L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

The shop is on the south side of the square, close to two hundred cubits from the recording hall, and distinguished by a small square sign fastened to the eaves of the overhanging front porch. The sign shows a yellow lamp, and the porch is empty. Lorn dismounts and ties the gelding to the short hitching rail at the very end, then offers a hand to Ryalth.

She smiles as she takes it. “I’ll have to get used to doing without all this courtesy before long.”

“Enjoy it while we can.”

After she dismounts, Ryalth unfastens the blue leather Ryalor House wallet and extends it to Eileyt. She nods to Lorn. “It’s custom in the smaller towns. If you have an enumerator, then he should disburse and collect the coins.”

“I’ll watch the mounts,” Usylt says, more to affirm that he wishes to remain outside, Lorn suspects.

“Thank you,” Ryalth replies.

Lorn hurries up the three wooden steps and crosses the wide porch from which many had watched their consorting nearly an eightday earlier. He wonders at how quickly the time has passed for them and how soon he must return to duty and Ryalth must return to Cyad. He cannot help but worry that her absence will not help her trading. With those thoughts on his mind, he opens the door for Ryalth, then motions for Eileyt to enter as well.

The enumerator shakes his head and stands back to let Lorn follow Ryalth.

Inside, Ryalth steps forward to study the items on a small table which include several ornate lamps; a kettle, and a lamp that looks more like a storm lantern of some sort. Ryalth studies the storm lantern.

The odor of hot metal permeates the shop. In the rear are a small forge, two workbenches, and a rack containing tools Lorn does not recognize. A man appears to be heating something in or over the forge, but his back is to Lorn, and a youth pumps a bellows, sweat streaming down his forehead. The young man’s eyes widen as he sees Ryalth, and he says something to the crafter.

The crafter turns. He is a squarish man, short, not even to Lorn’s chin, but muscular, with stubby fingers that set aside what appears to be an ornate bronze vessel. He steps toward the three figures at the front of his shop. “Lady Trader … Captain … I be Ghylset.” The crafter’s eyes flick from Ryalth to Lorn and back to Ryalth. “What might I do for you?”

“You show good work, master crafter,” Ryalth offers. “Better than many I have seen, even in Cyad and Fyrad.”

“Thank you.” The hint of a frown accompanies his words. “Do you seek something?”

“I seek good work.” Ryalth half-turns and gestures at the table and the objects upon it. “Which of these might show such?”

“The one you be looking at, Lady.”

Ryalth studies the bronze lamp carefully.

“Begging yer pardon, Lady Trader … but if you’ll be looking at the way the mantel’s set … that’s the secret … that lamp … really more a lantern but small enough to carry by mount or ship or set on a carriage, and it will burn through a gale and the heaviest of rains.”

Lorn can sense the truth of the crafter’s words, and he knows Ryalth can as well.

“Could not another cuprite master copy this?” questions the redhead.

“Well … supposing they could, but it’d take someone good as me, and I’ve figured some ways to make the seals with the glass tighter’n most, and quicker to form.” Ghylset shrugs. “At five silvers a lamp for a lamp that’ll burn in the worst of storms …. I don’t think there’s none can match me for quality nor price.”

“Four silvers apiece if I order in lots of a half-score,” Ryalth suggests flatly.

“Half-score?”

“Can you make a score of them by the turn of spring?” Ryalth asks.

“A score … mayhap more.” The crafter frowns. “But four …that is low.”

“Nine golds for a score,” Ryalth says firmly. “If they sell, I will order more.”

“Nine golds … aye … that be not too burdensome. Yet … I cannot begin so many … not without some estimation of faith … beggin’ yer pardon, Lady Trader.”

While Ryalth and the cuprite crafter talk, Lorn studies another series of lamps set on the shelf against the outer wall, taking in those of various sizes. He smiles as he sees onethat is smaller than his clenched fist, wondering as he does what use such a lamp might have.

“ … three golds now … so you may begin … and two more-Dustyn will deliver them-when you bring the lamps to him to be shipped to me. I will send four more golds when I receive the lamps.”

“They say you have been most fair ….” Ghylset nods slowly.

Ryalth looks to Eileyt, who produces three golds from the Ryalor House wallet he carries for her.

“I look forward to your lamps, master crafter.” Ryalth’s smile is professional, yet with the suggestion of warmth.

“They be the best.”

Lorn nods to himself as he follows her from the shop. Because she can assess both worth and character, Ryalth has a definite advantage, and she offers enough warmth so that she does not have to haggle endlessly.

“Which crafter do you wish to see next?” Lorn asks as they step out onto the windswept porch.

“No crafter-an oilseed grower.” Ryalth adjusts her cloak.

“The one with the perfumed oils?”

“There’s always a market for good oils, and if they’re different …” She shrugs, then mounts her chestnut.

“Dustyn says his place is a solid four kays out the west road,” Lorn says as he quickly mounts. “I hope this works out better than the pearapple grower.”

“Most don’t,” Ryalth cautions him, turning her mount toward the recording hall. “You should know that by now. That’s why I visit so many.”

“I know.” Lorn guides the gelding alongside her chestnut.

Behind them, Eileyt nods as he and Usylt ride after them toward the west road from the square.

IN THE CLEAR gray light preceding dawn, Lorn and Ryalth ride side by side on the perimeter road to the southwest, toward Fyrad and Cyad, and away from Jakaafra. Behind them ride Eileyt and Usylt, the guard.

The air is still, and frost has settled on the deadland, and on the winter-gray trees to their right, well out beyond the deadland. Lorn wears his winter jacket over his duty uniform, as well as the winter garrison cap. Ryalth wears her vest under the heavy blue woolen cloak. Faint puffs of steam indicate their breathing.

Lorn glances to his left, at the glow of the sun about to rise from behind the ward-wall and the Accursed Forest. Somehow, the days of Lorn’s furlough have raced by until none are left, and he and Ryalth must return to their duties.

“You have the scrolls?” he looks at Ryalth, taking in the red hair, the light freckles and the deep blue eyes he will miss more than he had ever thought. “And you will send them by private messenger?”

“We agreed on that.” Her lips curl into a smile that is both ironic and resigned, yet warm and accepting.

He laughs once, gently. “You will take care on the ride to the Great Canal?”

“We will, and I will send you a scroll when I reach Cyad.” She smiles softly. “You need to get back. I would not have you fail to be where you must be.”

Lorn reaches out and takes her gloved hand in his as they ride side by side. “I dislike parting, especially now.”

“I will visit as I can,” she promises. “But you need to go.”

Lorn nods. “Take care.” He gives her hand a last squeeze, then releases it.

“I will.” Her smile is sad.

Lorn eases the gelding to the edge of the road, where he watches as the three ride southwest. Ryalth looks back severaltimes. Finally, he turns the gelding and starts back toward the compound. He has not ridden two hundred cubits when he looks back over his shoulder. Ryalth is looking at him, as well, and he raises his arm. After a time, they both look away.