Magi'i of Cyador (34 page)

"Oh? How?"

"It's too delicate for the Magi'i..."

Lorn frowns.

"...and too dear for the lancers, and too refined for most of the merchanters."

"It sounds like there's no one who can afford it who wants it," Lorn says. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Too much chaos surrounds the senior mages, and they're the ones who have the golds, and chaos off-puts the bouquet. That was what Esydet told me."

"So... what idea do you have in mind?"

"Send it by coaster to Lydiar. The Lydians will pay; we'll probably get three good cargos, two if we're unlucky before one of the big houses discovers the profit."

"So... after two, go to them and ask if they want shares, large shares, for their investment."

"I haven't wanted to let them know much about us...."

"There's already talk," Lorn temporizes. "Let them think you're a facade for someone else."

"That's dangerous... especially with Shevelt pressuring me."

"I know." Lorn sighs. "I know. Maybe we can think of something else in the next few days. Either way, you can make some more golds from the Alafraan before... whatever...." He laughs. "Is that life? Making of it what you can before... whatever?" His thoughts drift back to Jerial, Myryan, and his parents.

"You look so sad." Jerial ladles the emburhka onto his platter, then sets the small basket of bread between them.

"I was thinking about my parents."

"You can't make everyone happy, Lorn. You can't live for them."

He sighs again, and feels every emotion in the sound. "I know. I won't. You know that. But... I'm not too sure how long father will live. Mother's keeping the chaos of age at bay. She is a healer, but..."

"They'll die at close to the same time?"

"I really don't know. So long as your body stays in balance, you can give a lot of balanced order-chaos force."

"But does she want to?" asks Ryalth, her voice softening.

"I don't know that, either." He snorts. "There's so much I don't know."

"That's true of everyone."

Lorn nods, then smiles at the warmth in her eyes, lifting the goblet to her.

She lifts hers as well.

LIV

The magus in the shimmering white, with the silvered cupridium pin worn by only the three highest Senior Lectors on his collar, stands beside the Captain-Commander of the Mirror Lancers in an alcove twenty cubits from the three-story-high doors to the Great Hall-the main audience chamber of the Palace of Light. The polished white floor tiles reflect their images with but the slightest waver, portraying Luss'alt and Kharl'elth almost as clearly as might a glass.

Even Kharl's red hair and Luss's bushy black eyebrows hold their tints in their reflected images. The walls of the Palace shield them from the cold breeze that blows out of the north, creating small whitecaps on the harbor to the south, and far larger ones on the Great Western Ocean beyond.

"I suppose," Kharl says easily, "that you and the Majer-Commander have discussed increasing the number of companies of the Mirror Foot?"

"Why would the Mirror Lancers consider such?" Luss'alt frowns. "What is the need beyond duties as ship marines and guards?"

"No need, I suppose," Kharl replies. "Although..." He shakes his head, then smiles apologetically.

"When you beg me to ask a question, devious Second Magus, you have something to say of the nature you would have me guess. Guess I will not."

"I am sorry." Kharl smiles apologetically. "Some habits die with difficulty." He shrugs. "One dare not speak too directly in the Quarter of the Magi'i."

"You never speak that directly, honored Second Magus." Luss's bluff voice carries a hint of amusement. "But, if you would, a slight effort in that direction would be appreciated."

"Ah, yes, a slight effort." Kharl purses his lips dramatically, and his green eyes carry a sparkle of amusement, conveying an impression of youth.

Luss nods to encourage him.

"Was there not a fire upon the Ocean Flame an eightday past?"

"There was." Luss waits, as if to indicate that he has no intention of guessing.

"And it was caused, as you may have overheard, by the weakening of the barriers of one of the chaos cells that power the fire cannon."

"So it is said."

"You know that salt water weakens metals, and the basic order of the oceans wars against chaos reinforcement. Then... suppose... just suppose... that more cells are found to be weakened... or that the chaos towers in each ship suffer a similar degradation...."

"Hmmm," muses Luss. "If that be the future, then we would have to build our warships as do the Hamorians. As Rynst has already planned."

"Cannon of the old style might be possible," continues Kharl, "but without the threat of the fire cannon, other warships might well attempt to board ours... if you understand what that might entail."

"Devious mage..."

"You are the officer responsible for the Mirror Foot. They are trained near Cyad, as I recall. They could be stationed in the empty barracks by the eastern seawall. If times should become... unsettled... well... I trust you understand."

Luss's lips curl. "I will think upon your... suppositions."

"Of course, my friend. Of course." Kharl spreads his hands. "That is all I wished from you."

"Whatever it be, that is never all that you wish." Luss snorts loudly. "Never."

Kharl shrugs gracefully, as lithely as if he were still but a youth.

LV

In the blues of a senior enumerator, Lorn sits at the side table in the Silver Chalice, nursing a goblet of bitter red table wine and watching through the archway the bulging figure who has to be Shevelt-watching and listening.

The enumerators' section of the Silver Chalice is all but empty, except for a pair in the corner, a very junior blond enumerator far younger than Lorn with a dark-haired girl who giggles annoyingly and all too often.

"...Isyt... don't say things like that...."

"...you are pretty... I wouldn't say so otherwise...."

"...you tell all the girls that..."

"...none of them are like you."

Lorn glances toward the center section of the building, through the archway, to where Shevelt stands.

"Last one! Have to go and be nice to my dear brother!" bellows the big merchanter. "Last one!"

Lorn shakes his head, and rises, leaving three coppers on the table for the serving girl. He can only hope that Shevelt will not be all that long in leaving the Silver Chalice.

Without looking behind him, Lorn-a lancer attired as an enumerator-nods politely as he passes the bravo in the entry foyer. The bravo does not even return the gesture, but looks past Lorn toward the louder merchanters in the central room.

"It's always a last one, Shevelt? Is it really?"

"You'd be hurrying if your brother's consort had red hair...."

A gust of laughter fills the room.

Lorn steps into the darkness outside the Silver Chalice, turning eastward, when a cold chill settles over him. He almost halts, so strong is the sense of being observed in a chaos-glass. But, instead of halting immediately, or stopping by the straggly tree barely twice his height, which he had picked out earlier for its concealing shadows, he continues walking, back in the direction of Ryalth's quarters.

"Chaos-light," he murmurs under his breath.

After finally managing to be at the Silver Chalice when Shevelt is, and when the man plans to leave and not drink all night, Lorn must pass up the opportunity-all because some magus is curious. And why? Lorn has done nothing-yet-besides his duty as a lancer, and besides showing an interest in an attractive merchanter lady.

He offers a wry smile to the night and keeps walking.

While his lady trader will be pleased to see him earlier than it has been, finding Shevelt has taken more time than Lorn would like. Yet he cannot undertake what he plans with an unknown magus watching him through a chaos-glass. If Jerial is right, all the senior Magi'i know he travels in merchanter blues... but that is all they should know.

He nears Second Harbor Way West, trying not to limp or to disclose the sabre tucked into his boot-top.

At least... at least Ryalth will be pleased to see him. Lorn just hopes the next time he finds Shevelt that the same magus does not choose that time to observe him.

The chill does not lift until Lorn is well past Fourth Harbor Way East.

LVI

Three nights after his first observation of Shevelt, once more in the blues of a senior enumerator, Lorn sits at the same side table in the Silver Chalice. He takes a sip from the goblet, half-filled with a vinegary red wine, and watches the burly Shevelt. He has little time left in Cyad, and can but hope the unknown magus does not decide to scree him this night.

At the table to his right are a pair of gray-haired enumerators, talking in phrases that rise and fall, sometimes audible over the louder merchanters in the main room, and sometimes not.

"...no winter rain in Hydlen... snow's light..."

"Aye... both Easthorns and Westhorns..."

"...know the lancers asked Ekyon for another five-score ranker sabres..."

"...loved that, he did..."

The bravo in the entry foyer ignores the noise in the central room, though his fingers occasionally tighten around the golden oak truncheon.

Lorn takes another minute sip of the wine, shaking his head at the serving girl as she approaches. With her, from the back room, comes the odor of overcooked grease. At the young woman's frown, Lorn extracts a copper and lays it on the table, offering a brief smile to her.

She nods, and turns to the two enumerators.

"One more? And why not?" asks the older enumerator.

Lorn smiles, absently, as the server slips out of the smaller enumerators' section without looking back him.

"...and he had to pay Wosyl? He should have paid her!"

Shevelt's laugh is loud, bluff, and annoying to Lorn, but he takes another sip of the bitter red wine-only a sip.

"You don't come here often enough, Shevelt! Don't be leaving so soon...."

"I should come here to be insulted?" The big trader's overhearty laugh booms forth once more, riding over the enumerators' conversation yet again.

"...give as good as you get..."

"Can't stay too late... have some plans...." Shevelt announces.

"Who is she? Another redhead?"

"No... Shevelt's going to journey to a strange land. She's blonde-all the way down." A bass laugh fills the room.

The laughter dies away as Shevelt lurches erect and lumbers toward an adjoining table. "If I didn't happen to be leaving, Vorgan... you would be. On the way to the Steps, mayhap by the long voyage...."

Lorn leaves a pair of coppers on the table, nods to the gray-clad serving girl who returns with two mugs, and points to the three coppers on the wood.

The gesture earns him a fleeting smile.

"...just joshing, Shevelt..."

"Off to your redhead, Shevelt... whichever one she is."

"When I finish my mug..."

Without looking back, Lorn departs the Silver Chalice, walking quickly, as if he will be late somewhere. He continues his pace all the way to Second Harbor Way West, where he slides into the late twilight shadows, and eases back perhaps fifty cubits and melds into the deeper shade that shrouds a straggly feathering conifer. He eases the left trouser leg out over the sabre in his boot-still the Lancer sabre, which means he will need a few other touches. Then he stands and waits beside the straggly tree barely twice his height, and but a score of cubits away from the arches that shield the double doors of the Silver Chalice.

The odor of overcooked grease melds with the salt air and other odors from the harbor. Only a trace of purple hangs above the low hills to the north and west, and the early night air is warmer than it has been in more than an eightday, with a trace of dampness that recalls fall not winter. Lorn remains silent as another man in blue walks slowly from the west end of the way and enters the Silver Chalice.

The right hand double-door opens, and then closes.

Lorn waits, but Shevelt does not emerge.

The sound of voices from the way behind Lorn drifts past him, subsiding as the pair continues toward the harbor.

At last, the door opens and the tall and bulky figure in blue that is Shevelt steps out into the night, stretching slightly, before turning toward Lorn. Lorn waits until the trader is within a handful of cubits before he moves.

"Trader, ser..." Lorn cringes, almost cowers as he scuttles toward Shevelt. "Trader, ser... a word. A word, please."

Shevelt turns, his face twisting.

Lorn backs away, but only slightly. "Ser... a good enumerator. I am. Good for all manner of goods and trades...."

"Good? Begging in the streets? You disgust me, fellow."

"I'm better than any you have...." Lorn whines, stepping back another pace. "I can show you...."

The bulky merchanter takes two surprisingly quick steps and grabs the far smaller enumerator by the shoulder. "Who do you think you are? I want an enumerator... I hire you. You come beg at the hiring door." He starts to shake the smaller man in blue, but the younger man slips from his fingers and bends as if struck.

"Trash..." mumbles Shevelt. "Worthless scum... off with you."

"Like you."

The coldness of Lorn's words, so at odds with the cringing personality displayed a moment before, freezes the huge man for the instant it takes for Lorn to whip the chaos-reinforced sabre across and toward Shevelt's neck.

The merchanter gapes, but cannot even blink or form words as the glitter of cupridium and the sparkle of chaos cut through him. Both head and torso fall, a pair of dull thumps on the white stones echoing faintly into the evening, blood pooling around the momentarily twitching torso.

Lorn quickly takes out the golden scabbard and extracts the dagger, driving it into the dead man's back, rather than turn the body. He dusts the dagger's scabbard with chaos and leaves it by the head, then walks quickly along the shadowed edge of the warehouse, pausing in the deeper shadows to clean the sabre and replace it. The cleaning rag vanishes in a puff of chaos fire, and Lorn walks out onto Second Harbor Way.