L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

Tyrsal laughs at Lorn’s imitation of Kien’elth’s pedantic tone. Then the red-haired mage shakes his head. “There were two, you know. Syreal is blonde and sweet. She was older. Dett’s age, at least. And she wouldn’t consort with anyone, Lorn. Not anyone her family liked …. There was something there, rumors about a merchanter … but I didn’t know what. If their father had sons, no one would care.”

“What of the other daughters? Doesn’t he have a bunch?”

“Salsyha-she’s the oldest … she consorted with a Lancer commander. His first consort died of the flux when he was the port commander in Biehl years ago. Gives him some status, but she’s got a tongue like a sabre, or so I’ve heard tell. The second daughter … she was to be consorted to a second-level adept-but she died suddenly. No one ever said why, but there were rumors that his rivals …”

“Too much influence from Liataphi?”

Tyrsal grins wryly. “You see why I’m not terribly interested in pressing a suit upon an unwilling lady?”

“What about the younger two?”

“Aleyar’s sweet like Syreal, but she’s younger than she looks, if you know what I mean. The other’s too young, nine, I think.” Tyrsal adds dryly, “Besides, being the consort of Liataphi’s daughter might do little for my desires to live a long and uneventful life.”

Lorn laughs.

“I have been looking, not urgently, you understand, for a quiet girl from a modest Magi’i family without ambitions.”

“I wish you had been more interested in Myryan.”

“I was. She wasn’t interested in me.”

“I’m sorry. I had hoped.”

“I know, Lorn. She’s not really interested in anyone. I could have, I suppose, and she would have been sweet to me, because she is ….”

“But you didn’t want a consort merely to be nice to you?” The lancer captain nods. “I understand that.”

“You know that. I don’t know as my mother does.”

“Is she pressing you?”

“She’s never said a word.” Tyrsal lifts his eyebrows and rolls his eyes.

“That’s worse.” After a pause, Lorn asks, “Are you working on that project for the chaos towers?”

“Which one?” Tyrsal snorts. “There’s one for the Accursed Forest, some sort of new way to constrain its black order, and one to try to strengthen the barriers on the fireships, and a couple of others that no one even talks about.”

“I presume you are continuing to ensure that the firelances are charged and that the firewagons cross Cyador in speed and comfort?”

“Absolutely! What else are unknown third-level adepts good for?” Tyrsal frowns. “I’d better get back. Exercise over a mid-day meal is approved, but excessive exercise …”

“Especially with a lancer?” Lorn grins.

“Who else would give me a decent workout?” The redhead walks toward the racks where the practice weapons are kept and replaces the sabre.

Lorn does the same, then turns to his friend. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Of course.”

“And you’re still coming to the house for dinner on fiveday?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

After Tyrsal leaves, Lorn walks slowly back along the Road of Perpetual Light toward his parents’ dwelling, a pleasant smile fixed upon his face, as he considers what he must yet accomplish.

FROM WHERE HE sits on the edge of the settee, Lorn takes in the main room of Ryalth’s quarters-the low ebony table before him, the straight-backed black oak armchair where Ryalth sits, and beyond that the green ceramic brick privacy screen that protects the door from the inside. Behind him and to his right is the alcove that contains the circular eating table and two armless chairs, and the door to the small balcony. To his left is the narrow archway to the bedchamber, and beyond that, the small bathing chamber. Lorn finds it hard to believe that two eightdays have already flown by.

His eyes light on the painting-the portrait of Ryalth as a young girl-wearing a high-necked blue tunic, and a thin golden chain. He has admired it every time he has come intoher quarters, but never said a word. “Your parents had that done?”

“Just before they died,” she affirms. “I was supposed to take the ship, too, but I got so sick that mother insisted I stay with my aunt Elyset. She was really my great-aunt, but I always called her ‘aunt.’ She died just before I met you.” Ryalth gestured around the room. “Most of this came from her house-the things Wynokk didn’t want. I did get to keep my bed, but everything else went to pay father’s debts. He lost everything when the ship went down.”

“You don’t like to spend coins on yourself.”

“Father did, and on us.” Her smile is mirthless. “There was nothing left.”

Lorn nods, then asks gently, “Why did you give Myryan the pin and the coins for the house?”

“I should have known you’d see that.” She barely shrugs. “You love her, and you couldn’t do anything. I didn’t want you to be upset when you returned.”

“And Kysia … you pay her to watch what happens in the house?”

Ryalth shakes her head. “How did you find that out? She’s never laid eyes on you.”

“Because someone has been watching me, and it wasn’t the cook or Sylirya. I never have seen Kysia, except from behind or at a distance, and that means someone who knows about the Magi’i and doesn’t want to be discovered. Besides, there was no other way you could have known what you needed to know to help Myryan.” He lifts his hands helplessly. “No one else would have cared.”

“You helped me … when no one cared, and you kept helping me. There wasn’t much I could do to repay everything. I helped Myryan.” The redhead looks down at the ancient blue wool carpet that displays a border of what appear to be interlocked ropes, surrounding a trading ship under full sail.

“Your father’s ship?” Lorn points to the blue-hulled vessel portrayed in the carpet and partly obscured by the low table before him.

“No one wanted a carpet showing a sunken trader. I got to keep that, too.”

“And that’s why you invest in cargoes carried on many ships?”

She nods. “The profits are lower, but the houses will take our golds because it lowers their risks. I choose carefully. So far, we have lost but one cargo.”

“You’re a careful woman.”

“Except with you.”

Lorn is not sure exactly how to respond. “I suppose I am a risk.”

“Not nearly so much as I’d thought, and you have made us more than a few coins.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“You were right about the cuprite,” Ryalth says. “What made you suggest that?”

“I couldn’t say.” Lorn smiles crookedly. “It felt right.”

“Do you have any more ‘feelings’ like that?”

“Cider,” he suggests. “Or something like it. Or wine.”

“Because coffee is getting scarce?”

“More because there won’t be any at all in a few years, I feel.” He shrugs. “People will drink something else, but I don’t know what.”

“I’ll have to think about that.”

Another thought strikes him. “Iron … not immediately, but in another few years.”.

“Scarcely anyone uses it here.”

“Other lands will, though.”

Ryalth frowns. “I do know some traders who use the Hamorian Exchanges.”

“I can’t think of anything else. Not now.” He stretches, glancing out to where the sun hangs over the dwellings higher on the hill to the west.

“You still haven’t asked me to meet your parents.” Ryalth offers a half-humorous pout.

Lorn understands it is but half-humorous.

“You’d frighten them-badly.”

That draws a deeper frown from her.