He drew a slow breath, not lost in his thoughts, not rambling out loud.
"The game of it, then ... how to make these people of Petgrad see reality. How?"
"I have come up against that quandary myself since arriving here," she said. In the tiny squiggly veins of his eyes she read the code of this man, this premier, this highest authority—literally—in the city. Atop his tower, gazing down on his domain. Yet he did not seem aloof. He cared for his people; yes, that was plain. But he saw them clearly, and he was troubled.
As leader of a city-state that lay in the path of the Felk, he should be troubled, Radstac thought.
"You expected us to be arming for war," Cultat said. "Adding numbers to our military. Grabbing up every mercenary and every farmer with an axe claiming to be a mercenary that came within reach."
Radstac said simply, "Yes."
"We do have an army, and it is maintained. At a cost the people grouse about. We've made a reputation for ourselves, you see. Petgrad, a powerful city, well-defended, a stable leadership structure. We don't lose our wars. When we're intruded upon, we set things right—successfully, decisively."
His jaw shifted beneath his beard. "In fact, no one has made a successful move against us in over a hundredwinter. You see the fatal snare of that, I'm sure."
"I do. Of course." She caught sight of Deo still lingering behind Cultat. Not nervously, though the premier's presence, even in this casual dress, was quite forceful. He must seem a titan garbed in the doubtlessly grand raiment of his office, she thought. Or wearing armor, a sword in his fist.
"My word alone isn't enough to build up and mobilize the army," he continued. "It requires a mandate of the people, endorsement by the Ministry. But first we of Petgrad must admit that we are no longer the strongest.
"Uncle." Deo stepped forward. He was wearing a sort of uniform tonight, a simple and elegant ensemble, red and gold, near the colors of Cultat's hair.
"I've seen to it my children learned proper behavior with less fuss than what I went through. Perhaps their offspring will have an even easier time of it. You, Deo, though ... my elder sister was quite fond of you. Rightly so. She turned you out as she saw fit. Didn't want you anywhere near being a possible successor to our father. Just as she herself refused to her death to be a candidate for premier. Do you regret that?"
"Of course not, Uncle." He smiled his warm, winsome smile.
"Naturally," Cultat pronounced. "I've regaled you often enough, in agonizing detail, with tales of what this post entails. And you're so finely suited for the role you play. Handsome noble. Philanthropist. Benefactor of the arts. Make a few speeches, sweep the Ministry's daughters off their feet at state functions. The people adore you. Sensible people stay away from onerous tasks—at least those chores that others are willing to shoulder. Gods pity me, I was willing to accept mine."
'To all our good fortune," Deo said.
Cultat gazed levelly now at his nephew, somberness joining the secret fatigue he carried in his eyes. "And now there's a task for you." His rich voice was low, soft.
"One I'm willing and ready to take on."
Cultat's head dipped in a slow nod. "She's to be the one, then?"
Radstac waited, as she had waited these past several days. She watched the two men.
"Yes, Uncle," Deo answered. "You gave me leave to make my own choice."
"I'm aware of that." Something hard moved under his voice. Family they were, she thought, but this matter was serious, whatever it was, and these weren't frivolous men. "I know that even the most libidinous rascal wouldn't make such a choice on the basis of someone's performance as a bed partner."
Cultat looked at her once more, closely, still a few paces away; yet it seemed the potent heat of him brushed her scarred face. "You'd better hire her, then," the Premier said.
"I've already done so."
"And explain the task you've volunteered for... the one you're now dragging her into." Without a further word or look, Cultat exited the chamber.
"I AM NOT refusing," she said for the third time, emphatically. "But what you're after isn't my specialty. I'm a combatant. I go into battles, face the enemy in the open. I'm not an escort."
"Understood," Deo said.
She had collected her weapons from the tower's guards, and they had descended. Now they were walking the streets, the watch growing late. Someone with a dilettante's voice and zeal was singing in a pub as they passed, with what sounded like the rest of the place coming in on the choruses.
"You're still my choice."
"It's your choice to make," she said, tone level.
"Yes. So Uncle made clear."
"So I make clear as well. You've hired me. I work for you. What you say is what happens."
"That's purely your professional self speaking?"
Her eyebrows, a darker red than his, pulled together. "Of course. How else would I say such a thing?"
"The words lovers choose can sometimes be very, very strange. I've heard my share." They were turning onto an avenue lined with shops that bustled in the day. Here the night was nearly still.
"I imagine you've heard your share and then some," she said. She looked sidelong at his ruggedly appealing features. If he aged along the lines of his uncle, he wouldn't want for carnal companionship until he was too old to care about it. "Do you think I would behave unprofessionally because of the few good fucks we've had?"
"Ah, Radstac, I do enjoy that melodic Southsoil accent."
"You adore women who speak vulgarities."
"What right-thinking male doesn't?"
They walked a bit in the silence. Wings beat the air— but not feathers. Her keen ears caught the leathery sounds. One of those flying rodents of the Isthmus. She didn't see the creature, however. Two figures in the modest uniforms of Petgrad police were walking the street's other side, going the opposite way. The female of the pair offered a salute that was more a wave, teeth flashing in a happy grin. Deo returned it with an equally casual gesture.
"When do we leave?" she asked. Her palm alit on her sword's heavy scratched pommel. It felt good to be wearing the weapon again; felt good to be hired. Even if the job had turned out to be something unexpected.
"Tomorrow. I can supply you with as many mansid leaves as you like, or you can see to the procurement yourself I'll be happy to cover the purchase above your work fee."
She very nearly broke stride. The small bite of leaf she'd chewed just before the visit to Cultat's tower had dissipated. Deo had sprung surprises on her from the first, but none had caught her entirely off guard.
Do the smart thing, do the economical thing, do the safe thing, do the thing you find most self-fulfilling. It was her code, presenting its points one by one.
"If you can get my leaves from the lair I specify," she said, "then I'll gladly let you see to it."
"Done." He sounded like a merchant sealing a sale or a gambler finalizing a bet. "I'll show you what supplies I want to bring. Tell me what's practical—what we should have, what we don't need."
"It's going to be quite a trip."
"Hardly compares to the one you've already made from home," he pointed out.
"It wasn't distance I was referring to."
He nodded. "You really shouldn't have misgivings about being ... underqualified. There's a perfectly good reason Cultat or I haven't hired the proper specialist for this mission. It's that there are no experienced professionals in this field. None here in Petgrad anyway. None among our own military—men and women who bear arms and have not fought a battle in their lives. Nor did their progenitors. So it becomes as much a matter of character as one of appropriate credentials. I trust you."
"That's the nephew of the premier of Petgrad speaking, not an overwrought lover?" She permitted
herself a small trickle of her rather harsh-sounding laughter.
"Yes." His tone was solemn. "The nephew of the premier ... cheated out of the post by his mother. And by her brother. I do love my uncle. Most sinc
erely. But my life has not gone as it should."
The silence returned.
Quite a trip, Radstac mused. It indeed promised to be. She would see Deo safely delivered to Trael, which was one of the city-states to Petgrad's north. It was presently— along with a few other Isthmus nations—in the path of the south-moving Felk.
There Deo would convey Cultat's message to the leaders of Trael. That message was simple. The remaining free states of the Isthmus must unite now against the Felk.
Other members of the premier's family were making similar ambassadorial journeys to other cities, seeking to create the alliance that Cultat envisioned. Petgrad was the most powerful nation in the south. It did not have to politically appease or parley with its neighbors. So long had it held this uncontested status, in fact, that it had no proper staff of diplomats. Now it was up to Cultat's relations to spread the word, for who else would be heard in those rival royal courts? And, according to Cultat, who else should bear the burden of this undertaking but his own blood?
So, to Trael it was.
Radstac shrugged to herself as she walked with her employer/lover, hand still upon her sword's pommel. So long as she got paid.
RAVEN (2)
THE COUNCIL CHAMBER in the Governor's Palace was the largest single indoor space in the city-state of Felk. Here the governor would traditionally meet with his advisors to hear their reports and discuss plans for the running of what was at that time the second largest territory on the Isthmus, smaller only to the mighty state of Petgrad in the south.
Here, too, the governor would hold public trials and audiences once every lune, listening to cases and petitions from any who would seek his judgment or support. In those days, the space was opulently furnished and decorated, both to impress visitors and to remind them of the wealth and power the governor controlled.
Now, it was just a big room, the expensive furnishings gone, and there was no governor of Felk. Matokin was much more than that. It was said he took no hand in the day-to-day operation of his growing empire, preferring to leave minor matters to his underlings with whom he consulted in private. Nor did he conduct public hearings. He believed his time and the national treasury were better spent elsewhere, and felt no need or desire to remind anyone of his power.
Raven, both curious and anxious, paused at the periphery to survey. The space was huge, like a cavern inside this palace. It swallowed even the crowded bustle that infested the place.
The crowd of people ebbed and flowed. There were groupings of men and women huddled together in discussion, occasionally melding with other groups for brief consultation or argument before dividing again. A constant stream of messengers brushed past her, both arriving and leaving.
There was no doubt in her mind that what she was viewing was the nerve center of the empire she was sworn to serve, and she knew instinctively that there were dozens of decisions being made within her sight that would affect thousands of people.
As to exactly what her part in this was to be, or why she had been summoned here, she hadn't a clue.
Unwilling to interrupt any of the huddled planners, Raven approached a woman who was standing alone studying a scroll. "Excuse me?"
Dark eyes fastened on her, and she felt she had been weighed, measured, scrutinized, and dismissed as unimportant all in the space of a heartbeat.
"Well?"
"I was told to report here to Matokin, but I'm unfamiliar with the procedure."
That earned her three more heartbeats of examination.
"The middle door there in the far wall," the woman said at last. 'The one with the guard in front of it. Give your name to the guard and wait to be summoned."
"Thank you," Raven said, but the woman had already returned her attention to the scroll.
Feeling even smaller than before, Raven undertook the journey across the length of the room and eventually stepped up to the guard in front of the indicated door.
The guard stared at her, expressionless.
"My name is Raven," she said, trying to draw herself up, though even with her efforts she barely came midway up on the guard's chest. "From the Academy. I was told to report to Matokin."
The guard did not so much as blink.
"They're waiting for you," he said.
Turning, he banged his fist twice on the door, then stepped back, urging her forward with a quick jerk of his head.
Bracing herself as best she could against the fearful unknown, Raven pushed the door open.
Beyond was a small, unimpressive room, barely half the size of some of the classrooms back at the Academy. There were no decorations other than a large map of the Isthmus hanging on one wall. Scrolls and parchments cluttered the place, giving the appearance of a scholar's retreat, but it wasn't the room or its furnishings that captured Raven's attention. Rather, her eyes were drawn to the two men whose dialogue she had apparently interrupted.
The one behind the small desk was short and heavyset, more portly than muscular. He had dark hair and lively, dancing eyes. The soft blue robe he was wearing appeared to be more of a lounging or sleeping garment than a uniform, but there was no doubt in Raven's mind of his identity or rank. This was Matokin, the most powerful man on the Isthmus and engineer of Felk's growing empire.
Matokin's hair was dark. Just like hers. Just like her mother's.
Raven's heart beat hard. She felt almost giddy, though she would never have admitted to the emotion and showed nothing of it on her face. Here was a lifetime's worth of fantasies coming true. Here was her father! Of course, she meant to stick to her vow to keep that secret, even from him.
The other man in the room, lounging on a heavily cushioned chair, was long and lizard-lean. His soft hands had exceptionally long fingers, while his angular features housed eyes that, at the moment, were flat and expression-less.
"This must be Raven," Matokin said, inclining his head toward her slightly. "If not, the guard will regret it. Eh, Abraxis?"
Abraxis. Raven recognized the name. He was the chief of the internal security for the growing empire. He was supposedly responsible for the terminations that befell those of untrained magical ability who didn't pass muster. Politically, he was second in power.
Whether or not Matokin's comment was meant in jest was left uncertain, as the man on the cushions gave no reaction either by word or gesture, but instead continued staring at the intruder.
"I am Raven, Lord," she said. "I was told that you wished to see me." With great effort she kept her voice from quivering completely out of control.
"Yes. We've been reviewing your records," Matokin said, gesturing vaguely at the small clutter on his desk, "and wished to meet you in the flesh. You seem to be making excellent progress, though your instructors' praise seems grudging at times."
"At the school, we work at perfecting control of the magical arts to the best of our individual abilities," Raven said. "We are discouraged from comparing our efforts to those of our fellow classmates, or from seeking approval from the instructors."
"Do you find the discipline and rules at the Academy to be harsh and demanding?" Abraxis asked, speaking for the first time.
"Words like harsh and demanding are relative terms," Raven said with a shrug. "I myself do not feel the conditions at the school to be unreasonable. We are living in difficult times and fighting an expansionist war. If we are to achieve our goals, it means accepting as normal conditions that, in other circumstances, might be deemed harsh and demanding."
"And what do you think those goals are, Raven?" Matokin said with a smile.
That smile nearly undid her. Her father was smiling at her. But she kept control.
"To unite the city-states of the Isthmus under one strong rule, specifically yours, Lord Matokin."
"Yes," Matokin was nodding. "Indeed."
"We have a posting for you," Abraxis said.
Raven's already fast-beating heart gave a sharp start.
"A ... p-posting?"
She winced inwardly, hating
the timid sound of her voice. She was off guard. She hadn't yet graduated the Academy. She wasn't a full-fledged mage, not by anyone's measure. She had an aptitude, yes. She was most certainly dedicated to learning the magical arts. But she could only perform tricks at best at this point.
Had some error occurred? Had they meant to summon someone else here?
"Really, Abraxis," Matokin said mildly. "No need to unsettle the girl."
Raven felt a rush of gratitude toward her father.
"There's been no mistake," Matokin continued, as if reading her thoughts. Considering what magical powers he was reputed to possess, perhaps he was. "We know that you are still studying at the Academy. You're no wizard yet, but I'd wager you'll make a fine one someday. Discipline is as key as any innate talent."
She flushed, feeling her face heat. Neither of the men remarked on it.
"Our general in the field, Lord Weisel, has made a specific personnel request."
"He requested me?" she blurted.
This time Abraxis laughed, but it didn't sound as pleasant as Matokin's laughter.
"No," said Matokin. "He wanted a student straight out of the Academy. Someone absolutely fresh."
"Why, my Lord?"
"In his communication," Abraxis said, "he made mention of a desire to be kept thoroughly updated on any magical advances, so that he can immediately implement the techniques against the enemy."
"It's a lie, of course," Matokin added.
Raven's eyes widened. She of course knew Weisel's name. He was a military man, supposedly a brilliant strategist, but not a magician.
"Our Weisel wants to learn about magic," Matokin said.
Raven was confused. "But... doesn't he have wizards with him? A whole company of them?" Naturally many of them were graduates from the Academy.
"He does," Abraxis put in. "But they are under strict orders not to divulge any specifics about magical procedures to the general."
Wartorn: Resurrection w-1 Page 11
