by Jeff Grubb
“I do,” said Mishra. “Which is another reason to send you to Sarinth. Take a small force of men you trust with you. Gain their fealty.”
“And if Sarinth doesn’t want to swear fealty to us?” inquired Ashnod bitterly.
“Then I will send a larger force,” said Mishra, “under a real commander.”
Ashnod bristled but said nothing.
Mishra’s eyebrows arched, and a kindly look passed over his face. It was an expression Ashnod had not seen in a long time.
“My student,” he said, “you do many things better than any man, better than any individual, in my empire. But you are part of that empire, and you must go as your qadir commands.”
Ashnod bowed formally. “I respect your wishes, Most Wise Among Us,” she said woodenly. “Let me make my preparations for departure.”
Mishra smiled and said, “One more thing.”
Ashnod turned at the door.
“Leave Jarin alive,” said the qadir. “It would be…difficult…to explain it if he something horrible happened to him so soon after this conversation.”
Ashnod’s brow furrowed, but she nodded.
The door closed behind her, and Mishra let out a deep sigh. Then he rose from the throne, padded over to his great slate board, and began to reconfigure the legs of his new dragon engines.
Loran, Scholar of Argive, arrived at Terisia City in the early summer of the fifth year after Yotia’s fall. It had been a long journey, from Penregon down to Korlis, then west by a coast-hugging boat across the storm-tossed Shielded Sea, north to Tomakul, and finally west over the wastes of the desert by camel to the borders of the city-state itself.
Loran wondered if, had she known the true distance of Terisia City from Argive, she would have left her home at all. Indeed, many of her fellow nobles had tried to dissuade her from the journey. But she could not remain in Penregon. War fever had seized the nobility, a disease that apparently clouded the mind and convinced those infected by it that Urza, who had failed to save Yotia, was nonetheless their salvation from his brother’s hordes.
Loran was less than convinced. Yet in the drawing rooms and councils of Penregon her doubts were met by indifference at best and scorn at worst. She had opened correspondence with the archimandrite years before, and when the Terisian scholar extended an invitation to her she knew she would take it. Now, after long months, she stood at the gates of the great ivory metropolis.
Terisia City rose above the neatly cultivated fields that surrounded it and was visible from miles away. The city was a gem set in a great ring of white stone. Its roofs were glass and crystal, and they scattered the sunlight like prisms, surrounding the streets below with rainbows. When the hard winter rains struck, Loran was assured by her guide, the entire metropolis would rattle and resound like a shaken tambourine.
The city walls were of white stone, hauled from the distant Colekgan Mountains to the north by dwarves and their giantish slaves. Great towers of similar white stone ringed the city. They reminded Loran of chess pieces left behind by some idle god. Even these towers were works of art, for they were lovingly decorated with bas-reliefs of mythological beasts, winged lions, and elephants.
It was within one of these ivory towers that Loran was to meet the supposed “Mistress of the Order of the Ivory Towers,” the archimandrite of Terisia City, first among equals of the tower scholars. Loran had no idea which tower belonged to the archimandrite, but she inquired at the city’s main gate. She hoped to send word of her arrival, then to settle in some inn within the city.
Standing by the main gate was a broad-shouldered, bearded man with a wide-brimmed hat and a walking stick. As she spoke to the guards, the man removed the hat and mopped his brow with a rough handkerchief. He turned at the sound of her voice.
“You seek the Mistress of the Towers?” he asked. “Come. I’m heading there myself.”
He turned away and walked a few paces, and Loran noticed he was lame in one leg. He hobbled along, resting heavily on a short metal stave. The man stopped and turned and looked back at the woman. “Argivian, by your accent,” he noted.
Loran nodded, puzzled.
“You would not be Loran, the scholar from Penregon?”
“I would be,” replied Loran. “But you have the advantage of me.”
The man turned and limped back toward her. Loran met him halfway. “Feldon,” he said, bowing over her offered hand. “Another scholar like yourself. You understand how I realized it was you?”
Loran paused for a moment. “I don’t suppose there are many Argivians this far west.”
Feldon nodded, and Loran noticed he wore his long hair swept back over his ears, without a braid. In the warmth of the region, it was no surprise that the man was sweating profusely.
Feldon said, “Your arrival has been expected. Come, let’s see the archimandrite together.”
Loran motioned toward her guide, still standing by his camel. “I have still to find lodging.”
“Ah. Allow me,” said Feldon. He hobbled forward two paces and ejaculated a rapid string of Fallaji words, accented in a dialect that Loran did not know. The guide responded in kind, and Feldon fished a coin from his heavy coat. He tossed the coin to the guide, who caught it with a deft motion, smiled, and bowed.
“You’re staying at the same inn I am,” said Feldon, turning back to the Argivian scholar. “Don’t worry. If your guide had been less than an honorable man, you would not have gotten this far. Come along.” And with that he limped forward again.
He reminded Loran of a bear. Of a great bear, she thought, that had accidentally wandered out of the mountains and been mistaken for a human. She smiled at the thought and quickly caught up with him. The last was easy, since he paused every few steps to mop his brow and to complain of the heat.
“You are not from Terisia City either,” said Loran.
“Northern uplands, near the glacier,” answered Feldon. “Came down here to check the libraries. Useless things, the libraries. Couldn’t find any runes that matched.”
“Matched?” asked Loran.
“This,” said Feldon, holding up his metal walking stick. The head had been twisted into an ornate curve.
“It’s a staff,” Loran said.
“More of a cane,” returned Feldon. “But look along the shaft.”
Loran reached out and steadied the proffered object. Along the length of it were markings—little more than scratches, but definitely organized in a recognizable pattern.
“They aren’t Thran,” she said at last.
“Nor are they dwarven or goblin. Or anything else that anyone around here recognizes,” said Feldon. “Found it in the glacier. I’ve been studying it.”
“The cane?” asked Loran.
“The glacier!” said Feldon with a broad smile. “The big one that pours into Ronom Lake. Glaciers are frozen rivers, you know, and they move, glaciers do. Not that you’d notice, but they slowly come down the mountain, scraping clean the land in their path. Found this one at the base of the glacier, and I’ve seen others buried within its heart.”
Feldon continued his lecture as they continued around the perimeter of the walled city. They passed the first tower and came to a stop at the second. Feldon bellowed another string of words at the female guard before the door, this time in a language Loran did not even recognize. The guard bowed and stood aside for Loran and Feldon to enter.
“Sumifan,” he said by way of explanation. “They have a tonal quality to their language that makes discussion quite maddening sometimes. The same word has several different meanings if you vary the pitch.”
“You study languages?” asked Loran.
“When I am not studying glaciers,” replied Feldon, with a private smile. “Actually I ended up knowing so much about language because I needed to know more information about glaciers and could not read the old scrolls or hear the old tales in their original tongues. So I learned language as a matter of course. Your specialty is artifacts, correct?”
“Ol
d Thran devices,” Loran specified.
“Like the two brothers,” grunted Feldon. “Mishra and Whatsisname.”
“Urza,” said Loran.
“Dangerous things, artifacts,” said Feldon, and there was something in his voice that made Loran wary. By this time they were past the reception hall and in the main room.
The chamber was larger than Loran had expected and was dominated by a heavy table of lacquered oak. The walls were lined with glass-fronted bookshelves, within which were locked all manner of folios, scrolls, librams, and curios. Already the keeper of the tower, the archimandrite herself, was moving toward them.
Gliding would have been a better term, for the archimandrite, a sliver of a woman with a pale and narrow face, did not seem to walk as much as she hovered above the stonework floor. Her long black hair spilled down her back in a single fall. Loran thought of the way she had worn her hair as a girl, back in Tocasia’s camp. That seemed a lifetime ago.
“Good Feldon,” said the archimandrite. Her voice was soft but firm. Loran could sense at once that she was used to others quieting in order to hear her.
The sweating scholar managed another low bow, then turned his entire upper body toward Loran. “Gracious Archimandrite, may I present Loran the Argivian, scholar of Thran Artifacts. Also a woman kind enough not to interrupt while I go on about my glaciers.”
The archimandrite curtseyed gracefully, and Loran returned the courtesy. “It is good you have arrived,” the woman said. “Let me introduce you to the others.”
“The others” consisted of a bald couple, man and woman, seated at the far end of the table. The man, a rotund little fellow, rose as they approached. Loran extended a hand, but the man instead slapped both hands across his chest, his fingers touching his breastbone. Loran took this as a greeting and lowered her hand accordingly. Feldon smiled at the exchange, and the archimandrite made no mention of it.
“Drafna, founder of the College of Lat-Nam,” said the bald man.
The seated woman made a small coughing noise. It was little more than a clearing of the throat, but Loran and Drafna noticed it.
Drafna cleared his throat and said, “Co-founder of the College of Lat-Nam.” That brought another small cough, and Drafna began a third time, “Co-founder of the present incarnation of the College of Lat-Nam.” He turned and looked at the woman, who said nothing but merely smiled. “My wife and co-founder, Hurkyl.”
Loran curtseyed, and Hurkyl made the same breastbone-touching greeting as her husband. Hers was both more graceful and more tentative. Loran stared at the bald woman. She had almond-shaped eyes, and ornate designs had been tattooed into the bare flesh of her shoulders.
The archimandrite motioned for Loran to take a seat, while Feldon pulled out a great, dark oak chair for himself, hung his hat on one of the posts jutting from the headpiece, and lowered himself down, gripping his cane as he did so.
“I thank you for the invitation, Mistress of the Towers,” said Loran, “and I should tell you at the outset that I come with the knowledge of the Chief Artificer of Argive, though not as his representative.”
“That would be Whatsisname,” said Feldon.
“Urza,” said the archimandrite levelly and raised her hand to signal the servants. The archimandrite seemed young to Loran at first blush, but now she realized the woman was older than she. The grace of her movements had been honed by years of practice.
A servant, another Sumifan, arrived with coffee. It smelled of honey and was not as thick and syrupy as the Fallaji mixtures with which Loran was familiar.
“Despite this lack of official authorization,” continued Loran, “I have brought along the notes on Thran artifacts that the Argivians have collected over the years, culminating in Tocasia’s notes from her digs.” She turned to Feldon. “Tocasia taught me what I know about artifacts, and she also taught Urza and Mishra.” To the archimandrite she said, “Unfortunately, Urza would not allow me to bring any information about his own work. I had to travel through innumerable miles of land held by his brother, and he feared any data sent might fall into the wrong hands.”
“Understood,” said the archimandrite, and in that word made sure that Loran knew there would be no questions concerning Urza’s work—at least not at this meeting. “But you do carry other knowledge that is valuable to us,” the archimandrite continued. “You knew the Brother Artificers as children.”
“Yes,” said Loran, “though I was very young at the time myself.”
“Did they hate each other even then?” asked the Mistress of the Ivory Towers.
Loran paused and thought for a moment. “No. They were rivals, I suppose. All brothers are. Urza was smarter, or rather was more studious. Mishra was nicer. He got along better with others.”
“This would be the same Mishra that leveled Kroog?” inquired Feldon, his voice dripping with irony.
The archimandrite ignored him, instead saying, “But they did not hate each other when you knew them.”
“No.” Loran turned to Feldon. “But they have changed. I have not seen Mishra since Tocasia, our mentor, died, but he is said to be a cruel desert warlord, a demon to Argivians and Korlisians alike.”
“Is he?” said Drafna.
Loran shook her head. “I cannot say what he is now, or why. But it is difficult for me to equate the young man I remember telling stories by the fire with the Butcher of Kroog.”
“Time changes us all,” said the archimandrite. “But what of his brother? What of Urza?”
Loran shook her head again. “Urza has been hurt very, very badly. He seems to have pulled back into himself. I talked to him just once, to tell him I was making this journey. He was…not cold, but detached, as if everything was a cryptic message that could be solved only if one had the right cipher.”
The archimandrite leaned forward in her chair. “So you do not think there will be a resolution between the two without further conflict?”
“No,” said Loran flatly. “I don’t think there will be. In Argive, when I left, they were building a string of towers along the borders, filled with clockwork soldiers of Urza’s design. There are new mines across the hinterlands, and most of the streams have been dammed to provide additional power. When I passed through Tomakul and Zegon, portraits of Mishra hung everywhere, and people felt he would lead them to a great and powerful future. No, there will be no resolution without war.”
“Told you,” said Feldon. The archimandrite frowned.
“What does it matter what two screaming brats do on the far side of the continent?” said Drafna sharply. “It does not involve us at all. Let them brawl and leave us to our own work. If they would rather fight than study, is it our responsibility?”
“It’s more than that,” said Feldon. “Things like this have a tendency to spread. First it’s the Fallaji against the Yotians. Now it’s against the Argivians and the Korlisians. How long before we get dragged into things on one side or another?”
“This qadir of the Fallaji is facing eastward with his forces. We are to the west. We are not his worry,” said Drafna.
“Really?” snapped Feldon at the bald man. “I was talking to a Sarinthian merchant this morning. Apparently Mishra’s devil-girl apprentice, Ashnod the Uncaring, was in Sarinth, ‘negotiating’ for the timberland and mineral resources of the state. Apparently the negotiations consist of Mishra giving Sarinth the choice of either handing over the goods or having the Fallaji come and take them.”
“I’d like to see them try,” offered Drafna.
“That’s what the Zegoni said,” muttered Feldon. “And they’re being bled dry as a vassal state of the Fallaji domains. The Yotians, too, for that matter.”
“The qadir’s representatives have approached Terisia City’s council as well,” said the archimandrite softly. “They have been politely refused. What will happen when they arrive with their dragon engines at our gates?”
“Or at yours, Drafna?” asked Feldon.
The co-founder of t
he College of Lat-Nam made a harrumphing noise but said nothing.
“Terisia City is an ancient place,” said the archimandrite, speaking to Loran but for Drafna’s benefit. “It has many defenses. The great white towers that ring the central city are but one of them. But these defenses are old and might not be sufficient to withstand an assault from without. Our people have been at peace for longer than any remember, and they have no love for war.”
“It doesn’t matter if you love war or not,” said Drafna, “if one is coming your way.”
“Exactly!” thundered Feldon. “That’s what we need to prepare for! Otherwise the various western nations and their knowledge and scholars will be picked off one at a time.”
“You could ally with Urza,” said Loran. “Since Mishra is your closest fear.”
The archimandrite and Feldon looked at each other, then at Loran.
“Whatsisname may be as bad as Mishra,” said Feldon. “The example of his defense of Yotia is not encouraging.”
“We do not want to avoid one master merely to accept another,” said the archimandrite, softly but clearly.
Loran thought about the Mistress’s words. “That’s true,” she said. “I’m afraid Korlis has become little more than a province of Argive. More and more of its decisions come from Penregon in the name of coordinating the war effort.”
“Exactly,” said Feldon again. “We have to find a third path.”
The archimandrite leaned forward, and Loran felt herself drawn forward as well. “We have many scholars within our walls and know of more scattered through the western part of the continent. I propose we gather them here to form a union, a conclave, a gathering of knowledge that is able to stand up to either of the brothers’ machines.”
“I know several Sarinthian scholars who started packing the moment Ashnod arrived in their capital,” said Feldon. “And there are some shamans and witch women from up near the glacier who could aid as well.”
“The reputed song mages of Sumifa might cooperate, as well as astrologers and diviners who have fled Zegon,” added the archimandrite.
“No,” said Drafna. The others looked at the bald man. “No,” he repeated firmly. “This is not for us. Lat-Nam is far enough away that we do not have to worry about desert tribes. We are not interested.”