Scion of Cyador (59 page)

Vernt frowns.

“They’re the plans and the methodology for building a coal-fired, chaos-steam transfer engine.”

“They say it can’t be done.”

Lorn shakes his head. “Like many things, that’s a partial truth. Read through the pages and you’ll understand. A magus cannot build that engine, nor touch it, but a magus is necessary, and the engine can be built, and it will operate. Heat transfer isn’t that much different from chaos transfer when you look at it. It’s far simpler, in fact, on a practical basis.”

“They’ll laugh at me-proposing a steam-chaos engine when we have chaos-powered firewagons that will do much more.”

Lorn shook his head. “You don’t understand. You don’t propose anything. You wait.”

“What good will that do?”

“The Quarter chaos-tower will fail, sometime in the next year.” A lazy smile crosses Lorn’s face. “Six fireships have already had their towers fail.”

“How do you know anything about the Quarter tower?”

“Even a former student magus can sense that-I do visit Tyrsal now and again, and the tower’s not that far away.”

“I can’t do anything, Lorn.”

Lorn smiles again. “All right. You can’t do anything. Then you won’t need those.” He gestures toward the stack of papers he has left on the desk. “I would like to leave you with one thought.”

“What is that?” Vernt frowns. “I know you. There’s more to this than a thought.”

“No. There really isn’t. Not now.” Lorn pauses. “Right now, the Magi’i have power. While a few Magi’i-like Chyenfel and Rustyl-have the power to draw chaos from the natural world, most don’t. They have to draw and direct stored chaos. Once the towers are all gone, there’s no more stored chaos. Therefore, there’s much less need for the Magi’i, and their power in Cyador will be far less. The merchanters will gain power; the lancers will perhaps hold their power. If… if the Magi’i have a way of building engines such as these, there will be another form of fireship upon the oceans, and another form of firewagon upon the great highways-and the Magi’i will hold power.”

“No one will believe me.” Vernt shakes his head.

“First… you wait until matters are more desperate. Second, you say that the papers are something that your father developed, and that you have carried on his work. That’s true enough, in a way.”

“Lorn…”

“And don’t tell Ciesrt or Kharl. If this works, Kharl will take the credit. If it doesn’t, he’ll steal it and then blame you and Father. If you want someone higher to talk to, you might try either the First Magus or the Third.”

“You don’t like Kharl, do you?”

“I don’t like Ciesrt, and Kharl raised Ciesrt. For what it’s worth, most in Cyad outside the Quarter do not trust the Second Magus. They praise his intelligence, but do not turn their backs.” Lorn pauses. “If matters look desperate, and the Magi’i are looking for an answer, any answer… then, if the others do not listen, you can try Kharl.”

“That’s the most persuasive thing you’ve said.” Vernt laughs. “When you would give something you believe to someone you dislike… you feel strongly.”

“What can I say?” Lorn shrugs. “In the meantime… if you would humor me… brother… you might keep those in a safe place. If anything should happen, it might be wise for someone among the Magi’i to have a plan.”

“I’ll read them, and keep them safe. I might even look in the Archives.”

“You won’t find anything.”

“I might find traces of what was removed.”

“You might,” Lorn agrees.

Vernt leans back in the chair, in a way that reminds Lorn of their father. “What is in this for you?”

“I’d like to see Father proven right. I’d like to see Cyador remain strong.” Lorn purses his lips. “I’ve seen some of the rest of Candar, and I’ve seen how the barbarians treat innocents, and how they hate us. And there’s nothing like Cyad anywhere.”

“You were the one who defended the barbarians, as I recall,” Vernt says.

“You were right. I was wrong.” Lorn stands. “One way or another, I hope you find those useful.”

“We’ll see. But none will know whence came these. That, I will promise.” Vernt stands. “I don’t know as I believe your dire predictions, but none can gainsay your devotion to Cyador.” Vernt glances. “Did you bring a mount?”

“I walked. It’s not that far.” Lorn touches the hilt of the sabre. “Cyador is still safe at night, but… if not… I’m prepared.”

“I’m sure you are.”

The two brothers walk from the study and down the steps.

CXVI

Enough… That’s more than enough.“ Tyrsal puffs out the words, backing out of the roughened stone of the sparring circle.

“That’s fine. I didn’t get that much sleep last night. Kerial is teething.”

“You couldn’t… ?” asks Tyrsal.

“I know enough about healing, but Jerial says it’s not good to use it on infants for normal things like teething-something about upsetting their chaos-order balance too early. It’s different if they’re really ill.” Lorn takes a deep breath and blots his forehead on the back of the sleeve of the exercise tunic.

“You’re doing it all without vision, aren’t you? The sabre? No matter which hand you have the blade in?”

“Most of the time,” Lorn admits. “Ha! I thought so.”

“You’re getting better,” Lorn points out. “I have to work harder these days.”

“I have to, sparring with you.”

“So do I, working against you.” Lorn places the practice sabre in the rack. “You must have something on your mind.” He smiles. “A certain young lady, perchance?”

“Aleyar does occupy my thoughts-more than I’d ever thought.” Tyrsal lowers his voice, his eyes going to the pair of merchanters sparring in the background. “Why don’t you walk partway back toward the Quarter with me?”

Lorn nods. “All right. Then I’d better get washed up quickly. I do have to finish another meeting report.”

The two walk toward the shower room adjoining the exercise hall. Lorn washes quickly, but Tyrsal is quicker yet, and waiting as Lorn finishes smoothing his tunic in place and clipping his cupridium-plated Brystan sabre to his green web belt. He feels safer with that particular sabre, especially in Cyad, and the cupridium shields the ordered iron beneath… enough so that only a very accomplished magus who is very close to Lorn would even have a chance of noting it, for order is far less obvious than chaos.

Lorn’s hair is still wet as they walk along the paved walkway beside the road of Perpetual Light in the warm early-fall afternoon. He looks at the shorter, redheaded mage. “You have that worried look. Is it about being consorted?”

“Chaos, no!” Tyrsal takes a deep breath, then glances over his shoulder, then lowers his voice. “Last night… Mother had asked if I would drop by. She asks so seldom that I hired a coach.”

Lorn nods.

“She had a message for you.”

“For me?” The taller man frowns.

“She wouldn’t tell me where it came from, and begged me not to ask. She did say that the person who sent it had never lied, and about that she was telling the truth.”

Lorn feels his stomach churning, and a chill coming down his back, and a chill from premonition, not from being watched in a chaos-glass, although he has experienced more of that in the last few eightdays as well. His voice is even as he says, “That seems strange.”

“The message wasn’t about lancers or Magi’i, either.”

“Your mother was from a merchanter background, and so was your grandsire, though, didn’t you say?” Lorn asks.

“I did say that.” Tyrsal glances back again before continuing. “The message was a request for you to inquire about what Tasjan has said about the lady head of Ryalor House, and his plans for the more than tenscore armsmen he is assembling.” Tyrsal glances at Lorn. “That was all.”

Lorn suppresses a swallow. “That is more than enough. More than enough.”

“When you sound like that… I wouldn’t wish to be Tasjan-or you.” Tyrsal’s voice is bleak.

“We’ll have to inquire. That’s all.” Lorn offers a shrug he does not feel. “There’s always been something about you. You know… did it bother you to break Dett’s fingers all those years ago?”

Lorn frowns. “I hadn’t thought about that in a long time. I didn’t want to, you know, but he wouldn’t listen to anyone. He kept bullying people whenever there weren’t any proctors around, as if he were allowed to do anything he could get away with.” He shrugs, almost sadly. “Dett was always like that. Some people are.”

“And some people, like you, feel that they have to do something about it.”

“If someone doesn’t, even more people get hurt,” Lorn says. “I suppose that’s true, but I’ve never had the certainty of being as right as you feel you are.” Lorn’s laugh is harsh. “I’ve never been that certain. You could ask Ryalth about that. But I guess I’d rather act on what I feel, than reproach myself later for not acting. Sometimes, I shouldn’t have acted. And sometimes I should have, but probably did the wrong thing.”

“Not very often, from what I’ve seen.” Tyrsal sighs. “There… you can go. That’s what I wanted to tell you.” The redheaded mage stops. “I know you have to get back to
Mirror Lancer Court
.”

“I’m glad you did. You know how I feel about Ryalth.”

“I know. That’s why I hope you don’t find too much wrong.”

“Would you have been told if I didn’t have to worry?” asks Lorn. Both glance at each other as a chill-the chill of a chaos-glass-falls across them.

“That’s why I worry. Another reason,” Tyrsal says.

Lorn catches Tyrsal’s eyes with his own. “Thank you. I mean it. And don’t worry. At least not too much. Give Aleyar our best. And you two are coming to dinner on fiveday, remember?”

“We’ll be there.”

With a smile-one he does not feel-Lorn inclines his head to his friend, and then turns, walking swiftly, but not too swiftly, into the sun toward Mirror Lancer Court and his small study, and the meeting report he has not finished.

CXVII

Lorn has just arrived at the dwelling, and stands on the veranda, blotting his forehead from the heat of the late-fall afternoon, when he hears the gate open and close. He turns to see Ryalth and Ayleha walking around the privacy hedge. Ryalth carries Kerial, whose whimpers rise over the splash and spray of the fountain.

Lorn hurries toward them.

“Are you all right?” Lorn asks, taking Kerial. His son’s whimpers immediately increase into an intermittent wailing as Lorn walks beside Ryalth past the cooling spray of the fountain.

“We’ve all been better.” Ryalth’s voice holds an edge.

“I’m sorry. Can I do anything?”

“Keep holding him. I know he’s teething. At least, I hope it’s just teeth.”

Belatedly, as he steps into the shade of the veranda, Lorn uses his chaos-order senses to study Kerial, but he finds nothing except the faint redness around the boy’s teeth. “It’s just his teeth.”

“I hope he gets the rest of them soon.” She shakes her head. “Maybe I don’t. He’s starting to bite.”

Lorn pauses at the door to the foyer. “Why don’t you just go upstairs, and wash up and lie down or just spend some time by yourself?”

“You don’t want to see me?”

Lorn holds back a sigh. “Everyone has been asking things of you all day. Kerial has probably been unpleasant and whimpering all day. I gather trading wasn’t good, and you had problems there. I do like to see you, but the way you’ve been talking, I only thought you might like some time when no one was asking or demanding.”

“Maybe I do.”

“I’ll stay out here with Kerial.”

“You just got here, didn’t you?” asks Ryalth.

“Just before you.”

“I shouldn’t leave him with you. You’ve had a day, too.”

Lorn laughs. “Just take care of yourself for a while. We’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“You deserve a rest.”

“Thank you.” Ryalth’s voice softens, and she smiles for the first time since she stepped through the iron gate. “I won’t be that long.”

“However long it takes, and then take some more time for yourself.”

She nods and steps into the foyer.

Lorn walks around the veranda, patting Kerial on the back. After what seems like tenscore circles in one direction, he turns and walks the other way. He can feel the dampness on his shoulder where his son half gnaws, half slobbers on his uniform in between whimpers.

The sun has dropped behind the larger dwellings and the hillside to the northwest, and Lorn has circled the veranda more than a score of scores before Kerial finally begins to snore on Lorn’s shoulder. He walks another score of circles and then makes his way slowly through the dwelling and up the stairs. He meets Ryalth at the top.

Her eyes widen.

“He’s asleep,” Lorn mouths as he walks as softly as he can toward their bedchamber, and Kerial’s bed. Kerial does not wake as Lorn eases him down on his back, then backs away slowly.

Outside their chamber in the corridor, Ryalth smiles. “Thank you. I know I shouldn’t get cross.” She points to his shoulder. “You’re wet.”

“I think the uniform felt good to chew on.” Lorn starts down the stairs, then looks at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t ask about dinner.”

“Kysia says it’s about ready.”

“Good. I am hungry.” Lorn continues down the stairs to the main floor.

“You should be. It’s late. You walked him for a long time.”

“You were upset.”

“I was. Immilhar’s Western Wind is lost, in a storm in the
Gulf
of
Austra
. That was a good ship, a good captain, and we had a good hundred golds in the cargo, and a chance for double that. I’d finally gotten them to take the golden-melon brandy, and this was the first real order.” Ryalth shakes her head. “Let’s go eat, before Kerial wakes up.”

“He might sleep awhile.”

“I’m not counting on it.” She turns toward the dining area.

Lorn follows her, and almost as soon as they sit, Kysia arrives to set a platter, a covered dish, and a basket of dark bread on the table.

“Ale is all we have,” announces the gray-eyed server.

“That will be wonderful,” Lorn says.