by David Hair
He shook his head, then stopped, terrified the captain would spot the periapt he was wearing.
‘So, young Mercer: how are you keeping?’
Alaron took a deep breath and tamped down a sudden surge of anger. ‘I’m well, sir, for a failure. Though maybe I might have passed if the proof of my thesis hadn’t been ridiculed so completely.’
Muhren sighed and pointed to a bench just inside the stable. ‘Mind if I sit?’
Alaron nodded, not trusting himself to speak, but his temper burst forth and he cried, ‘How could you, sir? I researched that thesis – I checked my facts, more than you did – and you lied, in front of everyone, and ruined my life—’
Muhren let out his breath slowly in an icy cloud. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, lad,’ he said calmly.
Alaron stared. ‘You’re sorry I feel that way? For rukk’s sake, you’re sorry?’
Muhren raised a hand, a pained expression on his face. ‘Hush, lad! Hush.’ He took another breath and said, ‘Yes, I’m sorry, but it was an impossible situation.’
‘An impossible situation? I can hardly have been the first student to present questionable evidence and speculation for the thesis,’ he started, then, ‘Hel, rukking Seth Korion had just spent an hour trying to defend Vult’s surrender at Lukhazan, in front of the governor himself, the goddamned crawler! Did you rip into him, tell everyone that his evidence was second-hand shit? You’re just as gutless as everyone else.’ He jabbed a finger. ‘My father welcomed you to his hearth, and you destroyed me.’
Muhren let out his breath heavily. ‘Alaron, listen, you left me no choice. I couldn’t let you go on like that, not in front of that audience – as it was, I think I did enough, but—’
‘Did enough? You did more than enough: they failed me! They won’t even let me appeal—’
Muhren raised a hand. ‘Alaron, let me finish: yes, you are angry and you have every right, but just stop for a second, will you? Your father asked me here; he says you’ve been robbed. Can you tell me about that? Without ranting?’
Alaron stared at him. I’m not sure I can, he thought, then he took a deep breath. ‘Okay. Sure. When I got home that day, someone had been through my things. My thesis notes were gone. Nothing else.’
‘Why didn’t you report this?’
‘Who to?’ he said bitterly. ‘If it wasn’t Gron Koll and his mates, then it was the governor, or even you – so who the Hel could I report it to?’
Muhren said quietly, ‘Ah, I see. I have indeed let you down, and I am doubly sorry for that.’
‘According to you my thesis was a load of shit anyway,’ he muttered as a wave of self-pity washed over him. ‘So who would even care?
Muhren shook his head. ‘No, Alaron, that’s just the point. It wasn’t a load of shit; in truth, it was too plausible for comfort. I was convinced, and others were too. No one knew about Langstrit’s arrest in the old town except Vult himself, probably, and maybe two or three others who are still alive. I just wish you could have been a little less accurate, or come to the wrong conclusion. But you said right out loud what a few people with very powerful connections have been whispering for more than a decade, and that’s why I was trying to talk you down. I think you may well be right: the Scytale of Corineus really is lost, here in Norostein.’
His words hung in the air and Alaron felt his skin go slick. He bowed his head and tried to breath.
‘Do you know what that piece of knowledge is worth?’ Muhren asked, then shook his head, answering his own question. ‘No, and neither do I. It’s priceless. If Argundy had the Scytale Pallas would fall. If the Rimoni got it – by Kore, if the Dhassans or the Keshi got it we’d be fighting the heathen right here in Yuros, and we’d be losing. There isn’t enough gold in the whole empire to buy that Scytale. The power to make Ascendants is the Imperial Throne’s greatest treasure, given only to their most trusted servants because they can’t risk making just anyone an Ascendant. And now you’ve voiced what only a few have dared whisper: that the Scytale’s lost … The emperor himself must be trembling every waking minute as he awaits news of some new Ascendant cabal come to destroy him. Can you imagine that?’
Alaron couldn’t. He whispered, ‘I just thought it was an interesting thesis topic … I thought I was being clever. I never really thought I might be right …’
They both fell silent for a minute, then Muhren questioned him about the theft: when had he noticed it, had he tried to work out who did it? He hadn’t. He’d been too broken to do anything that afternoon.
‘If you remember anything, if you think of anyone who might be connected, come to me,’ Muhren told him. He offered his hand, and Alaron slowly took it. Some part of him had begun to forgive the captain. ‘Good lad. You call me if you remember anything else. Or if Gron Koll comes back.’
After Muhren left Alaron just sat and watched the snow falling, wondering. He wished Ramon or Cym were here to talk to, but they were far away, and he was alone.
Vann Mercer drove and Alaron bounced around painfully in the back of the wagon. But Cym was sitting opposite him, and that was worth any amount of discomfort. They were on the road to Anborn Manor on a silver-sky day, their breath fogging in the still air. We’re off to break a few laws, Alaron reflected wonderingly as he stroked the hull of the skiff he and Cym had made.
Cym’s caravan had returned in mid-Febreux as spring woke the countryside, and now they were waiting on the unkempt lawn in front of the manor, under poor Gretchen’s worried gaze. She’d been alone here at the manor for some months, and she shared all the common fears the citizenry had of gypsies. Six gaudy wagons ringed the lawns and their owners spread out across the grass. There were more children in one spot than Alaron had seen since college, clad in a rainbow of colours and swirling about like butterflies. Their clamour was deafening. The Rimoni men were clad in white shirts and black leggings; their hands rested on their knife-hilts. The women, wrapped in shawls, were scowling in suspicion. Cym’d warned them that the Rimoni didn’t like magi, but they were here to cut a deal.
Willing hands helped Vann to empty the back of the wagon and lower the hull onto the ground, then Alaron directed the men as they bolted the mast and rudder together, and dealt with hanging the sail and untangling and fixing the rigging while his father sat with the head of the gypsies, Mercellus di Regia, Cym’s father, a tall, lithe man with flowing hair and an impressive moustache – a man who had made love to some unknown mage-woman and come away with the child – obviously a man to be reckoned with. He and Vann sipped coffee together and laughed over the confusion playing out before them, like lords enjoying a comedy troupe.
Alaron had hoped it would all be a bit more serious, but he wouldn’t even have got this far if Cym hadn’t appeared in the yard the previous week and offered to help. She was better than him at whatever they did, in this instance, enchanting the keel of the skiff so that it would absorb and utilise air-thaumaturgy. He looked across at her where she sat perched among the gypsy women, ignoring the young men hovering about her, muscular-looking youths with long hair and faces that didn’t look capable of smiling. They all looked at Alaron with superior hostility. But you lads can’t make things fly, Alaron thought. Of course, I’m not sure I can either yet. There’d been no chance of any test flight in the city, so they’d had no chance to practise – but if it worked, Cym’s father would buy it for a lot of money. So it had better work, he thought.
At last the skiff was ready. It was just a small two-person craft, single-masted, with a deep keel and six retractable landing forks. The woodwork was a little rough, he had to concede, though Cym had helped, and she was a half-decent Nature-mage, which he certainly wasn’t. She was a better Air-mage than him, too, but he knew the theory and had better training, which helped him feel like it was still mostly his project. Working alongside her had been wonderful; better yet was taking her hand and helping her board the skiff in front of all those glowering gypsy boys. All the children went ‘Oooo’ as they settl
ed in readiness for the maiden flight.
‘Ready?’ he asked confidently.
Cym frowned. ‘Are you sure you know how to steer this thing?’
Alaron shrugged. ‘Nothing to it.’ Actually there probably was, but he could remember a few things from college – and anyway, what was the worst that could happen?
His father was holding a cup of thick black coffee. He gave an approving nod and Alaron waved back, then he turned his mind to the flight. Air-gnosis had always been hard for him, for he was an Earth-mage, the diametric opposite. But as he’d worked he had found a small affinity – and he’d also found that he’d enjoyed building the skiff, when he wasn’t picking splinters out of his fingernails.
I’d never have finished it without Cym, but she would never have known how to start without me. He closed his eyes and let the gnosis throb into the keel. The craft gave a small shudder and lifted slightly. He locked eyes with Cym in growing excitement as she poured in her own energy, slowly saturating the keel until the whole craft was straining against the moorings.
‘Cast off!’ he called, Cym translated into Rimoni and the young men jerked the slipknots mooring the skiff. It rose into the air, two feet, three feet, six, a dozen. Everyone gasped in excitement – and then a sudden gust swirled through the glade and filled the sails. Cym gave a small squeal and he grabbed at the tiller.
‘Turn!’ she shouted, pointing at the trees before them, and he laughed at her discomfort and pulled the tiller about so that they glided lazily about the glade. Below them, the Rimoni cheered and the children ran after them, waving wildly. He felt a swelling pride as he waved back. Even their fathers were on their feet.
All sorts of hopes bloomed inside him, but as they turned, they lost the breeze and the heavier aft end of the skiff dragged about so they were facing into the wind. That’s bad, isn’t it? he thought, trying not to worry. The sail flapped against the mast, then caught the wind again, but on the wrong side, and they began to drift slowly backwards, the tiller now useless.
That’s definitely bad, he admitted, while Cym screamed, ‘Alaron – do something!’ and gesticulated frantically behind him to where the giant window of his mother’s drawing room loomed.
‘Shit – take her down,’ he cried, trying to release the gnosis in the keel, but it was circulating inside the wood and he couldn’t draw it out quickly enough. Cym scrambled under the sail, but that just shifted most of the weight to the rear and the craft tipped backwards. Cym fell into his lap with a squeal, and below them the gypsies howled in dismay as the tip of the mast struck an upstairs window.
‘Rukk! Stop—’ Cym’s full weight fell onto him and her forehead caught him a dizzying blow. The craft lurched again, levelling out, then the drag from the mast made it pendulum forward and the rudder smashed through the drawing room window, right where his mother normally sat. The mast sheared off, dragging against the window frame, and the canvas ripped on the shards of glass falling all about them. He clutched Cym and tried to shield them both from the glass and timbers as the hull propelled itself into the room, smashing through an oil-painting of Lord Gracyn Anborn before wedging itself in the hole and settling amidst the ruined furniture.
Gretchen opened the door beside them, shrieked and vanished. Outside, all was silent. Alaron buried his face in Cym’s hair and prayed this wasn’t happening. She smelled of cloves and patchouli, and her body was firm and warm. Perhaps this was all a dream?
‘Alaron, let me go, you idiot,’ she hissed at him. She shoved herself backwards and staggered to her feet. ‘Rukka mio!’
He lifted his head and gazed about him. The room was a sea of debris. The broken mast was still fastened to the hull by tangled rigging, and its tip jutted out through the shattered window. There was broken glass everywhere.
Cym sank to her knees, her shoulders shaking. It took him a few seconds to realise that she was laughing hysterically.
But all that work … He felt more like crying than laughing, but when a sound finally gurgled up out of his throat, it was somewhere between the two. He rolled clear and lay panting in the midst of the destruction.
A few seconds later, a multitude of children peered through the window, chorusing, ‘Ooh!’
‘Cym?’ he finally managed, ‘do you think your father will still want to buy?’
There had been no deal, of course, but they had parted on good terms. ‘My daughter will help your son again,’ Mercellus told Vann. ‘This is better than the circus.’
Alaron didn’t feel too bad, all things considered. Yes, it had been a disaster, and yes, the Rimoni had laughed uproariously … but Cym had put her arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek. ‘We’ll make it work properly next time,’ she had whispered in his ear. That was worth more than gold.
Alaron sat alone in the stables of Anborn Manor, watching the rain plummeting down. It was the end of Febreux and Vann was away again. Cym was gone too, off with her kin, travelling somewhere in the lowlands to the north. The wind was moaning about the eaves like a man in pain, and the trees bent and branches whipped about. He hadn’t seen another soul apart from Gretchen for weeks, but that suited him, as he poured all of his concentration into the skiff. They had decided to repair it here, where he didn’t have to be so cautious of anyone sensing his gnosis. He worked on the house too, repairing the damage his skiff had caused as well as the depredations of winter.
He read up on piloting too. There was more to it than he’d thought.
‘Perhaps if you’d read all that first, we wouldn’t have crashed,’ Cym remarked before she left.
‘But that isn’t the way men learn things,’ he’d tried to explain.
Somehow his crippling depression had been jettisoned like ballast in a storm. Being active and having a purpose had helped, but mostly it was the company, he realised: people to share things with, to work alongside, to laugh with, to commiserate with. Even just a friendly cup of tea and honey cakes with Gretchen was enough to get him by.
He used the amber periapt sparingly and discreetly. Elsewhere, the legions were drilling and men and munitions were pouring into the capital, readying for the great march to Pontus. He would be one of the few young men left behind when six Noros legions marched off – but he was oddly content rebuilding the skiff and gently fanning the small fire he had built from the ashes of his life.
The spring rains had set in, so there would be no chance to test his repairs that afternoon. He settled his hand on the keel and closed his eyes, feeding it, gently exhaling his energies into the timber. If he had had his eyes open, he would have seen the wood take on a soft lustre in the dim light of the shadowy workroom.
He suddenly stiffened as a small surge of Air-gnosis flooded up the keel to greet him. He opened his eyes and groped about, feeling for the hammer. Someone moved in the gloom and he froze, his heart hammering.
An old man was standing at the opposite side of the workbench, staring down at his hands, which were touching the other end of the keel. Though tall, he was stooped, and his white hair was wild. His unkempt beard had twigs sticking out, and his eyes were unfocused. He looked like he’d been dragged through the undergrowth. Mud and grass stains smeared his ragged clothing – which, when Alaron looked closer, turned out to be just a nightshirt. He was soaking wet, as if he had just walked in out of the downpour.
‘Kore’s Cods – who the Hel are you?’ Alaron gasped, more startled than afraid.
The old man cowered. ‘Mmngh!’ he choked, then flinched at the sound of his own voice. ‘Mmngh!’ He clapped a hand over his own mouth and fell to his knees.
‘Sir – sir?’ Alaron grabbed a horse-blanket and ran to him. ‘Here, let me help.’
The old man looked up at him, his eyes wide with dread. ‘Gggnhh!’ His eyeballs rolled back in his sockets and he toppled over, senseless.
Alaron yelled to Gretchen for help.
17
Desert Storms
Ingashir
While farmers till the arid soi
ls, other men sit in the hills, watching them. And at the most propitious time, those watching will sweep down, massacre the farmers and make themselves rulers of the farmlands. They then slowly forget whence they came, while in the hills more watchers gather …
QUINTUS GARDIEN, OBSERVATIONS OF ANTIOPIA, 872
Northern Lakh to Kesh and Hebusalim,
on the continent of Antiopia
Shawwal (Octen) 927 to Safar (Febreux) 928
9–5 months until the Moontide
A wagon rumbled into the encampment and within seconds it was surrounded by young men all fighting like jackals for the tiny sacks the soldiers threw down. Someone tried to climb up, took the butt of a spear in the face and toppled backwards into the uncaring press. Kazim fought no less viciously than the others. The last time he’d eaten, two days ago, it’d been a tiny morsel of mashed chickpeas. He clubbed a boy in the back of the head and snatched up his portion, then fought forward to grab another three of the little sacks from the wagon, ducking as a spear-butt whistled over his head. Then he was staggering out, smashing a foot into the belly of one of those who preferred to lurk on the fringes and ambush the dazed victors of the fray as they emerged.
Whatever he had expected of the shihad, it had not been this. They had been part of the march for three weeks now. For four days they had walked north through the dry heat of winter, begging food and places to sleep along the way. At first people were generous, as the Amteh faith was prevalent here in northern Lakh. ‘Blessings of Ahm’ were generously handed out: dry breads and leaf-plates filled with daal and fresh well-water. But when they arrived three days later at their first staging camp, their tiny group was swallowed into the chaos. Haroun went to find the Godspeakers to ask what was going on while Jai and Kazim sought food and water. But the only supplies here were secreted in wagons guarded by a contingent of soldiers. A thin man who’d been there a week told Kazim not to approach them. ‘They don’t care if we starve,’ the man growled.