by Dave Luckett
They'd seen him, of course, and heard him; had been watching him since he came to the head of the stairs. Nothing else to do but to come the innocent. He walked up as simple as sunshine and nodded. "Pardon, but I was looking for my master. Nela. Sorry, the mage Laurentian. The one that just came in."
They glanced at one another. Gerd went on, babbling. "See, I've got to recite my assignment to her before bedtime, and I think they gave her an upstairs room in this wing." He made the most of his country accent, remembering Ferla's assessment. The more they believed it, the better.
"That's the masters' quarters, apprentice," said one. Both were big men, blocky and stolid. Mages? Gerd didn't think so, and the Kihreean accent added to that. The speaker seemed to think that was all he needed to say.
"Oh, good. She'll be there, then," said Gerd, stepping between them, reaching for the latch.
Well, no surprises. The flat of a hand met him in the chest, and he was shoved backwards, his arms flailing upwards, the breath whoofing out of him. "Masters only," said the one on the left side. "See her tomorrow, maybe, prentice." He said it like a man explaining to a child, but rolling his shoulders forward, making the most of them.
About right. Gerd shrank back, hunching in, looking smaller than he was. He glanced from face to face, and saw the satisfaction of men who saw what they expected to see. An apprentice, and a yokel to boot. An upjumped peasant. Not a warrior, with a warrior's honour, and therefore one who could be manhandled at will. He could also be browbeaten and dismissed, and it asserted their status to do it.
Gerd held up both hands palms out, backing away. "Sure, sure. No offence. Tomorrow. Sure. Whenever. Um. Good night."
He turned and fled away down the corridor to the stairs, glancing aside out of the window to get his bearings on the garden. Clattering down the stairs, he darted a last glance back at the guards, wide-eyed, frightened. They smiled back at him, pleased with themselves.
Stupid bastards. And the "maybe" about whether she could be seen tomorrow. That was the real giveaway.
It would depend on what Nela told them, of course. And that, in turn, would depend to some extent on what questions they asked, and how they asked them. Gerd didn't care for that thought at all.
He counted steps from the bottom of the staircase to the door into the gardens. It was well past dark, but the moon would be up in a couple of hours. The closer he could get to her, the better this would work. He wasn't certain that it would work at all. He might have to wait for the moon.
He knew what floor Nela's room was on, and there were no more than a dozen windows that it could be. But they'd thought of that, too. Clearly the master mages valued their privacy. Or something.
A brick wall, taller than he by a foot or more, bounded an inner garden - a courtyard facing the masters' quarters. Gerd moved into the deep darkness at its foot and measured it. He could reach the top. Certainly he could scramble over it, notwithstanding the spikes along the coping, but matters were not that simple, surely. If there was one pair of guards at one entrance, there would be others at other entrances. The wall he faced had no gate. The entrance to the garden it enclosed must be from the main building. That entrance would therefore be guarded. He would have to manage from where he was.
He closed his eyes and searched. He daren't try sending to Nela. His skill was not up to that. He would surely alert others. But he had spent most of a day listening for her voice. He could try to hear her.
It took most of the next twenty minutes. At first there was nothing, only the vague pressure of the small minds in the grass and the garden around him, a feeling like seeing diffused light in a thick fog. He wasn't used to this. Direction was difficult, hard to hold. It was like listening, but not the same. Like trying to remember the taste of blackberries. Or that of purple. But then:
"...soldiers? No more than usual. The City Guilds were talking about sailing together in fleets, and perhaps even fitting out ships specially, carrying mercenaries, as escorts." Nela's voice, following her thought.
But it wasn't her voice, thought Gerd, not really. It was as if his own mind was putting it into her words. Like reading a letter, and hearing in your mind as you read it the voice of the person who had written it, speaking the words on the paper. The rest was no more than shadowy impressions. Vague dislike, obligation, a feeling of being pressured. And deep under that, faint but present, the beginnings of fear, like the stirrings of corruption in a leg of mutton left to hang a day too long.
Flashes of images. Ships in the harbour at Vellend, or Walse itself. "No. I don't think so. I saw none."
Then, alarm. A sudded chill in the stomach. Images. They were glancing at each other, displaying impatience. Maethlis was stroking his beard, dissembling, glancing at the other, disliking his bluntness. But the Northman's eyes had hooded over in contempt. Of what? Me? Mages generally?
Relief. They were making departing gestures. Perhaps when I'm rested. Gerd...
The last word was much clearer. Overtones of warmth, of protection. Of envy, too. And yearning...
He recoiled. Nela's shield was more open to him than it should have been. Well, she wasn't defending against him. He had to let her know he was there. This was like watching her undress. He couldn't bear that.
There was the oldest of methods. At least he knew where she was, roughly. Only four windows were lighted. He waited. She was tired, and bed was ready. It was cold, lonely, and she wanted... again he shook free of her thought, releasing it into the sea of mind like a fish, guilty for having caught it.
This was getting stupid. He had to listen. This wasn't the same as eavesdropping, and nothing like rape. He had to identify her room...
Ah. One of the windows went dark, and at the same moment he caught the darkness of her sight. It was that one. He stooped. He could just reach it with a pebble, if he threw right....
It took four tries. Then a whisper. "gerd? must be. don't try talking. listen. all right you're right a war. fleets. armies. they want to know what ..."
The whisper faded into trickles and hisses of thought. He couldn't pick it out of the nimbus of mind around him. Then, surging again like a wave on a falling tide: "raiding fleet. northmen. burn city. burn walse. go tell them..." Again it faded away.
Nela was tired and her power was small. Gerd looked up at her window. He couldn't tell her no, that he wasn't going to do that. They were going together, or not at all. He didn't care about her city, with its fat merchants and its arrogant nobles. He wasn't going to leave her here. The only thing to decide was how to get her away.
And then he remembered Alissa.
21
"When are you leaving?"
Gerd nodded. Then he shook his head, muttered "I'm not," and began reciting the chant he'd been set to learn. Nominally set to learn.
Nela stared for a moment. Her lips appeared to be moving with his own, because all spells were acquired by rote, pupil following master. But she actually spoke different words in a mutter that was far too low to catch. Even Gerd would not have understood it, but for the trickle of thought that ran beside it, and he was sitting right beside her. She was focusing on him, heavily shielded.
"You must go. I require you to do this."
"...Ili tumba No clidam meru not without you abur naetat...."
Her eyes closed. Was that exasperation? Relief? Shame?
This courtyard was warm and herb-scented in the sunlight, and they sat on the sunny side. It was enclosed, with the Guildhall as a backdrop. The tall side walls were built of mellow old stones, and you might think that they were only there to support espaliered fruit trees. Even the Khireean guard standing at the outer gate looked relaxed.
But not too relaxed. He was keeping a close enough watch on them. At a distance, of course.
"They don't trust me," she said, after a few moments. "But on the other hand, they think that I'm no danger to them, either. I think I've convinced them that I know and care nothing for, well, warriors and raids and suchlike. And
as for power..." She paused, looking inward. Gerd went droning on, covering. "I never thought," she said, after a moment, "that I would be glad to be as weak as I am."
"Shavisnet takeo ma you're not weak sinigula tapent," intoned Gerd.
"Weak or no, they're still watching me, and will go on doing it. You not so much. They think you really are no more than a big rustic I picked up to protect me on the road. It's because they're mages, and a peasant's a peasant, to them. To the Kihreeans, no more than a slave. But as for what they're doing, it's what I told you. They've forged an alliance, and they are getting ready to strike. You have to get away, get to Walse and warn them."
"Nabvu hora mi carsad not without you havare..."
"I'll be all right."
"Noctent puvor oh sure you'll be the master whose apprentice absconded k'so torf fuagar they'll be certain to leave you alone after that garefa tol gidare."
"It doesn't matter," she said, again.
"It matters to me auvir ramentwer." He stopped. That was the end of the chant. She stared at him, reading his face. He stared back, refusing to give ground.
"Excellent," she said aloud. "And now let us try a new healing chant. This is to relax and loosen the muscles and to ease tension. It may be used against certain forms of the headache, and with care in childbirth. It is not useful in the case of the falling sickness nor most sorts of palsy, though it may be helpful in easing cramps." She began it, and he, wondering, followed. Eventually:
"Very good. This chant may also be used to induce sleep, if the patient needs it, or during those hours when she usually sleeps, if for some reason she is not able to. It is not exactly a sleeping spell, more a cure for sleeplessness. The sleep is purely natural, and hence the magic is very minor. It is quite difficult to observe, in fact, and most shields do not notice it, since it can do no harm and is not invasive."
"Ah." Gerd tried to look earnest and blank. "I will remember, Master," he said, and launched into a reiteration. He had it correct by the time the Kihreean came over to tell Nela that the Guildmaster prayed a few moments of her time. It was at least polite.
"Of course," said Nela. "Gerd, present yourself to the master of the apprentices for assignment. And go over that spell."
She withdrew, the Kihreean in attendance. Gerd watched her go. There was nothing he could do about it.
He did as his master bid. The prentice-master asked him what he could do, and he said he'd been a stablehand and cook's helper in an village inn. He was careful to mumble and look at the ground, making the most of his country accent. That got him a spell in the kitchens, before and after the midday meal. Then he had some work to do in the stable, also under someone's eye.
The afternoon wore away. Worry mounted, but he was reassured at supper. Nela appeared as before. When she remembered to, she appeared serene. She ate very little, though. At the end of the meal she retired graciously with the rest of the masters, with no more than a single glance at her apprentice, as if to reassure herself that he was behaving himself. Gerd caught the faint wisp of alarm, perhaps fear. The sooner he could manage this, the better, but he'd need some information first. He turned to his table companions.
"What do you do around here for fun?" he asked.
So later he found himself out drinking with some Kihreeans. He even lost a little money to them, playing dice. Of course, he wanted to know when his new friends would be available to give him his revenge. A half-question every now and again, and he had a fairly complete list of the guard mounts for the next few nights.
Many Kihreeans would rather drink and dice than sleep. Two of these ones here, for example. They had the middle tomorrow night. But why not? They had his money, now. Let him try to win it back tomorrow. They'd be here. Bring more silver.
Noise from the front entrance. A new group rolled in. There seemed to be more Kihreeans coming into Shelstro all the time. Three new ships today.
Gerd stretched, watching the new arrivals without seeming to. This tavern was the better of the two alestakes, a place that swept its rushes out every fortnight, regular. Didn't go in much for lights, though. When one of the new arrivals drew a belt knife to crack nuts with the pommel, it took Gerd a good ten seconds to realise that he was looking at a dagger with Alissa's mark on it. The same as the mark on his own, which he was wearing.
A frozen moment of sheer shock. He pulled his cloak over his dagger hilt, trying to look nonchalent.
He almost missed his cast, when the dice came around to him. He didn't know the knife, or the man wearing it. A tawny-bearded scroff, burly like most of them, with a seaman's rolling walk. A somewhat exaggerated roll, just now. He was half-way through a drunk, it appeared. He had money, so of course he was throwing it away.
Just in, and had sold his share, apparently. Not a lot, but enough for a rouse. The trade wasn't what it had been, he said. Soldiers were even turning up in ships, now. They'd had to sheer off twice when the chase's rail sprouted an unreasonable number of spearpoints. "On'y one prize, this v'yage. Lousy little coaster, and we lost five men taking it. Be glad when we burn the great city down. That'll learn 'em. Lez have a song..."
Most of them were pretty far gone by the time Gerd staggered out for the offices. He got outside, sobered up remarkably quickly, and walked away fast down the dark street. He couldn't wear the dagger any more, now. Maybe that Kihreean had won that knife in a dice game, or maybe he'd taken it off a dead man, but it was a link back to the smithy in the courtyard of the Commandery of the Western Knights in Loriso, and that was fatal. If anyone idly observed to the Kihreean that it was funny, he and that big apprentice had the same knifemaker, and it wasn't a Shelstro shop...
It could have happened right there, in the alestake. He might now be awaiting the Kihreean flayer. They might be talking about it back there, drunk as they were, even as he fled. All it would take would be someone with sharp eyes, and many Khireeans noticed things like that, drunk or sober. Gerd sweated, although the night breeze was cool. The summer was waning already. Cold griped at his bowels.
Fear. This was fear.
A voice whispered it in his mind, and it was the Squire's voice. Gerd halted stock-still in the dark street. Fear is a thief, said the voice. What it steals is yourself. He pulled his shoulders straighter. His hand went to his hilt. He had been playing a part, and it had grown into him. But it was a part, only a part.
And with that came another thought, as if it had been called: that Kihreean had helped to kill some of the Company. Probably from Gerd's own section - they'd been the ones who'd bought Alissa's gear. They'd done it to support Gerd, to show that they were with him. And now he owed them, one and all. All, and one.
What would the Squire expect of him? To get Nela away, and yes, of that he approved. But Gerd owed them some justice, too. His face set. If he could, he would give some. But now time was short. He calculated, setting the fear aside.
He could allow himself a day. It would take that long to prepare.
He slept poorly, plans swirling in his head like flocks of birds. In the morning he attended his master, in the same garden as before, repeating his lesson. Apparently.
"Solet tadfesta tonight moonrise gahsr lomaso inner door upper floor conselt mor..."
Nela nodded, apparently commending a well-turned cadence.
In the afternoon, he groomed and tended his master's donkey and oiled the tack. Jane was getting a little lazy, but Gerd worked her on a lead for an hour, then went into town for supplies. Nothing suspicious - any man might have his boots repaired, or need lamp oil, or visit a cheesemonger. He was glad to see that they didn't follow him this time, which allowed him to range a little more widely for other supplies. Perhaps it had been the good reports his tavern friends had given. Clearly the dagger hadn't been noticed. Yet.
He got back to the room he dossed in. The two apprentices he shared it with weren't there. He pulled his pack out from under the bed and opened it.
A cold shock. They'd gone through it. Carefully, and
nothing was missing, but someone had turned its contents over.
Could they be sending him a message? He thought about it, and dismissed it. If they wanted him to know that he was being watched, there was no reason not simply to tell him. They probably knew he knew, anyway. But the dagger was in there, too. He hadn't worn it today. Someone might ask himself why a man would keep a perfectly good belt knife in his pack under his bed. Along with...
Gerd felt under the bed again. The Penrose sword was still there, in its scabbard. Possibly they hadn't realised its quality. Possibly. Depended on who was doing the searching. And there was his mail shirt, too, an odd thing for a mage's apprentice to have. It was explainable, but it all added up to someone who was not your typical apprentice. Nor the big coarse yokel they'd been told about.