Jerial and Lorn exchange glances, as Lorn senses the slightest transfer of something between his parents. An almost imperceptible headshake from the younger healer to her brother is caution enough for Lorn to leave well enough alone.
“I’m better,” Kien insists. “I just needed to sit down. We had to send replacement cells to the Ocean Flame, and there weren’t enough younger mages there at the moment.”
“So you pitched in as though you were twenty years younger?” Nyryah raises her eyebrows.
“What else could I do? If all the cells discharged … they could have thrown off the ship’s tower … and we’d have lost another fireship.” Kien half-throws his hands into the air. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Just as you did, dear,” suggests Nyryah. “Except you shouldn’t have charged up the stairs like a bull when you got home.”
“Women …” mutters Kien.
Lorn and Jerial both laugh. Nyryah smiles indulgently.
LII
WEARING THE BLUES of an enumerator under a grayed waterproof, Lorn walks along the narrow way a good half-kay to the west and south of the harbor seawall. A mist verging on rain sweeps across the white city of Cyad, turning it gray. As with all storms, this one bestows a slight and nagging headache upon Lorn. In the long package also wrapped in gray cloth and then within oil-protected leather is a sabre, but not a Mirror Lancer’s sabre.
Lorn’s eyes finally make out the shimmering oval abovethe cupritor’s shop, an oval that shines through the misting rain. Once he is under the overhanging eaves that form a narrow porch, he wipes his boots on the horsehair mat, and then opens the door, stepping inside and closing it behind him. Inside, there is a foyer of sorts, with a half-door blocking entrance to the rear of the shop, where Lorn can see the chaos cells and the dipping vats, and even the special forges. A hammer rings through the building.
The very air bites at Lorn’s nostrils, with a bitter taste that sears his palate as well. His eyes water, but he opens the waterproof enough to show his blues, before he steps up to the half door, on which has been fixed a polished plank the width of the door itself to form a narrow counter. How long he waits, he cannot tell precisely, but it is not an insignificant wait before a burly man, barely beyond youth, leaves his position by one of the dipping tanks and comes to the half-door.
Lorn bows his head slightly to the journeyman who steps forward to the door-counter.
“Yes, senior enumerator?” The journeyman waits for Lorn’s response.
In turn, Lorn extends the stolen plaque of Dyljani House. Ryalth had not asked why he needed it, but it had taken her sources nearly two eightdays to obtain it, longer than he would have liked, but early enough, he hopes. “We have a … special need … for an outland trader.”
The journeyman takes in the plaque, then raises his eyebrows as Lorn unwraps the scabbarded sabre, curved but slightly more than a lancer blade-clearly not a weapon of Cyad. He does not remark on the sharpened tip. “Yes?”
“The senior trademaster was told. that you could coat this sword with a thin layer of the best cupridium, so that it would be acceptable for a master trader of Brysta to wear within Cyad, but enough so that it will fulfill its purpose.” Lorn lets his voice edge slightly beyond concern, but not quite toward pleading.
The journeyman frowns. “That … that is something that master Wanyi will decide.”
“As he should. We can but request,” Lorn says in the polite voice of an enumerator.
Lorn waits as the journeyman dons a pair of heavy leather gloves before the younger man lifts the dark ordered-iron blade and carries it into the rear of the shop, and the white-haired man who finally looks up from the chaos-glistening forge. The journeyman also has taken the plaque, which he displays to the shop master even before he presents the sabre.
After a time, the younger cuprite-worker turns and heads back to Lorn-without the blade. When he reaches the half-door, he returns the plaque to Lorn. “For Dyljani House, he will do it, but only for five golds. And a good faith fee of five more.”
“For the senior trademaster, it is worth such.” Lorn has expected such, although the amount will leave him with but a few golds in his wallet. Both the plaque and the fee-a year’s wages for a Lancer captain-are required to discourage almost all uses of cupridium except for the Mirror Lancers and the most wealthy. “He said I should provide half now, and half when the weapon is ready.”
“That is acceptable.”
Lorn lays the golds on the counter and receives a token in return.
“On threeday, it will be ready.”
“Thank you.” Lorn inclines his head. “I will so tell the senior trademaster, and I will return then.” He turns and refastens the waterproof before stepping out of the shop.
Outside, the mist has turned to a freezing rain, driven off the Great Western Ocean so hard that it stings where it strikes Lorn’s unprotected skin. Yet, after the air and the chaos mist in the cupridium-forming shop, the ice rain is more than welcome as Lorn walks carefully eastward. The rain should limit anyone screeing his actions, although there is nothing strictly forbidden about plating an ordered-iron sabre. Expensive and frowned upon, yes … but Lorn will need the weapon for more than one reason.
Lorn shakes his head and continues back toward the harbor, and eventually toward Myryan’s dwelling. He stops byhis parents’ dwelling only long enough to change from the blues to a working lancer uniform before continuing on to see Myryan. By the time he has reached the Fourteenth Harbor Way. East, the ice rain has become sleet that bounces off his waterproof and his face. His lancer cap is soaked, as is his hair, and cold water drips down his neck.
Myryan has been watching, for she opens the door quickly and beckons him to enter. “You’re soaked, Lorn. How early were you out? Ciesrt left but a while ago. You didn’t have to come, you know?” Absently, she smooths back her thick and wavy black hair.
Lorn eases the waterproof off, trying to limit the dripping to one point on the polished tiles of the entry foyer. “I didn’t? How many days are left before I must return to duty?”
“Less than three-quarters of a score,” she admits. “If I’ve counted correctly.”
He grins. “So I had to come.”
Her nose wrinkles. “There’s something.”
“I’ve been in the freezing rain and the sleet ….”
Her frown fades. “Probably nothing. Come into the kitchen. I actually made hot bread this morning-with cheese in it.” She turns.
“That would be good.” Lorn feels his mouth water as he follows Myryan.
LIII
THE SILVER CHALICE is a two-story structure hidden in the shadows of the second auxiliary warehouse of the Spuryl Clan, and stands a hundred cubits off Second Harbor Way West on an unnamed narrow way set between the Road of Perpetual Light and the Road of Benevolent Commerce. Behind the two archways that form a small portico are the agevarnished double doors to the Silver Chalice.
Lorn slides inside the right-hand double door, trying not to move too stiffly with the sabre inside his trousers and boottop. He wishes that he had the Brystan sabre, but it will not be ready for another two days, and if he is careful, no one will notice the difference. The Dyljani dagger remains behind the heavy blue leather of his belt.
The tile foyer offers three arches, and behind the center arch are most of those in the Silver Chalice-traders and full merchanters in blue, all men. To the left is a near empty small room with but a single bearded merchanter of indeterminate age with a woman also in blue, perhaps his consort or a cousin.
The muscular guard with the truncheon in hand nods to the right, immediately dismissing Lorn. Lorn takes in the near-empty side section where three young enumerators share one table, and a gray-haired enumerator and a woman in yellow sit in the corner. Then he moves slowly toward a table for two just beyond the arch, set so that the light from dim oil lamps will leave his face in shadow, yet from where he can watch both the traders in the larger center room, and those who enter.