The Zi'veyn

by Kim Wedlock

  "Oy," Malson squeezed his eyes shut tight. "Well, at least he's given us one win."

  A look of confusion passed around the room. "My Lord?"

  "He's assigned Jora here to keep an eye on me. At least we don't have to worry about any of this getting back to him, even if he is suspicious." He looked back up as that consideration eased their confusion, but a deeper frown had begun to etch itself into his brow. "But that could change all too easily if I don't tread more carefully... We need to embrace this little advantage while we can."

  "Isn't that what we've been trying to do?" Jora asked, his young face shadowed in the same doubt that always plagued him in such meetings, but where it was usually met with disapproval or reassurance, now it seemed to be shared.

  Malson nodded his own reluctant agreement. "'Trying', and getting nowhere." He puffed and folded his arms, clearing the clutter from his mind. "Forget the artefact for the moment - what about his magic? He has his prisoner and, as I understand it, an Aranan mage teaching him how to wield it?"

  "If you're going to suggest recruiting Erran," Oliver said quite quickly, "you're wasting your time. He's too loyal. He's as bad as Teagan - in fact, if not for his magic, he would most likely have been promoted to portian years ago. It's only Salus's mistrust that stops mages from ranking beyond phidipan."

  "And that may soon change, too."

  The idea of emotionally void mages set another uneasy taint to the air. Oliver and Vari exchanged particularly concerned glances, knowing better than the others just what Aranan mages could do.

  "Can we get him deployed?"

  "No. He's a breaker. He's worked in the cells for the past three years, interrogating prisoners under Nolan, and with the kind of spells he could teach Salus, he's not likely to be let out of his sight. If push came to shove, Salus would still send out any other mage in his place."

  "All right. Then this prisoner of his - Denek. Is there no way we can get to him?"

  Oliver shook his head. "I'm still the only cell guard on your side, and there are always at least two others watching him. The breakers don't touch him any more, on Salus's orders, but that still doesn't help us much. I say it can't be done."

  "We couldn't slip him something? A note? Information? He's fed, surely - could something not be delivered discreetly with his meals?"

  "Well...yes, I suppose so - but what do you honestly think he can do for us?"

  "A damn sight more than we can for ourselves," Malson growled regretfully. "When could a message be passed on?"

  "I'm on rotation a few days from now," the mage replied, "I can do it, but what do you expect to gain from it? He's a prisoner, and despite his airs, he has no choice but to do what he's told. And if he were to try something extreme--"

  "Then Salus would assume the Order to blame, not us."

  Vari stared at him in surprise. "You want to use them as a scapegoat?"

  "Scapegoats are the Crown's prerogative, but far from my preference. Which is why we will have to come up with a solid plan in the next few days."

  Jora shifted his weight, the young man's doubt surfacing once more and again he voiced what all the others were thinking: "Is Denek really likely to help us, though? Or him, for that matter? Zikhon only knows what the Order is up to, but surely they don't actually plan to empower him like this...?"

  "I don't know," the old man sighed. "But the fact is that it was Denek who told him about his magic, helped him to awaken it and is now helping him to understand and utilise it. I have absolutely no idea what the Order is up to either - the whole body is in confusion. Perhaps they do just want to distract him, or the chaos he could spread could be to their advantage, but whatever the case, they're going too far. He's learning, and he could grow to be a thorn in their side, too. Denek needs to be stopped."

  "I suggest," David began soberly, "that if we can't come up with a plan to bring him to our side, we kill him. Poisoning his food would be no trial, and, of course, there'd be no risk of him refusing us. You're overlooking the possibility that we slip him a note and he then tells Salus of our intentions. He could have thrown his lot in with them for any number of reasons - we've just assumed that the Order's not taking custody of him was part of a bigger plan, but what if it wasn't? What if they betrayed him, and he's betrayed them in return?"

  Malson's lips hardened reluctantly as the consideration he had already weighed countless times was finally spoken aloud. "The thought has crossed my mind..."

  "...But?"

  He shook his head doubtfully, drumming his fingers on his folded arms. "...But something about it doesn't strike me right."

  "That's not as reassuring as you seem to think it is."

  "It isn't, is it?" He smiled apologetically. "But, if we can't formulate a workable plan, we will have no choice but to dispose of him, whomever's side he's on. But only as a last resort. He has too much potential for us to handle him with haste."

  Agreement rippled, some more assured than others, while the muffled sound of several glasses shattering outside intruded upon the strained silence, followed quickly by a mixture of drunken cheers and groans of defeat.

  "How is our own search for this artefact progressing?" Malson asked, ignoring the ruckus ensuing in the tavern below, but Marie was already shaking her head.

  "It's just as uncertain as Salus's. No one has any clear ideas, just educated guesses. And how far are they really going to get us? We don't have Salus's resources."

  "His resources aren't doing much for him, though, are they?"

  "David's right, but I'm afraid we have no choice either way but to make do and continue as we started. In the end, we'll only have failed if Salus gets to it first. We have to ensure that doesn't happen."

  This time a reluctant silence was the only sign of agreement, and though he looked upon them all with as much reassurance as he could scrape together, he most certainly shared in their doubt. They had too little to work with, and while Salus's extensive resources weren't providing him with much in the way of results - indeed, even he was chasing Karth's shadow - a single discovery was all it would take to put him on top.

  But then, the same could be said for them...

  A stroke of confidence raised his chin, and he looked across the handful of discontented operatives with hard, resolute eyes. "Retract your efforts to delay or alter reports," he said decisively. "Otherwise, continue as you have been with the sole addition of planning a way to bring Denek to our side. Tell the others. No suggestion is too absurd. After all, this whole matter is quite out of the ordinary." He nodded in dismissal. "I'll reach out to you all again when it's necessary."

  After the customary show of respect, they filtered out of the private room, leaving as a group that went completely unnoticed by the tavern patrons, so adept were even phaeacian skills. Taliel, however, didn't join them.

  Malson stopped alongside her and considered her for a moment. She stood as she had throughout the meeting: her arms folded tightly, a light knot in her brow, her eyes distant and fretful. He had little doubt where her thoughts lay.

  "I didn't want to ask in front of the others," he began quietly, his voice softened by a compassion that would befit any other old man, "but did Rathen believe you?"

  She dragged her eyes onto him, but they had become suddenly sharp and attentive when they landed, and she straightened professionally, pushing aside her private thoughts with chilling success. "He did," she replied with a matching emptiness. "The others didn't, but that was to be expected. It won't be an issue. He'll either convince them in time, or give them no choice but to act on my information."

  "Good." He watched her closely, and though no hint of her previous disturbance returned, he guessed it was taking more of her self-control to suppress it than it seemed. His lips twitched regretfully. "I'm sorry for ordering you to do this. It can't be easy."

  "It's all right."

  "Is it?" He felt a few of his own tensions ease as something flashed through her eyes. She was not unfeeling - she was
not portian, and he hoped that Salus's interest in her would spare her that 'honour'.

  She considered his encouraging smile with calculation, carefully deliberating her response until finally, and much to his relief, she gave in. "I...don't know. It's been so long...and to stand in front of him again like that, but for a reason like this..." She shook her head, her gaze growing distant again. "It...wasn't what I..."

  But she looked back to him too soon, and the stony quality of her profession returned to her voice. "None of this is what I wanted. I won't bore you. The situation is severe."

  His gaze became studious, and she made no attempt to hide from it. He then smiled sadly. "Very well. Good evening, Taliel."

  "Good evening, my Lord."

  She stepped aside as he left, and for a moment, as the curtain fell back into place, she felt her control begin to slip. A rush of anger, remorse and despair flooded her body, seeping into her marrow, and she found herself deeply inclined to give in to the sudden and overwhelming compulsion to break everything in sight. The chairs would make for a satisfying target, and there was nothing quite like the irreversible shattering of large panes of glass - and just how easily could this old, sodden, sun-bleached drapery be torn?

  But she was bitterly aware that, as enjoyable as it might have been to try, it wouldn't achieve a damned thing.

  So she took a deep breath, choosing instead to regain her control - and regretted it immediately as a wave of nausea swelled in her throat from far too much dirty tavern air, leaving her sour and dizzy rather than subdued.

  With a grunt of irritation, she left the room in defeat, almost ripping the curtain down anyway as she went, and stormed down the staircase to lose herself in the confusion of the tavern patrons as she made her way to the bar. She navigated through the bodies with little effort, artfully avoiding the wide-reaching elbows of drunkards looking for a reason to start a fight, and the boisterous dancing of oblivious couples to whom she managed not to shoot scornful looks. She was served promptly once she arrived despite the crowd of people still calling for attention, but the lascivious glances the barman gave her between his quick surveys of the writhing and smoke-filled hall explained the reason for that well enough. But she didn't respond to his hungry looks, and his attention was quickly stolen away by an uproar on the far side, where some unfortunate had blundered into an elbow trap.

  She paid it no attention. She dropped onto the stool and stared deep into her mug of ale, succumbing to the engulfing cloud of unwanted thoughts without any effort to fight them off.

  Of all people - of all people - why did Rathen have to be caught up in this? Why couldn't he have left well enough alone and remained in his odd little rock-house? Why couldn't he have grown truly bitter and given up on the world, like anyone else would have done? Fled to the mountains and forgotten any fact of war, monarchy and social burdens? Why did he have to take up the mantle of responsibility and turn his magic to the task? And why, of all people once again, did he have to be standing in Salus's way?!

  'Because,' she thought with acrid affection, 'it's who he is.' No matter what 'anyone else' would have done, he could never have turned his back on his country - not even if that country had betrayed him. He'd taken oaths when he'd joined the military wing - she had been there when he'd done so - and he hadn't spoken them lightly, and though his banishment had voided them, his heart had not. He had answered his country's call too many times before, and though he might presently think otherwise, though for anyone else it would certainly be the case, nothing had truly changed in him since then. He was absolutely devoted.

  Did that make him noble, she wondered? Honourable? The model defender?

  Or did it make him a fool?

  'It makes him him.'

  Her lips twitched briefly into a smile.

  But why now?!

  Her shoulders rounded even further as she slumped over the bar, and she raised her mug, almost snatching it from the sticky counter top, to trade her troubles for its comfort.

  She fought off a gag at the first sour mouthful and slammed it back down, growling under her breath as the tavern slighted her again.

  Damn Malson. She understood his reasons, but she deeply resented the position he'd put her in. Seeing Rathen again had knocked her sideways, unleashing powerful, juvenile emotions that had done nothing all day but cloud her judgement. She'd never begrudged her work before - but then, she'd never questioned her orders before, either. Not those of Malson, of Salus, nor of Elina who came before him.

  ...But this... None of those orders had ever involved--

  "Vaesian red. I don't care which year - anything but the twenty-two."

  Taliel froze in fright, while the barman merely laughed. "This ain't The Legionnaire, mate. My clientèle can't afford that perfume."

  "Whiskey, then."

  He grinned and shook his head quite unapologetically. "It's beer, ale or scrumpy. I'll have some bottom-shelf sauce at eight - it's not as strong as whiskey, but it'll sear off the walls of your throat just the same. Otherwise--"

  "He'll have a beer."

  Both men looked to Taliel in surprise, but she smiled back easily, having recovered from her own shock. Following no objection, the barman shortly shrugged and stepped away, leaving Salus to cock a quizzical eyebrow.

  "I'd have said you'd be better off with water, but... Well, there's less likely to have been anything swimming in the beer..."

  "And the ale?" He asked, peering into her mug before she pushed it an arm's length away from herself.

  "You'd be better off with the water."

  He breathed a laugh and a smile curved his lips, but it was fleeting. His expression was quick to sour again, and the thick, oppressive irritation which radiated from him like body heat suddenly incited within her a great desire to flee. She racked her brain for an excuse to leave, despite being well aware that he was too perceptive to believe anything she might come up with, and soon glanced towards him for a clue.

  The severity of his eyes stalled her. They were quick, sharper than usual, but they weren't searching the glasses and hunting ornaments along the wall behind the bar as they appeared. They were keen with impatience, and though any other around them might dismiss it as an unpleasant daydream or a craving for drink, its truth was a thoughtfulness out of place in so common a tavern. Whatever was going on in his mind, it was clear it couldn't keep up with the thoughts he tried to balance like so many spinning plates.

  She shifted uncomfortably. She was in little mood to entertain someone in so equally a frustrated and intolerant state as herself, but she found herself unable to turn away, and the longer she looked at him, the clearer it became that his desperation now flowed as a constant undercurrent rather than a periodic distraction.

  He must have felt her eyes on him; she quickly looked away as his slipped onto her. "I had to get out of the office," he explained tightly.

  "Well, this is where most people go to get away."

  "I know. So I thought I'd try it..."

  The barman returned and set a mug of thick amber liquid on the counter before him, at which Salus immediately grimaced. The barman responded with only the slightest chuckle and shake of his head, then moved off again to see to the demands of more reasonable customers.

  "To be honest," he continued hesitantly, turning away from the offensive beverage to look at her instead, "I'd...hoped I might find you here."

  "Oh?" She smiled, and his own features softened. "How did you know I'd be here at all?"

  "I didn't. It was just...good fortune."

  The two continued to smile at one another for an increasingly awkward moment, until Salus broke away with reddening cheeks. She didn't notice her own smile broaden in amusement, nor further still as he considered his beer in an attempt at nonchalance. She watched him reach tentatively for the handle, drag the mug towards himself, raise it, then think better of it and sink heavily instead upon the stool beside her, sighing in defeat. His face - bleak but not unattractive, she muse
d - dropped slowly back into its usual, tormented expression of dissatisfaction as his eyes rested on the tankard.

  Pity forced her own smile away, and the returning reach of his frustration chased off the pleasantries. "Do you want to talk--"

  "I'm tense." He spoke quickly, readily, as though he had only been waiting for her to ask. "I cannot wind down. Everything's building up, becoming more and more complicated - even the things that should be simple are being complicated by things that shouldn't even be related!" His fists, already balled up on the counter, tightened, turning his knuckles bone-white. "Things that should be an asset, should be a strength, are held back by the most...trivial of technicalities, and meanwhile the pressure just continues to build. I'm..." he shook his head helplessly. "I'm going to snap, I can feel it. I'm going to snap..."

  Taliel said nothing as he stared into the dubious depths of his mug.

  Words eluded her. She hadn't the first clue of how to respond. She wanted to - she had to - but what kind of answer was he looking for? What could she say that wouldn't sound insincere? She felt in need of comfort herself, her mind was in little place to provide it for someone else.

  But she still found herself wrestling with ideas, and the reason was simple: she'd seen his walls come down before, but now they were nothing but rubble. All of a sudden, here was Salus, Keliceran, the head of the Arana, sitting in this less-than-savoury place, plagued by confusion and desperation and seeking her company to chase it away. And for the good of everyone, she couldn't shirk that responsibility. Things were too fragile - he was too fragile.

  She straightened in her seat. She was phidipan. She'd been trained to shut away her guilt and childish emotions along with all the rest. She'd done it one hundred times before; now she would do it again. And, in the end, it didn't matter who was involved. These were her orders, and for Turunda's sake, she would see them through. And when she was finished...

  Her eyes trailed back onto him. She watched his gaze draw further away, his frown loosen, and his mind become finally and totally swallowed by his thoughts like a drowned body giving up its last struggle and dropping beneath the surface of a lake.