"Modesitt, L E - Recluce 10 - Magi'i Of Cyador" - читать интересную книгу автора (Modesitt L E)

Wearing the merchanter shimmercloth blues and blue boots, Lorn walks hurriedly along the Road of Benevolent Commerce. His destination is the building that serves the Clanless Traders, the structure in which Ryalth has opened a very small office, mainly, he suspects, to legitimize her status as a woman free trader. He hurries because he has seen his father walking up the steps to Lector Chyenfel's study in the Quarter of the Magi'i. That had happened in midafternoon, as Lorn had passed along the lower Tower corridor-and Lorn had known at that moment that he was now headed for lancer training.
There might have been another reason for Chyenfel to summon Lorn's father, but Lorn strongly doubts it, and that means he has little enough time before he is sent off for lancer training. Far too little time for what needs to be done, because he has no doubts that once the Lectors know he has been notified, he will be well watched until he is out of Cyad, and probably far longer than that. He hopes the summons comes for his studies, and not because of anything else-such as the chaos compulsion he used on Halthor... but no one has said anything, and Ryalth has only mentioned the trader's death as an accident.
The absolute certainty in his father's voice was more than enough to discourage Lorn, for about magely matters, he knows his father is always correct. He pushes away those thoughts as he casually studies the street he travels.
No one he knows-or who knows him-looks out from the Empty Quarter as he passes the coffee house, but the awning that shields the vacant outside tables is furled, and any patrons are well inside and out of the wind.
The air holds an icy chill, despite the bright winter sunlight, and the salt air bites at his exposed face and neck and hands.
He stops and waits on the edge of Third Harbor Way West as a white-lacquered enclosed carriage, drawn by a matched pair of white mares, whispers past him. A gust of wind brings a hint of warmth, and the smell of fresh-baked bread, followed by the tiniest hint of erhenflower scent, possibly from the woman seated in the shielded carriage.
Two lancer rankers stand on the far corner, their eyes following the carriage, and Lorn cannot help but smile at their all too obvious interest. Then, will he end up standing on a corner in some out-of-the-way town like Syadtar? Or one of the towns bordering the Accursed Forest-like Geliendra or Jakaafra?
Lorn shakes his head, then crosses the Way and takes the white stone sidewalk on the far side down the gentle slope of the Third Harbor Way to the lower plaza-the merchanters' plaza. Even in the late afternoon chill, a handful of the green and white striped awnings remain up over a few carts. Lorn makes his way around the carts toward the squat white structure in the northwest corner of the plaza, his boots nearly silent on the hard white paving stones.
Once he has stepped through the squared open archway of the Clan-less Traders' building and is out of the wind, Lorn can feel his face begin to thaw. Despite the near-abandoned look of the plaza from outside, within the building is filled with figures in blue, as well as some in red, or green, or white. None seem to mark the passage of the enumerator Lorn emulates, at least not beyond an occasional frown, as he takes the wide central stairs at the back of the covered central hall flanked by balconies that rises all three stories.
Ryalth's trading place is little more than a cubby with two doors swung wide at the back of the third level, so far into the northeast corner that only the balcony railings can be seen from her doors. The redhead sits behind a true desk with drawers, an antique of battered and time-darkened white oak, writing in what appears to be a ledger.
As Lorn steps through the open doors, he clears his throat, and with a hint of a smile, asks, "Lady Trader?"
"Yes?" Ryalth looks up and her mouth opens, then closes.
Lorn steps forward until his trousers brush the edge of the desk. "I wished to see you, honored trader." His smile is both tentative and guileless.
"You shouldn't be here-not at this time of day. Enumerators' times are either first thing in the morning or close to the close," Ryalth murmurs, then adds more loudly, "I would that you had come at a more appropriate time, young ser."
"I won't be able to do that," Lorn whispers. "I'll be leaving Cyad tomorrow or the next day, from what I've overheard, and there's nothing I can do about it, and I couldn't have come to see you once they told me." He cocks his head inquisitively, and says in a normal voice. "I apologize, honored trader, but I was nearby, and thought I would not be presuming too much. I do apologize."
"You're leaving-Like that?" she murmurs. "Why?"
"Because I'm not a dedicated enough believer for the senior Magi'i, and I'm either leaving, or I'll be found dead in a chaos transfer accident." His voice is low. "I care for you... and I wanted to let you know. If I wait until it's official, then I couldn't tell you." Ryalth shakes her head ruefully.
He slips a purse into her hand. "Business. I'll be back, one way or another, and I couldn't take these. I wouldn't have them without you. Use them as you can." He offers a warm smile.
"A purse? Like that, and you expect me to wait for you? As if I were bought and paid for like... cotton?"
"No." Lorn meets her eyes. "I care for you, well beyond our shared interests." He swallows and shrugs. "I can't ask you much... not with what's happening. But if you'd wait... at least a bit."
"I'd have to. Then... we'll see." Ryalth laughs softly, not quite bitterly. "But you have to take the book and read it... all of it."
"You're sure? I could be gone for years."
"Then... it's even more important. Read it." Her words are half choked, half hissed. "I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He reaches out and squeezes her hand, then lets his hand fall away as he hears footsteps in the open arched corridor.
"I appreciate your interest, but there won't be anything where I can use you for at least another eightday," Ryalth says firmly, although her eyes are bright.
"I see. I will check with you then."
"During enumerators' times, if you would," Ryalth adds. Lorn can see the brightness in her eyes, and feels the same in his own. He swallows. "Yes... Lady Trader."
Then he turns, letting his shoulders droop, a gesture not totally of pretense, and walks dejectedly down the corridor toward the plaza overlooking the white harbor.
As he leaves the plaza, he can feel the chill of his father's chaos glass surveying him, but he has already done what must be done, and he doubts that Kien'elth will pry further. He hopes for that, at least.


XIII

Even the Emperors of the Land of Eternal Light embody the elements of paradox that infuse and suffuse Cyador....
Most paradoxical is the treatment of the memory of the Emperor Alyiakal. Despite his many successes in establishing the current borders of modern Cyador, and his formalization of the balanced power structure that has come to govern Cyador, he has become the "One Never to be Mentioned" among the Magi'i and Mirror Lancers of Cyad. The Magi'i wish to forget him because he was a stronger magus than the First Magus and turned his back on what he saw as the ever-narrowing traditions and inbreeding of the Magi'i, then became a Mirror Lancer officer who used his magely abilities to lead the northern Mirror Lancers in the devastation of Cerlyn and the establishment of the northeastern cuprite mines. By doing so, he assured peace with the northern barbarians for more than a generation, and a continued supply of cuprite ore for the continued formulation of cupridium. When he used those same lancers to become Emperor, he insisted that the chaos energies be diverted from mere experimentation to power chaos-cells for stonecutting and thus the building of the Great Highways of Cyador, the completion of the Palace of Eternal Light and the strengthening and lengthening of the Great Canal.... Yet for all this, for which he and his memory should be revered, the paradox is that he remains the magus of whom the Magi'i will never speak.
The Mirror Lancers avoid his name because it reminds them all too clearly of their deficiencies in arms and other skills and because his success continues to imply that merely being a Mirror Lancer is less than sufficient to be a successful or great holder of the Malachite Throne.... The simple fact that no Lancer commander has since matched his feats makes the comparison even more odious... and, again, the paradox is maintained: the greatest Mirror Lancer officer in the history of Cyador is the least known as such.
Even the merchanters dislike the image of Alyiakal, for they have none of the talents that he embodied, and, therefore, they cannot aspire to place one of their own, truly their own, upon the Malachite Throne, yet it was largely the result of his policies as Emperor through which they came to prosper....
Paradox of Empire
Bern'elth, Magus First
Cyad, 157 A.F.


XIV

Lorn walks slowly along the covered upper portico of the dwelling, trying to ignore both his faint headache and the patter and splatting the sudden winter rain, such a change from the frost of the day before or even from the dryness of the afternoon. His head seems to pulse with the hissing of the rain and the dripping of the larger droplets that have rolled off the tile roof and fall onto the edge of the walks and the walls.
He finally stops outside the open door to his father's study, waiting for a moment, as if to see whether his sire will notice. When there is no response or invitation, Lorn steps into the study. "You summoned me, ser?"
In the storm-dim gloom, lightened by the oil lamps at each end of the pale oak desk-table, Kien'elth looks up from the scroll he peruses. "Sit down, Lorn." The silver-haired magus sets the scroll aside. The crossed lightning bolts on his tunic radiate a faint golden light of their own.
Although the silver-manteled lamps cast an even glow across the room, suffusing with a warm light the blond wooden wall panels and the dark amber leather of the volumes set in the bookcase built into the wall beside the desk, the room is chill. Lorn lowers himself into the hard seat of the single armless and straight-backed wooden chair. He faces his father and waits.
"I have been talking to Lector Hyrist'elth and Lector Chyenfel'elth...." Kien'elth's fine eyebrows lift as if asking for Lorn's response. "Yes, ser."