by John March
After a few moments the guard appeared again, holding a second piece of iron about the size of a plum, and dropped it into the second indentation in the trestle with a solid thump.
This time, as Ebryn tried to fold the baton away again, he felt a hindrance, like trying to push open a door with somebody holding it shut on the other side. A blanketing cloud weighed down his mind as he tried to form the correct patterns, obstructing his tongue as he sounded the words.
Ebryn took a deep breath and forced the baton through the blocking force, pushing it away, and twisting inwards. It vanished to a point of light inside his half closed fist, slowly at first, then abruptly as he bludgeoned his way through.
“The final one,” Nee Daelith said, as the guard reappeared with a disk of iron as large as his open hand.
He could almost feel hundreds of eyes watching, the silence in the chamber a different kind of pressure weighing down on him, distantly aware of sounds from outside for the first time.
This time he immediately threw himself at the resistance, trying to force his way through. He felt as if the forming threads of his casting slid away from a glacial barrier, collapsing as he tried to stretch out beyond the world skin.
He tried extending his reach around the obstruction, feeling a faint prickling of sweat breaking out on his forehead with the effort. Whichever direction he tried, it seemed to hem him in, as insignificant and powerless as an insect trapped inside an upturned glass.
Ebryn stared at the chunk of iron on the trestle, finding it impossible to believe something so small could produce an effect powerful enough to block his casting.
He sensed impatient movement in the chamber, and realised the examiners had already decided the outcome of this final test. The thought of failing at the last trial was like a lump of ice in the centre of his chest, the idea of returning to Conant so soon a trickling fear invading nerveless arms and legs, making his hands shake.
Ebryn half closed his eyes and tried again. Ignoring impatient mutters from the corners of the room, he bent his mind to the task, looking for a way to bring more power to bear, or a weakness to exploit.
For some reason, he recalled Dollard, the old horse master at Conant Manor, who once, unable to pull a cork, had pushed it down into the bottle to liberate the wine inside.
He sensed movement in the room as some of his audience started to stand. In the front row a brown garbed tryth with the three floating disks grumbled something to a companion, and eased himself off the bench.
Spurred by desperation he tried the only thing he could think of. He reached out in his mind and tried to fold away the largest piece of sevyric iron.
With a soft hiss, the sound of water splashing hot metal, the sevyric iron disappeared. It was as easy as turning the correct key in a well oiled lock, as little effort as dropping a similarly sized stone off the edge of a cliff, and as if each was chained to the larger chunk, the other pieces on the trestle vanished with it.
A dull clang resonated through the room as the tryth's floating globes crashed to the floor and rolled away, trailing smoke. The illuminations dimmed in a shower of sparks, and there were exclamations of surprise and alarm, followed by dead silence.
In the half-light of the unlit chamber everybody stared at him.
Both Tk'tk Ma'tn's eyes faced him, and Nee Daelith's mouth paused half open, as if stifled mid-sentence. The tryth stood with teeth bared in a sort of silent snarl.
A cold dread sluiced through Ebryn. He'd seen the same expressions on the faces of Conant villagers when he'd pacified dogs and horses with a word or a touch.
Fear.
Tenlier
RETURNING TO THE MAIN building after lunch, they found a large crowd already gathered in the colonnaded garden next to the testing hall. A tense silence settled as everybody strained to hear a white robed recorder reading from a scroll. He stood at the top of short set of steps in front of an open entrance to their left.
Flanking the recorder were two cheg guards, completely motionless except where a light breeze twisted between the walkway columns, and played with their silvery fur.
Their bodies were segmented at the middle shoulder, the top half upright, the lower half horizontal, like any four legged animal. Their bodies were massive, the lower half standing as high as a tall horse, and twice as broad. They crouched on the lower four of their six limbs, towering over everyone else, each holding a large pole-arm.
The books he'd read had described them accurately, but no line drawn sketch could capture the feel of their raw physical presence.
“—so if you hear your name now, you go through here,” the recorder said loudly.
“What did we miss?” Sash whispered to a neighbour.
“Not much,” he said in a low voice. “The man was just saying about how you don't have to accept the offers, but then it'll be down to getting some other interest, so you might end up going home.”
As the recorder worked his way quickly down the first list, and onto a second, Ebryn felt the same sickening anxiety he'd had before the test. A steady trickle of applicants detached themselves from the waiting crowd and made their way up the stairs and under the arch.
Ebryn watched as Romain and his sister were called, followed by Jure who walked up with a broad grin on his face.
About half-way through the second set of names the recorder said, “Ay'luff, of Munun.”
Elouphe didn't respond until Sash nudged him. “That's you Elouphe. Well done.”
“Addae Bohma, of Epitu,” the recorder said a few moments later, “and Sashael Enash, of Senesella.”
“Promise me, whatever happens we'll meet up afterwards,” Sash said, turning to Ebryn with a concerned expression. “Promise?”
He nodded mutely.
The recorder neared the end of the second roll of paper. The crowd moved restlessly.
Ebryn knew Fidela would be pleased to see him, if he returned to Conant Manor, and Sarl too, he expected. But equally, he knew Lord Conant had wanted him gone, and there was nothing for him there, or anywhere in Goresyn, without Conant's help.
And Fidela had been right. After everything he'd seen since leaving, there was no way he would be able to find it in himself to return. He'd already started to think of alternative plans, when he heard his name called out.
“That's the complete roll, people,” the recorder said loudly as Ebryn climbed the steps. “The rest of you should wait here to find out if there are any offers in the second round.”
With each step he felt as if a weight lifted from him. Whatever else happened now he'd be able to stay with his new friends. Shouts of dismay followed Ebryn as he walked down the short passage connecting the two courtyards.
He found Sash waiting at the far end, smiling at him. “I heard your name being called.”
He couldn't help smiling back. “They always seem to leave me to last. What do we do now?”
“Go and find out who wants us, I suppose.”
The courtyard was chaotic. Ebryn followed Sash around the perimeter, working their way around the press of people, and listening out for their names.
Halfway to the opposite side Sash stopped and indicated with her head. “There, I think that man wants you.”
An elderly man, dressed in dark grey robes, approached them, walking with a firm stride, carrying a long staff in his left hand. His thinning hair had mostly turned to silver. Ebryn didn't think he looked particularly impressive, but people moved out of his way.
He stopped in front of Ebryn and bowed. “My name is Tenlier, Elector and head of the Questors chapter of the Genestuer order. I have the privilege of obtaining the first rights to your apprenticeship.”
“I'm at your service,” Ebryn said, bowing back, unsure what kind of response was expected.
“Excellent,” Tenlier said. He turned to Sash, and bowed. “Sashael, isn't it?”
“Yes, that's right,” Sash said holding out her hand.
Tenlier took her hand and shook it. “Don't
look so surprised, we seldom see Senesellans here, and your castings were memorable. I believe the person you're looking for is on the other side, or should I say the person looking for you. Enla Aro — she's eager to meet you.”
Sash touched Ebryn lightly on the arm. “I'd better go, I'll see you later.”
“She's a friend of yours? It's good to have friends,” Tenlier said.
“Yes, it is,” Ebryn said
“Please excuse my manners. I would like to make a better introduction, but there is another applicant I must see. She isn't in the selected group, and I want to be sure to get to her first. After the first round it's a free for all.”
They'd nearly reached the entrance when a man with the build of a wrestler pushed his way through the crowd towards them, heavy shoulders and long arms shoving people roughly out of his way.
Following behind him came Marus Romain, his lips curled into a self-satisfied sneer. The man stepped in front of them, barring their way, his cropped head thrust forward into Tenlier's face, blunt features suffused with rage.
“Tenlier, you bastard,” he shouted.
He reminded Ebryn of a snarling dog, with lips pulled back, flecks of spittle flying.
“My dear Brack, whatever can be vexing you so?” Tenlier asked.
“You bloody well know what, Tenlier, don't try playing the fool with me. You haven't been near a selection for years, then you turn up on the last day and start pissing in my beer.”
“Really Brack, those are the rules as you know and we are all bound by them.”
Tenlier's tone was light, almost conciliatory, but Ebryn thought he detected a hint of amusement in Tenlier's voice, and a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. All around them people turned to watch.
“Bugger the rules,” Brack said, his face turning a livid shade of puce. “What are you going to do with him then, eh? Turn him into some pox loving excuse for a scribe, till he's half blind from reading and copying?”
Tenlier chuckled. “Honestly, Brack, you make good work sound like torture. I assure you, we have plenty of research to do, so there's no chance young Alire here will ever end up working as a copyist.”
“Poking muck with a stick and hoping it'll turn to gold, you and your troupe of anvolene clowns.”
“Now, now, Brack, you know I'm not trying to make gold. Were that even possible, I could see no benefit in it at all. Surely we should use our given talents to work for the common good?”
Brack stepped forward sputtering. “And what do you think we train for eh? Our own selfish needs? You furbeg f—”
Quentyn stepped out of the watching crowd, directly in front of Brack, facing Ebryn, his head bobbing animatedly. He puffed out his chest and looked round impressively, clearly oblivious to the row. “Aha — I knew you could do it, eh Ebryn? just needed the right advice, hmm?”
Everybody looked at him, evidently surprised at his sudden appearance.
Ebryn took a step backwards. “Master Quentyn?”
Brack rounded on Quentyn and pushed him aside, his voice rising, complexion intensifying to a strangulated shade. “Master? You lick-spittle bag of festering entrails. You turd sucking worm.”
Quentyn wheeled with the speed of a man bitten. “Upt—” he said, mouth opening and shutting like a landed fish, his face draining visibly as Brack advanced, looking him up and down.
“Master, my arse. Who are you? You’re not fit to lick the dirt from a tryth's heel claw. Get out of my way, before I turn you into trikawi food.”
Quentyn backed away, stumbling into Ebryn, treading on his foot before turning, and fleeing into the crowd.
“Well, now you've put him in his place, Brack, I really must get on,” Tenlier said.
He moved neatly past Brack, smiling pleasantly, and made for the entrance. Ebryn followed closely, anxious not to lose him in the crowd.
Tenlier walked quickly, heading for the passage through to the courtyard holding the unsuccessful candidates. A few other assessors Ebryn recognised from his test were also hurrying along in the same direction. Tenlier swept through the arch with Ebryn trailing in his wake.
Catching up with him, as they negotiated the narrow passageway Ebryn caught a hint of a smile on the older man's face. He seemed untroubled, even amused, by the fight.
“Now don't concern yourself with Master Brack,” Tenlier said to Ebryn. “He rather wanted to have you for the Aremetuet order, but I outbid him — one of the very few privileges of rank. He'll calm down, eventually, and I'm sure the experience will do him good, once he's had a good chance to reflect.”
On the far side the waiting crowd had broken up into dispirited clumps. From the numbers, it was clear to Ebryn that far fewer than half the applicants had been successful. The expressions on many of the faces looked shocked, others upset or defiant, and a few appeared resigned.
Some had wandered towards the exits, but none seemed to have left. A visible ripple went through the crowd as they appeared, and the murmur of conversation died away.
“Before we leave, there is one more matter I need to attend to,” Tenlier said as he scanned the crowd. “Wait here. I shouldn't be long.”
Ebryn moved aside to allow others through the passage behind him and found himself standing next to one of the cheg guards. A few followed Tenlier into the crowd, but most of the assessors gathered on the steps with their newly selected students around them, and bellowed out names over their heads. Some jostled their fellows, or tried to disrupt them by shouting names loudly when they tried to speak. They reminded Ebryn of the marketplace merchants, elbowing one another and haggling loudly over precious goods, fighting to be heard as they called out offers to their customers.
He spotted Brack amongst them, cheeks still red, his face set in a scowl. Sash and Addae were nowhere to be seen so he moved around to the far side of the cheg where he wouldn't be seen. He felt emptied out, exhausted by the strain of the day, and didn't feel like provoking another argument.
The cheg guard followed his movements, looking down on him with small black pupils. It had a broad face covered in fine walnut coloured fur. Two vertical slashes of shining black skin marked its nostrils, similar in appearance to a dog's nose, and its mouth showed as a barely visible line beneath the heavy fur.
In its right hand it held a large pole-arm, a broad axe-head mounted on a thick iron-bound haft, topped with a long spear-like blade.
Tenlier returned through the press of bodies leading Aara. She followed with her head held down, face hidden behind a fold in her headscarf. He could hear Tenlier talking to her as they approached. “—very sorry you had to be subjected to the ordeal of such fearful uncertainty. This selection process we have is far from perfect, but it does work admirably in preventing real fights between the masters, and disputes amongst the orders — which naturally is its real purpose.”
The crowd had surged forward to the bottom of the steps to listen out for names, hopeful faces straining upwards to hear over the babble of competing voices, and Tenlier moved along a short way to avoid the growing throng around the stairs nearest the entrance.
“Unfortunately, I needed to use my entire balance to secure this young man,” Tenlier said. “After his final performance he attracted generous offers from many of my fellows. If I'd had a single counter to spare, I assure you, I would have spared you this tribulation. I gambled none of my friends would see your value and raise a bid, and I was right.”
Ebryn felt surprised, and secretly relieved, to hear he'd been contested between a number of the assessors.
“So here we are,” Tenlier said, surveying them with the satisfied expression of a man who had managed to find two unlikely jewels in a cesspit. “As you have accepted my offer, you are now in the Questors chapter of the Genestuer order and therefore entitled to accommodation in the Questors halls. I assume you are happy with this arrangement?”
“Yes Master,” Ebryn said.
“That's excellent — but not Master, I prefer just my name — Tenl
ier.”
“Yes Mas — I mean Tenlier,” Ebryn said.
“Plyntoure was supposed to be here to help you sort yourselves out. He seems to have mislaid himself, so I suppose we should proceed to the halls, and you can arrange to have your belongings brought over from there.”
Vittore
“ORIM — COME IN.”
Duca Vittore spoke without looking up from the papers on his desk. “You don't mind waiting? There is a vawden delegation to be dealt with. Clay has put them off twice already.”
“I am early Duca,” said Orim as he silently pulled the door shut behind him, “I will wait.”
As usual, Orim had entered the study through Vittore's private library, a convenience which allowed him to come and go with minimal scrutiny from the Duca's functionaries and visitors. The narrow library door opened into a shallow recess mid-way along the left hand wall of the room
The study walls were panelled in intricately carved pale redwood, and the flooring made of hundreds of light toned small opalescent tiles which seemed to shift colour subtly as he looked at them. Only a handful of rooms on the upper floors of the palace were finished in this style. The antiquity of the woodwork suggested the materials used hailed from old Volane, fragments of a lost world and more valuable than gold.
Apart from the desk and a few tall hard-backed chairs the room was empty. The only source of light came from a row of tall windows behind Vittore.
Gairlan Clay, Vittore's private secretary, entered the room through the open doors, leading the vawden delegation. Orim waited in the recess, arms folded, watching with interest. Vawden were one of the few true underground dwelling races, and seldom seen amongst men, especially in daylight.
They entered the room huddled together like a gaggle of geese, moving in a tight knot almost on Garlan's heels, heads thrust forward from oversized shoulders. The tallest stood barely two-thirds Orim's height, at least a head shorter than even the Chochin, and wearing knee-length dark brown kilts with belts of interlinked dull iron sections, each cast with the stamp of a different symbol, and smooth caps of a brown leather extending at the rear to the base of their necks.