Magi'i of Cyador (28 page)

Perhaps Ryalor House should investigate spices. He smiles lopsidedly and continues walking, his steps quick and precise. As he passes the Empty Quarter coffee house, he can see that it appears more empty than three years earlier, and that the awning that once sheltered outside tables has been removed. So have the tables. Is there that little coffee left that it is too expensive for junior merchanters?

At the Third Harbor Way, he steps behind an empty wagon drawn by a pair of mules and crosses to the white stone walkway on the far side, where he turns harborward and walks down the gentle incline to the lower merchanters' plaza. Three carts remain under their traditional green and white striped awnings as Lorn strides around them to the northwest corner of the plaza, his destination the squat-looking white building of the Clan-less Traders, where Ryalth has continued to maintain the small office of Ryalor House.

Once inside the squared open archway and off the relatively uncrowded plaza, Lorn finds himself at the edge of a swirl of figures in blue, as well as a few in red, white, or green. Seemingly without much notice, Lorn eases through and around the small groups of traders and hagglers and hangers-on and makes his way to the stairs at the rear of the high-arched hall. He glances up at the three stories of balconies and hopes that Ryalth has not moved her trading office too far.

She has not moved it at all-it remains the same two-doored area at the back of the third level, well into the northeast corner. Sitting at the small corner desk, she studies a ledger, her head down, and as he slips toward her Lorn can see that she has cut her hair far shorter than he recalls.

"Do you have a need of a senior enumerator, Lady Merchanter?" Lorn smiles, but he finds his heart is beating faster than it should.

"I have..." Ryalth looks up, and her mouth drops open. "You came," she whispers. "You really did."

Lorn can sense that no one is that near or listening. "I arrived last night... my parents expected me to spend some time there... so I came as soon as I could." He forces himself to cut off the explanation of why he did not want them suspicious of his immediate departure. "As soon as I could."

Ryalth quietly closes the ledger. "You still are trying to protect me, aren't you?"

"You seem to be able to take care of yourself." He smiles. "And you've protected me in so many ways. I never would have thought about scrolls going through Fyrad, or been able to set that up."

"That was easy." She pauses. "It was not difficult."

"Your enumerator?"

"Eileyt is still at the harbor, checking the accounts of the latest venture with the Jekseng clan. Dyes from Brysta-their green is better than anything on this side of the Eastern Ocean."

"Does Ryalor House have ventures with everyone?" Lorn shakes his head.

"It's better that way. Each thinks we're too small to stand alone, and that way I can spread the risks." Ryalth stands.

Lorn wishes to hold her, but his hand merely brushes hers. They both stiffen.

"I think I'd better close up," she smiles wryly. "I'm not going to finish reviewing these." She lifts the ledger, then slips it into the leather case she has pulled from beneath the desk.

Lorn watches as Ryalth extracts a wallet from the desk, then slips a lock bar in place and padlocks the bar. "It won't stop a Clan thief, but to break it will make enough noise that everyone will know, and they frown on that." She lays the thin and long leather wallet-almost a narrow pouch-on the desk top and fingers the golds inside into a position to allow her to fold it in half. She slips the folded wallet into the slots in the back of the heavy and overlarge blue leather belt she wears.

After Ryalth closes and locks the doors, the two walk briskly down the steps and out though the covered hall. A few heads turn at Ryalth's red hair, see the enumerator's garb, and turn back. "Another enumerator... has three..."

"...trades everything... but not a lot... doesn't lose much..."

"You should be so good, Tymyk."

"Everyone knows you," Lorn observes.

"I've made it a point," she says. "I've helped those I could, and cheated no one."

"The good and fair lady trader."

"Not always good."

The bleakness in her voice surprises Lorn, and he says nothing as they cross the open plaza outside the hall.

"You were right, when we first dealt with cotton and oil." She turns her head, and the deep blue eyes fix his amber ones. "I learned that again, the hard way. I find I have to remember that, but I don't like it." Lorn nods, though her words send a cold knife down his spine. They walk silently eastward along the Road of Benevolent Commerce, past a row of arymids with furled gray winter leaves, their trunks pale gray in the afternoon light.

"How long will you be here?" she asks quietly. "Almost five eightdays. I get six, but that has to include travel from Isahl and then to Geliendra. That's my next post."

"And you sought me out within a day? Are there not scores of healers and women from high lancer families vying for your attention?"

"I wasn't interested." Lorn cannot quite keep his tone disinterested. "I would have sought you last night, but my family was watching. Someone has also been following me with a screeing glass, not always my father. I didn't come from the house, directly. I stopped to see Myryan and then changed in her garden arbor after she left for the infirmary."

"I would have liked to have seen that." Ryalth's lips quirk.

"I'm sure you would." Lorn laughs gently.

They pass the Fourth Harbor Way-the east one, although the ways are not distinguished on the placards by whether they are east or west of the harbor center.

"How is Myryan?" Ryalth asks after a time.

"I don't know. She seems healthy, but she's... more resigned than happy. The only time she seemed joyful was when she talked of the house and of her garden."

"Isn't that good?"

"I'm glad she has the house," Lorn says. "I can't imagine her living with Ciesrt's parents. He's the second highest Magi'i. Kharl, Ciesrt's father, I mean."

"That must be quite an honor for Myryan to be his consort." Ryalth's voice is even, hiding emotions.

"She didn't want it, and I tried to talk father out of it before I left. He ' waited to consort her, but he didn't change his mind." Lorn takes a deep breath. "I think Myryan would have been better without the honor."

"You'd do almost anything for those you love."

"Almost," Lorn temporizes, again wondering if he should have killed Kharl before the Lector knew Lorn was a threat.

"More than that, I think." Ryalth's voice is calm, slightly distant. "Your father knows that." After a barely imperceptible pause, she adds, "Don't you think?"

"Father? I think he doesn't know quite what to think. I'm not the Magi'i son he wanted, and I'm not exactly the lancer officer he suggested I could be."

"You survived and made captain," she points out.

"I'm... effective," Lorn says. "Not glorious." His eyes flick to the next Way, where a tinker's cart is tied before a smaller house, and where the maroon garbed tradesman pedals a foot-grinder and sharpens knives, deftly handling one, then another.

She nods, her lips quirking momentarily. "Maybe that's why you're a good trader."

"I'm not a trader. You're far better than I could ever be."

"You can see what will change," she corrects him. "I know what to do when you tell me what will happen."

"We make a good team." He smiles, happy to be walking beside her, as they pass the tinker's cart.

"You've never said that before."

"I haven't? I've thought it enough."

"There's much you think and don't share, Lorn."

He cannot but catch the edge of wistfulness behind the facade of the experienced merchanter, a wistfulness he doubts most would perceive. "I'm sorry." And he is, yet he knows that every word in many places they both frequent may carry to the wrong ears.

Ryalth points to the structure on the lower side of the Road of Benevolent Commerce, although she points upward. "I took chambers on the third level. The end stairs."

Lorn follows her through the archway in the wall and then through the simple shared formal garden-little more than trimmed dwarf cedar, two short flower beds turned under for the winter, and time-polished stone benches placed in areas shaded by the handful of feathering conifers.

"These came vacant. They only cost three golds a season more, and the balcony is more private," Ryalth explains, starting up the outside stone steps. "It seemed worth it. They're larger, and the breeze is better in the summer."

"And colder in the winter?"

"I haven't noticed." She smiles as she stops in front of the last door off the covered walkway on the third level.

"Better view up here," Lorn says.

"It is."

The key clicks in the lock, and she opens the door, waiting for Lorn to enter. He waits for her to enter. Both smile, albeit nervously.

He finally shakes his head and steps inside, past the narrow interior privacy screen. Then he turns, taking in her face and the deep blue eyes that he has recalled on so many nights.

Ryalth closes the door. She steps past the screen, and Lorn's arms go around her, but not so quickly as hers encircle him.

The key clanks on the floor. Neither reaches for it as their lips meet.

XLVI

In his undertunic, Lorn sits in the small eating area by the door to the balcony, glancing over the empty plates that had earlier held a thrown - together omelet and almost fresh dark bread to take in Ryalth, her creamy freckled skin and the deep blue eyes that make even merchanter blue seem shallow by comparison, even above the bulky white cotton robe she had donned before she had made the omelet.

Lorn smiles, and Ryalth smiles back.

He sips the water from the goblet, pondering the early morning drizzle beyond the small window, wondering if it is the typical winter morning drizzle or whether it will lift as the sun rises higher into the sky.

The lady merchanter looks at the goblet Lorn holds. "I don't buy coffee any more."

"That's all right. It's too bitter for me."

"I liked it, but you can't get it for less than ten golds a tenth-stone."

"That much?" Lorn's mouth makes an "o" as he sets the goblet down.

"The blight. All the coffee bushes are dying, those that hadn't already. They're saying that the chaos strength of the Firstborn has faded, and that since they brought the coffee bushes, none will survive."

"I never heard that. It could be true," he muses, considering what he knows about the impending failure of the chaos towers.

"It is true. They're dying."

"No. I meant the reason." He finds a smile still upon his lips as he looks at her once more.

"I need to get ready. I still have a trading house to run." Ryalth's face clouds abruptly.

"You're worried." Lorn pauses, then says, "And it's not about trading today."

Ryalth shivers. "I still don't know why you're here."

"Because I met you one night when I was a student, and nothing was quite the same after that."

She laughs, a forced sound. "You just wanted me in bed."

"At first," he admits. Then he grins. "And you just wanted to know what loving someone from the Magi'i was like."

"Someone sweet," she corrects.

He shakes his head. "I'm not sweet."

"You are inside, and to those you love."

"You know why I'm here," he points out.

"You never tell me, though. That's something I hate about the Magi'i. You-maybe not you-but most Magi'i use words as weapons, and none of you like to say anything beyond pleasantries because you're afraid someone will weigh the truth of your words and use it against you."

"They do," Lorn counters. "All that bothers you, but that's not what's worrying you."

"I'm fine."

Lorn conceals a frown. He stands and walks over to her, drawing her to her feet and nuzzling her ear.

Ryalth remains stiff, unyielding.

"I'd feel better explaining this way," he whispers. "You don't know how closely the Magi'i watch and how they use the chaos-glasses."

She nips his ear, slightly harder than necessary. "That's for not telling me earlier. I knew, but I wanted you to tell me."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "Will you tell me what else is bothering you?"

"I said..."

"It's not true."

"I would love a man who still remains Magi'i."

"He loves you." Lorn keeps his voice low, and his left hand massages the tight muscles beside her right shoulder blade. "Tell me."

"Shevelt has been pressing me... he says I really don't have a consort," Ryalth says quietly, letting her arms encircle him, but loosely.

"Who is he? A spoiled trader?" Lorn's left hand continues to massage her tight shoulder muscles.

"The heir to the Yuryan Clan... shimmercloth, Hamorian cotton, spices..."

"Does he want a consort?" Her smothered laugh is bitter.

"Come to Geliendra for my first furlough," he says. "A year after I get there."

Her eyebrows lift and she leans back to look at him. "Why?" Lorn swallows, then bends to let his lips touch her left ear. "So we can be consorted there."

"You mean it." She shakes her head, pushing him away slightly before whispering back. "Why there?"

"Because it's not here."

She laughs at the dryness in his tone. "And?"

"If I'm followed here, anyone would think you're my mistress-" Lorn stops, not really sure how to voice what he thinks.

"I'm not?" Her eyebrows arch.

"You're far more than that." He hurries his next murmured words. "That anyone would think you are my mistress protects you."

She nods. "I think I understand. I don't like it."

"I'm trying...."

"I know." She tightens her embrace for a moment. "I know."

Lorn holds her close, as she does him.

Ryalth will have to leave shortly, all too soon.

And Lorn will still have to handle Shevelt... before he leaves for Geliendra.

XLVII

Lorn studies the city from the fourth-level portico of his parents' dwelling, watching the morning winter sun create shimmers that dance across the harbor and the Great Western Ocean farther to the south. Yet to Lorn's eyes, the white city does not seem so vibrant as usual. Is it because of the winter-gray leaves... or the absence of the green and white awnings, furled for the winter... or because he sees it differently?