Mage's Blood (78 page)

‘Master!’ Fyrell bowed.

‘Darius.’ He placed a hand on his shoulder, then reasserted his distance. ‘Brief me, my friend. What did Gron Koll have to say about this outrage?’

‘Little, my lord. He claimed to have drunk too much and slept through it all,’ Fyrell sneered.

‘Had he?’

Fyrell grimaced. ‘His memories had been altered, so we may never know what he really did. The overwritten mind is difficult to restore.’

Vult felt his eyes narrow. ‘Who did it?’

‘Someone skilled enough to remove their own traces. The trail is cold, I’m afraid.’

Vult harrumphed irritably.
Predictable, but annoying
. ‘Take me to the Residence. I must determine what has been taken.’

Alaron felt the scrying attempt in the timeless darkness of his cellar. It touched him faintly before the weight of stone obscured it. The art of the Clairvoyant was related to Air-gnosis, so Earth could thwart it; the simplest way for non-magi to escape the seeing eyes of a mage was to go underground. The Rimoni had not realised that in time to save themselves, but the Silacians in their mountain fortresses had learned quickly, and others had followed. If you cannot shield, you dig.

He’s back – Belonius Vult’s
here … Alaron felt a surge of fear, but quelled it. They had come so far – they were ahead in this game, so long as they held their nerve. He breathed out the fear and lay back on his flour-sack bed. All he could do was wait and rest now, and hope the others were safe.

Cym was in the kitchen when someone hammered on the door. Tesla was asleep upstairs and Tula was at the market. She pulled open the door, holding her periapt behind her back, ready to flee or fight.

There was a crowd of Watchmen below on the steps. A tall, grim-faced man with flowing locks and a dashing countenance stepped to the fore. She knew his face well; Jeris Muhren and her father had been friends for many years.

‘Norostein Watch,’ Muhren announced. ‘We have a warrant for the arrest of Ala—’ He paused, belatedly registering Cym’s presence. ‘Cymbellea di Regia? What are you doing here? Where is young Mercer?’

‘He’s not here – he went with his father to Pontus. I’ve been hired to be his mother’s maid,’ Cym lied smoothly, surreptitiously pocketing her periapt.

‘Does your father know you’re here?’

‘Of course.’ She feigned regret. ‘I’m sorry but no one’s home but Madam, and she is asleep. You can come back at midday, once I’ve washed and fed Mistress Tesla. She gets awfully tetchy this early in the morning – she’s apt to fire-blast people.’ She looked down at the soldiers meaningfully. ‘You know how these insane battle-magi get.’ She watched them flinch at the thought.

Jeris Muhren laughed abruptly. ‘Indeed I do!’ He turned back to his men. ‘All right, lads: Jensen, you will remain outside the front door. No one comes or goes.’ He turned and bowed up the stairs to Cym, a wry look on his face. ‘For your protection, Mistress di Regia. I’m sure you understand.’

Cym scowled, seeking a way out of this fix.

Muhren glanced at his men. ‘The rest of you, get out and start canvassing door-to-door.’ He waited until the men had tramped away and then closed the door behind him. Cym felt herself colour. ‘Well, young Cymbellea, perhaps we need to have a long talk,’ he said in a voice that brooked no refusal.

Belonius Vult stared at the figure on the other side of the desk. ‘What do you mean, you can’t find him?’ He leaned forward. ‘I know who broke into my offices, Captain Muhren: it was Alaron Mercer, and I want his goddamned head for it!’

It had been something of a relief when Vult had put two and two together: the Langstrit file was missing, which was alarming, but the Mercer file was the only other one taken, and that was intriguing.

I have cast Divinations concerning you, boy. You and the Scytale of Corineus
…

After hearing the boy’s thesis, which mirrored the truth alarmingly, his Divining had revealed greater opportunity to gain the Scytale himself if he arranged for the boy to work on it as a failed but free mage – it was a low probability, but better than none. He’d divined again after finding which files were missing. The boy was active. Something was happening here, a web of conspiracy concerning the missing Scytale, and an opportunity like no other beckoned.

I can take nothing for granted
, he thought, eyeing the man opposite
him. Muhren was a former Revolt battle-mage, a Langstrit man, one of the hard core of soldiers who had fought to the bitter end. He’d been there on the alpine slopes when Robler had finally surrendered. He knew Vannaton Mercer, no doubt. He also knew Mercellus di Regia, the notorious Rimoni bandit who’d aided the Revolt. It could be no coincidence that di Regia’s daughter had been found at Mercer’s house.
I can’t trust Muhren, I never could
… Vult had been trying to have Muhren removed for years, but the position of watch captain was appointed by the king, not the governor.

No one is untouchable, not even you, Jeris Muhren
, he told himself, before saying smoothly, ‘Very well, Captain. I want the search for the boy intensified. And I will question this gypsy girl myself. And the mother.’

Muhren’s reply was crisp and neutral. ‘I’m sorry, Governor. The questioning of suspects is a Watch duty.’

Vult glared at Muhren. ‘Then I will attend the questioning,’ he rasped.

‘I’m sorry, Governor,’ Muhren repeated, in an infuriating textbook-reciting manner, ‘The questioning of suspects may not be observed except by arrangement with the watch captain.’

‘Then arrange it, Watch Captain.’

‘I’m sorry, Governor, but I see no grounds to permit you.’ He stood and saluted, then strode out while Vult fumed.

Who the Hel do you think you are, Jeris Muhren? I’m the rukking governor!
With a frustrated snarl, he returned to the so-far fruitless and aggravating work of trying to scry Alaron Mercer. If only he could remember the boy more clearly. He paused. Wasn’t Gron Koll a contemporary of Mercer? It was time to see if that oily young man could redeem himself after his failure on the night of the theft.

That’s if Fyrell left Koll alive and with his sanity intact
.

Hebusalim, on the continent of Antiopia
Jumada (Maicin) 928
2 months until the Moontide

The Rondian Imperial Envoy, Belonius Vult, had flown home in high dudgeon. Negotiations between the Rondians and Salim continued, but without Ordo Costruo input, which was frustrating Antonin Meiros. Meanwhile Governor Betillon was losing control of the streets. Casa Meiros could not keep out the sounds of marching soldiers and distant shouting; sometimes stones struck the walls. The air was smokier and the carrion birds more plentiful.

As Jumada ended, Meiros told Ramita that he had a surprise for her. ‘There is something I wish to show you, Wife, whilst you can still travel. Prepare yourself first thing in the morning for a day and a night away. You need pack only clothing; I will take care of all else.’

Ramita was puzzled and intrigued, but the prospect of getting out of Casa Meiros was wonderful. The whole household was
preparing for evacuation to Domus Costruo, which meant their home would probably be looted, but even her husband could not guarantee their safety if they remained here once war began. Eventually, a concerted assault would break through.

Despite this, Meiros was almost light-hearted when he came to her courtyard the following morning. There was a gentle breeze blowing, and Luna was sinking in the west, kissed pink by the rising of Sol. Ramita wore a red and yellow salwar, a silver nose-ring and ruby-studded rings and bangles. Her hair was plaited down her back. Her belly was subtly rounder, but she felt well.

‘Are you ready, Wife?’ Meiros enquired kindly. ‘Then come to the lower courtyard.’

Huriya took Ramita’s arm, not because she needed the help, but because Huriya was nervous at letting her go. ‘Ramita, what if this is some trick to lock you away somewhere he thinks is safe?’

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t do that, and anyway, I would insist you were with me.’ She kissed Huriya’s forehead. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow, he says.’

In the central courtyard a strange sight awaited: an old carpet, fully twenty feet long and eight wide, had been laid out on the stone. Its deep maroon, black and white patterning was faded but still beautiful. At one end was a small pile of blankets and baskets. Olaf had just finished placing a wine bottle inside a bag. Jos Klein was leaning against the wall, his bullish face unhappy.

‘My dear, please take a seat,’ Meiros said to Ramita, indicating a pile of cushions in the middle of the carpet.

Puzzled, Ramita settled herself on the cushions, wondering what was happening. Were they going to picnic here in the courtyard? It seemed very odd. Meiros sat beside her, patting her knee, his lined face boyish with anticipation. She caught a small glimpse of the child he must once have been and a foretaste of the children in her belly … if they were his.

‘Well, Wife, are you ready?’

She nodded, still not understanding, and he raised a hand, which held a gemstone she had never seen before. She felt a tremor and a
rippling, and then suddenly the carpet rose into the air, bearing them both and all of their luggage. She gasped and clutched her belly in terror. ‘Husband!’ she heard herself shriek, and her stomach lurched as the ground fell away. Huriya was yards below already, staring upwards with round eyes and open mouth. Meiros gave a laugh of sheer delight, made a twisting gesture with the gemstone and suddenly they were soaring, up and away.

‘Don’t worry, we are perfectly safe,’ he shouted.

Ramita clung to him, her eyes screwed tightly shut, until, eventually, she found the courage to open them. They were impossibly high, though she scarcely felt the air rushing by, as if it were being deflected by some unseen shield. The carpet barely rippled; their stack of baskets and blankets lay unmoving, and only the tassels whipping furiously indicated that they were moving at all. But below them, the city unfolded in incredible detail, receding further with every second.

They appeared to be making for the hills to the north, which were many times higher than they were flying. Ramita finally had the courage to pull away from her husband’s protective grip and look around properly. It was wonderful and terrifying, and when she looked back at Meiros’ face, intent but merry, she lost her fear and began to enjoy the sensation. They went rocketing past flocks of birds that swooped away, startled. An eagle soared past and called out, and when Meiros mimicked it, the great bird turned aside disgustedly, making them both laugh.

‘My second wife made this for me,’ Meiros told her. ‘Edda was an Air-Mage and I am not. She made this linking-gem: it channels raw energy and converts it to Air-gnosis. Such things are very inefficient, but they work. Occasionally I take it out and fly on my own.’

‘She must have loved you,’ Ramita said, wonderingly.

‘On a good day.’ He laughed. ‘She was like a tempest: she had a terrifying temper and a restless nature. She could sulk for months, then suddenly all would be forgiven and there was nothing she would not do for me. But it could be wearying.’ He smiled at her. ‘She was as unlike you as I can envisage.’

How could he ever have wanted to marry me after someone like that?
She was surprised to feel a twinge of jealousy.
I would never be able to give anyone so wondrous a gift
.

Meiros stroked her shoulder. ‘She died a long time ago. You bear an even greater gift inside your womb, my dear wife.’

Ramita smiled dutifully, but thinking of the children inside her led to other thoughts too frightening to ponder. She closed her mind down and concentrated on the journey.

They were flying northwest, faster than galloping horses, and Meiros made the carpet swoop on the updrafts and dart through the narrow valleys. Shepherds tending flocks in the rocky dry lands peered up at them in disbelief; camel-drovers gaped while their herds chewed phlegmatically. They followed a pass through the hills to a huge sloping plain and she heard a thunderous sound ahead that rose like a distant storm. A pale blue star twinkled ahead, and at last she understood: Meiros was taking her to see the legendary ocean – and the Leviathan Bridge!

She clutched his hand, afraid again, as Meiros piloted the flying carpet above a wide road where tiny shapes travelled: camel-carts, wagons, galloping messengers, all heading towards the white tower that rose before them. He talked to her as he flew, instructing as always: ‘The Bridge needs concentrated energy to withstand the seas, drawn from two sources. One is the land itself. The closer we get, you’ll see less vegetation and no birds at all. But most of the power comes from the sun. There are huge clusters of crystal inside each tower that trap solar energy – in fact, they draw energy from any living thing, so no one can remain there long. The Ordo Costruo magi who look after the Leviathan Bridge work in shifts, making sure all is well. The Imperial Inquisitors oversee us,’ he added bitterly.

The shimmering white tower was so tall – a mile high – that it could not be real. It terrified her. But she also felt grateful to see it, this wonder of the age. She squeezed her husband’s hand, thankful for the gift of this flight and for his reassuring presence.

Meiros was perspiring freely. ‘Edda’s gem burns energy like nothing else – but we’re nearly there.’ He guided them about the
tower in a spiralling descent. She saw robed magi on a balcony two-thirds of the way up, waving to him, and he called out greetings, then they were off again, swooping down the ramp on the north side of the tower and into a wall of wet mist. She clung to him, crying out in alarm as the roar she’d heard before amplified tenfold. Then they broke through the mist and she almost screamed. They were over the ocean.