Scion of Cyador (63 page)

“You’re not exactly fond of him?” Ryalth asks.

“He tried to insist Father allow Aleyar to be his consort, and even got Chyenfel to put in a good word. Father, for once, listened to the rest of us.”

“Even were he not my friend, I would find Tyrsal far better for your sister,” Lorn says.

“Rustyl is a finely-formed dungball,” suggests Nyarl brightly.

“Nyarl…”

“He is, but I’ll be still.”

“Thank you,” answers Syreal.

Lorn and Ryalth smile, then watch as Syreal turns.

Veljan-wearing pure blue shimmercloth, not the blue-and-green of Ryalth’s tunic, is blocky, clean-shaven, and square-faced. He makes his way from the circular staircase toward the foyer outside the dining area, and his brown eyes sparkle when he catches sight of Syreal standing beside Ryalth.

As he approaches, Veljan bows to Ryalth and then to Lorn.

“You have heard of Lorn and the Lady Ryalth, Veljan,” offers Syreal.

“I am most pleased to see you both here, and especially you, Lady Ryalth.”

“And I, you, honored trader.” Ryalth smiles warmly.

Lorn inclines his head politely.

Veljan laughs. “I can only lay claim to seeking to be honest and fair and listening to two of the best advisors a trader could ever have.” His head inclines to Syreal.

“Lorn! Ryalth!” Two dark-haired figures make their way through the growing crowd.

Lorn smiles as Jerial and Myryan approach. “I was looking for you.”

“We just got here,” Myryan explains. “Ciesrt was late, and now he’s stopped downstairs to talk to someone.”

“These are my sisters, Jerial and Myryan.” Lorn looks the other merchanter couple. “And Veljan and Syreal. Syreal, you may recall, was a favorite of Father’s.”

Syreal flushes slightly as she bows. “Aleyar has talked about you both so much. I am so pleased to meet you.”

Veljan bows. “And I, also.”

A handbell rings, and Liataphi’s voice rises above the conversations taking place around the foyer. “If you would all find your placards and seat yourselves…”

“We’d better find Ciesrt,” Myryan says, then looks at Veljan. “It was good to meet you.” She turns to Lorn and Ryalth. “We’ll talk to you after dinner.”

“And you, too,” replies Syreal.

“Please find your placards,” Liataphi’s voice rises again.

“Father… always organizing everyone,” says Syreal good-naturedly.

“There’s one in every family,” Veljan says. “My sister Elnya is that way.”

“Yes, she is,” agrees Syreal, “nice as she is.”

“Chyla looks like her,” interjects Nyarl. “Perhaps she’ll be like Lady Ryalth.”

Syreal rolls her eyes. “Nyarl… you need to find your place.”

“So do you.” But Nyarl bows and turns.

“I love her,” Syreal says as the younger healer slips past several Magi’i and consorts Lorn does not know, “but she has the healing skills of one twice her age, and the tact of people of one-half her age.” After a pause, she adds, “We’re over on the left side of the first table.”

“At the bottom, I imagine,” suggests Veljan, withholding a grin for a moment.

Syreal flushes, if briefly, then shakes her head, moving toward the table. The other three follow, and seat themselves before the simple white cards with their names. Lorn is seated farthest to the right and from the head of the table, jointly shared by the newly-consorted couple. Above him on the same side are Aleyar’s parents, so that Lorn sits beside Lleya. Ryalth is seated on Lorn’s left, with Veljan beside her, and Syreal at the bottom corner.

Serving girls come down the tables, offering either Fhynyco or redberry juice. Lorn, Ryalth, and Veljan take the wine, Syreal the juice.

Somewhere the bell rings, and silence finally reigns in the dining area that holds three tables. At the head table, Tyrsal rises and surveys the party.

“Thank you all for coming,” Tyrsal says. “I’m supposed to make a few light remarks and then let everyone enjoy the food. So I will. First, we thank our parents, for being the first ones in making this happy event possible. Second, I would like to thank Lorn, and only say that you and your father were absolutely correct about Aleyar, and I wish I’d listened sooner.” Tyrsal grins. “Except I probably wouldn’t have appreciated her half so much then. And lastly, I’d like to say how much it means to us both for you all to be here.” With another broad smile, Tyrsal sits down. “He was brief,” offers Veljan.

“Tyrsal never speaks long unless he has something of worth to say,” Lorn says. “Unlike some of us who are more wordy.”

“You are more like Tyrsal than you would admit,” suggests Syreal, “else you would not be friends.”

Lorn shrugs. Both Syreal and Ryalth nod at each other, then lean back as a serving girl offers the braised lamb in lemon sauce, followed by buttered and nutted beans, and grass-rice.

After the servers pass on, Veljan clears his throat and turns to Ryalth. “I hope you will pardon me, but we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting before, and I would like your thoughts on some matters.” He smiles boyishly. “I have to confess that I like to get opinions from everyone I respect, because I know that I know very little.”

“That alone means you know a great deal,” Ryalth parries. Syreal laughs. “She knows what you want, dear.”

“I make no secrets of it,” Veljan admits. “I am not like Tasjan, sneaking around with all his informers, and Sasyk and all his guards. Nor like Vyanat’mer, who must study every invoice in his house each time before he decides on a venture. I prefer to listen to people, not spies or papers.”

“And you listen very well,” suggests Lorn. Syreal nods.

“What think you of the cochina dyes from Hamor?” Veljan asks Ryalth.

“They are good dyes, especially for wool, but at ten golds an amphora?” Ryalth shakes her head. “Besides, most folk in Candar, except the Hydlenese, are not partial to red. The Kyphran green is a better buy, and there are more customers for it.”

Veljan laughs. “So… you have already sold all you have?”

“Of course.” Ryalth grins. “Not that I didn’t buy and sell an amphora or two of the cochina red as well-as you did, I recall.”

Veljan shakes his head, ruefully. “What of the yellow of Suthya?”

“I would not sell it.”

“Tasjan buys much there,” Veljan points out, adding after a moment, “but he will only sell it to outland traders.”

“What does he receive for buying it?” Lorn asks.

Veljan frowns.

Syreal nods and answers. “The right to hire armsmen for his vessels.”

“So… most of his guards… are outlanders?” Lorn pursues.

“Many, I have heard,” Veljan admits.

“Are they just guards?” asks Ryalth. “Does he not have them wear uniforms that are the same, no matter what ship they serve?”

“He says he is preparing for when the fireships are no more,” Syreal says flatly. “But some few vessels of smaller traders have vanished when no other ships were near save his.”

“Wouldn’t someone notice the cargoes?” questions Lorn.

“Not if they are sold to outlanders,” Ryalth points out.

“It is true that Tasjan has cultivated many outland traders,” Veljan says slowly, “but one cannot accuse another merchanter or bring a charge before Vyanat without some proof. Tasjan is most careful.”

Lorn nods.

“Aleyar has said that you and Lorn met long years before you were consorted,” Syreal says. “And that you were not consorted in Cyad.”

Both Lorn and Ryalth understand the meaning of the question. Lorn looks at Ryalth. “Best you answer.”

“Yes, let us hear the lady’s version,” suggests Veljan.

Ryalth smiles, then takes a brief sip of the Fhynyco before speaking. “I was a very junior merchanter, and he was still a student magus…”

Lorn watches as his consort speaks, marveling once more at how fortunate he has been that she had been so patient with him. Around them, various conversations ebb and flow as he listens to Ryalth’s voice.

CXXV

Lorn stands by Fayrken’s desk in the fourth-floor foyer of
Mirror Lancer Court
. He extends several sheets of paper to the senior squad leader. “Here’s the report of the oneday meeting. I’ll need two copies.”

“Yes, ser.” Fayrken nods as he takes the sheets. “Short meeting.”

“It was this time.” Lorn smiles. “Thank you.” He turns, and as he sees the curly-haired and narrow-faced commander nearing, he says, “Good day, Commander.”

“Good day, Majer.” Shykt slows, frowns, then adds, “Might you have a moment?”

“Yes, ser.”

Shykt inclines his head toward the door to Lorn’s study.

Lorn holds the door to the study and allows Shykt to enter first, then steps into the room, closing the door behind him. The study is dim on a fall midafternoon when the rain, occasionally heavy, slides down the ancient windowpanes. Lorn waits for the senior officer to seat himself before he takes his own seat behind the desk.

“Majer… I have heard certain rumors, and I will not put you in the difficult position of denying them falsely or betraying confidences…”

“Thank you, ser.”

“So I will phrase what I have to say as suggestions about an event that has yet to take place and that may indeed never take place.” Shykt purses his lips and tilts his head, then focuses his eyes directly on Lorn. “If it should come to pass that several companies of Mirror Lancers are indeed transferred to Cyad, under the command of a field commander… whoever that field commander is might well be advised to be most careful in how he views his orders.”

Lorn nods. “Any Mirror Lancer officer must be most careful in such.”

Shykt’s smile is perfunctory. “We claim to serve chaos and prosperity for the benefit of all Cyador. That can never be, because there are as many Cyadors, in a way, as there are people within our land. Each man, each woman, has a vision of Cyador.”

Lorn offers a smile in return. “That is true, and I have pondered that.”

“Unhappily, the greater the position a man holds, the more likely he is to feel that what is good for him is good for Cyador. Unless he is the Emperor, or one who can see all of Cyador selflessly, and such are rare, and, I fear, becoming more rare.”

With an interested look upon his face, Lorn waits for Shykt to continue.

“It is no secret that the Emperor looks well beyond himself. So does the Empress, and they have been good for Cyador. Less well-known is the fact that this time of change may last longer than the Emperor, and all around Cyad are those positioning themselves for what may occur.” Shykt’s smile is hard, bright, forced. “Even you, I suspect, Majer.”

“Like all men, I have a vision of Cyador, ser, but I am not one to force that vision on the people of this land, and I am a lancer, bound to my duty, and to the Majer-Commander and the Emperor.”

Shykt raises his eyebrows. “Those are fine words, if careful.”

Lorn laughs, gently. “Ser… what would you? If I offered less, you would not be pleased. If I offered more, you would not believe me.”

Shykt purses his lips. “Were there… Only speculation, you understand, but were there lancers armed with firelances in Cyad, what sort of officer should command them?”

“I was asked that once,” Lorn says reflectively. “I recommended Majer Brevyl.”

For a moment Shykt is silent, as if Lorn has offered words he had not expected.

“And I say this not in flattery,” Lorn says, “even though it might come out as such, that you also would do well in such command. As would Commander Sypcal.”

“Flattery indeed, nonetheless.” Shykt laughs, more harshly than Lorn would have expected.

“Perhaps,” Lorn allows, “but true. You are concerned about what happens to Cyador more than what happens to you.”

“Are you, Majer?”

“I hope so,” Lorn answers truthfully, adding with a wry expression, “but words are but that until one has to choose.”

“That, too, is true.” Shykt stands. “I trust you understand why I offered my thoughts on something that might never occur.” The commander’s voice is neutral.

“You have great concerns for the future of Cyador, as might any man of vision in these times,” Lorn replies. “You wish to preserve that which is best about our land at a time when few even consider what things have made it a great land.”

“And, I would like my son to have the chances that I did. And his children as well.” Shykt nods. “Thank you, Majer.”

“Thank you, ser.”

Lorn watches as the curly-haired commander closes the door. Then he sits down slowly, wondering who else has read the orders sent by the Majer-Commander, and what others, if any will visit.

After a time, he shakes his head. Speculation will avail him little… yet, and he has reports to read, and to summarize for the Majer-Commander. He picks up the first sheet and begins to read. When he finishes the first report, he writes three lines on a separate sheet, then picks up the next one.

He finishes three reports, ignoring the heavier beat of rain on the panes of the closed window.

Thrap.

At the knock on his study door, Lorn looks up. “Yes? Come in.” He stands even before he has finished speaking.

The swarthy and dark-browed Luss steps into Lorn’s study, and closes the door firmly. “Did you know I was coming, Majer?” asks the Captain-Commander with a frown.

“No, ser. But in the season - and - a - half I’ve been here, I’ve yet to meet an officer junior to me, and the messengers and rankers are always announced.”

Luss laughs. “Every time I talk with you, I discover more why the Majer-Commander ordered you here. You see too much too quickly at too young a rank to be left in the field without understanding headquarters.”

“I appreciate your compliment, ser, but I am sure there are others who see more.”

Luss waves off Lorn’s demurral and sits down opposite the table desk. Lorn sits slowly and waits.

“The Mirror Lancers have always served Cyador, Majer. I’m certain that you understand that.”

“Yes, ser.”

“And every company, wherever it may be, is in the end under the command of the Majer-Commander.”

Lorn nods, understanding all too well the impact of the phrases yet unuttered, but keeping his expression politely interested.