Wind-drift placed a placating hand upon the Senior Magician’s arm.
Scarface’s jaw tightened and worked side to side as if he ground his teeth in a massive attempt to control his temper.
“Excuse me, Master Aaddler,” Nimbulan interrupted. His use of the Senior Magician’s true name signified the importance of his words. “There are more important issues before us than Bessel tapping a ley line in a desperate attempt to save a life.”
“What more important issue can there be than violation of our most sacred law?” Scarface glared angrily at his former comrade. They’d been friends when they first escaped Hanassa. Now Scarface treated Nimbulan as a distrusted foe.
“There is, first, the issue of the pilot’s mistrust of the depth finder. It seems to me he is the party at fault here. If he had listened to the machine’s warning and taken precautions immediately, Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse might still be alive and Coronnan would not be facing probable war with Rossemeyer.”
“A matter for politicians to decide.”
“But we of the Commune are chief advisers to the politicians. Neutral advisers. We . . . You need to make decisions, investigate the machine and the Guild, and give all of the information to the king and the Council of Provinces.”
“After we have dealt with the transgressions of one of our own. We must police our members so that hysterical and uninformed mundanes do not need to.”
“Then you must begin by exiling yourself, Master Aaddler.”
“What!” Several of the masters stood, pounding fists against the table. Outrage burst forth from their tightly controlled auras.
But Wind-drift remained calm. Who was this man? More importantly, where did his loyalties truly lie?
The dog yipped outside the door. His bark sounded strangely triumphant.
Hope and bewilderment glowed within Bessel at the same time. He stood a little straighter, grateful that Nimbulan befriended him.
The retired magician waved his hand for them to quiet. The masters obeyed, revealing a measure of respect for Nimbulan that Scarface had yet to earn.
“Continue with your explanation, please, Nimbulan,” Scarface ordered, pointedly denying his accuser the right of a title or working name.
“For you to have felt the shift in the kardia caused by Bessel’s tapping of a ley line, you, too, must have been using solitary magic. By your own laws, you also must face death or exile along with the boy you so boldly accuse.”
Past midnight, outside the University of Magicians, Coronnan City
From the supporting buttress of an outside wall, Kinnsell watched the magicians—master frauds more like—wind up the staircase to their private enclave. Now was as good a time as any to rescue the Rover woman. Darkness shrouded the entire complex. He’d never have a better opportunity to avoid detection by the magicians.
He needed to get close enough to the members of the Commune to test the viability of their psi powers. Until then, he had to presume they used sleight of hand and other tricks to convince a gullible populace. But they still held a great deal of political and economic clout on this planet.
Silently, he crept through the long corridors of the ancient buildings. The oldest portion seemed to have been a single story built in a simple U shape around a central courtyard. The corridor that ran along the inside of the U and accessed the individual rooms showed signs of recent enclosure. He had expected to find twisting passageways and hidden staircases here. But each square room abutted the next neatly without unwarranted thickness of walls to accommodate secrets. Four staircases ascended to the recently added second and third stories; one at the end of each of the side wings and one on either end of the central and longest arm of the U. All seemed to have been built on straight lines with quarried stones, neatly squared to fit together. He’d investigate the outbuildings later—all very neat and square as well. Presumably, they housed storage and cooking facilities and nothing more.
Thick stone walls made him feel protected, almost as if he was back in civilization. Almost. These bushies, noble and peasant alike, had not yet discovered climate control, even inside their buildings. A few rooms made use of inefficient fireplaces or even, shudder, central hearths that lost more heat than they added. No wonder they wore so many clothes! Nearly a meter of stone between himself and the outside world offered some insulation. But he doubted he’d ever be warm on Kardia Hodos, not even in high summer.
He wouldn’t think about the primitive—meaning nonexistent—plumbing. So far he had managed to trek back to his shuttle at regular intervals to take care of his own personal hygiene, though he’d rather have parked the vessel farther away from the city where it was less likely to be found.
Every room he encountered in the residential and classroom wings of the University seemed to have an overt purpose and no hidden ones. Only the library—which occupied the entire central section of the building—offered the suggestion of places to secrete a prisoner.
Where would they hide the woman the bushie lord insisted must be rescued to prove Kinnsell’s technology stronger than the magicians’ magic?
He’d watched the comings and goings of this place all day. Other than the cook, there didn’t seem to be any women in the University complex. No serving women. No mistresses or wives. And certainly no prostitutes. Where?
In desperation he slid into the library, empty of students at this late hour, although a few lights still glowed. All of the masters had retreated to the tower room—the third story of the classroom wing. Presumably, the apprentices slept. Therefore, there should be no one to hinder his search.
A maze of old-fashioned books tantalized him. The musty smell of learning invaded his nose and spread into his veins like warm insulation gel. Books had been obsolete for storing and dispensing knowledge for almost one thousand Terran years. Yet, still, books persisted as a favored hobby and status symbol among a large majority of the population. Something sensuous about holding a book in your hands, caressing the cover, gazing at the permanence of the printed words upon paper (synthetic since the loss of pulp trees after the first doming of Terra).
These books looked to be the genuine thing. Some printed on real paper. Others on parchment. They were bound in embossed leather, carved wood, or etched bronze—the latter richly jeweled and engraved.
Kinnsell couldn’t help himself. He had to touch the incredible artifacts of a bygone era. He had to open one, read from it, cherish it. Maybe he could steal one and take it home. He could sell it for the price of a bush world. But he’d keep it. He’d honor it. Read from it every day. And when he became emperor, he would return to this library and confiscate as many books as he wanted.
His hand rested comfortably by his side, easy with his control of the situation and his life.
“May I help you, King Kinnsell?” the face of a wizened old man appeared in the gap made by Kinnsell’s removal of the tome he held protectively against his chest.
“Who are you?” Kinnsell asked, startled to find anyone hiding in this treasure trove. His right hand edged forward a bit, seeking control. “And how do you know my name?”
Quickly he checked his mental barriers to make sure no one could delve into his mind without his knowing. They seemed intact. But who knew what could happen on this bizarre planet that treasured books but disdained climate control and plumbing?
“Everyone knows the queen’s father,” the old man replied.
“But not everyone knows you. Who are you?” Kinnsell hated having to repeat himself. He should be able to pluck the man’s entire life history from his mind with no effort.
Instead, he found only images of viewing Kardia Hodos from a great height, soaring on strong wings. He reveled in the sensation a moment, recalling glorious moments piloting his shuttle through atmosphere of the many planets he had visited. Cyber controls responded to the briefest thought, but he preferred the sense of control a joystick gave him. Either way, his shuttle gave him the illusion of true flight like a bird—or a dragon.
Then the feeling of hunger for meat dominated the old man’s memories.
Yuck. No civilized person survived on a blood diet anymore.
Kinnsell shook himself free of the lingering taint of the old man’s perversions.
“Now that you have dipped into my memories, are you any more enlightened than before?” the old man asked. He rearranged some books on his side of the shelf to reveal more of his face and form. Slight, stoop-shouldered with age. Nearsighted, too, from the way he peered at Kinnsell.
“May I please know your name?” Kinnsell asked through gritted teeth. He didn’t have time or patience for word games.
“Ah, the magic word. Please. Yes you may know my name. I am called Lyman, Master Librarian in this existence.”
“This existence?” Another curious superstition among these people. There had been Terran cultures that believed in multiple incarnations. Bush planets abounded with odd cults. Kinnsell preferred the family tradition of one god, one life, and an afterlife in heaven. That was the accepted philosophy in a large proportion of the civilized worlds. The accepted religion lent itself to a hierarchy of priests who, in turn, could be controlled.
“You didn’t come here to debate religion and the purpose of life.” Lyman dismissed the subject with the wave of a gnarled hand. “What do you seek? I know all of the books treasured here. I can help you find almost any single volume.”
“I’m just browsing.”
“Or looking for something not normally found in a library.”
“None of your business, Lyman. Just leave me in peace.”
“Will you ever know peace?”
“Not until you leave me to my business.”
“Your business is my business as long as you seek answers in this library.”
Kinnsell wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, he turned abruptly and stalked off through the maze of bookshelves. He thrust his right hand forward and to the right. He’d hardly walked the length of two aisles when the little man appeared before him, blocking the path.
Kinnsell evaluated the now visible little man. He appreciated the fine cloth of the old-fashioned blue tunic that hung nearly to his knees, belted with a silk sash. Most men in Coronnan wore shorter tunics with a leather belt beneath to hold up their trousers—or trews as they called them.
“You won’t find what you seek without me,” Lyman said.
“I’ll find her if I have to tear this building apart, stone by stone.” But he’d not harm a single page of the precious books.
“Her? Ah, the only woman you could seek is Maia, the Rover woman.”
Kinnsell held his breath a moment. Had he really let slip that vital piece of information? He must be more careful.
“I’m afraid we can’t let you take her,” Lyman continued. “Out of the question, entirely.”
“I didn’t expect you people to throw your prisoner at me.”
“She’s not a prisoner. She remains under our protection of her own free will.”
“I’ve heard that one before.”
“You don’t understand. She truly wishes to stay under our protection. Strange people, these Rovers. All members of a clan are linked mind to mind. None of them can think or act without all of the others knowing about it. The leader of the clan—usually a powerful magician—directs all of their thoughts and actions, just like a political dictator but more effective because of the magic. They have no freedom as we understand it. We have managed to shield Maia from the manipulations of her wandering relatives. As long as she stays here, she is free of them.”
“This entire planet has truly bizarre beliefs. That is the most outrageous yet.”
“Is it? Why else would one of her relatives have coerced you into an impossible rescue attempt? They don’t need her. They fear her position here because they cannot monitor or manipulate her actions. She does not spy upon us for her clan. Therefore, they believe she must be returned to them or be killed. You, King Kinnsell, are their tool for that purpose.”
“I serve no man but myself.”
“That’s what you think. If you will excuse me, I must consult with the Commune about your uninvited wanderings.” The old man grinned, ambled off among his beloved books, and was soon lost from Kinnsell’s sight.
Chapter 19
Past midnight in the tower room reserved for Master Magicians in the University of Magicians, Coronnan City
“Impossible!’ Scarface screamed. He half stood from his thronelike chair. “I could never violate my oath to the Commune and revert to rogue magic. I am Senior Magician. I am in control of myself and this Commune at all times.” He sat back again, composing his face.
But Bessel saw the tension in his shoulders and the whitening of the ugly scar.
“There is no other way you could have sensed a shift in the energies of the kardia when Bessel tapped a ley line. You must have been working rogue magic at the same time,” Nimbulan replied blandly. A twinkle grew in the old man’s eyes. He sucked in his cheeks as if suppressing a laugh. He was enjoying himself.
Bessel, however, didn’t dare relax. His life and his career were still in jeopardy.
“Explain your outrageous accusation, Nimbulan.” Scarface stared at the former Senior Magician.
All of the other master magicians remained absolutely silent. Only their eyes moved, shifting from Scarface to Nimbulan and over to Bessel, then back again.
“You put forth the theory yourself last year in a very learned document,” Nimbulan continued. “Communal magic is tuned to Air and Fire much like a harp and flute can be tuned to blend their music together. Kardia and Water are similarly tuned—but to a different harmony that does not blend well with Air and Fire. For you to sense the changes in the Kardia energies, you must have been in tune with them. What were you doing in the first moments of the storm? The moment when, under orders, Bessel grabbed the only magical energy available to him in a mad attempt to rescue Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse.”
Bessel watched Nimbulan cock one eyebrow in question. Then the former magician raised his left hand, palm outward, fingers slightly curved.
“I was . . . I was . . .” Scarface stammered. He glanced at each magician around the table, as if seeking inspiration. At last he looked Nimbulan directly in the eye and spoke. “I am not on trial here, Nimbulan. Journeyman Bessel is. If I was tuned to the kardia, I was not aware of it. Bessel knew precisely what he did and why.”
The man lied. Bessel knew it in his gut as surely as he knew the dog waited for him outside the door.
“The why is important, too,” Nimbulan reminded them all. “You told him to do whatever was necessary to save the ambassador.”
“And he failed,” Scarface concluded.
“At least I tried. And I almost drowned trying. None of you offered me any assistance or advice,” Bessel accused. “Did you want the ambassador to die so that you could prove your superiority in another war?”
The chill of his wet clothes had penetrated to his bones hours ago. None of these judgmental masters had even offered him a towel, or a chair, or a hot drink. Yet here they sat, fat and warm and comfortable and dry.
“Would you have jumped into the storm-tossed Bay to rescue a foreign ambassador?” Nimbulan asked everyone in the room.
“I can’t swim,” Scarface whispered.
“Then how would you have carried out your own orders to save the ambassador at all costs?”
Silence rang around the room.
“Masters, come. We have a situation,” Lyman called from the doorway. He breathed heavily as if he had run up all three flights of stairs to the workroom. A sparkle in his eyes indicated he had left much unsaid and that amused him.
The dog dashed between Lyman’s legs to jump against Bessel. He whined and yipped for attention until Bessel picked up the smelly bundle of tangled curls. Warmth began to penetrate his body immediately.
“What, Lyman?” Scarface demanded. Every muscle in his body radiated his angry frustration.
“I have interrupted an attempt to free Maia from our custody. The Rovers have hired a professional to do their dirty work.”
“Rovers in the capital? We cannot allow Rovers anywhere near Maia,” Scarface said.
As one, the masters rose and rushed toward the door. They appeared all too anxious to separate themselves from the uncomfortable questions and accusations that had been flung about.
Scarface grabbed Nimbulan and Bessel by their arms to stay their retreat.
“This business is not finished. For now, Bessel is in your custody, Nimbulan. See that he breaks no more laws. And keep him away from me!”
“And what of yourself, Aaddler?” Nimbulan asked. His left eyebrow rose again in query. “What laws will you break before this business is finished?”
Bessel wished he had the confidence to confront the Senior Magician with his true name. But then, Nimbulan had little to lose. He’d already lost his magic.
Bessel could lose everything. The dog licked his face.
Well maybe he wouldn’t lose everything.
The pit beneath the city of Hanassa, time undetermined
Noise pressed on Rollett’s ears as he followed Yaala and Powwell deep into the labyrinth of caverns. Yaala intrigued him and irritated him. Something about her made the hairs on his arms and his nape stand on end. He’d seen a lot of horror this last year that did not make him as suspicious as this.
He took a moment to study her in detail as she led the way. She had the long face, straight nose, and wide-set eyes of Yaassima and Myrilandel. But her small stature and golden-blond hair did not suggest a relationship to the deceased Kaalipha of Hanassa. He’d heard enough horrific tales about Yaassima’s need for blood to hope the young woman hadn’t inherited that single trait from her mother. She had survived when everyone thought her executed.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III Page 18