Scion of Cyador

XV

The two men stand on the end of a white stone pier at which no vessels are tied. Under the heavy clouds of a chill spring day, the wind creates small whitecaps on the choppy gray-blue waters of the harbor of Cyad. Halfway toward the shore are two groups of guards, each by a separate bollard. One set of guards is clad in green uniforms, with gold trim, the second and smaller group in shapeless blue. All the guards watch the two merchanters who face each other.

Both men are beardless and wear blue shimmercloth. One is ponderous, tall, heavy, and his brown eyes seem almost hidden by heavy lids. His dark brown hair, though trimmed carefully, is thinning and lank and flops in the wind. The second merchanter is of average height, and trim. His hair is sandy-colored, tinged with silver-gray, and his eyes are hazel.

The heavy merchanter looks down at the smaller man. “Most honored Clan Head Tasjan, I have heard that there are those in the Dyjani Clan who murmur about the need for change among the merchanters.”

“There are always those who wish change.” Tasjan’s voice is a mellow and deep bass, surprisingly for one so slender.

“The words are for more than change. There is talk about who will be Emperor.”

“There have always been some who ask, ‘Is it not time for a merchanter Emperor? Can we not support with our blades and golds someone who will live in the years to come? Can we not do away with those who revere the cracked and failing vase of the past?’” Tasjan laughs. “I have heard such questions since I was a boy. So have you.”

“Such questions are dangerous now,” Bluoyal observes.

“Because the Emperor is aging, Bluoyal? Or because he is less than satisfied with his Merchanter Advisor?”

“Remember, Tasjan, I was the one who calmed Fuyol when he would have hired blades to dismember you and your heirs, and the one who counseled patience.”

“I appreciate your efforts, my old and valued friend.” Tasjan shrugs. “Yet none would accept his golds, and now he is dying, and all look the other way.”

“There was the matter of a Dyjani trade plaque,” Bluoyal points out. “And a Brystan sabre refinished in cupridium. And the Dyjani are the ones who trade most in sabres from Brysta-the only ones, as I recall.”

“Everyone knows we alone trade in such arms, excepting, of course, Bluyet House, which also does, but we know that the Emperor’s Merchanter Advisor is far above suspicion,” Tasjan replies. “That is why it was meaningless. It was an easy way to cast suspicion.”

“And why,” asks Bluoyal with a laugh, “would anyone wish to cast suspicion upon the most honorable Dyjani Clan? Because you are all so beloved?”

Tasjan returns the laugh. “We are most beloved, for we are the most successful at competing with the Hamorians in all that they do.”

“Beloved or not, most honored and ancient friend, now is not the time for merchanters to raise questions. Time favors us more than action. Rynst grows older by the day, and without him, the Mirror Lancers will not know which way to point their blades. Chyenfel holds to life by sheer force of will against chaos, and when Kharl succeeds him, chaos will meet chaos, for the Second Magus will not support young Rustyl as a successor to the Malachite Throne-nor anyone supported by Rynst.” Bluoyal shakes his head. “The Second Magus would be Emperor, and yet he cannot see that few even within the Quarter of the Magi’i will support him.”

“He is a powerful mage, as is his son,” Tasjan counters. “The fourth magus, who has balanced all, is failing, many say, and his daughter is consorted to Kharl’s son. Many would support Kharl because he has a son, and for the sake of the daughter of the fourth magus, and to ensure that there would be an heir. The Empire cannot stand another Emperor without heirs, not in these times.”

“And when the Second Magus fails…then what?” asks Bluoyal. “Will you then offer yourself as the man of the merchanters-or of the people?”

“I cannot imagine that happening,” Tasjan replies.

Despite the cool wind, Bluoyal blots his forehead with a pale blue square of cloth that momentarily covers his entire visage. His brown eyes are hard as he studies the slender, sandy-haired merchanter. “You have talked of the failure of the Magi’i to others. Why will you not admit it to me?”

“Because you meet too often with Chyenfel and Kharl.” Tasjan shrugs. “I will not admit such even now. I do believe, as do you, that there will come a time when a merchanter must sit upon the Malachite Throne. When that time will be, I do not know. Nor do you.”

“You wager that time will be soon, and you are the merchanter, and your guards under Sasyk will make sure that at least some will make you such an offer.”

Tasjan smiles. “While I would scarce refuse such, who would ever offer that to me-the head of the oh-so-beloved Dyjani Clan? As for Sasyk, you know that he is but to protect the interests of the House.”

The older and heavier merchanter shakes his head ponderously. “You play with chaos-flame, my friend.”

“You will be burned by such flames sooner than I, Bluoyal, for you are far closer to them, and Cyad is less than kind to those who cannot balance the chaos of chaos and the chaos of man.”

“You seem most concerned for my welfare.”

“I am, indeed, for if you fail, who will be Merchanter Advisor?” asks Tasjan. “I would not wish it to be Veljan, for reasons we all know. Nor Vyanat, who is all that you claim I am. And beloved as I am, who would wish me? Does that mean we would see someone like Kernys? Or the lady trader, the one who makes us look magnanimous in our petty revenges? No…I would much prefer you not fail.”

“For now,” suggests Bluoyal.

“But, of course.” Tasjan laughs. “Would you have me lie outright?”

Bluoyal laughs as well, even as he lifts the wide blue cloth to blot his perspiring face once more.