Vergence

by John March

  “Yes, yes,” Shuhrat said, “we all know Vergence is full of wicked people who just live to commit sin. If this boy is such trouble, send a man to stick a knife in his ribs and have done.”

  “We cannot just murder the boy and think it will go unnoticed,” Palona's uncle said.

  “Agreed,” Baldon said. “Tenlier has him now. We cannot simply kill his people with impunity.”

  Urr spluttered. “Tenlier is an addled fool, who busies himself chasing phantasms and illusions. Only the gullible, more foolish even than him, believe his research has value.”

  “Even so, he is an Elector, with powerful friends on many sides,” Baldon said.

  “No,” Murzel said. He spoke softly, with an emotionless tone. “We must remain attentive to what is essential. Does it not say in Admonitions To The Young: Blessed is the man who cleaves to the truths; and cursed is he who forsakes them for favours of the moment?”

  Baldon and the priest responded at the same time, “Praise the three.”

  “Respectfully,” Palona's uncle said, “I believe Urr has a point. Why would this boy suddenly appear now, at a time when our plans are so advanced? The chance that one with such a gift should now appear, and join Tenlier by chance, strains credulity—”

  “So you think Tenlier is behind this?” Bae asked.

  “Unlikely. How would it profit Tenlier to have the boy exposed in public if Tenlier planned to use him? The boy would have been more useful if his abilities had remained hidden,” Palona's uncle said.

  “Tell me,” Garr said, “what else did he show? Which others sought him?”

  “Warding and folding,” Urr said. “He could not have learnt either by chance. Even amongst adepts folding is rarely studied and difficult to master.”

  “What is folding?” Garr asked.

  “To hide something, place it beyond the reach of any, and bring it back later if he wishes,” Urr said.

  Shuhrat laughed harshly. “Useful for a smuggler—”

  “Let's not get side-tracked by irrelevancies—”

  Urr made a growling sound. “This point is not meaningless. It was folding the boy used against the iron.”

  After a few moments Palona's uncle spoke. “Are you suggesting this boy's training was deliberate?”

  “It is possible … yes,” Urr said.

  “Well, if he's as great a threat as you say, do what Salsa suggested, have him killed. If it looks like an accident no one will suspect,” Shuhrat said.

  “Perhaps you'd like to shut up and leave the decision on how to deal with this to those of us with experience,” Bae said.

  “And who's paying for this great plan—” Shuhrat said.

  “You're not the only one paying—” Nepet said.

  “The funding from my guild far outweighs your meagre contributions,” Salsa said, his voice rising.

  A number of voices started shouting, talking over each other, and Palona couldn't make out anything they were saying.

  She wanted to look round the corner of the door, to see what was happening, but she knew if her uncle spotted her he would shut the door.

  “What are they doing?” she signed at Jaquit.

  Jaquit pulled a mock fierce expression. “Shaking fists and ugly faces.”

  Somebody banged repeatedly on the table until the shouting finished.

  “Friends … friends … please,” the priest said. “Our focus must remain on the plan. We know little about this boy. Until we have his history we cannot know what should be done. Do the precepts not warn against labouring in ignorance? With your blessing, eminence, I feel we should send men to investigate this matter.”

  “Very well,” Murzel said. “Investigate, but ensure you are not distracted from our common purpose. The patience of the Triumvirate are not without limit.”

  There was another silence before Nepet spoke. “Where do you suggest we start?”

  Salsa cleared his throat. “Discover who sponsored him.”

  “Sponsored?” Palona's uncle asked.

  Urr grunted. “Many applicants have a sponsor. It is not required, but there is a bounty paid to the order and the sponsor. How much is depending on the bid. The boy had a sponsor called Ethal Quentyn.”

  “I'll arrest him,” Bae said excitedly. “Then we can question him for as long as we need—”

  “And you think no-one will notice while you parade the teacher of Teblin's pet through the street?” Shuhrat asked.

  “No,” Garr said. “I will send my man here. He has the experience to do what needs to be done, to ensure things are finished in a tidy manner.”

  Palona stopped listening as the shouting resumed, with chairs screeching across the floor, and fists banging on the table. She decided the meeting wasn't nearly as interesting as she'd hoped.

  Bae left first, striding through the room, cheeks flushed, barely nodding in Palona's direction, and making no effort at any kind of civility. Palona watched his retreating back with narrowed eyes. She picked up her papers and scratched out his name, penning Lord Muro in its place.

  She cast a satisfied eye over the list. The middle brother was better looking and so much more fun. She didn't know why she'd considered Bae at all — such an intolerable bore.

  “So … the golden boy joins us …”

  Ebryn started violently. A large pair of yellow-green eyes with vertical pupils focused on him in the near dark. The voice had a harsh rasping edge to it and the words sounded imperfectly formed, almost as if using a rough-edged wind instrument.

  “Plyntoure?”Ebryn asked.

  “Kleple.”

  Ebryn had wandered into a ground level room at random, looking for the dining hall. Tenlier's directions had been a bit vague, and returning from The Etched Man with his few possessions after dark, he'd hurried downstairs, hoping not to have missed the evening meal. Tenlier had told him they ate together every twelfth day, and would be introducing them at the next one — that evening.

  “I was looking for the dining hall,” Ebryn said.

  “And you have found it,” Kleple said.

  Ebryn could make out the edge of an object in front of him. Without thinking, he reached out and poured a golden glow into it. Kleple scrambled backwards as the wave of molten light spread through the table surface towards him. He stared with pupils contracted to almost invisible slits, reminding Ebryn of a predatory night animal startled in the dark.

  “It's safe, just light,” Ebryn said.

  “I see,” Kleple said, his words almost a hiss.

  Ebryn had half expected Kleple to be something like the furbeg, but the similarities ended with the covering of fur. Solidly built and not much shorter than an average man.

  Kleple's fur was a sleek mottled grey, flecked with hints of black and patches of dirty white. He had large forward facing eyes, and muzzle-like jaws with lips pulled back to reveal rows of sharp teeth. His ears, small and triangular, were folded backwards and to the side, as if facing into a sudden wind.

  Keple held a large book open against his chest, and appeared to have been reading in the darkened room.

  A deep reverberating note echoed through the building, the kind that might have been made by striking a very large empty cauldron.

  “What was that?” Ebryn asked.

  “Time to eat. Sit anywhere but there,” Kleple said, pointing towards the head of the table.

  Ebryn sat a third of the way along the table, almost opposite Kleple, who'd resumed reading and held up his book in front of his face, angled in such a way that Ebryn could see nothing of him but the tips of his ears and furry fingers. They sat and waited in silence, punctuated by odd tongue-clicking sounds from Kleple.

  Tenlier entered the room, talking in a low voice, and gesticulating animatedly. Another man followed closely behind, listening intently and nodding.

  “Ah, Ebryn, I see you have dealt with the illumination. Good fellow,” Tenlier said.

  Kleple closed his book with a snap, and grunted.

  �
�Yes,” Ebryn said, glancing at Kleple, “there was no light in here.”

  “This is Argin, and I see you have already met Kleple.”

  The man behind Tenlier nodded a greeting, and headed to the other side of the table. His eyes were red-rimmed, and the skin on his face and hands covered in raw blistered patches. He wore a heavy leather apron, stained purple and black, which extended past his knees.

  Tenlier sat down at the head of the table. “Unfortunately most members of our branch of the order are working in distant places, so you won't meet them for a while. A couple more to join us I think … ah, here they are.”

  A short figure much like Kleple in appearance, but with longer sandy coloured hair and larger ears, led Aara Sur into the room. She'd changed into darker robes, with most of her face still concealed behind a veil which ran across the bridge of her nose. She looked down to avoid their eyes, and sat quickly a little way further down the table.

  The newcomer clambered noisily onto a chair between Ebryn and Tenlier. “Apologies for lateness, young lady needing guidance.”

  “Excellent,” Tenlier said, smiling warmly. “First introductions, and then we can eat. On my right we have Kleple and Argin, both adept researchers. And on this side we have Plyntoure, a companion researcher, and joining us are Ebryn Alire and Aara Sur.”

  “Welcome Ebryn Alire,” Plyntoure said.

  “Aara brings rare and valuable skills which will, in time, greatly speed our work in Magadigar and elsewhere. And we have Ebryn, who has already displayed unique talents, and I'm sure will prove to have a number of other prodigious affinities.”

  Kleple made a drawn-out sound somewhere between choking and hissing. “Do you mean monstrous?”

  Ebryn watched in alarm, until he realised Kleple was laughing. Nobody else at the table joined in, so Ebryn guessed only Kleple found what he'd said amusing.

  A double door opposite Ebryn swung open and a dozen tryth trooped in, their claws clattering on the wooden floor. They wore cream coloured aprons, and each carried an assortment of steaming dishes.

  “You will find there's little danger of starving here,” Tenlier said as the tryth laid the food, plates, and eating utensils out on the table.

  “Starvation isn't the danger your going to need to guard against here,” Kleple said, looking at Ebryn.

  Tenlier smiled. “Now Kleple, it doesn't do to exaggerate. Master Brack may be loud, and at times rude, but he's hardly the leader of some terrible plot.”

  “That's easy to say, if you're one of his kind. What about the traditionalists, and the three-headed god fanatics. You can't pretend they aren't dangerous.”

  “I'm sure the calmer heads amongst them will prevail,” Tenlier said lightly. “Religious fashions come and go, and none enjoy enough popular support to do any real harm. And our friends the traditionalists — a few make a deal of noise, yet the wiser amongst them understand the progress we're making. Mistaking a few hotheads for the whole is like calling a few noisy drunks a riot.”

  “So you say. I think different,” Kleple said.

  Argin had his head down, concentrating on his food, wearing the disinterested expression of somebody who'd heard the same thing many times before. Plyntoure's ears were so far back he looked like he'd faced into a private gale.

  Tenlier looked from Kleple to Ebryn with a patient smile on his face. “Don't worry about Kleple here, he likes to amuse himself by imagining gullus lurking under every bed. We're very civilised here, I assure you. Vergence isn't some wild land on the borders of the ephemeral planes, filled with nightmare boggles hiding behind every corner.

  “I don't agree with Duca Vittore on every point, but I'll concede he is very good at keeping order. Finding a fair balance, with a light hand.”

  Kleple made a spitting sound. “So you call Orim a light hand? And it is known there are gullus living in the under-city.”

  “And that's where they stay,” Argin said, looking up and scowling at Keple.

  Tenlier placed a restraining hand on Argin's arm. “I believe you were being metaphorical, weren’t you, Kleple?”

  “Can we have at least one meal together without having to listen to this drivel?” Argin asked.

  “Is it not better if everybody has a chance to say their piece?”

  “If they ever shut up,” Argin said, retreating to his meal.

  “ … and I know he uses true summoning,” Kleple said.

  “Which he's entitled to, if he chooses, for the good of the city,” Tenlier said.

  “Until he loses control and they run amok.”

  Ebryn glanced across at Aara. She sat upright, shooting frequent looks at Kleple. Even with the veil hiding most of her face she obviously had the expression of someone unexpectedly sat at a table with a talking dog.

  When they had finished eating Tenlier sat back in his chair with a satisfied demeanour.

  He folded his eating cloth neatly, and placed it on the table next to his plate. “Well, I'm pleased we've all had a chance to get to know each other better, if only a little. Unfortunately, we shall have a chance for only two more of these before the Tranquillity ends, at which time the three of us will be departing this fine city for a while. Ebryn and Aara — you will be staying here in the capable charge of Plyntoure, until I get back.

  “I must apologise for the timing. Our research in Magadigar has reached a critical point, and requires our detailed attention. Admittedly the timing is regrettable, but I'm sure you'll see it as an opportunity to find your way around unencumbered by demands from our adepts.”

  De'Argent

  DE'ARGENT, OF CASSADIA, appeared on the side of a hill overlooking Vepser town, and set off briskly without pausing. Walking quickly, he followed a path leading to a small bridge at the foot of the hill where a broad rock-strewn river at the bottom of the slope separated him from the town. Dressed in finely cut dark leather, he had unremarkable features, with closely cropped hair revealing hints of grey.

  De'Argent had travelled to Fyrenar to kill a man. As the primus of his collective he would usually have assigned a task such as this to a lower rank member, but the terms had been most generous, and the instructions exacting.

  As he frequently taught his students, the secret to this kind of endeavour lay in the purity of purpose, and unwavering impetus.

  Vepser town sat on a stretch of elevated ground facing down a long valley, surrounded on three sides by steep hills. The most northerly town of significant size in Goresyn, it rested on a series of natural hot springs, and marked the navigable limits of the river Churm.

  As he crossed the bridge he completed the complex sequence of hand gestures that substituted for verbal invocations in his discipline, slowing his pace and adding a slight limp to fit his new appearance. The illusion settled around him like a familiar second skin — to others he would now have the appearance of a northern guild courier.

  An old wall, slightly taller than a man, enclosed the heart of Vepser. Much of the town had long since escaped these boundaries, and in many places the defences had been built over, allowed to partially collapse, or had become overgrow with trees.

  Much of the traffic avoided the centre, following a broad lane, which looped around the eastern side to the main traders' market, where the north and west roads joined. But De'Argent would be forced to pass the guardhouse, or risk vaulting the wall, to get into the old quarter.

  Where once there may have been a gate, the passage through the wall was now simply a gap, and any proper gatehouse had long since been replaced by a small shelter on one side, housing a squad of watchmen. As he approached De'Argent created a subtle detection, flowing out gently like a thin ripple on the surface of a still pond.

  He pretended to pause for a moment to take his bearings as his attention focused on the fine filaments of his casting, feeling for signs of another caster's work. While he thought it unlikely any of ability would be found here, there remained the chance that some promising fledgling, eccentric, or hireling of power
might be lurking nearby.

  At the guardhouse, he discovered a member of the watch leaning backwards, with shoulders against the wall, left foot on the ground, and using his spear for balance like an over-long walking stick. The man spotted De'Argent, and watched him approach with obvious interest.

  “Ho, stranger, what's your business here?” he asked, adjusting a long piece of grass hanging from his mouth to speak more clearly.

  “I am bearing a message for a lord. I was told to find him within the bath house,” De'Argent said, nodding in the direction of the rising steam.

  The watchman had broad shoulders, thickset through the chest. Possibly a farm labourer who'd discovered an easier life. He looked dull witted, and bored.

  “Where's your horse?” the watchman asked, belatedly recognising the guild colours.

  “It's fit for nothing more than dog-meat,” De'Argent said, sweeping a hand down his left side to draw the watchman's attention to scuffed and muddied breeches. “It threw a shoe and lamed itself just beyond the edge of town.”

  “Chucked you too, did it?” the watchman asked, grinning.

  “Yes, I'm much delayed. Now which is the best path?”

  Ahead, the road forked, with one path curving left up a gentle slope, and the other disappearing between a collection of buildings.

  “That one'll take you there,” the watchman said, inclining his head towards the sloping path. “And don't be taking long. I've better to be doing than chasing after a stolen horse.”

  As he walked up the slope, passing tired hostelries, De'Argent adjusted the glamour imperceptibly until he'd assumed the outward appearance of a prosperous merchant. Glancing back, he saw the watchman had resumed his position, leaning against the wall in the warming morning light.

  The bath house nestled against a rocky outcrop near the top of the road, a collection of buildings, each in the style of its age, younger structures built around older, newer stonework built against crumbling walls.