L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“Who lies below them?”

“Any number of senior lectors-Kien, Abram, Hyrist-they’re the most senior. Hyrist and Abram are thought arrogant and self-centered. Kien’elth is well-regarded, but he is almost as consumed by chaos as Chyenfel, and so cannot succeed him, for that, as well as for the reason we both know. Kien’s younger son is solid, but not brilliant enough for what we have seen. Kharl will not support Liataphi, nor Liataphi Kharl. Luss is Kharl’s tool, and for that reason alone, we dare not replace Rynst, arrogant as he has become, for Rynst knows that, and that is why he suffers Luss to remain as his second.”

“There is something else,” offers Ryenyel.

“Oh?”

“The Lady Trader of Ryalor House-her fortune cannot be reckoned … but she has gained on ventures that only one with knowledge from the Quarter of the Magi’i would have. And she has left on a coaster for Fyrad.”

“Most convenient for Bluoyal, I would say.”

“What of Bluoyal?” asks the Empress.

“That is the question, is it not? Who does he scheme to put in Chyenfel’s place?”

“Someone we do not know-or could not pick.” Her lips turn up. “Or we would know already.”

“So … my dearest … what should I decide?”

“Agree to Chyenfel’s plan. Immediately. That will ensure that Rynst must concentrate on defeating the barbarians without the extra firelances from the Accursed Forest. Also, if Chyenfel is accurate, if Cyador is to survive, then it must be done, and about purely magely things, he is usually accurate.”

“And then we wait to see who betrays who and why? And we watch Bluoyal? And Kharl and the heirs of Kien.”

The Empress nods.

THE DAY IS cold but clear as Lorn reins up the gelding before Dustyn’s narrow front porch, and it feels warmer than it is because the winds of the previous day have died away. Winter has raced by, or so it seems to Lorn, for it is sixday of the seventh eightday of winter, ten days until Ryalth is supposed to arrive. Already, Juist is muttering about having to take patrols for Second Company’s two eightdays of furlough.

Because Lorn will leave on the morrow for another patrol and because he may not be back until just before Ryalth arrives, he needs to talk to Dustyn. He dismounts and ties the gelding to the bronze ring, then mounts the steps and opens the door. For the first time since he has come to Dustyn’s establishment, the proprietor is actually standing at the half-door counter.

“Captain, I been wondering when you might be arriving to let me know about this mysterious consorting.”

“I’m here,” Lorn grins. “I do have a question about it. The lady is traveling here, and while she is expected by firstday of the ninth eightday of winter.” Lorn shrugs, “Traveling does not always lend itself to exact days.”

“That be no problem. The Emperor’s rules say that the recorder must know at least an eightday before. Wasyk’ll bend that to two, knowing how hard it be for some folk to come up with the silver, but there’s folk tell him a season in advance.”

Lorn nods. “That is good.”

“And who be these folk, Captain?” Dustyn asks.

“I am one of them,” Lorn says quietly, “although it would be better if it were not widely known until afterwards.”

“I thought maybe it might be you, Captain,” Dustyn says slowly. “But when I asked some merchanters I know about you … no offense, you understand … they said best theysay little.” The factor frowns. “Seems like you have powerful friends and as many of power that may not be such, especially …”

“For a mere lancer captain, you mean?” Lorn offers a sardonic smile.

“Captain … none’d be calling you mere. Even old Kylynzar been mumbling about how he didn’t like much what you wrote him, but he couldn’t complain none about how you’d stopped the wild creatures. For him … well … he complains about aught any time.”

“I told him we did our best, and that I couldn’t guarantee killing every wild creature that escaped.”

“You been killing most of’em, isn’t it so?”

“So far,” Lorn admits, quickly changing the subject. “I haven’t been consorted before, and I was in Isahl when my sister was. So what do I do?”

“Consorting be simple enough. It be after the consorting that it be no longer simple.” Dustyn laughs hoarsely, then clears his throat. “Wasyk be the recorder of consorts and the tax farmer for the Emperor here in Jakaafra. Be easier’n I’d thought,’cause your havin’ a place of dwelling means no winking at whether you be proper in consorting here. Doesn’t say which dwelling, but a man’s supposed to be consorted where he has one. Anyway … you and your lady …” Dustyn frowns. “Don’t recall your saying her name, and I’ll be needing that to give to Wasyk.” He waits.

“Ryalth … she’s an independent trader, and the head of Ryalor House.”

Dustyn shakes his head, even as he smiles. “Now … some matters be making more sense. A lancer captain from a Magi’i family-I did find that out, not much more-consorting to one of the powerful rising trading houses … more’n a few not be pleased to see that kind of alliance ….”

“Why … because they worry about mage blood in merchanter offspring? The children can only claim either merage or altage heritage. So what do we have to do?”

“Plain forgot to finish … you sign the register in front ofWasyk and seal it there with a silver. That be it, so far as the Emperor’s concerned.”

Lorn somehow doubts that.

“And then your troubles are your own.”

“They’re always our own.” Lorn pauses, then adds, “I have to be on patrol starting tomorrow. If the lady should arrive … well, she has the welcome of the dwelling … if you understand and would assist in that?”

“That I can do with great pleasure.” Dustyn frowns. “She be truly the house leader of Ryalor House?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ryalth … Captain Lorn … Ryalor …” Dustyn shakes his head. “Should a’ figured … I should.”

Lorn forces a laugh. “Leave the figuring to others, Dustyn, and Ryalor House will continue to help you prosper.”

“Oh, that I will, ser. That I will. Owe you two far too much to be flapping my chin, outside a’ my own place, you see, that is ….”

“And to make sure you prosper …” Lorn slips a silver into Dustyn’s hand.

“Ser … you needn’t …”

“I need not, but times have not been easy for you.”

“Thank you, ser, and I will be taking the best care when the lady trader should arrive.”

“I know you will.” Lorn glances toward the door. “And I have to ready a company for another patrol.”

“You do that, ser, and I’ll be watching out for you.”

Lorn nods as he steps toward the door, and the cold ride back to the compound.

FAT AND WET snowflakes swirl past Lorn, so heavily that he cannot see the ward-wall from the perimeter road from where he rides with Kusyl and the second squad, so thickly that he is continually brushing slush and water from his forehead.He ignores the headache that accompanies the snow.

After briefly considering stopping the patrol, he decides against it, at least for a time. The biggest danger is fallen tree trunks, and even the heaviest snow won’t hide anything that large.

“You think this will last, ser?”

“I hope not. Usually, the big flakes don’t. Then, we’re going on furlough after this patrol.” Lorn says with a rueful laugh that carries the fifteen cubits between their mounts. “With our luck, a cubit of it will fall on the deadland.”

They both know that while the green crowns of the giant trees of the Accursed Forest may accept some snow, it will neither remain nor filter into the warmer green below.