"But I know nothing of that kind of work," Aquint protested.
"You know enough to have broken, almost overnight, a pilferage operation that the quartermaster could do nothing to stop." A smile at last came to his nearly expressionless face. It wasn't a pleasant smile. "And you've had the wiliness and guile to substitute it with your own smuggling operation."
Aquint almost denied it, reflexively. He was immediately glad he hadn't. Plainly this Abraxis knew what he was talking about. Aquint didn't even wonder how he'd come by the information. Apparently this Internal Security Corps was effective.
"Besides," the chief of the corps said, "I don't recall saying you had a choice."
"Yes, Lord."
"I need agents, Aquint. This is important enough that I recruit my people personally whenever possible. This is a new world we are building. A better one. Matokin will unite the entire Isthmus, and when that's done, there will be no more war. We will have one rule, and it will be up to my corps to see that it stands. Understood?"
"Yes, Lord."
Abraxis thrust the scroll into Aquint's hand.
"This scroll will give you all the authority you need to deal with the military and even the mages. I'll give you a brief time to set your personal affairs in order locally, then have yourself Far Moved directly to Callah."
"Yes, Lord," Aquint repeated, numbly. He could barely believe what was happening. So much for his
cozy niche.
"I think you'll like the work, really, once you get accustomed. You'll have a free hand to operate as you see fit. All I ask for is results."
"Thank you, Lord," Aquint said.
"Oh, yes. One more thing. Give me your hand a moment."
Puzzled, Aquint held out his hand. Abraxis turned it palm up, then produced a small knife and made a small, fast cut on his thumb. He dabbed at the cut with a small piece of white cloth.
"There," he said. "That makes it binding."
"What was that?" Aquint said. "A blood oath?"
"Rather more than that," Abraxis said, placing the cloth in a small red carrying bag. "It's standard procedure for students at the Academy. Also for anyone of high rank or power in the empire. Should you prove to be untrustworthy or lax in your duties, that sample of your blood will mean that we won't have to hunt you down to administer discipline."
"I see," Aquint said, feeling suddenly queasy.
"It was my idea," Abraxis said with a note of pride. "It was one of the first measures I implemented as chief of Internal Security. It's proven very effective."
"I imagine it has, Lord. May I ask where that sample will be kept?"
"What do you want to know that for?" Abraxis said.
"Merely self-preservation," Aquint said. "If my well-being is tied to that sample of blood, I would like to be assured that it won't fall into the wrong hands. Though you haven't said specifically, I imagine that our work will make us unpopular in certain quarters."
"That's reasonable," Abraxis nodded, after a moment's consideration. "I keep such samples with me at all times. Under the circumstances, I feel it's the safest place for them to be."
He nodded to the scroll in Aquint's hand.
"The procedural details of your assignment are in there as well. You'll contact Colonel Jesile, Callah's governor. He will give you full cooperation."
"Does it also detail... my new rate of payment, Lord?"
Abraxis's smile was a bit more sincere this time. "It does. And you'll be pleased with it."
"Yes, Lord."
The corps chief exited the room.
Alone with his thoughts, Aquint reflected on the sudden remarkable turn his life had taken. He tried to imagine Cat's reaction to the news. He would, of course, take the boy along to Callah. They would both be going home. If Abraxis was right about his new authority as an agent, there wasn't anybody who could stop him.
Even as Aquint sorted out his reactions, though, a part of his mind was starting to piece together a plan. There must be some way to switch the sample of his blood that Abraxis carried for another, harmless substitute.
PRAULTH (3)
CLOSING HER EYES without first coupling with Xink would mean seeing lines and arrows and text maddeningly crisscrossing the backs of her eyelids. It would mean restlessness and uneasiness and a
poor sleep. Fortunately she and Xink had sexual intercourse—though she was learning to call the act by less formal, more lively names—each night without fail, oftentimes more than once. He indulged her tirelessly, never seeming sated, always hungry for her body, which she had always thought, if she thought of it at all, as sadly commonplace. He assured her she wore the shape of a passion goddess.
She had discovered that her appetites, too, were boundless, and nightly she was still learning the apparently endless variations of physical love. Xink was a marvelous instructor.
Amusing ... instructor had once meant something quite different to her, back when she'd been a mere student. Now what was she? She didn't rightly know. Her work for Master Honnis consumed her intellectually, while Xink absorbed her emotionally and physically. Her life of late was a very full thing, indeed.
Tonight she slept her usual, sublimely exhausted sleep. They did not wear any clothing in the bed they shared, the big bed with the soft mattress. They held each other, squirmed against each other, nuzzled, and nestled together even as they slumbered. Sometimes, waking a bit, she would feel Xink's rigidness pressing her—his manhood firm and warm, and he still asleep ... at least until she touched him there, and he woke—never complaining, always eager—and they chose from among the dizzying array of options just where inside her that fine fleshy pillar should be placed.
It was not desire for further intercourse that woke her tonight. It was a hand, shaking her shoulder firmly.
She went from dark dreamlessness to the brightness of their chamber in the University's Blue Annex. There was a window set into one wall, but the light wasn't coming from there; and besides, she could feel immediately that she hadn't had a sufficient amount of sleep—two watches at most. It was the dead of night... but the lamp hanging from its bronze hook burned overhead, blinding.
"Praulth—beauty, you must, you must—"
She touched Xink's shaking hand to stop it. She blinked painfully. Despite their intimate relationship, she was secretly still vastly intimidated by him, as though with a few words of criticism or disapproval he could undo everything, every change that had occurred in her, reduce her to the nothingness of... of before. That he had never said any harsh word to her or made any sign that he meant her the least hurt didn't quell the fear.
"I'm sorry to wake you," he was saying. She could make out his face now, gorgeous as usual and framed by dark cascading hair. "No choice, though, beauty. Come now."
She pushed herself up. He was in his robe and holding hers out to her.
"What's ... going on?"
He looked oddly embarrassed, as if caught at something illicit. He shook his head. "I am to take you somewhere."
"Where?" She felt alarm now. What was this? Everything had been so stable, so steady for almost half a lune now, a seemingly interminable time, just her doing her work for Master Honnis and Xink seeing to his duties with Mistress Cestrello of the sociology council, and the two of them together every night. Why, why, why was something going wrong now? Did he mean to abandon her? Her young heart shook beneath the breasts that he and he alone had ever touched. "Where?" she said again, but Xink looked away.
Praulth took her robe and put it on. She was quivering slightly, already feeling herself reducing, her newfound womanhood shrinking away. She gazed after him, as he led the way from the chamber into the Blue Annex corridor. Her feet felt numb as she moved, staying several steps behind him, arms folded around her chest, huddling into herself
She loved him! How could anything possibly go wrong between two people in love?
Did he still love her? He said so often enough, but...
Desperate for other, less fatal th
oughts to fill her head, she pictured maps of battle, projecting military movements as she'd been doing quite some while now.
Making Master Honnis proud. Yes, that was still important. Not as important, though, as wanting to make Xink happy—happy so that they would remain together always. Yes, do old Honnis's tasks to the exclusion of all other academic work, so that she could maintain this situation forever, living with Xink
in their wonderful quarters, her days belonging to the Felk war, her nights to ... to ...
They had crossed out of the corridor, descended stairs, were walking some faintly lit underground stretch she didn't recognize; only now she had stopped. Her vision had smeared over with tears. Xink was beside her, laying his strong manly arm across her stiff shoulders and saying, softly, "Please, beauty ... please, Praulth, you've been summoned. Honnis will be there. Come. Come."
His breath warmed her cheek. She allowed herself to be guided onward, not looking up any longer. Everything was ending. She knew it. But she would go with him, toward whatever conclusion was waiting.
THE FLOOR WAS earth and chilly. The chamber was a dome, with arched entrances all around. It all looked extremely old. The stone was pocked and crumbling. The bowl of the dome overhead was made of shaped sheets of deeply tarnished brass. It was a wide area, without any furnishings of any kind. Many of the archways were sloppily bricked up, and even those constructions appeared ancient.
Praulth had heard that the University here at Febretree was constructed atop the ruins of some antediluvian stronghold, but she had never seen any supporting documentation and so discounted it.
They had come some distance, and her tears had dried. Xink was still at her side but was stepping back now, bowing, flourishing her way forward with his arm as if to present her to someone.
They were not alone in this large underground space that smelled of old soil and rat droppings. There were others. She saw cloaks, armor, sheathed weapons, a dozen figures, more, a few holding the torches that lit this space. And there—Master Honnis, someone familiar but standing at a distance, nearby a tall sturdy figure with red and gold hair.
"Praulth."
Her name, spoken and echoing, Master Honnis's voice—but announcing her, not addressing her. She blinked, looking about, as confused now as when Xink had first woken her.
"What's wrong with her?"
This voice was stronger, richer than Honnis's. It wasn't loud but carried itself confidently through the circular chamber. It had come from the big man. He wore ... some sort of military apparel, Praulth saw, squinting his way. But it looked more like the uniform of a royal court than that of an army.
Master Honnis looked urgently her way. His manner was intense, even excited, and perhaps afraid? No. Not possible. Honnis evoked fear. He did not experience it.
"She is nervous," the old, dark-fleshed instructor said.
"Does she have cause to be?"
Xink had vanished somewhere behind her. There was no one else wearing a University robe to be seen but Honnis. Just these ... soldiers. And the one with the red-gold hair who was surely their leader.
He took a single step her way now, his gait as assured as his voice. She guessed him to be some five tenwinters old, though he was still too far away for a good look. He seemed to exude a robust poise. Yes, a leader surely.
"Maybe she's got a right to her nervousness at that," he said, answering his own question, staring at her a moment across the intervening distance. "You claim she knows nothing?"
"Only the movements and maneuvers of the war that she has successfully predicted for some time now," Master Honnis said with a tinge of his normal peevish self.
A stirring went through the soldiers ranked behind the two older men.
A deep chuckle echoed through the dome briefly. Above, torchlight rebounded among tarnished brass.
"I daresay, elder Master, if I hadn't gone on from this place to truly make something of my life, I imagine you would now be raking me apart for ever daring to leave before achieving Thinker. As I recall, our farewell was ... I'm not sure how to quite put it."
"Enthusiastic?" Honnis ventured.
"Yes. Mutually so. Couldn't wait to get apart from each other."
Praulth watched the exchange, waiting for it—waiting for this night, for everything—to make sense. She wished only that she were still asleep in bed, in the glow of Xink's warmth.
Now the two men were crossing toward her. Master Honnis did indeed appear somewhat flustered, bony fingers tugging at each other. Praulth's gaze was drawn to the other, though. Tall, broad across the shoulders and chest, but some of that size seemed to come strictly from his commanding presence. His face was cut by crags and dressed in a beard of red and gold—and grey too, she saw—but it was a face of authority, even supremacy. Eyes of harsh blue burned from surrounding pouches of flesh. His hair was a mane, thicker and wilder even than Xink's tumbling locks. Five ten winters old? Yes. At least. Likely more. But still a hardy figure.
He and Honnis came to a halt at arm's length.
"Thinker Praulth," said Master Honnis in a formal tone, "this is Premier Na Niroki Cultat of the Noble State of Petgrad—"
"Cultat of Petgrad should, I think, suffice." Those blue eyes—full of command and ruthlessness—measured her. His wasn't a kind face, but looking back into it, Praulth felt some inkling that this man might be honorable.
She uncrossed the arms that she still had folded about her chest. She bowed toward him. "Premier," she said, the first word she'd uttered since leaving her and Xink's quarters. It was chilly enough in here to raise gooseflesh beneath her robe. One or the other of those unbricked archways must lead up to the outside and the open night. Probably they were on the periphery of the campus... some secret place.
Cultat continued to scrutinize her. "You had no expectation of my arrival. You have no idea at all why I am here."
Honnis made a sharp furtive gesture at her to respond. She merely shook her head at the premier.
Cultat gave Honnis a full look, then said, "Master Honnis is quite correct. You have been predicting the movements of the Felk since the atrocity at U'delph. You still believe Weisel is leading his forces toward the city-state of Trael?"
The field intelligence that Honnis provided her now definitely indicated as much, though she had made her forecast much earlier. Apparently this premier knew that. Praulth still didn't know how Master Honnis was so miraculously coming by his facts.
'Taking Trael, as opposed to attacking Grat or Ompellus Prime—both also within striking distance—will drive the Felk deepest into the South. It will effectively open the second half of this war." She spoke almost numbly. She didn't understand what was happening here, and she didn't have the mental energy to try to puzzle it out. Something on a grand scale was occurring, but it was too big for her to see.
The premier's fierce blue eyes studied her. "Why doesn't General Weisel use that transport magic he has at his disposal—attack Trael right now? Why march his army at all?"
"I don't know." This was some sort of test.
Cultat shot another look at Honnis, this one dire.
"Perhaps because Dardas didn't have such magics," Praulth added.
"Dardas?" Cultat spoke the name slowly.
"Weisel is Dardas. His tactics are a flawless match. I could cite numerous examples—"
"That won't be necessary," Honnis interrupted. "The premier was a passable enough student in his day to recall the Northlander's name."
Cultat's eyes burned Praulth once more. He had traveled here to meet her, she realized. Somehow the war predictions she had been making for Honnis—the great assignment he had entrusted to her—had been finding their way to this premier. Petgrad, if the Felk went unchecked, would soon enough stand in the path of Weisel's forces.
Cultat meant to stop him; but the army of Petgrad, relatively large though it was, couldn't hope to meet the Felk. Cultat had to have an edge, an advantage.
He turned slightly, lifting a hand g
loved in leather. Immediately one of the torch-bearing soldiers jogged over. Out of a cloak he produced a small sheaf of papers. Cultat took them, then held the papers toward Praulth.
"Look at these, young Thinker. They are our current intelligence of the Felk advancement, collected by an elite Petgrad scouting force. We've had them in the field some while now. Tell me"—his teeth
glinted briefly in that red-gold beard—"does Weisel truly intend to conquer the entire Isthmus?"
Her hand accepted the papers, familiar-looking lines and arrows.
"Premier," she said, "I find it difficult to believe that anyone with the least inkling of a military sensibility could see it otherwise."
Cultat nodded, and in that moment some hint of his true age shone through. "Unfortunately, Thinker Praulth, military minds are in scarce supply ... now that we need them most."
"I believe that Weisel is intentionally trying to provoke resistance," she said. "That was the true purpose of the destruction of U'delph."
"So you concluded to Master Honnis. I would agree with you, though it's not the most sensible act on Weisel's part."
"But Dardas was known to commit such actions."
"Dardas," Cultat breathed grimly. His eyes flickered to the papers he'd passed her. "You can read that well enough?"
Praulth looked at the sheets, which showed the Felk, Trael, and that city-state's outer environs. The torch-bearer remained nearby, throwing more than enough light on the pages.
"Study this here. Now." Cultat's deep voice brooked no protest.
Master Honnis was tugging his fingers once more. She looked first to him, then to the premier.
"I will wait here while you do this," said Cultat. "Tell me, how can we engage Weisel successfully in battle?"
TIME HAD LOST easy definition, but she was done. Had a watch passed or only a few moments? She stood rooted where she'd been standing. The others were still there— Honnis, the premier and his entourage. Xink? She didn't look behind to see if he was still in the domed chamber. She hoped vaguely he was.
Praulth felt herself swaying on her feet. The ground's earthy chill had bled upward to her knees. This was a new task. This wasn't analytical prophecy. She had been told to devise the countermeasures against the Felk. Against Weisel. Against Dardas. This new task was engrossing, challenging, thoroughly satisfying. Without her knowing it, she had been aching for just this sort of work.
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