"Slaves," said Wit. "Slaves ordered to die. They were told to stand in line, and wait, while someone cut their throats."
It was not immediately clear to Wit whether this orc possessed the orc-Gift or not. Wit clutched his staff, and felt for the outlines of the creature's mind. The smell of an animal, and the sight of plains presented themselves, briefly, tantalizingly. Wit looked at Joti's face, trying to tell if he could sense his probing.
"Is that what your magic is for, wizard?"
Wit shrugged.
Wit was very suddenly with the orc in a house in a city that he did not recognize. Joti, terrified, watched a slave beaten until his teeth fell out. Through Joti's eyes Wit felt months of exhaustion, abuse, and fear. The fear of what he was watching; the even greater fear that it would be done to him.
Joti had grabbed him by his shirt collar and already had him most of the way over the balcony. Once the orc let go, Wit was going to fall to his death.
Wit struck at the odd cloud of smells and plains that was the orc's mind with the strongest thing that he had: the memory, shared, re-lived, refined, of the dead Adept's death. He grabbed the memory and swung it like a cudgel.
The orc was with them in the Adepts' quarters. Bronzino kneeling with the basin, Mantyger holding the knife. Joti looked around the place, confused. The Adepts looked at the orc in shock, except for Mantyger, who seemed to be expecting him. Joti walked over to the couch very slowly. Mantyger handed him the knife. Joti held it for what seemed like hours, studying the blade. He delivered a swift, sharp stab, under the Adept's kneecap, and then twisted the blade so that the kneecap started to squirt from under the skin. Suddenly, the comatose Adept screamed in pain, opened his eyes, and got up.
Wit could feel his thigh touching the railing. Beneath him was nothing. Joti's hand on his tunic held him. He felt a breeze ruffle his hair.
Wit crashed through an overpowering thicket of orc thoughts. Months of training. An orc girl's face. A ford. A city. Slavery. Climbing a tree for fruit. A dragon breathing fire. A dark hut. An impossible explosion in the sky. The feeling of a drawn bow in his hand. A shrine to a new god.
Wit pushed through it desperately, feeling the nothingness beneath him; the fall in his future. At the bottom he found the mechanical nature of Joti's being, his muscles, his body. For a moment Wit looked at himself through Joti's eyes, his face as gray as ash, his mouth gaping open in a silent scream, eyes impossibly wide with terror. He found the sensation of holding his shirt with Joti's hand; he gripped Joti's control of his arm with all the strength that he had; he pulled with all of Joti's might, and threw himself back onto the balcony.
The crack of his head striking the stone floor was the most pleasant sensation of Wit's life. Everything burst into a blinding white light, and then to blackness.
27
Shortly afterward it came about that the one of the lords whose lands exported most of the Alliance's grain was so insolvent that he could not pay to have the next season's harvest taken in. Faced with a devastating food shortage, the Order created an intricate series of Contracts between the lord, moneylenders, grain brokers, and peasants. Haniel was pressed into this effort, and for several days was very busy.
Mantyger came to her, during that time, to ask if she knew anything about what had been done with the children from the Puppet-house. Haniel did not, and repeated what Bowen had said about them ending up in the houses of the oldest wizards and newest arrivals, although she assumed Mantyger already knew this.
Mantyger made a face. "There's no room, and the council has been questioning that practice anyway."
"What do you mean, no room?"
"All those houses are full up. A few years before we came back to Kroywen the Order went on just a dreadful run—wiped more minds in two years than they do in most decades. Ever since then there's more than they can take care of. Lately, they like to send anyone who can walk to a labor camp and see if we can get even the bad mistakes to do a little work for us."
"That's why they're questioning it: to see if they can wring a few gold coins from their own disasters and broken Dolls?"
"It's a little more than that. Lately, some people have been wondering if it's any good for the Gifted, when they first come to the Order, to be brought so close to the worst part of what we do."
"That seems like rank madness," said Haniel.
"I haven't an opinion on it," said Mantyger very seriously. "I wish Development and Training would sort it out themselves and not trouble the rest of us. You feel strongly, though?"
"Yes: if we hadn't had to live with the result of it going wrong, I don't think we'd have any right to even try the things that we do."
Mantyger considered. "I think I can see your point. I'd vote for the old way, anyway, if only because it's all a damned nuisance: I should be finding my Puppets, and not talking about development theory."
A few days later, a carriage was parked outside of the Adepts' quarters when Haniel got home and Chattiel was talking with a well-dressed young man of about his age in the sitting room. Bronzino was carefully cleaning the kitchen; having never done this in the three previous years, he was obviously doing it to avoid Chattiel and his friend.
If he had not been wearing a sword, or if Bronzino had been less actively avoiding him, Haniel would have been tempted to think that the newcomer was a new Adept. She introduced herself, mostly out of curiosity.
"Phiblus Lexus," he said.
"The lord's son?"
"The very same."
"So, I suppose if we both do our jobs properly, in twenty years I'll be taking your gold for sending half-dead nags down the road, pulling dilapidated carts."
Phiblus laughed for a while. "You're very funny," he told her. "Chet told you about tomorrow? Maybe I'll see you there."
Haniel shook her head. "What's tomorrow?"
Chattiel drew himself up. "We're opening the blood fights again. The Lexuses have an amphitheater on the edge of town, and are putting up the gold for it. It took us a little while to round up enough people who we could afford a full damage for, and then a little longer to get them into a state where someone would pay to see them, but I think we should have a very good show for the capital tomorrow night."
"It should be fascinating," said Phiblus.
Haniel had a seat on one of the couches in the sitting room and got out a book. Phiblus and Chattiel talked for a little more and then Chattiel went to his room. Phiblus went into the kitchen and spoke to Bronzino.
"Look, I know how Chet can be a little off-putting, and I know it looks like he did you very dirty here. He told me about it, and I don't like what he did at all, but I don't think there's any use in you holding it against him."
"I don't know what you are talking about."
"Oh come on. He told me that you helped him come up with the scheme for the fights, and have been in a snit ever since the wizards decided to give him all the credit. And that was shabby of him: he should have told the wizards that you helped."
"I don't want credit for this monstrosity," Bronzino said, appalled.
"No, I know, it's too late to talk to the wizards about it without looking petty, and I'm sorry. Chet knows he screwed up, he really does. Look, we can't make it right with the wizards, but Dad and I—well we'd like to do what we could for you." He handed Bronzino a small bag and rushed out of the quarters and into the waiting carriage before Bronzino could open it. There were a hundred gold coins inside. Bronzino abandoned the kitchen and dropped himself in a couch across from Haniel.
"All the gods, Hanny…what are we even supposed to do?"
"I've never wondered that when I had that much drinking money."
"You've never had this much drinking money: if you had, you'd probably have died."
"True! And there's only one way to find out."
Bronzino laughed at her, carefully hid the coins in his room, and went to bed.
They went to the theater the next night, generally against their better judgme
nt. It was, essentially, a pit with seats built into the gradually sloping sides, surrounded by a high wall so that no one could get in without paying. The stage was at the bottom, and dug into the earthen sides was a backstage area.
Scattered in the amphitheater, amongst the seats, were several stalls selling food and drink and Haniel, leading elbows and lowered shoulders, made her way over to one of them.
"I'd like two glasses of your best gin and two ales," she told the woman behind the counter.
"How'd you know what I wanted?" Bronzino asked.
"Barkeep!" yelled Haniel, "make that three glasses of gin and three ales."
Bronzino reached for his coin purse and Haniel slapped his hand. She scanned the crowd until she found Chattiel and Phiblus sitting near the front of the theater.
"Put it on their bill," she told the barmaid.
The barmaid was doubtful, but Haniel was clearly one provocation away from breaking something, and they left with the drinks.
Phiblus spotted them and waved them over. Bronzino was glum, but Haniel had put down her first gin before leaving the bar, and happily made light conversation. The prospects of getting drunk on Phiblus' gold seemed excellent and while she was, in some ways, apprehensive about the upcoming spectacle, the scene at the Doll's house had left her numb to suffering and the insolvent grain growers had left her amazingly bored, so she was mostly looking forward to it.
A rustle of wings sounded and a skirbit, dressed in bright red, glided from the top of the theater to the center of the stage.
"Ladies, gentlemen!" this creature called, "Long have great philosophers and mighty wizards wondered: which is mightier, the mind or the body? Wonder no more! Tonight the question will be answered, once and for all! To my left stands the mind—" A man dragged himself onto the stage, missing all of one leg, most of the other, and one arm. He used his remaining arm to both drag himself and clutch a spear. "Physically, he has seen better days, but his intellect is as sharp as his blade! And here, we have the body!"
Out onto the stage walked the first boy that Haniel and Bronzino had rescued from the Doll House. They had put armor on him and given him a sword. He smiled vacantly at the audience. Bronzino dropped his bottle of ale, and Haniel finished both of hers in succession.
"Beautiful! Strong! But…lacking in intelligence." The skirbit snapped his fingers in front of the boy's face, and he smiled pleasantly and the audience laughed. "Who will prevail? Find out!"
And with that, the skirbit flapped his wings, took off, and glided back into the seats, leaving the two combatants in the ring.
The cripple could barely move and the boy seemed to have no idea what he was doing there. The cripple would painstakingly pull himself into a position near the boy and get ready to stab him with the spear, but the first two times the boy foiled this by walking to the other end of the stage. The third time the boy noticed the spear and he let it strike him in the chest plate, but got out of the way of a follow up thrust. Then he decided to investigate another portion of the stage, and the cripple had to undertake his journey again.
At the cripple's fourth attempt, the boy actually blocked the spear with his sword and the crowd cheered wildly. This pleased the boy, and he whacked away at the spear with his sword for a few minutes to diminishing cheers. Eventually, both the boy and the audience lost interest in this and the boy wandered to another part of the stage.
The cheering had alerted him to the presence of the audience, so now he stared quizzically into the faces around him. They did not seem to mean very much to him but he continued to look into the crowd as the cripple crawled up behind him.
His eyes rested on Haniel. He let out a happy cry of recognition, the only sound she would ever hear him make, dropped his sword, and made the poppy-fist over his heart, beaming at her.
The spear went through his neck and he was dead when he hit the ground.
28
Wit came to moments later, panting, and clawed himself into a sitting position with his back against the wall without thinking about it. Out of the thousands of questions that the last moments presented came one answer, as dull, unpleasant, and simple as the ache in his head: there had been a wizard at the mine, acting without the knowledge of the Order; Hogan had known it, encouraged it, profited from it; whatever clues the wizard had left were in the castle.
He looked over at Joti. The orc was doubled over, leaning with his hands against the railing, pale under his green skin. His nose was bleeding but not very much. It occurred to Wit that, as confounding as whatever had happened had been to him, it probably made much less sense to Joti. Then he remembered that Joti had decided to throw him off the balcony, and felt less sympathetic.
The wizard would have stayed in the castle; being a wizard, he would have wanted a room as high up as possible; since the wizard had gotten Hogan several hundred Bound men, Hogan would probably have given him the room he wanted.
Wit dragged himself to his feet with the aid of his staff; he went over to the railing and tried to look up at the castle to get an idea of where the tallest part was. Moving his head was painful, and after a moment, he staggered off of the balcony, through the room, and down the hall. Eventually he found a staircase and started to climb.
The first orc body was sprawled across the stairs shortly before the final landing, an awkward giant of a creature, which Wit had to drag out of the way in order to continue. Two more dead orcs were on the landing, and a third was in the short hallway, along with two dwarves. Wit stuck his head out of a window for air and looked around. He was near the top of one of the castle's two tallest towers. He drew his head back into the tower and walked down the hall. He stepped over the dead men and walked through an open door into a room.
The room was simple but elegant. Two walls were lined with shelves, and there was a table, a bed, and a desk. The furniture was all basic and undecorated, but the wood was of good quality and the workmanship was solid. The floor and shelves were scarred with ink and candle wax. There were no ornaments and few objects of any kind. The few things that were there were functional, and of high quality. It was a wizard's room.
He had known that the wizard, dead or alive, would not be there, but he was still disappointed to find the room empty of papers or books. He opened drawers and looked over the shelves—but a quick glance at the fireplace, filled with fine ash, warned him that this would be useless. After a moment the throbbing in his head caught up to him and he collapsed onto the bed.
He wasn't sure how much later it was when he heard footsteps outside. He looked up vacantly and saw Joti in the doorway. The orc's face betrayed nothing from before, and it suddenly occurred to Wit that Joti might try to kill him again. Wa'llach, Wit realized, would never have left the balcony with the orc still breathing—and while Wa'llach was awful most ways, he was also still alive.
But Joti's face was devoid of anger as well as anything else. He looked at Wit briefly. "How did the dwarves out here die?"
Wit blinked. "They weren't stabbed or something?"
Joti shook his head.
Wit sighed and got up. He knew, but he walked into the hall anyway. One of the dwarves was not in armor, but Wit paused as he looked at the sword in his hands: it was of an extremely high quality steel-mithril alloy. Then Wit noticed his boots: they bore the mark of a dragar craftsman from the capital.
The other was a soldier in armor, grim, old, and experienced. Wit turned the body over looking for an insignia: eventually, he saw a battered colonel's badge clipped carelessly on his cloak.
Neither of them had serious visible wounds or injuries. The unarmored one had a trickle of blood coming from one of his ears, while a small stream of blood came out of the soldier's eye.
"They were killed by the Warp." Joti said.
"What? Magic? The Gift? Yes."
"How?"
"There's a couple of ways," said Wit. "They don't teach them, but there's ways. The way I moved your arm on the balcony: I could move your heart like that,
and make it stop beating. That's difficult, though, you have to be very fine to get straight into someone's organs. It's easier to find something in the mind and sever the connection between mind and body, or just break the mind outright."
Wit walked back into the wizard's room and sat at the empty desk. He drummed his fingers on it. Joti followed him. "I've never done that: killed someone outright with the Gift, and I couldn't and wouldn't. The power of the Order comes from Controversy and Contracts, not from wizards. I created a Controversy once, to kill someone, but I had reasons. And I couldn't have done it without the Controversy."
"Then how did you stop me on the balcony?"
"There would have been a Controversy if I hadn't," Wit smiled. "The Gift…does what it can to protect the Gifted. We can use it in limited ways outside of the Order, and are most powerful when we are threatened."
"Was the wizard here threatened? Or did he create one of your Controversies?"
"Neither, most likely. He had studied a method of killing with the Gift, and used it."
"Why did he use it on the dwarves?"
"Because the orcs were…coming to rescue him?" Wit made a face. "How long did all this take?"
"They left a day ago, and were at this place for thirty hours or so at most," said Joti.
"Most of which they spent fighting?"
"Yes."
"I wonder when they killed the miners…I've never done anything like that, either: Bound anyone to be sent to their deaths, or Bound them to people that I had any reason to think would simply kill them. And the Bound don't get beaten. They don't have masters. They don't need any of that, because that's the point: they simply do what they are told."
Joti looked at him disbelievingly. "Do they starve? Like those at the mine?"
Students of the Order Page 48
