Alta dj-2

by Mercedes Lackey

  Avatre punctuated his words with a hiss and snap in the Magus’ direction. The man actually stepped back a pace.

  “In fact, my Lord,” Kiron pointed out, unable to resist being able to do so, “these dragons are performing far and away above what their Tian relatives can do. The other desert dragons that we have, the ones that are not tame, are remaining in the pens and cannot be persuaded into the sky by any means during the rains. Nor can the Tian dragons. But our dragons will work for us, even under conditions that they hate. No one sane could ask more than that.”

  The Magus stepped back another two paces, as Kiron led Avatre forward one. A third backward step took him into the corridor, as he clearly searched for something to say, and just as clearly came from his search with no good results.

  “I suggest that you get on with it, then,” he snarled at last, and—fled.

  He fled the entire section where the boys lived, in fact, for as Kiron led Avatre out of her pen, he saw the tail of the man’s robe vanishing around the corner into the main corridor.

  “Let’s get out of here!” he called harshly, as human and draconic noses poked around the doorframes. “We have training to do.”

  A ragged chorus of assent met his command, and as he led Avatre toward the landing courtyard with the rain drumming down on canvas above him, he heard the slap of leather soles on the stone behind him, and the clatter of dragon claws.

  He led the procession with his head held high and without a backward glance. He felt the Magus’ glare on the back of his neck from the shelter of one of the other doorways as they passed. Avatre felt it, too, and hissed again, but made no move otherwise as he put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

  Let him look and glare. All he would see was Kiron, doing his duty despite conditions that would excuse anyone else from fulfilling them. And Kiron’s wing, following their leader and their trainer, obedient, and ready to serve Alta as soon as they were able.

  Yes, let him look. He would find no treason here. What they wanted was not treason to Alta. If anything, it would be the saving of their land. And he kept his head high as they went out in the pouring rain, secure in the sure knowledge of that, if of nothing else.

  NINETEEN

  THE Magus was wont to appear out of nowhere, drop an acidic remark or an impertinent question, and wait to see how badly he had shaken his prey. He was quite successful at it most of the time. He had Aket-ten so rattled that she fled whenever he was near, and he had even the senior Jousters frowning and growling into their beer.

  However, Kiron felt that he had gotten the upper hand on their first—and thus far, only—exchange. Perhaps that was why there had not been a second one. He did not succeed in rattling Heklatis at all, not even when the inevitable confrontation over the magic guarding his quarters came, early in the afternoon of his second day as their overseer.

  Kiron was privileged to be there for that incident, and to his mind, it was the one bright moment since the Magus had descended on them.

  He was actually seeing Heklatis for a legitimate complaint; a badly bruised forearm. The dragonets were not big enough to do a “falling-man” catch, so he had decided to try a different tactic—he reasoned that if they could at least slow a fall, he might get there in time to save whoever had been knocked from the saddle. So the new maneuver they were trying to perfect was of coming in under the falling “body,” holding it for a moment, then letting it slip only to have another dragonet come in from below for a second catch. It was a clever idea in theory; in practice, it only made the falling victim’s path less predictable, and had ended up in a lot of bruises.

  Fortunately, even the experienced Jousters, who had shunned such things before, had taken to wearing saddle straps around their waists now, and extra-heavy girths on their saddles. Between the violent flying that their dragons were doing to evade projectiles from below, and their own exhaustion, no one wanted to take the chance of being knocked off a dragon in mid-flight.

  “Well, that’s a bone bruise,” said Heklatis, finally, after a long and careful examination. “It is going to take a while to heal. The best I can offer you is a poultice of wormwood for the outside, and suggest a heavier hand than usual on the beer jars for the in—”

  “Healer!” came a furious shout from the courtyard outside, making them both jump. They stared at the cloth hanging over the door, which let fresh air in while keeping most of the bugs out, and giving some privacy. “What devilry are you up to in there?”

  They both recognized the voice, of course, after nearly two days of listening to it. “I am seeing a patient, my Lord Magus,” said Heklatis, in a thickened version of his Akkadian accent, so that he made the word “Magus” sound like “Maggot” and Kiron had to choke down a laugh. “I beg your pardon if I fail to understand what you mean by ‘devilry.’ ”

  “That magic!” shouted the Magus, and he sounded nearly beside himself with rage. “That filthy, foreign magic! Your quarters are riddled with it! How dare you practice magic here? Get out here and explain yourself, this instant!”

  “Why must I come out there?” Heklatis wondered softly. “I would have expected someone like him to simply barge in here.”

  “I don’t think he can come in,” whispered Kiron, with ill-concealed glee. “I don’t think he can get past your wards!”

  “Really now? Hmm.” Heklatis’ eyes danced with malicious merriment. “What an unexpectedly pleasant side effect! Well, I suppose we had better come out. Wait a moment, though.” He took the time to tie the wet poultice he had prepared over the bruise on Kiron’s arm. “All right, now we go.”

  Kiron came out first, followed by the Healer. The Magus glared at him and then in the same instant, dismissed him as unimportant, and transferred the glare to the Healer. “Answer me, rot you! How dare you practice magic here?”

  Heklatis’ brow wrinkled, and he spread his hands wide. “Forgive me, my Lord, but are you referring to the young dragon rider’s poultice? I assure you, there is no magic there. Merely wormwood in vinegar and other herbs.”

  “No, I am not referring to the god-rotted poultice!” the Magus snarled. “I am referring to magic. Your room there reeks of it! I cannot even pass the door to inspect!”

  “Magic, my Lord?” Heklatis repeated ingenuously. “But my Lord, I am a simple Akkadian Healer. Where would I have learned magic?” He widened his eyes and looked as innocent as a child.

  “How should I know where you learned it?” countered the Magus. “That—”

  “Ah, wait, my Lord,” Heklatis interrupted him, with a wild wave of both hands. “Perhaps I know what is the cause of your misapprehension—”

  He—well, the only word was minced—back into the workroom. Kiron knew, of course, that Heklatis was one of those who preferred his own sex to that of women, but he had never, ever, seen Heklatis behave in a feminine manner before, much less in such an exaggerated fashion. And when he saw the look of disdain mixed with extreme discomfort on the Magus’ face, he knew why Heklatis was acting so out of character.

  A moment later he—now the word was definitely flounced—back out, with one of the statues of his gods in his hands. Specifically chosen to make the Magus as uncomfortable as possible, it was the king of the Akkadian gods, stark nude, accompanied by a slender young man serving as his cup-bearer, and the two of them were in a pose that suggested that it shortly wasn’t going to be the cup that the young man was bearing. Akkadian art was quite realistic. The Magus actually broke into a sweat.

  Though judging from his words, it might not have been the subject of the statue—or at least, not only the subject—that was making him sweat. “Yesss,” he hissed, pointing a finger at the statue. “That’s one source—that—”

  Heklatis regarded it fondly. “Well, then, there is your explanation, my lord. It is not magic that you sense, but the blessing of my gods! I took all my household images to the appropriate temples to have them blessed before I left to journey here. And I took the precaution of acquiring a l
arge store of specially blessed amulets at the same time. I supposed that some of my patients might seek the blessing of a god when they came to me to be healed, and I was right.”

  “Heresy!” said the Magus in a strangled voice. Somehow he didn’t sound sincere. Not surprising, considering that what the Magi were doing, in raiding the Temple of the Twins for the Winged Ones in order to work their magic, might well actually be heresy.

  “I beg your pardon?” Heklatis frowned. “There is no law in Alta barring the worship of other gods than those you Altans worship. The contrary, in fact. And I make offerings at both sets of altars, yours and mine, anyway. So where is the heresy in that?”

  “It is—” but the Magus could get no further; he simply spluttered and shuffled his feet in impotent rage.

  “Are you suggesting that the Great Ones are planning on barring the worship of one’s own gods in one’s own household?” Heklatis continued, eyes glittering dangerously. “I certainly hope that is not the case. I would not remain in this city for a single moment, if I thought that was true—and neither would any other Akkadian, and of course, I would have to tell my compatriots of the change in the law as soon as I could.” He held out his free hand and studied his fingernails carefully. “I think the Great Ones would soon come to regret that before too long. Given the kinds of positions that Akkadians fill all over this city. . . .”

  A veiled threat, and they both knew it—and they both knew that Akkadians did serve in key functions all over Alta, and what was more, they would pack up and leave, taking their skills and their accumulated wealth with them, if they were denied the right to have images of their choosing in their household, and worship their own gods. Heklatis wasn’t bluffing. And the Magus knew it.

  Point to Heklatis, Kiron thought.

  The Magus seethed with impotent rage.

  “But of course, I am sure this is all just a simple misunderstanding,” Heklatis continued, turning a shining smile on the Magus. “And now that you realize that what you thought was foreign magic is simply the bountiful blessing of my gods, you know that there is nothing to worry about here. Well, at least not magically speaking.” To Kiron’s surprise and delight, Heklatis began to simper at the Magus. “And I wouldn’t call it worry. But unlike mighty Theus, I find older, not younger, men to be the best cup companions. . . .”

  The Magus made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, went dead white, and fled.

  Kiron stuffed both hands against his mouth to keep from laughing aloud until the Magus was well out of hearing distance. It was very hard, but fortunately, he was laughing so hard that he couldn’t get a sound out anyway. By that point, the convulsions that shook him made it impossible to breathe for several moments. Tears streamed down his face, and he had to sink to his knees, rocking back and forth as he clamped his arms to his sides.

  Finally, he sucked in air again in an enormous gasp, and looked up. Heklatis’ grin very nearly set him off again.

  “Oh—dear gods!” he gasped, tears still coursing down his cheeks. “Did—you—see—his—-face?”

  Heklatis made a rude sound. “As if I would touch him with a barge pole!” he said cheerfully. “Let me get dear old Theus back to his altar, while you get yourself under control before you do yourself an injury. You can dislocate your own jaw by stretching it too far, you know.”

  That just set him off again, and Heklatis made an exasperated sigh and went back inside his workroom. Fortunately, he stayed there long enough for Kiron to stop laughing, wipe his eyes, and get back to his feet.

  “I think,” the Healer said, as he came back into the courtyard again, “that I might just lodge an official protest with the Great Ones about this incident. I very much doubt that it will rid us of the man, but it will put them all on notice that I was serious.”

  “Well, now we know that not only can he not scry past your wards, he can’t even get physically past your wards,” Kiron pointed out. “That’s useful!”

  “Ye-es,” Heklatis replied thoughtfully. “The thing is, I wonder why? My magic has never had that effect before. I shall have to look into that very carefully.”

  “I had better get back to the wing,” Kiron replied, with some regret, for it was comforting, knowing he was standing in the middle of the one place in the compound that wretched Magus was never going to go.

  “Yes, go,” Heklatis said, absently making a shooing motion. “Keep the poultice damp while you wear it, but take it off to fly or do other work. And keep it away from Avatre; I don’t think she’ll try to eat it, but it could make her ill.”

  “Thank you, Healer,” Kiron said, but Heklatis was already going through the door curtain, mumbling something under his breath.

  When they all got together in Kiron’s room later that night, there was something waiting for him—and Kiron was unsurprised to see that it was an Akkadian statue. This one he happened to know was no goddess, it was a simple artistic piece, but he had no doubt that Heklatis had put the same wards on it as were on his real god images. He decided, if asked, to claim that this was the Akkadian equivalent of We-te-esh, the Goddess of Luck and Love—a rather natural deity for a young man to worship, and doubly so for a Jouster. The fact that it was a fine little figure of an exceptionally lovely, completely unclothed young lady was just incidental. Right?

  Aket-ten isn’t going to like it, he thought, placing the image on the little shrine in the corner. He surveyed it, and smiled. Heklatis certainly knew Kiron’s taste very well. Aket-ten is going to have to get over it. There was plenty of Altan art—well, perhaps not plenty, but certainly a reasonable amount, including on the walls of the public places in Lord Ya-tiren’s villa—that depicted dancing girls wearing little more than a string of beads. There was no logical reason for her to take exception to this piece—which meant, of course, in the contrary nature of girls, that she would.

  The others noticed the addition—the boys with sly looks and elbows to each others’ ribs, and Aket-ten with a frown, then a disdainful sniff—and he explained what had happened that afternoon with great gusto.

  When he got to the part about Heklatis flirting with the Magus, even Aket-ten had to stifle howls of laughter.

  “I know I’ve seen this in Heklatis’ rooms,” he said, gesturing to the statue, “And I think I’m probably supposed to say it’s an Akkadian goddess he gave me. If this does what I think it’s going to do, it’ll keep that rotted Magus out of here as well.”

  Aket-ten turned a look on the statue that, had it been wood instead of marble, would have set it afire. “I think it should have been that image of Epialon, then,” she said pointedly, her brows furrowing in a frown.

  “Now, Aket-ten, you know that you’d never get Heklatis to part with any of his handsome lads,” teased Gan. “This was probably the only image he didn’t want to keep for himself!”

  Aket-ten colored, and opened her mouth to say something, when she was interrupted by noises outside the door. It was Avatre, snorting and rearing up out of her sand like a rising cobra. There was someone shadowed against the light from the corridor in the doorway to the pen. For one moment, Kiron felt a jolt of alarm—

  “Avatre!” came a hissing whisper out of the dark. “Hush! It’s only me!”

  “Marit!” exclaimed Kiron, more quick-witted than the rest in recognizing the voice and realizing that the silhouette was too short to be the Magus. “What are you doing here?”

  “Us,” corrected Marit, as Avatre also belatedly recognized her voice and settled back into her wallow with a grumble. And indeed, it was two figures, not one, that emerged, blinking, into the light spilling from the doorway.

  At first glance, it was hard to tell which of the girls that pulled back the hoods of their rain capes was Marit. They were, literally, as alike as two barley-grains. Or at least, it seemed that way to Kiron, but evidently Aket-ten had some arcane way, unknown to mere males, of telling them apart, for she looked at the left-hand one of the pair and said sharply, “Nofret! What are y
ou doing here?”

  The handsome young woman turned grave, faintly shadowed eyes on Aket-ten and said simply, “Escaping.”

  Both of them put down bundles that had been hidden beneath their capes. “We assumed that the worst had already happened to us,” Marit said bitterly. “We were wrong.”

  “What worst?” asked Aket-ten. “You haven’t been banished or anything, have you?”

  Nofret sighed. “No. But believe me, it is a good thing that Toreth and Kaleth taught us about making many plans, well ahead of time, because we needed them.”

  Marit nodded, and the two of them pulled off their rain capes and settled down onto cushions that the other boys offered. Kiron noticed that they were dressed—oddly enough—in simple clothing, more like that one of their servants would have worn. “This afternoon the entire court was summoned by the Great Ones after a long morning Council meeting; the first we knew about it was when the Great Ladies sent us to be bathed and dressed by their servants. By the time we got our wits about us, we were already in a procession, and the next thing we knew, a new royal clan had been made, and we were being betrothed to a pair of Magi we’d never seen before.”

  “And if they’re twins,” added Nofret, with a lift of her eyebrow, and a toss of her head, “I am a dragon.”

  “What did you do?” asked Gan, looking utterly stunned.

  “We went along with it, of course,” Nofret replied. “The vows aren’t valid. These men aren’t in a royal clan, no matter what the Great Ones decree; the laws of the gods say that you can’t create a new royal clan unless an old one dies out. And even if both our betrotheds were dead, which they aren’t, we can’t be wedded to anyone who is not of royal blood without our consent, which we did not give and were not asked for during the ceremony. No matter what words were spoken over us, we are not betrothed in the eyes of the gods, and that is all Marit and I care about.”