Recluce Tales

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Yet … he had made more coins in the past half season than ever before, and she was kind and often gave him extra coppers.

  In the end, he made his way to a gray stone building set at the end of a well-swept narrow lane, also of gray stone, to meet a man he had known once, years before.

  The graying man wore a gray tunic and trousers so dark that they were the color of charcoal, yet not black. He frowned as he saw Eileyt. “You’re not cut out to be even a bronze blade.”

  “That’s not why I’m here. There are two silver blades. They’re going to kill the red-haired merchanter lady, the one who calls herself Ryalor Trading,” Eileyt explained. “Tonight … when she leaves the House of the Clanless.”

  The kind-faced—though scarcely kind, Eileyt knew—clerk looked bored. “Eileyt … the Guild doesn’t do favors.”

  “I know. I’ll pay.”

  “You’ll pay? With what?”

  Eileyt laid five silvers on the polished wood.

  “That’s only half.”

  He showed the other five.

  The clerk shook his head. “A runner with that many silvers? You’re risking your own neck. Where did you get them?”

  “I’ve been careful.” In fact, the ten silvers—a whole gold—comprised most of his life savings, savings he had been amassing in hopes of eventually posting the five-gold bond necessary to become an enumerator.

  “And you’d spend them on a pair of silver blades? They’d as soon kill you as spit. To save a merchanter girl who’ll get consorted and never look to you?”

  “I won’t always be a runner. You’ll see.”

  The clerk snorted. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The older man made an entry in his ledger, then wrote on a parchment plaque, which he handed to Eileyt. Only then did he take the five silvers. “That’s only for the one with the blade.”

  “I know.” Eileyt hoped that the assassin’s friend wasn’t with him, but he didn’t have two golds. One was all he could scrape up.

  Sevenday evening, Eileyt waited in the shadows of the side lane across from the steps to the upper level of the House of the Clanless. It was almost full dark, and already in the sky to the southeast the Rational Stars shone bright and pitiless when she came down the steps, moving confidently. She turned north on the stone sidewalk flanking the west side of the Road of Benevolent Commerce. Eileyt wanted to hurry to the red-haired woman. He did not. Instead, he waited until she was almost out of sight before he left the shadows.

  Cloaked in the dark gray half-cloaks of silver blades, two figures followed her like shadows, their boots barely whispering across the stone. She never looked back as they silently drew closer. Then, as the first blade passed a narrow alley, he stopped, staggered, and reached back to put out his hand to the stone wall. His hand never touched the wall before he pitched face forward.

  From the other side of the road, Eileyt swallowed as he saw two figures, or a figure and a shadow. The shadow was the Guild Assassin, and he was slipping away back down the alley. The remaining figure was the other silver blade. He stooped and cut away his friend’s wallet, then straightened and continued following the lady merchanter, as if nothing at all had happened. Eileyt found he was clenching his teeth, but there was nothing left to do, but follow … and hope that he could do something.

  The lady merchanter suddenly dashed across the road, just in front of a coach headed south, and into a narrow lane. The silver blade let the coach pass, then went after her.

  Eileyt kept moving, then stopped as the lady merchanter emerged from the lane, walking swiftly and not looking back. Ever so slowly, Eileyt approached the narrow lane. He heard nothing. He did not want to enter it, or look into it. He finally did. In the dimness past a rubbish barrel, he could make out a pair of boots. The boots had feet and legs in them. Eileyt took two steps, and then two more, just enough to see the blood—surprisingly little—and the fact that the blade was dead and that his wallet had been cut away.

  Eileyt stepped back and glanced north along the Road of Benevolent Commerce. He saw no sign of the merchanter woman. After a long moment, he smiled, although he could not have said why, especially after having spent most of what he had saved over the past two years.

  Eileyt did not run on eightdays. Most merchanters were closed, and those that were not seldom needed runners. He waited until eighth glass on oneday before he made his way to the upper level of the House of the Clanless Traders. As he had hoped, she beckoned to him, and he hurried toward her, then stopped. “Where to, Lady?”

  She ignored the question and looked directly at him. “Eileyt, someone followed me Sevenday night. You followed them … and then the one who followed me no longer did. What happened? What did you have to do with it?”

  Eileyt’s face turned to stone. She had known about the silver blades, but how had she known he had followed them?

  She smiled, gently. “I see more than most people know.”

  He gambled that the truth would suffice. “I overheard two silver blades talking. One was hired to kill you.”

  “Do you know who hired the silver blade?”

  “The only name I heard, Lady, was Jiulko. I do not know who that might be.”

  “I do.” Her blue eyes turned as hard and cold as lapis, so hard that he could have sworn they held the same streaks of gold as the stone. Then she looked at Eileyt, and her eyes were no longer stone, but they were not warm, either. “How did you stop him?”

  “I’m no blade, Lady.”

  She nodded. “So … you hired someone to protect me.” Her words were not a question.

  Not trusting himself to speak, Eileyt nodded.

  She reached into the smooth wooden box and handed him a coin—a gold. “I appreciate your concern, and I know you could not afford that.”

  “Lady…”

  “No protestations, Eileyt.” She smiled again. “How would you like to become an enumerator? You’re smart enough. You work hard. You’re trustworthy … and I can teach you.”

  “Lady … I can’t post the bond.”

  “That is the responsibility of the House, and we need an enumerator.”

  “We?” Eileyt had never seen anyone but her.

  “I have a silent partner. He has … certain ties. We’ve need an enumerator. In time, we will need others, but you will be the first beside the two of us.”

  A silent partner? The Mirror Lancer officer she wrote? “I would be honored, Lady. Are you sure?”

  “If I cannot trust someone who would spend nearly all he has to protect me, I can trust no one. I will pay you half what a junior enumerator makes while I teach you.”

  Eileyt couldn’t conceal his surprise. His mouth opened. He closed it.

  “Since today is oneday, you might as well start now … or right after any run you have.”

  “Yours would have been my first.”

  “You will still run for me while you learn, but after the first eightday, the coppers go in the till.”

  He almost frowned, but then asked, “You will pay by the eightday?”

  “Good.”

  By that word, he knew he had passed another test of some sort.

  Eileyt knew his numbers and his letters, and his hand was fair. That he’d been told before his parents had died of the white flux, when his chances of becoming an enumerator, or even a trader, had been far more likely to be realized. Fair was not good enough for the lady merchanter, whose name, he finally learned, was Ryalth. Nor did he know the shape of merchanter’s digits, slightly different from common numbers so that they could not be mistaken or easily altered in a ledger or on a contract of bill of sale.

  Only after two eightdays did his hands and fingers stop aching at the end of each day, but he had a difficult time not smiling every moment. He did stop smiling when he realized that, once Ryalth listed him as an enumerator, he could no longer sleep in the Hall of Runners. The merchanting houses of Cyad did maintain rooms, little more than
spaces big enough for a narrow bunk and a few chests, but those cost three coppers an eightday. He stopped worrying when he received a silver and three coppers for his first eightday’s pay, and that was only half the pay of a very junior enumerator. Ryalth kept him running when she needed runs, but otherwise, every free moment for close to half a season more was spent learning one thing or another. He also ended up entrusting most of his wages to her strongboxes, because having silvers that were increasing every eightday was asking for trouble in the Hall of Runners.

  He had pushed the incident with the silver blades almost aside until the fifth oneday of summer when, just after he had washed up at the small fountain at one end of the Hall of Runners, Merekel turned to him. “Did you hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “You know that nasty Nordlan trader, Juko or Jullko … anyway, someone slit his throat in his own little trading house, likely on sevenday evening.”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” Eileyt admitted. “I’ve heard of him. I never did a run for him.”

  “You’re the fortunate one. He was always shorting runners on the return coppers. Can’t believe someone didn’t crush his skull before now.” Merekel shook his head. “We don’t see much of you these days.”

  “Most times, I’m running for Ryalor. They keep me busy.”

  “She’s a handsome lady. Wish she’d keep me busy.”

  “Not that way. I wouldn’t dare. Her partner—he might be wanting to consort her—he’s a Mirror Lancer officer. His family might be even Magi’i. She’s never said … but…” Eileyt shrugged. “She pays well for runs.”

  The other runner nodded. “Smart of you. Don’t want to cross altage or elthage.”

  Eileyt knew that. He wished it were otherwise. But it was not.

  When he reached the upper level of the House of the Clanless Traders that morning, he saw a stooped and graying man, wearing the blues of a senior enumerator, standing talking to Ryalth just outside Ryalor Trading.

  As Eileyt approached, she turned. “Eileyt, this is Master Enumerator Chaeralt. He will examine your skills to see if you are ready to be a junior enumerator.”

  Eileyt bowed. “Master Enumerator, ser.” He hadn’t expected to be examined so soon.

  “Let’s look into your skills, young fellow.” Chaeralt’s voice was neither warm nor harsh, just matter-of-fact, a contrast to his severe expression.

  “You can use either of the table desks inside,” Ryalth said.

  Chaeralt nodded and stepped through the doorway.

  Eileyt followed.

  “Sit down there.” Chaeralt pointed to the nearer table desk, the one Ryalth usually used.

  Eileyt felt uneasy sitting there, but he did.

  The enumerator handed him several sheets of paper. Each was a ledger sheet. “I’m going to read you figures, and you’re to copy them, and then sum them in merchant digits…”

  Eileyt thought he would be nervous, but that feeling passed as he did what the enumerator requested, especially as it became clear that what Ryalth had taught him was far more exacting than what Chaeralt demanded.

  At the end, the stern-faced enumerator actually smiled. “You’ll do fine. You could likely pass the enumerator’s exam right now, but there’s no point in doing that. You need at least a year as a junior.” He nodded to Ryalth, who had eased into the chamber. “As soon as we receive the bond…”

  “I posted it yesterday.”

  Chaeralt laughed. “I’ll send the plaque as soon as it’s ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Lady.” Then, with a smile, the senior enumerator turned and left.

  Eileyt watched him go, still not quite believing that he might actually become an enumerator after all the years of running.

  “Eileyt…?”

  He turned. “Yes, Lady?”

  “You looked like you wanted to say something when you arrived this morning.”

  “No, Lady.” He smiled pleasantly. “I did hear that Trader Jiulko was found with his throat slit over eightday.”

  “That shouldn’t be a surprise. People who cause others misery often reap what they sow. Those who help others and inspire trust need to be rewarded.” She smiled. “Don’t you think so?”

  “Yes, Lady, I do. Very much so.”

  “Then we are agreed.” Her smile broadened. “I took the liberty of ordering your blues so that you can wear them as soon as Chaeralt sends your plaque.” She gestured toward one of the chests, the one placed forward of the others, on which was set something wrapped in cheap muslin.

  Eileyt could see a hint of blue at one side where the covering cloth had come loose. “Thank you, Lady. I didn’t expect…”

  “I know. That’s one of your best traits.”

  As she turned and moved back from the table desk, the smooth cloth of her sleeve pressed momentarily against her forearm. For an instant, Eileyt saw the bunching of cloth that could only mean that she wore a forearm sheath, the kind that usually held a black iron dagger, if not something even more deadly.

  Eileyt swallowed … and yet his eyes burned. She is still so very beautiful, but so is a fine blade.

  * * *

  The old merchanter clears his throat. “That’s how everything began.”

  “She never knew how you felt?”

  “She may have known. So did he. He also knew I had protected her when he could not. He knows everything.”

  “You loved her, didn’t you?”

  “She loves him and always did. He loves her and always did. We would all be poorer if it were not so … and we have prospered and been happy. What else can a man ask for?” The old man coughs again … a sound even more wrenching than previously. “I have lived a full and prosperous life. If the Rational Stars are gracious, I will live a few more years. If not … I have gained all that a man could possibly desire”—almost all—“including the gratitude of an empress. What else could a man reasonably ask for?” Yet his smile is somehow sad. “Go to the consorting ceremony, and offer our felicitations and thanks … and mean it, for we would have little without them.”

  “Yes, ser.” The young man nods deeply and turns, slowly leaving the study.

  But you loved her.

  The old man can hear those words as if they had been spoken, as if they still hung in the air.

  There are references and allusions to the events in the following novella in several Recluce novels, but since there is nothing about this side of one of the great pivotal events in the history of Candar, I thought it should be told.

  HERITAGE

  I

  “Lady … the Emperor is on his way.”

  “Thank you, Viera.” The Empress, Lady Mairena of Light and Healing, immediately closes the green leather folder and slips it into the drawer of her desk, beside another thin volume, one much older, that still shimmers silver green. She stands. “You may go for the evening.”

  “You will not be wanting me more this evening?”

  The Empress smiles, faintly. “No. Not this evening.”

  The dark-haired maid inclines her head. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Once Viera has left the study, Mairena walks to the open window. For a time, she stands there, letting the slightest trace of the ocean breeze cool her, not that the early summer has been all that warm, and looks out into the darkness, out over the white stone dwellings, shops, and other buildings, all with green awnings by decree of the Emperor, that stretch to the east and to the north, radiating away from the Palace of Light that has stood as a symbol of the might of Cyad and Cyador for endless generations. Not endless, she corrects herself, but well over six centuries. And now …

  At the sound of her door opening, she turns and waits.

  The man who enters her chamber does not wear the silver robes of the Emperor, for all that he is physically commanding, but the white uniform of a Mirror Lancer, although his service was years in the past and brief. In a similar fashion, although his heritage is elthage, he would never
have even been accepted as a student magus, in spite of his minor abilities in handling chaos, except for the fact that he was the heir to the Malachite Throne. Mairena notes that his short-cut but thick brown hair shows more silver strands than before his visit to Fyrad, quite a few more. She inclines her head slightly. As Emperor of Cyador, and the man to whom she is consorted, he does deserve that.

  “Good evening,” she offers.

  “It’s settled,” announces Lephi.

  She lets an expression of puzzlement cross her face, an expression that is not totally feigned. “What is?”

  “The Magi’i have agreed that the Kerial will begin sea trials tomorrow.” Lephi shakes his head. “The firecannon has not been fully tested, but that can wait. It’s past time. With all their concerns…”

  “The Kerial—you mean the fireship?” Mairena knows full well the name of the ship and far more besides, much of which she has learned from the plans in the green leather folder her consort does not know she has created and possesses.

  “What else would I mean?”

  “You had not decided on the name. You were considering Lorn, Kerial, Alyiakal, or Kiedral.”

  “So I hadn’t. Well, I’ve decided. It’s the Kerial. The last truly great emperor.”

  She offers a measured nod. “You need a symbol of power to show the Duke of Lydiar and the others, even the Hamorians. And especially the barbarians of Lornth—”

  “Do not ever speak that name! I will not have it.”

  Mairena reproaches herself silently. She knows better. The very mention of the town named after perhaps the greatest emperor of Cyador upsets Lephi, because the barbarians have held the town for the last several generations as the power of Cyador has slowly waned, a waning that her husband strives to reverse … at a cost he—and Cyador—cannot afford, and a cost that he will not, cannot, admit, even to himself.

  “And the Duke?”

  Lephi snorts. “The Duke is a problem. So are the pirates out of Ruzor. The Hamorians? They’re little more than an irritation. Hamor is a land split between three dukes who distrust each other … not to mention that the other third of Hamor is divided among warring clans little more than barbarians on horseback. Not one duke is strong enough to overpower the others. I wouldn’t be surprised if two companies of Mirror Lancers couldn’t take any of their holds … except the rewards of such a campaign aren’t worth it.”