“Oh thank you!” Jonaton replied, whipping around to have a look at Kordas. “It’s good to see you a little more casual for once. But still stormy under it all, huh?”
Kordas tapped at the undershirt. “I am what I am,” was all he said, acknowledging the subtext. Jonaton flashed a brief smile followed by a brief downcast, and turned back to his table.
Mages of the Empire were a highly predictable lot, as he knew from experience. They all studied the same lore, the same spells, and from the same teachers. Once they had reached a certain level of competence, they almost never learned anything new again. They certainly didn’t experiment. The Emperor didn’t much care for innovations in magic. A mage willing to innovate and seek out new ways of doing magic just might become dangerous to the Emperor’s plans, which was one reason Kordas had so many mages just like that hiding here.
Jonaton had stressed earlier that there was always a level of uncertainty and “fuckery” in trying anything new. He turned around and clapped his hands once. “No time like now, everyone. Magic like this is about reaching into unseen worlds where things already live, pulling and twisting at the environment around them, uprooting it and turning it toward what we want. Sometimes, even investigating what’s out there, well, it’s like picking a grape from a big fruit bowl, and a lot of deadly spiders can hide in a heap of fruit. Now, the kind of distance we’re trying for today is like me punching my whole arm into a narrow tunnel lined with spiders. I think we have it all set, but I’ll throw away the shot if I get ‘bitten’ even once, understood? So catch me if it goes badly.” Jonaton thoroughly washed his hands, in a very ritualistic way, in both of the basins at the table’s sides. The basins looked to be hammered copper, and were joined to each other by a graceful arc of the same material.
So Kordas really had no idea what to expect when Jonaton began work.
He certainly didn’t expect that the work was going to be so . . . simple.
He had expected muttered incantations, the drawing of diagrams, the sketching of runes in the air, and perhaps even the spilling of oils or scattering of essences.
He got none of those.
Instead, Jonaton set up a pair of matching, curved stones, like a pair of graceful, curving horns, atop his stone table. He placed a sliver of wood between them—the wood from that table he’d described?—and held out both hands toward the arrangement.
Kordas had to brace himself against the sudden draining sensation that coursed through him in that moment. The diagram of which he was a part pulsed with light, all of it flowing toward Jonaton. Two cats chased after the lights, eyes bright and tails twitching. There was a sudden sharp scent, all the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and then a flash of light and a snap exactly like an enormous static spark.
And light suddenly spilled from between the two curved stones, along with a breath of wind scented with pine needles and a hint of heated stone. From where he stood, Kordas saw what looked like an oval of blue sky. The Circle and Jonaton made happy noises, but then Jonaton frowned.
“Bugger all,” Jonaton muttered. “Punched through the world and came out too high. Looks good, though—Sai, pull the top axis guide down the arc another step—good.”
He made a swift gesture, something complicated and much too fast for Kordas to follow, and the image framed in the stones blurred, then settled again, this time a strip of blue sky streaked with white clouds, a stretch of grass, the suggestion of an old, enormous, long-fallen tree, and a tangle of undergrowth. The water in the basins started to boil.
The undergrowth gave a rustle suggestive of something small scurrying beneath it, and the black cat that had been trying to trip Kordas earlier gave a delighted meow—and leapt through.
“Sydney, you asshole!” bleated Jonaton, grabbing belatedly for his pet through the Portal.
Too late.
“Well,” said Dole. “It appears there are mice.”
“Delia—” Jonaton began, shaking the arm that he’d reflexively put through the Portal to grab the cat.
“I don’t Fetch live things,” she replied. “It’s dangerous. You want your cat to come back in pieces? This is bad enough—I can’t even see him! Now shut up.”
Jonaton snapped his mouth shut as Delia’s brows furrowed with concentration. She stared at something in the Portal—what, Kordas could not see from here. And she grew paler and paler, drops of sweat running down her temples, until he was just about to shout at Jonaton that this wasn’t going to work—
But he didn’t. He didn’t because that wasn’t his call. It was Delia’s.
And as she gave a sudden gasp, a grayish, mossy stone about the size of his fist appeared in her hands, and her knees buckled and she sat down hard on the stone of the floor.
“Now, Wis!” Jonaton shouted, and Wis tossed a cube of sandstone etched all over with runes through the two stone arcs, where it landed with a thud and another rustle of leaves on the other side.
Before anyone else could say or do anything else, another sound entirely emerged from the Portal.
A grunt.
An angry grunt.
Followed by another, and a sort of squeal.
Followed by the yowl of a cat.
Followed by the cat itself, puffed up to twice its size, tail a giant bottle-brush, hurtling back through the Portal as if on fire.
And Jonaton slapped his hands together, closing the Portal just as Kordas got a glimpse of black hair, a red tongue, and far too many white teeth snapping fruitlessly at the air then receding away.
“Well,” said Sai. “It appears there are bears, too.”
7
Sydney-You-Asshole was nowhere to be found for the near future, having left a row of perplexed cats on either side of his escape path. It did not do to practice too much magical work at once, so the group adjourned the spellwork with handcloths dipped in the basins’ now-hot water to refresh themselves. Magicians who didn’t know how to dump off excessive heat didn’t live long, and Jonaton’s basins were for exactly that. Since the local stone was in Jonaton’s hands, and the anchor-stone was across the Portal, that was all that was going to happen today. Isla whisked Delia away, following praise from the elders, up into the manor to get her strength back. Kordas went back to his stone grotto, and the Circle huddled with Jonaton—tabby in lap—for a magical consultation that was far above his own level of expertise.
Truth to tell, he didn’t mind stopping. It wasn’t as if he didn’t already have his hands full; having to help construct a major Gate on top of everything else would probably be the stone that sent all the rest tumbling into an uncontrolled avalanche. He also felt a little giddy. It was a delayed reaction, but it finally did emerge fully in his mind that it had been done—a Portal had been opened. There had only been a glimpse, but the air was sweet, the greenery was healthy, and there was no lack—at all—of trees for construction right there. And, thanks to the cat, they knew the air was breathable and the ground steady.
This was a vital advancement in the work his father had left with him, and it took a few deep breaths to come to terms with that. When Kordas was “just a Duke’s son,” he hadn’t understood—how could he?—that his father was more than a giant that Kordas owed his life to, a Duke who could point and anything he wanted would be done. His father had been more like a symbol of a father, rather than an actual person, for almost all of Kordas’s youth. The Duke shuffled him from teacher to mentor to stable, while Kordas saw commoners out playing with their children. It wasn’t until Kordas’s teens that he understood. His father wasn’t neglectful of him.
He was trusting.
Kordas’s mother taught Isla how to manage a household when both of them were thirteen, and she was responsible for taking in Hakkon, her sister’s bastard. It was from his mother that Kordas had learned the complexities inherent in kindness, and the thrift of acceptance. Kordas lived by that, in fact
—a hardship was only dwelt upon long enough to determine what the hardship’s particulars were, and then his thoughts switched immediately to how to alter that situation. He admired, loved, and trusted his mother, so he kept his mind open when she explained that his father did the best he could in his position to be a good father.
His father was “Duke Erik of Valdemar”—even now, he heard a herald’s voice in his mind saying the title, not his own. A ruler. He had Counts, who had Lords, who had Estates, and all of them had people to look after. Only after his father was dead did Kordas realize that his father had shown his love by making sure that Kordas had the right people guide him. It was through those others that the Duke lovingly raised his son to not crumple under the weight of inheriting Valdemar. It wasn’t until he sat down with his father, under wardings, that Kordas learned from his father’s own lips the admiration and trust Kordas had earned. And then, all too soon, his father was gone, and Kordas stood before the Manor in the Ducal regalia. Counts, Lords, and every person of rank in all of Valdemar gave their condolences for the loss of the man Kordas didn’t know most of his life, but had ultimately been admired by.
He drew a deep breath, buttoned his jacket up again, straightened up his tabard and the Crest of Valdemar upon it, and emerged from the grotto.
Back to the Fourth Game.
* * *
—
“Messenger,” Hakkon told him as soon as he came within view. “Came and went. Imperial.”
“Oh, joy.” He sighed. Not that this was unexpected. After all, it had been roughly a week since Lord Merrin had sent that report containing news he’d been birthing his own foal. That would have reminded the Emperor of his existence, and also of the fact that this year’s tax and tribute was supposed to include two Valdemar Golds. With the Birthday and Regatta not that far away, the Emperor would want his new toys on view, he’d want to see them himself to decide how best to display them, and he’d want them delivered immediately.
Hopefully that was all it was. The two of them stood face to face for several long moments, much unsaid between them.
“How was the grotto?” Hakkon finally asked.
Kordas brightened a little, and put both palms up. “Our horse went the distance.”
Hakkon allowed himself a thin-lipped, but genuine, smile. “It always feels good when your charge makes the jump,” he replied. “Let’s have a cup and find out what the Empire requires.”
“Let’s go deal with the worst,” he reluctantly replied.
“The worst would have been if the messenger had insisted on seeing you, personally, right away,” Hakkon reminded him. “Or if there had been Imperial soldiers with him to enforce that request. So this isn’t the worst, not yet.”
When they entered the manor, Kordas’s herald, a fellow about Ivar’s age named Beltran, was waiting for them with the sealed message in his hands. Kordas relaxed a little, though only a little. Beltran was literally the lowest-ranked servant that could be entrusted with an Imperial message. If it had been more important, the steward would have had it. More important than that, Hakkon would have been holding it when he came out of the grotto. So . . . hopefully this was nothing he wasn’t already expecting.
He took the message from Beltran’s hands, and broke the seal on it. His Mage-sight detected a little shower of magical energy as he did so. That would be the spell that would tell whoever had set the seal that the message had been opened, and whether or not it was by the person to whom it was addressed. If someone else had opened this first, well . . . at the very least someone in the Emperor’s service, if not the Emperor himself, would want to know why, and the only permissible answer would be that he was too sick or injured to do so himself.
He opened the carefully folded paper. Very thick stock. Linen, cotton and softwood. Its deckled edges were jarred by the heavy-lined stamped block border surrounding the calligraphy.
There was the usual salutation, to him by his shortest possible title, from the Emperor by his longest possible title, which took up half the page, then the important part.
He looked up at Hakkon, feeling his mouth pursing as if he was tasting something sour. Which he was. The excitement, the energy drain, the celebratory mood and then the thoughts of his father and the Plan legacy had resulted in enough of a twisted gut that he tasted bile.
“I’m ordered to turn up with the horses in person,” he said abruptly. “As quickly as possible.”
Hakkon’s face took on an equally sour expression. “Well, that’s . . . inconvenient.”
“Yes,” he replied, not wanting to say anything more, in case there was some subtle enchantment on the paper that would allow what they were saying to be overheard. “But orders are orders. How long will it take to get the tribute herd together?”
“About two days,” Hakkon guessed. “We’ll want to make sure every horse has been attended to, checked to make sure it’s in fine fettle, and is shod for city streets. Grim’s up to it, of course, and we can always borrow a blacksmith from the village if we need one.”
“Do so. Let me go put this in a safe place, and we’ll discuss what needs to be done further,” Kordas declared. By a “safe place,” of course, he meant the drawer of his desk that was made of such heavy wood that it might as well have been warded on its own, and inside a pouch that scrambled up a spell’s precision. He’d need to bring the letter with him, of course, to present to the Gate Keepers, including the one who minded the Gate that was just outside the manor village, right at the wall around the manor estates. It would be up to the Keepers to decide how expeditious his trip was. If they decided to route him straight to the Capital, he’d be there in under a candlemark. If they decided to put him with the trade traffic, the way they had when he’d been sent to foster at the Imperial Palace, it could take more than a day.
“Right,” Hakkon agreed. “I’ll tell Grim, then we’ll meet you there.” Beltran nodded.
He didn’t have to specify “where,” nor who “we” would be. Jonaton was already either with the Six or with Isla, and Beltran was here. Whichever of them found Isla first would gather her up, plus probably Delia if she had sufficiently recovered from Fetching that stone, then they would meet with the Circle, who were the closest thing he had to a Privy Council. Time was of the essence. The good news was that the messenger had not waited, which meant Kordas probably had the two days he needed. But anything over two days . . . could be bad.
He sprinted for his office, Beltran following. The quicker he got this piece of Imperial arrogance somewhere he wouldn’t have to worry about it, the better.
* * *
—
The circle of peculiar stuffed chairs had been enlarged to include seven more of the things, mostly stuffed between the Circle’s regular ones—and separating the six of the Circle was never a bad idea. Hakkon had found Delia first when he had gone to the stable to inform Grim of the new orders, and had gathered up the steward, Renfeld, on the way back. Kordas and Beltran had found Isla with Jonaton after he stowed the paper where it could do no harm for the moment. By the time Hakkon arrived with Delia, the rest of them had settled as close together as physically possible, so they didn’t have to raise their voices much. Yes, the chamber was warded and shielded to a fare-thee-well, but everyone had heard tales of birds bespelled to repeat whatever they overheard, and even though the Six outwardly scoffed at such things, no one was willing to take chances where the Emperor was concerned.
“Grim says he can have the herd ready two days from now, as I predicted,” Hakkon said as he lowered himself into a cushion-chair with a grimace. “So that’s out of the way. He just needs to organize enough grooms to handle the herd on their trip without leaving the stable shorthanded. You’re sending a generous number this year.”
“Good. Well.” Kordas sighed. “I did not expect this result.”
“But it at least makes sense,” Isla pointed out. “
You haven’t been to Court in person in over ten years. No one who actually looks after their lands in person goes to Court willingly during the summer—so this makes it inconvenient for you, which of course is the point. They want to reinforce that you serve them, not the other way around. The Court is half-empty right now, there’s probably nothing and no one there to offer a distraction. I haven’t heard how the war in the South is going—”
She looked to Ponu, who shrugged.
“Neither well nor poorly,” the old man said. “From my perspective, he’s probably tying up the Southerns to keep them from tending to their fields with an eye to running out their resources, and planning an offensive after the Regatta to destroy whatever harvests they have. Then, when they’re further weakened from a lean winter, he’ll move on them again before the fields and roads thaw. That’s been his pattern until now, and I don’t see it changing.”
“Well, it works,” Sai pointed out. “And once the Emperor finds something that works, he never changes it.”
“So unless the war heats up in an unexpected manner, he can ignore the conflict and leave it to his generals until after the Regatta. So now he’s bored, and I caught his interest.” Kordas nodded. “Lucky me. All right. Isla, you’re in charge of the Duchy. Hakkon, I want you here as well.” When Hakkon looked as if he might protest, Kordas shook his head. “I need you here in case someone decides to try something, assuming that a ‘weak’ female is in charge who can be pushed around. I’m not in my teens anymore. I will take Beltran.”
“All right, then,” Hakkon agreed, subsiding. “If you’re not taking me, I’ll settle for you taking the best knife-fighter in the Duchy.”
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