Guardians of the Flame - Legacy

by Joel Rosenberg

  Jason knocked on the door. There was no answer. "Mother, it's me. Jason."

  Nothing.

  *She's in there. Do you want me to try?*

  No. I'd better do this myself.

  His hand trembled at the door latch.

  One of the things he'd been taught early was not to interrupt Mother when she was working. It was one of the few lessons that involved switching; Mother hated hitting him almost as much as he hated it. She said that "don't disturb the wizard" was the This Side equivalent of "don't touch the driver," whatever that meant.

  That was the trouble with dealing with the Other Siders, like his parents, and Walter Slovotsky, and Doria Perlstein—they kept talking in terms that nobody could understand. It wasn't just all this stuff about cars and planes and microwaves (and what was a microwave, anyway? Was it how an Other Side dwarf said goodbye?) it was that their frame of reference was, so often, so completely different from normal people's.

  But while he couldn't understand the referent, the lesson had long since been driven home, and learned below the level of conscious decision. He knew that she wasn't really working anything dangerous: Ellegon would have warned him.

  *You got that right.*

  Still, his hand shook. Damning his traitor fingers for trembling, Jason lifted the latch and swung the heavy oak door slowly inward, slipped inside, and closed the door behind him.

  "Mother?"

  He sniffed involuntarily. The inside of the stone building was dark and dank, the thick air heavy with smells strange and familiar. There was a distant odor he couldn't quite place, although he could make out the rich, musky fragrance of marrhymh and the sharp tang of burning peppercorns. Mainly the smell reminded him of stale sweat.

  The only light in the room oozed out of a crack at the junction of wall and ceiling; all that it revealed was the narrow entryway where Jason stood, and the dark hall beyond. Rows of black gauze curtains obscured everything beyond that.

  "Mother?"

  He pushed through a layer of curtains, and another, and then another. The curtains were dry to his fingers, but they seemed to cling wetly to his face; shuddering, he pushed inward.

  "Mother?"

  He could barely make out the light of a lamp through the last set of curtains. He pushed through to see the form of his mother, huddled over her workbench, making jerking, almost random jottings with her quill pen, while an oil lamp flickered above her. To her right, a crystal globe lay supported in the coils of a brass snake, its head impaled on the north pole, staring languidly at the world. At her left was a rough clay statue of a man standing with his arms crossed over his chest. Where his left hand lay on his arm there were only two full fingers; the other three were stumps.

  The statue was still visibly wet; beyond it lay a clump of clay and a half dozen small knives, short sticks bearing wire loops, and other clayworking tools he couldn't readily identify.

  "Mother," he said, "put it away."

  She didn't answer, but continued to scribble.

  "Mother," he said. "Put it away."

  Nothing.

  "I'm going to count to ten, and then take it away from you."

  She shook her head, flinging stringy black hair back and forth. "No. I got closer last time. Maybe I can—"

  The crystal glowed brighter.

  "See!"

  "That doesn't mean anything, not unless you can see him. Which you can't, because he's dead."

  "You didn't see the body." The crystal grew yet brighter, and brighter still—

  The light died, leaving the interior of the room lit only by the flicker of the oil lamp.

  "No!" She pounded a fist on the table, then turned to face him.

  He forced himself to repress a shudder. Her eyes were red, the lids swollen with tears and lack of sleep, and deep hollows had taken up residence in her cheeks.

  "Mom. . . ." He took her hands in his, momentarily shocked at how feebly she pulled away. "Please. We—all of us—saw the explosion. Walter and Ahira stayed behind. He couldn't have survived the blast, but if he had survived the two of them would have brought him here by now."

  Walter Slovotsky and the dwarf were still an open question. There wasn't any sign, not any word from them. While it would have been a bit soon for them to get themselves back to Holtun-Bieme, they should have reached Ehvenor by now, even if they were traveling by Mel dugout; or gotten over the mountains, if they were trying the overland route.

  Where were they? That was the live issue. Father was dead.

  "I'm still going to try. Until I can locate the body or until I see him."

  But he was blown to bits, he thought. He couldn't say it, not to his mother, not to his father's widow. "Your spell isn't going to recognize . . . what's left of him. Put it down, Mother, then go change your clothes and wash up. We have council tonight, and you're going to have to . . ." He let the words trail off.

  You're going to have to look alive. That was what he meant, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Sometimes you have to live on the silences.

  "Mother . . . you know he's dead. There's one proof, beyond what we all saw."

  "Yes?" Her voice, usually a warm contralto, squeaked and cracked at the edges.

  "Father loved you. If he was still alive, there's nothing that'd keep him away from you."

  Her lower lip trembled. "He didn't even send a last message back to me."

  "He didn't need to; he told Tennetty that." Jason's eyes filled with tears. "What could he have had us tell you? That he loved you? Mother, didn't you know that?"

  She turned away, and her shoulders shook silently.

  *Please. Jason is right. We have to carry on, Andrea. All of us.*

  Slowly, her crying stopped and her breathing slowed. She took in a deep, ragged breath, then turned slowly, wiping her face on her sleeve. "Just let me try a bit more. Please?"

  "No. There are things to be done, and you've got to make yourself . . ."

  For a moment, her old smile peeked through. "Presentable? Less like an old hag?" She shrugged. "Easy enough."

  She pushed him back a few inches, and held her hands out in front of her, muttering words that could only be heard and then forgotten.

  She changed.

  The hollows in her tear-dampened cheeks dried and filled out, the flesh growing firmer in front of his eyes. Her stringy hair seemed to shed its oil, and gained body as she straightened herself, her chest lifting, her body straightening, and just for a moment she was clear of eye and firm of step, the way she had always been.

  "I thought that was what you've been doing." Doria Perlstein's calm voice cut through the dark; she pushed the curtains aside and stood next to Jason. "Send the seeming away."

  For once, Doria didn't look younger than Mother did. She held herself like a much older woman—unbent by the years, but perhaps more weighted down with knowledge.

  "Send it away, Andrea." Doria swallowed. "Or I will."

  When Doria had shed her clerical persona, she'd lost the ability to gain more spells; all she had left—all she ever would have—were the few in her head. Exactly what they were and how many there were was a secret, but each was irreplaceable.

  "Why does it matter?" Andrea's voice was rich and melodic, something out of Jason's childhood. "This will serve, as well as anything else, and better than most."

  "Nonsense. It doesn't make you healthy. It just makes you look healthy, whether you are or not. That's all. It's like putting nitrites on salad—remember nitrites?"

  "I don't miss nitrites. I used to be horribly allergic to them."

  Doria returned her smile. "Even if you weren't, it was a bad idea to use them on food. They don't preserve the quality of it, just the color." She took Andrea's arm. "Send it away, now. You can take on a seeming, if you have to, to make yourself look worse; never cover up what's really happening to you. Jason, take her other arm."

  He did, and it felt firm and supple in his hand, until his mother murmured a harsh word that melted in the a
ir . . .

  . . . and the arm seemed to shrink.

  "You've been fooling yourself, and the rest of us." Doria tsked once. "You're just wasting away. We're going to build you up, okay?"

  Andrea's grin was weak. "You know a lot about that?" Her voice creaked.

  Doria's grin was strong. "I used to be a home ec major, remember? Training for my MRS, Walter used to say, when he wasn't accusing me of taking mommy lessons. Well, you need a mommy now. There is nothing really wrong with you—nothing that a lot of food, exercise, and rest can't help. You keep out of here, understood?"

  "No." Andrea flared. "I've got to try, at least. I've got to locate him, if he's still alive, if he—"

  Doria sighed, "He's dead, Andrea. Please try to accept it. Let's go get you some breakfast. Then we're going to see if I can walk you off your feet. Then some sleep, and then more food and exercise." Her smile returned. "Until you really do look as good as the seeming made you look."

  "You're forgetting." Jason shook his head. "We've got a council tonight."

  Doria glared at him. "You and Thomen are going to have to run it, then. Your mother has a date with a feather bed. Understood?"

  *I have two messages. One from your mother: "I'll make it down for the council; don't worry." She means it. The other's from Doria; she says: "Like hell she will. Act like you give a damn about somebody besides yourself." But she really only means it a little.*

  And what do you say?

  *I'm with Doria on this one. If you and Thomen can't handle things tonight, it's about time we found out, isn't it?*

  CHAPTER 3

  Before the Council of Barons

  Our swords shall play the orator for us.

  —Christopher Marlowe

  I've always figured that talking beats fighting. And talking is only about my third favorite thing.

  —Walter Slovotsky

  Jason Cullinane sat alone in the great hall of Castle Biemestren, looking at the place as if he had never seen it before.

  In a sense, he hadn't. Not from this perspective. He'd had to sit in Father's place at table—but there hadn't been any formal dinners since Jason's return.

  He walked over to the long oak table and sat in his own place, his old place, to the left of Father's seat, then ran his fingers across the dark surface that had been much battered from years of use, and abuse. He rubbed his thumb across a slight depression, all that remained of a little notch. He'd carved the notch in the table himself, during one long, boring formal dinner, until Father noticed what Jason was doing. Father, his huge hands gentle as always, had taken the knife from Jason's hands and sighed in deep disappointment. Other fathers hit their sons, but Karl Cullinane had always said that was wrong.

  A man whose profession is violence must never use violence on his own, he'd said.

  Karl Cullinane had just sighed, and looked disappointed, and maybe older than he should have, and then dismissed everybody else from the hall. The two of them had gone down to the carpenter's shop to fetch a file, a sandcloth, brushes and varnish. He and Jason had smoothed out the notch, and then varnished over it, then cleaned and replaced the tools. All the while, Karl Cullinane had looked worn around the edges, a bit defeated.

  Jason would have preferred it if Father had hit him.

  Mikyn's father had hit Mikyn a lot.

  At that, he shook his head. That was something still left undone. He'd have to face Mikyn and the rest of Daherrin's team. He could take that. Jason Cullinane might have run like a coward, but he'd hunted down and killed Ahrmin, just as his father had killed Ahrmin's father.

  There was a lot left undone—like this damned Baronial Council.

  I don't know how to run one of these things. I have to learn, I guess. But it wasn't right that he should have to learn on the job.

  *That is dreadful. It's so incredibly unfair. I find it hard to think of a greater injustice in the history of the universe.*

  Fire flared outside the far window; Jason walked over to it, pulled the shutters back and threw one hip over the sill. Below, Ellegon stood in the courtyard, his wings furling and unfurling; above, the night winked down, distant faerie lights pulsing in odd chords of color.

  Jason forced a chuckle. "You wouldn't happen to be suggesting that I'm feeling a little sorry for myself, would you?"

  *Suggesting, no. Asserting, declaring, announcing, maintaining, stating, affirming and averring, yes.* The dragon dipped its mouth to take a man-sized bite out of what was left of an ox.

  "I guess that's what we keep you around for. It isn't because we've got a lot of cattle we need eaten."

  There was a vague draconic chuckle, but then Ellegon's mental voice sobered. *I'll be back shortly; I'd best do my evening patrol before this council starts.*

  * * *

  He'd been alone for only a few moments when he heard a sound behind him.

  He turned to see Thomen Furnael walking across the blood-red carpet toward him, his eyes missing nothing. He was about Jason's height, but his extra five years had filled him out: his chest and shoulder muscles were corded from frequent workouts. A trim black beard was full on his face, although it, like his short-cropped black hair, was speckled with silver. Furnael men turned gray young.

  As usual, Thomen Furnael was dressed elegantly, befitting his status as baron and regent. His scarlet tunic was cut loose across the shoulders and tight at the waist. Trimmed with black leather along the seams and hem, it was laced up the front with a snaking of silver chain. A short black cape hung elegantly over his left shoulder, half-concealing his left arm. His black trousers were buttoned up the front with nacrestones; his square-toed boots were of finely tooled black leather.

  Incongruously, it was a broad, plain weapons belt that held his tunic tightly around his hips, a cord-handled smallsword sheathed on the left side, rigged to stay within easy cross-belly reach of his right hand; an unadorned flintlock pistol stuck butt-first out of a plain holster on his right side.

  "Jason, what are you doing here?"

  "Just waiting. Figured I'd get here first."

  Thomen shook his head. "No, you get here last. You make everybody sit around waiting for you, until it's time to make your entrance. Then you make them stand up while you walk in slowly and take your seat." He chuckled. "Helps to remind them who's in charge."

  "And who is in charge?"

  "You are. Or will be, if you keep reminding them of that." He pointed down, at one of the woven grass runners that protected the rug. "Ignore those, too—let everybody else stay off the rug."

  Jason had never known Thomen's father, but Father had always spoken highly of him, and of Rahff, and once had declared that the three Furnael men he'd known were a counterargument to Tom Paine's claim that the trouble with hereditary aristocracy was that virtue wasn't hereditary.

  "You're sure?" Jason said.

  "Now, don't go Cullinane on me. Trust me. Or, if you don't, get yourself another regent, send me back to my courtroom—better, to my barony." His tone was light, but there was a serious undercurrent. Thomen's mouth twisted. "No, I don't really mean that. Right now, there's nobody else really competent to take over. Everybody's got his private agenda, except maybe Bren and Garavar, and old Gar figures that the best way to handle any threat is with volleyed fire. Bren wouldn't be bad, but the rest of the Biemish barons wouldn't stand for a Holtish regent."

  "You would?"

  Thomen nodded. "If it was Bren, yes. He admired your father almost as much as I did—as I do." He beckoned to Jason. "Come on. Let's get out of here before they start wandering in. We've a bit of time to kill; what do you feel like doing?"

  "I want to talk about whatever it is that's been bothering you for the past few days."

  What could it be? Mother had been distant ever since Jason returned from Melawei, and the return of Danagar was cause for relief, not concern. But the duties of regent seemed to be weighing unusually hard on Thomen's shoulders.

  "Well, there is a problem." Thomen Furnael bi
t his lip. "Can I think about it a while longer? It's . . . a bit complicated, and I want to work out how to handle it."

  Jason shrugged. "Fair enough. Tomorrow?"

  "Sooner, maybe. It'll come up at the council."

  "Shouldn't we talk about it before?"

  "Not really." Thomen shook his head. "Now: what do you want to do until then?"

  Jason smiled. Maybe he couldn't figure out the politics as well as Thomen could, but there was one thing he could do better, usually. "Two-swords. Best three points of five?"

  Thomen Furnael nodded. "Might be a good idea to work off a bit of that energy that you always have too much of."

  "Father used to say that when you're speaking English, you're not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition."

  "Walter Slovotsky always used to say something like, 'Okay, let's work off a bit of that energy that you always have too much of, asshole.' "

  * * *

  They got the engineer on duty to open the armory, and while Thomen stripped off his tunic and boots and pulled out the practice swords and masks, Jason took a taper and went around the room, lighting lamp after lamp after lamp, until the low-ceilinged stone room was passably illuminated by the flickering yellow light. Hopping first on one foot and then the other, he pulled off his boots, tossed them aside, then accepted a steel mesh mask and two weapons from Thomen. The mask was basically a mesh bucket suspended from the headband inside. The first weapon was a very stiff foil, its tip protected by a welded-on cap twice the size of Jason's thumbnail; the second was a short wooden stick, about the length of his forearm, a substitute for the dagger that was the secondary weapon when fighting two-swords style.

  Setting his weapons down so that he could hang his tunic on a peg on the wall, Jason worked his shoulders, trying to loosen them. He set the mask on his head, then picked up the weapons and tried a few practice lunges, still feeling the strain in his thighs from his earlier workout with Tennetty. But that was something old Valeran had taught Jason: the lessons that counted most were the ones that you got when you pushed yourself hard.