“Do you mean the mouthy piece from Selerima with the unlikely hair or that timid little lass from Lescar with the fire affinity?” Usara looked up for a moment.
“The latter,” confirmed Planir. “She’ll answer any questions Kalion puts to her, I’d imagine.”
“I’m surprised Kalion lets her associate with the likes of you, ’Sar,” Otrick laughed suggestively.
Usara ignored the old wizard. “I’ll discuss a few minor worries with her,” he said to Planir. “By the time she’s carried them back to Kalion and he’s had a chance to think it all through I imagine he’ll see the way the birds are flying well enough.”
Otrick growled something obscene under his breath and held out his glass to Usara.
“So how are your experiments going, ’Sar? What wonders of aetheric mystery have your sad little collection of bookworms managed today?”
Usara refilled the glass, his hand steady despite a faint tint rising on his high cheekbones at Otrick’s words. “I am pleased to report, Cloud-Master, that we now have the incantations perfected to send a message clear across the island.”
Otrick’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “And that must be all of six leagues!”
“I don’t think sarcasm is particularly helpful, old man.” Planir reached for the brandy himself, his tone a little acid. “Unless you have something constructive to follow it, that is?”
Otrick frowned and his face became serious, his angular features forbidding. “We are agreed that we need people with knowledge of aetheric enchantments to combat the Elietimm— when, mark you, when, not if—they decide that the mainland offers more than those wind-scoured islands of theirs. I know you’re working those scholars hard, Usara, and yes, some means for non-mage-born to communicate over distance could be vital, especially if it comes to a full-scale war. The thing is, we know these ancient sorcerers could do so much more; finding a path, confusing pursuit, taking information out of hostile minds—”
“Do you teach goodwives to spin their distaffs in your spare time, Otrick?” Planir inquired. “We know all this.”
“All I know is we need to find out how this magic works, the basis of it. Only then can we work out how to stop the bastards.” Usara’s shoulders drooped and weariness clouded his face.
“The ancients who sailed to Kel Ar’Ayen knew. That’s what they called that colony of theirs, that much I can tell you.” Otrick leaned forward in his chair, his eyes bright sapphire. “They knew enough to disrupt the basis for aetheric magic so thoroughly that the Elietimm have been chained to their barren rocks for thirty generations or more. They must have been masters of it; they’d been using this mysterious power to stitch the Empire together across thousands of leagues for twenty generations! They would hardly have sent people clear across the ocean without the very best magical support they could muster. We need to know what they knew, so let’s find this colony of theirs and see if they left any records, any clues, some helpful tome covering aetheric magic right from its first principles, whatever there might be!”
Planir drew a sudden breath and leaned back in his tall chair, long fingers laced together in front of his smoothly shaven jaw. “You might have an idea worth study there, Cloud-Master.”
“You mean I’ve got something else to try and tease out of this ever increasing tangle of half-remembered dreams and reveries,” groaned Usara.
“It can’t be that difficult.” Otrick’s tone was dismissive.
“Would you care to work out the rules for White Raven, working from a set with half the pieces missing and no board?” the younger mage retorted with spirit.
“Who can we spare for a search of the Archives?” demanded Planir abruptly. “We’ll start by collating all the references to this lost colony in the existing record; that should give you some idea which thread to pull to unravel the weave, ’Sar.”
“Casuel Devoir,” Usara replied almost before Planir had finished speaking. “He has got the talents for it, Misaen only knows, and it’ll keep him out of my hair for a good long while with any luck.”
“He’s a real kiss-breeches, that one, isn’t he?” commented Otrick contemptuously. “Still, he has an eye for detail, I’ll give him that. So where are the best records likely to be held?”
“I’ve been thinking about sending a mage to wait upon Messire D’Olbriot,” Planir said thoughtfully. “Devoir’s Tormalin born, isn’t he? He’ll know the steps of the dances there well enough to be a credible choice for an envoy and he could make a discreet survey of any contemporary records, while he was there.”
“It’ll be a long job.” Usara shook his head.
“Well, if the Elietimm turn up before we’ve discovered some more elegant way of frustrating their magic, we’ll just have to blast them into the Otherworld with traditional fire and flood.” The old wizard grinned like a death’s head.
“That would certainly give Kalion something useful to do,” remarked Planir dryly.
The Barracoons,
Magistrates’ House of Correction,
Relshaz,
30th of Aft-Spring
I can’t say I woke up; rather the chaos inside my skull finally subsided enough for me to become aware of my surroundings and myself again. Once I had the measure of it all, I almost wished I hadn’t bothered.
My arms and legs ached as if I’d been trampled by a dray team and for one heart-stopping moment I thought I couldn’t move any of my limbs. The frozen panic of that idea eased when I found I could just about force my sword hand toward my eyes but it felt as if I were drowning in treacle, it took so much effort, so I gave it up once I had seen my fingers with my own eyes.
That wasn’t particularly easy either; blood, mud or both was thickly smeared across my face and my eyelids pulled painfully at my lashes as I forced them open. I blinked to try and clear the worst but it did little good. To my feeble annoyance an unbidden tear of frustration escaped me, and I winced as it stung a raw graze across the bridge of my nose. That at least did not seem to have been broken again and I managed to mumble a rather incoherent blessing to Dastennin for that minor mercy. If my nose had been broken I would probably have suffocated on my own blood, never to waken.
Insidious fears came creeping out of the back of my mind. How had I come to collapse like that? Was this falling-sickness? There wasn’t any history of it in my family, not that I knew of, but you never could tell. Perhaps that Elietimm enchanter rampaging through my mind had done some damage that was only now becoming apparent. Was this the start of some awful disease; was I going to lose my legs, my sight, my wits, end up drooling into my gruel like the old man who had lived with his daughter at the end of our street, worms eating away his brain? Was I going mad?
I gradually became aware that I was lying face down on a dirt floor, coarse straw pricking painfully into my naked skin. This did not augur well. I drew a deep breath, preparing to try and get myself to my hands and knees, but the stench of the place seized me by the throat: a potent mix of old urine, rank sweat, rotting food and soiled straw. I was racked by merciless coughing until I retched up a sour mouthful of bile. That started such vicious cramps in my gut, they would have floored me if I hadn’t already had my nose in the ratshit.
I had taken an unholy beating; that much was becoming apparent. Who had done it, and, in Dast’s name, why? I lay in the filth, wished helplessly for some water and waited for the fire in my lungs to subside, the iron constriction around my chest to ease. In the meantime, I tried to lash my debilitated wits into action to at least make sense of the sounds around me, since that took no effort that could cause me more pain.
There was a low murmur of voices, mostly male, some that could either be lads or women. A bark of rapid Relshazri came from somewhere and caused a shuffle of bare feet on the earth and straw of the floor. Someone laughed, a vicious cackle and leather whistled and snapped on naked skin, the crack followed by a strangled whimper. Whoever was laughing carried on merrily, clearly having the whip hand in mo
re ways than one. Somewhere at a little distance, an argument erupted, the words lost in snarls and obscenities. Fists smacked on flesh and a surge of encouragement from all sides urged the combatants on until a metal door clanged and booted feet stamped in to break up the brawl. I opened my eyes and squinted at the figures silhouetted against the meager light from a grille set high in a wall, watching as clubs forced the fighters apart, landing indiscriminate blows on any of the cowering, filthy bodies within reach, just for good measure.
I was in a lock-up. That was better than being in an Elietimm cell or at the mercy of Relshazri street robbers, I was forced to conclude, but how in the name of all that’s holy had I got here? I forced myself to try and knit my wits back together; I’d collapsed for some reason I couldn’t guess at and the implications of that were enough to start shivers running up and down my spine like blackbeetles. Given the place I was in, who knows, it could have been actual blackbeetles. I forced myself to concentrate, no easy task given my exhaustion and the multitude of aches distracting me.
“You’re a Tormalin, a sworn man; get a grip on yourself,” I berated myself silently. “Lying in a heap of filth feeling sorry for yourself will get you nowhere.”
If I’d been found collapsed on the street, some kind citizen could have rung the Watch bell on me, couldn’t they? If that had happened, the Watch would most likely assume I was drunk. From what I’d seen of Relshaz, it seemed to be a city where soaks would probably be left where they lay, but if I’d been blocking some wealthy man’s gate perhaps the Watch would have dumped me in a cell to sober up. All this sounded reasonable enough, but what had I done to deserve a kicking like this? I narrowed my eyes with some effort and deciphered the pattern of boot nails on my forearm. I had hardly been in a state to stand, let alone fight back, so why beat me even further senseless?
A groan escaped me. I shut my eyes, black despair threatening, despite all my efforts to fight it. My head swam and, as I felt myself slipping back to the shades, I didn’t even try to fight it.
Waking again, briefly, I saw faint stars dotting the midnight blue of the sky as the lesser moon rode high, alone and unreachable behind the stark black bars of the window grille. Chilled to the bone but too stiff to move, even assuming there would have been anywhere to go for warmth, I stared hungrily at the distant lights until my eyes slid shut once more.
“Ryshad Tathel!”
The sound of my own name, bellowed in a harsh Relshazri accent, stung me to life more effectively than any lash.
My first attempt at reply died on my dry tongue and cracked lips. I swallowed, winced at the truly foul taste in my mouth and coughed, gasping as all my bruises awoke at once and fought to outdo each other with stabs of agony.
“Here!” I managed to croak, getting painfully to my feet.
“This way.”
I scrubbed hastily at my face to clear my vision and blinked at a burly man in a coarse, stained livery who was standing in a doorway. Morning light came through the grille in the wall and showed me a wide room, stone walls and sloping floor carrying the worst of the ordure to an open drain. The stench was enough to choke a cat. Men were slumped against the walls, some sleeping on jealously hoarded piles of straw, most stripped, a few in rags and all with wounds and bruises in varying stages of healing. If I looked like any of them, I was in a worse state than I had realized.
“Come on, move!” The guard growled and gestured menacingly with a short stave. I didn’t need telling again and followed him meekly, stumbling on knees weak as wet wool, determined not to give him the excuse to hit me that he was clearly looking for.
He crossed a narrow courtyard and shoved me into a stark, whitewashed room, closing the door behind him and leaning on it, curiosity alive among the boils on his face as he stared greedily at my visitor.
“Good morning, Ryshad.”
Mellitha was seated on a crude bench, her skirts gathered neatly around her ankles, no lace on her petticoats today and stout boots laced against the filth underfoot. She had a closely woven and lidded reed basket beside her and looked entirely at her ease.
“Good morning, my lady.” I lifted my chin and ignored the fact that I was standing there with my stones swinging in the breeze. At least the muck on my face would conceal any blushes that might escape me.
“Do sit down. Now, what in Trimon’s name do you think you were doing?” Anger sparked in her stormy gray eyes as she spoke in a rapid Toremal dialect, which evidently left the guard struggling to keep up.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said flatly.
Faint puzzlement deepened the laughter lines around her eyes.
“The last thing I remember is passing out in a street in the metalsmiths’ quarter,” I hissed. “What got me here?”
“The fact that you attempted to steal a valuable antique arm-ring from an antiquarian’s salesroom.” Mellitha shook her head, as if not quite believing it herself. “Apparently you simply walked in, picked it up and tried to leave. When the man tried to stop you, you fought with him but by then his assistant had sent for the Watch. It took five of them to subdue you, apparently. How badly are you hurt.”
“No bones broken,” I was glad to realize this as I answered. “Whoever gave me a beating knew just what they were doing.”
Mellitha surveyed my various bruises and lacerations and then reached into her basket.
“Yarrow ointment,” she said crisply, pressing a small pot into my hand.
I ignored it. “This makes no sense. I wouldn’t try and rob someone in broad daylight. Why should I when Shiv’s got a bag of coin heavy enough to buy up whatever he fancies?”
“There has to be an explanation.” Mellitha looked at me speculatively. “What about the Elietimm? They might want you off the board for some reason. You’ve some experience of them attacking your mind; could this be one of their tricks?”
I shook my head decisively before stopping to think properly about what she was suggesting.
“No,” I said slowly after a long moment. “The Ice Islanders, that was definitely an assault from outside, someone forcing their way into your head and seizing your wits. This was—” I shrugged. “This was just losing myself, everything coming apart at the seams—” I shook involuntarily at the horror of the memory and Mellitha reached out to take my hand, leaning forward.
“It’s all right; I’m here now.” Her words were those of a mother soothing away a nightmare, but her grip was strong and reassuring, somehow passing me a measure of strength.
“How did you find me?” I managed to ask.
“Not easily.” A shade of a smile lightened the concern in her eyes.
“How soon can you get me out?” I was starting to get a grip on the essentials at last.
“I can’t,” said Mellitha grimly. “Not today, anyway.”
I stared at her. “You must know who to pay off, surely?”
“It’s not as simple as that.” Irritation colored her voice. “We have elections at the next greater full moon; several of the candidates have been making a lot of noise about excessive profiteering by the sitting magistrates, so no one’s taking so much as a consideration until the votes are counted.”
“You’re telling me an elected official doesn’t want to take a bribe?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Don’t Relshazri dogs eat free sausage? Just offer more money; Messire will honor the debt.”
“It simply isn’t a question of money these days.” Mellitha’s tone was sharp. “Despite what you Tormalin may think, our elections do sometimes produce dedicated and honest magistrates. We certainly find it preferable to nailing everyone into place with clientship and patronage for the benefit of those lucky enough to born to the right parents. That’s one thing I do think the Rationalists have got right.”
“I’m sorry.” I shut my eyes for a moment to get myself in hand. Just for the present Mellitha was the only help I had and it would do me no good at all to alienate her. What was I thinking, losing my grip l
ike this? “So, what is going to happen to me?”
“You’ll be sold at the open slave auction, the day after tomorrow.” Mellitha lifted the lid on her basket. “Now, I have got some clothes for you and some food and water. I’ve paid the jailer to get you into a better cell as well. There’s some coin inside the cheese, in case you need to pay anyone else off or buy food before I can send more in to you. Now, where’s the salve? Oh, yes, I gave it to you…” She continued talking but her words faded to a meaningless jumble as I stared at the opposite wall. This is probably going to seem really stupid, but I hadn’t even given a thought to the trade that is, after all, one of the principle foundations of Relshazri wealth: the buying and selling of slaves.
We don’t trade in slaves in Tormalin, not for the last handful of generations; we’ve progressed beyond such things. Caladhrian Lords, on the other hand, are only too happy to take a bond against a debtor’s body and even against his wife’s and children’s, in some cases. Defaulters can wake one morning to find themselves being measured for an iron collar and either sold to an erstwhile neighbor to work the fields or stumbling down the road to Relshaz, depending on the prices. Lescari Dukes are often in the market for a couple of hundred warm bodies, trying to get a quick crop of wine or grain out of any land that has escaped the fighting for a couple of seasons to sell for sound Tormalin Crowns or Caladhrian Stars. On the other side of the coin, they’re only too happy to recoup some of their costs at the end of the fighting seasons by selling off any prisoners they’ve managed to seize, the poor bastards who don’t have relatives willing or wealthy enough to pay a ransom. Relshaz takes them all and sells them on at a profit, usually to the Aldabreshi where by all accounts they live a few wretched years chained in a galley or worked to death on some island, Trimon only knows where.
“You have got to pay whatever it takes to get me out at the sale,” I broke in on Mellitha’s detailed explanation of her agreement with the jailer.
The Swordsman's Oath toe-2 Page 22
