“Since three days ago?” asks Lorn.
“You know what I meant. Besides, this is the first time we’ve been able to have you for dinner.” Tyrsal leads them up the entry stairs, then through a blue marble-tiled entry foyer to another set of steps. At the top of the wide marble staircase, he turns right along another corridor to the first archway.
Aleyar rises from an old blue-upholstered armchair as the three step through an archway into a sitting room that is alone half the size of the entire first floor of Ryalth’s and Lorn’s dwelling. The healer smiles warmly. “I’m so glad you could come.”
“We are glad to be here,” replies Ryalth.
Tyrsal’s mother remains seated in the other upholstered armchair, adjoining the one where Aleyar had been sitting.
Tyrsal steps forward. “This is my mother, Ensra. Mother, you remember Ryalth.”
“She looks as charming and beautiful as before.”
Lorn inclines his head to the white-haired Ensra. “It’s good to see you again.”
Ensra smiles. “It’s good to have younger folk back in the house. The next time, perhaps you could bring your young one.”
“Mother Ensra….” Aleyar shakes her head gently. “Let the poor woman have a few moments to enjoy herself away from her son.”
“He must be a good child…with such parents.”
“Good, but he does keep her busy,” Lorn says.
“And Lorn, as well, at times,” Ryalth adds.
Aleyar gestures. “Please sit down.”
Lorn and Ryalth take the settee across from the armchair where Ensra sits. Tyrsal sits on the other settee.
“This dwelling…it is quite something.” Ryalth gestures around the sitting room, with the dozen or so blue-upholstered armchairs, the matching set of blue velvet settees, and the thick blue-and-gold carpet centered in the middle of the blue-tinged marble tiles.
“It should be,” replies Tyrsal with a grin. “My grandsire was the head of Dyjani House. My father was his only heir, and he was a magus.” Tyrsal shrugs. “You can imagine how the merchanters felt about that.”
“They felt that any merchanter who had the talents of a magus would have an unfair advantage, I’m sure,” Ryalth replies.
“He was not given that much of a choice,” adds Ensra. “Tasjan’s grandsire threatened to bring the matter before the Merchanter Advisor and the Traders’ Council.”
“You don’t hear much of Tasjan’s sire,” Lorn ventures.
“He died at sea when Tasjan was young,” replies Ensra. “Tasjan’s grandsire lived to be almost fourscore.”
“So the grandsire pushed your father into the Magi’i and became the head of Dyjani clan?” asks Lorn.
“Pretty much,” admits Tyrsal with a glance at his mother.
“Exactly so,” confirms Ensra.
“Your friend Husdryt…what does he think of Tasjan?” Lorn asks.
“Husdryt says very little,” Tyrsal replies.
“That alone suggests he has his concerns,” says Ensra. “Husdryt was never close-mouthed about that which he likes.”
“…uhhh…” Aleyar clears her throat. “If we do not begin dinner…”
“It will be cold,” Tyrsal says with a grin.
The five rise.
As they follow Tyrsal and Aleyar from the sitting room, Lorn wonders how matters might have turned out had Tyrsal’s father remained a merchanter.
CXXXVI
In the near-black purple of night, Lorn and Ryalth walk down the wide marble steps of Tyrsal’s dwelling to the waiting carriage, followed by Tyrsal and Aleyar. The driver sitting on the coach box is younger, harder-faced than the gray-haired man who had brought them to Tyrsal’s.
Lorn stares at the man for a moment, then asks, quietly, “What happened to the other driver?”
“He had a touch of the flux, ser…asked if I’d spell him, ser.”
Lorn can sense the lie. “Oh…I see.” He casts his chaos-senses around the carriage, but can sense no one hiding within. He turns to Tyrsal, still standing on the white marble steps behind the mounting block. “Do you sense it?”
Tyrsal nods.
The coachman looks puzzled, and leans forward slightly. The pose is a lie, as well, one which Lorn ignores.
“Here…” Lorn points to the rear wheel. “Best you come look. The axle-post is splitting in half.”
“Ser?”
“Come look for yourself.” Lorn motions to Ryalth. “You’d better step back…if that fails here…”
“Yes, dearest.” While the redhead’s voice is demure, her eyes are hard as she steps back from the mounting block.
The driver clambers down, clearly puzzled. As he steps toward the rear wheel, the Brystan sabre is at his neck.
“One move and you’re dead,” Lorn says pleasantly.
“Ser…” The driver freezes.
Tyrsal appears, and his cupridium sabre is also bared.
“You’re lying, and you’re not very smart,” Lorn continues. “My friend there is a first-level magus. No one told you that, I am sure, but he could tell you were lying. Now…you can tell the truth, or you can die.”
The man’s eyes widen. “They…just told me that all I had to do was drive you back to your dwelling except stop short of the gate…maybe a hundred cubits…and look the other way.”
“That’s the truth,” Tyrsal says quietly. “But there’s more.”
The driver’s eyes flick down toward the shimmering blade at his neck. He swallows.
“Who hired you?” asks Lorn.
“Benylt…does work for…. for whoever has the golds…”
“Who hired him?”
“Ser…I don’t know…”
“You know more than that,” Tyrsal says.
“Which merchanter?” Lorn questions.
“Ser…I can’t say…. I mean…he’s been around…His name…No one said…”
“Benylt didn’t tell you…but you’d seen the merchanter before?”
“Yes, ser.”
“And you weren’t supposed to know?”
The hard-faced man swallows. “No, ser.”
“What does he look like?”
“Dark-haired, like, but he wore a cloak…only remembered him ’cause one of his front teeth be gold…Seen him once ’afore when I was first on the piers…as a loader…came two, three times to the same ship. Wore one of those blue cloaks with a hood all the time, same as when he hired Benylt.”
“What ship?
“The Hippo-something.”
Lorn can sense both Tyrsal and Ryalth stiffening. “How tall was he?”
“Middling, ser…not too tall, not too short.”
“Did you hear him speak?”
“No, ser.”
“How many men will Benylt have?” Lorn’s eyes flick to Aleyar, who watches the bravo as closely as Tyrsal does, then back to the pseudo coachman.
“Six, perchance eight. Be not calling more than that, not Benylt.”
Lorn looks at Tyrsal, who nods. “Can you handle four or five?” Lorn asks his friend in a low voice.
“If they don’t know it.”
“What about a shield? Can you sit next to the driver?”
“Be easier if I sat up on the roof, in the baggage rack,” Tyrsal points out. “Then I’m behind him.”
“Good idea.”
Aleyar’s mouth opens, then closes, as Tyrsal turns to her and says, “It’s more than just Lorn’s problem, dear.”
Ryalth offers the smallest of nods to her consort.
“You’re going to drive us home,” Lorn tells the would-be driver. “Just the way you were told.”
The man swallows. “Ser…?”
“Unless you’d prefer I use this sabre here and now.”
“I’ll drive, ser. I’ll drive.”
“And the magus will be behind you. He’s very good with both a sabre and a firebolt.”
“I’ll drive right careful, ser. I will.”
Lorn addresses Tyrsal, his eyes still on the bravo. “Can Ryalth stay here?”
“Of course,” the magus replies. Behind him, Aleyar nods.
“What about Kerial?” asks Ryalth.
“I’ll bring him back…after we deal with this difficulty. We can’t get there any sooner.”
The redhead clamps her lips together. “You’ll be careful. Both of you.”
“Very careful.” Lorn motions to the driver. “Back up to your seat.”
“Ah…yes, ser.”