L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“We just ought to take over all of Candar-the western half, anyway,” says Vernt. “That way, we wouldn’t have to worry about the smelly barbarians.”

“The chaos-towers can’t be moved,” Lorn points out. “That’s why Emperor-”

“Lorn,” interjects Kien’elth quickly. “Not at dinner.”

“Yes, ser.”

“We don’t need to move the towers,” continues Vernt, seemingly oblivious to his father’s warning to Lorn. “The barbarians’ iron blades are so soft that a cupridium blade cuts through any of their weapons.” The younger son snorts. “We don’t need firewagons and highways to conquer them.”

“No-but would you want to live in a mud-brick hut or a tent?” Kien’elth laughs. “You wouldn’t get cooking like this, or cities like Cyad or Fyrad or Summerdock.”

“We’ve heard this discussion before, too,” interjects Jerial. “Cyador already has more land than we’ll ever need, and so do the barbarians. They don’t attack from need, but from perversity. They want to take what we’ve built, becausethey’re too lazy and too stupid to make things for themselves.”

“They do not have chaos-towers, nor could they fabricate them if they wanted to,” says her father gently.

“They don’t have to live like swine,” counters Vernt. “You can smell them from kays away.”

“They weren’t born with your advantages,” Kien’elth points out.

“We’ve sent teachers out to the north and east.” Vent’s voice rises. “And those that weren’t killed had to kill the barbarians to escape with their lives ….”

“Maybe they don’t want to learn,” suggests Jerial, with a hint of a laugh in her voice. “They don’t like books as much as you do.”

Lorn quietly finishes his casserole, and, while the others are looking at Vernt and Jerial, and while his mother has slipped away from the table to bring the dessert platter, he slips a slice of sun-nut bread from the tray and onto his platter. He eats it in precise motions before finally speaking. “They still think we took their land.”

“We didn’t take anything, did we?” asks Myryan. “I thought most of Cyador was the Accursed Forest before the founders came, and it killed either the barbarians or us whenever it could. They didn’t live here. They couldn’t have lived here.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t make sense. We’re not using land that they ever could have farmed or herded on. I agree with Jerial. They’re just lazy.”

“They are what they are,” replies Kien’elth, “and we aren’t going to change that. We can only deal with our own lives.” He clears his throat. “Lorn … have you ever met Aleyar? She’s Lector Liataphi’s next-to-youngest daughter?”

“He’s met them all.” Vernt chortles.

Lorn manages not to flush. “She is blonde, I believe, and quite well spoken.”

“I told you so,” Vernt hisses.

“Father …” Jerial begins.

Kien’elth turns to his eldest daughter. “Liataphi has no sons. I am not asking Lorn to consort with her. I am askingif he would at least talk to the young lady. There’s no harm in seeing if he likes an eligible young woman.”

“ … and it would be kind,” Myryan says with a sad smile.

“Because her older sister Syreal ran off with that merchanter, and that means that unless she consorts with a Magi’i she’ll lose her standing in the Magi’i?” asks Jerial.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” counters Myryan. “We’re lucky. We have brothers who are carrying on as Magi’i. Aleyar isn’t, and she’s sweet.”

“You know her?” asks Nyryah.

“I like her,” replies Myryan. “She’s too gentle to be consorted to a lancer or a merchanter.” She looks at Lorn. “And she is pretty.”

Lorn shifts his weight in his chair almost imperceptibly, then smiles. “I’ll make a point of talking to her.”

“That’s all I ask,” Kien’elth says, as he turns and smiles at Myryan. “Lector Kharl’elth said that the only young lady his son ever talked about was you.”

“Ciesrt?” Myryan’s expression reverts to one of polite interest.

Lorn glances from her to their father, who in turn watches the wavy-haired Myryan closely.

“Ciesrt’elth,” corrects Kien’elth. “You know him, Lorn.”

“He’s in my student group,” concedes Lorn.

“He works hard,” adds Vernt. “Lector Hyrist’elth says he wishes all the students worked as hard.”

Across from Lorn, Myryan’s face tightens ever so slightly.

“He’s pretty serious,” Lorn adds.

“These are serious times,” Kien’elth begins, clearing his throat in the way that Lorn knows a long pontification is about to begin.

“It sounds like a good time for sweets.” Nyryah sets the wide white-glazed platter in the center of the table, then reseats herself. “Baked pearapple creamed tarts.” She smiles at her consort. “You can talk about serious times after dessert, dear.”

Kien’elth laughs. “Undermined at my own table.”

“A good dessert doesn’t wait,” counters Nyryah, “and ifyou do, you won’t have any tarts with this bunch drooling over them.”

Myryan and Vernt laugh. Lorn and Jerial nod minutely at each other, but the corners of Lom’s mouth turn up ever so slightly as he glances at the warm smile his mother has bestowed upon their father.

“Outstanding!” Kien’elth beams as he takes the first tart. “The barbarians and the serious folk have nothing like this.”

“They might.” Vernt frowns, as if in thought, then adds, “But they probably don’t.”

“You can’t even argue just on one side, Vernt,” says Jerial after a mouthful of her tart. “Maybe you should become a counselor. That’s what they do-they argue both sides of everything.”

“What about something like being the Hand of the Emperor?” asks Myryan guilelessly.

“Myryan,” cautions Nyryah. “One doesn’t talk about the Hand.”

“Especially since no one knows who he is,” adds Jerial dryly. “That’s not wise.”

Kien’elth, his mouth filled with the creamy tart, shakes his head and finally swallows. “Argumentative counselors get sent as envoys to the barbarian lands. Besides, no Magi’i should stoop to being a counselor. Mostly, they mediate between merchanters.”

Amused smiles fill the faces around the table, smiles followed by silence as they enjoy the tarts.

“There are a few tarts left,” offers Nyryah when all have finished, glancing toward Lorn, “and since you didn’t have as much of the sun-nut bread …” She looks at Vernt, on whose face a frown appears and quickly vanishes, “and since you look positively starved, Vernt …”

Myryan raises her eyebrows.

“ … and you’re still growing, youngest daughter,” Nyryah smiles at Myryan and concludes, “there are enough extra tarts for each of you.”

“The last thing I need is another tart,” observes Jerial,glancing down at her slender waist. “I should not have had the one.”

“You could eat three every night, and it would scarce show,” counters her mother, “but I know how you feel.”

Kien’elth glances at his consort. Nyryah raises her eyebrows, and he closes his mouth quietly.

Lorn eats a second tart, deftly, with motions that are neither hasty nor dawdling, yet leave no crumbs upon his fingers or his mouth. “Excellent. You must tell Elthya.” He smiles at his mother. “If I don’t first.”

“You’ll not only tell her, Lorn, you’ll charm her out of a third,” says Jerial.

“A fourth,” suggests Myryan. “I’d wager a silver he had one this afternoon when they were cooling.” Her warm smile turns toward Lorn.

He shrugs. “It might be.”

His sisters laugh. Even Vernt, seated beside Myryan, smiles. So does Nyryah, although the mahogany-haired woman’s smile is more knowingly ironic.