Scion of Cyador

VI

Tyrsal and Lorn are seated in the garden at the rear of the sprawling and massive two-storied dwelling that overlooks the harbor from the western bluffs of Cyad. The air is cooler than in Cyad itself.

“You have a good view of the harbor here,” Lorn says.

“Not so good as that of your parents,” answers the redheaded mage. “And it was a long walk to the academy. Mother was not sympathetic to my riding or using the carriage. That’s why I stay with my sister and her consort most nights these days-out of habit, I suppose.” He shakes his head. “I dislike mornings.”

“The house is yours, isn’t it?” Lorn asks.

“I suppose so, but it’s really Mother’s, and it wouldn’t be right to take it from her.” Tyrsal smiles. “Besides, I can just claim I’m a poor junior magus, and that way, none of the Lectors will push me into consorting with someone I don’t like.”

“Like Aleyar or Syreal?” asks Lorn, with a grin.

“Syreal’s sweet. What she sees in that block Veljan, I don’t know. I don’t know Aleyar.”

“So you’d still consider her?” Lorn pursues. “They say she’s sweet and pretty, too.”

“Are you trying to complicate my life? Or just end it?” asks Tyrsal. “I don’t think it would be good for my health to deal with Liataphi all the time.”

“What about Ciesrt’s younger sister?” Lorn’s eyes twinkle.

“You want Ciesrt as…” Tyrsal shakes his head. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to believe. Myryan is so nice. Ciesrt doesn’t deserve her.” He pauses. “Anyway, Rustyl has asked Ciesrt’s sister, and she’ll say yes to him. He’s ambitious and a favorite of Chyenfel. So while she’ll put him off for a time, in the end, she’ll agree.”

“Kharl’elth will give her no choice,” Lorn suggests.

“You were so smart not to consort into a Magi’i family,” Tyrsal says.

“As if I had much choice,” Lorn points out.

“You could have had your pick of the lancer girls.” Tyrsal grins. “But you did much better. Ryalth is beautiful, and she’s smart.”

“You’ve scarcely talked to her, except at dinner the other night, and I don’t think you said a dozen words.”

Tyrsal draws himself up in offended dignity. “I listened. You learn when you listen.” His eyes smile, and then he laughs. “You haven’t said much about your new duty. You don’t like going to Biehl?”

“It’s not the assignment. It’s what’s behind it. I’m too young to be an overcaptain, and I’ve too little service. Zandrey had almost eight years before they made him one, and I’ve had four, five if you count officer training.”

“They’re losing a lot of officers to the barbarians, Lorn.”

“I’d bet I’ll only be there until I get set up to make some mistake…or until I get promoted again and sent to an impossible assignment against the Jeranyi or some such.”

Tyrsal laughs. “Nothing’s impossible for you. You’ll have it figured out before they send you. Didn’t you say you were studying bills of lading and the tariff rules? Did anyone suggest that to you?”

“It’s obvious. If you have to enforce trade rules, best you know something about them. I still won’t know the local situation, and that could be a mess.” Lorn takes a deep breath and holds up his hand. “I know. You’re going to tell me that while it’s obvious to me, it isn’t obvious to other lancers.” He offers a wry expression that is not exactly a smile. “I’m not other lancers.”

“That’s what I keep telling you. You’re always thinking ahead.”

“I try.” He pauses. “But that’s dangerous, too. People think you’re a plotter or a schemer. Or cold and calculating, and they watch you twice as closely.”

Trysal laughs again. “That’s why you never tell anyone anything.”

“Would you?” Lorn glances at the harbor and then stands. “I need to go. Ryalth should be almost done with the exchange-”

“And you don’t want to miss a moment with her!”

The overcaptain grins at the second-level adept magus. “It doesn’t take a chaos-glass to scree that.”