“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 assig
ned 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 les
s 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.
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