Thief (The Key to Magic Book 7)

by H. Jonas Rhynedahll

  When one began to wander in a seemingly casual fashion that would bring her across the more or less circular path of Yhejia's group, Telriy, wishing to get closer to study the enchanted items, tarried at one stall to slow the pace of Yhejia's band. This allowed her, after only another few moments, to come up alongside the woman as she sniffed a plum.

  With clothing that would have been considered scandalous had she been a Mon'lithirii but was accepted as simply part of the "odd ways" of the sky people, the comely young woman had an exotic cast to her features that drew admiring looks from many of the men around about.

  "That one is nearly overripe," Telriy offered with a smile. "You could probably get it for half price."

  The sky woman returned her smile as she replaced the plum. "Oh, thank you! I'm just looking though. I'm not hungry at all and have no place to keep fresh fruit in my rooms. I don't know any chilling spells. How old is your baby?"

  Telriy, intrigued by what a "chilling" spell might be, kissed Celly's cheek as she lay sleeping on her mother's shoulder. "She's eight days old today."

  "I should introduce you to my friend! Her name is Prim and she has a baby boy that's also a newborn!"

  "I'd like to meet her. I'm Telriy and this is Celly. Perhaps the two of you could come to my home later today?"

  "Oh, I'm sure we could! I'm Nali. I live just two streets over from here and Prim is coming by in an hour. Should we come about noon?"

  "That would be perfect. We could share lunch." Telriy gave the woman directions. "I should be going. Yhejia is giving me her we have a schedule to keep look."

  The other woman smiled. "We'll see you then!"

  FORTY-NINE

  This time, Mar invited no Princes or ambassadors. This was not a diplomatic deliberation to mold consensus. It was a council of war where the final decision would be his alone.

  Wizardry allowed him to bring them all together in a matter of real time moments, transporting them from their various dispersed locations and afterwards returning them to same. None would be absent from their duties and commands for longer than a few seconds. In effect, all of the officers and leaders that he summoned had to share his curse of being in two places at once. They met in the large audience hall of Viceroy House, the still incomplete and mostly new construction official residence attached to the barracks tower near the skyship docks. The hall itself had no trappings or banners, but it did have plenty of room and a dais. For perhaps the last time, Mar felt that he had to present himself in a regal manner.

  All of the men who had fought with him against the Brotherhood of Phaelle were present.

  In accord with his long term plans, he had given Lord Ghorn a prominent seat beside him on the dais. It was necessary that the leaders of the Empire began to seen Ghorn as more than just a prince of Mhajhkaei.

  Waleck also stood on the dais, just slightly behind him. The old man had looked surprised when Mar had asked him to attend, but had only nodded.

  The Gaaelfharenii stood together just to the right. Still in their scuffed and dented armor, the three giants seemed to fill up the room all by themselves. High-Captain Mhiskva looked attentive, Lord Hhrahld looked bored, and Wilhm appeared to be napping.

  Symbols and appearance still being very much a part of command, Mar had had the seats arranged to emphasize the contribution of those who had proven their honor and courage.

  There were only three seats in the first row. These were occupied by Viceroy Purhlea, whose transport from Khalar had taken longer than the rest due to the necessity to inform him of all that had occurred, Viceroy Khlosb'ihs, who seemed a little taken aback at his inclusion, and High-Captain Berhl (Mar had not yet decided to declare the one time fugleman a Prince of the Empire).

  The larger second row was filled with men brought from the siege of Plythtwaelndt and once again Mar had made use of his unquestioned authority as Emperor of the Glorious Empire to bestow immediate promotions. From left to right sat Maidsear Ulor, Vice-Commander Truhsg, Quaestor of the Empire (Mar could also create ranks to suit him) Eishtren, Knight-Commander Relvhm, Knight-Commander Aerlon, and Subaltern Phehlahm.

  Behind these in the final row sat, left to right: the lords from Suhr. Mhaertymlel, Norst, Buhrstaen, and Tyldreyn; the commanders from Lhinstord, Emrae and Pyliu; the mercenary Hhlendt who led the legions from the island Princedoms; and the quarrelsome Mercantile League emissaries, Khlavio, Jhakat, Lhurismigeonir, Plhe, and Lord Sahmosthreacs.

  Mar had made it clear to the aristocrats -- lecturing them in view of the heart of undertime so that they got the message -- that they had no priority here and that if they did gain the chance to speak that their words would have no more weight than that of the others present.

  Hands on hips and expression stern, Telriy had informed him that she did not care to attend a meeting where the choice was between continued war and an attempt at peace as she thought that the question answered itself and thus any discussion was absurd.

  In a way, he saw her point.

  The rage that had driven him to desire only war was gone. Years of wading the shallows of undertime had worn it down and seeing Celly for the first time had finished wiping it away.

  He did not want his daughter to know only war.

  Nevertheless, he had not yet made up his mind.

  He did not believe the Brotherhood of Phaelle was capable of honoring any agreement that it made, even one guaranteed by ancient sorcerers.

  But, continued war could only leave more cities like violated like Lhinstord, or, even entirely devastated like the weald of the Steo Hills around the Sand River.

  His gut told him that the Brotherhood must be eradicated from the world. Any branch of it left alive would surely sprout mischief and destruction. To protect all those that he was responsible for, he must eliminate the threat.

  The monks would treat any peace as no more than a pause in hostilities and would use the opportunity to rebuild the ranks of the Black Monks and to discover more ancient magic to use against the Empire and the rest of the world. Peace today would surely mean war tomorrow.

  But did that have to be so?

  Wizardry and Waleck's dreams might give him the power to transform the Brotherhood of Phaelle, at least in future, into something more benign.

  Peace today could give him the opportunity to insure peace tomorrow.

  Still undecided, he addressed the group. "I called you here not to decide the question of whether there will be peace or more war. That decision is mine alone. My question to you is, what do we demand of the monks if I chose to negotiate?"

  A stir passed amongst the group, but no protest was voiced.

  "Prince-Commander Ghorn, you may begin."

  As instructed, the Mhajhkaeirii'n nobleman did not rise; this was not a formal debate. "Officers of the Empire, speak your mind as you will."

  The Viceroy of Khalar spoke first. Taking his cue from Lord Ghorn, Lord Purhlea did not stand. "They must accept defeat or annihilation."

  A chorus of scattered ayes rose in agreement.

  "They must give up Mhevyr and all claim to Plydyre," Aerlon proposed.

  Again, quick agreement came from much of the room.

  "It should be all vassal cities and conquered lands," Lord Norst modified.

  "They should surrender all of their magical weapons," Ulor stated.

  "All of their weapons period," Berhl proclaimed with a harsh, unforgiving tone.

  "Reparations must be made for the suffering of Lhinstord!" Commander Emrae declared.

  "Take all of their money and everything that they have," Eishtren said. "Leave them only their lives."

  This brought the largest roar of approval yet.

  Mar stood. He had heard enough. These men had fought too long and lost too much to consider compromise or mercy.

  "Thank you. I will meet with the monks as the sorcerer Oyraebos has asked. I will offer them the terms that you have chosen and nothing more."

  A full fledged cheer went up then, but Mar was n
ot pleased.

  It seemed somehow wrong to applaud an ultimatum that could only lead to more war and death.

  FIFTY

  7026 by the Common Reckoning

  (Thirdday, Waxing, 1st Summermoon, 1645 After the Founding of the Empire)

  Plythtwaelndt Fortress

  Dhavosh strolled along the long hall-like balcony that overlooked the marshalling courtyard. This late in the evening, only a few guards were about, but none of these did more than glance in his direction as he went by them. Archdeacon Traeleon had awarded all of the moon people complete freedom to roam the fortress as they pleased. This, of course, was an empty gesture as Dhavosh's sorcery could smash any force raised against him and could level this entire stone pile in as little as a day.

  Sconce lamps mounted to the occasional column scattered small circles of primitive, yellow illumination in a few places along the balcony, but the spells that he had cast on his eyes gave him sight into the infrared, ultraviolet, and ethereal, making every dimple of the way visible to him, including the Phaelle'n who waited in the deep shadow of an alcove to the right.

  This had to be the one that had left him the note.

  No guards were near. Dhavosh cast an illusion to conceal the two of them from casual sight. The spell was too insignificant to hide them from anyone with normal magical proficiency, but none of the monks fell within that category.

  "I am here," he said in the grounder's tongue.

  "As am I," the fellow replied.

  "I have not time for games. You asked for this meeting. State your purpose."

  The fellow smiled. "I have been given to understand that you could provide me with a weapon."

  "I can."

  "At what cost?"

  "I will destroy it after it is used."

  "And me with it."

  "Yes."

  "I accept your terms."

  Dhavosh took the pistol from his pocket. "There is only sufficient charge for three shots."

  "That will be enough."

  The sorcerer stepped forward and offered the pistol. After a moment, the lurker took it.

  "Do you require instruction in its operation?"

  "No."

  Dhavosh turned away.

  "Sorcerer."

  He stopped and turned back.

  "You and your people. What will you make of this world?"

  "A footstool."

  "Good."

  Dhavosh continued on his way.

  Oyraebos -- under duress in Dhavosh's opinion, though he had not expressed that opinion -- had made peace with the Empire and its wizard emperor, but Dhavosh had not been convinced that peaceful coexistence with the grounders, regardless of how expedient it might be at the moment, would do anything at all to achieve the Project's objectives.

  The Project Leader had also arranged the peace conference that would begin in the morning. The stated goal of the conference was to attempt to extend, at a minimum, the break in hostilities that now existed between the Brotherhood and the Empire into a formal cease fire. Oyraebos had also spoken to him in glowing terms of an eventual negotiated peace.

  But the fact remained that the Proficient were still only an easily diluted drop in this freakish world.

  It was clear to him that if the two major power brokers in this region were to instead continue to wage war with one another until one or both of them were ground down to nothing, then the Project would be able to step in and easily assume full control. The reduction in population which would be certain to accompany that war to the death would be an important secondary benefit.

  To be sure, his plan was barbaric, but it would save lives in the long run because the restoration of a true magical civilization would bring proper nutrition, medical care, and security to all. In the end, the grounders would thank him for what he would do today and tomorrow.

  To implement his plan, however, the stumbling block that the wizard Mar represented would have to be removed.

  That was Fhleoan's task.

  Zso was where Dhavosh had left him, hidden in simple illusions in a disused hallway.

  "The agent was satisfactory?" the wizard asked.

  "Time will tell."

  Dhavosh was the only surviving member of the Project that knew the spell codes required to signal the wizard. One fundamental tenet of magical warfare was: Use a wizard to fight a wizard.

  "You will inform me immediately," he told Zso, "if the event sequences change."

  "Of course. There is the matter of my fee."

  "What coin would you have? Do the old monies have any value to you?"

  "Certainly. A wizard can always find the time and place needed to spend any currency."

  FIFTY-ONE

  7026 by the Common Reckoning

  (Fifthday, Waxing, 1st Summermoon, 1645 After the Founding of the Empire)

  Tertiary Launch Site

  Prim wept.

  The note had said:

  Meet the monk in the courtyard of the empty villa on the second street to the north of the square at the end of the main north-south avenue. Poison the woman and the child before dusk or your son dies tomorrow.

  She had snatched up Lawst and run immediately to try to see Mar at Telriy's villa, but had been told by the guards that he was away. When one had asked should he announce her to the Queen, she had shaken her head and turned away.

  Gathering her determination and telling herself that she could not escape the inevitable, she had made her way to the square mentioned by the note. But when she had seen the dry, broken fountain at the center of it, grief had overcome her and she had collapsed onto the curb, sobbing.

  The granite statue at the center of the fountain, broken, weathered, and cracked was nevertheless still recognizable as a woman holding a child.

  Now she sat hugging Lawst, who continued to sleep unconcerned, and shivering.

  She was stronger than this.

  She could do it.

  She would do it to save her baby.

  But still the tears fell.

  Eyes clamped shut to try to stem the flood, she did not see the old man when he walked up to her, but she sensed his presence stir the ether when he came near and looked up, expecting one of the members of the Project. It was with surprise that she found one of the grounders standing before her.

  "Are you alright?" he asked, concern clear in his voice. His face was open and, like the statue, weathered. His hair was all white. She had never seen someone so obviously old. In the old life, spells had lessened the toll of the years.

  "Yes, it is nothing. Thank you." She ran her hand over her eyes to wipe away some of the damp, gritting her teeth when she could not still the tremor in it.

  The old man reached into his trouser's pocket and brought out something that he extended towards her. "Here. This is for you."

  She focused on the object. It was a man's ring, hammered bright gold with a raw ruby the size of her thumbnail set in a wire claw. She had seen something similar in a museum, once, in the life before. That ring had been two millennia old. Her perception of the ether was only average, but she could readily tell that this one served as the Vessel for several high rank spells. It oozed magic.

  She drew back slightly. "Who are you?"

  "My name is Waleck. And you are Prim Olfew and this is your son Lawst."

  She tensed. "You are a wizard."

  "Not at all."

  She let herself relax slightly. "A sorcerer then."

  "Amongst other things."

  "What do you want of me?"

  "Nothing save to give you this ring."

  Still she did not reach out her hand. "What is it?"

  "A defense against wizards. It took me almost two years to locate it. As long as you wear it, no wizard can find you or interfere in your life."

  When her hand shot out to take the ring, it was no longer shaking. The band was too big for her other fingers, so she slipped it on the thumb of her right hand. It fit snug enough not to slip off by accident.

&nb
sp; "Why are you doing this?"

  "Mar owes you a favor. This is payment."

  "I am free of Zso?"

  "He will seek you, but not find you. I will take care of the rest."

  She felt a spike of savage joy. "You will kill him?"

  The old man shrugged. "Yes, as needed, but that will not stop him. In the main, I will simply create diversions that will prevent him from stumbling upon you and yours by chance."

  She nodded. "I will wear it always."

  "Farewell." He turned about and began to walk away, his steps slow and careful in the manner of the very aged.

  On sudden impulse, she called, "Thank you!"

  He turned his head just long enough for her to see his smile, then vanished.

  FIFTY-TWO

  17th Year of the Phaelle’n Ascension, 357th Day of Glorious Work

  Year One of the New Age of Magic

  (Fifthday, Waxing, 1st Summermoon, 1645 After the Founding of the Empire)

  Before Plythtwaelndt Fortress

  Traeleon, followed closely by the four, hand-picked Combatant bodyguards that the agreed terms permitted, halted just without the gate when he heard Bhrucherra's shout.

  Dhavosh, the leader of this band of the moon people, and his chief deputy waited adjacent to his small flying Relic fifty steps along the road. The sorcerer had informed Traeleon that he must consult with his Project Leader prior to the conference and it was clear that he had just returned from that consultation. Traeleon had yet to meet Oyraebos, but if the man was cut of the same cloth as Dhavosh and Arlo, then he would be keen of mind, incredibly strong in magic, but perhaps not greatly perceptive of necessities and realities.

  At a dead run, the First Inquisitor crossed the bailey, passed through the gatehouse tunnel, and dashed up to the Archdeacon.