“You are kind.” Vyel smiles, and the brief smile reveals that one of his upper front teeth is of gold.
“I was hoping to find your brother.” The slender Tasjan shrugs, as if in disappointment. “He is often hard to find. Perhaps you could assist me?”
“I am only privy to the workings of Hyshrah House and Clan,” replies Vyel. “What Tasjan does as Merchanter Advisor, I know but what all know, I fear.”
“Ah, were I Merchanter Advisor…but…No, one must not venture judgment before one has walked many kays in another’s boots. Many kays.” Tasjan smiles. “I would have you pass a message to your honored elder brother, if you would. For you are most trustworthy, and that is clear in that Vyanat has made you privy to all that the House does.”
“He has.”
“He may know that the Mirror Lancers are bringing two companies into Cyad. These lancers will be conducting maneuvers near the trading piers. They will be inviting outlander traders and ships’ masters to show them the power of the firelances and the Mirror Lancers. With so few fireships remaining, I am sure we all agree that something must be done to instill respect in the outlanders. Do you not agree?”
“Of course.”
“And it is prudent to have an experienced field commander for these lancers.” Tasjan frowns. “Yet I have a concern which, if you will convey to your brother, I would most appreciate. This concern should not be committed to paper.”
Vyel nods, waiting.
“You may recall…there was some talk, when your brother’s name was put forth, of the head of Ryalor House being one of those also put forth.”
“There was.” Vyel’s voice is even. “I recall that.”
“Naught came of that, and that was for the best, for successful as the young house has been in most recent years, the lady who heads it has less experience than…many. You have far greater experience. So do others. Now…this is my concern. The majer who will command the lancers in Cyad is the consort of the head of Ryalor House. Moreover, he was brought to Cyad before his previous tour of duty in the Grass Hills was properly over. And…there are rumors, and these rumors cannot be discounted, that there were several loyal officers who would have reprimanded the majer for his bloodthirsty tactics. They…vanished, and none know where they went or where they are.”
“That is most strange,” Vyel admits.
“You will tell your brother?”
“I will indeed.”
“You are a good man, Vyel, and a better trader than many. One would wonder how you might do…. were you given your own house. Even a small one, such as the size of say…Ryalor House.” Tasjan smiles.
Vyel shrugs. “I am most happy here.”
“I am certain you are. You do your brother’s bidding, and none but he will question your authority. Still…” Tasjan pauses. “There is one other matter I had forgotten.”
“Oh?”
“It is not a matter of great import. I did run across an odd bill of lading, one dealing with, shall we say, dun cotton from Hamor, carried on a ship-the Hypolya, that was it. Quite a lot of dun cotton, as I recall, near-on three hundred bolts. That would have been a quite a tariff if it had been true white Hamorian fine cotton-some fifteenscore golds. That is the sort of tariff that would interest the Emperor’s Enumerators-even after a year or so.”
Vyel looks up. “It well might.”
“Do keep it in mind, Vyel. Please do.” Tasjan smiles politely. “And do convey my concerns to your brother. He would not be pleased if he found out about the majer from another source.”
Vyel smiles, politely. “You can be most assured that I will, most honored Tasjan, and that I will keep your interests in mind. So long as they do not harm Hyshrah House.”
“I do appreciate your support, Vyel. I always will. And I would never ask a man to go against his house, or even against another merchanter.” Tasjan bows and departs.
CXXII
Lorn stands behind the desk in his study. Then he walks to the door, pauses with his fingers on the handle. After a moment, he turns and walks back to the desk, putting his hands on the back of the chair.
Lorn does not know if what he will try will work. It is a skill practiced only by first-level adepts…. and he can ask no one in the Magi’i-not even Tyrsal-to assist. According to what he remembers…the idea is simple. The practice is hard, and it is one skill he cannot judge whether he has learned.
Finally, he shakes his head, walks to the study door, opens it, and walks down the short upper hall to the main bedchamber. Again…he remembers to slide the iron latch closed when he closes the door.
Ryalth is propped into a sitting position with pillows on the bed, and is perusing a stack of papers-invoices, Lorn suspects. A faint snore emanates from the small bed against the wall.
“I still need to read through these,” Ryalth says. “I can’t do it when Kerial’s awake.”
“I cannot imagine why,” Lorn says dryly. “I will have a favor to ask in a bit, but just go on reading. I need the long mirror here.”
“Magi’i things you’d best not be caught doing?” Her mouth curls into a momentary smile.
“Something like that. Except this might help my not getting caught.”
With a half-nod, Ryalth turns her eyes to the next sheet in the stack in her lap.
Lorn looks in the bedchamber mirror, then concentrates on what he recalls, the idea that vision is the interpretation of chaos reflected from all objects in a more ordered pattern and gathered by the eyes. If that pattern is modified, so that the reflected order is changed into a less ordered pattern or one that moves the secondary chaos away from one object…then most onlookers will find their vision averted from that object, while not even sensing why.
Lorn attempts to repattern his image, but nothing happens and the full-length mirror continues to show a brown-haired and amber-eyed lancer officer in his undertunic.
Perhaps…repatterning creates too much order and actually enhances his reflection. He frowns, then tries to direct the secondary chaos away from himself.
Abruptly, the entire room seems to go black, and while Lorn can sense objects around him, he can see nothing. Ryalth says not a word, and that means that his vision is affected-not the light from the lamp. With a swallow, he stops trying to divert the chaos of the light from himself. While that approach might make him invisible, he cannot see himself groping his way along a street where everyone else can see-even if they cannot see him.
He blinks and glances at Ryalth, watching for a moment as she lays aside another invoice or bill of lading.
He rubs his forehead, then takes a slow and silent deep breath. What if he just nudges the chaos, blurring it, or breaking up the sense of order emanating from himself? He concentrates, but chaos does not blur…not as he feels it, and his image remains fully in the mirror.
After taking more slow deep breaths and massaging the back of his neck, and ignoring the speculative glance from Ryalth, he tries again, this time trying to disrupt just little portions of the chaos.
His image in the full-length mirror ripples, but it is still recognizably a lancer officer. His lips twist. That kind of image will call more attention to him, not less.
He recalls the word aversion-can he somehow nudge or blur the chaos so that people do not wish to look at him, without knowing why?
He tries one combination, then another.
Ryalth is more than two-thirds of the way through the stack of parchment and paper, and Lorn still sweats, trying to discover-or rediscover-the technique he knows exists, if but mastered by a few.
For a moment, the mirror appears not quite blank, as if an image made of fog or smoke is there, before Lorn the lancer officer reappears.
Still…there is a hint of something there. Lorn takes another deep slow breath, ignoring a faint whimper from Kerial and the rustling of pages from his consort.