The Tally Master

by J. M. Ney-Grimm

  Gael continued. “Arnoll, too, has passed from this life.”

  Barris looked hurriedly at the ground, passing one hand over his brow and eyes. He stood like that a moment.

  Gael waited. He had more to say, but he knew Barris would need an interval – even if a short one – in which to assimilate these losses.

  When Barris looked up again, Gael spoke, telling him as succinctly as possible about Keir’s attempt to heal the old march, Carbraes’ order for the immediate re-forging of the gong, Dreben’s elevation, Keir’s subsequent arrest, and Arnoll’s death in the smithy.

  “Sias, Gael!” Barris muttered, both sounding and looking a little pale. “Between Theron and Dreben I won’t stand a chance. I may as well swallow down a brew of hemlock now.”

  “Theron’s schemes lie exposed to the regenen, who will keep him in check. And Nathiar will stand your friend.”

  Barris searched Gael’s face. “Nathiar. Not you?”

  “I am leaving Belzetarn.”

  Barris gulped. “Sias and every last handmaiden of the nine! Why?”

  “The gong possesses a lodestone of the ancients within it. Keir believes that if” – Gael decided not to tackle the matter of Keir being a young woman – “he locates that lodestone’s twin, he can heal trolls. I go to help him in that endeavor.”

  “Heal trolls?” Barris spluttered.

  “As he healed me, before he attempted to treat Dreas.”

  “Who he killed!” accused Barris.

  “Check the position of my nodes,” said Gael.

  Barris’ breath was too fast to permit the inner sight. With an aggravated glance at Gael, the cook brought it under control. The widening of his eyes told Gael when Barris saw the changed pattern of energea within him.

  “So. This ballyhoo you’re feeding me is true.” Barris shifted uncomfortably. “And you’re really going. Will Carbraes let you?”

  “I believe I have the means with which to persuade the regenen.” Gael could feel the unpleasant expression on his features.

  Barris swallowed. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “I’ll miss him, too. I’m already missing him.”

  The seeming change of subject might have perplexed Gael on a different day, in a different place, but now . . . it was all on the table, a world of change.

  Gael clamped his lips and dropped his chin slightly in acknowledgment of Barris’ sympathy. “Will you come with us, Barris?” he asked.

  “No!” The cook rocked back on his heels.

  Gael refrained from response.

  “You really mean that, don’t you?” said Barris in a wondering tone.

  Gael nodded.

  “No.” This denial was more considered. “I’m needed here,” Barris added.

  Gael could make that argument for himself, of course.

  “Not by Carbraes.” Barris gave a slight grin, then sobered. “By the boys. I cannot leave them to Theron’s caprice. And . . . you and Keir will manage fine without me. Better even.”

  “You’re sure?” Gael probed.

  “I’m sure,” said Barris. “But how can I help you, Gael? I’m not convinced the regenen will bless your venture.”

  “Have you any clue where Carbraes may be found? The sooner I talk with him, the sooner I depart, the better. Even does Carbraes bid me farewell, there are others who will do their best to hinder me. And Carbraes can be convinced by cogent argument. Best mine be the first and last word he hears.” Gael’s eyelids dipped.

  “He’s on the rampart” – Barris jerked his head – “the one Keir always favored.”

  Gael’s brows knit briefly.

  “Have you stowed what you need in saddlebags?” asked Barris. “Arranged for horses? You’re not planning on striding out Belzetarn’s gate in” – Barris scanned Gael – “the tunic and trews you stand up in and nothing else, I trust.”

  Gael half-voiced a laugh. “I’d thought to send a messenger boy to secure the services of one of the porters. They know packing.”

  Barris shook his head. “Then that is what I can do for you,” he said. “Go on, Gael. It’s the stairs between the hospital and the feltmakers. Get!”

  Gael nodded. A porter could handle the gathering of gear perfectly well, but Barris – Gael was sure – had better access to the citadel’s supplies and storerooms. And an opteon-cook possessed far more authority.

  “Barris –” Gael paused.

  Barris flicked his bright gaze to Gael’s face. “Yes?”

  “Get Nathiar to tell you how to find a certain glade in the forest. Tie the horses there, and return within the walls. If I am wrong – if Carbraes detains me – get Keir away!”

  Barris gripped both Gael’s forearms. Gael gripped his in response.

  “This is goodbye, isn’t it?” said the cook.

  “One way or another, yes,” replied Gael. “Be well, my friend.”

  “I’ll be eating regularly,” quipped Barris, even while his grip tightened. “But you, my friend? Do you even know how to cook?”

  Gael laughed. Barris’ hands loosened. Gael let his own hands fall away, turning to stride toward the stair to the old sentry walk.

  * * *

  Carbraes stood alone on the rampart, gazing out over the lake and the forested hills beyond it to the line of ice-capped mountains on the horizon, his back to Belzetarn. The regenen’s blond hair glinted in the sunlight. The white thistlesilk cape shimmered on his shoulders, a hint of small rainbows in its tight weave. A breeze fluttered intermittently off the water, carrying the resinous scent of pine on the air.

  Gael had climbed past a line of boys hunched against the right wall of the straight stair and looking nervous. Not a good sign. The regenen’s messengers were usually a contented, cheerful bunch. As Gael’s brisk footfalls rang out on the rampart’s stone surface, Carbraes turned, a measuring look in his eyes.

  “I gather you do not come before me to take a renewed oath of fealty,” he said drily.

  “If I did?” replied Gael, approaching to a more conversational distance.

  “Then I would receive your folded hands between mine and hear your pledge, of course,” said Carbraes.

  “And if I did not?” Gael stopped before his regenen.

  “Then your head must be parted from your shoulders.”

  Yes, that was rather what Gael had expected him to answer. The corners of Carbraes’ mouth turned slightly down.

  “How if I gave you a third option?” Gael offered.

  “You know there is none.” Carbraes waved a dismissive hand.

  “I believe there is,” countered Gael. “Keir believes there is.”

  Carbraes smiled derisively. “Keir is an idealist. Surely you, a realist, know her dreams to be impractical.”

  “She could not heal all the north, no,” Gael agreed. “But she could help hundreds, even thousands. She could restore the nodes of every troll under you, my Lord Regenen.”

  “Does the gong even work as it did before you reforged it?” Carbraes’ voice was skeptical.

  “No,” said Gael deliberately.

  “Then why are you wasting your time and mine with this fancy?”

  “Another lodestone exists,” said Gael. “The murals at Olluvarde showed two, only one of which was amalgamated into the gong.”

  “Myth,” scoffed Carbraes. “The ancients always liked groups of two, three, or seven.”

  “The panels were quite accurate regarding the energetic work they depicted. Why would they be so factual in that aspect, but fictional concerning the number of lodestones required to stabilize an airship?”

  Carbraes frowned. “An airship?”

  “The lodestones were brought out of Navellys on the prow of an airship, one on each gunwale. Paired that way, they preserved the craft through a devastating storm.”

  “And where is this second lodestone? Did Olluvarde show that as well?” Carbraes shifted his stance to look out over the lake again. “Keir used to sit here of an evening.”

 
So, the regenen had found that out, had he? Had he come to Keir’s vantage point intentionally? Not by chance?

  Carbraes gestured across the wide vista. “How would you find the second lodestone in all of this? Can Keir not see how many leagues lie from horizon to horizon? And the north stretches far beyond the limits of the eye.”

  “The iron from the gong splashed during its reforging, and one of the droplets was sufficiently large to retain nodal energea.” Gael extracted the metal bead from the pouch he’d secured on his fibula of keys. He extended his hand, palm up; the smooth surface of the teardrop flashed like water in the sunlight. “The node within this fragment points to the node from which it came.”

  He allowed his inner sight to open, curious to know where the node would point from this location. He’d checked it only from within the bailey.

  The searing gold of the energea was painful to the inner senses, but the protruding scrolls pointed at the tower. Carbraes’ narrowed eyes indicated that he, too, looked with magery.

  “So?” said the regenen.

  “Keir and I believe that this node will also point to the second lodestone, were we to get it close enough.”

  “You believe?” said Carbraes. “But you are not sure?”

  “No, we are not sure,” answered Gael.

  Carbraes gave a soft snort, shaking his head wearily. “So the two of you plan to kite off into the hinterlands, searching –” Carbraes’ brows quirked. “Surely not. A more ridiculous scheme I have never heard.”

  “But it’s worth doing,” said Gael. “Because the prize for success is so great.”

  Carbraes scrutinized Gael for a long moment. “No. Just –” He shook his head again. “No. Enough of this nonsense.” He turned toward the slot in the inner parapet where the straight stair climbed from the artisans’ yard and where his messengers presumably still cowered. “One of the boys will run to fetch Theron – or Dreben – and then you shall either take oath, Gael, or one of Dreben’s warriors shall behead you.” He placed his circled thumb and forefinger between his lips and gave a sharp whistle. “Which is it to be?”

  Well, Gael had expected that Carbraes would remain unpersuaded by Keir’s vision for the future. Which was why he’d led with his weaker argument. His stronger one depended on just how accurately he understood his regenen’s character. If he were right . . . he would prevail. If he were wrong . . . Barris would be getting Keir out of Belzetarn alone, while Gael’s bloody head rolled on this very rampart.

  A messenger boy burst from the slot of the stairway and rushed forward to kneel at Carbraes’ feet. “Yes, my Lord Regenen?” he gasped, looking up.

  “Presently,” said Carbraes.

  The boy bobbed his head and rose to stand behind his overlord.

  “Which is it to be, Gael?”

  This was Gael’s cue. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

  “You would agree that I am afflicted with Gaelan’s mark,” he began.

  Carbraes disdained to answer, merely casting Gael an exasperated glance.

  Gael continued. “Had I arrived in Belzetarn unafflicted, you would have ordered me executed with no debate.”

  Carbraes nodded.

  “But since I was a troll, you offered me a place in your hierarchy, also without debate.”

  Carbraes sighed. “I required an oath of you, Gael.”

  “Yes, you did,” Gael agreed. “But you required no proof of my loyalty. Merely a statement of my good faith.”

  Carbraes stood silent again.

  Gael pressed his point. “Is it not so? I gave my oath, and that was enough.”

  “Yes, all right,” said Carbraes impatiently.

  “And my faith was good. I served you well. Without even the lesser betrayals, as you deem them, exhibited by such as Theron and Dreben.”

  “Very well, yes,” said Carbraes. “I’d even go so far as to say that you served me every bit as faithfully as my dear Lord Dreas. Are you arguing that I owe you, Gael?”

  “That is not my argument,” said Gael. “But you would agree that my word is good? That I do not break it?”

  “Yes, yes. Your word is good. What then?” The corners of Carbraes’ mouth quirked upward. Was his sense of humor beginning to emerge, however unbidden?

  “If I were to swear to you that I would never act against you, then you would know that you could rely on that oath.” Gael held his stance absolutely firm, his feet pressing down into the stone of the rampart, his shoulders relaxed and down, his chin level, his gaze meeting Carbraes’ calmly. This was his truth, and he insisted the regenen acknowledge it.

  When Carbraes’ had questioned Gael’s loyalty in the wake of Theron’s thievery, Gael had questioned it, too. He’d not known whether he might – or might not – betray Carbraes for Keir. But now he knew. He might choose Keir over Carbraes. He was choosing Keir. But he would never stab Carbraes in the back, taking him unawares.

  That was why he was here, now. Carbraes should have the chance, instead, to betray Gael. Tiamar willing, he would not.

  Carbraes started to answer, then stared at Gael for a moment instead. “I believe I can rely on your word alone,” he said slowly. “And do.”

  “No matter where I awake to greet the dawn,” said Gael. “In Olluvarde. Or somewhere much farther.”

  Carbraes’ nostrils flared slightly. “I would grant you my permission to depart Belzetarn – I would even sponsor your journey – but there is a codicil to your request, is there not?” The regenen’s eyes hardened. “You wish Keir to accompany you. And Keir . . . has been accused of treason.”

  Gael refused to let his gaze fall. Nor did he nod. He would let Carbraes open this next phase of their negotiation. A bargainer who stated his terms first held the weaker position. Gael needed every advantage possible.

  “Well, Gael?” asked Carbraes, his eyes adamantine. “Was Theron correct? Or merely reaching? I trust you do know – now – even though you clearly did not yestereve.” His tone disapproved the delay in Gael’s understanding.

  Gael made his own gaze hard and allowed his jaw to jut forward slightly. “I know exactly what has transpired in my tally room, its vaults, and the forges it monitors,” he stated. This was the danger point, but it could not be avoided.

  “Which is?” challenged Carbraes.

  “Which is,” said Gael deliberately, “that Keir disguised tin as copper, and copper as tin, directing each astray, to the detriment of the blades emerging from the blade smithy.”

  Carbraes looked as though he’d bitten down on bitter oak mast. “So. Theron was right. She has done me and mine only harm.”

  “She has done you harm,” agreed Gael, “but not only harm.”

  Carbraes’ mouth turned down. “You quibble, Gael,” he said, his voice testy.

  “The good, however small in proportion to the ill, must yet be weighed in the tallying, lest the tally prove faulty,” answered Gael, his own voice utterly steady. Any hint of unease would be fatal to what he attempted here.

  “I am not so nice in my measurements,” Carbraes growled. “She has done great harm to me and mine. Why should I release her?”

  Gael could feel the pulse in his neck throbbing. Securing his own freedom would be worth little, if he could not secure Keir’s, and he suspected Carbraes’ allegiance to reason and logic might prove weaker than usual concerning Dreas’ killer. Gael would need to use emotion in his persuasion – a less facile tool to his hand. He repressed a desire to swallow. Any hint of vulnerability now would prompt Carbraes to simply issue a regenen’s autocratic decree, retracting the opportunity he’d allowed Gael for argument.

  “When Theron next crosses your will or your authority, you will execute him,” Gael stated.

  Carbraes’ face grew yet more stern. “I will,” he said, curtly.

  “But you would not do so, if you could yet bring him to heel and make further use of him,” continued Gael.

  A sardonic expression entered Carbraes’ eyes. No doubt he was ahead
of Gael’s words. He would be. But would he cut Gael off?

  “Your point?” said Carbraes.

  “You will take Theron’s head because his use to you is finished, not because you intend his punishment.”

  Carbraes’ scorn grew marked. “I do not execute the Ghriana spies because they possess no utility to me. I execute them because they are my enemies.” The regenen shifted his weight to one foot, and then stood square again. “Keir has been my enemy from first to last. She wormed her way into a position of trust, into your trust. She used that position to kill hundreds of my warriors, warriors I rely upon, and who rely upon me. She murdered my march. I see no reason that I should spare her a spy’s fate.”

  “But you do not execute even the Ghriana spies in retribution for their deeds. You do it to prevent them from carrying their intelligence back to their military command.” Gael made his gaze unwavering.

  Carbraes swallowed.

  “Don’t you?” Gael kept his voice as hard as his gaze.

  “This time” – Carbraes’ voice grated – “I want vengeance.”

  “For Dreas,” said Gael, his voice still firm.

  Carbraes’ breath hissed as it rushed in and out. “For my dead,” he confirmed.

  “But what would Dreas want?” probed Gael.

  Carbraes’ face twisted. “Damn you!” he rasped, and whirled. Striding to the edge of the rampart, he nearly mowed down the messenger boy behind him, who dodged aside late. The regenen’s shoulders heaved. He bent his head and raised a hand to his eyes, then straightened, apparently glaring out over the lake, judging by his stance.

  Gael waited a moment, and then crossed the space to stand at Carbraes’ side, saying nothing. Sunlight glittered on the water below them, and the breeze picked up. The resinous aroma of the pines strengthened. Carbraes’ rigidity softened ever so slightly.

  “Keir was devastated by Dreas’ death,” Gael murmured.

  Carbraes turned his head, his gaze sharp. “So she says. So she fains.”

  Gael shifted to face his regenen, rather than the lake. “I watched each step she took in Dreas’ healing. When Adarn dropped that cursed gong, Dreas’ root, belly, and plexial nodes occupied their proper places.”