His Mightiness Toziel'elth'alt'mer leans forward in the smaller malachite and silver throne of the Lesser Audience Hall. "We now have but four fireships capable of protecting our interests." His eyes go to Rynst. "How goes the construction of the three sailing warships?"

   "The first will be completed by late fall, the others thereafter." Rynst nods slightly.

   "And the cannon?"

   "We have tested one. More work will be required."

   "And how many golds?" asks Vyanat'mer.

   Toziel's head turns slowly from Rynst to Vyanat. "You question the need for such weapons and vessels?"

   "The need for such vessels? And more armament?" Vyanat'mer shakes his head. "The need, never. I question how we can afford such. Already the Empire of Eternal Light tariffs those of us who are merchanters at nearly ten golds on every hundred we take in."

   "The tariffs of Hamor are higher than that," Chyenfel points out.

   The gray-haired Rynst glances from Toziel to the First Magus, then to the blue-eyed Merchanter Advisor.

   In her smaller seat behind Toziel's shoulder, Ryenyel appears disinterested, her eyes absently ranging from one advisor to another.

   The merchanter laughs ruefully. "The tariffs levied by the Hamorians are high on parchment, but their enumerators are not so well-trained, and can be bribed by those of Hamor. I would even guess that bribery is encouraged. Were I to attempt such, I would lose a ship or a hand or both. So we pay golds there, and those are golds they do not pay, while they but pay ours. That can mean that our traders often pay twice as much in tariffs as do the Hamorians."

   "Without fireships and a larger fleet..." Rynst says quietly.

   "You wish that we should go to war against Hamor?" asks Toziel. "Or bar our ports to the Hamorians, so that they will bar theirs to us?"

   "No, sire." Rynst shakes his head. "No, sire, but the Hamorians know we cannot do such."

   "Why can we not require the Hamorians to pay greater tariffs than do our traders?" asks Chyenfel.

   "Then they will do the same," counters Vyanat, "and we will find ourselves in an even worse position."

   "How then, honored Merchanter Advisor, would you counsel me?"

   "I would counsel you to reduce the tariffs on all goods."

   "And how are we to support the Mirror Lancers and keep the barbarians from pouring across the Grass Hills?" Toziel raises his eyebrows. "With fewer firelances and recharges available, we need more lancers, not fewer."

   "Lower their stipends," Vyanat says genially. "By increasing tariffs, you have lowered what we make and can pay our seamen and workers."

   "They will be risking their lives more," Rynst says, "and you suggest we pay them less?"

   "You cannot pay what you do not have," Vyanat counters. "If tariffs are raised, fewer goods will pass through Cyad. We already trade fewer goods than generations earlier. One has but to look at the empty warehouses and piers to see that. Fewer goods provide fewer golds in tariffs. That is true even with higher tariffs."

   Toziel frowns, then ringers his chin. "Let me say what you all have said: Because we have fewer warships, our traders pay higher tariffs elsewhere in the world. To build more warships will require golds. To get the golds one must raise tariffs on something. Raising tariffs will lower the golds we gather because fewer goods will come to Cyad and fewer will leave. Without more golds we cannot pay for more Mirror Lancers, but we will need more lancers because we have fewer firelances and firewagons." The Emperor pauses. "If you are all correct, then Cyador is doomed. Yet we are prosperous. So there must be a fault in this reasoning." He smiles. "I would that each of you reflect on this and bring me your thoughts the day after tomorrow." He stands.

   The three advisors bow as the Emperor of Cyador, Land of Eternal Light, turns and makes his way from the audience hall, followed by Ryenyel.

 

 

CI

 

Lorn leans forward in his study chair, ignoring the warm afternoon breeze of full summer that scarcely cools Mirror Lancer Court at all. He forces himself to read slowly over the summary and conclusion page of his draft plan for dealing with the Jeranyi-the paragraphs that matter the most, in a way, since he doubts anyone but the Majer-Commander will ever see more than the summaries. Perhaps even Rynst will not read more than the summary.

   As he has drafted the plan, Lorn has included everything he can think of, from the costs of carrying blades from Hamor-figures Eileyt and Ryalth had helped him calculate-to distances between the planned stops of a campaign to take Jera, and even the supplies necessary in the event that the Mirror Lancers were not to raid the storehouses of the Jeranyi.

   He forces his eyes back to the lines that feel so tired, because they are the result of far too many drafts, and far too many revisions.

 

...Cliffs form most of the coastline from Biehl to a point roughly one hundred kays west of Rulyarth. Jera is the only port with practical access to the lands of Jerans. Control of the port, therefore, controls the majority of trade... The Jeranyi do not have supplies of iron or metal-working skills. That is true especially for finely-wrought metals and weapons. If Cyador holds Jera, then Cyador can limit the easy flow of blades to the Jeranyi...

   Any campaign to take the port of Jera can be accomplished with tenscore lancers, although a larger force would limit any uncertainty....

   ...The geography of Jera is such that a fortified wall can be placed on the highlands west of the port to limit access and to control the trade along the River Jeryna... With the growing possibility of the lack of chaos-powered tools in the future, such a fortification should be started immediately after the port is taken.

   The harbor waters are shallow. Deeper draft vessels must be moored at the end of long piers necessary to reach deeper water. To build piers closer to the port's seawall will require extensive dredging. In either case, once the port is taken by land, it would be difficult, if not impossible, for any enemy to land armsmen or lancers by ship inside the fortifications....

   This plan may well have defects, and is not without its costs. It will not eliminate all future losses by the Mirror Lancers to Jeranyi and Cerlynyi barbarians in the Grass Hills. Any other plan is highly unlikely to prove either effective or workable, as detailed above.

 

   Lorn takes a deep breath. The last sentence is the dangerous one, because it is impossible to prove another plan will not work without implementing it-and failing.

   Finally, he stands and carries the plan out to Fayrken for the senior squad leader to copy before Lorn takes it upstairs to Tygyl for delivery to the Majer-Commander.

   "Ser?" inquires the squad leader as Lorn approaches his table.

   Lorn hands the report to Fayrken. "This is the report that the Majer-Commander requested. I need just one copy."

   Fayrken takes the sheets, and studies them. "Lot of writing here, ser. Late tomorrow, I'd say."

   "When you can." Lorn smiles faintly.

   "Be starting it now, ser. With the firewagons running less often, I'd guess, Commander Hrenk is still in Fyrad."

   "Thank you."

   "Yes, ser." Fayrken nods.

   After Lorn walks back into his study, closing the door behind him, he looks down at the polished surface of the desk, then out through the open window at the clouds to the north that promise a late-afternoon thundershower. He has already spent almost half a season in Cyad, going to meetings, taking notes, and writing reports, and he feels as though he has accomplished almost nothing, except learning how-in his sparring with Tyrsal-to handle a sabre in either hand without using his eyes at all.

   The best thing about his assignment in Cyad is that he and Ryalth have had much more time together, and that he has had a chance to get to know his son. Yet that happiness is tinged with the certainty that times are changing in Cyador-emphasized by the fact that he is being followed by more than one magus in more than one chaos-glass-and that such change is likely to become more and more swift as the seasons pass.

   The chaos-tower in yet another fireship has failed. There is no word on the appointment of a new Hand of the Emperor. The number and frequency of firewagons traveling the Great Eastern and Great North Highways has been reduced twice. The number of recharges for firelances has been reduced to an average of one per season per lancer, and the cupritors are beginning to fashion cupridium lances destined for not just District Guards, but for the Mirror Lancers as well, though none have said such openly.

   In the shipyards at Fyrad, the keels have been laid on two new warships-sailing warships. And although Lorn has the plans for better vessels, he dares not bring them forth, not when every gold spent by the lancers is grudged by the merchanters and questioned by the Magi'i, and not when the basis of such plans comes from hidden Magi'i sources.

 

 

CII

 

Lorn sits in the armless chair at the conference table to the left of the Majer-Commander, as Captain-Commander Luss seats himself at the far end of the table. The redheaded Commander Sypcal, the Eastern Regional Commander, sits on the left side. Across from him is the tall and blond Commander Lhary, the Western Regional Commander.

   Rynst lifts the thin stack of papers and then sets them on the conference table before him. "I have read your report, Commanders, but I would like your views on what is most important." The Majer-Commander's eyes focus on the red-haired Sypcal. "First, your thoughts, Sypcal."

   "Yes, ser." Sypcal glances down at the report before him, then squares his shoulders slightly. "As you know, ser, firelances have been the most important tactical weapon of the Mirror Lancers against the barbarians of the north since the beginning of Cyad. Our tactics have been based on their use, and replacement with cupridium lances will require extensive retraining of both officers and lancers. New tactics will need to be developed and implemented, and casualties will certainly be higher initially, and perhaps always." Sypcal pauses. "I could offer more details, but those are the considerations I see."

   Rynst nods. Luss does not.

   "Commander Lhary?" asks Rynst, his voice level. "Can you add anything?"

   "Yes, ser." The blond commander looks directly at Rynst. "You requested that we address what would happen if the long cupridium lances replaced the firelances. The first impact would be on tactics. We would lose the ability to kill barbarians at a distance. While a firelance is not accurate beyond thirty to forty cubits for the average lancer, that distance accounts for roughly one-quarter of barbarian deaths in a battle. We have been killing three to four barbarians for every lancer killed. If the cupridium lances and the sabres remain as effective as the firelances and the sabres in close combat, the loss of stand-away killing power will mean that we will lose almost one lancer for every two barbarians killed. In the first assault, when forces actually meet, the cupridium lances, because of their length, will be slightly more effective, but become almost useless in a melee, whereas firelances retain some effectiveness." Lhary smiles politely and clears his throat gently before continuing. "We have studied the battle reports of the past two years. We estimate that we will lose another three to four lancers in each melee involving a full lancer company.

   "...In effect, to compensate for the total loss of firelances, each outpost which had five companies before this year, and which now has six as a result of the transfers from the companies that were patrolling the Accursed Forest, will require at least one additional company."

   Luss nods, ever so slightly.

   "I see," Rynst says. "Together you are suggesting that we will need more training and more lancers, and that our casualties will be higher. This will cost more golds, and those costs do not include the golds required to pay for obtaining the cupridium lances." Rynst leans forward.

   Sypcal nods.

   "That is true, Majer-Commander," Lhary replies smoothly. "We felt that you should know fully what the costs would be before you supported or opposed any changes in the placement and numbers of Mirror Lancer companies in the north."

   Lorn tries to keep taking notes as quietly as possible, while still studying the faces of the officers and trying to truth-read them.

   "What do you think, Luss?" asks Rynst.

   "I would suggest that you study the report most carefully and become most familiar with the calculations before you discuss matters in any meeting with the Merchanter Advisor. Commander Lhary can be asked about the calculations, Commander Sypcal about the tactical questions."

   Rynst offers a faint smile. "It appears as though none of our choices are to our favor. To control the barbarians we cannot use the tactics and weapons we have favored. Nor is it likely that the Emperor will favor spending the golds necessary to maintain the northern outposts in the way suggested by your report, Commanders." He looks at Luss. "Do you think so, Captain-Commander?"

   "At present, it would seem unlikely, ser." Luss's voice is cautious.

   "I would have all of you consider what other approaches to dealing with the barbarians might be possible, and at what costs." Rynst looks first at Lhary, then at Sypcal. He does not actually look at Luss.

   "Yes, ser," replies the redheaded commander.

   "Ser," adds Lhary.

   "We will meet again in an eightday." Rynst stands. "Until next twoday."

   Lorn stands with the other officers, waiting until Luss and the two commanders depart before gathering his notes.

   "I would like your report on this meeting by midday tomorrow, Majer."

   "Yes, ser."

   "It will be interesting to see what happens at the next meeting on this matter." Rynst offers a broad smile.

   "Ser." Lorn bows.

   "You may go, Majer."

   Lorn bows again, and makes his way from the long study out into the fifth-floor foyer, nodding to Tygyl as he passes the desk where the senior squad leader sits.

   "Majer?"

   Lorn looks to the top of the open stone staircase where the Captain-Commander waits. "Yes, ser?"

   "Have you finished your report to the Majer-Commander, Majer?" Luss offers an ingratiating smile.

   "I have submitted a draft, ser." Lorn shrugs apologetically. "I do not know if the Majer-Commander has read it. He has not spoken about it. He has not asked for changes or revisions."

   "I am most certain he will, in his own time, Majer. The Majer-Commander always acts when he wishes."

   Lorn nods.

   "And he uses what will benefit him and the Mirror Lancers, in whatever fashion may best serve both," Luss adds. "Serving in Mirror Lancer Court is not the place for those who wish to be known in Cyad or Cyador."

   "I had not thought it otherwise, ser," Lorn says politely.

   "Best you should remember that in the seasons to come, Majer. Good day." With the same unvarying and warm smile, Luss turns and walks toward the door to his own study.

   Lorn starts down the steps to his own study, and the report on a meeting he must have ready for copying before the afternoon is out.

 

 

CIII

 

As he walks around the bedchamber, carrying Kerial and patting his son on the back, Lorn yawns. The sole light in the room is a single bronze lamp on the bedside table, its wick turned low enough that only a faint glow extends beyond the table.

   "You don't have to do that." The tired-eyed mother looks up from the ornate bed, trying not to yawn. "You really don't."

   "You're so tired your eyes are black, and you almost fell over into the armoire," Lorn says. "You need some rest." He shifts Kerial higher on his shoulder and pats his son's back again, continually and gently. "Jerial says there's no chaos here, and I don't sense any, but his tummy still bothers him."

   Ryalth laughs. "It's strange to hear you talk about his tummy."

   "Children don't have stomachs; they have tummies," Lorn offers in a falsely arch tone. "Now turn over and go to sleep."

   "I'm tired, but I'm not sleepy." Ryalth yawns.

   Lorn shakes his head. "Not sleepy?"

   "You need sleep, too. You won't think very well tomorrow," she counters.

   "It doesn't matter right now. I can't do anything, except write reports on meetings." As Kerial half cries, half whimpers, Lorn concentrates and pats his son on the back and circles in the space between the bed and the armoires. After another two circles, he looks at Ryalth.

   Her eyes are still open.

   "Do you have any idea how the Emperor could raise more coins from tariffs?" Lorn asks.

   "Why do you ask?"

   "Because it seems impossible," Lorn replies, stifling another yawn and patting the unhappy Kerial, who continues to whimper every time his father stops walking. "No one respects our traders unless we have warships and lancers, and we need more of each, with the chaos-towers failing. That takes more coins, but if tariffs go up, there is less trade and fewer coins."

   "Lower the tariffs on trade and tariff something else-like the dwellings of the Magi'i." Ryalth shakes her head. "That won't work. There aren't enough Magi'i. I'm too tired to think."

   "Just close your eyes and try to sleep. You need it more than I do." Lorn slips toward the single lamp by the bed and turns down the wick. With his night vision, he doesn't need the light, and Ryalth needs the darkness and the sleep.

   Then he continues to walk in circles, patting Kerial and humming softly.

 

 

CIV

 

Lorn looks at the stack of reports on the corner of his desk-most of them copies of requests for provisions and weapons. Finally, he picks up the first one-from a Majer Kuyn at Pemedra-and begins to read.

   He is on the second page when there is a knock on the door of his Mirror Court study. He looks up. "Yes?"

   "Majer, if you have a moment?" A red-haired commander steps inside- Commander Sypcal, the Eastern Regional commander of Mirror Lancers.

   Lorn stands quickly. "Of course, ser."

   Sypcal closes the study door and glances at the chair across the table desk from Lorn. "If you don't mind... ?"

   "Oh... please." Lorn waits until the commander sits before reseating himself and waiting for the other to offer his reason for calling on a junior majer.

   Sypcal's green eyes take in the room, then focus on Lorn. "You have a pleasant study, Majer, and very little showing your personal side. I would not have expected otherwise. You are wise to do that." A rueful expression crosses his lips. "Especially in Cyad, where everyone seems to know everything."

   "Cyad is known to be like that."

   "You would know that, having been raised here." Sypcal glances toward the window, slightly ajar, then back at Lorn. "I am going to be honest with you, Majer Lorn. I am not a city lancer. As all can tell you, I come from Geliendra, and my father was a cooper."

   As he sits closer to Sypcal than he has at the formal meetings in the study of the Majer-Commander, Lorn can see the silver streaks in the red hair, and the fine lines radiating from around the commander's green eyes.

   "No one was more surprised than I was when Rynst-he was Captain-Commander then-asked me to come from Assyadt to Cyad. I've been here seven years."

   "All speak highly of you, ser," Lorn says.

   "Everyone speaks highly of everyone in Cyad. How could it be otherwise?" A smile crinkles the corners of Sypcal's mouth.

   "You suggest that it is only a question of how highly one is spoken?"

   "And about what one is praised. I am praised for my grasp of tactics, Inylt for his grasp of logistics, Muyro for his understanding of the operations of the Mirror Engineers..." Sypcal shrugs. "My tactics mean little in Mirror Lancer Court."

   "They mean much in the field," Lorn replies.

   "You are kind," Sypcal says. "And we may speak of that later. I do have one question. You may choose not to answer it, but I would prefer to ask."

   Lorn smiles wryly. "That sounds like a dangerous question."

   Sypcal laughs, once. "Not that dangerous." He pauses. "Would you care to tell me why the Captain-Commander fears you?"

   Lorn forces a laugh, one he hopes is genial enough. "I wasn't aware that I created fear, except perhaps among the Jeranyi and some of the junior lancers I commanded." He lets the smile that follows the laugh fade. "If what you say is true, I could hazard a guess, but it would only be such."

   "Would you?" Sypcal raises his eyebrows.

   Lorn decides to gamble, although it is not really that great a gamble. "Several officers have been sent to kill me under questionable circumstances. They failed."

   "So it is said." Sypcal nods. "Will you indulge another question?"

   Lorn nods.

   "Do you know why you are in Cyad? You are arguably the best junior field commander in the Mirror Lancers. Had you been given command in Syadtar, we might not even have a problem with the barbarians, or certainly far less of one. The Majer-Commander, for all his faults, and he has many to accompany his strengths, has always been known to favor good field commanders in the field."

   "But you are here," Lorn points out.

   Sypcal shakes his head. "I was a good field commander. I know what it requires to be a great one, but I am older than I look, and tired, Majer. I suggested to Rynst that you be given the command at Syadtar-or the assistant command and then promoted. He refused, without giving a reason."

   Lorn does not conceal the frown. "That, I cannot say. Commander Ikynd at Assyadt recommended that I be assigned to Cyad."

   "And you doubtless drafted that recommendation?"

   Lorn smiles. "Let us say that it was a mutual decision. I felt that I had too little experience to take on a large field command, and certainly not enough rank. I did not want another immediate assignment fighting, and it appeared likely that staying in the field would require that." He shrugs.

   "And you had already had a port detachment." Sypcal nods. "From your viewpoint, it makes much sense. You could see your consort and family, and you could learn more about the lancers." He smiles again, openly and warmly. "Have you?"

   Lorn nods. "A great deal. Enough to discover that there is much more to learn."

   "There always is." Sypcal stands.

   Lorn does as well.

   "Thank you for indulging my curiosity. I'm pleased to know that you are capable of dealing with the unexpected. One can never be too careful in Cyad." Sypcal takes a step toward the door, and then turns back. "Oh... you might wish to know that Commander Lhary and the Captain-Commander were most pleased that you were assigned to Cyad, rather than a larger field command." Sypcal smiles once more, but only with his mouth. "I trust you will find use for that observation."

   "I cannot say I am surprised by the preferences of the Captain-Commander. I had not known of Commander Lhary's preferences."

   "Commander Lhary is most circumspect about both his preferences and his life. Circumspection is often necessary in Cyad. Good day, Majer."

   "Good day, ser." Lorn bows slightly.

   Once the door is closed, Lorn frowns. Has he waited too long? Has he been reacting too much to events? He laughs, half-bitterly. All he has done in Cyad is react.

   Yet... what can he do? What should he do? Everything that Sypcal said bore the feel of truth, and Lorn could sense that the commander offered no barriers.

   Action would be far more to his preference than to wait, but there is a time for action, and that time has not come, nor does Lorn yet know of any way to hasten it.

   His eyes flick to the reports he must read, but he raises his eyes and glances out the window once more, for a long moment, before returning to the reading at hand.

 

 

CV

 

After taking a last sip of the Alafraan, Lorn looks across the dining table at Ryalth, then at Jerial, who sits to Ryalth's right. Outside the open windows, the sky is darkening into purple, and a cooler breeze blows off the harbor from the south, strong enough to stir the air in the house, despite the walls that surround house and garden.

   "You've been wanting to say something all through dinner," Jerial says. "I recognize that pose."

   "It's serious," Ryalth adds. "You didn't want to spoil dinner, but that's why you asked Jerial."

   "You both know me too well," Lorn admits with a rueful laugh. "I have no secrets from either of you."

   "What is it, dear brother?" Jerial arches her dark eyebrows.

   "Something is about to happen. Not immediately, but I think someone, or more than one person, has decided that my notoriety has faded enough." Lorn glances across the table from Jerial to Ryalth. "Can you have someone inquire-very discreetly-about Commander Lhary?" he asks. "And a commander named Sypcal. I've been given hints that Lhary has contacts of the kind one must treat with great care. Sypcal seems to be what he is, but I'd like to know."

   Ryalth and Jerial exchange glances.

   "I can ask," Ryalth says.

   "So can I," Jerial says. "It will take an eightday or so if you want none to know."

   "The fewer know, the better. There is time... now." Lorn hopes there is time. "Also... I hate to say this... but I'd feel happier if we had some guards."

   Ryalth laughs. "I could see your concerns rising over the past eightday, and Eileyt has reported more curiosity, especially from certain Austran traders. I've already taken certain steps."

   "Austran traders?" Lorn frowns. "I thought the problem was from the Nordlans."

   "It depends on which problem. Tasjan is associated with the Austrans."

   "He's the Dyjani Clan head," Lorn says. "What does he have to do with the Mirror Lancers?"

   "Nothing that one can see, save that he believes that the Mirror Lancers and the Magi'i bleed the merchanters. Eileyt told me yesterday that Tasjan has been hiring and training guards, supposedly for his ships, but he has four times the number of armsmen he needs for the ships, and yet he looks for more."

   "Does he believe that, if there is too much unrest in Cyad, the merchanters will demand that a merchanter succeed Toziel in years to come?" asks Lorn.

   "A merchanter on the Malachite Throne?" Jerial's mouth opens for a moment.

   Lorn shrugs. "My suspicions are always raised by those who raise arms where there are none. Cyad is held not by the lancers, but by fear of the Magi'i and their firebolts and powers. If the chaos-towers fail, and in years to come, when the Emperor dies and there are no lancers in the city... ?"

   Ryalth nods. "Some have suggested that."

   "That would destroy Cyador," Jerial protests. "The Emperor-"

   "-is far older than he looks," Lorn says. "You might discuss it with Aleyar sometime. That is what she said, and I felt she was telling the truth."

   The dark-haired healer shivers. "No wonder you worry. This will all happen within a few years, will it not?"

   "It may," Lorn says. "That is why I feel confounded. If I act too quickly, I will fail. Too late, and the same will happen."

   "We cannot decide that tonight," Ryalth says firmly. "And with all of that to be considered, I have done a few things to make matters safer without being so obvious."

   Lorn raises his eyebrows.

   "We're getting several geese. A small flock, almost."

   "Geese?"

   "They are very good at warning of intruders, and they do multiply, so that we can occasionally have roast goose. They're also not as obvious as guards, and they can't be bribed."

   "I've also noticed that there are thornbushes under all the lower-floor windows," Jerial says.

   "Those were planted when I purchased the dwelling."

   "Like the gate, and the bars on the doors to the bedchamber?" Lorn asks.

   "I had this feeling..."

   Lorn shakes his head. Again, he is reminded that there is more in Ryalth's background than any outsider might ever guess.

   "We'll also be getting a second set of iron locks on the doors. Just the kind that you lock from the inside, not with keys. I have told the ironworker that while they may not be necessary today, tomorrow you could be sent back to the Grass Hills if they need a field commander." Ryalth looks at her consort. "I have made inquiries, and we will be taking on as houseman a lancer who recently received his stipend. He's a cousin of Kysia, and most trustworthy. He also likes to garden. Everyone knows this. His children are grown, and his consort is a seamstress. They will have the lower rear quarters."

   "You anticipate me well, my dear." Lorn shakes his head.

   "Cyad is not like Inividra, where the enemy is known," the redhead replies. "Everything must be done in the open and yet without people suspecting. Someone I know and hold dear showed me this years ago."

   "And forgot... I've been in the field too long," Lorn says with a snort.

   "You can no longer forget," Jerial says. "Matters are indeed getting serious. I had not understood fully. Something else bears on this. I received a short scroll at the infirmary. It was from Rustyl, begging for permission to call upon me."

   "You are the highest of the healers left without consort." Lorn winces, then frowns. "But he has as much as asked for Ciesrt's younger sister Ceyla as consort. You were there..."

   "What he wants, I do not know, but I did grant him permission to call. I will let you know what I discover. Or if I discover nothing-that is most likely."

   Ryalth shakes her head. "I could not live that way."

   Both Lorn and Jerial smile and look at her.

   The lady trader flushes. "That was a foolish statement. We are living that way, are we not?"

   Lorn nods, sadly.

 

 

CVI

 

Lorn glances down the white granite walls of the public corridor that leads from the section of the Quarter of the Magi'i where parents can bring their children to be tested for chaos-order talents, to the adjoining doorway. Beyond the door is a second corridor, one that leads to the building where the older student Magi'i receive their instruction.

   Lorn steps through the doorway with confidence, and into the corridor that is usually empty in midmorning. A good hundred cubits farther, he steps through a side door, whose chaos-lock he slides aside. He smiles, briefly, noting to himself that sliding a chaos-lock is far easier than sliding a bronze or cupridium bolt. He hopes his order-chaos abilities have been long since disregarded by the Magi'i, or at least undervalued, as he closes the door behind him and walks along another, far less public way to a narrow set of white granite steps.

   Lorn takes the side stairs, the ones he has scouted with his chaos-glass, and the ones that are used only by the Magi'i-not that there is any overt prohibition on use by others, since it requires the skills of a first- or second-level adept, or a renegade lancer magus, to unlock the doors.

   At the top of the steps is a foyer, far smaller than those in Mirror Lancer Court, with a single table desk set on the shimmering polished-sunstone floor.

   The fourth-level adept, painfully young-faced, glances up from his table, then looks again as he takes in the formal cream-and-green Mirror Lancer uniform and the insignia of a majer. His mouth works, then finally offers a question. "Ser?"

   "Majer Lorn of the Mirror Lancers, son of Kien'elth. I am here to see the Third Magus." Lorn smiles pleasantly.

   "I... I'm not sure..."

   "Spare me the lie," Lorn says gently. "He is in. He may choose to see me; he may not; but let us keep that part honest. Just ask him if he will spare me a few moments."

   "Ah, yes, ser. I'll see." The very junior magus scurries down the corridor his desk blocks, knocking at the second door on the left, and then stepping inside.

   Lorn waits, a half-amused smile on his face.

   Almost immediately, the fourth-level adept returns, trying not to shake his head. He looks at Lorn, the surprise evident on his young face. "He... he said he would see you, ser."

   "Thank you." Lorn inclines his head slightly. "I appreciate your assistance."

   "It's the second door, ser."

   Conscious of the wondering gaze of the junior adept on his back, Lorn walks to the indicated door, which had been left ajar, and steps inside.

   Liataphi stands as Lorn closes the door behind him. Lorn bows and straightens, waiting.

   The fourth-floor study, like that of the Majer-Commander, has a view of the Palace of Eternal Light, save that the Palace is to the northwest, rather than to the east. The study is also smaller even than that of the Captain-Commander, and not all that much larger than the study Lorn had used as commander in Biehl. The furnishings are simple, ancient, but polished and unmarred, consisting of a wide table desk, four golden-oak bookcases set against the granite of the inner wall, and three wooden armchairs set before the desk and one behind it.

   Liataphi himself looks at Lorn with dark circles under pale gray eyes that are nearly colorless, except for the hint of sun-gold that seems to come and go. His blond hair is thin, short and wispy, yet he is broad-shouldered and muscular, and half a head taller than Lorn. After a moment, he smiles, faintly, yet not coldly. "I must say that your appearance here does not totally surprise me. You are your father's son." He gestures to the chairs and reseats himself.

   "Thank you for seeing me." Lorn takes the chair closest to the door. "I must remind you, Majer, that for a junior member of the Majer-Commander's personal staff to seek out the Third Magus would be considered... unusual."

   "Possibly, I should have done so earlier. My father left me a letter which suggested that I should pay my respects to you. I was transferred back to Cyad, as you may know, rather quickly, and I have not done this kind of work before..." Lorn lets the words drag out slightly.

   "All that you say is true. As was all that your father said. But I suspect that there is far more there, or you would not be here."

   Lorn smiles and nods. "My father also suggested that I would need to make contacts outside the Mirror Lancer Court, and he felt that you are and have always been trustworthy."

   "That does not mean that I will agree with you-or with the Mirror Lancers," the Third Magus points out. "No, ser, it does not."

   "Might I ask why you would not seek out the father of your sister's consort?" A smile lightens Liataphi's eyes, but does not move his mouth.

   "You could, ser, and I would respond that most times it has been unwise to go against my father's advice."

   Liataphi laughs, a booming sound that fills the study. "Would that my daughters felt that way."

   "Your third daughter respects and accepts your advice. I have never met the others, except Syreal, and that was but in passing."

   "You and your consort have impressed Aleyar. Her judgment is usually sound, I have found, like that of her mother." Liataphi nods. "I am not unaware that you are a friend of young Tyrsal. Most times I would not pry, but... this time I will. Is he a good match for my daughter?"

   Lorn considers for a moment. "I would think so. He is a good person. He is the most honest and the most thoughtful of all those I knew as a student mage. I do not know your daughter well, for I have had dinner with her and Tyrsal but several times, and that is why I could not venture more. I would that my sisters had shown interest in him."

   "You believe that." Liataphi nods.

   "Yes, ser. But I would not suggest that Tyrsal be considered a likely candidate for one of the Three Magi'i."

   "You feel he is somehow deficient?" Liataphi's eyebrows lift.

   "No. He is perceptive, intelligent, and trustworthy. He can discern plots and schemes from the slightest hint. I do not believe he is devious enough."

   "Another fourth magus-like your sire?"

   "He is much like my father in those ways," Lorn admits.

   Liataphi laughs. "When I listen to you, Lorn, I almost wish I had had a son."

   "You can talk to Tyrsal. He will listen and consider."

   "From you... from your family, those are high words." Liataphi pauses. "Why did your sisters not choose him?"

   "Jerial will choose none. Myryan cares too much to deceive Tyrsal about what she does not feel." Lorn feels that he must be honest and direct, but the revelations are dangerous. Still, he can no longer wait and react. He may have waited too long already.

   Liataphi nods slowly. "You risk much in seeing me. Especially so directly."

   "I risk less in coming directly. Often the Majer-Commander has members of his staff discuss matters with Magi'i, and I am very junior."

   "Not so junior as you think. Still..." Liataphi's sad, pale eyes focus directly on Lorn. "What do you seek from me?"

   "Your advice, and, if you feel so inclined, your support in the future."

   Another of the booming laughs fills the study. When the sound dies away, Liataphi shakes his head. "In that... In that, you are most unlike your sire."

   "I lack his ability to convince indirectly, ser. I can but ask."

   "That you have. That you have." There is a pause. "I will do what I can, but I will not act against the spirit of the Magi'i. I will not oppose your efforts unless they threaten the Magi'i."

   "I can ask for no more."

   "You could, but you know I could not give it." Liataphi smiles. "And what of Tyrsal?"

   "He understands, and... he is like my sire."

   "I thought as much." Liataphi stands. "I think we should take a brief walk, if you do not mind. I would like to have you see an old acquaintance of yours. He is an assistant to the First Magus, and a cousin through consortship to the Second Magus, and he may be yet related through his own consortship of the Second Magus's daughter. I suppose that would make him a relative of yours as well, in more than one way." The Third Magus shrugs. "Then, most of us are related somehow."

   "That must be Rustyl," Lorn says as he rises.

   "He has risen quickly within the hidden side of the Quarter, and some say that Chyenfel is grooming him to be one of the Three." Liataphi walks to the door and opens it, turning down the corridor and away from the foyer.

   "The hidden side? Would there not be more support for him were he more visible?" asks Lorn openly as he hurries to stay with the taller and long-legged Second Magus.

   "I do not question the First Magus about some matters," Liataphi says lightly. "Neither does the Second Magus, although it is likely our reasons are somewhat different."

   "The Second Magus... it's strange, but I've never actually met him," Lorn says.

   "I am sure you will in time, especially with your sister as his son's consort."

   "That may be. I'm told that Ciesrt has become more and more capable as a magus, and that he applies himself with great diligence."

   "His diligence would be a credit to any magus, and his devotion to chaos, I would judge, even outstrips that of his sire." Liataphi slows as he takes another corridor that branches off to the left. He stops at a half-open door and knocks on the heavy golden-oak door itself, then pushes it open and steps into the small study that holds little more than a table desk, several bookcases, and three chairs, one behind the desk. A light warm breeze blows from the single narrow window.

   "Ser!" Rustyl stands, his deep-set eyes flicking from Liataphi to Lorn, his narrow features impassive.

   "Majer Lorn, I believe, was once a student with you." Liataphi offers a pleasant and superficial smile. "He is now on the staff of the Majer-Commander, and I found him quite unexpectedly, and thought I would bring him by to see you before he returns to Mirror Lancer Court."

   "It's been quite some time, Rustyl," Lorn says easily. He gestures. "I see that you are a full first-level adept. That's quite an honor and accomplishment."

   "Oh... thank you. I've been fortunate in what I've been able to do in the Magi'i."

   "Were you involved in the Accursed Forest ward project? If so, I'd like to thank you," Lorn goes on. "Its success has made possible the transfer of more lancers to deal with the threat of the barbarians."

   "That was an effort by the First Magus, and my part was minor," Rustyl admits. "At the time, I was assisting the Mirror Engineers in Fyrad."

   Lorn detects the shading of truth in the response, but merely nods. "And now?"

   "I do whatever the First Magus requires."

   "As do we all," Liataphi says dryly.

   "Well... whatever you do, I'm sure it is for the good of Cyador, and I know that you will continue that work. It's good to see you." Lorn smiles and nods.

   "I'd best be escorting the Majer out of the Quarter, Rustyl, but I thought it would be a shame if I did not bring him by."

   "Thank you, ser." Rustyl inclines his head. "It was good to see you again, Lorn."

   "And you, too." Lorn can easily detect the lack of truth in Rustyl's parting words, and the dislike beneath their pleasant tone.

   Liataphi and Lorn walk back down the corridor.

   "I thought you should see Rustyl, if briefly," offers the older magus.

   "Your kindness and perception are much appreciated," Lorn replies.

   "In these times that verge on great change," Liataphi continues, "it is best to know how those who may affect you feel, and not how they are presented by yet others. For that reason alone, I am most pleased that you followed your father's suggestions." The Third Magus walks past his own doorway and toward the foyer. He does not halt until he has passed the desk and the fourth-level adept who sits there. "It has been good to see you, Majer. Convey my best to the Majer-Commander, and assure him that the Magi'i will do their best."

   "That I will, ser."

   "And perhaps my consort and I could host you and your consort at a dinner with your friend Tyrsal and Aleyar."

   "I would like that, and I think Ryalth would as well. I have been out of Cyad so long that I fear she had thought we would never be able to meet people together."

   "I will send an invitation from my consort to yours. That will make it more social."

   "Thank you, ser."

   "You are welcome. I imagine you can find your own way from the Quarter."

   "That I can, ser."

   Liataphi smiles, then nods for Lorn to depart.

   Once again conscious of eyes on his back, Lorn turns and walks down the steps. Will his meeting with Liataphi lead to more? That, Lorn cannot say, except that Liataphi has offered as much encouragement as any of the Three Magi'i could, and Lorn senses neither deception nor malice in the man. He wishes he could say the same for Rustyl.

 

 

CVII

 

In the full light of a late afternoon in midsummer, Lorn unlocks the iron gate to the dwelling, steps inside, and locks it behind him. Once inside, he pauses to blot his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he steps around the privacy hedge and starts toward the cooling spray of the fountain, already savoring the cooler air inside the walls that surround the garden.

   Sssssssss!!! Two white objects flutter out of the shade to his right. Lorn staggers as a dull blow slams into his right thigh. Something else jabs at his left calf.

   His sabre is in his hand before he realizes the attackers are two large grayish white geese. He steps back, using the flat of the blade to blunt the jabbing beaks, although the cacophony of hisses and squawklike noises continues as he edges around the big birds and toward the veranda, and as the geese pursue him with darting bills and an occasional blow from a cocked wing.

   He laughs as he climbs the steps onto the polished tiles under the veranda roof and turns to see Ryalth emerging from the foyer, also laughing.

   "Dearest! How do you like our guards?" Ryalth straightens up, still laughing as she speaks.

   "I doubt any will enter the house without their presence being well and fully announced."

   "We will have to pen them, I fear, when we have company for dinner."

   "That might be wise." Lorn glances back at the two hissing birds, who remain on the walk, their small eyes fixed on him.

   "I'd like you to meet Pheryk." The redhead turns to the figure who has followed her.

   A muscular man with iron-gray hair and a short square beard stands just beyond the door to the foyer under the roof of the veranda. Behind him is a slender white-haired woman, who continues to smile.

   "Most would have run or slashed up the geese," Pheryk observes with a smile on his mouth and in the dark brown eyes.

   "I was surprised," Lorn admits. "I didn't expect the geese so soon."

   "You told me that sooner was better," Ryalth points out.

   "Indeed I did." Lorn laughs once more.

   Ryalth turns to the white-haired woman. "This is Ghrety. She's Pheryk's consort."

   "We're most pleased that we can be of service," Ghrety says, bowing. "Never thought that little Ryalth would ever be a mighty trader lady."

   "I take it that you've known Ghrety before." Lorn looks to his consort.

   "Of course, dear. She was my nursemaid's sister, and I knew she'd consorted with a Mirror Lancer. Actually, that was how I found Kysia to begin with, because Ghrety recommended her. Kysia's Pheryk's cousin."

   Lorn nods. Ryalth will not bring anyone into the household whom she cannot trust. "I'm am glad you are both here. I am sure Ryalth has already told you of my concerns."

   "Yes, ser." Pheryk smiles. "Be good for us, as well. For now, young Phelyt and his consort can have our place without the old folk to worry about, and we'll have the pleasure of a young one about-and folk who need what we do."

   "Young Kerial-he'll be needing clothes, too," adds Ghrety.

   "All the time," Ryalth says. "He's growing so fast."

   There is a moment of silence.

   "Not that I'd be meaning to put sweetsap in your mouth, ser," offers Pheryk, "but when word got round about what you did to the barbarians, many were the plain lancers who cheered under their breath. More of that been done years back, never would we have had the troubles of the past years."

   "That's what I thought," Lorn says. "I was fortunate enough to be where I could do something about it."

   Pheryk smiles. "Once, ser, that be a happy accident. Twice be not."

   Lorn shrugs. "Best I still claim fortune and such in Cyad."

   "Aye." The gray-bearded man nods. "That I understand."

   Lorn glances back at the geese, who have reduced their clamor to an occasional hiss, and half smiles, before turning to his consort. "Have you all any more surprises for me?"

   "Well... we now have iron bolts, and Pheryk has put them in place on most of the doors."

   "My da-he was a journeyman cabinet-maker, and I learned a thing or two before I joined the lancers," explains the gray-haired veteran. "Be a shame to scar the doors more than you must."

   Lorn nods. Once more, Ryalth has done far better than he could have.

 

 

CVIII

 

In the fading light of a late-summer afternoon, the first-level adept steps into the study of the High Lector and First Magus of Cyador. He bows. "Thank you for allowing me to intrude, ser."

   "You seldom intrude, Rustyl. Or not without reason. You may sit." Chyenfel brushes back his silvering black hair. "What did you wish?"

   The tall and blond Rustyl looks at the First Magus for several moments, as if deciding how to begin. "Did you know that Majer Lorn was in the Quarter the other day? He was meeting with the Third Magus."

   "That is not surprising. The Third Magus often meets with the officers serving the Majer-Commander to advise them on matters such as the availability of firewagons and the services we provide them. Those are part of his duties."

   "A mere majer?" Rustyl sneers, his deep-set eyes cold in his narrow face.

   "Majer Lorn is perhaps the most effective field commander the Mirror Lancers have had in generations. The Majer-Commander knows that the lancers will soon have to do without firelances. Why would he not have such a commander talk to Liataphi?" Chyenfel smiles coolly. "The Majer-Commander is not unaware of the majer's background as a student magus. Do you think he would not employ such?"

   "I had thought of that, ser. Yet..." Rustyl leaves the words hanging.

   " 'Yet'? You believe there is more?" Chyenfel's voice offers a tone of mild curiosity. "What might that be?"

   "That... I thought you might know, ser. The Third Magus did make a point of bringing Lorn to see me." Rustyl looks directly at the First Magus.

   "To upset you, Rustyl. And he has clearly done that."

   Rustyl smooths away the momentary frown on his face. "Yes, ser. Yet I do not see what purpose that served."

   "Liataphi knows that I have given you duties to prepare you for greater responsibilities. Perhaps he wished to show you that there are others in Cyad to whom equivalent responsibilities have also been given. While Majer Lorn was not suitable for the Magi'i, that does not mean he lacks ability, and the Majer-Commander has recognized that ability."

   Rustyl nods.

   "And I have no doubts whatsoever that Liataphi wanted to reintroduce you to Lorn not only to suggest that you are not so special as you believe yourself, but to use you to deliver the same message to me." Chyenfel smiles coldly. "And you have done so."

   "I beg your pardon and indulgence, ser."

   "That is acceptable, Rustyl. Liataphi has suggested that he does not wish to be First Magus. He has even hinted that he may not wish even to be Second Magus. He does not wish, however, that whoever may follow me be excessively arrogant, and this little stratagem was designed to call my attention to your stratagems." The First Magus steeples his fingers together above the polished golden-oak surface of his desk table. "You dislike Majer Lorn. The Third Magus knows this. Lorn is perceptive enough to sense this dislike. Now... Liataphi has been able to convey to the Majer-Commander, with little beyond a polite greeting, that you are arrogant and to be watched with care. You are one of my proteges. Therefore, I must be watched as well."

   Rustyl is silent for a long time.

   "You have a question, yet you have concerns about voicing it," Chyenfel finally says.

   "Yes, ser. I honestly do not understand what the Third Magus would gain from this."

   "I should not have to explain, Rustyl. Think." Chyenfel leans back and waits.

   Rustyl pauses, and the quiet in the study draws out before he finally speaks. "Yes, ser. He makes it known that I am not worthy or ready of greater responsibilities. He casts doubt upon your judgment. He gains greater trust from the Mirror Lancers. But he is Third Magus, and not Second."

   "And who of the Mirror Lancers is close to the Second Magus?"

   "The Captain-Commander." Rustyl's face clears, and he nods.

   "Exactly. Rynst will never trust the Second, and whom does that leave?" asks Chyenfel.

   "What would you have me do, then, ser?"

   "Nothing different, not for now. For if you change what you do, it will validate what the actions of the Third Magus have suggested."

   "I see."

   "I believe you do." Chyenfel smiles once more, if coolly. "Think upon this incident, Rustyl. Think upon it with great care."

   "Yes, ser."

   "You may go." Chyenfel looks blankly out upon the Palace of Eternal Light for some long moments after the first-level adept has left the study. Then he takes a deep breath.

 

 

CIX

 

In the dimness of the upstairs study in the dwelling, Lorn rubs his forehead, then concentrates once more on the chaos-glass before him, trying to bring up the image of Rustyl. He smiles to himself. At least one advantage of using the glass in Cyad is that any of the upper-level adepts of the Magi'i might be suspect, and since none have felt his use of the glass, Lorn wagers that they will not know who follows them. The silver mists appear, and then clear.

   The blond figure of the first-level adept appears, in the same study where Lorn had seen him with Liataphi. Rustyl glances up from the study desk-and the glass before him-an annoyed expression on his narrow features. Even through the glass Lorn can see the hardness in the other's deep-set eyes. Rustyl looks down at the glass, clearly concentrating.

   Hoping that Rustyl cannot use his glass to see who is screeing him, Lorn quickly releases the image. Then he almost casually slides the wooden cover across the glass, so that there appears before him but a wooden box, before leaning back and massaging his forehead with his left hand, then the back of his neck. Even after several moments, there is no feeling of the chill which accompanies a glass looking at him, and he slowly releases the breath he had not quite realized he was holding.

   After blotting his forehead, for the evening is warm despite the ocean breeze that helps to cool the upper level of their dwelling, Lorn takes several more deep breaths before he leans forward and returns to the chaos-glass.

   He concentrates again, and the silver mists part to reveal the red-haired Commander Sypcal sitting on the edge of a bed in a modest bedchamber. Sypcal is bare-legged and wears but an undertunic. The woman to whom he is talking is gray-haired. She is propped up with pillows and wears a high-necked white cotton gown. She smiles as the commander speaks.

   Lorn releases that image quickly as well, but with a more cheerful feeling.

   The next image he attempts is that of Rynst, but the gray-haired commander sleeps on his back in a bed next to a figure Lorn suspects is the Majer-Commander's consort.

   The following image he calls up is that of the Captain-Commander. Luss sits alone at a table in a dwelling, with a bottle of wine before him. Lorn almost feels sorry for the man, even though he knows Luss has plotted for Lorn's failure more than once.

   At last, Lorn slides the chaos-glass into the compartment at the back of the drawer, and stands. He has learned little, as he does most nights and afternoons, but he knows more of those with whom he deals, and those insights gain more value with each passing day.

   He walks down the hall to the bedchamber, remembering to slide the iron bolt in place as he steps inside.

   Ryalth looks up from the bed, where Kerial nurses at her breast. "Did you discover aught?"

   "Very little new. Rustyl is using his glass-almost every night, I think, but I have not sensed him seeking us, and I wonder if he is so discreet that I cannot sense him."

   Ryalth shakes her head. "He is of the Magi'i. A fallen student magus who is but a majer is no threat to a high first-level adept."

   Lorn laughs. "That could be." He shakes his head, and his eyes go to the silver volume beside the bed. He picks it up, and flips through the pages until he finds the lines. He reads softly.

 

   There is no Cyad for souls of thought,

   who doubt the promises they have bought...

   ...their faces of cupridium's silver-white

   reflect each other's chaotic light.

 

   Should Sampson pick this temple,

   here too, he would be blind,

   his eyes untouched,

   his simple trust

   lost in the reflections.

 

   "I wonder yet about that verse," Ryalth says softly, easing Kerial into a different position for nursing.

   "I don't even know who this Sampson was," Lorn says, "but I feel like he must have faced what we do."

   "You are wise enough not to have simple trust, dear lancer," Ryalth says. "Not in Cyad." After a moment, she adds, "Even if you do want to think of Cyad as something special."

   "It is. There's never been a city in the world like it."

   "That is true," Ryalth concedes, "but it was created by people like any other."

   Not quite, Lorn reflects, or Cyad would not exist.

   Ryalth eases Kerial to her shoulder and pats his back. He burps softly, then yawns.

   Lorn smiles at his consort.

   "He's sleepy," she says softly.

   "Good," murmurs Lorn. "Good."

   "So am I," she says with a faint smile as she rises to slip their son into his bed. "Sleepy, I mean."

   Lorn manages not to roll his eyes. He can use the sleep.

 

 

CX

 

Lorn bows after he closes the door and enters the study of the Majer-Commander. "Here are the reports of the last meetings, ser. You requested that I deliver them personally."

   Without looking up from the scroll he peruses, Rynst gestures for Lorn to seat himself on the far side of the wide table desk. Lorn does so, his eyes momentarily taking in the cloudy morning, and the Palace of Eternal Light framed by the window behind the senior lancer officer.

   Rynst finally sets down the scroll and shakes his head. "What did you find out when you met with the Third Magus?"

   Although he had not mentioned the meeting to anyone, Lorn is scarcely surprised that Rynst has discovered that it took place. "Not that much, ser. He is troubled by the confidence that the First Magus places in Rustyl, and he expressed a certain lack of surprise that I had never met the father of my sister's consort."

   "Why did you go?"

   "My father's last letter to me, the one he left in his papers, requested that I pay my-and his-respects."

   Rynst nods. "Do you intend to visit him again?"

   "No, ser. Not in his study. Not unless you have a duty for me."

   "I note a careful phrasing there."

   "My best friend is likely to become the consort of his daughter. If this happens, I may see the Third Magus again."

   "Ah..." Rynst smiles, somewhat more warmly. "He is the one with whom you spar."

   "Yes, ser. He is very good."

   "That is what Commander Lhary said. In fact, the commander suggested that the young man might have made a good lancer officer."

   "I told Tyrsal that, ser, but he did not believe me. If I might relay the commander's observation... ?"

   "You certainly may." The Majer-Commander pauses, as if to signify his desire to change subjects. "Majer..." Rynst draws out the title.

   "Yes, ser?"

   "I have not spoken to you about your report. Nor will I for a time."

   "Yes, ser." Lorn waits.

   "The Captain-Commander has expressed some interest. Has he inquired of you?"

   "He asked if I had completed it. I told him I had submitted a draft and that you had made no comments."

   "A draft. Very good phrasing, Majer. And what did he say then?"

   "He said that you would read it, and that you would use it in the best fashion to benefit the Mirror Lancers."

   "Anything more?"

   "Only that I should not expect recognition for my work, that the Mirror Lancer Court was not the place for such. I told him that such was what I expected."

   Rynst glances at the reports Lorn has set on the desk.

   Lorn eases them across the polished wood.

   "Luss is right. For that you can be thankful." Rynst nods brusquely. "You may go."

   "Yes, ser." Lorn rises and bows before turning and departing the study.

 

 

CXI

 

Ryalth pats her hair into place as the hired carriage rolls eastward along the Road of Perpetual Light, past the Sixth Harbor Way East. "I still wonder why the invitation was sent to Ryalor House."

   "First, because it is a social occasion, and second," Lorn continues, "because a lady trader who heads a house is more important than a mere junior majer in the Mirror Lancers."

   "You will turn my head with such words." She puts out a hand to steady herself as the carriage turns uphill.

   "I do hope so."

   "You don't think Jerial minds taking care-"

   "If Jerial minded," Lorn says dryly, "we'd both know it."

   "Yes. We would." Ryalth laughs. She shakes her head. "I still can't believe that Rustyl had the nerve to ask her if she would be his consort when he had already asked Ceyla."

   "He didn't ask that seriously. He did it to try to upset her, and me."

   "He picked the wrong healer for that," Ryalth says. "If it had been Myryan..."

   Lorn nods. "I'm glad it wasn't."

   "I can see why you don't care for him."

   "He still could be dangerous with Chyenfel supporting him."

   "Only because his mistakes will hurt innocent people." Ryalth snorts.

   Lorn isn't sure. Rustyl is far from stupid, and what appears to be a stupid maneuver must have a deeper purpose. Lorn just can't figure out what it might be, unless it's a blunt attempt to force Lorn to act against Rustyl. Or one designed to show utter contempt... which may be the most likely explanation of all, Lorn reflects.

   The hired carriage rolls to a stop opposite the gate of sunstone sculpted into the semblance of a bower wreath. Behind and to the west of the stone flowers of the gate-wreath rises a three-story dwelling. Gate and house are just west of the corner where the Ninth Way East meets the Road of Prosperity. Liataphi's three-story house is but two blocks from the one Lorn had grown up in-now inhabited by Vernt and Mycela.

   As she steps from the carriage, Ryalth looks down at the wide blue shimmercloth trousers, the white shirt, and the green-trimmed blue vest and blue boots she wears. Then she glances at Lorn. "How do I look?"

   "Wonderful."

   "You say that because you love me."

   "I love you, but you still look wonderful." Lorn looks to the coachman. "It will doubtless be well after dark."

   "You've paid handsomely, ser," replies the balding driver. "I'll be here. Be much easier on me than driving all over Cyad."

   The two step through the gate and up the halfscore of steps to the outside privacy screen, where Lorn rings the bell.

   Almost immediately, Lorn hears the door open, and the broad-shouldered Liataphi steps around the screen and bows. "Welcome. Do come in. Tyrsal and Aleyar are already up in the sitting room." He bows again to Ryalth. "Lady trader, all have remarked upon your abilities, but none have mentioned your beauty."

   "Thank you." Ryalth flushes slightly.

   Lorn smiles.

   "You are most fortunate, Lorn, to have a consort of talent and beauty."

   "I am, and even more fortunate that she was kind enough to accept me as a consort when I asked."

   "As I recall, your father was surprised. Pleasantly so, but surprised." Liataphi nods. "We should not be talking down here. Do come along."

   As they follow the Third Magus up the circular stone staircase, Lorn murmurs, "I said that you looked wonderful."

   "You were right, but it's pleasant to hear it from someone else."

   The redheaded Tyrsal rises from the settee as Lorn and Ryalth step through the archway. "Greetings."

   Aleyar rises and bows to Ryalth, then to Lorn. The older and white-haired woman, wearing a white-and-green shimmercloth tunic and trousers and sitting in the armchair to the right of the healer, nods pleasantly.

   "This is my consort Lleya," Liataphi says. "You know Tyrsal and Aleyar, of course."

   "We're pleased to meet you, Lady Lleya," offers Ryalth.

   "I would appreciate it greatly if you would do away with honorifics," Lleya says warmly. "We must deal with them all too much away from home."

   Lorn and Ryalth seat themselves on the second settee, upholstered in white and green.

   "You are a healer?" Lorn asks Lleya.

   "I no longer go to the infirmary, for there are others, like Aleyar and your sisters, who are far better than I."

   "She's still good," Aleyar affirms.

   "My most loyal daughter."

   "Most accurate," Liataphi says. "Were you a poor healer, she would have said nothing."

   "Healing takes more energy as one ages." Lleya touches her snow-white hair. "So I work with the herbs in my garden. I do have a special kind of brinn. I've managed twenty generations of it, and each more powerful than the last."

   "Your astra is also good," Aleyar adds.

   "Before we have dinner, Lorn, Ryalth... there is one thing." Tyrsal turns slightly red. "Outside of the families, you should be the first to know. Aleyar has consented to be my consort."

   "That's wonderful," Lorn says, feeling fully the warm smile that spreads across his face.

   "I'm so glad for you two," Ryalth adds.

   Tyrsal glances at Lorn, but Lorn just smiles.

   Tyrsal still flushes.

   "You two!" Ryalth chides the younger men.

   Lorn flushes and manages to swallow a laugh. "My apologies, my dear. And to you, Aleyar."

   "Whatever it is, you two rascals should bury it," Lleya mock-scolds.

   "If we don't," Lorn replies, "my lady trader is likely to bury me."

   Tyrsal laughs. "She's the only one ever to get the better of you."

   "And I hope I'm wise enough to remember that," Lorn counters.

   "On those words, perhaps we should move to the dining area," suggests Lleya, rising from her chair.

   "Excellent idea," seconds Liataphi.

   Lorn and Ryalth sit together on one side of the table, with Aleyar and Tyrsal on the other side, and Liataphi and Lleya on each end.

   "This is a mild and traditional lamb loaf in lemon citron sauce," Lleya says, "with grass-rice and chopped quilla."

   Lorn has never been that fond of quilla, but he helps himself to the rice and quilla, as well as the lamb, and is surprised to find that however the normally oily root has been prepared, has left it merely tangy and mild and a complement to the slight bitterness of the dark grass-rice. "This is excellent."

   "Very good," Tyrsal adds.

   "If the recipe is not a family secret... ?" Ryalth ventures.

   "Oh... I'd be happy to share it with you," Lleya says. "Or Aleyar can show you. She prepares it as well as I do-perhaps better."

   "As well... if I am fortunate," says the blonde healer.

   Lorn takes another chunk of the sun-nut bread, ignoring Ryalth's knowing smile. "I cannot say how much we appreciate the invitation. After so many years of being away from Cyad, it is so good to be able to dine with friends and their family. I was always here such a short time, that we scarcely saw more than my family."

   "I was so sorry to hear about your parents," Lleya says. "They were such good people, and both will be missed far more than most will ever know."

   "Thank you," Lorn says. "I miss them. I was lucky to have them." He inclines his head to Ryalth. "My lady was not so fortunate. Her parents perished in a shipwreck when she was a child."

   Lleya nods. "That is hard."

   "I wondered..." Tyrsal says, "but I didn't wish to intrude."

   "My father was a merchanter in Fyrad," Ryalth says. "Then I came here to live with my aunt. She died the year before I met Lorn."

   "You two have known each other for a long time, have you not?" asks Lleya. "You act that way. Or are you so well-known to each other by closeness of spirit?"

   "Both," Lorn says quickly. "I met Ryalth when I was still a student magus. It took me a time to appreciate her as fully as I now do."

   Lleya glances at Ryalth, as if asking for the redhead's view.

   Ryalth laughs, gently. "I fear it also took me much time to appreciate him. I also did not think it appropriate to encourage a magus. Or even a Mirror Lancer."

   "But he obviously persisted," replies Lleya.

   "There was no one else to compare to her. For me, there still is not," Lorn says.

   "That's true," Tyrsal says. "I didn't know who she was when we were students, and later, but he never looked at anyone else."

   After a moment of silence, Lleya glances at Lorn. "Isn't it rather strange for you to be on the personal staff of the Majer-Commander..." The older woman shakes her head. "I am afraid that did not come out the way I intended. What I meant is that you have accomplished a great deal very young, and most of those with whom you work in Mirror Lancer Court are far older. Does that not seem strange?"

   "I can't say that I've had the time to think of that," Lorn says. "I knew I would probably be the youngest officer there, and the most junior, and what I do is basically make matters easier for the Majer-Commander. I take notes at meetings and follow up with the other officers to make sure that the material the Majer-Commander wants is supplied." He shrugs. "It's a job for a junior majer. You have to know enough to understand what he needs and wants, and be young enough not to worry about running errands."

   Liataphi chuckles. "Would that some first- and second-level adepts- not you, Tyrsal-understood such."

   Lleya turns to Ryalth. "I am sure everyone asks you what it is like to be a lady trader, when there are and have been so few. I would rather ask, if I might, what advantages being a woman provides."

   "No one has asked that." Ryalth tilts her head, as if pondering. "I would judge several. Caution is one, for a woman can make fewer errors, and so, I learned caution early. That I am a woman allows me greater caution, when often, were I a man, others might question my resolve." Ryalth smiles. "Thus, I can plead caution where a trade is unwise, and still be bold where boldness is necessary."

   "Do you think more caution is needed in these days?" asks Liataphi.

   "Greater care, I would judge," Ryalth says.

   "In trade or in dealing with other traders?" The eyes of the Third Magus betray a slight twinkle.

   "Both." Ryalth takes a sip of the wine. "The fortunes of trade are changing, and that means some houses will benefit, and others will not."

   "How is trade changing?" asks Tyrsal. "Cyador produces the same goods it always has, and is not that true of other lands?"

   "Hydlen has had a most dry year, but last year they had a surplus of crops when there was a blight in Hamor. So coins are plentiful in Hydlen. Many factors are scurrying to purchase contracts on the exchange, knowing that grains and dried fruits will bring more. The larger growers know this as well, and they will not sell at last year's prices. But the Emperor raised the tariffs on goods and grains leaving Cyador." Ryalth shakes her head. "Many will lose on such wagers."

   "What would you do?"

   "I already purchased some few contracts on foods that will not ship well, such as pearapples and the softer white corn-wheat."

   Tyrsal laughs. "Because everyone will be shipping the other to Hydlen, and the prices of what remains will rise?"

   "One wagers so." Ryalth shrugs. "I doubt I will lose, but there could be storms, or floods, or eightdays of hot dry winds from tomorrow until harvest. That is why I have been more cautious than some."

   "Is Tasjan one of those who would trade in Hydlen?" inquires Liataphi.

   "He might. The Dyjani trade everywhere, and he has many ships, both for the coastal trade and the long-haul ocean vessels."

   "He is said to plan for years into the future," says Liataphi. "Or so I have heard. Unlike those of Bluyet House, who apparently rely upon the use of golds where golds should not be used."

   "That trait has served them ill in the past several years," Ryalth says.

   "Will Vyanat'mer take clan status from them?"

   "I doubt he will do such," Ryalth replies. "He has not spoken to me or any I know about such. The Dyjani continue to strengthen their ships and coffers, as do the Yuryan Clan, as you must know. Because Vyanat'mer is of the Hyshrah, all that his house does is watched most closely. So he would not wish to strengthen his rivals by casting down Bluyet House." Ryalth shrugs. "That could happen, but I would not wager my golds on that."

   Liataphi nods. "Nor I. A wise observation."

   Ryalth looks to Aleyar. "Have you two set a date for the consorting ceremony?"

   "The fourth eightday after the turn of fall, we think. We will know in a day or two. Mother wanted to see if her sisters will be able to travel from Summerdock then."

   "Aleyar was always their favorite, and this will be the first formal consorting we've seen."

   Lorn nods, understanding all too well the events hidden behind those words.

   "You will be coming, will you not?" asks Aleyar, looking at Ryalth.

   "We will be there," Ryalth says.

   "If... if the Majer-Commander does not send me somewhere," Lorn adds. "He hasn't said anything, but I am a Mirror Lancer."

   "Ryalth will be there," Aleyar says. "And Jerial and Myryan will be at the dinner."

   Lorn smiles. "I will do my best."

   "You had better," Tyrsal says with a laugh.

   Ryalth smiles.

   "Now... for dessert," Lleya announces, as two serving girls begin to remove the platters and dishes from the table, "we are having peach cake with a special glaze."

   Ryalth glances at Lorn and smiles.

   He smiles back sheepishly.

 

 

CXII

 

The spare and slender Toziel walks slowly into the robing room that adjoins his and the Empress's bedchamber. There he slips off his outer robe of silver, carefully hanging it on the carved golden-oak frame that has served such a purpose for generations of Emperors. Then he removes his boots and walks toward the high bed. He uses the bed step to climb up.

   He stretches out slowly, then murmurs. "Chaos-light, I'm tired."

   Leaning back on the pillows that are arranged to support him in a half-sitting, half-reclining position, he closes his eyes.

   Ryenyel pulls a chair around to his side of the bed, and seats herself. "The audience was long. You should have stopped it sooner."

   "I know. I heard your cough."

   "I coughed but once," she says. "That was a risk itself. I cannot help you, my dearest, if you will not heed my signals."

   "I dared not leave then, not when Chyenfel had just suggested that I might consider candidates for a new Hand," Toziel ventures.

   "Nor when Rynst asked for more Mirror Lancers? Nor when Vyanat questioned once more the source of the golds for those lancers... ?" The Empress sighs. "There will always be such questions. They will last long after we are gone."

   "Long after I am, certainly." Toziel's voice reveals a self-deprecating dryness. "Yet still I must act as though I will be on the Malachite Throne longer than my advisors will be there to advise me."

   "You may have to be."

   "Why do you say such?" Toziel is the one to cough, almost doubling up in agony before he slowly leans back on the pillows once more.

   Ryenyel waits until his breathing returns to a steady rhythm before she speaks. "Rustyl grows impatient. So does Luss, and Tasjan is gathering and paying armsmen, and his chief guard is developing his own contacts. Tasjan will soon have more trained armsmen near Cyad than there are lancers within two days' travel."

   "And I should do nothing?"

   "Dearest, you can but tell others. You have no Hand."

   "If I tell the Majer-Commander, then..." Toziel's words fade.

   "He will order in two companies of Mirror Lancers and put them under Majer Lorn, and the piers will run red with blood."

   "So... how can we get word to the lady trader who is the head of Ryalor House, and how do we make sure that the lancers are on their way?"

   "Majer Lorn does not like to kill, but he will not hesitate if he thinks it necessary," Ryenyel states.

   "You have proof?" Toziel smiles wanly.

   "My dear... what I know and what I can prove are not the same. It is most difficult to prove someone died with no body. The only killing he admits to is that of Majer Dettaur, and most would admit that was justified. The dead majer left too much in writing, and too many orders designed to kill young lancers in order to discredit Lorn. It has taken years to amass what I know, and there is nothing of substance to that, only rumors and words. There is no proof that Lorn killed a trader named Halthor when he was but a student, or Shevelt, or Majer Maran, or Sub-Majer Uflet, yet in all cases, except that of Shevelt, he was among the last to see each alive."

   "And Shevelt-I thought he was killed because he knew that Bluoyal was behind the sale of sabres to the Jeranyi... the plated sabre?"

   Ryenyel shrugs. "It could be. It could also be that Shevelt had talked openly of forcing himself on Lady Ryalth to humble her, and that Shevelt died while young Lorn was in Cyad."

   "Or it could be that Kernys, or one of the smaller clan heads, made certain that young Lorn knew such..." Toziel coughs, then winces.

   "Kernys... or others..."

   "Can Lorn be persuaded that Tasjan offers a similar threat to her?" asks Toziel. "Can that persuasion not come from the Palace, even indirectly?"

   "Little persuasion will be needed. Tasjan dislikes women in any position of power. We will think on how to encourage him to make his dislike of Ryalor House somewhat more well-known. I do not think it will be difficult to avoid any trails." Ryenyel shrugs.

   "What if I suggested that the Majer-Commander bring two companies of lancers to Cyad as a demonstration of might for the outland traders- perhaps conduct maneuvers near the piers somewhere, using firelances?"

   "And have Majer Lorn set up the demonstrations?" Ryenyel arches her eyebrows.

   "It is most transparent, yet who could fault it with the failure of the fireships?"

   "Would Rynst balk at Majer Lorn?" asks the Empress.

   "I would merely ask him who he would place in charge of the forces."

   "And ask questions?"

   "Again... it could be transparent, but we might not have to. Would he want a senior commander or the Captain-Commander in direct command? Or someone who owes their position to him?"

   "Perhaps you should bring that up... tomorrow. I will find a way to get word about Tasjan to the majer."

   Toziel nods. After a moment, he closes his eyes.

   Only then does the Empress frown, but she stands, and moves toward the bed, her fingers touching the Emperor's temples lightly. In time, she seats herself, nearly as pale as the Emperor had been, but his breathing is stronger, and the worst of the pallor has left his face.

 

 

CXIII

 

On the late-summer day, Lorn glances up from the Majer-Commander's conference table. Through the windows on the north side of the study, he can see dark clouds rolling out of the north and toward the harbor. To his left sit three commanders, Shykt on the north side of the table, with Muyro and Dhynt on the south, the same side as Lorn, who studies the three from the armless chair to Rynst's left.

   Rynst clears his throat. "Commander Dhynt?"

   The older commander with the rugged features and pockmarked face looks toward the senior Mirror Lancer officer. "We have four fireships operating, but the tower on the Firestar is showing signs that it may fail at any time."

   The swarthy Muyro raises his eyebrows. "I was not aware that any but the Magi'i would make such predictions, and they seldom are that accurate."

   "We keep records, and with six fireships having failed over the past five years or so, we have some idea of what occurs. The amount of chaos-energy produced by the chaos-tower within the ship shows changes, often from moment to moment, far more than in previous operations. Occasionally, there are bursts of power that destroy the storage cells. This chaotic chaos, if you will, becomes more and more prevalent." Dhynt offers Muyro a cold smile. "Then the tower fails, and we have a ship good for little more than scrap."

   "After having fireships that no one could match for near-on tenscore years, we now must resort to sailing vessels with cannon? Is that what you are all telling me?" asks Rynst.

   "There may be other possibilities," offers Muyro.

   "What are those possibilities?" counters the Majer-Commander. "Why have I heard nothing of them? If they are possible, why are we building three sail-propelled warships?"

   "Golds," replies the curly-haired and thin-faced Commander Shykt.

   "It is true. The Emperor has said that he will not commit more golds to any other warships until the first one is completed and tested," Rynst says.

   "Then it will be next summer-or fall a year from now before we have more than three of the new vessels," replies Commander Dhynt.

   "Longer," suggests Shykt. "The hulls are narrow, the keels deep, and the masts tall. No one is sailing a ship such as that. There will be difficulties. It is unwise to build many of an untested vessel."

   "It is unwise to have no way to protect our merchanter vessels," says Rynst. "Or so the Merchanter Advisor says."

   "Of course, he would want to invoke the power of warships," Shykt replies. "But I would note that the Hamorians send long-haul vessels across the Eastern Ocean, and their traders do well without warships."

   "I beg to you to explain what you mean, Commander," says Muyro smoothly. "Surely, you are not suggesting we need no protection."

   Shykt shakes his head. "I did not say that. I suggested we need no protection against the Hamorians, at least not directly."

   Rynst nods. "We need protection against those nearer-the barbarians, the Gallosians, even perhaps the Hydlenese. There, sailing vessels will suffice-if they sail as planned, if the powder cannon discharge as designed."

   "Still, those are many ifs, ser," suggests the iron-haired Dhynt.

   "Indeed." Rynst studies the three commanders in turn, beginning with Shykt and ending with Muyro. "You three are here to provide answers and strategies which will reduce uncertainty. You are not here to offer ways to increase uncertainty."

   Shykt looks evenly at Rynst. "I cannot provide certainty in a land where every gold for certainty and security is grudged. I can offer strategies, and I have done so. To make a strategy work requires golds-or greater mastery of chaos and order. We are losing the devices which allowed us to use chaos. We must either accept greater uncertainty or greater costs. Or find another way in which we can employ chaos. It must be a way that others cannot use." Shykt pauses. When no one else speaks, he adds, "I am not a magus or a Mirror Engineer. I do not know the ways of chaos. So I have proposed what I do know." He nods to Muyro. "You know something about chaos and engineering. What do you propose, Commander of the Mirror Engineers?"

   Muyro's eyes smolder. He clears his throat. "As I have said for the past two years, no one has been able to rebuild or to operate a chaos-tower that has failed. Never. We have looked through all the ancient archives and found nothing that the Magi'i can employ."

   Lorn holds back a frown, and glances from Muyro to Shykt, and then to Dhynt.

   Dhynt nods. Shykt frowns.

   "You have some question of that, Commander Shykt?" asks Rynst, his voice almost lazy in its gentleness of tone.

   "Nothing that the Magi'i can use-or nothing that they will use?" asks Shykt.

   "What do you mean by that?" asks Muyro.

   Shykt turns to Rynst. "If I might... Majer Lorn successfully eliminated the threat of Jeranyi raids. He did so, if I read his reports correctly, by first using multicompany patrols to reduce the number of raiders near the Grass Hills. He then combined his forces and raided Jerans, and destroyed the port of Jera to stop the flow of iron blades to the barbarians. All of these were tactics available to his predecessors. No one else attempted such, because such actions were counter to accepted practices. I do not know the secrets of the Magi'i, but I must question, because I am the sort who does so, whether there are not other means to harness chaos to our benefit. Perhaps these techniques are also counter to Magi'i custom and practice." Shykt smiles ruefully. "From what little I understand, even the First Magus faced great opposition within the Magi'i for his project to put the Accursed Forest to sleep, and from what little I know, that project employed traditional manipulation of chaos." The curly-haired commander shrugs.

   "It is a fair question," Rynst acknowledges. "Do you have an answer, Commander Muyro?"

   "I am sure that the Magi'i have investigated every possibility."

   "Just as you had looked into the deflection of blades with the new shields?" asks Rynst, his tone of voice between sarcasm and irony.

   Muyro flushes, a dark unhealthy color suffusing his swarthy face.

   "I trust you will consult with the Mirror Engineers and the Magi'i about this." Rynst smiles gently. "We must adopt new weapons and doubtless suffer higher casualties. I think it only just that the Magi'i consider that which might do the same for them. If they do not, then the barbarians will pour in, and as the Magi'i should know, the first to go under those iron blades will be those in white."

   "Yes, ser." Muyro's voice is level, but his face remains flushed in anger.

   "That will do for this meeting." Rynst rises. "Good day."

   Lorn rises, waits for the commanders to leave, then gathers his papers, and bows to the Majer-Commander before he turns to go. "By your leave, ser?"

   "I saw your eyes, Majer. You were of the Magi'i. Know you of any such possible ways to better harness chaos?"

   "I do not know how such might be accomplished today, ser. I do know that there were rumors of other ways of using chaos among the Magi'i, but I never became an adept, nor did I ever hear more than rumors as a student." Every word Lorn says is true.

   Rynst nods. "Perhaps Majer Muyro can find something. I have my doubts, but he will raise the question. Over time, even that will help." The Majer-Commander laughs, once. "One hopes. You may go."

   Lorn is thankful that none of the commanders remain on the fifth-floor open foyer, and he hurries down to his own study, nodding to Fayrken as he passes.

   "Another meeting report, ser?"

   "Another report, Fayrken. This one will be short."

   "That be good, ser. Majer Hrenk has a long report about the piers at Fyrad."

   Lorn steps into his own study and sets his notes on the desk.

   At the low roll of thunder, he turns to the window, where the first fat drops of rain strike the ancient panes-the large droplets hitting almost with the force of hail.

   What can he do? It is clear from the indirect signs he sees that the Cyad he has known is changing. The merchanters are having trouble trading against the outlanders and want lower tariffs. The barbarians will threaten again, unless action is taken. The Emperor is failing, perhaps dying. The Magi'i are not changing, nor do the Mirror Lancers-except for perhaps Commander Shykt and the Majer-Commander-wish to offer anything new to the Emperor or the others who advise Toziel.

   He has to do something, but what he can do is little enough... for now. He stands in his small study, a floor below the Majer-Commander, feeling that he could do more. Yet his father advised against approaching the Emperor. Even if he goes against his father's wishes, he has no way to gain access to the Palace of Eternal Light-except as an intruder, and that is not exactly to his benefit.

   Equally dangerous is the implication that there are reasons why the Magi'i have not offered another way to use chaos to replace the fireships and firewagons. Now it is clear that he must study his father's papers once more, even more carefully, to see how he might advance the plans and suggestions contained therein. The papers offer solutions, yet his father could not advance them, even as Hand of the Emperor. Is there any way Lorn can?

   He looks at the stack of notes and takes a deep breath, then pulls out the chair and seats himself. First, he must write the report of the meeting.

 

 

CXIV

 

Once in his dwelling study, Lorn sets the box from his father on his desk and leafs through the stack of papers, his fingers fumbling as he scans the sheets, looking for a section he has read several times, hoping that the section says what he has recalled.

   "What are you doing?" asks Ryalth from the doorway, juggling Kerial on her shoulder. "You didn't even try to find me. I was bathing Kerial. He'd spit up and made a mess."

   Lorn lowers the papers. "I'm sorry. I've been thinking about this all afternoon. We had a meeting today. Maybe I have an answer. These papers. You remember we talked about the engines-the iron chaos-heat-transfer steam engines-they talked about it..." Lorn finds his words trying to tumble out faster than he can think about them.

   Ryalth laughs. "Wait... the papers will be there in a moment. I've never seen you trying to talk so fast."

   Lorn takes a deep breath. "You remember we talked about why no one had tried to build the chaos-fired steamships? Why no one ever talked about them? At the meeting today, Commander Shykt asked a strange question. The others thought it was strange. He asked whether the Magi'i could use chaos to build a better warship or weapons. He wasn't that direct, but that was what he was hinting at..."

   "Do you think he knows?"

   "No. He knows something else. What he understands is that the Magi'i don't want to do things that might limit their power."

   "That's hardly strange. No one does. Traders don't do trades that will cost them more than they make."

   "There's a difference," Lorn points out. "Cyador will become far poorer, perhaps even fall to the barbarians, if the Magi'i do not use their powers. Shykt was suggesting that they would rather see Cyador fall than use their powers in a new way."

   Ryalth laughs, still patting Kerial on the back, but the sound is ironic. "You are remarkable. You were thrown out of the Magi'i because you would not put their ways above everything. You are surprised that they will not change?"

   Lorn shakes his head. "I had hoped for better."

   "Your father tried to make things better in his own way, and he was powerful. He could not even keep you in the Magi'i."

   "Not safely," Lorn admits. "When you put it that way... Still, it is hard to believe that they would let the land die." He crooks his lips. "I should know better. It took the First Magus years, from all accounts, to get the Magi'i to agree to his plan for the Accursed Forest, and they only agreed to that when it was clear that nothing else would work and that they would lose those towers anyway."

   "What did your father say?"

   "That was what I was looking for."

   "You look, and I'll tell Kysia to ready dinner. Then you can tell me. I think Kerial is going to go to sleep."

   "I hope so." Lorn smiles.

   The redhead shakes her head again, ruefully and lovingly.

   As Ryalth leaves the small upstairs study, Lorn returns to paging through the sheets in the old carved wooden box, slowly and more methodically, forcing himself to read at least enough of each page to ensure that it does not deal with the material he seeks.

   Roughly a third of the way through the material he stops.

 

   As it is described on the pages which follow, once the chaos-towers fail, all is not lost. Those senior in the Magi'i will claim that no other devices, such as chaos-steam transfer engines, can be constructed, because iron and chaos are not compatible. Too great a closeness between iron, order, and Magi'i is not desirable, but it is not necessary....

   ...to fabricate such a device requires the extraction of order from the natural world, and its infusion into the iron as it is being forged. When I was young, I worked with a smith. He is long since dead, and he knew little beyond what his forebears had taught him, and yet we did indeed forge a blade out of iron-darker than most, and of inordinate strength.

   I could not touch the blade, not without suffering ferric poisoning, but there was no need to do so ...

 

   Lorn continues to read, nodding as he does.

 

   The First Magus-the one two before Chyenfel-did not wish to consider such a means of finding an alternative to the chaos-towers, for none of the chaos-towers had failed, and there was seen no need to do such. He was also concerned about use of such a method when it could be used to forge blades and shields that might well prove a useful shield against chaos-bolts. Once the method was used, he said, all the barbarians would learn, and then Cyador would have defenses far less effective against the northerners.

   Now... the towers are failing, and so am I. Perhaps worse, because I once looked into the matter, the reference material was removed from the archives of the Quarter and burned. Most of it I had copied previously, and that is what follows this explanation ...

 

   The Mirror Lancer majer shakes his head. "The idiots...."

 

...do not attempt to bring this to light directly, but find one among the Magi'i who will see it for the salvation of the Magi'i, and not as a threat. For, if the Magi'i retain this as a secret, then they will retain a manner of power that they would not otherwise do ...

 

   A voice calls from below. "Lorn... dinner is almost ready."

   "I'll be down." Lorn looks at the notes, half smiling.

   He has some copying to do... a great deal... because he cannot let the originals into anyone else's hands. Not when they are all that remain.

   Copying his father's "memoirs" will be time-consuming, but certainly less risky than using a chaos-glass, for anyone who uses a glass to observe him will but see him writing, and that is certainly expected of a junior majer.

   He shakes his head once more as he thinks of Muyro and the First Magus his father had confronted. Then he closes the box and stands.

 

 

CXV

 

Lorn glances at the polished blond wood of Vernt's table desk, the same desk that had been their father's. Vernt has even left it in the same place in the study, and most of the books are the same. The chaos-glass is Vernt's, larger and more prominently displayed on the left side of the desk. On one of the side tables, there is also a frame that contains a drawing of Vernt wearing the whites of a first-level adept. Where Vernt found an artist, Lorn has to wonder, unless perhaps that is one of Mycela's hidden talents. Lorn feels the woman must have some.

   "I hear you are doing well over in Mirror Lancer Court," Vernt says conversationally.

   "I'm very quiet." Lorn laughs. "How are things going for you?"

   "As expected, I suppose." Vernt frowns.

   "In short, everyone's worried about the chaos-towers failing, especially the one in the Quarter, and no one has an answer."

   Vernt shakes his head. "You know I shouldn't say anything."

   "You didn't. I did, and it's true. We have meeting after meeting. All too many deal with how we will handle the barbarians without firelances and firewagons, and what kind of ships can replace the fireships. I can't imagine all those meetings with the Majer-Commander, the Captain-Commander, and all the senior commanders, not unless things are getting serious."

   "Should you be saying that?"

   Lorn shrugs. "It's a problem that concerns both the lancers and the Magi'i. I'm a lancer; you're of the Magi'i. I'm not telling you anything those above you don't know, and you're not about to tell anyone else."

   "I know," Vernt replies. "Still..." He frowns.

   Lorn takes out the pouch with the papers inside, those it has taken him more than an eightday to copy-although he has taken the precaution of making two extra sets. "Here's something that you'll need."

   "That I'll need?" The taller man's eyebrows rise.

   "A long time ago, at Father's suggestion, I went through the Archives," Lorn lies, offering a chuckle. "Except I didn't tell him, because... well... you know... I didn't want to admit he might be right." The smile fades. "Then, of course, I couldn't tell him."

   "There's always something I remember that I would have liked to tell him," Vernt agrees.

   "I copied these." That is absolute truth, a truth even Vernt can sense. "I think now is the time, or it will be shortly, for them to reappear."

   " 'Reappear'?" asks Vernt.

   "I asked Tyrsal to see if these were still in the Archives. He says they're not."

   Vernt frowns.

   "They're the plans and the methodology for building a coal-fired, chaos-steam transfer engine."

   "They say it can't be done."

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

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

   Lorn shook his head. "You don't understand. You don't propose anything. You wait."

   "What good will that do?"

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

   "How do you know anything about the Quarter tower?"

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

   "I can't do anything, Lorn."

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

   "What is that?" Vernt frowns. "I know you. There's more to this than a thought."

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

   "No one will believe me." Vernt shakes his head.

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

   "Lorn..."

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

   "You don't like Kharl, do you?"

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

   "That's the most persuasive thing you've said." Vernt laughs. "When you would give something you believe to someone you dislike... you feel strongly."

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

   "I'll read them, and keep them safe. I might even look in the Archives."

   "You won't find anything."

   "I might find traces of what was removed."

   "You might," Lorn agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

   "I'm sure you are."

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

 

 

CXVI

 

Enough... That's more than enough." Tyrsal puffs out the words, backing out of the roughened stone of the sparring circle.

   "That's fine. I didn't get that much sleep last night. Kerial is teething."

   "You couldn't... ?" asks Tyrsal.

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

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

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

   "You're getting better," Lorn points out. "I have to work harder these days."

   "I have to, sparring with you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

   Lorn nods.

   "She had a message for you."

   "For me?" The taller man frowns.

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

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

   "The message wasn't about lancers or Magi'i, either."

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

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

   Lorn suppresses a swallow. "That is more than enough. More than enough."

   "When you sound like that... I wouldn't wish to be Tasjan-or you." Tyrsal's voice is bleak.

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

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

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

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

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

   "I'm glad you did. You know how I feel about Ryalth."

   "I know. That's why I hope you don't find too much wrong."

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

   "That's why I worry. Another reason," Tyrsal says.

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

   "We'll be there."

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

 

 

CXVII

 

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

   Lorn hurries toward them.

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

   "We've all been better." Ryalth's voice holds an edge.

   "I'm sorry. Can I do anything?"

   "Keep holding him. I know he's teething. At least, I hope it's just teeth."

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

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

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

   "You don't want to see me?"

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

   "Maybe I do."

   "I'll stay out here with Kerial."

   "You just got here, didn't you?" asks Ryalth.

   "Just before you."

   "I shouldn't leave him with you. You've had a day, too."

   Lorn laughs. "Just take care of yourself for a while. We'll be fine."

   "Are you sure?"

   "You deserve a rest."

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

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

   She nods and steps into the foyer.

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

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

   Her eyes widen.

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

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

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

   "Kysia says it's about ready."

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

   "You should be. It's late. You walked him for a long time."

   "You were upset."

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

   "He might sleep awhile."

   "I'm not counting on it." She turns toward the dining area.

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

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

   "That will be wonderful," Lorn says.

   After Kysia returns to the kitchen, Lorn gestures to Ryalth to help herself, then serves himself two slices of the rolled and stuffed pork covered with a brown sauce. Then he takes some of the nutted beans, and a chunk of dark bread.

   Kysia returns with a pitcher and pours the ale into their glasses, then vanishes once more.

   "Have you found out anything about those commanders-Sypcal and Lhary?"

   Ryalth looks abashed. "I'm sorry. I did. Days ago... and somehow, every time I meant to tell you, something happened or Kerial was fussy... or something. I'm really sorry. I know it was important... I guess I'm trying to do too much."

   Lorn finishes chewing a mouthful of the stuffed pork, and then swallows. "I understand. You are trying to run a trading house, look after a son, and please a consort, and each is more of a task than it should be." He pauses. "About Sypcal?"

   "He comes from Geliendra. His father was a tradesman. He was considered a good field commander, but he cashiered a captain by the name of Sasyk." Ryalth raises her eyebrows.

   "Sasyk... I've heard the name somewhere, but I don't recall right now."

   "Sasyk is some relative of Tasjan, and he's the one in charge of Tasjan's guards."

   "Why did cashiering an officer cause a problem for Sypcal? That's what you're hinting."

   "A tradesman in Assyadt made a charge that Sypcal had ordered some wine and not paid for it, and then threatened to kill the tradesman if he insisted on payment. Sypcal had a receipt. The tradesman said Sypcal forged it. Sypcal brought in two captains who had witnessed the transaction. The tradesman claimed they all lied. Sypcal did lose his temper, and killed the man. The justicer said it was allowable because the man had committed fraud and tried to disgrace an officer. The merchanters in Syadtar were less than happy."

   "Let me guess," Lorn says. "The tradesman was either a relative or in debt to Tasjan, or something."

   "His daughter was his mistress-one of them-for a time."

   Lorn takes a sip of ale. "So then Rynst ordered Sypcal to Cyad and put Ikynd in charge at Assyadt?"

   "Not quite. Rynst had selected Sypcal as commander in Assyadt, and the town was upset..."

   "So Rynst had Luss pick the commander to succeed Sypcal?"

   Ryalth nods.

   Lorn shakes his head. "What about Lhary?"

   "No one knows much of anything, except that he was considered a good company officer at Pemedra. Since then, he's always been someone's assistant, except for a short tour when he was the commander of the outposts around the Accursed Forest. He's very close to Luss, and he has no consort."

   None of that surprises Lorn.

    "Anything new about Tasjan?" he asks after several mouthfuls of the stuffed pork.

   "There's always some gossip." She wrinkles her brow, then frowns. "What was it? Oh, he sent a scroll to Vyanat. This time he asked the Merchanter Advisor to request that the Mirror Engineers build more of the new warships to protect the traders. He said that with the changes in the Accursed Forest and the sack of Jera and all the golds you brought back, the lancers didn't need as many arms and men, and that between your loot and the golds saved the lancers could build the ships without increasing tariffs."

   "Hmm... does anyone know what Vyanat said?"

   "No."

   "He's forgetting that the lancers are also losing their firelances, and we'll need more Lancers to do the same task. He should know that."

   Ryalth laughs.

   "I know," Lorn says. "Knowing something, and conveniently forgetting it when it serves your purpose, is nothing new in Cyad. Still, I have to wonder."

   "Why are you interested in Tasjan?"

   "Rumors," Lorn says. "I was sparring with Tyrsal, and he's heard from his mother that Tasjan was up to something. She didn't know what, and neither did Tyrsal."

   "You're not telling me everything."

   "No. The rumor also indicated that Tasjan wanted to cause trouble for you and Ryalor House." Lorn shakes his head. "Are you sure that Magi'i blood doesn't run in your family?" He takes a swallow of the ale, then another serving of the stuffed pork from the platter.

   "That's not something that would have been mentioned when I was that young, and..." Her mouth twists into a awkward smile, "I'm certain that Mother wasn't about to say anything, not until I was older. Then, she couldn't."

   "You're more Magi'i than some Magi'i."

   "You're kind... I think."

   "Accurate." He frowns. "I need to see if I can find Tasjan in the glass. Would you watch and see if what I call up is Tasjan-if I can?"

   "When you do that... it's so strange," Ryalth says. "I know others can scree, too, but it's different, to me, anyway, when it's your own consort."

   "You didn't mind it when I used it to see you."

   "No... but it was still strange... to feel your presence and know you were hundreds and hundreds of kays away."

   Lorn stands. "I'd like to do this now, just in case Kerial wakes later."

   "You are worried. Usually... in the evening... if he's sleeping..."

   Lorn flushes. "I am. Worried, I mean." Then he grins sheepishly before he walks softly from the dining area and up the stairs to the study.

   With Ryalth standing behind him, the small study's shutters drawn, Lorn seats himself and looks down at his own reflection in the chaos-glass. "What does Tasjan look like?"

   "He's about as tall as you are. He's slender. His hair is sandy-blond, and there's some silver in it. He doesn't have a beard. His eyes are light-brown and green mixed together. Oh, and there's a pockmark, just one, below his left eye."

   Lorn tries to concentrate on both the appearance and the essences of Tasjan. For a long time, the silver mists swirl across the glass. Perspiration beads Lorn's forehead.

   Finally, an image appears-one of a sandy-haired man sitting at the end of a long table, a wine goblet before him. The only other figure at the table is a bearded man wearing a uniform of off-green who sits to his right, with gold epaulets.

   "That's Tasjan," Ryalth affirms. "And the other one wears the uniform of his guards. It might be Sasyk, but I don't know."

   "He has special uniforms for his armsmen?"

   "Oh, yes. Some of the other traders think he's putting on airs." Lorn concentrates, trying to fix Tasjan's image in his mind, before he finally lets the chaos-glass turn blank once more. He blots his forehead, then massages his neck. For a moment or so, he sits before the glass with his eyes closed.

   "That's hard work, isn't it?" Ryalth says softly.

   "Especially when I don't know what exactly I'm seeking."

   She frowns. "I thought Magi'i couldn't use the glass if they didn't..."

   "Most can't, I found out later. I had to learn on my own." His laugh is ragged. "I guess I didn't know any better."

   "That image didn't show much."

   "Usually they don't," Lorn says. "You see people talking, working, eating, all the things we all do. It's more useful for things like making maps, or for finding forces when you know the terrain. I want to look at a few other people-quickly."

   Lorn decides to try to seek Luss, and concentrates. After the silver mists clear, the glass reveals the image of the black-haired and bushy-eyebrowed Captain-Commander sitting at a table covered in green linen. To the right of the Captain-Commander is the blond commander Lhary. They are deep in conversation, and Lorn immediately releases the image.

   "Who are they?"

   "The Captain-Commander and Commander Lhary."

   "They're plotting something. They just looked that way."

   "I'm sure they are, except Lhary is brighter than Luss."

   "That's worse."

   Lorn agrees silently. "Watch the next image."

   The figure of Rustyl appears once the mists dissipate. The image of the first-level adept is blurred, and wavers, but Lorn can make out that the magus stands in a corridor looking through a window in solid granite. He lets the mirror blank.

   "He's studying the chaos-tower of the Magi'i. Much good it will do." Lorn frowns. "At least, I hope it won't do him much good."

   "But... if he could repair it... or make it last longer... ?" asks Ryalth.

   "I'd have to praise him for it, and mean it." Lorn sighs. "And watch him even more closely." He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead.

   Ryalth steps up behind him and massages his shoulders.

   Lorn sighs. "That feels good." For a time, he just sits there, enjoying the feel of her fingers on his shoulders and neck.

   Ryalth's fingers run through his hair, stroke his neck, and then her lips brush the back of his neck. "Kerial's still asleep," she whispers softly.

   He flushes, but he eases from the chair and takes her in his arms.

 

 

CXVIII

 

The two women-one a trader and one a healer-sit across the dinner table from each other. Beside the trader sits a Mirror Lancer officer in his working uniform of cream-and-green. The trader wears shimmercloth blue, and holds an infant dressed in a green shirt in her lap. The healer wears green, and pushes a lock of curly black hair off her forehead. The gentle scent of erhenflower emanates from her.

   Lorn looks across the dinner table at his younger sister. "We're glad you could come this time."

   "So am I. Ciesrt doesn't like to come to family things unless Vernt's there." Myryan shrugs. "But Ciesrt's in Summerdock for an eightday or so."

   "What's he doing there?" asks Lorn.

   "Something to do with reclaiming the chaos-storage cells on the fireships-the ones whose towers failed. Some can be used on the firewagons, and some for firelances, I guess." Myryan takes a last bite of the glazed fowl. "I shouldn't have eaten so much."

   "You brought the squash and lentils," Ryalth said. "We don't get vegetables like you grow. Neither of us has time to garden, and Pheryk and Grehty came too late this year to plant one. Pheryk says he knows just where he'll put the garden next year." She smiles. "That's next year."

   "We haven't asked, and you haven't said," Lorn says, "but how is Ciesrt?"

   "As always." Myryan takes a long swallow of the Alafraan.

   "What's the matter?" Lorn asks gently.

   "Nothing... or nothing you can do anything about." The black-haired healer shakes her head. Her fingers twine around the stem of the goblet.

   "Is it Ciesrt?" asks Ryalth. "Something we should know?"

   "It's not Ciesrt. It's his father." Myryan looks to Ryalth, and then at the softly babbling Kerial in her lap. "He's so sweet."

   "Tonight," Lorn says with a laugh. "Tonight, he's sweet."

   "The other day Lorn had to walk him in circles for forever. I was so worn-out that when Lorn saw me, I just snapped at him." Ryalth smiles. "He took Kerial and sent me upstairs for a bath and a nap."

   "I'm still amazed." Myryan smiles, if but momentarily. "I never thought of Lorn as a father."

   "Neither did I," Lorn admits.

   "What about Kharl?" asks Ryalth gently.

   "He's pushing Ciesrt. He wants us to have a child. He's talking about having me see some other healer besides Jerial."

   Lorn manages not to frown.

   Myryan turns to him. "You know something about this, don't you? And you didn't tell me..."

   "No... I didn't know a thing, but I have to wonder." Lorn purses his lips.

   Both women look at him and wait.

   "Kharl is the Second Magus. There's no great respect or affection between him and the other high lectors. Everyone knows that."

   Myryan nods.

   "It's also common knowledge in the Mirror Lancer Court that Kharl has been courting the Captain-Commander of Mirror Lancers."

   "But... old as Chyenfel is... he is still strong, and he keeps chaos at bay," Myryan says.

   "Exactly," Lorn says. "Who is not keeping chaos at bay, or will not be able to for long?"

   Myryan and Ryalth look at each other, then at Lorn.

   Lorn waits. He does not want to offer any suggestion, because he wants to see if the connection is logical.

   "Rynst is old..." says Myryan.

   "He looks older than he is. He will outlive Chyenfel," Lorn says.

   "Vyanat'mer is the youngest of the advisors to the Emperor," Ryalth says.

   Myryan's hand goes to her mouth. "You aren't serious... a Magi'i... the Malachite Throne... the lancers... oh... that's why you mentioned Luss."

   "I don't know that," Lorn says. "But you had mentioned that they had been pushing for a child before. And you are the daughter of the most respected magus of the generation."

   "If Myryan has a child, then there are two generations of heirs... is that what you're suggesting?" asks Ryalth.

   "I don't know. They just could want grandchildren..."

   "Ciesrt's older sister consorted with Zubyl almost two years ago, and she's finally expecting in midwinter." Myryan snorts. "They haven't said so much as a word about it. Kharl hasn't, anyway."

   Lorn takes a small sip of the Alafraan. His guts are churning.

   "This upsets you, doesn't it?" asks his sister.

   "Yes. Not as much as it's upsetting you, though." He offers a crooked smile. "I was just guessing."

   "No one wagers against your guesses," Myryan says. "Not if they know you, and I've known you too long." She pauses. "I still can't believe it. How could he possibly think... ? And Ciesrt, he's never said a word. Not a word."

   "Would he know?" asks Ryalth.

   A bitter smile crosses Myryan's face. "He wouldn't even think of it. He hopes he'll make lector someday. He's knows he's not as bright as his father, and in that way, he'd do whatever he could to please Kharl." She looks at Lorn. "Whatever made you think of that?"

   He shrugs helplessly. "I couldn't say. The pieces were there, and..." He shrugs again.

   "Do you want a child?" asks Ryalth.

   "No..." Myryan shakes her head slowly. "Not like this... not... I can accept being a consort. I can support Ciesrt, and make him happy. I'm not strong enough, not like Jerial. I couldn't take having everyone look at me, and judge me, or say no one wanted me..." She swallows. "I'll be all right. Really... I will be."

   Ryalth reaches across the table with her one free hand and places it on Myryan's. "We're here. You can stay here..."

   "Everyone would know."

   "Healers are respected elsewhere," Ryalth says. "I could get you passage anywhere in Candar-even find you a patron in some ports."

   Myryan shakes her head once more. "I'll be fine. Sometimes... I just pity myself too much. I have a consort who wants me, and he's gentle, and kind in his own way. I have a house and a garden. I'm respected as a healer. I've never had to make my own way, the way you have, Ryalth. Or fight people like Lorn has." She swallows. "I'll be fine."

   "You can stay here tonight," Ryalth says.

   "I'll do that, but that's all. Tomorrow... I'll be fine. It's just... Who could I tell? Jerial's so strong. She doesn't understand. Mother understood... I miss her so much. I wish I could talk to her." Twin streaks of tears ooze down her cheeks. "I miss her..."

   "I miss them both," Lorn says.

   ' "Gaaaa...." Kerial says, softly, a chubby hand extending toward the sobbing healer.

   "She would have understood... she would have..." Myryan blots her eyes with a shimmercloth handkerchief.

   Lorn and Ryalth exchange a brief glance.

   "I'll be fine," Myryan says, more emphatically, wiping away the last trace of tears. "I just need a cry now and then. I didn't expect... not here, but I'll be fine."

   "You'll stay here tonight," Ryalth says, and her words are not a question.

   "In the morning," Lorn adds, "you can talk to Pheryk about where he ought to put the garden. Neither Ryalth nor I would have the faintest idea."

   "I can do that." Myryan offers a faint smile. "Thank you for listening... both of you."

   "What is family for?" says Lorn.

   "You've always been there, Lorn. I remember that. No one else knew... except Mother. And you went to Father when he was mad at you for other things, and you gave me time." She shakes her head. "Sometimes, I wish I were the one giving."

   "You do. Healers give all the time." Lorn grins. "And you give things like fruits and vegetables we couldn't get elsewhere."

   "I mean... big things, like you and Father have done," replies the healer.

   "Right now, all I do is read reports and go to meetings and write reports on them to the Majer-Commander. That's not very big."

   Myryan looks at him, her eyes unwavering. "You know what I mean. You're sweet, dear brother, but please don't humor me."

   "The vegetables were to cheer you up," he replies, "but I meant it about the healing."

   Myryan laughs, and there is but a slight edge to the sound. "You're still the big brother."

   "I always will be." He gives an exaggerated and sheepish shrug. "For better or worse-mostly worse, I fear."

   "You two..." Ryalth's tone is half scolding, half mock-exasperation. "If you keep this up, Kerial will get cranky, and I won't get to eat any pearapple tarts because I'll be putting him to bed, and Lorn...."

   "...will eat them all," finishes Myryan.

   "What can I say?" asks Lorn.

   "Not too much," suggests Ryalth, gesturing toward Kysia, who has peered out from the archway from the kitchen. "If we could have the tarts?"

   "Right away, Lady."

   "I'll never live down the tarts," Lorn complains.

   "Never," Myryan agrees.

   Lorn only hopes that Myryan is as fine as she says she is, even as he knows she is not, and as he knows he does not know how to resolve her problem, not as quickly as it needs to be resolved.

 

 

CXIX

 

In the golden glow of the single lamp, Lorn sits on the edge of the ornate bed, his eyes focused nowhere. He can hear Kerial's gentle breathing from the small bed against the wall.

   "You're worried about Myryan." Ryalth sits up, propping a pillow behind her against the headboard.

   "Wouldn't you be?" asks Lorn. "I've thought about it, but I can't think of anything that would help." He frowns. "Not that wouldn't hurt you and Kerial worse."

   "You've thought about that before."

   "I debated killing Kharl'elth just before I became a lancer officer, when it was clear Father would consort Myryan to Ciesrt. I didn't try. Instead, I pleaded to Father. He waited almost two years, but he still did it. He wrote me, told me that none of us had the choices others thought we did. I'm still not sure if he was right-or if I shouldn't have done something then."

   "They would have found out, and killed you, and then I'd have lost you, and Kerial wouldn't be."

   "They didn't find out other-"

   "Lorn... he's the Second Magus. The Magi'i would never stop look-ing."

   "It doesn't matter. I didn't. I didn't even try." He does not look at Ryalth, instead looks nowhere.

   "Lorn..."

   "What?"

   "You won't solve this by looking into space. You can try to sleep. You can talk to me. You can try to find a verse in the book that helps. You can use the chaos-glass... seek out something... I know you..."

   He turns, opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it. He shakes his head. "That's not fair."

   She raises her eyebrows.

   "Nothing."

   After a long silence, he finally reaches for the silver-covered volume that has remained on the bedside table since he returned from Assyadt. He looks at the cover, the green-tinged silver that almost holds a rainbow in the lamplight, before he turns the pages. After a time, he reads.

 

   Should I again listen to which song?

   We have listened oh so long.

   Should I again fly on learning wings?

   We have learned what yearning brings.

 

   "That's sad," Ryalth says. "It is like Myryan in a way." Lorn swallows. "I know. That's why I read it." He continues to turn pages. Then he begins again, more slowly, until he comes to a verse which, strangely, he does not quite recall, not really, yet now the words seem all too clear.

 

   The sages honor the chains of duty, pride,

   how they uplift those who live, those who died.

 

   What think they of the death of love and care?

   Of the children women will never bear,

   a dry-eyed consort too bereft to cry,

   a mother who will see her sons but die,

   a consorting suit that never will be worn-

   these weapons of the forgotten and forlorn

   pierce bright cupridium and chaos fire,

   flaming honor to ashes of desire.

 

   Speak not of honor, you who command hold,

   nor bright ballads write of your days of old,

   when, in age, you put your pen upon the page

   and claim that all you did was meet and sage.

 

   I have claimed the same, and yet well I know

   that to that chaos I created will I go.

 

   Lorn shakes his head. After a while, he begins to speak. "That's the problem. No matter how great the ideal, no matter how noble the cause, the innocent suffer. Anything I do for Myryan-that I know how to do-will hurt others worse. All I can do is listen, and try to cheer her up. And it's not enough."

   "Sometimes... sometimes listening is all anyone can do. And sometimes it is enough." Ryalth offers a kind smile. "She knows you care. That helps."

   As he sets down the book, and finally turns down the lamp wick until the flame gutters out, Lorn wonders: Will his caring help enough?

 

 

CXX

 

It is near midday when Lorn walks into the Majer-Commander's study, uncertain of the reason for his summons, since he has submitted all the reports that are required. Has the Majer-Commander finally decided to discuss his draft report on the Jeranyi strategy?

   He bows. "Ser?"

   "Please have a seat, Majer." Rynst leans back in his armchair, the one behind the wide table desk. Behind him, bathed in warm fall light, the Palace of Eternal Light is once more framed in the large and ancient windows.

   Lorn sits, comfortably, but neither fully into the seat, nor on the front edge.

   "Majer... you are considered a good commander of lancers, by every commander who has supervised you. Most are wary of you, but all recommend you. Would you care to explain?"

   "Ser, I honestly cannot say I know why this is so."

   Rynst laughs. "Well and carefully said. Then I will ask you to guess why such might be so."

   Lorn considers what and how much he should say. Finally, he begins. "I would guess, and this is but a guess, that my approach to tactics differs initially, although my goals have always been to accomplish any task with the greatest gain and fewest losses for the Mirror Lancers and for Cyador."

   "Perhaps the last few words explain it all," suggests Rynst.

   "Ser?" Lorn immediately wishes he had not said those three words, safe though they had sounded.

   "'... and for Cyador.' You do believe in the Empire of Perpetual Light"

   "Yes, ser."

   "Why? Please do not provide the words of the Lancers' Code or some such."

   "Because, ser, for all its faults, from what I have seen, Cyador offers more than any other land in which people live. There is less hatred, and people live better lives in less fear."

   "A practical answer from a very practical lancer officer." Rynst nods. "Majer... why were you successful in subverting Majer Dettaur's attempts to have you removed from your position?"

   Lorn does not try to hide the frown, knowing that Rynst is looking for something other than the obvious. "I recognized that was his goal from the beginning."

   The Majer-Commander smiles coldly. "That is the first element of dealing with a problem. One must recognize the problem. What did you do then?"

   "I did my best to train and upgrade the forces at Inividra and to use the most effective tactics I could develop."

   "Again... a simple application of well-known maxims, enhanced by your ability to develop and use tactics others had not considered... for various reasons." Rynst fingers his chin. "Yet... when you returned to Inividra, whether you will acknowledge it or not, and I do not intend to press the matter, Majer Dettaur had arranged for you to be relieved in disgrace. You took six companies to Assyadt. Why? And why was that successful?"

   Lorn smiles coolly, managing not to swallow, and gambling that he faces a time when only truth will suffice. "Because there is never more than a company of lancers at Assyadt and because, once I held the compound, I knew that I could use the reports and the materials there to prove that Majer Dettaur was acting contrary to the best interests of the Mirror Lancers."

   "As you did." Rynst nods once more. "Most carefully, and most meticulously. You were right about the records. You were right about the tactics, and you were right about Majer Dettaur's goals. For all that, you would have failed, except for six companies of lancers."

   "Yes, ser."

   "Sometimes, one must have his forces where they can be noticed."

   Lorn nods, silently wondering exactly where the Majer-Commander is leading the strange discussion-and why.

   "We have but four fireships now. What are the most effective forces remaining that can still draw upon chaos?"

   "The Mirror Lancers-and the firelances that remain."

   "And where are they?"

   "Stationed around the Accursed Forest, and mostly along the Grass Hills."

   "And where do the outland traders port most often?" presses the gray-haired Rynst.

   "In Cyad." Lorn pauses. "You are suggesting that it might be advisable to have some of the Mirror Lancers here? Or perhaps at times, with maneuvers that the outlanders could watch-with firelances while we still have such?"

   "What do you think of that proposition, Majer?"

   "It could not but help." Lorn frowns. "We would have to set up a maneuver area near the piers, perhaps where some of the older warehouses now stand. If the Mirror Engineers used something like their firecannon to level the structures... that might also create an impression."

   "Hmmm... that is also a good idea. Commander Muyro would like that."

   Lorn waits.

   "There remains one significant problem with that proposition."

   "Ser?"

   "I have no field commanders here with recent experience, and those in the field now do not understand the delicacy of the situation. I trust you can understand that."

   Lorn fears that he does. "You would like me to help a commander with these, as your aide?"

   "No." Rynst's denial is firm and cold.

   "If you wish a recommendation," Lorn says slowly, "perhaps Majer Brevyl-"

   "I think it best that you command the two companies-and that one of them be a company you know already. You have a reputation. I intend to ensure that the outlanders know of that reputation." Rynst pauses. "Do you understand, Majer?"

   "Yes, ser."

   "I believe you do. I believe you honestly do." The Majer-Commander leans forward. "Before the afternoon is out, you will submit a list of companies that you would wish-with the company officer you desire. You will command them as if Cyad were a standard outpost. That is, your duties will remain as they are here, except that you will plan and direct the training and maneuver schedules, based on the port schedules of the outland traders. And you will offer invitations-in person, if necessary-to those traders and ships' masters as I direct. Also, much as you dislike it, you will, as you can, suggest that it is past time that Cyad should take over ports in Candar that are unfriendly. Then, you will stress that, of course, those are but your own ideas."

   Lorn conceals-he hopes-the wince he feels.

   "Do you understand the importance of that, Majer? Can you explain it back to me?"

   "Yes, ser. I believe I am to be regarded as an example of the bloody-minded lancer officer who would sack every trading port in Candar for Cyador, were I not kept under tight rein by my commanders."

   Rynst laughs. "You can be slightly less direct than that. Just allow them to guess such from your carriage and actions."

   "Yes, ser."

   "And, Majer..." Rynst's voice hardens.

   "Yes, ser."

   "You and those two companies are under my direct command... and no one else's. Should anything happen to me, you are under the Emperor's direct command, and no one else's. And this you are to tell no one. No one."

   Lorn does swallow before responding. "Yes, ser."

   "I am very glad you understand that." A smile follows. "I doubt anything will ever come to that, but it is best to have that clear. That is also another reason why this command is yours."

   Lorn waits again.

   "You are a scion of Cyador, not of the Mirror Lancers, no matter how well you serve. At times, we need such, and this is one of those times." Rynst nods. "You may go."

   "By your leave, ser?"

   "By my leave."

   Lorn stands, bows, and then walks from the study. No matter how matters are couched, the idea of two companies of Mirror Lancers in Cyad, pledged to the Majer-Commander directly, and then to the Emperor, is a frightening thought.

   A faint smile crosses his lips as he descends the stairs from the foyer to his own study, a smile not of humor, but of irony. More frightening than that is the realization that Rynst understands Lorn well enough to know that Lorn will indeed regard himself as bound to the Emperor and Cyador and not to the Captain-Commander or any other commander.

 

 

CXXI

 

The trim and muscular man who wears shimmercloth blues, with a deep-blue slash across each sleeve of his tunic, steps into the second office on the second floor of the clan building. He bows. "I was looking for Vyanat'mer."

   "Alas, his office is the larger one to the right," offers the black-haired and younger merchanter who rises from behind the stack of invoices he has been perusing.

   "He is not there," says Tasjan. "I thought he might be here, Vyel'mer."

   "You honor me, most honored Tasjan'mer, and the House of Hyshrah."

   "You come from a most honorable house, Vyel'mer. You should be honored." Tasjan smiles politely.

   "You are kind." Vyel smiles, and the brief smile reveals that one of his upper front teeth is of gold.

   "I was hoping to find your brother." The slender Tasjan shrugs, as if in disappointment. "He is often hard to find. Perhaps you could assist me?"

   "I am only privy to the workings of Hyshrah House and Clan," replies Vyel. "What Tasjan does as Merchanter Advisor, I know but what all know, I fear."

   "Ah, were I Merchanter Advisor... but... No, one must not venture judgment before one has walked many kays in another's boots. Many kays." Tasjan smiles. "I would have you pass a message to your honored elder brother, if you would. For you are most trustworthy, and that is clear in that Vyanat has made you privy to all that the House does."

   "He has."

   "He may know that the Mirror Lancers are bringing two companies into Cyad. These lancers will be conducting maneuvers near the trading piers. They will be inviting outlander traders and ships' masters to show them the power of the firelances and the Mirror Lancers. With so few fireships remaining, I am sure we all agree that something must be done to instill respect in the outlanders. Do you not agree?"

   "Of course."

   "And it is prudent to have an experienced field commander for these lancers." Tasjan frowns. "Yet I have a concern which, if you will convey to your brother, I would most appreciate. This concern should not be committed to paper."

   Vyel nods, waiting.

   "You may recall... there was some talk, when your brother's name was put forth, of the head of Ryalor House being one of those also put forth."

   "There was." Vyel's voice is even. "I recall that."

   "Naught came of that, and that was for the best, for successful as the young house has been in most recent years, the lady who heads it has less experience than... many. You have far greater experience. So do others. Now... this is my concern. The majer who will command the lancers in Cyad is the consort of the head of Ryalor House. Moreover, he was brought to Cyad before his previous tour of duty in the Grass Hills was properly over. And... there are rumors, and these rumors cannot be discounted, that there were several loyal officers who would have reprimanded the majer for his bloodthirsty tactics. They... vanished, and none know where they went or where they are."

   "That is most strange," Vyel admits. "You will tell your brother?"

   "I will indeed."

   "You are a good man, Vyel, and a better trader than many. One would wonder how you might do.... were you given your own house. Even a small one, such as the size of say... Ryalor House." Tasjan smiles.

   Vyel shrugs. "I am most happy here."

   "I am certain you are. You do your brother's bidding, and none but he will question your authority. Still..." Tasjan pauses. "There is one other matter I had forgotten."

   "Oh?"

   "It is not a matter of great import. I did run across an odd bill of lading, one dealing with, shall we say, dun cotton from Hamor, carried on a ship- the Hypolya, that was it. Quite a lot of dun cotton, as I recall, near-on three hundred bolts. That would have been a quite a tariff if it had been true white Hamorian fine cotton-some fifteenscore golds. That is the sort of tariff that would interest the Emperor's Enumerators-even after a year or so."

   Vyel looks up. "It well might."

   "Do keep it in mind, Vyel. Please do." Tasjan smiles politely. "And do convey my concerns to your brother. He would not be pleased if he found out about the majer from another source."

   Vyel smiles, politely. "You can be most assured that I will, most honored Tasjan, and that I will keep your interests in mind. So long as they do not harm Hyshrah House."

   "I do appreciate your support, Vyel. I always will. And I would never ask a man to go against his house, or even against another merchanter." Tasjan bows and departs.

 

 

CXXII

 

Lorn stands behind the desk in his study. Then he walks to the door, pauses with his fingers on the handle. After a moment, he turns and walks back to the desk, putting his hands on the back of the chair.

   Lorn does not know if what he will try will work. It is a skill practiced only by first-level adepts.... and he can ask no one in the Magi'i-not even Tyrsal-to assist. According to what he remembers... the idea is simple. The practice is hard, and it is one skill he cannot judge whether he has learned.

   Finally, he shakes his head, walks to the study door, opens it, and walks down the short upper hall to the main bedchamber. Again... he remembers to slide the iron latch closed when he closes the door.

   Ryalth is propped into a sitting position with pillows on the bed, and is perusing a stack of papers-invoices, Lorn suspects. A faint snore emanates from the small bed against the wall.

   "I still need to read through these," Ryalth says. "I can't do it when Kerial's awake."

   "I cannot imagine why," Lorn says dryly. "I will have a favor to ask in a bit, but just go on reading. I need the long mirror here."

   "Magi'i things you'd best not be caught doing?" Her mouth curls into a momentary smile.

   "Something like that. Except this might help my not getting caught."

   With a half-nod, Ryalth turns her eyes to the next sheet in the stack in her lap.

   Lorn looks in the bedchamber mirror, then concentrates on what he recalls, the idea that vision is the interpretation of chaos reflected from all objects in a more ordered pattern and gathered by the eyes. If that pattern is modified, so that the reflected order is changed into a less ordered pattern or one that moves the secondary chaos away from one object... then most onlookers will find their vision averted from that object, while not even sensing why.

   Lorn attempts to repattern his image, but nothing happens and the full-length mirror continues to show a brown-haired and amber-eyed lancer officer in his undertunic.

   Perhaps... repatterning creates too much order and actually enhances his reflection. He frowns, then tries to direct the secondary chaos away from himself.

   Abruptly, the entire room seems to go black, and while Lorn can sense objects around him, he can see nothing. Ryalth says not a word, and that means that his vision is affected-not the light from the lamp. With a swallow, he stops trying to divert the chaos of the light from himself. While that approach might make him invisible, he cannot see himself groping his way along a street where everyone else can see-even if they cannot see him.

   He blinks and glances at Ryalth, watching for a moment as she lays aside another invoice or bill of lading.

   He rubs his forehead, then takes a slow and silent deep breath. What if he just nudges the chaos, blurring it, or breaking up the sense of order emanating from himself? He concentrates, but chaos does not blur... not as he feels it, and his image remains fully in the mirror.

   After taking more slow deep breaths and massaging the back of his neck, and ignoring the speculative glance from Ryalth, he tries again, this time trying to disrupt just little portions of the chaos.

   His image in the full-length mirror ripples, but it is still recognizably a lancer officer. His lips twist. That kind of image will call more attention to him, not less.

   He recalls the word aversion-can he somehow nudge or blur the chaos so that people do not wish to look at him, without knowing why?

   He tries one combination, then another.

   Ryalth is more than two-thirds of the way through the stack of parchment and paper, and Lorn still sweats, trying to discover-or rediscover- the technique he knows exists, if but mastered by a few.

   For a moment, the mirror appears not quite blank, as if an image made of fog or smoke is there, before Lorn the lancer officer reappears.