Magi'i of Cyador

XII

WEARING THE MERCHANTER shimmercloth blues and blue boots, Lorn walks hurriedly along the Road of Benevolent Commerce. His destination is the building that serves the Clanless Traders, the structure in which Ryalth has opened a very small office, mainly, he suspects, to legitimize her status as a woman free trader. He hurries because he has seen his father walking up the steps to Lector Chyenfel’s study in the Quarter of the Magi’i. That had happened in mid-afternoon, as Lorn had passed along the lower Tower corridor-and Lorn had known at that moment that he was now headed for lancer training.

There might have been another reason for Chyenfel to summon Lorn’s father, but Lorn strongly doubts it, and that means he has little enough time before he is sent off for lancer training. Far too little time for what needs to be done, because he has no doubts that once the Lectors know he has been notified, he will be well watched until he is out of Cyad, and probably far longer than that. He hopes the summons comes because of his studies, and not because of anything else-such as the chaos compulsion he used on Halthor … but no one has said anything, and Ryalth has only mentioned the trader’s death as an accident.

The absolute certainty in his father’s voice was more than enough to discourage Lorn, for about magely matters, he knows his father is always correct. He pushes away those thoughts as he casually studies the street he travels.

No one he knows-or who knows him-looks out from the Empty Quarter as he passes the coffee house, but theawning that shields the vacant outside tables is furled, and any patrons are well inside and out of the wind.

The air holds an icy chill, despite the bright winter sunlight, and the salt air bites at his exposed face and neck and hands.

He stops and waits on the edge of Third Harbor Way West as a white-lacquered enclosed carriage, drawn by a matched pair of white mares, whispers past him. A gust of wind brings a hint of warmth, and the smell of fresh-baked bread, followed by the tiniest hint of erhenflower scent, possibly from the woman seated in the shielded carriage.

Two lancer rankers stand on the far corner, their eyes following the carriage, and Lorn cannot help but smile at their all too obvious interest. Then, will he end up standing on a corner in some out-of-the-way town like Syadtar? Or one of the towns bordering the Accursed Forest-like Geliendra or Jakaafra?

Lorn shakes his head, then crosses the Way and takes the white stone sidewalk on the far side down the gentle slope of the Third Harbor Way to the lower plaza-the merchanters’ plaza. Even in the late afternoon chill, a handful of the green and white striped awnings remain up over a few carts. Lorn makes his way around the carts toward the squat white structure in the northwest corner of the plaza, his boots nearly silent on the hard white paving stones.

Once he has stepped through the squared open archway of the Clanless Traders’ building and is out of the wind, Lorn can feel his face begin to thaw. Despite the near-abandoned look of the plaza from outside, within the building is filled with figures in blue, as well as some in red, or green, or white. None seem to mark the passage of the enumerator Lorn emulates, at least not beyond an occasional frown, as he takes the wide central stairs at the back of the covered central hall flanked by balconies that rises all three stories.

Ryalth’s trading place is little more than a cubby with two doors swung wide at the back of the third level, so far into the northeast corner that only the balcony railings can be seen from her doors. The redhead sits behind a true desk withdrawers, an antique of battered and time-darkened white oak, writing in what appears to be a ledger.

As Lorn steps through the open doors, he clears his throat, and with a hint of a smile, asks, “Lady Trader?”

“Yes?” Ryalth looks up and her mouth opens, then closes.

Lorn steps forward until his trousers brush the edge of the desk. “I wished to see you, honored trader.” His smile is both tentative and guileless.

“You shouldn’t be here-not at this time of day. Enumerators’ times are either first thing in the morning or close to the close,” Ryalth murmurs, then adds more loudly, “I would that you had come at a more appropriate time, young ser.”

“I won’t be able to do that,” Lorn whispers. “I’ll be leaving Cyad tomorrow or the next day, from what I’ve overheard, and there’s nothing I can do about it, and I couldn’t have come to see you once they told me.” He cocks his head inquisitively, and says in a normal voice. “I apologize, honored trader, but I was nearby, and thought I would not be presuming too much. I do apologize.”

“You’re leaving-Like that?” she murmurs. “Why?”

“Because I’m not a dedicated enough believer for the senior Magi’i, and I’m either leaving, or I’ll be found dead in a chaos transfer accident.” His voice is low. “I care for you … and I wanted to let you know. If I wait until it’s official, then I couldn’t tell you.”

Ryalth shakes her head ruefully.

He slips a purse into her hand. “Business. I’ll be back, one way or another, and I couldn’t take these. I wouldn’t have them without you. Use them as you can.” He offers a warm smile.

“A purse? Like that, and you expect me to wait for you? As if I were bought and paid for like … cotton?”

“No.” Lorn meets her eyes. “I care for you, well beyond our shared interests.” He swallows and shrugs. “I can’t ask you much … not with what’s happening. But if you’d wait … at least a bit.”

“I’d have to. Then … we’ll see.” Ryalth laughs softly, notquite bitterly. “But you have to take the book and read it … all of it.”

“You’re sure? I could be gone for years.”

“Then … it’s even more important. Read it.” Her words are half choked, half hissed.

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He reaches out and squeezes her hand, then lets his hand fall away as he hears footsteps in the open arched corridor.

“I appreciate your interest, but there won’t be anything where I can use you for at least another eightday,” Ryalth says firmly, although her eyes are bright.

“I see. I will check with you then.”

“During enumerators’ times, if you would,” Ryalth adds.

Lorn can see the brightness in her eyes, and feels the same in his own. He swallows. “Yes … Lady Trader.”

Then he turns, letting his shoulders droop, a gesture not totally of pretense, and walks dejectedly down the corridor toward the plaza overlooking the white harbor.

As he leaves the plaza, he can feel the chill of his father’s chaos glass surveying him, but he has already done what must be done, and he doubts that Kien’elth will pry further.

He hopes for that, at least.