Magi'i of Cyador (35 page)

Lorn has walked a good two hundred cubits when he nods politely as he passes two Mirror Lancer captains. He continues downhill for another three blocks before turning eastward onto the Road of Benevolent Commerce.

The stars are out full, and all hint of twilight has vanished from the western sky by the time he has reached Ryalth's quarters.

She has heard or sensed his approach and opens the door as he nears. She frowns briefly as she opens the door. "I'd hoped you would be earlier."

Lorn smiles wryly. "My parents wanted to talk, and then I was delayed by an obnoxious merchanter who didn't like enumerators on the same walkway. Extracting myself quietly took some time."

"You always do things quietly." After closing the door, she walks to the table.

"When I can." He offers a laugh that is not quite forced as he follows her. "I can recall a few times when it didn't work that way, and the results weren't quiet."

She smiles, an expression that combines humor, recollection, and wistfulness. "I recall one of those times. Some day you'll have to tell me about the others."

Lorn shrugs, almost sheepishly. "I broke a boy's fingers when we were in school, in a bruggage...."

"A what?"

"A pile-up in a game-korfal. He suspected, but couldn't prove it." Lorn laughs. "A few days ago, he came to call on Jerial. He's a Lancer sub-majer. He deftly pointed out that she couldn't consider herself above him now, or at least not for any longer than my father lives."

Ryalth shakes her head. "In some way or another, the past comes back."

"Let's hope the good things do as well." Lorn pauses. "That does mean that he doesn't want me dead too soon."

"Oh... because your younger brother's a magus?"

"Exactly."

"Have you eaten?"

"Not since... this morning, I think. I had some dried pearapples early this afternoon, but not very many." He grins. "Kysia still has avoided meeting me." The grin fades. "It's probably better that way."

"Why don't you sit down? I waited, and I'm hungry."

Lorn holds back a wince at the sharpness of her tone. "I'm sorry." He glances at the covered dish in the middle of the small circular table.

"It's armenak-Austran creamed beef strips and noodles."

Lorn takes the ladle and serves Ryalth, then himself, offering her the bread first, as well. The armenak is strongly seasoned, but with a trilialike tang, rather than with a chilled or pepper-like spiciness, and Lorn finds he has finished all he has served himself, when half of Ryalth's portion remains on her blue crockery platter.

"I was hungry."

"You usually are." She puts down the goblet from which she has hardly drunk and looks across the table at him. "You have to leave soon, don't you?"

"Before the end of the eightday. I can't risk being late in reporting for duty. Not as a Lancer captain with magus blood." His lips twist. "And not with senior officers waiting for mistakes."

Ryalth tilts her head quizzically.

Lorn nods ruefully. "I know. I know. But you're not a mistake. That's why I need a season or so to set things up."

Ryalth waits.

"I keep my word, lady trader, and that's one promise I want to keep. More than you know." He looks into her eyes and repeats the words. "More than you know."

"I'm glad."

They both smile.

LVII

Cyad is swathed in gray, the sun sending but a dim light across the city. The fog outside the master cupritor's shop carries not only the scents of salt and the claminess of the fog itself, but the acrid odors of acids and chaos-forming. The sounds of hammers and forges echo more loudly as Lorn, wearing the grayed waterproof, climbs the step to the narrow porch, where he wipes his boots.

After opening the door and stepping inside, Lorn closes it firmly behind him, walks forward, and waits at the countered half-door. When the young journeyman finally acknowledges him and approaches, Lorn shows the token he had received earlier and the Dyjani plaque. "I have come for the Brystan sword."

The journeyman inclines his head but slightly. "The modified sabre is ready, and the master would have it out of his place, masterful though the work is."

Lorn places the token and the five golds on the narrow counter-and two silvers.

The younger man takes the token, but leaves the coins on the polished wood and steps to the side and a rack that Lorn cannot fully see, returning with the sabre and the scabbard. He eases the weapon out of the scabbard for Lorn to see.

Lorn glances at it, in the manner of an enumerator unaware of and unconcerned with the intricacies of blades. "It looks as it should."

"The master also rebalanced the blade and adjusted the scabbard for the additional thickness and the point. That meant some additional rivets."

Lorn smiles, keeping the resignation from his lips, and adds another gold to the pile.

"We thank the house of Dyjani," responds the journeyman.

"The house of Dyjani thanks you and master Wanyi." Lorn bows, then wraps the weapon in the gray cotton and the oilcloth before leaving the shop.

As he walks eastward through the heavy fog toward the harbor, swathed in his gray waterproof, Lorn hopes that his investment of more than a year's pay will provide what he needs.

LVIII

Lorn stands in the afternoon shadows on the upper level portico of his parents' dwelling, the wind from the Great Western Ocean in his face as he looks out across the harbor, taking in the scaffolds erected around the Ocean Flame, and the other fireship tied along the same pier farther seaward. From what he can tell, the two square-rigged ocean vessels on the adjacent pier are both Brystan, while the three schooners on the coastal pier are from Lydiar, Hydlen, and Gallos, if the colors of the ensigns flying from on their sterns are any indication. Another vessel, with wind-billowed sails, cuts diagonally out of the southwest toward the harbor.

The wind has shifted and strengthened enough to clear out the heavy fog of the morning. Whitecaps fill the water that is as much gray as blue under the dark clouds that swirl in from the west, and the wind hints at colder weather approaching. Lorn can sense someone behind him, but he does not turn for a while.

When he does, his mother is still waiting, wearing a heavy green woollen cloak.

"I don't go to the healing center except on twoday and fourday. A small benefit of age and experience," she says. "I had hoped we could have some moments together before you left."

"Would you like to go down to the sitting room?" he asks as his eyes shift to her cloak. "It would be warmer."

"No. I like the wind. That is... if I'm properly attired." Her fine white eyebrows arch, under short-cut hair that has none of the mahogany Lorn recalls remaining. "The cloak is most warm." She walks toward the southwest corner of the portico.

Lorn follows and arranges two chairs so that they sit in a sheltered corner of the area where the family has often dined in warmer weather, the wind rustling and murmuring around them.

Nyryah arranges her cloak and fixes her eyes on her older son.

Lorn waits, knowing his mother will say what she desires as she wishes.

"I never have cared for young Dettaur," Nyryah finally says, "even when you were but waist-high and friends with him. He was bigger, and he hit you, sometimes when he thought no one was looking, but you never cried. His mother was my best friend when we were young. She was of the Magi'i, but her father was only a third level adept, and he died very young. She foolishly accepted Pyeal, but we all can do foolish things when we're upset."

"You never mentioned any of that."

"There was no reason to, not when you were young. We were more idealistic, then, I fear." She smiles, as if recalling a memory that gives her pleasure. "It is difficult to remain young and idealistic in Cyad. It is near-impossible to reach my age and retain all one's ideals." She frowns. "Perhaps it is better said that it is impossible to live up to those ideals."

"You and father have certainly tried," Lorn says gently.

"It may be...." She stops and shakes her head. After a moment, she readjusts the cloak. "I feel old and foolish spouting grand ideas...."

"What?" Lorn asks gently.

Nyryah purses her lips.

Lorn waits.

"Your father would disagree. Seldom do we disagree, you know? Still..." She pauses once more before continuing. "Cyad rests on the power of the chaos towers. All lands rest on some form of power. The towers are few compared to the size of Cyador...." Her words trail off into the wind, yet again.

"There are a half-score fireships, each powered by a tower, and the half-score or so around the Accursed Forest, and those here in Cyad," Lorn says. "Few for a land that stretches more than fifteen hundred kays east to west."

"A quarter score in Cyad," Nyryah confirms. "At the beginning. You know, Lorn, that is a very narrow base of power. A handful of men control that power. Such creates the possibility for corruption, and that is why the Magi'i remove those from their ranks who will not put the service of chaos above self. That is why none know the Hand, and all meet him in darkness, except the Emperor. It has always been a struggle." Another quirky smile appears on her lips. "Your father reminds me of that constantly."

"He's reminded me," Lorn replies. "More than infrequently."

"There is one other thing, my son," she says slowly. "It is something so obvious that I doubt you have considered it."

Again, Lorn waits.

"You and Vernt, and even Myryan and Jerial, tend to look down on the lancer families, perhaps because there are three times as many lancer officers as Magi'i." Nyryah smiles sadly. "The number of lancer officers who are majers and commanders is less than the total number of Magi'i, and neither are numerous compared to all the folk of Cyad. You were raised among both, but how many lancer or Magi'i families are there here?"

"Two hundred Magi'i families?" Lorn hazards.

"Closer to three hundred, and the same number scattered throughout all the rest of Cyador, with most in Fyrad and Summerdock. Now... how many folk are there in Cyad?"

Lorn shrugs. "The Emperor's census is not made public. I would guess there are more than a thousand score."

"More than twice that." She coughs once. "Remember, a lancer officer is almost as exalted to the folk of Cyador as is a magus, even though it may not seem so among those with whom you were raised. Power is held by very few, and it has always been so, and, given the nature of the world, I fear it will always be so." She shakes her head. "What if the basis of power were in something accessible to all people? Would that make governing easier and less of a temptation for the corrupt? I don't know. I used to think so." She smiles. "I wander. I cannot ponder that forever. You may, perchance."

"Me? I don't think I'm the idealist you and father are."

"You?" A headshake follows the rueful single word question. "You have protected your idealism in a terrible way, my son. You believe those in Cyad are somehow better because the city itself is more magnificent."

Lorn does not know how best to answer such a statement.

"People will be who they are, you know. Some you can ignore. Some you can persuade, and some you can manipulate. That is where most, even in Cyad, scratch the line in sunstone."

Lorn nods.

"If you would do more..." Nyryah coughs, several times.

Lorn starts to rise, and she gestures for him to sit.

"Nothing of flux-chaos there," she finally says. "You can sense that for yourself."

He senses no flux-chaos within her, but the levels of order and chaos are far lower than he recalls. "You need more rest," he says.

"I do my best, dear. Holding on to your rest can sometimes be harder than we think." An enigmatic smile plays on her lips for a moment, then fades. "As I was saying, you have difficulty scratching lines. Some will attempt to do it for you. Others will act as you have."

"Yes?"

"You will soon reach that time when only one path lies before you. We all do. Your father did. I fear that holds for Jerial already. Straying from that course brings earlier death than holding to it." Her eyes harden. "Do you understand?"

Lorn nods slowly.

"I thought you might. Now... you have few enough evenings left here, and they are better spent with your friend than with us."

"You don't approve?"

Nyryah smiles. "You worry far too much about our approval. You must live the life you create, and you especially, unlike your brother, know far better who will aid in your creations. Your father can guide Vernt as a magus, as he could have you, but there is no one in this world of ours who knows the path you have chosen." She shifts her weight in the chair. "I am feeling the wind, and you need to do what you must."

Lorn stands and extends his hand for her to rise, feeling both the strength and the delicacy in her grip.

"She must be lovely, or Jerial would have made her displeasure known."

"She is... but beyond mere beauty."

"That is what I meant. You never did stop at appearances, Lorn." Nyryah walks steadily along the edge of the portico.

The clouds to the southwest have begun to lower, and the wind is damper, bringing spits of moisture that herald a fuller rain to come-and the storm headache for Lorn that is so common he can almost ignore it.

After escorting his mother down to her chambers, Lorn returns to his own rooms, where, for a time, he reflects... except before long, his thoughts are circling back upon themselves. Finally, he takes out the small silver book and selects a page, reading almost under his breath.

RIPENING

Like a dusk without a cloud,

a leaf without a tree,

a shell without a sea...

the greening of the pear

slips by.

Sly tree,

you know how... where...

So could we

with reason,

to follow,

leaf by leaf by green,

each second of the season,

to hold the sun-hazed days,

and wait for pears and praise

...and wait for pears and praise.

Lorn frowns. Pears are rare in Cyad, and, once more, there is more to the words than their angular characters.