“Nor I, dear lady.”
“I know it must be recorded for the Emperor.”
“Recorded for, but not sent to him,” Lorn points out. “Unless requested. It may be that no one will request the records of the town of Jakaafra for a long time.” He shrugs. “If they do, what will they find? That a lancer consorted with a merchanter lady?”
“That is but what they would find in Cyad.”
“But where they find it conveys a far different message. Were we to consort in Cyad, all manner of schemes would be placed at our doorsteps. Here … the message is that we wish to escape notice.”
Ryalth frowns slightly. “You think that to be true?”
“I hope many will take it so. If indeed they discover such.”
“With Magi’i screeing us both?”
Lorn shrugs. “They may not scree farther, now that they have seen us together in a quiet dwelling. If none see the signing of the book tomorrow …”
“I care not who may know.”
“I would prefer none know till you return to Cyad. I will give you scrolls to my parents, and Myryan.”
“You would make me a messenger, now?”
Lorn flushes. “I meant just for you to carry them to Cyad and send them by messenger from there. That way, they would learn earlier.”
“So long as that is what you intended …” The serious phrasing that begins her admonition gives way to lilting, almost laughing, words that are followed by a grin.
“Woman … trader … you are most dangerous.”
“You are the dangerous one.”
“Not me. Not now.”
Ryalth brushes off his disclaimer. “You worry about this majer?”
“I would not have him strike at you.”
“No. He will not strike at me. His lancer honor is too precious for that. Were he a merchanter, now …”
They laugh again, together.
CI
LORN PACES BACK and forth in the dwelling’s main chamber, trying not to let the Brystan sabre bang into anything. He supposes he should have worn the lancer weapon, but he feels more comfortable with the older weapon, and it feels somehow right.
He glances toward the bedchamber where Ryalth is fastening a scarf over hair that she has laboriously curled, pinned, and braided. She wears a formal blue tunic with loose flowing blue shimmercloth trousers. Then comes a blue woolen cloak, with a narrow cream and green border, before she studies herself in a hand-mirror.
“Are you ready for me to get the mounts?” he asks.
“Are you worried?” Ryalth glances at Lorn, wearing his formal Lancer cream uniform with the green and white piping. “You keep walking back and forth.”
“No. I just feel useless at the moment.”
The redhead turns and studies him. “You’re going to makesure that everyone knows you’re a lancer.” She grins. “So much for a quiet consorting.”
“Everyone in Jakaafra would know no matter what I wore,” he points out. “Besides, they’ll all be looking at you, not at me.”
“Go get the mounts.”
He bows with a smile. “As you command, my lady.”
“Go.” Both her mouth and eyes return the smile.
The clear mid-morning remains chill, but the breeze out of the northeast is light, sometimes even dying away, as Lorn leads both mounts from the small stable to the door. He had saddled them before he had washed and dressed. A carriage might have been more appropriate, but he knows of none for hire in Jakaafra.
He waits for a time longer before the door, holding the reins of the two mounts, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and wondering what other preparations Ryalth makes behind the privacy screen. He is almost ready to tie the horses to the hedge and go back inside when Ryalth steps out and latches the door behind her.
“You see? I wasn’t long.” She glances at his face. “Not too long, anyway.”
“You’re even more lovely than usual.” Lorn offers a hand as she mounts.
“I should get consorted more often.”
“I’m sorry it wasn’t earlier.” Lorn mounts easily.
They ride slowly toward the square and the center of town. As they pass one of the larger dwellings-on the north side of the road, two women standing outside the green ceramic privacy screen watch closely without speaking. Once Lorn and Ryalth have passed, the women’s voices drift toward them on the barely perceptible breeze.
“ … there! Looks like a consorting … ever I saw one ….”
“ … captain, all right, handsome as he is, but who be the lady?”
“That’s shimmercloth, and the cloak-that says there’s lancer and Magi’i blood in the union. Don’t see that often, not here.”
“Love match … I tell you … no other reason it’d be here.”
Lorn smiles and leans toward Ryalth. “It is a love match, you know?”
“I know. I’ve known that for years. It took you a while.”
He shrugs expansively, but the wide smile remains on his face.
The recording building lies on the west side of the small town square, around the corner and a good two hundred cubits from the side lane that holds Dustyn’s establishment.
More people watch from the porches around the square, a good half-score from the wide porch of the cooper’s, and half that from the weaver’s adjoining building.
“I’ve never seen so many people here,” Lorn says quietly.
“Dear …” Ryalth laughs. “They don’t get to see this often.”
“A consorting? It happens all the time.”
“There are many lancers, and few lancer officers,” she points out.
“You’re the one,” he counters. “There are but a handful of trading houses, and none so large headed by a woman.” Still, Ryalth’s words nag at him. Despite his mother’s words, he has never considered, not fully, how few lancer officers and Magi’i there truly are in Cyador. He pushes that thought away as he looks at the far side of the square.
Dustyn stands on the stone walkway to the right of the steps up to the yellow brick recording building. He wears a rich brown cloak, trimmed in blue, over brown trousers and a good blue tunic. Beside him is a silver-haired woman who smiles broadly as Lorn and Ryalth ride toward her. Alongside the factor and his consort stand an enumerator in blue-Eileyt, Lorn assumes-and a guard wearing merchanter blue.
Eileyt’s gray eyes take in Lorn. Lorn smiles politely. The slender enumerator bows, a bow of respect.
Ryalth dismounts gracefully, barely placing any weight on the hand that Lorn offers. The guard steps forward to take the reins of both mounts.
“Greetings, Captain, and my best wishes to you, LadyMerchanter.” Dustyn inclines his head first to Lorn and then to Ryalth. “This be my consort Wryul.” The spirit factor gestures to the silver-haired woman.
“Thank you.” Lorn nods, as does Ryalth.
“You look lovely,” Wryul addresses Ryalth. “And to come so far …”
“We would have had to wait years for Lorn to return to Cyad,” Ryalth explains. “I’m very happy to be here.”
As the couple turns toward the steps of the small building, a closed carriage of polished golden oak and drawn by a pair of matched grays approaches from the eastern end of the avenue and enters the square.
“That be Kylynzar, I do believe,” exclaims Dustyn as the coach draws to a halt and as a wiry white-haired man in a maroon cloak steps out. The white-haired man turns and offers his hand to a gray-haired woman in a matching maroon cloak.
“A quiet consorting?” Ryalth murmurs under her breath.
“I told no one except the ones I had to,” Lorn murmurs back.
“Then why is half the town here?”
“It’s not half ….” Lorn protests.
“It is if you look behind us around the square.” Ryalth touches his hand to call his attention to the two who have arrived in the coach.
“Captain, Lady,” offers the man in the maroon cloak, “with your decision to honor Jakaafra in your place of consorting, we could do no less than to honor you.” A wry smile follows the words. “We have not met. We have corresponded. I am Kylynzar, and this is my consort Mylora.”