As he takes the scrolls, Rynst sighs. "You are indeed your father's son. Act quickly, and support your actions." He pauses. "Your father was more than any knew, as you will discover."

   Lorn lowers his eyes for a moment, trying to control the burning in them, even though his father's death is not the sudden shock he has expressed. He swallows. "I'm sorry, ser. Even though I suspected..."

   "I can understand that." Rynst nods. He reads through the scrolls, cursorily, then looks at Lorn. "You did not protest Dettaur's actions?"

   "How?" Lorn's lips twist. "By dispatching a lancer messenger for a three-day ride to post a scroll that would be read by the Captain-Commander?"

   Rynst frowns. "Do you really think you can wear Alyiakal's mantle?"

   "No, ser. No man can wear another's."

   "That sounds like Kien." The Majer-Commander shakes his head. "Such honesty is most dangerous in Cyad, young Lorn."

   "Ser... dishonesty with you is far more dangerous."

   Rynst laughs, a low rueful sound, shaking his head. "Chaos-light... you sound so much like your sire. The dry honesty..." He shakes his head again. After a long moment, the Majer-Commander pulls a pouch from his desk drawer and extends it. "You've been promoted. You're a majer. I can't afford to have aides who are less than majers. No one listens to them. Most don't listen to majers, but you've enough background and a reputation for action that being a majer should be enough. Besides, too much rank right now would not be wise."

   "Yes, ser." Lorn takes the soft shimmercloth pouch.

   Rynst leans forward. "Your tasks are very simple. You do what I ask. You do nothing for anyone else, unless you are certain it is to accomplish what I have set before you."

   "Yes, ser."

   "You have not had any furlough or leave in close to two years. Is that not correct?"

   "Yes, ser."

   "You need to see your consort and your family, especially after learning of your father's death. You have the rest of this eightday, and all of the next. When you return, in addition to your normal reporting duties, your first task is straightforward enough. You write well, and swiftly. That is clear." Rynst's lips twist into a smile that is near-ironic. "Not all appreciate that. You know that the chaos-towers are failing. Otherwise you would not have gone to Jera. Draft a plan for dealing with the Jeranyi. For the first draft, do not consider the factions in Cyad. Once you return, you will draft what you believe to be the best lancer solution. Do not put a line to paper until you return. Is that clear?"

   "Yes, ser."

   "I will see you an eightday from oneday." Rynst smiles slightly as he stands, "And Majer... two matters: First, put on the insignia before you leave the outer study. And, second, it might be best if no other officers and enumerators disappeared-at least for a while. I don't have officers to waste, even bad ones, and I've suggested, even to the Captain-Commander, that you'll refrain from such if he will. Now... go and spend some time with your consort and family."

   "Yes, ser." Lorn stands.

   Rynst's smile is fatherly-almost-as he watches Lorn leave his study.

 

 

LXXXV

 

Lorn wants to touch the emblem on his collar-the miniature crossed lances-as he sits in the carriage that conveys him back down to the Traders' Plaza. The short trip seems almost a metaphor for his recent life, as he feels he moves from point to point with nothing exactly being settled, each action somehow not quite finished.

   He glances through the carriage window. A patch of blue sky has finally appeared over the harbor, spreading slowly as he watches, and mist begins to rise off the white sunstone piers where the warm sun strikes them.

   Lorn leaves the carriage driver with half a silver, and walks quickly across the Plaza. His steps are less deliberate as he climbs to the topmost floor of the building holding Ryalor House.

   This time, unlike others when he has arrived, his consort is not meeting with other factors or traders, and her smile is even warmer-and more relieved-as he opens the door to her private office. He closes the door behind him.

   Kerial in her arms, Ryalth steps forward. "What happened?"

   "I met with the Captain-Commander, and then the Majer-Commander. The Majer-Commander promoted me right there and said I had furlough until an eightday from next oneday."

   "You have time to spend with your family?"

   "I was ordered to spend it with you."

   "Maybe you should bend the rules more often."

   "This is the first time I have ended up with more time with you," he points out.

   "Let's go home. We can talk there," she says. "For once, I don't have anyone coming by, and I don't want anyone to show up." She eases back toward her table desk and scoops up a blue leather bag. "Kerial's things."

   Then she opens the door and beckons to Eileyt, who sits at a small table a halfscore of cubits from her door.

   The senior enumerator stands and slips toward the three. "Yes, Lady?"

   "Eileyt, we're leaving," Ryalth says quietly. "If I come in tomorrow, it won't be for long. I'll be in on fourday to meet with the Austran."

   "Yes, Lady."

   "You know where to send a messenger if it's urgent, but it had best be most urgent."

   The senior enumerator smiles and bows his head. "I trust it will not be necessary."

   "So do I." Ryalth shifts Kerial-whose arms and pudgy fists have begun to windmill-from one shoulder to the other.

   As the couple and their son cross the front room of Ryalor House, Lorn is aware that all the merchanters watch them, if covertly, and he wonders exactly what has been said about him, for they see Ryalth every day.

   Several merchanters from other houses step aside as Lorn, Ryalth, and Kerial make their way down the steps and out onto the Plaza whose eastern side, in the late afternoon, is finally bathed in sunlight.

   On the lower level, another pair of younger enumerators freeze and watch. Lorn catches the words after they pass.

   "See... he's real... Majer now... too."

   "...better not offend Vyanat'mer, then. It's too short a trip."

   Lorn wonders about the last words.

   Ryalth smiles. "You are the subject of some many rumors among the merchanters. Vyanat copied parts of the report you sent him. He suggested that he would send any traders who sold weapons to the Jeranyi to see you personally."

   "I suppose he called me the Butcher of Nhais, or Jera?"

   Ryalth frowns. "No... he was more complimentary than that."

   "That's what Dettaur called me."

   "From what I have heard from Jerial, I'm not surprised." Ryalth says, turning westward as they leave the Plaza.

   "She liked Dettaur less than I did." Lorn looks along the Road of Benevolent Commerce. "Where are we headed?"

   "Home."

   "You have a better place?" He smiles. "I knew that from the glass, but I never got any scrolls..."

   Ryalth frowns. "Those were in the ones-"

   "-that Dettaur intercepted and destroyed." Lorn laughs.

   "For that alone he should have been slain."

   "It wasn't just for that," Lorn says quietly. "I killed him because what he was doing would have killed more lancers and because he would have done anything to destroy me-and you." He shakes his head. "And mostly because he attacked me rather than explain."

   "You had said he had tried to kill you."

   "He still thought he was better with a sabre."

   "Your brother Vernt-he said your friend Tyrsal told him that you could use a blade with either hand, and that no one in the lancers could match you."

   "I doubt that," Lorn protests. "There are probably a number."

   "Zero is a number, too, my dear, and closer to the truth. After all, Dettaur was among the best, and he is dead."

   Lorn cannot dispute that, although Dettaur's death was aided by Lorn's control of chaos-energies, and that, he cannot mention anywhere. "Why did you decide to move? Kerial?"

   "For that reason, and because this location is much better, and closer." An amused expression crosses her lips.

   They turn down a narrow side way-narrow for Cyad, perhaps only twenty cubits wide-that was perhaps once intended as a service way for the larger mansions that front the Fourth and Fifth Harbor Ways. Halfway down the road is a wall that runs between two carriage stables. In the center of that alabaster wall is a heavy iron gate-a rarity in Cyad.

   "The gate came from Hamor. I felt it would prove... useful." Ryalth's lips curl, but the expression is not quite a smile. After extracting a key from her belt wallet, she unlocks the gate, then locks it behind them after they step around the privacy hedge of thornroses that blocks any view from beyond the gate. Beyond the hedge is a garden, with a fountain shaped like the trunk of a pearapple tree. Flanking the fountain are two teardrop-shaped flower gardens, each backed by a shoulder-high boxwood hedge. The green marble walk leads to the fountain basin, circles it, and then melds back into a single pathway leading to the dwelling beyond.

   "When it's warmer and the water sprays, the fountain has the shape of a true pearapple-almost, anyway," the redhead explains.

   Lorn takes in the dwelling on the far side of the garden. It is low, merely two stories, with a covered veranda supported by fluted green marble pillars. The house itself is also of marble, a shade of white, lightly tinted green. He can see the wide windows and the double doors. "It's lovely."

   "It should be." Her words are light. "Let me show you."

   Lorn follows her around the fountain basin and up the three wide marble steps. A polished wooden settee sits before the wide window on the left side of the doors, and is flanked by two low tables.

   "The cushions are inside. I don't sit out here in the winter, and I've been so busy that somehow, the cushions never got out here." Ryalth unlocks the heavy white-oak door and motions for Lorn to enter.

   He does, but once he moves around the inner ceramic privacy screen, he stops cold in the entry foyer.

   There are four steps down, so that the ceilings are far higher than they had looked from outside. The walls are a pale green stone, half-covered with gold-trimmed green hangings, and covering more than half the pale green marble floor is a six-sided woven green carpet, bordered in blue and edged in gold. Two archways lead from the foyer.

   "Kysia... Ayleha, I'm home!" Ryalth calls, shifting Kerial from her right to her left arm.

   A heavyset gray-haired woman appears in the left-hand archway and nods. She wears a tunic and trousers of pale green, and a darker green scarf covers her throat, almost to her chin.

   "Ayleha, this is Lorn... my consort, the one I have talked about. He is Kerial's father. He hasn't been able come to Cyad very often." Ryalth waits for a moment. "Lorn is the only one who is welcome here when I am not. The only one. We owe him everything. Everything."

   Ayleha bobs her head twice. Another figure appears in the archway behind Ayleha-Kysia, Lorn suspects, who had served in his parents' house.

   "I'm going to show him around. We'll have dinner when we usually do. Lorn and I have much to talk over."

   The silent serving woman nods once, then smiles.

   Lorn realizes she has no teeth, but he smiles and says, "I'm pleased to meet you, Ayleha."

   The woman nods, first to Ryalth, then to Lorn, before slipping back through the archway.

   "She doesn't speak."

   "She can't. She was a slave in Hamor. To one of the merchant princes. They don't like their secrets spread. She tried to escape. She finally succeeded, and someone who owed me a favor thought I might find her useful." Ryalth sighs. "She is, and she's grateful, and she cooks well, and it still bothers me."

   Lorn touches her arm. "You can only do what you can do."

   "Sometimes... that's not enough."

   Lorn is the one to allow himself to sigh. "I know."

   Ryalth gestures to the short, muscular, gray-eyed woman who remains in the archway. "And you remember Kysia?"

   Lorn laughs as he recalls the servant whom Ryalth had paid surreptitiously to help his family and report to her. "I'm glad to meet you closely, and face-to-face."

   "And I you, ser." A mischievous smile appears. "You are difficult to avoid."

   "You won't have to, not anymore."

   Kysia bows, the smile still on her face.

   "He hasn't seen the house."

   The gray-eyed young woman bows and slips back through the archway.

   Still wrestling with a squirming Kerial, Ryalth turns to Lorn. "We have much to talk about. But let me show you the house, first." A smile dances across her lips as she moves toward the right archway from the foyer.

   "You didn't have to tell Ayleha you owed me everything. You don't."

   "But I do." Her thin eyebrows lift. "You deceived me, dear lancer. I thought there were but a few hundred golds in that chest you gave me, oh so long ago. There were also rubies and emeralds and close to another thousand golds beneath the lining." She laughs. "So I deceived you, and used them." She draws Lorn from the central foyer through the wide arch into the front sitting room. "A small portion of our ill-gotten gains."

   The sitting room contains the bordered carpet that depicts the trading ship that had sunk with Ryalth's parents aboard so many years before, and the settee from her earlier quarters, and a great deal more, including a tall and polished golden-oak bookcase and a matching sideboard set under one of the wide windows.

   From the sitting room, Ryalth leads Lorn into a dining room with a table that will seat almost a score easily.

   "For when we invite your family," she explains.

   "Will Ciesrt even come?" asks Lorn.

   "Now that you are working for the Majer-Commander, I imagine he will be most ready to sup with us," Ryalth says dryly. "If only to see what he can discover."

   "Wahh!" interjects Kerial.

   "Hush, sweetheart, we'll be just a bit, but your father hasn't even seen the house yet."

   Kerial sniffs, loudly.

   The kitchen, where both Kysia and Ayleha are laboring, chopping onions and other vegetables, is as large as the entire quarters Ryalth had occupied on the east side of Cyad.

   With Kerial squirming more and more, Ryalth hurries up the center stairs and toward the heavy oak door in the middle of the south side of the house. The master chamber-with a small balcony beyond-stretches a good thirty cubits along the middle of the front of the house, and is almost fifteen cubits deep.

   Lorn looks at the ornate, triple-width bed. "I've seen this so many times in the glass. I'm glad I'm here to see it in person."

   "So am I."

   "Wahh!" adds Kerial.

   "He's hungry... and..."

   "That's all right. I've been traveling for days. I can clean up while you feed him."

   "By then, dinner for us will be ready, and, after that," Ryalth says, "Kerial is usually tired enough to sleep."

   "When did you get that?" Lorn asks, inclining his head toward the little bed.

   "About three eightdays ago. I hoped you would be coming home."

   Lorn bends toward her, dodging Kerial's flailing arm, and brushes her cheek with his lips. "I'm very glad."

   "You get cleaned up, and I'll get your very insistent son fed." Ryalth smiles again. "The armoire on the left is yours. It's empty."

   Lorn returns the smile and sets his bags beside the armoire.

 

 

LXXXVI

 

Whaaa..."

   Kerial's protest is the first sound Lorn hears, as the barest tinge of gray seeps through the shutters. The tired sub-majer winces, then suppresses a sigh as Ryalth slips from the large bed to the smaller one.

   "There, there... Mother's right here." She lifts the reddish-haired boy and cradles him in her arms, then one-handedly readjusts the pillows on her bed before slipping back beside Lorn, and easing Kerial's hungry mouth to her breast.

   For a time, Lorn just watches his consort and their son.

   "You're quiet," Ryalth says.

   "It's strange, almost amazing, to be here," he admits. "And to think that we have a child."

   "You were amazing last night." Ryalth shifts her weight slightly to brush a strand of short red hair off her forehead.

   Kerial sucks loudly.

   Lorn flushes. "I missed you."

   "I've missed you." She smiles. "Couldn't you tell?"

   Lorn finds himself flushing more.

   "I like it when you do that."

   "What? Turn red?" he asks wryly.

   "You're always so composed when anyone sees you," she points out. "Someone who doesn't know you would think you feel nothing. I even wondered at first. It made more sense once I began to understand the Magi'i."

   "That nothing is hidden, you mean?"

   Ryalth sits up and lifts Kerial to her shoulder, patting him on the back gently. She is rewarded with a small burp, and she eases him down and lets him nurse from the other breast. "It's more subtle than that," she muses. "Watching people through a glass and using your senses to listen when no one thinks you can-I've seen you do that-doing that takes time and effort. No one can watch anyone all the time. So you never know what someone knows, only that they could know."

   "I can sense when someone uses a glass," Lorn points out. "So can you."

   "Sometimes, but mostly when it's you. It's hard, otherwise."

   "Unless it's a strong magus," Lorn suggests, then adds, "There must be some Magi'i in your background."

   Ryalth offers a gentle laugh. "I've wondered that, lately, and if that's where the book came from. But there's no way to find out now."

   "I suppose not. But Father would be very happy to know it... and pleased."

   "I have funny feelings about that. I don't feel like a magus or a healer."

   "You weren't trained that way... but you're certainly as perceptive as my sisters, and you can sense things. That's one reason why you're a good trader."

   "I don't know." Ryalth shakes her head. "The whole bit about the chaos-glasses-you told me that most Magi'i can't feel anyone using a glass. That's why they have to act as though everything they do could be watched or heard. It's still hard to deal with. You were that way to begin with. Your brother still is."

   "I suppose that's why manners and customs are important." Lorn frowns. "Everyone expects them, and their sameness makes meeting and greeting someone safer."

   "That's the impression, but I can tell when they're genuine and when they are just a formality. Most people can."

   "You're saying that the more adept of the Magi'i can use that to their advantage?"

   "Don't you?"

   Lorn laughs. "You know me too well."

   "You'd better keep using it, now that you're back in Cyad."

   "You're right. I'm still worried."

   "Why?" Ryalth's blue eyes are warm as they study him.

   "The Majer-Commander has something in mind for me, and the Captain-Commander isn't exactly that fond of me."

   "Neither is Bluyet Clan," Ryalth says dryly. "You're lucky that Vyanat'mer is the Merchanter Advisor to the Emperor. The Hyshrah Clan have never been fond of those of Bluyet. And Denys-he's Bluoyal's successor-was close to Bluoyal."

   "What's Vyanat'mer like?"

   "He seems very direct. He speaks but the truth, and his words are blunt." Ryalth shakes her head. "Behind the bluntness and the use of truth, there is great subtlety. Like Bluoyal, and like Tasjan, he believes that the days of the Mirror Lancers, and especially of the Magi'i, are passing."

   "They won't pass entirely," Lorn replies. "The better Magi'i can draw chaos from the world around them. It's not spoken of widely, but they can."

   "How many? One out of ten?" asks Ryalth. "If the towers fail..."

   "When the towers fail," Lorn says.

   "Then, most of the Magi'i will be powerless, or have but a fraction of their former power," Ryalth notes. "Vyanat knows that. Golds won't lose their power, but the Mirror Lancers will be less powerful without firelances..."

   "Not necessarily. We could raise more lancers."

   "And how will you pay them and arm them?"

   "I bow to you, my lady," Lorn says. "Both will take more golds, and that will lead to greater power for the merchanters."

   "You can think about that later." Ryalth disengages Kerial's mouth and lifts him to her shoulder. "What would you like to do today?"

   Lorn offers a wide smile.

   "Besides that. That will have to wait until later."

   "I need to see Jerial and Myryan and Vernt."

   "I had thought they could come here for dinner in a few days," suggests Ryalth.

   "We still need to see Jerial and Myryan before that."

   "Today would be better. We can hire a carriage for the day," suggests Ryalth.

   "You could afford one all the time," Lorn says, "from what I've seen, you prosperous trader." He grins.

   "There's no point in that. Most of the time, I don't need it. Besides, that would draw attention." Ryalth moistens her lips. "When we get up, I'll have Kysia find a messenger to let them know we'll be dropping by. Jerial might be gone, otherwise. Myryan gets home in the late afternoon to prepare dinner for Ciesrt."

   Lorn nods. "Would you like me to hold Kerial while you get washed and dressed?"

   She smiles. "That would be nice. He usually has to stay in his bed and fuss."

   The sub-majer slowly takes his son, who is beginning to squirm, and lifts the infant boy to his shoulder.

   "Keep your hand behind his neck. He's not that strong there yet," Ryalth cautions.

   Lorn eases his fingers up Kerial's back. "How are you this morning, young man?"

   A slight burp is followed by, "Aaaaa..."

   Lorn smiles crookedly as he feels the dampness on his shoulder. There is much he will have to get used to in Cyad-both in the Mirror Lancers and at home.

 

 

LXXXVII

 

It is nearly late midmorning when Kysia comes to the top of the stairs and announces, "Lady, ser... the carriage is here."

   "Thank you," Lorn calls, clipping the Brystan sabre in place.

   "I'll carry Kerial. You don't have that many uniforms left," Ryalth says.

   "Again," notes Lorn. "I'll need to have some more tailored."

   "Very stylishly."

   "No... not too stylishly."

   After a moment, Ryalth nods. "Well-fitted, but not dandyish." She slips Kerial, who wears a cream-colored tunic above green trousers that look baggy, into the crook of her left arm.

   Then the two descend to the main floor of the dwelling that still amazes Lorn in its deceptive size and luxury. Outside, the sun shines brightly, although there is a slight haze that lightens the green-blue sky.

   The carriage that waits outside the iron gate is older, although the polished golden-oak and spruce of the closed body have been kept oiled and clean.

   As Lorn and Ryalth step outside the iron gate, Lorn looks at the gray-haired coachman. "The Road of Perpetual Light, at the crossing of the Tenth Way." He opens the carriage door and extends an arm to help Ryalth inside.

   "Yes, ser." The coachman smiles. "Handsome young-'un, there."

   "Thank you," Ryalth says as she steps up and inside the carriage.

   "You be needing me all day?" asks the coachman.

   "Most of it, I'd think," Lorn replies. "You'll be paid for the whole day."

   "Thank you, ser."

   With a nod, Lorn follows Ryalth into the coach and closes the door.

   As the carriage passes the Fourth Harbor Way East, Lorn can sense the chill of a chaos-glass, and he looks at Ryalth. Her lips quirk.

   "Did Kysia find a messenger to send to Jerial?"

   "Of course. Otherwise Jerial might have been at the infirmary, but she's not. She's packing up her things."

   Lorn winces. "I hadn't thought about that."

   "She'll be fine, dear," Ryalth says. "Unlike some."

   He forces himself not to take a deep breath when the unseen chill of the chaos-glass passes.

   Ryalth raises her eyebrows.

   "I don't know." He answers the unspoken question. "A magus, but..." He shrugs. "It could be any first-level adept."

   "There will be more," Ryalth says, patting Kerial on the back.

   "I fear so-now that I am back in Cyad."

   When the coach pulls up outside the dwelling that had been Lorn's parents', he steps out quickly, holding the door and offering a hand to Ryalth.

   "You can wait in the shade here," Lorn tells the coachman. "And there's water in the lower garden there."

   The driver nods.

   "I don't know how long we'll be."

   "We'll be here, ser."

   Lorn and Ryalth walk toward the door, but before they have even started up the steps, Jerial opens the door and steps beyond the privacy screen. Lorn's older sister is clad in a deep black, and there are circles around her eyes.

   Lorn steps forward and hugs her.

   "I'd hoped it would be you." She steps back and gestures. "Come on in. Things are messy... I'm packing."

   Lorn holds back a frown and waits for Ryalth to carry Kerial past the tiled privacy screen, then nods to Jerial, and follows the women into the house.

   "Kerial just keeps getting bigger," Jerial notes as she closes the door.

   As they walk up to the second level, Lorn looks at Jerial. "I'm sorry. I was never told. I didn't get any scrolls from you or Ryalth."

   Jerial nods. "I feared that when I didn't hear, and when I realized that Dettaur was at Assyadt. I could feel it when you looked for Ryalth when we were together."

   The three take seats in the sitting room.

   "Gaaaa..." Kerial announces, waving a chubby fist. "Gaaaa!" He lurches in Ryalth's arms toward the dark-haired healer.

   "He's being social," Jerial says with a smile.

   "He knows his aunt," Ryalth counters.

   "He's like his father." Jerial grins at her brother. "Or like you were before you met Ryalth."

   "Thank you for the last phrase," Lorn says.

   Kerial lurches once more, and Ryalth stands and carries her son to Jerial, who takes him easily.

   "You're getting to be such a big boy," Jerial coos at the infant.

   "About Father... Mother?" Lorn asks. "How long has it been?"

   "Father died on twoday of the third eightday of winter. Mother did not last three eightdays beyond. I don't think she wanted to... and she had spent so much energy keeping him alive."

   "I'm sorry... you know I didn't know."

   "What could you have done?" Jerial shakes her head. "I think I'm angriest that Dettaur took your scrolls to Father. At the end... Father would reread the older ones, and he would talk to me about when we were young."

   "How was he... at the end?" Lorn ventures.

   "The same as always, except weaker. He was still sometimes saying the usual platitudes, except that they weren't for him-and sometimes the unexpected. He told Vernt that there would come a time when Vernt would need your help, and that Vernt had better not tilt his nose too far back to see it."

   "He said that?"

   Jerial laughs. "And he told me that there was life beyond Cyad, and not to forget it when the time came. He didn't say much to Myryan that way, except to enjoy her garden, 'for gardens are worlds.' "

   Lorn swallows, fearing his father's foresight. "You said you were pack-ing "

   "The house is actually Vernt's, you know, but he suffers me to live here for the moment, although his consort will probably change that." Jerial laughs. "They've already moved into the master bedchamber, and brought in one of the servants from her family, now that she's expecting."

   Lorn raises his eyebrows.

   "You met her. Vernt's consort."

   "I know. Mycela-she's the daughter of Lector Abram'elth. One of the last scrolls I got from Father said she was expecting this summer."

   "She is. She does dote on Vernt, but the cream and simpering can get heavy at times, especially now that she's already planning the child's entire life."

   Lorn glances at Ryalth.

   "I already told Jerial she was welcome to stay with us," Ryalth says.

   "A merchanter I know has consented to let me live in his dwelling," Jerial says, with a faint smile.

   "Someone who once was a dissolute gambler?" Lorn asks, almost idly.

   "Exactly. It's an arrangement of convenience."

   Ryalth nods.

   Lorn turns to his consort. "I don't suppose that Ryalor House made those arrangements?"

   Ryalth smiles brightly. "How could I have done otherwise?"

   Lorn shakes his head, then looks at his sister. "You'll be close to us?"

   "Only about three blocks to the northwest. It's a small place. It used to be a carriage house." Jerial smiles. "That way, at times, I can take care of Kerial."

   "You two..." Lorn shakes his head, then glances toward his consort.

   Kerial has begun to windmill his arms, and Jerial glances at Ryalth.

   "He's hungry, I think," Ryalth says.

   Jerial stands and carries the boy to his mother, and Ryalth takes him, then unfastens several buttons on her tunic and eases her son to her breast. "He is hungry-again."

   "Father left some things for you," Jerial looks at her brother. "Vernt got most everything to do with the Magi'i, but there are several stacks of books for you... and some papers he gave to me that he asked that you read as soon as you returned to Cyad."

   "We can send some of the warehouse workers from Ryalor House with Lorn to get the books later in the eightday," Ryalth suggests, shifting Kerial slightly as he feeds.

   "Don't make it too long... and I need to get that box for you, while I'm thinking about it." Jerial rises. "I'll be right back."

   After Jerial takes the stairs, lightly and quickly, Lorn glances at Ryalth. "She seems to be all right."

   "She is." The lady trader studies her son fondly. "You are a little piglet." She looks up. "I'll wager you were, too."

   Lorn shrugs helplessly. "I don't recall."

   "I've heard about you and the pearapple tarts."

   "I was older then."

   "And probably more restrained," the red-haired woman counters.

   Lorn is still laughing as Jerial comes back down the stairs from the fourth level. The carved wooden box that Jerial carries had rested on one of the lower shelves in his father's study, Lorn recalls, although he has never seen the box open. It is perhaps a third the size of a lancer footchest, and made of a dark and shimmering wood, inlaid with spirals of intertwined shimmering white cupridium and green lacquered cupridium.

   "The box was Grandfather's, Father said." Jerial extends the box. "It's filled with papers, and there's a folded and sealed letter to you there."

   Lorn swallows and takes the box.

   "Oh... and Vernt has made the arrangements with the registry to have the shares of the bond transferred to you and to me and Myryan."

   Lorn frowns.

   "Father and Mother had set aside enough in golds," Jerial explains, "and some in a trading account, so that the house wouldn't have to be sold. Vernt will even have some golds, as well as the house." The dark-haired healer looks at her brother. "You were kind to relinquish the elder-claim."

   "I'm not even the oldest, and I couldn't see you and Myryan suffering."

   "You think I'd suffer?" Jerial arches her eyebrows.

   "Well..."

   "I'm doing fine, but I thank you."

   "Whhaaaaa!" Kerial interjects as Ryalth shifts her son to her shoulder to burp him.

   "Now... in a moment, you can have some more, you little piglet."

   Kerial's burp is loud, and Lorn winces. Ryalth smiles as she lowers Kerial to her other breast.

   "You'll get used to it," Jerial predicts.

   "I'm sure I will." Lorn looks down at the heavy box in his lap once more. "Did Father say . . . anything?"

   Jerial shakes her head. "Just that you would understand."

   "For a while, I think he despaired of my ever understanding anything."

   "He just wanted you to think that," suggests the dark-haired healer.

   "Ryalth has said as much," Lorn admits. "You two think alike... too much, at times, I fear." He grins.

   "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.

 

My dear son,

   You may have already begun to see what necessary cruelty has been visited upon you, for you are one of the few hopes of Cyad and Cyador. If you have not, this will offer a few more keys to the lock of the future.

   First, I must say that for your wisdom and fortune in finding your consort, I cannot tell you how thankful I am. For without her, I am not certain you would have the future you may. She is a treasure greater than any other, and I regret that I could not say such in the early years, when you would have looked askance had I expressed favor for her. You had to discover that for yourself, against my wishes, if necessary, although I would ask that you recall that I did not persist in my opposition, as I did in other matters.

 

   Lorn cocks his head, then laughs. Beside him, Ryalth lifts her eyebrows. Lorn hands her the first sheet of the letter. "You should read this."

   She takes it and begins to read.

   Lorn continues with his father's words.

 

   Second, the papers that accompany this missive are for your use. Some are for you to use with Magi'i of your choice, but of those I know who are close to you, I would suggest but Tyrsal and your brother. For all the rumors about him, I can also say that Liataphi is far more trustworthy than those immediately above him, although the First Magus under whom I have served can generally be trusted to think about the well-being of Cyador.

 

   Lorn pauses and looks at Ryalth. "What do you think?"

   "After I came to know your father, I liked him." She smiles. "He understood just how rebellious you were."

   "Me?"

   "You," she affirms. "You'd best keep reading while Kerial sleeps."

   Lorn looks back at the parchment sheet he holds.

 

   Third, I have not been fully responsive in revealing the truth about my duties, for my association with Toziel is far closer than I have indicated. This may come to light. It may not. As I once remarked, unguardedly, you are far closer in temperament to him, I think, than most would ever realize. For all our past closeness, do not presume upon it or approach him or his consort unless you are approached. This I cannot emphasize too strongly.

 

   "Didn't the Hand of the Emperor die about the same time as my father?" Lorn asks Ryalth.

   "A little later, I think..." Her mouth opens. "Of course... of course..."

   Lorn nods. "It makes a great deal of sense." He hands her the second sheet of the letter. "Especially if you read this."

   Ryalth scans the letter and then looks at her consort. "Best you be most careful, dearest, for he will have had enemies, careful as he was."

   "I doubt he had as many as I already have," Lorn says dryly. "He was far more cautious."

   "A Hand must be silent and cautious. Had you been such, would you now yet live?"

   "I think not." Lorn glances back down at the letter.

 

   Fourth and finally, I would that you remember that, while fear motivates most men far more than hope or justice, fear seldom sets their feet to moving forward. One can paralyze one's opponents with fear, but one must stand forth to lead. I was never one much for standing forth, or perhaps my skills did not lie in such. Yours do, and you must lead through your talents. Do not let your talents lead you. I did not wish you to be of the Magi'i, for your skills would have led you away from yourself.

   My blessing and my curse, alas, are the same. Go forth and do great deeds. You may succeed. You may not, but a life lived in betrayal of what one is cannot be considered a life lived, and already you have lived more of a life than most twice your years.

 

   Lorn looks blankly at the signature for a time, then silently hands the last sheet to Ryalth. She takes it and reads, this time more slowly, finally looking up at him.

   "Do men make the times, or times the man?" he asks quietly.

   "Your father was a man of his times, and you are one of your times."

   "That's true," Lorn says. "But... are we what we are because of those times, or because we simply are-regardless of the times?"

   "He was a man of his time. You could be one for all times."

   "You're kind, but I don't know about that."

   Ryalth smiles-an amused expression. She only says, "Perhaps you should read the rest of the papers-at least some of them-to see why he wanted you to have them."

   "Yes, honored Lady Trader."

   "And don't humor me, most honored Majer and Mirror Lancer."

   Lorn winces. "I'm sorry."

   "Read them."

   Lorn sets aside the letter and begins with the first sheet.

 

   In the days to come, for any man who would wish to inhabit the Palace of Eternal Light, he must assure himself first of the support of the Mirror Lancers, then of the merchanters, and lastly of the Magi'i...

   Many have claimed that the Magi'i hold the key to power in Cyad, and thus in Cyador. This illusion has proven useful to the Magi'i, and to those who sit upon the Malachite Throne, for the Magi'i can be said to recommend and require that which is necessary, yet not popular.

 

   Lorn flips to another section, then a third, before another set of words catches his attention.

 

   When the chaos-towers fail, and fail they will, he who would be leader of Cyad must know what will serve to replace them and the devices which now they power. For a vast land must have means of moving people and goods that are faster and carry more goods than mere horse- or ox-drawn wagons...

   ...what is often forgotten is that there remain the lesser forces of chaos within the world, such as that released when burn wood or the hardest of coals. These I have detailed in the pages which follow, and the means by which they may yet be implemented before all the chaos-towers fail.

 

   Lorn sits back. He can only look at the papers. "What's the matter, dearest?" asks Ryalth.

   "He knew it all. He knew everything, and he never told me. He never told me."

   "But he did. He told you when you could use what he knew. Could you have done aught with it before now?"

   Lorn shakes his head. "But he knew, and he left it all to me."

   "The times were not right."

   Lorn frowns, but says nothing, his eyes going to the box in his lap, and the papers that he knows must hold far more than he had ever imagined his father would have considered, papers he must read, and read soon.

   His eyes burn, and Ryalth reaches out and takes his hand.

 

 

LXXXIX

 

The Captain-Commander of Mirror Lancers sees a figure in shimmering merchanter blues and angles across the wide corridor before the vacant Great Hall of the Palace of Eternal Light, his steps gauged so that his path intercepts that of the shorter man. "Greetings, honored Merchanter Advisor."

   "Greetings to you, Captain-Commander," returns Vyanat'mer. "How go matters in Lancer Court?"

   "As well as can be expected." Luss bows his head slightly. "I wish to commend you on your dispatch. You were most quick to ensure that the battle report on the Jeran... campaign was circulated to all trading houses."

   "We would not wish to unwittingly cause greater casualties for the Mirror Lancers. So all the large clan houses needed to know, as well as others trading to the north."

   "Including Ryalor House?"

   "Ryalor House is a clan house, and larger than many," replies Vyanat'mer. "The house trades widely, as do several."

   "And Lady Ryalth was not perturbed?"

   "The lady is well-aware of her responsibilities to the Empire, as are all the most perceptive house chiefs."

   "I would hope so, especially now."

   The wiry but muscular Merchanter Advisor laughs. "What you hope, Captain-Commander, is for anything you can use to discredit the young majer who made you look like a donkey in a fancy uniform. Failing that, you will seek to make me resemble that same animal. I have also made that clear to all the clan heads. The merchanters do not intend to take sides in a struggle that will take place either within the Mirror Lancer Court, or the Quarter of the Magi'i. Nor do we wish to be forced to side with one faction or another."

   "Brave words, Vyanat. I recall that the majer also brought back some six thousand golds, many coined in Cyador, and it might be most interesting to discover how those reached the hands of the Jeranyi."

   "They reached them because people everywhere hold good coins and spend the poor. Now... if you had found clan houses with Hamorian-minted golds or Suthyan coins... then I would be concerned-and rightfully so." Vyanat'mer shakes his head, but not a strand of the gray-streaked black hair moves. "As for my words, they are not brave. They are accurate. Chyenfel cannot live that much longer. The old Hand of the Emperor is dead; there is no new Hand. Rynst will live long enough to ensure that you will not succeed him unless you can have him murdered, and then all will look to you. If you can discredit Majer Lorn, then you hope to discredit Rynst, for you dare not kill him."

   "That is a most interesting set of observations."

   Vyanat smiles coolly. "What I do not see is why you need to discredit young Lorn. He is far too young to threaten your position or Rynst's. It is clear that the Majer-Commander only wishes him to remain in Cyad for a year or two, so that he understands how matters are. He can also be used, if necessary, to command any lancers Rynst may need to bring into Cyad. He is clearly ruthless enough for that, and Rynst can disclaim responsibility. Then he will go back out to Syadtar or Assyadt as a commander for several tours, and only then, if he succeeds, will he be considered as a possible Captain-Commander. You will either have consolidated your position as Majer-Commander, or you will be dead, long before that can possibly occur."

   Luss frowns.

   "Is that not true? So why do you worry?" Vyanat laughs. "Perhaps you are concerned for the Second Magus? Rynst cares little for Kharl'elth, and would do all he could do to keep him from succeeding Chyenfel. Have you noticed how carefully the clever Kharl has suggested problems with both the Third Magus and with the late Kien'elth? And with what Rynst does?" A second laugh follows. "And who would that leave for First Magus?"

   "And you, of course, have no ambitions at all?" asks the Captain-Commander.

   "I make no secrets of my ambitions, and I have several. The first is to ensure that my head and my body both remain healthy and attached to each other. I have no desire to follow the example of my predecessor. The second is to ensure that the Magi'i and the Mirror Lancers do not meddle excessively in each other's affairs, because the merchanters will be the ones who suffer from such. I do not delude myself into thinking that we will ever have the esteem accorded to either the Mirror Lancers or the Magi'i. Look at Bluoyal. He actually thought he could use intrigue to fill the chests of his house. And where are those of his house now? Fearing that I will take away their clan status, cowering in the corners of their warehouses, and watching every shadow cast by every lamp on every corner of the merchanter quarter of Cyad."

   "Those are fine words," Luss replies.

   "Fine words are but as fine as the truth they portray," counters Vyanat. "I do not ask you to believe my words, Captain-Commander. Test them yourself. Ask who would benefit from any action to discredit each of those men. How does young Lorn benefit? He has a consort and a young son, and he is recently consorted enough that he would like to enjoy both. He knows that he must support Rynst, or perish. Rynst has doubtless told him not to anger you. If he angers you, he angers Rynst. He will try not to anger Kharl, for his sister is consorted to Kharl's son. His consort is a merchanter. Thus, everywhere he turns, he must tread with care. So why is he a danger? Who uses him to divert prying gazes? And why do we never hear of the other young man favored by the First Magus? Is it because Kharl wishes him to be thought of less? Or to be unseen until it is too late? Or does Chyenfel position the other?"

   "You seem to have the answers, honored Merchanter Advisor."

   "I have the questions. You must find the answers that satisfy you, not the ones that satisfy me." Vyanat smiles gently. "You might also ask why the honored Second Magus says little about the lesser number of firelances that your lancers receive, and why he opposed the sleep barrier for the Accursed Forest. Or perhaps why young Majer Lorn relinquished his elder-claim to his younger brother before he returned to Biehl and then to Inividra. Such an action could not benefit him."

   "It is most intriguing that you know so much."

   "Merchanters must traffic in information as much as golds, or we would perish, Captain-Commander. Would you like me to recall that in your first posting, in Pemedra, you were commended for bravery?"

   Luss shakes his head. "And what other tidbits would you pull forth?"

   "That you discouraged your eldest-your daughter-from consorting with a young magus, perhaps on the advice of the honored Kharl'elth." Vyanat smiles almost sympathetically. "About that, I have learned, Kharl was doubtless correct. The young magus was demoted and sent to the Mirror Engineers in Fyrad, where he will doubtless supervise the repair of the Great Canal for many years to come." The Merchanter Advisor nods. "Now... if you will pardon me... I am already perilously close to being late to meet with several clan heads to resolve a dispute over the classification of cottons. And I do not seek to give you false information. As I said, I but pose the questions. You must find those answers which satisfy you." A last smile follows his words.

   Luss nods, belatedly, then frowns after he turns and begins to walk toward the staircase that will carry him to the lower level and the walkway to the west, and toward the Mirror Lancer Court.

 

 

XC

 

The long table in the dining room of Ryalth's house-and Lorn's, too, he supposes-is set for seven. The linen is cream, trimmed in green-and-blue, and the cutlery is an antique silver. The light comes from the antique bronze wall lamps with their recently and brightly polished reflectors. Lorn sits at one end of the table, with Mycela at his left and Jerial at his right, and Ryalth at the other end, with Ciesrt at her left and Vernt at her right. Myryan sits between Ciesrt and Jerial.

   "Beautiful silver," Myryan says to Ryalth, although she avoids touching the knife.

   "It's one of the few family heirlooms I was able to keep," the trader replies. "That, and a few pieces of furniture and the carpet in the sitting room.

   "Family things are important," announces Mycela.

   As she speaks, Lorn pours another two fingers of Alafraan into her glass, keeping it below a third full. He takes a last bite of the marinated and spiced fowl dumpling, then smiles at his consort.

   "They are," Ryalth agrees. "Would anyone like more-of anything?"

   "I could stand another of those dumplings, thank you," Ciesrt says.

   Ryalth passes the casserole dish.

   "A bit more bread for the sauce," Vernt adds.

   "Lorn, what will you be doing for the Majer-Commander?" asks Ciesrt as he serves himself two more dumplings. "Are you working directly for him, or for one of the commanders who reports to him?"

   Lorn laughs. "I don't know. He told me to spend time with my consort and family, and to report back an eightday from next oneday. He said I'd be doing some writing, since I wrote well and quickly. So I could just be another junior majer acting as a scrivener. I'll find out then, I suppose."

   "You couldn't ask him?" asks Mycela, sweetly. "You are a hero, they say."

   "I'm not a hero," Lorn says politely, "but even if I were, heroes don't question the Majer-Commander, not that way." He smiles. "Just as Vernt wouldn't ask the First Magus why he was picked to do"-Lorn looks at his younger brother-"whatever you're doing now."

   "Oh... I didn't think of it that way." Mycela smiles sweetly at Vernt.

   "That makes sense," Ciesrt announces. "I certainly wouldn't ask any of the three Magi'i why I was tasked with something."

   "Even your father?" asks Jerial, a glint in her eye.

   "I might say something bland, to see if he'd offer an explanation, but I wouldn't ask. We learned that as children." Ciesrt shakes his head.

   "Do you ever run across any of those I was student with?" Lorn asks, not caring whether Ciesrt or Vernt provides an answer. "Like Tyrsal or Rustyl?"

   "I see Tyrsal sometimes," Vernt answers. "He works in the chaos-cell section for Lector Stumlyt. I haven't seen Rustyl, except in the corridors, in years, I don't think. The First Magus sent him to Fyrad to work with the Mirror Engineers, they said, and then to Summerdock to work on the harbor. He was gone for a while. He just got back, maybe three eightdays ago."

   "He was on the Great Canal," Ciesrt mumbles as he finishes a dumpling. "Thought he was something special, working with the highest of the Mirror Engineers and then the older first-level adepts when he got back. Still tilts his nose."

   "He always did," Vernt adds. "Ever since he discovered he could draw chaos out of the natural world. He's not the only one, but he thinks he is."

   "Maybe someone is encouraging him," suggests Myryan.

   "Why? So they can make him First Magus in another halfscore of years?" sneers Ciesrt.

   "I thought he was going to be Ceyla's consort," offers Jerial.

   "It is most likely," Ciesrt admits. "He is handsome in his way, and she finds him most intriguing. Father has also suggested that she has few-enough choices left among the Magi'i."

   "You do not sound pleased," Jerial adds.

   "He can be all right at times, and I suppose we'll get used to him." Ciesrt shrugs. "He is talented. There is little question of that."

   "Maybe he wants to be Emperor," says Mycela. "You know, the Empress can't have children. They don't have any."

   "Dear, Magi'i can't take the Malachite Throne," Vernt says gently.

   "But... the Emperor has an elthage title," Mycela protests.

   "His Mightiness also has a merage and an altage title," Jerial points out. "They're all honors."

   "Not totally," Ryalth says. "His mother was merchanter, his father a Mirror Lancer before he became Emperor, and one of his grandsires was from the Magi'i."

   Lorn keeps a straight face, letting the silence drag out before turning to Ciesrt. "Whatever the Magi'i did with the Accursed Forest, it did free up more lancers to fight against the barbarians. And the lancers are grateful. I thought you'd like to know."

   "I thought you defeated them all." Mycela's voice is puzzled. "Or killed them all."

   "Those in the northwest," Lorn explains. "There are still the Cerlyni in the northeast, and unless someone else follows up on what I did, in a few years the Jeranyi will be back to raiding south of the Grass Hills again."

   "Didn't you sack the port where they were getting their blades?" asks Ciesrt.

   "We did, and we burned the warehouses and took all the blades and brought them back. But trading blades is profitable for the Hamorians, and I wouldn't be surprised if there were traders back there by fall, or next spring at the latest."

   "Do you trade blades?" Mycela looks wide-eyed at Ryalth.

   Myryan looks down, and Jerial covers her mouth for a moment.

   "No. I'd rather not sell something that could kill my consort," Ryalth says politely. "Or any other lancer."

   "Oh, I guess that would not be a good idea." Mycela smiles.

   "I'm glad she doesn't, for many reasons," Lorn says quickly, and with a laugh. He can sense that Myryan is having trouble not rolling her eyes or giving some outward sign of her feelings. He glances at Vernt, then at Ciesrt. "Since it's done, can either of you tell me what the Magi'i did in the Accursed Forest?"

   The two lower, first-level adepts exchange glances. Then Vernt nods. "I shouldn't say how it was done, but the result was a combining of order and chaos to put the Forest to sleep, so that it is like any other forest, or mostly so. Some large animals will escape, I imagine, but they won't be as big as the ones in the past, and they'll get smaller, more like the ones in the swamps along the river and the forests above the delta. That's why some lancers are still patrolling. And it's really not safe to enter it. So the walls will have to be maintained."

   Lorn nods. "The growers will complain for a time, I'm sure."

   "The peasants always complain about everything," Ciesrt notes. "If it's not the Magi'i or the Mirror Lancers, it's the merchanters or the weather."

   "Usually the merchanters," Ryalth says lightly. "We're grasping and greedy, and few think about how much it costs to bring anything from anywhere."

   "But they always say there would be nothing without food," Ciesrt answers with a laugh.

   Lorn sits stock-still for an instant, thinking about one of the questions posed by his father over a year earlier.

   "You look surprised, Lorn," Jerial says.

   "I was just recalling something Father said along those lines years ago."

   "I don't recall him talking about peasants," Vernt muses.

   "Not peasants," Lorn replies. "About what allows Cyad to exist. And that's food... except I think what he meant was that the lands of Cyador have to produce not only enough food for the peasants who grow it, but enough for the people of the cities. And there has to be enough that the peasants will sell it willingly."

   "They never sell anything willingly, do they?" asks Mycela.

   "I think I see what Father meant," Vernt says. "There are not that many Magi'i or Mirror Lancers..."

   "Exactly," Jerial adds. "Nor healers. Nor Mirror Engineers."

   "Nor gardens," finishes Myryan.

   Ryalth merely nods, a knowing smile on her lips.

   Ciesrt frowns, and Mycela smiles blankly.

   Lorn lifts the bottle of Alafraan. "Would anyone like any more? Before we start on dessert?"

   Jerial grins at Ryalth, and, after a moment, so does Myryan. Vernt shakes his head ruefully.

 

 

XCI

 

Lorn has found the cushions to the wooden-framed settee that is on the front veranda of the house, a dwelling that is somehow both new and yet familiar to him, and has set them out. In the late afternoon of early summer, he sits there on the veranda, holding Kerial in his lap. He wears a stained pair of uniform trousers and an old undertunic-both more suited to caring for an infant than to a lancer's study.

   "Your mother will be home before long."

   "Gaa... ooo..." A chubby hand gropes toward Lorn's mouth, and Lorn lets the boy touch his cheek and jaw.

   A dull clunk echoes across the front garden and past the fountain.

   Lorn smiles. "I think that's her." He lifts the boy to his shoulder and stands as the iron gate opens.

   Ryalth steps through it and out from behind the privacy screen.

   Lorn moves down the walkway and past the fountain and the mist of cool spray that fans from it in the hot afternoon sun.

   Ryalth smiles as she nears father and son. "Were you a good boy?" She bends forward and brushes Kerial's cheek with her lips. "Were you good for your father?"

   "Gaaa... waaa..."

   "Yes," Lorn translates.

   "I'm glad."

   The two walk side by side past the fountain and then under the veranda roof. Lorn and Kerial follow Ryalth through the doorway and down the steps into the front foyer.

   "I need something to drink. I'm thirsty. But we can go back out on the veranda." She smiles again. "I'm glad you found the cushions. That's something I've been meaning to do."

   Kysia appears as they step into the kitchen.

   "Do we have any juice?" asks Ryalth.

   "All we have is wine and ale-or water," Kysia apologizes. "I've been looking for juices, but they're all vinegar or wine right now. The peaches are late this year, and even the greenberries..."

   "Ale." Ryalth says. "If you don't mind."

   "Ah... two, please," Lorn adds.

   The gray-eyed Kysia grins, then scurries through the big kitchen, before returning with two beakers nearly filled with amber liquid.

   "Thank you."

   "And supper?" asks Kysia.

   "Whenever it's ready. I'm hungry, but not starving," Ryalth says. "Don't you and Ayleha hurry it and spoil anything. We'll be on the front veranda."

   The red-haired trader carries the two glass beakers and their amber contents back through the house and foyer, up the steps, and out to the veranda, where she settles onto one side of the settee. Lorn settles onto the other side, shifting Kerial so that the boy is on his lap, half facing his mother, held by Lorn's right arm.

   With his left, Lorn takes the beaker Ryalth offers. "Thank you."

   "Thank you for taking Kerial. It made the day much easier."

   "Waa..." offers Kerial tentatively.

   "In a moment," Ryalth says. "Let your mother have a sip of her drink. You can wait, you little piglet." She takes a long swallow of the ale.

   "How did it go with the Austrans?"

   "Not that well." Ryalth sighs after another swallow of the amber ale. "They're talking about larger guarantees on the inbound cargoes, and unless we open a warehouse in Valmurl or send someone there... or unless I buy another long-haul ship or even two, which we don't have the golds for..."

   "You'll start losing coins one way or the other?" Lorn gives Kerial a gentle squeeze.

   "I fear so. Now that there are fewer fireships, we can see the lack of respect growing."

   "I don't think there ever was any in Hamor," Lorn says.

   "There wasn't anywhere, but people behaved as though there was."

   "Whaa... ?" asks Kerial.

   "A few more moments, dear." Ryalth takes another swallow of the ale.

   "Respect is always based on power, I think," Lorn replies. "From the scrolls I did get, I thought we had lost the towers on four fireships, and other lands know that."

   "Five, at least. They're hiding them in a cove near Dellash-the end of the island away from Summerdock."

   "We'll start losing the towers in Cyad before long."

   "Why the fireships first? Because the salt is harder on them?"

   "That, and the ships move. Over the years, even with the temporal barriers, that puts more strain on them. There won't be one left in another five years, I would guess."

   "No one is saying much, but they've laid the keels for warships with sail and cannon."

   Lorn shakes his head. "We could build chaos-fired steamships. We should."

   "Is that... ?"

   "It's all in my father's papers, even the plans he took from the forbidden archives. I'll need to make copies... maybe for Vernt and Tyrsal, when the time comes."

   "He thought you could make it happen."

   "As a junior majer?"

   "You'll be more than that," she predicts.

   "That doesn't look likely."

   "It will happen. It has to."

   "I won't argue with you. I usually lose." He grins, then adds, "If it does, I hope it's in time to prevent the worst."

   "You think it will be that bad?"

   "What do you think? You saw the way Ciesrt and Mycela reacted at dinner the other night. They don't understand, and too many of the Magi'i and Mirror Lancer families are like that."

   "Can you make the stone real?" she asks.

   He smiles at her reference to the first time he had told her his ambitions, but the smile fades. "I don't know. I'm not sure I know how. I know what to do if I could get there, but getting there..." He shrugs. "The papers will help, if I can figure out how to apply what he's given me... If I get the opportunity."

   "See what you learn working for the Majer-Commander." Ryalth shakes her head. "Your furlough has gone by so quickly. You'll have to go back on duty in three days. Almost two eightdays doesn't seem very much after all you did and all the time you were away."

   "This time, it's not so bad," he points out. "I'm not leaving for someplace like Jakaafra or Biehl."

   "I wish I could have come to Biehl."

   "I do, too, but you would have been upset. The town was old, and slowly falling to ruin."

   "I'll wager what you did changed matters."

   "I don't know. I would hope so."

   "We've brought back some of the china you recommended. It's sold well, and I've commissioned some silver-and-black sets for the Austrans."

   "Whhhaaa!" Kerial interjects.

   "I know. I know." Ryalth swallows the last of the ale in her beaker and sets it on the stone tiles of the veranda beside the settee, then takes Kerial from Lorn. "You always get fed before we do."

   "Mmmm..."

   Lorn shakes his head as he watches Kerial begin to suck.

   "When he's hungry..." Ryalth says with a laugh. "But he won't be protesting when we eat."

   "Or later," Lorn says.

   "You are very hopeful, dearest."

   Lorn flushes.

   After a moment, so does Ryalth.

 

 

XCII

 

Lorn and Ryalth sit, propped up with pillows, in the triple-width bed with the headboard with the ornately-carved edges and the smooth and curved bedposts. Ryalth cradles Kerial in the crook of her arm. The sole light in the room is the wall lamp on Lorn's side of the bed, which casts a golden glow.

   "What will you do tomorrow when you report?" she asks.

   "I'll probably have to write reports and orders for outposts and things like that. Someone has to, and it won't be the Majer-Commander. The one definite thing he said was that I'm supposed to develop a strategy for dealing with the Jeranyi. The only way I think we can deal with them is if Cyador takes over the port of Jera, but with the fireships failing, I have my doubts as to whether anyone will support that." He chuckles. "The Majer-Commander said not to worry about that for my first draft. I don't. It's the second draft that I worry about."

   "You'll think of something. You always do."

   Lorn raises his eyebrows.

   "Is the book nearby?" she asks.

   Lorn leans toward the bedside table, then straightens and flourishes the green-tinged silver-covered volume. "Right here. I left it here after we read last night."

   "Read me something... please."

   Lorn flips through the pages to find the verse that is their favorite. He smiles as he smooths the pages and begins to read.

 

   Like a dusk without a cloud,

   a leaf without a tree,

   a shell without a sea...

   the greening of the pear

   slips by...

 

   ...to hold the sun-hazed days,

   and wait for pears and praise

   ...and wait for pears and praise.

 

   "I like that," she says quietly, easing Kerial from her arms to her shoulder where she gently burps him. "I think he's going to sleep."

   "Good," murmurs Lorn. "He was supposed to have gone to sleep after dinner. And then after we walked him around the garden."

   "Now... he is your son." Her low and soft voice cannot disguise the hint of laughter.

   "Difficult, you mean?"

   "You said it. I didn't." With an innocent smile, Ryalth slides to her feet, crosses the few cubits between the large bed and Kerial's, and eases their son into his bed. After a moment, she slips back beside Lorn.

   They both look toward the smaller bed.

   Lorn stiffens as he hears a snuffling sort of snore. They both wait, but Kerial does not stir.

   "Read me something else. I'd just like to lie her for a moment and listen. If you don't mind..."

   "I'll read softly." Lorn opens the book once more and turns until he finds the page for which he searches. "It's not as cheerful as the one about the pear, but whenever I read it, it always made me think of you." Lorn clears his throat gently.

 

   Virtues of old hold fast.

   Morning's blaze cannot last;

   and rose petals soon part.

   Not so a steadfast heart.

 

   " 'A steadfast heart'-I've always liked that. I'd forgotten it, though." She leans her head against his shoulder. "I worry about you being here."

   "You worried about me being near the Accursed Forest and fighting barbarians," Lorn points out.

   "It's not the same. Cyad can be even more dangerous."

   About that, Lorn knows, she is certainly right. The dangers are not at all the same, for those of the Forest and the barbarians could be seen, and fought with a blade or a firelance.

 

 

XCIII

 

Lorn barely has been assigned a table desk in a small study on the floor below the Majer-Commander-and been introduced to the squad leaders and senior squad leaders who will do his copying and other clerical tasks, and is looking out the single narrow window, uphill and away from the harbor-when there is a knock on his open door.

   - A young-faced squad leader-one of those whose name Lorn has not caught-stands there. "Ser... the Majer-Commander wishes you in his study for the meeting."

   "Thank you." Lorn grabs the small inkstand and a pen and a stack of paper and hurries up the stairs. He has no idea to what meeting he has been summoned.

   As he reaches the open foyer outside Rynst's study, Tygyl-the senior squad leader at the desk-says, "Go on in, ser. He's expecting you."

   Lorn steps into the Majer-Commander's large study, cautiously. "Ser." He bows to Rynst, who stands by his table desk looking eastward at the Palace of Eternal Light, which stands out against the hillside and surrounding structures despite the overcast day.

   Rynst glances at Lorn, then smiles. "I see you understand." He points to the conference table. "I sit at this end, with my back to the Palace. It's symbolic, but the Emperor does stand behind me. You sit at my left. You are to take notes on who says what, and why-unless I tell you that there will be no notes."

   "Yes, ser."

   "You are to sit. Because you are not officially part of any meeting, you do not stand when the Captain-Commander or the commanders enter. Once the meeting is dismissed, you are an officer and will behave according to protocol."

   "Yes, ser." Lorn slips toward the conference table and takes the straight-backed and armless chair to the left of the larger, armed chair. All the other chairs except the one in which he sits have arms.

   "You are not to speak unless addressed directly, and only to return pleasantries or if I tell you to speak." Rynst moves toward the conference table, but halts a few cubits back from his chair.

   "Yes, ser."

   "I will introduce all the commanders this time. Remember them. After this morning, I will only introduce officers you have not met."

   Lorn nods, then checks the cupridium-tipped pen. He makes a mental note to bring two for any future meetings.

   The first commander to enter the Majer-Commander's study is a spare and tall man, with thinning brown hair that has almost disappeared from his skull except around his ears.

   "Commander Inylt is the supply commander, in charge of allocating provisions," Rynst says. "Inylt, this is Majer Lorn. He is my new strategic adjutant and aide."

   Inylt is wiry, even thinner than Rynst, and squints as he looks toward the younger majer. "Lorn..." He laughs as he says the name. "Fine report on blades and trade. Wish more field commanders understood that. Glad to see you."

   "Thank you, ser. I recall your name on provision draw orders. When I was at Biehl."

   Inylt nods and takes a seat near the foot of the table on the south side, spreading out his papers into three stacks.

   Luss is the next officer to enter, and takes the position at the foot of the table, opposite Rynst, without addressing Lorn. As the other four commanders enter, Lorn notes each name, and puts a phrase about each next to the name on a separate sheet. He hopes he can keep the names straight.

   When five commanders have entered and seated themselves, Rynst clears his throat.

 

Lorn glances at his list:

   Inylt - Supply [thin, bald]

   Sypcal - Eastern Region [red-haired]

   Shykt - Ports and Facilities [thin face, curly brown hair]

   Muyro - Mirror Engineers [dark, bearded]

   Lhary - Western Region [blond, tall]

 

   "Part of this meeting is for you to meet Majer Lorn. He will be working for me, directly, on a strategic plan we will be developing to deal with the barbarians to the north under the new conditions we face. He will also be my aide and adjutant for meetings."

   "I presume this plan will address fewer firelances and fewer firewagon transports?" asks Luss, although his question is almost more of a statement.

   "Don't forget the higher costs of provisions," adds Inylt. "And more spoilage if they go by horse team."

   "If you have direct suggestions, submit them in writing to me, and I will pass those which are appropriate to the Majer." Rynst smiles and glances down at a list that has appeared as if from nowhere. "What do the Mirror Engineers think can be done with the fireships with failed towers- if anything? Commander Muyro?"

   Muyro fingers his square black beard before answering. "The hulls are too heavy for conversion to sailing vessels, ones that would have the speed necessary to protect trading vessels. They could be fitted with old-style cannon, either using a cammabark propellant or black powder or some hybrid, and stationed at the main harbors as stationary batteries."

   Rynst glances at the thin-faced and curly-haired man. "Commander Shykt?"

   "I have discussed this with the Third Magus, as you suggested. Although chaos can be removed from the world itself and stored in cells such as those used for the firewagons, it would take the majority of the first-level adepts perhaps a year to amass enough chaos to power a single ship on a voyage from Cyad to Fyrad. Those are rough calculations, but adequate to prove that the Quarter of the Magi'i cannot offer a feasible solution."

   "Did he have any other suggestions?"

   "He thought that use of chaos-cells might be possible on several vessels to power one firecannon on each of those vessels. It would still require much effort, and fabrication of the cells as older ones fail would likely not be possible without the equipment in the Quarter of the Magi'i."

   "That equipment is powered by the chaos-towers in the Quarter?" asks Luss.

   "Yes, ser," replies Shykt. "There is no way to replicate it?"

   "No, ser. Not according to Senior Lector Liataphi."

   "You might wish to confirm that, Captain-Commander, say, with the Second Magus. I will bring up the matter with the First Magus." Rynst pauses. "While we have suspected this, the failure of the chaos-cell replicating equipment will mean that, within a halfscore of years, the last firelances will be exhausted." He turns to Inylt. "We had talked of this earlier. Have you any other thoughts?"

   "The District Guards already use cupridium lances. They are two cubits longer than firelances, but lighter and stronger than iron or any combination of wood and iron. It appears likely that we will have operating chaos-towers for several years yet. The cupridium, once transformed from cuprite, is stable. I would suggest ordering and stocking a minimum of five hundred score cupridium lances over the next two to five years. The Magi'i can still form cupridium without the chaos-towers, but it is a laborious process-"

   "And there will be many demands on those few Magi'i who can amass and manipulate natural chaos-forces," adds Commander Muyro. "That will be most true in the first years."

   "We will need more Mirror Lancers," Luss observes, "once the firelances are gone. Perhaps we should start to increase those forces now."

   Rynst nods. "We have discussed this before." He tilts his head to the side. "Captain-Commander... perhaps you and Commander Lhary and Commander Sypcal could provide a short paper estimating the increased losses arising from using cupridium lances, and showing how many more Mirror Lancers and officers we will need once the firelances all fail."

   "Ser... that would be but a judgment," Luss replies.

   "We all make judgments, and offer opinions," says Rynst mildly. "I wish no more opinions or discussion on the subject of the need for more lancers or foot until you have put your best judgment in writing and presented it to me."

   "Yes, ser."

   The red-haired Sypcal and the blond Lhary exchange glances, but neither speaks.

   "Commander Inylt, have you a report on the progress in converting the captured Hamorian blades into golds in a way that will not have those blades being used against our lancers in less than a season?"

   "Yes, ser. It cannot be done. The best we can do is break the blades and sell them for high-grade iron, preferably in Lydiar. That will net us perhaps the equivalent of fifty golds."

   "Fifty?" asks Sypcal. "Those would bring over a thousand as blades."

   "True," replies Inylt. "But if we contract to have a trader ship them to Hamor, no one will bid on them for more than five hundred, and they will be shipped back to Jera or Rulyarth and sold for a thousand or fifteen hundred, and we will have our lancers dying by fall or next spring. Each lancer undercaptain costs us twenty golds to train, and another twenty to equip and send to his first station. If we lose a score of them over two years to those blades, we lose both the golds we gain and the experience of the officers. The training for a ranker is less costly-say, two to five golds-but I would judge that those blades might kill another hundred rankers."

   "Break the blades and take what you can get," Rynst orders quietly. "Now... what about the reports about food spoilage for the outposts around the Accursed Forest?"

   "Spoilage is higher," Inylt admits. "That is because the Mirror Engineers were required to turn to the use of oxen for the barges on the Great Canal, and grain and flour are too bulky and heavy to load on the remaining firewagons..."

   Lorn conceals a frown. "Remaining firewagons"? The term implies that there are fewer firewagons, not just less chaos-cells for them.

   "...there are not enough ox teams, and the oxen are slower than the chaos-powered boat tows that were used before. The air is damp along the Canal, and the delays mean that there is more mold and spoilage. More oxen are being bred and trained, but it will be another year before there are enough."

   Rynst merely nods, his eyes moving to Shykt. "When will you finish the report on the possible need for Mirror Foot or Lancers as detachments on long-haul Cyadoran traders?"

   "At least two eightdays, ser. We need to meet with more of the masters of the vessels, and that means we must wait until they port."

   Rynst looks across the table. "Does anyone have anything new to mention?"

   "No, ser."

   "If not, I'll see Lhary and Sypcal tomorrow afternoon." The Majer-Commander nods and stands.

   Lorn waits, then stands as well, and waits until the Captain-Commander and the five commanders depart. Then he gathers his papers together.

   "Majer?" says Rynst. "I expect those notes in report form on my desk in the morning. Have your clerk make a copy for the Captain-Commander as well."

   "Yes, ser." Lorn bows.

   "There will be another meeting tomorrow afternoon. There is every twoday afternoon. That is when the Captain-Commander and I review the actions of the field commands. Only Commanders Sypcal and Lhary will be with us. If you have time after doing the notes, I would suggest that you begin to consider the strategic plan for the north."

   "Yes, ser."

   Rynst turns, as if to dismiss Lorn.

   The majer slips from the study and makes his way down to his own study on the floor below. He pauses as Fayrken-the senior squad leader assigned to Lorn-looks up from his narrow desk outside Lorn's door.

   "Yes, Fayrken?"

   "There are all the reports for tomorrow's meeting in the left box on your desk, ser."

   "Thank you. I'll have another report that will need to be copied for the Majer-Commander and the Captain-Commander. I hope I'll have it before long. Oh... and I'd better have a third copy for us."

   "Yes, ser. They sometimes misplace reports." The hint of a smile lurks in Fayrken's green eyes.

   "Especially if there are no copies?" asks Lorn.

   "It would seem that way, ser."

   Lorn shakes his head slightly, then steps into his study and sets the papers and inkwell and pen on the freshly-polished but battered golden-oak surface. As Fayrken had told him, there is a stack of papers in the box in the corner. He picks up the first and reads: Reports from the Accursed Forest Company Patrols, Eightdays four through twelve, Winter, 205 A.F.

   He replaces it in the box and sits down at the table desk. His eyes go to the narrow window and the gray day outside. He had wondered if he were the only one thinking about the failure of the chaos-towers. He was not, it is more than clear; yet for all the concerns, only Inylt appears to consider what might be workable alternatives.

   Lorn fingers his chin. Or is Inylt simply more direct? Information can be power. Yet information of that sort becomes useless if it does not lead to a solution, and those who hoard such information for personal gain may rule or command the forces of a failing land. He shakes his head. That is not quite accurate, either.

   Again... again... he has much to learn, and he fears he has less time in which to learn it than it once seemed.

 

 

XCIV

 

Sitting at his table desk, the afternoon sun pouring through the narrow window, Lorn holds the rough list of possible options for dealing with the Jeranyi. Somehow, matters seem less clear when viewed from Mirror Lancer Court than they had from his outpost at Inividra. There, he had only had to worry about keeping casualties low, killing the Jeranyi raiders, and seizing blades and other weapons to reduce the Jeranyi ability to attack Cyador.

   He takes a deep breath and looks down at what he has written.

   Under the first option, the Mirror Lancers can take the port city of Jera and establish an outpost there. That will require at least ten companies, plus a heavily-walled compound and regular shipments of supplies and provisions. It will probably require periodic raids or sweeps of the surrounding countryside, and the policing of any and all traders and goods shipped into the city. In effect, it would also transfer many of the casualties from the Mirror Lancers in and around the Grass Hills to those in Jera, and it will cost more golds than the other options. Over time it is possible that Jera could become part of Cyador, and that might lower costs and the numbers of lancers required, but not for many years. Still, the first option will probably have the lowest total number of casualties for the Mirror Lancers.

   Under the second option, the Mirror Lancers can request that a magus use a chaos-glass to keep track of the ships going in and out of Jera, and conduct periodic raids... or attempt to board or sink vessels which bring weapons.

   Lorn shakes his head. Although the golds required are probably less, that option is unworkable, not without a warship permanently stationed in Biehl and tasked only to patrol that section of the Northern Ocean. With the number of fireships dwindling rapidly, stationing one in the north all the time is highly unlikely. Lorn also doubts that any of the Magi'i would relish or handle the task in the detail necessary, but that is something best not put to ink.

   The third option would be to continue what the Mirror Lancers have been doing-at least before the current year, and Lorn's raid. Even with more innovative patrolling, with multiple-company patrols and more lancers, over time casualties will increase, especially after the firelances fail.

   Lorn glances at the stack of reports filling most of the top shelf of the bookcase set against the inner wall. He has read them all and gathered the numbers. In the previous year, from turn of spring to turn of spring, the Mirror Lancers in the compounds and outposts along the Grass Hills had lost nearly fortyscore lancers and twoscore undercaptains and captains. Those figures did not include the casualties who had recovered to fight again. Ten years earlier the numbers had been half that. The figures will go down for the current year, even with his own loss of two officers and more than a company of lancers, but they will not stay down for long unless something changes.

   What about more raids into Jeranyi territory? As a fourth option?

   Lorn fingers his chin. It is one thing to conduct a single campaign to stop the flow of blades and to deliver a message. It is another to keep raiding another land, for if he recommends that, how is he any different from them? Another consideration is that Mirror Lancer casualties will rise on such raids if they come more often because the Mirror Lancers will lose the advantage of surprise and the Jeranyi will expect such campaigns and will be far more prepared.

   He shakes his head. The strategic plan requested by the Majer-Commander is looking more and more difficult... and he has yet to consider the operational, logistical, and tactical considerations of any of the options.

   He massages his forehead, then looks blankly toward the half-open window.

 

 

XCV

 

Lorn's rapier seems to flicker, weaving a wall between him and Tyrsal, as the shorter redhead dances away from the young majer.

   "Enough!" Tyrsal jumps back, not lowering his blade for several moments.

   Lorn lowers his practice rapier immediately, glancing toward the pair of older majers who continue to practice at the far side of the hall.

   Tyrsal also lowers his practice blade and wipes his forehead with the back of the sleeve of his padded practice tunic. "There's no point to this. Even with you blindfolded and left-handed, I'd still get skewered. You can sense where you are better than most first-level adepts."

   "Me? No." Lorn shakes his head.

   "I'm not blind, my friend," says the second-level adept wearily. "You had your eyes closed on that last round. You were relying on your chaos-senses, not your eyes."

   "I can't hide that from you, I see." Lorn grins.

   "Most wouldn't notice-except maybe Rustyl or the three top Magi'i. They wouldn't expect it from a senior lancer."

   "I'm not that senior."

   Tyrsal sighs, loudly. "Lorn, I can count. There are perhaps a score - and - a - quarter outposts across Cyador that require majers. There are less than a halfscore that require commanders outside of Cyad."

   "How do you know that?"

   "All I had to do was list all the places where lancers go, and see roughly how big they are." Tyrsal shrugs. "Then I asked a few questions and listened. I might be off by a bit, but that's not my point. From what I can tell, there are less than threescore Mirror Lancer officers who are majers and commanders. There could be less than that. That makes you a senior officer, like a first-level adept in the Magi'i."

   "So why don't I feel so senior?" asks Lorn with a laugh. "I'm like the wood panels on the wall. Everyone knows they're there, but no one pays much attention."

   "That's because," Tyrsal says, half-dramatically, "you've been able to act before, without having to persuade everyone. If you figured out how to fight the Accursed Forest better, everyone was happy..."

   Lorn can recall a few officers who were not, but he continues to listen.

   "...and when you found out how to stop the Jeranyi raids, you only had to kill Dett, who deserved it years before, anyway, to get the Majer-Commander to listen. But you were doing what you were ordered to do-if in a different way. Now... you assist someone who makes the decisions, and no one asks for your advice, and no one gives you any real actions to take." The redheaded magus laughs. "So you ask me to spar and take it out on me."

   "I'm sorry."

   Tyrsal shifts his weight as he walks toward the rack that holds the practice weapons. "I'm going to have bruises on my bruises. That's what I get for sparring with a professional." He grins. "You'd do better against other lancers."

   Lorn shakes his head. "You're better than most of them."

   After racking his practice blade, Tyrsal looks long at Lorn. "You're honestly telling the truth. You are." He shakes his head. "No wonder so many fear you."

   In turn, Lorn racks his blade and pauses. "You're good with truthreading, aren't you?"

   The redheaded magus nods, then grins almost boyishly. "Why?"

   Lorn shakes his head, mimicking Tyrsal's abrupt gesture. "No wonder they keep you away from the senior Magi'i." He grins in return.

   "I'd tell you to go home to your consort, except that it's the middle of the day, and we both have to get back to work."

   "I'd tell you the same, except you don't have a consort."

   Tyrsal looks down.

   "Don't tell me there is someone?" Lorn grins again. "After all those years of telling me you'd never find anyone?"

   "Perchance... I don't know."

   "Do I know her?" Lorn waits.

   "You know of her... but don't ask. If it works, you'll be the second to know."

   "After your mother?"

   "I have to tell her first." Tyrsal smiles boyishly once more.

   Lorn nods, asking, "Do you want to bring her to dinner next sixday? The only one who I might ask is Jerial, and she won't say anything."

   Tyrsal frowns, then smiles. "Why not?"

   "I'll check on the day with Ryalth. I might have to move it one day or so." Lorn frowns to himself. "Best I let you know tomorrow."

   "That's fine." Tyrsal blots his forehead. "If we want to get anything to eat... we'd better hurry."

   "According to the outside board, there's a stew at the Kettle."

   "It's better than going hungry..."

   "But not much?" asks Lorn as he follows Tyrsal toward the washroom.

   "Not much at all." Tyrsal laughs.

 

 

XCVI

 

Commander Shykt and Commander Muyro sit across the Majer-Commander's conference table from each other, Muyro on the north side, Shykt on the south. Each has a document before him. Lorn is seated in the armless chair to Rynst's left.

   The door to the study opens, and a commander unfamiliar to Lorn steps inside. He has rugged features, a pockmarked face, and iron-gray hair. He also carries some form of document under his left arm. "Greetings, Majer-Commander."

   "Commander Dhynt," Rynst announces. "Majer Lorn is my new adjutant and assistant." He remains seated as he continues. "Commander Dhynt is in charge of the fireships... such as they are."

   Dhynt nods brusquely in Lorn's direction and sits down in the chair beside the brown-haired Shykt, inclining his head to the swarthy Muyro and then to Shykt. He places the thick set of papers on the polished table before him.

   Rynst studies the iron-haired and square-faced commander. "This is the fifth meeting we have had over the last year about the problems with the chaos-towers. Each of you is supposed to have a report for me."

   A round of nods follows the words of the Majer-Commander.

   "I will study the documents, but I expect a summary from each of you." Rynst glances at the most recent arrival. "You may begin, Dhynt."

   The gray-haired commander clears his throat. "The chaos-towers which provide the power systems for the fireships came from the Rational Stars, somewhere beyond chaos itself, and cannot be built on our world. In the more than tenscore years since the creation of Cyador, no chaos-tower has ever been successfully restored, even when it appeared identical to those still functioning. Further, the power projection systems employed by the Magi'i and Mirror Engineers cannot be used except with the concentrated chaos-power supplied by a tower. The Magi'i have attempted to use a number of the most powerful Magi'i in concentrating naturally-occurring chaos, but that chaos was either somehow different or not powerful enough to make the projection equipment work. Since the projection equipment is required to fabricate new chaos-cells, such as those used in the firewagons, and those used in the firecannon, while firecannon could be mounted on sailing warships, the Magi'i estimate that such cells will last only for one- to twoscore years after the failure of the last chaos-tower."

   Lorn writes as quickly as he can, hoping that he can convert his notes into a credible report without forgetting anything important.

   Dhynt clears his throat and glances at Rynst.

   Rynst nods for him to continue.

   "That means we can neither repair nor replace the fireships and the firecannon. The most feasible option would appear to be the immediate construction of a fleet of fast sailing vessels of comparatively narrow beam, with deep keels, and extensive sails, capable of carrying conventional cannon powered by cammabark or some form of black powder."

   "I understand we now have but a quarterscore fireships left with full function. How long before we have none?" asks Rynst.

   "As I have told you before, ser, ten years at the longest, more probably five, I would say. The Magi'i and the Mirror Engineers tell me one of the ships might last a score of years. I think not. Each firecannon must be disassembled and cleaned and the arming cells and the cables replaced almost every voyage. The strength of the firebolts varies from discharge to discharge even so, and that variation is increasing with each voyage."

   Rynst nods evenly and turns to the swarthy commander. "Commander Muyro?"

   "Yes, ser. I am not so eloquent as Dhynt, ser. You asked the Mirror Engineers what new devices we could develop to replace the firelances. As Commander Shykt has already noted, the most feasible replacements for the firelances are cupridium lances, such as those already used by the District Guards. We are also looking into the fabrication of cupridium mirror shields. They have a more advantageous strength to weight proportion, so that a lancer will have greater protection but carry a lighter burden than with either a wooden or iron-sheathed shield. Also, the smooth surface will deflect an iron blade..."

   As he continues to take his notes, Lorn represses a frown. Mere deflection might not always be good, since it could easily send one of the Jeranyi edged bars into a mount, or a lancer's legs.

   "You might wish to make several of those shields and see how they work," suggests Rynst. "In actual combat."

   "We will have a score ready in an eightday, and they could be issued to a squad in one of the companies along the Grass Hills."

   Rynst glances at Lorn. "Majer, you have had the most recent combat experience. Where would you suggest that the shields be tested?"

   "I would suggest at Isahl or one of the outposts in the northeast out of Syadtar, ser. There are likely to be more raids there this summer."

   Rynst nods. "Do you have any observations on the lances and the shields?"

   "When I was at Biehl, I did command some District Guards against the barbarians. The cupridium lances worked fairly well, but some of the lancers had trouble knowing when to drop the lances and switch to their sabres. There might need to be some training on that. The shields could be useful, but I don't know whether the entire surface should be polished. If they are designed to deflect a blade down, lancers could lose their legs or their mounts. Perhaps several designs should be tested."

   "Those are good thoughts. Have you considered them, Commander?" asks the Majer-Commander.

   "The deflection had been raised, ser."

   "And? Did anyone determine whether it was a possibility?"

   "No, ser."

   "Before our next meeting, you are to have someone conduct trials to see if the design you are using will deflect a blade into the lancer and the mount. If this is a possibility, you are to develop alternative designs."

   "Yes, ser." Muyro nods, his face impassive.

   "Commander Shykt?"

   "We were tasked with determining whether the defenses of the ports, compounds, and outposts would need to be changed if firelances and firecannon were no longer available to the Mirror Lancers. In simple terms, the answer is no. All the facilities were initially designed so that they could be defended without the use of chaos-powered weapons. We did discover one weakness, but that is not with the defenses. Because horse-drawn supply wagons are both slower and more vulnerable to attack, and with all provisions coming by such teams, it might be prudent to increase food and supply storage areas in some of the more exposed outposts, and to schedule somewhat more frequent reprovisioning." Shykt nods that he is finished.

   "Do any of you have any questions?" Rynst looks from face to face. "If not, the meeting is over. I will take your reports and read them. Then they will go to Majer Lorn, who will keep them for my use in developing strategic plans." The Majer-Commander stands.

   Lorn stands with the other officers, stepping back ever so slightly, and waiting until the others leave, each handing the documents he brought to Rynst as each leaves the study.

   When the study is empty, Rynst turns to Lorn. "That is one function of having a junior commander at these meetings. Few of us have recently fought. Thank you."

   "You are welcome, ser. I tried to ask it as a question."

   "I noticed that." Rynst smiles. "Muyro will still be irked, and the Mirror Engineers will doubtless have little good to say of either of us for the next few eightdays. And the lancers whose legs you have considered will never know someone was looking out for them. That is one of the difficulties of being in Mirror Lancer Court. All are angered at your questions, and when you point out defects, but seldom is any credit offered." He shakes his head. "You have several days for the report of this meeting." After a pause, he asks, "How is your draft of the plan for dealing with the Jeranyi coming?"

   "Slower than I had thought, ser. I have developed a list of options, and I am working out the costs and the advantages of each."

   Rynst laughs. "Just remember that costs mean nothing if we lose too many lancers or the Jeranyi take our lands."

   "Yes, ser. I understand."

   "You do, but some of my commanders do not." Rynst looks down at the stack of documents he holds. "You can take these in the morning." With a smile, he adds, "I must go to the Palace of Eternal Light for the afternoon audience with His Mightiness. Have you ever been in the Palace?"

   "No, ser."

   "In a season or so, once people start to think of you as merely my tool, I'll take you." The Majer-Commander nods. "Until tomorrow."

   "Yes, ser." Lorn bows, then gathers his notes, and slips from the study.

   Outside, he sees Commander Shykt, standing beyond the table desk, and Senior Squad Leader Tygyl. Shykt beckons, and Lorn walks toward the curly-haired and thin-faced commander.

   "Ser?"

   "Interesting point you made about the shape and design of the shields, Majer. You've had a great deal of combat experience, have you not?"

   "Yes, ser."

   "How would you compare your experience in actual skirmishes or battles to that of most majers?"

   Lorn frowns, then replies carefully. "I have probably had less combat experience than some majers because I was promoted more rapidly than many, but I have had more combat experience than perhaps half, and more recent combat experience than almost any."

   "A fair and accurate answer." Shykt nods. "I would suggest that you write a short note to Commander Muyro, apologizing-very indirectly- for the suggestion about the shields, but noting that the Majer-Commander knew of your recent combat experience and that you had no choice."

   "Thank you, ser."

   "Muyro's an idiot, Majer, but he's also a cousin of both Rustyl and the Second Magus. He is one of those officers who forgets nothing, but learns little."

   "I think I understand, ser."

   "You don't, not yet. My son's an undercaptain at Pemedra. I'd like to see him live to become a majer someday." Shykt nods. "Good day, Majer."

   "Good day, ser."

   Lorn walks slowly back down to his study. Shykt scarcely looks old enough to have a son old enough to be a Mirror Lancer officer, but every word the commander had said had been the truth, without equivocation and without evasion, and that bothered Lorn as much as if there had been some deception in Shykt's words.

   Then... truth can also be deception.

   Lorn shakes his head.

 

 

XCVII

 

Lorn and Ryalth sit across from each other at one end of the long table that can hold nearly a score. Their meal is simple, a fowl casserole, with early peaches, and fresh dark bread.

   Lorn looks up from his platter. "This is good."

   "Ayleha is a good cook. So is Kysia. At times, the combinations are strange." Ryalth laughs, holding Kerial in her left arm as she eats right-handed. "You will see."

   "Anything would be better than outpost fare," he replies. "I hadn't realized how much I missed good food."

   "I have. I just watch you eat."

   "I've missed a lot. Mostly you."

   The red-haired trader smiles. "I know, and I'm glad of that. I had hoped it would turn this way, but I never counted on it."

   Lorn returns the smile, but his expression fades quickly.

   "Something's bothering you," Ryalth says slowly. "You keep sighing and hesitating, as if you want to talk about it, and you don't. You've been like that for several days."

   Lorn tilts his head. "I can't keep much from you."

   "I can't keep anything from you," she points out. "Is it something from the Mirror Lancer Court?"

   "In a way." He frowns. "It's stupid, and I didn't realize that it was bothering me." Lorn offers a lopsided grin.

   As she chews a mouthful of the casserole, she nods her head for him to continue, and bounces Kerial on her knee in an effort to keep their son content.

   "In my campaigns in Biehl and in Jerans, we came across more than fiftyscore well-forged iron blades and probably threescore cupridium sabres. I have no doubts that the traders of Hamor will be back with scores more. Possibly they are already. There seems to be no scarcity of blades in Jerans, and Jerans is a far poorer land than Cyador." He takes a sip of the amber ale before continuing. "Yet... there is great concern that the Mirror Lancers will not have weapons, and the Majer-Commander is trying to plan for matters that will not come to pass for years." Lorn shrugs. "That, I would ask you keep to yourself."

   "Gaaaa... waa... dah..." Kerial windmills both arms.

   "I will, my dear." Ryalth shifts the increasingly restless Kerial to her other leg before continuing. "Traders supply what folk want. The barbarians dislike Cyador, and will pay for blades to attack us. To allow such trade is to Hamor's advantage, and to the traders' advantage."

   Lorn purses his lips. "I can see the advantage to the traders."

   "Dearest... how does the Emperor raise the golds to support the Mirror Lancers and fight the barbarians?"

   Lorn wants to strike his forehead, for the answer is so obvious. "By tariffs, mostly on trade, but he cannot tariff goods coming in as heavily as goods going out because, if the import tariffs are too high, no outsiders will trade."

   "He cannot tariff outgoing goods heavily, either, or we cannot sell as cheaply as others can, and if that is so, we will not send goods out from Cyador, and there will be fewer tariffs," Ryalth says. "The lands across the Eastern Ocean have more traders, and the profits are great. They do not protect their traders, but simply let those who trade well, prosper."

   "So does the Empire of Eternal Light," Lorn points out.

   "But those across the Eastern Ocean don't have any lands adjoining them. We do. So they need fewer lancers, and only ships to protect their ports."

   Lorn reflects. All of the continent of Hamor is under the Hamorian emperor, and no one can attack any of Hamor except by sea. The same is true of both Austra and Nordla, although it is but a short voyage across the Gulf of Austra that separates the two island continents.

   "And Cyador is richer than Jerans or Cerlyn or Gallos or Spidlar," Ryalth adds. "So the barbarians to our north can see a reason to raid us, if and when they can."

   "They hate us as well, and will pay for blades to exercise that hatred," Lorn muses, "while we do not hate them, but merely wish to hold what we have."

   "They will continue to purchase blades, and Hamor will allow the trade in blades to continue." Ryalth lifts Kerial. "Now... don't hit your mother," she admonishes her son, taking a chubby fist and redirecting it.

   "And," Lorn continues, "because lands of the Eastern Ocean must support only a few warships, the tariffs on traders are low."

   Ryalth nods. "But the fireships are less costly to operate because they have smaller crews and can travel faster, and against the wind."

   "Now that will not be true," Lorn points out. "Matters will get worse. Sailing warships are more costly." He frowns. "That is why-"

   "Gaaa!" Kerial interjects.

   "The papers your father provided?" Ryalth guesses.

   "He wrote that the chaos of coal-burning could be harnessed to create steam. There are even plans..."

   "Has anyone suggested such?"

   "No."

   "There must be a reason. I would not bring that idea forth until you know why." She lifts Kerial to her shoulder. "Yet I cannot see why. Traders need protection, but Ryalor House cannot afford a single warship. I can provide arms so that pirates will think again, but no trading clan can afford to outfit a ship that will not turn a profit, and warships do not turn profits. Perhaps Vyanat'mer fears that tariffs will go up-and Bluoyal did worry about such, as you know."

   "The plans are from the Archives of the Quarter-I think that is what my father wrote. Vyanat might not even know," Lorn says slowly. "Such engines would require much chaos-force to create and would need to be forged by an ironworker and a mage together."

   "But they would continue the power of the Magi'i," Ryalth says.

   "Then why has Chyenfel not brought forth such a plan?"

   "Perhaps he has, or perhaps he would wait to offer such until he feels others would support the effort. Would not the chaos-fired steam vessels cost much more to build and require larger crews?"

   Lorn nods. "But they would be faster than sailing ships and could go against the wind."

   "Whhaaa... gaaa... whaaa!" Kerial flails in his mother's arms.

   "How could the Empire raise the golds for them? And how could the merchanters pay such tariffs?" Ryalth stands, struggling with Kerial. "Our friend is ready for bed, and I cannot delay or he will be restless for all too long. Best you think about this while I put him down. I will be back when he sleeps."

   "Go." Lorn laughs softly.

   As Ryalth carries Kerial from the dining area and up the stairs, Lorn stands and picks up the platters. He considers the questions his father had posed, what seems so long ago, as he carries the platters to the kitchen. Are those who direct power the source of either? That had been the third question, and he is beginning to understand the reasoning behind the question. The First Magus can direct the power of chaos, but is not its source; the chaos-towers and the world itself are. The Majer-Commander controls the Mirror Lancers, but their weapons come from the skills of the cupritors and the Magi'i and their pay from the tariffs on the merchanters. While the fireships effectively are controlled by the Magi'i, once their towers fail, the Magi'i, too, will become more dependent upon the merchanters.

   "I'll take those, ser," Kysia offers as Lorn enters the kitchen.

   "Oh, thank you, Kysia. I'll bring in the other dishes."

   "You don't have to, ser."

   "It's no problem. Ryalth is putting Kerial to bed." Lorn turns, his thoughts still churning, turning to the last question posed by his father. How can the world be more simple, and yet more complex?

   He laughs as he picks up the casserole dish, the dish that had held the peaches, and the empty basket that had held bread. The world is governed by power. It may be the power of golds, of chaos, of weapons in the hands of trained men, even of love, or of words well-spoken. The simplicity is that power governs. The complexity is that no man, no group of men, can possibly track all the sources of power and their impacts. Power is like chaos- while it can be used for good or evil at the moment, it is essentially unpredictable over time.

   With a headshake, Lorn hands the dish and basket to Kysia. "Strange thoughts," is all he says as he walks back through the house and out onto the veranda, where he stands at the edge of the stone, looking up at the night sky. Somewhere out there are the Rational Stars. He smiles at the contradiction of the two terms. For a star is concentrated chaos, which cannot be rational and predictable, not over time, even as it is, for were the flow of chaos from each star not relatively stable, life would not exist.

   His father was indeed right, not that Lorn has yet figured out any way to turn those observations into use. Lorn has yet to determine how to accomplish the far more simple task of reducing the raids from Jerans with fewer golds and less Mirror Lancer casualties.

 

 

XCVIII

 

Lorn steps from his study and out to the table desk in the wide fourth-floor corridor of Mirror Lancer Court. There he hands the three sheets which summarize the meeting dealing with the failure of the chaos-towers and the impact on the Mirror Lancers, to Fayrken. "I'll need two copies."

   "I can copy these immediately, ser," answers the sandy-haired senior squad leader. "Majer Hrenk is still in Fyrad."

   "Thank you." Lorn smiles. After nearly two eightdays at the Mirror Lancer Court, he has yet to meet or even see Hrenk, the Mirror Lancer majer who is an aide to Commander Muyro. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

   "No, ser. He's inspecting the spring flood damage to the Great Canal. There were more giant stun lizards and more runoff. A message to Commander Muyro about that came yesterday." Fayrken smiles. "Glad he's not back yet. If it is like last spring he'll have a huge report for me to copy."

   Lorn nods.

   "Majer Lorn."

   Lorn turns to see the Captain-Commander standing in the fourth-floor foyer. Lorn bows. "Yes, ser?"

   The bushy-browed Luss approaches and halts perhaps three cubits from Lorn. "I was reading your latest report. You write clearly and well, Majer."

   "Thank you, ser."

   "I do not think I understood how clearly and well. And you understand much."

   "I do my best to listen, ser. There's much I need to learn."

   "I have noticed that. You also hear what is not said. That, too, is a most valuable talent, particularly when allied with prudence and caution." Luss smiles with his mouth, but not his eyes. "How are you finding Mirror Lancer Court?"

   "I'm finding that everyone here is most perceptive and intelligent, and that matters are far more complicated than they seemed when I was a field commander," Lorn answers with total truthfulness.

   Luss laughs once, not quite harshly. "Do not let the apparent complexity deceive you. In the end, there is often but one choice."

   "Yes, ser."

   With a nod as much to himself as Lorn, Luss turns and walks back toward the steps and begins to walk up to the fifth floor.

   "He must think you've done something right, ser," says Fayrken.

   "I'd never met him before I came here, and I've only talked with him once-that was very short. I've taken notes at perhaps a handful of meetings where he spoke," Lorn replies.

   "He once told a commander that he'd best fall on his sabre while he had enough brains left to complete the job."

   Lorn raises his eyebrows.

   "Yes, ser. I heard it myself."

   "I'd better be quite careful." Lorn already knows that.

   "You are, ser. I can tell that from how you write."

   "How come you aren't an officer?" Lorn asks. "You're brighter than many captains."

   Fayrken shakes his head. "My da was a weaver in Summerdock. Barely learned my letters, but I didn't want to be a weaver. So I became a lancer. Then I saw that I'd die one day somewhere in the Grass Hills if I didn't get to be a squad leader. So I buttered up one of the older fellows and got him to help me with my letters. After I made junior squad leader, almost lost my leg in a Jeranyi raid, and while I was healing, I was a clerk in at the headquarters in Syadtar. Commander Ryuk brought me here, five years ago." Fayrken grins. "Now... ser... if I got myself to be an undercaptain, now... where would I find myself?"

   Lorn grins back. "Probably in Inividra or Pemedra or Isahl."

   "I need but another few years for a pension, if a short-coin one, and I've a consort and two young boys."

   "In your boots, I'd do the same," Lorn says. "There's not much point in traveling the same ground twice, first as a ranker and then as an officer."

   "Ser?"

   "Yes, Fayrken?"

   "Is it true that you are the first officer in ten generations to invade Jerans?"

   "I don't know about the ten generations... but the first in many."

   "Some say... you've killed more barbarians by yourself than some whole squads..."

   Lorn frowns slightly, then tilts his head before answering. "I've had the fortune-or misfortune-to be in more battles and fights than almost all officers near my age and rank. When you fight more, if you survive, you'll kill more of your enemy. I'm not sure that killing measures much more than surviving." He straightens and shrugs. "I've tried to do what I thought was right. Looking back, I'm sure it wasn't in some cases. But if you don't decide quickly, you don't get a chance to think it over later." For some reason the image of a young woman in an enumerator's bedchamber flashes through his mind-another quick decision, perhaps good for him, but hardly for her, and yet at that moment, had Lorn had any real choice? He offers a lopsided smile. "I'm sorry... that's a long answer to a short question."

   Fayrken nods. "Best I get on with the copying. Majer Hrenk will not stay in Fyrad forever."

   "Thank you." Lorn turns back toward his study, and the strategic plan he has yet to complete.

 

 

XCVIX

 

The bell on the iron gate rings, and Lorn hurries forward from the veranda, down the green marble walk to and around the fountain, and past the privacy hedge to open the gate.

   "An iron gate, Lorn?" Tyrsal stands there in the whites of a magus with a petite blonde woman dressed in a shimmering green tunic and trousers. She is no taller than Lorn's shoulder.

   "Ryalth thought it might be useful. Please come in." Lorn steps back and pulls the gate wide. "She's waiting on the veranda."

   After the couple steps around the tightly-grown conifer privacy hedge, Lorn relocks the iron gate, and follows them up the green marble walk to the veranda, where Ryalth waits.

   "This is Aleyar," Tyrsal announces, almost embarrassed, grinning slightly at Lorn as he rejoins them.

   Lorn manages not to raise his eyebrows, recalling how, years before, Tyrsal had said that the blonde and poised young healer standing on the veranda was too young-and then, she probably had been.

   "You are amused?" asks Aleyar with a gentle voice.

   "I am indeed, but for reasons you would not find unpleasant, Lady Healer," Lorn says.

   "I can sense that. I look forward to hearing them."

   Tyrsal flushes. So does Lorn.

   Ryalth and Aleyar exchange glances, and amused smiles.

   Aleyar glances at Tyrsal and begins to laugh. "I think I'll enjoy this far more than I'd thought."

   "Oh..." Lorn says. "This is Ryalth, my far better self."

   Ryalth shakes her head. "Perhaps we could sit out here for a bit and have something to drink," she suggests, gesturing toward the wooden-framed settee and the two armchairs. "We have some early redberry juice and some Alafraan, and amber ale."

   The red-haired Tyrsal glances at Aleyar.

   "The redberry, if you please." Aleyar seats herself in one of the two armchairs.

   "The ale," Tyrsal says, taking the other chair.

   "I'll get the drinks," Ryalth says before Lorn speaks. "You want ale, don't you? I'll be back in a moment."

   "Yes, thank you." After a moment, Lorn settles onto the settee.

   "As I told you, Lorn is my oldest and dearest friend," Tyrsal tells Aleyar. "He made my life easier when we were in school, and it cost him dearly later. He could have been a first-level adept if he'd been able to stay in the Magi'i."

   "We both survived," Lorn replies mildly.

   Aleyar casts a quizzical look at Tyrsal and then at Lorn. "You both agree that is the truth." She shakes her head.

   "Tyrsal is being kind," Lorn says.

   "I think not," Aleyar replies.

   "Here is the redberry." Ryalth reappears with a tray on which are four glass beakers, two of redberry and two of ale. She extends the tray to Aleyar, who takes one of the redberry beakers, and then to Tyrsal.

   Lorn takes the other ale, and Ryalth sets the tray on the small table beside the settee, where she seats herself, before taking the last beaker.

   "How did you two meet?" Ryalth asks as she looks at Aleyar.

   "Because of Lorn, actually," Tyrsal says. "In a way. I saw her at the infirmary when Lorn didn't answer my scrolls and I'd gone to see Jerial to see if his duty station had been changed again."

   "I didn't know you'd written." Lorn shifts his weight on the settee. "You never said."

   "Well, after all the other problems Dett caused, I didn't see much point in making you any angrier at him." Tyrsal takes a sip of ale. "That day, Aleyar was talking to Jerial. So I waited until she left to talk to your sister." He grins. "I did ask Jerial who she was, but I didn't do anything for several eightdays."

   "Almost a season." Aleyar laughs.

   "But I didn't forget."

   "No... you asked everyone who might know me about me, though."

   Tyrsal flushes. "Anyway... I finally asked her father for permission to call on her. He was very kind and said I could." The red-haired magus shrugs. "That's how it happened."

   "How did you meet Lorn?" Aleyar asks, her gaze on Ryalth.

   Ryalth smiles mischievously. "It happened a long time ago. He was a student, and I was a very junior trader. He was walking, looking for a willing woman, when a man attacked me and the trader I was with. Lorn saved us both, and me from a truly deplorable fate. Somehow, we found we belonged together, and he defied his father to make me his consort. That was many years later, of course."

   "Except," Lorn adds, "my father had such a high opinion of Ryalth that he forced me to defy him for her because he feared I wouldn't value her enough otherwise."

   A faint flush suffuses Ryalth's face and neck.

   "You didn't tell me that," Tyrsal says.

   "I didn't find that out until after we were consorted," Lorn admits.

   "A love match, across backgrounds." Aleyar holds her beaker of redberry, then takes another tiny sip. "You were fortunate that your parents saw her worth."

   "Didn't that happen with your sister?" asks Lorn.

   "You mean Syreal?" Aleyar nods. "It did. I can't say I understand exactly how. Veljan is the sweetest man. He is a good trader, and he'd do anything for her, but Syreal is so bright. Compared to her, he's a sweet dumb ox, but he adores her, and she's happy. She really is. It's for the best for everyone. That became clear after Fuyol's death. Shevelt was a lizard of a man, and the clan owes a debt to whoever killed him. The entire Yuryan Clan loves Veljan, because he is honest and does the right thing. He's so honest by nature, and Syreal tells him what to do... and if she doesn't know, she asks Father." Aleyar laughs. "Between the three of them, the Clan has prospered greatly, and what's funny is that all of them know it, and so does most of Cyad-and everyone's still pleased."

   "It makes sense," Lorn says. "Veljan is honest. That means he won't do anything he feels is wrong. Your father is shrewd, and he will give the best advice for his daughter and her consort, and Syreal loves Veljan and won't accept any advice that would hurt him. And everyone else understands that, which means that they can trust Veljan to be honorable, and they all know why."

   "That is rare indeed in Cyad," Ryalth says dryly.

   "Father is honest, too," Aleyar points out. "That's why he was a friend of your father, Lorn."

   "And why he keeps his distance from the Second Magus?" Lorn probes.

   Aleyar looks down at her half-full beaker of redberry.

   "I know," Lorn says quickly. "Kharl'elth is the father of Myryan's consort, but he is known to be less than straightforward."

   "That is a most polite way of putting it," Tyrsal says quickly. "And the less said the better, if you please."

   "I am sorry," Lorn apologizes. "I did not mean to offend."

   Ryalth rises. "I think this is a good time to go inside for dinner. I just saw Kysia hovering in the archway."

   Tyrsal and Lorn also stand, quickly, and the four make their way to the table in the dining area where Lorn stands waiting on one side of the table, across from Ryalth, and then seats Aleyar to his right, while Tyrsal-after seating Ryalth-sits to her left.

   Kysia and Ayleha appear with platters and serving bowls and then two baskets of bread, followed by a silver tray on which there are slices of sun-nut bread.

   "Sun-nut bread, I see. Your family always served that," Tyrsal says.

   "The emburhka recipe comes from Lorn's family," Ryalth replies.

   "I thought I recognized the aroma," Tyrsal says as he takes the serving bowl that Ryalth hands to him.

   "The wine is Alafraan," Lorn says. "Would you like some?"

   "Just half, please," answers the blonde healer. "I like it, but much wine does not like me."

   "That's true of many healers," Lorn says as he pours the requested amount into her goblet. "Myryan never has more than a goblet, and usually only half." He fills the other three goblets three-quarters full, then sets the bottle down and offers the emburhka to Aleyar.

   She takes the dish, and then asks, smiling almost mischievously, "Will you tell me why you were so amused when Tyrsal introduced me?" ;. Lorn glances at Tyrsal, who flushes once more.

   "Go ahead, Lorn." A wry smile crosses the lips of the redheaded magus. "Try to be kind to me."

   "It goes back many years, before I left the Quarter of the Magi'i," Lorn begins slowly. "It really begins with me, on the night I met Ryalth, as I recall."

   Ryalth raises her eyebrows. "I have not heard this."

   "My father was talking about the need for suitable consorts, and he asked if I had ever taken the trouble to talk to you." He inclines his head to Aleyar. "He made some comment like, 'It would not harm you to talk to her to see if you would like her.' I thought that I might, except later that evening I met Ryalth and that changed everything."

   "Good thing for me that you did," Tyrsal says, smiling at Aleyar.

   The blonde healer returns the smile, warmly.

   "But..." Lorn draws out the word, grinning at Tyrsal, "I remembered what my father had said, and several years later, I mentioned your name to my dear friend, and he made some comment to the effect that while you were sweet, beautiful, and charming-looking, he worried much about presenting himself to the great Third Magus." Lorn inclines his head to Tyrsal. "I'm glad he decided to anyway."

   "So am I," replies Aleyar. "Even if it did take him a season to get his courage up."

   "Prudence, that's all," mumbles Tyrsal, flushing once more, and partly hiding behind the goblet of Alafraan that he holds.

   "You didn't need that much prudence with Father," the healer says gently. "He likes you."

   "I didn't know that he would," Tyrsal points out. "I don't come from a long line of Magi'i, like Lorn or Rustyl."

   Aleyar shivers, if slightly.

   Ryalth glances at Lorn, then says gently, "You don't seem that fond of Rustyl."

   "He called several times... before Tyrsal. I put him off. Father let me, thank the Rational Stars," Aleyar says. "His eyes and heart are cold, and he's even colder deep within." Her eyes go to Lorn. "You... and Tyrsal... both of you have a warmth inside."

   Lorn nods. "Tyrsal is warmer, I think."

   "It would appear that way," Aleyar admits, "but you hide what you are well, as well as any of the senior Magi'i." She looks at Ryalth. "He's warmer than he will admit, is he not?"

   "Yes," replies the red-haired trader, with a smile. "I thought so from the first, but it took years to find it so."

   "And he is terrible to his foes," Aleyar adds. "A healer can see that as well."

   Lorn shrugs and offers a lopsided smile. "You both have seen through me."

   After setting down her goblet, Aleyar laughs, softly but warmly. "No one sees through you, Lorn. We can judge you by what we do not sense."

   "

   "Enough... enough," protests Tyrsal. "You'll have the two of us apart like a pair of roosters for stewing."

   "Definitely roosters," Ryalth says.

   Lorn barely manages not to choke on the mouthful of emburhka he is swallowing.

   "I won't pursue it." Aleyar turns to Ryalth. "What is it like, being a lady trader? Syreal has told me about some of it, but do you think people treat you differently because you're a lady?"

   Ryalth gives the slightest of shrugs. "At first, it was difficult." Her face hardens. "I learned a great deal." A brief smile flits across her face. "Some of it from Lorn. I don't think he understands how much, or about what."

   Lorn understands-now. He manages to keep an interested smile on his face.

   Tyrsal glances from Ryalth to Lorn. He swallows.

   Aleyar nods. "Now they all accept you, even defer to you. That's what Syreal says. There was talk of your name being put forward as a possible Merchanter Advisor."

   "That would have been a gesture. Some gestures are useful. That would have served no useful purpose," Ryalth replies, passing the basket of still-warm bread to Tyrsal.

   "She sounds like someone else I know," Tyrsal says with a laugh, taking the bread, and glancing at Lorn before turning his attention back to Ryalth. "How is trading these days?"

   "It's getting harder," Ryalth admits. "Not because of Kerial, but because of the tariffs. We saw another one-gold increase at the turn of summer." She glances at her consort. "From what Lorn tells me, I fear that there will be more."

   "Syreal says the same thing," Aleyar says.

   "Why?" asks Tyrsal. "Just because we've lost a few fireships?"

   "It's not just the loss of the fireships, but the failure of the chaos-towers," Lorn says. "Without firelances, it will take more lancers to hold back the barbarians, and more lancers-"

   "I see," Tyrsal interrupts. "I'm slow, but not stupid. More lancers cost more golds, with their horses and blades and stipends. More horse teams will be needed on the roads, and that will make transport slower and more costly... It affects everything."

   "Unless the Magi'i can find another way to use chaos, perhaps the natural chaos of the world," Lorn suggests.

   "Some have been working on that. Most Magi'i aren't that strong," Tyrsal points out.

   "Or..." Lorn says slowly, "unless there is some way to use natural chaos with machines of some sort." He glances at Tyrsal. "Is anyone working on something like that?"

   "I wouldn't know that. I'm a very lowly second-level adept."

   "You could be a first-level," Aleyar says. "You're good enough. You will be soon."

   "I'm not sure I want to work that hard," Tyrsal parries.

   "You worry too much," counters the blonde healer. "Father thinks you're better than many of the Firsts."

   "There's much to worry about in Cyad these days." Tyrsal makes a vague gesture.

   "Does anyone want more of the emburhka?" asks Ryalth.

   "No... I'm full," Lorn admits.

   "Except for the pearapple tarts?"

   He laughs. "Except for the pearapple tarts."

   Ryalth gestures, and Kysia and Ayleha appear to remove the platters and serving dishes.

   Lorn pours a half-goblet more wine for Ryalth and Tyrsal.

   Tyrsal frowns. "There's something I've been meaning to ask."

   "Oh?"

   "There were rumors... about your father..." Tyrsal suggests.

   "I heard them," Lorn says. "That he was the Hand of the Emperor. He never told me anything like that, and there wasn't a thing in his papers or his letters that mentioned it, even indirectly." He shrugs. "That doesn't mean he wasn't, but I'd guess that the Emperor would be the only one who could say, and he's said nothing. Not that I know, anyway."

   "He hasn't named a new Hand, either, from what I've overheard," Tyrsal says.

   "Father says he should, but will not, not until he names a successor," Aleyar volunteers.

   "A successor?" Ryalth frowns.

   "The Emperor looks young, but he is not. This is something all healers know, though we say little," Aleyar replies. "The Empress is a healer, and tends him constantly, so that he looks young. They have no children, not even any nieces or nephews, and both have outlived their siblings. There was a nephew, but he was a lancer officer who was killed years ago."

   A nephew killed years ago-that alone indicates an old Emperor to Lorn. "No one speaks about a successor."

   "No one will," says Ryalth. "Not openly. The Magi'i and the lancers do not want to lose their powers, and the merchanters do not want Cyador to be seen as any weaker or as in turmoil, because we will lose golds."

   "There must be some in Cyad who could turn that to a profit," suggests Lorn.

   "There are, and they will, and the clans will let them, so long as it is done quietly."

   "And if not?" questions Tyrsal.

   "Several warehouses burned, and some ships never returned to port before the lancers and the Magi'i agreed on Toziel's sire. And the Captain-Commander of Mirror Lancers was killed by the old Third Magus, and the Second Magus vanished."

   "That's not in the history scrolls," Tyrsal says dryly.

   Aleyar laughs softly.

   "I know. I know," replies the redheaded magus. "I am hopeless in my desires for openness and truth."

   "You never told me that Lorn had suggested you meet me," Aleyar points out sweetly. "That was not in your personal-history scroll."

   Tyrsal shakes his head so ruefully that the other three laugh. "Best I talk of some other matters. Quickly. How is Myryan doing?"

   "She says she's fine." Lorn shrugs. "I still worry about her. She's so sweet, but her eyes are sad, like Mother's were the last time I saw her."

   "We choose to be healers," Aleyar says quietly.

   "But your choices are limited," Ryalth points out. "As the daughter of a magus, you can keep the house of your consort, or become a healer, or do both..."

   "Or leave Cyador," Aleyar says. "Before I met Tyrsal, I was thinking about that. Healers are welcome elsewhere in Candar, especially in the east. Lydiar, especially."

   "You would have done that?" asks Tyrsal.

   "Rather than accept someone like Rustyl? Certainly. Father can protect me now... but he is not so young as he thinks."

   Lorn holds back a frown. The Emperor is old. So are Rynst and Liataphi.

   "Here are the tarts!" Ryalth announces as Kysia appears with a platter.

   Lorn smiles. He can do little else this evening, except enjoy Ryalth and the company of Tyrsal and Aleyar-and he is happy for his friend.

   Besides, the pearapple tarts are good. He has already sampled one in the kitchen earlier.

 

 

C