Magi'i of Cyador

L

IN THE EARLY morning, even before he has eaten, Lorn pauses outside Jerial’s door. Is she dressing … or already gone?

“Come on in,” calls Jerial. “I’ve got a moment before I head off to the Healer’s Center.”

Lorn pushes the door open. Jerial is sitting on the straight-backed chair, pulling on her second black boot.

“You leave early,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Jerial looks up, then stands, and lifts the heavy green wool clòak off the back of the chair. “I leave early so I can get off early. The senior healers are happy to have someone there early. That way, the consorted healers, like mother and Myryan, can come in later.”

Lorn nods.

“What favor do you need this time?” Jerial’s smile is amused.

“Because I’m up early?” Lorn laughs.

“Because you’re home and because you have that look on your face.”

“I didn’t realize I was that transparent.”

“You’re not. When I can’t tell what you want is when you want something.”

“Sisters …” He shakes his head.

“Lorn … I have to go soon.”

“I’d like to find out anything you might know about a merchanter called Shevelt. With your other … activities, I thought …”

“I might know?” She wraps the cloak around her. “I do. He throws cold dice and doesn’t understand why he loses. He bullies anyone he can, and he’ll bed anything that has red hair. Why, no one knows. He’s the senior heir to the Yuryan Clan … if his sire decides not to send him across the Great Western Ocean on an uncaulked scow.”

“You’ve won more than a few coins from him.”

Jerial shrugs. “He can’t count when he gambles.” She frowns. “That’s not right. How often he wins is more important than how much he wins. He gambles against Jeron’ mer because he usually wins-say eight or nine times out of ten. I win only once or twice, but it’s ten times what he loses, and I pick the times when it’s safe to win.”

Jeron’mer-that is the merchanter name under which she gambles as a beardless and dissolute young trader. “What does he look like?”

“Big … broad shoulders. He’s not much older than you, but he’s already got a belly and jowls. He’s strong. He picked up one of Fragon’s guards and tossed the fellow through a door. He has a square brown beard, and he’s going bald. He always wears scent, something like musk and roses.” Jerial frowns. “Not too many people would miss him, but you ought to be careful. The Dyljani Clan hates him.”

“That’s a start.”

“Here.” Jerial rummages in the single drawer to her desk, then passes a short dagger to him.

“What’s this?”

“A Dyljan ceremonial dagger.”

Lorn takes a deep breath.

“She helped Myryan, and she’s helped you, just by being there. I thought you’d find out. She could probably hiresomeone to handle him, but it would be neater if you did. It would also leave the impression that she has ways to remove people that can’t be traced. You can handle matters so that even the Hand would not know.”

Lorn wonders at the reference to the Hand of the Emperor and notes that Jerial is careful not to mention Ryalth by name, even in her own chambers. He takes the dagger. “Wouldn’t someone suspect?”

“A lancer in a merchanter brawl? Or over commerce?” Jerial raises her eyebrows. “Even father doesn’t understand it all ….”

“Where would I find Shevelt? After trading hours?”

“The Silver Chalice … most nights.” Jerial steps toward the door to signify that she is leaving.

Lorn opens the door and steps back into the corridor.

Jerial steps closer and murmurs, “Oh … you might as well change into the blues in your own chambers, and take the back stairs. Just for outsiders, you understand,” she observes. “Mother and father both know. So do I. Sylirya and Quyal could care less, and Kysia gets her wages supplemented by Ryalor House.”

Lorn raises his eyebrows. “Nothing like living in a dwelling of the Magi’i … who else knows?”

“Besides half the senior Magi’i? They all think you’re just bedding her to spite father, and unless something else comes up, why would they care? Kharl won’t tell the lancer types, not unless it will gain him Chyenfel’s position, and what would wearing blues to bed a merchanter really mean except that you’re hot-blooded. You certainly aren’t the first.”

Lorn holds in the wince and the denial.

Her last low words chill him. “ … don’t let anyone know more …” She smiles brightly and says loudly. “Have a good day, and make sure you keep enjoying your leave.”

“I’ll try.” He returns her smile with an ironic grin.

She nods and is gone.

Lorn scrambles down to the kitchen, where, standing in the corner, he gobbles down some cheese and bread, and a handful of dried pearapples. Then, he scurries upstairs and,following Jerial’s suggestion, changes into the blues. He still does not head to the rear stairs until he knows no one is nearby.

His steps are quick as he walks westward along the Road of Perpetual Light, and then down Second Harbor Way east. Although the early morning is chill, the lack of wind and the bright winter sun make it feel warmer than it truly is.

As he nears Harbor Way, Lorn slips behind a group of three traders, keeping far enough away to seem respectful, but listening as he follows them.

“ … cuprite’s still too dear …”

“ … be dear for years … risk in iron, though …”

“ … need an outland partner there …”

“ … dry winter in Hydlen they say.”

“ … spring looks dry, and grain’ll be getting scarce.”

Lorn’s eyes flicker from the three before him to the others in blue nearing the Plaza-mostly men, the majority bearded and arriving at the Plaza in groups of two or three.

“Enumerator! You’re late!” Ryalth’s voice snaps at him like a whip.

Lorn winces, and turns, bowing to Ryalth from where she emerges from the morning shadows cast by the pillared entrance to the Plaza. “I am most sorry, Lady Merchanter. Most sorry.”

“Sorry does not matter. Once more, and you’ll be working in Jera … or bilge crew on a Hamorian scow.”

At the scorn in her voice and the snickers from the merchanters before and behind him, Lorn flushes. “Yes, Lady.” He bows again.

Ryalth ignores him, turning and striding toward the harbor.

Lorn scrambles after her, another set of snickers in his wake.

“ … voice’ll peel lead from a fireship’s hull …”

“See why you don’t cross her ….”

Obviously, Ryalth has a certain reputation.

For a time, he walks a half-pace behind her, to her right. She turns down the First Harbor Way East, and he follows, finally drawing up beside her once they are well out of sightof those who might have witnessed her scolding of him.

“You were late,” she murmurs, not slacking her pace, as she turns onto the walkway beside the east seawall of the harbor.

“I was. I supposed I deserved that.” He grins. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Actually, I did.” A faint smile crosses her face. “I don’t get to order the upper classes around much.” The smile vanishes. “Eileyt is up in the office. This will have to be quick.”

“Why did you want me to come with you?”

“You have a good sense about people, and there’s something about L’Igek that bothers me.” She frowns.

“Your senses are as good as mine.”

“Better in some ways, but not in this case.”

The two turn and take the outermost of the white stone piers toward the oiled wooden hull of the three-masted and square-rigged ship tied at the seaward end. As they near the vessel, Lorn makes out the name carved into the stern-Redwind Courser. The inset letters are painted a brilliant light green that stands out against the wood. A Brystan jack hangs limply from the stern staff.

Two armed guards, with iron-studded leather vests worn over gray shirts, stand at the foot of the gangway. Each wears a heavy leather belt from which hang both a truncheon and a slightly curved scimitar. Their heavy boots are iron-toed.

Ryalth stops a good three cubits from the pair. “Merchanter Ryalth and her enumerator, of Ryalor House,” she announces.

“Let them aboard,” calls a voice from the main deck.

Lorn glances past the guards to the pale-faced and fullbearded man in a green tunic and a short golden vest, then follows Ryalth up the gangway onto the polished wooden deck of the Redwind Courser.

“Lady Merchanter.” The thin trader, a head taller than either Lorn or Ryalth, bows moderately. “We are most glad to see you.”

“And we, you.” Ryalth’s voice is cool, assured, as she returns the bow.

Lorn follows her lead and bows as well, but his senses are already scanning the vessel, trying to discover what it is that had previously concerned Ryalth.

“Master L’Igek!” calls another younger man in green, also wearing a short gold vest, but a simpler one.

The Brystan bows to Ryalth. “If you will excuse me for a moment …”

“Not at all. Would you mind if I showed the enumerator around-just the open decks? His experience has been more in the grasslands than here.”

“Be our guest.” L’Igek smiles politely before turning.

“This way,” Ryalth says coolly, her voice harder than when she had spoken to L’Igek. Lorn follows as she climbs the ladder-steps to the higher rear deck. They pass a raised platform that holds the ship’s wheel and a rack designed, presumably, to hold navigation gear when at sea.

Lorn can understand Ryalth’s feelings about the ship. While the people hold the normal ranges of order and chaos within their bodies, the ship itself is less than whole. He lets his senses range down the rudder that dominates the stem, but the wood is solid.

They parallel the taffrail and then head forward, descending the ladder on the seaward side of the Courser. Lorn stiffens, then murmurs to Ryalth, “Bracing … the keel itself is cracking … a weakness in the wood … something like that.”

Ryalth nods politely, and murmurs. “Say no more. Not now.” She adds more loudly. “That’s the main hold cover there. Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Lorn bows his head and answers obsequiously, “Yes, Lady Merchanter. As you wish.”

Ryalth’s eyes harden. “Remember that.”

L’Igek, turning from the junior officer or mate, smothers a smile as he nears them. “I have the agreements in my cabin.” He gestures, then leads Ryalth through the open passageway on the main deck into the rear deckhouse.

Lorn follows.

“This enumerator is more … muscular than the last,” says the Brystan in a low voice to Ryalth.

“They have differing talents,” Ryalth replies off-handedly.

L’Igek laughs. “I like you, Lady Ryalth. Like a dagger, you reach the point quickly.” He stops in the narrow passageway, steps past the doorway, and allows both Ryalth and Lorn to enter.

The master’s cabin is cramped, with a narrow bunk flush against the rear bulkhead. Forward of the bunk is a circular table, bolted to the deck, with four low-backed chairs around it. Several scrolls and a pile of what appear to be bills of lading are stacked on one side, a closed ledger beside them.

The Brystan seats himself by the papers and waits for Ryalth to sit.

“You have a tenth of the oilseeds, and a twentieth part of the dried fruit. Do you wish a tenth of the gingerwood?”

“I would greatly like that,” Ryalth admits, “but the House accounts will not cover that at present.”

L’Igek nods as if he had expected the response.

“And how much do you wish to take of the return spice cargo?” asks the Brystan. “You had mentioned an interest there.”

“As little as you will grant me the favor of,” Ryalth says almost pleadingly. “We are but a small house, as well you know, and … you did hear of what befell the Western Hare?”

The pale-skinned Brystan nods. “I was not aware ….”

“Enough,” Ryalth replies. “More than enough. We have shares in others, but I cannot promise what has not ported.” She shrugs apologetically. “You will set out before we see those coins, yet I would not lose your favor.”

“Fifty golds … I cannot accept less, not for the best in Hamorian peppercorns and cumin.”

Ryalth winces. “For you, for your friendship, it will be fifty.” She pauses. “But the usual arrangement.”

“Of course. That will not change.”

Ryalth extracts a wallet from somewhere and carefully counts out twenty-five golds, then eases them onto the polishedwood of the table before L’Igek. In turn, the Brystan counts them. Only after that does he lift the pen and write out the exchange bill.

Once he has finished it, he extends the parchment to her. She reads slowly and carefully. Then she nods. L’Igek slides the inkstand across to her, and extends a quill pen. She signs, her cursive clear and precise: Ryalth for Ryalor House.

Then L’Igek signs and returns the parchment to her. “Always a pleasure doing business with Ryalor House, Lady Merchanter.” L’Igek pauses, then grins. “Will we ever see a true man in your House?”

Ryalth returns the grin with a smile. “I am most certain you will. Perhaps sooner than you think.”

“You have said such before.” L’Igek rises.

“And I will again,” replies Ryalth as she stands.

Lorn follows their lead, and trails them out onto the main deck.

“We sail with the evening wind,” L’Igek announces.

“I wish you fair and following winds,” the woman merchanter responds, “and an early and profitable return to Cyad.”

At the head of the gangway, the Brystan bows again. “The combine will be pleased to know of your continuing support.”

“I appreciate their forbearance.” Ryalth nods once more.

Lorn waits until they are a hundred cubits from the ship and past the sweating figures unloading the coastal schooner that is tied up inshore of the Courser. “Why did you wait so long?” His tone is curious.

“When they want to insure, you get a better deal if you’re late. They don’t like holding the entire risk of a cargo. If I can’t get a share, I’ll find another master who has something I think I can factor for a profit. They keep my coins whether the cargo makes a profit or not. On this end, I have more control, but you can’t buy shares in just incoming cargoes. Not and remain a merchanter for long.”

Lorn nods, although he is far from sure he fully understands. As he considers her words, the two walk slowlynorthward on the walkway flanking the seawall, back toward the Trading Plaza for the Clanless Houses.

“If the Courser gets caught in any sort of storm, or rough seas, you’ll lose fifty golds, plus your share of the outbound cargo,” Lorn says finally when he is certain that they are well away from prying ears.

“That is true. If …” She draws out the conditional word, before adding, “Some vessels have made two or more passages with damaged keels, some even more. Some owners have knowingly sent out vessels with cracked keels.”

“Why?” Lorn frowns. “Gambling on not having to replace a ship that’s not worth it?”

“They didn’t have the hundreds of golds necessary to repair the ship-or to replace it. It’s cheaper to get a new captain and crew and offer him a fifty gold bonus to bring it back safely. Or sell it to another trader who isn’t so concerned.” She shrugs. “For all I know, L’Igek may know of the Courser’s problems. That may be why his buy-ins are cheaper.”

Lorn pulls on his chin. Each moment with Ryalth teaches him that there is so much he does not know about trade. “You didn’t think about telling him.”

“No. I would have had to explain how I knew, and then none would ever trade with us again. They detest the Magi’i. That’s also why I took the return cargo. It could come in, and if it does, or especially if L’Igek discovers the problem and survives, none of them would take another agreement from me.” Her voice softens as she continues. “You know, there weren’t such things as merchanters in the time of the Firstborn. The first merchanters-most of them-came from Spidlar-that’s in northern Candar, east of the Westhorns.”

“I know.”

“But they were the only ones the Hamorians and Austrans would trade with, and in time, there were merchanters from Cyad as well.”

“But that’s why the Lancers and Magi’i frown on the Merchanters?”

“They also like to flaunt their superiority.” She smiles.“You don’t think Bluoyal is every bit as sharp as the Majer-Commander of the Mirror Lancers?”

“He’s the Emperor’s advisor on trade?” Lorn laughs. “From what I’ve seen, he’s probably sharper.”

“The Magi’i and the Lancers don’t think so. Your parents feel I’m below you.”

“I don’t.”

“You aren’t your parents.”

At the shoreward end of the pier, Ryalth stops, well back from the carters who roll pushwagons of supplies toward the vessels moored along the piers. “I have to go back to the Plaza. I’m expecting a response from Nylyth House to a bid on shares of peppercorns from Atla. They’re Hamorians.”

“Do you-we-trade all over the world?”

“Only where we can make golds,” she replies. “Only where we can make golds.” She gestures eastward. “You’d best spend some time with your family. You’ve only another three eightdays left.”

“Tonight?”

“Of course.” For the first time during the morning, her smile is warm, radiant.

He shakes his head ruefully, smiling broadly as well. “That’s what I look forward to.”

Her eyes dance. “As you should.”

He watches as she walks briskly back toward the Traders’ Plaza. After a time, he turns and begins to walk northward toward the Road of Perpetual Light.