by Karen Miller
And it was about to blow apart, and take the artisanry with it.
“Baret, you snivelling idiot, what did you do?”
Deaf to his ranting, to her shouting fellow artisans, she snatched up the clock. The unstable incant hammered against her mage-sense, throbbing pain through every bone and muscle. Fighting the urge to run, she opened herself to the twisting mayhem of Baret’s mistake.
Except it wasn’t a mistake. He’d done this on purpose.
What was he thinking? You can’t thread the central helix counterclockwise! All that does is unravel the incant’s foundations. Baret, you—you jigget!
His misguided attempt to treble the clock’s natural life span had resulted in a fatal torquing of the incant. Like beads popping off a broken string, each of its elements was springing free of alignment, tearing the delicate magework’s balance to shreds. And if she didn’t reverse its wild unravelling—
On a sob, she plunged her mage-sense into the heart of Baret’s chaos. Cried out as she felt the distortions of power lash at her. The incant was almost entirely unravelled now, a rope of fire with its strands cut nearly all the way through. Acting on desperate instinct and arrogant faith, she wrapped her mage-sense around the unstable incant and sank to her knees. Sought to smother the flames and undo the damage.
Hamina. Leba’cek. Nusti. Ach’ara. Dolni. Dolni.
They were words of command to halt stupid, ignorant Baret’s unravelling incant in its tracks. She felt them clash with his robust magework, sizzle and spark and shiver through the workroom. Crying out at the pain, she thought she might be catching fire. Wasn’t sure if she cared, though it hurt so much…
But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was averting disaster. Except she wasn’t averting it. She’d slowed it down a little but the incant was still unravelling.
No!
She plunged herself deeper still into the maelstrom. And this was dangerous, this was reckless. Clock mages played with elemental forces, with time. And Baret might be a jigget but he was a powerful mage, too. In twisting this incant he’d not just captured one of the natural world’s greatest impulses, he’d imposed his will on it. Clock magery was about working in harmony with the elements, but stupid Baret Ventin had attempted domination.
Now this is arrogance, Ibbitha. This is a mage with more power than sense.
And now nature, resentful of Baret taking such liberties, was fighting back… and if she wasn’t careful it would beat her to a pulp even though she was doing her best to put things right.
The funeral clock’s rising heat scorched through her lightly padded green linen tunic. Its crystal carapace was thrumming a rising song of distress. Tears pricked her closed eyes in desperate sympathy. Her bones began to hum in counterpoint to its violent tune.
If she was going to stop this, she had to stop it now.
Dolni. Dolni. Trinta’da. Va’rai.
But the words of power weren’t enough.
With a wailing cry she lifted her right hand against the fiery mayhem. Uncrooked a clawed finger, eyes screwed tight shut, and drew a dangerous sigil in the dark. Rantiracek. The sigil of endings. It was a crazy gamble. Undoing another mage’s work was crushingly difficult at the best of times.
The sigil’s power ripped through her, sundering her flesh from bone. Or so it felt. Curled onto her side, shuddering, she could only breathe and hope. Though she lay utterly unmoving, it seemed the artisanry rocked around her, rippled beneath her, torn free from solid earth. The clock in her gasping embrace burned as hot as the sun.
Please, please, oh please…
Breath by breath the roiling chaos subsided. She could hear her heartbeat again, feel the air rasping in and out of her lungs. She could feel Baret’s incant, frozen in time. Harmless now, and the artisanry saved. Slowly, she rolled onto her back and prised open her eyes.
Justice preserve me. It worked.
“And what is the meaning of this, Mage Lindin?”
Artisan Master Arndel, glaring down at her, his bony face flushed hectic with anger and shock. Crowded at his back, Baret Ventin and Ibbitha and the others.
“Look what she’s done to the Somerfell commission,” said Baret, pointing. “Artisan Master, she’s ruined it.”
Her head hurt so much her vision was blurred red around the edges. Blinking, she looked down at the clock still clutched to her chest.
Oh.
The Somerfell funeral clock was indeed ruined, its glorious gold and peacock blue crystal smoked black and distorted into an ugly, misshapen lump of dead glass.
Artisan Master Arndel narrowed his eyes. “On your feet, Mage Lindin.”
Awkwardly, Barl set the funeral clock on the floor. But as soon as she let go it toppled, and shattered. Everyone gasped. Sorry for the ruination of beauty, she clambered herself upright. Nobody offered a hand to help her. Every muscle hurt, her head pounded as though it would split apart, and her blistered palms stung from the heat of Baret’s warped creation.
Even so, she met Arndel’s frigid glare unflinching. “This isn’t my fault. That funeral clock was doomed the moment Baret meddled with the timepiece incant.”
“How dare you blame me for this?” said Baret, everything about him savage. Of course he was desperate now to save his own skin. “This is your mischief! You thought you could do a better job of the clock, because you’re Barl Lindin, the greatest mage ever born. So you interfered and this is the result!”
Stunned, Barl turned on him. “How can you stand there and tell such lies? You tried to force the timepiece’s incant into an unnatural extension!”
Baret’s gaze flicked to the pieces of smashed crystal, scattered across the floor between them. The central timepiece had rolled free, a sad, melted lump of gold and silver wiring. The incant it had contained, that Baret had toyed with, was extinguished. No proof remained of what rules he’d broken. The danger he’d put all of them in.
He looked to Arndel. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, Artisan Master. I would never attempt anything so foolhardy.”
No. No. Not even Baret could be this craven. “Yes, you did. You know you did.” She took a step toward Arndel, her outstretched fingers trembling. “Artisan Master, please, you must believe me. And if I hadn’t overriden Baret’s meddling this artisanry would be nothing but a smoking hole in the ground! I—”
“Enough!” said Arndel, knocking her hand aside. “Are you mad? Do you expect me to believe you could override Baret Ventin’s magework? Mage Lindin, from the day you set foot in my artisanry you have been a disruptive presence. Until now I chose to overlook that, because your work has been satisfactory and because you pleased Lady Grie. Clearly I was in error. Clearly all I did was encourage your obstreperous arrogance. I shall do so no longer. You’re dismissed.”
Barl blinked at him, stunned.
But you can’t dismiss me. Not for this. You can’t.
“Master Arndel, you’re being unjust.” Her voice was thin and shaking. “I might be outspoken, but I have never been untruthful. You won’t find anyone who can claim they ever caught me in a lie. Baret Ventin’s the liar here, not me.”
Arndel’s lips pressed so tight they all but vanished. “Mage Ventin has been with me for nine years. You have worked here less than one. And you think I should discard my good opinion of him on your unproven say-so? Give credence to your outlandish claims?”
“Yes! Master Arndel, you can’t make me pay for Baret’s mistake!”
“No, Mage Lindin,” said Arndel. His cold voice cut as deep as a plunged knife. “The mistake was mine, in appointing you to this artisanry. I have rectified it. Leave. And you can be sure a report on this disgraceful affair will be sent forthwith to the Guild.”
The workroom was so hushed Barl thought she could hear every watching mage’s heartbeat. Light-headed with pain and disbelief, she searched Baret Ventin’s face for any hint of shame. His blank eyes stared back at her. On his lips a small, derisive smile.
You bastard.
Arndel pointed to the workroom door. “Will you leave, Mage Lindin? Or must I have you removed by rough handling? If so I will make sure you cannot find magework anywhere in Dorana!”
Did he have so much influence? Perhaps. His client list was impressive. Most likely Lord Bren or Lady Grie or another of his patrons would see her ruined in return for a lifetime of generous considerations.
Barl made herself smile. “You’re a fool, Arndel. If you’d given me the chance I’d have made clocks to make you famous. I would have made you renowned throughout the known world. Now all you have is Baret Ventin. And I promise… before either of you is much older he’ll bring this artisanry down around your foolish ears.”
And on that parting note, she walked from the workroom. Every step was a torment, her magic-battered body a shouting of pain. She welcomed it. Her bruises and scorch marks were her badge of honour. She’d done what was needful. She’d done nothing wrong.
And now she knew what it was she had to do next.
The question is, will Remmie forgive me?
Chapter Ten
Troubled, Venette tapped her neat fingernails to the table. The sound rattled loud in the hushed Council chamber.
Brice frowned. “You wish to say something, Lady Martain?”
He only ever called her that when he was vexed. But she wasn’t the one who’d requested this urgent meeting. That was Sallis Arkley’s doing. With Shari’s connivance, of course. Thick as Feenish thieves, those two.
“I fail to see why this matter couldn’t wait,” she said, letting her own vexation show. “Without Morgan we can hardly claim a united stance, can we?”
Shari Frieden grimaced. “True enough, which is why he should be here. His absence reflects poorly upon his dedication.”
“He has personal business this morning, Shari, that couldn’t be postponed.”
“Personal business.” Shari sniffed, disapproving. “I tell you, once Greve finally expires, Morgan will be hard-pressed to justify his lacksadaisical attitude.”
Shari Frieden really was a miserable sow. Morgan, you idiot, why won’t you be more careful? “You’re too harsh.”
“And you, Venette, are too lenient!” Sallis said. “But I didn’t request this meeting to discuss your shortcomings.”
“Which is just as well for you, Sallis, since I would then feel obliged to point out a few of your flaws, such as how it came about that Morgan’s pending incants were not presented for patenting with Brahn Sorvold’s, and the rest!”
“What?” said Sallis, flushing dark red. “Do you imply my conduct has been somehow improper?”
“Imply? No. I claim it as fact. Both you and Shari have deliberately obstructed Morgan’s progress.”
Shari gasped. “That is untrue!”
“I beg to differ.”
Shari turned to Brice. “This is outrageous! Lord Varen, you are derelict in your duty. Will you sit there saying nothing while Lady Martain questions not only my integrity, but—”
“Enough,” Brice said, his eyes hooded and cold. “Another word, Lady Frieden, and I will censure you. Lady Martain, have you proof to support such a grave accusation?”
“She does not,” said Sallis, white about the mouth. “For there is none.”
Brice folded his hands upon the table. “I will decide that. Lady Martain?”
Taking a moment to choose the approach that would best suit her ends, Venette looked through the nearest window at the morning’s damp, cloudy sky. Elvado in the rain had a different, paler kind of beauty, like a watercolour painting trapped under glass.
Morgan won’t thank me for this. But I can’t let Sallis and Shari think they play their petty games unnoticed. I promised Haeth I’d look out for her son.
Besides. Brice should know how his Council was conducting itself. Or, if he already knew, must be made to show his hand. Either his support of Morgan was genuine, or it wasn’t. It was time she knew which.
“Lady Martain.”
She’d tried Brice’s patience far enough. Looking back, she made no effort to hide her disdain for Shari and Sallis. “Morgan’s pending incants should’ve been considered for a full Council vote. They were not, even though they were submitted long before those other mages’ work came to our attention. That they weren’t is a travesty and—”
Shari slapped the table. “That is a lie! Sallis and I did consider them, and found them unsatisfactory.”
And that was too easy. “When, Shari? Not during the one patent meeting I couldn’t attend, by any chance?”
“Is that true?” said Brice, deceptively mild, as Shari and Sallis sat uncomfortably silent. “Did you wait until Venette was absent before discounting Morgan’s incants?”
So. He wasn’t aware? Or was he simply playing some deep game of his own? It didn’t matter. Not yet. All that mattered was pushing Sallis and Shari off-stride.
“Of course they did, Brice,” she said. “Because they knew I’d insist on his work being placed before you. That they weren’t is naught but petty politicking and bigotry.”
“Bigotry?” Sallis looked close to choking. “Withdraw that remark, Venette. I am an honourable man.”
“In most things you are, Sallis,” she agreed. “But when it comes to Family rankings you’ve a blind spot the size of the sun.”
“And you lack discrimination!” said Shari. “Besides, it is not petty politicking to be mindful of appearances. Had we granted Morgan another patent so soon after his Council appointment we’d have been accused of favouritism. Especially since the incants he submitted weren’t perfect.”
“No incant is perfect, Shari.”
“Brahn Sorvold’s was.”
“We’re not discussing Brahn Sorvold! Morgan’s incants might benefit from a little refining, but we have in the past patented less polished work.”
Brice sighed. “True. But like it or not, Venette, appearances do matter. Ratifying the magework of a fellow councillor has ever been a tricky business. It’s Morgan’s misfortune that in this instance, the timing was… delicate.”
“Perhaps,” she said, reluctant. “But I’d be less worried were I not aware that Sallis and Shari have taken Morgan in strong dislike.”
“I don’t see it as a problem,” said Shari, shrugging. “You seem to like him well enough for all of us.”
Venette looked at her. “If you think I will tolerate the slightest suggestion that an unsavoury affection exists between myself and Morgan Danfey—”
Brice pushed to his feet. “Enough!” Glaring, he dared them to speak. “Venette, your concern for Morgan is commendable but misplaced. He is not slighted. I’ll allow that, given his position, he is at a disadvantage but there are many mages who’d be most pleased to be as burdened as he.”
“Indeed,” Sallis muttered. “I wonder how many accolades must be heaped on him before the young man is satisfied.”
“Given,” Brice continued, with a repressive look at Sallis, “that he’ll be a lord soon, lack of privilege is hardly Morgan’s complaint. Nor does it reflect well upon him, that he would—”
“Brice, I don’t raise the matter on his behalf,” Venette said swiftly. “Believe me, if he knew I’d spoken of this he’d be furious. But I’ll happily chance that. Morgan is a friend.” She glanced at Shari, a warning. “And, I think, a great mage who hasn’t begun to fulfil his potential. I simply wanted to be sure he’s not being held back due to… irrelevant personal considerations.”
Brice sat again, slowly. “And if that were the case, Venette, do you think I’d not know it? Do you think I’d stand idly by while the power of this Council was so blatantly misused?”
And now, it seemed, he was calling her bluff. Daring her to openly accuse him of negligence or worse. She wouldn’t, of course. It was enough that she’d reminded him not to underestimate her.
“Of course not, Brice,” she said, conciliatory. “I am sorry if my concerns gave you that impression.”
Brice accepted the apology wi
th an ice-edged smile. “As it happens, Venette, I’ve examined Morgan’s submitted incants and I agree with both you and Shari. While his attention to detail isn’t what it might be, Morgan is without doubt an exceptional mage. But he needs tempering. He needs to slow down. It will do him no harm to cool his heels for a time, and learn to exercise restraint of his ambition.”
As Sallis and Shari muttered their passionate agreement, Venette could not bring herself to argue Brice’s point. Hadn’t she said the same thing to Morgan herself, more than once? And didn’t she despair, sometimes, that he’d never heed her sage advice?
I just wish I could believe the same sentiments drove Sallis and Shari.
But if she started another squabble she’d put herself at outs with Brice, and that would be a stupid thing to do.
“No, my lord,” she said, accepting temporary defeat. “I doubt it will do him any harm at all.”
“I’m flattered you agree,” said Brice. “And I charge all of you not to repeat this conversation, most especially to Morgan. Now then, Lord Arkley, might we at last touch upon the matter that brings us here?”
“Two matters,” said Sallis, his self-impressed expression sobering. “Firstly, I would draw this Council’s attention to a tempest brewing in the College.”
Venette looked down her nose at him. While she might tread warily with Brice, Sallis Arkley gave her no pause at all. “It’s Voln Hahren’s job to oversee the College. Is this another matter he feels unable to address without running to us for advice? Perhaps we should be looking for a more confident mage to take his place.”
Sallis looked at Brice, as though they were comfortably alone. “I believe Hahren is unaware of the problem. I was approached directly, by a friend. It’s a delicate business. Handled clumsily, I fear there could be unfortunate repercussions.”
“And does your troubled friend have a name, Sallis?” said Brice. “Or do you expect us to guess whose cause we are expected to champion?”
Sallow cheeks staining red, Sallis cleared his throat. “Nevin Jordane.”
“Ah.” Brice’s fingernails tap-tap-tapped on the table as he contemplated the rain running down the chamber’s windows. “So in truth we are speaking of his daughter. Yes?”