Joti thought it was good advice, but as they walked down the path toward their family tents, people stopped and stared. Their glances and smirks hit him like punches. They'd be talking about him for days. Unless somebody else did something stupid soon, it could drag out for weeks.
Somehow, he got to the Ridik tent without breaking into a sprint or bursting into embarrassed flames. He dressed in a hurry, then ran through the short grass to Drez' tent. She was already outside waiting for him.
Together, they ran to join the crowd massing on the north edge of the settlement. A mile away, two dozen figures moved through the bobbing grass of the prairie.
Joti moved next to Hogard, whose sister was a scout. "Have you heard if anyone was hurt?"
The older boy looked down at him. "They were out hunting, didn't they? Somebody always gets hurt."
Drez was watching Joti from the corner of her eye, as if she had no fear that she'd soon learn her father or brother had been killed in the field. None of the others looked particularly worried, either. Or were they only pretending?
But even if they were, he would have to pretend, too. He held his tongue as the hunt-family neared the village, the squeak of their wagon wheels piercing the babble of the crowd. Joti spotted his mother Hako first: tall and proud, jaw tilted back, dust clinging to the muscles of her arms and bare shoulders. The bracer on her left arm had once been white, but over the years, she'd added the tallies of so many kills to it that from a distance it looked black.
Joti's father Odobo paced the wagon behind her, speaking and gesturing to the warrior beside him, who was watching Odobo sidelong. Joti let out his breath. So they were safe. But had they brought pride to the Ridik family? He was almost sure that his mom had—she would rather die than be disgraced—but he couldn't say the same for Odobo.
On the middle wagon, a canvas tarp was slung over a great mound. The hunt-family came to a stop a sling's throw from the crowd. Jakkad the huntmaster stepped forward, his face so lined with light green scars that he looked as pale as an Artusker.
"We return." He smiled thinly, left lower fang peeking from his lips. "And we got meat!"
He ripped aside the tarp. The crowd barked out in surprise. On the wagon lay a black dragon the size of four human horses of war. Its limbs trailed over the wagon's side, the claws as long as Joti's hand. Its horns were stout enough to gut a wozzit. Even in death, the strength of its body chilled him like the frigid morning water of the pool.
As the crowd around him burst into cheers, hoisting fists and hatchets over their heads, Joti turned to his mother and father in awe at what they'd done. He knew then what he wanted most was to join them in the field as hunters, and to stand against their foes as a soldier.
And he knew also that, as a ninth seed smaller than other boys a year younger, he could never have it.
3
In Cardozo's room, Wit blinked in surprise and tried to compose himself. Although he had spent all his life preparing to be a wizard, he had never fully believed he would ever really be one. For one thing, learning the Order's magic was dangerous—Wit had known people who had died in the process. But beyond that, learning wizardry was enough of a task to have consumed Wit's entire life; he had never had a chance to think about what would happen when he was one.
"You will be able to execute Contracts as you see fit," Cardozo continued. "You will have Power for any Controversy where the sum in question is less than a thousand pieces of gold, and you may Bind any human, dwarf, dragar, or skirbit for up to fifty years."
"Thank you sir, thank you very, very much, sir."
Cardozo waved a hand at him dismissively. "This is a tricky business with Youngkent, but your only concern is with the iron from the mines. Get Wa'llach to the mines, make sure that he is allowed to conduct his examination, and then journey on to Youngkent. In no event whatsoever are you to speak for this Order regarding the final outcome of that Controversy, do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go get yourself a staff and come back here first thing tomorrow morning."
"Yes, sir…may I ask you a question?"
Cardozo nodded.
"The Youngkent Contract, it places Our Order in a very unenviable position…so unenviable that I can't help but wonder if it was created deliberately."
"Yes. And you very well might find some evidence of this at Reading or Cohos. Report to me whatever you find, but remember, even if it is revealed that this is the product of trickery, intended to discredit Our Order and bring ruin to the Alliance, it must have no bearing on how we decide this matter."
"Sir, it seems to me that if it was created, it must have been created by someone who knew the workings of Our Order extremely well."
Cardozo nodded and his expression darkened. "There are very few wizards who have left the Order—but most of those that have are extremely dangerous. If you encounter one of them you may abandon your mission and return here."
"As a Junior Wizard would I not have access to Our Power? Could any unaffiliated wizard stand against it?"
Cardozo laughed pleasantly. "Of course they could. Wit, the Powers of the Order are merely one of the ways to use the Gift. We don't talk about that much, but it's true. I thought that you, of all of them, might know that."
"Why me sir?"
"The Aubrey are a tribe that has sailed the sea for as long as anyone can remember. Their ships are older than the Alliance, and nearly all of them are born with the Gift. They were a mighty empire hundreds of years ago, although their fortunes have fallen since. Some twenty years ago, the better part of their fleet was forced ashore by a storm just on the orcish side of the frontier. There was an orcish horde a week's march away, and their king, or admiral, came and offered his son in service to Our Order, if we would use the forces of the Alliance to engage the orcs, giving him time to repair his ships."
Wit looked at him, puzzled.
"You are his son, Wit."
"I am?"
"Several hundred Alliance soldiers died fighting the orcs, but it was worth it. Had the Aubrey and their secrets fallen into the orcs' hands it might have been the end of the Alliance, or of humanity. And we did not do badly either: children with the Gift are more precious to this Order than anything. Also, no one fully understands the Gift: there was some question if you would be able to learn the ways of Our Order, having been born to another type of magic. We needed to know if you could."
Wit blinked. "I hope, sir, that…"
"You have done well, Wit. You are as strong with Our Power as any wizard of your training and experience."
"Thank you, sir."
Cardozo shrugged. "I'll see you here tomorrow morning, with Wa'llach. We can work out the details of the journey and then we will tell them when they may expect me in Youngkent. The treasury will give you an advance on your pay, six months I believe—so pick that up straight away and buy a staff. I'll see you in the morning."
The treasury was on the fifth floor of the tower and needed to be argued with. Cardozo was right, in some respects—Junior Wizards were entitled to draw up to six months in advance, but it was unclear, to the clerk of the treasury, that Wit was a Junior Wizard, while he remained in the capital. The appointment, in the clerk's eyes, would start when he left on the mission.
"And you haven't got a staff, hard to recognize you as a Junior Wizard without a staff."
"Unfortunately, I can't buy a staff until you pay me."
The clerk looked at him vacantly.
It briefly crossed Wit's mind to go back to Cardozo and see if he would come up and straighten the treasury out—but he rejected that idea immediately. "How is the account for my wages as an Adept?"
"Overdrawn. We advanced you three months two months ago."
Wit drummed his fingers on the table. "Look, once I leave 'wen, I will be a wizard, we agree on that much?"
The clerk nodded.
"And as a Junior Wizard, I will be entitled to be paid, correct?"
"Yes."
"You don't know. If the roads are good and you do your job efficiently you might be back here in three."
"Three months then. There is a three month period, during which, we both absolutely agree that I will be a Junior Wizard, entitled to the wages of a Junior Wizard. I will come back to the capital owed, at the very least, three months' wages, and in all likelihood, four or five. So, all I am asking, is that you pay me now, wages that I absolutely will be owed in the future."
Wit left with two and a half months' wages, after the clerk took out his overdrawn Adept's pay.
Craftsman on the eighth floor made staffs and Wit trudged up there next. The staffs had little power of their own, and as long as a little bit of melted gold was poured into the center of the staff, one staff was seldom much different from another. Still, the Order collected extensive dues from all the lords of the Alliance, much of which ended up in the hands of the Order's wizards, and staffs were one thing that a wizard could be expected to spend foolishly on.
In particular, a young wizard's first staff was almost always loud and regrettable. As they aged, wizards would tend to switch to a more minimalist design. Cardozo's was black polished wood, with a simple stone ball on top of it—however, when he had had the Adepts to his apartment for dinner, Wit had noticed a bright red staff topped by eighteen inches of an ornate dragon wrapped around a sword, sitting ruefully in a corner.
Wit was not merely clearly a newly appointed wizard, but he was an unusually young one, and he was immediately led by a glowing-eyed dragar to the most elaborate and ornate section of the shop's inventory. He found himself charmed by one topped with a small figurine of a lithesome, full breasted maiden.
"Discerning eye," said the dragar.
Wit put it down like it was burning. "I saw a wizard who had one where the top screwed off and held a blade. Have you anything like that?"
He was led to a section of staffs that also incorporated various tools. One of them broke down into a series of compartments, one containing a pen and ink, one a knife, and one holding a length of rope. It was more than he could afford, though, and he settled for a simple wooden staff with a heavy iron ball on top.
"Simple, elegant," said the dragar, barely concealing his annoyance.
They walked to the back of the shop where there was a furnace. Wit handed the dragar one of his new gold coins. The lizard-like creature took the gold coin, placed it in a cup, and put the cup in the furnace. He unscrewed the top of the staff, and showed Wit where a hole was bored six inches deep in its center. He took the cup out of the furnace and poured the molten gold into the center of the staff. Wit and the dragar watched until the gold hardened, and then the dragar screwed the cap back on the staff, and Wit gave him most of the rest of his gold and left.
As the tower went up, the Order had been moving its various aspects into the building in the order of their perceived importance: the Adepts were scheduled to take residence in the tower in five years. As a Junior Wizard, Wit supposed that he was entitled to a room in the tower, but all his things were in the Adepts' quarters, and it was not clear that he was a wizard in the capital anyway.
It was dusk as Wit left the tower, which dominated the skyline of the city of Kroywen. The area immediately around it was a small city unto itself, built for the laborers who worked on the structure. There were depots of construction materials, shops for repairing tools, and barracks where workers were housed according to their skill. Small sheds had sprung up to house administrative offices at the start of construction—over time these had been improved and expanded on, and were now formidable, if haphazard, structures; eateries which had once been outdoor mess halls under tents were now solid buildings, where workers were fed from vast cauldrons of stew, and everything moved with the impersonal precision of an ant colony.
Beyond the impermanent city of the workers on the tower lay the old city, with the river bisecting it. This city consisted of a cosmopolitan core of markets, shops, taverns, and a small number of venerable residences; buildings were three or four stories tall and made of stone. One side of the old city abutted the land surrounding the Order's tower. Branching off from the other side of this central core were various neighborhoods divided by class and species—most of these neighborhoods were long stretches of low slums; but amongst the low wooden building stood clumps of middle and upper class neighborhoods, made from earth and stone.
The carter from earlier in the hall detached himself from the wall and approached him. His hair was still unkempt, there was a haunted look in his eyes, and he trembled.
"Sir, my master was hoping you would allow him to treat you to dinner at the tavern."
Wit nodded. It suddenly occurred to him that he had not eaten all day, and that he was very hungry.
"And sir, from myself, thank you so much sir! You showed a great mercy in there, you saved me!" He began to weep.
"No," Wit said. "We only do as the Power of Our Order directs us. You were saved by the greatness of the Power, and the decency of the dwarf."
"But sir, you…"
"No," said Wit.
"No, sir." Something changed in the man, a firmness that Wit had never seen in what he had learned from the man during the Binding. "No. You have been in my head, you have. And you did a great thing for me, today—a wonderful, merciful thing, and I won't forget it, sir, not ever."
Wit nodded and followed the man to the carter through the mini city surrounding the tower and out into the old city. They made their way down a broad, bustling cobblestone street, and then down a short alleyway and into a tavern. The tavern was bright and bustling with a jostling crowd surrounding a bar, loud voices, and the smell of spilled beer.
The dwarf was seated at a table in the back and nearly fell out of his chair waving Wit over. Wit took a seat with the dwarf, gingerly leaning his staff against the wall, while the carter left for the servants' quarters. A waiter handed Wit a flagon of ale, spoke to the dwarf, and went to the kitchen.
The dwarf shook Wit's hand. "I am immensely grateful to you, young sir, a man sent to the ghoul pasture would have been an awful thing to have on my heart, an awful thing."
Wit put down the flagon and sighed. "You played a role in that as well."
"Well, I'd have sent him," the dwarf said, "if you hadn't found a way to get me my two hundred."
"I merely exercised the Power of Our Order."
"As you say, as you say…" the dwarf's eyes rested on the staff. "Is that new? Did you just get that? Were you made…"
Wit panicked for a moment and then laughed. "Oh, no, no. I am just bringing it to the wizard it was made for."
"You'll get one soon enough, I am sure. And the Order will be much grander when you do."
The waiter brought food.
"Tell me," said Wit, "do you know anything about the mines at Reading and Cohos?"
"I've never been to either, I'm from further to the north. But one of my cousins has been working Reading these thirty years. It turns out iron, adamantium, some mithril. Two or three times, an orc raiding party got out there; and you get trolls in the winter."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
The dwarf shrugged. "The commanders are strong, and the ore they get is good. Cohos…well I've never been, but I hear they have good tin and the finest silver in the Alliance."
"Not iron?"
"Aye, they had a good vein of iron but it mostly ran out thirty years ago. Apparently they can get still get enough from working it to get armor for Hogan's solders, but beyond that it don't yield."
"They apparently found another vein three years back."
"They might have, I wouldn't know. They send their metals to the dragar lands or the man-held plains, and all my people are mostly settled further to the north." They ate in silence for a moment. "There's some, up in the mountains that remember the old ways," the dwarf went on. "We're lo
ng lived, us dwarves. There's many that think that all the order a dwarf should need is the metal in his hills and the edge of his ax. But they're wrong. A man sent to a ghoul pasture is a dreadful thing to have on one's heart—and you, your Order, did a wonderful thing today. We're long lived—and I'll remember that for the rest of my days."
"Thank you."
"Lord Lexus might not be so long lived as a dwarf, but he won't forget either."
Wit looked at him, puzzled. "I merely used the Power…"
The dwarf shook his head. "I asked some friends today. In a year, a man working the ghoul pasture might pull out enough precious ghoul juice to fetch 250 in gold—while costing the lord not much more than a dozen pieces to clothe and feed. Now, if the damage had gone as they thought it would, that gives the lord at least 230 a year—for forty years. After a year and change he has more than paid my damage, and everything beyond that is gold in Lexus' pocket. Every time he pays one man, and walks out with another in contribution, he is really walking out of there with thousands in gold. And that is the only sort of power that Lexus cares about."
Wit sighed. "What could Lexus do against the Order?"
"Against the Order? Very little, and why would he want to? Most days they line his pockets with gold. Against you…"
"I merely used the Power of Our Order."
"I wouldn't know, not having no Gift, and not being a wizard. But it appeared to me that you played a role in Lord Lexus walking out of there nearly three hundred poorer and with no Bound man to show for it. I wouldn't doubt that it appeared to Lord Lexus that way as well. He won't dare to do anything in the capital. But the next time you leave this city, watch your step."
Wit thanked the dwarf for the meal and advice, and the dwarf shook his hand again, and told him where his inn was, if Wit ever found himself in the area.
Wit went to the bar, where he bought a gallon of gin in a stone jug, some dried wyvern sausages, and a loaf of bread. Wit heard a man's voice, boasting, "For a normal fellow, a fellow like you, these cuts would have been worth nearly a hundred in gold; but a man like me, I'm so tough that they only caused me 75 gold worth of bother! Barkeep, more wine!"
Students of the Order Page 4
