Scion of Cyador (76 page)

“You were right to deal with Tasjan silently. None would lift arms until it would bloody all Cyad.”

“That could still happen,” Lorn says. “Perhaps you should stay here tomorrow.”

“In the afternoon…”

“What is so important that you would risk yourself in the morning?” he finally asks Ryalth.

“If I shy from the Plaza when others do not… then who will trade with me? I have spent years, dear lancer, getting folk to understand that I am no frail woman.” Ryalth raises her eyebrows.

Lorn sighs. He recognizes the cupridium in her voice. “Promise me this. If other houses close… you close as well, even if it is morning. And take Pheryk and the hired guards. There is a difference between prudence and faintheartedness.”

“I will-but I will not be the first to close.”

Lorn holds back a frown. Ryalth’s words are not quite true. “You don’t have to be the very last.”

“I will not be so, not if I can help it.”

Lorn relaxes slightly. Those words are clearly truth-felt. He takes another sip of the wine. Then he stiffens, shaking his head. “Did you hear about the First Magus?”

Ryalth frowns. “I cannot said that I did, save that some ask why the Magi’i have not stepped forward to press for an heir.”

“A chaos-tower failed yesterday, and the First Magus was killed. Rynst said that he was trying to stabilize it because there are but two towers remaining in all Cyad. Except for three on fireships.”

“That does not ring fair.”

“No, and that means Kharl will be First Magus. I do not like that at all.”

“Could he have… ?”

“Tyrsal says that, old as he is, Chyenfel is… was… far stronger than Kharl in handling chaos.” Lorn frowns.

“Should you talk to Tyrsal?” Ryalth asks.

“I should… but I do not dare take the time to seek him, nor compromise him, not tomorrow, not when we know not what Sasyk plans.” Lorn shrugs. “All the glass shows is Sasyk plotting and guards upon ships.” He laughs once. “We know both almost without a glass, and a glass does not tell when something will happen until it does.”

Ryalth looks at Lorn. “You had not planned for this.”

He shakes his head slowly. “No. I had thought…” He breaks off with a sad and wistful smile. “One doesn’t think… life changes… I had not thought my parents would die so soon…” He smiles. “At least they saw Kerial… and you. Your parents didn’t get to see any of that.”

Her smile is sad. “When one wishes… the costs are far greater than mere golds.”

“Is Ryalor House worth it?”

“It is. My mother would be pleased. My father would be astonished. Yet… there is always something more to be done. There is always another cargo lost, another factor who distrusts a woman…”

“And a consort who is often never around?”

“I cannot ask you to be what you are not, dear one, and you have loved me more than any could hope or ask. I would that I could give you half of what you have given me.” Her hand reaches across the table and takes his. “It is just… in these times… we do what we must… and never know if it is what should be done… or what may come of it.”

Lorn squeezes her hand, half wondering, half dreading, just what the morrow may bring.

CLVIII

Ciesrt holds Myryan’s arm as they climb the steps to the second level of the dwelling. His steps are so quick he is almost dragging her slight frame. “Please hurry… please…”

“I won’t be much help… not if I can’t breathe when I get there.” Myryan’s voice is low.

“I told you. Don’t you understand?” Ciesrt slows his climb to match her steps. “Father needs a healer… and you are one of the best.”

“You told me that.”

“A bravo attacked him coming back from the Quarter tonight,” Ciesrt explains. “He must have had an iron blade… or something.” He says nothing more, and they walk, silently, the last cubits up the steps and across the portico to the study.

Slightly behind her consort, Myryan follows Ciesrt into the lamplit study.

Kharl is half seated, half slumped, lying back in an armchair, his feet on a stool. His face is flour-white, and his breathing is fast and shallow, almost panting. His tunic and undertunic have been removed, and his chest would be bare, saving that it is covered with a blanket, except for his left shoulder and arm. His green eyes are open, and fierce, even as his form convulses into another shudder.

A woman in white, Kharl’s consort, places a damp cloth across the forehead of the magus, and another across the shoulder and the arm.

“The iron… Mother removed it as soon as he got here, but she has not your skill,” Ciesrt explains.

The new First Magus says nothing as Myryan bends and moves the cold damp cloth to inspect the wound. Her fingers brush his skin momentarily. Red lines spread from a small wound, no larger than a thumb, in his left upper arm just below the top of his shoulder. Heat radiates from the entire arm and shoulder.

“Well…” The normally smooth and modulated voice is raw.

“It is ferric poisoning.” Myryan’s face is drawn. “It is well along, but I think I can do something about it.”

“If you would…” Ciesrt says.

“Quickly,” rasps Kharl.

Myryan touches the skin of the magus once more, lightly. She winces, murmuring. “Order-spelled iron.”

“…would be…” mutters Kharl.

Myryan seats herself on the stool that Ciesrt has drawn from somewhere for her. A cloud of unseen darkness rises from the healer and gathers about the wound. The air within a quarter of a cubit of the center of the wound sparkles, as if tiny points of order and chaos collide in miniature firebolts.

All eyes in the study are upon the sparkling, and none notice the second veil of darkness that wells from the healer and slips into the ailing magus.

Myryan shivers on the stool, and Ciesrt must steady her.

“Better…” says the First Magus. “…can feel it already.”

“You’re wonderful,” Ciesrt tells Myryan. “No one could do that but you.”

The faintest of smiles appears and vanishes before she speaks. “I’m sorry.” Her head turns slowly to Ciesrt, as if it is a tremendous effort. “I can do no more, and… I must rest.”

“She is a good consort, son. Have her rest.” Kharl says.

She offers a wan smile in return. Her face is pale, and she leans on Ciesrt, as she steps from the study.

Behind her, the green eyes of the Second Magus are cold on her back.

CLIX

Mirror Lancer Court is almost empty when Lorn walks into the lower foyer not all that long after dawn and starts up the staircase to his study. Even the whispered impact of his light steps echoes in the vault of the open staircase.

“Ser?” calls Fayrken, even before Lorn’s foot touches the first tile of the fourth-floor foyer.

“What is it, Fayrken?” Lorn moves toward the senior squad leader.

“The Captain-Commander… he was already asking for you.”

“So early?”

“He said he needed to see you. As soon as you arrived. He had me send a messenger down to the warehouse barracks in case you went there first.”

A faint smile crosses Lorn’s face. “Do you know if the Majer-Commander is in yet?”

“Tygyl hasn’t seen him. He left the door to the portico open last night.”

The smile leaves Lorn’s face.

Fayrken steps back, almost involuntarily. “Ser?”

“I’d best see the Captain-Commander. Thank you, Fayrken. Thank you very much.” Lorn’s fingers brush the hilt of the Brystan sabre as he turns back toward the staircase. He takes his time ascending the last flight.

Once he reaches the open fifth-floor foyer, Lorn pauses by Tygyl’s open desk. “Tygyl… could I trouble you to have a messenger sent to Captain Cheryk? If you would, just tell him to have the men ready to ride. I should be there shortly, but I didn’t expect to be meeting with anyone this early.”

“Yes, ser. We can do that.” The senior-most of the senior squad leaders raises his eyebrows.

“It appears that the Dyjani usurper will be bringing in close to fifteenscore armed guards today… most likely by ship.”

“Yes, ser. I’ll send that message.”

“The Captain-Commander?”

“He’s in his study, ser. Commander Lhary is with him. They expect you.”

“I’m sure that they do. Thank you, Tygyl.” Lorn turns to the right and steps toward the door to Luss’s study.

As he steps inside the study, he closes the door, but keeps his eyes on the two men standing before Luss’s table desk. “Ser. You requested my presence.”

Luss looks at Lorn. Lhary stands behind the Captain-Commander’s right shoulder.

“Yes… I did, Majer.” Luss offers the warm and open smile of the type that Lorn distrusts. “You always do your duty, and in these times, we are grateful for officers such as you.” Luss pauses. “The Majer-Commander has vanished. He is not in his dwelling. Nor is he in his study, nor have any seen him. Have you any knowledge of this? You have been… familiar… with the disappearance of officers, it is said.”

Lorn smiles, lazily. “No, ser. I have not seen the Majer-Commander. Nor do I know aught about his disappearance. His disappearance would scarce benefit Cyador, and it would benefit me even less.”

“Yet you smile, Majer,” offers Lhary.

“I am a loyal Mirror Lancer officer, and I stand ready to carry out my duties to protect the Emperor and Cyador.” Lorn’s eyes continue to watch Luss.

“What do you intend, Majer?” Luss’s blue eyes seem to focus into the distance for a moment, even as he studies Lorn.

“My last orders from the Majer-Commander were to ensure that the merchanters did not threaten either the Emperor or the Palace of Light. I will carry them out.”

“The Emperor has died. There is no Emperor to protect. And there is no Majer-Commander.” After the briefest of pauses, Luss adds, “Not that can be found.”

“Yes, ser.”

“I believe we discussed this earlier, Majer.”

“We did, ser. There is still duty, ser.” Lorn ostentatiously touches the hilt of the Brystan sabre.

Lhary’s eyes tighten, and a frown begins.

Lorn’s sabre is in his hand, even before either man starts to react. The first chaos-aided cut goes through Luss’s throat. Luss tries to speak, then slowly crumples.

“No!” Lhary yells as he reaches for his sabre. He has his blade clear of his scabbard, if barely, when Lorn’s chaos-aided iron and cupridium runs through his chest.

Lorn looks at both bodies, then wipes his blade on Lhary’s tunic, even before the commander’s eyes turn dull. In turn, he takes Lhary’s blade from the dying man’s hand and runs the edge across Luss’s throat, before replacing it beside Lhary’s outstretched hand.

Then he stands and sheathes the Brystan sabre, wondering how Luss could ever have bested Rynst and disposed of the Majer-Commander’s body. Then, Lhary could have done it.

For a long moment, Lorn looks at the two bodies on the sunstone tiles. Then he steps out into the foyer.

Tygyl stands outside the door, sabre in hand, face blank. Behind him is Fayrken.

Lorn shakes his head. “Commander Lhary attacked the Captain-Commander. I was a shade too slow to save Captain-Commander Luss. I was fast enough not to allow Commander Lhary to succeed in his treachery.”

“Ser… treachery?”

“The Majer-Commander is missing. Commander Lhary is the senior commander in the Mirror Lancers. I believe the idea was to insist I attacked the Captain-Commander. Commander Lhary would dispatch me for my treachery. After all, I am the Butcher. Then, as senior commander, he would be acting Majer-Commander, and a hero to all the traditional officers for removing me.”

Fayrken and Tygyl look at each other, but hold their sabres ready.

“According to the chain of command, I believe Commander Sypcal is now acting Majer-Commander.”

Lorn freezes for a moment as the chill of a chaos-glass sweeps across him, but forces himself to wait calmly for Tygyl’s response.

“He be ill still, ser.” Tygyl’s face remains blank, and he does not lower his sabre. “Are you not better fitted?”

“Tygyl… I am under the command of the Emperor, but I am not Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers. Nor should I be. Sypcal is a good officer, and a good man, and he was probably poisoned by Lhary… just because he is a good and loyal officer. If you and the other senior squad leaders would ensure his protection… I’m sure the Emperor-or his heir-will confirm Commander Sypcal. If they do not, there are other senior commanders of talent. Perhaps someday I might be one of them.” Lorn smiles grimly, half relieved as the sense of being observed in the chaos-glass vanishes. He wonders if the magus who has screed him is Kharl or Rustyl. “I need to get to the harbor before the ships carrying the merchanter guards arrive.”

Tygyl lowers his sabre. So does Fayrken.

“Best we get to Commander Sypcal, then…” Tygyl says.

“And perhaps you should sent a message to Commander Shykt in Dellash, as well.” Lorn frowns. “Would you ask Commander Sypcal if he would consider bringing Majer Brevyl to Cyad to serve? As my suggestion. A suggestion only.”

“Ah… yes, ser.”

“That’s the commander’s choice, but with a commander and the Captain-Commander dead, and the Majer-Commander missing, and probably dead through some plotting of Commander Lhary… Commander Sypcal and the Emperor may need some talented and loyal officers.”

“Yes, ser.”

Lorn turns and hurries down the steps.

“Not one officer in a score… turn down that…”

“…meant what he said…”

“…always does…”

Lorn only hopes that he can continue to keep his word, both to Rynst, and to himself.

CLX

Lorn glances at the cold blue sky to the south, above the harbor, as he rides downhill toward the maneuver grounds and the warehouse barracks beyond. He thinks he sees two ships under sail on the horizon, but that could be because he expects to see them. He looks again, standing in the stirrups, but still is not sure.

Cheryk is standing outside the barracks as Lorn reins up the gelding and dismounts.

“Ser… there was a messenger for you…”