The Mages of Bennamore

by Pauline M. Ross

  I hesitated. I could tell the door was locked. With a sideways glance at me, Tarn reached for the doorknob. It turned in her hand, but without effect.

  “Hmm.” She stood back, hands on hips. “You had better do… whatever it is you do.”

  Again I hesitated. Had she seen me lock the door before? I wasn’t sure. I dithered and then self-consciously reached for a hairpin.

  Tarn smiled. “You need not pretend with me. You have a strong connection with metal, that is clear.”

  It ought to have been a relief that she knew and understood, but it wasn’t. I’d known about my connection since I was a small child, but it had been a deep secret. My greatest fear was of discovery. If my mother had known what I could do, she’d have sent me to the deeps, for sure. Even now I dreaded being caught out, and Tarn’s casual acceptance terrified me.

  Taking a deep breath, I put my fingers to the lock and willed it to open. The pins slid soundlessly. I turned the knob and we went through. This time I remembered to lock the door behind us.

  The cellar was cool and dark, with just a little light at the far end penetrating through half-moon windows high up on the walls. Arched bays held shelves laden with barrels, boxes and jars, and hooks suspended from wooden beams kept sacks of grains out of the reach of rodents.

  “Oh, the spice cellar,” Tarn murmured. “I miscounted.”

  That was the strong aroma, then. As we made our way down the length of the cellar, the smell became stronger and I began to pick out one or two distinctive spices from the medley. Tarn tutted over some spilled flour, and spotted a leaking barrel of oil. I was just astonished at the array of goods here, the shelves full to overflowing and the numerous bulging grain sacks at a time of year when most dwellings were eking out supplies until the harvest.

  At the far end of the cellar was an unlocked door, and Tarn swept through it without hesitation, turning into the passage beyond and leading the way to broad stone stairs. We emerged at the top into a large square vestibule, bustling with activity as servants scurried to and from the kitchens opposite.

  A stately woman with grey hair pulled into a severe knot stood outside the kitchens, watching the comings and goings with a frown. When she saw Tarn, she gaped momentarily, then moved towards us, her wide skirts giving her the air of a ship in full sail.

  She bowed low from the waist, back spear-straight. “Good afternoon, Honourable. May I assist you?”

  “You may indeed, Mistress Controller. I find the spice cellar is in disarray. Attend to it.”

  Her eyes widened. “At once, Honourable. My abject apologies, Honourable.”

  She sailed off, shouting orders to various underlings.

  We strolled out to a broad corridor, passing pastry rooms and sculleries and still rooms. Beyond was one of the formal galleries, but Tarn ducked down a narrow passage and found a side entrance, decanting us into a functional courtyard filled with washing on lines, hanging limply in the humid air. After the cool tunnels, the outside air was stuffy and cloying.

  We clung to the shadows, as Tarn led the way through a bewildering array of courtyards, gardens and connecting paths and archways. Eventually, she brought me to a modest circular tower tucked into a corner of a courtyard filled with flowers, their scent heavy in the air.

  “Home,” she said, waving me towards the heavy door. “It is never locked, so your services will not be required.” She grinned at me, curls bobbing.

  Inside, she took me into a formal room, decorated in pale silks and delicately embroidered hangings.

  “Goddess, I need a drink.” She poured wine into goblets made with the thin green glass which hadn’t been produced for more than a hundred years. “Here.” She pushed a glass into my hand. “Drink to the success of our enterprise.”

  I sipped, and she giggled girlishly. “That was fun, was it not? We must go exploring again sometime. You have a very useful skill for such endeavours. Now, now, dear, do not look so embarrassed. You may trust me not to breathe a word. I rather hoped that was the reason for your success with locks, but I hardly expected such a strong connection. And you have kept it secret all this time. That takes some doing.”

  “My mother hated anything of that type. If a servant had an obvious connection, she would get rid of them at once. One boy had a wonderful way with animals, so useful in the stables, but she would not have him in the Hold.”

  “Well, I can understand that. It is unsettling to see a strong connection in action. Now, my own connection is more modest.”

  “You have a connection too?”

  “Indeed I do, dear. I have the ability to make everyone trust me. I can say and do the most outrageous things, but people trust me implicitly. Ah! You feel it too. I can see it in your face.”

  That accounted for how comfortable I felt with her. It would make her an exceptionally good diplomat, too. “That is how you managed to keep all the allied Holdings on board when you became Holder,” I said, enlightened.

  She chuckled. “Indeed. It has its uses. I am not sure it would have helped with those two guards today, though. Swords are difficult to convince.”

  “Not so difficult for me,” I said. “Swords are such finely tempered metals that they bend to my will quite easily.”

  “Literally?”

  I nodded. “Although it takes time. I have to concentrate. I have never tried it with swordsmen about to run me through.”

  “Ha! Fascinating. So perhaps we could have dealt with the guards.”

  “Best not to put it to the test,” I said. “I think we did better to escape.”

  “True. But—” A frown. “It is annoying. I was so sure your mage would be there. I am quite out of ideas now.”

  “We will have to leave it to the Bennamorians, then.”

  A wary look crossed her face. “Hmm. I am not sure how that is going to work out. The Holder is determined not to allow the mages free access to the Hold.”

  “And the mages are equally determined that he shall. The question of Hestaria’s disappearance has to be answered.”

  She looked sideways at me. “The question has to be asked, certainly. Beyond that – well, dear, let us hope for the best. More wine?”

  19: Perfume

  Tarn came back to the Rillett House with me to share evening table and tell the Bennamorians all about our excursion. She had such a pleasant, easy way to her that they were all entranced with the story, and asked few questions. Such a useful trait, inspiring implicit trust in everyone around you.

  She glossed over the details of my skill with locks. She had to admit to unlocking the main tower door, but she made light of it, as if she’d simply produced a key. There were groans of disappointment as she described our modest findings in the tower. Then our chase through the tunnels became a thrilling adventure, far more exciting than it had seemed at the time, sloshing through sewage in the terrifying darkness.

  As the tale ended, Losh nodded in satisfaction. “This is excellent news, Mistress. Quite excellent! At least now we know that Hestaria was held against her will, and is undoubtedly still within the Hold somewhere.”

  “We can’t be sure it was her in that room,” Mal said, ever the realist. “We can’t be sure she’s still alive, even.”

  Everyone groaned. Mal’s pessimism was something of a joke, but I had to agree with him this time. I was beginning to feel that the mage must have been disposed of. Whatever they’d hoped to gain by keeping her prisoner, they couldn’t hold her indefinitely. Even if she gave them what she wanted, would they simply let her go, to run back to Bennamore and complain of their treatment of her? Hardly. Sooner or later she would have to be dealt with on a more permanent basis.

  The only question was whether they had got what they wanted from her, and what that might be. Information? Details about Bennamore, perhaps. Had they wanted her to spy for them? But they could do that easily enough themselves. They had spies even here within the mages’ household. The two moon-faced girls sitting cuddling their guard husban
ds were listening avidly; they would undoubtedly report every word. And Tarn had more discreet spies somewhere. Undoubtedly they had agents at the Bennamore capital.

  More likely it was her magic they wanted. Ish had always taken a strong interest in the mages, supporting Hestaria and Gret from the moment they arrived, and transferring his attention to Losh and Kael. It struck me now how many questions he had asked me about them. Did he want their magic, for some reason? And if so, why not ask openly for it? For anything legal, the mages would be happy to oblige. I couldn’t avoid the conclusion that there was some less legitimate objective. That was a worrying thought.

  I sat and ate in silence while the wine flowed and the rest of the party devolved into festival mood. Tarn had that effect on people. Mal said nothing at all to me, glowering every time he caught my eye. Instead, he turned all his attention on Tarn, smiling and simpering and flirting outrageously, as he did to any woman not an absolute crone. Then he offered to escort her back to the Hold, creeping through my room to his own bed hours later, reeking of expensive perfumed candle smoke.

  Odious man. Just as well I didn’t care what he did.

  ~~~~~

  Gret arrived a couple of days later, and the famed delegation turned out to be a lawyer, a couple of guards (as if we didn’t have enough already) and one very elderly mage, so frail that he looked as if the slightest breeze would push him over. His name was Temerren, and his reason for being part of the delegation was a claimed ability to determine unequivocally if someone was lying. It seemed very odd to me that Mal, who wasn’t a mage at all, could do this without any trouble using the belt with the jade stones, while the mages with their fancy vessels were quite unreliable. But then the ways of magic were a mystery to me.

  Gret was all for going straight to the Hold to interrogate everyone from Ish down to the scullery servants, and squeeze the truth out of them. It was idiotic, of course. It was late afternoon, and no one would agree to anything of the sort at that time of day. Losh eventually got her to see sense. I suggested that we compose a note to send to the Hold, formally requesting an audience with the Holder for the following day. This distracted Gret for a while, but over evening table Losh told her all about my expedition to the Bell Tower, and she went into spasms of fury again.

  It was very tedious. Anger was not going to get her the answers she sought, but civility and respect and polite persistence might. Well, she had the persistence, I suppose.

  Mal went out again after evening table, and came back long after midnight. This time the perfume hanging about him was a heavier, musky scent, the sort of thing a high ranking woman might wear when in seductive mood.

  Gret summoned her forces first thing the following morning, taking all four mages, six guards, the lawyer and (for some unknown reason) the horse-master. They left for the Hold right after morning table, which guaranteed a long wait in an ante-chamber until protocol deemed it appropriate for the Holder to appear in public. I imagined Gret pacing up and down, fanning the flames of her anger into an inferno, while Losh kept up a soothing patter.

  I wasn’t at all confident that she would get her wish for an official investigation, supervised by Bennamorians. Despite the stern letter from the Drashon, there was no obligation to comply, for the treaty expressly left such matters as they were. A year ago, the victorious High Commander was only interested in taxes, not the law, and it was a bit late to argue the point now.

  Sure enough, well before noon Gret was back. Ish had refused to countenance any form of Bennamorian investigation. The Hold had already conducted a detailed investigation on its own account, and he was satisfied that nothing useful could be achieved by initiating another.

  “That pompous man! I have never seen such arrogance, and self-serving inflexibility. What was the point of annexing this uncivilised country if not to impose better procedures?”

  “Really, Gret, I do not think—” But she swept round Losh’s gentle remonstrances.

  “I have never been treated so appallingly! And we know Hestaria was there, it is quite certain, yet they do nothing to help. It is outrageous.”

  She rattled on, and no one had the nerve to interrupt the spate.

  It was only when she began to calculate how long it would take to muster the army and get them to Dristomar that Losh intervened more firmly.

  “That is a matter for the Drashon, Gret, as you know perfectly well. It is his request which is being ignored here. The insult is to him and to his authority, not to us.”

  “Also, let’s remember that we know nothing for certain about Hesta being there,” Mal said. “It’s all speculation.”

  “Perhaps we could look at the treaty,” I added hastily. “The sub-clauses are quite complex. Perhaps we can find some grounds to persuade the Holder to reconsider.”

  That proved to be a happy idea, for it gave Gret something positive to work towards. I had seen a copy of the treaty at the library, and Ish had discussed some aspects of it, but we would need to send for our own copy and analyse it in some detail. Gret was delighted with the idea, and I left her to confer with the lawyer on the best method of obtaining a copy.

  Just after noon table, the house controller brought me a note, or rather, a screwed-up scrap of paper, damp from being clutched in the sticky hand of the messenger boy. The writing inside was neat, however, with the elegant curves and flourishes embellishing each word that spoke of the most expensive education. Such a script was intended to grace formal documents or romantic love-notes, but the content on this occasion was far more practical.

  ‘Please come to the Red Sail bar, upper floor. Tarn.’

  I asked the house controller for directions, and found myself heading for the eastern end of the harbour. I’m not usually nervous about harbour-side bars and soup houses. In Carrinshar, I’d found them perfectly safe, even at night, and a good source of cheap food. But the near-riot that the mages sparked had dented my confidence rather, and Dristomar’s harbour district had rather an unsavoury reputation, well-known throughout the Port Holdings.

  The Red Sail, however, looked respectable enough. Its doors and window frames had been painted sometime in the last decade, so it was less decrepit than most waterfront establishments, and it was almost directly opposite the landward end of the harbour wall. This would make it a natural target for the wealthy business owners who promenaded there on fine afternoons, making their deals and discussing tides and ships and trades. To one side of the bar was a plush lodging house, suitable for visiting captains, and on the other an expensive tailor’s shop. This was not the sort of bar which ended every brightmoon with fights and broken furniture.

  The Red Sail occupied a long, thin building of several storeys, with the narrow end facing the harbour. Inside it was light and airy, with rugs on the floor, lamps burning despite the sunshine outside and servers in uniform. A few tables were occupied by patrons eating meals on trays. I was hit by a wave of nostalgia, for tray houses were a common feature in Shannamar and rare elsewhere. When I was a child, it was a treat to be taken out by one of my older brothers or sisters for a meal at such a place. It was a banquet on a tray, with tiny bowls of soup, rich savoury stews and hot meat, smoked fish, bread, cheese, thimbles of mashed fruit with honey, and always a few sweeties, kept for last so I could savour the taste all the way home.

  I had hardly begun to look about for Tarn before a stately matron, cap ribbons flowing, bore down on me.

  “Mistress Fen? Greetings and welcome. Please to follow me.”

  I couldn’t quite place her accent. She was not local, certainly, but neither was she Bennamorian. Icthari, perhaps. She had the colouring for it. She led me to the main staircase halfway down the room, and with measured steps proceeded upwards. On the floor above, painted screens and small hangings divided the space into secluded nooks, presumably for discreet business or other assignations. The next floor held tables for gaming with bones or coin, and above that the private rooms and hint of flowery perfume that suggested female co
mpany for the lonely travellers below. And still we climbed.

  The top floor was quite different. The landing at the top of the stairs was lit by a skylight, revealing a single heavy door. The matron opened it on noiseless hinges. She waved me through. Inside, a house controller ushered me to a room filled with light. The whole far wall was glass, with the sea spread out before me like a sparkling, ever-moving carpet. I walked, dazzled, towards the window, and there below me was the eastern harbour, the jetties lined with a rich assortment of ships, rising and falling gently on the swell.

  “It is beautiful, do you not agree?”

  I hadn’t even noticed Tarn, I was so blinded by the view. Once I tore my eyes from it, I realised I was in a study, but a very feminine one, with soft, pale rugs, silk-covered sofas and furniture in the light, simple style favoured by the secretive herders who lived in the hills to the north of Dristomar. Tarn was seated at a desk, with a man beside her, account books open in front of them.

  “We will finish this later, Drinnet,” she said. “Or tomorrow, perhaps. Off you go.”

  “Honourable.” He bowed low, and withdrew.

  She sighed. “The man has managed this place for thirty years or more, yet still he insists on the protocol.”

  “Very proper for an employee,” I murmured.

  She shook her head, but with a smile. “So what do you think of my little business, dear?”

  “It is a very nice brothel and gaming house.”

  That brought a gurgle of laughter. “Oh, indeed it is, the very best brothel and gaming house in Dristomar, dear. The women fight for a room here, and our games are very sophisticated.”

  “And profitable.”

  “There would be no point in it, otherwise,” she said equably. “You disapprove? I see it in your face. Come, sit down. A little wine?”

  “I do not disapprove of the industry,” I said, while she poured wine into plain metal goblets. “There will always be prostitution and gaming, after all. But you are the Moon Holder! It is – not usual to own businesses.”