Ryalth raises her fine reddish eyebrows.
“Please.” Lorn follows her, but halts a dozen paces beyond the rack oil barrels, his eyes on the redhead in blue.
When she reaches the timbered door, she glances out, and then back at Lorn. “There’s no one near. Some people at the cross-street up the way, though. They’re coming this way.”
“They’re not near now?”
“No.”
Backing toward the door where Ryalth waits, Lorn concentrateson summoning chaos right into the middle of one of the center barrels of oil, ignoring the headache that builds even more.
Whhhooossshhh! The wall of flame is so sudden and massive that he stumbles out the door, dragging Ryalth with him.
Turning toward the figures less than a hundred cubits north, who have already turned toward the warehouse, and gesturing toward the blaze, Lorn yells. “Fire! Fire in the warehouse!”
“Fire! Fire!” Ryalth’s voice adds to the clamor.
The heads of three others at the corner turn.
From a narrow doorway across the road, a tall man runs toward them. “It’s the clan warehouse! You! What caused it?”
“Oils, I think. We were talking about cotton, and all of a sudden there were flames everywhere.” Lorn glances at Ryalth. “Excuse me, ser. I think she’s a bit faint.”
“Who are you?” demands the trader, studying the two young people in blue. “What clan?”
“I’m an enumerator.” Another whoosh of flame flares from the warehouse, and the merchanter looks at the flames, then back at the two. Ryalth leans, almost dramatically, on Lorn’s shoulder. The trader dashes past them toward the flaming section of the warehouse, gesturing toward the three men who have piled out the opposing warehouse as well. “We’ve got to get the water on the next building. Don’t let another one go.”
Lorn takes Ryalth’s arm. “Let’s get out of here. Don’t drop that.”
They hurry back along the road until they reach the Second Harbor Way and turn uphill.
Ryalth glances back toward the increasing pillar of smoke. “Did you have to do that? That could burn a whole block.”
“It won’t. The roof’s slate, and there’s nothing to burn but the oils. Maybe whatever was in the amphorae.” Lorn pulls Ryalth to the side of the Way as a fire brigade wagon careens past. “Aljak was ready to kill both of us. That’s why no one else was there-except he would have spent longer withyou.” He offers a crooked smile as they walk swiftly uphill and then eastward along the Lower Hill Road away from the warehouses. “Not that I fault his taste.”
“You’re frightening sometimes, Lorn.”
“Me? I’m just a student.” He grins disarmingly.
“That’s hard to believe at times.” Without stopping, Ryalth looks down at the wrapped cloth. “This is heavy.”
“You’ve got your five hundred golds, more or less.”
“I can’t take all that.”
“You have to. I took what I dared. If I had more, my family would find out in days, if not sooner.”
At the corner of the Second Harbor Way and the Road of Benevolent Commerce, the unofficial border to the merchanter quarter, they stop under a tall feathering conifer, shielded from above by the spreading dark green branches and by the afternoon mist. Lorn is breathing heavily, but the worst of his headache has faded. He stands there silently for a moment, thinking. Abruptly, he turns to Ryalth. “Do you have any scent? A vial of what you use?”
The redhead frowns. “Why?”
“Just dab some on me.”
She fumbles in her belt wallet, her arm still around the cloth-covered strongbox. “You know that the City Watch wouldn’t be pleased with this.”
“They don’t care about scent,” Lorn jokes.
“They care about people setting fires,” she whispers as she dabs some of the scent oil on his wrist.
“Better fires than outland traders assaulting Cyadoran merchanters,” he counters, adding, “More of the scent.”
“More? What’s on you will cover any scent of smoke.” Her eyebrows lift. “You want your family to know you’ve been with someone?”
“It’s better than having them ask what I’ve really been doing,” he points out. “Remember, when you live in a Magi’i family, questions are dangerous.”
“People say that … is it true?”
“Only a handful of Magi’i can truthread, but the Lectors can, and my father is a Lector.” Lorn gestures. “Dab moreon my skin, my neck,” he suggests, “as much as you can spare.”
“You already reek.” She wrinkles her nose.
“Fine. Then, they’ll all be ready to condemn me.”
“And me,” Ryalth points out.
“They don’t know you, and they’d have to know your name to ask a decent question.”
She shakes her head, then glances along the road. “I think I’m glad I’m not from the Magi’i.”
Lorn straightens the blue tunic. “You said I could always retreat to my mighty house.”
“It sounds as bad as an inbred clan house.”
“It’s not that bad. My sisters are nice. So are my parents.”
“I’m sure they are.” Ryalth pauses, then adds, “I’ll save your share of the coins.”
He shakes his head. “They’re yours. I took some, but you took most of the risks,” he exaggerates.
She frowns, but says nothing.
“I’ll need some favors before everything’s done. Call the coins advance payment.” He smiles broadly.
“I can’t afford favors that expensive.”
“I won’t ask for anything that big.” He leans forward and touches the line of her cheek. “Use them to get yourself free.” Then he squeezes her hand and steps from under the conifer, hurrying uphill.
After a moment, Ryalth swallows and begins to walk eastward.
There is no one near the postern gate as Lorn quickly changes into his student whites, leaving the blues and the blue boots in the basket tucked behind the small tree. He readjusts the square of cloth in his belt wallet to ensure the coins are muffled, and then walks briskly through the garden and up the steps.
“You’re late, Lorn.” His father stands at the top of the steps. “Your mother is worried. It would be kinder if you let us know when you’re going out.”
“Yes, ser. I’m sorry. I know. I lost track of time. I didn’t expect to be so late.” Lorn’s statements are all true, and hemakes sure he doesn’t look anywhere close to the billowing smoke that rises to the southwest of them.
His father’s nose wrinkles, and he shakes his head. “That’s a merchanter scent, isn’t it?”
Lorn tries to look bewildered.
“Don’t dignify it with a falsehood, Lorn.”
“Yes, ser. I mean it is. A merchanter fragrance.”
“Do you know what you’re doing? What if …?” His father doesn’t finish the question.
“I’ve been careful about that. There won’t be any child,” Lorn says absolutely truthfully.
“Lorn …” His father shakes his head again. “I trust you have not attempted a chaos compulsion with the girl.”
“No, ser. I wouldn’t do such with her.”
“Chaos compulsions are odious, and over time, they weaken those who use them, and make them susceptible to the compulsions of others.” Kien’s voice is stern.
“I have not with her, and I will keep your advice, ser.”
“Good. Would that you will be so amenable to showing greater interest in your studies. If not, perhaps a time in the lancers will settle you down … though this is not the best time.”
Lorn knows he cannot manifest any greater interest in his studies, although he has come to enjoy learning for its own sake, feeling the sense and the power involved in transferring chaos from the tower outlets to the firelances, and in seeing just how much’chaos he can press into each weapon. He also is less than enthused about the thought that he could be posted to the frontiers and use a lance or blade in earnest, even if his skills with the blade are among the best among the students, including those like Dettaur who had been born with a blade in his hand. Using a blade in earnest would definitely increase the odds of an earlier demise than Lorn would wish.