“Overcaptain…wants things done right…”
“…first time in years around here…”
If, if Ryalth sends him any Alafraan, several bottles will have to go to Neabyl, and Lorn will have to visit the enumerator more than once to praise him.
At the top of the plank, the captain is waiting. The weathered face wears a slight smile. “Overcaptain, you be a far braver man than I be, were I in your boots.”
“Unlike you, Captain, I do not have my cargoes in the hands of the enumerators.” Lorn’s voice is wry.
“You wanted to talk.”
“I do. About trade, and about what you are seeing.” Lorn pauses. “I won’t ask about coins and what cargoes are most profitable, Captain.”
“Call me Svenyr.”
“I’m Lorn.”
Svenyr turns. “Might as well sit.”
Lorn follows him to a small cabin in the upper rear deck, almost under the wheel.
The wiry master with the gold-and-silver hair and the square beard rummages in a built-in cabinet before bringing forth a bottle, which he pours into two mugs set on a table bolted to the deck. He nods to the pair of chairs. “Sit and sip, Majer.”
Lorn takes one, and following Svenyr’s lead, takes a sip of the red liquid that passes for wine, ignoring the promotion to a rank he sometimes wonders if he will ever live to make. He studies the weathered face.
“What be on your mind?”
“Several things. First, would you be willing to tell me if you know if more blades and iron are being shipped into Jera?”
“No secrets about that. Ultyn, master of the Grenver, was telling all he knew that he was carrying Brystan iron and shields there. Some local factors paying good coin for blades.”
Lorn sips again. “This has been going on for the past three, four years?”
“Maybe longer. Jeranyi couldn’t forge weapons iron if’n they sacrificed their firstborn and strongest cow. What else?”
“How long were the enumerators overtariffing here in Biehl?” Lorn concentrates again on truth-reading Svenyr.
“Truth be told, Biehl has not been the town it was once for near-on a halfscore years. I might be telling a few to give it another try. Be but one, though, less they see what I see.”
Lorn smiles guilelessly. “Neabyl seems most capable, and we of the lancers have been able to work with him.”
“Ha! Much as told the little sneak he was spitted on cold steel-or your cuprite blades-if he cheated a copper.” Svenyr takes a long swallow of the vinegary wine.
“I believe he understands.”
“You be meeting all the ships?”
“I told Neabyl that I would be…for a time, and when I can.” Lorn pauses. “What cargoes would you like to carry that you cannot obtain?”
“Can’t say as telling you that’d cause problems with the shareholders.” The captain frowns, then worries his chin. “Always could use more dyestuffs, specially up along the northwest coast-Suthyans won’t let us land anywhere but Armat, where they tariff high. Understand folk bring carts all the way from Rulyarth. Dyestuffs are welcome elsewhere, east of Armat, or going longhaul to Austra. Bright ones. Everyone’s got brown.”
“You know about the clay and china here?”
“Is old Kahlyr still doing that?”
“His son Jahlyr.”
“Good to know.” Svenyr swallows the last of the goblet. “Oh…the other thing is good spirits.”
“You port in Cyad ever?”
“Times…” answers the captain, his voice wary.
“There’s a newer house, Ryalor House-they have some good spirits you cannot find elsewhere.”
“Hmmm…” Svenyr shrugs. “If I get there, I’ll look.”
Lorn stands. “You’ve been most patient, and I trust we will see you in Biehl again.”
“One more time, anyways. Never promise more ’n once.” The Sligan laughs as he rises.
The two walk out into the steamy heat of the afternoon. Lorn bows before he turns and leaves the Lorava.
He rides back to the compound silently, thinking over his mistakes, and what he can do to rectify them-if he can. Some, like the grower’s daughter, he cannot.
He has little time for further thought, not after he rides in through the gates, because it is his turn to lead the sabre drills for the new recruits, and he must hasten into a training tunic and then take up a padded sabre.
By the time the drills are over, his brown training tunic is soaked, and his arms ache. So do his feet. He is so tired when he reaches his quarters that after he cleans up he can eat but half the emburhka that Daelya has prepared and left for him, and but a third of the fresh-baked bread.
After eating he makes his way to his study, and sinks into the chair, sitting in the twilight.
With a deep breath, he takes out the chaos-glass and concentrates, seeking out the olive-grower Baryat who, Lorn is convinced from his use of the chaos-glass, is hatching some plot against him. Baryat is still at table, stuffing in large quantities of some sort of casserole, and Lorn lets the image slip. He will try later.
He takes out paper, and dips the pen before he begins to write.
Dearest of Consorts-
I have not heard yet from you, but I trust all is well with you and with those around you…
We have recruited almost a squad of younger men for the lancers, and have begun training them…be a long summer, I fear, but many show skill already…and I hope to have them ready for duty elsewhere by fall, though that decision will be made by others…
…might consider the possibility of sending dyestuffs through coasters or those traders who are welcome in the Suthyan port of Rulyarth…understand that many there would purchase…but cannot obtain dyestuffs, because the Suthyans insist all dyes come through the larger port of Armat…while I know not how a trading house might avoid this proscription, save through landing at nearby ports…it would appear that those who could might profit….
Lorn takes a deep breath and once more dips the pen. He can but hope that what he has gleaned from the ship’s master and those factors he has visited around Biehl will prove useful to Ryalth.
After he finishes, he must again seek out Baryat-and perhaps Neabyl-with the glass. And tired as he is, he must continue to work on seeking out lands he has not seen before, either in the glass or in person.
XXI
Chyenfel and Rynst stand alone in the high-ceilinged audience chamber of the Palace of Eternal Light, waiting for the Emperor Toziel to appear. Bluoyal has yet to join them, as is often the case in recent eightdays.
The First Magus looks at Rynst and murmurs, “The sleep wards will be ready within less than half a season. At that time, but a few lancers will be needed around the Accursed Forest, as we had discussed earlier.”
“What about patrolling the walls themselves?” asks the Majer-Commander in an equally muted voice. “Will not some protection be required for the new wards?”
Chyenfel shakes his head, smiling. “No. That is their beauty. These wards cannot be seen nor touched.”
“While I would be most pleased to be able to send more lancers to the north, I must question this sudden announcement. Why did the ancients not attempt such? Did they not know of such?” Doubt colors Rynst’s voice.
“They did.” Chyenfel purses his lips, then tilts his head slightly, as if searching for an explanation. “Their words provided the knowledge and the keys to the sleep wards. Yet they feared that the wards would not work, and that the chaos-towers would be lost forever.”
“And you know more than they?”
“We have learned some that they did not know, honored Majer-Commander.” Chyenfel smiles briefly. “They had less experience with chaos, for chaos works not the same in the worlds of the Rational Stars. That we do know from what they wrote.”
“And,” adds Rynst with a gentle laugh, “you will lose the towers shortly in any event if naught is done. So you of the Magi’i have little to lose.”
“We lose more by providing the sleep wards, for we will not be able to provide as many charges for the firelances of your lancers, nor for the firewagons and the tow wagons of the Great Canal…and many will fault us for such. That alone should tell you that we act in the best interests of all Cyador, and not just of the Magi’i.”