The Mage-Fire War

by Modesitt. Jr. , L. E.

  “We don’t have control over that, ser.”

  “What’s your name, Squad Leader?”

  “Quaid, ser.”

  “Quaid, I’d very much appreciate it if you’d make an effort.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, ser.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now … let’s go see these troopers. You say they’re all recovered?” The squad leader heaved himself out of the chair.

  “They are.” Beltur followed the older trooper outside.

  The marshaling squad leader looked to Gustaan. “You’re in charge?”

  “Until relieved, Squad Leader. Gustaan.”

  “You all look healthy.” The older squad leader looked to Beltur. “There’s nothing more for you to do, Captain. Remember about the marshaling orders next time … if you would.”

  “I appreciate the reminder.” Beltur untied Slowpoke and mounted, then rode out of the marshaling post. The guards’ nods as he left were perfunctory.

  It took Beltur half a glass to ride back to the west gates of the inner city. The pair of guards there glanced at him, seemingly saw the captain’s insignia on his collars, and just nodded as he rode past, heading due south on the avenue toward the Duke’s palace. Near the gate, the houses stood wall-to-wall, but most were one or two stories, almost all built of stone or brick or some combination, with tile roofs. Closer to the square, the houses gave way to shops in three-story structures, with what appeared to be living quarters on the upper levels.

  Even in Fenard, Beltur had never seen so many shops so close together, and the concentration of both fragrances and odors was almost overpowering in the damp still air of late midafternoon. He touched the dressing across his forehead—moist, but not soaking.

  Just before he reached the north side of the square, he sensed the presence of two white mages in the west wing of the palace, the chaos swirling around them so strongly that he doubted either would be aware of his presence until he was closer, but certainly they’d sense him once he entered the palace unless he fully shielded himself.

  The avenue seemed to end at the north side of the square, but then Beltur realized that it formed an oblong border around the paved space, in the center of which was a large fountain. Directly opposite Beltur, on the far side of the square, were the iron gates to the palace, set in a brick wall some four yards high. A bronze crest ornamented each gate, but Beltur couldn’t tell what the crests represented because the gates were swung open. He turned Slowpoke to the right and began to ride around the square. The orderly array of carts and wagons reminded him more of Elparta than Fenard, as did the two patrollers he saw in green-and-gray uniforms.

  He was almost abreast of the Palace Inn, which was to his right, before he noticed it, simply because he had been looking more in the direction of the square and the Duke’s palace. Rather than a side yard and a stable, there was a paved lane leading to an arched entryway. Beltur could sense people in the inn and horses to the rear, and he guided Slowpoke up the lane, noting that the archway was high enough that he didn’t even have to duck, an indication that coaches were expected more than infrequently.

  He had just passed the archway when an older man liveried in blue trimmed with cream stepped out on the side porch.

  “Captain … this is not a livery stable.”

  Beltur reined up Slowpoke. “I was under the impression that it is the Palace Inn. Am I mistaken?” His words were cool and formal.

  “Are you here to see a guest or to deliver a message?”

  “No. I’m here to stay for a few days, until I’m posted. I don’t relish … my current accommodations.”

  “There are a few chambers on the third level that run two silvers a night. Those on the second level are five.”

  “What are the beds like on the third?”

  “They are more than … adequate.”

  Beltur looked hard at the functionary and said, “I’d heard that your establishment was known for courtesy and respect. Perhaps I was mistaken. Or perhaps you take me for an ordinary travel-weary captain.” Beltur extended order around the man, not enough to restrain him, but to create a feeling of presence.

  The functionary swallowed. “I apologize, ser. How may we be of service?”

  “A chamber with a washroom, and I’ll need this uniform taken care of, and, of course, a stall with plenty of grain for my mount.”

  “Ah … the stall and feed are five coppers a night.”

  “Excellent.”

  The functionary rang a bell. In moments, a stableboy in blue appeared. Beltur followed him into the stable, which had well-swept stone floors. The stall given over to Slowpoke was not only clean but had fresh straw on the floor.

  “Is there anything special about grooming him, ser?” asked the stableboy.

  “You’d better let me unsaddle him. Don’t push him. Talk to him, that’s all.” Beltur handed him a pair of coppers.

  Before he could think of lifting the duffel, a blue-liveried porter appeared and took it.

  Beltur followed him to an ornately carved counter of goldenwood at one side of the front foyer.

  The clerk behind it looked at Beltur, his eyes taking in the dressing across Beltur’s forehead below the visor cap. “Ahaarf tells me you’ll be staying for several days, Captain…”

  “Beltur, out of Telsen. That’s correct.”

  “A third-floor chamber with a private washroom will be three silvers a night, and the stall is, as Ahaarf may have told you, five coppers—”

  Beltur put two golds on the counter, both of them the recently minted ones from Hydlen that had been in the white mage’s strongbox. “I’ll be here for at least three days, but I won’t know how much longer for a day or two.”

  “Thank you, Captain Beltur. I am Faarkad. If you need anything else, you only have to let me know.”

  “I will indeed. I trust there will be some warm water in the washroom. And can you clean this uniform?”

  “Yes, ser. If you leave it with the hall porter in the morning, we can take care of that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Beltur followed the porter up the wide stairs to the third level. The chamber was certainly not as large as the one he and Jessyla had shared at Johlana’s, but the bed was as wide, and the coverlet and the upholstery were all in blue and cream.

  “Will that be all, ser?” asked the porter, a strapping young man.

  “Yes, thank you.” Beltur handed him two coppers as well.

  Once he was alone in the chamber, he walked to the window, which, unsurprisingly, opened overlooking the rear stable. While waiting for the porter or a maid with the hot water, he unpacked the duffel and smoothed out the second uniform.

  In less than two quints, he’d spent more than two golds, but he couldn’t think of a better way to get within walking distance of the palace. He just hoped he could carry off the act as the wealthy provincial second son forced into service as an officer, at least for as long as necessary.

  The hot water arrived, two kettles carried by a muscular older maid, who left with another pair of coppers. Then Beltur washed up, shaved, and then used a damp cloth to get the worst of the dust and grime off the uniform he’d been wearing. He put on another dressing and re-donned the uniform. Waiting until he sensed no one else was outside in the upper hall, he eased out of his chambers under a concealment and made his way down the stairs to the first level, exploring with his senses the two small, and currently empty, private dining salons, the public room, the covered and railed front porch where a single man—older, judging from his lower chaos/order balance—sat in the shade, apparently reading.

  Then he sensed someone approaching the front counter, behind which stood the clerk.

  “You actually let a mere captain in, Faarkad?”

  “Ser … you said that, in the summer, if someone had golds and looked acceptable … He asked for a washroom and paid with two good minted golds, and he tipped the porters and the maid. He’s up on the third level. He has to
be the second or third son of a wealthy provincial. He has a trace of an accent, but he’s well-spoken … and he pays. He’s awaiting a posting, and he’ll likely be gone in less than an eightday. We’ve had to deal with far worse. You remember that Gallosian merchant…”

  “Don’t remind me. Just don’t make it a habit.”

  Beltur smiled. Faarkad had noticed the dressing on his forehead, but had said nothing to his superior about it. With that thought, he slipped away from the counter and into the back hall, where he dropped the concealment and walked toward the public room. It was almost late enough for an early dinner.

  He couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about his quarters and the meal he’d likely get, compared to what Gustaan and the others were doubtless getting, but there hadn’t seemed any other way to get them close enough and comparatively safe while he did what was necessary. And he had promised them a healthy reward when they returned to Haven.

  LXXVII

  Fiveday morning, Beltur was up early, since he needed to eat and leave the inn before sixth glass. He turned his duty uniform over to the hall porter for cleaning, and then walked down to breakfast—cheesed eggs and ham rashers, with sweet dark bread and an ale. Like everything else at the Palace Inn, it was expensive—six coppers. He ate quickly.

  The sole server in the public room looked at him as he finished the last morsel of bread and rose. “You’ll have to hurry.”

  Beltur smiled and adjusted his cap. “I know.”

  “They really made you go back on duty while you’re still wounded?”

  “It’s almost healed.”

  “Did the fighting turn your hair silver-white?”

  “Actually, it did. It happens.” He handed her a pair of coppers. “I’ll likely see you tomorrow morning.” Then he hurried out of the inn and in the direction of headquarters.

  Once he was out of sight of anyone who might have been watching from the inn, he stepped into an alley off the avenue, and raised a concealment, but not a full one. That was tiring if he had to hold it for too long, and could wait until he neared the palace and the two white mages.

  He walked carefully back toward the palace, noting that the main gates were closed, most likely because it was early, at least for everyone but troopers and their officers, and let his senses range over the building and its two wings. It didn’t take him long to discover an entrance at the river end of the east wall surrounding the palace, where there was a great deal of activity.

  The entrance used by tradesmen and teamsters, of course. Walking carefully so that no one ran into him, Beltur continued eastward past the main gates and then along the east palace wall. Even before he neared the side gate, he could sense the guards posted there, but there were no mages. From what else he could sense, the guards were inspecting every wagon that went through the gate into the bailey.

  That made his entrance relatively simple. He just walked in close beside a large wagon, hidden by his concealment, and then eased toward one of the loading doors, moving inside the building. His progress from the serving and storage areas up into the administrative and function room was slow, partly because the corridors on the lower level were narrow, and he often had to wait for someone to leave a passageway before he could enter it.

  While he wasn’t totally sure, he suspected almost a glass had passed before he emerged from a service stairway into a wider corridor on the second level, the one he would have entered if he had come through the main gates. Two guards stood just inside the closed doorway that led to the front courtyard. Neither spoke, although the corridor was empty except for them and Beltur. He waited a time, but no one spoke. So Beltur turned and headed back in the direction of the river, passing several small chambers, one of which contained a fair amount of free chaos, although Beltur could sense no one in the room. A study for one of the whites?

  He moved on, past empty chamber after empty chamber, before taking another narrow staircase up a level. The third level he judged to be the one devoted to the Duke and various functionaries, although, again, most of the chambers were empty. In the center of that level, he located a chamber with double doors, and with a pair of guards posted there, one on each side. Thinking that the space beyond might be an audience chamber, he eased closer to the guards, who he thought might be murmuring back and forth.

  “… won’t be long now…”

  “… can’t wait … all in a foul humor…”

  Then, abruptly, bells pealed, and Beltur sensed people moving into the level where he stood from staircases, corridors, and who knew where. He pressed himself into a recessed alcove that held some sort of statue that he couldn’t identify merely by sensing, and tried to keep track of what was happening.

  You just got here earlier than all the functionaries did.

  A man walked toward the pair of guards, then stopped and said, “The Duke won’t be holding any audiences until first glass of the afternoon, today or tomorrow. He’ll be in his study.”

  Whoever that functionary was turned and headed down the corridor. Beltur decided to follow him. Then, he sensed a growing presence of chaos and immediately put himself behind full shields. As he followed the man who’d informed the guards, he tried to discern where the white mage might be, then decided that he was a level below, and, for the moment, that suited Beltur.

  The functionary turned left at the next side hallway, one much narrower, which ended at a doorway with an open door. Beyond the door was an open space, where two men sat at table desks.

  “No audiences until this afternoon. You should be able to catch up by then. You can take the first audience, Bhaarkhan.”

  “The Montgren mess, ser?” asked one of the men.

  “Don’t mention it. Especially if one of the Duke’s ears is around.”

  “No one knows—”

  “Exactly. All you need to know is that Commander Vashkyt is acting marshal and that the Duke and the heir will be conferring with him when he arrives.”

  “That must be tomorrow.”

  “It hasn’t been announced.” The functionary walked into the small chamber behind the larger one and closed the door.

  “You shouldn’t have said anything,” offered the man at the other table desk, who had not spoken before.

  “Everyone knows—”

  “Then don’t say it. He’s right. You know what it’s like when the Duke’s in one of his moods.”

  Neither man spoke, and both returned to what they were doing, which appeared to be copying, but what that might be Beltur couldn’t tell under a concealment. He eased out of the chamber carefully because, while he was unseen, loud footsteps could certainly be heard.

  He took a side corridor and headed farther west. It ended in the middle of a larger corridor. While the right side was unguarded, the left side was guarded by two troopers, which suggested to Beltur that it just might be where he needed to go. There was enough space between the troopers for Beltur to slowly make his way past without either being the wiser.

  Farther down the corridor, there was another pair of guards posted outside another doorway. Beltur carefully made his way there, edging along the wall, then stopped a yard or so away, just to wait and listen to see what happened, since guards posted inside a guarded corridor suggested that the Duke just might be inside that chamber, or, if not the Duke, someone fairly highly placed.

  “Straighten up,” murmured one guard. “Seneschal Paaltrun’s headed this way.”

  A man neared, clearly older from the fainter order/chaos around him.

  After the door opened, Beltur heard just a few words before it closed.

  “Honored heir, your sire…”

  Those words suggested that the heir was alone in the chamber, possibly a small audience room, standing in for the Duke.

  In a fraction of a quint, the door opened, and the seneschal stepped out, carefully closing it behind himself, if firmly, almost, Beltur thought, as if the man wanted to slam it shut and dared not.

  Both guards relaxed slig
htly, but neither spoke.

  Beltur waited, hoping someone else might arrive who would provide more information, or that the two troopers would. Neither happened. A good quint went by, and no one neared the small audience chamber, although Beltur sensed a number of people moving in and out of chambers on the unguarded end of the corridor.

  Then he sensed a palpable and powerful chaotic presence headed in his direction. He stiffened, waiting to see if the white mage sensed him, even though he was fully and completely shielded, but the mage turned down the unguarded section of the corridor. Beltur slowly and quietly let out his breath.

  “Did you sigh?” said one of the guards.

  “Not me.”

  “Must be hearing things. Last thing I need now.”

  “Better here than some other places. Uh-oh.” The trooper stiffened.

  After a moment, so did the other one.

  Beltur sensed three men striding down the corridor in his direction. Their steps suggested officers in a hurry. He tried to sense more, but all he could discern was a faint swirl of order and chaos, slightly more chaotic than orderly, surrounding the officer in the middle, who stopped short of the guards and said, “Commander Haarkyn to see the heir. At his request.”

  “Yes, ser.” The shorter guard turned, rapped on the door, and announced, “Commander Haarkyn.”

  There was a muffled response that Beltur could not make out, and the guard opened the door.

  The commander entered and closed the door.

  Since neither the guards nor the two newcomers spoke, and since a commander wouldn’t likely be accompanied by rankers, and since Beltur couldn’t sense rank insignia, he deduced that the two who had accompanied the commander were officers, likely majers, possibly captains, but definitely not undercaptains.

  The uneasy silence continued for half a quint. Then the commander left the audience chamber, closing the door firmly, just short of slamming it. He said nothing, just strode back down the corridor, the other two officers flanking him.