“The heir to the Jarl of Gray? A boy who had already shown himself to be an ambitious little monster? No offense intended, of course.”
Frostinch smiled. Anonoei had understood him well—“ambitious little monster” was no insult to him. “So she was deceiving me then in order to blind my eyes today.”
“And until this moment, it worked, didn’t it? You thought she was a tool you could use, and that when that tool was taken from you, it was Prayard’s doing, not her own.”
“You have no evidence of anything like that.”
“Fool,” said Anonoei. “I’m here, am I not? After spying on your every conversation for days. And you think I wasn’t able to spy on her before? That I do not know exactly what I’m speaking of? That I don’t know how she arranged to deceive your agent Luvix when he tried to murder her?”
In that instant Frostinch’s pose of languid unconcern evaporated. “What do you know of that?”
“I know that your aunt has the power to create a clant so vivid that when he stabbed the clant, it bled. He believed he had succeeded.”
“No one can make a clant that…” Then he concentrated on refastening his breeches. “You saw this?”
“My friend saw it. After he stole the poison Luvix had intended to use and gave it to Bexoi.”
Anonoei watched him process the fact that she had known of the poison.
“And you have been spying on me?” he asked.
She repeated his conversation of the day before with one of his agents, whom he met in a garden, pretending she was a woman he desired. He did not understand that no one believed any more that he had the slightest interest in women.
He listened, nodding. “So either you have been spying through a gate, or my dear and trusted friend has betrayed me.”
“She has not betrayed you,” said Anonoei. “But by all means have her killed. Destroy another of your own weapons. Make yourself weaker. I’ll wait till Bexoi has trapped you and made you her puppet, and then you’ll be ready to listen to me. But alas you’ll also be completely useless to me by then. So you’ll betray me, in order to curry favor with Bexoi, hoping she’ll drop you a crumb of power. Only she’ll laugh at you. ‘Anonoei is dead,’ she’ll tell you.”
“You?” asked Frostinch. “Anonoei? Prayard’s mistress?”
“Not as dead as everyone assumes,” said Anonoei.
“And your sons?”
“Alive and out of your reach,” said Anonoei. “Just as I am out of your reach.”
She knew before she said it that he already had his hand on the dagger he kept in the back of his trousers. Now he whipped it out to slash it across her body. But she stepped back into the gate Wad had prepared for her, reappeared directly behind him, and shoved him forward. Already overbalanced by his own lunge, he toppled over. It gave her time to pick up his chamberpot and pour it out onto his body, spoiling his clothes.
“You are nothing, Frostinch, compared to mages with real power. I have passed through a Great Gate.”
“Impossible,” he said. “The Gate Thief allows no—”
“Don’t you know how to think?” she demanded. “It does not occur to you that my friend is the Gate Thief?”
He laughed nervously, getting up, reaching for something to brush the foulness from his clothing. Then he pulled off his tunic and unfastened his trousers, standing naked and completely uninterested as he regarded her. “My body is washable,” he said, “and I can get my clothing cleaned. These efforts to humiliate me are pointless.”
“So was your attempt to slash me with your dagger,” said Anonoei. “I came to offer you our help against your aunt. But you remain too stupid to realize how much you need our help.”
“Has Bexoi passed through a Great Gate as well?”
“If she ever does,” said Anonoei, “she will rule all of Westil. Without passage through a Great Gate, she is the most powerful mage of our time. Even with my passage through a Great Gate, I doubt that I alone am any match for her.”
“If she’s no Sparrowfriend, what then is her magery?” asked Frostinch.
“Why should I tell a fool?” asked Anonoei. “You are the Sparrowfriend, the weakling. Couldn’t you see how she mocked your pathetic magery?”
“I’m a Hawkbrother,” said Frostinch.
“Hawk?” asked Anonoei. “Oh, so I’ve heard. But the birds that come to you, the birds you ride, the birds who spy for you—all I’ve seen you use are crows.”
He grinned. “Crows are little noticed. Alone, they steal whatever I need them to steal. In a pack, they can tear the meat off an enemy in minutes.”
“I don’t disparage the many talents of crows,” said Anonoei. “What I despise are people who pretend to be nobler than they are. Hawkfriend.”
“I have ridden hawks,” said Frostinch.
“They shuddered at your presence, and tried to kill themselves to be rid of you.”
For the first time, he was genuinely angry and humiliated. “How could you know that! It was years—”
“I have spied on you for days, but the Gate Thief has watched you for years. When you’re dead, who will be Jarling of Gray?”
His face went ashen. “Is that her plot?”
“She has high hopes for her son by Prayard. Your father and you think you have nothing to fear from the baby, because you imagine that she has no talent to pass on to him. Here is the power she has: power to rule in his name. Once you are dead, have no doubt that your father will name this baby in her womb to be his heir. Then, when he is born, both your father and Prayard will die—very differently, but die they will—and she will rule in the baby’s name. Have you any doubt that such a plan would work?”
Frostinch walked to the window. His skin was covered with gooseflesh, though it might be the bitter cold from the window. He kept his closeroom cold, the windows uncovered. To kill the stink perhaps. Or to make him feel that he was strong and hardy, a true man of war, instead of the man of crowlike cunning that he was.
“What do you hope to gain from me?” he asked. “If she’s so powerful and clever and dangerous, then she’ll succeed and I can’t stop her.”
“True,” said Anonoei. “She has already blocked you at every point. But there are things you could do that would prevent her plot.”
“I already tried to have her killed,” said Frostinch, “though not because I feared her.”
“No, you merely thought your father was coddling Iceway for her sake, and you wanted to have another bloody war and kill Prayard and wear the crown of Iceway on your own head.”
“Why should I be a mere Jarl when I might be a king?”
“Fool to care about the title,” said Anonoei. “Power is the only fact. Titles are decorations. Names are lies. Do you finally understand that until you see things as they truly are, you can accomplish nothing?”
“How are things, really, then!” he said defiantly.
“You’re naked and cold at the window,” said Anonoei. “I could push you out.”
“And then you’d have no use of me.”
“Exactly,” said Anonoei. “And Bexoi has not killed you yet because until she has a child that she can show your father, and use to win his heart, you are more useful alive. Only when he is already the doting uncle, impressed with Prayard’s loyalty to him, and his devotion to your father’s younger sister, only then will your tragic death lead to him naming his nephew as his heir.”
“So I have time.”
“A little,” said Anonoei, “if you know how to use it.”
“And what do you and your friend the Gate Thief—if that’s who he really is—intend for me to do with this time you say I have?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Anonoei. “Kill your father now and become the Jarl yourself.”
Then she stepped through the gate and returned to Wad.
The Gate Thief shook his head. “He used to be clever,” said Wad. “You made him stupid.”
“I made him believe that he was stupid,”
said Anonoei, “and then told him how to be clever. I hardly need to be a manmage to do that—learned people do it all the time.”
“But I saw your manmagery all the same,” said Wad. “He practically worships you.”
“Most men do, if I want them to,” said Anonoei.
“Will he kill his father?” asked Wad.
“He’ll try,” said Anonoei. “And because he really is clever, he’ll probably succeed even without our help.”
“But you intend to help him.”
“Kill the man who defeated and humiliated Iceway? Yes, I think I will, unless you stop providing me with gates.”
“Remember how few of them I have,” said Wad.
“So passage through the Great Gate didn’t increase their number?”
“It increased how long they last, how strong they are, my ability to manipulate them, my sense of other gates and where they lead. But no, passage through a Great Gate does not add any new gates to my store.”
“Nor, apparently, does it make people any smarter.”
“It didn’t improve your intelligence or mine,” said Wad, “but we were already as clever as we needed to be.”
“As is Frostinch,” said Anonoei.
“Yet it didn’t occur to him that he should find out what your magery is.”
“I didn’t let him think of it,” said Anonoei. “That’s elementary. Whenever he became curious about me, I distracted him. Again, I barely needed magery to control him.”
“When he is Jarl of Gray, he won’t be any smarter.”
“I don’t want him smarter,” said Anonoei. “I’m not going to use him to defeat Bexoi. Manmagery doesn’t let me add new powers to my clients—they are what they are. He will be my puppet, but no match for Bexoi.”
“Who is?” asked Wad.
“You,” said Anonoei. “But I don’t expect you to face her down, either. You’re still too much in love with her.”
Wad recoiled at that. “She murdered my son.”
“The son you made with her. Remember what I am, and believe me, Wad. However much you hate Bexoi, you still have love enough for her that it will make you hesitate at the last moment, and she’ll destroy you.”
“How will you bring her down, then? How will you defeat her? Do you think that you’re manmage enough to make her your servant?”
“Watch and see,” said Anonoei. “When it’s over, you’ll be the only one who knows what I have done. But you’ll agree that my victory was perfect and complete. I could find no better way to punish her.”
“And you won’t tell me now?”
“You would prevent me,” said Anonoei, “even though you think you wouldn’t. I’m not controlling you, but I do need to use your talents. Not knowing, you’ll continue to help me, even though you know that if you knew my plan, you wouldn’t.”
Wad smiled. “Or so you think.”
“You think that you would approve, and so you help me,” said Anonoei. “I don’t have to use manmagery on people who are sure they’re wiser than they are.”
But of course she did use manmagery on him. She used it on everybody. She used it all the time. But part of the power of manmagery was the ability to make its victims believe that they were freely doing what she manipulated them to do. That would be her vengeance on him, for those years of torment in captivity. For the damage that he did to her sweet son Eluik. But because he had also saved them, and because of all his help to her, she would never tell him of how she controlled him. So he would not suffer. She could enjoy her triumph over him, and enjoy the fact that he so ignorantly enjoyed it too.
17
KA AND BA
How do you learn anything with your brain switched off? Yet Danny quickly realized that this was exactly what he had to do here in the Egyptian desert. Loki’s gates didn’t actually know anything, or remember anything, except at one remove: They remembered where Loki had been when he learned powerful secrets about the Belmage, and they remembered what he had been doing.
So Danny had to be where Loki had been, and do what he had done, and then let memory flow into his mind. Memory that was not his own, of things he had not done. And the memory included no language. It only included what Loki came to know, at a level below language.
The moment Danny tried to make sense of the memories, his conscious mind took over. And his conscious mind introduced language. Language drove out the inchoate, wordless Loki-memories.
So he could not make sense of anything, while it was happening. He had to let it wash over him. It required a sort of trance. His conscious mind had to be off in space, not concentrating on anything.
It is so hard to concentrate on not concentrating.
So at first the memories were jagged. They flashed in and out like lightning. There was no coherency. Images of a scrawny, sun-burnt Egyptian man, small in stature, bald, his shoulders tented by thin white linen, a dusty linen kilt around his loins, but otherwise naked. The memory included heat. And then cold, and darkness.
The man was talking, but Danny heard no words. He did not want the man’s words, though this man was the teacher—some kind of hermit that Loki had consulted. A man who knew ancient lore of Egypt, knowledge older than Christianity, though he was certainly a Christian ascetic. But the memory of his words could not be recovered this way. Instead, Danny had to recover the memory of the story that Loki had built up in his own memory.
When words came to mind, then, they were not the hermit’s words, they were the words that mattered to Loki as he listened. Ka. Ba. But as soon as Danny attached to the words, their meaning in this context fled away.
Fortunately, the memory could be endlessly started over, repeated again and again. The gates were patient. What else did they have to do? So as Danny gradually mastered the art of meditation, at least well enough for this purpose, this day, the memory began again, and now it washed over Danny and became his own.
Later, he told himself. I will remember remembering the memory, and that will become the story. For now let it flow. Let it fill you.
He had no idea of the passage of time. Captured by the memory, he did not know if it was day or night where he sat alone in the desert, in front of the cavelet that he and Wheeler and Hal had cleared of sand. He only knew what the time was in the memory, as it flowed through a long, long conversation.
A couple of times, breaking the memory flow, he despaired. Loki had placed all the things the hermit told him into a context of Loki’s own experience with gates, with mages of every kind, in a world where magery was far more common, where a gatemage was educated in his Family’s history and knowledge and skills. How could Danny, in his ignorance, possibly make sense of any of this?
He let it flow.
He let it flow.
And then a hand touched his shoulder.
That had not happened before in the memory! Who was it who interrupted Loki?
Danny waited for the memory of Loki turning, to see what he saw, to know what he knew.
Then the hand touched him again, more sharply this time, shaking him, and Danny realized: This is not in the memory. This did not happen to Loki. This is happening to me.
“Please,” he whispered. His voice was a feeble croak. “Please wait.”
The hand shook him again. Very hard. It almost knocked him over.
Danny felt like weeping, did weep one great sob, and then the intruder’s work was done: The trance was broken, the memory fled.
His own memories rushed back. He was in Egypt, a nation for which he had no passport or visa. He was caught.
He almost gated away. But then it finally dawned on him that the person was talking. The sunlight was dazzling. He could hardly see. And he must have been deaf, for now the voice swelled and faded. It was English. He knew the voice. He squinted. He shaded his eyes.
The face came down to be directly in front of his. She was angry. Hermia. Hermia had followed him here.
Stupid stupid stupid! Didn’t she know he was doing something import
ant, something vital? How did she dare to interrupt him?
“Drink this!” she was saying.
He looked down and saw that she was holding a bottle of water. Evian. He didn’t like Evian.
She had the cap off. She jammed the mouth of it against his lips. It hurt. His lips were dry and chapped. Split. He looked at the top of the water bottle. There was blood on it.
“Dehydrated.” That was one of the words she said.
He opened his mouth and tipped his head back and let her pour water into his mouth. He had to work at swallowing. It was as if he had forgotten how to do it.
No, he was simply waiting for Loki’s kinetic memory to kick in. He was waiting for Loki to remember drinking. But Loki hadn’t drunk anything.
That’s because Loki’s whole conversation had only lasted an hour. But Danny’s attempt to remember it had lasted much longer, starting over again and again.
He succeeded in swallowing. The water came down his throat so painfully that he realized: I have gone a long time without drinking.
Hermia was gone. But he still held the water bottle in his hand. He tried to lift it to drink more. He couldn’t remember how. He bent over and touched his cracked and bloody lips to the plastic lip of the bottle. The water didn’t come upward. But he was able to hold it against his lips as he straightened his body. This brought the bottle up with him. Water flowed from it over his lips. He made his lips and tongue work and swallowed some of it. This time it felt better. But then it went down wrong and he coughed. Choked. Dropped the bottle. Even as he continued to try to cough out the water that had gone down his windpipe, he felt around for the bottle. Why can’t I see it? he asked himself. Everything’s so bright.
Then there were hands again, hands on both sides of him, picking him up, raising him to his feet. It hurt to unwind his body, to stand up. His legs would not support him. His legs had no feeling. How long had he sat in the same position without moving?
They were talking to each other. Two women. Hermia again. Veevee. The other gatemages. His friends. They were both angry. They were both worried. But they were speaking in language, and he was avoiding language. He didn’t want to hear language because that would distract him from …
The Gate Thief Page 24
