Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  “Three years later, we were part of a major offensive against Relkorian slavers. The General never forgot the massacre of his men and he harried them constantly. Finally, he gained the King’s permission to concentrate on dissuading them from raiding us. It was a decisive move. I played a pivotal role in his strategy because of my knowledge of their customs, and our success gained us notoriety throughout the Third Realm. But then came the final battle, the Relkorians’ last and most desperate counterattack.

  “They killed my commanding officer, Major Anton. He was a man I liked and respected and his death angered me greatly. Without thinking, I assumed overall command and beat the Relkorians back. We defeated them so thoroughly, they have not invaded in any great numbers since.

  “For this and for bringing Anton’s body home, I was promoted to major.”

  She broke off and gestured around, her golden eyes faintly sad.

  “I still miss Beris Anton. These were his rooms and most of the things you see here were his, including the harp. Anton gave it to me before he died. He was the one who encouraged me to play, although he did not teach me. But he was a very gifted musician and we spent some wonderful evenings here.”

  After a short silence that Rienne didn’t want to break, Sullyan sighed.

  “The main reason for the General’s interest in me—apart from gratitude—was my Artesan power. He, at the time, was an Adept-elite and he recognized my potential. However, when he began my training he was amazed—and rather dismayed, I think—to discover that I was his equal, despite being untutored. Anton, who was a distant cousin to Mathias and also an Artesan, was a Master, so he confirmed me in the rank.”

  Seeing Rienne’s incomprehension, she stopped.

  “Artesans only progress to the next level when someone of higher rank confirms them,” she explained. “The exception is the highest rank of Senior Master, where the confirmation of another Senior Master is all that is required. That and the testing, of course.”

  She grinned when the bemused expression stayed on Rienne’s face.

  “Have I lost you? Well, maybe it will not be long before Taran has sufficient knowledge and control to support being raised to Adept. Then you will see. We make quite a ceremony of promotion here, whether military or metaphysical.

  “But to finish the story—and I will be brief—six years after joining the Manor, I became a Master Artesan. That was also the year I finished my military training. Despite personally nurturing my talents, the General was displeased to have a captain with a higher metaphysical rank than his, so he managed to attain Master status himself. That was as far as his talents could take him. He was content for a while, but it was soon obvious that my own powers were not so limited.

  “A couple of years later, I achieved Master-elite. After Anton’s death, the General had no choice but to recommend me for promotion, but he was far from pleased with the situation. There are many powerful nobles at court who are less than comfortable having so many Artesans in the King’s forces, despite our usefulness. King Elias may be sympathetic toward us, but we still have to be careful.

  “Hence my anger over that ridiculous duel. Aside from my personal fear for Robin, it could have had very serious consequences. Any hint of scandal or misconduct would cause much trouble for General Blaine and, by association, the King.

  “However, that is not your concern. Despite the disparity of our status, the General and I get along well. I do not challenge his military judgments—although I do advise him on matters relating to the other realms—and he usually defers to me in metaphysical matters. At least, behind closed doors. It makes no difference where the idea originated, provided the orders come from his office.”

  Without thinking, Rienne said, “So that’s why Robin doesn’t like him. He thinks you don’t get the recognition you deserve.”

  Sullyan’s eyes narrowed. “He had no right to speak of such things. He must learn to conceal his feelings.”

  Alarmed that she had spoken out of turn, Rienne said, “Oh, please don’t say anything to him. He didn’t mean to let it out. Now I’ve broken a confidence and I will feel terrible if you say something to him.”

  “He should not have mentioned it in the first place,” grumbled Sullyan, but she let it go.

  Suddenly, she reached for Bull’s bottle, emptying it into both cups. She gazed speculatively at the amber liquor. “Am I going to regret this very badly in the morning?”

  “Probably,” chuckled Rienne, feeling very mellow. Another feeling stole over her and she wobbled to her feet. “Could I use your … ?”

  “Of course. Through the sleeping room.” The Major gestured vaguely.

  Rienne tottered across the room, glancing about with fuzzy interest as she entered Sullyan’s sleeping chamber. There wasn’t much to see, it was almost as impersonal as the living space. A large bed stood in the middle of the floor, its plain blue coverlet neatly straightened. Brushed and oiled combat leathers hung on one wall, next to a russet dress uniform. Boots sat below, gleaming softly in the dim light. On a low chest at the foot of the bed lay a couple of books, rare though they were in Albia. There was nothing else in the room.

  Rienne stumbled through to the privy and while she was there, a foggy thought occurred to her. Fumbling in her pocket, she placed a small item on the night-stand. Then she spent a few moments checking and cleaning the cut on her chest. It wasn’t serious, just a deep scrape, but her shirt was a mess and the blood had dried beyond any hope of rinsing it out.

  She called, “I don’t suppose I could borrow a spare shirt? Mine’s ruined and I don’t want Cal to see it.”

  “In the chest,” came a sleepy reply. “Leave the stained one there. My valet will see to it in the morning.”

  Rienne found the selection of everyday shirts, cream or white, cotton or linen, and exchanged her soiled one for a clean one. Feeling much better, she was about to return to the living area when she spotted something she hadn’t previously seen.

  Hanging on the wall by the door was a beautifully crafted small guitar. Made of dark varnished wood, it had exquisite tooling around the sound-hole and tuning heads. She reached out and gently brushed her fingers over the strings. They were in perfect tune; their tones warm and mellow.

  “Take it down.”

  Rienne jumped; she hadn’t heard the Major approach.

  “Are you sure?”

  Sullyan, though, was already returning to the couch, leaving Rienne to carefully lift the little instrument from its pegs and carry it into the room.

  She sat down with it and began to strum. Not having played for a while, her fingers took some time to remember their skill. Sullyan listened in silence, her eyes closed.

  Her confidence returning, Rienne played a simple folk tune she learned as a child. Her alto voice was pleasant but had no great range, so she was pleased when the Major joined in the chorus, adding her rich tones to Rienne’s. Emboldened, she began a more difficult piece and this time the Major sang the descant. Rienne was amazed by her range; the night before she had sung in a throbbing contralto.

  Once the song was finished, Sullyan reached for the instrument and deftly de-tuned it. She played a complicated melody.

  “Do you know this one?”

  After a few bars, Rienne recognized a sweet lament. She nodded.

  “You take the female part,” said Sullyan, and together they sang the sorrowful tale of two parted lovers.

  When that song was over, Sullyan re-tuned and played a livelier air. Rienne recognized “The Drunken Maidens” and laughed. She laughed even harder when Sullyan changed the words to “The Drunken Major” and then “The Drunken Healer.” The two of them giggled like little girls.

  Having refreshed herself from a rapidly emptying cup, Sullyan glanced slyly at Rienne. She then sang a lewd and hilarious variant of “Fly up, my Cock.” It was one Rienne hadn’t heard before and she collapsed in scandalized laughter. Not to be outdone, she took the guitar back and countered with “The Ups and Do
wns,” also changing some of the words and incorporating the names of their male counterparts.

  The two women had trouble finishing the song due to uncontrollable laughter. They ended up in a heap on the floor, exhausted by laughter and liquor.

  The guitar lay forgotten as they sprawled together, Sullyan propped against the couch with Rienne’s dark head in her lap. Their cups sat empty beside them as they drifted quietly to sleep.

  + + + + +

  It wasn’t the Count’s man but one of the Duke’s retainers who tapped on Sonten’s door that evening to summon him to Rykan’s presence. Sonten nodded and heaved himself to his feet, placing the crystal goblet of barely tolerable wine on the stained table.

  Muttering, he rubbed his sore back. The badly upholstered chair had seen better days, as had most of the furniture in this damnably shabby place. The Count’s mansion was barely fit for peasants, in Sonten’s opinion, not at all suitable for entertaining the second most powerful man in the realm. He knew the Duke thought so, too, but for once, he was keeping his feelings to himself.

  They had only been here a day and a half and Sonten already had had enough.

  He considered the servant as he followed him down the poorly lit hallway. His Grace was obviously taking no chances with the execution of his plan; he didn’t even trust the Count’s servants to carry a simple message, let alone accomplish the vitally important but relatively uncomplicated main task. It was essential that Count Marik remain ignorant of the real reason behind the Duke’s unexpected visit; they couldn’t take the chance that one of his chattels might drop some damning piece of gossip.

  Sonten grinned. From what he’d seen of the lean Count so far, he shared the Duke’s mistrust. The man’s melancholy nature bordered on suicidal; Sonten would gladly have helped him on his way. But trustworthy or not, he was useful, and his men—such as they were—would swell his Grace’s forces, willingly or not. The General supposed they might be useful in the front lines, if only to shield the Duke’s warriors from the initial attack.

  Dismissing the gloomy Count from his mind, Sonten concentrated on appearing supportive. He still had grave misgivings about the part the Albian Baron, Rykan’s secretive ally, was playing in all this, but the truth was that the Staff would never have existed without the Baron’s gold.

  Sonten had never discovered how the Baron had obtained such colossal wealth and truth be told, he didn’t care. For although the Staff was lost, its creation had re-awoken the General’s long-abandoned dreams of power. Soon, he would have more important things on his mind than their outlander ally. That would be his Grace’s problem and Sonten would be free to explore his slowly emerging plans for Heron.

  He grinned unpleasantly. The power-stealing capabilities of the Staff, useful though they had been, were not the only options open to an ambitious, unscrupulous man …

  They reached the ill-fitting wooden door that led to the ducal chambers. His Grace had been given the Count’s own suite, but he was scarcely more comfortable than anyone else in this impoverished place.

  Sonten snorted as he remembered the Duke’s expression on being shown these rooms. Never a patient or tolerant man, his Grace had stopped short of venting his outrage only by exerting considerable effort. Not through any desire to spare the Count’s feelings, but simply so as not to terrify him into a gibbering wreck. They needed the Count in as normal a mood as possible until the plan was executed.

  The servant tapped on the door and opened it without a reply. He ushered Sonten inside where warmth and light from the twin hearths gave an air of comfort to the shabby room. Here, the wall and floor coverings were the best Sonten had yet seen, but that was all that could be said in their favor. They were obviously old—a generous soul might have said antique—but any value was overridden by their dilapidated state. In the Duke’s palace, they would be considered too threadbare even for dogs.

  Pushing the mansion’s dilapidated state from his mind, Sonten bowed as the Duke stalked toward him from the sleeping room. Clad in his customary black and silver, his Grace the Lord Rykan was an undeniably impressive figure. Powerful and muscular yet agile and slim, he carried his forty-five years lightly.

  Once again Sonten felt envy strike his heart but he ignored it, concentrating on the matter in hand. If his Grace should sense even a hint of his true feelings, Sonten would survive no longer than the duration of the Duke’s brutal pleasure.

  He tried to gauge his overlord’s mood; except when his temper was roused, Rykan rarely displayed his emotions.

  “Is there any news, your Grace?”

  As Sonten had expected, the Duke’s voice remained level.

  “Nothing definite, though I’m loath to place much faith in the Count’s scouts. I’ve decided to send out two units of our own men to watch for an approaching party and to keep an eye on that rabble he calls a fighting force. Hand-pick the men, Sonten. I want them to attack the party if possible to lend credence to the tale of unrest. Target the men only, of course, and no fatalities. Our foresight in panicking the peasants has brought admirable results, but we must keep up the pretense for another few days at least. The Count thinks it won’t be long now, although he’ll say anything to save his worthless skin.”

  “And what of the Albian offensive, my Lord?”

  “I agree with your assessment, Sonten, keep up the pressure. Our losses to date have been pleasingly light and you may convey my approval to Verris and Heron. I’m sending them fresh troops, and I want the action escalated once we return to Kymer. It shouldn’t be for long but we have to occupy the Albian forces and prevent them from interfering in my plan. The Baron thinks they could well mount a retaliatory assault unless their attention is fully engaged.”

  Sonten sniffed. “Well, I can’t see it, myself.”

  “I have no interest in what you ‘see,’ Sonten,” growled the Duke. “Just carry out my instructions. Until the challenge is formalized, I’m taking no chances. Anything that gets in my way—or anyone, General—will be dealt with. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, your Grace.”

  Sonten lowered his eyes. He could not allow his half-formed plans to shadow his tone or his gaze. Utter obedience and unswerving loyalty would ensure he stayed close to the Duke. And it suited Sonten to be very close to the Duke.

  Bowing stiffly to hide his smile, he left.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cal was panicking and Taran wasn’t having much success calming him down. Rienne hadn’t been seen since leaving Chief Healer Hanan—Bull had checked with her when Rienne didn’t return—and Cal was desperate to scour the Manor for her. Although Taran didn’t think Cal taking off on his own was a good idea, he understood how he felt. He was anxious for Rienne, too.

  Suddenly Cal broke free of Taran’s grasp and bolted for the door. Just as he reached it, someone knocked brusquely. Cal yanked it open, obviously hoping to see Rienne. Instead, a man in dress uniform stood there.

  “Colonel Vassa,” said Bull, pushing past Cal and flipping a quick salute. “What can we do for you?”

  Vassa came into the room, glancing at Cal and Taran. He was slightly younger than General Blaine but no less imposing. Taran felt his heart clench because Vassa didn’t look like a man bearing good news.

  “A short while ago I found Sergeant Morin collapsed on the floor of one of the lecture rooms.” Vassa’s voice was sharp with dislike. “He had injuries to his balls. I marched him down to the duty sergeant, who forced him to confess what had happened.” He glanced again at Cal and Taran saw his friend’s dark face go quite pale. “It seems he tried to rape your young lady.”

  Taran felt the fear and anger that raced through Cal’s veins. He put a hand on his Apprentice’s arm.

  “He swears he didn’t hurt her. Apparently, she disabled him before he could do anything, but I found his knife on the floor. The blade had blood on it that certainly wasn’t Morin’s.”

  Cal made a strangled sound and Taran barely heard Bull thanking the Co
lonel. When he left, Bull turned to them.

  “Cal, you come with me, we’ll search the east side of the Manor nearest the pharmacy. Taran, go rouse Robin and ask him to help you search the west side. Tell him we’ll keep in touch. If neither of us finds her, we’ll meet in the commons.”

  Taran nodded and went to thump on Robin’s door. The Captain answered immediately and when Taran told him what Vassa had said, he led Taran off at a run.

  They did a thorough search of the rooms on the Manor’s west side with no success. Everyone they met was asked if they had seen Rienne, everyone they met shook their heads. After an hour of fruitless searching, Robin led Taran back to the commons.

  Bull and Cal got there first but as Robin had linked with Bull beforehand, Taran already knew they had no luck either.

  Cal looked sick and Taran had a hard knot of fear in his guts.

  “Perhaps she went outside to look for us and got lost,” said Robin. “She’d have been pretty distressed, perhaps she couldn’t remember the way back. Do you think that’s possible, Cal?”

  “How should I know?” retorted Cal. He was wringing his hands in panic. “She’d be in shock. She could have gone anywhere.”

  “Calm down, Cal, we’ll find her,” said Taran, hoping Cal couldn’t sense his own anxiety. “We know he didn’t manage to … hurt her.”

  But Cal refused to be calmed. “Do we? Do you trust what that bastard says? I don’t. He obviously did something to her, Vassa found that bloody knife, remember? A man who could try something like that might say anything. Just let me get my hands on him, I’ll break his bloody neck!”

  “Alright, Cal,” said Robin, and Taran saw him trade a swift glance with Bull. The older man nodded. “There’s one avenue of inquiry left,” he continued. Cal swung around and he held up a hand. “I didn’t want to do this as the Major doesn’t get much free time, but it’s very possible that she could find Rienne.”