The Council of Seven had called a meeting two days past, a closed meeting, which was rare in the Sevenlands. Meetings of the Council were usually open forum, meaning that any Sevenlander could attend and listen in on the proceedings. This time, however, the Council had closed the great doors of the Hall of Kansils and posted guards around the building to ensure privacy. In all the time he’d been alive, Dormael could count the number of closed meetings the Council had called on one hand. The Conclave had virtually held its breath for the outcome.
There had been nothing. No announcements from the heralds, no official proclamations posted on doors and plastered to walls, no meetings of the Disciplines or secret assignments issued to the Warlocks. By the next day, there were open arguments in the hallways of the Conclave Proper, and even students seemed to be taking sides. The day after, there were two clear, divided factions in the Conclave. One faction was calling for patience, diplomacy and faith in the Mekai’s judgment – the other calling for Galanian blood and the Mekai’s immediate resignation from his seat. Dormael, his own feelings torn between his loyalty to the Mekai and his opinion that the death camps should be dealt with immediately, had made the excuse of going out to see the city and get some air. He’d needed to clear his jumbled thoughts, and he knew exactly the place to do it.
He made his way at an easy pace through the Conclave grounds to the river, which split the Conclave, as it did the city, in two. Winding down a white stone path he descended the stairs to the Conclave Docks, where there were always enterprising young people who owned a canoe or boat that would ferry the errant wizard from here to there.
“Where to, Blessed?” asked a young man with short cropped brown hair and a distinctive line of tattoos down one thin forearm. He sat leaning on the side of a beaten old canoe, the oars dipped lazily into the brown water beside him.
“East Market,” Dormael replied, grunting as he stepped down into the canoe and seated himself on the rearmost bench, “the quicker, the better.” He tossed the young man a few bronze coins. The man caught them deftly, and without another word, pushed out from the Conclave docks and into the River Ishmael.
The day was cold, gray, and bitter. Rain threatened in the distance as the Runemian Mountains brewed a white froth of storm clouds like some great ladle stirring an airy soup to madness. The wind whipped by in no certain direction, blowing the cowl of Dormael’s cloak about his head. He ignored it. He was in no mood for storms.
The oars made little sloshing noises in the river as the young man dipped them steadily into the green, choppy water. The current was with them, since it flowed from north to south, and the canoe slipped through the water at a satisfyingly quick pace.
There were other vessels in the river, of course. Ishamael was a center for trade and news in the Sevenlands, perhaps the very center. There were long, squat barges heaving along in the low swells, being poled along by burly men with shabby wool overcoats. There was the occasional sleek trading ship, all of them small river vessels not intended for the sea. Ishamael was so far inland that any enterprising ship’s captain was forced to navigate many, many miles of fresh river water before making landfall here. Ships with the deep keel of sea-going vessels would find themselves beached on a sandbar or other hidden underwater hazards before ever making it this far. Most prominent in evidence were the canoes, just like the one in which Dormael was currently a passenger. They zipped to and fro, pulled along by young arms and backs, like waterbugs putting on a grand performance. The thought made Dormael laugh a little to himself.
“Right then, East Market, just like you asked, Blessed,” The young man piped as he pulled the canoe steadily toward a series of small docks that jutted out from the side of other giant wharves like offshoots of new tree roots.
“Just as I asked,” Dormael repeated with an undertone of thanks in his voice.
“I can wait here for you, for a small fee.”
“Small fee, eh? Larger than I’d want to pay you, though, boy. How about this? I’ll be needing a ride back about an hour after moonrise. What say I pay you a slightly smaller fee, and you come to pick me up at the appointed time? That way, you don’t lose other business, and I don’t lose the rest of my drinking coin, eh?” Dormael offered, tossing the lad another few coppers.
The boy caught the money deftly and tucked it into his trousers. “Always a pleasure to serve the Conclave, Blessed.” The boy mock-bowed from his seat in the canoe.
“I’m sure it is,” Dormael said sarcastically. He climbed from the canoe and left the boy to row back out into the river.
The East Market of Ishamael was a sprawling chaos of winding streets, jumbled taverns, shops, brothels, and smithies, and vendors who hawked their wares from covered huts and wagons. It was a choking point where a sea of humanity flowing through it slowed to a crawl as men gravely examined this or that item, women gushed over the beauty of presented gems and scents, and children dragged parents to beg for the ownership of new treasures. Dormael enjoyed the press of people.
He wove his way through the throng of people moving through the market, his pace as quick as he could manage. He had to sidestep carts, horses, women carrying baskets full of assorted items, and even once smack the hand of a young cutpurse as he was attempting a bit of robbery. Such things were expected here, however. Whenever a large group of people gathered for any reason, there would be at least a small bit of crime going on. Dormael didn’t really mind.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as the mountains stirred the coming storm to a boil. The light turned gray and small droplets of rain began to patter onto the cobblestone streets. Dormael pulled his cowl up over his head and hid his hands in either sleeve of his cloak. He supposed that he could use his magic to keep dry, but opening his Kai and using any sort of spell would play his melody through the magic – and that would alert any nearby wizards to his presence. It’s not that he was sneaking around or anything, but today was a day for privacy. He wasn’t in the mood for any sort of conversation unless it involved a pretty girl who was interested in something other than conversation. He endured the rain.
He made his way down clogged thoroughfares and snaked down curving side streets, even took a couple of short cuts through alleyways where groups of dirty, mischievous-looking children ran from him and hid in the shadows of errant crates. He checked his knives repeatedly, as he’d elected to leave his spear in his rooms at the Conclave. He wasn’t expecting a fight today, and even if he found one a spear wasn’t exactly the best weapon to use in the close quarters of the East Market streets. Besides, he always had magic.
The rain began in earnest as Dormael emerged from a tight alley and back out into a main street. He gazed across at one of the smallest, yet more famous, brothels in the entire city of Ishamael. It was a squat, three-story brick building sandwiched between two inns. There were six windows facing the street, three for each floor above ground level, and women leaned out of four of them gazing dejectedly at the rain and the passersby. Today wasn’t the height of their business time, and it was a working day in Ishamael, which meant that the place would be practically empty. That suited Dormael just fine.
The Headless Dancer, a misleading name in Dormael’s mind for he’d never seen a headless dancer working there, was a combination brothel, taproom, and inn. In one place the errant traveler could find all the services he needed after a long journey: a cool drink, a soft bed, and a soft body to warm it as well. It was usually a boisterous place, as the girls were encouraged to walk around in various states of dress and rile up the revelers. There was always bar dancing, drinking games and rounds of song and drink to be had here.
He passed his heavy cloak to a serving man at the door and limped over to sit at the bar. The interior of the Headless Dancer was covered with velvet and cushions and lace. Fabric hung from the walls in vast swaths in hues of red, purple, and gray. Smoke hung heavy in the air, creating a pleasant haze that dulled Dormael’s wits a bit as he breathed it in. He knew from experience tha
t the owner of the place burned a narcotic in the incense he used, creating a relaxed atmosphere that dulled the inhibitions of his proprietors. It was, Dormael imagined, good for business.
The bar was empty except for Dormael, two other men who sat in the back smoking a long-stemmed pipe between them, and four girls in various states of dress – or undress, depending on how one viewed it. The barmaid, a woman with lustrous black hair and a goodly amount of fair skin showing, sauntered slowly over to the side of the bar Dormael lounged at.
“What’s your poison, honey?” she asked, quirking a sideways smile at him.
“Firewine. It’s a good day for that, I think,” Dormael grunted in reply.
“Aye, it’s always a good day for that, if you’re asking me. You look like you’ve been trampled by a team of horses, honey. What kind of rough business have you been into?” She asked, her hands moving lithely to pour him a glass, then slide it slowly to him. She leaned over close to him afterward, displaying a lovely amount of fair skinned cleavage in the act. Dormael smiled. She was a very good salesperson, her job likely being to get the patrons into the right mood to partake of the women - if, that is, she wasn’t a courtesan herself. Either way, Dormael enjoyed the sight, and appreciated the company. Anything was better than talking politics.
“Not the kind that I’d like to take up with you, if you catch my meaning,” Dormael smiled, tipping his cup to the girl. She giggled and poured herself a glass of something, and drank with him.
“Oh, I’m not for sale, dear. You keep smiling at me that way and you might just convince me to take you home anyways, but I won’t be charging you. I’m here to pour drinks and be looked at, and that’s all.”
“Pity, but challenge always makes a prize that much sweeter,” he winked. She smiled and toyed with a bit of her hair. “On a more serious note, though, I’m just here to get away from my responsibility for a bit and enjoy a drink or two. Care to join me?”
“It’s not as though I have anything else to do,” the barmaid smiled.
“Then pull that bottle up here and let’s get started,” Dormael smiled back.
****
D’Jenn sat quietly, his eyes closed and relaxed, his legs crossed, hands resting atop his knees. He floated in a sea of calm, breathing in and out steadily, letting the energies of the world around him seep into his mind in a steady flow of calming sensations. His Kai sang in time with the other sources of magic within the Conclave, touching each as it floated through the compound and sounding quietly with something like a harmonious tone as it slid by each of them. D’Jenn kept breathing.
The Conclave was rife with a low, angry energy lately. The arguments about the Galanian death camps and what the Conclave’s answer to it would be were reaching a boiling point. D’Jenn had never seen its like before. It was bad enough that the information had been leaked, by who no one knew at this point. It could only be a handful of people, either someone who was in the initial meeting with Dormael and D’Jenn, or someone who was at the Council of Seven afterward. The city didn’t seem to be in a similar uproar, and so logically it was most likely a wizard. The thought made D’Jenn a little sick.
He pushed his concerns away and concentrated harder on the meditation exercise.
“There’s so…so much!” Bethany sighed. D’Jenn smiled.
The girl was seated next to him, mimicking his posture and breathing. He was attempting to teach her about using her magical senses, the way that a wizard felt the world around him through his Kai – or the world around her, in Bethany’s case. He cast out slowly towards her song with his senses, touching it briefly and coaxing it into a sense of calm. The girl was excited, and her senses were flitting around like some errant swarm of insects.
“There is, dear, but stay calm. Remember what we said earlier, about how important it was to stay calm?”
Bethany sighed and repeated in a frustrated monotone, “An unfocused mind yields unfocused magic.”
“That’s right dear. So what should we do right now?”
“Um…focus?”
“Indeed. Let’s give it a try, shall we?”
“I’m trying,” Bethany grated, her tone sounding frustrated.
“Try harder, dear.”
The girl just grunted something in reply that sounded close to a sigh, but also close to a harrumph. D’Jenn just smiled in return, his eyes still closed. The girl reminded him a lot of Dormael and himself in their younger days. She was very astute, perceptive, and quite powerful, but her energy was unfocused and wild. On top of that, she was stubborn and willful when pressed. She would have to get that under control before she could perform any real, focused magic. Most of the workings the girl had done so far were supervised exercises, and the incident in the mountains had been simply a fearful reaction to the men trying to kill her. The poor girl hadn’t even realized she’d done it. It was just as well – D’Jenn didn’t want Bethany’s first real experience with magic to be so grisly.
Turning his mind to the task at hand, D’Jenn calmed himself and reached out to Bethany’s senses in the magic, and together they quested slowly out into the Conclave. There was a low, buzzing energy humming through the entirety of the place – a red, angry disquietedness that could only be the reverberations of the current political strife stirring within the tower. It lay over the Conclave like some sort of agitating haze, like a swarm of angry bees that always remained just out of sight. D’Jenn could feel it deep in his bones through his Kai, and it made him more than a little uncomfortable.
The problem with questing out with one’s magical senses was that it made the wizard susceptible to whatever energies he or she picked up on. He had to concentrate on keeping that angry buzz from filling him, lest it invade his mind and agitate his senses. In this case the damage would be next to nothing – perhaps an angry feeling or gnawing tension – but that wasn’t always the case. There were spells one could lay, wards and such things, that were traps for magical senses. They could ensnare one’s mind or sometimes even cause trauma to the body or mind, depending on the ability and temperament of the wizard who cast them. There were a few such areas of the Conclave that were warded in such a manner – the Mekai’s personal and official chambers were a couple – and so D’Jenn gently steered Bethany away from these areas and instead concentrated on the common areas of the compound.
“What are we looking for?” Bethany asked in a diffident tone.
“Nothing specific dear, we’re just looking.”
“Well why would we look without having something to look for?” Bethany asked. The question struck D’Jenn as the simplest logic one could put forth, and he found himself snickering at the young girl. Bethany was right.
“You have a point, youngling. Alright, how about we search out Dormael’s room, and we look for magical residue there, hmm?” D’Jenn replied.
“Magical residue?”
“When someone uses magic, it leaves a sort of…resonance…and we’re able to feel that resonance with our Kai, dear. It fades over time, depending on the amount of magic and the strength and subtlety of the wizard using it, but there should be something that your new father has done recently in his rooms that we’ll be able to pick up on, I’m sure.”
“Do we have to walk there? There are so many stairs,” Bethany complained. D’Jenn snorted at the comment. Dormael’s rooms were two floors above his own in the Conclave Proper.
“Not at all, dear. We’ll push our awareness there instead. Sit, focus. I’ll show you.”
Bethany sighed and began to concentrate on her breathing again. D’Jenn smiled.
****
“They do exist, I can promise you that. It’s an entire area of the ocean, miles wide, just filled with giant whirlpools, though they call them maelstroms when they’re that big,” Dormael said, throwing his arms out wide for demonstration and spilling a little firewine on his shirt in the process.
“Come now, that just can’t be true. You’re just trying to impress me with all the b
ig, amazing things you’ve seen and make yourself out to be some sort of sexy adventurer-type. I hear it all the time,” the barmaid replied with a wink and a smile.
“I can assure you, my dear that I don’t have to pretend to be anything. I am a sexy adventurer,” Dormael boasted, taking another pull from the firewine. It burned deliciously on the way down. The bottle that the barmaid had pulled out for his enjoyment was almost halfway gone, and she had only drunk two small mugs of the concoction. Dormael’s aches and pains were beginning to fade into the background and his vision was taking on a comfortable hazy quality that put a lazy smile on his face. He was well on his way to getting properly drunk.
“Are you going to finish that entire bottle?” the barmaid asked, raising her eyebrows.
“I planned on it. I am, however, willing to share some with you - in a more private setting, of course.”
“Such as one of the upstairs rooms?” she asked, raising one eyebrow in a smirk.
“If you prefer one of those rooms, that is fine by me. It does seem to be awfully convenient,” Dormael suggested with a smile.
The barmaid let out a peal of silver laughter, “No, honey. I told you, I’m not for sale.”
“Who said I was offering to pay?”
The maid slapped him playfully on the shoulder and laughed again at his outrageous attempt. She moved down the bar to serve other patrons, leaving Dormael alone with his bottle. Still snickering, Dormael took a short pull from the bottle, tipping it back and breathing the alcohol burn from his mouth as it went down.
The day was darkening outside, though the only way he could tell was from the customers that trickled slowly in through the door, casting twilight shadows along the silken fabrics hanging around the taproom. The taproom itself was always kept dark, so that one could sit inside for hours without realizing how long one had spent whiling away his or her time. Dormael knew it was a cleverly designed ploy to keep revelers reveling, but it was comfortable and he didn’t mind in the least. After all, reveling was the only thing he had planned for today.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 58