Scion of Cyador (55 page)

“It’s been quite some time, Rustyl,” Lorn says easily. He gestures. “I see that you are a full first-level adept. That’s quite an honor and accomplishment.”

“Oh… thank you. I’ve been fortunate in what I’ve been able to do in the Magi’i.”

“Were you involved in the
Accursed
Forest
ward project? If so, I’d like to thank you,” Lorn goes on. “Its success has made possible the transfer of more lancers to deal with the threat of the barbarians.”

“That was an effort by the First Magus, and my part was minor,” Rustyl admits. “At the time, I was assisting the Mirror Engineers in Fyrad.”

Lorn detects the shading of truth in the response, but merely nods. “And now?”

“I do whatever the First Magus requires.”

“As do we all,” Liataphi says dryly.

“Well… whatever you do, I’m sure it is for the good of Cyador, and I know that you will continue that work. It’s good to see you.” Lorn smiles and nods.

“I’d best be escorting the Majer out of the Quarter, Rustyl, but I thought it would be a shame if I did not bring him by.”

“Thank you, ser.” Rustyl inclines his head. “It was good to see you again, Lorn.”

“And you, too.” Lorn can easily detect the lack of truth in Rustyl’s parting words, and the dislike beneath their pleasant tone.

Liataphi and Lorn walk back down the corridor.

“I thought you should see Rustyl, if briefly,” offers the older magus.

“Your kindness and perception are much appreciated,” Lorn replies.

“In these times that verge on great change,” Liataphi continues, “it is best to know how those who may affect you feel, and not how they are presented by yet others. For that reason alone, I am most pleased that you followed your father’s suggestions.” The Third Magus walks past his own doorway and toward the foyer. He does not halt until he has passed the desk and the fourth-level adept who sits there. “It has been good to see you, Majer. Convey my best to the Majer-Commander, and assure him that the Magi’i will do their best.”

“That I will, ser.”

“And perhaps my consort and I could host you and your consort at a dinner with your friend Tyrsal and Aleyar.”

“I would like that, and I think Ryalth would as well. I have been out of Cyad so long that I fear she had thought we would never be able to meet people together.”

“I will send an invitation from my consort to yours. That will make it more social.”

“Thank you, ser.”

“You are welcome. I imagine you can find your own way from the Quarter.”

“That I can, ser.”

Liataphi smiles, then nods for Lorn to depart.

Once again conscious of eyes on his back, Lorn turns and walks down the steps. Will his meeting with Liataphi lead to more? That, Lorn cannot say, except that Liataphi has offered as much encouragement as any of the Three Magi’i could, and Lorn senses neither deception nor malice in the man. He wishes he could say the same for Rustyl.

CVII

In the full light of a late afternoon in midsummer, Lorn unlocks the iron gate to the dwelling, steps inside, and locks it behind him. Once inside, he pauses to blot his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he steps around the privacy hedge and starts toward the cooling spray of the fountain, already savoring the cooler air inside the walls that surround the garden.

Sssssssss!!! Two white objects flutter out of the shade to his right. Lorn staggers as a dull blow slams into his right thigh. Something else jabs at his left calf.

His sabre is in his hand before he realizes the attackers are two large grayish white geese. He steps back, using the flat of the blade to blunt the jabbing beaks, although the cacophony of hisses and squawklike noises continues as he edges around the big birds and toward the veranda, and as the geese pursue him with darting bills and an occasional blow from a cocked wing.

He laughs as he climbs the steps onto the polished tiles under the veranda roof and turns to see Ryalth emerging from the foyer, also laughing.

“Dearest! How do you like our guards?” Ryalth straightens up, still laughing as she speaks.

“I doubt any will enter the house without their presence being well and fully announced.”

“We will have to pen them, I fear, when we have company for dinner.”

“That might be wise.” Lorn glances back at the two hissing birds, who remain on the walk, their small eyes fixed on him.

“I’d like you to meet Pheryk.” The redhead turns to the figure who has followed her.

A muscular man with iron-gray hair and a short square beard stands just beyond the door to the foyer under the roof of the veranda. Behind him is a slender white-haired woman, who continues to smile.

“Most would have run or slashed up the geese,” Pheryk observes with a smile on his mouth and in the dark brown eyes.

“I was surprised,” Lorn admits. “I didn’t expect the geese so soon.”

“You told me that sooner was better,” Ryalth points out.

“Indeed I did.” Lorn laughs once more.

Ryalth turns to the white-haired woman. “This is Ghrety. She’s Pheryk’s consort.”

“We’re most pleased that we can be of service,” Ghrety says, bowing. “Never thought that little Ryalth would ever be a mighty trader lady.”

“I take it that you’ve known Ghrety before.” Lorn looks to his consort.

“Of course, dear. She was my nursemaid’s sister, and I knew she’d consorted with a Mirror Lancer. Actually, that was how I found Kysia to begin with, because Ghrety recommended her. Kysia’s Pheryk’s cousin.”

Lorn nods. Ryalth will not bring anyone into the household whom she cannot trust. “I’m am glad you are both here. I am sure Ryalth has already told you of my concerns.”

“Yes, ser.” Pheryk smiles. “Be good for us, as well. For now, young Phelyt and his consort can have our place without the old folk to worry about, and we’ll have the pleasure of a young one about-and folk who need what we do.”

“Young Kerial-he’ll be needing clothes, too,” adds Ghrety.

“All the time,” Ryalth says. “He’s growing so fast.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Not that I’d be meaning to put sweetsap in your mouth, ser,” offers Pheryk, “but when word got round about what you did to the barbarians, many were the plain lancers who cheered under their breath. More of that been done years back, never would we have had the troubles of the past years.”

“That’s what I thought,” Lorn says. “I was fortunate enough to be where I could do something about it.”

Pheryk smiles. “Once, ser, that be a happy accident. Twice be not.”

Lorn shrugs. “Best I still claim fortune and such in Cyad.”

“Aye.” The gray-bearded man nods. “That I understand.”

Lorn glances back at the geese, who have reduced their clamor to an occasional hiss, and half smiles, before turning to his consort. “Have you all any more surprises for me?”

“Well… we now have iron bolts, and Pheryk has put them in place on most of the doors.”

“My da-he was a journeyman cabinet-maker, and I learned a thing or two before I joined the lancers,” explains the gray-haired veteran. “Be a shame to scar the doors more than you must.”

Lorn nods. Once more, Ryalth has done far better than he could have.

CVIII

In the fading light of a late-summer afternoon, the first-level adept steps into the study of the High Lector and First Magus of Cyador. He bows. “Thank you for allowing me to intrude, ser.”

“You seldom intrude, Rustyl. Or not without reason. You may sit.” Chyenfel brushes back his silvering black hair. “What did you wish?”

The tall and blond Rustyl looks at the First Magus for several moments, as if deciding how to begin. “Did you know that Majer Lorn was in the Quarter the other day? He was meeting with the Third Magus.”

“That is not surprising. The Third Magus often meets with the officers serving the Majer-Commander to advise them on matters such as the availability of firewagons and the services we provide them. Those are part of his duties.”

“A mere majer?” Rustyl sneers, his deep-set eyes cold in his narrow face.

“Majer Lorn is perhaps the most effective field commander the Mirror Lancers have had in generations. The Majer-Commander knows that the lancers will soon have to do without firelances. Why would he not have such a commander talk to Liataphi?” Chyenfel smiles coolly. “The Majer-Commander is not unaware of the majer’s background as a student magus. Do you think he would not employ such?”

“I had thought of that, ser. Yet…” Rustyl leaves the words hanging.

“ ‘Yet’? You believe there is more?” Chyenfel’s voice offers a tone of mild curiosity. “What might that be?”

“That… I thought you might know, ser. The Third Magus did make a point of bringing Lorn to see me.” Rustyl looks directly at the First Magus.

“To upset you, Rustyl. And he has clearly done that.”

Rustyl smooths away the momentary frown on his face. “Yes, ser. Yet I do not see what purpose that served.”

“Liataphi knows that I have given you duties to prepare you for greater responsibilities. Perhaps he wished to show you that there are others in Cyad to whom equivalent responsibilities have also been given. While Majer Lorn was not suitable for the Magi’i, that does not mean he lacks ability, and the Majer-Commander has recognized that ability.”

Rustyl nods.

“And I have no doubts whatsoever that Liataphi wanted to reintroduce you to Lorn not only to suggest that you are not so special as you believe yourself, but to use you to deliver the same message to me.” Chyenfel smiles coldly. “And you have done so.”

“I beg your pardon and indulgence, ser.”

“That is acceptable, Rustyl. Liataphi has suggested that he does not wish to be First Magus. He has even hinted that he may not wish even to be Second Magus. He does not wish, however, that whoever may follow me be excessively arrogant, and this little stratagem was designed to call my attention to your stratagems.” The First Magus steeples his fingers together above the polished golden-oak surface of his desk table. “You dislike Majer Lorn. The Third Magus knows this. Lorn is perceptive enough to sense this dislike. Now… Liataphi has been able to convey to the Majer-Commander, with little beyond a polite greeting, that you are arrogant and to be watched with care. You are one of my proteges. Therefore, I must be watched as well.”

Rustyl is silent for a long time.

“You have a question, yet you have concerns about voicing it,” Chyenfel finally says.

“Yes, ser. I honestly do not understand what the Third Magus would gain from this.”

“I should not have to explain, Rustyl. Think.” Chyenfel leans back and waits.

Rustyl pauses, and the quiet in the study draws out before he finally speaks. “Yes, ser. He makes it known that I am not worthy or ready of greater responsibilities. He casts doubt upon your judgment. He gains greater trust from the Mirror Lancers. But he is Third Magus, and not Second.”

“And who of the Mirror Lancers is close to the Second Magus?”

“The Captain-Commander.” Rustyl’s face clears, and he nods.

“Exactly. Rynst will never trust the Second, and whom does that leave?” asks Chyenfel.

“What would you have me do, then, ser?”

“Nothing different, not for now. For if you change what you do, it will validate what the actions of the Third Magus have suggested.”

“I see.”

“I believe you do.” Chyenfel smiles once more, if coolly. “Think upon this incident, Rustyl. Think upon it with great care.”

“Yes, ser.”

“You may go.” Chyenfel looks blankly out upon the
Palace
of
Eternal Light
for some long moments after the first-level adept has left the study. Then he takes a deep breath.

CIX

In the dimness of the upstairs study in the dwelling, Lorn rubs his forehead, then concentrates once more on the chaos-glass before him, trying to bring up the image of Rustyl. He smiles to himself. At least one advantage of using the glass in Cyad is that any of the upper-level adepts of the Magi’i might be suspect, and since none have felt his use of the glass, Lorn wagers that they will not know who follows them. The silver mists appear, and then clear.

The blond figure of the first-level adept appears, in the same study where Lorn had seen him with Liataphi. Rustyl glances up from the study desk-and the glass before him-an annoyed expression on his narrow features. Even through the glass Lorn can see the hardness in the other’s deep-set eyes. Rustyl looks down at the glass, clearly concentrating.

Hoping that Rustyl cannot use his glass to see who is screeing him, Lorn quickly releases the image. Then he almost casually slides the wooden cover across the glass, so that there appears before him but a wooden box, before leaning back and massaging his forehead with his left hand, then the back of his neck. Even after several moments, there is no feeling of the chill which accompanies a glass looking at him, and he slowly releases the breath he had not quite realized he was holding.

After blotting his forehead, for the evening is warm despite the ocean breeze that helps to cool the upper level of their dwelling, Lorn takes several more deep breaths before he leans forward and returns to the chaos-glass.

He concentrates again, and the silver mists part to reveal the red-haired Commander Sypcal sitting on the edge of a bed in a modest bedchamber. Sypcal is bare-legged and wears but an undertunic. The woman to whom he is talking is gray-haired. She is propped up with pillows and wears a high-necked white cotton gown. She smiles as the commander speaks.

Lorn releases that image quickly as well, but with a more cheerful feeling.

The next image he attempts is that of Rynst, but the gray-haired commander sleeps on his back in a bed next to a figure Lorn suspects is the Majer-Commander’s consort.

The following image he calls up is that of the Captain-Commander. Luss sits alone at a table in a dwelling, with a bottle of wine before him. Lorn almost feels sorry for the man, even though he knows Luss has plotted for Lorn’s failure more than once.