Northern Storm ac-2

by Juliet E. McKenna

  ‘Don’t wet yourself just yet, girlie,’ Dev said slowly, eyes fixed on the distant dragon, face thoughtful. ‘I don’t think it’s coming this way.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Kheda watched, breath catching in his chest at the beast cut lazy arcs across the sky. They stood in a tense silence broken only by Itrac’s arrival.

  ‘Kheda.’ She managed to walk across the bridge to the observatory isle with commendable poise, leaving the gaggle of terrified maids behind. ‘What does it mean?’ Her voice rose to a perilous pitch. ‘It’s heading back west,’ murmured Dev. ‘Are you sure?’ Kheda hissed.

  Dev nodded, turning the gesture into a florid bow that Itrac didn’t even notice, all her attention on Kheda. ‘It means we’re removing ourselves to the rainy season residence just as soon as our household can make ready to leave,’ Kheda said firmly, calmly, as he walked towards her. ‘In case it gets curious and comes for a closer look.’ He took her hands as Itrac shivered with revulsion. ‘See, my lady, it’s going away. We’re safe enough for the moment. All the same, I want you and all those beholden to us well out of its way. I don’t want even the shadow of its wings falling on you.’

  And I want Dev as far away from the beast as possible, in case he betrays us all with some slip of magic. I might just save myself by cutting his throat, but I can’t afford to do that until this woman of his has brought us some way to defeat the dragon.

  ‘You have killed beasts bigger than this creature.’ He raised his voice to address the gathering crowd. ‘Chazen boats have fought and conquered whales out on the ocean deep year after year. Chazen is the only domain to go hunting whales, instead of waiting for them to strand themselves on the shore. You have chased and defeated sea serpents that no other domain’s men dared to pursue, even when their nets and fish traps were being ripped to pieces. This dragon can summon up fire by some unnatural magic polluting its blood, so we had better not underestimate it, but we faced men with magic and the wit to work malice with it besides last year. We defeated them.

  ‘We’ll fight this dragon, once we learn its weaknesses, and we’ll fight it on ground of our own choosing,’ he continued, putting an arm around Itrac. ‘In the meantime, a planned retreat is no rout and no mischief-making by anyone who wishes Chazen ill can make it one. It’s no great challenge. You’ve a practised routine, even if we weren’t expecting to make this move for a few more turns of the Greater Moon.’

  Confusion stirred among the slaves and servants, surprise at seeing their lord so composed outweighing their incipient fear.

  ‘You’ll need to keep a firm hold on everything,’ Kheda warned Itrac in a low voice, ‘or we’ll find ourselves caught up in a panic regardless.’

  ‘Familiar tasks should calm everyone’s nerves.’ She was still trembling but she set her jaw.

  ‘I still have to check with the courier-dove loft,’ Kheda realised suddenly. ‘In case there’s news from the Mist Dove:

  Which would be worse: bad news or no news at all?

  ‘Come and tell me anything you find out.’ Itrac stepped forward, quelling her women’s questions with a flurry of rapid instructions. ‘Pack your lord’s clothes and his jewels. Start stripping the beds and the furniture. Send for Beyau. He needs to see to it that the observatory is cleared. We’re sailing for Esabir.’

  Kheda watched her go.

  Chazen’s people have mettle and so does their lady.

  ‘Looks like an ant heap someone’s stirred with a stick.’ Dev stared out over the lagoon where the galleys and triremes seethed with activity to match that on the land.

  ‘I’d better find the Green Turtle? Risala scanned the bustling scene.

  ‘Dev, go and play the proper slave for once and see that my rooms are packed up properly.’ Kheda jerked his head towards his personal pavilion. ‘Risala, wait, come with me for a moment.’

  ‘If it’s quick enough for him it’ll be no good for you, my girl,’ Dev said over his shoulder as he strolled away.

  ‘What is it?’ Risala followed Kheda into the hallway.

  ‘This.’ He opened a tall black cabinet inlaid with nacre and countless coloured woods. It was full of small, closely fitted drawers. Kheda pulled them open, searching, heedless as he pulled too hard and several clattered to the floor. ‘This.’ He turned to Risala holding a twist of carved ivory pierced and threaded on a leather thong.

  I found this, raw and unearned, on that voyage to the north, that led me to you, as well as to Dev and the means to defeat the wild mages. I saw it as a sign I was on the right path, as I carved it into something I thought only existed in myth. I was certainly blind to that portent.

  ‘The dragon’s tail.’ There was a strange edge to Risala’s unexpected laugh. ‘It doesn’t look much like the real thing, does it?’ She pressed her hands to her face. ‘We never saw this in it, did we?’

  ‘I don’t suppose the poet whose descriptions I had in mind when I carved it had ever seen the real thing. There’s probably some significance in that but I haven’t got time to worry about it.’ Kheda hurried forward and hung the talisman around her neck. ‘We can’t second-guess the past and I’m more concerned with the future. It may just be a way of reading the stars but all the forefathers in every domain say the opposite arc of the sky to a moon is where the dragon’s tail lies.’ He stumbled over his words. ‘And that’s where the unseen portents lie, because the dragon never looks behind it. I don’t want it looking at you.’

  Risala seized his face and drew him to her, kissing him with desperate passion. Then with a suddenness that left him standing there, shocked, she tore herself away and ran out of the building.

  Chapter Nine

  With the brightness of magic snuffed, the room felt smaller, darker, colder. Velindre felt as if the leaden grey of the sky above Hadrumal was seeping through the tall lancets of her window to dull the white plaster of the wall, dimming the parchments on the table before her. She shivered and waved a hand at the coal scuttle beside her hearth, sending a flurry of nuggets on to the glowing embers. She abandoned the table and sat on a footstool set before the fire, hugging her blue-gowned knees as she looked unseeing at the golden tongues of licking flame.

  So Dev was still enjoying cloudless blue skies and brilliant sun. He hadn’t drowned or burned in that dragon’s fires. There had to be plenty he could tell her, not least how he was managing to work magic as an Aldabreshin warlord’s trusted servant. Velindre shivered again, this time with revulsion. Tales of Aldabreshin savagery were no idle invention to frighten apprentices into caution. She’d learned that much from days and nights reading ceaselessly in the empty silence of Otrick’s study. The old wizard had been intrigued with the Archipelago, not least with the Archipelagan obsession with omens and portents. Velindre chewed at a thumbnail already bitten to the quick. The firelight struck threads of bright gold in her hair which was drawn back from her angular face in a thick, sleek plait, as usual. Dev reckoned the lore he needed so fast was to be found in the endless shelves of Hadrumal’s hushed libraries. No. Velindre had long since tired of reading reams of speculation and half-understood observations in the hope of satisfying any gnawing magical curiosity. Otrick had cured her of that.

  But what if she delivered such lore? Could she trust Dev’s promise of safe passage through the Archipelago? Could she trust him not to just take whatever she showed him and twist it to his own advantage? Could she afford to delay and debate such questions? If she was going to do all she’d boasted, she had precious little time to spare. And if she couldn’t, sure as curses no one else in Hadrumal would be able to. If she could, no one else in Hadrumal would ever doubt her abilities again. She sprang to her feet and crossed to the door in lithe strides, catching her dark cloak from its hook, swathing the cornflower blue of her high-necked gown as she hurried down the echoing stone stairs. The raw wet wind buffeted her as she emerged from the base of the tower. She waved an irritated hand and the wind swirled away, forbidden to stir even one pale hair escaping from he
r hood.

  ‘I want a fire for my feet and warm ale for my belly’

  ‘Let’s see what Brab and Derey think about the ocean’s currents.’

  A pair of apprentices threatened to cross her path. Youth and maiden both had wet hair plastered to their heads, faces tight with cold and their brown cloaks bulked out with books cradled safely in their arms. ‘Excuse me.’ Velindre swept past them with a shrug of indifference.

  Out beyond the ancient stone arch and the weathered oak gate the high road was busy, foul weather notwithstanding. Velindre threaded between men and women of different ranks and ages, master mage and raw apprentice all equal beneath heavy cloaks, hoods and hats worn against the drenching rain. Intent on their own occupations, the commonalty of Hadrumal hurried this way and that, their conversations focused on lives that owed little to wizard halls or affinities.

  ‘I said, I told him, you want to think who’ll be mending your stockings in ten years’ time before you go playing fast and loose with every girl who catches your eye.’

  ‘May I get past?’ Frustration building, Velindre found her progress curbed by a pair of slow-footed matrons with a handful of brats in tow. She reached a narrow side lane with relief and hurried between lofty stone walls stained dark with rain, her boots clacking on the slippery, sloping cobbles either side of a rain-filled gully. She cut across to take a back alley where the sodden, hard-trampled earth muffled her steps.

  Reaching the back gate of Atten Hall, she paused to catch her breath and compose her thoughts. The five chimes of midday sounded around her, the echoes of different timepieces tangled among Hadrumal’s towers. Good; her father would be rid of his pupils, or if not, her arrival would prompt their departure. He’d have half his mind on what the maid was bringing for his lunch, so he might just let slip what she needed to know.

  Pushing open the black iron gate, she walked up the flagstones running through the physic garden. The beds of rich soil were black and empty, neatly dug over and marked out with stones. Here and there, pale scraps of straw bore testament to the stable muck brought to nourish the sleeping herbs and seeds. Hardier shrubs were set back against the walls of the court, dark green and brown against the weathered stone. Withered creepers clutched at skeins of trellis, waiting for spring.

  This hall was centred on the broad, squat tower standing alone in the middle of the garden, a style Archmage Atten had brought from his mainland home long ago, along with the coterie of wizards who had chosen to follow his teachings. That tradition had long since outgrown the tower and now its topmost windows could barely see over the ranges of accommodation built inside the walls that enclosed it. Three had serried ranks of casements while the fourth had the long tripartite windows of a large hall where those hopeful mageborn invited by Atten’s successors sat at long tables to listen to instruction, to debate lofty concerns or, more prosaically, to eat their meals. Velindre advanced on the central tower, the door’s brass fittings gleaming in defiance of the weather. Inside, harsh matting was finally losing the battle with the mud of the winter. Velindre paused to wipe her boots and heard her own breath echoing in the hush. The stairs were a square spiral on the southern side of the tower. Subdued light filtered through broad mullioned windows on the landings leading to the apartments on every level. Some doors stood hospitably open, faint sounds of movement within. Others were closed on intense discussions just on the edge of hearing. Velindre ignored them all, heading for the topmost floor.

  Her father’s voice rang through the emptiness as his door opened, encouragement mingled with warning. ‘First thing in the morning, the day after tomorrow. I want arguments on both sides from all of you.’ A trio of apprentice mages appeared on the landing, two girls and a rangy youth not yet grown into his height. ‘There can’t be an alchemist from Selerima to Toremal who still believes in phlogiston,’ he protested under his breath, all the arrogance of the Imperial city in his accent. His linen shirt was snowy white, breeches and tunic impeccably tailored in sober grey broadcloth, only a trimming of scarlet buttons marking his affinity.

  ‘The Duke of Triolle, he’s been paying out gold for years to all manner of charlatans promising him the secret.’ The shorter of the girls shrugged; Lescari intonation as robust as her figure and the vivid red dress that flattered her pale skin and dark hair.

  ‘What would he do with it?’ wondered a willowy Caladhrian girl who’d opted for a pale-rose gown. ‘If it really existed’

  ‘I hate to think,’ muttered her female companion dandy. ‘Madam.’ The Tormalin youth caught sight of Velindre on the stairs and swept a creditable bow given the armful of books encumbering him. ‘Apprentice.’ Velindre inclined her head tautly as the trio hurried past her. Sudden laughter floated back up the stairs to be cut short by the slam of the door below. Velindre took a deep breath and knocked briefly on the open door. ‘Father?’

  ‘Come in,’ barked the stern voice. Velindre entered and blinked, frowning. ‘Do you have something against daylight, father?’

  ‘I’ve nothing against it.’ The old wizard sat shrouded in darkness by a hearth whose fire was no more than a feeble glow. ‘Nor yet any great interest in it, either. I’ll leave the skies to you cloud mages.’ His tone was uninterested.

  Velindre crossed the room with some difficulty, given the plethora of small tables laden with books and the countless volumes stacked on the floors. She reached the windows and tugged at heavy red velvet curtains, an exact match for the distempered walls.

  ‘You’ll get precious little light at this time of year,’ observed her father. ‘All you’ll do is let in draughts.’ You still think any apprentice who can’t illuminate his own reading isn’t worth teaching.’ Velindre managed to shed a thin shaft of light on the leather-backed chairs that ringed her father. For all the clutter, the room showed no speck of dust. No smudge marred the gleaming brass of the fender or the white marble of the fire mantel.

  ‘As rules of thumb go, I’ve always found it sound.’ The white-haired man said. He was sparely built, the height he’d boasted in his prime now bent into a stoop and the flesh fallen away from his aged bones. His face was gaunt, wrinkles carved deep on either side of his beak of a nose, eyes deep set above hollow cheeks. Eyes the same colour as Velindre’s burned with the same intensity, undimmed by the burden of his years. Straight and swept back with pomade, his hair was cut precisely at jaw length, his wrinkled chin clean-shaven above a knotted silk scarf. He wore an old-fashioned gown of maroon velvet over layered jerkins, one long-sleeved, one sleeveless, and knee-breeches the colour of old wine. Thick woollen stockings warmed his shrunken calves, his feet in soft leather shoes that gleamed with polish. Velindre approached and submitted to her father’s dry kiss on her forehead.

  ‘What do you want?’ prompted the old man briskly. ‘Spit it out, girl.’

  ‘Do you remember Dew’ Velindre sat on a chair and looked at the fire rather than her father.

  ‘Of course,’ the aged wizard answered with a hint of scorn. ‘I remember all my students. A great deal of talent that I rapidly realised would go to waste. Far too ready to take issue with the supposed injustices of life. Always harking back to whatever ne’er-do-well village he stumbled away from. He was never going to make anything of his abilities unless he turned his back on such distractions and applied his intellect to his affinity.’ The old wizard’s voice was censorious as he folded his age-spotted hands on his chest.

  ‘Did you know he’d gone to be Planir’s eyes and ears in the Archipelago?’ Velindre glanced at her father. The old man shook his head, indifferent. ‘Planir’s another one who should concentrate a little less on the wider world and a little more on the proper business of wizardry.’

  ‘Dev’s found a dragon in the Aldabreshin south,’ said Velindre carefully. ‘One attuned to elemental fire, from what I saw.’

  ‘You scried it?’ Curiosity sparked in her father’s eyes. ‘What’s your interest in this?’

  ‘Dev wants to know more about dragon
s.’ Velindre shrugged with unconcern. ‘He bespoke me, as

  ()tick’s former pupil, since I’m carrying on his work’

  ‘Otrick?’ The ancient mage’s laugh was a dry creak. ‘I thought you were finally over that old pirate’s foolishness of sailing hither and yon and whistling up winds to see where they lead you.’ His disdain was withering. ‘Cloud Master or not, Otrick led you astray from your studies. You might have stood a chance of the Council approving you as Cloud Mistress in your own right if you’d stayed here, applied yourself and shown them what you have to offer. You’ve a good mind. You just need to use it.’

  He tapped one bone-white finger to his snowy temple before withdrawing into his high-backed, deep-winged chair. ‘Your mother was a fool for encouraging you. She’s another one with her head in the clouds. Well, Rafrid’s no fool, even if he is one of Planir’s cronies. And a mastery isn’t what it used to be. I could have been Hearth Master, but nowadays, well, Kalion’s welcome to people hanging on his cloak day in and day out, knocking on his door with their whines and complaints. I don’t see him adding anything to the sum of wizardry, and that is a waste of a fine mind,’ he concluded sourly. ‘Dev wants to study the dragon’s innate magics’ Velindre returned to studying the fire. ‘He needs to get closer to it without ending up burned to a crisp. Otrick knew how to summon a dragon and how to control it but I can’t find any record of exactly how he did it.’

  ‘A charlatan’s festival trick writ large,’ the old wizard scoffed. ‘Otrick was always a mountebank at heart. Among his many other vices.’ Dislike sharpened his tone. Not that such dalliances were any of my business. You were a grown woman.’

  Velindre kept her gaze on the flames and held her voice level and emotionless. ‘Otrick is dead, so we can’t ask him about such lore. The only other mage I can find recorded as having this trick of summoning dragons is Azazir.’