The Assassin's Edge (Einarinn 5) (51 page)

“Where do we hide up?” I demanded as soon as we were beyond the wall.

“The hargeard.” Sorgrad looked around, frowning at the constantly shifting veil of wind and dust.

“That way.” I pointed.

“Is there anywhere to hide there?” Ryshad looked at Shiv with concern. “We can’t rely on Gebaedim superstitions to stop them stringing us up if they get their hands on us.”

I shivered. A quick hanging would be the most merciful fate we could hope for.

“Trust me.” Sorgrad’s eyes were bright blue against the black that rimmed them.

My fears receded to a manageable level; after all, he’d never let me down before.

CHAPTER SEVEN

From Keran Tonin, Mentor,

To Pirip Marne, Scholar.

Dear Marne,

I hear you’re doing some interesting work on the Ancient Races. You might find this useful. I can vouch for it as a genuine copy of an old record; it came from the Isles of the Elietimm a few years ago, when the Archmage’s man and those two sworn to D’Olbriot tried to rescue poor Geris. I’d so far rather have had the dear boy home safe instead but at least we’re unravelling some notion of what we’re dealing with from documents like this.

By the way, have you considered a visit to Kellarin at all? Let me know your thoughts in due course.

With compliments, Tonin

Being a true record of the meeting between Itilek of Froilasekke and Jinvejen of Haeldasekke on this sacred night of the empty sky. Let the neutral stones of Heval Islet bear witness to the bones of each clan that both halves of this hide carry the same words.

Itilek tells he has heard of disaster befalling Kehannasekke’s bid for the empty lands to the south.

Jinvejen agrees that he has heard the same. The feeling among his clan is that this is Misaen’s judgement upon Rekhren for his over-reliance upon Maewehn’s priests.

Itilek announces his own priest finds himself powerless.

Jinvejen admits his own councillor is similarly stricken.

Both take time to consider this puzzle.

Jinvejen declares his forefathers have counselled suspicion of Maewehn’s priests ever since all in this common exile were driven from our true home by Sheltya malice.

Itilek allows such a sudden and unexpected loss of priestly powers looks like divine retribution but asks what might Misaen’s purpose be in doing such a thing?

Jinvejen wonders what does Misaen ask of us all in less troubled times? That we strive to better our lot through hard work and unity of purpose. It was for fear of such uncompromising strength that Sheltya rallied the weaker clans to hound our forefathers from their home. It was only such determination that brought our forefathers across the ice to these isolated rocks. Perhaps Misaen has visited his judgement upon Kehannasekke to rebuke him for seeking a new home to the south rather than returning to reclaim his true inheritance through ingenuity and valour.

Itilek points out how many generations have passed since our forefathers were exiled. Hopes of return to our true home seem ever more distant now the descendants of those that exiled us find themselves assailed by Southrons driven out of their own lands by the men of Tren Ar’Dryen.

Jinvejen reminds Itilek that Southrons are ruled by priests devoted both to Maewehn and to Arimelin and have long counselled retreat rather than making a stand for their sacred places. Cowardice has sewn the seeds of its own destruction.

Itilek asks what Jinvejen proposes.

Jinvejen suggests all ties with Southrons be cut and we tend our own hearths in amity for a full cycle of years. Misaen has shown us plainly that we have no friends but our own blood kindred. Kehannasekke’s misadventures prove all other arms will be raised against us. Let us hone our skills and bide our time, raising our sons to strength and singleness of mind. If we prove ourselves worthy, mayhap Misaen will add the edge of true magic to our hard-hitting swords once more.

Itilek agrees to consider this and undertakes to lay the hide with his hargeard that the bones might make their wishes known to him.

The Island City of Hadrumal,

10th of For-Summer

Thank you so very much, my dear.” Planir lifted his hands from the rim of the silver bowl, face intense. He smiled at Aritane but the courtesy couldn’t entirely banish the line between his fine dark brows.

“It is a welcome change to find my talents appreciated.” The Mountain woman’s voice was tart, her deep-set blue eyes hard.

“I’d welcome your thoughts on what may happen now,” invited Planir. He rose from his seat across the table from Aritane. “May I offer you refreshment?”

“Some wine, white if you please.” Aritane smiled at some passing thought before her face returned to its guarded expression.

Planir poured two glasses of a straw-coloured vintage from a dark bottle adorned with a crumbling wax seal. Resuming his seat, he passed one over. “So Ilkehan is dead. What does that mean for us?” The Archmage was in his shirtsleeves, a silk shirt befitting his rank.

“The manner of his death interests me.” Aritane’s exotic accent sat oddly with her everyday gown of Caladhrian cut; serviceable wool dyed a neutral fawn. She raised a hand to brush the corn-coloured sweep of hair falling loose to her shoulders away from her narrow face.

“I take it that savagery has some point beyond simple bloodlust?” Planir gestured towards the empty water. “And the masquerade?”

“If his people believe Ilkehan’s arrogance has summoned retaliation from the Gebaedim—” Aritane pressed her full lips tight together. “The confidence of his acolytes and thus their power will be all the more thoroughly broken.”

“When can we establish what aetheric strength remains, among the Elietimm or in Suthyfer?” asked Planir slowly. “I don’t want to risk anyone working magic if there’s the slightest chance they might suffer Otrick’s fate.”

Aritane retreated behind the curtain of her hair. Planir waited patiently.

“I will look for a mind open to true magic tomorrow,” she said finally. “Then we can judge the consequences of Ilkehan’s death.”

“We have many consequences to consider.” Jovial, Planir disregarded Aritane’s sour tone. “Without Ilkehan to menace you or your people, you should consider your opportunities in the world beyond Hadrumal. The universities at Col and at Vanam would welcome your insights into the study of aetheric enchantments.”

“I’ve met some of these scholars in your libraries. I wouldn’t spend a night on a bare mountain with any of them.” Sarcasm tainted Aritane’s words. “So you want rid of me?”

“Not in the least.” Planir’s unemotional reply made his sincerity ring all the more true. “I value your skills highly. Archmage or no, I could never have dared this scrying without your Artifice to defend me.” He waved his wine glass at the silver bowl. “But I would like to see you find a place where your considerable talents are accorded due respect—and I don’t just mean your mastery of aetheric arts.”

Aritane made a non-committal noise before taking a sip of wine. “Sheltya remain, even if Ilkehan is dead.”

“Is there no way you could make your peace with them?” Planir asked gently.

“When I serve as your scholars’ conduit into the secrets of the wise?” Aritane set down her glass with a snap that slopped wine on to the polished table top. “I hardly think so.”

“The books we’ve just recovered from Ilkehan’s library should hold more than enough secrets to satisfy the mentors of Col, Vanam or anywhere else.” Unperturbed, Planir gestured at a door skilfully concealed in the panelling of the far wall. “I would see you make peace with the Sheltya so you may be free to live your life as you wish. Until that day comes, I will defend you to the best of my abilities against Sheltya, Elietimm and all who might disparage you hereabouts.”

Aritane blushed a scarlet unbecoming to her pale complexion. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“As you wish.” Planir rose to bow courteously. “But remember, my door is always open to you.”

Aritane left without a backward glance, pace audibly increasing as she disappeared down the stairs. Planir stood by the door for a moment, combing long fingers through his hair. He heaved a sigh that could have been frustration, irritation, exhaustion or all three together before kicking the door shut.

Hair in unruly spikes, he ignored his untouched glass of wine and walked to the tall window. He gazed out far beyond the stone-slated roofs of Hadrumal. “How soon can I go scrying for you, my darling?” he murmured. A mirror stood on the sill beside him, steel-bright within the dark mahogany frame, a silver candlestick beside it, empty.

Something in the courtyard below caught Planir’s eye. “Splendid timing as always, Hearth Master,” he muttered sardonically.

He moved quickly, smoothing his hair to its customary sleekness and catching up his formal robe from its hook on the back of the door. He shrugged it on as he removed Aritane’s glass from the table, mopping the spill of wine with his sleeve. His hand hesitated over the scrying bowl but with a smile teasing the corner of his mouth, he let that be.

“Enter.”

Kalion knocked and opened the door, barely waiting for the Archmage’s permission before marching in. Planir was sitting in the window seat, glass of wine on the sill beside him, one hand in his breeches pocket while the other held a small book bound in age-worn leather faded to a pale jade. His feet rested on a chair pulled carelessly askew from the table.

“Have you ever read any of Azazir’s journals?” Planir frowned at the crabbed writing still vividly black on the yellowed pages.

Kalion was visibly knocked off his stride. “Azazir?”

“Yes.” Planir drew the word out absently. “A menace and a madman but the man had some undeniably interesting ideas.” He shook his head. “I’d dearly love to know how he summoned that dragon of his but I fear that secret died with Otrick.”

“More’s the pity.” Unfeigned regret creased Kalion’s fat face. “Have you found any hints?” Avid, his gaze fastened on the little book.

“Not as yet.” Planir shut the journal with a snap. “But I think it might make an interesting project. I’ve been considering the role of Archmage, in the light of what you and Troanna had to say. I’m forced to the rather lowering conclusion that my predecessors and I have spent far too little time actually adding to the sum of wizardry. We become so caught up in the trivia of Hadrumal’s daily life that we forget Trydek’s first and foremost requirement for this office.” He looked expectantly at Kalion.

The Hearth Master plucked a stray thread from the front of his velvet gown. “Trydek laid down many precepts when he first brought his school of wizards here. What precisely are you referring to?”

Planir smiled. “That the Archmage lead the exploration of combining the four elements in quintessential magic”

Kalion took a chair by the table without waiting for invitation. “That’s an interesting proposal.”

“It’s a long-neglected duty of my office.” Planir wasn’t smiling any more. “It’s my firm intention to make amends.”

“Is this why you summoned Herion and Rafrid just now? And Sannin.” Kalion’s indignation imperfectly masked his suspicion. “To explore the potential of the nexus as Archmage, you should work with those mages pre-eminent in each element.”

“As Troanna keeps reminding me, we don’t have a nexus of mastery, do we?” Planir turned abruptly brisk. “We’ve had that out more than often enough. I hope something more interesting brings you here on this sunny afternoon?”

Kalion did his best to recover the determination that had propelled him up the stairs. “I understand you’ve had that Aritane woman in here.” He glanced at the scrying bowl with sharp mistrust.

“I see Ely still spends more time at her window than at her books.” The Archmage met Kalion’s gaze with level challenge. “I’d appreciate you moderating your tone. You make it sound as if I were taking my pleasure with her bent over that table. Why should I not consult with the one expert on Artifice we have when the Elietimm threaten us all once more?”

“What has she told you?” demanded Kalion. “What’s going on? We have a right to know, me and Troanna and all the Masters of the Halls.”

“Across the ocean?” Planir shrugged. “You know how dangerous it would be to scry or bespeak any of the mages out there—”

“Have you any notion what Shiv or Usara might be up to?” Frustration soured Kalion’s expression. “You know they hired a ship full of ruffians culled from dockyards the length of the ocean coast?”

Planir nodded, unperturbed.

“They could be working all manner of magic to the incalculable detriment of wizardry.” Kalion glared at him. “A great many people disapprove of you letting them take themselves off unsanctioned by the Council to involve themselves in D’Alsennin’s affairs.”

“I’d be interested to learn who feels entitled to criticise me in such a high-handed fashion.” Planir looked at Kalion expectantly but the red-faced mage sat obstinately silent. The Archmage shrugged and continued, puzzled. “I don’t understand your objection. You’ve spent years arguing that Hadrumal’s isolation must end, that we must involve ourselves in the concerns of the wider world. You’ve argued most convincingly that this threat from the Elietimm gives us our opportunity to show what we can do to help and defend the non-mageborn.”

“Under the guidance of the Council,” snapped Kalion. “Always.”

“That’s so often been the sticking point though.” Planir shook his head regretfully. “Everyone from princes down to pigmen mistrusts mages with their first loyalty to this mysterious Council and all its hidden loyalties and purposes.” The Archmage’s expression was guileless. “Of course, with Artifice to call on, they need not risk that. I rather fear that Artifice may be our undoing without any need for the Elietimm to attack.”

“What do you mean?” Kalion was suspicious.

“I have heard,” Planir raised a hand before tucking it smoothly back in his pocket, “but bear in mind this is only rumour, that Tadriol has been making overtures to the mentors of Vanam.”