Wartorn: Resurrection w-1

by Robert Asprin

  "Well," Jesile said, "I will not publicly deny the rumors."

  "I think that's wise," Aquint said. Callah's citizens had been kept purposely isolated. A lack of knowledge about the Isthmus at large helped keep the people controlled. It would only weaken the Felk hold on the city if Jesile acknowledged the rumor's existence.

  The governor gave Aquint a look that made it clear he didn't particularly care what the Internal Security agent thought about the matter.

  "There's something else," Jesile continued grudgingly. "Something much more urgent."

  The governor produced two notes of Felk scrip. They were the blue ones that represented gold coins. Jesile held them up, side by side.

  "One of my off-duty soldiers noticed that an inordinate amount of money seemed to be changing hands in the marketplace right next to this building," Jesile said grimly. "Trade has been suspended for the duration among the city-states. Therefore, Callah is a closed economy. It was odd, then, that simple vendors should be in possession of so much money."

  Aquint, confused, was peering at the blue notes the governor was still dangling.

  "This is a legitimate gold note, printed by a special mint in Felk." He raised his other hand. "This is an incredibly skillful forgery."

  Aquint's eyes widened. "How can you tell?" The notes looked exactly alike to him.

  ' Jesile sighed again. "I almost hate to admit it, but it was one of the magicians in my garrison who discovered it. She cast some sort of divining spell. Apparently it's very specialized magic."

  "So," Aquint said, "if this wizard of yours can weed out the fake notes from the real—"

  The governor favored him with a stony glare. "She can't very well examine every single scrip note in Callah to determine its authenticity."

  Jesile suddenly crumbled both notes into a blue wad.

  "Gods know how much counterfeit money is circulating out there right now," the Felk governor spat. "But I want whoever is responsible/'

  Aquint managed to contain his glee until he and Cat were out of the building. It was nearing curfew.

  "Well," he said to his young companion, slapping the boy's shoulders, "it looks like there's serious unrest in Callah after all."

  "That sounds like work for us," Cat grumbled.

  "Yes. It also means job security." Aquint chuckled as they headed along the street. Though he wasn't in the habit of praying, he paused to silently thank the gods for whoever was stirring things up here in his old home city.

  PRAULTH (4)

  IT WAS A large campus, but news, when it was compelling enough, could travel at impressive speed.

  There was, of course, gossip; but gossip meant tawdry murmurings about romantic trysts, the exaggeratedly strange personal habits of instructors, and news—factual and otherwise—about academic advancements and demotions. The lowest-phase students, those most susceptible to dismissal from the University, existed in a kind of perpetual fear. Many were desperate to stay at Febretree, escaping unpleasant lives back home or zealously devoted to achieving the higher rankings of Thinker or even Attaché. Gossip was a cheap form of entertainment to take one's mind off one's troubles, particularly when jammed into some airless dormitory.

  So, when Praulth at last irritably pushed herself from her desk to answer the hammering at her door and found the lowly first-phase pupil there, she wasn't inclined to take much heed.

  The student, a boy a few years her junior, was jabbering excitedly—and not a little bit enjoying the supposedly dire news he was imparting. Among the rush of words, she heard Master Honnis's name. The watch was late. Xink was off attending Mistress Cestrello.

  "Speak clearly. You're addressing a Thinker."

  It was almost comical to hear herself invoking her academic rank. She rarely thought of herself as a student anymore. Her role was more active than that, she had learned. She wasn't studying the history of war any longer; she was helping create it.

  The Battle of Torran Flats ...

  The boy continued his breathless babbling.

  It smelled of a prank, though she had not been subjected to such torments since her first-phase days. Patience, however, hadn't been with her lately, and she finally slammed shut the door, locking it.

  Maps were spread over the desk. Honnis was still feeding her field reports, and she was still playing along, continuing their project of studying the Felk war. Just as she was continuing her relationship with Xink, though she knew that Honnis had arranged it, knew that the old... old devil had manipulated her. That heartless sack of bones.

  She sat, examining the maps, as she had done most of the day. The Felk had abruptly halted a short distance from Trael. What was Weisel up to? She wanted to know. So did Honnis. And so doubtlessly did Premier Cultat, with whom Honnis was in contact.

  A moment later Praulth heard the sound of a latchkey finding the lock that she'd insisted be installed. She wanted privacy here in the Blue Annex. She didn't shy from making demands these days. Xink entered the chamber.

  He did not meet her eyes. That, too, wasn't unusual these days. Things had changed between the two of them, drastically. But something more seemed amiss now.

  "What's wrong?"

  "You haven't heard?" Those blue eyes of his, flecked with gold, showed white all around. His complexion tended toward the pale, but now his face looked almost bloodless.

  "Let's presume I haven't," she snapped. Until recently she wouldn't have dared speak to him in such a tone. That stage of their relationship was over.

  "I sent a messenger to tell you. A first-phase student. It's Master Honnis—"

  That got her up from her comfortable chair a second time. She grabbed her robe from its hook by the door, twirling it onto herself. Whatever this was, it wasn't a prank.

  'Tell me on the way," she said.

  THE UNIVERSITY'S FACULTY was housed at the center of the campus, within a separate complex of structures dating back to the institution's founding. These interconnected and quaintly aging buildings were encircled by shrubbery and overgrowing trees that had supposedly been manicured gardens once. The semi-wild growths served to isolate the compound.

  Praulth hesitated on the path that bridged its way onto this island. The autumn night was cool, and a rising and falling wind rolled through the turning leaves. The way ahead looked ominous.

  With Xink at her side, she crossed the path and entered the complex. Inside, they hurried through passageways. The interior was much shabbier than she would have guessed, but the antique buildings had a charm that the rest of the University's structures lacked. There was a warm penetrating scent of age here, and of paper, ink, knowledge, perhaps even wisdom.

  She had never visited this place, but she knew where Honnis's quarters were. An upper level—she'd had the circular window pointed out to her once. Praulth found stairs and bustled upward, her heart pounding hard in her chest.

  A trio of instructors passed murmurs among themselves before a door. The door was ajar, and from within a sharp unpleasant voice barked.

  At last Praulth checked her headlong dash. Master Honnis was alive. So Xink had assured her.

  The three instructors turned with deliberate slowness to regard her. It was likely she wasn't terribly popular among the faculty nowadays. She had been an exemplary pupil once, blazing a diligent trail toward a rare kind of academic excellence. Now she was ... what? Someone else.

  Only a small part of her—the younger, innocent Praulth—still cared about pleasing the University's faculty. That individual seemed to disintegrate a bit more with every passing watch.

  She pushed through the robed instructors, hearing Honnis's snarl beyond the door. It was usual for the elderly man to be disagreeable; it wasn't normal for him to be so energetic about it. He had always been one to favor the icy glower over the shrill reprimand.

  His quarters were, in their way, as austere as the student's cell she had occupied before relocating to the Blue Annex. It was a small space, the ceiling quite low. There was a lamp, cot,
stool, a simple square table. Dense pebbled glass in the circle of the window.

  The room was also thick with paper. Parchments were everywhere, in stacks, in drifts, obliterating every corner. Some were pages, some were in the form of the scrolls that were favored in the north. Not a single sheet of any of it could possibly be organized, it was so scattered.

  Xink waited outside. Praulth saw Master Honnis on the cot. He was arguing with the campus surgeon, a man named Chiegel. Chiegel, with perfect aplomb, was lecturing Honnis on the value of bed rest, and the University's war studies head was telling him what practical methods the Skrall No't tribe of barbarians in the Northland used to dispose of their wounded. Chiegel responded to nothing Honnis said. That made the exchange equal.

  Finally it was done. Chiegel exited the chamber, and Honnis's eyes fell on Praulth.

  "I see now what is required to merit a visit from you."

  Honnis's dark features settled into a cast she didn't quite recognize. Now that Chiegel was gone, the ire had gone out of him. Something had happened, obviously. Something dire.

  She had not seen or spoken directly to him since the night of Premier Cultat's secret visit. That night Praulth had learned those awful truths about how Honnis had exploited her.

  "Are you well?" The cliché was out before she was aware of speaking it.

  It was a display of vast uncharacteristic politeness that he ignored it. "I have things to tell you, if you'll hear them. They are important. Some perhaps only to myself."

  Xink had told her that Master Honnis had collapsed suddenly in a corridor. It had happened only a watch ago.

  "I'll hear." She closed the door and came to the foot of the cot, being careful where she stepped. The quantity of paper in the room truly was astounding, more than most individuals of wealth could comfortably afford.

  Honnis's inner irascible fire had always lent him figurative size. Lying on the cot now, though, he seemed to inhabit only the meek bodily dimensions that his great age had left him.

  "I am at least as old as you imagine I am," he said, cutting into her thoughts. "Likely I'm much older than what you'd guess. I have, for several years now, been sustaining my existence with the aid of

  rejuvenation magic."

  Praulth bunked. Obviously Honnis had been laid low by some attack or seizure. But... had his mind been affected as well? It was a deeply disturbing thought.

  "Who has been practicing this ... magic ... on you?" she asked.

  "I have been doing it myself."

  She drew her lower lip softly between her teeth.

  "Your next question is, am I a wizard? Perhaps. I have some knowing, a knowledge that once, long ago in other lands, would have been fairly commonplace. But we live in a fearful age here on our sad little Isthmus."

  There was sorrow in that gaunt, aged face. How sad he looked, how pitiful. Praulth felt something wrench in her chest.

  "But I am past a fixed point. Rejuvenation magic is-dangerous, and I've cheated that danger some while now. It's fair and right that it should be satisfied soon. Don't grieve me!"

  The twin tracks of Praulth's sudden tears seemed to freeze on her cheeks at his command.

  "I didn't waste my life," he explained, his voice now assuming an unfamiliar gentleness. "I have lived long, and I have done many things. Accomplishments that preceded my arrival here at Febretree. I've known pity and arrogance and anger and love. I have grown concerned these past few years over the rise of magic in the north. I... secretly feared what has come to pass."

  "The Felk war?"

  "A war of magic." His white-fringed head shook once, sharply. "I made Cultat aware of these doings some time ago. Of Matokin, a powerful mage, rising to power in Felk. Of the founding of the Academy, where wizards were trained to be part of an army. All the indicators were there. This war has been inevitable for several years."

  Praulth furtively wiped her eyes.

  Honnis's hand moved beneath his bedclothes. He was now holding a single glove in his lap.

  "I am still in contact with the premier. And with the scouts I convinced Cultat to deploy into the field to observe the Felk advancements. Those scouts come from a particular noble house in Petgrad, traditionally and clandestinely trained in arts that have, with time, fallen out of favor."

  Praulth gazed at the glove.

  "You don't believe me," Honnis said.

  "Master—"

  "Why should you?" Some of his normal vehemence returned. "You know nothing of magic. You're as ignorant as everyone else on this miserable Isthmus of ours. Everyone, that is, except one wily wizard in the north, who tapped into a power that has gone witlessly neglected and nearly forgotten for hundredwinters and more."

  Praulth chose her words carefully. "It is true that I don't know much regarding magic. But I accept that the Felk military is employing it." She had seen detailed maps of what had happened at U'delph, how General Weisel used the transport portals to move his forces.

  "Then," Honnis said, a bit out of breath, drained by his outburst, "you have faith in something that most people turn away from in prejudicial fear. Magic is natural. And like most natural things, it is also dangerous."

  He lifted the glove. Praulth saw, with some alarm, that Honnis's hand could not hold it steady.

  "You have wondered from the start how I have been providing you with current intelligence of the Felk movements occurring so far away."

  "Yes," Praulth said honestly. "I have wondered."

  "Far Speak."

  "Master?"

  "Communication magic. This glove belongs to one of the elite scouts dispatched by Cultat. That scout, in turn, possesses an item of mine, something I've handled often, that has essentially taken on something of my ... spirit, if you will."

  "Spirit?" Praulth retreated from the word. It had no place in her world of cool logic and deductive

  insight.

  Honnis gritted his teeth. "By the sanity of the gods, Thinker Praulth, don't close your mind now."

  "My apologies, Master Honnis." How strange. Only a watch ago she had been silently cursing this man. Now she was affording him all the courtesies of his academic status. Not to mention the respect she owed him as her mentor.

  Yet Honnis had betrayed her. How could she forgive that... even if this was his deathbed?

  "Everyone," Honnis pronounced, "has the capacity to work magic. But the facility for it is another matter. It is a penchant, no different from the distinct ability to, say, understand at a fundamental level the strategies and cunning of a war commander who has been dead two and a half hundredwinters." "I see," said Praulth.

  "I don't believe you do." But he said it gently. "Tell me then."

  Honnis closed his eyes, drew a breath that rattled slightly. "Magic has a source. People commonly believe— if they believe at all—that practitioners draw on energies that are locked away inside themselves. Some even who use magic in a minor capacity believe this themselves. They don't know better, and they've not been formally taught otherwise. But magic doesn't come from within." She was curious. "Where then?" "Elsewhere. The source has as many names as the gods have faces. The Wellspring. The First Divinity. The Glorious Birth."

  She puzzled over the names. They sounded archaic, superstitious.

  "It is the place from which we come," said Honnis, "and to where we are all restored. It is a reality of great energy, of vast power."

  "A reality?" Praulth felt herself frowning as her logical mind instinctively picked apart Honnis's words. "Are you implying that there is a reality other than this one?" "It is self-evident." "How so?" "This reality is life. What is life's opposite?"

  "I am not Master Turogo's pupil," she said. Turogo headed the philosophy council. "I am yours." This last came out somewhat hoarsely.

  "Life's opposite is ... ?" pressed Honnis.

  "Death," Praulth said, with a small shrug.

  "That is yet another name. The oldest."

  She wasn't following. She wasn't even convinced this
was leading anywhere. But she had promised to hear this man's words. Then, what he had said registered.

  "Are you saying," Praulth whispered, "that magic taps into a reality beyond this one ... beyond life? Its source is—death? That makes no sense." In truth, all this was greatly offensive to her rational mind. She accepted the authenticity of magic. The Felk had used it in their war, and war was a reality not to be denied. But this babble about the Wellspring or whatever Honnis had said—

  "From which we come and to where we are restored," the elderly instructor repeated. His eyes had remained closed. Now he opened them, peering up at Praulth.

  She felt the impulse to go to him, to kneel by the cot, take his hand. But she didn't know if such actions would be welcome. She remained standing.

  "I am dying because the rejuvenation spells are failing," said Honnis. "Also because I have strained myself by exercising the Far Speak magic. Death is not evil. Life is not good. Both are potent forces, as all opposites are. Both draw great power from the other."

  He needed to pause again, for another labored breath.

  "Matokin has reawakened magic in this reality to a degree it has not known for many, many years," he continued. "He has produced many practitioners. He has schooled his mages in magic's methods, but he has taught nothing of the ethics of the art. They don't grasp the consequences of what they do. Only the most powerful—the Far Movement mages, I would say—would know anything of the Wellspring. Most would only know that with enough training, with the proper incantations and gestures and discipline, they can achieve spectacular feats."

  Praulth absorbed this. "But what are the consequences?"

  The thinnest of smiles touched Honnis's lips. It was startling nonetheless to see any sort of smile on his face.

  "They are using Far Movement magic," he said. "Opening doorways, portals. They are entering the reality beyond this. They are flirting with dangers that perhaps Matokin himself doesn't even understand."

  It was Praulth's turn to press. "Yes—but what are those dangers?" A coldness spread through her.