"Your war's hopeless, then." Not her war. No. She wasn't even borrowing this one. She hadn't been hired as a soldier to go against the Felk, which was what she envisioned when she'd come north from the Southsoil. Instead, she was serving a single client.
"Cultat has other means," Deo said. "He's in highly secret contact with someone at Febretree, at the University there."
"Highly secret. Are you your uncle's confidant?"
"Hardly." Something dark moved behind the word. "But his elder daughter is."
"A pretty child."
"Not a child," Deo said. "But attractive."
Radstac sniffed a laugh. They told jokes back home about the intimacies of Isthmuser cousins.
"It's purely a flirtation. I'm her confidant. She pities me because I was so thoroughly overlooked for the post of premier—but she keeps her sympathies private from her father. I tell her I'm glad I was overlooked. I tell Uncle the same. His daughter tells me secrets."
"Why is Cultat in contact with the University?"
"I don't know entirely. Some sort of... strategist there. He won't speak directly about it. But I suspect the intelligence he's receiving from his scouts is also going there. Maybe there's more to his plans than I know. Uncle likes decent odds."
"Most people do."
"Yes. Most."
She felt the warmth of him, lying alongside her. They remained clothed. She wondered when they might be lovers again; maybe never.
"But not you," Radstac breathed.
"Oh, I like favorable odds. That's why I've hired these bandits. They'll know this territory, know how to move through it quickly and stealthily. They're a tough bunch, I'd say."
"I agree." Though, she added silently, she would be surprised if any of them lived to redeem that priceless promissory note. Probably Deo'd had that in mind when he wrote it.
"I like the idea of winning," Deo said. "It's a fine abstract desire. Unluckily the odds have stood against me all my life. I wish to do something more than my circumstances would likely have ever allowed me to. Something worthwhile."
"Assassinate the head of the Felk military? You won't succeed." Hat words—not opinion; judgment. She was a mercenary of many years. She'd earned the right to judge. She would point this out if he argued.
He didn't. "My own life hasn't succeeded. My mother chose to exclude herself—and me—from the hardships of being premier. It went to Cultat. My uncle ... who, when he was a tenwinter younger than I am now, was utterly unfit for the post. I remember his ascendancy ceremony. I was young, but I understood what was happening. I knew what was out of my reach, forever."
Their heads were still together. She felt the tear—quite warm—sliding off his cheek onto her scarred one.
"I won't succeed. I won't manage to kill Weisel. I also won't waste any more of my life. But for this ... I think I may be remembered for trying. For making the effort, the sacrifice. If it's not a purely selfless or spotlessly noble act, it may at least seem so to those who hear of my deed. I would be satisfied with that."
She drew the blanket up from their legs, spread it farther onto their bodies.
"You'll stay with me?" It was a tone of voice she had never heard from him—small, nearly defenseless; speaking for someone deep inside.
"I'll stay." She kept it simple. "Until I am told to go."
RAVEN (3)
SHE BARELY RECOGNIZED herself, which, apparently, was the whole point.
It was a female soldier from the mess corps who was sent to "remake Raven. She was very matter-of-fact about things. She had gotten a basin and some soap, boiled some water, and scrubbed Raven's stringy dark hair, untangling knots that had been there some long time.
She winced as the woman's tough fingers scoured her scalp, but Raven knew that General Weisel had ordered this, so she went along.
The soldier dried her hair with a cloth, then quickly and neatly braided it. Raven had never been able to learn the knack of that, and so had ignored her hair, just as she had ignored her plump, short, and disappointing body all her life. That disappointment had been shared by her mother, who herself had been beautiful enough in her youth to attract the attentions of Lord Matokin.
Raven shook herself. It was difficult sometimes not to spend every waking moment dwelling on her father... dwelling as well on the terrible secret fear she harbored, that her mother might somehow be mistaken in the identity of her father.
No. She wouldn't consider it. She had met Matokin. She had felt their connection. They were father and daughter. She would serve him with the full loyalty of a daughter.
The mess soldier dressed her in new clothes, not a uniform but also not like the drab robes that most of the army's wizards wore. These clothes had some style. The tunic was cut so as to deliberately expose the tops of her admittedly full breasts. She had never dressed in anything like this before.
The clothes were, nonetheless, functional enough to be worn in the field.
"Where did you get these?" Raven had asked, after changing inside a tent.
"I was given leave to requisition anything I wanted from the best shops in Felk."
A portal had been opened just to fetch Raven's clothes'? It was incredible.
"But they fit so well," Raven said, looking down at herself The clothes didn't hide the thickness of her body, but they emphasized her natural curves in a pleasing way.
"I used to be a seamstress in Windal," the soldier said dully. With the transformation completed, she left Raven to admire herself.
Raven, on arriving in the field, had quickly noted the simmering hostility that existed between the regular troops and the squads of military mages. It was an irrational prejudice, one that had a long history. The Great Upheavals had brought low the mighty cultures of the Northern and Southern Continents. Magic, stupidly, had been blamed for the vast calamities.
But that was how people behaved when things went wrong. They blamed whoever was the oddest among themselves. Gods knew the children she'd grown up with in that horrid village had used her as the object of blame whenever it was convenient.
How much more they would have despised her, she thought, if they had known about her latent magical abilities.
At the moment the army was on the move. They marched and rode every day, during the daylight watches, pausing for carefully timed food and rest periods.
It was strenuous, even though Raven had been assigned a horse to ride. The animal frightened her a bit at first, but she had gotten used to it. She rode among a small company of mages, a mixed bag of Far Speak wizards and healers. They showed her camaraderie, despite the fact that she hadn't even properly graduated from the Academy and was thus a novice in the magical arts.
Apparently, they were just happy to have another magician in the ranks. The regular troops far outnumbered the wizards in Weisel's army.
They were heading for Trael, so went the scuttlebutt. It was another of the Isthmus's city-states. Raven, despite herself, felt a little giddy at the thought that she might be witness to an actual battle. Somehow during her two years at the Academy, she had never successfully imagined herself in combat conditions.
Not that she expected to fight. Of course not. So she could use her minor magics to light a candle or two, so what? It wasn't going to help much in battle.
She was here because Weisel wanted her here. And because Matokin wanted to give Weisel what he wanted.
But she knew damned well there was more to it than that. Those years at the Academy had taught her duplicity as much as magic. Matokin wanted her to spy on Weisel. Very well. But she had no idea what, exactly, she was supposed to be looking for. Was the Felk general suspected of disloyalty, of treason? It seemed unlikely, considering the victories he'd won for the empire.
But, one never knew where a traitor was going to spring up.
That night, after the long day's riding, she was summoned to Weisel's tent a second time.
The Felk general's eyes widened. "Well, I honestly don't believe I'd have rec
ognized you if you had not been announced."
"General?" Raven was nonplussed, and suddenly, terribly self-conscious.
"I mean to say," Weisel went on, chuckling at her confusion, "that there was a pretty girl underneath that dreary robe and untidy hair. Just like I suspected."
Raven felt heat rush to her cheeks, but it wasn't shame making her blush. That she was used to. Being complimented, though, was almost an entirely new experience.
It spread an adolescent smile across her face, a face that wasn't at all used to the expression.
Weisel laughed harder. "Prettier still! You look infinitely less mopy with a smile. You might want to practice it." He was at his table, where a plate of what looked like regular soldier's rations sat beside a set of maps.
"Thank you, General Weisel."
He waved it off. "But enough. I do enjoy your company, Raven, but we are closing fast on our next target, and my senior staff will soon want their orders. I want a word or two with you before that."
She couldn't help but feel special that the general was making this time for her.
"It's time I told you why I requisitioned you directly out of the Academy," Weisel said. He sounded frank. "I wanted to know about Far Movement magic."
Raven blinked. "Far Movement?" It suddenly flashed in her mind—that bully girl Hert at the Academy jamming her face against the corridor wall, telling her to open a portal and walk through it.
"Yes. Portals. Fascinating stuff." Weisel picked up a fork. "I employed Far Movement magic during the Battle of U'delph. It was of inestimable value for a surprise attack. But I wanted to learn all I could about how the portals operated." He ate a bite of his dinner, showing a little less apathy for the food than the mages in her unit had at supper tonight.
"Portals, General?" Obviously a mistake had occurred. How would Weisel react when he discovered
it? A feeling of dread stole over her. What, exactly, had Matokin set her up for?
But she was loyal. She was obedient. She would point out the mistake now, to Weisel, before things went too far. Then she would no doubt be returned to Felk, to face whatever consequences might await there.
"I am afraid, General Weisel, that I am not at all sufficiently versed in the complex particulars of Far Movement spells to be of—"
He set down his fork somewhat sharply. Raven managed not to wince.
"I know that, girl. I may not be a wizard like the rest of Matokin's political cadre back there in Felk, but I'm still of noble blood." His face had darkened a bit.
"Of course, General," she said, pleased with the steadiness of her voice. Panic was only the result of a lack of discipline.
Weisel had hunched forward slightly. Now his body relaxed. "I know that now, I should say. About the relative magical abilities of someone who hasn't yet graduated from the Academy. I've made some inquiries, something I should've done in the first place I realize in hindsight. I've learned how exceptional a wizard must be to master the opening of portals."
"It is perhaps the most difficult of all magics, General Weisel."
"That I'm not sure about," he said, solemnly.
"Sir?"
"Have you ever heard of resurrection magic?" There was now an odd glint in his eyes.
"No, General," she said honestly.
"Rejuvenation spells?"
"Yes. I have heard of those. They are practiced by healers, but only by the most advanced ones. I am afraid I wouldn't—"
"—know anything about it," he shrugged. "No matter. But about the Far Movement magic, yes, I wanted to know more about it. As a war commander, I felt it incumbent on me to know everything I could about the weapons and resources at my disposal. Far Movement is, make no mistake, a very new weapon of war."
He let out a bitter-sounding sigh. "But these mages Matokin has appointed to my army, every last one of them, have been instructed to keep their lips locked about magic around me. Can you imagine? I am to know nothing about the wizardry I might employ in battle. Ludicrous, isn't it?"
Raven herself had certainly been surprised when she'd learned about the standing order there in Matokin's office at the palace.
Suddenly, Weisel erupted into laughter, much longer and louder than before. "Then, of course, I realized," he finally said, as Raven looked on, perplexed.
"General?"
He stood up, looking directly into her eyes. "Matokin," Weisel said slowly, "doesn't want to win this war."
Raven frowned mightily. Then Weisel waved her into a seat, and explained.
SHE HAD RETURNED to her unit, peripherally aware that here and there a male soldier was looking her way, a leer on his face. Being the object of a man's lust—again, an almost entirely new experience—should have been more interesting to her. But she was quite preoccupied.
She went numbly into the small tent that was hers and lay down, still in her new clothes, on the bedroll. She could still feel the hard ground underneath, but she ignored it.
Weisel's allegation about her father was the single most treasonous thing she'd ever heard anyone say! If any student at the Academy had spoken such a thing aloud, he would be reported by a dozen fellow students before he could take his next breath.
Matokin, Weisel claimed, was deliberately sabotaging the efforts of his own military to conquer the entire Isthmus. Weisel's explanation for such an unbelievable, outrageous course of action was simple.
Lord Matokin, supreme master of the expanding Felk Empire, wanted to perpetuate a state of war. While the Isthmus was at war, while lands and city-states remained unconquered, the Felk leader was
indispensable. The people looked to him for guidance, for authority, for assurance. He was at the very heart of things.
But without a war, without the urgency and fanaticism that accompanied it... he would, inevitably, diminish. He was a brilliant political leader. His rise to power alone proved that. But, without war, he would become an administrator. A caretaker of the lands he had sent his army of wizards and soldiers out to subdue.
Matokin, according to General Weisel, feared such a future for himself. So, he meant to sustain the present.
Thus, again according to Weisel, he was preventing the Felk war commander from fully using the magical potential supposedly at his disposal. If the general was kept ignorant, he would be less inclined to use such resources; and so the war would continue. The free states of the south might even rise up against the Felk advance.
Treason. Purest treason.
Raven must, of course, find that Far Speak mage mentioned in her orders. Berkant. Yes, find Berkant and inform Matokin immediately of Weisel's disloyalty. Here obviously was why they wanted her to act as a spy. Matokin and Abraxis had suspected Weisel's treachery.
Well, she could confirm it.
She rolled off her bedroll, groping for the tent flap. Why hadn't she gone straight to Berkant after being dismissed from Weisel's tent? Shock, probably.
Her hand, somehow, did not reach the flap. Weisel wanted to know about magic. He himself wasn't a wizard, but he was plainly a cunning military strategist. Why was all knowledge of magic being denied him? What sense did that make?
Did that lack of knowledge actually impair his ability to operate this army? It... might. It certainly couldn't help him, what with this huge force of mixed mages and regular troops, each hostile to the other.
Is that what it was? Raven wondered in sudden dismay. Did this all come down to the basic enmity between magic-users and non-magic-users?
Was there a similar irrational bigotry between Matokin and Weisel?
It seemed impossible. Or maybe she just didn't want to give the thought any space in her head. There was so much at stake. The fate of the entire Isthmus hung in the balance. So did the future of the mighty Felk Empire, which would stand for hundredwinters and more ... unless foolish men undermined this great war of unification.
She had to find Berkant and inform Matokin. Weisel was a traitor. Or he was at least harboring treasonous views.
/> Yet, even now, her hand would not part the tent's flap. After a long time she dropped it, and laid back down on her bedroll. She didn't sleep that night, so full was her head with doubts and distress.
BRYCK (4)
THE FIRST ATTEMPT squeezed his skull sharply and briefly, while a cold sweat broke out across his body. That was distinctly uncomfortable in the chilly morning.
Despite this, he persisted. The first attempt would naturally be the most difficult.
He had dedicated himself to this vengeance. Hardships would come with that. U'delph had suffered.
U'delph had met its end brutally, ferociously. He could at least endure a throbbing head and short fever chill.
Nonetheless, he stopped for a hot breakfast before trying the second one. The first had succeeded. So did this. It was also less taxing. As with the vox-mellifluous, Bryck had practiced this. It too was a talent that needed honing, but since the death of his old life he had found himself more disciplined in this one.
It was a sizzling kabob he'd eaten, the meat braised and the flavor startling but good. The same vendor was hawking cups of stife, a sharp-smelling green wine.
"Wouldn't be Lacfoddalmendowl without it." This was said with an ingratiating semitoothless grin. It didn't entice Bryck into buying the drink.
He wended the streets. If by now every avenue and alley of Callah wasn't intimately familiar to him, then he had a more than rough idea of the city's layout. He had planned today's route carefully.
Today he meant to see a great deal of Callah.
Today the very air crackled. There was a palpable sense of jubilee—heard in every voice, seen in virtually every face, felt as he made his way among the milling, churning people. Songs whipped through the crowds. Felk occupation or not, evidently Lacfoddalmendowl would be celebrated.
It was of course the city's Felk conquerors that were permitting this festival. Without official approval, this mighty hullabaloo would have already been suppressed by the armed patrols. But the Felk governor of Callah— a colonel named Jesile, who resided at the Registry— had sent out the criers with the decree. A limited form of the old traditional Callahan holiday was to be allowed, though the curfew would remain in effect and some of the more boisterous customary events would be curtailed.
Wartorn: Resurrection w-1 Page 16
