Dragonstorm

by Mirren Hogan

  Zand nodded. "Who else knows about this?" He waved toward the papers.

  Brish hesitated. "I'm not sure." He wasn't really lying, there might well be more people out there who knew everything, apart from the magin themselves. "Daris didn't confide in me, not really. Most of that I found after he died."

  General Zand was astute, that was obvious from his expression. He was also a man who got what he wanted from people, no matter what that might be. He didn't have to utter a word and Brish wanted to tell him more. Holding back might mean being turned away, but there were some things he wanted to keep to himself.

  He looked down toward the floor and licked his lips. "There is one other," he admitted. "He thought it best to keep this information for the bards. I disagreed." Admitting he'd betrayed his friend was almost painful. It might well mean he got tossed out on his ear. After this, the bards might not take him back either.

  "Who is this one other?" the general asked, his expression betraying nothing.

  "His name is Harm," Brish said, "Harmanovit Vel. He feels the same way about magin as I do, but his methods are different."

  "Does he know you're here with this?"

  "No, sir." Brish swallowed, "he's on his way to Tharay to give this information to the hall. Or should be anyway." Eventually he'd realise that Brish wasn't coming. He'd be angry. He hoped someday Harm would understand, and they could keep their friendship. Harm was important to him. Hurting him was the last thing he'd wanted, but this was necessary for the future of the whole republic.

  "Would he speak to others about this?" the general asked, his eyes narrowed, suggesting his mind was turning over something.

  "To be honest sir, I have no idea. Without all of that, he won't have anything to back up what he says. On the other hand, the hall in Tharay might also have the same information."

  "You don't believe it does," the general stated.

  Brish blinked. "No, I don't think so. This was hidden away. I don't believe Daris trusted anyone enough to know any of it. He wanted to avoid bloodshed, but…"

  "Sometimes it cannot be avoided," the general finished for him. "I'm sure your friend had noble intentions, as did Daris Targra, but it seems to me that the magin want anything but peace. How many bards lie dead?"

  "All of them." Brish choked on the last word. "As far as I know, only Harm and I escaped with our lives."

  The general clicked his tongue. "Such a terrible loss to Dargyn. The bard hall in Paryos is the finest in the republic. I say is because it will persevere, although rebuilding the number of bards will take time. A telegram has already gone to other halls for replacements. In a month or so, the hall will be cleaned out and continue to work as it has. Dargyn needs its bards, now more than ever."

  Brish's heart sank, certain he was about to be sent back. He supposed it would be all right. He could help removing all those bodies, cleaning up, repairing damage, and getting the hall back on its feet.

  "However, " the general went on, "I approve your application to join the reasoners. We like to have passionate men and women in our midst, those who will do what's required to keep the people safe."

  Brish smiled. "Thank you, sir." He could already picture himself in that black uniform, learning to fight magin. They'd rue the day they ever hurt or killed anyone he loved. He'd…

  The general cleared his throat. "However, while I'm sure you've worked hard for that first-level pin, you will be starting here as an apprentice."

  Brish glanced down at the pin, feeling a fraud for having it on there in the first place. He didn't hesitate to reach up and unpin it before stashing it in his pocket. If nothing else, it'd serve as a reminder of Harm, and his friendship.

  "Yes, sir." Brish sat straight.

  "First things first." The general rose to his feet. "You can accompany me and I'll assign you a superior. You'll do exactly as he says. There's much work to be done to restore order to the city. You will do what is asked of you, and you'll do it quickly and well. You don't question my orders or that of any reasoner above your rank. When you leave this building, as well as when you're inside it, you are a reasoner, you represent every one of us. You will be fully trained in a variety of tasks and will be expected to specialise in those your excel in. That will be decided by your trainers.

  "Failure to comply will meet with punishment. Repeating an infringement could mean time spent in incarceration, or expulsion."

  Brish nodded silently. He'd expected the reasoners to be strict. Harm might laugh, but he could, and would be disciplined if it meant getting back at the magin.

  "In the instance of expulsion, you will have no letter of recommendation, and you may not seek work in any government endorsed organisation."

  Work for anyone not endorsed meant the worst of all the tasks, and for fewer braids. Brish might end up cleaning sewer pipes in private homes or working in a brothel where patrons were free to beat the whores. Along with that, he'd be living on the streets, or on roofs. He didn't relish either idea.

  "Yes, sir, I won't do anything to make you regret accepting me, I swear." He meant every word. The general was an impressive man, astute and powerful. It was difficult not to admire and want to prove himself to him. And if he had the means, and the intention to eradicate the magin, then that was all for the better.

  Zand smiled. "I expect nothing less. Passion and obedience will get you far amongst the reasoners; both are traits I rate very highly."

  Brish beamed. Together, they'd avenge Waya, Daris and all the others. Maybe he could even convince Harm to join too.

  Suppressing the stab of guilt at tricking his friend, he followed the general back out to the training yard.

  Chapter Nine

  Tall and muscular, a man in reasoner uniform stood leaning against the side of one of the buildings, watching intently as a group of men and women packed bags full of supplies. The man turned as Brish and General Zand approached, suggesting his attention to the organisation was feigned at least in part. It wouldn't be surprising if he'd been aware of them from the moment they'd stepped through the doorway.

  He regarded Brish with intense blue eyes which looked him up and down, his expression unchanging. The man was only a few years his senior. He must be accomplished to have a second-level pin already, and a rank.

  After a moment Brish realised he'd seen him before. He'd accompanied the governor to the hall that day as well.

  "Captain Andon Kriss, you have a new apprentice. This is—" He looked expectant.

  "Brish Loh." He stood a little taller, although he only came up to Andon's chin. Before he could speak, the captain nodded.

  "You'll need to see a healer first." His voice was lower than Brish had expected and the man clearly didn't waste a syllable.

  Brish frowned. "I'm fine. I was on the rooftop during the wave, sir." His mind might be in turmoil, but his body was intact.

  Andon pushed himself off the wall and gave him a long look, which Brish barely managed to hold. He held up a finger. "Reasoners follow orders, always. Everyone sees a healer on arrival. No exceptions.”

  Brish swallowed and nodded. "Yes, sir." He should have realised right away that the reasoners would be much stricter than the bards. How could anyone keep cities under control if they couldn't control themselves? "I'm sorry, sir."

  Andon gave him a nod, then offered one to the general before the man left. "This way."

  Instead of walking ahead as the general had done, Andon waited for Brish to step up beside him and headed toward the infirmary. Giving him a sideways look, the apprentice noticed the man moved like a cat, all fluidity and economy of movement. He reminded him of himself, but more self-assured.

  The door to the infirmary stood open. At a quick glance Brish saw similarities to the one in the bards' hall. However, this one was larger, and not damaged. Judging by a pile of cloth outside the door, the healers had spent the morning drying the place and tidying it up. If not for that, he'd never have guessed the wave had touched the place at all. He pus
hed down a seed of resentment. Of course, the reasoners would look after their headquarters before anything else in Paryos. It was only right.

  Andon waved a healer over. "Just a checkup," he said, jerking his head toward Brish.

  "Yes, sir," the healer replied. He looked tired, but his tone was crisp and respectful. "This way lad." He opened the door to an examining room and stepped inside.

  Brish followed and glanced back to see Andon leaning against the now shut door, eyes half-closed. Apparently, he was going to observe. That made him uneasy, but he suspected he wouldn't be permitted to refuse the examination or ask Andon to leave. Instead, he turned his back.

  "Please remove your clothing, apart from undergarments," the healer directed. "I'll measure you for a uniform while I check you over."

  That was standard for every healer visit he'd ever had, but it still made him uneasy. Some healers were less understanding than others.

  Hands shaking, he pulled off his shirt.

  "Oh my." The healer's eyes widened. "My apologies, I thought you were a lad." He licked his lips nervously and glanced at Andon. Brish didn't need to turn around to know Andon would have seen his breast reduction garment. He shifted, uncomfortable in the tight garment and under scrutiny.

  "I am," Brish assured him, "I was just born with bits that look like a girl."

  "Down . . . down there too?" The healer gestured.

  "Yes, down there too," Brish replied. It wasn't the worst reaction he'd ever had, but it was still a reaction and that was enough to make him defensive. He turned to face Andon, whose expression was unreadable.

  "Is that going to be a problem, sir?" he asked. Haze, he hadn't done all of this, only to be tossed out as some sort of aberration.

  Andon raised an eyebrow at him. "Only if you think it's going to be a problem," he stated.

  The words took Brish aback. He expected condemnation, or disgust, not to have the question turned back onto him. He blinked a couple of times before rallying.

  "No sir, it's not going to be a problem at all. It hasn't been yet." Apart from a few negative responses in the past. It had certainly never affected his work. It was just that his body didn't look quite right. To him, at least.

  "Good. Carry on, then." Andon gestured toward the healer. "Oh, don't expect any special treatment. You're just one of the lads as far as I'm concerned."

  Brish smiled. "That's all I want, sir." Haze, his heart was beating so fast he had to take a couple of calming breaths and turn back to the healer.

  The man drew out a measuring tape and made notes in a little book he'd pulled from his pocket.

  "You're smaller than most of the men here," he said, "but that's to be expected. How old are you?"

  "I turned eighteen a week or two ago." With all that had happened, he'd forgotten his birthing day. Not that he'd have made a big deal of it anyway. In Dargyn, a person reached their majority at eighteen but to Brish it was just another number.

  The healer pursed his lips. "At your age you're done growing."

  "I was never going to be tall," Brish said, "I'm shorter than most of the girls, too. I like to think I'm compact."

  He looked over his shoulder as Andon chuckled. "Size isn't everything," the man remarked. "Sometimes being small is an asset."

  "I've always thought so," Brish agreed. He climbed onto the examination table and looked at the ceiling as the healer pressed his stomach and felt his hips.

  "Good, everything feel fine there. Roll over please." The healer ran his hands over his spine, making him squirm a little. "Very good. Nice and straight. All right then, you can climb down and dress." He tore off the sheet of paper and handed it to Andon.

  "He's in good health. He's in need of a bath and some clean clothes, however."

  Brish blushed. The man wasn't wrong. He caught Andon smiling and quickly pulled on his clothes. He wasn't sure he was sympathising, mocking, or perhaps both. He didn't doubt that he kept his charges under a firm grip, but he couldn't help but like the man.

  "I'll get him settled and we'll see about the smell," Andon said, opening the door. He gave Brish the slightest wink. "Thank you, healer."

  "Yes, yes, have a good day then." The healer bustled off and Brish followed Andon out of the infirmary.

  "Is Brish your full name?" Andon asked, curiosity evidently getting the better of him.

  "Yes," Brish replied firmly. "It was Brishlyn, but that's a mouthful."

  "Yes, it is. I don't think it suits you anyway."

  "It really doesn't," Brish agreed.

  "Now, enough of the niceties. I need to know what you can do." Andon stopped beside another building and pushed the door open. It looked to be a barracks, with rooms lining either side of a long corridor. In the closest one, four beds were visible, two sets of bunks pressed against either wall. At the other end of the corridor was another room, one containing drawers and racks full of black reasoner uniforms.

  Andon searched through a rack before tossing a shirt to Brish. "Try that on. There's a screen over there."

  Brish grabbed the shirt and slipped out of view. "What do you mean about what can I do, sir?" he asked, raising his chin to speak over the screen.

  "Can you move quietly?" Andon asked.

  Brish smiled and slipped off his shirt. "I can move without making a sound," he replied. "Is that something you need me to do?" That seemed at odds with what he knew about the reasoners. They usually liked to have their presence known. It ensured that people behaved in their proximity.

  "In a manner of speaking, yes. Does that shirt fit?"

  Brish did up the buttons and shifted in the stiff cotton. It would become suppler with wear, but it felt constricting now. "Yes sir, it's fine."

  "Good, try on these pants."

  A pair dropped over the top of the screen and Brish grabbed them. They looked slightly too big, but when he pulled them on, they fit snugly.

  "Those are good too, sir." He stepped out from behind the screen and caught a glance at himself in a wide mirror. He no longer looked like a bard. The uniform transformed him into a reasoner, even without the jacket. He pulled on the one Andon gave him and looked again. Everything he wore was crisp and black. Somehow it made him look taller.

  "You'll need boots, socks, and a hat," Andon said, "but you'll do. Oh, and you'll need some soft shoes. Boots are too noisy at times."

  "Too noisy for what?" Brish asked, confused about what the man was getting at.

  "For sneaking around without being seen," Andon replied. He turned to look over sets of boots on a shelf.

  "Why would I be doing that?" Brish asked, quickly adding: "sir."

  "Why do you think?" Andon asked, handing him a pair and gesturing toward a chair where Brish could sit and try them on.

  "Uh—" Brish thought, "as a bard I'd have to follow people and listen in, so I could find information," he said, assuming Andon knew all of that already. "So I suppose I'll be doing that again."

  "You might be doing some of that," Andon agreed, "but that's only a part of what my apprentices and first-levels do."

  "What else do they—we do, sir?" Brish concentrated on lacing up his boots.

  "My job in the reasoners is to train the assassins," Andon replied, "and work with them when need be."

  Brish gaped at him, looking up finally. "Assassins?"

  "You want to kill magin, don't you?" Andon guessed.

  "Yes I do, sir," Brish replied, his heart racing. "Very much." That was what he was here for, but he hadn't expected this. Sneaking around, executing people who were unaware. The idea made him second-guess his decision to be here, but he pushed it away to the back of his mind.

  "Good. I'm going to train you to do just that. Now, how are those boots?"

  Brish rose and took a few steps. "They fit fine, sir."

  "I think you will too, Brish," Andon said, giving him an approving look.

  Brish met his eyes and saw more in them than approval. His heart skipped a beat.

  "Thank you, s
ir. I won't let you down."

  Andon regarded him for a moment. "I know you won't. And call me Andon. At least when we're alone. General Zand insists on terms of respect, but amongst assassins I prefer to rely on trust. We have to have each other's backs. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir. Andon," Brish corrected. "I understand."

  "Good. Now let me find some soft shoes." Andon turned away, but not before giving Brish a smile which drove the last of the doubt from his mind. He'd apologise to Harm when they met again, but he'd found the place he was supposed to be.

  Chapter Ten

  The table in front of Del was clean and tidy, the usual spread of paper organised into a low pile. The rest he'd tossed into a box to be taken for re-pulping. Some he'd burnt, rather than risk his notes being seen. Many simply mentioned ideas which he'd either lost interest in or had failed. At best they were embarrassing. At worst? They'd be dangerous.

  He rubbed at his face. Stubble prickled the palms of his hand. He should shave. Looking after himself, especially his appearance, had never been high priorities. Right now, however, he felt less worthy of the effort than ever.

  The guilt over what he'd done to Daven gnawed at him all day and kept him from sleeping at night. When he did sleep, he dreamed about his son. He saw Daven's face, and that of the man whose life his son had saved. Over and over he saw the way the man's skin had healed from his terrible burns. He heard the screams of agony fade as the pain washed away.

  Sometimes, as he lay awake, he pictured magic sliding across the man's body like a mass of malignant fibres, hissing and spitting, held in check by Daven's will. He'd seen no such thing of course. No one could see magic.

  All his life he'd been told that magic was bad. Magic had caused the Dragonwar. Magic was a weapon with which the magin had murdered hundreds of people. Now he wondered how much was true, and how much blown out of proportion. Daven wasn't a bad person, Del knew that, and yet he'd still given in to a lifetime of conditioning. He wasn't the first parent to turn in their own child and he wouldn't be the last. That did nothing to comfort him, nor should it. He couldn't imagine anything he might do which would be a bigger betrayal.