by Tim Stead
Take me to Corderan’s room, he thought. Nothing happened. He had been afraid of this. He needed to have an image of the room, and the last person to see it had probably been dead for four centuries. On the other hand he might be wrong, and the room might not exist.
There was one other thing to try. He allowed himself to build up a picture of how the room might look. He felt sufficiently familiar with Corderan through reading his book that he might make an adequate guess. It would be a comfortable room, but not too large. It was, after all, a private place and not for show. There would be a desk, a comfortable chair – just one, a bed, perhaps. Books and bookshelves would be close to the desk. The image formed in his mind, becoming clear and quite detailed. He opened his eyes from the imagining and found himself looking into blackness. There was nothing at all.
At first he was disappointed, thinking that it had failed, he would have to try something else, and then realised that, after four hundred years there would be no light at all in Corderan’s private room. He pictured the study again, stepped out into it and picked up a couple of oil lamps. He lit one and went back into the wall, bringing up the same image as before, the desk, chair, bed, shelves, books.
He stepped out into the darkened room, and it was exactly as he had imagined it.
But that was ridiculous.
It was impossible for him to have imagined the room exactly the way it was the first time he attempted it; unless something else was happening.
What if the castle itself had suggested the image to him; had placed it in his mind? It was possible, he supposed. Not everyone had his perfect memory, and small mistakes in the image might be understood and corrected. The other possibility was even more bizarre – that White Rock had created the room to his specification.
Rollo had said that the place was rumoured to be alive, and he had already proven that it would take him where he wanted to go. Was it possible that the stones could reconfigure themselves as he wished? He sat at the desk and held up the oil lamp so that he could see around him. He would probably never know the truth of it.
The desk was a heavy oak thing; the surface of it was polished by much use, but quite empty. He ran his hands over its silken surface, probably as Corderan had done a thousand times. He imagined the great mage sitting here, in this seat, writing the book that he was now reading. It was so many years ago that it felt like history, and yet sitting here it felt like yesterday, too.
He turned and looked at the books on the shelves, pulled one out and looked at it. The cover was brittle, and pieces flaked away in his hand. He put it down carefully on the desk and teased it open at the first page.
The title: On the Nature of Magic as Determined by the Great Mage Brunofis. The title alone suggested a different age, freedoms, customs, people and places that were gone; lost forever. He felt that loss.
He carefully opened another page and looked at the densely written script. What stood out was a note in the margin, written in a different hand. It said: imaginative rubbish. He touched the writing gently with a finger, traced the loops and lines of the script. This was in Corderan’s hand, like the great work hidden in his own room.
He closed the book and took down another. A brief investigation told him that this too had been annotated, and that the comments were not complementary. It seemed that Corderan had his own strong opinions on the nature of magic. What impressed him most was that this magician, acknowledged to be the greatest of his age, and possibly the greatest ever, was still learning, still exploring, and still looking for the truth. Even Gerique, the greatest of the Faer Karan, was always reading, trying to learn more than he already knew. It was a lesson that he absorbed sitting in the long-deserted secret chamber. There was no end. The truth eluded even the greatest minds, the most diligent searchers, but there was always a step to be taken, a secret to be learned.
As he sat in the chair carefully turning the pages of ancient books he found a note written inside the cover of a book entitled “moy Impan”: The Great Truth.
There is no great truth, the note said. Searching for the truth is like cutting up a loaf of bread. Keep cutting in half and you will end up with pieces that are very small; so small that you may be unable to cut them. They are still divisible however, and you may have to search for a sharper knife, develop a keener eye. And then you discover that you have cut the wrong half at some point, and have to go back and start cutting again. You will exhaust your abilities long before you run out of bread.
It seemed to Serhan, reading all the scattered notes, the questions in the margins, the terse comments, that Corderan had been a man bursting with ideas and thoughts. He had written them down as they came to him, wherever, but the book, the one that he had taken with him when he fled the Faer Karan, had been his distillation of what he considered his finest ideas.
Even this man had failed.
But he had been taken by surprise. Corderan had been starved of time. Unable to learn anything about the nature of the Faer Karan he had fought them as though they were men, and that had been a mistake; unavoidable, but still a mistake.
I must make myself more like him. It is not enough to recover knowledge that was lost. I must go further. I must find a sharper knife and a keener eye. I have the time that he did not.
The question that remained was his ability. He had never doubted it until now, but doubt now blunted his confidence. What he must do had never been done, and what he must learn had never been known.
It does not matter. If I fail or if I succeed it only matters that I will have tried by best.
19 The King
Tarlyn Saine stood on the balcony of his beautiful home looking out at the city of Samara. It was a quiet morning. No fires burned. The sun had just risen over the Peaks and light streamed down into the city, picking out those building made of the local rich yellow sandstone, and making them glow unnaturally, like lanterns against the dark brick that dominated the view. The sea was calm, and threw back little diamonds of sunlight. A faint breeze brought him the scents of wood smoke and cooking food. This is how he liked to see the city. It looked peaceful and prosperous. It was an illusion that he treasured.
He had finished breakfast, and was enjoying the moments before he would have to immerse himself in guild business. This and a brief time in the evening was all that he allowed himself since his wife had died of a wasting illness four years earlier. The memory still troubled him, and he preferred to occupy his mind with work. Sometimes he worried that his children didn’t get enough of his time, but they were both bright and well behaved, even Ella. At fifteen she should have been more trouble, but she was always kind and understanding. She reminded him a lot of his wife.
“Sir?”
He turned to see that Saul Brace, the commander of his militia, had come out onto the balcony. Saul was an unimaginative man, solid and dependable, but he knew his job.
“What is it, Saul?”
“Last night, sir. Kean and Magda Branna were attacked and killed down in the old city.”
Tarlyn sat down heavily. They were old friends. He had known Magda since childhood, and had once thought they could be more than friends. Kean was a merchant, like him, and a loyal and supportive member of the guild.
“How? Do you know why?”
“Several men armed with swords, sir. We think they were royalists. We’re still trying to find out exactly what happened, but one of the attackers shouted something about collaborators.”
How pointless it all was, Tarlyn thought. For centuries the merchants of the city had struggled against chaos. Profits had dwindled, and in the end had been forgotten. It was enough to live well and work. They provided the structure that supported the city, did what they could to alleviate the troubles of others. For this they were called collaborators, and now Kean and Magda were dead. They had been good people.
“Confirm it, if you can, Saul,” he said. He sounded weary even to himself. “If it’s true I want you to set up a meeting with Tarnell. This has
to stop.”
“Do you think you can trust him, sir?”
“He has that warrior honour thing, and if we work on that he should be trustworthy enough. Just in case, use our contacts to find out where his son is and what he’s doing. Follow him and let me know everything he does.”
“Yes, sir.”
Saul left him and he looked out at the city again. Somehow it wasn’t as pretty as it had seemed a few minutes ago. The streets were shrouded in shadow, the light was brittle, and the sea looked deep and harboured hidden malice.
He went inside and found Crise, standing quietly where he could easily be found.
“Crise, please go and find Ella, and tell her that I want to speak with her at once.”
Crise went.
Tarlyn sat and stared at the table. He looked blank, but inside he was balancing all his options against each other, trying to understand what had happened and why. He had to be credible when he met Tarnell, and credible in a way that Tarnell would understand.
“You wanted to speak to me, father?”
It was Ella. She was dressed in a long brown and white dress which hid the usual sensible boots. She was thin, pale, and her long dark hair and large brown eyes accentuated the sense of frailty that she radiated, but he knew that Ella wasn’t frail.
“Yes. I’ve had some terrible news. Kean and Magda are dead.”
“Oh.” She came over to him and put a hand on his arm. “Are you all right, Father?”
“I will be. However, it seems that the royalists did it. They seem to be declaring war on the guild. We’ll know more when Saul gets back.”
“That means we’ll all be in danger. What do you want us to do?”
“Just stay inside for a couple of days. If it is the royalists I’m going to try to meet with Tarnell and stop it.”
“How?”
“The usual way. I’ll make some sort of deal with him – one that he understands. I think I know what will work, but I might have to ask you to do something dangerous, or at least very uncomfortable.”
“Of course I will, if you ask it; whatever it is.”
Tarlyn smiled and patted her hand.
“Come and walk with me in the sun. I’ll explain it all to you,” he said. They went out onto the balcony together.
* * * *
“He’s here, sir.” Saul Brace came into the room and positioned four militia men in a row behind Tarlyn’s chair. Tarlyn had not been surprised that Tarnell had agreed to meet in the Saine house. It was typical of the man’s arrogance and contempt for everything he didn’t understand.
A moment later Simon Tarnell came in with four of his own men, as agreed. Tarlyn decided to stand as a gesture of respect, though he was sure that the King would misinterpret it. Tarnell himself was a big man, dressed like a soldier in worn and slightly dirty clothes, covered with a heavy mail shirt. His sword hung from his left hip, a pair of daggers were stuck in the front of his belt, and the effect was finished off by an archer’s harness, though there did not seem to be a bow. His face was scarred on one cheek, and he had flat grey eyes that gave nothing away.
The four men behind him were cut from a similar cloth. They looked tough, capable, hard, and cold. They were probably more than a match for his four, but there was the comfort of knowing that thirty more militia waited within earshot.
“Welcome to my home,” Tarlyn said.
Tarnell said nothing, but sat in the chair provided and looked around the room with a sort of dismissive curiosity. Tarlyn wondered if he’d had to work on that expression, or if it came naturally.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked.
“No.”
So there were to be no pleasantries. It was what he had expected, though they had never met before.
“Two nights ago you killed Kean Branna and his wife Magda. Why?”
“They collaborated with the Faer Karan.” He made no attempt to deny it, and pointed a finger at Tarlyn. “You also collaborate. You feed them. I should kill you, too.”
“But you will not, or at least not today. Your honour is pledged.”
“So it is. You may live at least another day.”
Tarlyn poured himself a glass of wine and sipped it. Excellent.
“You do not understand the way that this city works, do you?” He asked.
“I am not a trader, I am a King. It is my city.”
“I’ll explain it to you,” he sat back.” People have to eat. There are a lot of people in a city, and nowhere to grow food, so someone has to bring it in. The guild does that. In the city there are a lot of people who make things. Castor the blacksmith makes nails, lots of them. Those nails are very useful in the villages where they grow food. I pay for the food with nails. Sometimes I pay with leather goods. Sometimes with pottery. It depends what they want.”
“Is this going somewhere?”
“This city only exists because of trade, because of the guilds.”
“Fine. So what do the Faer Karan pay you with?”
“Peace. Human life. What would happen if we didn’t give them food? They would take it, just like you do.”
“No. I am the king. I take what is mine. If you stopped feeding them it would be harder for them.”
“You’re an idiot, Tarnell,” he saw the four men behind the king tense. “You’ve learned your governance from the Faer Karan. You can only govern a city this size by consent unless you happen to be all powerful and invulnerable. They are. You are not.”
“You insult me, merchant. Only my word keeps you alive.” He stood up. “There is no point to this.”
“All right,” Tarlyn said. “Now we come to it. Where’s your son, Tarnell?”
“My son?”
“Yes. The heir to the noble line of Tarnell. Where is he?”
“I have no idea,” he was beginning to look uneasy. Tarlyn pressed his advantage.
“Ten minutes ago he was at the Black Horse Inn. He was eating a fish stew, which he found a little salty, because I had someone put extra salt in it. Before that he walked down a number of streets where friends of mine brushed past him. One of them stole a dagger from his belt. He’ll tell you that this evening.”
“Are you threatening me, Saine?” The king leaned aggressively towards the trader, his face was red.
“No. Indeed, no. You had two of my friends murdered last night, and in my soft trader way I could have had your boy killed, but I did not. You think you are powerful because you have four hundred warriors who would die for you, but I have many more friends.”
“And if I kill you now, what will your friends do?” Tarnell’s hand was on his sword.
“The same. You mistake me for someone of importance, Tarnell. I am one face of the guild. If you kill me there will be another face tomorrow, probably a less forgiving one.”
“Your threats are idle. If you could kill us you would have done so already.”
“Why? I do not want to make war on you. And as for my friends, who do you think feeds the widows and sons of the men you kill? Who do you think repairs the houses of the people your men have burned out? Who gives where you only take? We do. If you want to go to war with all of Samara you only have to kill another guild member.”
“You are threatening me.”
“I am offering you a deal. You leave us alone and we’ll do the same for you. As a sweetener I’m even prepared to offer you the same deal we’ve offered Ocean’s Gate. If you leave the city alone I’ll provide all the food you need.”
“You think that you can buy me off? You can’t buy me off.”
“Call it a treaty.”
“It would never work. How could we trust you?”
Tarlyn resisted smiling. He’d closed a thousand deals, and now this one was close. Tarnell was putting up objections for him to knock down.
“An exchange of hostages. It’s in the best traditions of the old kings.”
“Who?”
“You have a daughter. So do I. It’s a simple arrangeme
nt. Each guarantees the other’s safety and good treatment. Any indignity visited on one can be visited on the other. Neither of us will take that risk.”
He hated suggesting it, but he knew it was a clincher. The idea would appeal to Tarnell if only for its ancient precedents. The kings of the southern cities had swapped lesser family members for centuries, and it had kept the peace all along the coast for a long time, with a couple of notable exceptions. He would worry about Ella, but the girl was tough and sensible, and Tarnell would be an honourable if uncomfortable host. With luck it would be only for a year or so while they worked out a better alliance, and trust could be allowed to grow.
“I will have to think about this,” Tarnell said.
“Yes, of course,” he allowed himself a genial smile. “My regards to your son.”
The king frowned at the recollection, but left without further comment. There would probably be a messenger in a day or two to confirm the deal. He was sure that he wouldn’t see Tarnell himself again, but that didn’t matter.
When the king’s men had gone he turned to Saul Brace.
“You’ve still got that pickpocket – the one who stole the knife?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure he leaves the city tonight, and take the dagger back to Tarnell. We don’t want him talking to any of Tarnell’s men. It was lucky you caught him.”
“Of course, and sir?”
“Yes, Saul?”
“How did you know about the fish stew?”
“It’s always too salty at the Black Horse, and the Inn’s on the wrong side of Morningside for it to be a regular haunt for any royalist.”
“It’s a privilege to watch you work, sir.”
“Thank you, Saul.”
He left his study and went upstairs to talk to Ella.
* * * *
“I don’t care how safe it is. I really don’t want to sit in this rat hole for the rest of my life.” Ella was frustrated, and more than a little angry. She tended to be more direct in her language when she was angry. It was a trait that she shared with her father. She had been with the royalists for a month, and she was having difficulty understanding how anyone, let alone someone who claimed to be a king, could live like they did.
