The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) (32 page)

“And yet your custody is more than I am granted.  Your Empire does not trust me, no matter that I have been with the Silent Circle for thirty years.  No matter that I predate the conflict between our empires, or that the Circle should not even be bowing to these politics.  It has drifted so far from its tenets...”

“And you've been attending too many student rallies.”

“As always, you brush me off.”  Qisvar sighed.  “I understand Salandry's rage, but I have never been able to comprehend your complacency.  Your indifference to the changes that have been wrought upon us, binding more and more of our students to the Imperial war-machine.”

“I'm an evoker, Qisvar.  War is what I'm for.”

“No.  There is more to your craft.  I have seen it.  Yet you ignore peaceful innovation to focus on the destructive arts—“

“Thus why I'm Inquisitor Archmagus.  Because I can be relied upon to follow my orders.”

Qisvar's bronzy face drew tight with distaste.  He sat up stiffly, formally, and said, “This is not the Circle I entered.  I must register a complaint.”

“Our next council meeting is—“

“I fear for my students, Enkhaelen.  The Imperial recruiters visit constantly, and they raise their offers every time.  Wealth, rank, status, in exchange for military service.  Yet I hear shocking reports from those who have gone into the armies.  Mass mindwashes?  Enslavement through conditioning?  Some even report a kind of lobotomizing magic that leaves no psychic traces.  As the Inquisitor Archmagus, you must be aware of these things.  Do you condone them?  Are the students who go into Imperial service being made to carry out such practices?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Who so commands you?  The Emperor?”

“You shouldn't ask.”

“I must know if—“  His expression cracked momentarily, showing a hunted-animal fear, but he mastered himself.  “I must know if I have a future here.  If my students have options that will not destroy them.  You cannot understand how fragile we are.  Those that return—their minds are like broken glass.  I cannot condone this, and if Salandry thinks to start yet another war...”

Enkhaelen held up a mollifying hand.  It was true; he couldn't understand.  He had always been mind-blind—and more than that, he held the Ravager in his soul.  Sometimes it was hard to think with his brain rather than with his teeth.

But he was familiar with trauma, and he had been observing Geraad.  Even as a civilian mentalist, the man had seen much—been through much.  Mentalists had their coping strategies, but that did not make up for the sensitivity that came with the talent.

“There will be changes, and soon,” he said.  “I have plans.  Another project dominates my time right now, but once it is complete, rest assured that these concerns will be addressed.”

“You say that, but you are 'just the custodian'.  What can you do, Enkhaelen?”

“Just wait.  Please.”

Eyes narrowed, Qisvar regarded him across the desk, and Enkhaelen wondered what he saw.  He did not often consider himself.  It was a waste of time.

Finally, Qisvar said, “Some day you must tell me how you have safeguarded your mind into nonexistence.  Very well, I shall keep my own counsel for now.”

“Thank you.”

With great dignity, Qisvar rose and swept for the door, and Enkhaelen gestured it open, then closed in his wake.  Then he sat a few long moments just staring at the dark veil, waiting for someone else to interrupt him.  Everyone wanted a piece of him these days.

But then, he supposed that was the plan.

*****

With toes and fingers and prehensile tail, Rian made his way up the ventilation shaft toward the crisp clean air above.  The endless downdraft flattened his wrappings to his spindly body; Geraad had insisted that he wear
something
, even if he disdained clothes and usually went around in just his harness, so he had shredded a sheet and tied it around himself in strips.  It was winter out there—an exciting new experience!—and now he felt prepared.

He had a little pair of scissors for snipping and slicing, and a water flask haunted by the ghosts of alcohol.  He had a napkin filled with nutmeats and sugared fruits and other tidbits pilfered from the commissary, several chips of stone with wards bound to them, and a pair of socks that could cover his legs up to the thigh if he curled his toes in.  He had a sash from one of Geraad's robes, like a luck-charm, to comfort him with its familiar scent.

And he had the arrowhead, which tugged at its cord insistently, desperate to reach its owner.

Memories roiled beneath that crystalline surface, distilled from Geraad's mind.  Rian tried not to touch it.  The past didn't interest him; it was already gone, and would never come back.

Instead he clambered on toward the future, toward freedom and the joy of his mission.  Geraad would be safe; he had promised.  And Lark was out there somewhere.

The arrowhead would show him the way.

Chapter 8 – Blaze and Flame

Weshker wedged up the unlocked middle window with his foot, then lowered himself to the sill and slid into the upstairs hallway.  He had found this route a few days back, after a misunderstanding with another Wynd had forced him to figure out how to get into the garrison without either going through the front door or over the wall into the back training yard.  Once inside the garrison, he was safe—those were the rules—but if the Wynds caught him in the act, it could get messy.

This hallway did not see much use, not with the place on low alert.  It overlooked the Civic Plaza and housed several storage rooms but there wasn't much coming and going.  Practically undefended, if you ignored the required long jump from the stable roof and could keep out of sight of the archers.

At the moment, it was empty.  Weshker slunk cautiously to the corner and paused to listen, but no sound came through the wall at his ear—the captain's office—and none from around the bend.  A faint murmur of conversation and laughter came from further, probably in the mess-hall or assembly hall below.

He peeked around quickly, then more leisurely when the first glance showed nothing.  An empty hall, Lieutenant Linciard's door closed.  No one lurking in the shadows or on the stairs.

Silent in his nice new soft-soled scout boots, Weshker sidled up to Linciard's door and listened.  There was something going on inside, but after a moment of smirking consideration he decided that it was just snoring, and one person's at that.  No fun.

He peeked over the banister to see a few handfuls of soldiers scattered around the assembly hall, playing cards.  A few glanced up when he started down the stairs, but no one hollered or pointed, so he allowed his shoulders to unkink as he made his way to ground-level.  There were a couple Wynds in attendance but that was inescapable, as fully a sixth of the company was Wyndish.  None gave him more than an automatic sneer.

Across the floor at a quick clip, then into the bunkroom.  He shared it with the other nine scouts and scout-officers—nice fellows mostly.  A bit weird, and they enjoyed messing with his head by pretending to be each other all the time, but better than the rest of the soldiers.  In the muted glow of the mage-sigils he saw the bunks mostly empty, their occupants away on yet another mission to which he hadn't been invited.

He'd been camped out before the captain's door specifically to protest that.  His own corporal and Lieutenant Vrallek just laughed at him whenever he said he wanted to be included, and he was tired of languishing in the garrison—a great irony, since his whole slave's career had been spent dodging work at all costs.  But all the slaves had done that to some degree, while his new comrades seemed to take joy in their work.  He wanted to participate.

As he made for his bunk at the end of the row, he wondered what the scouts were up to.  Spying?  Stealing?  He felt sure he could do either of those.  Soldiering not so much.

Hard-soled boots clacked on the floor behind him.

He realized suddenly that he'd passed a bunk occupied by a man in red, not scout-black.

Panic—precious life-preserving panic—made him fling himself across the bunks just ahead of his assailant's lunge.  A hand skimmed the back of his uniform jacket but scout-gear was cut close for just this reason, and the man gained no grip as Weshker scrambled madly across the beds, kicking blankets everywhere.  He managed to double back through the bedposts and reach the aisle before the assailant could cut him off, and then it was just him and the door.

He flew out, cut a tight corner and arrowed for the garrison entry, hearing the thunder of pursuit on his heels.  Barely three steps short, the big double doors swung inward and nearly smacked him, and he skidded into the entering pack of infantrymen, who grabbed at him with shouts of surprise as he struggled through.

Then Linciard's harsh bellow divided them, and the next thing Weshker knew, he and the lieutenant were tumbling down the garrison steps together.

Impact blew the breath from him, repeated half a dozen times, and the world rotated in a blur of black stars before righting with a sickening snap.  Weshker tried to get up and realized with amazement that he was on top.  His blurry vision showed two Linciards wedging up from the pavement and an endless host of soldiers watching from atop the vast upper steps, and he squinted away to the wobbling streets, trying to see an escape.

He took one step then was jerked up short by the jacket, and nearly crumpled as Linciard used him for leverage.  The lancer-lieutenant was much bigger and heavier, and Weshker tried to shuck his jacket in desperation, exposing the holdout knives strapped at the small of his back.  His shoulders came free, his forearms, his hands—

Then Linciard got him by the fox-tail of his hair and yanked him around and down.

Face met knee.  Red stars joined the black, and Weshker only realized he had been released when his watery legs failed to hold him.  He staggered backward, raising his hands in the international sign of 'stop hitting me', perfectly willing to swear to keep his mouth shut—or stop spying, or stop nicking things, or stop sneaking out, or back in, or anything else the lieutenant wanted.

But through the stars he saw Linciard's frozen expression and the weird, unfocused nature of his stare, and knew that this would not end soon.

The big Wynd rushed him and he dodged badly and was bowled to the ground, cobblestones biting at his spine through his undershirt.  A moment later, the first kick lit up his ribs.  He tried to roll away and caught another kick to the back, tried to prop himself up for a scramble and took a boot-heel hard to the right shoulder.  The joint grated in its socket and he tumbled with the force, sky sweeping overhead in pastel bands only to be horizoned by the gathering crowd.  Either they were hooting and cheering Linciard on, or the blood pounding in his ears was mocking him.

Among them, he glimpsed Shield-Sergeant Rallant, smiling indulgently.

Linciard's foot came down again.  Weshker did not realize he had drawn his knives until he stuck one into the lieutenant's heel.

Unfortunately the man wore cavalry boots, with their thick wooden heels for catching the stirrup.  Boot hit knife hit cobblestone, with a resounding crack as the blade cut deep into the wood then snapped.

That only stopped Linciard for an instant, because busted heel or not, his face told that he had seen the blades.  If it had not been war between them before, it was now.

Something stilled inside of Weshker.  He had not meant to pull his knives; though Scryer Mako had removed the conditioning that prevented him from defending himself against a freesoldier, his long years as a slave had taught the same lesson, and more firmly.  But now that they were in his hands, the fear faded.  He had broken the prime rule, and there was nothing left but to kill or be killed.  This much he still remembered about being a Corvishman.

“
T'okiel
,” he swore, then launched himself at the lieutenant, and everything blurred into broken knife and bloodied one, and snarls and fists and feathers and teeth and claws and—

Cobblestones against his cheek, and a calm female voice saying,
'Stay down.'

*****

A mark and a half later, he sat rigid in a chair, mopping under his nose reflexively.  It was no longer bleeding; Medic Shuralla had seen to that, along with splinting his wrist and binding his ribs and salving the many scrapes and bruises.  He felt muzzy and warm now from a concoction she had given him, as if he was drunk without the wobbly other effects, but his stomach was a knot and he could not keep his hands still.  He was due back with her once this was done.

In the chair next to him sat Lancer-Lieutenant Linciard, arms and hands bandaged, shoulders slumped, unwilling to meet anyone's eyes.  Medic Shuralla had treated him too, but if he felt any of that soothing warmth, he didn't show it.

In total, the damage had come to a broken nose and right wrist for Weshker, plus enough bruises on his arms, thighs, scalp, sides and back to turn him spotted.  Linciard had a bunch of lacerations bad enough to require stitches plus a few nasty stair-shaped bruises.  They were both covered in scratches, though some might be better termed talon-marks.

“So,” said Captain Sarovy, enthroned behind his desk.  “Explain yourselves.”

Linciard straightened, jaw clenching at the pain of the movement.  “Sir, this is nothing of concern.  The specialist and I had a small altercation—“

“Which sent both of you to the infirmary after a scuffle right outside the garrison where everyone—soldier and civilian alike—could see you.”

“Uh...yes sir.”

“Explain how my second-in-command ended up pummeling one of my specialists.”

“Well I, uh, I'd heard complaints about him, sir, so I approached him for a talk, and...”

Weshker stared at the floor as Linciard fabricated a scenario involving theft and assault against various others.  All were Wynds, who would corroborate his story with glee.

Not that the charges were entirely false.  Weshker did have a habit of pocketing things he found interesting, especially if they belonged to undeserving Wynds, and he had gotten into several incidents in which some of the Wyndish infantrymen had chased him for blocks, forcing him to climb onto roofs and throw tiles and grig shit at them until they went away.

No one had reported those incidents until now, because it was the way of the world.  Corvish shanked and ran; Wynds chased them and beat or killed them if the Corvish were unlucky enough to get caught.

That Linciard would have killed him, he had no doubt.  And he might have killed the lieutenant in his frenzy.  Only Scryer Mako's psychic slap had halted either of them.

Now he kept his head down, not wanting to see the captain's face.  He knew how this would go.  Corvishfolk never lasted in captivity; either they killed themselves or died on the blades of their so-called comrades, usually having murdered some first.  His only regrets were not seeing Sanava again, and letting the captain down—this strange man who had saved him from the monsters for no conceivable reason.

“...And now we're here, sir,” Linciard concluded.

“I see.”

A long silence followed.  In his peripheral vision, Weshker noticed Linciard fidgeting too, flexing his foot in the split-heeled boot.  What he had to worry about, Weshker could not fathom.

“Specialist Weshker, is there anything you would like to add?” said the captain.

“No sir,” said Weshker, though he'd barely been listening.  It didn't matter.

Another extensive silence, then the captain said, “Lieutenant, if you would leave us.”

“But sir, he's—“

“Go.”

Weshker flinched.  That was a dangerous tone if ever he'd heard one.  Linciard made no further argument, and when the door clicked shut in his wake, Weshker dared exhale.  He felt no safer, but at least he was out of the Wynd's reach.

“Specialist Weshker.”

“Yessir?”

“Look at me.”

With trepidation, Weshker raised his head to meet the captain's gaze.  Steel-sharp eyes pinned his.  “There is nothing you wish to add?” prompted the captain, but it was not truly a question; it felt more like a grip with which he could squeeze out truth.

Weshker wiped his nose again, wincing at the queasy sensation it sent through his head.  “It was jes' the way he said it, sir.”

“You do realize that Scryer Yrsian has scanned you.”

He frowned, dimly remembering an itch in his skull while Medic Shuralla was treating him.  “Is she allowed t'do that on us freesoldiers all sneaky?”

“She has not accessed your memories, which would be illegal for a non-Inquisitor, but she scanned your surface thoughts.  She tells me you were not the instigator.”

Weshker blinked. 
Someone's speaking for me?
  “It was jes' a misunderstandin' that got outta hand, sir.  It's nobody's fault.”

“No, I don't think so.”

“I din't mean t'pull the knives, I really din't.  And Linci—  Er, the lieutenant, he jes' acted t'stop me, sir.”  The lies came smoothly, self-defensive.  He could not let Linciard get punished, because when bullies got punished they just returned the pain to him.  The only person who had ever hit him then stood up for him was Cob, and Cob had turned out crazy.

“Did he.”

“Yeh, 'course.  Who knows who I coulda stabbed otherwise, right?  Uh, not that I was tryin' t'stab folks, but...”  Suddenly he wished he had listened to what Linciard was claiming.

Captain Sarovy just looked at him with that unblinking stare, and to his horror he felt his lower lip tremble.  “I mean, I really din't mean it!” he said, no longer sure what he had done.  “I jes', it's, I en't a good freesoldier, sir, I dunno what I'm supposed t'do 'cause I en't a scout nor a special-kinda specialist and they all known each other fer like a million years and the Specialist Lieutenant, the Houndmaster, he's pikin' scary and they dun like...do anythin' to me but the Wynds, sir, it's like it always is and sometimes I wish I was still a slave and I'm sorry, I jes', I guess I jes'—  But we're both all right so it's all right, right?”