Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Ah… yes, ser… but it could easily destroy… many things… here in Cyad.”

  “In fact,” Rynst replies, “it may be used for such. We will be needing it… for a number of practical reasons here.”

  Muyro glances across the table at Shykt, who shrugs to indicate he has no words to add.

  “How soon could you arrange for the two to be transported here, Commander Shykt?”

  “I would have to talk to Commander Inylt, ser, but it is no more than three days by fireship, if we could use one to bring them here. If we use a merchanter vessel, it will take an eightday, perhaps longer, if there are none with cargo space for something that large. And it will cost quite a few golds if we use a merchanter vessel.”

  “You have permission to request a fireship… if that is what you were seeking.” Rynst’s smile is cold.

  “Thank you, ser. We will work to have the two firecannon here as quickly as possible. Do you wish them kept in the Mirror Lancer supply warehouse?”

  “Is there adequate space there-where they will be safe?” asks the Majer-Commander.

  “Yes, ser. We can have an iron gate in place on the empty side in the time it will take to bring them here.”

  “Good.” Rynst looks at Muyro. “You and Shykt work with Commander Inylt. I’ll expect the firecannon in less than two eightdays.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “You all may go.” Rynst stands.

  In the foyer outside the study, the bearded Muyro turns to Lorn. “You would not know what this is all about, would you, Majer?”

  “I understand that the Emperor has asked the Majer-Commander to find a way to show the outlanders the power of Cyador,” Lorn replies. “I imagine, although no one has said anything to me, that a firecannon could be most impressive. Those used by the Mirror Engineers when I had a company at Jakaafra were extremely effective.”

  Muyro shakes his head and turns, muttering to the curly-haired Shykt, “A firecannon, in Cyad. What order-fired good will that do?”

  “We are not here to question the Majer-Commander, Muyro,” Shykt responds. “We are to make sure his orders are carried out. We should find Inylt before the Majer-Commander contacts him directly…”

  Lorn turns toward the steps that will take him down to his study, and the short report he must write on the meeting.

  CXXX

  Six people sit around the long table that could easily hold twice that number. The three men all wear the white shimmercloth of the Magi’i, and two of the women wear white tunics and trousers, trimmed in pale green. The third woman-the one with curly black hair-wears the green of a healer.

  The light cast from the shimmering cupridium reflectors of the wall lamps blankets the formal dining room with a warm glow, and turns the white linen into a pale gold. The golden-oak backs of the carved dining chairs are sculpted into smoothly interlocking arcs, none quite forming a complete circle.

  The older magus who sits at the head of the table is the only one of the three with the crossed lightning bolts glimmering on the breast of his shimmercloth tunic. The others wear but a single such lightning bolt. After taking another small sip of the maroon Fhynyco, the older magus turns his eyes to the healer who sits to his left.

  “Your brother Vernt… he is most dedicated to the Magi’i.”

  “He always has been,” replies Myryan.

  “And your older sister?” asks Kharl’elth politely.

  “She remains a healer. As you know, she has found healing to be her calling.”

  “Without a consort, alas.”

  “There is a need for some healers who remain without consort.” Myryan smiles politely, lifting her glass of redberry, but barely sipping any of the juice.

  Kharl inclines his head to the thin-faced healer. “Your ability to assist the… lower… healers, and your aid to the officers of the Mirror Lancers, are most remarkable, Myryan. And your actions have bestowed much honor upon your consort and this house.”

  Myryan bows her head. “What little I do but is but a trifle in the light that already shines forth from this house.”

  “Modest, she is, as well.” Kharl turns his eyes from Myryan to the tall and broad-shouldered Ciesrt. “Yet she is talented in healing, and in teaching her craft, and from a most distinguished lineage, and with a garden with which few compare.”

  Myryan lowers her eyes.

  “She is most remarkable as a consort.” Ciesrt beams. “In so very many ways. I look forward to coming home each day.”

  “And you are most fortunate, my son,” adds the white-haired woman who sits at the end of the table opposite Kharl. “Remember that in years to come.”

  Myryan covers her mouth and swallows quietly, her eyes remaining downcast.

  In the dimness of the dining room, and against the distant lightning of the fall storm over the harbor, the vague unseen luminescence of chaos perceived by four of those around the table, and with the flickering of the lamps in wall sconces, none remark upon the faint and also unseen mist of darkness that lifts away from Kharl.

  Nor do any note the sudden pallor that crosses Myryan’s face. The healer takes a slow sip of wine, and steadies herself beneath the level of the table with her left hand-the one that had been resting in her lap. Her eyes remain demurely downcast, not meeting those around the table for some time.

  When she does raise her head, ever so slightly, an enigmatic smile plays across her lips momentarily.

  CXXXI

  SSsssssss… ssss… sssss…

  Lorn is wide-awake even before the second hiss of the watchgeese, and the Brystan sabre is in his hand, even as he sends out his perceptions. The corridor outside the door is empty.

  “What… ?” Ryalth sits bolt upright almost as quickly as Lorn has.

  “Bolt the door after me,” he whispers to Ryalth as he holds the Brystan sabre ready and pads toward the bedchamber door.

  She follows him to the door, wordlessly.

  He pauses, letting his senses recheck the hall, but it is empty, and he steps out, blade ready. The door closes behind him, Ryalth sliding the latch into place. Step by quiet step, he descends to the main level, but the house remains empty, and he moves toward the foyer and the steps up to the veranda.

  Rrrrr… eeeekkk… The dull squeaking, straining sound comes from the door from the veranda to the foyer.

  Abruptly there is a single clanging sound, as if a long iron bar has fallen on the stone tiles of the veranda. Lorn’s perceptions tell him that two figures are beyond the heavy oak door. After waiting until his senses tell him that the two have turned from the door, he slides the latch-bar open and slips out, trying to use the blurring shield, then dropping it as he can sense it will distract him far too much.

  Both intruders have blades in position and are moving toward the gray-haired form of Pheryk, who holds a lancer sabre at the ready.

  Lorn steps forward silently, and from behind the two, his chaos-aided blade severs the taller man’s torso from his head.

  The second figure glances sideways, momentarily, and both Lorn and Pheryk strike.

  Pheryk’s blade cuts into the bravo’s sword arm, and the double-edged Austran blade clanks on the stones.

  Lorn slashes through the man’s knee, using chaos as much as cupridium. “Don’t kill him.”

  Two geese still hiss loudly-Lorn can see two other white shapes lying on the grass beside the walk.

  As three other men in black appear on the edge of the veranda, longer blades flickering toward Lorn, he eases himself well around the fallen bravo, careful not to step on the fallen blade, and very glad of his ability to see in the darkness.

  Two of the men attack Lorn, and the third goes for Pheryk.

  Lorn parries the heavier Austran blade of the first to attack him, then steps back, mustering chaos, and flinging a crude firebolt in the face of the second.

  “Aeeüi…” The man screams, dropping his blade.

  The first bravo cannot help but gape, if but momentarily, at the
chaos-fire, and that gaping is enough for Lorn’s chaos-aided sabre to slash up through gut and ribs. As the man staggers, trying to turn his blade, Lorn’s second cut takes his wrist.

  Cluunnggg. The sound of the Austran blade echoes dully across the veranda.

  The chaos-fire-ravaged figure staggers, then collapses, and the sound of yet another fallen blade reverberates through the night.

  Lorn turns, just in time to see Pheryk’s blade slash through the neck of the third bravo. Lorn then glances around quickly, sending his perceptions out past the now-silent fountain, but he can sense no movement, hears no sounds but those of the geese hissing, and the moaning of the fallen bravo who lies on the stones of the veranda. He looks at Pheryk, who cleans his blade on the black cloth of the runic of the man he has dispatched.

  Pheryk looks at Lorn. “Fine bladework, ser. Just bladework.”

  “Just bladework, Pheryk,” Lorn agrees. “From what I can tell, there aren’t any more, and the geese are quieting.” He turns back to the one living figure lying on the stones, but addresses his words to the old lancer. “You watch the garden, just in case, please. I want some answers.”

  “Yes, ser.” Pheryk, who, like Lorn, is barefoot, but who wears a pair of trousers, steps out to the edge of the veranda.

  Lorn edges the fallen blade well out of reach of the badly wounded man. “Who sent you?”

  The bravo grimaces and tries to spit. Lorn slashes his cheek.

  “Was it Tasjan?”

  The truth-reading tells him that the man doesn’t know.

  “Bluyet House?… Hyshrah House… ?”

  “…don’t know… frig you… chaoser…”

  “Assassins?”

  In the end, Lorn leans forward and cuts the man’s throat. He stands and turns to Pheryk.

  “No one else around, ser. Did you learn anything?”

  “He doesn’t know who sent him. He was probably hired by someone acting for yet someone else.”

  “That’s oft the way they work. So I’ve been told.”

  Lorn looks at Pheryk. “I’d like four of these five to be found-but in the street away from here.”

  “That be easy, ser. And the one who looked to have stuck his head in a stove?”

  Lorn pauses. While he could use more chaos, that does not feel right. He pauses as the chill of a chaos-glass sweeps across him, then he looks at Pheryk. “He needs to vanish.”

  “The harbor’s not that far, ser.” Pheryk smiles grimly. “I have my cart. I often carry refuse down there.”

  “Can you manage it?”

  “If I wait till just before dawn, no one will think odd of it. The others… you and I…”

  Pheryk glances at Lorn. “Best you wear a cloak.”

  Lorn laughs softly. “And boots and trousers.”

  “A mite easier that way.”

  “I’ll be back in a few moments.” Lorn walks back through the foyer door, sliding the iron latch in place behind him, then makes his way through the darkness up the stairs. The sense of a chaos-glass fades, but Lorn knows the watcher could return again at any moment.

  He taps on the door. “It’s me,” he says loudly. “The fellow who went off with a blade in his smallclothes.”

  “Do I know you?” comes the answer.

  “Far better than a fellow by the name of Halthor,” Lorn replies.

  The door slides open, and Lorn slips inside. With a nod, he notes that Ryalth has a sharp dagger poised. “You’re a careful lady.” He slides the bolt-latch into place.

  “I shouldn’t be? What happened?” She smiles. “How did you remember Halthor’s name?”

  “I just did.” Lorn moistens his lips. “Someone hired some bravos. There were five. They’re dead. Pheryk got one. We need to move the bodies. It would be better that they just turned up dead in the street.” Lorn sets the Brystan blade against the wall and pulls on a pair of trousers, an undertunic, and his boots.

  “Do you know who sent them?”

  “I tried to get answers from one of them. He didn’t know. Hired in the darkness, I’d guess. Probably through someone else.”

  “Tasjan,” Ryalth says.

  “Why?”

  “The Magi’i don’t work that way,” she points out in a low voice. “The Mirror Lancers don’t, either. They were after all of us. Otherwise you would have been attacked alone somewhere. Vyanat needs me. I don’t think Veljan would do this, and Bluyet House, much as they hate you, wouldn’t dare, because it could mean they would lose clan status.”

  Lorn stands and takes up the blade again. “I can’t imagine Tasjan risking that directly.”

  “He didn’t. It was done by someone who owes him or someone he can force to act. There’s no way to prove it, but I know it as surely as I’m standing here.”

  Lorn nods briskly. “We’ll talk more after we deal with the refuse. It’s probably better if you stay here until I get back. It won’t be long.”

  “Be careful. They could have others beyond the wall.”

  “I will… but I can tell if they’re there.”

  “Make sure of it.”

  That… that, Lorn will certainly do. He slips from the bedchamber, listens to make sure Ryalth slides the iron latch shut, and heads down the steps to rejoin Pheryk. Even if the dead man with the burned face is found, so long as he is not found near Lorn, people can surmise that he was struck with a lantern or attacked a magus. But… with whoever was watching through a chaos-glass, Lorn does not wish to reveal how much chaos he can muster until he must.

  CXXXII

  In the early-morning light, Lorn stands in the door to the bedchamber, his eyes going to his consort and son. “Pheryk and I are walking with you to Ryalor House. You were right about last night, but if Tasjan is behind this, he may not be quite so indirect the next time. And you aren’t exactly in the best position to defend yourself or run if you’re holding Kerial. I’ll either come by and walk back with you, or you hire a pair of guards to accompany you and Pheryk.”

  Ryalth nods as she wraps a small woolen cloak around Kerial, who is trying to crawl away from his mother so that he can plunge off the bed. Ryalth scoops him up. “No.” She turns to Lorn. “I would have suggested that, had you not. I think this morning might be safe, but from this afternoon on, it will not be.” She frowns. “Yet… if you escort me, and all know that…”

  “Pheryk was out early this morning, and heard the news about the dead bravos,” Lorn says. “You’ve heard word that certain merchanter rivals have made threats. If merchanters are beginning to kill merchanters, a little care is warranted.” Lorn smiles. “After all, it is not as though you have a halfscore of guards-merely your consort and a pensioned old lancer.”

  “The two of you are worth a halfscore,” Ryalth snorts.

  “Perhaps a quarter-score,” Lorn concedes, “but none need to know that. An escort of two for a lady trader and her heir are scarcely excessive.”

  “True.” Ryalth nods.

  “There is one other thing, once you reach Ryalor House,” Lorn says. “Besides finding out everything that Tasjan is doing, and if he is hiring more guards, or building ships with cannon?” asks Ryalth. Lorn shrugs sheepishly. “You’re ahead of me.”

  “I will know more by this evening-and even more by tomorrow evening.” Ryalth hoists Kerial to her shoulder. “We need to go. If we do not, you will be late, and that will raise questions. And one of the senior Austran traders will be coming by. He has suggested by his request to meet me, that all is less than desirable with his current merchanting house in Cyad.”

  “Tasjan’s, I imagine,” Lorn says lightly.

  “Tasjan’s or one of the smaller houses like Ryalor.” She starts for the bedchamber door, and Lorn follows.

  Pheryk is waiting downstairs, and he nods to Ryalth. “A sunny morn, but chill, Lady. Saw but few when I was dumping refuse this morning.”

  “The others?” asks Lorn.

  Pheryk shrugs. “I saw nothing. Perhaps none will.”


  The three and Kerial make their way through the dwelling, across the veranda, now without bloodstains, Lorn notes, and along the dew-slicked marble walk past the fountain that has been turned off for the winter.

  Lorn lets his senses range beyond the gate, but the narrow way is empty, and he unlocks the iron gate. Pheryk steps out first, then Ryalth, and Lorn follows and locks the gate.

  The walk to the Traders’ Plaza and up to Ryalor House is uneventful. Ryalth exchanges greetings with a handful of others as she crosses the Plaza to the stairs.

  Eileyt is waiting inside the door of Ryalor House, holding several sheets of parchment. “Once you are ready… Lady…”

  Lorn smiles and bows to Ryalth. “Until this evening. Should I come by here?”

  “I would guess you should. It will be a long day.” Ryalth returns his smile warmly.

  Lorn and Pheryk turn and walk down the steps.

  Halfway down, Lorn says in a low voice, “I think we should have goose tonight.”

  “Ah… a good idea, ser, and I will tell Kysia and Ghrety. My consort has a wonderful way of fixing it…”

  Lorn laughs. “That would be fine. Perhaps you should also inquire about some more geese or goslings.”

  “I had thought to do so, ser.” Pheryk inclines his head.

  At the edge of the Traders’ Plaza, the two men part. While Lorn is more cautious than usual, he notes nothing strange on the rest of the walk to Mirror Lancer Court.

  He has no more than entered his study when Senior Squad Leader Tygyl is knocking at his door.

  “Ser?”

  “Yes, Tygyl?”

  “The Majer-Commander would like to see you for a moment.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Lorn turns and follows Tygyl up the last flight of stairs to the fifth floor and waits for the senior squad leader to announce him, then steps into the long study as Tygyl motions for him to enter.

  Lorn closes the door and steps forward, seating himself at Rynst’s behest.

  The gray-haired Majer-Commander studies Lorn. Finally, he speaks. “I will be announcing your appointment as maneuvers coordinator for the two squads of Mirror Lancers that will be arriving in the next few days. You will be their commander, and the company officers will be told such, but there is little need to state directly that we are assigning two fully armed companies under the command of a field commander. Especially one with a record such as yours.”