by Damien Lake
“However, keep in mind the simple fact that you are not to make an issue of what you are doing. You are no ‘unofficial Arm’, whatever has been said. The council will be most displeased if rumors to that effect begin circulating. Outside the enclave, if you must speak to anyone regarding your duty, that person must first be approved by a member of the council.”
Celerity ordered, “You will come to the enclave’s tower tomorrow morning to learn what Tru has uncovered.” She wore a mask of impassiveness, the cracks in it revealing her true feelings barely perceptible to him. He could see she still regarded him as an impertinent apprentice who lacked proper respect. “From there you will decide what next step you wish to take.”
Silence hung in the air. Celerity and the seneschal had nothing further to add. They left him alone with Torrance, who must know what they were meant to do following the meeting.
“I don’t know which way is forward and which way is back!” Marik vented.
“Keep your wits in proper order,” Torrance commanded. “I will not have you casting any ill regard over the Crimson Kings! There exists already as much of that as we can work around.”
The temporary unity of mercenary-hood between them was clearly ended. Marik faced Torrance without the rigid postures of soldiers addressing superior officers, electing to continue his bravado against the gale. He would see if the hurricane winds would break him in the end after all. At this point, he would almost welcome it.
“How did the king and his council latch onto me? Mercenaries are nameless nobodies, no matter what great deeds they pull off! I can’t believe that cursed song or the reports would be enough to put this bee in their ears. By all rights, they shouldn’t have a clue that the two fighters in both battles are the same man!”
Torrance lofted a single finger, his bearing that of a stern nursery attendant preparing to chastise a toddler for tipping his undersized furniture into the hearth. “You may accept, in all measure, the blame for that, Marik! When you reported to Janus the exploits of your contract to safeguard Hilliard Garroway last summer, you conveniently left out the fact that you challenged Balfourth Dornory to a death match!”
Prepared for any rebuke except that, Marik felt his spine stiffen after all. “I did no such thing! A death match? If I had, I would be hanging from a gallows rope!”
“No? Well, whatever the facts, that is the version of the tale still burning through the Inner Circle like a wildfire! According to rumor, you, the bardic hero who struck down a squadron of enemy knights, was on the verge of slaying a cowardly noble who had deserted at the Hollister battle. Only your respectful deference to proper etiquette regarding the shedding of blood in the home of your host stayed your hand.”
“Who said that? That never happened!”
Torrance glared at him, his temper short. “Of course it didn’t! You’re a mercenary, for the love of all the gods! But be that as it may, you surprise me. I would never have expected such foolhardiness from the lowest cutthroat who eeled his way into Kingshome, much less a man who has demonstrated a sharpness of wit during his contracts. I trust Fraser’s judgement enough that I have no doubt he reported true.”
Marik scratched his chin. “I’ve never claimed to be smart or clever. Dietrik can tell you that, too. Balfourth…he’s been a splinter under my fingernail ever since the beginning. Under all our nails. My temper got the better of me that night.”
“You had best keep it under tight rein,” Torrance ordered with emphasis. “The eyes of powerful people will be on you constantly. Any slip, no matter how minor, will reflect on the band. If you damage our reputation…”
There was no need to complete the promise. Marik knew full well the band’s reputation formed the entire foundation of their place in the world, particularly among the nobility who refused to contract with any free swords except those acknowledged as the best.
“What does Balfourth have to do with my being summoned? I don’t see how that could possibly matter.”
That brought a heavy sigh from the mercenary leader. “The court thrives on gossip, on rumors, no matter their credibility. You likely would have faded from their minds soon enough. That song about the battle and their love of heroic wartime figures would gradually ebb under current affairs until you were mentioned nevermore. But,” he added, his words hardening, “when you pull a stunt such as shaming a pampered lapdog like Dornory with the truth, that changes matters! It transforms you into an ongoing figure, a character from the old epics who continues to make waves without regard for his own station. It’s antithetical to their nature, so it makes for rich and juicy talk among them.”
“I don’t care what they say about me, and if Dornory is the joke of the court, then that’s perfectly fine with me. It’s only what he deserves! Sounds as if all this talk will die down sooner or later, according to you, so it’s no skin off my nose.”
“Later. Most definitely later, Marik. Now, even after many eventful years from today, they will resurrect your exploits over the afternoon wine to amuse their newer acquaintances. And all because before you allowed the fade to happen, you magnified it tenfold before their witnessing eyes. And then,” Torrance tacked on with poisonous sarcasm, “while that fruitful tale still ripened in the court gardens, you hare off straight into an enemy army, bent on getting yourself and your shieldmates slaughtered, by all accounts.”
Here it came. Marik could feel the heat of shame rising to his cheeks. On this, though, he would accept his due from the commander. Sloan, as efficiently furious as only Sloan could be, would surely prove to have been a mere warm-up to Torrance’s anger.
The seething in the commander’s eyes revealed the truth of that…but Torrance only said, “As for that, I intend to speak with you later. Suffice to say that you were already at the court’s attention when Celerity brought Raymond her summary of the Rovasii battle. Your identity immediately caught his majesty’s attention, as well as the knight-marshal’s. They have chosen to keep your role in that battle a secret, if possible.”
“I see,” Marik announced flatly. “Last thing they need is the court fops spreading wild stories about a mercenary while the king tries to boost the morale of his men through his figurehead, the Arm.” He laughed bitterly.
Torrance nodded. “Exactly so. You’ve spitted yourself for roasting. See to it that you don’t baste your carcass with the rest of the band.”
“With the king’s council being the only people who know, I doubt that will be difficult.”
“Do not assume so. There is no such thing as a secret in the court. Word always finds a way out. It is a hydra, ever springing up with new heads no matter how many are cut off.”
“I will do my best to be unobtrusive.” Marik plastered a lopsided grin to his face that must have looked as false as it felt.
“In you, the king sees the makings of Arms he has spent his entire life hearing tales about. In you, the knight-marshal sees an insult to his military abilities. In you, the royal enclave sees a mystery, and they are a group who despise matters beyond their understanding.”
“I will be quick about it, commander. I can’t say that it comforts me to see them grasping at non-existent miracles so, but I will look at what they want me to, offer whatever ideas come to me, and let them get on with the real planning once they see I am no legend-come-to-life.”
Torrance gazed at him speculatively for a long moment before finishing with, “See that you are quick, at the least.”
Chapter 04
An oppressive silence hung heavily between the trees. It unsettled Marik more deeply than it had the last time he walked this graveled path. Fog would feel less substantial, less like a thick blanket enwrapping him.
Surrounding the palace grounds rose imposing walls that held the city at bay. Hilliard Garroway had once mentioned a number regarding the palace complex, a reference to square acreage or some similar measurement system. The numbers were meaningless to Marik. Only standing within the sanctuary endowed him with the ap
propriate awe that such a vast space could have been secluded from the world.
Behind the palace’s western wings rested the tower housing the court mages. It lurked amidst a miniature forest that crowded the space between the enclosing walls and the palace proper. Only the loudest noises from the city could invade the tranquility. A handful of birds who had found their way to the trees by winging over the human environment failed miserably at imitating the natural music of a forest. They only served to call his attention to how silent the trees were.
Dietrik must be wondering if he’d been hauled off to prison since he had failed to return last night. Torrance had brought him to a room furnished with a small bed and little else. Given the late candlemark, and the clear instructions to rise with the sun, returning to camp would have meant turning around as soon as he arrived.
Soft light filtered through the branches from the sun’s renewed voyage across the celestial azure seas. The air chilled him, adding to the winter tingle he felt throughout his spine from the knowledge that he had no business being among these decision makers. He was a sheep in the skin of a wolf, pretending to be other than the follower he was.
Marik paused before the last curve that would bring him to the enclave’s tower. Deep breaths filled his lungs until he felt them pressing against his ribs. He let it out in a long exhalation.
I can’t afford to botch this. I need to act like a man. After all I’ve been through, all I’ve learned, I should be able to handle this. All I need to remember is to think clearly and keep my temper under control.
Yes, he had come far, accomplished much. He usually never thought in such terms, but seeing matters through the perspectives revealed to him last night made him acknowledge it. The only question that echoed deep within his soul was whether or not his achievements were merely the exigencies of random chance.
Hesitation clearly revealed inexperience. Marik resumed his march, opening the door to the odd tower in the trees without bothering to knock. If he were to be their last resort, then he refused to be treated like a trembling apprentice. They would give him what he needed. He would make them forgo any quibbling so he could complete this task quickly as possible.
Marik half-expected to find a person waiting for him, as the servant waiting outside his door to fetch his breakfast had been. The small foyer stood empty, the fragile spoke-chairs clustered beside the bookcase. Its shelves were in disarray from hurried searches through the volumes.
He slowly climbed the stairway winding its way to the tower’s top along the inside curve of the lower dome. At each doorway he poked his head inside, expecting to find no one until he entered the tower higher up. The sight of figures in a room arrested him on the second floor.
There were a higher number of women than men, and his first thought was that this was where Ilona most wanted to be in the world. In this room where magic alone determined who played what role. She would thrive in this environment.
The woman he loved longed for magical talent. That knowledge unsettled him, as it usually did. He was fully aware that the gift, or curse, of mage talent was the sole trait that had attracted him to her. At times it crossed his mind to wonder if she would care for him in the slightest were it not for his magic.
His stomach always filled with acid if he dwelled on the question too long. He knew what the answer would almost certainly be. It was a bitter irony that he spent most of his life in pursuit of questions without answers, yet the few mysteries he could unravel provided him with truths he would as soon have left buried deep.
Several people in the room quickly noticed him, or marked his presence to an extent. His arrival swayed none from their activities despite his dress, so markedly different from theirs. Marik observed them momentarily before he entered, seeing vests, shirts, pants rather than breeches, the type of boots the upper classes wore indoors that would be destroyed at the first touch of dew, woven belts rather than leather, long sleeves, tight cuffs and broad collars…but no gloves, hosiery, long feathers, silk handkerchiefs or, thank all the gods, lace. The lack of gloves could be attributed to the ink smudges staining many a finger as copious notes were frantically scribed, except the competent atmosphere in the room suggested frivolity found little purchase among these people.
It was the first positive sign he had seen in months.
Since everyone concentrated on individual duties, he abandoned his initial idea of shouting out that he had arrived, and that they had best be on with the farce. Women poured through thick tomes, quickly flicking the pages, searching for information. At times they would pause to study a passage, then either continue on or write scratchy notes with frayed quills on the papers laying beside the books. Given the apparent age of the tomes, Marik guessed these were the mages Celerity had set to combing through the palace library, seeking any mention of the invaders or their monsters. The chief mage had mentioned a month earlier, while speaking to Sloan and Kineta through the hand mirror, that the enclave frantically sought answers through such means.
Others, a mix of both genders, burrowed through thick paper stacks, presumably collections of reports from the army elements who had come into contact with the black soldiers. They shuffled the documents faster than a master cardsman who made his living challenging idle well-to-dos in the cleaner taverns. Thick bundles were passed from one hand to the next, the papers making their way to whichever person it bore the most relevance.
It might have been a band of clerks rather than a mage enclave were it not for displays of magic that received as much attention from passerbys as the mundane reports. Three mirrors acted as visual portals to distant kingdom reaches. Their operators, two women and a man, stared with fierce concentration while the view shifted slowly over landscapes barren of human presence. Porcelain bowls filled with earth provided the catalyst that directed the scryes, spells from an alien magical branch since Marik could see no seeking serpent’s tail connected to the mirror’s frame. To his magesight, the mirrors held the same amount of etheric power as a doorknob.
His conclusion that there were three scryes in progress proved false when he realized a fourth was also underway. To his astonishment, this scrying effort utilized no mirror at all. The magic user had anchored the spell to a window frame, using the glass pane as the medium by which images from across the kingdom were shown. It left Marik disoriented, looking through the window at what should have been the ancient trees surrounding the tower, instead seeing grassy stretches with indistinct buildings on the horizon.
He had never known that scrying could be used like that.
Marik searched the room for Celerity. She was elsewhere this morning. He disliked the notion of approaching an unfamiliar face. It was with a measure of relief that he recognized Tru.
The man with coal-black skin, the only person in the room who elected to wear the type of robe most people believed mages affected, hunched over a table on the room’s far side. His midnight raiment blended with his natural color, giving him the likeness of a tar doll crudely squeezed into a man’s shape by clumsy fingers. No one else shared his table.
Marik wound his way through figures dashing from table to table and collecting fresh writing supplies. He peered over Tru’s shoulder when he drew closer. What the magician labored over made no sense to Marik’s mage-based knowledge. There were no less than twenty plates scattered over the table’s surface. On each were fragments of odd materials. Shreds of cloth formed a mound on one. A second held what looked to be fragments of shattered steel that had been colored black.
On the plate nearest Tru rested a leather square Marik instantly recognized as coming from the bizarre cure-belly vests the invaders wore. This piece had ragged edges left by a hasty excision from the larger armament.
Tru held a monocle halfway between the plate and his eye. From an open pouch on the table he took a pinch of sand, followed by a shiny pebble from a second bag. He tipped his hand so both fell into his palm. The magician rubbed his fingertips in undulating motions over his h
and’s contents, grinding them together, mixing them…or mixing them as much as sand and a single pebble could be mixed.
He held his hand over the leather square and muttered a word so softly Marik missed it in the room’s din. The sand dissolved to ashy flakes, and the pebble’s glittering whiteness crumbled to dark remnants.
No change occurred to the plate’s contents that Marik could see. Tru studied the square carefully through the monocle before shaking his head minutely. He pushed the plate aside to make room for a different one.
Marik gripped the man’s shoulder. Tru, badly startled, jerked around, upsetting his sand pouch. A brown wash rolled briefly across the tabletop.
“Oh, it’s you.” Tru frowned at the mess and flicked his sleeve to cast off the clinging sand.
“That’s right,” Marik affirmed. “Where’s Celerity skulking?”
“She’s over in the building. Another meeting.”
“A council meeting this early?”
“Yeah. Three times a day.” He pulled his mouth to one side wryly. “No point, if you ask me. We won’t know anything until we know something.”
Marik blinked, having forgotten the strange syntax Tru could employ. “When is she supposed to get back? I came to talk with her.”
Tru returned his gaze to Marik from dusting off his sleeve. He glanced upward at an angle to met him eye-to-eye. “I heard you were chosen special to look at the mountain. It’s weird, but then when you were fighting you worked your power different than I’ve ever seen, so you’ve got the others talking. What were you doing with your sword, anyway? I thought magicians were the only users who could make magical objects.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“No? Whatever you did, it made Celerity stare at the mirror. You hardly ever hear her talking to herself.”
“Believe me, it was nothing special. And it was a mistake.”
“I saw that,” Tru mentioned. He reached his fingers without warning to prod at Marik’s face. “When he killed your sword. Looked pretty bad.”
