by Ian Irvine
Tallia, whom Aviel had not seen for a year, lay on the couch by the fire in the main living room, a very long room with a fireplace on each wall, though only one was lit. Shand had exposed an inflamed wound below her right shoulder. She looked half dead.
“This is days old,” he said to himself. “Why isn’t it healing?” He looked up at Aviel. “You’ve got the best nose I know. Tell me what you think.”
As Aviel went to her knees beside Tallia, pain stabbed through her ankle. She sniffed, closed her eyes and sniffed again. “Blood, fresh and old. Infection. Ointment – comfrey and calendula, rosemary and other herbs.”
“Anything else?”
“Should there be?”
“You’re the scent master.”
“I’m not even an apprentice.” Aviel took another sniff. “There’s a faint acrid smell.”
“Some kind of balm?”
“No.” She put her nose just above the wound. “It’s griveline.”
“What’s that?”
“A herbal poison. Why is it there?”
“Poisoned blade, I’d say.”
“I meant, why can I smell it after all this time? It doesn’t last, save in a sealed bottle.” Aviel’s ankle throbbed. She rose painfully.
Shand dragged a chair across for her, and another for himself. They sat down, staring at Tallia. Her chest rose and fell fractionally. Her breathing was shallow and laboured.
“Is she dying?” Aviel whispered.
“Slowly. You’re definite it’s griveline?”
“Yes.”
“Then there must be something in the wound. Bring me some hot water.”
Aviel fetched a pot-full from the kitchen.
Shand probed the wound with a fine blade. “Nothing hard in there.”
“What about something soft?” said Aviel.
She sterilised a little mustard spoon in the fire and allowed it to cool. Shand eased it into the ragged wound and scooped out some bloody muck.
“Your eyes are better than mine, girl.”
Aviel stared at the spoon. The griveline smell was stronger. “I can see a tiny yellow dot… no, two.”
She washed the muck through a piece of gauze. Half a dozen little beads lay there, no bigger than frog eggs. She probed one with the point of the knife. It burst and the smell bit into the lining of her nose.
“They’re filled with griveline, slowly dissolving to release the poison.”
Shand cleaned the wound out and Aviel washed each scoop of blood and pus through her piece of gauze until they had all the beads. Shand bandaged Tallia’s shoulder. It was light outside now; the work had taken hours.
Aviel made tea and they sat by the fire. Tallia was sleeping peacefully now and her breathing was stronger.
“Who would attack the Magister?” said Aviel.
Shand did not answer.
“I keep hearing the cry of a nightjar,” she added. “And it’s a very bad omen.”
Shand snorted.
Tallia let her breath out in a rush and her eyes shot open. Her left hand went to her right shoulder. She looked up at Aviel, then her gaze slipped to Shand. “Whatever you did, I feel much better for it.”
“Thank Aviel. She identified the poison that was slowly killing you.”
Tallia sat up and offered her hand. “Thank you, Aviel.” She turned to Shand. “Why slowly?”
“Griveline.” Aviel showed her the tiny beads trapped on the piece of gauze. “On the blade.”
“He really wanted you dead,” said Shand. “As uncomfortably as possible.”
Tallia stood up, shakily. “I’m all hot and cold.”
Shand hauled an armchair across, helped her into it and draped a blanket around her shoulders. Aviel went to the kitchen and prepared a tray with cold meats, cheese, boiled eggs, bread and butter and pickles.
“I assume you know about the fall of the council and Snoat’s armies on the march?” Tallia was saying when Aviel returned.
“Nothing travels faster than bad news,” said Shand. “You got out just in time.”
“How do you mean?”
“His forces have taken Thurkad and all the land to the north as far as Elludore Forest. He’ll soon move on central Iagador and then the south. If he can control that, he’ll control everything west of Lauralin.”
“And we’ve got to fight him, because there’s a much bigger problem.”
“Karan wrote to me about the Merdrun.”
“There’s more now.”
She filled him in, including what Malien had said about the Charon being terrified of a remorseless enemy.
Ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo. The nightjar again. Spiders tap-danced across Aviel’s shoulders.
“Only three Charon ever came to Santhenar,” said Shand. “Rulke, Yalkara and Kandor. And look at the trouble they caused. I don’t dare imagine what a whole army of their enemies would do.”
“The summon stone must be found and destroyed,” said Tallia.
“And we’ve got less than eight weeks to do it.”
“Unfortunately, we have no clue as to what it is, or where.”
No one spoke for several minutes, then Tallia said, “I’m worried about Karan. She’s planning to go back to Cinnabar, but the Merdrun, and this mighty magiz, are way beyond her strength.”
Shand just shook his head.
“We need a new leader, Shand.”
“No!” he said explosively.
“I’ve seen you face down the greatest powers in the land.”
“A man who doesn’t want the job would make a poor leader.”
“On the contrary, a man who doesn’t want the job makes the best leader.”
“We have to do something,” Aviel said softly.
They looked up suddenly as if they had forgotten she was there, and she flushed to the roots of her silver hair. Who was she, a crippled girl who had never left the town she was born in, to tell the mighty what to do?
“The child is right,” said Tallia.
“I’m not a child,” Aviel muttered. “I’m sixteen – almost.”
“I’ll contact our allies, such as they are,” said Shand.
“Call them to a meet in Chanthed in two weeks.”
“Why Chanthed?”
“Wistan is dying, so we must go to him.” Tallia stared into the fire. “Though he may not last a fortnight.”
“What is it?” said Shand.
“He’s got the greatest spy network in the land. Hundreds of his former students tell him everything that happens, and he keeps a ‘dirt book’ on everyone important. But when he dies it’ll be unprotected, and if it falls into Snoat’s hands it’ll be ruinous.”
Aviel could not sit still any longer. She took the plates out to the kitchen and washed them, and was returning for the platter when Tallia spoke again, “What about Aviel?”
She stopped outside the doorway.
“What about her?” Shand growled.
“We both know she’s got a remarkable talent. And given that the old guard has utterly failed us, we must do everything we can to encourage the young.”
Shand was silent.
“Have you shown her that grimoire of scent potions?” Tallia persisted.
“Shut up about it!” he hissed.
His chair squeaked. Aviel ducked across to the sink, sweat forming on her palms. Shand’s footsteps approached the doorway, stopped, then went away. She heard him poking the fire, savagely, then the cork was wrenched out of a bottle and his chair creaked again. She crept back to the door.
“She can’t go on working by trial and error,” said Tallia.
“Nothing I can do about it.”
“War is falling on us like a meteorite, Shand.”
Aviel heard gulping, as if he was drinking from the bottle. Drinking half the bottle, by the sound of it.
“Grimoires are deadly,” he said. “She might be ready for an apprenticeship in six months, but she’d need a good master.”
“Then find her one! If we�
�re to survive, we’re going to need every talent we have.”
Aviel slipped out and back to her workshop. She ached to be taught about scent potions, but masters in mancery were notoriously cranky, often abusive and frequently lecherous. And, it was said, reluctant to teach apprentices their greatest secrets. In the hands of such a master, what would happen to her? She might endure all manner of drudgery, abuse and misery yet still not learn what she needed.
Could she learn the Secret Art from a book? A master’s grimoire? The very idea was absurd. Aviel stirred the ashy charcoal in her braziers, prepared her apparatus and began the day’s work, extracting the scent from a bag of lemon verbena leaves.
But the thought would not go away.
16
I ALWAYS PAY FULL PRICE
Llian picked up the scattered books of the Histories, climbed the library ladder and replaced them on their shelves. He had learned nothing about either the Merdrun or the summon stone. Two days had passed since Tallia’s departure, and two almost sleepless nights, alone, for Karan had taken to sleeping in Sulien’s room.
He had never felt more useless. Karan, who was utterly focused on protecting Sulien, went about her work like an automaton, and she was so touchy that even Rachis tiptoed around her. She was trying to find a way to attack the magiz and Llian could do nothing about it. She was going to be killed, he knew it, and all he could do was stay calm and hold the family together, for Sulien’s sake.
But he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t even sure he could hold himself together.
“The judge has come,” Karan said from the doorway. “Benie is going to be sentenced this afternoon.”
Llian started and almost fell off the ladder. “There’s no trial then?”
“He admitted to killing Cook.”
“He might have changed his story…”
“He hasn’t. Benie just keeps telling the truth in that bewildered and desperate way. I’m going to plead for him one last time, but I don’t think it’ll do any good.”
“Would it help if I came too?”
“I don’t think the judge would see you.”
“Why not?”
Karan’s eyes slipped away from his. “The usual reason.”
“Because I’m Zain,” Llian said bitterly. “If I’d known the trouble I was going to bring you—”
“Please don’t start that again,” she said wearily.
“Karan?” he said, sensing an opening.
“What?”
“You said the old family papers were lost in the great flood, but I know you burned them in the fireplace.”
She spun around. “Have you been spying on me?”
“Sulien saw you.” He reached out to her. “Please don’t shut me out. This is eating me alive.”
She took his hands in hers, sighed and sat down. “I’m sorry. I can’t think about anything except stopping the magiz.” She looked up, flushing. “It’s really hard to pass from the void into any of the real worlds, but the terrible sorcery Basunez and my father did made it a lot easier. I had to get rid of the evidence.”
“All right, but we’ve got to work together.”
Her mouth set in a hard line. She wrenched a crumpled sheet of paper out of her pocket and slammed it down on the table. “How is this working together?”
It was the letter he’d written to Thandiwe. “It… it’s just asking for her help.”
“That’s not how it reads to me.”
“How does it read to you?”
“As though you’re planning to abandon your family for your mistress.”
Why was she acting this way? He hadn’t looked twice at Thandiwe in a dozen years. “You told me to find answers. Do whatever it takes, you said. I’ve got to have the ban lifted first.”
“Thandiwe was your lover.”
“More than twelve years ago!”
“She still wants you, Llian. I’ve seen it in her eyes, every time we’ve met.”
Llian could not restrain himself. “So what?” he roared. “I don’t want her.”
“What if the drumming starts up the next time you’re with her? Will you be able to resist her?”
“You don’t trust me,” he said bitterly. “With Thandiwe or Sulien.”
Things were so tense afterwards that he was not displeased when Anjo Duril, a chronicler he knew from his student days, dropped in unexpectedly.
“Who is he?” Karan whispered after Llian had shown Anjo to a guest room in the southern wing that ran off the keep. “I’ve never heard you mention him before.”
“He was a couple of years below me. Can’t say I liked him much.”
“Why not?”
“He never went to the taverns and got drunk. Never mucked around or went wenching.” Llian flushed.
“Students!” she sniffed.
“Anjo wasn’t clever but he was ambitious, and always sucking up to the masters. He just did his work and nothing else, a very tedious fellow all round.”
“And now he’s a chronicler and a master, earning good coin.”
Again there was an edge to her voice, enough to sting, but Llian did not defend himself. He had let the family down.
After dinner, when they were sitting around the fire, he said to Anjo, “What’s the latest news from Chanthed?”
Anjo sat back, a faint smile playing on his full lips. A well-fed, self-satisfied fellow rapidly going bald, he filled his clothes to bursting and his olive skin had an oily gleam. “About you?”
“No, about the college. How’s old Wistan?”
“Fading. No, dying.”
“He was dying when Llian was awarded his Great Tale,” Karan said sourly. “At least, Wistan said he was dying.”
“He spins a good story when he needs to,” said Anjo, “though this time it’s true. He can barely get out of his chair, and don’t the other masters take advantage of it.”
“How do you mean?” said Llian.
“Time was when nothing got past Wistan. If any student committed the slightest misdemeanour, he knew about it.”
“I remember,” Llian said ruefully.
“You would,” said Anjo.
“Really?” said Karan waspishly. “Llian hardly ever talks about the old days at the college, even though he spent a third of his life there. I’d love to hear some of your stories, Anjo.”
“What were you saying about the other masters?” Llian said hastily.
“They’re taking the students for every grint they can get. Even the entrance scholarship has a fee these days. Seven silver tars.”
“That’s outrageous.” Llian banged his goblet down, slopping wine everywhere. “The entrance test was always free, on principle.”
“Not any more. The students pay until they bleed. Even to sit their exams. Even to get their marks.” Anjo paused, then smiled wolfishly. “Even to pass.”
“You mean if they don’t pay, they don’t pass?”
“Some of the masters – the corrupt ones – are doing very nicely,” said Anjo, chuckling.
He was expensively dressed: thick rings on his plump fingers, a massive silver amulet on a heavy chain, and his coat was finest black lambswool. Anjo was so sure of himself that he was prepared to boast about the corruption. Or sure that no one would listen to anything a disgraced chronicler had to say?
Llian could feel his gorge rising but he forced himself to keep his temper. The man was a guest.
“How do you get on with Wistan?” Llian said carefully. He could suck up too, when he was desperate.
“I have his ear,” said Anjo. “Good old reliable, boring Anjo. Asinine Anjo, I think they used to call me when I was a student. I don’t suppose you’d remember that?”
“Can’t say I ever heard it said,” Llian lied. He had coined many such a phrase about the dull students, the unattractive ones and the physically afflicted, which went to prove what a shabby person he had been. Then, in desperation, he said, “I don’t suppose you could have a quiet word with him?”
&nb
sp; “What about?” Anjo’s smile broadened.
“Me.” It came out as a croak.
Anjo rubbed his glistening scalp with his fingers, studied the oil on them, then casually wiped them on the tablecloth. Llian felt an urge to throttle him. If the drumming sounds now, you’re a dead man. He half hoped it would.
Anjo frowned. “What could I possibly say to Wistan about you?”
Llian flushed. Anjo wasn’t going to make it easy.
“That I’ve served my time. Learned my lesson. The ban was originally for seven years, and that’s well up.”
“As I understand it,” said Anjo, “Wistan’s ban was unlimited.”
Karan leaned forward. “But Thandiwe,” the name sounded like spider venom, “commuted it to seven years.”
“That’s not strictly true,” said Anjo. “Wistan said, ‘A master who has been banned can’t be considered for readmission in less than seven years. And that requires a two-thirds majority of all the master chroniclers.’”
“But Thandiwe, the Magister-Elect, said it would be reconsidered in seven years,” said Llian.
“Unfortunately Wistan didn’t die and her position lapsed years ago.”
“That’s ancient history,” said Llian. “Will you—”
“But that’s what we deal in, Llian. The Histories.”
“Will you put in a good word for me with Wistan?”
“I’m not sure that would be wise – for me, I mean.”
Llian suddenly felt that he was standing on a trapdoor and there was a snake pit beneath it. “Why not?”
“There are malicious rumours circulating about you.”
“Rumours?” Again that desperate croak. Time was when Llian had had absolute control of his voice – it was part of the teller’s art he had worked sixteen years to master.
“Apparently a cabal of the masters is determined to destroy what remains of your good name. Some of them – can you believe it? – even say that your Tale of the Mirror is a fraud.”
“How dare you!” Llian cried, leaping to his feet and knocking his goblet over.
