Liataphi chuckles. “Would that some first- and second-level adepts-not you, Tyrsal-understood such.”
Lleya turns to Ryalth. “I am sure everyone asks you what it is like to be a lady trader, when there are and have been so few. I would rather ask, if I might, what advantages being a woman provides.”
“No one has asked that.” Ryalth tilts her head, as if pondering. “I would judge several. Caution is one, for a woman can make fewer errors, and so, I learned caution early. That I am a woman allows me greater caution, when often, were I a man, others might question my resolve.” Ryalth smiles. “Thus, I can plead caution where a trade is unwise, and still be bold where boldness is necessary.”
“Do you think more caution is needed in these days?” asks Liataphi.
“Greater care, I would judge,” Ryalth says.
“In trade or in dealing with other traders?” The eyes of the Third Magus betray a slight twinkle.
“Both.” Ryalth takes a sip of the wine. “The fortunes of trade are changing, and that means some houses will benefit, and others will not.”
“How is trade changing?” asks Tyrsal. “Cyador produces the same goods it always has, and is not that true of other lands?”
“Hydlen has had a most dry year, but last year they had a surplus of crops when there was a blight in Hamor. So coins are plentiful in Hydlen. Many factors are scurrying to purchase contracts on the exchange, knowing that grains and dried fruits will bring more. The larger growers know this as well, and they will not sell at last year’s prices. But the Emperor raised the tariffs on goods and grains leaving Cyador.” Ryalth shakes her head. “Many will lose on such wagers.”
“What would you do?”
“I already purchased some few contracts on foods that will not ship well, such as pearapples and the softer white corn-wheat.”
Tyrsal laughs. “Because everyone will be shipping the other to Hydlen, and the prices of what remains will rise?”
“One wagers so.” Ryalth shrugs. “I doubt I will lose, but there could be storms, or floods, or eightdays of hot dry winds from tomorrow until harvest. That is why I have been more cautious than some.”
“Is Tasjan one of those who would trade in Hydlen?” inquires Liataphi.
“He might. The Dyjani trade everywhere, and he has many ships, both for the coastal trade and the long-haul ocean vessels.”
“He is said to plan for years into the future,” says Liataphi. “Or so I have heard. Unlike those of Bluyet House, who apparently rely upon the use of golds where golds should not be used.”
“That trait has served them ill in the past several years,” Ryalth says.
“Will Vyanat’mer take clan status from them?”
“I doubt he will do such,” Ryalth replies. “He has not spoken to me or any I know about such. The Dyjani continue to strengthen their ships and coffers, as do the Yuryan Clan, as you must know. Because Vyanat’mer is of the Hyshrah, all that his house does is watched most closely. So he would not wish to strengthen his rivals by casting down Bluyet House.” Ryalth shrugs. “That could happen, but I would not wager my golds on that.”
Liataphi nods. “Nor I. A wise observation.”
Ryalth looks to Aleyar. “Have you two set a date for the consorting ceremony?”
“The fourth eightday after the turn of fall, we think. We will know in a day or two. Mother wanted to see if her sisters will be able to travel from Summerdock then.”
“Aleyar was always their favorite, and this will be the first formal consorting we’ve seen.”
Lorn nods, understanding all too well the events hidden behind those words.
“You will be coming, will you not?” asks Aleyar, looking at Ryalth.
“We will be there,” Ryalth says.
“If…if the Majer-Commander does not send me somewhere,” Lorn adds. “He hasn’t said anything, but I am a Mirror Lancer.”
“Ryalth will be there,” Aleyar says. “And Jerial and Myryan will be at the dinner.”
Lorn smiles. “I will do my best.”
“You had better,” Tyrsal says with a laugh.
Ryalth smiles.
“Now…for dessert,” Lleya announces, as two serving girls begin to remove the platters and dishes from the table, “we are having peach cake with a special glaze.”
Ryalth glances at Lorn and smiles.
He smiles back sheepishly.
CXII
The spare and slender Toziel walks slowly into the robing room that adjoins his and the Empress’s bedchamber. There he slips off his outer robe of silver, carefully hanging it on the carved golden-oak frame that has served such a purpose for generations of Emperors. Then he removes his boots and walks toward the high bed. He uses the bed step to climb up.
He stretches out slowly, then murmurs. “Chaos-light, I’m tired.”
Leaning back on the pillows that are arranged to support him in a half-sitting, half-reclining position, he closes his eyes.
Ryenyel pulls a chair around to his side of the bed, and seats herself. “The audience was long. You should have stopped it sooner.”
“I know. I heard your cough.”
“I coughed but once,” she says. “That was a risk itself. I cannot help you, my dearest, if you will not heed my signals.”
“I dared not leave then, not when Chyenfel had just suggested that I might consider candidates for a new Hand,” Toziel ventures.
“Nor when Rynst asked for more Mirror Lancers? Nor when Vyanat questioned once more the source of the golds for those lancers…?” The Empress sighs. “There will always be such questions. They will last long after we are gone.”
“Long after I am, certainly.” Toziel’s voice reveals a self-deprecating dryness. “Yet still I must act as though I will be on the Malachite Throne longer than my advisors will be there to advise me.”
“You may have to be.”
“Why do you say such?” Toziel is the one to cough, almost doubling up in agony before he slowly leans back on the pillows once more.
Ryenyel waits until his breathing returns to a steady rhythm before she speaks. “Rustyl grows impatient. So does Luss, and Tasjan is gathering and paying armsmen, and his chief guard is developing his own contacts. Tasjan will soon have more trained armsmen near Cyad than there are lancers within two days’ travel.”
“And I should do nothing?”
“Dearest, you can but tell others. You have no Hand.”
“If I tell the Majer-Commander, then…” Toziel’s words fade.
“He will order in two companies of Mirror Lancers and put them under Majer Lorn, and the piers will run red with blood.”
“So…how can we get word to the lady trader who is the head of Ryalor House, and how do we make sure that the lancers are on their way?”
“Majer Lorn does not like to kill, but he will not hesitate if he thinks it necessary,” Ryenyel states.
“You have proof?” Toziel smiles wanly.
“My dear…what I know and what I can prove are not the same. It is most difficult to prove someone died with no body. The only killing he admits to is that of Majer Dettaur, and most would admit that was justified. The dead majer left too much in writing, and too many orders designed to kill young lancers in order to discredit Lorn. It has taken years to amass what I know, and there is nothing of substance to that, only rumors and words. There is no proof that Lorn killed a trader named Halthor when he was but a student, or Shevelt, or Majer Maran, or Sub-Majer Uflet, yet in all cases, except that of Shevelt, he was among the last to see each alive.”
“And Shevelt-I thought he was killed because he knew that Bluoyal was behind the sale of sabres to the Jeranyi…the plated sabre?”
Ryenyel shrugs. “It could be. It could also be that Shevelt had talked openly of forcing himself on Lady Ryalth to humble her, and that Shevelt died while young Lorn was in Cyad.”
“Or it could be that Kernys, or one of the smaller clan heads, made certain that young Lorn knew such…” Toziel coughs, then winces.