Mage's Blood (41 page)

Finally he drew back, wiped his eyes and whispered, ‘What should I do, Da?’ He stared at the amber gem, still clenched in his hand.

Vann Mercer looked at his pipe, which had gone out, and laid it on the mantelpiece. ‘You must do what you need to, Alaron; I’ve no special wisdom to share. I was just a soldier who fell in love with a mage; nothing in my life could have prepared me for that marriage, or raising a mage-child. I love you, but I have absolutely no idea how you should live your life. What I do think is that a great injustice has been perpetrated against you. I knew about Besko; Harft told me. But this theft, on top of everything – that stuns me, and that’s why I want to talk to Jeris Muhren about it. He’s a good man, whatever happened during your thesis presentation. Son, you’ve been cheated of your birthright, and I don’t have the power to overturn that, but I’ll fight it, any way I can. But in the meantime, your friend has given you a gift – and Alaron, whatever else happens, I’m prouder of you than you can begin to imagine for what you’ve done for that girl. And what kind of person spurns a gift from a friend? If you want to take up that gem, and if it means you need to run, you’ll always be my beloved son.’

That was too much. Alaron started crying again, and he cried for ever.

When he awoke in the middle of the night, lying beside the kitchen fire, he pulled out the gem and began to tune it. It felt curiously exciting to be an outlaw. When Cym returned a few days later, she squeezed his hand and promised to call again soon, and Alaron dared to dream once more.

*

Plane. Smooth. Rub. Cut. Sand
. He was bundled in layers of clothes and his hands were wrapped in wool mittens, but his breath billowed from his mouth, the cold biting deep. New Year had gone, barely marked in their silent household. The river was frozen solid, and the heavy clouds dropped fresh white drifts nightly. Winter’s grip might be unrelenting, but it was 928: the year of the Moontide, and that gave the passing days an extra shiver of excitement.

A kind of spring had come to the Mercer household. Alaron was running weapon-drills every day as dawn rose over the glittering frost. He had a new gem, hidden beneath his shirt, and a zest in his step; everyone noticed that energy was most apparent when the Rimoni gypsy girl called by, but it was none of their business, so the cook and stablehands took care not to be caught noticing.

Alaron had a new project. It didn’t matter suddenly that he had no wood-shaping, and only the most mediocre Air-gnosis. He was going to make a windskiff. It wasn’t an especially rational decision, but he had made up his mind, so every morning he went through the drills to limber up, then he dug out his father’s tools and started work.

While Alaron worked the wood, his father was off accumulating stock. Vann was determined to travel to Pontus and cross the Moontide Bridge, along with thousands of other traders who had decided to risk the war, in the hope of trade with the Hebb and Keshi. The Crusade did not preclude all commerce; there were fortunes to be made.

His mother was now ensconced in an apartment on Eastside, together with her books and a new cook. Anborn Manor was up for sale, and old Gretchen was going to stay and serve the new owners. Alaron had visited his mother on Eastside, though it was painful: she appeared to have no understanding of why she’d had to leave the manor – but she did remember him punching Besko, and she laughed about it every time he visited, until he began to feel that maybe it had been the right thing to do after all, regardless of the consequences.

He was hammering in a nail when he heard a voice he’d hoped
to never hear again. ‘Mercer,’ it drawled. ‘What are you doing?’

He put down his hammer before it began to feel like a weapon, very aware of the illegal periapt hanging out of sight about his neck as he faced the newcomer. ‘Koll.’

Gron Koll hadn’t changed much in the last few months. His face still looked like an acne farm, and his hair was just as oily. But his clothes were richer now. He stroked his fashionable sable robe as he sauntered into the snow-covered yard, sniffing faintly. ‘What a comedown, eh, from dreaming of the Crusade to bashing in nails? Too scared to step outside his house – just as well, though: there’s a bunch of lads just aching to see what a failed mage can do in a fight. Bugger all, apparently.’ He spat on the snow. ‘So, how are you filling your time, Mercer?’

‘Just pottering,’ Alaron replied, fighting to stay calm.

‘Not been tempted, Mercer? You know—’ He waggled his fingers. ‘Must hurt, to be barred for ever, after seven years’ training …’ He walked around Alaron, peering maliciously. ‘You’re a rukking waste of space, Mercer: you should just fall on your sword so you don’t waste air that real people could be breathing.’

Alaron clenched his fists, but stayed where he was.

‘I thought I’d just pop in, see how you were doing, before I go to watch the muster. That’s what real men are doing: mustering for the march – real men, not faggots like you, Mercer, you cock-sucking piece of degenerate merchant-trash.’

Something went red behind Alaron’s eyes and he took a step forward. Koll’s hand went to his periapt, his eyes lighting up—

Both of them jumped as another man entered the yard and called, ‘Hello?’

‘Rukk off and wait your turn,’ Koll said, smirking – and suddenly the young mage jerked as if pulled by puppet-strings and started convulsively smashing his head against the stable doors. Blood splattered as his lip split, over his beautiful clothes, before he slumped to the ground, dazed.

‘I’m sorry, Master Koll, I missed what you said,’ said Captain Muhren. ‘What was that again?’

Alaron smiled grimly as Gron Koll dragged himself to his feet, gasping, then staggered out of the yard. ‘I’m telling the governor about this,’ he mumbled through his swelling lips once he had reached the safety of the gateway, then he was gone. ‘I’m telling on you’ had been Koll’s mantra at college.

Alaron let out his breath slowly, then caught it again as Muhren turned back to him and asked drily, ‘A friend of yours?’

He shook his head, then stopped, terrified the captain would spot the periapt he was wearing.

‘So, young Mercer: how are you keeping?’

Alaron took a deep breath and tamped down a sudden surge of anger. ‘I’m well, sir, for a
failure
. Though maybe I might have passed if the proof of my thesis hadn’t been ridiculed so completely.’

Muhren sighed and pointed to a bench just inside the stable. ‘Mind if I sit?’

Alaron nodded, not trusting himself to speak, but his temper burst forth and he cried, ‘How
could
you, sir? I researched that thesis – I checked my facts, more than you did – and you
lied
, in front of everyone, and ruined my life—’

Muhren let out his breath slowly in an icy cloud. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, lad,’ he said calmly.

Alaron stared. ‘You’re
sorry
I
feel
that way? For
rukk’s
sake, you’re
sorry
?’

Muhren raised a hand, a pained expression on his face. ‘Hush, lad! Hush.’ He took another breath and said, ‘Yes, I’m sorry, but it was an impossible situation.’

‘An
impossible
situation
?
I can hardly have been the first student to present questionable evidence and speculation for the thesis,’ he started, then, ‘Hel,
rukking
Seth Korion had just spent an hour trying to defend Vult’s surrender at Lukhazan, in front of the governor himself, the goddamned crawler! Did you rip into him, tell everyone that his evidence was second-hand shit? You’re just as gutless as everyone else.’ He jabbed a finger. ‘My father welcomed you to his hearth, and you
destroyed
me.’

Muhren let out his breath heavily. ‘Alaron, listen, you left me no
choice. I couldn’t let you go on like that, not in front of that audience – as it was, I think I did enough, but—’

‘Did
enough
? You did more than enough: they
failed
me! They won’t even let me appeal—’

Muhren raised a hand. ‘Alaron, let me finish: yes, you are angry and you have every right, but just stop for a second, will you? Your father asked me here; he says you’ve been robbed. Can you tell me about that? Without ranting?’

Alaron stared at him.
I’m not sure I can
, he thought, then he took a deep breath. ‘Okay. Sure. When I got home that day, someone had been through my things. My thesis notes were gone. Nothing else.’

‘Why didn’t you report this?’

‘Who to?’ he said bitterly. ‘If it wasn’t Gron Koll and his mates, then it was the governor, or even you – so who the Hel could I report it to?’

Muhren said quietly, ‘Ah, I see. I have indeed let you down, and I am doubly sorry for that.’

‘According to you my thesis was a load of shit anyway,’ he muttered as a wave of self-pity washed over him. ‘So who would even care?

Muhren shook his head. ‘No, Alaron, that’s just the point. It wasn’t a load of shit; in truth, it was too plausible for comfort. I was convinced, and others were too. No one knew about Langstrit’s arrest in the old town except Vult himself, probably, and maybe two or three others who are still alive. I just wish you could have been a little less accurate, or come to the wrong conclusion. But you said right out loud what a few people with very powerful connections have been whispering for more than a decade, and that’s why I was trying to talk you down. I think you may well be right: the Scytale of Corineus really is lost, here in Norostein.’

His words hung in the air and Alaron felt his skin go slick. He bowed his head and tried to breath.

‘Do you know what that piece of knowledge is worth?’ Muhren asked, then shook his head, answering his own question. ‘No, and neither do I. It’s priceless. If Argundy had the Scytale Pallas would fall. If the Rimoni got it – by Kore, if the Dhassans or the Keshi got
it we’d be fighting the heathen right here in Yuros, and we’d be losing. There isn’t enough gold in the whole empire to buy that Scytale. The power to make Ascendants is the Imperial Throne’s greatest treasure, given only to their most trusted servants because they can’t risk making just anyone an Ascendant. And now you’ve voiced what only a few have dared whisper: that the Scytale’s lost … The emperor himself must be trembling every waking minute as he awaits news of some new Ascendant cabal come to destroy him. Can you imagine that?’

Alaron couldn’t. He whispered, ‘I just thought it was an interesting thesis topic … I thought I was being clever. I never really thought I might be right …’

They both fell silent for a minute, then Muhren questioned him about the theft: when had he noticed it, had he tried to work out who did it? He hadn’t. He’d been too broken to do anything that afternoon.

‘If you remember anything, if you think of anyone who might be connected, come to me,’ Muhren told him. He offered his hand, and Alaron slowly took it. Some part of him had begun to forgive the captain. ‘Good lad. You call me if you remember anything else. Or if Gron Koll comes back.’

After Muhren left Alaron just sat and watched the snow falling, wondering. He wished Ramon or Cym were here to talk to, but they were far away, and he was alone.

Vann Mercer drove and Alaron bounced around painfully in the back of the wagon. But Cym was sitting opposite him, and that was worth any amount of discomfort. They were on the road to Anborn Manor on a silver-sky day, their breath fogging in the still air.
We’re off to break a few laws
, Alaron reflected wonderingly as he stroked the hull of the skiff he and Cym had made.

Cym’s caravan had returned in mid-Febreux as spring woke the countryside, and now they were waiting on the unkempt lawn in front of the manor, under poor Gretchen’s worried gaze. She’d been alone here at the manor for some months, and she shared all the
common fears the citizenry had of gypsies. Six gaudy wagons ringed the lawns and their owners spread out across the grass. There were more children in one spot than Alaron had seen since college, clad in a rainbow of colours and swirling about like butterflies. Their clamour was deafening. The Rimoni men were clad in white shirts and black leggings; their hands rested on their knife-hilts. The women, wrapped in shawls, were scowling in suspicion. Cym’d warned them that the Rimoni didn’t like magi, but they were here to cut a deal.

Willing hands helped Vann to empty the back of the wagon and lower the hull onto the ground, then Alaron directed the men as they bolted the mast and rudder together, and dealt with hanging the sail and untangling and fixing the rigging while his father sat with the head of the gypsies, Mercellus di Regia, Cym’s father, a tall, lithe man with flowing hair and an impressive moustache – a man who had made love to some unknown mage-woman and come away with the child – obviously a man to be reckoned with. He and Vann sipped coffee together and laughed over the confusion playing out before them, like lords enjoying a comedy troupe.

Alaron had hoped it would all be a bit more serious, but he wouldn’t even have got this far if Cym hadn’t appeared in the yard the previous week and offered to help. She was better than him at whatever they did, in this instance, enchanting the keel of the skiff so that it would absorb and utilise air-thaumaturgy. He looked across at her where she sat perched among the gypsy women, ignoring the young men hovering about her, muscular-looking youths with long hair and faces that didn’t look capable of smiling. They all looked at Alaron with superior hostility.
But you lads can’t make things fly
, Alaron thought.
Of course, I’m not sure I can either yet
. There’d been no chance of any test flight in the city, so they’d had no chance to practise – but if it worked, Cym’s father would buy it for a lot of money.
So it had better work
, he thought.

At last the skiff was ready. It was just a small two-person craft, single-masted, with a deep keel and six retractable landing forks. The woodwork was a little rough, he had to concede, though Cym had helped, and she was a half-decent Nature-mage, which he certainly
wasn’t. She was a better Air-mage than him, too, but he knew the theory and had better training, which helped him feel like it was still mostly his project. Working alongside her had been wonderful; better yet was taking her hand and helping her board the skiff in front of all those glowering gypsy boys. All the children went ‘Oooo’ as they settled in readiness for the maiden flight.