After this, weary of the bloodied, the dead, and the words of his conscience, Mar found a village in the hinterlands of an unnamed region of Szillarn where neither Mhajhkaei nor the Empire of the North nor their king and emperor had ever had their names spoken and performed simple sleight-of-hand tricks while children laughed and skipped in the sun.
For a meal and a cot and lessons in a language that was only spoken in that village and a dozen more like it, he helped a group of neighbors dig a new well, working with his back and not once using his magic.
When the well was done, he went to the coast and discovered storied Lhorvhavhen. He walked through shaded markets, watched with a thousand other spectators as hulking men raced along a path of raised beams while opposing groundsmen tried to knock them off with thrown stones, and ate food so spicy that a single bite had to be washed down with a pint of water. One night, in a modest house built upon stone piers above an inlet where clear, emerald water washed a white sand beach, he stole a strongbox full of gold from a spice merchant whose only sin was keeping a strongbox full of gold.
In a boisterous a market in the largest city -- he did not bother to learn its name -- on Kh’ordhif, he used some of the gold to buy enough flour, cheese, dried beans, potatoes, smoked fish, apples, and citrus to fill a large cart. This he took to the lower cavern of Llylquaendt's bunker five minutes after he had left. Fetching food from the inn on Gh'emhoa, always intended only as a temporary measure, had begun to become tiresome.
Seated upon a stool to monitor the autodoc as it rebuilt the unnamed marine, the medic nodded in approval at the heaped cart and examined Mar with a practiced eye. "You have gotten some sun and rested. How long were you gone?"
"Almost a fortnight and a half.
"Perhaps there are some benefits to being a master of time and space. Are you going to fetch a cook to go with that?"
"You can't cook?"
"I can and I do, but I have taken a vow to never do so unless my life is at stake."
"One of the legionnaires or marines --"
"Armsmen's food? I would prefer to eat it raw."
"I could fetch your wives?"
"Not under any circumstances. I will not permit them to be drawn into the madness of wizardry."
Mar thought a moment. "Sihmal's wife can cook. At least, I know that she can cook beans."
"That would be a start."
FORTY
On the night of the disastrous attempt to rob the house of Patriarch Hwraldek's mistress, Mar squatted on the roof of a bakery on the other side of a narrow, unpaved street and studied Sihmal's hovel.
A read of the background ether showed the young woman and her children asleep on a single pallet near an iron stove whose sparse embers could scarcely emit any heat. Crammed between meager structures just like it, the crumbling house was built of plastered mud-brick and had only two cramped rooms. Sihmal and his family were squatters but none of their neighbors cared. The roof had a hole in the corner of the back room and neither the insubstantial front nor rotting back door could be locked. Mar would be able to enter through any of the three without making a sound.
To cause the accommodation that he had made with the ethereal torrent of undertime to encompass other objects, such as the food and the corpses, it had been necessary to maintain close physical contact by carrying them. Both food and corpses had not been minded to struggle or move about, as the members of Sihmal's family would no doubt do if he simply snatched them up and dragged them into a portal. The Knife Fighter's Dirge would not function in undertime and he was disinclined to use more violent methods of incapacitation on the three innocents. An attempt to convince the woman to allow herself and her daughters to be subjected to magic, which she would inherently fear and misunderstand, would be futile.
Properly structured portals had no visual or audible presence, only an ethereal one. To Mar, the openings and the surges of undertime beyond them were easily perceptible, but to a person with no magical sense they would remain undetectable.
A person could be drawn unawares into undertime, but -- if the experience did not immediately disrupt their natural ethereal modulations and extinguish their life -- he or she would have no way to control their movement and would be washed into the destructive core, as Beltr had been.
Oyraebos' text had outlined a theoretical method for linking undertime portals and had implied that these conduits would be safe for non-wizards to utilize. Of course, the text had also indicated that all recorded experiments had failed and further that the failures had frequently resulted in the deaths of the experimenters.
He stepped into undertime, maintained the portal behind him, and immediately opened another into yesterday. When he exited onto the roof, he turned back around and his magical sense showed him the tomorrow that he had just left. He released both portals and went back to tomorrow.
The process was, to his mind, both simple and stable and the dire warnings that Oyraebos had recorded seemed misplaced.
After a quick undertime-aided jaunt through several locations in the city to procure and change into clothes as similar as he could find to those that he had worn when Sihmal's wife had seen him last, he scouted a location, made preparations, then returned to descend from the roof and cross the dirt lane. Making sure to keep the raps light so that they would not carry very far, he knocked on the rattling door until the young woman, anxious, bearing a wane lantern, and with a thin blanket wrapped around her nightdress, opened it to peek out.
"Mar! What is it? Where's Sihmal?"
"He's been hurt. You must come with me right away. Bring the girls."
"But --"
"You have to hurry. It's not safe here."
"We'll have to dress! It's the middle of the night!"
"You only have a few minutes. The Guard will be here if we don't get away quickly."
With widened eyes, she shut the door and he made a pretense of watching the empty lane as he used his magic sense to monitor her actions. Trust was a rare commodity in the Lower City; she might just decide to bolt out the back and find out what was going on later. That was what Mar might have done in her circumstance.
She made no move toward the back. Through the door, he heard the complaints of the little girls when she woke them and commanded them to dress. It was less than fives minutes later that she opened the door again and chivvied the girls out. All three now wore threadbare trousers and jackets and the girls looked nervous and confused. The girls' mother had a blanket wrapped bundle under her arm that probably contained everything of any value that they owned.
"This way," he told them. "It's not far."
"How badly is Sihmal hurt?" she asked.
"He'll live, but he'll have to stay abed for a few days."
"What happened?"
"There isn't time to explain now. I think I heard a Guard whistle over toward the river."
He herded the three along the lane, made a right on a paved street that some called Stump Street and others Water Oak Road, turned again into a walkthrough that led to the back of a shop that sold dry goods, and then moved ahead of them to open a solid door into the back of the shop. Overly bright light flooded out from the magical lamps that he had sown all along the hallway within. The light hid the interior in a haze of glare.
"Don't stop," he warned when it looked as Sihmal's wife would do just that. "I have to get this door closed before someone sees us!"
After a brief pause of indecision, the young woman took her daughters' hands, strode firmly across the threshold, and stepped into a hallway on the barracks level of the bunker.
Knowing that he could not delay his most grim task any longer, Mar left it to the waiting Sihmal to explain and stepped back into undertime.
He spent a good bit of relative time refining his focus to capture the precise instant and only when he was sure that he had shaved the second down to the barest minimum, he cast his glamours, began humming The Knife Fighter's Dirge, and emerged onto the bridge.
He
knew that his spells could not contend with the incalculable ethereal power of the blast. If he were to retrieve those who had fallen there, he had no choice but to intervene before Eishtren broke his bow. It was a risk, but he did not believe that his distracted earlier self would notice that the bodies had disappeared less than half a blink before the explosion.
The bodies stretched in a jumbled line from the head of the bridge. He took the Gaaelfharenii first.
Mhiskva took his return to life with predictable aplomb, rising from the autodoc slab to present Mar with the Imperial salute. His eyes flicked right and left to examine the scope of the cavern, then took in Llylquaendt and the quad of resurrected armsmen who stood by to assist.
"This is the bunker in the Great Waste?"
Mar nodded.
Mhiskva bowed to the medic. "My thanks, master Llylquaendt."
The ancient Pyrai shrugged. "I do you no favor."
Wilhm raged through the cavern until tackled by Mhiskva and given a promise that the pirate would soon rejoin him.
Lord Hhrahld, the only one who had suffered the autodoc before, expressed his opinion of death with a few pithy maritime curses, took charge of Wilhm, and went off to find something to eat.
Ulor, Bear, Scahll, Kyamhyn, and Taelmhon reacted with surprise, a grunt, curiosity, gratitude, and a shrug.
Dhem was not dead, but bleeding profusely and unconscious and Llylquaendt ushered him into the autodoc with a pleased smile that said, At last, a living one!
When Mar brought in the body of Aelwyrd, the medic grew flushed and angry and berated all about for the idiocy of war.
After Aelwyrd, Mar had to stop because he had yet to figure out how to save the Quaestor. He could only take Eishtren after he had snapped his bow -- after the convulsive release of trapped ether had begun -- and he still did not know what must be done to temper that explosion.
To ponder whether a decision that he had made was the best possible, he spent an afternoon on the west coast of Szillarn, swimming in a lagoon with water so warm that he had to lie in the sun to cool off. When none of the arguments that his imagination raised proved dissuasive, he returned to the bunker and called everyone together in the barracks.
He did not make a speech. He just told them.
"The Blood Oath is dissolved. My wizardry has undone it and you are no longer bound by its magic."
Of all the reactions that he had envisioned, the complete silence that ensued was the one that he had thought least probable.
Then Mhiskva spoke. "My lord king, you are and have always been our king by our choice. A spell did not make that choice and a spell cannot overturn it."
Mar looked at each man's face and saw that all reflected agreement. "I'll be your king, but only until the Brotherhood is defeated. After that, don't look for me in Mhajhkaei, because I won't be there."
The big marine nodded. "Aye, my lord king. We won't ask more of you."
As the group dispersed, Mar, with a lighter step, sought out Truhsg and asked him straight out why Quaestor Eishtren sought death in battle.
"I thought you knew, my lord king. Quaestor Eishtren's wife and children went missing when Mhajhkaei fell to the monks. He is convinced that they are dead."
"But he doesn't know that for certain?"
"No, my lord king. They are not recorded with the buried. Still, if they were alive, they would have shown up by now."
"Maybe not.
FORTY-ONE
142nd Year of the Reign of the City
(Thirteenthday, Waning, Second Summermoon, 1644 After the Founding of the Empire)
Mhajhkaei
Lyra ran, chasing her children ahead of her.
The boys acted as if it were a game. Lyriy, at thirteen, knew better. She kept pace with her mother, her eyes dancing about as if she expected ravening monks to leap at them at any moment. Fenriy, clasped in her mother's arms, just clung as tightly as her small arms could and buried her face in Lyra's neck.
Lyra threw a look over her shoulder. The Black Monks that had panicked her into flight had not given chase. Perhaps she and her children had not been seen by the marching demons.
The winding backstreet curved sharply to the west and she slowed as her view of what lay ahead shortened.
"Mother!" shouted Behgl. "Run faster!"
"No!" she cried. "Wait son!"
A legionnaire in full armor burst from an alley to intercept the boy, causing both Behgl and closely following Tgheon to draw up short. The legionnaire had a sword, but it was scabbarded. As he wore a helmet with nose and cheek guards, most of his face was obscured, but he looked young.
"Not that way!" He shouted. "The Phaelle'n are just around the next turn! Into the alley! Quick!"
Lyra ran up, grabbed Behgl's hand to make sure of him, and ordered Lyriy and Tgheon ahead of her as she darted into the narrow lane.
"Keep running!" the legionnaire called after them. "Don't stop for anything!"
Lyra felt a shock like nothing she had experienced before and then gasped as she and her children staggered into a room filled with bright light.
FORTY-TWO
7025 by the Common Reckoning
(Secondday, Waning, 3rd Summermoon, 1644 After the Founding of the Empire)
Orbital B
Oyraebos woke, expecting to see Mortyn's some older face as the canopy hinged open, but instead saw only the softly lit ceiling of the compartment
He felt no residual effects from the stasis; the medical devices had already taken care of that. Having had some unvoiced anxiety concerning the process, he lay still for a few seconds as he mentally took stock. Hearing and vision seemed fine and he felt no unfamiliar twinges or pains.
He sat up and climbed out of the coffin, his bare feet finding the deck warm and clean. The canopies of the other coffins that crowded the long chamber in their dozens remained closed and the technicians and medics that should have been in attendance were absent. As a Section Leader, he was to have been one of the first to have been awakened, but by no means should he have been awakened alone and at the very least there should have been a technician or medic in attendance.
Had there been a malfunction?
Turning slightly, he considered the control panel at the head of his coffin. Prior to being entombed, as a contingency he and the other sorcerers had been given a thorough but swift explanation of the readouts, buttons, and major spells. As far as he could tell, all the systems were functioning at an optimal state but an indicator showed that the revival process had been triggered remotely.
A ball of blue light, an announcement sprite, appeared in front of him. "Proctor Oyraebos, please come to Orbital Control."
"Where is Proctor Mortyn?"
"This entity is capable of producing announcements only. It cannot respond to questions."
Frowning, he took his clothes from the shelf beneath his coffin and began to dress in a hurried fashion. The unsettling situation had given him the sense that his awakening had been the result of an emergency and he wanted to find out what was going on as soon as possible.
The corridors and glide tubes were in proper shape but he encountered no one as he followed the most direct route to the heart of the orbital. By all appearances, the entire maintenance crew had departed -- or perhaps also gone into stasis -- and this supposition multiplied his apprehension.
When he rushed the last few steps into Orbital Control, a six-sided chamber with skry stones that showed external views of the orbital mounted to the walls, he also found no one. All of the consoles were unattended, their chairs empty and swiveled to the side lock position.
At the Command Pilot's centrally located station, a large drone had been bolted into a support cradle made of scrap steel that had been welded to the deck. Many of the drone's access plates were open and cabling had been haphazardly spliced from it to the equally exposed innards of the command console.
"Proctor Oyraebos," the drone said in a sexless, artificial voice, "you have been removed from stasis a
ccording to Protocol Thirteen. A human command decision is required. Please provide direction for Command Oversight One."
Heart racing, he stalked across the deck to confront the machine. "Where is the regular crew? Where are the Proctors that remained awake?"
"Non-specific query. Unable to respond."
He made an exasperated grunt. "Where is Proctor Mortyn?"
"That information is not available to Command Oversight One."
"Who is in command of the orbital?"
"That information is not available to Command Oversight One."
He stopped to think for a moment. "What is your function?"
"Command Oversight One monitors and regulates all technical systems of Orbital B and all communications with the Tertiary Launch Site."
"Establish a voice comm so that I can speak with someone at the Tertiary Launch Site."
After an almost imperceptible pause, the drone said, "No voice comm link can be established with the Tertiary Launch Site. Only data link available."
"What's transmitting the data?"
"Non-specific query. Unable to respond."
He thought back to the one drone sentience course that he had had in secondary school and tried to phrase his next command properly. "Identify the device connected on the data link."
"Device is Automated Sentry Four."
"Direct Automated Sentry Four to alert personnel at the Tertiary Launch Sight to open a comm link."
"Command parsing failed."
"Transmit my voice as a data packet to Automated Sentry Four and direct it to broadcast the recording at an audible level."
"Ready to record."
"This is Proctor Oyraebos. I have been awakened from stasis aboard Orbital B. No crew are present. Please comm me immediately."
"Recording transmitted. Automated Sentry Four reports that it is unable to comply with the directive. External and auxiliary functions not available."
Oyraebos cursed. "Is there anyone else aboard?"
"Yes. Two thousand four hundred and sixty-eight personnel are currently aboard."
Wizard (The Key to Magic) Page 24
