Kulgan sighed. ‘It’s all that time on Kelewan. Had you the knack for what those Tsurani call the Lesser Path of Magic …’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, had you studied weather magic—’
Pug remembered a long conversation he had had with an elven Spellweaver named Temar. ‘Equipoise,’ said Pug, and Kulgan stopped talking.
A slow smile spread out over the old teacher’s face. ‘Equipoise? Go on.’
‘Storms are the most extreme examples of nature seeking balance, equipoise. There’s too much energy built up in one place and it seeks …’ He shook his head. ‘The sphere! All different energy states. The difficulty of moving from one to another because of that. The magic needed to survive in higher states or lower states.’
Kulgan nodded. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about specifically, but if I’m guessing right, you’re on the right path.’
‘If you come to a higher energy state place, such as this one—’ Pug waved his hand in a circle, indicating the entire world, ‘you need protection so that you don’t absorb energy too fast, don’t burn up from it. If you go to a lower state world, the entire environment sucks the energy right out of you, like a spider sucks an insect dry in its web.’
‘There you have it, then,’ said Kulgan. ‘Your first clue, I expect. This all has something to do with the energy states of the sphere … whatever that may be.’
‘Ah, Kulgan,’ said Pug with a sad laugh. ‘You have no idea—’
Kulgan interrupted. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘What?’
‘I thought I heard …’ He fell silent, then said, ‘Just an old man’s imagination. Let’s get back. I could use another cup of hot tea and some more of your company, my best student.’
Pug laughed. ‘Your only student! I still recall the look on the other masters’ faces when you claimed me as apprentice on the day of my Choosing.’
Kulgan chuckled. ‘I assume it’s safe to say that all of that is part of all of this. A plan, not of our own choosing, in which we are but pieces?’
Pug nodded. ‘Apparently. For reasons not made clear to me, I was selected to live this life, to be the tool of the gods in this conflict.’
‘It’s a puzzle,’ said Kulgan as he carefully stepped down off a slight rise in the trail and halted for a moment to fuss with his robe. ‘You were, I say with no judgment, a rather unremarkable child. I remember when you were brought to the castle, a foundling. As babies are, you were endearing. We were told that a scullery maid and a wandering soldier were your parents, and she handed you over to a mendicant friar of the Order of Dala, who brought you to Lord Borric. Certainly nothing remarkable was evident in you until that stormy night you came to my cottage in the woods.’ He shook his head in memory. ‘When you sat before that scrying orb fashioned by Althefain of Carse for me, and without effort saw into the kitchen at Crydee Keep …’ He clucked his tongue. ‘That was remarkable.’
‘I don’t remember it as effortless,’ said Pug with a smile. ‘I had quite the headache after.’
‘You are a master, Pug. You know how remarkable it is for any user of magic to just … use it, without instruction and conditioning.’
Pug nodded.
They approached the cottage and Kulgan stopped. ‘Did you hear that? It was Meecham!’
Pug turned and saw no one there. Where Kulgan had stood only a second before was now empty space on the trail, and suddenly he knew that this had been his last visit with his former mentor and that he would never again lay eyes on Kulgan in this life.
He turned to enter the cottage, and before him stood only sparse woods cut through by the narrow game trail on which he stood. Of the cottage no hint remained. Instead, a thick tree stood in its place.
A sudden shift in air pressure and a slight popping sound caused him to turn again, and where Kulgan had stood another vortex hung in the air. Pausing for only a moment as he wondered which agency was moving him towards what end, and deciding that was hopeless speculation and a waste of time, he took a breath and jumped into the vortex.
• CHAPTER FOUR •
Homeward
MARTIN REINED IN HIS MOUNT.
The escort behind him also halted as they crested the rise. To their left squatted the abandoned fortification he had seen burning only short months ago, fired on his brother’s command in order to deny the use of it to the Keshians. Down the road ahead, they could see the distant walls of the city of Ylith.
‘Downright peaceful-looking, Highness,’ observed Sergeant Oaks. The rangy, red-headed commander of the escort was the leader of one of Prince Edward’s best combat-proven patrols. Kesh might be observing the conditions of the truce, but trust was still a far distance away. And he didn’t wish to explain to Prince Edward why two of the last three remaining conDoin brothers were no longer among the living.
Riding down the road, they were spotted by city lookouts long before they reached the south-eastern gate. As the company was clad in the tabards of Krondor and as the cease-fire had been honoured for some weeks now, the gate was opened and a familiar face greeted Martin.
‘Captain Bolton,’ Martin said, with surprise and some pleasure. When they had first met, George Bolton had been an annoying, officious young man, his bluster covering his deep fear of showing himself a fool. Under Martin’s guidance he had turned into a competent officer, eager to do his best. He had even begun to manifest some military talent and a quiet courage before the truce.
Martin and Brendan climbed down from their horses and shook hands with Bolton. ‘What news?’ asked the acting city commander.
Before Martin could answer, he was knocked a half-step backwards as Lady Bethany of Carse threw her arms around his neck in a hug so fierce he could barely breathe. Sergeant Oaks and Captain Bolton exchanged a look that conveyed barely contained amusement, while Brendan laughed openly. Martin held her tightly for a moment, then managed to say, ‘Let me breathe, Beth.’
She loosened her hold on him, then kissed him and said, ‘I missed you so much. You were gone so long.’ She wore the leather trousers, linen shirt, and leather archer’s vest she had taken to wearing on the wall when Martin had last seen her. Her hair was gathered up in an efficient knot behind her head. Even without the usual lip paint and powders, jewellery and gowns of the ladies of the court, he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
He nodded. ‘I’ll explain everything when we’re alone.’ Then he smiled and whispered into her ear.
She stepped back, tears streaming down her face. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’ Turning to Bolton, Martin said, ‘We need to deal with a number of matters.’ He waved in the general direction of the mayor’s home, used by him as a command centre during the assault on the city by Keshian forces. ‘I’ll tell you all the news from the east once we’re seated. What’s the situation here?’
‘Better than when you left,’ said Bolton. He set some of his men to quartering of the escort.
Martin beckoned Sergeant Oaks to accompany them. Brendan said, ‘I’ll get everyone settled and catch up.’ As Bethany clung to his arm and they walked towards the mayor’s house, Martin listened as Bolton reviewed the changes that had occurred since Martin’s departure. Bolton finished by saying, ‘So they’ve held fast to the ridgeline in the hills to the north-west, and down to some imagined line between the Free Cities and Yabon.’ He shook his head as if somewhat confused. ‘They’ve been very quiet, content to do nothing, and if anything they’ve proved to be reasonable neighbours. They sent a message last week telling us that their outriders saw what looked to be a large band of Dark Brothers heading south towards the smaller game trails—’ he looked at Martin as if waiting to be corrected, ‘—heading over the ridges into the Grey Towers and down to the Greenheart.’ Martin merely nodded. ‘They were alerting us to possible raiding.’
‘That’s downright neighbourly,’ Martin said.
Bolton looked a little embarrassed. ‘And there’s been some, well, I guess you could call it “unoff
icial trading” going on across the lines.’
Now Martin was amused. ‘Keshian belt-buckles?’
Bolton nodded. ‘How did you know?’
‘It’s been going on for years along the southern front.’ He glanced over at Sergeant Oaks.
‘Sir,’ said the veteran. ‘Kesh’s finer units, like those Leopard Guard, get some pretty equipment. They have these enamel-and-bronze belt-buckles.’ He held up his hands with fingers and thumb forming a square about two by three inches and said, ‘Really fancy things with a leopard head. Fetches a nice bit of gold in the bazaar. It’s something of a joke among their sergeants that sooner or later every man loses a belt-buckle, usually after a bad run of luck gambling or after having met a particularly pretty whore.’ Glancing at Bethany, he muttered, ‘Begging your pardon, m’lady.’
Bethany just smiled at him.
‘They’re a novelty up here, I guess,’ said Bolton as they turned the corner. ‘But it’s a bit odd, as we’re also getting reports that some stores heading here are being diverted to the Keshians.’ He glanced at Martin to see if he might have done something wrong.
‘Not much you can do about that,’ Martin reassured him. ‘Short of having patrols up and down every trail and road north and west of here, and that’s hardly practical.’ He fell silent for a moment, then said, ‘As it stands, anything that lowers tension along the frontier is to be welcomed.’ He glanced around to see if anyone might overhear. ‘I’ll have more to say on that when we’re alone, but for the time being consider yourself as having discharged your responsibilities in an admirable fashion.’
Bolton looked visibly relieved.
At the mayor’s house, Martin was greeted by Lily, the mayor’s daughter. ‘We haven’t much to offer by way of hospitality,’ she said brightly.
Glancing around the conference room where he, his brother and Bolton had met so often to discuss the defence of the city, Martin felt a sudden exhaustion. He had missed Bethany every moment he’d been away from her, but had managed to stay busy and keep that longing buried deeply. Now she was at his side, but duty required him to be on his way as soon as the horses were rested and a clear way into the Grey Towers was identified. ‘Whatever you offer is fine, Lily,’ said Martin with fatigue creeping into his voice.
‘Vegetable stew and some hot bread,’ said Lily cheerfully as she left for the kitchen.
‘Only water,’ said Bolton, sitting opposite Martin and Bethany. ‘No ale coming from either Stone Mountain or the Grey Towers, and there hasn’t been a shipment of anything up the coast since the hostilities stopped. I expect that will change in a while. Every tavern and inn is making do. Some of the local stuff—’ He made a face. ‘It won’t kill you, but it might.’
Martin laughed. He said, ‘Water’s fine.’
‘Then a hot bath,’ said Bethany, wrinkling her nose, ‘and some rest.’
Oaks and Bolton exchanged quick glances, but neither said a word.
‘Lily,’ said Martin when the girl returned with a tureen of hot stew. ‘Where is the mayor?’
‘He’s out and about, checking on the outlying farms to see who’s still around, who’s hiding what, trying to get commerce moving again, and get some food flowing into the city once more. It’s getting better, but we’re living on stores usually put up for winter. People are tired of fish stew and boiled potatoes and would welcome a little change. It’s not until goods stop arriving you realize how much of what you take for granted comes from far away. All that fruit from Queg and farther south. I haven’t had a good piece of fruit in months,’ she said wistfully.
She left for the kitchen again and Bolton said, ‘Lots of chaos after you left, Highness. The mayor and a few of the more influential merchants headed up north to see if they could organize some sort of temporary governance while all the nobles were gone. Recruit some local lads to act as a constabulary of sorts, so the farmers would risk bringing their crops into the city.’
Lily returned with bowls, a platter of fresh, hot bread, a pot of butter and spoons.
Just then Brendan arrived and, smelling the stew, exclaimed, ‘Perfect! I’m starved.’ With a grin he added, ‘Hello, Lily!’
She gave him a playful kiss on the cheek and he sat down. As the three hungry travellers began to eat, Martin looked at George and said, ‘What else?’
Bolton quickly resumed his summary. ‘The Keshian commander we faced, and his Leopard Guard, have been withdrawn, either recalled or moved somewhere else along the Far Coast. The fellow they’ve left in charge is some sort of … I’m not sure what to call him. He uses the title “premier”, whatever that means.’
Martin said, ‘Really? That means he’s a military governor, not a soldier.’
Bethany said, ‘I’m impressed.’
‘While you and Brendan were out shooting things with arrows, I was studying.’ He asked Bolton, ‘What’s the disposition of their troops?’
‘Mostly militia, but enough veteran dog soldier infantry that if you’re thinking of retaking Crydee, you’d best wait for the Armies of the West to get back here.’
Martin shook his head. ‘Long wait, I’m afraid. They’re all camped on the Fields of Albalyn.’
Bolton and Oaks exchanged glances, but neither said a word. Finally the old sergeant said, ‘We’ve heard rumours.’
‘I am certain you have,’ said Martin.
Brendan added, ‘It’s no rumour. That’s where Prince Edward is camped.’
Bolton waited and when Martin stayed silent, he said, ‘So, we have had a few stragglers wander out of Crydee … Commander?’
Martin smiled. Bolton was waiting for him to clarify the situation. Was he back in charge and what was his current rank?
‘Under instruction from Lord James of Rillanon, I’m currently “Your Highness”, as I am somehow still considered royalty; but for the sake of all our sanity, Martin will do. You’ll remain in command here, George. In fact, I think it safe to say you’re going to find that the rank of captain isn’t a temporary one now. And I’m going to presume on my royal prerogative to also give you military authority for all of Yabon, should anyone from LaMut or Yabon City presume to question you.’
‘Why would anyone question me?’
‘You’ve a lot to learn about politics, George,’ said Brendan with a grin.
Martin tried to suppress a yawn. ‘Now that a truce is in place, we’re in transition, and out of chaos arises opportunity. I will bet you a golden sovereign that when Lily’s father returns, he’ll report that someone from the north with a self-appointed title and a retinue of scruffy guards has named himself Baron of This, or Earl of That, or someone else will turn up within a few more weeks claiming some privilege or another, and seeing your age will try to browbeat you into accepting their orders.
‘Confidence tricksters, charlatans, minor nobles with ambition, whoever it may be, feel free to toss them into the local gaol and wait for whoever does return from Prince Edward’s encampment.’ He again tried to suppress a yawn. ‘I have to travel into the mountains and do some exploring for Duke James and whoever turns out to be our next king. So, after my men have rested, I’ve got a Keshian premier to bribe and a guide to find, and some back country to scout. But for now, a bath, and some sleep.’ Rising as if his joints were a hundred years older than he was, Martin said, ‘If you need me, feel free to wake me.’
Sergeant Oaks made a half-hearted response that indicated that unless the city was on fire, Martin would sleep through the night.
Brendan said, ‘I’ll quarter with the men.’ He tried to look serious, but could barely contain his mirth; he usually shared quarters with his brother, but he suspected the young lovers might need their privacy.
Martin followed Bethany to the room he had previously occupied with Brendan and found a clawed-foot brass-and-porcelain tub set in the middle of the room. It was filled with steaming hot water. Martin looked at Bethany with a questioning expression.
‘We found it up in the old keep, an
d Lily convinced George to fetch it down so we wouldn’t have to use that old wooden horror her father has kept here far too long.’
‘Small pleasures are a gift in times like these,’ said Martin, stripping off his clothing.
Wrinkling her nose, Bethany gathered them up and tossed them outside the door. ‘Getting you clean is hardly a small pleasure. You positively reek.’
‘A week’s hard riding.’ A satisfied sigh followed as he lowered himself into the hot water. He lay back and slowly slid down the smooth porcelain tub until his head was completely underwater, then slid back up, his hair soaked. Instantly he felt Bethany’s fingers applying soap to his scalp, a creamy concoction she used. It had a floral fragrance, but Martin was too tired to complain. Besides, it did smell better than the usual harsh soaps his father had stocked at Crydee, composed of lye, tallow or oil, ash, and some attempt at a scent with whatever the soap-maker had at hand. This aromatic soap must be something Lily’s father had bought before the war from one of the finer soap-makers in Queg.
Martin closed his eyes and let the warmth soak into his bones, thinking that whatever else one might say about the Quegans, they knew how to make luxury goods: silken garments to rival the finest in Kesh, wines equal to the best in the Kingdom, jewellery and cut gems without equal. His thoughts drifted off for what seemed a moment, until he felt Bethany push at him gently and whisper in his ear, ‘None of that, now. You’re off to bed for some rest.’
He blinked awake and realized he must have dozed off for the water was cool. ‘I thought about climbing in with you,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘but you’re farther gone than I thought in the kitchen.’
He grinned. ‘I might surprise you.’
‘Get to bed and maybe we’ll find out, but sleep first!’ Her expression was concerned as she handed him a towel. ‘You don’t plan on lingering, do you?’
‘I’ve got my orders,’ he said, drying off. ‘With the nasty business shaping up in the east, Lord James is desperate to know exactly what we face, and everything we can deduce from the madness of this last war tells us that whoever was behind that pointless bloodshed wants the bulk of the Kingdom’s army as far away from the Grey Towers as possible. So that’s where I need to go poke around.’
Magician's End Page 7