L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

Clunnnggg . The sound of the Austran blade echoes dully across the veranda.

The chaos-fire-ravaged figure staggers, then collapses, and the sound of yet another fallen blade reverberates through the night.

Lorn turns, just in time to see Pheryk’s blade slash through the neck of the third bravo. Lorn then glances around quickly, sending his perceptions out past the now-silent fountain, but he can sense no movement, hears no sounds but those of the geese hissing, and the moaning of the fallen bravo who lies on the stones of the veranda. He looks at Pheryk, who cleans his blade on the black cloth of the tunic of the man he has dispatched.

Pheryk looks at Lorn. “Fine bladework, ser. Just bladework.”

“Just bladework, Pheryk,” Lorn agrees. “From what I can tell, there aren’t any more, and the geese are quieting.” He turns back to the one living figure lying on the stones, but addresses his words to the old lancer. “You watch the garden, just in case, please. I want some answers.”

“Yes, ser.” Pheryk, who, like Lorn, is barefoot, but who wears a pair of trousers, steps out to the edge of the veranda.

Lorn edges the fallen blade well out of reach of the badly wounded man. “Who sent you?”

The bravo grimaces and tries to spit. Lorn slashes his cheek.

“Was it Tasjan?”

The truth-reading tells him that the man doesn’t know.

“Bluyet House?…Hyshrah House…?”

“…don’t know…frig you…chaoser…”

“Assassins?”

In the end, Lorn leans forward and cuts the man’s throat. He stands and turns to Pheryk.

“No one else around, ser. Did you learn anything?”

“He doesn’t know who sent him. He was probably hired by someone acting for yet someone else.”

“That’s oft the way they work. So I’ve been told.”

Lorn looks at Pheryk. “I’d like four of these five to be found-but in the street away from here.”

“That be easy, ser. And the one who looked to have stuck his head in a stove?”

Lorn pauses. While he could use more chaos, that does not feel right. He pauses as the chill of a chaos-glass sweeps across him, then he looks at Pheryk. “He needs to vanish.”

“The harbor’s not that far, ser.” Pheryk smiles grimly. “I have my cart. I often carry refuse down there.”

“Can you manage it?”

“If I wait till just before dawn, no one will think odd of it. The others…you and I…”

Pheryk glances at Lorn. “Best you wear a cloak.”

Lorn laughs softly. “And boots and trousers.”

“A mite easier that way.”

“I’ll be back in a few moments.” Lorn walks back through the foyer door, sliding the iron latch in place behind him, then makes his way through the darkness up the stairs. The sense of a chaos-glass fades, but Lorn knows the watcher could return again at any moment.

He taps on the door. “It’s me,” he says loudly. “The fellow who went off with a blade in his smallclothes.”

“Do I know you?” comes the answer.

“Far better than a fellow by the name of Halthor,” Lorn replies.

The door slides open, and Lorn slips inside. With a nod, he notes that Ryalth has a sharp dagger poised. “You’re a careful lady.” He slides the bolt-latch into place.

“I shouldn’t be? What happened?” She smiles. “How did you remember Halthor’s name?”

“I just did.” Lorn moistens his lips. “Someone hired some bravos. There were five. They’re dead. Pheryk got one. We need to move the bodies. It would be better that they just turned up dead in the street.” Lorn sets the Brystan blade against the wall and pulls on a pair of trousers, an undertunic, and his boots.

“Do you know who sent them?”

“I tried to get answers from one of them. He didn’t know. Hired in the darkness, I’d guess. Probably through someone else.”

“Tasjan,” Ryalth says.

“Why?”

“The Magi’i don’t work that way,” she points out in a low voice. “The Mirror Lancers don’t, either. They were after all of us. Otherwise you would have been attacked alone somewhere. Vyanat needs me. I don’t think Veljan would do this, and Bluyet House, much as they hate you, wouldn’t dare, because it could mean they would lose clan status.”

Lorn stands and takes up the blade again. “I can’t imagine Tasjan risking that directly.”

“He didn’t. It was done by someone who owes him or someone he can force to act. There’s no way to prove it, but I know it as surely as I’m standing here.”

Lorn nods briskly. “We’ll talk more after we deal with the refuse. It’s probably better if you stay here until I get back. It won’t be long.”

“Be careful. They could have others beyond the wall.”

“I will…but I can tell if they’re there.”

“Make sure of it.”

That…that, Lorn will certainly do. He slips from the bedchamber, listens to make sure Ryalth slides the iron latch shut, and heads down the steps to rejoin Pheryk. Even if the dead man with the burned face is found, so long as he is not found near Lorn, people can surmise that he was struck with a lantern or attacked a magus. But…with whoever was watching through a chaos-glass, Lorn does not wish to reveal how much chaos he can muster until he must.

In the early-morning light, Lorn stands in the door to the bedchamber, his eyes going to his consort and son. “Pheryk and I are walking with you to Ryalor House. You were right about last night, but if Tasjan is behind this, he may not be quite so indirect the next time. And you aren’t exactly in the best position to defend yourself or run if you’re holding Kerial. I’ll either come by and walk back with you, or you hire a pair of guards to accompany you and Pheryk.”

Ryalth nods as she wraps a small woolen cloak around Kerial, who is trying to crawl away from his mother so that he can plunge off the bed. Ryalth scoops him up. “No.” She turns to Lorn. “I would have suggested that, had you not. I think this morning might be safe, but from this afternoon on, it will not be.” She frowns. “Yet…if you escort me, and all know that…”

“Pheryk was out early this morning, and heard the news about the dead bravos,” Lorn says. “You’ve heard word that certain merchanter rivals have made threats. If merchanters are beginning to kill merchanters, a little care is warranted.” Lorn smiles. “After all, it is not as though you have a halfscore of guards-merely your consort and a pensioned old lancer.”

“The two of you are worth a halfscore,” Ryalth snorts.

“Perhaps a quarter-score,” Lorn concedes, “but none need to know that. An escort of two for a lady trader and her heir are scarcely excessive.”

“True.” Ryalth nods.

“There is one other thing, once you reach Ryalor House,” Lorn says.

“Besides finding out everything that Tasjan is doing, and if he is hiring more guards, or building ships with cannon?” asks Ryalth.

Lorn shrugs sheepishly. “You’re ahead of me.”

“I will know more by this evening-and even more by tomorrow evening.” Ryalth hoists Kerial to her shoulder. “We need to go. If we do not, you will be late, and that will raise questions. And one of the senior Austran traders will be coming by. He has suggested by his request to meet me, that all is less than desirable with his current merchanting house in Cyad.”

“Tasjan’s, I imagine,” Lorn says lightly.

“Tasjan’s or one of the smaller houses like Ryalor.” She starts for the bedchamber door, and Lorn follows.

Pheryk is waiting downstairs, and he nods to Ryalth. “A sunny morn, but chill, Lady. Saw but few when I was dumping refuse this morning.”

“The others?” asks Lorn.