by Scott Lynch
Locke smiled thinly and nibbled a biscuit.
“The very first identity that we accept and recognize as us, that’s what becomes the red name. When we grow from the raw instincts of infancy and discover that we exist, conscious and separate from the things around us. Most of us acquire red names from what our parents whisper to us, over and over, until we learn to repeat it in our own thoughts.”
“Huh,” said Locke. An instant later, he spat crumbs. “Holy shit. You know the Falconer’s true name because you gave it to him!”
“I tried to avoid it,” said Patience. “Oh, I tried. But I was lying to myself. You can’t love a baby and not give him a name. If my husband had lived, he would have given the Falconer a secret name. That was the procedure … other magi might have intervened, would have if I hadn’t deceived them. I wasn’t thinking straight. I needed that private bond with my boy so desperately … and, inevitably, I named him.”
“He resented you for it,” said Jean.
“A mage’s deepest secret,” said Patience. “Never shared, not between masters and students, closest friends, even husbands and wives. A mage who learns another mage’s true name wields absolute power over them. My son has bitterly resented me since the moment he realized what I held over him, whether or not I ever chose to use it.”
“Crooked Warden,” said Locke. “I guess I should be able to find it in my heart to have some sympathy for the poor bastard. But I can’t. I sure as hell wish you’d had a normal son.”
“I think I’ve said enough for the time being.” Patience moved away from the taffrail and turned her back to Locke and Jean. “You two rest. We can dispose of any further questions when you awake.”
“I could sleep,” admitted Locke. “For seven or eight years, I think. Have someone kick the door in at the end of the month if I’m not out yet. And Patience … I guess … I am sorry for—”
“You’re a curious man, Master Lamora. You bite on reflex, and then your conscience bites you. Have you ever wondered where you might have acquired such contradictory strains of character?”
“I don’t repent anything I said, Patience, but I do occasionally remember to try and be civil after the fact.”
“As you said, I’m not dragging you to Karthain to be anyone’s friend. Least of all mine. Go take some rest. We’ll talk after.”
6
JEAN HADN’T realized just how exhausted the long night had left him, and after settling into his hammock he tumbled into the sort of sleep that squashed awareness as thoroughly as a few hundred pounds of bricks dropped on the head.
He woke, groggy and disoriented, to the smell of baked meat and crisp lake air. Locke was sitting at a smaller version of the makeshift table on which he’d been subjected to the cleansing ritual, hard at work on another small mountain of ship’s fare.
“Nnngh.” Jean rolled to his feet and heard his joints creak and pop. His bruises from the encounter with Cortessa would smart for a few days, but bruises were bruises. He’d had them before. “What’s the time?”
“Fifth hour of the afternoon,” said Locke around a mouthful of food. “We should be in Karthain just before dawn, they say.”
Jean yawned, rubbed his eyes, and considered the scene. Locke was dressed in loose clean slops, evidently chosen from an open chest of clothing set against the bulkhead behind him.
“How do you feel, Locke?”
“Bloody hungry.” He wiped his lips against the back of his hand and took a swig of water. “This is worse than Vel Virazzo. Wherever we go, I seem to get thinner and thinner.”
“I’d have thought you’d still be sleeping.”
“I had a will for it, but my stomach wouldn’t be put off. You, if you’ll forgive me, look like a man desperately in search of coffee.”
“I don’t smell any. Suppose you drank it all?”
“Come now, even I’m not that much of a scoundrel. Never was any aboard. Seems Patience is big on tea.”
“Damn. Tea’s no good for waking up civilized.”
“What’s boiling in that muddled brain of yours?”
“I suppose I’m bemused.” Jean took one of the two empty chairs at the table, picked up a knife, and used it to slide some ham onto a slab of bread. “And dizzy. Our Lady of the Five Rings has spun our situation well beyond anything I expected.”
“That she has. You think it’s odd from where you’re sitting!”
“It is.” Jean ate, and studied Locke. He’d cleaned up, shaved, and pulled the lengthening mass of his hair into a short tail. The removal of his beard made the marks of his convalescence plain. He was pale, looking far more Vadran than Therin for a change, and the creases at the edges of his mouth were graven a bit deeper, the lines beneath his eyes more pronounced. Some invisible sculptor had been at work the past few weeks, carving the first real hints of age into the face Jean had known for nearly twenty years. “Where on the gods’ fair earth are you putting all that food, Locke?”
“If I knew that I’d be a physiker.”
Jean took another look around the cabin. A copper tub had been set near the stern windows, and beside it a pile of towels and oil bottles.
“Wondering about the tub?” said Locke. “Water’s fresh—they replaced it after I was done. They don’t expect us to go diving in the lake to make ourselves presentable.”
There was a knock at the cabin door. Jean glanced at Locke, and Locke nodded.
“Come,” yelled Jean.
“I knew you were awake,” said Patience. She came down the steps, made a casual gesture, and the door shut itself behind her. She settled into the third chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Are we proving ourselves adequate hosts?”
“We seem to be well-kept,” said Jean with a yawn, “excepting a barbaric absence of coffee.”
“Endure for another day, Master Tannen, and you’ll have all the foul black misuse of water you can drink.”
“What happened to the last person you hired to rig this little game of yours, Patience?” said Jean.
“Straight to business, eh?” said Locke.
“I don’t mind,” said Patience. “It’s why I’m here. But what do you mean?”
“You do this every five years,” said Jean. “You choose to work through agents that can’t be Bondsmagi. So what happened to the last set you hired? Where are they? Can we speak to them?”
“Ah. You’re wondering whether we tied weights around their ankles and threw them into the lake when it was over.”
“Something like that.”
“In some cases, we traded services. In others we offered payments. All of our former exemplars, regardless of compensation, left our service freely and in good health.”
“So, you ruthlessly protect every aspect of your privacy for centuries, but every few years you pick a special friend, answer any questions they might have, show them your fuckin’ memories, begging your pardon, and then you just send them off when you’re finished, with a cheerful wave?”
“None of our previous exemplars ever crippled a Bondsmage, Jean. None of them were ever shown what you were. But you needn’t flatter yourself that you’ve been made privy to some shattering secret that can only be preserved by the most extreme measures. When this is over, we expect confidentiality for the rest of your lives. And if that courtesy isn’t granted, you both know that we’ll never have any difficulty tracking at least one of you down.”
“I guess that works,” said Jean sourly. “So who took the ribbon, last time you did this?”
“You’re being entrusted with a winning tradition,” said Patience. “Though two victories in a row doesn’t quite make a dynasty, it’s a good basis from which to expect a third. Now, we will discuss your work in Karthain, but I made an unusual promise to get you both here. I would have it fulfilled for good and all. Have you any further questions about my people, about our arts?”
“Ask now or forever bite our tongues?” said Locke.
“I offered a brief opportunity, not a sch
olarly treatise.”
“As it happens,” said Locke, “I do have one last thing I want a real answer to. Jean asked about the contracts you take. He asked why, and you gave us why not? But I don’t think that cuts to the heart of things. I can’t imagine that you people actually need the money after four hundred years. Am I wrong?”
“No. I could touch sums, at an hour’s notice, that would buy a city-state,” said Patience.
“So why are you still mercenaries? Why build your world around it? Why do you call yourselves Bondsmagi without flinching? Why ‘Incipa veila armatos de’?”
“Ahhh,” said Patience. “This is a deeper draught than you might wish to take.”
“Let me be the judge.”
“As you will. When did the Vadrans start raiding the northern coasts, where the Kingdom of the Marrows is now?”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Indulge me. When did they first come down from that miserable waste of theirs, whatever their word for it—”
“Krystalvasen,” said Jean. “The Glass Land.”
“About eight hundred years ago,” said Locke. “So I was taught.”
“And how long since the Therin people moved onto this continent, from across the Iron Sea?”
“Two thousand years, maybe,” said Locke.
“Eight hundred years of Vadran history,” said Patience. “Two thousand for the Therin. The Syresti and the Golden Brethren are older still. Let’s generously give them three thousand years. Now … what if I told you that we had reason to believe that some of the Eldren ruins on this continent were built more than twenty thousand years ago? Perhaps even thirty thousand?”
“That’s pretty damned wild,” said Locke. “How can you—”
“We have means,” said Patience with a dismissive wave. “They’re not important. What’s important is this—no one in recorded history has ever made a credible claim of meeting the Eldren. Whatever they were, they vanished so long ago that our ancestors didn’t leave us any stories about meeting them in the flesh. By the time we took their empty cities, only the gods could know how long they’d been deserted.
“Now, one glance at these cities tells us they were masters of a sorcery that makes ours look like an idiot’s card tricks by comparison. They built miracles, and built them to last for hundreds of centuries. The Eldren meant to tend their garden here for a very, very long time.”
“What made them leave?” said Locke.
“I used to scare myself as a kid by thinking about this,” said Jean.
“You can scare yourself now by thinking about it,” said Patience. “Indeed, Locke, what made them leave? There are two possibilities. Either something wiped them out, or something frightened them so badly that they abandoned all their cities and treasures in their haste to be gone.”
“Leave the world?” said Locke. “Where would they go?”
“We don’t have the faintest speck of an idea,” said Patience. “But regardless of how their marvelous cities were emptied in advance of our tenancy, it happened. Something out there made it happen. We have to assume that something could return.”
“Gah,” said Locke, putting his head in his hands. “Patience, you’re a regular bundle of smiles, you know that?”
“I warned you this might not be cheering.”
“This world and all its souls are the sovereign estate of the Thirteen,” said Locke. “They rule it, protect it, and tend the mechanisms of nature. Hell, maybe they were the ones that kicked the Eldren out.”
“Strange, then, that they wouldn’t mention it to us explicitly,” said Patience.
“Patience, let me reveal something from personal experience,” said Locke. “The gods tell us what we need to know, but when you start asking about things you really just want to know, you’d best expect long pauses in the conversation.”
“Inconvenient,” said Patience. “Of course it’s possible that the gods are keeping mum about what happened to the Eldren. Or they couldn’t act to stop it … or wouldn’t. We’ve spent centuries arguing these possibilities. The only sensible assumption is that we’ve got to take care on our own behalf.”
“How?” said Locke.
“The use of sorcery in a long-term fashion, in a grand and concerted manner, with many magi working together, leaves an indelible imprint upon the world. Persons and forces sensitive to magic can detect this phenomenon, just as you can look at a river and tell which direction it’s flowing, and put your hand in the water to tell how fast and warm it is. Great workings are like burning beacons on a clear dark night. Somewhere out in the darkness, we must assume, are things it would be in our best interest not to signal.
“That’s why we maintain only a handful of places like the Sky Chamber, and prefer not to spend our time building fifty-story towers out of glass. We suspect the Eldren paid for their lack of subtlety. They made themselves obvious to some power they didn’t necessarily need to cross paths with.”
“Did my … did the ritual you used to get rid of that poison—”
“Oh, hardly. It was a significant piece of work. Any mage within twenty miles would have felt it, but what I’m talking about requires a great deal more time and trouble. And that, at last, is why we’ve made our contracts such a focus of our lives. Working toward the diverging goals of thousands upon thousands of others over the years dissipates the magical consequences of concentrating our power.
“Think of us as a few hundred tiny flames, crackling in the night. By sparking randomly, at different times, in different directions, we avoid the danger of flaring together into one vast and visible conflagration.”
“I congratulate you,” said Locke. “My mind has been thoroughly bent. But I think I sort of understand. Your little guild … if what you’re saying is true, you didn’t band together just to keep the peace or any bullshit like that. This Eldren thing really spooks you.”
“Yes,” she said. “The court magicians of the last few years of the Therin Throne were out of control. Circles of pure ambition, working to undermine one another. They wouldn’t heed reason. The founders of our order brought their concerns to Emperor Talathri and were laughed off. But we knew the truth of the matter. If human sorcery is to exist at all, it must be quiet and disciplined, or we risk firsthand knowledge of the fate of the Eldren.”
“Pardon my limited understanding of your powers,” said Jean, “but what you did to Therim Pel was anything but quiet.”
“Or disciplined,” said Patience. “Yes, it was precisely the sort of focused, grand-scale will-working we can’t afford. But on that one occasion, it was a necessary risk. The imperial seat, its infrastructure, its archives—all the heritable trappings of power had to be obliterated. Without Therim Pel, any would-be restorer of the empire found the easy path to legitimacy swept away. We needed that security in our early years.”
“While you hunted down any magician that wouldn’t join you,” said Locke.
“Without mercy,” said Patience. “You’re right not to think of us as altruists. Certainly we can be hard. But perhaps you’ll grant now that our motivations are, if not philanthropic, at least … complicated.”
Locke merely grunted and spooned porridge into his mouth.
“Have I satisfied you on this matter?”
Locke nodded and swallowed. “I’m afraid that if you tell me any more I’ll never be able to sleep in a dark room again.”
“Shall we talk about our business in Karthain?” said Jean, sensing that he and Locke were both in the mood for a less disquieting subject.
“The five-year game,” said Patience. “Are the two of you ready for details?”
“My fighting spirit’s back in residence,” said Locke. “I’ve been stuck in bed for weeks. Turn me loose with a list of laws you want broken.”
“Are you sure you don’t want any tea, Jean?” said Patience.
“No,” said Jean. “Not for breaking fast. I wouldn’t say no to red wine, though. Good rug
ged paint-stripping stuff. Plonk with sand in it. That’s a good planning wine.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“So,” said Locke, “we work for your faction. I presume that’s you, Coldmarrow, Navigator, all you high-minded types who only slaughter people when they’ve been naughty little children. What about your fellow five-ringers? Where do they stand?”
“Providence and Temperance will be cheering for you. Foresight, as I’m sure will be no surprise, will be hoping for you to slip and break your neck.”
“Foresight and the Falconer’s lot, that’s the other team? Just two sides, no splinter factions, no lurking surprises?” said Locke.
“We only have enough major disagreements to supply two factions, I’m afraid.”
The door slipped open, and Coldmarrow entered with a tray. He set down an open bottle of red wine, several glasses, and Patience’s mug from the previous night. He then handed Patience two scrolls and withdrew as soundlessly as he’d come.
Patience took her tea mug in hand. There was a sizzling noise, and a cloud of steam wafted from the cup. Jean poured two glasses of wine and set one in front of Locke. He took a swig from his own. It tasted like something out of a tanning vat.
“Ah,” he said, “demonic ass-wash. Just the thing.”
“I’m not sure we meant that for drinking,” said Patience. “Possibly for repelling boarders.”
“Smells adequate to the task,” said Locke, adding water to his glass.
“Now, these,” said Patience, pushing the scrolls toward Locke and Jean with her free hand, “would be you.”
Jean picked up his scroll, snapped the seal, and found that it was actually several tightly rolled documents. He scanned them and saw Lashani letters of transit.
“For … Tavrin Callas!” He scowled.
“An old and comfortable piece of clothing, I should think,” said Patience with a smirk.
Beneath the letters of transit, which were a reasonably common means for travelers to prove themselves something less than total vagabonds, there was a letter of credit at one Tivoli’s countinghouse, for the sum of three thousand Karthani ducats. If he wanted to lay claim to that money, of course, he’d have to accept his old alias one more time.