War of Magic (Dual Magics Book 4)

by Meredith Mansfield

  Montibeus shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “It’s true,” Vatar’s half-sister Boreala put in. “Father and I were both there to witness it.”

  “Truth. They speak truth,” another man said. Vatar remembered him as the one who’d proclaimed his previous speech before this council a true Foreseeing, the one they called a Sooth Teller.

  “So,” the woman at the far end of the table—the leader of this Council, Vatar remembered—said, “Is that why you broke our most important law and revealed the Lie? Because this Taleus disapproved of it?”

  Vatar blew out a breath before answering. “No. I told my guild master the truth because I thought it was necessary. And I was the only one who could do it. Everyone else who knew was either too far inside the Lie to see beyond it—like all of you—or else too afraid of you to do it.”

  “Necessary?” the leader’s voice was dangerous.

  Vatar met her eyes squarely. “Yes. Necessary. For the last year and more, you’ve done little but worry about your ability to maintain the Lie through the Festival, ignoring other problems that were within your grasp. Cestus’s reforms, which could be beneficial to all sides. Ways to circumvent the trade problems with Kausalya. You haven’t even met with the Valson emissaries—the ones you asked me to bring back—more than three times. Those things are more important than the Festival. With that distraction removed, maybe you can begin to do what the Caereans expect of you in return for the tribute they pay. If not, you don’t deserve to receive another tribute anyway.”

  Montibeus snorted. “Well, likely we won’t, now that the Caereans know.”

  Vatar shrugged. He had to speak over angry murmurs from around the table. This wasn’t going well. Probably he should be more conciliatory, but, under the circumstances, all he could manage was frustration. “So work out another arrangement for providing the services they need. They’ll still want free access to the Healers. And I don’t think they want to take over the Temple Guard, either. Then find more ways to be useful. Several of the guilds would be glad to employ people who could send and receive messages for them, for example. The Caereans understand paying for services. They just don’t like feeling that they’ve been cheated.”

  The volume and intensity of the angry mutters rose.

  The Council leader rapped the table twice. “That wasn’t your choice to make.”

  “Amalthea—” Father began.

  Vatar broke in, feeling the demand of the words of prophecy again. “You have been given another chance, unlooked for, beyond the one promised by Abella six hundred years ago. You took the wrong fork of her prophecy toward destruction rather than embrace change. But fate has given you one more chance to avoid the consequences of that choice. Just one. Choose better this time.”

  There was silence around the table when he finished speaking. Vatar rubbed his forehead. He really hated when that happened.

  Father swallowed hard and looked at Vatar. “Was that a Fore Seeing?”

  Vatar sighed. “It felt true.”

  “Well,” said Amalthea wearily, “the next time you have a Fore Seeing, it might be nice if you informed us first.”

  Vatar stared at her for a moment. As if he had any control over that. He rubbed his forehead. “If I knew when it was going to happen, I might.” Or did she think he’d revealed the Lie because of some Foreseeing? Vatar opened his mouth to correct her.

  Father placed a hand on his arm. “If we’re done with this, perhaps we should call in the Valson emissaries and proceed to other business.”

  Amalthea nodded. “Very well.” She rang a bell to summon the Palace Guard on call and send for Teran and Terania.

  While they waited for Teran and Terania to arrive, Vatar reached out to bespeak his father. “I didn’t reveal the Lie because of a Fore Seeing.”

  Father nodded. “Amalthea knows that. But that allowed her to save face when she backed down from punishing you, which was what she’d told us all she was going to do. Just let it lie, Vatar.”

  Before Teran and Terania arrived, one of the Palace Guard brought in two of the chairs from the level below.

  When they stepped through the door and took those seats, Amalthea welcomed them. Then she turned to Vatar. “So, what do you know about these Exiles?”

  Vatar gestured to Teran. “Teran and Terania know far more about them than I do. They knew them longer and even taught some of the younger ones. I only had a couple of brief . . . encounters with them.”

  Teran started in on a description of the characters of the leaders of the Exiles. Vatar only half listened, concentrating instead on studying the scrolls Teran had brought to the meeting.

  After studying the drawings of the catapults, Vatar interrupted the flow of questions rehashing the same information over and over again. “What we know about the Exiles from four years ago may or may not be helpful. What we need is to start formulating a plan to meet this threat. Fasallon watchers down the coast to send Far Speech warnings of the Kausalyan fleet would be some help.” He shoved the scroll he’d been looking at out into to the center of the table, where his father pulled it closer to himself. Vatar went on, “Something like these catapults could help us protect the harbor and hopefully keep enemy ships out of the bay. Those are the kinds of things we should be focusing on.”

  “We can’t send Talented Fasallon out into the wilderness. They’re far too valuable,” Montibeus, the High Priest, objected.

  Vatar reached over and reclaimed the scroll from his father. “Then I suppose I’ll be taking these to the guilds, to see what they can do to protect this city. Of course, that will be the end of any pretense of rule by the Fasallon.”

  “Wait . . .” said Amalthea, the leader of this council. “We can at least discuss it.”

  Vatar shook his head. “Discussing is all you seem to do when it comes to an uncomfortable change. This crisis needs more. If you’re not willing to risk anything yourselves to protect this city, you deserve to lose whatever shreds of control you still have.”

  Nine of the eleven Councilors stared back at him with undisguised anger and hatred. Only Father and Boreala looked . . . not sympathetic exactly. Resigned. Well, he couldn’t expect the High Council to like it, but if making them angry would shake them out of their complacency, Vatar was willing to take the risk.

  “What would you have us do?” Father asked.

  “Meet jointly with the guild council. Work out real solutions and the ways to implement them. Pool this city’s resources.”

  “That sounds like a reasonable idea,” Amalthea said slowly. “We could invite the guild masters to join us.”

  Vatar looked around the chamber. It was a generous size for its purpose, but the table and the existing chairs filled it. “There are as many of them as there are of you—of us. If you bring in enough chairs for all, no one will be able to move.” Barely enough room to breathe, he thought. It was stuffy now. Besides, it wouldn’t sit well for the guild masters to have to cross the strait and climb all of those stairs. They’re important men, too. The meeting would start off badly and only get worse from there. “I know there are larger rooms in the Temple complex. One of the classrooms could be refurnished, perhaps.”

  Father nodded. “That’d work. And it’d be a nice compromise to the dignity of the guild masters. With things already somewhat . . . strained, there’s no sense in aggravating them further.”

  Vatar gave his father an appreciative nod. More or less exactly what he’d been thinking himself.

  “Very well, then. When do you think you could arrange such a meeting?” Amalthea asked.

  “The sooner the better,” Vatar answered, rising from his seat. “I’ll talk to the guild masters and let you know.”

  Chapter 6: Double Council

  Vatar paced through the streets, going ahead of his guild master to the first meeting of the combined councils. The markets were emptying at this time of day—between the early morning flurry of buying and selling and the bustle of the
late afternoon.

  A panicked scream from somewhere nearby made him stop and turn in that direction. All he saw was the backs of several young men at the end of the market by the blank wall of a warehouse. One of them drew back a foot to kick the object of their ire, producing a pained grunt. Journeymen by the look of them. Thankfully, not from the Smiths’ Guild, or they’d have more muscle. But journeymen of any guild shouldn’t be harassing people on the streets like common thugs.

  Whoever had screamed was between the journeymen and the wall—and terrified. Vatar stalked toward them, keeping his footfalls as silent as if he were hunting through the grasses of the plains rather than pacing across cobblestones. He placed his hands on the shoulders of the two nearest journeymen and tossed them out of his way, revealing a huddled figure—in blue and green robes. The journeymen had attacked a Fasallon!

  Vatar lunged forward and turned, putting the Fasallon and the wall at his back. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “No business of yours.” The largest of the journeymen sneered, flexing blue-tinged hands. Not all of that blue was bruised knuckles, either.

  Vatar stretched his shoulders, allowing the muscles built in the working iron and steel to show. “I am Master Vatar of the Smiths’ Guild.” Vatar was gratified to see some of the other journeymen back up a step at that. He gestured behind him. “And this is the business of any guild. Journeymen cannot be allowed to attack citizens on the street.”

  The leader tossed his head up defiantly. “He’s no citizen. He’s one of those lying, thieving Fasallon.”

  Vatar sucked in a breath. Sky above and earth below! Journeymen were attacking Fasallon in the streets because he’d revealed the Lie! This was much worse than anything he’d expected. All right, when he’d revealed the Lie the Fasallon had perpetrated for six hundred years to his own guild master, he’d thought there’d be a little strife between the guilds and the Fasallon. He’d expected some trouble with the High Council for himself, but this . . .

  He should have expected it, though. He hadn’t thought it through. And there was going to be more trouble over his decision—for the city as well as for himself—than he’d bargained for. Well, one problem at a time. Vatar’s eyes narrowed as he stared down the leader. “That is a matter for your guild master. Not you. I will make sure that he knows about this.”

  The leader smirked. “You don’t even know what guild we belong to.”

  Vatar’s smile was hostile. “I can see the blue dye on your hands. I’m going to make a wild guess and say the Weavers’ Guild.”

  The others backed away and turned to flee. Only the leader was left and he made a very unwise lunge toward the Fasallon. Vatar shoved him back. The journeyman swung at Vatar, who dodged easily and then punched the other man, but not with all the force at his command. Right now, he only needed to drive him off, not defeat him utterly.

  The journeyman put one hand up to stop the blood streaming from his nose. “They’ve lied to us and taken our tribute. Stolen it.”

  “Lied, yes. Stolen, no. Part of that tribute pays for services like the Healers. Even now, after what you’ve done, you can go to the Healer’s Hall and someone will fix that broken nose for you. It doesn’t make the Lie right. But this is not the answer. Now go before I have to do worse than break your nose.”

  The other man glared at Vatar for a moment before stumbling off after his friends.

  Vatar turned to the Fasallon, who had struggled up to lean against the wall during the confrontation. More shaken up than really hurt, Vatar judged, though there was a nasty bruise starting on one cheek and he moved as if his ribs hurt. “You need to get to the Healers, too. But first . . .” Vatar led the other man into a quiet street. Then he pulled the torn blue and green Fasallon robe off the other man’s shoulders and tossed it into a corner. Underneath, the man wore unremarkable tunic and trousers. “You’ll be better off without that until you get back inside the Temple. Keep your eyes down—not like you’re cowering, more like you’re deep in thought.” The grey eyes would be a giveaway to anyone who knew much about the Fasallon. “Then no one will guess that you’re Fasallon. It’s not far. Let’s go.”

  ~

  Vatar still arrived early for the joint meeting, even after leaving the shaken Fasallon at the Healers’ Hall entrance. It had taken two days to coordinate this meeting. He hoped it would be worth it. The first thing he had to do—and, with a foot in both camps, only he could do it—was to get past the natural hostilities. The High Council weren’t likely to take well to being schooled—as in some respects they had to be—by the guild masters. And many of the guild masters still harbored bitterness about the Lie the Fasallon had perpetrated on them. No one enjoyed feeling like a fool.

  Vatar took the twelfth chair, Calpe’s seat, and moved it from that side of the table around to the far end, opposite Amalthea’s high seat. If he was to be the buffer between these two sides, he’d need to take that position from the first, not wait for it to be offered to him. He laid out the scrolls Miceus had had copied out for him—selections from the records Teran had dug out of the Archives. One at each chair.

  He approved of the room, at least. More than large enough and not far off the Healer’s Hall entrance familiar to all Caereans. He’d been half afraid Montibeus would choose one of the meeting rooms buried in the depths of the labyrinth that was the Temple complex. Anyone not familiar with those corridors would quickly get turned around and lost. Vatar saw his father’s deft hand in the choice of this room.

  Vatar watched as the guild masters filed in, led by a couple of young, unobtrusive Fasallon, and took seats on one side of the table. Some, like the Smiths’ Guild Master, immediately began studying the scrolls and diagrams in front of them. Some watched with resentment as the Fasallon High Council entered and took their seats. He’d hoped they might filter in more slowly, so that he’d have a chance to speak the Weavers’ Guild Master. Oh well, he’d just have to take the man aside after the meeting was over. Or maybe he should wait until the Fasallon left and talk to all of the guild masters together. But not in front of the Fasallon. Today’s incident couldn’t be repeated if they were going to find a way to work together.

  “So, you’ve lied to us all this time,” the Fishermen’s Guild Master stated with undisguised hostility. “Why should we believe you now?”

  Vatar didn’t wait for Amalthea to respond. “It’s not them you’re asked to believe. It’s me. I’m the one who brought this information to the Guild Council.”

  “That’s true,” the Smiths’ Guild Master said.

  The Merchants’ Guild Master nodded agreement. “That’s what Arcas told me, as well.”

  The Fishermen’s Guild Master jutted out his chin. “Well, so this threat may be real. Why should we defend the Fasallon after all their lies and thievery? Maybe a change would be for the better.”

  “Not this change,” Vatar answered. He drew in a deep breath. “All right, let’s get this out of the way.” He turned to the guild masters and indicated the Fasallon with a sweep of his arm. “In point of fact, they weren’t the ones who started the Lie. That was their ancestors, six hundred years ago. When all they wanted was to settle in peace on this side of the bay—which your . . . our ancestors weren’t using anyway, because the bay is too rocky on this side. And they taught our ancestors many useful things—including how to work iron and steel—in return.

  “Admittedly, the High Council didn’t tell you the truth about the Lie, either. They didn’t try to find another way. Possibly because, from where they stood, things seemed to be working pretty well. And, actually, for most of Caere, they were—up until a couple of years ago. That’s not the point. If you don’t like having been lied to, I guarantee you won’t like having Gerusa take their place.”

  “That’s true,” Father said. “Gerusa was always the loudest voice in the High Council, arguing that we’d ceded too much power to the guilds. She wouldn’t be meeting with you to ask for your help. She’d just issue or
ders and use the Temple and Palace Guards to enforce them. We know from her . . . co-conspirator that she intends to make herself sole ruler of Caere—and all the cities along the coast.”

  Vatar glanced at his father, suddenly aware that Father hadn’t used Selene’s name since the Festival Selene had tried to sabotage. That betrayal had hurt Father more than he was willing to admit.

  “Well, maybe the Temple Guard wouldn’t have so much luck trying to force us to do her wishes,” the Smiths’ Guild Master said. “It’s not as if we’re unarmed.”

  Several members of the High Council sat a little straighter or clenched jaws or fists at this statement.

  Vatar shook his head. “We make the weapons, true. But, with rare exceptions, the Temple and Palace Guards are still the only ones with training in how to use them effectively. Or fight together as a unit. That’s only one of the reasons we still need the help of the Fasallon.” He twisted in his chair to pin the members of the High Council with his eyes. “And you need the help of the guilds just as much. Not just because they do most of the real governing in the city. They’re also the only ones with the knowledge and skills to build something like these catapults or sail those ships in the harbor, along with plenty of other abilities we’ll all need. There’ll be time to work out past grievances later, if we survive this threat. Right now we have a bigger problem and a common enemy—who is not in this room.” He swiveled back to face the guild masters. “And if any of you still have any kind of contact with your counterparts in Kausalya, you know what kind of ruler Gerusa would be.”

  The Merchants’ Guild Master nodded. “A disaster. And not just because she’s ruined the city’s trade.”

  “Well then, what do you suggest?” the Fishermen’s Guild Master asked.

  Vatar sat back in relief. He didn’t delude himself that conflict between the two councils was anywhere near over, but it was a start. “I have a few ideas, but there’s a great deal I don’t know, too. That’s why we need all of us here to hammer out a workable plan. The drawings in front of you are of catapults. A device that can throw large rocks a considerable distance. Something like that, mounted on the headlands of the bay, might be able to keep hostile ships out of the harbor—and away from Caere.”