Nature's Master (The Nature Mage Series Book 4)

by Duncan Pile

  Elijah leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “I tried. Over to you, Stringfellow.”

  “Guards,” Stringfellow barked, and within moments Darmet was restrained.

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean…”

  “Silence!” Stringfellow said with a sharp jab of his hand. “You asked for justice, and justice you will get. For questioning the will of the council, you will serve a month in the mines. That should give you time to reconsider your attitude.”

  “A month!” Darmet cried, straining against his the grip of his captors. “By the time I’m out, the brothers will have taken over my workshop!”

  “Two months.”

  “This is outrageous!” Darmet blustered.

  “Do you want me to make it three?”

  Darmet ceased his struggles and shook his head, his shoulders drooping in defeat.

  “Judgement has been delivered,” Stringfellow announced, and the watching crowd chanted the same in response. Stringfellow leaned over to speak to the Nettle while Darmet was dragged away. The other councillors took the opportunity to talk briefly among themselves while servants refreshed their drinks. After a short interval, Stringfellow nodded to the aide who stood by the gong, which was struck once more, and a brilliant note shivered throughout the hall.

  The next supplicant was the petite woman Ferast had noticed earlier. She followed the aide from the enclosure and took her place before the dais.

  Another of the Eleven raised a hand, indicating that he would take the lead. He was finely dressed in rich black cloth, embroidered with glimmering silver thread that matched the streaks in his otherwise raven hair. “What brings you to the council, Sultara? Last I looked, you were doing very well for yourself.”

  “You are right, Lord Niallon,” Sultara said, bowing her head over folded hands. “I’m the second most sought-after silversmith in the city. My jewellery adorns the necks, ears, wrists and fingers of many among the great and the good.”

  “Then why are you here?” Lord Niallon asked.

  “Because I’m the second most sought-after silversmith in the city,” she said, spreading her hands. “I believe my work to be superior to Lorik’s, and yet he has an exclusive contract with the Eleven. I wish to make jewellery for the greatest lords and ladies in the city, but as things stand, I cannot even tender for the work. I consider this to be against the spirit of free commerce, which as Lord Elijah has already stated is one of the foundational tenets of our society. I wish to be able to compete.”

  Lord Niallon was silent for long moments before speaking again. “You do realise that Lorik was awarded his position for services to the city?”

  “I do my lord, but that is precisely why he must be challenged, lest complacency seeps into his work. Darmet asked you to restrict competition. I’m asking you to remove a barrier that prevents it.”

  The Eleven looked at each other with expressions ranging from surprise to admiration. Ferast was starting to get the idea of how things worked in Namert.

  “And what do you propose?” Lord Niallon asked.

  “I propose a contest,” Sultara said. “Over the next month, Lorik will create a masterpiece and I will do the same. The Eleven will decide who wins.”

  “And you want to take Lorik’s place if you win?” Lord Niallon asked, raising an eyebrow. Ferast saw a trap here. If she concurred, it would undermine her entire argument.

  “No, my lord,” Sultara said. “I merely hope to win the right to tender to any client in the city, including the Eleven.”

  “Well spoken,” Lord Niallon said. “Lorik will be informed. Bring us your finest piece in a month’s time, constructed entirely within that month, and we will decide whether or not your request will be granted.”

  Sultara bowed and quickly departed. There was one more supplicant ahead of Ferast – a broad-shouldered man who looked like he’d fallen on hard times. His clothes hung loosely from his rangy frame, and his bluff honest face was twisted with anguish. The gong rang, and the aide ushered him forwards to stand before the Eleven.

  “Name!” Stringfellow’s voice rang out.

  “Andred Farrier,” the broad-shouldered man announced.

  “And what brings you before the council?”

  “I owe Olifar Gatekeeper five hundred credits. The loan is due today, but I need more time. Olifar is threatening to have me cast into the debtor’s prison if I cannot pay, but I’ll have the money next week for certain.”

  “Why didn’t you have the money by the date it was due?” Stringfellow asked.

  “I did everything I could,” Andred implored, wringing his hands. “I’ve worked every minute God sends but times have been hard. Every farrier in the city is struggling for business.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have agreed to the loan,” Stringfellow said. The other councillors murmured their agreement. No-one seemed inclined to intervene on the man’s behalf.

  “I beg your forgiveness! It was an honest mistake.”

  Stringfellow leaned forward. “What are you asking to be excused from? Bad decision making or a lack of industry?”

  Andred looked like he’d been smacked between the eyes.

  “And why should we excuse either? If you are reprieved, what guarantee do we have that you will be more industrious in future?”

  “But if you send me to prison, how will I pay Olifar back? The interest will accrue and I will lose business to my competitors, along with my home and possessions.”

  “You should have thought of that before agreeing to the loan,” Stringfellow said. “We cannot allow exceptions or others will seek to take advantage of our clemency.

  Andred started to object but Stringfellow cut him off. “Andred Farrier, you have broken faith with Olifar Gatekeeper, and as such your fate is in his hands. If he throws you into prison, so be it. You must find a way to pay him back or you will rot. Judgement has been delivered.”

  “Judgement has been delivered,” the crowd chanted.

  Andred was dragged from the room by a pair of guards, crying for mercy every step of the way. He was barrelled through the double doors at the rear of the room, which swung shut behind him and blocked his cries from Ferast’s ears. Once again there was a pause, while the Eleven had their goblets refilled and talked quietly in twos and threes. Ferast readied himself for what was to come, feeling the unfamiliar thrum of nervous energy. His plan was audacious, and there was much that could go wrong. Nevertheless, it was time to act. Reaching out with his senses, he strengthened his hold on Parker’s mind. The man would be a passenger in his own body, watching as he brought about his own demise. The thought gave Ferast immense pleasure.

  Up ahead the Eleven were stilling, and at a gesture from Stringfellow the gong was struck once more. An aide opened the gate at the front of the supplicants’ enclosure and told Ferast to follow. Ferast walked the length of the hall at a leisurely pace, forcing the aide to slow down. He reached the line where the other supplicants had stood and saw that it was actually a narrow, rectangular plaque, embedded into the floor. On it was a brief inscription:

  Wisdom is justified by all her children.

  Ferast deliberately took another step, stopping a yard beyond the plaque. It was a small act of rebellion, designed to test Stringfellow. Ferast reached out with his senses and touched the old man’s mind. The briefest contact confirmed that Stringfellow was an entirely unsuitable ally. He was a rigid and unsubtle person, who thought in straight lines and couldn’t cope with deviation. Right now he was outraged that a supplicant would move beyond their allocated spot, and was about to tell Ferast to take a step back. Ferast ran a soothing hand across his mind. What does it matter where the supplicant stands?

  Stringfellow let it go. “Name?” he asked.

  “Ferast.”

  “And what is your petition?”

  “None. I am not a citizen of this city.”

  Stringfellow’s face stiffened. “Then why are you here?”

  “To make you an offer.”


  Stringfellow’s eyes hardened to glimmering, black points. “Guards!” he barked.

  Ferast met Elijah’s gaze and spoke directly to his mind. I know your highest ambitions, your most secret desires. Ally yourself with me and they shall come to pass. Elijah’s eyes widened, staring at Ferast in astonishment as the guards rushed towards him.

  Five

  Elijah’s heart was beating out of his chest. What was this? A trap? No-one could speak directly to another person’s mind! He met Ferast’s cool gaze and saw that he wasn’t in the slightest bit perturbed by the approaching guardsmen. Sensing an advantage, Elijah followed his instincts. “Wait!” he barked, and the guards came to a stop, glancing uneasily between Elijah and Stringfellow. “Let’s not be hasty,” Elijah drawled, attempting his usual lazy air. “His manners need a little work, but let’s at least find out what the supplicant thinks he can offer us. At the very least, it might prove to be amusing.”

  Stringfellow glanced at Elijah in irritation. “This isn’t the time for games, Elijah.”

  “Oh, there’s always time for games. Don’t you agree, friends?” Elijah said with an easy smile, looking around at his allies among the Eleven. Over the last couple of years, he’d taken the threads and ribbons of his influence and wound them intrinsically into the affairs of Namert’s ruling class. Stringfellow had no idea how far his machinations had advanced. None of them did, in fact, confident that their shared interests with Elijah were unique but, unbeknownst to them, he now wielded more power among the Eleven than any three of them put together. He used that influence now to catch the gaze of his supporters and, as expected, several of them spoke up, urging Stringfellow to let the supplicant make his offer.

  Elijah suppressed a smile. Stringfellow didn’t understand that his position as head of the council had already been usurped. Realisation would dawn soon enough, but for now the old man rested comfortably on the illusion of his authority.

  With an aggravated sigh, Stringfellow addressed Ferast once more. “Some of my fellow councillors appear not to value their time. You are permitted to speak.”

  Elijah looked on with avid interest as Ferast bowed his head. The young man addressed the council confidently, looking from one to the other as he spoke. “I offer each of you the services of a magician. I am an expert in healing, among other things, and would be of great service to anyone whose patronage was freely given.” It must be you. Elijah nearly jumped out of his chair. Who was this person, and what did he want from him? You will know when to speak.

  “How do we know you are not a charlatan?” Stringfellow asked.

  “Do you wish me to demonstrate?” Ferast asked coolly. For a moment the old councillor looked intimidated, which pleased Elijah immensely.

  “Of course!” the old man snapped. “If you are offering a service, we must know that you can perform it.”

  “As you wish,” Ferast said. He snapped his fingers and a pair of spherical lights sprang into being, making the crowd gasp. Elijah felt a thrill of avarice; having a magician for an ally would advance his plans considerably. The twin lights spiralled up towards the vaulted ceiling of the chamber, illuminating beautifully painted frescos. The crowd watched their progress avidly, ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ as they swooped across the hall.

  A cry of alarm sounded from among the commoners. Elijah scoured the hall, looking for the source of the commotion. There! A lone guardsman, walking woodenly towards the dais, carrying a crossbow.

  “Guards!” Stringfellow barked, rising to his feet, but the bowman had already come to a stop and levelled his weapon. The guards rushed at him from all sides, but it was too late. A thick, black bolt shot from the crossbow with a loud thunk and flew directly at Elijah. Elijah panicked, gripping the arms of his chair as death sped towards him, but the bolt stopped, quivering, a mere inch from the bridge of his nose. His heart in his throat, Elijah snatched the arrow from the air and saw Ferast standing below the dais, his hand extended towards him. The implication was clear – he had stopped the arrow in mid-flight.

  The whole room gasped, and in the ensuing silence every eye turned to Ferast. The magician spoke to his mind once more: Now. Elijah hesitated, wondering what he getting himself into. He gathered his wits, knowing that if he didn’t take advantage of the situation, Stringfellow certainly would.

  He rose to his feet and brandished the arrow for all to see. “You all saw it. This young man just saved my life.” He met Ferast’s gaze. “In repayment, you will have more than you asked for today. From this moment on I will be your patron. I will back your every venture, but you will serve only me.”

  “Agreed,” Ferast said with his lips, but his mind spoke a different message: I serve no-one. Elijah responded with an infinitesimal nod.

  “Now hold on!” Stringfellow objected, rushing to his feet. “This young man came offering his services to the entire council and you seek to secure them exclusively for yourself?”

  This was it. Elijah had been building towards a direct confrontation with Stringfellow for months and, although Ferast had forced his hand, he was ready. “I do not seek anything, Stringfellow. The deal is done.”

  Stringfellow looked to the Nettle, who quickly spoke up. “This is precipitous, Elijah. I understand that Ferast has saved your life, but a decision of this import needs to be discussed…privately,” she said, glancing at the gathered crowd, who were watching the confrontation with bated breath.

  Elijah was having none of it. “There’s nothing to discuss.” He glanced at each of his allies and saw some resistance there – clearly they too would like to secure the services of a magician. He shot each of them a hard look, letting them know he wasn’t asking for their backing; he was demanding it. In truth, they didn’t have much of a choice. They were either financially dependent on him or had sought his help to hide their most dreadful secrets, the revelation of which would prove to be their downfall. Even so, he was cashing in a big chit, and it was conceivable that one or more of them might not toe the line. For the briefest moment he wondered if he’d misjudged the situation, but then Elsa – his most powerful ally – spoke up.

  “Elijah has the right to offer a contract and Ferast has the right to accept it. In matters of commerce, the Eleven neither restrict nor enforce alliances.”

  Elijah let out a quiet sigh of relief.

  “I agree,” said Tokken, the one-time slave-trader, and the others caved in after that, mumbling their accord.

  Stringfellow’s gaze flitted from face to face in confusion before returning to Elijah. His eyes widened in recognition, as if seeing him clearly for the first time. “And what about you?” he asked Ferast. “Perhaps you accepted too hastily. Now that you know the whole council would tender for your services, perhaps you would prefer to hear what others have to offer before making your decision?” Stringfellow actually attempted an ingratiating smile but it came off as a grimace, making his bony face look cadaverous.

  “You are most considerate, but I am not in the habit of breaking my word,” Ferast said, with a false little bow.

  Elijah didn’t bother to hide his satisfied smirk.

  “This session is closed!” Stringfellow spat, rising to his feet and storming towards the exit, surrounded by his personal guard. The Nettle too stalked imperiously from the hall, but most of the Eleven lingered in their thrones.

  Elijah exchanged a nod with Ferast, trying to catch up with the pace of events. He didn’t like following someone else’s lead but the benefits of doing so in this case could be extraordinary. In one fell swoop, he had usurped Stringfellow before the entire council, and news of his victory would pass swiftly through the city, frothing from the lips of those who had gathered in the hall that day. With the exception of the Nettle, the other councillors appeared to have understood the seismic power shift that had just taken place, and had given him their allegiance. With Ferast’s help, he intended to take over as the head of the council, but at what price? One thing was for certain; the magician h
adn’t helped him out of the goodness of his heart.

  …

  Ferast sat in an impossibly comfortable chair, surrounded by the exquisite opulence of Elijah’s apartment. Elijah stood before a window, looking out over the grey sprawl of the city – a view of unrelieved stone and drab, cramped housing, broken only by the thrusting towers of the Eleven. Each of Namert’s elite lived in unparalleled luxury, far above the squalor below. Elijah’s apartment was at the very crown of one of those towers.

  He hadn’t moved for some time. Ferast said nothing, allowing his new ally to come to terms with what had happened. He could force Elijah to cooperate if necessary, but that wasn’t the way he wanted this to go. He had plans for Elijah, and for Namert. In a place where the fiercest, cleverest and cruelest rise to the top, it wouldn’t be long before Ferast was served by all. He wanted the councillor’s willing cooperation because allies that had been coerced were no allies at all.

  At long last, Elijah turned around and met Ferast’s gaze. “You arranged for the attack.”

  Ferast smiled. “Very clever,” he said. “Yes, I was behind the attack, and I prevented it from happening. I hope that serves as a demonstration of what I can do.”

  “What if the bowman talks?” Elijah said. “He is currently in custody and if they haven’t questioned him already, they’ll do so soon enough.”

  “Rest assured, he is fully under my control,” Ferast said.

  Elijah’s eyes widened. “You can do that?”

  “That, and more,” Ferast said with a shrug.

  Elijah picked up a crystalline decanter and poured himself a glass of chilled wine. He took a generous swallow of the peach-coloured liquid and lowered the glass, watching Ferast the whole time. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “You clearly came to the Hall of Audience with the intention of bringing about this alliance. You manipulated every person in that room, including me, to achieve that end. It appears that you are fully cognisant of what is happening while I remain ignorant. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but what do you want from me?”