Vergence

by John March

  Addae

  DAYS PASSED QUICKLY and Ebryn adjusted to his new home, the strange city of crowds and starless nights, always the same and always changing, responding to its own peculiar hidden rhythms, as a forest might each day to the winding seasons.

  He'd struggled with the peculiar weeks, each twelve days long, with a half day's work on the fifth and eleventh day, and an entire day of rest for all each twelfth. As his new friends were often busy on work days, Ebryn occupied himself with reading or practising the lessons Ben-gan had given him.

  Tenlier's building felt almost completely abandoned. An empty, echoing shell since the old man left with most of his remaining people. Aara wandered the house like a silent shade, and Plyntoure sought him out at intervals, but for much of the time Ebryn felt as if he lived in the great building alone.

  He woke with the first light every morning, opening his room out to the fresh air, whatever the weather, standing at his small balcony looking out over the city or watching the circular courtyard below.

  By chance he'd discovered Sash liked to rise early too, and most mornings found her practising her strange Senesellan dancing, filled with long arm sweeps, kicks and broad swaying movements.

  Ebryn didn't know if she'd realised he was there, as she hadn't said anything, but as she simply ignored others when they'd stopped to stare, he didn't think she'd mind. Leth joined him often, gliding silently to land on the handrail, colours sliding over his skin as his outline faded away, before launching himself into the air again with a rattling hiss.

  Early on the fifth day of the third week, Addae arrived at his room, and joined him at the balcony, although there was barely enough room for both of them side by side. Addae had seemed distant since the lesson with Brack, and Ebryn wondered if he felt guilty about Elouphe too.

  Addae looked down when Sash appeared, and after watching for a while made a harsh sound in his throat. “This fighting Sashael is doing, it is not good.”

  “Fighting?”

  “See?” Addae said. “A kick — a strike with the arm—”

  Now he understood what she was doing, the reason for most of the movements became obvious to him, and he watched with renewed interest.

  “What's wrong with it?”

  “Pah. A true warrior would not teach such things. These are the moves of a man who has not fought, or of a man who has fought little and lived by good fortune. Such men should not teach.”

  Ebryn watched Addae for a while as Sash continued with her practice below, wondering how much he dared challenge Addae without causing offence. Even as friend, he didn't seem like the kind of man it would be clever to anger.

  “It may not be my place to say,” Ebryn said, “but you've changed since we went to the Aremetuet training with Master Brack.”

  Addae's brow furrowed at the name, and he made a clicking sound with his tongue, a noise Ebryn had learnt indicated displeasure.

  “Did something happen to make you angry? The way he was with Elouphe?” Ebryn asked.

  “It is true, my friend, there is a great anger in my heart,” Addae said after a long pause. “I travelled to this city seeking great warriors, powerful sorcerers. What do I find? There is this man called a master, these people speak of him as a great sorcerer of war. He puts his chest out, he walks about like a show bird, he boasts. I have fought greater than him. For this foolery I left my wives and son.”

  Ebryn found himself staring at Addae, wondering if he'd heard correctly. Wives and a son? He wanted to ask about them, ask why Addae would leave his family, but he didn't know how.

  “Is a sorcerer the same as a caster? What do you need a warrior sorcerer for?”

  “My people are called the Numera, the sunrise people. Our cousins are the mighty Dolago, who live as neighbours. Beside them are the Useli, who are the jungle dwelling people. Where the sun sets are the dessert dwelling T'chkt, and beyond the Useli are the numerous jungle Ni'hri who make endless war on men.”

  Addae's eyes had a distant look, as if he could see the lands, and the people he described.

  “My father's councillors say the Ni'hri are far away, they will not defeat the Useli, nor the Dolago, but I know they will come. There was a spirit sorcerer called Mapona, who was so powerful he did not kneel to my father or any other king. He taught me the way to call our spirits when I was young. Mapona alone defeated an army of T'chkt, commanded the spirits of the clouds, returned the spirits of the dead to their own bodies. Yet the Ni'hri witch-sorcerers slew him with stolen knowledge of old spirits long lost to the memory of man.

  “A man of Vergence, a sorcerer which is of the kind you call caster, visited my father in his palace. This man told me the nature of these spirits would be known here.”

  “I'm sorry Addae,” Ebryn said. “I had no idea you had such troubles. It must have been a hard decision you were forced to make.”

  “To return to my home is not possible, if I do not have the secret. My father told me I could not leave. I chose exile when I left the place of my home.”

  Ebryn briefly considered suggesting Addae talk to Ben-gan, but nothing about his new teacher suggested he knew anything about war.

  “I'll keep my eyes open, to see if I can find anybody to help you.”

  “Forgive me my friend,” Addae said. “I do not come here to trouble you with such things. I bring you a message from my teacher. He told me he bid for you after your test, he offers to teach you to become ulimsafir.”

  “He thinks I can become a wayfarer?”

  “Yes, my friend, it is as I said. You are ulimsafir.”

  “I'll join,” Ebryn said quickly. The chance to be able to travel between worlds was by far the most exciting skill anyone had offered to teach him since he'd arrived. And far more use later, if Tenlier changed his mind, and it fell to him to make his own way.

  When Addae left, Ebryn accompanied him as far as the courtyard. Sash smiled and waved at Addae as he walked past, drawing the barest nod in return. Ebryn sat on the step to a doorway and waited while Sash completed the last few sections of her routine.

  She finished quickly, and approached him, tying her hair back into a loose braid. “What's wrong with Addae? Is he sick? He looks tired.”

  “I think he's missing his home — you know he has wives and a son?”

  “Yes, he told me.”

  “He left them behind to come here. Isn't that strange?”

  “No, not really,” Sash said, giving him a quizzical look. “Aren't people free to choose their own paths?”

  “That's the Senesellan way?”

  “Yes,” Sash said simply.

  “What about responsibility to others?”

  “That's a choice. If you don't have a choice, what is it then? Is it a responsibility, or something else?”

  “An obligation?”

  “Yes, an obligation, or worse. Why was Addae here?”

  “I've been invited to train with the Hemetuen order,” Ebryn said. “He also told me he'd come here to find a way to defeat his enemies, to protect his people.”

  “You see — he's making a choice, and taking responsibility for his family. It doesn't always need to be in an obvious way.”

  “I suppose so. Did you know he's a prince, the son of a king?”

  “Is it important? He's still Addae, whatever else he might be,” she said, holding out a hand to pull him to his feet. “I need to go, or I'll be late. Are you heading to the library?”

  Ebryn lapsed into silence as he followed her under the gate arch, and up the street towards the circle road. He realised he knew far less about Addae and Sash than he'd thought.

  He wondered if his parents had left him the same way Addae had left his son, and, if so who they might be? Or had his father abandoned his mother? In northern Goresyn, unmarried with child, her reputation would have been ruined. Would it have been the same if she'd lived in Senesella rather than Fyrenar?

  Looking up as they arrived at the place where their ways usually separated, he f
ound Sash watching him, with a slight frown on her face. In the brighter light he could see shadows under her eyes.

  “What about you?” Ebryn asked. “You look worn out.”

  “Me? I'm fine. Illusions are easy for a short while, but it's hard to keep them going, and looking real, for a longer time. But Teblin puts more in than anyone — you should see how weary he is after we've finished for a day.”

  “It seems all my friends are having a difficult time, and I can't do anything to make it easier.”

  Sash reached out hesitantly, and touched his arm as they parted. “I'll see you later, and we can talk, if you want to?”

  Instead of heading for the library, as he'd first planned, Ebryn turned back down the lane leading through the third claw, and returned to his chapter house. Addae's anger troubled him, and he had to admit to himself he'd been disappointed with his experience of the Aremetuet order too.

  But it occurred to him Brack should be only one of three leaders of his order, if the Aremetuet hierarchy followed the same pattern as the other orders.

  At first, he'd considered asking Ben-gan, but had no idea how he might react. Ben-gan had suggested he'd been punished for attempting illegal casting as a cure for diseases — would he even consider helping Addae to train for a war? Would he refuse, or would he try to prevent Addae?

  Ebryn quickly settled on Plyntoure as the best person to ask, if not for assistance for Addae, then at least for information about the Aremetuet.

  He found Plyntoure in the large study, perched on a too big chair, surrounded by a mess of papers and parchments, and gripping a very large mug of his favourite bitter-smelling infusion. Despite the warmth of the day a low fire burnt in the hearth next to the table.

  He looked up as Ebryn entered the room, ears forward. “Good morning, Ebryn. I'm surprised to see you here at this time of the day, is something amiss?”

  “No,” Ebryn said. “Well, not really. I wanted to find out something, and I didn't know anybody better suited to ask.”

  Plyntoure placed his mug carefully on the table, and straightened up.

  “What is it you want to know?”

  Ebryn sat in one of the padded chairs opposite Plyntoure, wondering how to broach the subject. He didn't think Addae would thank him for blurting out the real reason for his questions.

  “It's about the Aremetuet.”

  “Ah, I see. You attended a lesson with Master Brack? Are war-casters not an anachronism in these times? Yet there they are.”

  He wasn't sure what Plyntoure meant. “Yes, we went to a lesson with master Brack. He was strange — violent, and he hurt a friend of mine.”

  Plyntoure's ears turned back. “There are stories. It is known he favours some peoples above others, and can be harsh in his methods. Do you wish to complain about his actions? I must warn you, there is little you or I can do about him.”

  “I'm not here to complain. I wanted to know if there are any other masters in the Aremetuet who can teach? I have a friend in the Hemetuen who wants to — I should say needs to — learn how to defend himself better.”

  “That is unfortunate,” Plyntoure said. “Master Brack is the most accomplished of the masters amongst the war-casters. Master Fyloren is very aged. I have heard he needs help drinking soup, and I believe it would be fair to say Master Hibistor has dedicated himself more to accumulation of influence than to knowledge of his craft.”

  Ebryn couldn't hide his disappointment. “So there isn't anyone with real ability?”

  “Less haste, youngster. Let me think a while.”

  Plyntoure picked up his steaming mug and swirled the contents, ears twitching and eyes unfocused, staring over Ebryn's shoulder. Ebryn sat watching Plyntoure's lips moving as if reading from a list, feeling sweat starting to trickle down his back in the heat of the room.

  How Plyntoure could tolerate such heat with fur-covered skin was a mystery, yet Ebryn always found him working somewhere uncomfortably hot. Any resemblance between the Merut and the snow-loving Furbeg ended with the fur.

  Plyntoure took a long sip from his brew. “It is a sad truth, the greatest casters, save a handful, all perished with the fall of Volane. And afterwards Vergence had no need of warriors, the people of this city struggled to survive, and how could any army of sufficient size journey here. Besides, the greatest living caster, Ben-gan, protected the city then—”

  “So you think I should ask Ben-gan to help?”

  “You are too quick. Ben-gan was convicted of a crime many years past. He is permitted to assist students as a librarian might, not to teach them to maim others. Besides, what your friend seeks cannot be taught by one wearing manacles of sevyric iron—”

  Ebryn opened his mouth to speak, but Plyntoure held up a hand to silence him.

  “Wait there is more,” Plyntoure said. “I recall one amongst the Aremetuet thought to posses great skill. Khet'Tuk was his name. However, he was of Fhurzhal, and he left.”

  “What's Fhurzhal?” Ebryn asked.

  “Fhurzhal is the name of his people. I do not know the reason for his leaving, but we can speculate.”

  “Master Brack.”

  “Indeed,” Plyntoure said. “That would be my guess.”

  “How would I find him? Should I go to the Aremetuet?”

  “I would not. Enquire with the Genestuer archivists. They keep a record of all students and adepts.”

  “The archivists? Thanks,” Ebryn said, standing up to go.

  “Wait,” Plyntoure said. “I will write you a note with Master Tenlier's seal. It will smooth the path. The archivists like to keep their secrets safe — at times it can be hard to learn anything from them at all.”

  Ebryn left carrying the piece of paper in his hand, relieved to be free of the hot room, and pleased with himself. After all, what purpose in membership of a Genestuer order if he couldn't discover things to help his friends.

  Respite

  ORIM RETURNED TO Vergence, dusty and tired. Nearly two score days he'd spent on a fruitless hunt, trying to track Spetimane as far as Ryenesse, and many of the points between.

  Days of negotiating, according to the local imperial forms of etiquette, all to discover Spetimane had never arrived. And so he'd returned to each of the worlds between, to the places the world-ship supposedly carrying Spetimane had visited — an exhausting journey, which turned up no trace of the man.

  Finally he'd traced the ship and spoken to the captain, to discover the man calling himself Spetimane, a tall youngster, had stepped off at Icisor, and disappeared without trace. Clearly a false trail had been set, and a clever one. Long and far away enough to allow Spetimane time to find elsewhere to hide.

  A dust storm had blown up just before he left Icisor, scattering a fine grit into the air which infiltrated his clothes, clogging his hair, and beard. His eyes were raw with sand. He felt tiny grains in his nose and between his teeth whenever he moved his jaw.

  His injuries had closed, then split and closed again, healing slowly to a fresh layer of dull pink scars, adding to the tapestry of war that criss-crossed his skin. Through his life, nearly every kind of weapon had marked him, including some poisons and castings so exotic they remained unnamed. And on his wrists and ankles the faintest lines where slavers manacles had bound him on his first ever journey to Vergence.

  Orim headed for the mess of narrow winding lanes below the eel market in the Chubble district. He kept a room there above a bawd-house, located off one of the many tight upper walkways. A few turns from the entrance, he cloaked himself in a glamour crafted to confuse his appearance and turn curious minds to other things as he passed.

  He arrived at an early hour, a short time after light, as the last of the street lamps dimmed, the quietest part of the day in this district, making his way quickly up the steps. Aliya moved through the front room, collecting stray mugs and glasses left by house guests the night just past. He stood inside the doorway, still masked by his glamour, and watched her work.

  She looked
well, much better than he did. He'd ensured casual cleaning would be the only work any would demand of her for as long as he lived.

  He'd first seen Aliya in the eel market a few years past. Her hair, the colour of burnished copper, drew his attention. It shone in the semi-dark of the market alleyways, catching the stray light filtering through the high awnings as she wove through the crowds.

  The eel market sprawled along a number of interlinking streets, branching out from a couple of small squares. The exact boundaries shifted over time, and it remained the only market in the city completely free of any of the merchant guilds. Home to a fluid population of temporary stall-keepers and wandering hawkers, a thousand different items might be for sale on a given day — many smuggled, or illegal, or stolen, and sometimes dangerous.

  He'd forgotten about the business which brought him there that day, and followed her home. The place she returned to was large, the entrance open throughout the day and night, and the nature of the establishment would have been obvious to the most dim witted observer. Orim almost turned away then, but he'd stood outside, undecided for a long time, eventually something about her drew him in.

  The bawd-house keeper turned out to be Aliya's mother, a sharp-eyed, pale-skinned woman of indeterminate years, who'd worked her way up from the back streets to a position of independence and grudging respect by trading in warm bodies, and loose secrets.

  She'd seemed to divine what he wanted before he opened his mouth. She'd already calculated her daughter's value before laying eyes on him, that much was plain to see, and he paid her twenty times what she asked.

  His terms had been exact — no other man would ever have her. Aliya would always be his alone. Aliya's mother didn't recognise Orim, but she knew men well enough to understand what he was, to hear the unspoken threat, and so she'd accepted.

  A few times, before word spread, Aliya had been manhandled by local men. One of the customers grabbed her one morning, drunk and complaining about being overcharged. Orim broke the bones in his hand and arm. A trio of young bravos tried to take her from Orim, and force her to strip for them one evening in the front room. He left two of their bodies, charred and smoking, on the street as a warning. The third he'd hunted down and cut to pieces in the eel market at the busiest hour. After that, nobody touched her again. Men even avoided looking at her when they arrived, and left with their heads down.