by Jean Johnson
“Before you all get your various pants wedged up,” Alonnen asserted as the others started to speak, cutting them off, “just try to remember this: We have no God now. No Patron Deity. Locally, we don’t have any problems yet, but that’s a very big yet. There’s no telling what it’ll be like here in Mekhana a day or a week from now. Riots, fighting, maybe even an invasion—no offense to any of our neighboring Guardians, such as Sir Vedell, whom I’d trust to be kind, but Guardians aren’t the ones who decide whether to make war or not. Now, I’ve got someone in the local militia who’s going to try to keep things calm around here, but there’s going to be things falling out all over this land. Power grabs, anger problems, retaliations and counter-retaliations, you name it.
“We do not have a lot of resources, training being the foremost. So if things do go sour, before you try accusing me or mine of not acting fast enough or hitting hard enough, or whatever else might or might not happen, try to keep that in mind.”
“You’ll have my sympathies, if not theirs,” Guardian Daemon stated. “Pasha’s being hit by the early stages of a civil war, with the old king’s sons and daughters and even a few cousins all fighting for the right to claim the throne. I suspect you’re about to have a far-less-organized version of that descend on everyone there, so for what it’s worth, I at least understand.”
Alonnen nodded at the blond mage, thankful for the sympathy, but Keleseth took the bit in her teeth.
“Well, that’s all to the well and good, but do try to impress on your people that you have bigger problems than the overthrow of a sadistic God,” she stated.
“Ha! That’s a laugh,” Guardian Sheren scoffed. “You’re the Guardian of the City of Delights, Keleseth. Try to impress anything serious on your own people, and we’ll see how far you get.”
“Oh, and like your Menomonite committees are any more organized or fast acting?” Keleseth shot back.
“Stop it!” The sharp protest came from Rexei. Alonnen lifted his brows but let the youth speak. “This isn’t the time or place for . . . for petty quarrels! You’d think you were apprentices from different guilds, squabbling like children over whose guild is run better or worse than the other. If a Guardian is anything like a Guild Master, then set a good example. Is that clear?”
I think I can believe the lad is indeed a journeyman Gearman. Sub-Consul and all that. Wait . . . Gearman. He shot the youth a quick look, thinking quickly. Squeezing Rexei’s shoulders, Alonnen lifted his chin at the faces on his mirror. “As Longshanks so rightfully points out, let’s get back on track, shall we? Now, the prophecies Guardian Saleria shared with us before the Convocation have a few things to say about this point in time, and they’re quite clear.”
“Clear perhaps to you,” the brown-faced Tuassan stated, “but we’re not Mekhanans. The boy talks about guilds, so that strongly suggests the last line of the third verse. What more can you tell us about any relevancies?”
“Yes,” the sandy-haired woman a few frames over agreed. “And the fighting of the demons, that much is clear, based on the suggestion of this outkingdom mage and his bartering with the Mekhanan priests. But of the fighting of one’s doubts, maybe the doubts refer to the current instabilities? Maybe you’ll have to wrest some sort of new kingdom organization out of the chaos?”
“They could try, but if these priests are so used to the power of their previous God backing them, they’re going to want to maintain control any way they can,” Guardian Ilaiea stated. She frowned, tugging on her long, pale cream braid. Alonnen had last seen her daughter, Guardian Serina pulling that same trick when she was worried. The mother firmed her look. “Your best bet is to establish a new God or Goddess, a Patron Deity to seize control away from the priesthood.”
“Finally you say something reasonable and calm,” the black-haired man with the blue viewing lenses muttered, the one named Koro. The others started to argue, and he quickly held up a hand. “Sorry! Sorry . . . it’s just her better-than-us attitude gets on my nerves. She’s right, though. Guardian Alonnen, you need to select a deity and get everyone to worship whatever that is.”
“Guildra.”
Alonnen turned his head quickly, staring at the young man on his side of the mirror conference. “Beg pardon?”
“Guildra,” Rexei asserted, turning to look at Alonnen. “That’s who I’ve been thinking we should’ve had for a Patron Deity. A Goddess, kind and gentle, wise and skilled. She’d be the Patron of the Guilds . . . because it’s the guilds that have consistently given a damn about Mekhanans all this while, when our own so-called Patron and His priesthood clearly have not—and I’ll be damned if I’ll have another bastard male God in charge of this land. Women are the equal of men, and to the Netherhells with the priesthood if they think they can keep us . . . if they can keep us pushing women down any longer.
“No more. By the pricking of my thumb, no more,” Longshanks added firmly, invoking the oath virtually every guild member across the land had given when signing their name in their own blood in the books reserved for presentation at the next—now the current—Convocation of the Gods. Which Rexei Longshanks had undoubtedly given multiple times, given how many guilds the youth had clearly joined, based on the sheer number of medallions alone. “There’s even a symbol out there that’s Hers.”
“Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of this. What symbol?” Alonnen asked. Before the youth could answer, a bell chimed from inside the talker-box mounted on the wall next to the right-hand mirror. Sighing roughly, he shook his head. “Never mind that. It’s something Longshanks and I can discuss off-scrying. The rest of you can chat amongst yourselves about what we now know. I know it’s not much, but at this point, all we can do here in Mekhana is try to spy carefully, and try to impose some sort of order locally . . . and we’ll try to come up with a good Patron Deity as fast as we can. No promises other than that we’ll try.
“Now, if you’ll excuse us, it’s suppertime here. I’ll leave the dissection of what this means in relations to the prophecies to the lot of you, and I’ll review the Tower’s recording after we’ve eaten and I’ve had a chance to chat in more depth with Longshanks, here. I had to share what little we know right now with the rest of you, because the lad did pinpoint where it’ll most likely start, but without a God or Goddess, don’t expect any miracles from us just yet. I’ll chat with you all later, so have a good night. Or day, or whatever time it is where you are.”
Tapping the frame of the mirror, he cancelled the connection spell. In an instant, the image flicked away, leaving him with a reflection of his long-nosed self and the pale-chinned young man at his side.
Rexei cleared his throat. “I’m not sure they like me.”
The youth said it with a touch of what sounded like self-deprecating humor. Alonnen patted Rexei on the back. “Bunch of self-important twiddlers half the time, if you ask me. But they’re good sorts, even if that pale-haired woman is an uppity twit at times, and the darker-haired elderly one is a grouch, and . . . well, they all have their plusses and minuses. But they’ll back you if they believe in you, and they’re quite literally the most powerful mages in the whole world.
“Anyway, that bell was for announcing supper,” he told Rexei, dismissing the subject of the Guardians. “Don’t worry about finding enough to fill your appetite. There’s always plenty. Mind you, we get any leftovers for luncheon on the morrow, but it’s a very rare day when our chef makes something that’s no good reheated.”
He helped Rexei put the caps and scarves back on the pegs, reclaimed his spectacles, and watched the youth blink and stare several times, trying to refocus. Alonnen grinned. “You look like I felt, first time the Optics Guild gave me a pair for reading. How’s your vision, lad?”
“Uh . . . just fine, thank you,” Longshanks replied politely.
Alonnen clapped Rexei on the back and nudged the youth toward the stairs. “Come on, five floors down. My
quarters and personal workrooms are on the fourth floor, other bedrooms and the laundry are on the third, and the second floor is workrooms for the others. The first floor is kitchen, dining, meeting, and storage rooms.”
Rexei glanced back at him as they descended the steps. “I’m surprised you let just anybody up here, if the Vortex is such a huge power source.”
Shutting the door firmly behind him, Alonnen shook his head. “It’s not the risk you’re thinking. Anyone else opens that door, they won’t even see the balcony, never mind the Vortex. It’ll just be a blank wall covered in maps of Mekhana.”
“Wait—you told that boy to take my things somewhere. Third floor. But you said I’d be staying with you?” Rexei asked.
“I told you, it’s standard for anyone coming to live in the Vortex. This is all an enclosed environment, so we need to make sure there aren’t any spying talismans or rank odors. Or, for that matter, fleas and other things. It was a bit before my time, but the Vortex chronicles mentioned a great plague of fleas one summer. We try to ensure they get killed off quickly with soap and hot water. Don’t worry; nobody will shrink your woolens while they’re being washed,” he added in reassurance. The youth didn’t look reassured.
“But . . . my things. I have private things in my bag,” Rexei protested. “Things I don’t want anyone touching or handling. I know it’s a bit too late, but . . .”
Alonnen patted the youth on the shoulder. “Relax, lad; they’ll treat your things as carefully and circumspectly as they treat mine. And it’s to your advantage to have your gear checked over. We might be deficient in many areas of magical knowledge, but the one thing we do know how to do is find and disable priestly tracking spells. Anyway, I still have a few more questions. Like, how old are you?”
“Old enough,” Rexei replied, still sounding a little distressed over the absence of those belongings.
Alonnen wondered what was in the lad’s bag that should distress him so much. Maybe a crankman? They were originally made for women, but there are plenty of us lads who enjoy the clever little things, too. Maybe if he learns we’re not prudes here in the safety of the Vortex, he’ll relax a bit? I can tell the poor boy’s far too tense by habit, given how hunched his shoulders are even when calm.
Out loud, Alonnen said, “Yes, but what specific age are you? There are a few rules in the Vortex about how to behave around the ladies and such. And if you’re a mage, then you get rationed on anything fermented. So how many years have you lived?”
His pestering earned him a hard sigh from the lad. “I’m twenty-one, alright? Almost twenty-two.”
That made Alonnen blink and almost miss a step. Thankfully they had reached one of the landings, or he would have stumbled badly. Nearly twenty-two? And hardly a sign of a whisker on the boy . . . er, young man? How odd . . . unless he knows one of those cantrip things for plucking whiskers and not just shaving them? He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His own beard grew slowly, but it did grow, which left him with a slightly sandstone-rough chin at the end of each day.
“How do you keep your chin whisker free?” he finally asked.
“Spells.”
“So, you’ll teach me, then?” he pressed.
“I’m a lousy spell teacher, remember?” Longshanks shot back.
Caught in his own honest, unflattering trap, Alonnen chuckled and clapped a hand over the younger man’s shoulder. “I can tell we’ll get along fine—wait, why are you flinching?”
Rexei pushed his fingers off her shoulder. “Because some bully-man tried to crack my collarbone when I was trying to stop the town from rioting on the temple steps, with me between them and the doors. He dragged me off to your brother and tried to get me arrested.”
“Oh. Sorry. I apologize for the other hugs, too,” Alonnen offered, hoping he hadn’t hurt the lad earlier. “I can call in an Apothecary mage if you like, have them look at your shoulder and all.”
“No! No, thank you,” Rexei added politely on the heels of the quick denial. “It’s just . . . the top of my left shoulder is bruised, not the side or the right one or anything. I’ll live.”
He’s got a ways to go before he trusts us, I see, Alonnen realized. And I’m glad I mostly touched the near shoulder or the side of his arm, before. Gently clasping the right shoulder, he patted the youth with his fingertips. “I’m sure you will live, too. But you’re now a guest of the inner circle . . . and something of an involuntary guest, since until we can figure out how safe it is for you to go outside, you’ll probably be stuck here for a while. So you might as well take advantage of all the amenities, eh?”
Rexei shrugged, arms folding defensively across her chest. As they reached the ground floor, the noise of dozens of people engaged in multiple conversations drifted back to them. A few turns this way and that, and they wound up in a large hall a few steps down from the rest of the ground floor, but one with a grand view of the fishbowl in the night through another quartet of floor-to-ceiling windows. It was also crowded with several tables, chairs, and benches, enough that the sea of people surprised Longshanks, making her lift her head and slow her steps.
“Come on, it’s not so bad. A bit crowded, but not so bad,” Alonnen murmured. Raising his voice, he lifted his right hand. “Oy! Everyone, this is Rexei Longshanks, a journeyman Gearman and my personal guest. Rexei, this is . . . everyone. You’ll have a chance to learn names and faces, don’t worry. The rest of you, treat him right, or I’ll have your ears boxed up for Midwinter Moon! Come on, budge over; make room for two hungry lads!”
He nudged Rexei forward—almost having to push—and maneuvered the two of them over to a spot that opened up on a bench seat. Clean plates and silverware were passed down, thankfully faster than the platters of food, and two mugs of mulled apple cider. One of the women in the hall rose and made her way over to the two of them.
“Oh hey—Rexei, this is my mum, Alsei. Alsei, Rexei,” he introduced.
They shook hands, then Alsei rested her palm on her hip. Like many of the women in Mekhana, she no doubt wore baggy knits and trews to work in, but skirts when she wanted to relax. At the moment, she wore a warm skirt in the same dark gray and black wool favored by the locals, though a bit of reddish wool had been knitted into a rolling wave pattern down by the hem of skirt and tunic alike. Or rather, a crocheted tunic and skirt, since that particular pattern required a hook to create, in Rexei’s experience.
Alsei eyed Rexei’s worn linen shirts and felted dark gray pants, then shook her head. “Al, where are you going to put this lad? Sure, he’s skinny, but we’ve got every bed and couch crammed with bodies right now. Every quarter hour that passes, we’re getting a new mage or two shipped to us from the other guilds—at least this one is cognizant and not crying all the time, but where are you going to put the lad? In a drawer somewhere?”
“He’ll be staying with me,” Alonnen dismissed, reaching for the roast beef platter passing their way. He snagged a slice for himself, and an extra one for Rexei, who hadn’t grabbed a great deal of food. Even at almost-twenty-two, the lad should have hollow legs. Alonnen had certainly had hollow ones at that age.
“Staying with you?” his mother repeated, brows lifting. “How long have you known the boy? Is he trustworthy? What kind of family does he come from, and where are they? Why can’t he stay with them?”
“I haven’t got a family.” The unhappy words came from the target of her doubts. Rexei shrugged, shoulders hunching inward a bit. Then she lifted her chin a little. “And I’m a Sub-Consul. If you don’t think that’s trustworthy enough, take it up with your Consulate.”
Alonnen suspected there was a whole history behind those few short words. He didn’t press, though. “Mind your manners, mum. This young man is the second-most important person in the Guild right at this moment.”
“What, are you finally taking up an apprentice?” Alsei asked, brow lifting toward her strawberry and si
lver curls.
“He’s not strong enough for that, from what I’ve heard. But he was spying in the temple when Mekha vanished. As soon as we’ve fed, I’m taking him back up to my office to write out everything he can remember from his time in there—and he knows enough, the priests would happily grab and torture him, if they don’t just kill him outright the moment they find him. So stop pestering him. Frankly, the safest place he can sleep is in my suite, under the circumstances. Now sit down, and enjoy your meal.”
With a last, doubtful look at her son, Alsei complied. Alonnen sighed. He leaned in close to Rexei, murmuring in the younger man’s ear.
“Don’t mind her. She doesn’t know I’ve had you under surveillance ever since they told me we had a Gearman with sixteen guild coins show up, only to turn out to be a mage.” Picking up knife and fork, he cut into his beef. “She doesn’t know much about the prophecy my contemporaries mentioned earlier, but I do. Since it just might be talking about you, I’ll get you a copy of it when we’re back up top. Go on, eat up. Food’s free here . . . though I’m not sure how much longer it’ll last, if we keep packing in more people like this,” he muttered, eyeing the others crowding around the five long tables.
• • •
Head swimming with tiredness, Rexei finally put down the graphite stick she had been given for writing down everything she could remember. She wasn’t done recording her thoughts, but she was done for the night. Her notes weren’t the most organized, but she had underlined and repeated key words in the left margin so that one could skim the body of the text and pick out a specific topic. With all the food her host had pressed on her, it was a wonder she wasn’t fast asleep with full-belly syndrome.
What she wanted now was a hot bath with some mild-scented soft soap and a soft wool-stuffed bed with thick blankets. Of course, the mattresses down here in the southlands weren’t nearly as thick as the ones up north, but then up north was where most of the sheep grazed on large stretches of pastureland. But that was there, and this was here, and she was seated across the desk from the Guild Master of all mages. The head of a guild almost no one ever mentioned aloud for fear the priests would somehow hear of it.