After opening the door and stepping inside, Lorn closes it firmly behind him, walks forward, and waits at the countered half-door. When the young journeyman finally acknowledges him and approaches, Lorn shows the token he had received earlier and the Dyljani plaque. “I have come for the Brystan sword.”
The journeyman inclines his head but slightly. “The modified sabre is ready, and the master would have it out of his place, masterful though the work is.”
Lorn places the token and the five golds on the narrow counter-and two silvers.
The younger man takes the token, but leaves the coins on the polished wood and steps to the side and a rack that Lorn cannot fully see, returning with the sabre and the scabbard. He eases the weapon out of the scabbard for Lorn to see.
Lorn glances at it, in the manner of an enumerator unaware of and unconcerned with the intricacies of blades. “It looks as it should.”
“The master also rebalanced the blade and adjusted the scabbard for the additional thickness and the point. That meant some additional rivets.”
Lorn smiles, keeping the resignation from his lips, and adds another gold to the pile.
“We thank the house of Dyljani,” responds the journeyman.
“The house of Dyljani thanks you and master Wanyi.”Lorn bows, then wraps the weapon in the gray cotton and the oilcloth before leaving the shop.
As he walks eastward through the heavy fog toward the harbor, swathed in his gray waterproof, Lorn hopes that his investment of more than a year’s pay will provide what he needs.
LVIII
LORN STANDS IN the afternoon shadows on the upper level portico of his parents’ dwelling, the wind from the Great Western Ocean in his face as he looks out across the harbor, taking in the scaffolds erected around the Ocean Flame, and the other fireship tied along the same pier farther seaward. From what he can tell, the two square-rigged ocean vessels on the adjacent pier are both Brystan, while the three schooners on the coastal pier are from Lydiar, Hydlen, and Gallos, if the colors of the ensigns flying from their sterns are any indication. Another vessel, with wind-billowed sails, cuts diagonally out of the southwest toward the harbor.
The wind has shifted and strengthened enough to clear out the heavy fog of the morning. Whitecaps fill the water that is as much gray as blue under the dark clouds that swirl in from the west, and the wind hints at colder weather approaching. Lorn can sense someone behind him, but he does not turn for a while.
When he does, his mother is still waiting, wearing a heavy green woollen cloak.
“I don’t go to the healing center except on twoday and fourday. A small benefit of age and experience,” she says. “I had hoped we could have some moments together before you left.”
“Would you like to go down to the sitting room?” he asks as his eyes shift to her cloak. “It would be warmer.”
“No. I like the wind. That is … if I’m properly attired.” Her fine white eyebrows arch, under short-cut hair that hasnone of the mahogany Lorn recalls remaining. “The cloak is most warm.” She walks toward the southwest corner of the portico.
Lorn follows and arranges two chairs so that they sit in a sheltered corner of the area where the family has often dined in warmer weather, the wind rustling and murmuring around them.
Nyryah arranges her cloak and fixes her eyes on her older son.
Lorn waits, knowing his mother will say what she desires as she wishes.
“I never have cared for young Dettaur,” Nyryah finally says, “even when you were but waist-high and friends with him. He was bigger, and he hit you, sometimes when he thought no one was looking, but you never cried. His mother was my best friend when we were young. She was of the Magi’i, but her father was only a third level adept, and he died very young. She foolishly accepted Pyeal, but we all can do foolish things when we’re upset.”
“You never mentioned any of that.”
“There was no reason to, not when you were young. We were more idealistic, then, I fear.” She smiles, as if recalling a memory that gives her pleasure. “It is difficult to remain young and idealistic in Cyad. It is near-impossible to reach my age and retain all one’s ideals.” She frowns. “Perhaps it is better said that it is impossible to live up to those ideals.”
“You and father have certainly tried,” Lorn says gently.
“It may be ….” She stops and shakes her head. After a moment, she readjusts the cloak. “I feel old and foolish spouting grand ideas ….”
“What?” Lorn asks gently.
Nyryah purses her lips.
Lorn waits.
“Your father would disagree. Seldom do we disagree, you know? Still …” She pauses once more before continuing. “Cyad rests on the power of the chaos towers. All lands rest on some form of power. The towers are few compared to thesize of Cyador ….” Her words trail off into the wind, yet again.
“There are a half-score fireships, each powered by a tower, and the half-score or so around the Accursed Forest, and those here in Cyad,” Lorn says. “Few for a land that stretches more than fifteen hundred kays east to west.”
“A quarter score in Cyad,” Nyryah confirms. “At the beginning. You know, Lorn, that is a very narrow base of power. A handful of men control that power. Such creates the possibility for corruption, and that is why the Magi’i remove those from their ranks who will not put the service of chaos above self. That is why none know the Hand, and all meet him in darkness, except the Emperor. It has always been a struggle.” Another quirky smile appears on her lips. “Your father reminds me of that constantly.”
“He’s reminded me,” Lorn replies. “More than infrequently.”
“There is one other thing, my son,” she says slowly. “It is something so obvious that I doubt you have considered it.”
Again, Lorn waits.
“You and Vernt, and even Myryan and Jerial, tend to look down on the lancer families, perhaps because there are three times as many lancer officers as Magi’i.” Nyryah smiles sadly. “The number of lancer officers who are majers and commanders is less than the total number of Magi’i, and neither are numerous compared to all the folk of Cyad. You were raised among both, but how many lancer or Magi’i families are there here?”
“Two hundred Magi’i families?” Lorn hazards.
“Closer to three hundred, and the same number scattered throughout all the rest of Cyador, with most in Fyrad and Summerdock. Now … how many folk are there in Cyad?”
Lorn shrugs. “The Emperor’s census is not made public. I would guess there are more than a thousand score.”
“More than twice that.” She coughs once. “Remember, a lancer officer is almost as exalted to the folk of Cyador as is a magus, even though it may not seem so among thosewith whom you were raised. Power is held by very few, and it has always been so, and, given the nature of the world, I fear it will always be so.” She shakes her head. “What if the basis of power were in something accessible to all people? Would that make governing easier and less of a temptation for the corrupt? I don’t know. I used to think so.” She smiles. “I wander. I cannot ponder that forever. You may, perchance.”
“Me? I don’t think I’m the idealist you and father are.”
“You?” A headshake follows the rueful single word question. “You have protected your idealism in a terrible way, my son. You believe those in Cyad are somehow better because the city itself is more magnificent.”
Lorn does not know how best to answer such a statement.
“People will be who they are, you know. Some you can ignore. Some you can persuade, and some you can manipulate. That is where most, even in Cyad, scratch the line in sunstone.”
Lorn nods.
“If you would do more …” Nyryah coughs, several times.
Lorn starts to rise, and she gestures for him to sit.
“Nothing of flux-chaos there,” she finally says. “You can sense that for yourself.”