by Andre Nolton
The sun was only just cresting the eastern horizon, the merest fingernail-paring of hot rose, and the battle was over; so far as the Great Lords were concerned, the war with their rebel offspring was over, too. Now would come the hard part; hunting them down individually, or waiting for them to come crawling back, looking for forgiveness. That was what they would be thinking, anyway, and Kyrtian was not about to allow them to discover any part of the truth.
He signaled to his horse, and let it plod back down the hill to his tent. Time to prepare himself for Lord Kyndreth's congratulations, and pretend to an elation he didn't feel.
The subcommanders milled about in the background, not daring to approach such exalted personages as Lords of the Council without being summoned, but clearly hoping to be noticed.
Kyrtian, on the other hand, was very much the center of attention, and not feeling particularly comfortable in that position.
"Brilliant!" Kyndreth boomed, as Kyrtian ducked his head modestly. "Brilliant! Clearly they never guessed you would force a march after dark to get into place before sunrise."
"I had made a point of always bivouacking before sunset until I knew where they had made their headquarters, my lord," Kyrtian said, as Lord Kyndreth accepted a glass of wine from one of the slaves. "I wanted them to see a pattern and become used to it."
Kyrtian's tent had been cleared of everything except tables and chairs borrowed from those of his underlings who insisted on traveling with suites of furniture; with carpets on the floor and slaves holding trays of refreshments, it could not have looked less like his campaign headquarters. But Lord Kyndreth had insisted on Gating here ("with a select few of the Council, nothing to trouble yourself about") to tender his congratulations in person. "Nothing to trouble yourself about" had entailed non-stop, frantic work on the part of his staff up until the very moment that the temporary Gate opened and Kyndreth and entourage marched through.
"Ha—of course, you'd never done such a thing before, so they lacked the imagination to suppose that you would do it now," Kyndreth laughed, as the other three Great Lords he had brought with him nodded wisely. "Of course, old Levelis never did such a thing either."
"Levelis," said one long-faced Lord sourly, "never exerted himself to travel more than a league or two at a time."
"Levelis is an old fool," Lady Moth snapped, joining the discussion, wineglass in hand, "and if it had been left up to him, I'd still be penned up on my estate next Midwinter."
Moth rode over, escorted by her bodyguards, soon enough to welcome the Councilors along with Kyrtian and to serve as his hostess. This was not the first time in the conversation that she had made a point of mentioning that Kyrtian had rescued her from the rebels, and it probably would not be the last.
"Entirely possible, my lady," the sour-face Councilor said, with a slight bow. "And now what do you plan, young commander?" he continued, turning to Kyrtian.
Kyrtian sighed. "Now, my lord, comes the most tedious, most time-consuming, and least-rewarding part of this campaign," he replied. "We hunt down the fugitives one at a time and bring them back to the Council for judgment. I'd calculated that something like this would occur, and planned for it from the beginning; this is a task for smaller parties of men, and if you will permit me, my lords, I would prefer to use my own men if possible. I can count on them not to damage the fugitives when they are caught. As for the rest of the force—well, if it were my decision to make, I would disband it. An army is essentially a great beast that is all mouth and stomach out of which no useful work can be gotten when it is not engaged in a campaign."
"We will—take that under consideration," Lord Kyndreth replied, with a glance at his fellow Council members. "It does make sense, however."
He's thinking about the Wizards. Kyrtian took a sip of wine and tried to look unconcerned.
"Oh, come now, Kyndreth, the boy's right," said the sour one, appropriating a tidbit from one of the trays and examining it as if he expected to find a bug on it before putting it cautiously in his mouth. "There's no point in keeping these men sitting about doing nothing more useful than military maneuvers when we could have them all back on our estates doing some meaningful work, even if it's only in the breeding pens."
He's not. And he might not be in favor of another Wizard War if the subject were broached at the moment.
"And Levelis," pointed out a Council member in midnight blue and deep green, who was making steady inroads on the wine without showing the least sign of intoxication, "would immediately advise to keep these men out here under his command."
"And you know how I feel about" Levelis," Kyndreth acknowledged with a faint smile. "Another salient point, but one that is better discussed in Council, don't you think?"
"Hmmm," said the fellow in blue, but didn't add anything more.
How is he drinking so much and staying sober?
Kyndreth immediately changed the subject back to the current victory, but Kyrtian couldn't help but notice that there was an aspect of it that he did not touch on—the rebels' ability to counteract his own levin-bolts. It was the fourth member of Kyndreth's party who brought it up.
"I had no notion that you had so much magic of your own— and how were those brats managing to dodge your levin-bolts, Kyrtian?" he asked, incredulously. "I thought they hadn't but driblets of magic of their own!"
He shrugged. "I never saw anything like it," he admitted. "Even if they had been using shields as I know them, the levin-bolts wouldn't have acted in that way when contacting a shield. I'm baffled."
"Huh. I wonder if they found anything in my library.. .." Moth mused, as if thinking aloud—but her sly glance at Kyrtian alerted him that she was about to present him with an opportunity for something.
But what?
"Your library, my lady?" Kyrtian asked, obeying her prompting. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, when I got into the Great House on the estate, the library was in a right mess," she replied promptly, "books down off the shelves, piled up on the tables, left lying open—something on the order of the huggle-muggle your father used to create in there when he was doing his research, Kyrtian, but on a larger scale. My household is cleaning up the chaos now, but to tell you the truth, it's as if they were following his lead and looking for something."
"Perhaps they found it—" Kyndreth said slowly, speculation creeping into his gaze as he looked from Moth to Kyrtian and back again. "Perhaps—having discovered that the son's little eccentric hobby was so deadly to their cause, they thought to counter it by following the father's example."
Kyrtian did his best not to stare at Moth with his mouth open in shock, gathered his wits, and seized the opportunity he'd been given with both hands. "If that is true—and I do recall my father being very enthusiastic over something he found in Lady Morthena's books—then the rebels might have done just that, and we need to discover what it is that they found!"
"Agreed!" said the Councilor in blue, instantly. "Someone should begin immediately!"
I wish mother could hear that. My father has just gone in an instant from crazed eccentric to vindicated.
He turned to Lord Kyndreth. "My lord, if I may be so bold— anyone can track down fugitives; it's only a matter of having good hunters and endless patience—but I know the direction of my father's research as no one else could. Would the Council be pleased to permit me to course this particular hare?"
Lord Kyndreth's speculative expression gave Kyrtian the thrill of excitement that the sham battle had not. "What, precisely, was he looking for?"
"A way, or perhaps a device," Kyrtian said, very slowly, "for those with little magic to amplify that magic." Even as he said that, he realized that this would not be pleasant hearing for those whose powerful magic kept them at the top of the hierarchy. "Presumably it would do the same for those with great magic as well," he added quickly. "I would assume it would work for anyone who used it, whether 'it' is a device, an object, or a method."
"What sent your father into Lady Mo
rthena's library, Lord Kyrtian?" asked the wine-loving Lord, with every evidence of interest.
"He was a student of our history, and could not fathom why we were unable to replicate some of the feats of the Ancestors, when according to the fragments of chronicles he found, even the least of the Ancestors could accomplish what the Great Lords could," Kyrtian replied carefully, looking earnestly into the older Lord's intent eyes. "And he could see no reason why magic should be thinning in our bloodlines."
"A good point." Kyndreth mulled that one over, as the other Councilors looked interested, even eager. Even the sour-faced one lost some of his dour look.
Kyrtian thought about saying more, thought again, and held his peace. It was Moth who dropped another tidbit into the pool for the shining carp to gobble.
"It was all of the oldest books that were left lying about," she observed innocently. "The same sorts of chronicles exactly that Kyrtian's father used to look at. And my word—the dust was unbelievable!"
"Kyndreth, I think we ought to let the boy investigate this," the sour-faced Councilor said decisively. "Let him keep his own fighting slaves in case he finds nothing and elects to hunt down our fugitives, while you take the rest of the army back to the mustering-barracks. We can decide what to do with it after Kyrtian determines if there's anything to this hunting about in the old chronicles or not. Meanwhile, we've got men and arms ready to send out on the chance that one of our puppies manages to scrape together another force and mounts an attack on one of the outlying manors."
"Good plan!" seconded the one in blue, and drained his wineglass. "Personally, I think they're going to crawl back to us begging for mercy, but I'd rather be ready for the treacherous young dogs just in case."
Lord Kyndreth looked in bemusement from one to another of his fellow Councilors—evidently he was the one who normally concocted all the plans in Council of late, and he was somewhat taken aback that these three had suddenly devised a solution of their own.
"We don't need a majority vote for this, Kyndreth," the wine-lover pointed out. "Kyrtian won't actually be doing anything, not unless he decides that there's nothing to be found in that library, and by then the whole Council will have had a chance to sit."
Lord Kyndreth laughed. "I see that you have already made up your minds," he said, genially—though Kyrtian wondered if there was a hint of annoyance, and even anger, under his smooth words. "As it happens, I am entirely in agreement with you, if for no other reason than that it gives our fine young commander an opportunity for some well-earned leisure before we lay any further burdens on his shoulders." He cocked an eyebrow at Kyrtian. "I am correct in recalling that you consider delving into mountains of musty old books to be an enjoyable leisure activity?"
Kyrtian laughed. "You are correct, my lord," he agreed, smiling a genuine smile for the first time that afternoon. "Like father, like son, you see."
"Well then." The smile Lord Kyndreth returned never reached his eyes, but there was no sign of disapproval that Kyrtian could detect in it.
I suspect his annoyance is reserved at this moment for his fellow Councilors.
Kyndreth spun, and fixed one of Kyrtian's subordinates with a steely gaze. "You've heard the plan, Astolan. You're in charge of everything but Kyrtian's slaves. Give the lot a good feed and good rest, then march them and the prisoners back to mustering-barracks. We'll sort out the prisoners there. And see to it that you make as good time coming back as Lord Kyrtian did going out."
Lord Astolan went flushed, then pale, and drew himself up straight as any of Gel's recruits. "My Lord!" he responded, with a crisp salute, followed by a bow, just for good measure.
Kyndreth transferred his gaze to the others. "The rest of you see that he succeeds in making good time," he concluded, making it perfectly clear that the penalty for failure would land on all of their shoulders.
Before they could make any reply, Kyndreth's attention had already gone back to the other Councilors. "Shall we make our departures, my lords?" he asked, making it very clear that he was leaving, and if the others wanted to remain, they would have to find their own ways back. And since he held the key to the temporary Gate ...
There was no dissension.
Kyrtian escorted them to the Gate, and watched the strangely shining structure fade and disappear after they passed through it. He returned to his tent to find Lady Moth entertaining his subordinates with scandal.
"Well, Astolan!" he said cheerfully as he pushed the tent-flap aside. "My things are already packed up and out of the way, and yours are here—well, part of them anyway—so why don't I just round up my slaves and escort Lady Moth back to her estate and leave you free to follow Lord Kyndreth's orders?"
Astolan swelled with pride and self-importance. Clearly he hadn't expected to be confirmed in his new—if temporary— command so soon. "Certainly, my lord, if that is your wish—"
"It is; if we start now, we will all be at Lady Moth's estate well before sundown," he said firmly, and offered Lady Moth his arm. "My Lady?"
She swept him a curtsy, and allowed him to see a glimpse of the wicked amusement in her eyes before accepting his arm. "My lord," she replied. "Let us go in search of that so-admirable chief of your slaves, that so-stern fellow Gel, and be on our way. I cannot wait to be home, now that I know that my home is safe again."
How is she managing to keep a straight face? "I shall be at pains to keep it ever so, my lady," he replied, deadpan, and was rewarded by the shaking of her shoulders as she tried to keep from laughing as they swept out.
20
Her guide paused at the edge of the mining-pit, and Shana surveyed the activity below her with an intense feeling of satisfaction. The dragons had, incredibly, found a place not that far from the New Citadel where iron ore lay near to the surface of the earth, making it possible to extract the precious substance without having to dig dangerous underground tunnels.
The dragons, however, had given some strict orders regarding mining operations. The fertile topsoil was to be carefully removed before true mining began, and set aside; when a spot had been played out, the harvested soil was to be returned and replanted with saplings culled from the forest, or clumps of meadow-flowers. Although this made very little sense to most of the Wizards and all of the humans, the dragons were so adamant about this that no one argued.
Shana, however, fully agreed with this injunction. She had lived among dragons for too long not to think in terms of centuries rather than years—and the scars left on the land by un-considered mining would last for centuries. In the desert and the mountains, resources were not inexhaustible; to scar the land and leave it that much less able to support the humans and Wizards of the Citadel was unthinkably stupid. No matter what else she was, she hoped that even her own worst enemies would never think of her as that stupid.
A great deal of work was required to produce a few ingots of iron. In the pit below her, twenty or thirty quite burly men, broad shoulders and backs pouring sweat, labored with picks and shovels to fill crude wheelbarrows. The barrows were in their turn trundled up a dirt ramp to the rim of the pit by less burly men, some women, and even a few adolescent boys with the muscle to make the grueling trip over and over.
At the opposite rim of the pit stood their primitive smelter, the mysteries of which were of no interest to Shana. That was Zed's purview, and so far as Shana was concerned, as long as his fuel-cutters and charcoal-burners cut their timber selectively and replanted where they cut, she didn't care. Her concern was for the iron to trade with and the land it came out of, not for how the iron was produced.
It was the number of people at work here that surprised her—and their ages. She had sent Zed and his would-be miners off with the young dragon who'd found this place, and there hadn't been a single one of them much over the age of twenty—nor were any of them particularly muscular. But down there in the pit were men that could have been labor-slaves for an Elvenlord—
"What do you think of my crew?" called Zed, as he waved at he
r from across the pit. The miners looked up, glanced from him to Shana, and grinned broadly. Fire and Rain! They looked like labor-slaves and were scarred like gladiators!
Not a familiar face among them. ...
"I think they're very impressive," she called back, as she and her guide made their way around the edge of the pit. "But what I'd really like to know," she continued, as she came closer and didn't have to shout, "is where they came from—"
Zed laughed. "They're slaves—ex-slaves actually. The same ex-slaves that old Caellach drove away from the New Citadel by treating them as slaves rather than our fellow-creatures."
"But..." She wrinkled her brow, puzzled. "They're working just as hard—harder—than they would have if they'd stayed at the Citadel."
"But I'm not treating them as slaves," Zed pointed out. "I don't expect them to work here for the sheer gratitude of serving a wizard and getting nothing more generous than food and shelter. They each get a fair share of the iron we smelt; they can trade it back to me for whatever we Wizards have that they want, or for what I've gotten from the Traders or the Iron People. That way the actual iron stays in our control, but they get a fair wage for their work." He raised an eyebrow. "We're great believers in wages here."
She shook her head in admiration. "Zed, that's brilliant! Are they settled here? Do they want to stay? Can they build a village or something?" It would be wonderful to have these strong folk nearby—there was so much they needed simple laborers for, and Shana didn't in the least object to bartering for work done.
"They want to know whether Caellach is likely to poke his nose in here first, before they actually build a settlement," Zed replied with a grimace.
Shana glanced down, and saw that all work had stopped, while the former slaves all listened for her reply.
She was not at all loath to give it, pitching her voice so that the workers could hear it as well as Zed.
