Modesitt,L.E. - Recluce 02 - Scion of Scyador

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Scion of Cyador

by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

Edited by David G. Hartwell

Jacket art by Darrell K. Sweet

Jacket design by Carol Russo Design

A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010

Tor® Books on the World Wide Web: http://www.tor.com

From Inner Flaps:

Scion of Cyador continues the story begun in Magi'i of Cyador. Exploring the rich depths of the

history of Recluce, Magi'i of Cyador introduced Lorn, a talented boy born into a family of Magi'i.

A fastidious student mage who lacked blind devotion, Lorn was made into a lancer officer and

shipped off to the frontier-a career that comes with a fifty percent mortality rate.

Having survived his extended stint fighting both barbarian raiders and the giant beasts of the

Accursed Forest, Lorn has proven himself to be a fine officer . . . perhaps too fine an officer.

As his prowess has grown, so has the number of his enemies and rivals. Too much success has made

him a marked man. When he returns to his home, both he and his young family become targets while

all of Cyad is in upheaval over deadly political infighting. But Lorn is now hardened, a deadly

fighter himself, especially when the Empire is at stake.

Scion of Cyador is the completion of another grand story in the Recluce saga.

To Lee and Sheila:

may their house prosper

CHARACTERS

Kien - Magus, Senior Lector, "Fourth Magus"

Lorn - Son of the Magus Kien

Vernt - Younger son of Kien

Jerial - Eldest child and daughter of Kien

Myryan - Youngest child and daughter of Kien

Nyryah - Consort of Kien

Toziel'elth'alt'mer - Emperor of Cyador

Ryenyel - Consort-Empress of Cyador

Chyenfel - First Magus and High Lector

Kharl Second Magus and Senior Lector

Liataphi - Third Magus and Senior Lector

Abram - Senior Lector

Aleyar - Healer, daughter of Liataphi

Ciesrt - Magus

Jysnet - Lector

Hyrist - Senior Lector

Rustyl - Magus

Syreal - Daughter of Liataphi, consort of Veljan

Tyrsal - Magus

LANCERS

Rynst - Majer-Commander, Mirror Lancers

Luss - Captain-Commander, Mirror Lancers

Allyrn - Captain

Brevyl - Majer [commanding at Isahl]

Cheryk - Captain

Dettaur - Sub-Majer

Eghyr - Captain

Ikynd - Commander [commanding at Assyadt]

Lhary - Commander [Western Regional Commander, Cyad]

Maran - Majer [Patrol Commander, Geliendra] Sypcal Commander [Eastern Regional Commander, Cyad]

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MERCHANTERS

Bluoyal - Merchanter Advisor to the Emperor [Bluyet Clan]

Denys - Merchanter [Bluyet Clan]

Eileyt - Enumerator [Ryalor House]

Fuyol - Merchanter [Head, Yuryan Clan]

Kernys - Merchanter [Head, Kysan Clan]

Neabyl - Emperor's Enumerator [Biehl]

Ryalth - Woman merchanter [consort to Lorn]

Sasyk - Chief of Guards [Dyjani House]

Tasjan - Merchanter [Head, Dyjani Clan]

Veljan - Merchanter Heir [Yuryan Clan]

Vyanat - Merchanter [Head, Hyshrah Clan]

Vyel - Merchanter, brother of Vyanat

Part I - Lorn'alt, Cyad Overcaptain, Mirror Lancers

I

If Cyador be the paradox of Candar, and supporting that paradox be indeed the duty of each of the

Magi'i of the Quarter, then how must each magus approach that duty so as to support the way to the

Steps of Paradise?

One scholar magus might say, "Support the Emperor of Light, for he is the one who must balance

the Mirror Lancers and the Magi'i against each other, and against the growing might of the

merchanter clans, who know but the greed for gold and the pleasures of the moment."

A magus who tends the chaos-towers might declare, "Take care that the chaos-towers endure while

they may, for without the towers, Cyador is no more than any other land set upon our world."

Still another might claim, "Set forth rules for the Magi'i that they may lead all by their

example and purity of devotion to chaos and the people who revere it."

For all that the Magi'i descended from those of the Rational Stars, the ways in which the duty

of a magus could be set forth are myriad, and like unto chaos itself, often resembling itself, yet

never the same and always changing. Each magus, from the most to the least devoted, will have a

vision of that duty. Some will hold that by increasing their personal mastery of chaos, they will

serve Cyador, the Magi'i, and chaos in the best fashion possible. Others will declare that mastery

of chaos must always serve others first, for the magus who places himself before duty will always

be corrupted into believing that what is good for him is good for all.

Yet neither be right, for a magus who serves only others will fly from one master to another,

for each who asks of him becomes a master. A magus who elevates his mastery above all, would make

all others his servant. Thus, a magus must be neither master nor servant, but one who walks the

narrow path between. A magus without dedication to chaos will have no soul, and one who worships

it blindly, no sense.

That dilemma sets forth the true paradox of the Magi'i, that we must master chaos without being

mastered by it...

Paradox of Empire

Bern'elth, Magus First

Cyad, 157 A.F.

II

Lorn opens the door to the small upper-floor balcony, checking to see that the spring weather

remains warm in the late afternoon. With a nod, he closes the door and turns to take in the main

room of Ryalth's quarters-the low ebony table, the straight-backed black oak armchair that is

Ryalth's favorite, the settee opposite it, and on the other side of the room, the green ceramic

brick privacy screen that protects the main door from the inside. To his right is the alcove that

contains the circular eating table and two armless chairs. To his left is the narrow archway to

the bedchamber, and beyond that, the small bathing chamber.

He smiles as he looks at the portrait of Ryalth as a young girl. In it, she wears a high-necked

green tunic, and a thin golden chain. The floor of the main room displays ancient blue wool carpet

with a border of interlocked ropes, surrounding a woven image of a blue-hulled trading ship under

full sail, the ill-fated ship once owned by Ryalth's merchanter father, and the one on which her

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parents had perished.

"Are you ready?" calls the redheaded lady who is his consort, as well as the head of the newly

ascendant trading house-Ryalor House. Lorn sometimes still has trouble believing that she has

incorporated his name into that of the trading concern she has established, even if he had helped

her in the years before they were consorted.

"Yes. I was checking to see that it was still warm out." He crosses the room and steps into the

bedchamber. There, he adjusts his sabre and the collar emblems on the new Mirror Lancer uniform

that Ryalth had arranged to have waiting for him when he had returned from his previous duty

station. His efforts in battling the Accursed Forest had destroyed all but one of his Mirror

Lancer uniforms, and that one he had worn on the firewagon trip back to Cyad. "Is it?"

"It's very pleasant." He smiles at her as he steps away from the narrow mirror set on a stand

against the bedchamber wall. "Still... I almost wish that we were not going to my parents' for

dinner again. I don't have that many days left before I have to leave for Biehl."

"They were charming the night before last." Ryalth eases past Lorn and before the mirror,

touching her short red hair with the silver-backed and tortoiseshell comb. "And they don't keep us

late. They do understand."

"That was because it was only them and Jerial. Vernt and his consort-to-be, and Ciesrt and

Myryan will be there tonight." He steps forward and puts his arms around her waist, then kisses

the back of her neck. "You smell so good."

"I'm glad you think so." For a moment, she leans her cheek against his. "You don't mind being

here? In my quarters?"

"They're our quarters, and you are my consort, and I like being here with you."

"My rooms are so... modest, compared to your parents' dwelling."

"Nothing is modest when you're there."

"Such flattery."

"Not flattery. Truth," he insists.

"Truth is in the mind of the speaker," she counters. "The mirror reflects what is, and the

image is of modest quarters."

Lorn laughs. "Are you ready?"

"It is not going to rain, is it, O magely one?"

"No... I checked, remember? It will be warm this evening. And I'm not that much of a magus."

"More than you admit."

Lorn does not answer, but hugs her and kisses her neck again.

"I like walking with you, knowing you can wear your uniform."

"Some may still think you my mistress," Lorn teases.

"Not if I wear the blue-and-green cloak."

Lorn laughs. "You can wear green, if you wish, now that we are consorted. Could not I wear

blue, without subterfuge?"

"You could, but I like the cream-and-green better."

Lorn recalls a question he has failed to ask. "And how would the honored Bluoyal, the

Merchanter Advisor, feel about a lancer wearing blue?"

"You didn't worry about that for years." She smiles. "Why now?"

"Because no one knew who we were." Lorn pauses. "What of Bluoyal? When Eileyt speaks of him,

his mouth puckers, as with a sour fruit. Eileyt is usually so careful. Since he is the senior

enumerator of Ryalor House, that is good. But he didn't conceal his distaste of Bluoyal to me, not

at all."

"You are my consort," Ryalth points out.

"What of Bluoyal?" Lorn asks again.

"Bluoyal... I try to avoid him."

"Is he like Shevelt?" Lorn's eyes harden as he recalls the Yuryan Clan heir he had removed

years earlier because of the man's attempts to use his position to force himself on Ryalth.

"No." She shakes her head. "No. Bluoyal is effective at telling the Emperor the problems the

merchanters face, but he wishes all to pay him great homage for that effectiveness. He also was

one of those who brokered the means for Liataphi's daughter to consort with Veljan."

"Oh... so, in a way, Veljan owes his position to Bluoyal and the Magi'i?"

"With some, that pearapple was hard to swallow."

"He has not bothered you?"

Ryalth smiles. "Save for collecting our-Ryalor's-scorth, no."

"A twentieth part of your revenues?"

She shakes her head. "It is called that, but it is but one part in fifty of the revenues after

expenses." She drapes a light cotton cloak over her shoulders, blue with a green-and-cream border.

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"Best we go. I would not have your parents looking askance at me for delaying their son."

"They would blame me," Lorn points out. "Not you."

Ryalth shakes her head as she walks from the bedchamber and toward the privacy screen and the

outer door. "They yet have that black angel-cursed Magi'i sense that all is their responsibility,

and yours, as you are of the elthage blood. I can't even be responsible for delaying you."

Lorn opens his mouth, then closes it as he sees the sparkle in her eyes. "I'll hold you

responsible... but just when you are." He opens the door for her.

"I hope so."

Once they have descended the stairs, they walk uphill along the Thirteenth Way, and then

westward on the Road of Perpetual Light, in toward the center of Cyad for the three very long

blocks before they reach the dwelling where Lorn was raised.

"We'll be first," Lorn says.

"Because your brother will wish to exert his superior position by later arrival, as will

Myryan's consort?"

"I think Ciesrt just will wish he weren't coming, but he doesn't wish to offend father."

"Not Myryan?" Ryalth lifts her eyebrows.

"Ciesrt believes consorts are appurtenances."

"I am glad you do not believe such."

"You would scarce let me," he counters.

They laugh in the mild spring air, ignoring the carriages and wagons that pass along the Road

of Perpetual Light. Lorn's eyes take in the Palace of Eternal Light to the west, and all the other

white granite and sunstone structures that rise in the marvel that is Cyad, the shining city, the

city beside which all others pale. The words of one of the verses from the silver-covered book

come to mind, the book from Ryalth's heritage she had entrusted to him so many years before.

The city, Cyad, lost light like a star,

The dream, Cyad, guiding near and far.

He smiles to himself. Cyad is indeed a special city. Then he turns his eyes to the dwelling

ahead.

Jerial meets Lorn and Ryalth at the door to Lorn's parents' dwelling. The healer wears a green

tunic so dark it is almost black, and her black hair is cut short. "You always look so good,

Ryalth." She studies her brother. "Did I tell you I like her?"

"I believe you have. Several times."

"You might as well go on up." Jerial shuts the door and steps around the inside privacy screen.

"Mother and I thought we would eat on the upper portico tonight. It is warm, and the breeze is

gentle."

"We're the first?" Lorn asks.

"Except for Father and Mother."

Lorn and Ryalth climb the three flights to the fourth and topmost level of the dwelling in

which Lorn was raised.

Lorn's mother is waiting at the uppermost landing. "You look wonderful, Ryalth. I like the

cloak."

"Thank you." The redhead inclines her head.

"I did persuade Myryan and Ciesrt to come tonight." Nyryah raises her eyebrows. "Ciesrt wanted

to know if Vernt would be here. He was pleased to know that Vernt is bringing his consort-to-be.

That's Mycela. I do not believe you have met her."

"I have not had that pleasure. In fact," Lorn adds dryly, "I had not had the pleasure of

knowing he intended to take a consort until the other night when you told me."

"He has been seeing her since the turn of fall." Nyryah turns, and the three walk toward the

southwest corner of the upper level, toward the roofed but open-air area flanked with columns that

adjoins the warm-weather dining area.

They have barely taken their first steps when the door to the study opens behind them, and the

white-haired Kien emerges. He walks toward them with the barest hint of a shuffle. "Greetings,

Lorn, Ryalth. It's been such a long time since I've seen you two."

Lorn smiles.

Ryalth laughs gently.

"You'll have them here every moment, dear, if you aren't careful," cautions Nyryah.

"Not even a old magus like me could manage that," counters Kien. "Lorn will be gone again to

his station in Biehl in less than an eightday."

The four walk slowly toward the portico dining area.

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"The harbor always looks so beautiful from here," Ryalth observes. "You have such a wonderful

view."

"We are fortunate," answers Nyryah. "At times, I sit here in the late afternoon and watch the

clouds and the ships."

"Lorn!" Vernt appears behind them, accompanied by a blonde young woman who is laughing at

something.

Lorn and Ryalth turn and step toward the two recent arrivals.

"Lorn, Ryalth, this is Mycela." Vernt smiles at the blonde. "This is my elder brother Lorn and

his consort Ryalth. As you can see, Mycela, Lorn is an overcaptain in the Mirror Lancers, one of

the youngest, I would venture, and Ryalth is the head of Ryalor House, one of the newly prominent

trading houses in Cyad." Vernt smiles happily.

"How nice to meet you both." Mycela's smile is not quite simpering, Lorn and Ryalth bow ever so

slightly to the white-clad younger woman.

"Mycela is the daughter of Lector Abram'elth," Vernt explains.

Jerial slips by Vernt. "Ciesrt and Myryan are on their way up. She stopped to get something

from her old room."

"You recall my sister Jerial," Vernt says.

"You wear green," Mycela says, wide-eyed, as she bows to Jerial.

"I am a senior healer, and without consort," Jerial says with a shrug. "The green is more

appropriate."

"You do have such an unusual family, Vernt." Mycela giggles slightly. "They do so many things."

"Lorn!" calls Myryan as she appears behind Vernt, who steps back for Ciesrt and Myryan.

Ciesrt inclines his head to Vernt. "I am most glad to see you here." He bows slightly to

Vernt's consort-to-be. "Greetings, Mycela."

Mycela giggles momentarily. "Greetings, Ciesrt."

"Perhaps we could sit down, now that Ciesrt and Myryan are here." Nyryah gestures to the dining

table on the covered upper balcony, set as always, and as Lorn can recall from his childhood, so

that all but Nyryah can look downhill and south directly at the harbor-and to the west and

slightly uphill at the Palace of Eternal Light. Twilight lingers, and the sky remains the purple

maroon that is beginning to fade, but the lamps set in brackets on the columns have already been

lit. In the harbor, the white stone piers glimmer above the darkness of the water and before the

Great Western Ocean farther to the south. The Palace remains an edifice of shimmering white, and

light beams from its windows, from the innumerable lamps within its high-ceilinged corridors and

halls.

Lorn and Ryalth are to be seated across from each other at the southern end of the table, with

Nyryah at the end between them, and Jerial to Lorn's left and Ciesrt to Ryalth's right. Vernt and

Mycela flank Kien, while Myryan sits between Jerial and Vernt. Lorn nods at Ryalth. "If you don't

mind could we change places?"

A faint smile crosses Jerial's face, but vanishes near-instantly, as the two consorts trade

seats. A blank expression appears on Mycela's face.

As soon as Lorn takes the seat that had been Ryalth's, silence settles on the table, and all

look to the north end.

"In the blessing and warmth of chaos, in the prosperity which it engenders, let us give thanks

for what we receive." From the north end of the table, the white-haired Kien speaks clearly, then

lifts his head and smiles. "It is so good of all of you to be here tonight."

The dining table around which the nine sit is covered with a pale green linen cloth, and set

with glistening white porcelain plates. Quyal-the cook-appears with a large platter that holds

fowl breasts covered in a thick cream sauce, and sets it before Kien. Kysia-the head of his

parents' household, whose wages had been supplemented for years by Ryalth, secretly at first-

follows a covered dish from which steam rises, and with a silver tray holding thin slices of dark

sun-nut bread.

Lorn takes a sip of the wine-Alafraan-and glances at Ryalth, murmuring, "You had this sent

here."

She smiles. "It was the least I could do, after all your parents have done."

"It was most thoughtful," Nyryah adds.

Lorn's lips curl into a rueful smile.

"You are not here long, are you, Lorn?" asks Ciesrt.

"No. I'm between duty assignments, and I'll be leaving on oneday."

"Where will you be going?" Ciesrt follows up.

"To head the port detachment in Biehl."

"You'll be the one in charge?" asks Mycela. "The head officer?"

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"That's what my transfer orders say." Lorn smiles and passes the nut bread to his mother, after

taking a slice for himself. "The port detachments protect trade and ensure that the tariffs are

collected fairly."

"I imagine it will provide a respite after fighting the barbarians and the Accursed Forest,"

suggests Kien. "And it is somewhat closer to Cyad."

"What of the Accursed Forest?" asks Vernt. His brow furrows. "What exactly do lancer patrols do

there?"

"We ride along the walls to see that no wild creatures escape. We also maintain order and guard

the Mirror Engineers while they repair any walls that the Accursed Forest has damaged."

"The Forest damages walls?" asks the wide-eyed Mycela.

"Some of the trees that fall across the ward-walls are more than twenty cubits thick and nearly

as hard as stone. They occasionally damage the wall and the wards that contain the Forest

creatures." Lorn glances at Ciesrt. "I understand that the Forest project is coming along."

"I believe so, but that is not something that I do." Ciesrt shrugs. "There are rumors, but your

father would know far better than I."

Vernt and Lorn glance at the oldest magus.

Kien smiles wryly. "I, too, must plead silence, except to say that there is a project, and if

it works as it may, Cyad will need far fewer lancers to patrol the Accursed Forest."

After a moment of silence, Ciesrt looks across the table at Ryalth. "Myryan has said that you

are head of a trading house."

"Ryalor House," Ryalth confirms.

"And you are truly the head of it?" Ciesrt asks. "Did you come to that because your parents had

no sons?"

"Actually, Ciesrt," Lorn says smoothly, "she created it and built it from a clanless trading

room into one that rivals many full houses. She is most skilled, and I was quite fortunate to

prevail upon her to be my consort."

"Oh." Ciesrt frowns.

"There are not many lady merchanters who head houses, are there?" asks Myryan, her eyes

twinkling.

"I know of only one other," Ryalth admits. "She is much older."

"Did she not inherit her position?" asks Jerial.

"I believe such, but I do not know for certain." Ryalth's words are cautious.

"So... Lorn is right," Jerial says. "You're the first woman in generations to head a trading

house by your own ability, and perhaps the first to build one."

"I have had assistance. Those who work for me are good." Ryalth smiles. "And Lorn has been a

great inspiration."

"He usually is," adds Kien, with a dry laugh, "even for those who have not wished such

inspiration."

"Father!" Myryan mock-protests.

Kien finishes his fowl breast before looking at his younger daughter and raising his white

eyebrows. "Your brother makes an impact wherever he goes. He always has. Talk to his friends, like

Tyrsal and Dettaur."

"Where is Dettaur these days?" asks Ciesrt.

"The last we heard he was second-in-command or something at Assyadt," Jerial answers. "He

writes occasionally, but he does not write of what he does."

"He still writes?" Lorn asks.

"He has hopes," Jerial says.

"He must be an important officer," offers Mycela. "If he is in charge of something, that is."

"He approaches women like a campaign," Jerial adds, "as if we were to be assaulted and

captured. That is difficult." She smiles at Mycela. "At least for those who are healers."

Lorn looks across the table at Myryan. "How is the garden coming?"

"This year it's much better. Ciesrt powdered some limestone, and Ryalth had a cartload of

stable manure delivered last fall. We still have jars and crocks of things, and I'm hoping that

this year will be even better."

"She is wonderful with the garden." Ciesrt beams. "She coaxes the best vegetables and fruits

from the land. I doubt any young magus has a consort so marvelous. And she cooks so well, too, and

everything in the house is so neat, and clean."

"I will have to visit you, and learn your secrets," Mycela says. "I would not wish Vernt to

lack for anything."

Lorn swallows and takes refuge in another sip of wine as the domestic conversation continues.

Ryalth smiles at him gently, taking a sip from her own goblet as well.

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"This time, we do have a proper dessert," Nyryah announces, after all have finished what they

would eat, "the special creamed pearapple tarts." She looks at Lorn. "And there are enough for two

apiece."

Lorn feels himself flush slightly in the dim light, hoping the others will not notice, and

takes a sip of the Alafraan.

Nyryah gestures, and Kysia and Quyal appear beside the table to remove the dinner platters and

to place a small plate before each of the diners. Her plate, and that of Jerial, have but one

tart. All the others have two. Lorn waits for all to be served and for Ryalth and his mother to

begin before he takes a bite. He nods as he swallows. "They are good."

"You've always thought so."

"I think I'd best learn the recipe for this dessert," says Ryalth, with a laugh. "My cooking is

far simpler, but... his favorite dessert..."

"Keep the cooking simple," suggests Jerial. "You haven't spoiled him yet. Don't start now."

"My own sister," Lorn laments, offering a sad face. "Brush the crumbs from your chin, if you

wish to look truly sad," Jerial counters.

Lorn laughs. So does Ryalth.

In time, the tarts vanish, and the conversation dies away. Lorn nods to his mother, then his

father. "I thank you both, and everyone else here for coming. I would that I could stay longer,

but I have been traveling for days, and a few nights' sleep, I fear, has not made up for the

travels and a long season with the Accursed Forest."

"It has been so good to have you and Ryalth here with everyone," Nyryah beams. "But we will see

you more, won't we?"

"You will," Lorn promises. "As we can." He smiles and extends his hand to Ryalth.

The redhead stands, then bows to Nyryah, then to Kien. "Thank you both so much."

"I'll come down with you." Jerial slips away from the table and follows Lorn and Ryalth down

from the table.

As the three walk down the steps to the front door, Jerial says, "I'm glad you got to meet

Mycela."

"What do you think of her?" Ryalth asks quietly.

"She's perfect for Vernt," Jerial replies sweetly.

Lorn winces.

"I thought so, too," agrees Ryalth.

Both women smile.

After they are well clear of Lorn's parents' dwelling and Jerial has closed the door, Ryalth

turns to Lorn. "I like Jerial."

"She likes you. That is most clear."

"You noticed that all the outside consorts were placed at first on one side of the table?"

Ryalth says as they walk slowly eastward through the still-warm evening.

"I did what I could," Lorn says.

"I know." She reaches out and squeezes his hand. "Mycela didn't understand."

"Neither did Ciesrt. I'm not sure Vernt did. Jerial did. She smiled when we switched places."

"Was your mother displeased?"

"I'm not sure. There was no other way to set up the table, not by lineage, but I didn't like

it."

"I'm glad you're the way you are."

Lorn squeezes her hand, and they continue eastward along the Road of Perpetual Light, back

toward the quarters that have become his as well as hers.

III

In the late, late afternoon, just before twilight, the Emperor Toziel'elth'alt'mer and his Consort-

Empress Ryenyel stand on the uppermost balcony of the Palace of Light, ten tall stories above the

gardens. His tall but slender frame seems stooped under the silver robes he has worn to the last

audience of the afternoon and not removed once he has departed the small audience chamber. Ryenyel

wears a tunic of vivid green shimmercloth, and flowing trousers of a lighter shade, colors which

enhance her mahogany hair and lightly freckled complexion.

The warm and moist spring breeze comes from the east, whispering past them and past the fluted

bars on the grillwork with enough force that there is a trilling and humming from the bars-a sound

both pleasant and loud enough to foil eavesdroppers, as intended by the builders of the Palace

some eight generations previous. While cupridium flowers might have served the same function, the

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Palace of Light contains no such fripperies, nor any statuary. All lines are clean, elegant, and

without decoration, almost totally without even carved inscriptions.

To the south, and downhill, beyond the trade quarter and the warehouses, are the white stone

piers of the harbor of Cyad. Scaffolds rise around the two white-hulled fireships at the Mirror

Lancer pier. One of the fireships the Emperor knows will never move again under its own power, and

is being cannibalized to refit the second ship, the Ocean Flame. At the piers to the east of the

scaffolds are tied two three-masted ocean traders, deep-sea vessels, neither of which is Cyadoran,

and a pair of coasting schooners, one Sligan, one Spidlarian.

North of the piers and below the Palace, the sunstone walks and white-granite paved streets

shimmer in the late-afternoon sun. The shops and scattered cafes to the west sport immaculate

green-and-white awnings.

"Bluoyal'mer tells me that all is well with our trade," reflects Toziel, his right arm around

the waist of the Empress. "Yet few ships in the harbor fly our ensign. And the Emperor's

Enumerators report that tariff collections have declined each year."

"Perhaps not all the tariffs are being collected," suggests Ryenyel. "Can the Hand of the

Emperor-"

"No. The Hand can send orders, but his effectiveness is lost once he leaves the shadows and is

known."

"First Magus Chyenfel'elth must know who he is."

"He doubtless does, as we have discussed, but it is not to his advantage to reveal such."

Toziel laughs. "Nor to ours." The Emperor shakes his head slowly, without taking his eyes from the

City of Light spread out below him. "The chaos-towers are failing, and I am forced into supporting

the plan of the First Magus to use all the chaos in those remaining around the Accursed Forest

merely to confine the Forest so that it will not overrun eastern Cyador. That means those towers

can no longer charge the lancer firelances or the chaos-cells of the firewagons." Toziel shrugs.

"Is this the beginning of the last long afternoon of Cyad?"

"The chaos-towers in the Quarter of the Magi'i here in Cyad yet function," the mahogany-haired

Empress points out, "and will for some years yet, according to the First Magus."

"Some years is not that many, as we know, and, while he would certainly wish it so, I have some

doubts about Chyenfel's predictions."

"How could you choose otherwise, my love, even if he is too hopeful?"

"I could not, for the Forest is worse than the barbarians of the north. They can be contained

with cupridium lances and blades, if with greater losses, but only some form of bound chaos will

contain the Accursed Forest." A mirthless chuckle follows his words. "We know this, and yet, like

a schoolboy, I must talk to soothe my soul over choices between evils. More Mirror Lancers will

die. The merchants will lose more ships to pirates and raiders, and there will be unrest among the

merchanters-"

"There is already, with Tasjan's plotting and his hiring of Sasyk to head his greenshirt

guards," Ryenyel points out.

"Who could fault him for hiring a former Mirror Lancer officer?" Toziel's words are light, but

his eyes are dark. "Especially in these times. Tasjan will turn any questions about Sasyk against

me. And, amid all the changes, most in Cyad, and throughout Cyador, will fault me, for they have

neither seen nor experienced the power of the Forest."

"That is always so," replies the Empress gently. "Folk care for but the removal of that which

they know will harm them or for the addition of that which will benefit them. Few care for actions

which benefit all, but slightly, if it means they receive less. Always it was so, and always will

be. For that, there is an Emperor."

"Yet I must not seem to plan nor plot, for those who do are thought cold and calculating, no

matter how they care for their peoples, no matter what benefits they bring, no matter how many

lives they save."

Ryenyel nods. "That, too, is why there is an Emperor."

"Yet all these troubles would come to pass while I am Emperor?"

"The Magi'i have warned of such for many years, that the towers would fail, that what the

ancients built would not last forever." Ryenyel places her hand over his-the one that rests on her

right hip-and squeezes her fingers around his hand.

"At such times, I am almost glad we have no heirs," he muses. "For whoever follows me...

whatever scion there may be... if there is one..."

"There will be... we have time," she reassures him.

"With a gaggle of Magi'i who plot, and a Majer-Commander of Lancers who believes them fools not

to see the danger of the barbarians, and a Merchanter Advisor who doubtless abuses his knowledge

and position to line his pockets and undermine Cyador, even as he protests that he maintains it?"

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After a moment of silence, Ryenyel replies. "Your Majer-Commander, the most honorable Rynst,

has come to understand that Bluoyal only wishes the towers and the lancers in order to support the

merchanters' trading ships. Rynst also understands that while he cannot brook Chyenfel, the First

Magus can be trusted far more than the Second. Or even Chyenfel's protege, young Rustyl."

"Only because Rynst fears Bluoyal more than the Magi'i." Toziel snorts.

"Bluoyal treads a devious and deadly path. He would ensure that the Mirror Lancers and the

Magi'i do not see that their interests are closer to each other's than to his."

"Rynst and Chyenfel have always seen such. We have talked of this before. Neither can afford to

trust the other allied to Bluoyal. Yet they know that both Magi'i and Mirror Lancers are few

indeed outside of the three cities. They cooperate like a pair of giant cats against a pack of

night leopards. Most carefully."

"And when the towers do fail?"

"We will need far more lancers against the barbarians. Bluoyol's successors will find they

still need lancers, but not until many perish, and more than a few vessels are lost."

"Thus, all will continue as today," she replies.

"It will not seem so, not to most. The emperors to come will either be powerful Magi'i or

inspire loyalty within the Mirror Lancers, because it appears that either lancers or Magi'i can

destroy an Emperor."

"Bluoyal believes that the merchanters will purchase the Palace of Light in years to come,

perhaps sooner. We need to watch him, more closely, far more closely, for a merchanter rising

would bring down Cyador more swiftly than the Accursed Forest or the barbarians."

"So has said the Hand, but he has also advised that we have time, and that Bluoyal will

overreach himself before such can occur."

"Would that I could take comfort in that," says the Empress, leaning her head against his

shoulder.

"Seldom is he wrong... most seldom."

"If he is...?"

"If he is, if we fail, then blood will stain the sunstone of the Palace so deeply it cannot

ever be lifted." He looks down and studies her drawn face. "I tell you this often, but... You give

too much to me."

"What else would I do, dearest? We know there is no one else."

"Not yet."

As he speaks, her fingers lift to rest lightly on his cheek.

The orange glow of twilight floods from the hillside to the west, and the white stone piers of

the harbor shimmer gold.

The Emperor and Empress stand on the balcony and watch the gold fade.

IV

Sitting at one end of a long table in the corner of Ryalor House, in gray light of a stormy spring

morning, Lorn reads through the stack of papers that Eileyt has set before him. The senior

enumerator has assured Lorn that the papers have several examples of shady trading practices.

Outside of several clear errors in addition, Lorn has found nothing. He finally beckons to

Eileyt, and when the gray-eyed man nears, says, "I don't think I'm seeing what I should be

seeing."

Eileyt turns over the first three bills of lading, then points to an entry halfway down the

fourth one. "Look at that closely."

Lorn looks at the entry: Cotton, 20 bales, dun, Hamor. "Hamor grows dun cotton, but all they

usually export is the good white. Look at the parchment-and it is parchment, which is another

clue."

"It looks like it's smoother there, but just around the word dun."

"There's more space around the word dun, too." Eileyt nods. "With parchment, you can use it

like a palimpsest, take a sharp knife and scrape off the letters, then write in dun instead of

white."

"But why? Why don't they just rewrite the bill of lading?"

"It's sealed below. A trader gets caught counterfeiting a seal, and he loses a hand. An 'error'

in a bill of lading merely costs some golds in fines, but most of such 'errors' are never found.

The tariff on white cotton is a gold a bale. It's a silver on dun cotton, and you can get that

from Kyphros or Valmurl or even out of Worrak in Hydlen."

"But they all come from beyond Cyador," Lorn says. "That is right," Eileyt says patiently.

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"But... if the Imperial tariff were a gold on Kyphran dun cotton, then people would use carts and

smuggle it along the beaches below the lower Westhorns, and some dishonest merchanter in Fyrad

would mix it with his real Kyphran stock and it would be hard to tell without counting every bale,

and the Imperial Enumerators don't have the bodies or the days to do that. At a silver a bale, and

the tariff is the same for a bolt of the finished cloth, it's cheaper and faster to ship the dun

cotton, or any cotton from Kyphros, than smuggle it. Hamorian white cotton goes for five golds a

bale these days... and dun for one. So... on this shipment, the trader could pocket nearly

eighteen golds, just by changing one word on the lading bill. And he can claim, if he gets caught,

that it was a mistake. If the Hamorian seal's intact, and a magus can see that, then all he'll get

is a three-gold fine, maybe ten-. But most won't catch something like this."

"But the finished cotton... that's more like ten a bolt, and they're easier to carry," Lorn

says, recalling his early trading adventures with Ryalth.

"Why would anyone import the bales all the way from Hamor? They're bulky."

Eileyt nods. "Good. That's another reason to suspect this. Anyone can look at a bolt of

finished cotton and see the difference between Hamorian white and Kyphran dun, but raw cotton-

that's another story. Might even be something hidden in the bales, as well."

Lorn shakes his head, but he has asked Ryalth and her people to show him what they can about

forbidden trading practices, even though it is unlikely he will be directly involved, except when

called in by the Emperor's tariff enumerators, if he ever is. The more he learns, the more small

references tell him how intertwined everything is-such as Bluoyal's involvement in the consorting

between Syreal and Veljan that, because of Lorn's killing of Veljan's older brother Shevelt, has

led to a greater possible influence by the Magi'i in the affairs of one of the leading merchanter

houses. That underscores why he would like to know enough to be able to ask his own questions

should such arise. His experience with patrol tactics and the Accursed Forest was enough of an

example of not knowing enough, to confirm his decision to learn what he can in the few days he has

in Cyad. He is also coming to realize that it is far better-and less costly to all involved-to act

before others act... rather than when it is obvious to all that one must act.

So he might as well learn what he can, since Ryalth cannot give up work, especially since

spring is far busier for Ryalor House than Lorn ever would have imagined.

He looks back through the bills of lading again, looking for odd spacing, improbable goods,

anything.

On the next to last, he finds something-or thinks he does.

"A hundred stone of zinc tools?" he asks. "Is this a cover for iron blades? It's a metal and

almost the same number of letters."

"That's more dangerous, because iron-bladed weapons carry high tariffs, and selling them in

Cyad or failing to declare them for shipment elsewhere can send a trader to prison," Eileyt says.

"But some traders like to buy Hamorian blades and sell them elsewhere in Candar." The enumerator

hands Lorn another set of lading bills.

It is nearly midday when Lorn walks into Ryalth's inner study. She looks up from a ledger.

"You have a nice study here," he observes.

"Merchanters call them 'offices,' dearest... remember?" She smiles. "But if you want traders to

think you know less than you do, just call them 'studies.' "

"Thank you. That might be wiser. I can see why you're the trader, and I'm not." He shakes his

head again.

"We work better together," she says.

"Do you have to work all day?"

"Zerlynk is coming in midafternoon. He had made an offer on cordage. I picked up some raw hemp

from a Sligan trader last year, and got some peasants near Desahlya to turn it into rope. It's not

top-line, and I'll not try to sell it as such, but we should make some silvers on it. After he

goes, I can leave."

Lorn nods. "You're busy. I'll see what else I can learn."

"You might talk to Kutyr. He knows more than he'll tell me." Ryalth smiles again.

"He might not tell me, either."

"If you flatter him..."

Lorn shakes his head ruefully, then smiles, and turns.

V

Because the core of a fully-functioning tower maintains an isochronic/isotemporal barrier of

approximately 1,000 nanoseconds, this temporal "dislocation" effectively provides not only the

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Modesitt, L.E. - Recluce 02 - Scion of Scyador

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