“Yes, ser.”
“Escort them to the small sitting room, just before the glass strikes. I’ll be waiting there. Their parents or escorts can wait in the reception hall.” Although Toziel has said this before, he wants no mistakes.
Dauret nods.
Then, Toziel turns and walks from the grand ballroom, out through the right, or north archway, and into the small sitting room, the one to which his mother often retired to refresh herself during the long formal seasonal balls.
Behind him, the musicians play “Land of Light,” the traditional ending to every formal ball held in the palace.
IV
Although it seems almost as though a glass has passed before the sitting room door opens, it can only have been a fraction of that when the two women step into the chamber where Toziel stands, waiting.
Cythera enters first, and bows slightly, as does Ryenyel. Both murmur, “Your Mightiness.”
Toziel replies with a smile, one he hopes does not convey his own nervousness, and studies the two—the one in a clinging black gown, the other in a shade of healer’s green. “If you two would follow me for a moment…”
Cythera inclines her head, a movement of grace and resolution, yet without arrogance or submission, and so poised that there is not the slightest movement of the clinging black fabric of her gown.
Ryenyel offers a shy smile and the words, “As you wish, Your Mightiness.” Yet the tone of her voice holds the sense of a question, but not enough of that question to determine what it might be.
Toziel leads the way from the sitting room back down the massive staircase to the next lower level of the Palace of Light and onto a corridor on the north side. Their feet barely seem to brush the polished white stones of the corridor as the three glide toward the private study of the Emperor, trailed discreetly by a pair of palace guards, both wearing green uniforms edged in silver trim and carrying small firelances.
The door before which Toziel halts is open, a single portal. “If you would enter,” he suggests.
As the two step into the study, Toziel studies each once more as she moves past him.
Cythera is slender, her straight nose perfectly proportioned, even the black stone clips in her silver hair matching the fabric of the slightly scoop-necked gown that hints at, but does not reveal, the exquisite figure beneath. Her lips curl slightly, as if she can sense his evaluation as she passes.
Toziel has no doubt that she can, for most daughters of the Magi’i can do that … and far more.
Ryenyel steps past him in turn, and he sees her thick and dark red hair, hair somewhat too coarse by the standards of Cyad to be considered that of a beauty, but the green-faced silver clips accentuate an aliveness in that redness, an aliveness mirrored in green eyes that almost laugh, for she does not conceal that she knows she is being studied, nor that she knows her figure is somewhat too full to be called imperially slim.
Toziel smothers his own amusement, nodding to the palace guards to close the study door before turning. As the door shuts behind him, he walks slowly toward the polished desk that holds but four objects, stepping to the left and then turning to face the two. “My mother was not a woman who cared greatly for things, but she did value most highly several personal possessions,” Toziel says, his voice quiet but warm. “I thought you might like to look at each.” He gestures toward the desk.
The first of the four objects, the one farthest from Toziel, is an exquisitely simple tiara of a metal that shimmers like silver, but seems to gather and reflect light simultaneously, with three delicate lobes faced with modest white diamonds that seem to have the faintest silver tinge. The second is a small box, seemingly enameled in black, but with a circular oval that depicts a silver-white winged bird with a long, curved neck, unlike any ever seen in Cyador, swimming from left to right across a pond with a background of golden-green rushes. The third is a small volume, a book with a silver-tinged cover that bears the faintest hint of green, while the fourth is an emerald solitaire ring, the stone cut so precisely that even in the muted light of the study lamps the gem seems to dance like a green flame.
For several long moments, neither woman moves or speaks.
Finally, Toziel smiles gently. “Cythera … Ryenyel … they’re only possessions. Tell me what you think, what one evokes the most for you, if you will.”
Cythera steps forward first, toward the side of the desk closest to Toziel. Ryenyel waits for a moment, then takes a position even with the silver-haired woman, with perhaps a yard between them.
Toziel notes that neither woman more than surveys either the tiara or the ring, and he can sense that their acts are not artifice. That pleases him.
“Might I ask what the bird is?” asks Cythera, gently lifting and holding the enameled box.
“An Anglorian swan, a cigoerne,” replies Toziel. “Not that I’ve ever seen one.”
The silver-haired woman opens the box, her long fingers delicate and careful, as she studies it inside and out before replacing it gently on the desk. “She used this box often. It was her favorite.”
Toziel nods.
Cythera frowns slightly. “I have the feeling it might be one of a pair.”
That does surprise Toziel, for he has never seen another box like it. “You may be right, but I don’t know of another.”
Ryenyel turns her eyes on the box. “I think she’s right.”
“Does that evoke the most for you as well?” asks Toziel.
Instead of replying directly, Ryenyel slips around Cythera and gestures to the silver-tinged book. “Might I open it, Your Mightiness?”
“I’m scarcely mighty, but you may.”
He watches as her fingers touch the silver-sheened cover, then lift and open the book. She turns one page, then the second. Her eyes widen as she begins to read the third page.
“It almost seems as though … as though…” Ryenyel does not complete the sentence.
“As though what?” he inquires.
“Is there another one, just like this?”
Toziel wants to smile, but counterfeits a frown. “Why should there be?”
“I could not say, Your Mightiness. It is only a feeling.” Ryenyel turns the page and her lips almost move.
Toziel forces himself not to move, but his eyes keep returning to Ryenyel as she reads yet another page. He can sense the feelings the words bring up in her, and he desperately wants to hold her.
He does not move.
Cythera glances from Ryenyel to Toziel, then back to Ryenyel.
Neither notices as the silver-haired beauty slips from the private study of the Emperor Toziel’elth’alt’mer. Nor does either hear the faintest click of the door, turning as they do to face each other, their eyes meeting … and their fingers entwining.
There are love stories, and then there are love stories, and the latter often show what another story about the same person does not.
THE MOST SUCCESSFUL MERCHANT
“If you would send my regrets, Leityr, and your acceptance in my place…” The white-haired merchanter coughs, a sound more like retching.
“You’re not going to the heir’s consorting ceremony?” asks the young man who is barely more than a youth. “Only the most highly regarded merchanters are invited, and you are among them. I know the Emperor and Empress esteem you above all other merchanters. I have seen the tokens…”
“My son, the Empress will understand.”
“The Empress, but not the Emperor? What of him?”
“He will understand more than anyone, and he will appreciate my absence.”
“But why? How can that be?”
“You know I have been as kind and honorable, and as loving a consort as I know how to be. You also know that I did not consort young. There was a reason for that.…” The old man is silent for a time, and then begins to speak, quietly, but clearly. “Many years ago, I began my life in trade as a runner, a mere messenger who carried dispatches between the trading houses, those both large and sma
ll … and even some that were not even properly houses…”
Leityr settles into the chair at the corner of the table desk to listen.
* * *
Eileyt was hurrying down the Road of Benevolent Commerce when he saw Merekel, the only runner with whom he talked more than infrequently, coming the other way. Merekel waved and kept going, most likely toward one of the Houses to the north.
Eileyt wondered whether he should bother with the Clanless Traders, who seldom needed runners, but the day had been slow. He shrugged and hurried off the Road and along the front of the converted warehouse that served a variety of those small traders. None on the lower level needed his services, and he reluctantly climbed the wide staircase to the upper level.
“Runner!” called a voice.
Eileyt turned. A red-haired woman gestured from a far doorway on the upper level, a door that fronted on a space little larger than the smallest of storerooms. He hurried over, only to discover that the person he had thought was a merchanter woman appeared barely older than a girl. Although she was definitely shaped like a woman, and her blue eyes were focused and anything but dreaming, she appeared years younger than Eileyt himself. And very beautiful.
“Can you take a pouch to Siedyk at Kysan House?” Her voice was firm, traderlike, but with a hint of huskiness.
“Two coppers.” The fee was set for all runners, two for a pouch and four for a case, but Eileyt had never seen her before and wanted her to know … just in case.
“Two coppers, Lady,” she said firmly.
“Yes, Lady.”
“Your pledge plaque, if you would?”
He offered the small bronze oblong.
“Eileyt.” She jotted down his name in the dispatch ledger.
He noted the grace and precision of her script, then accepted the copper she proffered, hoping he could get a return run so that he did not have to come back for a single copper.
“I’ll hold it for you if you can’t get a return run.”
The way in which she spoke convinced Eileyt, and he nodded, then headed back down the steps.
He did not get a return run, but early the following morning, just after he’d left his pallet in the almost dilapidated Hall of Runners, little more than a narrow warehouse too small for most merchanters, while passing Yuryan House, he was summoned and given a large pouch for Ryalor Trading, on the upper level of the House of the Clanless Traders. He did not even realize that the pouch was for the red-headed young woman until he saw the entwined R and L above her doorway.
When he knocked on the open door, she stepped forward and handed him his copper. “Thank you.” The way she said those two words made him feel as though she truly did appreciate his services.
“I also have a pouch for you from Yuryan House.” Eileyt handed her the receipt for the pouch.
She studied it quickly, made an entry in the ledger before handing him a second copper, one that was not required. “Thank you for that as well.”
“Thank you very much, Lady.” Eileyt paused, then asked, “Might I ask … Lady … when did you…”
“I’ve been here for the past eightday. If you want work, come by here more frequently.”
“I will, Lady,” he promised, and he returned that very same afternoon.
She surprised him by handing him a dispatch pouch and a copper. “For Trader Fuyol at Yuryan House.”
Over the next few eightdays, Eileyt made a point of stopping by the House of the Clanless Traders. More often than not, the red-haired young lady merchanter did have runs for him. What surprised him was that she seemed to have business of some sort with most of the larger merchanting clans in Cyad—not only Yuryan House, but Bluet House, Hyshrah House, and even the feared Dyjani House, as well as with an Austran merchantman porting in Cyad.
One afternoon, the fifth threeday of spring, he stopped once more. She was seated behind the table desk, looking at entries in a ledger, while looking at figures she had set down on another sheet of paper, then occasionally adding one to the paper.
“You’re taking figures from the ledger, not entering them?”
“I’m calculating the change in the prices of cuprite.”
“You trade in cuprite?” Somehow the idea of the merchanter lady trading in cuprite surprised Eileyt. He had supposed that she dealt in small items, such as gems, or lamps, or jewelry.
“You’re the curious one, Runner. What is your name?”
“Eileyt, Lady.”
She nodded.
“The copper, Lady…?”
“For us, such trades make more sense. Or shares in merchanter cargoes.” Her eyes caught his, and Eileyt saw the humor in them and in her face before she continued. “Goods we have to take possession of or hold for more than a short time will come later. It takes more people and a large warehouse to handle small items in quantities large enough to be profitable. The same goes for unique goods.”
He pointed to the ledger and the figures on the paper. “How do those help?”
“Men lie. So do women. The coins do not. They only allow men to deceive themselves.” The red-haired merchanter woman did not smile. “That is why an accurate ledger is so important. So is knowing who paid how much for what.”
“You could write down anything you wanted, and no one would know whether it was right.”
“That isn’t the point. Accuracy isn’t for them. It’s for me, for the House.”
Eileyt did not laugh. Somehow, she conveyed the impression that her small space was in fact a merchanting house. And he knew that she had more than a score of dispatch pouches all embroidered with the intertwined R and L, and that often there were almost none in the smooth wooden box beneath the table desk beside the doorway. But … shares in cargoes? Those cost tens of golds, not coppers or silvers.
“If you would return the pouch…”
At her reminder, Eileyt nodded. “Yes, Lady.” He turned and set off, still thinking about golds and dispatch pouches.
As a mere runner, Eileyt could not afford to frequent the Honest Stone, the coffeehouse where so many young merchanters gathered to talk and to trade gossip, hoping to tease out hints about what other houses might be doing or to let slip misleading tidbits of information. On slow days, he could pause near the tables outside, hoping for a run. Most times, he did not get a run, but some days he did, as he did in late morning on the following sevenday, usually a very slow time for trade runners.
A dark-haired young trader, attired in the finest white cotton, over which he wore a shimmercloth vest of maroon trimmed in pale green, gestured. “You there! Runner!”
Eileyt hurried over. “Yes, ser?”
The trader finished writing something on a sheet, then folded and sealed the paper before tucking it inside a maroon pouch. “You know Ryalor Trading in the House of the Clanless?”
“Yes, ser.”
The trader proffered a copper. “Take the pouch there. You’ll get the other when you return the pouch to me or to Nylyth House.”
“Yes, ser.” Eileyt moved away quickly, then, after several steps, knelt to tighten his sandals, hoping to overhear more of interest.
“You’re trading with her?”
“She knows things … and she’s good to look at…”
“Your sire might not see it that way…”
The trader laughed. “He’d see it very much that way.”
Although it was no business of Eileyt’s, except as a merchanter runner, the young trader’s words bothered him as he rose and trotted toward the House of the Clanless.
Once he was there, the merchanter lady took the green pouch, frowning as she untied it and took out the folded square. Without a word, she handed the pouch back to Eileyt—empty. Then she gave him a copper. “You can return the pouch to Nylyth House.”
“No reply, Lady?”
“Ghulaan’s traders want too much for too little.”
But … denying even the smallest of the major merchanting houses … Eileyt did not speak those words,
only saying, “Yes, Lady.”
His eyes dropped to the sealed envelope on the side of the desk. He could not make out the name, only the words “Undercaptain, Mirror Lancers” and the name Isahl. That must be a town or a Lancer Post, although he had never heard of it. If she is even remotely related to a Mirror Lancer officer … Eileyt looked into the chamber behind her, but he only saw file chests, and not a single barrel or bale.
“I rent space in the warehouses of others, Eileyt.”
The runner barely managed to avoid blushing. “I will return the pouch now.” To Nylyth House. Eileyt wanted no part of the young trader’s anger or frustration.
As the eightdays went by, Eileyt found he was running messages more and more for the young lady merchanter … and getting the impression that she was far more than she seemed. He didn’t even tell Merekel, but then, Merekel shared little. Most runners didn’t.
Then, one sixday evening, he stood in the shadows a block away from Bronze Bowl. The Silver Chalice was better, he’d heard, but he didn’t have the coins, and they’d throw him out just because he was a runner and not an enumerator.
From the nearer shadows came two voices. Eileyt eased closer.
“… got an easy one…”
“… easy?” The other young man laughed. “Nothing’s easy.”
“… red-haired merchanter girl, insists on being called ‘Lady.’ Jiulko wants her dead.”
“It’s not the first time he’s wanted someone gone … must have told him no…”
“… hear she’s pretty … but it’s business … tomorrow night … when she leaves … always leaves late … no one around…”
Eileyt remained unmoving in the shadows as the two silver blades walked on. Although he had never heard the name Jiulko, he concentrated on remembering it. Should you do anything? Can you? Eileyt was not a bravo. He might have held off a sneak thief with the truncheon at his waist … but to deal with even one of the night’s silver blades? He wouldn’t even have wanted to encounter one of the ruffians who called themselves, half-mockingly, the bronze blades. He shook his head.
Recluce Tales Page 10