Mage's Blood

by David Hair

  Prissy waggled herself helpfully at Alaron, who did his best to look the other way. ‘Well?’ she said in something approximating a seductive purr, ‘wanna bury your face in these?’

  ‘He doesn’t,’ Ramon said without looking up, ‘he’s saving himself for the woman of his dreams. Which is rather sad as she’s not interested.’ He rummaged in his pouch and produced a silver Silacian foli, which he pressed into her hands. ‘Look, take this and go away. I’ll treble it if you never talk to us again.’

  ‘Quadruple it and you’ve got a deal.’

  Ramon frowned. ‘You want me to pay you four foli not to bed you?’

  She shrugged. ‘It was your idea.’

  ‘What’s your normal rate?’

  ‘Three silver.’

  ‘So you’re saying you want three to sleep with you and four if we don’t?’

  ‘Um, yeah.’

  ‘Okay, here’s another two. Start without me and I’ll catch you up later.’ She pouted and stomped away, but not before she’d pocketed the coins. Alaron tried to work out who had won that exchange, but gave up and went back to thinking about Cym.

  The next round arrived. Ramon took a slurp of sour red wine, winced slightly and let a cheery smile play across his face. He was clearly enjoying playing at criminals.

  ‘By the way, Cym is interested in me,’ Alaron told him. ‘I’m just waiting for the right moment.’

  ‘Uh-huh. In your dreams, lanky. Is there still a man in the watchtower?’

  Alaron peered back to the palace. ‘Yes, but he’ll come down at dusk. Anyway, Cym came back and helped me when I was at my lowest point. She gave me a periapt, free of charge.’

  ‘Nothing is free, Alaron: she owns you, as if she didn’t already. I bet she’s tried to talk you into giving the you-know-what to her Rimoni pals if we get it.’

  ‘No, she hasn’t.’ He decided not to mention Cym’s suggestion of the Ordo Costruo.

  ‘We don’t want to start a war with it, Al. We should just keep it secret and live quiet lives of luxury and crime,’ said Ramon with relish.

  ‘I’m not a thief and neither is Cym—’

  ‘Oh please, she’s Rimoni: to be a gypsy is to lead a life of crime.’

  ‘They used to have an empire,’ Alaron retorted.

  ‘And they lost it and were nearly wiped out. Now they’re forbidden the ownership or even the rent of land so of course they’re all thieves now. I’m just being realistic. If we take the view that we’re totally in it for ourselves, then we can quietly set about accumulating money without having to make awkward choices that will all lead to war and misery anyway. It makes perfect sense.’

  ‘But it’s not right.’

  ‘According to who? Alaron, you need to dry behind your ears. The Rondians run the world because they’re the biggest pack of bullies, not because they’re nice people – they’ve got nine-tenths of the magi, including all the most powerful ones. They tax us and demand tribute from us and generally roger us up the arse, and why? Because they can! If they realise someone has found their precious Scytale, they’re going to smash the pillars of heaven to get it back.’

  ‘But by then we’ll be Ascendants too.’

  ‘Al, it took the first Ascendants years to master the gnosis. You and I aren’t in the same field as them in terms of knowledge and skill, regardless of our blood-strength. Even as Ascendants we wouldn’t last ten minutes against the Pallas Kirkegarde. If we find this thing, we’ll need to keep it utterly secret.’

  Alaron scowled, trying to think of a rational counter-argument, but he couldn’t. ‘It’s just not right.’

  Ramon rolled his eyes and went back to his mapping.

  ‘Why are we so rubbish at the gnosis?’ Alaron asked miserably.

  Ramon frowned. ‘Speak for yourself. I’m competent enough; it’s just that I’m only a sixteenth-blood. That’s the lowest you can be without having no power at all. But I get by.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m a quarter-blood. There are lots of quarter-bloods who are accounted powerful, so what’s wrong with me?’

  Ramon fixed him in the eye. ‘You really want to know?’

  Alaron blinked. ‘Of course!’

  Ramon reached out and tweaked his nose. ‘It’s because you have no self-confidence. You don’t believe in yourself and you’re afraid of the gnosis.’

  Alaron had been preparing himself for something complicated and beyond his control, not this. He was silent for a moment, then said vehemently, ‘I do have confidence! I know a spell will work when I cast it – I’m only afraid when doing the sorcery stuff, you know that. Hel, if I can fight Malevorn knowing right from the start I’m going to lose, then I’m hardly going to be afraid of a little spell not working, am I?’

  Ramon shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. It’s pretty clear to everyone else. You fight Malevorn because you can’t control your temper, but you’ve never once believed you’d beat him.’

  ‘He’s a pure-blood – I never stood a chance—’

  ‘Of course you didn’t – because you were mentally already beaten. You were just feeding his ego. If you’d really wanted to take him down you’d have knifed him in his sleep. You never tried to win, you were just fighting to get a badge of honour that said “I tried”.’ Ramon tapped the table. ‘Your first experience of the gnosis was to see your mother’s face and all her nightmares. It’s no wonder you’re petrified by what the gnosis can do.’

  Alaron felt like he’d been slapped. ‘I thought you were my friend!’

  ‘I am your friend, idiot. That’s why I’m telling you this. Look, once you accept the gnosis and learn to fight to win, you’ll master all your fears and become a half-decent mage. So harden up, stop doubting and believe in yourself. It really is that simple.’

  Alaron hung his head. ‘So why didn’t you do something about Malevorn?’

  ‘Because it was an Arcanum tiff. It wasn’t important. You might think college is the beginning and end of the universe, but the truth is that all that shit is just trivia. You’ll have forgotten it all in a few years – or you should have. Alaron, just toughen up. We’re in the middle of something that could be truly huge and if you’re going to play your part, you need to put your best foot forward.’ Ramon leaned forward. ‘I’ve learned more in six months in a Silacian village than I ever did in college. The familioso stuff, it isn’t pretty.’ His voice took on a haunted quality. ‘At home I’m the familioso problem-solver: someone has a problem, they go to the Pater, and he sends for me. I fix it. You’re still sheltered from that side of life, but you won’t be for long. Harden up, amici.’

  ‘How?’

  Ramon rolled his eyes, then put a hand over Alaron’s. ‘Mostly you need to stop thinking negatively about yourself. Never say “I can’t”; say “I can”. Be positive.’ He took a sip of beer. ‘Alaron, inside your shell of insecurity and incompetence is a tenacious mage and a natural leader – I see flashes of it when you lose your temper. But you need to draw that out of yourself while you’re calm.’

  Alaron wrinkled his nose. ‘I can’t— Uh, okay, I’ll try.’

  ‘Don’t try – do.’

  ‘And you can do all this?’

  Ramon grinned. ‘Of course. I’m a genius.’

  Ramon’s access to the legion barracks and battle-mage records room gave him the opportunity to copy the plans of the palace. ‘It was so damned easy it was embarrassing: one look at my legion badge and that overrode any concern of me being Silacian. Complacency, that is what it is.’

  He built them a three-dimensional map of the palace using Earthgnosis and sat back, grinning smugly as the others examined it. Alaron contributed some tiny illusory guards and had them walk the routes he had observed so they could work out the blind spots. They really did feel like the Kaden Rats reborn.

  The five-storey Governor’s Palace was in the shape of a massive H, with a massive sloping roof and a turret at each point and at every intersection. The ground floor of the governor’s wing was dedicat
ed to entertaining, and linked to the huge kitchens. The second floor was given over to more intimate entertaining and decorated with statues, art, rare artefacts and treasures of the state. The third floor was for staff facilities – the great central staircase bypassed it completely. The fourth floor, guest suites, was almost always empty. The top floor, which enjoyed fine sunset views, was for the use of the family of the governor, though Vult had been widowed some years previously and his only child was grown up and lived in Pallas.

  ‘The study and his bedroom are on the top level,’ Cym noted, ‘but which one will have his personal stuff?’

  ‘Study, I’d think,’ Ramon replied.

  ‘No, bedroom,’ Cym replied. ‘This is stuff he only thinks about occasionally. He’ll have secretaries and servants coming and going in the study.’

  ‘We shouldn’t restrict ourselves to those two rooms,’ Alaron said. ‘Remember Fyrell lecturing us on protecting valuables? There are two ways you can do it: one, you load up wardings and hope no one comes who is too strong for you; or you go for stealth and cunning and hide them under veiling spells, relying on outwitting any enemies who might come looking. The problem with wardings is that they’re detectable to other magi; they basically say “here are my valuables – are you good enough to take them?” That doesn’t sound like Vult to me.’

  They mulled that over. ‘What will we be facing?’ Ramon asked. ‘What studies does Vult use?’

  Alaron put his hand up. ‘I can tell you that,’ he announced. ‘Like all good Noros babies, I was raised on stories of the Revolt. I found this one in Ma’s library.’ He brandished a battered copy of Generals of the Glorious Revolt. ‘It say here that Belonius Vult is “a noble and urbane general beloved of the people. He is at his most deadly to the craven foe in the arts of Sorcery and the elements of Air and Water. His mastery of Divination allows him to foresee all turns of the game.” He grinned at them. ‘It was written prior to Lukhazan, obviously. But it does give us an idea what we’ll be facing.’

  ‘If he’s mostly a diviner and clairvoyant, he’ll be of limited use when it comes to protecting his stuff,’ Ramon commented. ‘Most sorcery is fairly limited unless you’re there in person. And Air-magery is not great for traps, and nor is Water. This is good – I was worried he’d be a Fire-mage, and have all sorts of nastiness waiting for us.’

  ‘What if he used a friend, like this teacher Fyrell, to enhance his defences?’ Cym wondered aloud.

  ‘It’s not impossible,’ Ramon acknowledged, ‘but it would take a lot of trust for him to leave his defences in the hands of someone who could deactivate them, rob him and then reactivate, all the time playing the innocent. I don’t think Belonius Vult is the sort of person who gives out trust like alms on Beggars Day.’

  ‘What does your book say about General Langstrit, Alaron?’ Cym asked.

  Alaron found the page. ‘Here it is: Ha! You’ll like this: “Though from Argundy’s far vales, Jarius Langstrit heard the resounding call for freedom and came prepared to expend his blood upon the slopes of this mountain kingdom for the cause of justice. A master of the elements, the fell-handed Argundian loves nothing better than to bring the wrath of fire and lightning upon the foe, whilst his illusions cloak the presence of our boys from the cowering cheese-munchers”. “Cowering cheese-munchers” – I love it!’

  Ramon pulled a face. ‘So the general is an Elementalist – handy, but Sorcery is the weakness of Elementalists. Ordinary runic magic should be fine, provided I can get him to do anything. What about any spirit-guardians Vult might have left?’

  ‘No problem,’ Alaron answered. ‘Vult’s not a Wizard, or a Necromancer.’

  ‘But how are we going to get inside?’ Cym wondered.

  Ramon put his hands behind his head and leaned back. ‘We’ll get in. We just need to investigate a bit more and a way will open to us. Trust me.’

  Alaron looked at Cym. ‘Did the Silacian familioso just say “trust me”?’

  ‘Alaron?’ a vaguely familiar voice called as he walked up to the Governor’s Palace; he’d planned on going inside this time, to see what kind of reception area there was, how it was manned and guarded. He wore a cloth cap and a light scarf despite the heat, but it obviously hadn’t been disguise enough. So much for getting in without attracting any notice. ‘Alaron Mercer?’

  He cursed under his breath and looked up into a freckled face framed by braided blonde hair. He groaned internally: his almost-fiancée Gina Weber. ‘Uh, hello Gina,’ he responded as he sought an excuse to move on.

  Gina was wearing a grey dress and a modest headscarf covered the braids which showed she was still unmarried, but there was an engagement ring on her left hand. She was smiling like he was an old friend. ‘It is you – I thought it was! What have you been up to?’

  ‘Oh, looking after Ma, mostly. Dad’s gone east on business. Not much, you know.’

  Some of the desolation of his reply must have triggered her memory, for she suddenly coloured and apologised. ‘I’m so sorry about the graduation thing. It seemed very unfair.’

  ‘Tell the governor that,’ Alaron snapped, regretting it when she flinched. ‘Sorry, Gina, it’s not your fault. Anyway, we’re still trying to petition the governor – better get on, eh?’ He tried to walk away, but she came with him.

  ‘I hope your petition is successful, I really do. I thought you were – well, you know, a decent person.’

  He swallowed, suddenly a little choked up. It had never occurred to him to worry about what she thought of him. ‘Yeah, well, thanks for that, Gina. No hard feelings. You seemed like a decent person too.’ He met her eyes, possibly for the first time ever. ‘Good luck with your marriage to that Brician fellow.’

  Her face clouded. ‘We won’t actually marry until he gets back from the Crusade,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Well, I hope he makes it. What was his name again?’

  ‘Blayne de Noellen. His father has a big estate and lots of horses near Fellanton. He’s from an old half-blood line, like our family. Father was quite pleased—’

  ‘Good, good—Excuse me, Gina, but I have to go.’ He fought an unexpected sense of regret – not that he had really wanted to marry her, but that future had been safe, normal. Now here he was, contemplating a crime that could get him executed. ‘Goodbye, Gina.’

  ‘Watch out at the governor’s office,’ she said suddenly. ‘There’s a young mage there who’s an absolute creep. He’s their security man now that the legions have marched. He keeps propositioning me, the slime.’

  ‘Any useful battle-magi has gone east, so I’m told,’ Alaron remarked. ‘Just the arseholes and losers left, huh?’ he couldn’t help adding morosely.

  ‘I don’t think you’re either of those things, Alaron,’ Gina told him. ‘Good luck – let me know how it goes. I’m around here a lot. Unmarried mage-women like me who aren’t good at fighting or healing do most of the communication tasks. I’m working as personal secretary to the watch captain.’

  ‘Jeris Muhren?’

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘He’s wonderful. If you’d like to meet him one day I could arrange it – he already knows about you. I’ve heard him dictating letters to the governor on your behalf.’

  Alaron felt a flicker of surprise: so Muhren hadn’t been lying when he claimed to be trying to help him. ‘I’ve met him already. Look, thanks, Gina, but I’ve got to go. I might see you around.’

  She gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Good luck, Alaron.’

  He set off, then turned back. ‘Do you know Malevorn Andevarion?’ he asked her, trying to sound indifferent. Her resultant blush told him all he needed to know. He stomped away.

  He climbed the stairs to the west wing, passing assorted guards and statuary. Inside was a cavernous foyer, filled with more statues, including a huge one of Vult, and ceiling murals of the Alps. A bored-looking man sat at a large desk confronting rows of men and women of all ages. The room had an oppressive air of stillness, as if the supplicants had
been there so long that invisible spiders had woven unseen webs about them.

  Alaron sat as if he were another petitioner and began to take mental note of what he could see of the lay-out.

  ‘Alaron Mercer,’ purred a voice behind his shoulder that made him shudder.

  Alaron stood warily, confronting Gron Koll. The last time he had seen Koll’s sallow face, Muhren had just pounded it into a pillar. Sadly, Koll had healed, but the cure for acne still eluded him. He was wearing the red and blue uniform of the governor’s staff. ‘Koll. I’d heard only the dregs were still in town. I guess seeing you here proves it.’

  Gron Koll allowed a faint sneer to curl his lips, as though baiting by inferiors were beneath his contempt now. ‘The best men get the best positions, Mercer. Only the knuckleheads went east. The clever ones don’t need to go grubbing around deserts to make their fortunes. I’m Personal Aide to Acting-Governor Besko. He’s got his eye on you. And so have I, you and your little group of foreign scum that hang around your father’s house day and night. Does your gypsy slut give good sport?’

  Alaron fought the urge to hit the smirking youth whilst quelling alarm at the news that their house was being watched. ‘You and Besko are a lovely couple. Let me know when you decide to make it official.’ He turned his back to go.

  Unseen fists gripped his throat, squeezing the air from his windpipe whilst lifting him kicking and choking into the air. He was peripherally aware of shocked supplicants staring as he fought to breathe through Koll’s gnosis-choke. He was horribly afraid that Koll would probe his mind, but instead Koll just giggled as he spun Alaron slowly in the air. His vision started turning ragged, coming in and out of focus, and he felt himself beginning to black out when he was dumped on the floor, cracking his skull as he fell. He gasped for air like a beached fish as heavy hands picked him up and he was half-dragged, half-carried out the door and down the steps. The two watchmen left him sprawled on the ground in front of a small group of onlookers. He lay there, trying to inhale through tortured throat muscles.