“I can see that,” Ciesrt says, a hint of patronage in his tone.
“What about you? How have you found being an adept?” counters Lorn gently.
“My father is, and his father’was before him,” Ciesrt says, “and his before him. So far as any know, we have all been mages and healers back to the days of the Firstborn of chaos. Father has a glass in his study … one so old …”
The familiar chill of a screeing glass passes across the room. Myryan and Lorn exchange glances, but neither speaks, letting Ciesrt, apparently oblivious to the chaos-glass scan, continue to address Lorn.
“ … goes back beyond the time of Alyiakal, but it’s too fragile to use anymore. With all that tradition, why wouldn’t I want to be a magus?” Ciesrt smiles. “I’ve found it rewarding. I like being able to help provide power for the firewagons, and the firelances you lancers use to halt the barbarians. It makes me feel worthy to direct chaos into the making of cupridium.” The lips of the magus curl slightly. “I’d feel wrong saying these words to most lancers, but you were a student magus, and you are of the Magi’i, and you are Myryan’s brother.”
“I understand,” Lorn says. “Most lancers wouldn’t, not in the way you mean.”
“That’s it,” Ciesrt says. “Most wouldn’t.”
Myryan clears her throat.
“Yes?” Ciesrt looks up, a look of annoyance passing swiftly across his face and vanishing as he realizes his consort has been in the sitting room.
“If you do not wish to eat cold emburhka …” Myryan ventures gently.
Lorn stands. “I am hungry … and it’s been a long time since I’ve had emburhka.”
Ciesrt also rises. “I’d forgotten … of course, you wouldn’t. Not in the Hills of Endless Grass.”
“I used mother’s recipe-the way Elthya used to fix it.”
Lorn can’t help but smile at her half-mischievous, half-imploring tone. “I’m sure it’s wonderful.”
“It is. She’s a wonderful consort,” Ciesrt says proudly.
Lorn ensures that the smile remains on his face as he follows Myryan to the dining area. He will speak of small matters, and little else, for the remainder of the evening.
L
IN THE EARLY morning, even before he has eaten, Lorn pauses outside Jerial’s door. Is she dressing … or already gone?
“Come on in,” calls Jerial. “I’ve got a moment before I head off to the Healer’s Center.”
Lorn pushes the door open. Jerial is sitting on the straight-backed chair, pulling on her second black boot.
“You leave early,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Jerial looks up, then stands, and lifts the heavy green wool clòak off the back of the chair. “I leave early so I can get off early. The senior healers are happy to have someone there early. That way, the consorted healers, like mother and Myryan, can come in later.”
Lorn nods.
“What favor do you need this time?” Jerial’s smile is amused.
“Because I’m up early?” Lorn laughs.
“Because you’re home and because you have that look on your face.”
“I didn’t realize I was that transparent.”
“You’re not. When I can’t tell what you want is when you want something.”
“Sisters …” He shakes his head.
“Lorn … I have to go soon.”
“I’d like to find out anything you might know about a merchanter called Shevelt. With your other … activities, I thought …”
“I might know?” She wraps the cloak around her. “I do. He throws cold dice and doesn’t understand why he loses. He bullies anyone he can, and he’ll bed anything that has red hair. Why, no one knows. He’s the senior heir to the Yuryan Clan … if his sire decides not to send him across the Great Western Ocean on an uncaulked scow.”
“You’ve won more than a few coins from him.”
Jerial shrugs. “He can’t count when he gambles.” She frowns. “That’s not right. How often he wins is more important than how much he wins. He gambles against Jeron’ mer because he usually wins-say eight or nine times out of ten. I win only once or twice, but it’s ten times what he loses, and I pick the times when it’s safe to win.”
Jeron’mer-that is the merchanter name under which she gambles as a beardless and dissolute young trader. “What does he look like?”
“Big … broad shoulders. He’s not much older than you, but he’s already got a belly and jowls. He’s strong. He picked up one of Fragon’s guards and tossed the fellow through a door. He has a square brown beard, and he’s going bald. He always wears scent, something like musk and roses.” Jerial frowns. “Not too many people would miss him, but you ought to be careful. The Dyljani Clan hates him.”
“That’s a start.”
“Here.” Jerial rummages in the single drawer to her desk, then passes a short dagger to him.
“What’s this?”
“A Dyljan ceremonial dagger.”
Lorn takes a deep breath.
“She helped Myryan, and she’s helped you, just by being there. I thought you’d find out. She could probably hiresomeone to handle him, but it would be neater if you did. It would also leave the impression that she has ways to remove people that can’t be traced. You can handle matters so that even the Hand would not know.”
Lorn wonders at the reference to the Hand of the Emperor and notes that Jerial is careful not to mention Ryalth by name, even in her own chambers. He takes the dagger. “Wouldn’t someone suspect?”
“A lancer in a merchanter brawl? Or over commerce?” Jerial raises her eyebrows. “Even father doesn’t understand it all ….”
“Where would I find Shevelt? After trading hours?”
“The Silver Chalice … most nights.” Jerial steps toward the door to signify that she is leaving.
Lorn opens the door and steps back into the corridor.
Jerial steps closer and murmurs, “Oh … you might as well change into the blues in your own chambers, and take the back stairs. Just for outsiders, you understand,” she observes. “Mother and father both know. So do I. Sylirya and Quyal could care less, and Kysia gets her wages supplemented by Ryalor House.”
Lorn raises his eyebrows. “Nothing like living in a dwelling of the Magi’i … who else knows?”
“Besides half the senior Magi’i? They all think you’re just bedding her to spite father, and unless something else comes up, why would they care? Kharl won’t tell the lancer types, not unless it will gain him Chyenfel’s position, and what would wearing blues to bed a merchanter really mean except that you’re hot-blooded. You certainly aren’t the first.”
Lorn holds in the wince and the denial.
Her last low words chill him. “ … don’t let anyone know more …” She smiles brightly and says loudly. “Have a good day, and make sure you keep enjoying your leave.”
“I’ll try.” He returns her smile with an ironic grin.
She nods and is gone.
Lorn scrambles down to the kitchen, where, standing in the corner, he gobbles down some cheese and bread, and a handful of dried pearapples. Then, he scurries upstairs and,following Jerial’s suggestion, changes into the blues. He still does not head to the rear stairs until he knows no one is nearby.
His steps are quick as he walks westward along the Road of Perpetual Light, and then down Second Harbor Way east. Although the early morning is chill, the lack of wind and the bright winter sun make it feel warmer than it truly is.
As he nears Harbor Way, Lorn slips behind a group of three traders, keeping far enough away to seem respectful, but listening as he follows them.
“ … cuprite’s still too dear …”
“ … be dear for years … risk in iron, though …”