Scion of Cyador (45 page)

“Poor… poor lancer officer,” Jerial coos at her brother.

“It’s a good thing you’re my older sister,” Lorn mock-grumps, “and that I respect you.”

“Very good, because you still don’t know everything,” Jerial responds. “Ryalth and I have to make sure you listen to us.” She grins.

“I’m outnumbered.” Lorn looks from side to side.

“You’re overdramatizing, too, dearest,” suggests Ryalth.

Lorn shrugs.

“How long will you be free?” asks Jerial.

“I have furlough until an eightday from oneday, but I’ll be reporting directly to the Majer-Commander to work here in Cyad.”

“That’s quite an honor,” Jerial says evenly.

“A dangerous honor,” he admits. “More dangerous as the seasons turn.”

The healer nods slowly. “What else are you doing… today?”

“We also need to see Myryan,” Lorn says.

“Yes, you do.” Jerial’s words are firm.

Lorn tilts his head at the tone of her words.

“She doesn’t talk to me-not really talk-and I don’t think she’s that happy. She will talk to you.”

“We’ll go there from here.”

“I’m glad.”

Ryalth disengages Kerial. “No. No biting.” She closes her shirt and tunic before burping her son.

Jerial stands. “You two need to see Myryan, and I need to finish packing before Mycela’s simpering turns to whining.”

“She whines?”

“Most politely,” Jerial says dryly. “It’s still whining.”

Lorn stands, then helps Ryalth. The three walk down to the front door, Lorn with the ornate wooden box under his arm.

“I’m looking forward to your dinner,” Jerial says. “I’ve been eating too much of my own cooking lately.”

Lorn raises his eyebrows.

“Mycela’s cook’s and my tastes aren’t exactly the same. That’s another reason to finish the packing.” Jerial grins as she opens the door.

The coachman has the carriage door open before Lorn and Ryalth have descended the steps out to the Road of Benevolent Light.

“Out to the Twenty-third Way,” Lorn tells the coachman. “East,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn assists his consort into the coach, then follows and settles himself on the seat beside her. “Kerial is doing well.”

“We’ll see how he lasts,” Ryalth replies.

Lorn glances at her, seeing the weariness in her eyes. “You’re tired.”

“It isn’t always easy, being the mother and the lady trader, even with a bed for Kerial in my trading office. And trading now is more dangerous than ever.”

“Why now?”

“The Emperor has lost three fireships, and there were never enough to protect all the traders. Piracy is increasing, particularly in the Gulf of Candar. They say that the pirates have built a small base on Recluce.” Ryalth shrugs. “The Emperor’s Enumerators are getting stricter, and since there’s no Hand to appeal to…”

“You wrote about that. The Emperor hasn’t appointed a new Hand?”

“Not yet. There are rumors that he’s ill, as well. That means prices go up and down with the latest rumors, and that makes merchanting even harder-without the sleep I lose to my little friend here.”

“Gaaa…” Kerial says.

“Yes, you, piglet,” Ryalth replies.

The carriage slows.

“Twenty-third Way, ser and Lady!”

Lorn waits until the coach comes to a halt before opening the door and then helping his consort out. Still holding on to the box from his father, he glances up. “I don’t know how long…”

“That be fine, ser. You’re paying, and waiting is easier than traveling.”

“Thank you.” Lorn glances toward the small house.

Perhaps because of the strong midday sun, the blue tile roof of the two-story dwelling seems more vivid than when Lorn had visited Myryan before, and the green-glazed brick walls more faded. The blue - and - green - tiled outside privacy screen retains the time-faded golden lily inset in its center.

The two walk to the front entrance, and Lorn knocks once. There is no response. He knocks again.

“Hello!” he finally calls when there is no answer to his knocking.

“Lorn! Ryalth! I was out in back!” calls Myryan as she hurries from the side gate toward the couple at the front door. “In the garden.”

“Always in the garden,” Lorn says as he hugs his younger sister.

As had been the case when he had last seen Myryan, Lorn notes how frail she seems, although there is no sickness or chaos surrounding her. Even in the nondescript gray shirt and trousers she has been wearing in the garden, the slightest scent of trilia and erhenflower enfolds her. Myryan- never anything but slender-looks almost painfully thin to Lorn, despite the broad and welcoming smile and the thick and short-cut unruly black hair curling out around her face.

“Come on!” Myryan says as she opens the front door. The black-haired healer leads them through the front door and the small, tile-floored foyer into the front sitting room, with its pleasing green-tinted, off-white walls. After she flips open the three narrow and shuttered windows and gestures toward the settee upholstered in faded blue, Myryan steps to the windows, and one after the other, opens the shutters to let in the light, then waits until they sit before taking the straight-backed oak chair.

“I wrote you scrolls from Assyadt,” Lorn says, “but I found out later that Dettaur destroyed most of the scrolls I wrote or that were written to me.”

“I didn’t write much because you didn’t write back.”

“I did write. Dettaur intercepted the scrolls going both ways.”

“Dettaur? Your old schoolmate? You never liked him that much.”

“For good reasons.”

“I didn’t know him that well. Jerial despised him.”

“He wanted her to be his consort,” Lorn said.

Myryan shakes her head. “That box…”

“It was Father’s. He left it to me, with a letter.”

“Somehow… it should be yours.” She pauses. “Are you going to be in Cyad long?”

“Quite a while. I’ve been transferred to work for the Majer-Commander in the headquarters at Mirror Lancer Court. I have a little more than an eightday of furlough.”

Myryan bounds up from the chair. “Ryalth is hungry. She’s almost white. You have to have some lunch with me. It would be better later in the year, because I’d have fresh vegetables, but the spiced pearapples I put up last fall are still wonderful-”

Ryalth laughs. “Pearapples! I should have guessed.”

Almost in moments, Myryan has the table off the kitchen set with all manner of food-two sets of cheese wedges, dark and rye bread, heavy square crackers, pickled roots… and the spiced pearapples. “I got some ale, because there aren’t any juices yet-if that’s all right. And there’s never any coffee anymore.”

“Fine. Ale is fine,” Lorn reassures her.

Myryan pours three mugs full and hovers over the side of the table.

“You can sit down,” Lorn says with a laugh as he starts with the white cheese that is so scarce at the Mirror Lancer outposts and munches it with a heavy cracker, also something he has seen few of over the past years.

“Is there anything else…”

“It’s fine.”

Myryan eases onto the edge of her chair.

Ryalth slowly eats a small wedge of the yellow cheese with what Lorn suspects is a pickled turnip, a combination far too bitter for him. Kerial’s chubby figures grasp toward the cheese. “This is Mother’s food. You can have some before long.”

“Gaaa…”

“Not now. Later,” the mother tells her son.

“We’re going to dinner with Ciesrt’s parents tonight,” Myryan volunteers.

“How are they?” Lorn asks.

“They always ask when they can expect a grandchild. Lately, the questions are getting more pointed.” Myryan shakes her head. “I’m not ready for that.” She looks at Kerial. “Now… if they were all as happy as he is… I might think about it.” Abruptly, she turns to Lorn. “Kharl is quite close to the Captain-Commander of Mirror Lancers. They talk a lot. I’ve picked that up.”

“I’m sure I’m too lowly to be of concern to such well-placed men,” Lorn says with the hint of a laugh.

Myryan shakes her head. “There’s something going on. Whenever Kharl sees me coming, he smiles, and he doesn’t mean it. Sometimes, he’ll change what he’s talking about so quickly that the person he’s with looks confused.”

“Probably Magi’i things,” Lorn replies.

“Listen to your sister,” Ryalth says. “Healers can sense those things.” She looks at Myryan. “What do you think is going on?”

“I don’t know. Kharl schemes a lot. He always smiles, and he never means it, and there’s always chaos swirling around him.”

“Does Ciesrt know?” pursues Ryalth.

“Not much… he sometimes looks bewildered, and then Kharl gets this patronizing look on his face. I feel sorry for him then, but there’s not much I can do.” Myryan takes a small nibble of white cheese.

“No, you can’t,” Ryalth says gently.

“Are you sure there’s enough?” Myryan glances from Ryalth to Lorn and back again.

“There’s more than enough,” Lorn says firmly. “Enough for three times this many.” He pauses. “How’s the garden coming?”

“I already have sprouts for the beans and the melons.” Myryan smiles, tossing her head slightly. “And you’ll be here this year, so you can have fresh melons. They were really good last fall.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” Lorn promises.

“Do you know how long you’ll be in Cyad?”

“A year or more, I’d guess, but no one has said. The Majer-Commander said I’d been away from my consort and family too long, and sent me off on furlough as soon as I arrived.”

“You actually met him?” asks Myryan.

“I’ll be working for him directly,” Lorn says.

“Ciesrt said that everyone in Mirror Lancer Court is ordered to work for him, but most never see him.” The black-haired healer smiles. “He’ll be surprised.”

“Just tell him that I met the Majer-Commander. I’ll have to actually report for work before I know if what he said is what he meant. I’d look a little foolish,” Lorn points out, “if Ciesrt’s right. And he might be.”

Myryan nods. “He’ll still be impressed that you met Rynst’alt. His father is always talking about him.”

“He is?” asks Ryalth.

“Waaa… waaa… gaa!” interjects Kerial.

“They keep saying that he’s been there forever. Most senior lancer officers don’t even remember the Majer-Commander before him.”

Lorn nods. “That’s good to remember. He’s gray-haired, but he doesn’t look that old.”

Ryalth glances at Lorn, her eyes going down to the squirming child.

“Ah… I think Kerial’s getting fussy,” Lorn says.

“You don’t have to go yet, do you?”

“He won’t be much fun before long. It’s time for his afternoon nap,” Ryalth says, as she stands. “Past time.”

Lorn rises also.

“Now… you’re coming to dinner on sixday,” Ryalth turns to Myryan. “You and Ciesrt, and Ayleha will be looking after Kerial, so that we’ll have more time to talk.”

“We’ll be there. Even Ciesrt seems pleased. He’s looking forward to it.”

“Good,” say Ryalth and Lorn, nearly simultaneously.

“And,” Lorn says, “you could come over next eightday and have a midday meal with us. Or me… if Ryalth has to go back to being the merchanter.”

“I’d like that.”

“Waaa!” Kerial yells.

The two parents slip toward the door, with Myryan following. Lorn reclaims the ornate wooden box on the way out.

Myryan waves from beside the privacy screen as they enter the coach.

“She’s nervous,” Lorn says as the coach lurches forward.

“Wouldn’t you be? Her consort’s father is plotting, possibly against her brother. Her consort doesn’t understand half of what’s occurring, and both her consort’s parents are looking at her and demanding that she produce an heir.”

“I’d be very nervous.”

“She is,” Ryalth points out, rocking Kerial, and looking down at him. “We’ll be home before too long, and you’ll be in your little bed.”

Lorn glances back through the carriage window, but Myryan has vanished into the house or garden.

LXXXVIII

Lorn sits down on the settee Ryalth has brought from her old quarters on the east side of Cyad and looks at the ornate box, the box he had seen so often in his father’s study, with its almost ebony finish, and the inlaid metal spirals that almost seem to stand out from the wood, even though they are set so flush to the wood that Lorn’s fingers can detect no edge or roughness. A box… and questions, and perhaps a hundred golds, those are his tangible heritage.

From upstairs, the sound of a lullaby drifts downward, and the murmurings of Kerial’s protests die away.

Lorn looks down at the woven image of the ship on the carpet, then at the box. Their heritages… so different on the surface, and yet not so different.

Ryalth slips down the steps and into the sitting room. She slides onto the settee beside Lorn. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“It doesn’t seem like much. From your father, I mean.”

“He couldn’t do otherwise. Vernt’s the magus, and he gets the dwelling, and six-tenths of everything else above the bond. I get half of the remainder, and Jerial and Ciesrt split the rest.”

“It’s not fair for your sisters, either.”

“Cyad isn’t that fair to women, especially those of the elthage.”

“I have more than they do… it’s strange.”

“I told you that a long time ago. You didn’t believe me. The Magi’i need their healers. There are so few Mirror Lancers and Magi’i.”

“So they are kept in chains of custom, thinking they are privileged and pampered.”

“Not all believe that. Jerial doesn’t. She never has,” Lorn points out.

“She is not usual.”

“No.” Lorn smiles. “She’s not, and neither are you. How many lady traders have created houses?”

“You helped-greatly.”

“Even if I did, there had to have been others with coins, yet they did not do as you have done. Is that not true?”

“It is hard for me to admit such.”

Lorn shakes his head. “I don’t see why. You are the one who did it.”

Ryalth gestures toward the inlaid box. “Best you look through that. Jerial made sure you had it as soon as you arrived.”

Lorn nods and opens the wooden box, frowning, looking slowly through it, for, under the letter, are stacks and stacks of paper. Some contain diagrams, and others, what appear to be closely spaced words, almost as if they were parts of a book or a manual. He slowly eases those back into the box, then finally breaks the seal on the folded letter. He begins to read the precise handwriting that bears the hint of shakiness in each character he had seen but in the last few scrolls he had received from his father.