L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

Tasjan returns the laugh. “We are most beloved, for we are the most successful at competing with the Hamorians in all that they do.”

“Beloved or not, most honored and ancient friend, now is not the time for merchanters to raise questions. Time favors us more than action. Rynst grows older by the day, and without him, the Mirror Lancers will not know which way to point their blades. Chyenfel holds to life by sheer force of will against chaos, and when Kharl succeeds him, chaos will meet chaos, for the Second Magus will not support young Rustyl as a successor to the Malachite Throne-nor anyone supported by Rynst.” Bluoyal shakes his head. “The Second Magus would be Emperor, and yet he cannot see that few even within the Quarter of the Magi’i will support him.”

“He is a powerful mage, as is his son,” Tasjan counters. “The fourth magus, who has balanced all, is failing, many say, and his daughter is consorted to Kharl’s son. Many would support Kharl because he has a son, and for the sake of the daughter of the fourth magus, and to ensure that there would be an heir. The Empire cannot stand another Emperor without heirs, not in these times.”

“And when the Second Magus fails…then what?” asks Bluoyal. “Will you then offer yourself as the man of the merchanters-or of the people?”

“I cannot imagine that happening,” Tasjan replies.

Despite the cool wind, Bluoyal blots his forehead with a pale blue square of cloth that momentarily covers his entire visage. His brown eyes are hard as he studies the slender, sandy-haired merchanter. “You have talked of the failure of the Magi’i to others. Why will you not admit it to me?”

“Because you meet too often with Chyenfel and Kharl.” Tasjan shrugs. “I will not admit such even now. I do believe, as do you, that there will come a time when a merchanter must sit upon the Malachite Throne. When that time will be, I do not know. Nor do you.”

“You wager that time will be soon, and you are the merchanter, and your guards under Sasyk will make sure that at least some will make you such an offer.”

Tasjan smiles. “While I would scarce refuse such, who would ever offer that to me-the head of the oh-so-beloved Dyjani Clan? As for Sasyk, you know that he is but to protect the interests of the House.”

The older and heavier merchanter shakes his head ponderously. “You play with chaos-flame, my friend.”

“You will be burned by such flames sooner than I, Bluoyal, for you are far closer to them, and Cyad is less than kind to those who cannot balance the chaos of chaos and the chaos of man.”

“You seem most concerned for my welfare.”

“I am, indeed, for if you fail, who will be Merchanter Advisor?” asks Tasjan. “I would not wish it to be Veljan, for reasons we all know. Nor Vyanat, who is all that you claim I am. And beloved as I am, who would wish me? Does that mean we would see someone like Kernys? Or the lady trader, the one who makes us look magnanimous in our petty revenges? No…I would much prefer you not fail.”

“For now,” suggests Bluoyal.

“But, of course.” Tasjan laughs. “Would you have me lie outright?”

Bluoyal laughs as well, even as he lifts the wide blue cloth to blot his perspiring face once more.

In the early-morning light that brightens his overcaptain’s study, Lorn pores over the map of Biehl before him, trying to link what he has seen so far in the town with the old cartographic information. Some material he can see is outdated, for the map shows four piers in the harbor, and several structures that may have been warehouses that exist no longer.

His earlier perusal of the records in Helkyt’s study also shows that at one time, the commandant of the compound had been a majer or sub-majer, and that there had been three companies quartered in the compound. He straightens and shakes his head, knowing he must act quickly and decisively, even before he knows enough to do so. He also knows that such actions must show as little as possible, for an intelligent officer who is young for his rank is already suspect.

“Ser?” Helkyt peers in the study door. “Have you been here long?”

“Since around dawn, I think.” Lorn laughs. “Come on in and tell me about the Emperor’s Enumerators. Close the door.”

Helkyt closes the door and takes the seat nearest the wall. He brushes back a thin and long strand of blond hair, unconsciously swirling it over the top of his scalp where most of his hair has already vanished. “Mayhap…mayhap, ser, as you said, best you know about the Emperor’s Enumerators here in Biehl, afore you visit such.” Helkyt’s brow is perspiring, despite the cool air in the study.

“Tell me,” Lorn says easily.

“There be three enumerators-Flutak, Neabyl, and Comyr. Senior Enumerator Flutak,” Helkyt says, “he is in charge of administering and collecting the tariffs here. Neabyl inspects the vessels to ensure they carry no contraband, and Comyr is the most junior. He will do whatever the elder enumerators request.”

“How long has Flutak been the senior enumerator?”

Helkyt shrugs uneasily. “He has been such long before I was posted here.”

“And you have been here?”

“Near-on eight years, ser.”

“Does Flutak spend much time with the local traders and merchants? Or does he have relations among any merchant house?”

Helkyt moistens his lips. Finally, he speaks. “Not that I’d be knowing, ser, not for certain. Some say he has powerful relatives in Cyad. In Biehl, he is said to be close to the olive-grower Baryat…mayhap others, but those I’ve not heard.”

Lorn nods. “What about Neabyl?”

“He came but five years ago, and Comyr three.”

“Do any of them have consorts here?”

“Flutak has none, though it is said he has a mistress, the youngest daughter of Baryat. Baryat holds many lands to the south and west. There it is drier and more sunny.”

“Are many barrels of olives shipped from Biehl?”

“More olives than most anything else, ser. Excepting clay, and that is worth far less.”

What Lorn does not understand-or fears he does-is the most obvious nature of what Helkyt reveals.

“And Neabyl?”

“His consort lives in Summerdock, and it is said that she will not so much as visit Biehl. Comyr-he is young, and has none, none that any would know.”

“I don’t suppose you would know who those powerful relatives of Flutak might be, or whether they might be related to any in major trading houses?”

“That I would not, ser.”

“You can return to whatever you were working on, Helkyt. We’ll depart to see the enumerators in a bit. I have a few notes I would like to make.”

“Yes, ser.” Helkyt rises gingerly.

Lorn adds several items to the personal list that has gotten alarmingly long in less than the full day since he arrived in Biehl, then leaves his study.

In the outer study, Helkyt looks up from a stack of papers. “Ser?”

“I’ll meet you at the stable.”

“Be there in a moment, ser, if you will.”

Lorn nods and slips out, past the door to the unused room across the corridor, the room that seems designed to be an audience chamber or some sort of official function space. Outside, the wind is stronger than earlier, but warmer and out of the south.

He is met at the stable by an ostler who, like many of those at Biehl, is older-white-haired and missing a good fraction of his teeth. “I be Chulhyr, ser.” He looks at the uniform speculatively.

“I’m Lorn, the new overcaptain. I arrived yesterday, but you were not here, Helkyt said.” Lorn smiles. “I need a mount. If you could recommend a good one…”

“You be wanting a stallion, ser?”