Students of the Order

by Edward W. Robertson

  She blew a wooden whistle. The eighteen of them ran into the forest. Joti's feet squeaked through the snow. The powder would make for effortless tracking, but the protection of the trees had left most of the ground bare. Frozen solid, the dirt would leave little sign of a careful traveler.

  He veered toward a distant stand of rock where he could lose his tracks and maybe find a crevice to hole up in. His pack and gear rattled with each step, heavy and far too loud. He'd brought his bow and quiver, too. It was all weighing him down, making him noisy. He'd need to stash everything he didn't immediately need.

  He ran through a thicket of charred trees, reaching the island of rock. He entered a crack that was all but invisible until you were on top of it. Concealed within the rock, he took off his pack and stuffed it in a nook.

  The whistle shrieked through the air. The game had begun.

  Outside the crevice, snow squeaked underfoot. Joti froze. In perfect silence, he loaded a beck nut into the pouch of his sling, slipping the weapon's loop around his finger. His ears felt sharp enough to cut boiled leather. The thrum in his veins was like drums and ale. He smiled.

  After a long time, a sole scraped on a rock. A twig crunched. Joti drifted to the edge of the crevice and eased one eye around the corner, angling for a look at whoever had followed him. A cloaked figure mounted a ridge and disappeared over the other side. Sling in hand, Joti followed through the birches.

  Silence fell over the forest, as dense as the clouds at the Peak of Tears. Abruptly, there was no wind, no birds, no squirrels or mice, as if time had frozen, or reached its end and puttered to a stop, leaving Joti alone in a world turned to stone.

  A wail of terror speared through the stillness, louder with each instant.

  Joti's scalp prickled. A shadow scythed over the forest. A dragon on the wing threw back its neck and roared.

  18

  It was later than they generally stayed at home. The mid-morning sun shone through the windows of the Adepts' quarters, illuminating clumps of dust, flecks of mud, and ink stains that were concealed by the shadows of dusk, when the room was mostly inhabited.

  "Would you guess Mantyger saw into the future or killed a wizard herself?" Haniel asked Bronzino.

  "I don't know; you're the one who talked to her."

  "I didn't think anything of it, then. Seven hells."

  "It could be a coincidence?" Bronzino seemed doubtful.

  "Ha."

  They ate in silence for a moment. Bronzino tried to replicate the poppy-shaped fist she had made earlier, not getting it exactly right.

  "Why do you do that?" he asked.

  "It's what my mom did, when she was scared or had learned someone died. It means 'peace of the poppy upon them.' What did your people do?"

  "I don't know. Did we have to do something?"

  "I guess you didn't. But if you don't wish peace to those you can't help, well, that seems rather ungenerous of you."

  Bronzino laughed, and again attempted to make the fist. Haniel was unable to help herself this time and re-arranged his fingers so that he got it right.

  Chattiel emerged from the hallway, carrying a book, and looked at them for a moment, before heading to the door.

  "Black flag on the tower," Bronzino called to him, "probably nothing to do."

  "What?"

  "It's a day of mourning and investigation," said Bronzino. "Everything will be shut down until tomorrow."

  "What are we supposed to do?"

  "It's hard to say," said Haniel. "Sometimes, a wizard who everyone liked dies of natural causes—then you're supposed to act sad, be extra nice to anyone who might have known them, and wear a clean shirt if you get invited to a memorial service or something. Other times, there's some question about what happened, and in those cases you can goof off as much as you want, so long as you don't leave town and are ready to answer questions about where you were the night of."

  "The first one that she described has only happened once since we've been here," added Bronzino.

  Chattiel looked at them dubiously. "I find it hard to believe that our Order has such a problem of its wizards being murdered. That's what heathens say, outside of the Alliance—that advancement in the Order is through killing. But everyone intelligent knows that isn't true at all."

  Haniel looked at him bemused. "Right. You don't need to kill to get promoted. But the wizards of the Order aren't immortal, and they sometimes have problems with each other."

  "Well, let me know if anything happens," Chattiel said, and started to return to his room.

  "Why don't you go down there and tell us about it?" said Haniel. "It's getting on in the day, and we should have some idea."

  "Why do I have to go?"

  "You would have done it anyway if Bronzino hadn't said anything."

  "But he did, and now I don't have any reason to leave."

  "And you're the newest: get a move on."

  He looked at them, uncertain, trying to see if this was worth taking a stand over—he decided it wasn't and left.

  Haniel looked at the sun out the window. "All the gods, this was when he was leaving for the tower?"

  Bronzino shook his head. "We'd never have been that late in our first year at the capital."

  "We're never that late now. Do you suppose he's on the list?"

  Bronzino laughed. "Say, I bet Mantyger saw the future."

  "Yeah? Why?"

  "Well, if she did it, then she should have known that she would spend the day talking her way out of it. If she said she would see you, then she would have known that she would have free time, maybe not even why. I bet it was a premonition."

  "Will you give me odds?"

  "No."

  Haniel sighed and took the wizard's gold coin out of her pocket and put it on the table between them. "Okay, you're on. I bet she killed him."

  Bronzino brought the kettle in from her kitchen, and Haniel fetched her emergency bottle from her room. Four consecutive nights of emergencies had left it depleted, and she split what was left between their mugs of tea.

  "You know," she said, "I can't shake the feeling that Chattiel might have been a noble, before the Order got him."

  "You could ask him," said Bronzino.

  "I won't. It seems wrong. We didn't know Wit was a noble until the night he left. I don't want to know things about Chattiel that I didn't know about Wit."

  Bronzino laughed. "Was Wit really a noble, though?"

  "Of course: he said he was the son of a king of the Aubrey."

  "But he found out the same night we did—are you really a noble, if you spend your whole life thinking that you're just one of the Order's orphans?"

  Haniel screwed her face up. "I hadn't thought of that. You know, maybe we're luckier than they are."

  "Than who?"

  "Wit, Mantyger, maybe Chattiel. I mean, the two of us were peasants, and if we hadn't had the Gift, it just would have been a life of working from sun up to sun down, mostly eating gruel, and watching our babies die. But with only average luck Wit could have been king of a boat—which seems rather grand."

  "Why do you say Mantyger?"

  "I think her people had a shop of some sort."

  "Did she ever tell you?"

  "No, I just have the feeling. But she was from something: and she turned out very pretty, so she would have married someone with something more."

  "You always knew I was a peasant?"

  "Yes."

  "So, you think it is better to be a wizard than a peasant, but worse than being a shop keeper or a noble?"

  "Don't you?" Haniel sipped her drink. "All the gods, I think I'd like being king of a boat, especially."

  Bronzino smiled. "What would you do?"

  "Do? Just sail around, sail as far as I could. That's how I knew you were a peasant, there's something about the land and the seasons that's just in our blood: hope in the spring, fear in the winter. I'd forget about all of that, forever, if I could, sailing on an ocean where nothing will ever gr
ow."

  A little later, the masseuse from the tavern knocked on the door to the Adepts' quarters, expressed his condolences over the death in the tower, and asked Haniel if she would go to one of the most expensive restaurants in the capital with him for lunch. He was wearing new clothes and had an unhealed cut on his lip.

  "No," said Haniel, "I won't go to lunch."

  "Hmm," said Bronzino, "You seem to have recently taken a beating and come into some money: an almost textbook illustration of the dangers and attractions of a life of crime."

  "You could buy some brandy and drink with us, if you want to throw around some of your ill-gotten gains," Haniel suggested.

  He left and returned and they got him a glass and drank to the memory of the unknown wizard.

  "What's your news?" Haniel asked.

  "Well…" He seemed embarrassed.

  "We'll read your mind if we have to, so spit it out."

  "You wouldn't know how to get your hands on Puppets?"

  Haniel had been more or less expecting this, but Bronzino was surprised.

  "We don't know anything about that," Bronzino said quickly.

  "And you're gonna have to tell us who wants them," Haniel said.

  "I don't know."

  Haniel looked disappointed, but Bronzino nodded. "He doesn't."

  "I went and told Shelon, who's been trying to take over Kon's old gang, what you told me about the blood fights. I thought he might pay me for the tip, it was worth a chance, but he didn't seem to care. Anyway, he's the only person who knew I'd been drinking with wizards…"

  "Adepts," Haniel corrected.

  "Adepts. Yesterday, the big dragar bouncer at Ret's said there was someone who wanted me to put a question to the Adepts, and he'd give me some money to do it. Said his 'principal' wanted to know about Puppets. We had a disagreement about what my commission should be…and he said if you couldn't get Puppets, I'd be killed."

  "You think the 'principal' is Shelon?" asked Haniel.

  "No. I don't think that's his game. He probably told someone else."

  Bronzino nodded. "I doubt the bouncer knows, or even Shelon knows. If they deal in Puppets, they know something about the Order so they know that they can't send anyone who knows anything to talk to a wizard—we'll get it right out of their mind. And they know it's a shot in the dark: maybe only one wizard in fifty or a hundred would have anything to do with Puppets—and the rest would do everything they could to catch the dealer."

  "So you don't think I'll be killed?"

  "Was it such a shot in the dark, though?" asked Haniel.

  Bronzino ignored the masseuse and looked at Haniel. "What do you mean?"

  Haniel turned to the masseuse. "You did tell Shelon that we were Adepts, not wizards?"

  "I told them you were young, still in training. But do you think they'll kill me?"

  Haniel nodded thoughtfully.

  "What do you have on your mind, Hanny?" Bronzino asked.

  "We know one person who could make a Puppet whenever she wanted…"

  "Mantyger…"

  "…and if they knew we were young, they might have guessed we knew her. My investment is looking a little safer, I think."

  Chattiel came back at this point. Surprisingly, he seemed happy to see the masseuse, and while he was not exactly gracious, he did say hello. The wizard who had died had worked in Advanced Bindings; hanged himself; and left a long note. A committee had convened in the tower and was conducting an extensive investigation.

  "Did they say who they were interviewing?"

  "No, why?"

  "We have a friend in Advanced Bindings—if they don't take all day, we might try and get a drink with her," Haniel said.

  Chattiel gave her a petulant look, and turned to the masseuse. "At the tavern, you said you were in touch with the gang that used to run the blood fights?"

  "Yes, I know them."

  "Put together a list of the best fighters, and where to find them, will you? I'm glad I saw you again."

  The masseuse nodded.

  "What do you want them for?" Haniel asked.

  Chattiel looked irked that he had to explain, but also pleased with himself. "The Order might let them start up again: the scheme would be to grant licenses to fighters, and make them sign a Contract before every match, saying that they will look for only limited damage if they are hurt."

  "And to get the license, they talk to a wizard who makes sure that they aren't pledged to someone?" Bronzino asked.

  "Yes."

  "Who do you have this from?"

  "Grand Master Crane—once it is approved by the Capital Council, he aims to put me in charge of organizing the project." Now, Chattiel was beaming.

  Here the masseuse choked on his drink, and Chattiel glared at him. "What?"

  "Nothing," said the masseuse, trying not to smile.

  "Say it."

  "Well, you, running the blood fights…Kon was nearly seven feet tall and everyone knows he killed a dozen dwarves with his hands when one of their gangs was selling moonshine and not paying his tax. You're a little different than he was, that's all."

  Chattiel glared at him for a moment, and got up and went to his room without speaking. He came back holding a large dagger and for a happy moment, Haniel thought he was going to try to stab someone and she would get to knock him on the head.

  He disappointed her by drawing the dagger and placing it on the table. It had a curved handle, wrapped in leather, with a ring for the forefinger to go in. The blade was broad, one-edged and slightly curved. On the blade was etched a crest: two crossed arrows, a target, and a sheaf of grain.

  "Vechtin and I sent the man it was made for to his death," Chattiel said. "We were in Dynadan, next to Youngkent, and a lord had been selling off his people as orcish slaves. We sent the Youngkent Rangers after the orc slavers, but they learned too much: if the people knew that what their lord was doing they would have risen up. We spared some of the orcs, telling the Rangers we wanted them to exchange for humans. In the night, we freed and armed the orcs, and let them carry the Rangers back to their lands as slaves, after they promised to never come back again. I liked this dagger, so I made the orcs let me keep it. The man who it belonged to had shot enough orcs to fill this capital."

  Everyone was silent for a moment.

  "Your plan won't be approved by the Capital Council, anyway," said Bronzino, "they hate licenses, they hate a process that makes a wizard do something. Seven years ago, someone wanted licenses for the griffin post stables in Kroywen—have a wizard come by and make sure that they were feeding them properly, had riders who knew how to fly, didn't charge too much, or read everyone's mail: the Council wouldn't have anything to do with it. And the idea is, you use licenses and waivers when the underlying activity is in the interests of the Alliance; here it's still just a blood fight."

  "I think Crane might know a little more about the Council than you do," Chattiel said.

  "He does. But I don't think you'd get the Order to sign off on blood fights like that."

  "You said 'like that.' How then?" Haniel asked.

  "You wouldn't use fighters at all," said Bronzino. "You'd use drunks, cripples, anyone who wouldn't go for a high damage."

  "No one would bet on that," said Chattiel, dismissively.

  "It would depend on how you presented it—from talking to Kon," Bronzino and the masseuse swapped glances and Bronzino emphasized the name, "it seems that interest in the fights has more to do with look and image than skill."

  The masseuse nodded. "There was a big oaf from the plains with long golden hair, and a helmet that was shaped like a dragon, with painted on flames. He couldn't fight but everyone loved to watch him. Eventually, he got tired of getting stabbed in the leg for a living, took his bundle, and went home, and Kon bought his helmet. Then, Kon would put it on all the less established fighters and people would go mad for their matches, no matter what."

  "When you say 'less established fighter,'" Bronzino said, "you are
mostly referring to drunks who owed Kon money. But he was telling me about it: they would bet on almost anyone with shiny enough armor."

  "So people would wager on the armor, while some poor fool inside it got cut to pieces by some other poor fool who wouldn't even know how to stab him properly? Shit on the gods, that will make Kon's blood fights seem downright decent," said Haniel.

  "I didn't say it was just or decent: you asked me how to run a blood fight without the Order and the Council causing you too many problems, and I told you."

  "You wouldn't have to go to the Council with your cripples," Chattiel said quickly.

  "No, you could start holding them this afternoon, as long as you had enough gold to pay the full damage for the death of a cripple: about six pieces."

  "Repulsive," said Haniel, and poured them all more drinks.

  "I'm against it as well," said the masseuse, "cripples won't want massages, or get enough gold to pay for them. This won't help me any."

  He left after a little while, offering to bring Chattiel the list in a day or so. Haniel walked him out.

  "I really do need your help," he said.

  She looked up at the black banner flying over the tower. "I'm sorry, I can't help you."

  "They really might kill me."

  "They might kill me—and that's now, without me getting involved in this idiocy."

  He suddenly looked grave. "You're in trouble? I had no idea."

  "I belong to the Order. I'm always in trouble." He looked disappointed. "I'm in more trouble now, though. It hasn't been a good couple days."

  "What happened?"

  "Wizard business, I can't go into it. But this is the worst possible time to come to me with something like this."

  He looked into her face, probing for sincerity, not finding enough. "Look, you did say that you knew someone who could do it, my life really might be on the line."

  "And I would kill you myself, right now, to prevent someone from being Puppeted. It might be a gods awful mess, run by murderous scheming assholes, but the Order does stand for something, even to me. I said I knew someone who could do it, not who would: you have no idea the evil you're asking me to get involved in—wizards who deal in Puppets are the worst monsters the world will ever know."