Magi'i of Cyador (17 page)

"He is good, even if no one's heard of Escadr. It's a tiny little town south and east of Biehl-not all that far from the rugged part of the Grass Hills way to the northwest," explains Zandrey. "And I tell everyone that because no one's ever heard of it."

"He said the same thing when he offered the first bottle," interjects Eghyr.

Lorn nods and takes a second, smaller sip. The Alafraan is indeed excellent, far too good for a Lancer outpost at the base of the Grass Hills.

"City lancers never appreciate a bottle of Alafraan," mumbles Jostyn, cradling his goblet. "Don't know what it is to ride a Patrol through the Grass Hills-or watch the white walls of the Accursed Forest for some giant stun lizard or cat big enough to cross the wards and take cattle or sheep."

"You haven't patrolled the Accursed Forest." Eghyr laughs gently, but coldly.

"Sasym did. Saw both."

"He probably did, but he wasn't much good with a lance, and that's..." Zandrey breaks off his comment with a shrug.

"You stay here for even a year, and you'll never be a city lancer again," says Jostyn, nodding toward Lorn. "All of 'em in Cyad... just city lancers."

"Not all," observes Eghyr. "Captain-Commander Luss'alt and Majer-Commander Rynst'alt served in every Grass Hills and Accursed Forest post."

Lorn does not ask how Eghyr knows, but resolves to be most careful around the blond captain.

"Maybe that's why they're where they are," suggests Zandrey.

Eghyr casts a quick glance at the stocky Zandrey.

Zandrey's brown eyes reveal nothing as he lifts his goblet for another sip of the Alafraan, a swallow that seems far larger than it is.

"That's the big secret, you know," adds Jostyn, his words even more slurred. "Most lancer officers are city lancers... never spent any real time on the borders, never seen a barbarian across the shimmer of a blade...."

Lorn nods, but his eyes and attention are on Eghyr and Zandrey.

XXIX

The Empress Ryenyel affixes the silver clips to her thick and dark red hair, hair too coarse by the standards of Cyad had any one seen it closely or dared to comment upon it. She studies her freckled visage in the shimmering cupridium mirror set in its silver stand upon the glistening marble vanity before straightening. The half-length mirror reveals a figure somewhat too full to be called imperially slim.

She turns and walks from her robing chamber into the salon where the Emperor waits, standing before the long white divan in his silver audience robes.

His eyes flicker appreciatively from her to the divan.

She laughs. "I doubt we have the moments for that, my dear, but I thank you for an expression dearer than words."

The slightest flush suffuses his face, then fades. "Would that there were more such moments, Ryenyel."

"I would wish such, also." She pauses. "You appear most impressive, dear one. As always. What audience awaits you this afternoon?"

The light wind that brings the early and warm spring air into the Palace of Light whispers through the half-open window, bringing the renewed fragrances of trilia and aramyd, and the Emperor Toziel glances past his consort toward the tinted panes of that eastern window, the one overlooking the Quarter of the Magi'i. His eyes focus on the chaos- and age-whitened granite buildings, and he shakes his head ever so slightly. "I must-we must-again review the conditions of trade with Hamor and Austra, and the pirate-traders of Hydlen and Lydiar. I have asked Chyenfel for greater particulars about his... project... but particulars seem to turn to smoke when I inquire." Toziel laughs ruefully.

"I take it that Rynst and Chyenfel still maneuver over the firelance that never was, and attempt to discover who might be the current Hand," the Empress murmurs as she steps forward and kisses her consort softly on his left cheek.

"Or if the incident was caused by a renegade magus unreported by the Magi'i." Toziel chuckles. "Come... I need you to listen to the latest innuendos and veiled threats."

"After these years of my accompanying you, one would think he would know my modest role or who the Hand might be...." the Empress begins.

"He doubtless must, but it is best not to mention the name, my dear. Chyenfel can use a chaos glass to see where he is not, and he reads lips, and others may as well."

"I doubt he is that accurate, love. He does not ever talk about the chaos glasses and their accuracy, and he would do so if he dared." A quirky smile appears on Ryenyel's lips.

"It is to his benefit, and ours, not to say aloud what his glass may show." Toziel steps toward the door that leads to the private corridor that will take them to the audience chamber, holding it for her.

"So gallant... yet." Her smile is warm and affectionate.

"I am merely the Emperor. Chyenfel and Rynst are the gallant ones, striving to save Cyador from enemies without and within."

"And Chyenfel will present his facts most carefully...." A smile crosses Ryenyel's generous mouth. "Then Rynst will ask a few gentle but revealing questions, and Bluoyal will look at each densely, as if their words make no sense."

Toziel smiles at his consort. "That is why you accompany me, and why the Hand must remain in the shadows, for I need you both."

Their feet barely seem to brush the polished white stones of the corridor as they glide toward the audience chamber, preceded by a pair of Palace Guards and followed by a second pair. All four guards carry small firelances and, since they are not Mirror Lancers, wear green uniforms edged in silver trim.

The door opens as the Emperor and his consort approach the Lesser Audience Hall, then closes behind them. Toziel gracefully takes the sculpted malachite and silver chair on the dais, while Ryenyel seats herself in a silvered chair a pace back and to his right. The marble floor of the audience hall glistens in the light that pours down from the high oval windows.

The three advisors wait-the gray-haired Rynst, Majer-Commander of the Mirror Lancers; the almost-delicate, but steel-willed and sun-eyed Chyenfel, High Lector and First Magus; and the heavy-eyed and ponderous Bluoyal, First Merchanter.

Toziel nods, then speaks. "Have each of you finished your investigations surrounding last fall's murder of the outland trader?" The Emperor looks at Chyenfel.

"An investigation cannot be termed complete without a resolution," offers the High Lector. "The weapon and its wielder have not been located. The loss to the Treasury from having to purchase goods from the Austrans has amounted to more than a thousand golds in less than a full season."

"That would be a significant loss over time, it is true, were it to continue," muses the Emperor, his fingers brushing his chin.

"Most significant," agrees Chyenfel.

"What words might you add, Majer-Commander?" Toziel tilts his head toward the head of the Mirror Lancers.

"Every chaos weapon in the armory has been accounted for-and so has every Lancer who has ever carried one in Cyad, Your Mightiness." Rynst smiles. "Unlike every Magus."

Ignoring the faint emphasis on the word "Lancer," the Emperor of Light straightens in the malachite and silver chair.

"Ah..." Bluoyal clears his throat gently.

"Yes, Merchanter Advisor Bluoyal?" The Emperor's baritone is clear, mildly inquisitive.

"Ah..." Bluoyal extends a scroll. "I have taken the liberty of making my own inquiries, and I trust that you will find them helpful in considering the most sagacious advice of the First Magus and the Majer-Commander of Mirror Lancers."

Neither Rynst nor Chyenfel looks at the older merchanter. Toziel lets the guard at his left hand take the scroll, which passes quietly to the Empress, then lets his eyes fix on each of his principal advisors in turn before speaking. "It would seem that further investigations are unlikely to result in farther progress." Toziel smiles broadly. "Should any new facts appear, I will hear them gladly, but it would appear that after all these seasons, the murder of the outland trader should be laid at the hands of unknown assailants, perhaps smugglers or other outland traders jealous of this Aljak's initial success in Cyad."

"Sire... that casts much disrepute upon the merchanters and the harbor guards," suggests Bluoyal.

"Then let none say anything, and should anything appear, why then, we will know who sharpens his blade." Toziel lifts both hands theatrically. "Enough." He looks at the First Magus. "High Lector Chyenfel... how goes the effort with the Accursed Forest?"

"As we have informed you, we have created a replica of the sleep barrier-a small forest far to the north where the method has been tried and met with great success."

"Except you do not know how long those wards will hold." Toziel frowns, then erases the expression as if it had not been.

"That is true. But we have near-on a half-score of years of observation, and the barrier yet holds. We dare not wait until the other chaos towers begin to fail, not when so much is at stake, Your Mightiness."

"That may be." Toziel offers a nod that does not convey agreement.

Chyenfel does not speak, but replies with a head bow.

"What of the shipyards, Rynst?" Toziel's eyes turn to the sabre-slender Majer-Commander.

"We cannot replace the fireships, your Mightiness, but we are about to build a sailing vessel, based on the material from the archives, which is speedier than all others upon the Great Western Ocean, and we feel that we can build similar vessels if you find the need pressing, sire. The use of cammabark as a cannon propellant appears promising...."

"You had mentioned these matters before. Is there anything new? Or any unforeseen problem?"

"Ah... such vessels are not inexpensive...."

"They will cost more than you had told me, and armed versions will not protect our trading vessels as well as the fireships do. Thus, we will need more ships, and the tariffs on the merchanter clans will be greater, and the profits lower... and few are pleased with the prospects. Is that what you meant, Rynst?" asks the Emperor.

"Yes, Your Mightiness."

Toziel glances at the heavy-set Bluoyal. "Are my surmises about trade correct?"

"Ah... I would judge so, Your Mightiness."

"More lancers will be needed as ship marines," suggests Rynst.

"Requiring more golds," adds Chyenfel.

"Perhaps each of you could provide estimates in an eightday... or two," suggests the Emperor Toziel. "I would prefer that you not discuss those estimates with each other."

"Yes, ser." Chyenfel agrees quickly.

"As you command," adds Rynst.

"As you require," concludes Bluoyal.

Toziel stands, and the three advisors bow. Then the Emperor and his consort depart, Ryenyel remaining a half-pace behind Toziel until they have left the audience chamber and until the door has closed behind them. They return silently to the Empress's salon.

There, the two sit side by side on the white divan. Toziel's hand caresses his consort's neck, and then her shoulders.

She turns. "Chyenfel believes what he tells you, my dear."

"That is worrisome. I would rather that he did not."

"You would have him lie?" she asks.

"No. I know he deceives, but when he does not lie, I cannot tell where he deceives."

"That is true, and they will all start rumors, except Rynst, and his truths will be taken as rumors."

He laughs sardonically. "Of course. But it will be interesting to see exactly what kind of rumors each creates."

Ryenyel offers a tired shrug, then massages her forehead with her right hand.

"I am sorry. Audiences such as that are hard for you," he offers.

"They are hard on you, too." She leans her head against his shoulder. "Each knows something, and should each know what the others do..."

"Hush..."

"That is why there is an Emperor, and yet each would replace you, and each would fail, and why yet we search."

"You are kind, I fear."

She shakes her head, even as it rests against his shoulder. "I am not kind, for I help you to do what no other can do, and we both suffer."

He turns so that his arms enfold her... gently.

XXX

Lorn stands in his stirrups, trying to stretch his legs while the mare travels a section of road that is damp but appears firm. The early spring or late winter wind carries alternating gusts of chill and warmth past the undercaptain, but everything is brown-the grass, the road itself, the hills to the south and north. The puddles in the road are muddy brown.

The mare's forelegs are coated with brown from the mud of the road, and even the lower parts of Lorn's once-cream-colored trousers are splattered with the mud that remains cold and greasy despite the clear and bright mid-morning sun.

"One time when riding the fields be faster..." The words drift forward from one of the lancers in Shofirg's company, carrying on a light gust of wind to Nytral and Lorn.

Nytral shakes his head. "The fields be like the great swamps below the Accursed Forest. You take a mount there, and he'd be in over his fetlocks, then hock deep afore you know it. The barbarians know it, and we'll not be seeing them for another eightday."

"So we're the mud patrol? To see when the ground firms up and when they're likely to begin their attacks?" Lorn's eyebrows arch as he asks the question.

"Aye. That be why the Fifth Company rides now."

"To save the others for the first attacks... that makes a sense of sorts."

After all, Brevyl had told Lorn that he'd be handed nasty jobs, but not more than he could handle, and a mud patrol certainly fits the description of nasty and within his capabilities.

At Lorn's open and humorous laugh, Nytral looks quizzically at his superior.

"It's about what Sub-Majer Brevyl promised," Lorn says. "He does keep his word. You have to admit that."

"Be times we all wish he'd not, ser."

"Probably."

Lorn's eyes drop to single sprig of green in a muddy patch a half-dozen cubits off the shoulder on the north side of the road. There is but the faintest hint of red within the center of the tight-curled wild-flower.

"Blood-drop," he murmurs to himself, looking to the northern hills that conceal the barbarians beyond.