Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Liataphi chuckles. “Would that some first- and second-level adepts- not you, Tyrsal-understood such.”

  Lleya turns to Ryalth. “I am sure everyone asks you what it is like to be a lady trader, when there are and have been so few. I would rather ask, if I might, what advantages being a woman provides.”

  “No one has asked that.” Ryalth tilts her head, as if pondering. “I would judge several. Caution is one, for a woman can make fewer errors, and so, I learned caution early. That I am a woman allows me greater caution, when often, were I a man, others might question my resolve.” Ryalth smiles. “Thus, I can plead caution where a trade is unwise, and still be bold where boldness is necessary.”

  “Do you think more caution is needed in these days?” asks Liataphi.

  “Greater care, I would judge,” Ryalth says.

  “In trade or in dealing with other traders?” The eyes of the Third Magus betray a slight twinkle.

  “Both.” Ryalth takes a sip of the wine. “The fortunes of trade are changing, and that means some houses will benefit, and others will not.”

  “How is trade changing?” asks Tyrsal. “Cyador produces the same goods it always has, and is not that true of other lands?”

  “Hydlen has had a most dry year, but last year they had a surplus of crops when there was a blight in Hamor. So coins are plentiful in Hydlen. Many factors are scurrying to purchase contracts on the exchange, knowing that grains and dried fruits will bring more. The larger growers know this as well, and they will not sell at last year’s prices. But the Emperor raised the tariffs on goods and grains leaving Cyador.” Ryalth shakes her head. “Many will lose on such wagers.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I already purchased some few contracts on foods that will not ship well, such as pearapples and the softer white corn-wheat.”

  Tyrsal laughs. “Because everyone will be shipping the other to Hydlen, and the prices of what remains will rise?”

  “One wagers so.” Ryalth shrugs. “I doubt I will lose, but there could be storms, or floods, or eightdays of hot dry winds from tomorrow until harvest. That is why I have been more cautious than some.”

  “Is Tasjan one of those who would trade in Hydlen?” inquires Liataphi.

  “He might. The Dyjani trade everywhere, and he has many ships, both for the coastal trade and the long-haul ocean vessels.”

  “He is said to plan for years into the future,” says Liataphi. “Or so I have heard. Unlike those of Bluyet House, who apparently rely upon the use of golds where golds should not be used.”

  “That trait has served them ill in the past several years,” Ryalth says.

  “Will Vyanat’mer take clan status from them?”

  “I doubt he will do such,” Ryalth replies. “He has not spoken to me or any I know about such. The Dyjani continue to strengthen their ships and coffers, as do the Yuryan Clan, as you must know. Because Vyanat’mer is of the Hyshrah, all that his house does is watched most closely. So he would not wish to strengthen his rivals by casting down Bluyet House.” Ryalth shrugs. “That could happen, but I would not wager my golds on that.”

  Liataphi nods. “Nor I. A wise observation.”

  Ryalth looks to Aleyar. “Have you two set a date for the consorting ceremony?”

  “The fourth eightday after the turn of fall, we think. We will know in a day or two. Mother wanted to see if her sisters will be able to travel from Summerdock then.”

  “Aleyar was always their favorite, and this will be the first formal consorting we’ve seen.”

  Lorn nods, understanding all too well the events hidden behind those words.

  “You will be coming, will you not?” asks Aleyar, looking at Ryalth.

  “We will be there,” Ryalth says.

  “If… if the Majer-Commander does not send me somewhere,” Lorn adds. “He hasn’t said anything, but I am a Mirror Lancer.”

  “Ryalth will be there,” Aleyar says. “And Jerial and Myryan will be at the dinner.”

  Lorn smiles. “I will do my best.”

  “You had better,” Tyrsal says with a laugh.

  Ryalth smiles.

  “Now… for dessert,” Lleya announces, as two serving girls begin to remove the platters and dishes from the table, “we are having peach cake with a special glaze.”

  Ryalth glances at Lorn and smiles.

  He smiles back sheepishly.

  CXII

  The spare and slender Toziel walks slowly into the robing room that adjoins his and the Empress’s bedchamber. There he slips off his outer robe of silver, carefully hanging it on the carved golden-oak frame that has served such a purpose for generations of Emperors. Then he removes his boots and walks toward the high bed. He uses the bed step to climb up.

  He stretches out slowly, then murmurs. “Chaos-light, I’m tired.”

  Leaning back on the pillows that are arranged to support him in a half-sitting, half-reclining position, he closes his eyes.

  Ryenyel pulls a chair around to his side of the bed, and seats herself. “The audience was long. You should have stopped it sooner.”

  “I know. I heard your cough.”

  “I coughed but once,” she says. “That was a risk itself. I cannot help you, my dearest, if you will not heed my signals.”

  “I dared not leave then, not when Chyenfel had just suggested that I might consider candidates for a new Hand,” Toziel ventures.

  “Nor when Rynst asked for more Mirror Lancers? Nor when Vyanat questioned once more the source of the golds for those lancers… ?” The Empress sighs. “There will always be such questions. They will last long after we are gone.”

  “Long after I am, certainly.” Toziel’s voice reveals a self-deprecating dryness. “Yet still I must act as though I will be on the Malachite Throne longer than my advisors will be there to advise me.”

  “You may have to be.”

  “Why do you say such?” Toziel is the one to cough, almost doubling up in agony before he slowly leans back on the pillows once more.

  Ryenyel waits until his breathing returns to a steady rhythm before she speaks. “Rustyl grows impatient. So does Luss, and Tasjan is gathering and paying armsmen, and his chief guard is developing his own contacts. Tasjan will soon have more trained armsmen near Cyad than there are lancers within two days’ travel.”

  “And I should do nothing?”

  “Dearest, you can but tell others. You have no Hand.”

  “If I tell the Majer-Commander, then…” Toziel’s words fade.

  “He will order in two companies of Mirror Lancers and put them under Majer Lorn, and the piers will run red with blood.”

  “So… how can we get word to the lady trader who is the head of Ryalor House, and how do we make sure that the lancers are on their way?”

  “Majer Lorn does not like to kill, but he will not hesitate if he thinks it necessary,” Ryenyel states.

  “You have proof?” Toziel smiles wanly.

  “My dear… what I know and what I can prove are not the same. It is most difficult to prove someone died with no body. The only killing he admits to is that of Majer Dettaur, and most would admit that was justified. The dead majer left too much in writing, and too many orders designed to kill young lancers in order to discredit Lorn. It has taken years to amass what I know, and there is nothing of substance to that, only rumors and words. There is no proof that Lorn killed a trader named Halthor when he was but a student, or Shevelt, or Majer Maran, or Sub-Majer Uflet, yet in all cases, except that of Shevelt, he was among the last to see each alive.”

  “And Shevelt-I thought he was killed because he knew that Bluoyal was behind the sale of sabres to the Jeranyi… the plated sabre?”

  Ryenyel shrugs. “It could be. It could also be that Shevelt had talked openly of forcing himself on Lady Ryalth to humble her, and that Shevelt died while young Lorn was in Cyad.”

  “Or it could be that Kernys, or one of the smaller clan heads, made certain that young Lorn knew
such…” Toziel coughs, then winces.

  “Kernys… or others…”

  “Can Lorn be persuaded that Tasjan offers a similar threat to her?” asks Toziel. “Can that persuasion not come from the Palace, even indirectly?”

  “Little persuasion will be needed. Tasjan dislikes women in any position of power. We will think on how to encourage him to make his dislike of Ryalor House somewhat more well-known. I do not think it will be difficult to avoid any trails.” Ryenyel shrugs.

  “What if I suggested that the Majer-Commander bring two companies of lancers to Cyad as a demonstration of might for the outland traders- perhaps conduct maneuvers near the piers somewhere, using firelances?”

  “And have Majer Lorn set up the demonstrations?” Ryenyel arches her eyebrows.

  “It is most transparent, yet who could fault it with the failure of the fireships?”

  “Would Rynst balk at Majer Lorn?” asks the Empress.

  “I would merely ask him who he would place in charge of the forces.”

  “And ask questions?”

  “Again… it could be transparent, but we might not have to. Would he want a senior commander or the Captain-Commander in direct command? Or someone who owes their position to him?”

  “Perhaps you should bring that up… tomorrow. I will find a way to get word about Tasjan to the majer.”

  Toziel nods. After a moment, he closes his eyes.

  Only then does the Empress frown, but she stands, and moves toward the bed, her fingers touching the Emperor’s temples lightly. In time, she seats herself, nearly as pale as the Emperor had been, but his breathing is stronger, and the worst of the pallor has left his face.

  CXIII

  On the late-summer day, Lorn glances up from the Majer-Commander’s conference table. Through the windows on the north side of the study, he can see dark clouds rolling out of the north and toward the harbor. To his left sit three commanders, Shykt on the north side of the table, with Muyro and Dhynt on the south, the same side as Lorn, who studies the three from the armless chair to Rynst’s left.

  Rynst clears his throat. “Commander Dhynt?”

  The older commander with the rugged features and pockmarked face looks toward the senior Mirror Lancer officer. “We have four fireships operating, but the tower on the Firestar is showing signs that it may fail at any time.”

  The swarthy Muyro raises his eyebrows. “I was not aware that any but the Magi’i would make such predictions, and they seldom are that accurate.”

  “We keep records, and with six fireships having failed over the past five years or so, we have some idea of what occurs. The amount of chaos-energy produced by the chaos-tower within the ship shows changes, often from moment to moment, far more than in previous operations. Occasionally, there are bursts of power that destroy the storage cells. This chaotic chaos, if you will, becomes more and more prevalent.” Dhynt offers Muyro a cold smile. “Then the tower fails, and we have a ship good for little more than scrap.”

  “After having fireships that no one could match for near-on tenscore years, we now must resort to sailing vessels with cannon? Is that what you are all telling me?” asks Rynst.

  “There may be other possibilities,” offers Muyro.

  “What are those possibilities?” counters the Majer-Commander. “Why have I heard nothing of them? If they are possible, why are we building three sail-propelled warships?”

  “Golds,” replies the curly-haired and thin-faced Commander Shykt.

  “It is true. The Emperor has said that he will not commit more golds to any other warships until the first one is completed and tested,” Rynst says.

  “Then it will be next summer-or fall a year from now before we have more than three of the new vessels,” replies Commander Dhynt.

  “Longer,” suggests Shykt. “The hulls are narrow, the keels deep, and the masts tall. No one is sailing a ship such as that. There will be difficulties. It is unwise to build many of an untested vessel.”

  “It is unwise to have no way to protect our merchanter vessels,” says Rynst. “Or so the Merchanter Advisor says.”

  “Of course, he would want to invoke the power of warships,” Shykt replies. “But I would note that the Hamorians send long-haul vessels across the Eastern Ocean, and their traders do well without warships.”

  “I beg to you to explain what you mean, Commander,” says Muyro smoothly. “Surely, you are not suggesting we need no protection.”

  Shykt shakes his head. “I did not say that. I suggested we need no protection against the Hamorians, at least not directly.”

  Rynst nods. “We need protection against those nearer-the barbarians, the Gallosians, even perhaps the Hydlenese. There, sailing vessels will suffice-if they sail as planned, if the powder cannon discharge as designed.”

  “Still, those are many ifs, ser,” suggests the iron-haired Dhynt.

  “Indeed.” Rynst studies the three commanders in turn, beginning with Shykt and ending with Muyro. “You three are here to provide answers and strategies which will reduce uncertainty. You are not here to offer ways to increase uncertainty.”

  Shykt looks evenly at Rynst. “I cannot provide certainty in a land where every gold for certainty and security is grudged. I can offer strategies, and I have done so. To make a strategy work requires golds-or greater mastery of chaos and order. We are losing the devices which allowed us to use chaos. We must either accept greater uncertainty or greater costs. Or find another way in which we can employ chaos. It must be a way that others cannot use.” Shykt pauses. When no one else speaks, he adds, “I am not a magus or a Mirror Engineer. I do not know the ways of chaos. So I have proposed what I do know.” He nods to Muyro. “You know something about chaos and engineering. What do you propose, Commander of the Mirror Engineers?”

  Muyro’s eyes smolder. He clears his throat. “As I have said for the past two years, no one has been able to rebuild or to operate a chaos-tower that has failed. Never. We have looked through all the ancient archives and found nothing that the Magi’i can employ.”

  Lorn holds back a frown, and glances from Muyro to Shykt, and then to Dhynt.

  Dhynt nods. Shykt frowns.

  “You have some question of that, Commander Shykt?” asks Rynst, his voice almost lazy in its gentleness of tone.

  “Nothing that the Magi’i can use-or nothing that they will use?” asks Shykt.

  “What do you mean by that?” asks Muyro.

  Shykt turns to Rynst. “If I might… Majer Lorn successfully eliminated the threat of Jeranyi raids. He did so, if I read his reports correctly, by first using multicompany patrols to reduce the number of raiders near the Grass Hills. He then combined his forces and raided Jerans, and destroyed the port of Jera to stop the flow of iron blades to the barbarians. All of these were tactics available to his predecessors. No one else attempted such, because such actions were counter to accepted practices. I do not know the secrets of the Magi’i, but I must question, because I am the sort who does so, whether there are not other means to harness chaos to our benefit. Perhaps these techniques are also counter to Magi’i custom and practice.” Shykt smiles ruefully. “From what little I understand, even the First Magus faced great opposition within the Magi’i for his project to put the Accursed Forest to sleep, and from what little I know, that project employed traditional manipulation of chaos.” The curly-haired commander shrugs.

  “It is a fair question,” Rynst acknowledges. “Do you have an answer, Commander Muyro?”

  “I am sure that the Magi’i have investigated every possibility.”

  “Just as you had looked into the deflection of blades with the new shields?” asks Rynst, his tone of voice between sarcasm and irony.

  Muyro flushes, a dark unhealthy color suffusing his swarthy face.

  “I trust you will consult with the Mirror Engineers and the Magi’i about this.” Rynst smiles gently. “We must adopt new weapons and doubtless suffer higher casualties. I think it only just that the Mag
i’i consider that which might do the same for them. If they do not, then the barbarians will pour in, and as the Magi’i should know, the first to go under those iron blades will be those in white.”

  “Yes, ser.” Muyro’s voice is level, but his face remains flushed in anger.

  “That will do for this meeting.” Rynst rises. “Good day.”

  Lorn rises, waits for the commanders to leave, then gathers his papers, and bows to the Majer-Commander before he turns to go. “By your leave, ser?”

  “I saw your eyes, Majer. You were of the Magi’i. Know you of any such possible ways to better harness chaos?”

  “I do not know how such might be accomplished today, ser. I do know that there were rumors of other ways of using chaos among the Magi’i, but I never became an adept, nor did I ever hear more than rumors as a student.” Every word Lorn says is true.

  Rynst nods. “Perhaps Majer Muyro can find something. I have my doubts, but he will raise the question. Over time, even that will help.” The Majer-Commander laughs, once. “One hopes. You may go.”

  Lorn is thankful that none of the commanders remain on the fifth-floor open foyer, and he hurries down to his own study, nodding to Fayrken as he passes.

  “Another meeting report, ser?”

  “Another report, Fayrken. This one will be short.”

  “That be good, ser. Majer Hrenk has a long report about the piers at Fyrad.”

  Lorn steps into his own study and sets his notes on the desk.

  At the low roll of thunder, he turns to the window, where the first fat drops of rain strike the ancient panes-the large droplets hitting almost with the force of hail.

  What can he do? It is clear from the indirect signs he sees that the Cyad he has known is changing. The merchanters are having trouble trading against the outlanders and want lower tariffs. The barbarians will threaten again, unless action is taken. The Emperor is failing, perhaps dying. The Magi’i are not changing, nor do the Mirror Lancers-except for perhaps Commander Shykt and the Majer-Commander-wish to offer anything new to the Emperor or the others who advise Toziel.