Scion of Cyador

CXXIV

The Recording Hall in the Quarter of the Magi’i is of polished white marble, like that of the small hall in Jakaafra where Lorn and Ryalth were consorted. The tall and narrow windows are also of ancient blue glass, and there are no furnishings in the hall save a single white sunstone pedestal. There, the resemblance ends. The white granite walls soar high overhead, into an arch whose highest point is nearly thirty cubits directly above the pedestal. The windows are more than ten cubits high, and their casements are of green marble.

Among the halfscore couples standing at the back of the hall before those windows, all are in total shimmercloth white-except for Lorn and Ryalth. He wears the green-and-cream formal Mirror Lancer uniform, and she the green-trimmed formal blue shimmercloth tunic and trousers of a merchanter clan head consorted to a Mirror Lancer.

To their right stand the parents of Aleyar-Liataphi and Lleya-and to their left, Tyrsal’s mother.

Behind the sunstone pedestal stands a senior lector-Hyrist’elth. Hyrist looks down at the massive open book that rests on the stand of white sunstone. Each page of the book is a cubit-and-a-half in height and two-thirds that in width. The senior lector wears a sashlike white shimmercloth scarf that barely stands out against his white shimmercloth tunic and trousers.

“I am Hyrist’elth, senior lector, and recorder of consortings for all the Magi’i. Approach…you who wish to record your consortship here in Cyad, the city of Eternal Light, and home of the Magi’i.” The lector and recorder inclines his head to the couple.

Tyrsal and Aleyar walk slowly toward the book and sash-wearer until they stop and stand two cubits back from the sunstone pedestal and the book upon it. Both look to the recorder.

“Do you two-Tyrsal’elth of the Magi’i and Lady Aleyar, healer of Cyad-declare your intention to take each other as consorts?”

“I do,” Tyrsal replies.

“I do,” affirms Aleyar.

“Would you each inscribe your name in the book before you, signifying that such is your choice of your own free will, in the prosperity of chaos and light and under the oversight of the Emperor of Light?” With a smile, Hyrist extends a shimmering white pen to the slender healer.

After taking the cupridium-tipped pen, Aleyar bends forward and writes her name. She straightens and hands the pen to Tyrsal. He leans forward and writes his name.

Hyrist takes the pen and replaces it in the ceremonial cupridium holder, then clears his throat before declaiming, “As entered in the book of the Quarter, in Cyad, the City of Eternal Light, you are hereafter consorts.” Hyrist looks at the couple and declaims sonorously, “May you always be fulfilled in the light and in the fullness of time.”

Tyrsal slips the shiny silver onto the pages of the book, according to custom, then steps back, standing before the sunstone pedestal almost awkwardly.

Aleyar whispers something, and Tyrsal turns and kisses her, flushing slightly.

Beside Lorn, Ryalth sighs. Lorn can hear more than one gentle sigh from the back of the hall where the halfscore of couples stand as witnesses and family.

Then, Tyrsal and Aleyar turn and walk back toward the double doors that are opened by two junior Magi’i.

As the just-consorted couple nears Lorn and Ryalth, Tyrsal smiles broadly and happily at his friend. Lorn smiles back. After the two pass, Lorn and Ryalth turn and follow the others out of the hall and down the wide white-granite steps.

A line of carriages waits outside the hall, and Lorn and Ryalth share a carriage with Syreal and Aleyar’s youngest sister, Nyarl. Like all of Liataphi’s daughters, Nyarl and Syreal are blonde, although Nyarl barely looks old enough for the healer pin she wears in the collar of her white tunic.

“They both looked very happy,” Ryalth says.

“So did Father,” suggests Syreal. “Aleyar is happy, and he has a magus in the family at last.”

“Having the head of a trading house in the family is also good,” Lorn observes.

“From you, Lorn, I will accept that gratefully.” Syreal smiles. “From others, it would be condescension. I wish Veljan would have come to the ceremony,” she adds. “He will be at the consorting dinner.”

Lorn notes the absolute lack of doubt in Syreal’s voice, and represses a smile.

Syreal glances at Ryalth. “I hope you don’t mind, but he insisted that we be seated next to you. He wasn’t sure there would be anyone else he could talk to.”

“I do understand,” Ryalth replies. “It felt strange being the only ones not in white.”

“I wanted to wear my greens,” Nyarl said, “but Father and Mother insisted on white. When I get consorted, I will wear green.”

Lorn smiles.

“You were a magus, once, weren’t you?” Nyarl asks Lorn.

“I was a student magus,” Lorn admits.

“I thought so. I’ll wager-”

“Nyarl…” cautions Syreal.

“Yes, sister dear.”

“I’ve been a lancer officer for many years now.”

“Tyrsal says that you’re the best field officer in the lancers. Are you?”

Syreal rolls her eyes.

Lorn laughs. “Tyrsal is kind, and he’s my best friend. He may rate me higher for that reason.” He inclines his head to Ryalth. “My consort, the lady trader, has accomplished far more than I have.”

“He says you’re the most accomplished lady trader in the history of Cyad-”

Syreal sighs.

Ryalth bursts out laughing, shaking her head. “That may…be true…but only because there have been so few.”

The carriage slows, then stops, then creeps, then stops, the pattern repeating for several times until it halts before the stone floral gateway to Liataphi’s dwelling. Lorn slips out of the carriage and holds the door for the three women.

“Thank you…” murmurs Syreal.

Lorn and Ryalth follow the sisters into the house and up the circular staircase to the second-level foyer, where several groups of people are already gathered and talking. As Lorn surveys the small crowd, again he notes that virtually all are clad in white shimmercloth.

He frowns as he senses the brief chill of a chaos-glass, and he glances at Ryalth, who responds to his glance with a nod. Syreal catches the exchange. A slightly puzzled look vanishes almost immediately as she says in a low voice. “Terrible manners…and less point, except to be rude. Probably Rustyl. I told Father and Tyrsal he could not be invited.”

“You’re not exactly fond of him?” Ryalth asks.

“He tried to insist Father allow Aleyar to be his consort, and even got Chyenfel to put in a good word. Father, for once, listened to the rest of us.”

“Even were he not my friend, I would find Tyrsal far better for your sister,” Lorn says.

“Rustyl is a finely-formed dungball,” suggests Nyarl brightly.

“Nyarl…”

“He is, but I’ll be still.”

“Thank you,” answers Syreal.

Lorn and Ryalth smile, then watch as Syreal turns.

Veljan-wearing pure blue shimmercloth, not the blue-and-green of Ryalth’s tunic, is blocky, clean-shaven, and square-faced. He makes his way from the circular staircase toward the foyer outside the dining area, and his brown eyes sparkle when he catches sight of Syreal standing beside Ryalth.

As he approaches, Veljan bows to Ryalth and then to Lorn.

“You have heard of Lorn and the Lady Ryalth, Veljan,” offers Syreal.

“I am most pleased to see you both here, and especially you, Lady Ryalth.”

“And I, you, honored trader.” Ryalth smiles warmly.

Lorn inclines his head politely.

Veljan laughs. “I can only lay claim to seeking to be honest and fair and listening to two of the best advisors a trader could ever have.” His head inclines to Syreal.

“Lorn! Ryalth!” Two dark-haired figures make their way through the growing crowd.

Lorn smiles as Jerial and Myryan approach. “I was looking for you.”

“We just got here,” Myryan explains. “Ciesrt was late, and now he’s stopped downstairs to talk to someone.”

“These are my sisters, Jerial and Myryan.” Lorn looks the other merchanter couple. “And Veljan and Syreal. Syreal, you may recall, was a favorite of Father’s.”

Syreal flushes slightly as she bows. “Aleyar has talked about you both so much. I am so pleased to meet you.”

Veljan bows. “And I, also.”

A handbell rings, and Liataphi’s voice rises above the conversations taking place around the foyer. “If you would all find your placards and seat yourselves…”

“We’d better find Ciesrt,” Myryan says, then looks at Veljan. “It was good to meet you.” She turns to Lorn and Ryalth. “We’ll talk to you after dinner.”

“And you, too,” replies Syreal.

“Please find your placards,” Liataphi’s voice rises again.

“Father…always organizing everyone,” says Syreal good-naturedly.

“There’s one in every family,” Veljan says. “My sister Elnya is that way.”

“Yes, she is,” agrees Syreal, “nice as she is.”

“Chyla looks like her,” interjects Nyarl. “Perhaps she’ll be like Lady Ryalth.”

Syreal rolls her eyes. “Nyarl…you need to find your place.”

“So do you.” But Nyarl bows and turns.

“I love her,” Syreal says as the younger healer slips past several Magi’i and consorts Lorn does not know, “but she has the healing skills of one twice her age, and the tact of people of one-half her age.” After a pause, she adds, “We’re over on the left side of the first table.”

“At the bottom, I imagine,” suggests Veljan, withholding a grin for a moment.

Syreal flushes, if briefly, then shakes her head, moving toward the table. The other three follow, and seat themselves before the simple white cards with their names. Lorn is seated farthest to the right and from the head of the table, jointly shared by the newly-consorted couple. Above him on the same side are Aleyar’s parents, so that Lorn sits beside Lleya. Ryalth is seated on Lorn’s left, with Veljan beside her, and Syreal at the bottom corner.

Serving girls come down the tables, offering either Fhynyco or redberry juice. Lorn, Ryalth, and Veljan take the wine, Syreal the juice.

Somewhere the bell rings, and silence finally reigns in the dining area that holds three tables. At the head table, Tyrsal rises and surveys the party.

“Thank you all for coming,” Tyrsal says. “I’m supposed to make a few light remarks and then let everyone enjoy the food. So I will. First, we thank our parents, for being the first ones in making this happy event possible. Second, I would like to thank Lorn, and only say that you and your father were absolutely correct about Aleyar, and I wish I’d listened sooner.” Tyrsal grins. “Except I probably wouldn’t have appreciated her half so much then. And lastly, I’d like to say how much it means to us both for you all to be here.” With another broad smile, Tyrsal sits down.

“He was brief,” offers Veljan.

“Tyrsal never speaks long unless he has something of worth to say,” Lorn says. “Unlike some of us who are more wordy.”

“You are more like Tyrsal than you would admit,” suggests Syreal, “else you would not be friends.”

Lorn shrugs. Both Syreal and Ryalth nod at each other, then lean back as a serving girl offers the braised lamb in lemon sauce, followed by buttered and nutted beans, and grass-rice.

After the servers pass on, Veljan clears his throat and turns to Ryalth. “I hope you will pardon me, but we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting before, and I would like your thoughts on some matters.” He smiles boyishly. “I have to confess that I like to get opinions from everyone I respect, because I know that I know very little.”

“That alone means you know a great deal,” Ryalth parries.

Syreal laughs. “She knows what you want, dear.”

“I make no secrets of it,” Veljan admits. “I am not like Tasjan, sneaking around with all his informers, and Sasyk and all his guards. Nor like Vyanat’mer, who must study every invoice in his house each time before he decides on a venture. I prefer to listen to people, not spies or papers.”

“And you listen very well,” suggests Lorn.

Syreal nods.

“What think you of the cochina dyes from Hamor?” Veljan asks Ryalth.

“They are good dyes, especially for wool, but at ten golds an amphora?” Ryalth shakes her head. “Besides, most folk in Candar, except the Hydlenese, are not partial to red. The Kyphran green is a better buy, and there are more customers for it.”

Veljan laughs. “So…you have already sold all you have?”

“Of course.” Ryalth grins. “Not that I didn’t buy and sell an amphora or two of the cochina red as well-as you did, I recall.”

Veljan shakes his head, ruefully. “What of the yellow of Suthya?”

“I would not sell it.”

“Tasjan buys much there,” Veljan points out, adding after a moment, “but he will only sell it to outland traders.”

“What does he receive for buying it?” Lorn asks.

Veljan frowns.

Syreal nods and answers. “The right to hire armsmen for his vessels.”

“So…most of his guards…are outlanders?” Lorn pursues.

“Many, I have heard,” Veljan admits.

“Are they just guards?” asks Ryalth. “Does he not have them wear uniforms that are the same, no matter what ship they serve?”

“He says he is preparing for when the fireships are no more,” Syreal says flatly. “But some few vessels of smaller traders have vanished when no other ships were near save his.”

“Wouldn’t someone notice the cargoes?” questions Lorn.

“Not if they are sold to outlanders,” Ryalth points out.

“It is true that Tasjan has cultivated many outland traders,” Veljan says slowly, “but one cannot accuse another merchanter or bring a charge before Vyanat without some proof. Tasjan is most careful.”

Lorn nods.

“Aleyar has said that you and Lorn met long years before you were consorted,” Syreal says. “And that you were not consorted in Cyad.”

Both Lorn and Ryalth understand the meaning of the question. Lorn looks at Ryalth. “Best you answer.”

“Yes, let us hear the lady’s version,” suggests Veljan.

Ryalth smiles, then takes a brief sip of the Fhynyco before speaking. “I was a very junior merchanter, and he was still a student magus…”

Lorn watches as his consort speaks, marveling once more at how fortunate he has been that she had been so patient with him. Around them, various conversations ebb and flow as he listens to Ryalth’s voice.