Lorn inclines his head to the white-haired Ensra. “It’s good to see you again.”
Ensra smiles. “It’s good to have younger folk back in the house. The next time, perhaps you could bring your young one.”
“Mother Ensra…” Aleyar shakes her head gently. “Let the poor woman have a few moments to enjoy herself away from her son.”
“He must be a good child… with such parents.”
“Good, but he does keep her busy,” Lorn says.
“And Lorn, as well, at times,” Ryalth adds.
Aleyar gestures. “Please sit down.”
Lorn and Ryalth take the settee across from the armchair where Ensra sits. Tyrsal sits on the other settee.
“This dwelling… it is quite something.” Ryalth gestures around the sitting room, with the dozen or so blue-upholstered armchairs, the matching set of blue velvet settees, and the thick blue-and-gold carpet centered in the middle of the blue-tinged marble tiles.
“It should be,” replies Tyrsal with a grin. “My grandsire was the head of Dyjani House. My father was his only heir, and he was a magus.” Tyrsal shrugs. “You can imagine how the merchanters felt about that.”
“They felt that any merchanter who had the talents of a magus would have an unfair advantage, I’m sure,” Ryalth replies.
“He was not given that much of a choice,” adds Ensra. “Tasjan’s grandsire threatened to bring the matter before the Merchanter Advisor and the Traders’ Council.”
“You don’t hear much of Tasjan’s sire,” Lorn ventures.
“He died at sea when Tasjan was young,” replies Ensra. “Tasjan’s grandsire lived to be almost fourscore.”
“So the grandsire pushed your father into the Magi’i and became the head of Dyjani clan?” asks Lorn.
“Pretty much,” admits Tyrsal with a glance at his mother.
“Exactly so,” confirms Ensra.
“Your friend Husdryt… what does he think of Tasjan?” Lorn asks.
“Husdryt says very little,” Tyrsal replies.
“That alone suggests he has his concerns,” says Ensra. “Husdryt was never close-mouthed about that which he likes.”
“…uhhh…” Aleyar clears her throat. “If we do not begin dinner…”
“It will be cold,” Tyrsal says with a grin.
The five rise.
As they follow Tyrsal and Aleyar from the sitting room, Lorn wonders how matters might have turned out had Tyrsal’s father remained a merchanter.
CXXXVI
In the near-black purple of night, Lorn and Ryalth walk down the wide marble steps of Tyrsal’s dwelling to the waiting carriage, followed by Tyrsal and Aleyar. The driver sitting on the coach box is younger, harder-faced than the gray-haired man who had brought them to Tyrsal’s.
Lorn stares at the man for a moment, then asks, quietly, “What happened to the other driver?”
“He had a touch of the flux, ser… asked if I’d spell him, ser.”
Lorn can sense the lie. “Oh… I see.” He casts his chaos-senses around the carriage, but can sense no one hiding within. He turns to Tyrsal, still standing on the white marble steps behind the mounting block. “Do you sense it?”
Tyrsal nods.
The coachman looks puzzled, and leans forward slightly. The pose is a lie, as well, one which Lorn ignores.
“Here…” Lorn points to the rear wheel. “Best you come look. The axle-post is splitting in half.”
“Ser?”
“Come look for yourself.” Lorn motions to Ryalth. “You’d better step back… if that fails here…”
“Yes, dearest.” While the redhead’s voice is demure, her eyes are hard as she steps back from the mounting block.
The driver clambers down, clearly puzzled. As he steps toward the rear wheel, the Brystan sabre is at his neck.
“One move and you’re dead,” Lorn says pleasantly.
“Ser…” The driver freezes.
Tyrsal appears, and his cupridium sabre is also bared.
“You’re lying, and you’re not very smart,” Lorn continues. “My friend there is a first-level magus. No one told you that, I am sure, but he could tell you were lying. Now… you can tell the truth, or you can die.”
The man’s eyes widen. “They… just told me that all I had to do was drive you back to your dwelling except stop short of the gate… maybe a hundred cubits… and look the other way.”
“That’s the truth,” Tyrsal says quietly. “But there’s more.”
The driver’s eyes flick down toward the shimmering blade at his neck. He swallows.
“Who hired you?” asks Lorn.
“Benylt… does work for… for whoever has the golds…”
“Who hired him?”
“Ser… I don’t know…”
“You know more than that,” Tyrsal says.
“Which merchanter?” Lorn questions.
“Ser… I can’t say… I mean… he’s been around… His name… No one said…”
“Benylt didn’t tell you… but you’d seen the merchanter before?”
“Yes, ser.”
“And you weren’t supposed to know?”
The hard-faced man swallows. “No, ser.”
“What does he look like?”
“Dark-haired, like, but he wore a cloak… only remembered him ‘cause one of his front teeth be gold… Seen him once ’afore when I was first on the piers… as a loader… came two, three times to the same ship. Wore one of those blue cloaks with a hood all the time, same as when he hired Benylt.”
“What ship?
“The Hippo-something.”
Lorn can sense both Tyrsal and Ryalth stiffening. “How tall was he?”
“Middling, ser… not too tall, not too short.”
“Did you hear him speak?”
“No, ser.”
“How many men will Benylt have?” Lorn’s eyes flick to Aleyar, who watches the bravo as closely as Tyrsal does, then back to the pseudo coachman.
“Six, perchance eight. Be not calling more than that, not Benylt.”
Lorn looks at Tyrsal, who nods. “Can you handle four or five?” Lorn asks his friend in a low voice.
“If they don’t know it.”
“What about a shield? Can you sit next to the driver?”
“Be easier if I sat up on the roof, in the baggage rack,” Tyrsal points out. “Then I’m behind him.”
“Good idea.”
Aleyar’s mouth opens, then closes, as Tyrsal turns to her and says, “It’s more than just Lorn’s problem, dear.”
Ryalth offers the smallest of nods to her consort.
“You’re going to drive us home,” Lorn tells the would-be driver. “Just the way you were told.”
The man swallows. “Ser… ?”
“Unless you’d prefer I use this sabre here and now.”
“I’ll drive, ser. I’ll drive.”
“And the magus will be behind you. He’s very good with both a sabre and a firebolt.”
“I’ll drive right careful, ser. I will.”
Lorn addresses Tyrsal, his eyes still on the bravo. “Can Ryalth stay here?”
“Of course,” the magus replies. Behind him, Aleyar nods.
“What about Kerial?” asks Ryalth.
“I’ll bring him back… after we deal with this difficulty. We can’t get there any sooner.”
The redhead clamps her lips together. “You’ll be careful. Both of you.”
“Very careful.” Lorn motions to the driver. “Back up to your seat.”
“Ah… yes, ser.”
As the driver mounts and Tyrsal climbs up on top from the footman’s station, Lorn steps back toward Ryalth and lowers his voice. “That ship… it’s a Hyshrah vessel, isn’t it?”
“How did you know?”
“Because it wouldn’t have made sense any other way. No other house is a threat to Tasjan, except you. See if you can think about who or how Tasjan would use that to hurt both us and Vyanat.”
>
She nods.
Lorn looks up at Tyrsal, sitting in the baggage rack.
“I’m ready. I’m glad it’s not that long a drive.”
After a last glance at Ryalth, Lorn climbs into the carriage, his sabre still unsheathed.
The carriage lurches forward, then settles into a even motion. Lorn continues to hold the unsheathed sabre, if loosely, as the driver follows the roads that lead northward and east into the merchanter quarter.
“Just drive up exactly as you’re supposed to,” Tyrsal orders the driver as the carriage turns off the main way.
“Yes, ser.”
The carriage halts beside a torch set in a bracket in the dark low wall more than a hundred cubits east of the iron gate to his own dwelling. Lorn can sense a number of figures, on both sides of the carriage, concealed in the shadows. With several on the wall to the right, Lorn opens the right door from inside. He does not exit, instead, sensing the four men in the shadows, he slides back to the other side, holding the blur-shield for long enough to step clear of the carriage.
Thunk! Thunk!
Two arrows go through the driver’s chest.
“Bast…” the man gurgles as he slumps.
Hssstt! Hssstt! Two quick firebolts from Tyrsal incinerate the pair of archers who stand in the darkness atop the flat wall adjoining the wall that surrounds Ryalth and Lorn’s dwelling.
Lorn does not drop the vision-blurring shield until his chaos-aided sabre slices through the neck of the bravo who steps out of the deeper shadows on the left side of the lane. He then pivots, and steps back toward the second assailant-the one approaching from the rear.
“Where are they?” mutters someone.
Hssstt! A scream begins and dies almost immediately after Tyrsal’s firebolt.
Lorn parries a lancerlike slash by a figure nearly a head taller than he is, and then a second, and several more before he has an opening-but the one is all he needs.
Another firebolt hisses through the night as Lorn turns from the second fallen bravo.
“Got a fire-magus there!”
Lorn hurries around the back of the carriage and steps silently behind the rearmost bravo, the one he suspects is Benylt. The chaos-aided Brystan sabre slides through bone and muscle like a red-hot poker through water, sizzling and steaming.
“Got Benylt! Run!”
Two sets of boots begin to run.
Neither makes it a dozen cubits before Tyrsal’s firebolts bring them down.
Lorn casts his chaos-senses around, but can find no hint of anyone besides the chaos-shimmering figure of Tyrsal. “There isn’t anyone else, is there?”
“Not alive,” Tyrsal replies dryly. He slowly climbs down from the carriage box, holding a sabre he has not used.
Lorn studies the figure of Benylt sprawled on the stones.
Tyrsal looks from one sprawled figure to another, shaking his head. “I don’t know as I could do what you do all the time.”
“I could do it with types like these every day.” Lorn snorts, bending and wiping his blade clean on Benylt’s cloak.
“What do we do with all these bodies?” asks Tyrsal, blotting his forehead.
“I don’t think there ought to be any,” Lorn suggests. “If bravos just vanish every time they take on Ryalor House… in time… perchance…”
“You are an optimist, my friend, but I can muster enough chaos, I think.”
“Good. After that we’ll check on Kerial, and go back to your house, if you don’t mind.” Lorn smiles grimly.
“You’re welcome… Can you put a stop to this?”
“I have some ideas.” Lorn begins to gather up the fallen blades. “They might even work.”
CXXXVII
Lorn closes the door of the guest bedchamber in Tyrsal’s dwelling and turns to Ryalth. She is propped up on the bed and is already nursing Kerial. He unclips the sabre scabbard from his belt and leans weapon and sheath against the wall.
“How was he?” she asks.
“He was sleeping-a bit fussy when I woke him up, but he liked the carriage ride. Pheryk’s a better driver than most.” Lorn takes a deep breath. “I think everything would have been all right at home, but there wasn’t much point in risking it, and then traveling out to get you and then coming back again and worrying.”
“What did you do with the carriage?”
“Pheryk drove us back and then said he would leave it tied at the carriage station that serves Hyshrah Clan. There’s no one there at this time of night.”
“You’re being more indirect than usual,” the redhead says.
“I want Vyanat to have something to think about.” Lorn shrugs
“You acted as if you knew the Hypolya were one of Vyanat’s vessels. Is there something you haven’t told me?” Ryalth looks at Lorn. “I cannot believe that he would wish either of us dead-or that any thinking member of his house would.”
“It would depend on the thoughts.” Lorn sits down on the side of the bed and gestures to the bag beside the armoire. “I brought daywear for the two of us, and three sets of clothes for Kerial.” He bends to pull off his boots. “I also brought my chaos-glass.”
“You don’t think Vyanat-”
“While I trust no one, I do trust your feelings, especially on that. But there are enemies and relatives within every large house, and their goals may not be at all the same as Vyanat’s. Perhaps you should pay Vyanat’mer a visit-tomorrow-and bring me along. Tell him that I wanted to meet him because he had appreciated my report on Biehl so much. I’ll send a messenger in, saying that I’ll be slightly late to Mirror Lancer Court.”
“You think Vyanat will see me if I just show up?”
“With me beside you? I think so.” Lorn grunts and pulls off the other boot. “At the very least he will wish to know why you want to make such a call.”
“How many did you kill tonight?”
“They killed the coachman with archers. We killed eight plus the leader. Tyrsal used chaos-fire to incinerate the bodies. He has a headache, and he’s not going to feel wonderful in the morning.”
“Aleyar will help.”
“That’s true. I also asked him if he would request she not tell Liataphi for a day or so.”
“Just a day or so?”
“Until after we meet with Vyanat.”
Ryalth lifts Kerial to her shoulder and burps him gently.
Lorn stands and walks to the corner by the armoire, setting his boots almost against the wall, then bending again and easing the chaos-glass case from the bag. He carries the case to the table under the window and eases back the vase with the spray of cut flowers to make room for the glass.
Lorn concentrates, and, as the silver mists form and then dissipate, the image of Tasjan appears in the glass, sitting at a long table, clearly enjoying what seems to be a family gathering of sorts. Lorn shrugs and releases the image.
The next image is that of Luss-in his bedchamber. Lorn also releases that image quickly. Rustyl, too, is in bed, apparently sleeping, although the magus turns in his sleep. Lorn lets the image vanish.
“Did you find anything?” Ryalth asks, yawning.
“No. I would have been surprised if I had.”
“Because Tasjan worked through someone else?”
Lorn nods as he replaces the glass in its case. “We do need to see Vyanat in the morning.”
“If he is in Cyad.”
“He will be. Tasjan needs him to be.”
Ryalth offers a sad smile.
CXXXVIII
Ryalth bows as she steps into the square room that is Vyanat’s office. Lorn bows as well, before straightening and taking in the muscular but trim Merchanter Advisor. Behind the merchanter’s table desk is a wall that is entirely bookshelves, and almost every shelf is filled with leather-bound volumes.
Lorn notes two volumes on one of the higher shelves, volumes bound in the same shimmering silver as Ryalth’s book of verse, but the majer does not let his eyes dwell on them.
&
nbsp; “I do appreciate your seeing me with so little notice.” Ryalth smiles.
Vyanat bows. His perfectly combed black-and-silver hair moves not a fraction of a cubit. “When a house head so successful as you asks for a moment, I am more than pleased to grant it.” His head inclines toward Lorn. “This, I presume, is your consort, the redoubtable Majer Lorn.”
Lorn bows politely once more. “I have heard much of you from Ryalth-much good.” He smiles. “I have also heard that you believe directness and honesty to be necessary for the merchanters of Cyador to flourish.”
Vyanat laughs. “You must wish to be direct.”
“I may in the future,” Lorn counters.
“Lorn had wished to meet you and to see Hyshrah House,” Ryalth says.
“It appears as though much of what affects Hyshrah House and other merchanter houses also bears upon Mirror Lancer Court, and I have but seen my consort’s house,” Lorn admits.
The faintest frown flickers across Vyanat’s brow.
“I see you have rather a large number of volumes here.” Lorn gestures to the shelves behind the Merchanter Advisor.
“Most were gathered by my sire. He insisted that I read and learn certain of them.”
“One can learn much from the past,” Ryalth suggests. “The hearts of men change seldom from generation to generation.”
Another faint frown appears on Vyanat’s face, then vanishes.
“I would not take too great a portion of your day,” Lorn says. “But if you would indulge me slightly, and just walk us around your house.”
“There is little one would not see in many houses, I am certain.” Vyanat glances at Ryalth, then looks back at Lorn and offers a quick laugh. “Still, seeing is believing, and since you do assist the Majer-Commander, I am pleased to indulge your curiosity.” The Merchanter Advisor steps from behind his table desk.
Lorn and Ryalth stand back and then follow the muscular merchanter out the office door and along the corridor.
“This study is that of my brother Vyel.” Vyanat gestures toward the open door, a gesture that is not meant to suggest entry.
Lorn ignores the body language and steps into the office, smiling.
The slender and dark-haired man behind the table filled with stacks of papers rises, his brows briefly knitting in puzzlement, his eyes going from Lorn to Vyanat and then back to Lorn.
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