The Mage-Fire War (Saga of Recluce)

by Modesitt. Jr. , L. E.

  “Think he’s going to Montgren?” murmured one guard.

  The other shook his head. “With what? Not even a battalion left north of Worrak. Might be two companies in Renklaar. Wager old iron-ass had to tell the heir that.”

  The two lapsed into silence.

  Beltur waited another quint.

  Then the chamber door opened, and two men stepped out. One was another trooper, and that meant the other was likely the heir.

  The heir announced, “We’re done. We’ll need this audience chamber tomorrow morning, with double the guards.”

  Then all four walked down the corridor.

  Beltur followed them to a narrow doorway, where two more guards were posted. The door was iron-banded. That he could sense even as one of the guards opened it. The staircase beyond was also narrow. None of the guards accompanied the heir, and the door guard closed it behind him.

  Beltur stepped back, thinking.

  Delivering his message without having guards everywhere might be harder than he thought.

  Meanwhile, you’d better scout out everything you can in the palace.

  LXXVIII

  By late afternoon, Beltur was more than tired. He’d scouted out all of the chambers on the second level of the palace while under a full concealment. He’d discovered three staircases up to the third level of the palace, all of which were heavily guarded and all of which had iron-bound thick doors, and that meant that any successful effort to get to the Duke would require some sort of brute order-and-chaos force … or subterfuge that would take days.

  His best opportunity appeared to be to try to take advantage of either the small audience chamber or the audience hall, and, either way, those opportunities would have to wait until sixday. He’d also managed to stay far enough from the one white mage he’d sensed in the morning, as well as a second white who appeared to be somewhere on the third level, possibly as a protector of the Duke.

  As he slipped out through the main gates, walking concealed behind a coach somewhere after third glass, his head pounding from the strain of holding full shields for so many glasses, Beltur began to wonder whether he could do what he had in mind.

  You have to do something.

  Once he was in the square, he dropped the part of his shields that concealed his order/chaos flows, and eased through the scattered afternoon shoppers until it was close to fourth glass, when he made his way to the inn stables and the stall where Slowpoke was.

  The big gelding nuzzled him even before he dropped the concealment.

  Beltur patted him in return. “It’s good to see you, too. I hope you enjoyed your day of rest.”

  Slowpoke whuffed, almost skeptically, Beltur thought.

  “I know. You like doing things. We all do, but right now, we both have to be patient, even though it’s not in our natures.”

  Beltur turned as he sensed someone approaching and relaxed as he saw it was only one of the stableboys.

  “Ser … I didn’t see you come in.”

  “I just wanted to check on my horse.”

  “He’s doing fine. You came from fighting, didn’t you?”

  “An eightday or so ago,” Beltur admitted. “Did you grow up here in Hydolar?”

  “Yes, ser. My da’s the head ostler here. I want to be a trooper. He says it’s better to be an ostler.”

  “You’ll likely live longer as an ostler.” Beltur doubtless wasn’t saying anything the youth hadn’t heard, but he couldn’t encourage him to be a trooper, especially in Hydlen.

  “That’s what he says,” the boy replied glumly. “Can I do anything for you … or your horse?”

  Not bothering to hide a smile, Beltur handed him a pair of coppers. “He’s a big gelding. He could use a few more oats.”

  “Yes, ser.”

  After making certain that Slowpoke got his oats, Beltur made his way back to the inn proper and to his chamber.

  His gear had been looked through and replaced in close to the same order as he’d left it. Beltur nodded. There was nothing in it to indicate that he was anything except a trooper captain, and all his coins were secreted in what he wore. He washed up, then made his way down to the public room, where only a third of the tables were occupied, most likely because it was summer and because it was comparatively early.

  Beltur had just ordered a pale ale and had taken a single swallow when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a green uniform. He forced himself to turn slowly as if casually studying the room. He wasn’t totally surprised to see Turlow moving toward him. The ranker wore a white-edged green armband Beltur hadn’t seen before, but that meant that Turlow was a messenger or courier, or impersonating one.

  “A message from the majer, Captain,” said Turlow, just loud enough to be overheard.

  Beltur motioned to the server. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Then, leaving his ale on the table, he followed Turlow out to the front porch.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I just asked for a Captain Beltur. The fellow at the desk said you were in the public room.”

  That meant that Faarkad was keeping a close eye on him.

  “Things are fine now, ser. We’ve got about three days before we’ll be assigned. We’re now in the reassignment barracks. That’s two buildings back from where you left us.”

  “I’m hoping I can do what I need to tomorrow morning. If I can, we’ll need to leave as soon as possible. I’ll find my way there. If I can’t get it done tomorrow, it may take until oneday.”

  “Tomorrow would be better, ser. Squad Leader thinks there will be problems if we stay much longer.”

  “I have the same feeling, but I’ve run into a few difficulties.”

  “Anything we can help with, ser?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll find you all if I need you.”

  “Yes, ser.” Turlow stepped back, inclined his head, then turned sharply and left.

  As Beltur headed back to the public room, Faarkad stepped from behind the counter. “How are you finding the Palace Inn, Captain?”

  “Comfortable enough, and better than the cramped quarters where I’d otherwise be sleeping.”

  “Your other uniform will be in your room early tomorrow morning.”

  “Most likely after I’ve left for duty,” replied Beltur. “But I do appreciate it.”

  “Might I ask…?”

  “You could, but if I said too much, Commander Haarkyn wouldn’t like it.” Beltur smiled politely, then continued on to the public room. He could tell that the commander’s name had startled Faarkad. He was gambling that the clerk and greeter didn’t have any direct contact with Haarkyn.

  Just a few moments after he returned to his table, and sensed the ale he’d left behind, finding no traces of chaos, the server returned with his meal, a fowl breast with a cream sauce, filigreed lace potatoes, and green beans almandine. Beltur took a bite, enjoying the taste, even as he tried to listen to other conversations around him.

  “… say that the Duke … still furious…”

  “… wore red shimmersilk … absolute nerve of her…”

  “… his white wizard turned Marshal Raxnyr into ashes…”

  “… hate having to stay here … summer…”

  “… Duke would have left for the summer palace … except…”

  “… young captain there, dressing on his forehead … think he came back…?”

  “… too young to be important … merchant’s younger brat…”

  Beltur lingered over the meal, but didn’t hear anything more interesting, and finally finished his second ale, then left the public room, another two silvers poorer, absently wondering who had the coins to stay at places like the Palace Inn often or for any length of time.

  LXXIX

  Although Beltur fell asleep early, most likely because he was tired from carrying full shields for much of fiveday, he slept uneasily and woke early on sixday. He was still pondering how to get into the audience room, when he suddenly smiled.

>   There’s more than one way to deliver a message.

  He washed up, shaved, and dressed in the darkness just before dawn, then eased out of his chamber under a simple concealment and made his way down to the main level, where after quietly searching, he found an inkwell, a pen, and some paper. After returning to his rooms, he wrote out what was necessary, let the words dry, and then, again using the concealment, returned the inkwell and pen, after which he visited the kitchen and made off with a loaf of bread and some cheese. He ate both in the stable after checking on Slowpoke.

  After dawn, unconcealed, he walked from the stable out across the almost empty square, noticing that the main gates were both closed and guarded, and then around toward the bailey gate. As he half expected, it was closed as he walked past it in the direction of the river. Then, roughly fifty yards farther south, he turned in to a narrow lane and ducked into the doorway of a cooperage that had not yet opened. There he raised a concealment. Then he walked back to the bailey gate and waited.

  A quint or so later, two guards appeared and opened the gate. Under his concealment, Beltur simply walked between them and made his way to the door which they had used to enter the bailey from the palace. He opened it quietly and stepped inside. There was no one in the empty hallway. From there, quiet step by step, he made his way up to the second level, which, as he suspected might be the case, was almost totally empty except for a bevy of women scrubbing and polishing the floors. He was careful to give them—and the sections of the floor that seemed damp—a wide berth, not wanting boot tracks to appear before the eyes of any of the women.

  As Beltur had hoped, not only was the small audience chamber where the heir had been seeing officers the morning before unguarded and empty, but the door was not locked … because there was no lock, just a sliding bolt on the inside. He had to wait almost a quint until the scrub women and the polishers were farther down the wide hall before he dared to open the door and slip inside.

  Once there, he dropped the concealment so that he could see exactly how the chamber was set up and where he could be out of the way and where even his breathing could not be heard. At the end of the chamber opposite the door was a dais, raised not quite half a yard, floored in goldenwood, on which was a large and ornate goldenwood armchair, upholstered in dark green velvet, trimmed with gold. The rest of the dais was empty, but the two yards on each side of the chair could accommodate other functionaries or guards, if standing. Below the dais on each side were narrow table desks, possibly for scriveners to record proceedings, although Beltur had sensed no scriveners leaving the audience chamber the day before. The polished green marble floor below the dais stretched some five yards from door to dais and contained no chairs except for the backed stools tucked mostly under each table desk.

  Definitely no place to hide … except with a concealment. The only spots where Beltur could likely stand without too much risk of having someone bump into him were the corners on the wall holding the doorway.

  He walked to the corner to the left of the door and sat down to wait, easing just a visual concealment around himself. He knew he’d sense any of the whites long before they could sense him. In the meantime, he most likely had a lengthy wait.

  More than a glass passed before the cleaning women vanished, and several more quints passed before the interior palace guards appeared. Shortly, a trooper opened the audience room and stepped inside, looking around.

  “It’s empty, like always. You look, now.”

  So they both have to look.

  From what Beltur had already seen and overheard, Duke Massyngal worried a great deal about his personal safety.

  I can’t imagine why. He smiled at the sarcastic thought and settled back to wait some more, hoping that events would go the way he had overheard them being described the day before, and knowing that they might not.

  Then, around eighth glass, or so Beltur judged, he sensed quite a few people seemingly headed toward the audience chamber, including one of the strong white mages. He immediately shielded himself completely, waiting.

  A third of a quint passed, and the door opened again. This time the white mage peered in, obviously sensing something. Beltur forced himself to remain perfectly still.

  “There’s more order around here than there should be.” The words were to someone standing outside the chamber and between the two troopers standing guard.

  “The heir was the last one here, ser.”

  “The current heir doesn’t have that kind of order.”

  “The healer has been visiting him every day. For that boil.”

  “That might be it. Still…” The white stepped inside the chamber and walked to the dais, then to the two table desks.

  With all the chaos swirling around the mage, Beltur wondered how he could sense any order at all.

  Finally, the white turned and stepped out, saying, “The chamber’s empty. You stay here. Right there.” Before the white closed the door, Beltur realized that the other figure was younger and also was a chaos mage, if so much weaker that he’d been initially masked by the chaos of the stronger mage.

  Another quint passed.

  Then Beltur sensed what could only be called an entourage approaching. He stood and pressed himself into the corner, waiting.

  Once more, the strong white was the one who entered the chamber, but instead of looking around he moved to the dais and stood beside the audience chair, on the left facing the door. Then another man entered, and he took a position on the right of the chair.

  Neither spoke as a third figure entered and made his way to the chair, settling into place.

  The chamber door closed, with the weaker white guarding the door from outside.

  “Galmaas…” rasped the man in the chair, “why did you suggest that we formally invest Vashkyt as marshal?”

  “If you leave him as acting marshal, that weakens his authority.”

  “I could just issue a proclamation naming him and be done with it.”

  “Sire … this isn’t a full investiture. It’s enough that Marshal Vashkyt can announce he was invested by you. That will be useful in the seasons to come.”

  “That’s a stoat-like way of saying that he needs everything he can use to send another army against those blue bastards.”

  “He’ll need that authority even to raise and conscript the necessary forces, Sire.”

  “As my heir, you need to remind him…” Massyngal shook his head. “All of you are useless. Fear is all any of you understand. Fear and power.” He turned his head toward the white. “Isn’t that so, Erhlyn?”

  “As you have said, Your Grace, power must engender respect and even fear.”

  “Respect and fear. Exactly,” added Galmaas. “We must obliterate Haven and devastate Montgren.”

  “We?” asked Massyngal acidly.

  “You are ‘We,’” replied the heir. “You act and speak for all of Hydlen.”

  “Your brother had difficulty remembering that. I trust you will not.”

  “I understand absolutely, Sire. Your word is and must always be the law.”

  Beltur could sense the untruth, and the fawning deception, as doubtless could Erhlyn, and he wanted to shake his head. Before he had actually been inside Massyngal’s palace, Beltur had thought to deliver a message by killing Massyngal and making it clear that the same could happen to the heir. Standing there and listening, he was actually glad he hadn’t tried that approach. It would have been more dangerous and gained him—and Haven—even less than what he now planned. If you can make it work.

  He swallowed silently, forcing himself to wait.

  It seemed like glasses, but it was less than a third of a quint before a knock on the door was followed by the words, “Acting Marshal Vashkyt is here at your request, Your Grace.”

  “Have him enter,” declared Massyngal, the volume of his voice only making its raspiness more cutting.

  The door opened, and Vashkyt stepped inside, immediately taking one step and bowing deeply. “
Your Grace and Mightiness, you summoned me?”

  “Step forward. I don’t like shouting.” Massyngal gestured to a point a yard from the edge of the dais.

  Vashkyt stepped forward and stopped where the Duke had gestured, inclining his head respectfully.

  “In view of the tasks before you, Vashkyt, I have decided to name you as full marshal of Hydlen, with all the rights and powers of that position. I will so proclaim after this audience. That should quiet any rumors that I lack confidence in you or that you will soon be gone.”

  “I greatly appreciate your confidence in me, Your Mightiness.”

  “I’ll also expect a written plan for the destruction of Haven and the subjugation of Montgren in no less than an eightday.”

  “Knowing your concerns, Your Grace, I have already begun working on such a plan.”

  “Excellent. I don’t ever want another miserable effort like that of your predecessor.”

  “You have made that quite clear, Your Mightiness.”

  “Do you have any questions, Vashkyt?” asked Massyngal.

  At that moment, Beltur realized that the audience was going to be short, very short, possibly lasting only a few more moments.

  He immediately clamped a full order containment around Erhlyn, adding as much free order as he could draw from nearby, and compressing the white’s shields back against his skin and garments. Then Beltur flattened himself against the floor and concentrated on holding that containment.

  The white tried to lash out with such force that Beltur could feel the containment weakening. You … will … not … break … out!

  For a moment, none of the non-mages in the room moved, as if they knew something was happening, but not what. That moment seemed to stretch.

  Beltur felt as though his head was splitting, with iron bands constricting against it, but knew that was because of the effort that Erhlyn was making to break the skintight containment. Another wave of chaos pressed against the containment.