L. Modesitt - Scion of Cyador

The use of chaos leaves him with a headache-not as bad as some, but one that is more than a mere dull ache. He slips the shortsword through his belt and eases his way along the railing and past one pillar and then another until he reaches the east side of the garden. Then, concealed by his blur-shield, he waits until the next green-clad guard passes before he climbs onto the railing and lifts himself onto the brick step of the chimney. He makes his way up the three huge stepped sides of the chimney.

Tasjan should still be dining. Above him, the study windows are dark yet. While using the blur-shield, Lorn could still follow the trader, anywhere in the dwelling, until he has an opportunity-but the study would be best.

There are three windows. He can reach two from where he stands. The first is shut firmly. The second is closed, but there is a crack there. Slowly, with the back edge of the shortsword, Lorn wiggles it wider, and then wider, until he can pull it open.

Then he jumps and grabs the sill, and slowly drags himself up and into the empty study. He closes the window, slowly and gently, then makes his way to a corner behind the carved desk, a corner where the built-in bookshelves meet.

While there is a temptation to look at the papers and folders on the desk, Lorn refrains and merely stands in the corner. He lets the blur-shield down while he waits. There is little sense in using the effort when none are around to see him.

He waits for some time-so long that he has begun to debate whether he should strike out with his chaos-senses and try to locate Tasjan. Then, he reflects, waiting in another’s dwelling to murder someone may well slow time.

The sound of steps, and a click , alerts Lorn, and he cloaks himself in aversion and waits.

The door opens, and dim light from the corridor oozes into the study. A slender figure stands in the door, looking across the study. With the door still open, Tasjan takes the striker from his belt, and clicks it, once, twice, before light creeps from the lamp set in the sconce beside the doorway.

Tasjan glances around the study, once, then again. His brow furrows, and he looks almost directly at Lorn, but his eyes pass by the lancer in blue.

Finally, the merchanter closes the door and slides the bolt. He steps toward the table desk.

Lorn moves from the corner, and with the borrowed blade, slashes across the left side of the merchanter’s unprotected neck.

Tasjan barely has the time to look surprised.

Lorn manages to grab part of the merchanter’s tunic and swings the body so that it falls onto the carpet, rather than into the desk or the chair before it. Then he lowers the shortsword with the green leather grip to the carpet beside the dead merchanter.

Standing quickly, he slides the window back open. Then, regathering the blur-shield back around him, he slides out, lowering himself down to the first ledge. He leaves the window wide open. Slowly, in the growing twilight, he makes his way down the stepped sections of the chimney to the portico roof. There he freezes, blur-shield around him.

Two guards have stopped on the far side of the railing, and are talking.

“You see Wyst?”

“No. You’re on his post. Thought he got the flux or something.”

“…just disappeared…Gyan’s asking all the guards…be not happy…”

“…something up…don’t know what…calling in the guards off the ships…”

“Double guards at the Plaza building, too.”

“Sasyk whipped someone in the second squad…doesn’t do that ’less he’s frettin’.”

“Look up there…he’s at it again. Light still on in the study.”

“Not that warm…he’s got the window open…”

“Where he sits these days, it’s warm enough.” The first guard laughs.

“Funny, though. Cold out here, and it’ll be colder ’afore Vansyn comes on relief. Give anything to be inside and warm, and he’s inside and warm, and trying to get cooler.”

“Life is like that, friend. Better keep moving. Don’t want to get on Gyan’s bad side.”

“Nor Sasyk’s.”

The two part and walk back along their separate posts, away from the corner. Lorn slips from the deeper shadows and with one hand holding the stone rail, he leaps across the emptiness, and slides through greenery, finally managing to clutch a branch. He can feel the scratches on his hands and on his neck. He keeps clutching the branch, letting stretched muscles rest, and breathing deeply.

Even after he reaches the base of the tree, he holds the blurring shield until he is two blocks away, despite the pain in his eyes that has grown into sharp daggers jabbing into his skull, intensifying the headache he already suffers. He uses a kerchief from his belt wallet to blot the blood from the scratches on his neck.

It feels as though every eye is on him as he walks back down Eighth Harbor Way West, yet the streets are almost empty, and, so far as he can tell, neither eyes nor screeing glasses are upon him.

As he turns onto the narrow way that holds their dwelling, he can sense the chill of a chaos-glass. There is little he can do but continue walking, and the feeling passes even before he reaches the iron gate.

He can but wonder what magus was screeing him-wonder and hope. At least he was not observed by a glass while near Tasjan’s dwelling.

He double-checks the locking on the iron gate before he makes his way along the marble walk toward the veranda.

“Ser?” calls a voice.

“It’s me, Pheryk. I’m back.”

“The lady asked me to watch for you, and to let the geese out of the pen once you returned.”

“Thank you. You can do that. I’m not going out again. It’s been a long day.”

“Good night, ser.”

“Good night.” Lorn opens the veranda door, then slides the bolt behind him and steps down into the foyer.

“Is that you, Lorn?”

“It’s me.”

Ryalth waits in the sitting room, a goblet of Alafraan in her hand, a second goblet on the table.

Lorn looks at the goblet.

“I thought you might need it. You look like it was harder than you planned.”

“You didn’t ask how it went.”

“I could tell that when you entered. There’s a coldness about you. It was there after Shevelt, but I didn’t recognize it as such then. You’ve got some cuts, and your eyes are watering. Are any…”

“No…the cuts are from a lorken tree I was climbing. I got them climbing down. They’re just scratches.” Lorn takes up the goblet. “Thank you.”

“And you used enough chaos that your head is splitting and your eyes water?”

“That, too.” He sits on the front edge of the chair across from Ryalth, who leans forward on the settee. “It’s all a mess.” After the smallest sip of Alafraan, he adds, “Tasjan blackmails Vyel to kill you. He releases papers so that all would believe Vyanat murdered his own brother to save himself, when Vyanat had killed his brother to show he would not countenance favoritism and ill-doing by his brother. Now I act so that Tasjan cannot create a cause…”

“…and Sasyk will use it as such in some way?”

“Possibly,” Lorn admits. “Or someone else.”

“Did you leave something to tie the death to Sasyk?”

“A green-wrapped blade and an open window-and one guard is missing.”

Ryalth nods. “That will suffice.” Her blue eyes are as sad and hard as Lorn’s amber orbs.

They each take another sip of the Alafraan.

The blond and broad-shouldered first-level adept magus steps into the study in the private dwelling. He bows to the older magus who stands by the window, looking down across Cyad itself at the gray winter waters of the harbor.

“You suggested we talk before dinner, ser?” asks the tall and blond first-level adept.