The Splintered Eye (The War of Memory Cycle) (11 page)

“
So you’ll lead a wagon.  Bring the wolf in only when we’ve stopped for the night.  It’s obedient?”

Cob opened his mouth to say,
No, it’s a smartass
, then nodded.

“
Then it’s your job to keep it at a distance, and not our fault if it gets trampled.  You ever work with hogs?”

“
No.”

“
They’re lazy.  They start lagging back, you switch ‘em until they start moving again.  They stray, you guide ‘em to the road.  You stay back behind their eyes—“  He patted the hog’s cheek by its heavy, bony brow-ridge.  “—or give ‘em a wide berth when you move into sight, else you’ll startle them.  It’s not pretty when they attack.  Got it?”

“
Yeah.”

“
All right.  Go back to the fifth wagon and tell Rickent that I said you’re taking over.”

Cob nodded again and stepped back from man and beast, the wolf sticking to his shadow.  As he looked down the line of wagons he spotted Sister Talla already heading toward the river and the ruins, and called “Hoi!” before he could think twice.

She paused at the edge of the ice and looked back, eyes dispassionate beneath the edge of her knit hat.

Cob took a few steps down the frosted riverbank toward her, uncertain.  They had barely interacted since the ritual, and he got the feeling she blamed him for what had happened—as he blamed himself.  But he had been the target, not the instigator, and though he didn't expect warmth from her, they could at least part amicably.

“Uh,” he said, “thanks, ma’am.  Sister.  For helpin’ me out.  And give my best wishes to the Mother Matriarch.  Hope she feels better soon.”

The Forge Sister’s eyes narrowed.  “I will convey your regards.”

Then she turned and started across the ice.  Cob stared after her, unable to pinpoint where he had stuck his foot in his mouth but sure it must have happened.  There was no other reason for her to be that brusque.

“
Pikin’...  Farewell t'you too,” he muttered finally, and stalked up to the road where the caravan had resumed its plodding advance.  He took care to circle widely around the hogs and approach the handler of the fifth from behind, to the man’s approving nod.

After a few words of advice, the handler passed Cob the switch and clambered up onto the wagon’s bench, then disappeared through the wagon's door-flaps.  Cob fell into step with the hog—not difficult, hardly more than a stroll—and watched Arik pace him from beside the river.  The big wolf cast a sad look up the embankment, but there was nothing to be done; Cob was sure that if the hog got angry, not even a ring in its nose or a wagon harnessed to its back would stop it from charging and crushing its target.  He set a hand on the hog’s head rather than gripping the chain, since that seemed less cruel.

Immediately the beast’s great head swung toward him, one tiny black eye fixing on him from inside the curve of its armored socket.  Cob stopped in his tracks, horrified; that was just what the caravan leader had warned him about.

But the beast did not seem startled or angry.  It stopped when he did, its tattered ears lifting from their sag, and snuffled at him through its beringed nose.  Despite its great fatty bulk and the plates that armored its cheeks and brow, there was a vulnerability about it, almost beseeching.  It was like being stared at by a needy puppy.

From the wagon behind, someone shouted a question.  Handler Rickent poked his head out through the door-flap and promptly gaped.

This is not happening
, Cob thought.  He took one step and the hog copied him.  Then another, then another, and in moments they were strolling at hog-pace again, except the beast’s head was still inclined toward him, its eye still on him.  Nerves strung tight, he decided to do something stupid and put a hand on its hairy cheek, trying to push its gaze forward again.

It sideswiped him gently and rubbed its massive jaw against his side.  Even its delicacy was enough to make him stagger.

“All right, stop it,” he said through his teeth.  Handler Rickent still stared at him from the bench seat, so he feigned a smile and nodded to the man, who nodded back cautiously.  Looking forward, he tried again to push the hog’s head straight—this time with his shoulder—but its whole body swung sideways with the effort to rub against him.  His boots skidded in the slush as it nearly nudged him off the embankment.

“
Pikin’—“  Throwing subtlety to the wind, he slung an arm over its head and dug his fingers into the soft place between its plates and the back of its opposite ear.  Not to pull, not to jab, but to scratch, remembering how well that had pacified the wolf and all the goats he had ever tried to lead without fighting.

The draft-hog groaned and immediately leaned into his fingers, lifting him off the ground as it corrected its course.  He clung on and heard the cart-wheels judder then fall silent, running smoothly again; behind him, Handler Rickent whispered something that might have been a prayer.

“There, all right, good enough?” Cob muttered.  The draft-hog made a throaty gurgling sound and tipped its head lightly, letting him put his feet back on the ground.  He let go of its plates, his ribs aching from the gentle hits, but transferred his scratching to the nearer ear, and it seemed content with that despite the many old switch-welts he felt there.

He glanced down the embankment to see Arik paralleling him, jaws wide and tongue hanging in a weird wolfy laugh, and scowled.  He could not sense the Guardian inside but knew it must be laughing too.

Pike you all.  I hate this plan already
, he thought. 
So it had better work.

*****

In the Gold Army compound in Cantorin, at the gate of the mages’ watchtower, the woman tucked away the pouch of coins and pulled her cloak close about her, its flower-trimmed fabric hiding the plain red of her tunic.

Within the windowless chamber at the top of the tower, the mages watched through a scrying frame as she strode down the street toward the western ruins.

“What do you think, sir?” said a journeyman scryer, one of the three currently assigned to this post under Master Scryer Arloth.  They were all scryer-primary and mentalist-secondary, the standard training scheme for Weave operators despite the Weave’s reliance on mentalism; mentalist-primaries had more important duties elsewhere.  These days, with the shortage of young mages, journeyman scryers were rotated through the system so often that Arloth could not be bothered to remember their names.

Arloth shook his head and considered the notes he had scribbled from the woman’s claims. 
Spirit-possessed, highly dangerous, headed south on the Rhiesten Road with a caravan.
  A brief description of the subject and his companion, a skinchanger.

“
She has passed us good information before.  No reason to doubt it this time.  You, girl,” he said, waving the page at the one female scryer, “take this and look through the Weave.  See if anyone else is seeking him.”

The journeywoman blushed angrily at the address.  “Yes sir,” she said, and snatched the page, then stalked over to the Weave-knots and sat down huffily in a chair.

Master Scryer Arloth snorted.  He hated having women at his post; they were so temperamental.  “And you two at the beacon stations,” he told his male scryers.  “See if you can find this caravan.”

“
Yes sir,” they said, and moved to their appointed positions.

Master Scryer Arloth settled into his overwatch seat and surveyed his domain absently.  The perfectly circular scrying chamber filled the top level of the watchtower, with only a round hatch-door set in the floor providing access downstairs.  An iron ring surrounded the hatch, set deep in the plaster floor to absorb energies from below so that they would not disturb the delicate workings of the Weave.

Along half of the rune-inscribed wall stood the tall honeycomb shelves that held the beacon markers: glass-headed pins that served as connectors to the scrying beacons within this watchtower’s range.  They were marked with numerical labels, their physical locations gathered in thick logbooks that hung from the sides of the shelves on warded chains.  Inset between areas of shelving were the beacon stations, equipped with chair and desk and multiple scrying frames for surveillance of multiple points.

A portal-frame stood beside the northernmost shelf, deactivated and enclosed in a triple iron circle.  Beyond that, extending across the rest of the wall until just short of the overwatch seat, were the Weave-knots.  They hovered inactive above silver-etched stone poles, their slow somnolent coruscations casting a readable radiance throughout the room.  Each was a different shade corresponding to its zone: pink for the Crimson Army, gold for the Gold, pale blue for the Sapphire, white for the Imperial Palace, pale orange for Akarridi, dim grey for the Citadel at Valent.  A seventh, seafoam green, stood for the White Isle.

The female scryer placed her hand on the Gold knot and it activated, its light deepening.  Coils of essence enwrapped her hand and flowed along her arm, and Arloth watched as she closed her eyes and braced herself for the Weave’s intrusion.  Threads of energy spun out to either side to touch the Crimson and Sapphire knots, which activated in turn.

The Weave-knots served as localized connections to the Psycher Weaves of the various Armies and Imperial centers.  Each was linked to the prime knot in the headquarters of its area, controlled by one of the seven Weavekeepers.  For the golden knot, its headquarters was the Hawk’s Pride in Thynbell, Wyndon; for the Crimson, it was the Crimson General’s camp in southern Illane.  The Crimson knot glowed more weakly than others, the flow of its lambent material less regular; it was the newest and the least-tended.  On some days, it would not activate at all.

Today, its ruby glow showed it at full strength, which relieved the Master Scryer.  The informant had indicated that the spirit-possessed subject came from the west, possibly as far as the Heretic Lands, so finding a record on him from the Crimson Weave was most likely.

As his aides worked, the Master Scryer let his attention drift to the chamber floor.  It was covered in an elaborate inlaid map of the Golden Wing Army's territory, from the Rift in the west to the Riddish-Trivestean border in the east, and from the Wrecking Shore north to Daecia itself.  The protectorate of Wyndon and the provinces of Darronwy and Amandon lay fully within its jurisdiction, as well as large expanses of empty or wraith-claimed forest, the mountain range of the Khaeleokiels that included the renegades of Corvia, and the blank grey tiles along the southeastern end that marked the disappeared land of Haaraka.  He let his gaze trail along the blue etching of the Rhiesten River where it curved south of Cantorin, toward the sea.

“Sir, I’ve found something,” said the journeywoman.

“
Swiftly done,” the Master Scryer conceded reluctantly, and stepped down from the overwatch chair to place his hands on the woman’s head.  She was already prepared; their minds connected effortlessly, and the Master Scryer closed his eyes so that he could better examine the information spooling between them.

Two golden threads arched in his mind’s eye, and he ran the first through his psychic fingers.  It hummed with excitement as it transmitted images, sensations, impressions: a young man strapped to a table, unconscious but bearing a close resemblance to the fugitive that the informant had described, and being subjected to various tests both superficial and invasive.  Through the thread, the Master Scryer heard only snippets of conversation, and sometimes the sensations felt flat or illogical—the usual effect of parts being redacted before the report was given to the Weave.

Connected to that thread was the other, and the Master Scryer switched to it, then winced as the red-hot anger of it drove into his brain.  His pulse pounded in his throat as he half-watched, half-experienced a battle from several angles, several perspectives spliced together into a single report.  Through them, he had a panoramic view of a caravan ambush complete with marauding Corvish, but also with the young man—now conscious and surrounded by a thorny dark aura—slipping free of containment and escaping into the woods.

That report also had its blank blots, but the Master Scryer did not ponder them.  He was used to the armies’ secrecy.  Breaking the connection with the journeywoman, he stepped back and shook his head vigorously, heart still surging.

“Nothing from the Crimson or the Sapphire?” he said.

“
Nothing yet, sir.”

“
Well, keep looking.  I will contact the Hawk’s Pride.”

The Master Scryer moved to the last beacon station, which doubled as the external-contact station.  Only one scrying frame stood there, but it was bonded at its bottom to a shallow, runed basin inset in the lacquered desktop, and the drawers below were full of stones and metal rings and other contact-foci.  He selected a thick gilded ring from the top drawer and placed it in the basin, then picked up the water-pitcher and submerged the ring.

Immediately, the empty frame filled with pale nothingness.  The Master Scryer sighed and steepled his fingers, wondering how long he would have to wait.

As a mentalist, his sense of time was impeccable.  He did not need to see the sky to know that it was nearing noon, nor did he require a marked candle.  And so he was all too aware as a quarter-mark passed with no stir in the scrying frame, nor any sound in the chamber but for the journeymen’s quiet interchanging of pins.