“I wish you fair and following winds,” the woman merchanter responds, “and an early and profitable return to Cyad.”
At the head of the gangway, the Brystan bows again. “The combine will be pleased to know of your continuing support.”
“I appreciate their forbearance.” Ryalth nods once more.
Lorn waits until they are a hundred cubits from the ship and past the sweating figures unloading the coastal schooner that is tied up inshore of the Courser. “Why did you wait so long?” His tone is curious.
“When they want to insure, you get a better deal if you’re late. They don’t like holding the entire risk of a cargo. If I can’t get a share, I’ll find another master who has something I think I can factor for a profit. They keep my coins whether the cargo makes a profit or not. On this end, I have more control, but you can’t buy shares in just incoming cargoes. Not and remain a merchanter for long.”
Lorn nods, although he is far from sure he fully understands. As he considers her words, the two walk slowlynorthward on the walkway flanking the seawall, back toward the Trading Plaza for the Clanless Houses.
“If the Courser gets caught in any sort of storm, or rough seas, you’ll lose fifty golds, plus your share of the outbound cargo,” Lorn says finally when he is certain that they are well away from prying ears.
“That is true. If …” She draws out the conditional word, before adding, “Some vessels have made two or more passages with damaged keels, some even more. Some owners have knowingly sent out vessels with cracked keels.”
“Why?” Lorn frowns. “Gambling on not having to replace a ship that’s not worth it?”
“They didn’t have the hundreds of golds necessary to repair the ship-or to replace it. It’s cheaper to get a new captain and crew and offer him a fifty gold bonus to bring it back safely. Or sell it to another trader who isn’t so concerned.” She shrugs. “For all I know, L’Igek may know of the Courser’s problems. That may be why his buy-ins are cheaper.”
Lorn pulls on his chin. Each moment with Ryalth teaches him that there is so much he does not know about trade. “You didn’t think about telling him.”
“No. I would have had to explain how I knew, and then none would ever trade with us again. They detest the Magi’i. That’s also why I took the return cargo. It could come in, and if it does, or especially if L’Igek discovers the problem and survives, none of them would take another agreement from me.” Her voice softens as she continues. “You know, there weren’t such things as merchanters in the time of the Firstborn. The first merchanters-most of them-came from Spidlar-that’s in northern Candar, east of the Westhorns.”
“I know.”
“But they were the only ones the Hamorians and Austrans would trade with, and in time, there were merchanters from Cyad as well.”
“But that’s why the Lancers and Magi’i frown on the Merchanters?”
“They also like to flaunt their superiority.” She smiles.“You don’t think Bluoyal is every bit as sharp as the Majer-Commander of the Mirror Lancers?”
“He’s the Emperor’s advisor on trade?” Lorn laughs. “From what I’ve seen, he’s probably sharper.”
“The Magi’i and the Lancers don’t think so. Your parents feel I’m below you.”
“I don’t.”
“You aren’t your parents.”
At the shoreward end of the pier, Ryalth stops, well back from the carters who roll pushwagons of supplies toward the vessels moored along the piers. “I have to go back to the Plaza. I’m expecting a response from Nylyth House to a bid on shares of peppercorns from Atla. They’re Hamorians.”
“Do you-we-trade all over the world?”
“Only where we can make golds,” she replies. “Only where we can make golds.” She gestures eastward. “You’d best spend some time with your family. You’ve only another three eightdays left.”
“Tonight?”
“Of course.” For the first time during the morning, her smile is warm, radiant.
He shakes his head ruefully, smiling broadly as well. “That’s what I look forward to.”
Her eyes dance. “As you should.”
He watches as she walks briskly back toward the Traders’ Plaza. After a time, he turns and begins to walk northward toward the Road of Perpetual Light.
LI
“LONG DAY?” LORN asks from the third floor landing of the formal staircase as Jerial walks slowly up one marble step after another.
“You’re still here?” Jerial smiles up at Lorn as she nears the landing. “I thought you’d be elsewhere.”
“I will be … later. What about you?”
“I’m too tired.”
Lorn studies her face, clearly fatigued and drawn. Even the order-chaos levels in her body were depressed. “What happened?”
“You didn’t hear?”
Lorn shakes his head. “I met Tyrsal, and then we sparred.”
“There was a chaos explosion on the Ocean Flame ….” Jerial slowly shakes her head. “It wasn’t that big, but it started a fire. There were many burned. I would have been home far earlier.”
“Could you save any?”
“We’ll see. I did what I could. They sent Myryan over to help, but we finally were dismissed.”
“Because to do more would have injured you?”
Jerial nods. “I’ll need a good supper and some rest.”
The calling bell rings from the lower front door.
From where they sit in chairs in the third level sitting room, Lorn and Jerial frown.
“Feels like a lancer,” she says.
“I’ll get it.” Lorn stands quickly. “You can sense that far away?”
“You could, if you worked at it.” Jerial rises and straightens the green tunic, answering his unspoken question. “Sensing takes little energy. It’s trying to re-balance the order and chaos that costs you.”
“Just stay here.” Lorn goes down the stairs quickly, reaching the privacy screen before Sylirya. “I’ll see who it is.” He steps around the inside screen, opens the door, and glances through the outer screen’s viewing slit.
The figure in the dress uniform of a lancer is Dettaur’alt, taller, broader, and harder-faced, but still with the air of a schoolyard bully.
Lorn steps from beside the screen. “Dettaur, I didn’t expect you.”
The linked silver triple bars of a sub-majer glitter on the collar of Dettaur’s cream and green uniform, and he inclines his head. “I was hoping to have a word with your sister Jerial, the distinguished healer, and to thank her.”
Lorn gestures. “She’s upstairs. Please come in.” His eyes flicker toward the harbor where thin trails of smoke still drift skyward before melding into the gray of the high clouds.
“Thank you.” Dettaur’alt bows again, before stepping into the house.
The two lancers head up the steps, Lorn trailing Dettaur ever so slightly.
When Dettaur steps into the third floor sitting room, he immediately bows to Jerial, who stands beside one of the upholstered armchairs. “Honored healer, I wished to convey my thanks for your efforts this afternoon. Several of the marine lancers may well survive solely because of your efforts, and one of them is the brother of my cousin’s consort.”
“Thank you.” She motions for the visiting lancer to sit, and does so herself.
Dettaur takes the straight-backed white oak armchair across from her. Lorn sits on the other wooden armchair, to Dettaur’s right.
“I heard that you aided many,” Dettaur continues.
“That is what healers are for, ser. To heal. I am pleased that those efforts were of benefit to you and your family.”
“Of much benefit,” Dettaur insists, “and not just to my kin.”
A faint smile plays across Lorn’s lips, then vanishes as the more senior lancer turns in the chair.
“I did not realize you were on home leave, Lorn,” Dettaur says smoothly in a deep and cultivated baritone from the back of his throat.
Lorn responds to the lie with a smile. “Even captains assigned to Isahl are privileged to get home leave every few years.” He pauses, before asking, “Are you assigned here? Or are you on leave as well?”