Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

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

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

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

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

  “That’s true,” Lorn says. “But… are we what we are because of those times, or because we simply are-regardless of the times?”

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

  “You’re kind, but I don’t know about that.”

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

  “Yes, honored Lady Trader.”

  “And don’t humor me, most honored Majer and Mirror Lancer.”

  Lorn winces. “I’m sorry.”

  “Read them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Lorn sits back. He can only look at the papers. “What’s the matter, dearest?” asks Ryalth.

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

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

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

  “The times were not right.”

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

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

  LXXXIX

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

  “Greetings to you, Captain-Commander,” returns Vyanat’mer. “How go matters in Lancer Court?”

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

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

  “Including Ryalor House?”

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

  “And Lady Ryalth was not perturbed?”

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

  “I would hope so, especially now.”

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

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

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

  “That is a most interesting set of observations.”

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

  Luss frowns.

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

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

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

  “Those are fine words,” Luss replies.

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

  “You seem to have the answers, honored Merchanter Advisor.”

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

  “It is most intriguing that you know so much.”

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

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

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

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

  XC

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

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

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

  “Family things are important,” announces Mycela.

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

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

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

  Ryalth passes the casserole dish.

  “A bit more bread for the sauce,” Vernt adds.

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

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

  “You couldn’t ask him?” asks Mycela, sweetly. “You are a hero, they say.”

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

  “Oh… I didn’t think of it that way.” Mycela smiles sweetly at Vernt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Maybe someone is encouraging him,” suggests Myryan.

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

  “I thought he was going to be Ceyla’s consort,” offers Jerial.

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

  “You do not sound pleased,” Jerial adds.

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

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

  “Dear, Magi’i can’t take the Malachite Throne,” Vernt says gently.

  “But… the Emperor has an elthage title,” Mycela protests.

  “His Mightiness also has a merage and an altage title,” Jerial points out. “They’re all honors.”

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

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

  “I thought you defeated them all.” Mycela’s voice is puzzled. “Or killed them all.”

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

  “Didn’t you sack the port where they were getting their blades?” asks Ciesrt.

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

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

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

  “No. I’d rather not sell someth
ing that could kill my consort,” Ryalth says politely. “Or any other lancer.”

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

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

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

  Lorn nods. “The growers will complain for a time, I’m sure.”

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

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

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

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