Irons in the Fire (Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution)

by Juliet E. McKenna

  Ludrys laughed and let his sword-arm fall back, as if he had indeed been wounded. Then he drove the metal rim of his shield uncomfortably hard into the angle between Tathrin's neck and shoulder. He felt a shiver of numbness run down his whole arm. Ludrys stepped away, nodding with approval all the same.

  "That last try wasn't so bad," Gren allowed as he reclaimed his sword.

  "Thank you." Tathrin realised he was sweating. His hands shaking slightly, he offered the dagger back to Ludrys with a polite bow.

  "Water? Ale?" One of the onlookers offered him a choice of two horn cups.

  "Ale?" Tathrin took the one with the foaming top. "You speak Tormalin."

  The man's grin stretched an old pale scar on one cheek. "Enough for eat, drink and whore."

  "All a man really needs." Gren had already secured a cup of ale. He was watching Sorgrad's conversation with the captain-general. "Evord's not the only one here who's spent time fighting in Lescar."

  As Tathrin quenched his thirst, the older man cut Sorgrad off with a curt hand and walked over to join them.

  "I see you're no mercenary masquerading as an honest Lescari potboy," he commented. "Come, walk with me. Tell me what you people really want me to do."

  "Didn't Sorgrad say?" Tathrin looked at the Mountain Man, who just shrugged.

  "I want to hear it from you." Evord spared the brothers a minatory glance. "Amuse yourselves without injuring anyone who doesn't deserve it while I talk to my guest." He began walking towards the lofty tower.

  Gren tossed Tathrin his doublet. "Go on."

  "There are a great many of us who long for peace." Tathrin hurried to catch up with the older man. He shrugged himself into his doublet, swapping the horn cup awkwardly from hand to hand.

  Evord took it off him. "So you want to start a war to get it. Don't they teach logic in Vanam's halls any more? Have you any idea of the costs of war? Are you prepared to commit innocent men and women to all that pain and misery without even giving them a choice in the matter?"

  They stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the tower's formidable door and Evord fixed him with a pale stare, his eyes more grey than blue.

  "Are you willing to risk your own life? Because on that showing against Ludrys, you'll soon be dead if you go into battle. Are you willing to stand before your gods and explain where you got the authority to put countless strangers to the torment of fire and sword and pillage?"

  "Sorgrad and Gren said--"

  Evord silenced him with a curt hand. "Gren says some fortune-teller back in the mountains swore he was born to be hanged, so he doesn't think a blade can ever kill him. I don't know why Sorgrad left the mountains but he gets by with a quick tongue, faster reflexes and a talent for breaking heads when all else fails. They won't suffer, even if all of Lescar goes up in flames from the River Rel to the Tormalin border."

  Tathrin found his voice. "Honest men and women suffer regardless, year in, year out. We want to bring an end to their trials, once and for all."

  Evord pursed his lips. "What will you do, lad, when your duke gets to hear you're working against him? What if he sends his men to burn your home and rape your mother and sisters? Do you think he'll drown your brothers to poison your family's well before or after your father's been hanged from his own doorpost?"

  Tathrin stood for a moment, paralysed with dread at such a prospect. "I can't think like that," he said slowly. "This isn't just about me. It's about everyone in Carluse, everyone in Lescar. As long as I think like a scholar, I can tell you why this undertaking is our best hope of peace."

  "Then come and do so." Evord began walking up the stone stairs. "Then I'll tell you exactly what your proposal will cost in lives and deaths and destruction. Believe me, that bill will be a steep one. Then you can tell me if this particular dance is worth the price of the candles."

  Tathrin followed. Why, he wondered bleakly, did everything rest on his inadequate shoulders?

  "Then you can explain this business of using some magic dredged up from the collapse of the Old Empire. Sorgrad seems to think that's going to keep everyone in step." Amused, Evord opened the door.

  "I can assure you that Artifice is quite real." Tathrin felt momentarily on surer ground. As long as Aremil could make good on his promises.

  "I hope so." Evord went into the gloom, his tone severe again. "Because at the moment, that's the only thing I can think of that could save this campaign from being arrant folly."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Aremil

  Beacon Lane, in Vanam's Upper Town,

  22nd of For-Summer

  "Master Aremil." Lyrlen entered the sitting room with a dour expression. "You have a visitor. Another one." She handed him an unsealed fold of paper.

  May I introduce Branca Flavisse. I believe she can assist you most ably with this new project.

  With all good wishes,

  The signature was an illegible scrawl, but Aremil recognised Mentor Tonin's handwriting with profound relief. Finally, the scholar was back from his travels. Without him, Aremil found it impossible to trace rumour and conjecture to someone who was actually studying ancient aetheric magic.

  "Please, show her in."

  Aremil tucked the note beneath the latest of Master Gruit's daily queries. How soon would they have some magical means to contact Tathrin? If this Soluran captain-general was refusing to help, did Charoleia know someone who could contact Failla, Lady Derenna and Reniack? They would have to recall them, to make new plans. Master Gruit had never seen the sense in sending them off on the road to Carluse and beyond when everything was still so uncertain. Had Charoleia learned anything more of Duke Garnot of Carluse's plans?

  Aremil set such anxieties aside. He was more concerned to know if this girl could truly reveal the mysteries of speaking to someone so far away. She looked like a milkmaid in her brown linen gown, a plain cotton wrap around her shoulders.

  "Master Aremil? Good day to you." She extended a broad hand with roughened knuckles. Milkmaid or scullery maid?

  He shook it as best he could and saw her silver seal ring. "Good day, Madam Scholar. Can I offer you refreshment?"

  It was a bright sunny day outside his window and he could see sweat moistening the band of her linen cap. A tendril of mousy hair stuck damply to her plump cheek. She was a well-fed milkmaid, somewhere between Tathrin's age and his own. Still, she had her scholar's ring and she hadn't won that in a tavern game of runes.

  "Thank you." She took a seat, quite composed.

  Aremil looked at Lyrlen, who was waiting by the door, stony-faced. "Wine for our guest, if you please."

  Branca raised her unladylike hand. "Small beer would be more welcome."

  "Of course." His nurse reluctantly withdrew.

  Aremil gestured towards the note he'd just read. "Mentor Tonin doesn't tell me your particular field of study."

  "In the beginning, I studied the history recorded in the University Annals. Latterly I've been seeing how those records tie up with more informal history." Branca studied the books on the shelf closest to her. "By which I mean those tales told by the fireside and retold in ballads. Mentor Tonin tells me you are a scholar, though not as yet sealed by the university."

  "My infirmities prevent it." Aremil was surprised Tonin hadn't forewarned her of his crippled state.

  "So you've gone from discipline to discipline, comfortable in the knowledge that your income is sufficient for you to indulge yourself." She turned dark, sceptical eyes on him. "There are a great many books here on all manner of subjects."

  "As you see, I'm unable to do much besides read," Aremil said with mild exasperation.

  "Now you're interested in studying aetheric magic?" Branca angled her head. "Why?"

  Aremil hadn't expected to have to justify himself to this bluntly spoken, blunt-featured young woman. Though Master Tonin couldn't have told her much. Given Charoleia's insistence on secrecy, Aremil hadn't told the mentor anything beyond claiming an interest in learning more abou
t Artifice.

  Which was true enough. The more he had read of such lore since the Spring Festival, the more Aremil was resolved to master this arcane art himself. He wasn't merely going to find those versed in aetheric enchantments. If he couldn't travel the highways and byways like Tathrin or Failla, or wield influence and coin like Charoleia and Gruit, he could at least make this contribution to their undertaking.

  "You're of Lescari blood?" If she wasn't, there was no point in continuing this conversation. He could only hear the lifelong accents of Vanam's lower town in her words.

  "My father was born in Triolle. My mother's people came from Marlier." She raised her dark brows. "What of it?"

  At that moment, Lyrlen returned with one of the kitchen tankards incongruous on a polished silver tray.

  "Thank you." Branca took it with a pleased smile. "You're not having something, Master Aremil?"

  "Not just at present."

  "On account of your infirmities?" As she drank, her dark eyes teased him over the pottery rim.

  "Because I dislike ale." He looked at his nurse, who was bridling at such impertinence. "Thank you, Lyrlen."

  She withdrew with a disapproving sniff.

  Branca set the tankard down on the table. "To return to my first question, why do you want to study aetheric magic?"

  "I have a good friend who is travelling in Solura. Given how erratically letters make their way through the Great Forest, I'd like to be able to know how he's progressing." He tried to sound casual, though after fifteen days' silence, he was just as impatient for news as Gruit. "Mages can only bespeak other mages, so wizardry's no use to me. Then I recalled Mentor Tonin saying that these older enchantments enable him to contact fellow adepts over unimaginable distances."

  Branca looked thoughtfully at him. "How good a friend is he? Are you lovers?"

  "What?" Aremil was startled. "No."

  The unmistakable sound of Lyrlen choking on her outrage on the other side of the door was hastily followed by the patter of her shoes on the kitchen tiles.

  Branca rose. "It's a lovely day. Shall we take some air?"

  Aremil stared up at her. "I am hardly accustomed to casual strolls."

  "My father has half an arm and barely a quarter of one leg. He's never let that hold him back." Branca fetched his crutches from the corner where Lyrlen had stowed them. "Ask your mother mastiff for permission if you must, but if we're to continue this conversation, we'll do it outdoors."

  Aremil could tell she would leave without a backward glance if he refused.

  "Bear with me," he said through gritted teeth.

  He managed to get to his feet and Branca calmly handed him first one crutch, then the other. "Where shall we go?"

  "My lord!" Lyrlen was in the doorway.

  Now that Branca had planted the image in his mind's eye, Aremil could see how his nurse might resemble a watchdog. "We're just going to take some air." He tried to hide his own qualms.

  "I'll bring him back safe." Branca's eyes were teasing him again.

  "Lyrlen, if you please." He held the old woman's gaze until she yielded and opened the front door.

  "Do you like the physic garden in Hellebore Lane?" Branca tucked the stray wisp of hair under her linen cap.

  "I don't know it." Aremil squinted as he negotiated the doorsill. Outside the sun was surprisingly bright. At least the flagstoned path was smooth and dry after a run of fine days.

  "You should get out more." Branca curbed her pace to his slower progress. "You're very pale."

  "You're very pink," he retorted.

  "I often am." She nodded.

  Aremil concentrated on getting to the end of the short street. He wondered who was watching his ungainly progress from the shadows of their windows, amused by his clumsiness. When they reached the junction, he had to stop to get his breath back. "Is this some kind of trial?"

  "Of sorts." She was unabashed. "You really should get out more. Exercise might ease your aches and it'll keep your breathing clearer. But we can find you a chair for the rest of the way."

  Aremil stiffened as she plucked a silver penny from the leather purse belted at her waist. "I came out without any coin."

  "You can pay me back." Unconcerned, Branca waved the penny at a boy leaning on his broom until someone wanted to pay him to sweep a crossing free of horse muck. He came running.

  "We need a carrying chair." She held the coin out of his eager reach. "Quick as you like."

  "Quick as spitting, Mistress." The urchin darted away.

  Branca studied Aremil as he rested on his crutches. "I take it your condition stems from birth?"

  "It does." Aremil decided to turn the conversation on her. "I take it an accident crippled your father?"

  "A bolting team of brewer's horses." Branca grimaced. "The dray's wheels crushed both limbs on his right side. The surgeon had no choice but to amputate."

  Aremil winced. "He must have been a strong man to survive. I imagine you despaired of him."

  "He was only in his nineteenth summer." Branca slid him a sideways glance. "Long before he met my mother, and I am the second of seven children. He's never seen any reason not to lead a vigorous life."

  Aremil coloured and cast around for a less awkward topic. "So what can you tell me about ancient enchantments?"

  "What do you know of aetheric magic?" Branca countered.

  "Let's assume I know nothing." Aremil saw the youth approaching with two chair-men hurrying behind him.

  "You know something of elemental magic, I take it?" Branca paused as the open carrying chair arrived.

  "Wizardry stems from an inborn ability to perceive and to influence the four basic elements of air, earth, fire and water." Aremil didn't want her thinking he was a complete fool. The crossing-boy tried to help Aremil take his seat. He waved him away peevishly. "The mageborn have a particular affinity with one such element. Through study and training, a wizard learns to wield magic involving them all."

  "In rare cases a mage might have a double affinity." Branca handed the boy his penny and smiled at the chair-men. "We're going to the physic garden in Hellebore Lane, if you please."

  As the men took Aremil up, she walked beside the chair, quite relaxed. "Magecraft requires magebirth and it's a magic of the physical world. Artifice is a magic of the mind. In some instances, of many minds. Aetheric enchantments depend on the adept's mental resilience first and foremost, but an advanced practitioner can draw on the strength of those close by, sometimes irrespective of their willingness. Ancient scholars concluded that something must link us all, some medium that an adept can use to take thoughts from another's mind, to see through another's eyes, to hear with their ears. They called this 'aether'."

  "You can do such things?" Aremil wondered what the chair-men were making of all this. Their pace hadn't missed a step. Were they even listening?

  "An advanced adept can. In theory, anyone can learn the secrets of Artifice, but doing so requires rigorous mental discipline. Crucially, only a certain amount can be achieved by reading enchantments aloud. Those who cannot memorise incantations reach a point where they simply cannot progress further. Other things can hinder proficiency. Emotion for one."

  Aremil nodded. "Wizards risk losing control of their affinity if they're angry or grief-stricken, or in raptures." Everyone knew how mageborn youths and maidens were shipped off to Hadrumal after they'd set a chimney on fire or brought down a hailstorm on a hay crop.

  Branca smiled. "It's hard to wreak inadvertent havoc with aetheric enchantments." She looked at him more seriously. "You may be a worthy scholar but this may be beyond you. Extremes of emotion and sensation, pain, or even the mildest fever make Artifice impossible. An adept must rise above all physical discomfort."

  Aremil refused to be deterred. "I have spent my life doing that."

  Branca acknowledged that with a nod. "There are other hindrances. Those deaf to music are incapable of Artifice, since even the most minor charms must be spoken with precise timbr
e and rhythm."

  "I like music a great deal," Aremil assured her.

  "Good. So do I. But however fine your feeling for pitch and melody may be, the hesitation in your speech may present problems," she mused.

  "Let's not assume that before I've made some attempt," Aremil said curtly.

  "Indeed." Branca nodded. "Do you play runes?"

  "Seldom." The triangular bones were too cursed difficult for him to pick up. "I prefer white raven." Aremil wondered at the change of subject.

  "I should have guessed that." A half-smile lifted the corner of Branca's generous mouth. "Can you at least tell me the set of runes that symbolise weather?"

  So now he was being treated as a student. Did that mean she was going to teach him? Aremil cleared his throat. "The Storm; the Calm; the North Wind from the mountains; the South Wind from the sea."

  "Good. The runes are an ancient collection of symbols," she continued. "The Forest Folk have used them for divination since time out of mind and the Mountain Men believe they were devised by their own gods, Maewelin and Misaen."

  She could treat him like a student but not like the dullest pencil in the box. "The Mountain Men still have practitioners of aetheric magic among them."

  "Who told you that?" Branca's eyes betrayed the intensity of her interest.

  "A Mountain Man." Aremil permitted himself a carefully controlled smile. "Who's travelling with my friend. I can let him know you'd welcome an introduction. What have runes to do with any of this?"

  Branca looked thoughtfully at him before continuing. "Those for wind and weather also symbolise the four aspects of aetheric magic. We find such images woven into many incantations and they consistently relate to the different uses of Artifice. We also find the runes for music cropping up--the Horn, the Drum, the Chime and the Harp--but those relationships are less clear cut. Let's stay with the weather runes for the moment.