A Sword Named Truth

by Sherwood Smith

  Siamis’s voice was tenor, expressive—a singer’s voice, though Dejain had never heard him sing.

  “Yes,” Detlev said. His voice was just a voice, never very expressive. In her mercifully brief encounters with him, Dejain had never heard him angry, which made some of the things he did far more unnerving. “Which means we have to find it first.”

  “You must,” Siamis retorted.

  “I must,” Detlev agreed.

  What was ‘it’? Dejain did not understand the tone. Was that anger or laughter?

  Siamis went on in that same tone, “And so. My plan. The spells need alteration, not the strategy.”

  “Evend may be gone, but Tsauderei is very much alive, Oalthoreh in Bereth Ferian has sent her journeymages through the world to create tracers specifically to reveal your presence, and Sartor has been adapting to a century of change with commendable speed. Today is probably evidence of that.”

  “My very dear uncle,” Siamis drawled. “When you point out the obvious—”

  “—it means you have overlooked something obvious. The new orders must supersede the old.”

  “Are we back to the brats, then? I’ve seen to it that Liere Fer Eider is afraid of her own shadow. I cannot improve on what you did to Senrid Montredaun-An. Between the two of them, they are sufficiently intimidated into hiding behind childhood. It has even become a fad.”

  Detlev’s voice quieted. Dejain held her breath. “See that it spreads. I need time to investigate the Geth claims. And you must make readiness here your first concern.”

  “I thought that was your first concern.” Siamis’s retort betrayed nothing but good humor. “Or is my freedom to act conditional after all?”

  “I condition for nothing. The Host might see a different view from the Garden of the Twelve—”

  Clattering echoed up the stairway opposite Lesca’s suite: armed warriors on the way. Dejain must not be seen lurking outside the command center.

  Keeping her steps noiseless, she scurried toward the sentries, and just before the new arrivals reached the corner and the sentries she whirled, so she would be seen walking toward command.

  Before she stepped over the threshold, she glanced back at the group of warriors. That arrogant young Henerek strode at the front, recognizable instantly by his size and his thick, sandy hair. He was followed by lesser talents and ambitions.

  Dejain passed inside the chamber, darting a quick glance at Siamis and Detlev for any sign of awareness of having been spied upon. Detlev stood directly below the big world map on the far wall. He was an ordinary-looking man above medium height, brown hair worn collar length in a military cut, tunic and trousers of so plain a design he would go unnoticed in most kingdoms of the south, and probably in the north as well. His expression revealed nothing.

  Beyond him, his nephew Siamis lounged against a table, slim and graceful, his head bent, so all Dejain could see was his fair hair, gilt in the glowglobes’ light.

  Detlev turned Henerek’s way. “I take it you were the fool who just obliterated four well-trained captains by attempting a group transfer. Or was that your intent?”

  “They were my captains. For the challenge,” Henerek retorted, then added sullenly, “There’s never been any problem with transferring from Five. I distinctly recollect bringing two others along the last time I transferred.”

  “That,” said Detlev, “was previous to Sartor’s mages’ recent gift. Or someone’s. You did not get the general order: single transfers only, no more than four in a day, then test with a stone first?”

  Henerek looked down, then up, his fingers twitching absently at his sword hilt. Or was that a sign of intent?

  Siamis bestowed on them his gentle smile. “Henerek seems to feel that he’s the exception to general orders. Or we wouldn’t be gathered today.” He made a lazy wave toward the window, through which Dejain glimpsed the long line of warriors moving into the broad plain where the wargames were held. She remembered that today’s wargame was different from the usual: a challenge for command of Norsunder Base—Henerek against Siamis.

  Detlev did not acknowledge the interruption. He said to Henerek, “If you were taking the field against Ralanor Veleth today, and four of your captains dropped with arrows in them, would you request a postponement from Szinzar, until such time as you could arrange for replacements?”

  The scrape of a foot and a half-suppressed chuckle from the watching circle caused Henerek to glance back, a flush of anger on his heavy-jawed countenance. The avid audience fell silent.

  “Regard your failed transfer as a . . . shall we call it a tactical error? Your challenge will go forward as planned.”

  Siamis sighed, sounding weary and bored.

  For the time it took for Dejain’s heart to beat three times, no one moved.

  Dejain held her breath, aware of the shifts in stance, the brush of hands over hilts, among the watchers. Henerek had gone still, almost rigid. Nobody needed mysterious mind powers to see how much he loathed the two Ancient Sartorans. Though Dejain had never seen Detlev wearing a weapon, and Henerek positively bristled with steel.

  Finally Henerek muttered, “I’ll see you on the field.” He stalked out.

  With quick glances in Detlev’s direction, the rest of the military clattered after him, leaving Dejain wondering whom they would have helped if Henerek had assaulted Detlev.

  She wondered whose aid, if any, Siamis would come to.

  With the warriors gone, Dejain saw the two mages who had come in behind the warriors.

  Detlev lifted his head. “Dejain. Attend to the transfer problem, please.”

  Dejain said, “I just came from the steward, who sent for me.”

  Detlev replied, “Give Lesca anything she wants, of course. Then investigate the transfer problem, and fix it.” He vanished abruptly, as usual, not even going to the Destination in order to transfer.

  Siamis’s gaze lifted from the window. “This should be fun,” he said. Gone was the affect of boredom that had so goaded Henerek. His expression was thoughtful as he walked out. Unlike Henerek’s, his step was noiseless, but Dejain thought that he was just as dull and simple as Henerek, really. All men were simple, she thought sourly as she faced the two mages still left in the room.

  The mages were both men, one old and unfamiliar, and Pengris, young and ambitious. “What happened, exactly?” she asked him. “Were either of you in the Destination chamber?”

  Pengris said, “I was. Henerek summoned me to sweep the Destination for traps or wards, which I did. I found nothing amiss. The transfers nearly made it. I saw four silhouettes, then that flash of light. When I could see again, there was no one on the tiles. They were gone.”

  “Silhouettes,” Dejain repeated, her skin crawling. “I’ve never heard of a transfer failing . . . like that.”

  “Neither have I,” the elder said uneasily. “Who could have warded our Destination?” He turned to the young one. “They were coming from Five, am I correct?”

  The Norsunder base on the world the lighters had once called Aldau-Rayad before it was destroyed in the Fall had as much protective magic over its transfer Destination as this one. Because Aldau-Rayad was the fifth world from Erhal, the sun, it was known among them as Five.

  Dejain and the gray-haired man turned to Pengris, a weedy, sparse-haired fellow. Dejain had pegged him for the type who often studied magic because they hated people.

  He sighed, a loose strand of reddish hair lifting, his eyes shifting in a way that reminded Dejain of a rat caught in a trap.

  He was young, but experienced in subterfuge, misdirection, and imaginative nastiness. Right now he was caught square: the Destination at Five was his responsibility.

  “The problem is not at this end,” Dejain said. Pengris licked his lips, and Dejain knew he was trying to slither out. Transfers hurt, everyone knew it. World transfers hurt fa
r worse. Younger bodies sustained the effects better.

  He sighed again, resigned and irritated. “I’ll shift to Five to investigate.”

  “Wait at least two hours. Then use a token,” Dejain warned. An already-spelled transfer token had the best chance of escaping any general wards, though they hurt substantially more than established Destination chambers.

  He walked out, already nervous as he exited.

  How Detlev managed to transfer so easily without Destinations, Dejain wondered, not for the first time. He was so very much older than she was, some would say impossibly old. But then Ilerian, the strangest of the Host of Lords, who seldom emerged from the Garden of the Twelve at the center of Norsunder, was said to be far older. And neither of them looked a day over thirty. Her shoulder blades prickled with a crawly sensation.

  Detlev was just a man. They are all the same in essence, she reminded herself as she turned over her hands, so small and youthful-looking.

  She’d begun to use dark magic to halt her aging when she turned twenty-two, and so she knew she appeared as she had then, a dainty, blonde figure. Even before that spell had been broken once, nearly killing her, she’d begun to feel the subtle pull of age. It was inescapable, and the best way to keep that pull from becoming direr was to live very carefully. Sometimes she felt ancient, and certainly far more aware than those around her, but Detlev and Siamis managed to make her regain all the awkwardness and uncertainty of youth, without any of its strength.

  Still, they obviously had their limits: for all their vaunted powers, they hadn’t perceived her listening outside of command.

  She smiled as she rejoined Lesca and reported what she’d seen and heard.

  Though Lesca was no older than forty, she was far from stupid. To double-check, Dejain finished, “I heard the words, but the context completely escapes me as much as my presence escaped them. Though I’m fairly certain that Siamis is fretting under Detlev’s control.”

  “That’s been the case for a year,” Lesca drawled.

  “But that about ‘it.’ What can they mean?”

  “Something they’re looking for,” Lesca said, amused.

  “The dyra? The lighters got the one, and destroyed the other.”

  “Why does it have to be a thing? How about a person, an idea? A specific place that gives them military advantage? All I know is, it’s more plotting.” Lesca yawned. “Present company excepted, I find mages unspeakably tedious, even more than I find politics. Everybody wants something they don’t have. Except me. I sometimes wonder if I’m the smartest person in this place, because I am wise enough not to have ambition.” Lesca lifted a lazy hand to encompass her comfortable rooms.

  “Detlev and Siamis are not like the rest of us,” Dejain stated.

  “And here’s me wondering if Siamis leans right.” Lesca tipped her head.

  Dejain understood the current idiom, at least among Norsunder’s warriors: ‘right’ meant right hand, sword hand, preference for men. ‘Left,’ shield hand, ring hand in some cultures, preference for females. Both-handed for interest beyond gender limitation.

  “Someone insisted they saw him in one of the more exclusive houses up north somewhere, under a guise. As one would expect with a very young man. I wonder if Detlev is made of wood, and I don’t mean that in any interesting way.” Lesca chuckled, running her hand through her silky hair, which was now colored a rich chestnut. “This I do know. Neither of them shows the least interest in any of the hirelings I take such trouble to recruit.” She shrugged, tipping her head in the direction of the rec wing, across the great courtyard, where Lesca had installed pleasure house workers for those who earned the privilege.

  Dejain knew that discipline had been better since Lesca brought them in. Before then, warriors at Norsunder Base, which was considered a way station, were on their own during their liberty watch. No sexual outlets beyond what they could find among one another usually meant more fights, and horrific punishments. The former commander had felt that that made for better fighters. Siamis—young as he was—had told Lesca that fighting was better if there was an immediate reward for exertion, like her present arrangement.

  Lesca lifted her upper lip. “Do you think he goes off-world to seek perversions, as they whisper about Efael?”

  Dejain grimaced at the name of the youngest of the Host of Lords. In so many ways he was the worst of them. At least the nastiest, and his sister the second worst. If rumor was true, the least objectionable sexual play those two indulged in was with one another. “You would think there would be whispers if he did.”

  “If Henerek wins, and his face isn’t distorted, I’ll crook my finger, and he’ll be here as fast as he can.” Lesca shrugged indolently, and turned her head toward the far wall, which was smooth, painted white. “But if Siamis wins, and I crook my finger, he’ll look at me with that air of question. I loathe that. I hope Henerek wins, though Siamis is so much prettier.”

  Lesca picked up the wand that Dejain had ensorcelled, and pointed it at the wall, whispering. An image replaced the wall, the vantage from the topmost tower of the fortress, with an unimpeded view of the cracked plain beyond, on which no blade of grass had grown for centuries. In ragged lines, the contending forces were drawing together according to each commander’s placement.

  Dejain had put together the spells: Lesca had only to visit a spot somewhere in the fortress once, look at the view she wished to see, touch the wand, and speak the simple charm Dejain had set up. Thereafter she could sit in her comfortable chamber and watch from that vantage. Dejain had thought at most Lesca would limit herself to three or four views, maybe half a dozen, as the spells pulled a great deal of magic potential.

  “How many views have you set?” Dejain asked.

  “I’ve lost count,” Lesca said cheerfully.

  Dejain suppressed an exclamation. She’d carefully explained how much magic was used for each, but Lesca seemed to have as little regard for magic as Dejain had for sex. No wonder the Destination was becoming more unstable. It probably wasn’t Sartor at fault, or Five.

  But she did not know for certain. She glanced up, to find Lesca regarding her with that narrow, observant gaze. “Speaking of petrified wood,” Lesca said. “Have you considered that those two knew you were listening to them? You know their reputation.”

  “I think most of that is hyperbole.” Dejain settled back on her cushion. “Oh, I know they can speak from mind to mind. And listen. But you will probably have experienced the latter: there’s a pang like a needle stuck behind your eyes, and your own words echo inside your head, and that didn’t occur while I was eavesdropping just now. As for the talking from mind to mind, surely it must take even more effort than normal listening must.”

  “At least, outside of the Garden of the Twelve.” Lesca’s profile was avid as she watched Henerek riding to the front of his force. Though the foot and mounted warriors all carried wooden swords, Henerek brandished naked steel, evidence that he was willing to fight Siamis to the death for command of Norsunder Base. “Ah. There’s Henerek, sword a-swing. The show is about to begin. Why is it that the boys can finish a fight with the other sword still a-swing, but the women just want a hot bath?”

  Dejain didn’t bother making the obvious observation that there were exceptions to everything, even among warriors, whose minds she found dull or repellent.

  Dejain glanced to the other side, easily spotting Siamis by his white shirt and blond head. He scorned uniforms, and as the weather, for once, was clement, there he was, without his famous sword. She did not understand why he’d left it in Bereth Ferian after his defeat there. Another game, no doubt. Like his uncle, he seemed to prefer carrying no weapon, a different sort of arrogance.

  Dejain listened with the least part of her attention as Lesca began a dispassionate catalogue of various captains’ physical attributes and drawbacks. Once, very long ago, Dejain had cared abo
ut such things, but that had been in her young days, before she found her way to dark magic. She remembered standing silently as a servant as the baras’s daughter and her friend held just such conversations, but of course no servant’s opinion would be sought.

  Dejain uttered agreements during the pauses, to hide her disinterest. At least the divan was comfortable for her sensitive joints. She cooperatively turned her gaze to the window, but her attention was inward rather than on the two lines racing together as she mentally reviewed varieties of transfer traps, tracers, and wards. She would have to delve into research, once the witnesses’ reports had been heard . . .

  “Yes indeed,” Dejain said again, when she became aware of an expectant pause from Lesca. When you haven’t been listening, agreement is almost always safest.

  Lesca shot her an inquisitive glance. “But coming back to Henerek. He’s willing enough, even delightfully brusque, but I sense he’s not seeing me. I pride myself on my not-inconsiderable skills, but whose face is he seeing over mine? One wishes to be noticed for one’s efforts.”

  “Most certainly,” Dejain said tranquilly, thinking that though Lesca’s favorite subject was herself, at least she didn’t prate of love.

  Lesca sighed.

  Men were useful only as toys. For companionship of the mind, Lesca preferred women—but they had to share at least a sense of humor, if not Lesca’s interests.

  Smart women in command positions were rare at Norsunder Base: Vatiora was dead (and good riddance, as she’d been crazy); Yeres was infinitely worse, but at least she rarely appeared and then only for moments; the new spy, Elzhier, was a smart-mouthed teen and kept constantly in the field; Nath, a female captain with brains, was down there behind Henerek right now, which just left Dejain. Mages were generally unsatisfactory as company, male or female. Their minds were always in magical fogs.

  Below, the trumpet blared, the signal to begin.

  The neat lines of marching and mounted warriors began to waver, and met. Lesca leaned forward to watch, wishing she could pick out details better. Henerek smashed and clubbed at the center of his line, two big men at either side. Whatever clever strategy he’d come up with had had to be abandoned when he lost his best captains, so he’d fallen back on the old charge, strongest at the midpoint, the intent to cut the opposing line and roll them up separately.