Milamber said, “So we gain freedom to act as we see fit, as long as we act in the best interest of the Empire.”
Hochopepa nodded. “It does not matter what we do, or even that two magicians may find themselves at odds over some action or another, as long as both are working in what they believe is the best interest of the Empire.”
“From my somewhat ‘barbaric’ point of view, a strange law.”
“Not a law, but a tradition. On this world, my barbaric friend, tradition and custom can be a much stronger constraint than law. Laws are changed, but tradition endures.”
“I think I see what your problem is, my civilized friend. You are not sure if I will act in the best interest of the Empire, being an outlander.”
Hochopepa nodded. “Were we certain that you were capable of acting against the Empire, you would have been killed. As it is, we are uncertain, though we tend to believe it unlikely you are capable of such action.”
For the first time Milamber was completely unsure of what he was hearing. “I was under the assumption that you had ways of ensuring that all who are trained are loyal to the Empire, as the first duty.”
“Normally, yes. In your case we faced problems new to us. As far as we can tell, you are submerged in the underlying cause of the brotherhood of magicians, the order of the Empire. Usually we are certain. We simply read the apprentice’s mind. With you we couldn’t. We had to rely on truth drugs, long interrogations, and training drills designed to show any duplicity.”
“Why?”
“Not for any reason we understand. The spells of thought masking are known. It was nothing of that sort. It was as if your mind held some property we had never encountered before. Perhaps a natural talent unknown to us, but common to your world; or the result of some training at the hands of your Lesser Path master protected you against our mind-reading arts.
“In any event, it created something of a stir in these halls, you may be sure. Several times during your training, the question of your continuing was raised, and each time our inability to read your mind was given as reason for your termination. Each time more were willing to see you continue than not. On the whole you present a possible wealth of new knowledge and, as such, deserve every benefit of the doubt—to ensure we do not lose such a valuable addition to our storehouse of talents, of course.”
“Of course,” Milamber said dryly.
“Yesterday the question of your continuation became critical. When the time came for your final acceptance into the Assembly, the issue was put to the vote and ended in a tie. There was one abstention, myself. As long as I remain unallied with one side or the other, the question of your survival is moot. You are free to act as a full member of the Assembly until I recast my vote to ratify your selection into the Assembly, or not. Our tradition does not allow a change of vote, once cast, except abstentions. As no one absent during the voting may add their vote later, I am the only one who can break the tie. So the result of the voting, no matter how long delayed, is mine to decide.”
Milamber looked long and hard at the older magician. “I see.”
Hochopepa shook his head slowly. “I wonder if you do. To put it in its simplest form, the question of the moment is, what am I to do with you? Without meaning to, I find your life is now in my hands. What I have to decide is whether or not you should be killed. That is why I wished to see you, to see if I might have erred in judgment.”
Suddenly Milamber threw back his head and laughed, long and hard. In a moment tears were running down his cheeks. When he quieted, Hochopepa said, “I fail to see the humor.”
Milamber raised his hand in a placating gesture. “No offense was intended, my civilized friend. But surely you must see the irony of the situation. I was a slave, my life subject to the whim of others. For all my training, and advancement in station, I find that this fact has not been altered.” He paused for a moment, and his smile was friendly. “Still, I would rather have you hold my life in your hands than my former overseer. That is what I find so funny.”
Hochopepa was startled by the answer, then he, too, started to laugh. “Many of our brothers pay little heed to the ancient teachings, but if you are familiar with our older philosophers, you will understand my meaning. You seem to be a man who has found his wal. I think we have an understanding, my barbaric friend. I think we have started well.”
Milamber studied Hochopepa. Without knowing the unconscious process whereby he reached the conclusion, he judged he had found an ally, and perhaps a friend. “I think so, as well. And I think you also a man who has found his wal.“
Feigning modesty, Hochopepa said, “I am but a simple man, too much a slave to pleasures of the flesh to have reached such a state of perfect centering.” With a sigh he leaned forward and began to speak intently. “Listen to me well, Milamber. For all the reasons enumerated before, you are as much a weapon to be feared as a possible source of knowledge.
“Tsurani are slaves to politics, as any student of the Game of the Council can attest; while we of the Assembly are reputed to be above such things, we have our own factions and infighting, not always settled in a peaceful, bloodless manner.
“Many of our brothers are little more than superstitious peasants, distrusting that which is alien and unknown. From this day forward, you must bend yourself to one task. Stay peacefully hidden within your wal, and become Tsurani. To all outward appearances, you must become more Tsurani than anyone else in the Assembly. Is that understood?”
“It is,” Milamber said simply.
Hochopepa poured another cup of hot chocha each. “Be especially wary of the Warlord’s pets, Elgahar and Ergoran, and a reckless youngster named Tapek. Their master rankles at the progress of the war upon your former homeworld and is suspicious of the Assembly. Now that two of our brothers died in the last major campaign, fewer of our brothers are willing to lend further aid to that undertaking. The few magicians left within his faction are overtaxed, and it is rumored he will be unable to subdue any more of your world without a miracle. It would take a united High Council—which should happen when the Thūn raiders become agriculturalists and poets, and not before—or a large number of Black Robes agreeing to do his bidding. The latter should occur about a year after the former, so you can see he is in a somewhat poor political situation. Warlords who fail in conducting war tend to fall from grace quickly.” With a smile he added, “Of course, we of the Assembly are far above matters political.” His tone turned serious once more. “You must face one thing: he may view you as a potential threat, either influencing others not to aid him, or openly opposing him from some deep-rooted sympathy for your former homeland. You are protected from his direct actions, but you still might run afoul of his pets. Some still blindly follow his lead.”
“ ‘The path of power is a path of turns within turns,’ ” Milamber quoted.
Hochopepa nodded, a satisfied expression upon his face. His eyes seemed to glint. “That is Tsurani. You learn quickly.”
—
IN THE FOLLOWING weeks Milamber grew into the fullness of his new position, learning the responsibilities of his office. It was remarked on more than once, and occasionally with distrust, that there had been few who had demonstrated so much ability so soon after donning the black robe.
For all the changes in his existence, Milamber discovered many things were unchanged. With practice he discovered he still had untapped wells of power within, which could be called up only in times of stress. He studied to bring this wild augmentation of power under control, but with little success. He also discovered he was able to put aside the mental conditions placed upon him during training. He chose not to reveal this fact to anyone, not even Hochopepa. His reordering of these mental conditionings also regained him something else, a nearly overwhelming desire to be with Katala once again. He put aside that desire, to go to her at once and demand her release from the Lord of the Shinzawai, well within his ability now he was a Great One. He hesitated for fear of the reaction of
the other magicians, and for fear her feelings might have changed toward him. Instead he plunged into his studies.
His time in the Assembly brought forth his true identity, as he had been told it would. This identity proved the key to his unusual mastery of the Greater Path. He was a being of both worlds, worlds bound together by the great rift. And for as long as those worlds stayed bound together, he drew power from both, twice the power available to others of the black robe. This knowledge revealed his true name, that name which could not be spoken lest it let another gain power over him. In the ancient Tsurani language, unused since the time of the Escape, it meant, “One who stands between worlds.”
5
Voyage
Martin watched.
Motioning silently to his companions, they slipped through the wood line, just out of sight of those in the meadow. They could easily hear the shouts in the Tsurani camp as orders were given. Martin crouched low, so no hint of movement would betray their presence. Behind him scurried Garret and the former Tsurani slave, Charles. In the six years since the siege of Crydee, Charles had met Martin’s expectations, proving his loyalty and worth a dozen times. He had also become a passable woodsman, though he would never have Garret or Martin’s natural ease.
Whispering, Charles said, “Huntmaster, I mark many new banners.”
“Where?”
Charles pointed to a spot near the farthest edge of the Tsurani camp. With the aid of the dwarves remaining in the high villages, Martin and his two companions had made the dangerous climb over the Grey Towers, easily passing the few Tsurani sentries left along the western edge of the valley, the flank thought least in need of vigilance. Now they were within a few hundred feet of the main Tsurani camp.
Garret let forth a nearly silent whistle. “The man has eyes like a falcon. I can barely see those banners.”
Charles said, “I only know what to look for.”
“What do the new banners mean?” asked Longbow.
“Ill news, Huntmaster. Those are the house banners of families that were loyal to the Blue Wheel Party. At least when I was captured. They have been absent since the siege of Crydee. This can mean only another major shift in the High Council.” He studied the Huntmaster’s face. “It tells us the Alliance for War is again restored. And next spring we can expect a major offensive.”
Martin motioned for them to move back into the woods. The trees were fully covered in fall colors, riots of red, gold, and brown. Moving quietly through fallen leaves, they found a sheltering stand of brush skirting an ancient oak and knelt behind it. Martin took out a small piece of dried beef and chewed it. The climb over the Grey Towers, even with the dwarves’ help, had taken its toll: they all were hungry, tired, and dirty. “Where are the new companies of soldiers?” Martin asked.
“They won’t bring them through this winter. They can stage outside the City of the Plains on Kelewan, at ease in a milder climate. They’ll move through the rift just before the spring thaw. By the time flowers are blooming in Princess Carline’s garden again, they’ll be marching.”
A high-pitched keening sound came from the north. Charles’s expression changed to one of controlled alarm. “Cho-ja!” He glanced around, then pointed upward.
Martin nodded and made a stirrup with his hands. He boosted first Charles, then Garret, into the oak tree. Then he jumped, and they caught his hands and pulled him up.
Moving into the higher branches, they were motionless and had weapons ready when the cho-ja patrol came into view, passing beneath the tree. Six of the antlike creatures moved at a steady pace; then the leader, marked by a crested helm of Tsurani make, motioned them to halt. He turned one way then another, then made commands in their high-pitched language. The other five spread out, and for nearly ten minutes the three men in the tree could hear them searching the area.
When they returned, they quickly formed up and moved off. When Martin was certain they were out of hearing range, he whispered, “What was that?”
“They smelled us. My scent will have changed from all the Midkemian food I have eaten. They knew we were not Tsurani.”
Climbing down from the tree, Charles said, “Cho-ja cannot look easily upward, so they rarely do.”
Garret asked, “What if some of your former countrymen had been along?”
Charles shrugged. “The cho-ja would have been speaking Tsurani. Their language is almost impossible to learn, so no one tries.”
Martin said, “Will they be able to mark our trail?”
Charles said, “I don’t think so, but—” He stopped as loud barking came from the Tsurani camp. “Dogs!”
Martin said, “They can track us. Come.” He set out at a controlled run, back toward an ancient trail into the mountains, one almost completely overgrown and undiscovered by the Tsurani but used by Martin’s band to enter the valley.
For a few moments the three men loped through the woods, listening to the barking behind. Then the sound of the dogs changed, and barks became howls and baying. “They’ve gotten the scent,” said Garret.
Martin only nodded and picked up the pace. They ran for another minute, the sound of the dogs steadily gaining on them, when Martin halted and grabbed at Garret’s arm to keep him from running past. With a signal, he changed directions away from the trail and led the others to a small stream. Entering the water, he said, “I remembered hearing this when we passed by before.”
The other two entered the water, and Martin said, “We gain only minutes. They’ll search up- and downstream.”
Garret said, “Which way?”
Martin said, “Downstream. They’ll search upstream first, as that’s the way out.”
Charles said, “Huntmaster, there’s another way.” He quickly unshouldered his backpack and removed a large pouch. He began sprinkling black powder up and down the shore of the stream where they had entered.
Garret felt his eyes tearing and blew hard through his nose to keep from sneezing. “Pepper!”
Charles said, “Mastercook Megar will be angry, but I thought we might need it. The cho-ja and the dogs will smell nothing for hours when they sniff around here.”
Martin nodded. “Upstream!”
The three men splashed through the water, then got into a quieter, steady rhythm. They were out of sight of the place where they entered when the baying of the dogs was interrupted by sneezes. Angry voices shouted commands, and frustrated replies were heard. Charles indulged himself in a faint smile as they continued to move through the water.
Finding a branch low enough over the stream, Martin boosted his companions out and climbed up after them. They moved along the tree until they found another branch of a nearby oak close enough to jump to.
They touched the ground again a dozen yards from the stream bank. Martin glanced around to ensure they were not seen and motioned for the others to follow as he led them back toward the Grey Towers.
—
SEA BREEZES SWEPT the walls. Arutha looked out at the town of Crydee and the sea beyond, his brown hair ruffled by the wind. Patches of light and dark flashed across the landscape as high, fluffy clouds raced overhead. Arutha watched the distant horizon, taking in the vista of the Endless Sea whipped to a froth of whitecaps, as the noise of workmen restoring another building in the town blew by on the wind.
Another autumn visited Crydee, the eighth since the start of the war. Arutha considered it fortunate another spring and summer had passed without a major Tsurani offensive; still, he felt little cause for comfort. He was no longer a boy fresh to command, but a seasoned soldier. At twenty-seven years he had seen more conflict, and had made more decisions, than most men of the Kingdom knew in their lives. In his best judgment, he knew the Tsurani were slowly winning the war.
He let his mind drift a little, then shook himself out of his brooding. While no longer a moody boy, he still tended to let introspection overtake him. He found it best to keep busy and avoid such wasteful pastimes.
“It is a short autumn.”
<
br /> Arutha looked to his left and found Roland standing nearby. The Squire had caught the Prince lost in thought and had made his approach without detection. Arutha found himself irritated. He shrugged it off and said, “And a short winter will follow, Roland. And in the spring…”
“What news of Longbow?”
Arutha balled a gloved fist and gently struck the stones of the wall, the slow, controlled gesture, a clear sign of his frustration. “I’ve regretted the need for his going a hundred times. Of the three, only Garret shows any sense of caution. That Charles is a Tsurani madman, consumed by honor, and Longbow is…”
“Longbow,” finished Roland.
“I’ve never met a man who reveals so little of himself, Roland. If I live as long as an elf, I don’t think I’ll ever understand what makes him the way he is.”
Roland leaned against the cool stones of the wall and said, “Do you think they’re safe?”
Arutha returned his attention to the sea. “If any man in Crydee can crest the mountains into the Tsurani-held valley and get back, it is Martin. Still, I worry.”
Magician: Master Page 14
