by Ian Irvine
Despite her penury, Karan wasn’t tempted. It was a struggle to restrain herself from punching Maigraith in the face but she had to stay calm for Sulien’s sake.
“How dare you try to buy my daughter?” she said with icy fury.
“What are you talking about?” Maigraith seemed genuinely bewildered. “I want us to be a triune family, and families look after one another.”
“How would you know? You never had a proper family.”
“All the more reason that I would want one now.”
“You’re not getting mine.” Karan picked up the bags and threw them out the door. “Go, and take your bags of gold with you.”
Maigraith picked them up and rode away without a word. Karan had not heard the drumming but she felt sure Maigraith was being affected by it. The summon stone was working on her too.
22
YOU WANT ME TO DESTROY THE STONE?
You’ll never laugh again.
Why would a nine-year-old boy say such a thing? What irrational expectations had Maigraith given Julken? And what was Karan up to? Llian knew she was hiding something about Maigraith, and it frightened him.
The further he rode the more he became convinced that he was doing the wrong thing. The magiz had not shown her presence since Karan used the disembodiment spell, but she was still trying to get to Sulien. There was nothing he could do to protect either of them, but he should be there. Karan would take on anyone who threatened Sulien, no matter how powerful, and it was going to get her killed.
He could not bear to think about it.
It was ten in the evening when he finally reached Casyme, an untidy town of three thousand surrounded by forested ridges. Shand had moved here a few years ago and it took a while to find his house, which was set on a huge block of land that sloped down into the valley at the rear. The house had curved walls of bluish stone with pale inserts around small leaded windows, a tower on one corner with a conical steeple roof covered in silvery slate, and further back, rising above the clustered ornate chimneys, another tower topped with an onion-shaped dome.
Llian swung down, his knees wobbling as his feet hit the ground. It had been a long and unpleasant day and he wasn’t sure what his reception would be, given Shand’s prejudice against the Zain. Depending on his mood, Shand could be friendly and the best of company… or not.
He shrugged on his pack and headed up the path to the front door. Half a dozen black-faced sheep were asleep on the grass. He knocked on the door. No answer, and the windows were dark.
A long way down the rear yard he made out a small lighted building. He trudged down a path made of irregularly shaped paving stones. The door was closed but the place smelled as if flowers were drying inside. He went up three steps and pulled the door open.
“Shand?” he called cheerfully, looking into a many-sided room with benches running around the walls and a little bed at the rear.
A girl spun around, her mouth falling open in shock. She was slender with a hint of golden tan, silver hair so fine that it drifted with every movement, and wide blue-grey eyes. A glass flask in her left hand was a quarter full of a honey-coloured fluid, and the scent of lemon verbena was overpowering.
“Who are you?” she cried, backing away. She had a bad limp – no, a turned right foot.
“Llian. I’m looking for Shand. Is he away?”
“Llian?” she said, frowning.
A trifle piqued that she had not recognised his name, he added, “I’m a teller. Is Shand about?”
She did not reply. The benchtops were crowded with stills, retorts, crucibles and other equipment, all gleaming. Shand had been making his own wines and distilling spirits for decades. Llian remembered his gellon liqueur with particular favour.
“Are you his housekeeper?” said Llian.
“This is my place! And it’s really late. Go away.”
He retreated, caught his heel and fell backwards down the steps. His arms and legs waved as he struggled to get up with the heavy pack on his back. She stared at him, then, for a second, almost smiled.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.” He got up, wincing. “I’ve come a long way, and it’s a cold night.”
She softened. Evidently making a fool of himself had shown that he wasn’t a threat.
“You can wait on the front porch. Shand will be back late.”
“What’s your name?” said Llian.
“Aviel. Goodnight!” She closed the door in his face.
He unsaddled his horse and led it to a water trough. The porch ran along the left side of the house and around the corner to the front. He sat in one of the cane chairs there, pulled his coat around himself and closed his eyes…
Someone was shaking him. “What the devil are you doing out here? Not that you aren’t welcome.”
Shand’s iron-grey hair was greyer than the last time Llian had seen him, and thinner. His eyes were startlingly green in the lantern light.
“The house was locked up. And Aviel—”
“She’s a prickly little thing. The key’s under the fifth stone to the left of the back door. Come in.”
Llian followed Shand through the front door, down a wide undulating hall panelled to head height in dark wood, and into a large chilly room with a fireplace in each of the four walls. The fireplace to the left was set. Shand lifted the glass of his lantern, touched a scrap of papery bark to the flame and lit the kindling.
He indicated the chairs by the fire. Llian put his load down and sank into the nearest with a sigh. Shand went out, shortly returning with a tray, bread, slabs of cheese, a jar of pickled onions in dark brown vinegar and a jug of black beer. He filled two mugs, touched his to Llian’s and said, “To old friendships.”
“And happy times,” said Llian ironically. “Did you see Tallia?”
Shand frowned. “Yes. What are you doing here?”
Llian filled him in.
Shand’s keen eye fixed on him. “And Karan is happy about you helping Thandiwe?”
“Not really. She seems to think…”
“I dare say.” Shand took a long pull at his beer.
Llian ate half a pickled onion, which was so spicy that sweat broke out on his forehead. “Then Maigraith turned up, with Julken…” Llian, remembering that Shand was Maigraith’s grandfather, chose his words carefully. “And Karan told me to go at once.”
“I haven’t seen Maigraith in years,” Shand said sadly.
“Why not?”
“Disagreement on the way she was bringing Julken up.”
Llian told Shand about the disastrous visit, and Piffle. He just shook his head.
They sat in silence, Llian’s worries weighing on him, then he burst out, “Shand, I’m terrified! Karan is planning to go back to Cinnabar.”
“And do what?”
“Try to kill the magiz.”
Shand choked on his beer. “Then why haven’t you stopped her?”
Llian gaped at him. “It’s impossible to talk Karan out of anything once she’s set her mind to it, as you know very well. But she was lucky to escape last time; she can’t do it twice.”
“I can imagine how you must be feeling.”
“Desperate. Helpless. Sick with dread.”
Shand leaned forward. “The best way to help Karan is to find the summon stone, then destroy it. That will stop the invasion.”
Llian sat back abruptly. “You want me to destroy the stone?”
“You’ve got the skills to discover what the stone is and where it is, and you have Rulke’s key.”
Which was hidden in a secret compartment in Llian’s belt. “What’s the key got to do with anything?”
“Do I have to do all your thinking for you?”
Llian tried to pull the fragments together. “The Merdrun hunted the Charon for thousands of years and almost wiped them out.”
“Yet Rulke was the only man Gergrig ever feared,” Shand prompted.
“So Rulke’s secret papers – the Histories of the Charon – are bo
und to talk about the Merdrun’s weaknesses. And perhaps the summon stone.” Llian felt a vast weight leave his shoulders. “You’re right: this is my job, and I’m going to do it or—”
“Don’t say it! This calls for something special.”
Shand cracked the wax on an old and dusty bottle, levered out the cork and filled two fresh goblets. He raised his own. “Cheers.”
The wine was better than anything Llian had tasted in years. He sipped it in silence.
“I wonder if you might do me a small favour?” said Shand, refilling their goblets.
“Of course,” said Llian.
“There’s a young lad here in Casyme, seventeen. Fatherless, and his mother is desperately poor, but proud and wants the best for her boy. You know the situation.”
“All too well.”
“Wilm is a bright lad, and hard-working, but naïve and unworldly. His mother, by taking in washing and scrubbing floors, has scraped a handful of tars together, though not nearly enough to pay for an apprenticeship. Anyway, he thinks he wants to be a chronicler.”
“And you’d like me to escort him to Chanthed, to sit the scholarship exam.”
“Would you? Wilm never had any hope of rising from his lowly place in life until he did some work in my garden and I mentioned the college, and you.” Shand seemed anxious, which was uncharacteristic. “He’s desperate to make something of himself and feels that the test is his only chance. Realistically, it probably is.”
“The test is brutal and the competition fierce. I’d hate him to spend all his mother’s savings if he had no chance.”
“So would I,” said Shand, “but a man has to make his own way in the world – as you chose to do at the age of twelve, when Mendark came knocking.”
It reminded Llian of Mendark the Magister, that great and terrible man, though not as he had been at that time. Rather the way he had looked near the end of his life – like a withered raptor. His nose had shrunk into a beak, his hands to claws and his skin had hung loosely, as if the flesh beneath had dried up. He had been greedy, manipulative and corrupt, yet he had given his all to protect the world he loved, and it had not been enough.
So how could Llian hope to succeed?
“You made quite an impression on Aviel,” said Shand as they took breakfast on the front porch, “on your back, legs and arms waving like a stranded tortoise.” He chuckled.
“She’s not the friendliest person I’ve ever met. How did she end up here?”
“For a blow-in, you ask an awful lot of questions.”
“I’m a chronicler,” said Llian.
“I should report you for practising while under a ban.”
Llian winced.
“Sorry,” said Shand. “You know me – prone to saying what I think.”
“I recall a unjust accusation years ago that nearly got me killed.”
“And I’ve apologised. As to Aviel, I took her in.”
“A man has to make his way in the world, but not a woman?” said Llian teasingly.
“She was only thirteen then,” Shand said gruffly. “And crippled, and she had nowhere to go. She pays the rent on her workshop by making things for me.”
“Stuff that needs to be distilled? Grog?”
“You’ve got a hide!” Shand thundered. “Grog is what the navvies swill in the crumbling wharf city of old Thurkad.” Then he smiled. “As well as perfumes, Aviel makes the finest liqueurs and essences, and if you hadn’t been in such a hurry you might have tasted some.” He looked up. “Ah, here’s Wilm now.”
He was a hungry-looking lad, taller than average and broad in the shoulder but painfully thin. His brown hair was very short and he had big hands with prominent knuckles. He was dressed in the cheapest of homespun, a little threadbare but made with care, for his clothes fitted him perfectly. A canvas pack sagged off his back. Wilm caught Llian’s eye on him as he approached. Wilm looked away, stumbled and almost fell.
“Seems a trifle shy,” Llian said quietly. It wasn’t a good start for a would-be chronicler.
“Perhaps it’s you.”
“Me?”
“Wilm loves the Great Tales. And since the day I told him that I happened to know you, he’s been in awe.” Shand shook his head in mock disbelief. “Clearly, I should have told him all about you.”
Wilm shuffled up, glanced at Llian then looked down.
Llian stood up and held out his hand. “Hello, Wilm.”
Wilm flushed and extended his hand, but so awkwardly that he missed Llian’s by a foot. Shand sighed and dragged the lad’s hand into Llian’s. It lay there for a second or two, limply. Clearly Wilm had never shaken hands before and had no idea how to do it properly. He withdrew his hand as though it had been scalded and looked down at his large feet.
“So you want to be a chronicler?” said Llian.
“Mm,” said Wilm. “Make something of myself.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“No thanks.”
Llian glanced across at Shand, who affected a blank expression, but Llian knew he was enjoying the situation. If the long trip to Chanthed was going to be like this, it would be excruciating.
Gravel crunched on the path and Aviel came round the corner, the sunlight catching in her drifting hair. Her limp was less pronounced this morning. She wore a contraption of wood and wire on her right boot, evidently in the hope of straightening her foot, though judging by her face it was excruciating to walk in.
She came up to Wilm, holding a small package. “You’re so brave, going away to make your fortune. I don’t suppose we’ll ever see each other again, but I wanted you to have this. So you’ll always remember where you came from and the people who wished you well.”
She handed him the package. She was much smaller than he was, but entirely in command of herself, while Wilm was overcome.
“Thank you,” he said at least fifteen times.
She stood up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek, then headed back down the path, hardly limping at all though it must have taken a supreme effort. Did she care for Wilm, or was she just being kind? Llian was good at reading people as a rule, but he could not tell.
23
HIS NAÏVETÉ WAS ASTOUNDING
The more Llian probed Wilm on the journey to Chanthed, the clearer it became that he was on a fool’s errand.
Naïve as only a child brought up in rustic circumstances could be, he did not have a tenth – not even a hundredth – part of the knowledge required to succeed in the immensely difficult college scholarship test. As a final-year student twelve years ago, Llian had marked hundreds of test papers and listened to dozens of presentations. Only one of those students had gained a scholarship.
“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” he said as they crested the last ridge and headed down the long broken slope that would bring them to Chanthed tomorrow morning. “It’s a tough test – and expensive.”
“It’s taken every grint my mother could scrape together,” said Wilm. “How can I give up now?”
“There’s no point attempting it unless you’re confident you’ll do well. And no shame in pulling out either.”
“I can’t pull out,” Wilm said desperately. “I may never get another chance.”
Because that would be admitting failure, and failure meant returning to Casyme and a life of drudgery? His determination to better himself was touching, and Llian saw echoes of his own life in the lad, though Wilm simply did not know enough.
“There could be a thousand ways of proving yourself. You’ve got to find the one that’s right for you.”
“You think I’m not up to it, don’t you?”
“No,” Llian lied. “But you have to be sure, otherwise you’re wasting all your poor mother’s savings for nothing.”
Wilm jerked convulsively. Clearly, he was terrified that he was going to fail. “I’ll work harder than all the other students put together. I’ve got to succeed!”
But it didn’t work like that. Llian st
ifled his next objection and the one after. As Shand had said, a man has to make his own way in the world. And make his own mistakes, no matter how painful.
Wilm’s mistakes were going to be very painful and there was not a thing Llian could do. He wondered what the lad would do when the inevitable disaster struck, and whether there would be any pieces left to pick up.
To while away the evenings Llian had been telling an abbreviated version of his Tale of the Mirror, and he finished it that night. Afterwards Wilm was silent for a long time. Then he said, “Is that why Shand took Aviel in?”
“How do you mean?” As always after a telling, Llian was in a state of exhilarated exhaustion.
“To cover up her theft of the enchanted gold from Shuthdar’s destroyed flute, Yalkara the Charon murdered the only witness, a crippled girl. And much later, because Charon live practically for ever, Shand and Yalkara had a child together. He must have been terribly ashamed when you discovered that the woman he loved had committed such a terrible crime. Do you think he gave Aviel a place of her own as a way of making up for Yalkara’s crime against that other crippled girl?”
As Llian lay awake afterwards, staring up at the stars, he began to see Wilm in a new light. Maybe he did have what it took to be a chronicler after all.
“The application fee was five silver tars, but it’s gone up to seven,” said Wilm, wringing his big-knuckled fingers. “I’ve got to pay it, but that won’t leave anything for food…”
He was pacing back and forth in the tiny room Llian had rented in a decrepit three-storey rooming house. It had a dangerous tilt to the left, the roof leaked, everything including the bedding smelled of mould and rats, and the damp patch on the wall, the size and shape of a charging buffalo, was growing by the hour.
Some of the masters – the corrupt ones – are doing very nicely, Anjo Duril had said.
