Two other desks were occupied in the bleakly appointed study parlor by lower phase pupils, neither outstandingly bright; still, that they were here this late (it was nearing the mid of night) spoke of commitment. Surely not the same sort of commitment—devotion—that filled Praulth's every waking moment, but perhaps one or the other of these two would last long enough to reach third phase, which was the minimum achievement necessary to call oneself a Thinker. Praulth had already attained this standing. Her aspirations ran higher.
Both pupils had huddled low over their texts as Master Honnis slid through the chamber. Both were now peering with lurid curiosity in her direction, doubtlessly wondering what dreadful task the old sadistic bag of bones had foisted on her.
She was more than a little curious herself. Honnis respected her. While that was indeed complimentary, coming from one so high in the University hierarchy, it also carried a price. The elder instructor expected much from her. Not merely a regurgitation of facts or the tepid reiteration of someone
else's analyses and ideas. Honnis wanted originality from her. He wanted unique insight. He pushed her, goaded her; and for her past six years here at Febretree, Praulth had met his challenges, gladly, enthusiastically. She wasn't arrogant. Arrogance was one trait Master Honnis was only too pleased to pulverize. She was instead only dedicated.
She set aside the document she had been examining for her own edification. It was a partial text said to belong to the war journals of Ao'mp Dit, a minor Northland warlord who ninety winters ago had dominated a small zone of the Northern Continent. That was, at least, until the Five Year Fever had come to the region.'
Praulth had her doubts about the text's authenticity, noting some terminology that didn't quite fit the age in question. She wasn't yet ready to point this out to anyone on the councils. The University took a great deal of pride in its store of ancient documents, so much so that they were under special guard in the Archive. She'd had to secure consent to see this text, in fact, a procedural detail she'd always found most annoying. Some on the University's councils had made their names by discovering or reinterpreting or translating those same documents. It wouldn't do to challenge this Ao'mp Dit excerpt before she knew if someone superior to her had a vested interest in it.
She straightened the sheet of parchment that had been flung down in front of her, peering at it in the steady clear lamplight that always burned in the study parlors. Pupils were encouraged to make use of the University's facilities (which made the restrictions to the Archive that much more contrary and exasperating), to explore and research points of personal interest that were outside the curricula. There were few things more tedious than an intelligent student that kept strictly to the straight and narrow and merely succeeded. So said Master Honnis, though Praulth had heard the sentiment echoed by other instructors.
The map on the parchment was quite detailed. Small blocks of neatly printed text marked various sites. Arrows in red ink showed advancements. It was, of course, a map of battle. Felk was the Isthmus's northernmost major city-state, and its military had recently launched successful hostile actions. Word had spread far southward, here to Febretree. Praulth had been eager for more news of the conflict. It might be that this would flourish into large-scale warfare. The Felk were also said to be using magic to aid their campaigns. That was most unusual. And most intriguing.
How different—and more interesting—that would be compared to the modern pedestrian contests that occasionally heated up amongst rival Isthmus states. They rarely developed into anything historically worthy, remaining petty squabbles that resolved little or nothing. Even this new aggression by the Felk might already have played out.
The map that Master Honnis had brought her said otherwise.
Praulth set about studying it, intently, letting her formidable analytical powers take over. Soon she had entered that nearly insensible state where external input barely registered any longer. Her bland, brown eyes still stared down at the parchment, but she had absorbed its information already. Now she was cogitating. Once a fellow pupil had pricked her arm with a pin when she was in this meditative attitude; she hadn't found out about it until afterward.
Sometime later she hurried from the parlor. Now only one of the other desks was occupied, and the student at it was softly snoring. Praulth's robe flew about her as she moved in unaccustomed haste. She wasn't only eager to find Master Honnis before the watch ended, as he'd instructed, she was also full to bursting with what her studies had uncovered. This was significant. It was perhaps momentous. It was at least the sort of oddity she and her kind could appreciate. Honnis, despite being uncounted tenwinters older than her and the least civil individual she could ever recall meeting, was, in a way ... well... her friend.
Master Honnis was also the head of the University's historical war studies. He would definitely appreciate what she had found.
SHE HAD COME to the small township of Febretree in her mid-adolescence, from her home estate in the nearby southern city of Dral Blidst. Her upbringing was a very comfortable one, at least economically, what with her family's substantial interests in the southern timber trade. However, none in
Praulth's family had objected when she'd made known her desire to pursue an academic life. In truth, they had seemed pleased to be rid of her. She had never shown the least aptitude for business, and there were plenty of siblings and relations to fill all the slots in the familial concern.
Her family didn't value knowledge for knowledge's sake; and Praulth supposed she could understand their view, since the sort of education she was so ardently pursuing wouldn't be of any real service in furthering her clan's timber enterprise. She understood. But she also still resented the slights and ignorant indifference she'd had to suffer before leaving for Febretree, the best—virtually the only—facility for higher learning that existed on the Isthmus.
Her burgeoning womanhood spent at the University, however, was something quite different from her younger days. Here she was encouraged to submerge herself in study, was rewarded for her scholarly persistence and was even, wonderfully, envied by fellow students who were in awe of her ability to absorb and integrate knowledge so proficiently.
History was her passion. As little as her family had sympathized with her academic desires, they were that much less understanding of her choice of study. History was done. History was past. The future, though unknowable, was at least of abstract interest. Surely only the present, the practical here and now, had any true meaning. Yet she was drawn toward yesterdays, toward events and people she couldn't witness or affect. Why?
Praulth didn't truly have an answer for that. She doubted that an individual who sculpted in stone could satisfactorily explain why he or she didn't instead weave tapestries or compose verse. History was her focus, and within that discipline she was most obsessed by the analysis of war.
It was odd, in its way. She wasn't a violent person by any means. She couldn't recall ever, even in childhood, raising a hand in anger. She imagined that if she found her-self on an actual battlefield, she would merely stand paralyzed in fear and horror until someone came along to cut her down.
Yet the study of war was something else entirely. Its connotations, its endless reverberations—nothing impacted history so dramatically. Courses of whole cultures were altered forever. Ways of life were annihilated. Power shifted wildly. Individuals who would have left no mark whatever on the world found themselves thrust into eminence. And of course countless others who might have made their significant contributions were prematurely erased.
That was a part of the fascination for her—examining war as a vast cultural modifier.
Praulth studied the annuls of older conflicts, large and small, those of the Isthmus and those of the Southern and Northern Continents (though these were sometimes quite sketchy in nature). She could make connections and associations among the facts she absorbed that some of her fellow students couldn't start to grasp. It wasn't always easy to see how the minor politica
l machinations in some bygone ancient city-state could impact major war campaigns a hundredwinter later.
Through her exhaustive studies she had accrued a solid knowledge of battle strategies and methods. How engrossing it was, comparing those tactics, seeing how maneuvers and ploys were invented, then adopted by an enemy, forgotten, and resurrected years later.
Yes, it was quite interesting how dead things returned to life.
She found Master Honnis among the statuary and manicured shrubs of an atrium. Overhead the sky was black, pierced by stars and hung with the moon.
Praulth hurried out into the open-air area, sandals slapping stones, nose wrinkling at the scents of flowers and rich earth. She preferred the mustiness of paper. Seeing where Master Honnis was just now wandering out of sight behind a row of carefully pruned greenery, she scurried around to intercept him.
She didn't find him where he should be. She stood confused, the map in hand, until something small and hard glanced off her right temple. She yelped, spun, and saw the old man standing in the center of the court.
She rubbed her temple as she hurried over, not even bothering to complain that he'd thrown the pebble too hard. Such things didn't matter to her. Certainly not now, not with the incredible news she had.
Brandishing the map, she babbled breathlessly, "Here! This! The Felk attack on Callah, the positional maneuvers, see, see, the companies grouped here, here, and here, and the second assault, on Windal,
see how the cavalry and archers—"
"Stop."
She did. She couldn't have gone on at such a frantic pace much longer anyway. Running up and down corridors had already rather winded her. She realized she was acting foolishly, sputtering like a child; very unlike her, she who was always so mentally organized and able to concisely express her ideas.
"State your findings first. Support them with particulars later." Honnis's dark face, set into its habitual glower, was tilted up toward hers. Though she was substantially taller than the small gaunt man, she naturally felt dwarfed in her mentor's presence. She also had the odd feeling that the elder was easily her physical match.
He was waiting. No one in all the generations that had agonized under Master Honnis's stern tutelage had ever profited from making him wait for anything.
Avidly, with all the nervous energy of a roaring river backing up behind a dam of dead wood, she stated her findings. In a single word. In a great overwrought blast that echoed in the atrium, frightening a small yellow bird into flight and flecking her instructor's bald pate with spittle.
The one word was this: "Dardas!"
Honnis stared up at her an inscrutable, excruciating moment. Then with an odd tone of fatalism he said, "Yes." He lifted a skeletal hand. "No, I don't want to hear your supporting facts. I don't need to. I've recognized the same patterns. His stamp ... his character ... it's on this." He nodded to the map in her hand.
Praulth felt a frenzied rush of pride. She'd gotten it right! Not that she had doubted her own findings, but to hear Master Honnis himself say it was hugely gratifying. She tried to keep her excitement from showing.
The small robed man started pacing, indicating with a blunt gesture that she should come along. Flagstoned paths wound through the ornamental shrubbery. He was deep in thought, though most students wouldn't be able to tell this grave contemplative state from his normal, equally austere one.
After a moment he said, "You haven't considered."
"Considered?"
"Think, Thinker Praulth. Yes, the tactics are those of General Dardas, the Northland war commander. Unmistakably. We who have studied wars fought throughout the ages, who've devoted ourselves to anatomizing strategies, to knowing the very temperament and taste and minutiae of war leaders from all periods ... we see. We recognize. We understand."
They turned past a plot of radiant red fronds.
"But General Dardas has been dead for two and a half centuries. How can it be that his tactics are being used by the modern Felk?"
Praulth thought that obvious enough. "Someone is imitating his technique of war."
"Imitating it well, do you think?"
"Flawlessly."
"Yes. These contemporary Felk battles fit seamlessly into the old texts we have of Dardas's military maneuvers. I won't tell you the extreme lengths I've gone to to secure detailed news of this new war. Few here in Febretree care a spit's worth about it, of course. How far away it is. How safe we are from it."
Praulth listened raptly. Honnis was rarely this verbose about anything. In fact, for him, he was nearly rambling.
"Keeping up-to-date on these new war events isn't easy." A hand came out of his robe with another parchment. "I need you to study this as well. I don't want you doing anything else. Not until I say. Study. Bring me your conclusions."
He had stopped walking. So had she. The path had circled back on itself. She looked at the paper. Another battle map. This one, though, showed an advancement by the Felk army that made no sense. It was like they'd leaped forward, suddenly, inexplicably, in a way no army had or ever could move.
"I should tike to know why our General Dardas impersonator has decided to eradicate the city of U'delph," Master Honnis said. "I should like to know as soon as possible. Go now."
Praulth hurried away, unsure why her mentor's last words had just chilled her so.
SHE WOKE WITH a sudden frightful surge. Dream imagery exploded as her eyes went wide. The candle was still lit but just barely, the flame a tiny bead of yellow atop the melted stump. Her back seized up as she rocked violently into a sitting position on her bunk. She had diligently studied the map Master Honnis had given her until she'd fallen asleep here in her tiny student's cell.
The Felk army could move across great distances by magical means. The battle map said so. If it were true— and she had to believe it was—it meant this was a new type of warfare, something literally never recorded before in all the annals she had ever read.
She had dreamt of the Felk. In the dream they were overrunning Febretree, the small township surrounding the University. They were doing as they'd done to U'delph— slaughtering, burning, eradicating. She was hiding, here in this same cell. She was terrified, huddling on this bunk as her door was being hammered. They were coming in, they were coming to get her.
Praulth was unaccustomed to nightmares. Her ordered mind normally forbade such unreasonable mental indulgences, even during sleep. And so, hearing the tap-tap-tap at her cell's door, she didn't know for several instants if it was real or carried over from her dream like an echo.
It stopped. But by now she was sure she'd actually heard it.
Standing was painful. Squinting in the feeble candle-light, she stepped toward her door.
She opened it onto the wing corridor. Most of the students in this annex were third phase or higher, and so these cells were located on a quiet part of the campus grounds, away from the boisterous and uncouth dormitories. She had no fond memories of her own time mere.
Praulth looked left and right. There was a single light source some distance along the row of shut cell doors, but it was enough to see that the corridor was empty. What had caused that tap-tap-tap? Pranksters? Had it simply been the door itself settling against the jamb?
She ached with the need for sleep. How hard could she drive herself? Fiercely dedicated academic or not, she had to sleep sometime. It was a fact that often annoyed her.
As she made to shut the door, however, she glanced downward. Frowning, she stooped and picked up the folded sheet of vellum propped against the ceramic cup sitting on the ground. Scented steam rose delicately from the cup. She opened the paper and strained to read:
we all deserve the occasional luxury enjoy it, Beauty, I know it is your favorite
She bent once more, this time retrieving the cup. The liquid inside was hot. Its smell, so familiar... tallgreen. Tallgreen tea. Yes, her favorite. She had always loved it. It was among the scarce handful of fond memories she had of her upbringing in her home c
ity of Dral Blidst. It was a fine soothing beverage but difficult to come by. It was indeed a luxury, just as the note said.
The anonymous note. She hastily checked both sides of it. No name. Not even her own. Was it meant for her? Her mind was suddenly racing. Of course it was meant for her! Whoever had left it must know her fondness for this particular tea. She lifted the cup to her lips, took a small swallow. It was even properly honeyed.
Her head whipped as she looked up and down the corridor again. It remained vacant.
She entertained the impetuous—and wildly uncharacteristic—impulse to race off after whoever had delivered this gift, whoever had gone to such lengths ... whoever had referred to her, in the note, as "Beauty."
And why should that be causing her heart to beat so forcefully?
She withdrew into her cell. She sat up on her bunk, sipping at the comforting, smooth tea, its intricate flavor reawakening those few pleasant memories she'd all but forgotten. She examined the note. As a document it was poorly suited for study, so short, offering no substantial clues to its source. Certainly Master Honnis wasn't responsible.
Nonetheless, Praulth read it repeatedly until her candle at last burned out and the cup of tea was empty.
RASTAC (1)
DO THE SMART thing first. Next, the most economical thing. Then, the safest, the most self-fulfilling, and the thing that will most confuse your enemies, in that order. Failing everything, do the stupid thing.
These Isthmusers were as amusing as they were annoying. It was an orphan culture, after all. The Isthmus knew no indigenous human life. This land was merely a bridge between Southsoil and Northland. It was narrow strip of dirt abutted by a poisonous sea on one side and an unapproachable, coral-thick coast on the other. It should never have been settled. It was a road, not a destination.
As historical happenstance would have it, though, the Great Upheavals had rendered the Isthmus useless as a trade route. It wasn't that anything had happened to this miserable belt of land. No. Rather, the once mighty dominions of the two continents were no more, and thus the prosperous trade between them was finished. A Southsoiler had no need to go far north anymore; and as for the Northlanders, they were all barbarians now, too busy fighting cheap tribal wars amongst themselves to worry about the Isthmus or the Southern Continent beyond.
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