Magi'i of Cyador

LVI

THREE NIGHTS AFTER his first observation of Shevelt, once more in the blues of a senior enumerator, Lorn sits at the same side table in the Silver Chalice. He takes a sip from the goblet, half-filled with a vinegary red wine, and watches the burly Shevelt. He has little time left in Cyad, and can but hope the unknown magus does not decide to scree him this night.

At the table to his right are a pair of gray-haired enumerators, talking in phrases that rise and fall, sometimes audible over the louder merchanters in the main room, and sometimes not.

“ … no winter rain in Hydlen … snow’s light …”

“Aye … both Easthorns and Westhorns …”

“ … know the lancers asked Ekyon for another five-score ranker sabres …”

“ … loved that, he did …”

The bravo in the entry foyer ignores the noise in the central room, though his fingers occasionally tighten around the golden oak truncheon.

Lorn takes another minute sip of the wine, shaking his head at the serving girl as she approaches. With her, from the back room, comes the odor of overcooked grease. At the young woman’s frown, Lorn extracts a copper and lays it on the table, offering a brief smile to her.

She nods, and turns to the two enumerators.

“One more? And why not?” asks the older enumerator.

Lorn smiles, absently, as the server slips out of the smaller enumerators’ section without looking back him.

“ … and he had to pay Wosyl? He should have paid her!”

Shevelt’s laugh is loud, bluff, and annoying to Lorn, but he takes another sip of the bitter red wine-only a sip.

“You don’t come here often enough, Shevelt! Don’t be leaving so soon ….”

“I should come here to be insulted?” The big trader’s overhearty laugh booms forth once more, riding over the enumerators’ conversation yet again.

“ … give as good as you get …”

“Can’t stay too late … have some plans ….” Shevelt announces.

“Who is she? Another redhead?”

“No … Shevelt’s going to journey to a strange land. She’s blonde-all the way down.” A bass laugh fills the room.

The laughter dies away as Shevelt lurches erect and lumbers toward an adjoining table. “If I didn’t happen to be leaving, Vorgan … you would be. On the way to the Steps, mayhap by the long voyage ….”

Lorn leaves a pair of coppers on the table, nods to the gray-clad serving girl who returns with two mugs, and points to the three coppers on the wood.

The gesture earns him a fleeting smile.

“ … just joshing, Shevelt …”

“Off to your redhead, Shevelt … whichever one she is.”

“When I finish my mug …”

Without looking back, Lorn departs the Silver Chalice, walking quickly, as if he will be late somewhere. He continues his pace all the way to Second Harbor Way West, where he slides into the late twilight shadows, and eases back perhaps fifty cubits and melds into the deeper shade that shrouds a straggly feathering conifer. He eases the left trouser leg out over the sabre in his boot-still the Lancer sabre, which means he will need a few other touches. Then he stands and waits beside the straggly tree barely twice his height, and but a score of cubits away from the arches that shield the double doors of the Silver Chalice.

The odor of overcooked grease melds with the salt air and other odors from the harbor. Only a trace of purple hangs above the low hills to the north and west, and the early nightair is warmer than it has been in more than an eightday, with a trace of dampness that recalls fall not winter. Lorn remains silent as another man in blue walks slowly from the west end of the way and enters the Silver Chalice.

The right hand double-door opens, and then closes.

Lorn waits, but Shevelt does not emerge.

The sound of voices from the way behind Lorn drifts past him, subsiding as the pair continues toward the harbor.

At last, the door opens and the tall and bulky figure in blue that is Shevelt steps out into the night, stretching slightly, before turning toward Lorn. Lorn waits until the trader is within a handful of cubits before he moves.

“Trader, ser …” Lorn cringes, almost cowers as he scuttles toward Shevelt. “Trader, ser … a word. A word, please.”

Shevelt turns, his face twisting.

Lorn backs away, but only slightly. “Ser … a good enumerator. I am. Good for all manner of goods and trades ….”

“Good? Begging in the streets? You disgust me, fellow.”

“I’m better than any you have ….” Lorn whines, stepping back another pace. “I can show you ….”

The bulky merchanter takes two surprisingly quick steps and grabs the far smaller enumerator by the shoulder. “Who do you think you are? I want an enumerator … I hire you. You come beg at the hiring door.” He starts to shake the smaller man in blue, but the younger man slips from his fingers and bends as if struck.

“Trash …” mumbles Shevelt. “Worthless scum … off with you.”

“Like you.”

The coldness of Lorn’s words, so at odds with the cringing personality displayed a moment before, freezes the huge man for the instant it takes for Lorn to whip the chaos-reinforced sabre across and toward Shevelt’s neck.

The merchanter gapes, but cannot even blink or form words as the glitter of cupridium and the sparkle of chaos cut through him. Both head and torso fall, a pair of dull thumps on the white stones echoing faintly into the evening, blood pooling around the momentarily twitching torso.

Lorn quickly takes out the golden scabbard and extracts the dagger, driving it into the dead man’s back, rather than turn the body. He dusts the dagger’s scabbard with chaos and leaves it by the head, then walks quickly along the shadowed edge of the warehouse, pausing in the deeper shadows to clean the sabre and replace it. The cleaning rag vanishes in a puff of chaos fire, and Lorn walks out onto Second Harbor Way.

Lorn has walked a good two hundred cubits when he nods politely as he passes two Mirror Lancer captains. He continues downhill for another three blocks before turning eastward onto the Road of Benevolent Commerce.

The stars are out full, and all hint of twilight has vanished from the western sky by the time he has reached Ryalth’s quarters.

She has heard or sensed his approach and opens the door as he nears. She frowns briefly as she opens the door. “I’d hoped you would be earlier.”

Lorn smiles wryly. “My parents wanted to talk, and then I was delayed by an obnoxious merchanter who didn’t like enumerators on the same walkway. Extracting myself quietly took some time.”

“You always do things quietly.” After closing the door, she walks to the table.

“When I can.” He offers a laugh that is not quite forced as he follows her. “I can recall a few times when it didn’t work that way, and the results weren’t quiet.”

She smiles, an expression that combines humor, recollection, and wistfulness. “I recall one of those times. Some day you’ll have to tell me about the others.”

Lorn shrugs, almost sheepishly. “I broke a boy’s fingers when we were in school, in a bruggage ….”

“A what?”

“A pile-up in a game-korfal. He suspected, but couldn’t prove it.” Lorn laughs. “A few days ago, he came to call on Jerial. He’s a Lancer sub-majer. He deftly pointed out that she couldn’t consider herself above him now, or at least not for any longer than my father lives.”

Ryalth shakes her head. “In some way or another, the past comes back.”

“Let’s hope the good things do as well.” Lorn pauses. “That does mean that he doesn’t want me dead too soon.”

“Oh … because your younger brother’s a magus?”

“Exactly.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Not since … this morning, I think. I had some dried pearapples early this afternoon, but not very many.” He grins. “Kysia still has avoided meeting me.” The grin fades. “It’s probably better that way.”

“Why don’t you sit down? I waited, and I’m hungry.”

Lorn holds back a wince at the sharpness of her tone. “I’m sorry.” He glances at the covered dish in the middle of the small circular table.

“It’s armenak-Austran creamed beef strips and noodles.”

Lorn takes the ladle and serves Ryalth, then himself, offering her the bread first, as well. The armenak is strongly seasoned, but with a trilia-like tang, rather than with a chilled or pepper-like spiciness, and Lorn finds he has finished all he has served himself, when half of Ryalth’s portion remains on her blue crockery platter.

“I was hungry.”

“You usually are.” She puts down the goblet from which she has hardly drunk and looks across the table at him. “You have to leave soon, don’t you?”

“Before the end of the eightday. I can’t risk being late in reporting for duty. Not as a Lancer captain with magus blood.” His lips twist. “And not with senior officers waiting for mistakes.”

Ryalth tilts her head quizzically.

Lorn nods ruefully. “I know. I know. But you’re not a mistake. That’s why I need a season or so to set things up.”

Ryalth waits.

“I keep my word, lady trader, and that’s one promise I want to keep. More than you know.” He looks into her eyes and repeats the words. “More than you know.”

“I’m glad.”

They both smile.