L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

“Ser…”

“I know…they’re strange orders, but that’s the way it is.”

Cheryk looks at Esfayl, then at Lorn. “You report directly to the Majer-Commander, ser?”

Lorn nods.

A slow smile fills the older captain’s face. “We’ll be having an interesting year, ser.”

“I hope not, but it could be.” Lorn waits for a moment, and then asks, “Any other questions?”

“No, ser. Both companies are supposed to be here day after tomorrow. When do you want us to start running drills?”

“How about the next day?” Lorn pauses. “Give it some thought. Why don’t you both come by after midday tomorrow? Then we’ll discuss the kind of drills that might serve our needs.”

“We’ll be here, ser.” Both captains bow.

After the two leave, Lorn goes to the doorway and looks into the foyer. Fayrken is alone at the central desk, and Lorn steps out to talk to the senior squad leader.

“Yes, ser?”

“I’ll need two copies of this for the Majer-Commander. It’s another meeting report, on firecannon transport to Cyad.” Lorn pauses for a moment. “Were you ever able to find anyone who’d heard of a lancer named Sasyk?”

“Yes, ser. Much easier-real sour pearapple, ser. He was a captain at one of the small outposts-Tyert…that’s one that used to report to Assyadt, but they closed it. Anyway, about ten years ago, he took his company and killed an entire settlement in the Grass Hills. He claimed they were barbarians posing as settlers. The Majer-Commander sent several commanders to look into it. They found barbarian weapons and some Jeranyi golds, and not much was said. Then, something else happened-no one seems to know what, except that he got cashiered there. He disappeared for a year or two and then came back to Cyad. He is the head of guards for one of the trading houses-someone said Dyjani. None of the senior squad leaders I could talk to knew much more, except that he was supposed to be very good with both a firelance and a sabre.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem, ser.”

Lorn does not frown until he returns to his study. Outside the ancient panes, although the sky is clear, the wind has begun to whistle as if heralding a storm.

As the carriage comes to a halt in the circular drive, Lorn opens the door from inside and steps out, extending a hand to Ryalth. She descends onto a white marble mounting block and looks over a halfscore of wide white marble steps that climb to a columned entrance portico. Behind the portico rises a two-story villa that stretches more than a hundred cubits north and south of the portico. Each level of the long dwelling is surrounded by shaded and columned porticos, and on the east side of the circular drive is a garden, enclosed by a hedge with a single entrance-and that entrance is a topiary gate.

Lorn steps down off the mounting block and around to the gray-haired coachman with the kindly and wrinkled face. He looks up and extends a half-silver. “If you could come back at around the eighth bell…?”

“Be pleased to, ser.”

The carriage draws away and Ryalth turns to Lorn. “You said that golds ran in Tyrsal’s family. This is grander than any of the dwellings of the major clan heads.”

“I know,” Lorn says. “Tyrsal doesn’t like to talk about it. He feels it’s really still his mother’s dwelling, and he’s embarrassed that it’s his. Now that he’s consorted…” He looks up as Tyrsal hurries out of the portico and down the steps.

“Lorn, Ryalth! I was talking to Mother and Aleyar and didn’t hear the carriage at the gate. It’s good to see you both again.”

“Since three days ago?” asks Lorn.

“You know what I meant. Besides, this is the first time we’ve been able to have you for dinner.” Tyrsal leads them up the entry stairs, then through a blue marble-tiled entry foyer to another set of steps. At the top of the wide marble staircase, he turns right along another corridor to the first archway.

Aleyar rises from an old blue-upholstered armchair as the three step through an archway into a sitting room that is alone half the size of the entire first floor of Ryalth’s and Lorn’s dwelling. The healer smiles warmly. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“We are glad to be here,” replies Ryalth.

Tyrsal’s mother remains seated in the other upholstered armchair, adjoining the one where Aleyar had been sitting.

Tyrsal steps forward. “This is my mother, Ensra. Mother, you remember Ryalth.”

“She looks as charming and beautiful as before.”

Lorn inclines his head to the white-haired Ensra. “It’s good to see you again.”

Ensra smiles. “It’s good to have younger folk back in the house. The next time, perhaps you could bring your young one.”

“Mother Ensra….” Aleyar shakes her head gently. “Let the poor woman have a few moments to enjoy herself away from her son.”

“He must be a good child…with such parents.”

“Good, but he does keep her busy,” Lorn says.

“And Lorn, as well, at times,” Ryalth adds.

Aleyar gestures. “Please sit down.”

Lorn and Ryalth take the settee across from the armchair where Ensra sits. Tyrsal sits on the other settee.

“This dwelling…it is quite something.” Ryalth gestures around the sitting room, with the dozen or so blue-upholstered armchairs, the matching set of blue velvet settees, and the thick blue-and-gold carpet centered in the middle of the blue-tinged marble tiles.

“It should be,” replies Tyrsal with a grin. “My grandsire was the head of Dyjani House. My father was his only heir, and he was a magus.” Tyrsal shrugs. “You can imagine how the merchanters felt about that.”

“They felt that any merchanter who had the talents of a magus would have an unfair advantage, I’m sure,” Ryalth replies.

“He was not given that much of a choice,” adds Ensra. “Tasjan’s grandsire threatened to bring the matter before the Merchanter Advisor and the Traders’ Council.”

“You don’t hear much of Tasjan’s sire,” Lorn ventures.

“He died at sea when Tasjan was young,” replies Ensra. “Tasjan’s grandsire lived to be almost fourscore.”

“So the grandsire pushed your father into the Magi’i and became the head of Dyjani clan?” asks Lorn.

“Pretty much,” admits Tyrsal with a glance at his mother.

“Exactly so,” confirms Ensra.

“Your friend Husdryt…what does he think of Tasjan?” Lorn asks.

“Husdryt says very little,” Tyrsal replies.

“That alone suggests he has his concerns,” says Ensra. “Husdryt was never close-mouthed about that which he likes.”

“…uhhh…” Aleyar clears her throat. “If we do not begin dinner…”

“It will be cold,” Tyrsal says with a grin.

The five rise.

As they follow Tyrsal and Aleyar from the sitting room, Lorn wonders how matters might have turned out had Tyrsal’s father remained a merchanter.

In the near-black purple of night, Lorn and Ryalth walk down the wide marble steps of Tyrsal’s dwelling to the waiting carriage, followed by Tyrsal and Aleyar. The driver sitting on the coach box is younger, harder-faced than the gray-haired man who had brought them to Tyrsal’s.

Lorn stares at the man for a moment, then asks, quietly, “What happened to the other driver?”

“He had a touch of the flux, ser…asked if I’d spell him, ser.”

Lorn can sense the lie. “Oh…I see.” He casts his chaos-senses around the carriage, but can sense no one hiding within. He turns to Tyrsal, still standing on the white marble steps behind the mounting block. “Do you sense it?”

Tyrsal nods.

The coachman looks puzzled, and leans forward slightly. The pose is a lie, as well, one which Lorn ignores.