Dragon's Teeth

by Mercedes Lackey

  And—under the weariness, was there actually desire?

  “Would that I could continue in your service, Mage—Martis. I think perhaps we deal well together.”

  “Hmm,” Martis began tentatively, not sure she was reading him correctly; not daring to believe what she thought she saw. “I’m entitled to a permanent hireling as a Master, I just never exercised the privilege. Would you be interested?”

  “As a hireling—alone? Or, could I hope you would have more of me than bought-service?”

  Dear gods, was he asking what she thought he was asking? “Lyran, you surely can’t be seriously propositioning me?”

  “We have been one,” he sighed, touching her cheek lightly. “As you have felt a tie to me, so have I felt drawn to you. There is that in each of us that satisfies a need in the other, I think. I—care for you. I would gladly be a friend; more than friend, if you choose.”

  “But I’m old enough to be your mother!”

  “Ah, lady,” he smiled, his eyes old in his young face, “what are years? Illusion. Do each of us not know the folly of illusion?” And he cupped one hand gently beneath her cheek to touch his lips to hers. As her mouth opened beneath his, she was amazed at the stirring of passion—it was impossible, but it was plainly there, despite years, wounds, and weariness. Maybe—maybe there was something to this after all.

  “I—” she began, then chuckled.

  “So?” he cocked his head to one side, and waited for enlightenment.

  “Well—my friends will think I’m insane, but this certainly fits your Way of Balance—my gray hairs against your youth.”

  “So—” the smile warmed his eyes in a way Martis found fascinating, and totally delightful, “—then we shall confound your friends, who lack your clear sight. We shall seek Balance together. Yes?”

  She stretched out her hand a little to touch his, already feeling some of her years dissolving before that smile. “Oh, yes.”

  Dragon’s Teeth

  Mercedes Lackey

  Trebenth, broad of shoulder and red of hair and beard, was Guard-serjant to the Mage Guild. Not to put too fine a point on it, he was Guard-serjant at High Ridings, the chief citadel of the Mage Guild, and site of the Academe Arcanum, the institution of Highest Magicks. As such, he was the warrior responsible for the safety and well-being of the mages he served.

  This was hardly the soft post that the uninformed thought it to be. Mages had many enemies—and were terribly vulnerable to physical attack. It only took one knife in the dark to kill a mage—Trebenth’s concern was to circumvent that vulnerability; by overseeing their collective safety in High Ridings, or their individual safety by means of the bodyguards he picked and trained to stand watchdog over them.

  And there were times when his concern for their well-being slid over into areas that had nothing to do with arms and assassinations.

  This was looking—to his worried eyes, at least—like one of those times.

  He was standing on the cold granite of the landing at the top of a set of spiraling tower stairs, outside a particular tower apartment in the Guildmembers Hall, the highest apartment in a tower reserved for the Masterclass Mages. Sunlight poured through a skylight above him, reflecting off the pale wooden paneling of the wall he faced. There was no door at the head of this helical staircase; there had been one, but the occupant of the apartment had spelled it away, presumably so that her privacy could not be violated. But although Trebenth could not enter, he could hear something of what was going on beyond that featureless paneled wall.

  Masterclass Sorceress Martis Orleva Kiriste of High Ridings, a chief instructress of the Academe, and a woman of an age at least equal to Trebenth’s middle years was—giggling. Giggling like a giddy adolescent.

  Mart hasn’t been the same since she faced down Kelven, Ben gloomed, shifting his weight restlessly from his left foot to his right. I thought at first it was just because she hadn’t recovered yet from that stab-wound. Losing that much blood—gods, it would be enough to fuddle anyone’s mind for a while. Then I thought it was emotional backlash from having been forced to kill somebody that was almost a substitute child for her. But then—she started acting odder instead of saner. First she requisitioned that outlander as her own, and then installed him in her quarters—and is making no secret that she’s installed him in her bed as well. It’s like she’s lost whatever sense of proportion she had.

  Behind the honey-colored paneling Trebenth heard another muffled giggle, and his spirits slipped another notch. I thought I’d finally found her the perfect bodyguard with that outlander Lyran; one that wouldn’t get in her way. He was so quiet, so—so humble. Was it all a trick to worm his way into some woman’s confidence? What the hell did I really bring in? What did I let latch onto her soul?

  He shifted his weight again, sweating with indecision. Finally he couldn’t bear it any longer, and tapped with one knuckle, uncharacteristically hesitant, in the area where the door had been. “Go away,” Martis called, the acid tone of her low voice clearly evident even through the muffling of the wood. “I am not on call. Go pester Uthedre.”

  “Mart?” Ben replied unhappily. “It’s Ben. It isn’t—” There was a shimmer of golden light, and the door popped into existence under his knuckles, in the fleeting instant between one tap and the next. Then it swung open so unexpectedly that he was left stupidly tapping empty air.

  Beyond the door was Martis’ sitting room; a tiny room, mostly taken up by a huge brown couch with overstuffed cushions. Two people were curled close together there, half-disappearing into the soft pillows. One was a middle-aged, square-faced woman, graying blond hair twined into long braids that kept coming undone. Beside her was a slender young man, his shoulder-length hair nearly the color of dark amber, his obliquely slanted eyes black and unfathomable. He looked—to Trebenth’s mind—fully young enough to be Martis’ son. In point of fact, he was her hireling bodyguard—and her lover.

  “Ben, you old goat!” Martis exclaimed from her seat on the couch, “Why didn’t you say it was you in the first place? I’d never lock you out, no matter what, but you know I’m no damn good at aura-reading.”

  To Trebenth’s relief, Martis was fully and decently clothed, as was the young outland fighter Lyran seated beside her. She lowered the hand she’d used to gesture the door back into reality and turned the final flourish into a beckoning crook of her finger. With no little reluctance Trebenth sidled into the sun-flooded outermost room of her suite. She cocked her head to one side, her gray eyes looking suspiciously mischievous and bright, her generous mouth quirked in an expectant half-smile.

  “Well?” she asked. “I’m waiting to hear what you came all the way up my tower to ask.”

  Trebenth flushed. “It’s—about—”

  “Oh my, you sound embarrassed. Bet I can guess. Myself and my far-too-young lover, hmm?”

  “Mart!” Ben exclaimed, blushing even harder. “I—didn’t—”

  “Don’t bother, Ben,” she replied, lounging back against the cushions, as Lyran watched his superior with a disconcertingly serene and thoughtful expression on his lean face. “I figured it was all over High Ridings by now. Zaila’s Toenails! Why is it that when some old goat of a man takes a young wench to his bed everyone chuckles and considers it a credit to his virility, but when an old woman—”

  “You are not old,” Lyran interrupted her softly, in an almost musical tenor.

  “Flatterer,” she said, shaking her head at him. “I know better. So, why is it when an older woman does the same, everyone figures her mind is going?”

  Trebenth was rather at a loss to answer that far-too-direct question.

  “Never mind, let it go. I suspect, though, that you’re worried about what I’ve let leech onto me. Let me ask you a countering question. Is Lyran causing trouble? Acting up? Flaunting status—spending my gold like water? Boasting about his connections or—his ‘conquest’?”

  “Well,” Ben admitted slowly, “no. He acts just
like he did before; so quiet you hardly know he’s there. Except—”

  “Except what?”

  “Some of the others have been goin’ for him. At practice, mostly.”

  “And?” Beside her, Lyran shifted, and laid his right hand unobtrusively—but protectively—over the one of hers resting on the brown couch cushion between them.

  “Everything stayed under control until this morning. Harverth turned the dirty side of his tongue on you ’stead of Lyran, seeing as he wasn’t gettin’ anywhere baiting the boy. Harverth was armed, Lyran wasn’t.”

  Martis raised one eyebrow. “So? What happened?”

  “I was gonna mix in, but they finished it before I could get involved. It didn’t take long. Harverth’s with the Healers. They tell me he might walk without limping in a year or so, but they won’t promise. Hard to Heal shattered kneecaps.”

  Martis turned a reproachful gaze on the young, long-haired man beside her. Lyran flushed. “Pardon,” he murmured. “This one was angered for your sake more than this one knew. This one lost both Balance and temper.”

  “You lost more’n that, boy,” Ben growled. “You lost me a trained—”

  “Blowhard,” Martis interrupted him. “You forget that you assigned that dunderhead to me once—he’s damned near useless, and he’s a pain in the aura to a mage like me. You know damned well you’ve been on the verge of kicking that idiot out on his rear a half-dozen times—you’ve told me so yourself! Well, now you’ve got an excuse to pension him off—it was my hireling and my so-called honor involved; deduct the bloodprice from my account and throw the bastard out of High Ridings. There, are you satisfied?”

  Ben wasn’t. “Mart,” he said pleadingly, “it’s not just that—”

  “What is it? The puppies in your kennel still likely to go for Lyran?”

  “No, not after this morning.”

  “What is it then? Afraid I’m going to become a laughingstock? Got news for you, Ben, I already am, and I don’t give a damn. Or are you afraid for me, afraid that I’m making a fool of myself?”

  Since that was exactly what Trebenth had been thinking, he flushed again, and averted his eyes from the pair on the sofa.

  “Ben,” Martis said softly, “when have you ever seen us acting as anything other than mage and hireling outside of my quarters? Haven’t we at least kept the appearance of respectability?”

  “I guess,” he mumbled, hot with embarrassment.

  “People would be talking even if there was nothing between us. They’ve talked about me ever since I got my Mastery. There were years at the beginning when everybody was certain I’d earned it in bed, not in the circles. And when you and I—they talked about that, too, didn’t they? The only difference now is that I’m about half-again older than Lyran. People just don’t seem to like that, much. But my position is in no danger. When the push comes, it’s my power the Guild cares about, not what damage I do to an already dubious reputation. And I don’t care. I’m happy, maybe for the first time in years. Maybe in my life.”

  He looked up sharply. “Are you? Really? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” she replied with absolute candor, as Lyran raised his chin slightly, and his eyes silently dared his superior to challenge the statement.

  Trebenth sighed, and felt a tiny, irrational twinge of jealousy. After all, he had Margwynwy—but he’d never been able to bring that particular shine to Martis’ eyes—not even at the height of their love affair. “All right, then,” he said, resigned. “As long as you don’t care about the gossip—”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “I guess I was out of line.”

  “No Ben,” Martis replied fondly. “You’re a friend. Friends worry about friends; I’m glad you care enough to worry. My wits haven’t gone south, honestly.”

  “Then—I guess I’ll go see about paying a certain slacker off and pitching him out.”

  Martis gestured the door closed behind the towering Guard-serjant, then removed the door with another gesture, and turned back to her seatmate with frustration in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were being harassed?” Lyran shook his head; his light brown hair shimmered in the warm sun pouring through the skylight above his head.

  “It didn’t matter. Words are only as worthy as the speaker.”

  “It got beyond words.”

  “I am better than anyone except the Guild-serjant.” It wasn’t a boast, Martis knew, but a plain statement of fact. “What did I have to fear from harassment? It was only—” It was Lyran’s turn to flush, although he continued to hold her gaze with his own eyes. “I could not bear to hear you insulted.”

  Something rather atavistic deep down inside glowed with pleasure at his words. “So you leapt to my defense, hmm?”

  “How could I not? Martis—lady—love—” His eyes warmed to her unspoken approval.

  She laughed, and leaned into the soft cushion behind her. “I suppose I’m expected to reward my defender now, hmm? Now that you’ve fought for my honor?”

  He chuckled, and shook his head. “Silly and primitive of us, doubtless, but it does rouse up certain instinctive responses, no?”

  She slid a little closer on the couch, and reached up to lace the fingers of both hands behind his neck, under his long hair. Not even the silk of his tunic was as soft as that wonderful hair . . . .

  “You know good and well how I feel.” The healing-magic of his People that he had used to save her life had bound their souls together; that was the reason why Lyran did not refer to himself in the third person when they were alone together. And it was why each tended to know now a little of what the other felt. It would have been rather futile to deny her feelings even if she’d wanted to . . . which she didn’t.

  “Are you happy, my Mage-lady?” She felt an unmistakable twinge of anxiety from him. “Do the words of fools hurt you? If they do—”

  “They don’t,” she reassured him, coming nearer to him so that she could hold him closer and bury her face in that wonderful, magical hair. She wondered now how she could ever have thought it too long, and untidy, or why she had thought him effeminate. She breathed in the special scent of him; a hint of sunlight and spicy grasses. And she felt the tension of anxiety inside him turn to tension of another kind. His hands, strong, yet gentle, slid around her waist and drew her closer still.

  But a few hours later there came a summons she could not ignore; a mage-message from the Council. And the moment the two of them passed her threshold it would have been impossible for anyone to have told that they were lovers from their demeanor. Martis was no mean actress—she was diplomat and teacher as well as sorceress, and both those professions often required the ability to play a part. And Lyran, with his incredible mental discipline, and a degree of training in control that matched and was in fact incorporated in his physical training, could have passed for an ice-sculpture. Only Martis could know for certain that his chill went no deeper than the surface.

  He was her bodyguard; he was almost literally her possession until and unless he chose not to serve her. And as such he went with her everywhere—even into the hallows of the Council chamber. Just as the bodyguards of the five Councilors did.

  The carved double doors of a wood so ancient as to have turned black swung open without a hand touching them, and she and Lyran entered the windowless Council Chamber. It was lit entirely by mage-lights as ancient as the doors, all still burning with bright yellow incandescence high up on the walls of white marble. The room was perfectly circular and rimmed with a circle of malachite; in the center was a second circle inlaid in porphyry in the white marble of the floor. Behind that circle was the half-circle of the Council table, of black-lacquered wood, and the five matching thronelike chairs behind it. All five of those chairs were occupied by mages in the purple robes of the Mage Guild Council.

  Only one of the Councilors, the cadaverous Masterclass Mage Ronethar Gethry, gave Lyran so much as a glance; and from the way Ronethar’s eyes flickered f
rom Lyran to Martis and back, the sorceress rather guessed that it was because of the gossip that he noticed her guard at all.

  The rest ignored the swordsman, as they ignored their own hirelings, each standing impassively behind his master’s chair, garbed from head to toe, as was Lyran, in Mage Guild hireling red: red leathers, red linen—even one, like Lyran, in red silk.

  The Councilors were worried; even Martis could read that much behind their impassive masks. They wasted no time on petty nonsense about her private life. What brought them all to the Council Chamber was serious business, not accusations about with whom she was dallying.

  Not that they’d dare take her to task over it. She was the equal of any of the mages in those five seats; she could sit there behind the Council table any time she chose. She simply had never chosen to do so. They knew it, and she knew it, and they knew she knew. She was not accountable to them, or anything but her conscience, for her behavior. Only for her actions as the representative of the Guild.

  The fact was that she didn’t want a Council seat; as a Masterclass mage she had little enough freedom as it was. Sitting on the Council would restrict it still further. The Masterclass mage served only the Guild, the powers of the Masterclass being deemed too dangerous to be put at hire.

  “Martis.” Rotund old Dabrel was serving as Chief this month; he was something less of an old stick than the others.

  “Councilor,” she responded. “How may I serve my Guild?”

  “By solving a mystery,” he replied. “The people of Lyosten have been acting in a most peculiar and disturbing fashion—”

  “He means they’ve been finding excuses to put off a Guild inspection,” sour-faced and acid-voiced Liavel interrupted. “First there was a fever—so they say—then a drought, then the road was blocked by a flood. It doesn’t ring true; nobody else around Lyosten is having any similar troubles. We believe they’re hiding something.”