Mage-Guard of Hamor

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  She backed down the steps, then hurried away without speaking.

  Rahl could sense Taryl approaching, but he had to wonder at her implied question. Just what sort of mage was he? The magisters in Nylan had called him a natural ordermage, but that had been as much epithet as description.

  “What did you do to that poor undercaptain?” asked Taryl as he stepped onto the platform. “She acted like she’d been dressed down and ripped apart.”

  “I didn’t raise my voice, ser, and I didn’t say one harsh word. She kept pressing me about what kind of mage I was, and I finally said that I was a patrol mage who was good with a staff and truncheon who’d been sent here for reassignment.”

  “That was enough.” Taryl laughed sourly. “Word is going around that one of the mage-guards sent here recently is a trained bravo who has killed scores, and that he’s here to make sure that the junior officers stay in line.”

  “I never said anything like that. That idiot Tilsytt kept asking me how many people I’d killed, and I only said something like I couldn’t have counted them in the mess at Swartheld.” That wasn’t exactly what he’d said, but he didn’t want to admit his precise words.

  “It doesn’t matter. You were convincing enough that you’ve created a reputation that may be hard to live up to.”

  “Oh…frig,” Rahl muttered.

  “You can’t do much about it now. How was the rest of your day?” asked Taryl.

  “I spent the morning with the healer majer. She told me a great deal, and had me practice a few simple healing skills, and said that I wasn’t that bad, not for an ordermage with no instruction in healing.”

  “Were those her exact words?”

  “Close to it, ser,” replied Rahl, smiling crookedly. “She did say that I paid more attention than most mage-guards.”

  Taryl just waited.

  “Then I walked all around. I think I traveled every street and lane. There are heavy wagons coming in, and they’re loading supplies on the steamers at the docks, and they’re working from first light to darkness.”

  “They’d better.”

  “Oh…the undercaptain told me that they have two more days of loading supplies, and one to get mounts and troops aboard. That’s if it doesn’t rain.”

  “Will it?”

  “I don’t think so. We might get a shower or two. Maybe. If I’m reading things right.”

  “What else?”

  “I’ve seen green troopers everywhere, greener than I was when I went to Nylan. Almost all of them look too young.”

  “You’ll find that with each year they look younger.” Taryl sighed. “But you’re right. We don’t have enough seasoned troops, and the only way to get seasoned troops quickly is to train them hard and send them into battle. Those who survive become seasoned.”

  Rahl didn’t have that much more to say. “Is there anything else I should know, or that you’d like me to do?”

  “Go back to the healer tomorrow and follow her around, or one of the others, if they’ll let you. Do that in the morning. Then practice all of your order-skills in the early afternoon, and check out the docks after that. Tomorrow evening, we’re going to a reception at the Palace—wear your dress uniform and best boots. We’ll leave before the mess opens for dinner.”

  “Yes, ser.” Rahl had no idea how a reception fit into Taryl’s plans or why attending a reception was necessary, but he had no doubt that it was.

  “And get some sleep tonight. I plan to.” Taryl turned and walked away, down the steps toward his quarters.

  Rahl had the feeling that somehow he’d disappointed the overcommander. He shouldn’t have been so determined to put Tilsytt in his place…but the older mage-guard had been so condescending, just like Puvort and all the magisters in Nylan, as if Rahl were nothing. And he hated that.

  Rahl took a deep breath, then headed down the stone steps, his boots echoing dully in the enclosed stairwell.

  XVIII

  On sevenday morning, Rahl was in the mess earlier and sat across from two captains he had not met before.

  “I’m Bertayk,” offered the younger one.

  “Alfhyr.” The older captain nodded brusquely.

  “Rahl.”

  “You’re new here. Some of the other mage-guards were talking about a patrol mage-guard who was a bravo…” Bertayk looked speculatively at Rahl.

  Alfhyr concealed a wince.

  “I’m the guilty party, but I never was a bravo. Something I said was taken in a way I didn’t mean…” Rahl went on to explain briefly what had happened at Swartheld. “…and all I meant was that, with Jeranyi everywhere, and explosions, I don’t think anyone kept tallies on who they fought and what happened.”

  Alfhyr nodded slowly and said in a low voice, “You’ve already found out that the…mage-guard…you spoke to doesn’t always convey matters in the way you meant.”

  “I have.” Rahl smiled ruefully. “But I do appreciate the words of caution.”

  “Are you from Merowey or Atla?” asked Bertayk.

  Alfhyr winced inside once again, and Rahl managed to keep from laughing or smiling.

  “I’m not from either, but I learned to speak where that was the way people did.” He paused. “Actually, I’m an exile from Recluce.”

  Bertayk nodded enthusiastically. “They say that many of the mage-guards come from Recluce or Recluce stock. My great-uncle came from Alaren, and the engineers in Nylan sent him on his way. He hoped I’d be a mage-guard.” The young captain shrugged. “I don’t have any talent.”

  “I’m sure you have other talents,” Rahl said.

  “He’s good with a blade and getting troopers to follow him,” interjected the older captain. “They appreciate his enthusiasm.”

  Rahl actually enjoyed the rest of his breakfast, passing pleasantries with the two, although he still had to concentrate on maintaining tighter personal shields.

  The rest of sevenday morning and afternoon was much like sixday, except that Xerya pressed Rahl into trying to negate some of the chaos in the trooper with brain fever. Rahl thought he might have helped, but he didn’t notice much improvement when he left the man.

  He did allow himself plenty of time after his casual inspection of the river docks to return to his quarters to polish his boots and wash up and don the crimson dress uniform. In fact, he was the one waiting for Taryl.

  When Taryl arrived, the overcommander looked over Rahl, then nodded. “You’ll pass.” He turned and walked toward the waiting coach—one decorated in tan and crimson.

  Taryl said little until the coach pulled away from the quarters. “Tell me about your day.”

  “I spent most of it with Majer Xerya. She’s as demanding as you are, ser.”

  “She should be. I asked her to be. The more you learn before you’re reassigned, the better your chances to survive and succeed. I stopped by later. She said you already know what’s required of a senior mage-guard. That’s not enough, but it’s a start.”

  Rahl managed to keep a smile on his face and his irritation behind his personal shields. Why was nothing he did enough for Taryl anymore? Had he displeased the older mage-guard that much? “After that, I checked the loading docks. I think they’re running behind. They’re supposed to finish loading tomorrow, but…I got the impression…it won’t happen.”

  “You’re right about that. We’ll be fortunate to leave by threeday.” Taryl leaned back and closed his eyes for several moments.

  Rahl waited.

  After a while, Taryl straightened. “Tonight is a social occasion, as much as any reception hosted by the Emperor is. You are not to approach him. When it’s appropriate, I’ll present you, or Jubyl will, and the Emperor will make some pleasant comment. You are to give him a bow and thank him, nothing more. If he says more, you reply, but always briefly and courteously. You do not ask him any questions. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, ser.” Rahl paused. “Might I ask if there is any special reason for the reception?”

  “
He generally has a reception for senior officials once or twice a season, sometimes more often. There is no special reason for the reception. There is a reason why we were invited. Can you tell me why?”

  “To show his support for your appointment as overcommander in Merowey.”

  “Exactly. Now…why were you invited? You were invited by name and will be announced by name.”

  “Ah…I don’t know, ser. I have no idea.”

  Taryl smiled. “By inviting you, as my assistant envoy in Recluce and as my current assistant, the Emperor is making the point that he will brook no disparagement of my decisions and choices.”

  “Especially since it must be known that I am from Recluce?”

  Taryl nodded.

  Rahl had to ask himself if he would ever understand or master the intricacies of personal plotting and positioning seemingly required in Hamor. Then he almost laughed. Much as he might dream, he’d never have to worry about the sorts of matters that faced Taryl.

  “And Rahl…”

  “Yes, ser?”

  “I know you’ve memorized some verse. Don’t quote more than one or two back at Klassyn. That’s appropriate. More isn’t.”

  How had Taryl known that?

  “You’re letting your personal shields slip. I saw the book you had in hand when you were supposed to be reading the history of the mage-guards.”

  “I read parts of two of the histories, ser.”

  “Good. Oh…one other thing. You’ll probably run across Triad Jubyl. He will be there.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Except when the Triad meets officially in council to advise the Emperor, and all are present, there is never more than one in attendance upon the Emperor at one time. Now…if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to try to get a nap.”

  Rahl looked out the window. He was feeling almost as frustrated as he had in Nylan. He was supposed to keep his emotions hidden behind personal shields, learn all sorts of new applications of his order-skills, and not let any vital information slip. On top of that, he was just supposed to let insults and slights slide off him and do nothing.

  “Rahl,” Taryl said in a gentle—and tired—tone, his eyes still closed. “Please stop feeling sorry for yourself and angry. I suspect that combination of feelings has led to many of your problems. Because of your abilities, I tend to forget how young you are. Let me explain. First, if you do not learn to shield your feelings, seniors who are less scrupulous will use those feelings to manipulate you, and that will never be to your advantage. Second, if you do not learn everything possible about your skills, you will be at a disadvantage in dealing with others who have not neglected to develop their skills fully. Third, if you reveal information that you do not wish to reveal, it can and will be used against you. Finally, insults and pettiness are just that. They’re usually a reflection of the uneasiness of others and their fear that you might be superior or a threat. While they should never be ignored, responding directly to them weakens you. It’s always better to deal with such individuals when it suits you—after reflection—not immediately, and never when it suits them.” Taryl sighed. “Please think about what I have said, and if you wish to be angry, please cloak the anger behind your shields. That way, at least you’ll get more practice, and I might be able to nap.”

  Most of Rahl’s anger faded as he heard the patient tiredness in the older mage-guard’s voice. Not all of the anger, but what remained was not directed at Taryl so much as at Rahl’s own situation. Even so, he strengthened his shields.

  “Thank you,” said Taryl.

  Why did people have to be so difficult? From everything Rahl had learned, Prince Golyat was in charge of an area ten times the size of Recluce, and he wasn’t satisfied and had to plot a rebellion. Cyphryt was one of the highest-ranking mage-guards, and he was still scheming. Puvort was one of the top magisters in Recluce, and he’d used order dishonestly and unfairly—and Rahl had injured Jienela’s brothers—not that they hadn’t deserved it—in defending himself, and they’d been hurt, and Rahl had been exiled to Nylan. Everywhere he looked, people were trying to drag others down, often people who were their betters.

  He frowned. He had to be honest with himself. That wasn’t always true. He hadn’t liked her decision, but Magistra Leyla had tried to be fair, as she saw it. Taryl was fair, and Deybri was one of the fairest and most honest people he’d met. Poor Captain Gheryk had been fair, too. But it was hard to deal with so much unfairness and pettiness, especially when he felt it was directed at him.

  Then he nodded. He was likely to face some sort of slight or comment from Klassyn and perhaps even from Serita or others. What could he say that would be polite and friendly, without accepting such a slight? For a long time, he considered possible phrases.

  Finally, he looked out the coach window, taking in the neatly fenced and bordered fields to the west, and the orchards to the east, stretching down toward the river, almost a kay away from the road. Before all that long, as the twilight began to darken into evening, the fields and olive and fruit trees gave way to small dwellings with garden plots around them. Unlike the buildings in the center of Cigoerne, the houses and cots were of brick, but the roofs were of red tile, if more faded than that Rahl had seen in other places. He didn’t think that was because of the dimming light, either.

  Despite the growing darkness, Rahl could see the Imperial Palace ahead, dominating the city from its position on the low hill in the center of Cigoerne. The gentle slopes—holding gardens and lawn—that rose from the white walls encircling the grounds were too regular on all sides for it to have been anything other than created for just that effect.

  The gateway on the east side of the Imperial Palace, as well as the Palace itself, was lit with lamps seemingly hung everywhere, and behind each was a polished reflector. Several coaches—one of them a gleaming silver—preceded the one holding Taryl and Rahl through the outer gate and up the slight incline of the drive paved in white stone toward the Palace proper. The white stone of the Emperor’s gate—and the receiving rotunda—shimmered in the light.

  In time, their coach came to a halt, and a crimson-clad footman opened the coach door. “Welcome to the Palace.”

  “Thank you.” Taryl nodded, and so did Rahl.

  They walked along a pillared and covered walkway to a wide archway whose gilded double doors were drawn open. Inside was a vaulted entry hall that soared upward into one of the three domes of the Palace. The polished-marble floor was of pale rose, as were the fluted columns. The entire inside of the dome was comprised of pale rose triangles, the vertices alternating up and down, against a white background. Rahl looked again. Some of the triangles were windows of milky rose glass.

  The sound of Rahl’s boots was lost in the vastness of the circular entry hall—a good fifty cubits across, and more than that to the top of the dome.

  Taryl turned to the left in the middle of the hall toward a series of columns framing a hallway with a wide crimson carpet runner. Stationed at intervals along the hallway were guards in crimson-and-gold uniforms. Ahead was another circular hall foyer, but one less than twenty cubits across, where several couples waited to enter through a set of doors to the right.

  Taryl and Rahl stopped at the end of the short line.

  “This is the Grand Parlor,” Taryl murmured.

  Ahead were a man wearing a dress uniform of black and khaki, with a crimson stripe down the outside of each trouser leg. The woman wore a black-and-silver gown, with the sheerest black-shimersilk sleeves and a silver scarf. As the couple stepped through the archway into the chamber beyond, a sonorous voice announced, “Land Marshal Valatyr and his consort Chelyna.”

  Taryl stepped forward, and so did Rahl. After a moment, Taryl nodded to Rahl.

  “Mage-Guard Overcommander of Merowey Taryl. Mage-Guard and attaché to the Overcommander Rahl,” announced the crimson-clad functionary.

  Inside the Grand Parlor, Rahl could see close to twoscore individuals, and it felt as though
about half had turned to look at him. He kept smiling, and managed to keep his personal shields strong, as he accompanied Taryl.

  Music filled the room, a lush melody of mixed instruments, without a sense of discord. Rahl’s eyes traveled to the far end of the Grand Parlor, where he could see a half score of players, including violins, a large floor viol, and two sets of hammered harps, as well as several horns and a flute. The melody was soft, and not intrusive, yet held a harmony.

  “The Emperor doesn’t like receiving lines,” said Taryl quietly. “He tends to wait until everyone is here before he appears. I see Klassyn and Serita over to the right. Since they’re the only ones you officially know, except for Marshal Byrna, you should begin by paying your respects. Then, in time, someone will offer you something to drink. Try not to have to sneeze.”

  Rahl couldn’t help smiling. “I’ll just set it down somewhere and forget it, if it comes to that.”

  “Servers will appear with various dainties. Eat what appeals to you because that will be dinner, but eat judiciously.”

  Rahl nodded. Although Taryl had said all that earlier, Rahl didn’t mind the reminder.

  Taryl moved toward Marshal Byrna, while Rahl made his way toward Serita and Klassyn, both of whom wore mage-guard dress uniforms—with one addition. They wore gold-braided epaulet cords on their left shoulders. Each held a crystal goblet.

  “Good evening,” offered Rahl, inclining his head to Serita, then to Klassyn.

  “Good evening to you, Rahl,” she replied.

  “It is a very good evening,” added Klassyn, “and good to see you here. You actually look as though you belong.”

  “One can look as though he belongs when he’s properly invited,” replied Rahl. “I’ve found that it’s usually discomfort that makes one look out of place.” He smiled politely, glad that he’d thought ahead somewhat. He continued to project friendliness. “Still, I imagine it took some time for you to get used to working and living in the Palace. It’s quite a change from even the largest of mage-guard stations.”

  “Oh, not so much a change for Klassyn,” said Serita. “His family owns rather a great deal of land in the northwest. Somewhat isolated, I understand, but quite grand.”