The Arcanist (43 page)

Marcus sat there trying to understand what she was saying and failing for the longest time. Because it didn't make any sense to him. Until he realised that she was talking about the baby in her sister's arms. After that his mouth fell open and he felt strangely light headed. She couldn't possibly mean what he thought she was saying.

“This time the Honoured Mother asks that you raise him better.”

It couldn't be! It wasn't possible! Surely? He knew it wasn't. And yet even as he knew it he watched as the handmaiden walked over to Th'yssen and handed her the baby. The baby she claimed was Simon. And all the while as she did so Anatha was telling them of how Simon had been taken back all the way to his innocent beginnings. That not a stain of corruption existed within him anymore. Not a memory of who he had been. And that this time he could grow into a better man. A good man. She seemed to think that that was a good thing.

Marcus was shocked. So was everyone else, especially Th'yssen who was sitting there holding the baby, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly as she tried to think of something to say and failed. Maybe she was trying to see him as her son. Maybe she was trying to think of how she could raise him again when she was in her sixties. Maybe she just didn't know what to think.

No one else knew what to say either. What did you say? Was this a reason for gratitude? That a son was returned to them? For shame? That the man who had caused such terrible suffering to so many should live? That justice should be denied to so many? Or was it a reason for anger? That one of the family had had his entire life somehow stolen from him? He didn't know. Looking around Marcus realised that no one else did either.

But the one thing that he did suddenly understand was that Edouard had been right from the very start. That the hamadryad was far more powerful than anyone he'd ever met. Far more powerful than he could even understand. And that if she could do that then there was no limit to what else she could do. That troubled him.

Just who or what had the House of Barris made an alliance with?

Chapter Forty One

Steel musket balls were a pain to make, but Edouard was getting quite practised at it. He had to. Over the previous two weeks he and Fergis had made thousands of them for the various patrols that were being sent riding through Therion. They were the best weapon they had against the armoured winds as they were being called. Fired from a long barrelled musket, the weapon with the highest muzzle velocity, the steel musket balls could pierce the metal plates of the devices where lead balls couldn't. And if you made enough holes in them the enchantment failed and the wind escaped. It was a better option than charging them with lances – a desperate tactic that had cost the lives of too many soldiers as they rode the borders.

Of course they weren't actually steel. Steel was too light and didn't hit with enough force. So he'd used an alloy of lead and iron and a few other metals that he'd found in one of his smithing recipe books and it was a good compromise. Not as hard as steel but nearly so, and nearly as dense as lead.

It was a lot of work. The fort had a natural shot tower already set up, but it involved a great many stairs. So he and Fergis would take it in turns to carry each load of the molten alloy all the way from the forge behind the fort to the top of the tower, then pour out the liquid metal into measures and drop them one by one into buckets of water set out on the roof of the fort far below. They were both getting very tired of climbing those endless steps. Especially in full leather aprons, asbestos gloves and boots and carrying red hot stone buckets full of molten metal. But it was what needed to be done.

To make matters worse it was painstaking work. If he'd been making lead shot he would have simply run the molten lead through a properly sized sieve to create the drops. That way he could make maybe a hundred balls in a pour. But he couldn't do that with steel alloy. The alloy would stick to the sieve so tightly that it would never come off and the sieve would then be useless. So he had to use a measure and scoop them out one by one. All while the metal kept cooling. Experience had taught him that thirty musket balls was about the limit for each batch. That meant a lot more batches and a lot more stairs.

And then, once the balls had been created they had to be dragged out of the water troughs, graded for shape, sorted for size and then polished with grit for at least a day. So he had a small steam engine running day and night to keep the barrels full of grit and musket balls turning, and annoying everyone's sleep.

Edouard was becoming quite tired, and he was sure he wasn't alone.

So when Mara came to inform him that he had a visitor Edouard was grateful for the interruption. Though maybe not for the way she looked at him. Ever since he had burnt Simon's legs she and the other handmaidens seemed to be constantly studying him, possibly wondering if he was about to do something terrible. They said nothing but the way they looked at him told him everything they thought without the need for words. Some days he almost felt as if he was a dog being examined to see if he was rabid and likely to bite.

He felt ill about it too, but not for the same reasons. It didn't concern him that he'd hurt Simon. Though it was wrong and ignoble, it was a memory that still brought him pleasure. The anger he'd known for his brother had consumed him for a long time. It only troubled him that he'd done it under a flag of truce. That he'd lost control and dishonoured himself. There were some things an honourable man just did not do. And it bothered him that the handmaidens should look at him in such a way. But the actual act didn't trouble him at all.

For some reason Mara didn't tell him who his visitor was or how he'd got through the blockade. Perhaps he'd taken the portal. But it seemed she had no interest in telling him anything at all. She just turned and walked up the stairs leaving him to follow her. He could perhaps have pressed her on the matter, but he decided against it. There was no point in making her any more uncomfortable in his presence. Especially not when all he had to do to find out was climb some stairs. It was easier to thank her politely and do that.

When he arrived in the drawing room Edouard immediately discovered that his guest wasn't anyone he'd ever expected to see in his home. He was also someone he'd never wanted to see in his home. He was a servant of Ascorlexia, something that immediately made Edouard nervous. Just seeing him standing there in his long scaled vest and black cloak brought back disturbing memories. Memories of a dragon with teeth larger than he was and breath more foul than an underworld sewer. The man's presence also left him with some obvious questions. Why was he there? Why did he want to speak with him? And why was there a pile of tomes sitting on the table in front of him? Edouard didn't recognise the works.

“Librarian.” Edouard nodded respectfully to his guest. “I am Lord Edouard Severin.”

He used his proper title because something about the meeting felt formal to him. Maybe it was simply that he normally didn't see the servants of the powers in his home. Save of course for the handmaidens as he had to remind himself. Or maybe it was just that he was acutely aware that he was wearing his leather apron and looked like a village blacksmith. Not the sort of thing a lord of the realm was supposed to wear. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“To the advancement of knowledge of course.” The man smiled politely if a little formally at him.

Of course, was Edouard's thought. What else would Ascorlexia be concerned with? And it was a fairly standard explanation the great dragon's servants gave for being anywhere. But it seemed a little lacking as explanations went in a time of war. Still, he nodded politely to the librarian and agreed with him. It seemed the proper thing to do. Besides, if the great dragon had sent his servant to him with another purpose in mind he was sure he would be told soon enough.

“The Great Lord says that he was pleased with your scholarship in studying the portal. That it shows promise and that he is happy to have your workings for your air ship among his collection.” That surprised Edouard, as did the fact that Ascorlexia even had his notes and drawings when he hadn't given them to him. But he could guess how he'd got them and their names were Mara and Kyriel. That annoyed him. Still, he restrained himself from commenting.

While he'd been working they'd been spying on him, and no doubt they'd brought their Honoured Mother a copy of everything he'd produced. Tyrel had of course passed it on to the black dragon in turn. He wondered what else the dragon might now have of his. The designs for his weapons and his horseless carriage? The records of all the relics he'd identified and studied over the years? His journal? It was something he'd have to investigate after his guest had left. But for the moment he had to see to his guest. And maybe discover what the books were that he had set out on the table in front of him.

“Please inform the Great Lord that I am flattered by his praise and surely unworthy of such an honour.” Edouard answered the servant automatically, his mind racing ahead to the books the man had apparently brought with him. Copies of books from the library of Ascorlexia. It was not only unheard of, it was a wonder. What books could the dragon have sent him? What books would he deem a mere simpleton like him worthy of?

“I will of course.” The servant nodded politely, probably extremely happy to have something good to report back to his master. Ascorlexia was ever a prideful dragon.

“And please inform him also that I have a small library here. Obviously insignificant in comparison to his. But if there are any books within it that are not within his collection and which he might wish to read he is most welcome to them.”

It was unlikely of course that he would have any such book, but Edouard knew the offer needed to be made. It more than anything else would please the dragon. And he needed to please the dragon. With the handmaidens upset with him, and no doubt their Honoured Mother as well, the last thing he needed was an unhappy dragon.

“I shall so inform him and perhaps in time an archivist will be sent.”

“He will be welcome.”

He wouldn't really. Edouard was among other things a collector and like all such people he hated the thought of books leaving his collection. But it wasn't a choice. There was no choice when a power was involved. Still, there were new books to read and curiosity was always one of Edouard's failings. Something his guest obviously realised as he saw the direction Edouard's eyes were pointing.

“The Great Lord says that these may be of value to you. They are the accounts of the war of the Cabal wizards written by the scribes of the Dragon King and copied faithfully for you and the others by us. The Great Lord considers that you might find the accounts of the devices they constructed as they waged their wars of particular interest.”

“I would indeed!”

Edouard was suddenly filled with excitement. He was more than eager to peruse the works the moment the librarian told him what they were. In fact it was hard to restrain himself from simply reaching out and grabbing them. But that would not have been dignified and a man of the nobility always had to be that. Instead he had to offer his hospitality to his guest. Hospitality that began with refreshments and polite conversation and then continued with a tour of his home and of course the library while the books sat untouched on the table in the great room.

But every second that passed by he was really just thinking about diving into them.

And even if they held nothing of use at least he wouldn't be climbing endless stairs carrying stone buckets filled with molten metal.

Chapter Forty Two

“Hell's Teeth! They're frauds!”

Edouard awoke abruptly in the middle of the night with the words already on his lips. An eye blink later and he'd cast a spark into the lanterns on the wall of his bed chamber and was throwing the covers aside as he tumbled out of bed, filled with the need to search out what he now knew for fact. To prove it. After that it was a mad dash to put on his robe and slippers and then rush out of his room, down the stairs and through to the library. For once he didn't even care if he made too much noise running as he was and woke some of his guests. It simply didn't matter compared with the revelation that was unfolding in his mind. Nothing did.

The Cabal wizards weren't wizards at all! And the black priest was no priest either! They were just liars.

He was annoyed with himself that it had taken so long to realise something so obvious. Especially when he'd been given the information days before by Ascorlexia and then spent day and night studying it. But in his own defence, no one else had guessed it either.

The scribes of the time had recorded in excruciating detail the intricacies of the devices they'd been attacked by and destroyed. He could have designed many of them himself given enough time. He could even enchant some of them. The simple ones that used a spark of fire to power them. They'd also provided him with the schematics for the temples that had been destroyed one by one. Temples that were in fact machines. Just as Ascorlexia had said. Machines that could rip the magic from the magical for leagues all around and then imbue it into the devices that the rock gnomes built. It was a system as efficient as it was horrid.

But that last part had eluded him. It had eluded them all. The machines weren’t being used to speed up the Cabal wizards' enchanting and make their creations more powerful. Rather the machines were there because without them they couldn't enchant a thing. They had no magic of their own!

Once he'd reached the library Edouard started pulling down books from the shelves in a frantic hurry, knowing exactly what he needed. Because now that he knew what the enemy were he also knew how to defeat them. But no one was going to believe him. Not without proof. Luckily he had some.

The surprise was that it wasn't in the tomes that Ascorlexia had given him. They'd given him the clue but not the answer. It would actually be found in some of his own tomes. In the histories of ancient sparks and flames that he collected. It came from their private journals.

Most spellcasters kept journals. It was both normal and expected. Sparks and flames were after all normally well educated and keeping a journal of some sort was a mark of that. Also, one of their duties whether set out in a law or not, was to guide other younger sparks to find their feet in the world of magic and a journal filled with the recounts of how a spark or a flame had found a particular shape or used his cast to achieve something unexpected was part of that.

But there were so few with the spark. There were always stories, tall tales recounted by the bards for the most part, of wizards of various times and places setting up schools. Even colleges and universities. But the plain fact was that there would never be enough students for such institutions to run. They had never existed. So the more usual method by which a wizard was taught was through some form of apprenticeship. Sometimes it was formal, sometimes it was ad hoc as it had been in his case. But whatever the arrangement, a more advanced spellcaster would give guidance to a younger one with the same affinity where possible.

Journals were a part of how that was done. But they were more than just teaching tools. They were records of achievement. Most spellcasters also had pride. In some cases too much pride. They wanted to be remembered. A journal was a common way in which they boasted of their accomplishments to the future generations.

What happened to a spellcaster's journal when he died often wasn't up to him however. If a wizard had an apprentice then the chances were that the apprentice would keep his journals. If he didn't but had family then the likelihood was that the family would keep it. Sometimes they would leave them to friends or libraries. And if none of those things happened then the chances were that the journals would end up in stores. And every store that sold such things within the nearest dozen cities knew to send him a message when one of those rare tomes crossed their desks.

Edouard collected them.

It was a strange thing to collect. Even among those who collected books. The journals were usually old and worn by the time he got them. Hand written too – often in a barely legible scrawl with the ink faded. They weren't edited or bound into a proper binding. And some of the time they didn't even make sense. Spellcasters were just as prone as anyone else to filling their journals with irrelevancies and flights of fancy. But just then the only thing that mattered was that he had several hundred of them, many in multiple volumes, and he knew that some of them would contain the evidence he needed. It was just a matter of digging it out.

Soon the shelves were looking almost bare in places while he had hundreds of books scattered over the library's main table and could collapse in a chair in front of them. And then with fingers almost trembling with excitement, he reached for the first one, knowing that it could contain the proof he needed.

◄►

“Lord Edouard?”

It was late, or rather early when Edouard was disturbed in his work. In fact through the gaps in the thick velvet curtains of the library he could just see the beginnings of blue sky breaking through and the promise of dawn and he realised that he had worked through the night. But he wasn't tired. He was far too excited to be tired.

Already he'd skimmed through thirty or so journals and left book marks scattered throughout them. But because he only had a few bookmarks he'd soon resorted to using torn off strips of writing paper. The end result was a couple of two foot high stacks of journals with hundreds of white tufts sticking out of them. And he still had at least another two hundred and fifty journals to go.

Still, as he looked up to see Kyriel at the door, and then straightened up in his chair trying to force the aching stiffness out of his spine, he knew he should take a break. Maybe a cup of hot tea would be well deserved and a piece of toast. And then maybe he also needed to tell someone what he'd discovered. Not that they would believe him. But how to tell them?

“I know why they fear magic!” Edouard blurted it out abruptly, so overwhelmed by the astonishing truth that he couldn't hold it in.

“Edouard?”

“The rock gnomes. They're the fourth kind of magic user.” And it was so obvious in hindsight. Having read all the books Ascorlexia had given him about their origins and the war they'd fought, and having examined the portal personally, it had become clear.

“Fourth kind?”

Kyriel of course had no idea what he was speaking about. She probably didn't even realise that there were specific kinds of magic users. At least not in those terms. He'd only arrived at the classification himself during the long night.

“Three kinds you know. First there are the powers and magical creatures who don't use magic; they are magic. It's woven into the very fabric of their existence. The second are those like me. Sparks and flames. We aren't magic but we can use it directly. Shape and cast it with our thoughts.”

“The third kind are those like you and your sisters, and the others of the priesthood. You neither are magic nor do you shape and cast it directly yourselves. You are granted it by and through your faith.”

“But there's still a fourth kind. Everybody else. People like most of the others staying here. Most of those you pass in the street. Those who aren't sparks or flames or powers or priests. Those who are not magical and who can't cast spells and aren't given it. Those with no magic.”

“But if they have no magic how can they have magic?” Of course she was confused. Edouard knew he wasn't explaining it very well.

“They don't!” It burst out of him like water from an exploding dam.

“They have no magic yet they are magic users. Fergis for example, spends his days working at a forge. He crafts magical weapons for the guards. Swords that can do fire damage with a word. And the swords can be used by those without magic. The lamps in the city streets, half of them at least are powered by glowstones. Stones that a citizen can activate with a word or a gesture. And that's what these rock gnomes are. It's what they do.”

“They call themselves wizards. It's a lie. They dress as priests and claim to be building a temple. Again more lies. They have no magic at all. No gods either. What they have are machines. Enchanted machines.”

“Machines?” The handmaiden seemed dubious, and he could well understand that. It was a strange thing to suggest. After all, if a man dressed as a priest or a wizard and cast magic as if he was one, why would you not assume that he was one? But he wasn't.

“In the throne room. When I met Vesar. I felt his magic. I knew it to be both strong and dark. But I also knew it to be strange. Too orderly. Neat and tidy. Mechanical. And at the time I didn't understand. But now I do. The magic was mechanical. Not his. He was carrying something on him. Something enchanted. Something that allowed him to cast as if he were a wizard.”

“And then there's the death stone. It never occurred to me at the time. But no wizard would allow such a thing to be near him. After all, it would have stolen Vesar's magic just as it would ours. And our magic is a part of us.”

“As for the typhoon gate, how could any spark or flame ever want to create such a device? It would kill them just as surely as it would kill every other spellcaster. But if someone weren't a spellcaster, if he didn't truly have magic, then the device would be no more dangerous to him than to any other.”

It was so obvious in hindsight, which kept making him wonder how he'd not seen it for so long. But then as they said hindsight should be perfect. It was foresight that lacked clarity.

“That's true boy. I wondered about it myself.” Janus had arrived at the door to stand beside Kyriel. “But even if they are liars without so much as a spark of magic to their name, why would they fear it so?”

“Because of the way we use magic. For us it's natural. The magic flows easily and is shaped almost by instinct to our will. A word, a gesture – no more is needed. We scarcely have to think about it. But machines are awkward. They are slow and unwieldy to control. And they can't do everything we can.”

“Consider a ball being thrown. I could build a machine to throw a ball. And I could build it to throw a ball harder and further than any man's arm could. But I could never build a machine to catch a ball. That requires the reflexes and instincts of a man.”

“There is an asymmetry between what a spellcaster can do and what a man with an enchanted object can do. That makes us very dangerous to them.”

“Think of a fight between a man with a cannon and a boxer. The cannoneer can fire a blast of incalculable power that would shred a man in a heartbeat. But unless he were very lucky and had Virius and the rest of the Seven behind him, for all his power he would lose the fight.”

“Simon saw Vesar cast a spell in front of him to raise that wind demon.”

“No. Simon saw Vesar reciting a verse while he had a hand clutched to his chest. Or more likely an amulet of some sort underneath his vest.”

There was a lengthy silence after that as they considered his words. At least Edouard hoped they were considering them and not the state of his mental faculties. He already knew that the handmaiden worried about him. Ever since she had witnessed him burn Simon. She thought he was becoming wild and dangerous, and maybe he was. Certainly that hadn't been his proudest day. But even if his emotions were running a little hot of late, his logic wasn't. And he knew he was right.

“Then boy what's with all this?” Janus indicated the piles of books spread all over the walnut and oak desks with a sweep of his hand.

“Encounters. Every mention I can find of an encounter between a wizard and someone with an artefact. I'm looking for everything that's recorded about the encounters, how the wielders were defeated when they had to be, and everything about the artefacts themselves. Where they were found, what they did, how they worked.”