“You are to wait here. When the doors open, walk to the foot of the dais and bow. Then wait for His Mightiness to speak.” After those words, the page turned and disappeared through a side door, one that Beltur had not even noticed.
After a time, a single chime echoed along the corridor, and the double doors opened inward, revealing a high-ceilinged chamber beyond that stretched some twenty yards from the doors to the foot of the dais. Unlike the corridor, the floor tiles were of a polished reddish marble, through which ran faint golden lines.
Beltur was so stunned that he had to take three quick steps to catch up with his uncle. Then he matched steps as they walked to the foot of the dais and bowed.
“You are prompt. I grant you that, Kaerylt,” boomed out the voice of Denardre the Great, for like all prefects of Gallos since his ancestor, Fenardre the Great, he retained the suffix of past grandeur, not that Gallos had declined into insignificance in the ensuing years. His glare was scarcely lessened by the good five yards from where Kaerylt and Beltur stood below the dais to the Great Chair that might as well have been called a throne, had custom not forbidden that appellation. The Prefect wore no crown, nor any jewelry except a massive gold band on the ring finger of his right hand. His formal tunic was of black velvet, with gold piping, and his trousers and shimmering boots were black.
From what Beltur could see and sense, Denardre was older than Beltur and younger than Kaerylt, with pale blond hair above a fair-skinned face that was wide and square-jawed. His eyes were watery green, and they fixed on Kaerylt. Standing on each side of the Prefect, if on the dais with their heads barely level with the Prefect’s knees, were two white mages, neither of whom Beltur had ever seen.
“You summoned us.” Kaerylt’s voice was matter-of-fact. “We are here.”
“So you are. Tell me what, if anything, of import that you discovered while you lived off my silvers.”
“We traveled, as you requested, from Arrat to Desanyt to Kasiera…” Kaerylt quickly summarized their travels and the attacks by the raiding herders, then went on, “You told me you received word that the Marshal of Westwind was acting to entice women to leave the herders and that the loss of women caused them to attack the towns east of the great wash to raid for other women. What we discovered was that Arrat has developed a system that makes it near-impossible for such raids to be successful, as has Buoranyt. Kasiera came to an agreement with the raiders to supply them with goods in return for not being attacked. I can only surmise that, when the raiders became aware of our presence, they believed that we had discovered that agreement, and they attacked us and the town, believing the town had betrayed them. Then they went on to attack and raid women from Paalsyra. No one knows anything about the Marshal of Westwind enticing women.”
“You mean they did not tell you anything.”
“No, Your Mightiness. They know nothing. I can tell, as can most mages, when I am being lied to or when people do not tell me everything.”
“Then why would I receive such reports?”
“I cannot speak to that, Your Mightiness. I can only report what we did and what we observed.”
“Then it was because of your actions that the raiders attacked both Kasiera and Paalsyra, was it not?”
“That is far from certain. We took no action. We only observed and asked a few questions.”
“If you were so circumspect, Mage, tell me how else these attacks occurred,” demanded Denardre.
The blond-and-silver-haired Kaerylt inclined his head. “The raiders saw Gallosian troopers and Gallosian mages. They feared that their extortion of goods from the local people would be revealed. They attacked.”
“A simple explanation for a simple people. Yes, that must be it.” Denardre nodded, then added cheerfully, “You may go, Kaerylt, and you as well, young Beltur. You’ve told me all that I need to know. Arms-Mage Wyath awaits you in the adjoining chamber.” Denardre gestured to his right.
Beltur didn’t trust either the Prefect’s warm tone of voice or his smiling green eyes, not that he could have said why. And he never asked you anything, yet you were required to be here. That bothered Beltur, more than a little, although he couldn’t say why. So did the fact that he hadn’t detected any lies in the Prefect’s words, although he had the feeling that Denardre had not said all he might have … as if something were being withheld.
“As you command, Your Mightiness.” Kaerylt bowed, took two steps back from where he stood at the base of the dais, then motioned to Beltur to accompany him as he turned toward the left and walked toward the modest door set in the wall.
Without looking, Beltur could sense that the two white mages took the steps down from the dais and were beginning to follow them.
Without so much as looking at Beltur, Kaerylt said in a very low voice, “When we step through that door leaving the audience chamber, raise the closest, but strongest shields you can manage, and be ready with an immediate concealment. We may find the Prefect’s archers waiting with iron shafts, as well as Wyath and his strongest subordinates. They may underestimate your strength and abilities, as I did.”
“But … why…”
“Explanations can wait. Promise me one thing. If we are attacked, do not think about me. I can hold my own. I can’t do it if I’m worrying about you, or trying to shield you as well. Use your shields and escape any way that you can while they are concentrating on me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ser,” murmured Beltur, seeing that they were within yards of the side door.
“Do not hesitate. You must escape and tell others what happened. Your mother would never forgive me if you didn’t.”
Beltur couldn’t help wincing at those words.
As he stepped through the door pushed open by a footman just before they reached it, he saw that they were entering a small passageway with another closed door just ahead, and he immediately created an order-linked diamond shield that was mere digits from his body. Then the door in front of them opened. For a moment, because he was also sensing the two mages behind them, blocking any retreat, all Beltur could see was another high-ceilinged chamber with a black marble floor—a totally empty chamber … to the eye. At that instant, he sensed a line of archers behind a concealment less than fifteen yards away, and possibly six other mages. Then the concealment vanished, and arrows flew toward Beltur and his uncle.
Kaerylt flung himself sideways while shielding himself and throwing a line of chaos-fire across the front of the archers, fire that didn’t reach them, doubtless because the handful of mages to one side were shielding them.
Beltur raised a concealment in addition to his shields and darted toward the side of the room away from Kaerylt. Even so he could feel the impact of several chaos-bolts on his shield. Seeing the mages before them focus on Kaerylt, Beltur looked back to discover that the second door was ajar. He immediately dropped to his hands and knees and scuttled toward that door. As he did, he saw one of Kaerylt’s chaos-bolts strike an overhead beam, in two widely separated places, once and then again. The heavy beam shivered, and a large section broke free and fell toward the mages and one end of the line of archers.
“Overhead shields!” ordered someone.
A chaos-bolt from Kaerylt seared through one mage, and a second took down another.
Beltur forced himself to use that confusion to scurry into the small hallway, closing the door behind him, although he could sense the chaos-bolts going everywhere beyond the closed door.
Now what? The only place he could go was back into the audience chamber, but if he didn’t move … in moments someone would be after him.
Still holding the concealment, Beltur eased the door open a crack, then pushed it gently, hoping to create the impression that the latch had not caught. As soon as it was wide enough for him to slip out, he did, flattening himself against the wall, just before Denardre’s voice boomed out, “Close that door!”
Beltur darted around the footman and began to ease his way along the side wall of the lar
ge chamber, and then along the front wall toward the main doors, trying to make each step as silent as possible. He wondered where the other mages had gone—or had they taken another way to join those attacking his uncle?
He was within a few yards of the main doors when they opened, and two men, not mages, but men whose very beings were surrounded with chaos, entered. Beltur hurried to the doors, slipping through and brushing one of the guards.
“I told you to keep clear of me,” hissed the one Beltur had brushed. “Won’t have the squad leader dressing me down for smudges and soil.”
“Didn’t touch you,” hissed back the second.
Beltur kept moving, as swiftly as he could, knowing that if any strong mage appeared, he could easily sense Beltur. It seemed like he spent glasses worming his way out of the palace and then across the courtyard and through the gates. By then he was drenched in sweat. His smallclothes were soaked; and he was shaking.
Where can you go that they won’t find you? Beltur knew that there was no way for him to return to the dwelling on Nothing Lane. Wyath’s stronger mages would certainly be there before he could get there … and even if he did get there before them, he risked being trapped there.
The black quarter! If he could keep free chaos away from himself and only use order, then Wyath’s minions wouldn’t recognize him anywhere—because few had ever seen him, simply because his uncle had never brought him to see the Arms-Mage. Even his examiners had been white mages who were not beholden to the Arms-Mage and the Prefect.
As he slowly walked toward the Great Square, because the number of bodies there would certainly make it hard for anyone to pick him out just through sensing, one stark thought struck Beltur. His uncle had sacrificed himself. He had known that he would not survive, and he had flung chaos everywhere to cover Beltur’s escape … hoping that Wyath’s minions would believe that they had turned both Beltur and Kaerylt to ashes with all the power that had filled the side hall.
Beltur kept walking. He sacrificed himself. That thought kept pounding at him.
After a time came another question. Why had Fenardre—or Wyath, or both—wanted them dead? And was Sydon dead as well … or had he somehow been a tool of Wyath and the Prefect? How could Beltur find out without revealing that he was still alive?
First, though, he had to find somewhere safe and then get out of Fenard and eventually out of Gallos. He had to escape, or his uncle’s death would have been for nothing. That meant someone he could trust … and that left out the handful of white mages he knew, because none of those Beltur knew could stand against the power Wyath’s mages had unleashed against Beltur and Kaerylt. Although black mages wouldn’t be as likely to support Wyath, that didn’t mean some wouldn’t, and more to the point, Beltur didn’t know any. Healers were blacks of a sort, and they couldn’t stay healers if they used chaos, but how much could he trust Margrena and Jessyla? That is, if he could even find them. He only had a general description of where they lived.
But they were the only ones he could think of. Jessyla had seemed very honest and very orderly, and with a mother as a healer, it was doubtful that they’d turn on him. Whether they would be much help was another question.
The Great Square was crowded, as it always was during harvest, and he threaded his way amid the people, finally dropping the concealment and just trying to sense either white mages or ordermages amid the throng. But he could find no trace of either, although there was a fair amount of natural chaos swirling about. That gave him another thought. Could you push away the chaos? Or leave it on the outside of a shell of mostly order?
That was harder than it sounded. In fact, for all of his efforts, he wasn’t sure anything had changed by the time he turned down Joiners Lane, the first way past Nothing Lane, because he wasn’t about to go past his uncle’s dwelling, not where a mage might be waiting and able to sense him. As he walked by the shops of the various cabinet and furniture makers, his eyes took in several of the display pieces, in particular a simple chair, crafted out of black wood, that seemed to embody graceful strength … even order, but that order wasn’t raw free order with its somehow almost cold edges, but something integral to the chair.
He kept walking, thinking while still trying to be alert for anyone seeking him. Since his uncle’s dwelling was four blocks west of the Great Square, and Jessyla had said that she lived eleven blocks away in the northeast, that meant the farthest she and her mother lived was fifteen blocks north from the square, but they could live eleven blocks east of his uncle’s dwelling. He shook his head. He’d watched them walk at least two blocks farther north, and that meant the farthest east would be around nine blocks.
So far, no one had given him much more than a passing glance, and that was fine with him. While he hoped that Wyath thought he was dead, he doubted that he could count himself that fortunate.
Most of the houses and buildings in the black quarter were of old brick, likely salvaged from far older structures that had burned or been razed, yet the streets were well-swept and clean, certainly as well-swept as Nothing Lane, but then Beltur had been charged with keeping the sidewalk and street at the corner clean.
When he reached the corner ten blocks north of the square, he glanced around. There was nothing significantly different from any other block, but he had to start somewhere, and he didn’t want to knock on doors or accost people on the streets. So he entered a small café that seemed almost empty, not surprisingly, given that it was late midmorning. As an older woman appeared, he said politely, “I’m trying to find a healer named Margrena…”
“Never heard of her, ser mage.”
“Do you know anyone who might know?”
The woman shook her head.
Beltur walked north to the next corner, where he saw a woman weaving straw hats for sale on her doorstep and asked the same question.
“I know of no healers near here. You might ask at the felter’s shop a block east of here. If anyone might need a healer, he would.”
Beltur followed that advice, although the felter was not in the shop, and the boy who was sweeping offered little assistance.
More than a glass later, some blocks east and north, he found a runner coming out of a shop that displayed bolts of all types of cloth. “You run this area a lot, I hope?”
“More than most, I’d say.” The wiry young man looked at Beltur warily.
“I’m looking for a healer named Margrena who lives somewhere around here.”
“Don’t know her name, but there is a blond woman they say is a healer. Two blocks over on Coopersgate.”
“Thank you.” Beltur parted with one of the few coppers he had. Runners expected to be paid for information.
He headed in the direction the runner had pointed. It took almost another glass before he knocked on the plain brown oak door. The only suggestion that a healer might live there was the green paint that edged the brown first-floor shutters. He waited, glancing around and hoping that no white mages would appear.
No one answered.
He knocked again, harder and more insistently … and waited, wondering what he should do next if Margrena or Jessyla didn’t answer. The only thing he could think of was to hide somewhere and wait. Surely, they’d have to come home at some time.
If you even have the right dwelling.
At that moment, the door opened slightly, then wider. Jessyla’s mouth opened as she saw Beltur.
“Might I come in?”
“Why are you here? I thought you’d gone to Analeria.”
“We did. We came back last night. The Prefect was less than pleased. Might I please come in?”
“I suppose so. Mother and Athaal will be back shortly.”
“Good.” When he said the words, Beltur wondered if it would be, but he was glad to get out of the sun … and off the streets where he could be more easily seen. He was so tired that he doubted he could hold a concealment for very long in any case.
As she closed the door, Jessyla frowned. “Are you al
l right? You look awful, and there’s chaos dust all around you.”
“I’m in trouble. We went to see the Prefect this morning at his request. When we left the audience chamber, Arms-Mage Wyath and the senior white mages attacked Uncle and me. They had archers with iron arrows, too. He told me to use my shield and escape and that … and that he couldn’t fight them if he had to protect me, too. I didn’t question him … but … it was … his way…” Beltur couldn’t say any more. He just stood there mute, ashamed of the tears oozing from his eyes.
For a moment, Jessyla said nothing.
Neither did Beltur.
Then she said, “You’re pale, and your eyes are pinkish. They’re also twitching. Have you eaten lately?”
“Just some porridge early this morning.”
“Come into the kitchen. You need something to eat and drink. When Mother and Athaal get back you can tell them the whole story.”
The slightly stale bread and the hard cheese that Jessyla offered him were more than welcome, as was the mild ale.
As he sat on the stool and took a last sip of the small mug of ale, she said, “You look better. Much better.”
“I feel better. Thank you so much for taking me in.”
“You’re not exactly a stray dog.”
“At the moment, I might as well be. Uncle is dead, and Wyath might still be looking for me. There’s no way I can go home. I can’t risk the fact that someone might be watching.”
“Can’t whites do concealments?”
“Of course, but I can sense a concealment, and so can they.”
At that moment, there was a rap on the front door.
“That should be Mother and Athaal.” Jessyla rose from her stool.
“I thought he was from Elparta.”
“He is. He’ll be leaving next eightday. We won’t see him for another year, most likely. You just stay here.” Jessyla walked quickly from the kitchen.
The Mongrel Mage Page 15