Alta (22 page)

To his relief, she shook her head. “They haven’t got that sort of power,” she said firmly. “I’d
know.
I think that’s one reason why they need us. And when he wants to be, Father is very good at lying.”

For her sake, he hoped so.

He stayed with her as long as he could without interfering with his own duties, and when he left, she was more of her old animated self, determined to make the best of her “ordeal” by learning all she could about dragons and the things that could hurt them or make them sick. She had admitted to him that at this point, there really wasn’t anything that any of the senior Winged Ones could teach her about the Gifts that the gods had given her; she had been told in confidence that she was not only the strongest Animal Speaker there was, but was likely to be the most accurate Far-Seeing Eye of her generation, and that what she needed more than anything was practice.

“I can practice here as well as anywhere else,” she said after a while. “Maybe better. I can always help those who Heal animals by finding out what the animals are feeling.”

He had encouraged her to follow that path; the more she had to occupy her mind, the less lonely she would be. Aket-ten didn’t have the same knack for making friends that Orest did, but she was always willing and eager to help, and he didn’t think it would be very long before the Healers were protecting her for her own self and not as a favor to her father.

But there were a great many uncomfortable thoughts that occurred to him as he trudged through the rain, going back across the bridge to the Jousters’ Compound on the Third Ring.

If, as he thought, the Magi were burning out the Fledglings’ Gifts with their ruthless exploitation of their powers, that explained in part why they were so interested in getting Aket-ten back into their hands. First, she probably represented a great deal of raw strength for their spells. Second, and this might be the most important of the two reasons, they had every reason to
want
to burn her out.

He had, perforce, been learning more about the political structure of Alta lately. It would have been difficult not to, with a prince and the most likely successor to the current Great Ones as one of his trainees. Things just came out in conversation, and the one thing that had struck him more than anything else was that the Magi had become very, very powerful in this land. All but one of the advisory positions that had once been held by Priests were now held by Magi.

It seemed likely to him that the last thing they wanted was for someone who had been Gifted with reliable visions of the future to become a full Winged One—for that someone would be able to advise the Great Ones with no consideration for anything other than what he—or she—Saw. That would take a fair chunk of power out of their hands, and leave them vulnerable to contradiction in Council whenever there were things they wanted done, actions they wanted taken, that might be contrary to what was really best for Alta. Nor was it particularly in their interest to have someone who could See what was going on in Tia and on the border reporting directly to the Great Ones—not when the Magi wanted reports of how their spells were decimating the enemy where it hurt him most, whether or not those reports were true. The very last thing they wanted was someone who could say, definitively, that what the Magi were doing was mostly affecting the lot of poor farmers who had very little to do with the war.

No, that was not something that would make them very happy. He wished that he had someone he could confide in and ask advice of. . . .

Frankly, he wished that Ari was around.

But that’s not possible,
he reminded himself.
It’s time to start thinking on your own.

Well, there was one thing that he could do. He could start educating himself thoroughly on the intricate details of how things were run in Alta—how much power the Magi had, say, and how much the Great Ones were likely to let them get away with.

And he had just the person to help him with that—

Prince Toreth.

Provided, of course, he could do so without betraying his feelings on the subject. But then again, he had a lot of practice in hiding his feelings. With luck, all that practice would stand him in good stead now.

On the other hand, Toreth has never shown any sign of being fond of the Magi,
he reminded himself.
I wonder if it’s possible that I’ll find an ally there?

 

“The Magi—” Kiron began, in as casual a tone as he could manage.

Toreth was in the middle of turning his egg; Kiron was in the pen with him on the pretense of overseeing him.

“Just what are they, anyway?” he continued, as Toreth finished the quarter turn. “Besides the people who created the Eye, I mean?”

Toreth settled his egg back into the sand, covered all but the very top with hot sand, and gave him an opaque look. “Why are you so curious about the Magi?”

“Because they don’t exist in Tia, and that’s where I lived most of my life,” Kiron replied, trying to look as innocent as possible. “All of the magicians there are in the priesthoods of several temples. Then I come here, and there the Magi are, in their fortress right next to the Great Ones’ Palace, and—” he shrugged. “And there’s the Eye, of course.”

“Oh, yes. The Eye.” The sour tone of Toreth’s voice made Kiron blink. “The Eye—which, as we are told, is our protection. As the Magi have shown us so carefully, it can strike anywhere outside the First Canal, so we need never fear invasion.”

“I must admit, that bothers me,” Kiron replied, feeling his way very slowly. “Isn’t the point to stop invaders at the Seventh Canal? What’s the point of letting everyone know that it can do the same damage closer in?”

Toreth looked at a point over Kiron’s shoulder. Kiron knew what was there—the Central Island. And even if Toreth couldn’t see the Palace and the Tower of Wisdom peeking over the walls because the awnings had been drawn against the rain, they both knew what was there.

“Oh, yes,” Toreth breathed softly. “And my cousins are so dependent on the Magi and their wise counsel—the counsel that has caused us to lose more land to Tia every year. The counsel that tells us to close our doors to outside trade because trade brings change, and the Magi want things in Alta City to remain the same. The Magi, who demand so much, and give so little in return. . . .”

“But the Eye,” Kiron ventured.

Toreth laughed harshly. “They have never used it to defend the city. They have never succeeded in creating a second one. They claim the old one can’t be moved. And yet—” his voice dropped to a growl, “—and yet half the city’s taxes goes into the coffers of the Magi.”

That was a shock. Kiron stared at him, not quite believing what he had just heard. “Surely not—”

“Surely,” Toreth contradicted him. “And whenever someone sues for peace, or an adviser suggests that it might be time for the Magi to have a little less of city’s revenue, the Magi are in the Great Ones’ ears, whispering, reminding them of past wrongs, persuading them of future glory, egging them into a patriotic fever. Oh, yes. I have been there and heard it for myself.”

“But they do work for the good of Alta—” Kiron ventured.

Toreth stood straight up and looked directly into Kiron’s eyes. “Do they? I have seen no evidence of that. These storms they send down into Tia—are they actually weakening the Tian forces? Or are they merely making people miserable and increasing their determination to crush us? Others have suggested that it would be more effective for the Magi to accompany our army—never have I seen a single Magus in the ranks. Oh, the Magi
do
strive most vigorously—for the good of the Magi. And of late, I have heard uncomfortable tales of visits to the Temple of the Twins.” He lifted an eyebrow. “But perhaps
you
know more about that than I?”

“Come to Avatre’s pen,” Kiron said, making up his mind on the instant. “I would like to discuss some things with you.”

Toreth smiled. “I rather hoped you would.”

KIRON
moved the brazier closer to their corner; he did not light a lamp, however. “The Great Ones do not rule in Alta,” said Toreth bluntly, when he and Kiron had settled into the corner of Kiron’s room off Avatre’s pen, a corner where it would not be apparent that the room was even occupied. “The Magi do.”

They had each taken a cushion and had settled with their backs to the wall. Rain drummed on the roof, and far-off thunder rumbled; inside, Toreth had dropped easily into the scribe’s erect, kneeling posture, while Kiron crossed his legs under him and put his back against the wall, the better to look the prince in the face. There wasn’t much light coming from the door and the ceiling-height air slits, but it would have to do. While this statement did not come as a complete surprise to Kiron, the knowledge had a bitter edge to it. “I think I had begun to see the shape of this,” he admitted. “Nevertheless, it is ill hearing. How long, do you think?”

Toreth grimaced, and shrugged. “It is hard to say when; rot never sets in all at once. The tree in your garden looks a bit seedy, but you think, ‘oh, it is just this or that,’ and it does not really concern you until the storm comes and it smashes the roof of your house, and you see that it was all hollow inside, eaten away. It probably began before my great-grandfather was born. I will tell you something that you, who are new-come to Alta, did not know. The Great Ones that currently sit in the Twin Thrones are well over seventy Floods in age.”

“That old?” Kiron exclaimed, shocked. In his village, the oldest person was no more than fifty when he died. Most were fortunate to attain forty. Wedded at fourteen or fifteen, they would certainly see the first of their grandchildren born, and what more did anyone need?

Toreth nodded. “And the Great Ones before them were near eighty when they died. And the ones before
them
were ninety.”

“But—” Kiron’s brow wrinkled as he tried to recall dim memories of adults talking about other adults—marking the generations—saying, “and Old Man so-and-so must have been—” “The oldest man
I
ever heard of was no more than sixty, and—”

The prince leaned forward intently. “And what would you say if you were a ruler, and a Magus came to you and said, ‘I can make you live to see your great-great-grandchildren.’ What would you grant a man who could offer you that? A position as adviser? A council seat? The post of Vizier? Positions for his friends? And if these people were the same who created a weapon that absolutely meant that this city could
never
be taken by enemies? What would you give him then? If all he wanted was to take some of the burden of rule from you, and leave you to deal with only the pleasant aspects of the Twin Thrones?”

Kiron blinked. “Is that the way of it, then?” he asked softly, feeling dread steal over him.

Toreth pinched the bridge of his nose as if his head pained him. “I have no proof,” he admitted. “I have not even a rumor. But at some point three hundred years ago, the Magi began to live to see eighty, ninety, or even a hundred Floods. And about a generation later, the Great Ones of Alta did the same. Kaleth has searched the records, and from the time that the Great Ones began to see such long years, the Magi have had greater and greater say in things, until now—” He shrugged. “What does any man want, if you ask him and he answers without thought? Wealth, power, and a long life. The Great Ones have always had the first two. Now, for the last three reigns, they have the second. And all they had to give up,” his voice turned mocking, “was a little
responsibility.”

Kiron tried to reckon up the years in his head. “Toreth—does it seem to you that the war between Alta and Tia began about that time?”

Toreth’s eyes narrowed. “As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, “It does. There is a thought in your head. What is it?”

“The Magi can take heat from one place where it is not wanted, and put it in the sands of our pens,” he said, feeling his way to the heart of the thought. “But where does one get extra years of life? Except that in war. . . .”

Toreth rocked back on his heels, eyes wide. “I like that thought not at all!” he said, and though it was a whisper, the shock in his tone made it as “loud” as a shout.

“No more do I,” Kiron replied grimly. “But it is one way to ‘profit’ from a war.”

“There are others,” Toreth said, after a long silence. “Yet were I to examine things closely, I doubt not that I should find the Magi’s hands outstretched there, too. They are wealthy men; wealthy enough to be above such things as mere noble blood. And when one has the ears of the Great Ones, there are many ways of obtaining more wealth. Theirs is shadow power, but the shadows can hold many things.”

Kiron thought silently of all the ways that one could profit from war. The making of weapons, certainly. The supply of tents, of food for the army, of horses, of other gear, from cooking pots to the linen for bandages. And he wondered; certainly the Great One of Tia was a man of no more than middle years, and there were no Magi as such in Tia. But had he not heard of a certain adviser, a little man, a crafty man, a man to whom the Great Onelistened more often than to others, who had remarkably served in the same capacity to
his
father, and his father’s father? How long before that adviser whispered in the Tian’s ear, and was heeded and believed—being, in fact, his own best evidence?