Northern Storm ac-2

by Juliet E. McKenna

  Her father threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘If Otrick was a disgrace to wizardry, Azazir was a blight. What that fool cost Hadrumal in lost trust, in sowing fear and ignorance among the mundane of the mainland—there’s no measuring it! We’re still paying the price to this day,’ he growled, fleshless fists clenched. ‘With our Archmage bowing and scraping to every petty prince, just to make sure the magebom can travel unhindered to Hadrumal before their emergent affinity is the death of them.’

  ‘You knew Azazir.’ Velindre looked up at her father, challenge in her eyes.

  ‘I did,’ he retorted, ‘and if I’d been on the Council back then I’d have voted for his death, not just his banishment. Do those dolts who laugh over his exploits tell you how many drowned thanks to his fooling with the rivers or how many starved when his meddling caused famine?’

  ‘I’ve heard all the tales. What they don’t say is when Azazir died,’ Velindre persisted. ‘Rumour has it he’s still alive, somewhere in the wilds.’

  ‘Does it?’ the old wizard growled with disgust.

  In that instant, Velindre saw in his eyes that that much was true. Well?’ she managed to ask, keeping all exultation out of her voice.

  ‘He used to talk about embracing one’s affinity, about immersing oneself in it.’ The aged mage looked past her towards the slim shard of sky visible through the window. Which is all very well for a water mage, but I told him, just try that with fire. He didn’t care. He was the most irresponsible, most dangerous wizard I ever encountered. He was all for seeking sensation, ever more sensational and never mind making sense of it, never mind understanding the interplay of element and reason and cause and effect. If he thought there was a chance he could do something, work some wonder with his magic, he’d try, never mind stopping to think if he should. He had a higher duty to his affinity, that’s what he would say, to find out where its limits might lie. Never mind his duty to wizardry. Never mind wiser mages than him warning that there might be no limits to some sorceries. Never mind when more than one of his apprentices died a foul and lingering death,’ the old man concluded with cold anger.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ Velindre asked in measured tones.

  Her father’s eyes snapped back to her. No one will take your scholarship seriously if you associate yourself with a madman.’

  Velindre met his gaze. ‘There’s precious little true scholarship about dragons, Father. It’s one of the few areas of study where there’s real work to be done. I want to know more and if Azazir is my only source, that’s where

  I’ll have to start.’

  ‘Stubborn as your mother,’ the old mage muttered. ‘You haven’t told her about this, have you? No, I’d have heard the two of you arguing from here if you had. And I suppose I’ve no small reputation for strong will.’ A reluctant smile cracked his aged face.

  The silence in the room was tense and brittle.

  ‘I’ll find him one way or the other,’Velindre said calmly, ‘I’m going to do this, Father.’

  ‘Perhaps you should see what it means to go chasing some madman’s idle fancies.’ The old mage pointed to a distant table where flat leather folders lay precisely piled. ‘Fetch me that third folio of maps.’

  Velindre retrieved it and he untied the rubbed-silk cord to open the tooled green leather.

  ‘You’ve been to Inglis, haven’t you, on one of ()tick’s foolish voyages? Do you feel inclined to take the road north at the tail end of winter? That journey’s not for the fainthearted.’ He pulled out a half-sheet and stabbed at the parchment with a chalky nail.

  ‘So the Council’s banishment doesn’t just mean quitting Hadrumal.’ Velindre’s brow wrinkled as she studied the point he’d indicated on the map.

  ‘Azazir was told to lose himself. He was told if he injured anyone, ever again, that would be the death of him. You don’t believe the Council would do such a thing?’ The old man mocked Velindre’s startled disbelief. Believe it, and there’s more than me who will call for that madman’s death if he ever shows his face in the lowliest village. And we’ll know if he does. Planir knows what’s due to his office of Archmage. He keeps a weather eye on a menace like Azazir,’ he said with grim satisfaction.

  ‘So Planir will know if I visit Azazir?’ Velindre asked warily.

  ‘Would that stop you?’ He thrust the parchment at Velindre. ‘You were easily his equal, even if you were apprentice when he was a pupil, and you’ve twenty years’ standing since then. Besides, he’s another one full of ()nick’s high-flown nonsense about experimentation and observation. You might both learn something from a little closer acquaintance with Azazir, even if it’s not what you’re expecting.’ The hairs on the back of Velindre’s neck prickled at his ominous tone. ‘Something valuable, I take it, if you’re prepared to help me with this.’

  ‘More valuable than some foolery with dragons.’ The old wizard handed her the green leather folio and leaned back in his chair, gathering his mantle around him. ‘Put those back where you got them. And don’t say I didn’t warn you, if you decide to pursue this folly.’

  ‘Thank you for the map.’ Velindre rose and left, not looking back.

  Outside, the rain had stopped and the clouds had lifted. A breeze was rolling down from the hills to scour the heavy dampness out of the air. Velindre relished the freshness as she walked rapidly through the empty back alleys. There wasn’t time to waste, not given the urgency in Dev’s voice. Whatever his many and varied faults, he didn’t indulge himself in foolish alarm, like some dog barking vacantly at every footfall.

  She pictured a very different city in her mind’s eye. So Inglis was the closest place worth marking to this mysterious lake where the equally mysterious Azazir was lurking. A city of white stone, well planned and well built, entirely unlike the haphazard accumulation of Hadruraal. A peaceable city, thanks to the powerful Guilds who paid a well-muscled and well-drilled Watch, which incidentally ensured that they had loyal men to hand to deter any challenge to their hegemony. A city built on the endless resources of timber, fur and metal-bearing ores of the empty northern wastes.

  Velindre smiled thinly as she arrived back at the New Hall’s ancient gate, blunted carvings unlike the sharp elegance of Inglis’s cornices. Her father might believe that the city was all respectability and serious trade. Otrick had known better and, thanks to him, so did she. Otrict had known the dockside taverns where those mariners who risked voyages out to the ocean deep could be found. Mariners who should more properly be called pirates, never mind their brandishing of some parchment from the Inglis harbour guild, licensing them to pursue some vessel condemned for not paying the requisite tariffs.

  A translocation spell would take her there in short order. Velindre climbed the stairs to her study. Arriving somewhere discreet would be best, to avoid one of the wizards in Inglis reporting her arrival to Planir. Earth mages always found plenty of work and plenty to interest them among the mining concerns around Inglis. Planir had been Stone Master before he’d been Archmage and indeed still was, despite the displeasure of some on the Council. Well, Velindre had no interest in explaining herself to Planir until she had something to show for this boldness, something to give the Council pause for thought over their choice of Cloud Master.

  She locked her study door. One of the better inns would suffice, where gold would shut the mouths of any chambermaid or potboy who happened to see her. Tossing her damp cloak over a chair, she went through the inner door to her bedchamber. Throwing open a tall cupboard, she surveyed the gowns lying on wide shelves, linen and stockings in cubbyholes beneath, boots and shoes thrown into the hollow bottom. She’d need heavy clothing as well as some furs and a sturdy saddle-horse when she got to Inglis. Dev’s timing was lousy as always. Velindre grimaced at the thought of the pristine white winter that would still be gripping those mountains. Even half a season later, she might have approached some privateer for passage north, but not now. No sailor would risk his ship among the inlets and coves stil
l choked with floating ice.

  Furs and horses would cost money. She found a soft leather bag among her neatly darned stockings and weighed it in her hand for a moment before setting it down again. That should suffice. Planir had been unwont-edly generous when she’d asked for coin to hire ships these past summers to continue Otrick’s studies of Toremal’s ocean winds. More to the point, the Archmage never asked for an accounting and she’d never felt the need to give him one.

  She pulled a leather bag with stout handles and brass buckles down from the topmost shelf and threw in a handful of sturdy stockings and smallclothes, woollen chemises and flannel petticoats.

  What would her mother do? As soon as word reached her that Velindre had left Hadrumal, her father’s eyrie wouldn’t save him from interrogation. Would he tell her mother where she had gone or keep it to himself, out of simple malice? Perhaps, perhaps not, if he decided he had erred in helping her. Would her mother set Planir on her heels? Possibly. It would be an excuse to remind the Archmage of Hadrumal’s concerns. Her mother was a voluble critic of all the time he lavished on dealings with mainland princes. Velindre rapidly sorted through her gowns for those of the heaviest wool and moved to her washstand to gather up soap and toothpowder and her silver-backed hairbrushes.

  Would she come looking for her daughter herself? One of her father’s cruelly apposite jokes prompted a thin smile. It must be her mother’s affinity for air that gave her moods that veered as rapidly as the grasshopper weathervane on the tower of Wellery’s Hall. Velindre knelt to pull the straps of her bag tight with vicious jerks. More to the point, her mother’s rivalry with ()tick hadn’t died with the old wizard. She would dearly love to learn the trick of summoning dragons.

  Twisting to reach the laces tied at the small of her back, Velindre shed her gown and petticoats for a close-fitted bodice and divided riding skirt. Picking up her purse she thrust it deep in a secure pocket. She drew on a second pair of thick stockings before finding heavy buckled boots in the bottom of the cupboard. With the laden bag dragging at her arm, Velindre returned to her study and shrugged a thick cloak around her shoulders from a hook behind the door. She closed her eyes and finally allowed herself to feel the currents of air stirring in the room.

  There was the dry draught coming under the door, heavy with the tang of stone in the dust it carried Tight-fitted as the windows were, faint breaths of the rain-rich air outside eased through the casements and swirled around the room. The draught from the stairwell curled around the furniture as the air from outside brushed along walls and ceiling. Both currents were inexorably drawn to the fireplace as the heat from the coals sucked at the air in the room. The fire drove away the volatile moisture but had less success banishing the implacable touch of stone. It lost interest, settling for driving the warm air up the chimney, throwing it to the mercies of wind and weather above. Released, the air rushed away, exulting, mocking the fire, revelling in its return to the endless dance that encircled the world.

  The air around Velindre crackled with eagerness. She felt its desire to be gone, to join that dance. Pure sapphire light surrounded her, bright even through her closed eyes. Brighter than the crisp chill over Inglis. Pale as icy dawn over snow-capped peaks on that far horizon, where the blue-white of the glaciers melted imperceptibly into the sky. As she drew ever more air to her, pressing it to the service of her spell, Velindre remembered the room where she had stood to see that view. Not the most prized room the Flower of Gold could boast, but luxurious enough for her and Otrick. She pictured the frame of the window, the wide-eaved roofs beyond, every detail of the distant mountains.

  Now the elemental air was shaking her to her very bones, desperate to do her bidding, to carry her wherever she wanted. Velindre gripped the handles of her bag, the ridges of the stitching digging into her palms. Blue light blinded her. Its touch was a shiver on her skin. It rang in her ears on the very edge of hearing. Cold breath filled her lungs, invigorating, cleansing. Eyes snapping open, she gave the magic its freedom and the room vanished in a burst of sapphire fire.

  A woman screamed. Velindre raised a hand and scrubbed at her eyes to drive away the disorientation of working the spell over such a long distance. The woman paused to refill her lungs with a shuddering gasp and screamed again.

  Still dazzled, Velindre saw that she had arrived in the bedchamber she’d envisaged to find a balding, middle-aged man and a matronly woman staring at her, mouths open. What they were doing abed in the middle of the afternoon was immediately apparent from the clothes strewn haphazardly around the floor. The woman was too astounded to think of covering her pendulous breasts but the man was clutching the brightly embroidered counterpane to his nether regions, a furious blush staining his jowls. He glanced with wrathful frustration at a sword belt hanging from a chair by the merrily crackling fireplace and Velindre realised that the overriding urge for modesty was all that was keeping him from the weapon. ‘I apologise for the intrusion. Forgive me. I’ll leave you to your . . .’ Gritting her teeth against the belated realisation that scrying ahead might have been advisable, she unlocked the door with a snap of magic and slid through it. As she secured it behind her with another instant spell, she heard the frantic jangling of a bell down below.

  Curse the aging lecher and his fat, foolish paramour. Didn’t they have better things to do with their time? She certainly did. Velindre managed to get half-way down the hall before a wave of exhaustion overwhelmed her. She leaned against the polished wooden panelling of the corridor and fought the dizziness shivering down from her head to her toes.

  ‘Madam?’ The blurred figure of a chambermaid appeared. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I am, thank you.’ Velindre forced her leaden feet down the stairs as the maid hurried onwards to answer the insistent bell’s summons. Her knees felt weak and treacherous and the bag she carried seemed twice as heavy as it had in Hadrumal. Stiffening her spine with sheer determination, Velindre reached the inn’s spacious hallway before shouts up above turned curious faces to the painted ceiling. She slipped out of the main door and hurried away down the sloping street. No one raised any hue and cry before she vanished from sight

  The cold outside was biting. Velindre’s fingers ached with it and she realised her gloves were buried deep in her luggage.

  ‘Carry your bag for you, lady?’ A hopeful youth hopped over a trampled gap in the thigh-high ridge of grubby snow swept into the gutter between the high road and the flagway. Bright as the sun was, the winter’s chill was far too well established for the heaps to melt. Lines of soot marked successive snowfalls. ‘Where are you headed?’ He wore fur-trimmed hide boots and thick chequered wool breeches beneath a sheepskin jerkin with long sleeves and a high upturned collar that almost reached the knitted cap pulled low over his ears.

  ‘Can you recommend a quiet inn?’ Velindre tried to curb her shivering as she surveyed the boy. Blond brows hinted at the Mountain blood that so many shared hereabouts. He had a round, honest face and an engaging smile, which probably meant he was a complete rogue. Honest and dishonest alike made a living serving the traders who were always coming and going in a city like Inglis.

  ‘Don’t even think of running away with that.’ Proffering her bag, Velindre surprised the boy by winding bonds of clinging air around his feet and knees. ‘I’m a mage of Hadrumal and if you rob me, you’ll regret it to the end of your unfortunately curtailed days.’

  He looked down, wide-eyed. Velindre curled a single tendril around his waist and pulled it tight to cut short his startled gasp. She smiled and let the magic go with a momentary flare of magelight. ‘On the other hand, if you help me with intelligence and discretion, I’ll reward you handsomely. Do we understand one another?’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ the lad said with a rush of apprehension and excitement.

  Seeing honest greed outweighing the guile in his eyes, Velindre let him take the bag. ‘Take me to the closest inn that caters to guests of reasonable quality.’

  ‘There�
��s the Rowan Tree, my lady. Will that do?’ he offered hesitantly. ‘I’m Kenin, my lady.’

  ‘Are you?’ she replied with little interest. ‘If that’s the closest suitable inn, it will do.’

  Abashed, the youth didn’t say anything else, simply ushering Velindre towards a wide crossroads where trampled snow gleamed, treacherous as ice, in the interstices of the cobbles. She followed him towards a prosperous-looking building fronted by dark marble steps. It took all her resolution to climb the short flight of stairs, her hand shaking as she gripped the cold iron balustrade.

  ‘A private parlour.’ Velindre fixed a supercilious hall lackey with a piercing glare. ‘Hot water and herbs. Quick as you like.’

  The lackey stood his ground. ‘I’m not sure we can accommodate you, my lady.’

  Velindre reached inside her cloak and fumbled with the strings of her purse with numb fingers. She tossed a couple of coins on the polished stone floor. ‘I think you’ll find you can.’

  The lackey wasn’t proof against Tormalin gold crowns. ‘Of course, my lady. Forgive me. Ametine!’ He scrabbled for the coins, trying to bow and to indicate the door of a private parlour at the same time. ‘Hot water, if you please,’ Velindre repeated to the startled maid shooting out of the kitchen. ‘And herbs for a tisane. Now, if you please.’ She handed the girl her cloak.

  The boy Kerrin shoved open the parlour door and Velindre went in. Her eyes fastened on a lavishly cushioned day bed beneath a window opening on to a quiet, snow-covered yard.

  ‘What now, my lady?’ The boy dropped her bag on the neat carpet with a dull thud.

  ‘There are things I need you to buy for me.’ Velindre sank on to the green velvet cushions and fought to stop her eyes from closing. ‘A heavy fur cloak, hat and gloves. Don’t think to fob me off with rubbish or to make me pay Toremal prices. Inglis is awash with fine furs at this season, with the trappers coming back from a winter in the mountains. I want a well-mannered saddle-horse hardy enough to take me up into the hills. It’ll need grain and I want food for a journey of ten days or so. The minimum, mind you; I don’t want the bother of a pack animal. Find me a warm blanket and an oilskin for good measure.’ She broke off as the hall lackey appeared with an obsequious smile and a brass oil lamp with a frosted glass chimney. The golden light warmed the chestnut wainscoting.