“Good. Now I hereby appoint you as my shield bearer and chief counsel.”
“What?” Tejohn bumped his soup bowl, sloshing half of it onto the table. “My king, you can not be serious.”
“The Laughing King is always serious. That’s what makes him so amusing.”
“Then my first counsel is this: find someone else.”
“Who?” Lar leaned close to him. “I mean this question most seriously. Who can I find? I know you dislike me, but you were willing to die for me. Who else deserves my trust?”
“Your shield bearer should be a diplomat. He should be clever, organized, and observant. I was born a farmer—”
“It’s a rare farmer who earns a tyrship.”
“A landless tyr.”
“Even better.”
Tejohn turned away and looked over the crowd. Now that the king had been served, they were eating again. But too many were glancing nervously toward the high table. Toward him.
He mastered his expression. “There must be someone more suitable.”
“There are,” Lar said as he lifted his bowl of soup and drank. “But they’re all dead back in Peradain. If you refuse to serve, I’ll have no one to turn to but Doctor Warpoole.”
“My king....”
“I agree. Tyr Treygar, we have an unfriendly history. This morning, I might have slain that grunt myself if I hadn’t shirked your training. I recognize my error. Must I command you to put aside your completely justified anger for the greater good?”
Tejohn held himself very still. “My king, that history was erased the moment I saw your royal mother fall. I swear to you that I will serve in whatever way you require, but this should be a temporary appointment, like your fat-faced guard over there, until you find someone more skilled in diplomacy.”
“Accepted.” Lar lifted his bowl and drank. “Have the driver ready to take us both to Tempest Pass in the morning, along with anyone else you think we’ll need. I want to bring the body of the grunt along for my uncle to examine. With the Sweeps headwinds, it will probably be a ten-day trip by cart.”
Tejohn took a deep breath. “My king, as my second counsel—”
“You mean to dissuade me from this trip.”
“I do. The tyrs will never pledge their spears to your cause if they believe you are in retreat.”
“I can not lose what I will never have. The only tyr in the empire who will back me is sitting across from me neglecting his soup, and he can field no armies.”
“But to divert for ten days—”
Lar lowered his voice. “Tyr Treygar, drink your soup while I tell you the true reason we are going to Tempest Pass. Go ahead, lift your bowl. I want our conversation to look as normal as possible. In truth, my uncle’s library is not tremendously large. He has a...reputation. It’s difficult for him to find literate assistants willing to join in his hermitage. So, while I do plan to speak with him about the portals and these creatures, in truth I’m hoping to learn a spell from him.”
Tejohn felt a chill run down his back. After what Cazia Freewell had told him about Doctor Warpoole’s wizard spell...
“Drink your soup,” Lar said. “I don’t want anyone seeing that expression on your face. The spell is not made by human beings, my tyr. It’s not a wizard’s spell. It’s derived from the Fifth Gift, the water-purification spell. And it is so deadly that my father trusted only one man with it.”
“His brother.”
“Yes.”
“What about the spell Doctor Warpoole cast at the top of the Scholars’ Tower?”
Lar sighed. “I wish I’d seen it. Caz is smart and well trained, but there’s an awful lot she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how much work goes into researching the Gifts, or how long it took to change, say, a spell to create a flat stone for laying roads into one that creates huge granite blocks for walls and fortresses. She doesn’t know how many scholars live in seclusion so that, if something should go wrong, they would be the only ones to killed.”
“I’d heard rumors...” Tejohn wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Of course. I was not kidding when I said it was scholars who built the empire. They don’t just risk their lives. Why do you think no man or woman in this fortress has yet seen me, a scholar-king, shed a single tear for my royal parents? Scholars risk their sanity, their station in life, their—” He stopped himself, realizing he was wandering from the point he wanted to make. “The Fifth Gift can purify water at a distance. The variation my uncle is safeguarding can do the same to men. It can turn the insides of their skulls to water--at a distance--twenty or more at a time.”
“Fire and Fury,” Tejohn exclaimed. “You cannot.”
“Grunts tore my royal father to pieces. Do not try to tell me what I can not do. I don’t care whether it’s honorable or not. I will murder these beasts by the hundreds, if I can get near enough. And if any tyr dares oppose me, I will break their squares the way I break stalks of grass under the sole of my boot. I have plans for this empire, Tyr Treygar, plans that would end much of the misery and injustice my people endure, plans I have nursed since I was a small boy. But all will come to nothing if Kal-Maddum slips out of Italga hands.”
Tejohn gaped at the young king beside him. It was astonishing to hear such talk from his young pupil. The Laughing King, that fool had called him, but Tejohn realized he had no idea who Lar Italga truly was.
And this spell he wanted, this variation on the Fifth Gift, might have been the weapon he needed to hold onto his throne, but it made a soldier like Tejohn--and all the good men and women he’d ever served with--into useless stick figures. Irrelevancies. Could he serve a king like that?
Tejohn remembered the last moments of Doctor Rexler’s life, when the wizard had launched volleys of darts into the advancing square or sprayed huge clouds of naked flame. The wizard’s expression had been dull and slack and his face had been slick with tears. Not for the soldiers he was killing, no, but for whatever secret, endless grief hollowed scholars suffered. Tejohn later heard that Rexler had once been a loving husband and father, but his hunger for power had taken him too far and emptied him out.
Lar Italga was nothing like that. His face was alive with conviction, and it seemed to Tejohn that the young man had become acquainted with an old friend: the righteous urge to slaughter his enemies.
Tejohn nodded. “I’ll see that we are provisioned and staffed.” For one absurd moment, Tejohn imagined himself commandeering the entire Samsit garrison, but not even Ranlin Gerrit would allow that. Still, if the king did not find spears to support him, he would never sit on the Throne of Skulls again.
But there was one thing Tejohn couldn’t deny: there was an undeniable thrill to seeing a leader speak with such conviction. Even someone like his former pupil could give heart to others when he had a plan and the will to carry it out. Fire and Fury, Tejohn was ready to believe they might actually succeed.
“By the way,” Lar said, “my substitute sword master kept trying to get me to narrow my stance. I did better when I used your techniques, my tyr.”
The king’s bowl was taken away and a platter of flat bread and roasted bird set in front of him. Tejohn received his a few moments later, but he ate without pleasure. An empire with him as shield bearer and Lar Italga as scholar-king... He could not imagine how it would work. He spent the rest of his meal wondering what the collapse of a empire would look like, and how he could tell if it had already happened.
After his meal, Tejohn met with the commander in his chambers. Ranlin was himself in the midst of his meal, and they talked comfortably about the journey the king would take the next morning.
Then Tejohn told him who he wanted to bring with him.
“You want to trust the king to the son of a Fourteenth Festival family?”
“His parents were overthrown by Peradaini troops,” Tejohn said, “and Reglis has become one himself. If he’s like most new citizens, he’ll be embarrassed by his father’s weakness and will cleave to the
strength of his new masters. His children and grandchildren will be most likely to be nostalgic for ‘the old ways.’” Tejohn shrugged. “I know that’s not the usual way of looking at these things—”
“Never mind,” Ranlin said. “The greater portion of my objection was the difficulty in replacing him. I had planned to name him Watch Commander. Still, it will be even harder to pry that scholar away from Doctor Warpoole.”
“I have a piece of sharpened iron at my hip that will sever any connection nicely. But first, we must make sure she knows the proper spells.”
“Of course.” Ranlin jolted in his seat. “Fire take me, Tejohn. I have not asked after your wife and children.”
“It’s okay, my friend. It’s been years, hasn’t it? I don’t think you’ve even met them. They’re safe. They were visiting family in East Ford during the Festival.”
The commander clapped Tejohn’s shoulder happily, shouted for his steward, then gave her a list of names to summon.
Ranlin’s meal only half finished, the two friends unfolded a patterfall cloth and began setting up the pieces. Reglis was the first to arrive, and he accepted his assignment with grim satisfaction; he also had recommendations for his replacement as captain and for a woman skilled with bow and spear who could serve as scout. She knew the Sweeps well, he explained, and had excellent vision. Tejohn accepted his recommendation gratefully.
Then Doctor Warpoole arrived with Doctor Eelhook in tow. Cazia Freewell entered with them, looking confused by the summons and uncomfortable with the company. She stood some distance from the two scholars while Tejohn spoke with them.
“Doctor Eelhook.” He stood and stared at her with a grim expression. “You can not cast a healing spell, can you? Can you at least create a sleepstone?”
The scholar shook her head nervously.
Doctor Warpoole spoke up, her tone bland. “Many of the storm houses at the edge of the empire have been built with sleepstones, so there should be some available if the need—”
Tejohn waved a hand at her and she fell silent with a look of irritation. “Doctor Eelhook,” he continued, “can you cast a fire spell? Can you purify water?”
“Yes,” she answered meekly. “I cast those every day as part of my duties.”
“What about creating and crumbling stones?”
Doctor Eelhook looked uncertain about these. “I’ve cast them in the past. It has been a while, but I’m sure I could refamiliarize myself.”
“Do so. Tonight. What about creating a translation stone?”
“No,” she said simply. Doctor Warpoole looked at the floor.
“I can do that,” Cazia Freewell said. “I was learning to imbue inanimate objects with Gifts, like lightstones and fountain stones.”
“How many can you make?” Tejohn asked her.
“Not many. It’s a difficult spell and easy to overdo. Also, the stones themselves can be dangerous.”
“One will be enough, then. I’ll need one by sunrise.”
“I’ll start right away,” she said, and started toward the door.
“Don’t go yet,” Tejohn told her. He turned to Doctors Eelhook and Warpoole. “You understand why I’m asking these questions, don’t you?”
“Because you and the king are leaving,” Doctor Warpoole said. “And you want a scholar with you.”
Tejohn nodded, meeting the administrator’s gaze evenly. “If I had a choice, I would bring this young woman here.” He pointed at Cazia. “She seems to be more scholar than either of you.”
“I can read and write!” Doctor Eelhook blurted out, as though Tejohn was supposed to be impressed.
“We have always had a great many duties to perform back in the tower,” Doctor Warpoole said smoothly. “This young woman has nothing to fill her time but loitering in the practice rooms.” She glanced over at Cazia. “And eating.”
Cazia Freewell’s eyes went wide and she bared her teeth, but Tejohn held up his hand. She held back whatever remark she was about to make. Tejohn kept his voice low and steady. “She’s also a child of fifteen. Doctor Warpoole, do you have any polished silver in your chambers?”
“No,” she answered, her voice just as steady. “The prince forbade it.”
“The king,” Tejohn corrected her. “Remember that. After we leave, I’ll need you to contact any scholars in the empire you can reach with the commander’s mirror. Talk to them about the...the grunts. Confer. The king will want to hear a report from you.”
“I am happy to serve.”
“But you are never to use the mirror alone, under pain of death.”
Doctor Warpoole’s smile was bitter. “The king does not trust me, then?”
“I do not trust you. I would prefer that you prove me wrong.”
The woman did not answer, only nodded briefly. Doctor Eelhook cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said, “but I am not the best person... I would much rather remain here in the fort.”
“So would I,” Tejohn answered. “Go down into the courtyard and practice creating and breaking rock. Work as though your life depended on it. I will send Miss Freewell to you in time so you can practice together with darts. Doctor Warpoole, please accompany her in case she needs tutoring.”
Doctor Eelhook looked miserable as she headed for the door; Doctor Warpoole followed her out, her eyes hooded. Cazia Freewell lingered, her arms folded across her chest and her lips crooked in an insolent frown.
Tejohn softened his tone when he spoke next. “You know why you can not go with us, don’t you?” Hostage.
“Yes.”
“Will you make a translation stone for me right now?”
She sighed, then removed the net of blue stones from her hair. She’d worn it at the Festival, he remembered. She cut one of the little stones with a knife from her pocket and set it on the table. Then she took a deep breath and focused.
Tejohn had seen spells cast before, of course. Even before he became a soldier, he’d seen itinerant scholars cast spells on crops and wells; he’d seen them lay foundations of temples and imperial counting houses--they were a fact of life.
But the Twelfth Gift was rare. Doctor Twofin had once explained that it operated at the edge of the Evening People’s craft--they could manipulate the physical world in profound ways, but their magic could not affect the mind. This was as abstract as the Gifts could get, and that made it very challenging.
Still, during their trip, they would have to land the cart at sunset every day, and not everyone in the empire could speak Peradaini.
The entire spell took some time, and when it was finished, the stone looked no different than it had before. Cazia Freewell, however, was pale and sweaty, her eyes distant and her jaw slack. She looked almost comatose as she stood by the table, a line of drool hanging from her lip.
Ranlin gave Tejohn a nervous look, then he moved close to her. “Child?” He laid a hand on her shoulder and turned her toward him. She looked up at him vacantly--there were no tears on her face. Tejohn was never going to get past the habit of checking scholars for tears.
Ranlin glanced at Tejohn. “We should carry her to the sleepstones.”
“Hold,” Tejohn said. With the back of Ranlin’s spoon, he mashed a bit of beet and carefully ladled a bit onto her tongue. Her lips closed over it and she swallowed hungrily. Tejohn gave her a bit more, then a bit more. Eventually, she roused herself enough that she clutched at his soup bowl and drained the remainder in one long slurp, then tore into the remains of his mutton and rice.
“I should have eaten first,” she finally said, after she had nearly cleared the platter. “Stupid. Doctor Twofin said to eat first.”
“It was successful, then?” Ranlin picked up the little gem.
“Kolga honchar idangiday, bissep,” Tejohn said.
The unscarred side of Ranlin’s face flushed. “Great Way, Tejohn. There’s a young girl present.”
Cazia stepped away from them. “A young girl who couldn’t understand a word of that, and who doesn’t wa
nt to know.”
Ranlin set the stone down, and Tejohn picked it up. “How long can I hold it safely?”
The girl shrugged. “Doctor Twofin said no more than an hour a day before you start talking gibberish.”
Tejohn slipped it into his pocket. “Thank you, but you’re not done yet. First, I need you to go to the armory for darts and quivers. One for Doctor Eelhook, and one for yourself.”
“There’s no point,” she said. “Eelhook is useless.”
“Lar Italga’s life may depend on her. I don’t expect miracles, but do what you can. Tomorrow, Commander Gerrit will assign some bodyguards to you so you can go outside the fort and search for your brother’s body.”
The girl gasped, then lunged forward and hugged Tejohn with surprising strength. When she stepped back, she rubbed the spot on her temple where she’d bumped his cuirass. “Ow.”
“Thank Lar Italga,” Tejohn said. “It is the king’s order that his body be recovered and given a hero’s funeral. I am entrusting this task to you.”
“I’ll see to it.” She looked up at him, eyes brimming as she forced herself to smile.
“Girl,” Tejohn said calmly. “Scholars can not shed tears in public. You must control yourself or lose your hands.”
That ruined her happy mood, as he expected. She still left the chamber with her head high.
Ranlin stepped over to the patterfall cloth and moved his spider to the center square. Tejohn studied the positions and tipped over his throne, conceding the game. Lar needs a shield bearer with a better head for strategy.
He found Wimnel Farrabell sitting alone in the great hall, a half-empty bowl of wet rice and a jar of wine before him. One of the village women was playing a summery tune on a flute for the benefit of the whole hall, but Wimnel didn’t seem to hear it. Tejohn ordered the man to his bed. If he couldn’t sleep through the night, Tejohn promised to choke him into unconsciousness. The driver looked up at him with haggard red eyes and wearily stood from his chair, then shuffled out of the hall.
After that, Tejohn went to the armory for a stout spear and a second dagger. By the time he returned to the yard, the steward was loading food and other supplies into the cart. The grunt’s corpse had been left on a wagon behind the temple to hide the smell.
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