan.” Rynst’s lips curl. “That is a merchanter matter, and one in which neither the Magi’i nor the Mirror Lancers can intervene without the order of the Emperor. The Emperor is unlikely to give any more orders.”

“And until the merchanters strike, you can do nothing?” Lorn asks.

“Unless the merchanters threaten the city or the Palace, the Mirror Lancers will not shed blood. What the merchanters do within their houses is their affair.”

Lorn nods.

“Once it leaves the merchanters, it is our affair. Your affair, Majer, and I will not second-guess your actions or decisions. I only order you to make sure that whatever heir the Emperor names does take the Malachite Throne.” Rynst’s voice hardens. “Whomever the Emperor names. No matter what that name may be.”

“Yes, ser.”

“You are known as an officer whose word has always remained unbroken. Will it be so in this, Majer?”

“Yes, ser.”

Rynst nods abruptly. “Good. Best you see to your companies and to the engineers. I would judge that little will occur before tomorrow, but that is but a wager in a game whose rules are unannounced and changing with each passing moment.”

Lorn bows.

“And Majer…”

“Ser?”

“Without honor, without duty, you have nothing. Nor do I. The Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers must never be a candidate for the Malachite Throne. Nor the Captain-Commander. Were that to happen… then none could trust the Mirror Lancers. I would hope the Magi’i would feel that way as well. I know Chyenfel did.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good day, Majer.” Rynst turns back to the window, his eyes on the Palace of Eternal Light.

As he leaves the Majer-Commander, Lorn’s face is impassive, but the combination of duty and near-fatality in Rynst’s words chills him within. Rynst has as much as ordered him not to allow Luss to claim the Malachite Throne. Yet it is an unspoken order.

The white gelding remains where Lorn had tied him earlier in the morning, in the third stall in the small stable for visiting officers. Lorn gives the gelding a pat, then leads the horse out into a day that remains chill and hazy. As he rides the white gelding from Mirror Lancer Court down Third Harbor Way West, his eyes scan the streets. They seem almost as normal, although there may be a touch fewer souls about. Then, that may be because of the chill wind out of the northeast. He rides past the warehouse barracks to the next building, the one housing the Mirror Engineers and their large and small firecannon. He has barely dismounted and tied the gelding to the bronze ring of the innermost hitching post, before a ginger-bearded, balding, and young-faced captain steps out of the narrow doorway and toward Lorn.

“Ser.” Ghyrat bows. “I have received the Majer-Commander’s orders. What can we do for you?”

“Nothing… I hope, but I fear we will need both your cannon.”

“So do I.” Ghyrat fingers his pointed goatee. “The Majer-Commander would scarce order such were he not concerned. Yet he offered no reasons.”

Lorn nods. “I doubt he would wish any placed in ink. It appears likely that the Dyjani merchanters may use the piers to land ships and more of their greensuited guards, to require a merchanter heir to the Palace.”

“A merchanter heir?”

“The current head of Dyjani House has assembled more than tenscore of the armed greensuited guards. He is a former Mirror Lancer officer and has trained them to the same degree as are lancer rankers.”

“Tenscore?” Ghyrat swallows.

“Also, the First Magus was killed in an accident with a chaos-tower last night. How that may impact us… I am uncertain.”

“I would not guess, ser, save that it might make the merchanters more quick to act.”

“If any vessels appear with the Dyjani ensign or any that appear unknown or otherwise suspicious, can you move the firecannon quickly to the base of the pier? The large one?”

The engineer officer nods. “We can have it set to move.”

“Then do so, if you would. As quickly as you can.”

“We will. But you will have to give the orders to fire and upon whom.”

“If it comes to that, then I will.” Lorn holds back a frown. Rynst has given Lorn a clear chain of command, but to whom can Lorn turn? For he is not invincible, as he knows all too well.

“Ser?”

Lorn glances toward the harbor and the piers, empty except for a Sligan deepwater vessel and a Gallosian coaster. “I hope an heir is named soon, one that all accept, and that it does not come to the use of lances and cannon.”

“We all hope such, Majer,” replies Ghyrat. “But who is the man whom all will accept as heir and Emperor in these times?”

Who indeed?

“The Emperor has decided,” Lorn replies. “We are to support whatever that decision may be.” In chaos and in blood-the chaos and the blood Lorn has never wished upon Cyad, City of Eternal Light.

CLVI

In the darkness after dusk, Rynst turns from the window, away from the myriad lamps that illumine the Palace of Eternal Light, and sits down behind his table desk. He looks at the blank sheet of parchment before him and shakes his head.

Then, in the glow cast from the lamps on his desk, he looks up as the faintest click comes from the latch to his study door. The ancient golden-oak door to the Majer-Commander’s study opens, then closes.

A faint breeze wafts from the door and then fades.

Deliberately, slowly, Rynst eases back his chair. The fingers of his left hand ease the black iron throwing knife from the slit pocket in his belt.

“I cannot say I am surprised, Kharl,” the Majer-Commander says slowly, though his eyes search the space between the door and his desk for any sign of the unusual. “Managing to get Rustyl to remove Chyenfel showed your touch.”

There is the slightest whisper of leather on the sunstone tiles of the study floor.

“I suppose Luss has no idea of this. That way you can have the Third Magus truth-read him, and Luss can answer honestly that he has no idea what happened.”

The figure of the Second Magus appears at the end of the conference table closest to the Majer-Commander. Kharl smiles ironically. “You say you would not be surprised, yet you still underestimate me.”

Rynst shakes his head as he eases his chair slightly farther back from the desk, his right hand visible on the edge of the wood. “No, honored Second Magus, I underestimated Chyenfel. I thought he would hold you more in check, and I thought you had some vestige of honor. I thought you would stop at becoming First Magus, and I did not realize you would sacrifice a chaos-tower to your endless ambition. Do you really think you can seize the Malachite Throne?”

“That depends on what the Empress announces as the Emperor’s decision, does it not? For now, I am First Magus, at least in practice, if not in title.” Kharl’s green eyes dance.

“For the moment.” Rynst shrugs, and then his left hand blurs, and the iron throwing knife flashes toward the red-haired magus. Hsssst!

Firebolt and knife meet, but the chaos-flames and iron droplets splash back across Kharl’s left shoulder.

As the magus steps back, Rynst quickly slides out the cupridium-plated and iron-cored sabre from the scabbard fastened to the underside of his table desk, and leaps forward with the iron-cored blade in his right hand. Kharl steps back, silently, giving ground.

Rynst holds the blade high, his eyes flicking between the midsection of the magus and his eyes, moving closer to Kharl.

Abruptly, firebolts flash toward the Majer-Commander from the left and then the right. Rynst’s sabre flicks to the left, parrying one firebolt. His blade is slow on the return, and the second firebolt slams into his right shoulder. His blade drops from his numbed fingers. Another firebolt catches him full in the chest, and he topples forward.

For a long time, there is silence and the sound of one man’s heavy breathing.

Then there is another series of flashes of chaos.

After a time, Kharl slowly opens one of the doors to the balcony outside the study, then flings a few metal items into the night. He leaves the door open, and walks unsteadily toward the closed door leading to the fifth-floor foyer, and the empty stone staircase. One hand holds his left shoulder.

Just before the door opens, he appears to vanish, and the study of the Majer-Commander is empty.

CLVII

In the dining area Lorn and Ryalth sit alone, eating, in the reflected glow of a pair of lamps set in wall sconces.

“You were late tonight. You were preparing for an attack by Sasyk’s guards.” Ryalth nibbles on the crust of the dark bread.

“I think they will attack, but the Majer-Commander is not sure whether it will be tomorrow or the day after.” Lorn eats the lamb stew slowly, methodically, hardly tasting what passes his lips.

“Noon or afternoon tomorrow, I would guess,” Ryalth says.

“Why do you think that?”

“The winds in the morning will make a swift approach difficult, and there were no vessels standing off the harbor.”

“That is good to know.” Lorn takes a sip of wine he scarcely tastes. “Rynst told me that the Majer-Commander can never be Emperor. Nor the Captain-Commander. He said it would destroy Cyador. He believes his own words.”

“He’s telling you to kill Luss, if anything happens to him, isn’t he?”

“I fear he’s suggesting that Luss will reach for the Malachite Throne.”

“What will you do?”

“What I must. If I must.” Lorn shrugs wearily. After a moment, he asks, “Did you hear anything about Husdryt and Torvyl?”

Ryalth shakes her head. “None knows anything, and there were a score of greensuited guards around Dyjani House today.”

“That’s all? Sasyk just kills the heirs and walks in?”

“What would you have them do?” asks Ryalth. “Traders are not lancers, and all those with arms owe their allegiance to Sasyk. Why have the Mirror Lancers not acted, I could well ask.”

Lorn takes a sip of the Fhynyco before responding. “I asked the Majer-Commander about that. Lancers aren’t supposed to interfere in the internal doings of merchanter houses. We only act if a house threatens other houses, or the Palace. Or, I suppose, the Mirror Lancers.”