Magi'i of Cyador

XLII

IN THE ORANGE light of dawn at Syadtar, Lorn stands beside one of the fluted white columns supporting the sunstone portico that shelters travelers waiting for the firewagons which link the farflung cities of Cyador. The chaos-powered vehicles roll along the polished stone highways from warm and western Summerdock to the southern delta city of Fyrad, from Cyad to Syadtar, as they have for more than two centuries.

With the threat of the chaos-towers failing, Lorn had at first wondered why the use of firewagons was not curtailed-except that such would make no difference until a tower actually failed. He smiles, thinking about how Lector Abram’elth had let that slip.

In the cold morning breeze, Lorn stretches as he waits for the firewagon that will carry him back along the Great Northern Highway until it joins with the Great Eastern Highway, where he will transfer to another firewagon to carry him back home to Cyad. The two green canvas bags at his feet carry uniforms and little else, save the antique Brystan sabre, wrapped in his undertunics, and Ryalth’s silver-covered book, in his smallclothes.

At the second set of columns, a good thirty cubits to Lorn’s left, stand a half score of passengers who will be travelling in the rear compartment. Among the brown and gray tunics are the maroon cloak of a mastercrafter and a yellow cloak trimmed in purple. The woman wearing the yellow cloak is gray-haired and carries a leather instrument case, possibly a sitarlyn. Lorn is not sure of that, having beenraised in the household of a magus where the order vibrations would skew the use of a chaos glass or even shatter it.

Boots scuff on the clean white stones of the platform. Lorn turns to his right and watches a heavy-set merchanter, followed by a porter and a hand cart. On the hand cart are three roughly cubical canvas-wrapped objects, each about two cubits on a side.

“Here.” The merchanter points down beside the column adjacent to the one flanking Lorn.

The porter silently tilts the two-wheeled handcart into an upright position, then carefully checks the three containers to ensure they rest securely on the cart’s carrying ledge.

The clean-shaven and gray-haired merchanter in blue nods brusquely and looks toward Lorn, taking in Lorn’s cream and green uniform and the double bars on the lancer officer’s collar. “Furlough, Captain?”

“Duty change,” Lorn answers pleasantly.

The merchanter laughs pleasantly. “You’re one of the good ones, then.”

“Good enough.”

“The poor ones never make captain before they hit the Steps. The fair ones stay here until they get unlucky or old.” The merchanter nods. “Seen them come and go, one way or another.”

“Are you with a clan house?” Lorn asks, noting the fine cut of the man’s blue shimmercloth tunic and the polished cupridium boss on the silver belt buckle.

“Stitheth. One of the oldest in Syadtar.”

“What kinds of goods …” Lorn lets his voice trail off, as if he were uncertain as to whether he should even inquire.

“Durables-clays, timbers from Jakaafra, leathers, well, hides really … all kinds-from the finest in gaitered stun lizards to bull leathers for the most durable boots. Dyes and polishes, lacquers …”

“All very necessary goods.” Lorn nods. The merchanter has been careful in his house description-using the word the “oldest” rather than “finest,” although Lorn has few doubts that the Stitheth clan is among the wealthier houses,since Syadtar is far from the sources of all the goods traded by the house, and most would have to come by horse-drawn wagons rather than by firewagon because their bulk would make firewagon transport unprofitable. “Doubtless all most profitable in Syadtar.”

“We have been fortunate,” acknowledges the merchanter.

At the low rumbling of heavy wheels on stone, Lorn glances to the west, where the morning sun glints on the white-lacquer-like finish of the approaching firewagon as it nears the embarking portico.

Behind the curved glass canopy at the front of the vehicle, the two drivers-one white-haired, the other gray-haired-wear the green tunic of a transporter. All drivers are former senior squad leaders in the Mirror Lancers, something Lorn had learned at Isahl.

Eight passengers emerge from the firewagon, only one from the forward compartment, a magus of indeterminate age who nods briefly to Lorn and continues past the lancer officer carrying but a small duffel of white shimmercloth. The seven passengers from the rear compartment all wear brown or gray, except for a woman in the yellow of an entertainer.

All the passengers vanish into the streets of Syadtar.

As Lorn and the merchanter beside him wait, the two drivers and two porters slowly unload crates and baskets, while a young enumerator watches.

Then another pair of drivers appears-one bald and the other with salt and pepper hair. The driver with the black and gray hair begins to walk around the firewagon, checking each of the six wheels, the fastenings, and the array of chaos cells behind the rear compartment.

“First compartment. Travelers westward! Travelers westward!” announces the bald driver. “First compartment.”

Lorn bends and lifts the two duffels, careful not to let sabre and scabbard strike the one in his right hand. As he walks toward the open front compartment door, the wind carries voices from the second platform to him.

“ … don’t see why they get to travel first free …”

“Because half of them don’t live long enough to get pensionedoff, Vorkin. They can’t take consorts with them, if they can find one, and they never are home. That’s why. You want to live like that?”

“Still … wasn’t that bad for your uncle.”

“You weren’t there.”

“Saw enough, I did ….”

“Hush!”

A faint smile crosses Lorn’s lips and vanishes.

Behind Lorn, the merchanter directs the porter toward the cargo bay of the firewagon, the space separating the smaller front compartment from the larger rear one.

Lorn has to bend forward to slide the duffels under the thinly padded curved bench seat, and he pushes them to the far side. Then he has to unclip his scabbarded sabre from his belt. After setting it against the outside wall of the compartment, he takes the rear window seat on the left side, so that he can see ahead.

Through the cupridium-braced white oak behind his head, he feels the rest of the goods and crates being loaded, and then the clunk of the cargo doors being closed.

The merchanter peers into the compartment, smiling as if in relief. “A bit of space here, captain. Until Coermat for certain, anyway.” He takes the rear-facing seat on the right side, as if to be seated as far from the Lancer officer as possible, then stretches out his thick legs. “Might not be so bad this time.” His words end with a yawn.

“It’s better not to be cramped,” Lorn agrees pleasantly.

“Closing up, sers.” The bald driver peers into the compartment, before withdrawing and closing the door.

“You’ll pardon me, captain. I had to do the accounts before I left, and there wasn’t much lamp oil left.” The merchanter nods politely, leans his head back, and closes his eyes.

The firewagon rolls forward slowly and smoothly picks up speed. Lorn watches the white sunstone buildings of Syadtar pass and vanish behind him.

He will not return to Syadtar. That he knows.