Not only that, his grandmother was someone who Wa'llach seemed to like and admire, putting her in the company of…Wit stopped to think: in the months that he had traveled with Wa'llach, the dwarf had hardly ever shown respect for anyone, much less admiration. He was fairly sure that his grandmother, an innkeeper who had given him a free beer, and Misty Mountain Slim—a dwarf archer in the capital that he apparently liked to drink with—were the only people whose names he had never cursed.
Perhaps worst of all was the fact that his people appeared to be the only ones in the world amongst whom the most treacherous and disliked being in the Alliance felt at home.
"All the gods," said Wit out loud, "it's a mercy that the Order got me. What would I have turned into, growing up amongst a people that would welcome him?"
He put down Vechtin's papers. What indeed? Dangerous and dishonest as he was, the months traveling with Wa'llach had actually been comfortable and pleasant, and except for his fellow Adepts, he could not think of any member of the Order with whom he would have rather spent the time.
Had he not gone and betrayed the Order to a band of orcs, and if he had instead worked diligently at the work of wizardry, he would have become one of the names in the list that he had just put down—a cog in a nearly all-powerful machine, yet defined by the institution, and trapped in paper.
He thought about the woman Wa'llach had described: rather than letting her Gift be defined by Principles, she had used it to sail the great sea. Wit had spent his life terrified of old wizards; this woman feared neither the vast expanse of the ocean nor the great beasts that lived within it.
He poured himself another glass of LinLaugh's wine. It was nowhere near as bad as Vechtin had led him to believe; he had happily drank worse at most of the inns they had stayed in, and when he was an impoverished Adept.
"While that foul dwarf might have found a taste for it," Wit said to the empty room, "I don't like the idea of having nothing better to drink than fermented kelp. I suppose if I had lived all my life on a boat, I wouldn't know wine to miss it—but I do, and now there's nothing to be done.
"No, Wit, you are who you are—and you're much more the creature They made you into than anything to do with what a drunk dwarf has to say about mad sea people. And you were serving Their interests, and following Their teachings, as best you could, when you got into all this trouble, and you'd do it again: the Order serves the people of Isadoro, and the people need the wall up and Vechtin, LinLaugh, and who knows who else out of the way and exposed. Still, you might as well live through this mess, if you can— and the Gift will either get you through it, or it won't."
Somehow he knew that once, long ago, similar words has appeared in his grandmother's mind, as her small hand clutched a tiller, under cracking sails and a raging storm.
He cast about with the Power for information, tentatively looking for a way out of his cell. He found what he had expected: Vechtin was keeping a close eye on him, and if he tried to do anything extensive with the Gift, Vechtin would know.
In the distance, Wit could make out the odd minds of the Gifted orcs amongst the No-Clan, deliberately approaching the castle. He instantly tried not to think of them, worried about giving Vechtin a clue to their presence.
He quickly erected a crude barrier around his own thoughts, constructed mostly of obscene recollections of his time with the princess, so that if Vechtin were to try to read his mind in any detail, he would assume that Wit was daydreaming about sex: it was not especially dignified, but it was credible, and allowed him to consider his situation with some degree of safety.
Had Wit not met them before, he would never have been able to identify the orc minds for what they were—and indeed, he was still not entirely sure that his sense that Gogg, Shain, and Joti were approaching was anything more than his hope that they were. Yet Vechtin had talked about collaborating with the orcs, and from talking to Joti he knew that some of Vechtin's orc friends had the Gift—so there was a strong chance that Vechtin had also encountered Gifted orcs, and would be able to recognize the ones that were approaching.
It was difficult for Wit to make out the orc minds, and so it was probably safe to assume that it was not easy for Vechtin. Additionally, Vechtin was spending a fair amount of his energy watching Wit.
He stole a quick glance at Vechtin's mind, but quickly pulled away, concerned about drawing the older wizard's attention. However, from his brief look he did not get the impression that he was very concerned about anything. It seemed much more likely than not that, for the moment at least, Vechtin did not know about the No-Clan. And if watching Wit were to take more of Vechtin's energy, it might stay that way for longer.
Still under his memory shield, Wit began to dig more deliberately at the minds in his immediate vicinity. There was a guard stationed at the end of the hall where he was kept, and Wit focused on his mind. After a little while he had what he wanted, walked over to the door, and began to yell.
The mind, radiating annoyance, approached Wit's room. The guard opened the door and stepped in. "What do you want?"
"A new candle," said Wit. "The one I have won't stay lit."
The guard nodded grudgingly, and turned to leave.
"Oh and by the way, your wife, Anesia," Wit added, "she's not sleeping with your friend Dain—she's cheating on you with your brother."
The guard gave a visible start and turned back towards Wit, who hit him over the head with the wine bottle.
The guard was disoriented but not knocked out. Wit hit him on the jaw with enough force to badly hurt his hand and the guard reeled away. Wit cast about the room in desperation for another weapon, finally grabbing the candle holder, which he brought down on the guard's head two more times, until the guard stopped moving.
He considered leaving the guard a note, explaining that he was lying about his brother, but Vechtin could already see that he was trying to escape, and time was of the essence. He took the guard's keys, dagger, and truncheon. As he was leaving, he went back to the guard and took a gold coin from his pocket.
There was no point in subtlety any more, and he now studied Vechtin's mind as hard and openly as he could. There was little to be learned, since as soon as Wit started to escape, Vechtin had thrown up barriers to keep his thoughts secret. But Wit could tell that Vechtin was in the lower part of the castle, so when he encountered stairs at the end of the hallway, he went up.
He knew that he had no chance of winning a wizard's duel against Vechtin. But if he could take as long as possible to lose, that would give the No-Clan a chance to storm the castle. The first step would be to stay as physically far away from Vechtin as he could, for as long as he could manage.
As he walked, Wit worked on the truncheon with the dagger, digging a hole into the top of the guard's club. He could sense Vechtin moving in the castle below him.
He searched around him with magic, looking for anything that could give him an advantage. He clutched the Gift desperately, and went where it led him.
Wit climbed two flights of stairs and then turned off into a hallway. He kicked down the second door on his right and found himself in a small room with a fireplace and a female dragar.
She got up in shock and Wit hit her several times with the truncheon until she fell over. She was still conscious, and moved slowly, but Wit stopped paying attention to her and turned to the fireplace. Two salamanders were sitting contently in the flame; Wit seized a pair of tongs, grabbed one of them, and placed it on a table.
He took the guard's gold coin out of his pocket and threw it on the table next to the salamander. The salamander looked at him sleepily. He could feel Vechtin moving in the castle below him, growing nearer. Wit drew his dagger, kicked the female dragar, and then pointed with the dagger to the salamander, then to the coin, and then to the dragar—at which point he mimed a stabbing motion.
Wide-eyed with terror, she slowly approached the salamander and whispered to it: it breathed a jet of flame onto the coin, and it melted. Using th
e blade of the dagger, Wit scooped the molten gold into the hollow that he had made in the top of the truncheon.
"Thank you very much," he said solemnly to the dragar and started to run out of the room. The molten gold started to spill out of the hollow in the truncheon, so he held it in place with his bare hand.
The pain was unbearable, so he went into his own mind and blocked the signals from his nerves to his brain. It was a dangerous trick that Adepts were taught and told never to use and Wit had not done it in nearly three years, when Haniel had suggested that it might be a good solution to their hangovers.
He moved without physical sensation, unable to feel the impact of his feet striking the ground, or the air moving on his face. He raced up the stairs, until a final doorway opened onto the roof of the castle.
A wall bordered the edge of the roof, with slots for archers to shoot out of. A high watchtower rose from the middle of the castle, and Wit made his way over to this. A light burned at the top of the tower. Dimly, he could hear cries of alarm sounding in the building beneath him.
Wit crouched against the watchtower when he reached it. Still immune to physical sensation, he pried the truncheon away from his hand, leaving two square inches of his skin scalded onto the top of the weapon. He slashed a piece of his tunic off with the dagger and bound his burned hand in it. Slowly, he brought his nerves back into his mind.
The pain was still unbearable and Wit screamed at the top of his lungs. Above him, in the guard tower, voices sounded, along with the clatter of weapons, and soon he could hear feet descending the stairs.
But the sensation of physical pain was soon dwarfed by a wild rush of the wizard's power as he gripped his improvised staff. He felt it tingling beneath his scalp, and when two guards came out of a door in the tower, their minds were as clear to Wit as words written on a page.
Vechtin was climbing the stairs that Wit had come up moments ago, and was nearly at the top. Wit stared at the guards and bent their will to his own. He nodded at them, and they both drew their swords and ran for the door into the castle.
The guards would buy him moments, or less. While the staff gave him a greater ability to focus his power than he had without it, it was still not much of an advantage in a fight with a wizard as powerful as Vechtin.
He could, he supposed, go up the tower that the guards had come from and delay the encounter a little bit longer. He shrugged. Those moments would probably not matter—he followed the guards back to the stairway.
Vechtin's face was dark with rage as he emerged from the stairway and strode onto the roof. Wit met Vechtin's gaze. And then they were not on the roof.
They were in a room that Wit did not recognize—Vechtin's study, he assumed, because Vechtin had brought them there. A sword with an intricate guard hung on the wall, and Vechtin snatched it up and used it to attack Wit.
Wit warded Vechtin's blows off as best he could, waiting for a moment to turn the situation to his advantage. He grabbed a pot of ink off a desk, threw it at Vechtin's face, and bolted for the door.
Reaching the door let him decide where they would go next, and Wit searched his memory desperately for somewhere where he had felt strong. He settled on the field where the princess had taught him how to fight. Vechtin followed him, holding the sword in one hand and the staff in another.
Wit had hoped that in the field he would at least have his old staff; his hand still held the guard's truncheon. Wit sighed—if he was better at it, he would have managed to bing the princess to the field where she could come to his aid. As it was, he faced Vechtin alone.
Wit rushed to attack. Vechtin warded him off with the staff, stabbed at him with the sword, and Wit was forced to twist away. Vechtin pressed and Wit stumbled. Vechtin caught him by the collar and dragged him away from the field.
Now they were in the hall of a castle, during a ball of some sort. Vechtin hurled Wit into a knight who was dancing with a lady. The man struck Wit. Guards descended and dragged him away and beat him. At some point, Vechtin picked him up and threw him through a stack of wine glasses on a table; Wit got up with shards of glass in his hand.
The beating continued—a procession of finely dressed nobles took turns slapping him in the face. When a child-prince leaned in to poke Wit with a long fork, he managed to get up, strike the prince, and run desperately across the room. There were stained glass windows in front of him; behind him, Vechtin and the people of this dream-court followed him in an angry swirl. Wit jumped through the stained glass.
He took them to the only place he had left, the Adepts' quarters, the place where wizard's duels usually ended, since it was the one place where all wizards had been.
Bronzino and Mantyger were sitting with the dying Adept; no one else was around. Neither of them noticed Wit or Vechtin. Vechtin threw Wit so that he struck a table and went crashing into the ground with a pile of books. Vechtin stood over him and began to beat him with his staff.
33
Haniel woke up the next morning to a concussive rattling coming from the kitchen. A dagger that Gondorf had been wearing the night before was the nearest weapon, so she had it in her hand as she went to investigate.
Gondorf was standing shirtless over a covered pot on the stove, apparently the source of the noise. Several dried corncobs were scattered on the counter. The pot stopped making noise; Gondorf uncovered it and poured in some salt and oil. He extended the pot of popped kernels to Haniel, still standing naked in the doorway holding the dagger.
"My own recipe," he said with a smile.
She laughed. "Give me a moment." She went back to the sitting room to dress.
She looked at the dagger for the first time as she put it down: a curved metal handle wrapped in leather, a wide, curved, one-edged blade, a ring for the forefinger, and on the blade, a finely etched coat of arms: two crossed arrows, a sheaf of grain, and a target. On the pommel was a "G" where on Chattiel's there had been a "W."
Haniel's stomach churned, and her skin was quickly covered with a thin layer of sweat. She collapsed onto a couch and the room swam in and out of focus. Then she wiped her brow and began to methodically put on her clothes.
Gondorf came into the room with his popcorn, looking at her questioningly.
"Hangover," she told him, "and I'm late for work. You got somewhere to stay?"
He shook his head.
"Come around Tundel's tonight, I'll look for you."
They kissed.
"What was your brother's name?" she asked.
"Willam," said Gondorf. "Why?"
"No reason."
She arrived at the tower three hours late with several visible love bites, and smelling strongly of rum. Fortunately, the only person who wanted her was Mantyger, who had learned that morning that the Puppet children had ended up in Chattiel's blood fight, ostensibly due to a clerical oversight.
"All the gods, Hanny, I'm so sorry."
Haniel shrugged. "Scribes, right?"
"That's not the worst of it. Cardozo took sick last night, so Crane left for Youngkent this morning. He stopped to see me before he went."
"Wit's in Youngkent."
"Crane gave me several ledgers and journals, all implicating him in the Puppet ring. He asked me to keep them safe for him until he brought Wit back."
"And if Crane gets in trouble with the Council, Wit won't come back."
Mantyger nodded gloomily.
"Did you go to the fight?" Haniel asked.
"No. I hear that everyone is pleased, the Order made quite a bit of money. No one else seems to care about the loss of my Puppets."
"It was jolly, in its way," Haniel said with a forced smile. "You should come to the next one."
"What's on your mind Hanny?" said Mantyger, suddenly urgent.
Lying to a wizard as powerful as Mantyger was a tricky business, but Haniel knew her friend very well and did it anyway. "Nothing," she said.
Bronzino recommended a cheap boarding house for Gondorf, and she helped him settle in, wit
h a large jug of wine and a night of lovemaking. She did not see Chattiel until a few days later when Phiblus dropped him off at the quarters in the carriage. She complimented them on the success of the blood fight, and learned that another one was scheduled in three days' time.
"Have you ever thought about doing Two-Hundred-One shows?" she asked.
"Those are boring," Chattiel said.
"It's more that you need a star to sell them, I would think," said Phiblus.
"Ah, I've been sleeping with a fellow who went 74 hours against Misty Mountain Slim."
Phiblus was skeptical, and Chattiel outright accused her of having been duped; she smiled and suggested that someone ask Misty Mountain.
They were back the next day to talk to her. "The fellow of yours, is it really Gondorf of Youngkent?"
Haniel nodded and Phiblus whistled. "Do you think he would shoot for us?"
"He might."
"I'd like to show a rematch with Slim," said Chattiel.
"Slim won't go for it," said Phiblus. "Not yet, at least. But there was a captain of the guards who Gondorf beat before the match with Misty Mountain who is desperate for another shot at him. If you can get Gondorf to agree, we'd put them on after the blood fight."
"I'll ask him," said Haniel. "Say, Chattiel, I was talking with one of the girls at the gym where I practice: she was at the fight, and you made an impression on her. She kept asking me about the gray-haired wizard."
"Really?"
"Oh yes." Haniel described a shapely blonde woman, and made up appealing answers to the questions that Chattiel asked about her. "You know," Haniel said, "if you wore that ranger dagger, I bet she'd think it was pretty neat: she's a fighter, interested in weapons."
"I have an even better one, out of mithril, that Vechtin had a dwarven master make for me."
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