The Mage Wars
Page 26
He had a bag in his quarters, next to the bed; he dug out a handful, and took the fat, striped seeds to the cleared area in front of the tent, where he scattered them in a patch of sunlight. A few moments later, he had his choice of a dozen birds, all patterned in every color imaginable. They pounced on the seeds with chortles and chirps, making a racket all out of proportion to their small size.
He watched them for a moment, trying to pick out a smart one, then chose a clever little fellow whose colors of red and black, with vivid blue streaks in its hackles, made him easy to see at a distance. He whistled to it and leaned down to extend his hand, sending it a little tendril of comforting thought to attract it. The bird hopped onto his outstretched hand with no sign of fear, and waited for his orders, cocking its head sideways to look at him.
While these were not the altered birds of prey favored by the Kaled’a’in, they were able to respond fairly well to limited mental commands. Amberdrake held the bird so that he could look directly into one bright bronze eye, and made his orders as simple as he could.
:Go to gryphon-field. Wait for gryphons. Look for this one -: He mentally sent an image of Zhaneel. :Listen, return, and repeat what you heard.:
That last was a fairly common order, when someone wanted to know what was going on in another part of the camp. The birds could recall and repeat several sentences, and the odds were good that at least one of those sentences would give some idea of what was happening at a distant location. And if it didn’t—well you could send the bird back to eavesdrop some more.
The bird flew off, lumbering away rather like a beetle. They weren’t strong flyers, and they were fairly noisy about it; their wings whirred with the effort of keeping their plump little bodies aloft, and they usually chirped or screeched as they flew. So if you didn’t want anyone to know what you were about, you had plenty of warning before you actually saw a messenger-bird arrive to snoop. But many people made pets of specific birds, as much for their engaging personalities and clownish antics as for their usefulness, so you had to really go to an extraordinary amount of effort to avoid them.
There would, without a doubt, be hundreds of birds waiting at the gryphons’ landing-field. Although it was supposed to be something of a secret that the Sixth Wing was going to try to retake Stelvi Pass, enough people knew that the area would look as if the birds had learned of a major sunseed spill there. That was the discreet way of learning about the outcome of something that was supposed to be a secret: send a bird to watch, rather than looking around yourself.
And I am nothing if not discreet.
Well, now that he had a winged informant aloft, it was time to get on with the dinner itself. The preparations on his part were fairly simple, since a dinner with gryphons was by necessity informal. He cleared the front of the tent of everything except the piles of pillows. He saved one each for himself and Gesten, and arranged the rest in two gryphon-sized “couches.” On the rugs in front of these he placed waterproof tarpaulins—gryphons were not neat eaters.
The buck, the quail, and the tub of trout were behind the tent, and Gesten was seeing to the cooking of his mushrooms and Amberdrake’s quail. He had hinted that he would see to a few more small, culinary surprises. So that much was taken care of.
Amberdrake changed into his Kaled’a’in festival clothing; the real thing this time, and not the fancy kestra’chern fakery. A silk shirt, leather tunic and tight breeches, both beaded and fringed, and knee-high fringed boots. It was amazing how comfortable the leathers and silks felt, and how simply shedding his “identity” of Amberdrake the Kestra’chern made him relax a little further.
I wonder if Winterhart has ever actually seen Kaled’a’in festival clothing—or if she is only familiar with what we would wear to blend in with folk from OutClan?
He was tying up his hair when the chattering of the messenger-bird brought him to the front of his tent.
He held up his hand, his eyes straining to spot the red dot of the bird against the bright sky. The little red and black creature whirred in, and backwinged to a landing on his finger, still chattering at a high rate of speed. He placed one hand on its back to calm it, and it fell silent for a moment.
As he took his hand away, it muttered to itself a little, then began repeating what it had heard. Although its voice was very much that of a bird, the cadences and accents were readily identifiable as individual people. Sometimes the clever little things could imitate a favorite person so well that you would swear the person it was imitating was there before you.
But the first thing that the bird produced was a series of crowd-noises, among which a few phrases were discernible.
“She’s exhausted.” “Get water!” “It isss all rrright—” this last obviously being Zhaneel.
Then the voice of Trainer Shire: “Zhaneel, I have a link to Urtho here, can you give him a quick report?”
The bird spoke again in Zhaneel’s voice, her sibilants hissed and r’s rolled, as much as Skan spoke when he was agitated or weary. “The box hasss worrrked. It made explosssionsss, and killed many, ssso the sssticksss mussst have been shielded. Therrre arrre injurrred grrryphonsss, but no dead. The sssmoke wasss sssprrreading when we rrreturrrned, and the fighterrrsss moving in. The rrressst follow me.”
The bird imitated the sound of a cheering crowd with uncanny accuracy, Zhaneel saying that she was fine and would take care of herself, and the voice of Winterhart countermanding that, and ordering hertasi to be in readiness for injured gryphons coming in.
Amberdrake very nearly cheered himself; he gave the little bird his reward of fruit, and sent him off to rejoin his flock with such elation that he came close to giving the bird more fruit than it could carry away. He did kiss it, an endearment which the little clown accepted with a chortle, returning the caress with its mobile tongue.
Zhaneel would be along after she made her longer report to Urtho in person, rested, and cleaned herself up a bit. Skan was due before she arrived—Amberdrake had decided to get the Black Gryphon settled first. Skan did not know that Zhaneel was the guest of honor at this feast; he thought it was simply a whim of Amberdrake’s.
In a short time the camp was alive with rumors, a steady hum of conversation coming from everywhere. Amberdrake knew that Skan, if he had not been at the landing-field, would surely be in the thick of things and have all the news by the time he arrived.
Gesten arrived even before Skan, pulling a laden cart. Amberdrake raised an eyebrow at that; he was not particularly concerned with the cost in tokens, but where in a war-camp had the hertasi found so much in the way of treats?
Never mind. Better not to ask. There were always those who had hoards of rarities and were willing to part with them for a price. And tokens for the kestra’chern were prized possessions. Eventually, in an irony that Amberdrake certainly appreciated, there was no doubt that a fair number of those tokens would find their way back to his coffers, anyway.
“Skan’s on the way,” Gesten said, as Amberdrake hurried to give him a hand. “I’ve got some real goodies in here. Hope he appreciates ’em.”
“Save the best for Zhaneel; she deserves it,” Amberdrake told him with amusement.
“Huh. Got a couple things for you, too, Drake. And don’t tell me you don’t need a treat; you’ve been wearing yourself out between that Winterhart, Zhaneel, and the Black Boy.” Gesten pushed the cart to the back wall of the “public” room, and opened it up. “Look here—fresh nut-bread, good cheese, an’ not that tasteless army stuff, a nice mess of vegetables, pastry, eels for Zhaneel, an’ heart for Skan. Couldn’t ask for better.”
“I have to agree to that,” Amberdrake replied, a little dazed. “I don’t think I want to know where you got most of that.”
“Legally,” the hertasi said, turning up his snout saucily. “So none of your lip.”
“What about lip?” Skan said, pushing aside the tent-flap. “Is Drake trying to give you excuses about why he can’t have a proper meal for a change?”
“That is not true,” Amberdrake replied, going straight over to the cart and popping a bit of pastry into his mouth to prove Gesten wrong. “It is only that I do not think that I should take advantage of my position to indulge myself alone.”
“Oh?” Skan chuckled. “And what do you call this?”
“Indulging a client,” Amberdrake told him promptly. “You are one of my clients, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes—”
“And you have been undergoing a prolonged and painful convalescence, haven’t you?”
“Well, yes—”
“And you do deserve a bit of indulgence, don’t you?”
Skan coughed. “Well, I happen to—”
“There, you see?” Amberdrake turned to Gesten in triumph. “Moral indulgence!”
“My eye,” the hertasi replied, chuckling, and began taking things out of the cart. Skan eyed the heart appreciatively, and moved a little nearer.
“Away from that, you!” Gesten slapped his beak. “That’s your dessert. And stop drooling.”
“I wasn’t drooling!” Skan replied with indignation. “I never drool!”
It was on the tip of Amberdrake’s tongue to say, “Not even over Zhaneel?” but that would spoil the surprise. So he winked at Gesten, and gave the hertasi a hand in unloading the gloriously laden cart, while Skan stood by and made helpful comments.
“I hope you weren’t planning on eating right away,” Amberdrake said, as Skan settled down on his pile of pillows. “This is a little early for me, and I’d rather appreciate good food with a good appetite.”
“Oh, I can wait,” the Black Gryphon replied lazily. “Besides, by now everyone knows about the operation at Stelvi and I expect you want to hear how the Sixth did.”
“I’m sure you’d tell us even if we didn’t care,” Gesten sniped. “But since we do care, you might as well give us the benefit of your superior oration.”
Skandranon pretended to be offended for just a moment, then tossed a pillow at him, which Gesten ducked expertly. “You cannot spoil my mood; I am feeling far too pleased. The Sixth has retaken the Pass. The messages are in from the mages, and the town is back in our hands.” He continued at length, with as much detail as Amberdrake could have wished for, then concluded, “But I have saved the best for last.” His eyes gleamed with malicious enjoyment. “General Shaiknam and Commander Garber have been placed on ‘detached duty for medical reasons’, and General Farle has been given the Sixth Wing as a reward for successfully commanding them in this operation—and for, I quote, ‘appropriate and strategic use of the air forces’ end quote.”
“Meaning the gryphons,” Amberdrake said with pleasure. “Including Zhaneel.”
It was not his imagination: Skan’s nostrils flared at the sound of her name, and his nares flushed a deep scarlet.
He was going to probe a little further, but a shadow fell upon the closed flap of the tent. “Ah, here is our fourth guest,” he said instead, and rose and went to the door of the tent himself. “Lovely lady,” he said, bowing and gesturing for Zhaneel to come in, “You brighten our company with your presence.”
Zhaneel was looking very lovely, if rather tired; Winterhart must have helped her with her grooming. But then, since Zhaneel had been ordered to report directly to Urtho before she came here, the Trondi’irn would have taken pains to make her look especially good, at least to human eyes.
From the stunned expression on Skan’s face, she looked especially good to gryphon eyes as well.
She stepped inside, and only then did she see who was waiting there. She froze in place, and Amberdrake put one hand on her shoulder to keep her from fleeing.
“You know Gesten, of course,” he said quickly, “and this as you know is Skandranon—I do not believe you have actually been introduced, but as I recall, he gave you some good advice on the disposition of a valor-token.”
Amberdrake had no difficulty in reading Skan’s eyes. I’ll get you for this one, Drake. Well, this was fair return for the false impression that Skan had given poor little Zhaneel—however well the whole affair had turned out, he owed Skan for that one.
“I took the liberty of adding him to your victory dinner, Zhaneel,” he added. “I didn’t think you would mind.”
“No—” she replied faintly. “Of course not.”
But to her credit, she did not bolt, she did not become tongue-tied—in fact, she recovered her poise in a much shorter time than he would have thought. She blinked once or twice, then moved forward into the room and took her place on the pile of pillows that Amberdrake pointed out to her.
Skan recovered some, but by no means all, of his aplomb. As the dinner progressed, he was much quieter than usual, leaving most of the conversation to Amberdrake and Gesten. Zhaneel managed to seem friendly towards Skan, and full of admiration, but not particularly overwhelmed by him—an attitude that clearly took him rather aback.
As darkness fell, and Gesten got up to light the lamps, she seemed to relax quite a bit. Of course, these were familiar surroundings to her by now, and perhaps that helped put her at ease. Before the dinner was over, Skan did manage to ask if she would accept him into one of her training classes, subject, of course, to Amberdrake’s approval…
“He’s my Healer, you know,” Skan added hastily. “Best gryphon-Healer there is.”
He fell silent then, as Amberdrake grinned. “Why thank you, Skan,” the kestra’chern replied. “I personally think you’re more than overdue for some retraining, if Zhaneel is willing to accept someone who’s as likely to give her arguments as not.”
“I should be pleased,” she said with dignity, as her eyes caught the light of the lamps. “Skandranon is wise enough to know that one does not argue with the trainer on the field, I think.”
Her nares were flushed, but in the dim light of the tent, only Amberdrake was near enough to notice. “Did you know that General Farle is being given command of the Sixth?” he asked, changing the subject. “Skan brought us the news.”
“No!” she exclaimed, with delight and pleasure. “But that is excellent! Most excellent indeed! He is a good commander; most went according to plan, there were no missed commands, and when things happened outside of the plan, General Farle had an answer for them.”
“That leaves Shaiknam and Garber at loose ends, though,” Gesten put in, his voice full of concern. “I don’t know, I just don’t like thinking of those two with nothing to do but think about how they’ve been wronged.”
“But they haven’t been,” Skandranon protested. “They retain their rank, they retain all their privileges; they simply do not have a command anymore.”
“Which means they have no power,” Gesten countered. “They have no prestige. They messed up, and everyone knows it. They’ve been shamed, they’ve lost face. That’s a dangerous mood for a man like Shaiknam to be in.”
Amberdrake only shrugged. “Dangerous if he still had any power, or any kind of following—but he doesn’t, and thinking of him is spoiling my appetite. General Shaiknam will descend to his deserved obscurity with or without us, so let’s forget him.”
“I second that motion,” Skan rumbled, and applied himself to his coveted heart, as Zhaneel ate her eels.
And yet, somehow, despite his own words, Amberdrake could not forget the General—
—or his well-deserved reputation for vindictiveness.
* * *
Skandranon ached in every muscle, and he needed more than a bath, he needed a soak to get the mud and muck out of his feathers. But that was not why he came looking for Amberdrake, hoping that his friend was between appointments. Drake wasn’t in the “public” portion of his tent, but the disheveled state of the place told Skan that the kestra’chern had been there so short a time ago that Gesten hadn’t had time to
tidy up.
As it happened, luck was with him; Drake was lying on a heap of pillows in his own quarters, looking about the same way that Skan felt, when the gryphon poked his nose through the slit in the partition.
“Thunderheads!” Skan exclaimed. “Who’ve you been wrestling with? Or should I ask ‘what’ rather than ‘who’? You look like you’ve been fighting the war by yourself!”
“Don’t ask,” Amberdrake sighed, levering himself up off the bed. “It isn’t what you think. You don’t look much better.” The kestra’chern pulled sweaty hair out of his eyes, and regarded Skan with a certain weary amusement. “Zhaneel, I trust?”
Skan flung himself down on the rug right where he stood. “Yes,” he replied, “but it isn’t what you think. Unfortunately. It was a lesson.” He groaned, as his weary muscles complained about just how weary they were. “I thought I might impress her. It was a bad idea. She decided that if I was that much better than the rest of the class, I could run her course along with her.”
Amberdrake passed a hand over his mouth.
Skan glowered. “You’d better not be laughing,” he said accusingly.
Amberdrake gave him a look full of limpid innocence. “Now why would I be laughing?” he asked, guilelessly. “You look all in; you’ve obviously been pushing yourself just as hard as you could. Why would I laugh at that?”
Skan only glowered more. He couldn’t put it into words, but he had the distinct feeling that Drake was behind all of this, somehow. Zhaneel, the lessons, the private lesson—all of it. “I have been pushing, and pushed, and I am exhausted. I need to borrow Gesten, Drake, or I’m never going to get the mud out of my coat and feathers. And I wish you’d let me steal your magic fingers for a bit.” And he sighed, finally admitting his downfall “—and I need to talk to you.”