Aethersmith (Book 2) (58 page)

“Brannis, what are you doing? You lost to Iridan,” Aloisha
broke the silence first.

“Anyone who did not see that he threw that match was not
paying attention,” Caladris shot back.

Fenris nodded his agreement with the sentiment.

“I am not Iridan, either,” Dolvaen said softly.

Caladris tried from Dolvaen’s peripheral vision to signal
him to back down. Eye movements, head shaking, hand gestures, all failed to
draw Dolvaen’s attention from his would-be challenger.

“Dammit, man, snap out of it,” Caladris relented, breaking
with decorum. “I know you worked your way to the top with no help from a
blooded house. Admirable. Do not let pride get in the way of sense.
Look
at that Source. It is not a matter of training or technique or trying hard—”

“It was a challenge. If I would still call myself High
Sorcerer, I have to accept. That is how it was meant to be, sorcerers ruling
sorcerers by acknowledgement of might.”

“I could withdraw the challenge, formally, if you agree to
abide Emperor Sommick’s decree,” Kyrus offered. “I came here to seek counsel
from my uncle, not to take control of the Imperial Circle. Carry on as you had,
and you will have no quarrel with me.”

“You would rethink your challenge, then?” Dolvaen caught
hold of the thread he was offered, gave it a tug.

“My apologies, Sorcerer Dolvaen. I had meant the challenge
as a figure of speech, a debate tactic, if you will. I regret if I led anyone
to believe otherwise,” Kyrus conceded.

“Well, you posed your point eloquently. I see no reason why
we should contest the emperor’s transfer of authority to Sir Brannis,” Dolvaen
stated. He eyed Kyrus dangerously, but no hint of that crept into his voice.

“If, as I have surmised, this session was called for the
primary purpose of discussing Emperor Sommick’s dispensation of authority,
would that mean that this meeting might now be adjourned? I
do
have
business to discuss with my uncle.”

* * * * * * * *

“Brannis, my boy, you have a knack for twisting words. I am
glad to have you free of so much time in the warlock’s company. You are honing
that craft against a master of it,” Caladris joked. They had adjourned to
Caladris Solaran’s office just beneath the Sanctum.

“He was like that before, near as I have gathered,” Celia
Mistfield commented. They had found her waiting there for her superior’s
return. She was busily making copies of the edict to distribute to the
far-flung cities of the Empire. “After he got his Source freed up, though, he
has been more bold about whose words he is willing to twist. Trust me, he
twisted mine often enough when he was just a knight who had been promoted above
his station.”

“I prevented the subversion of Emperor Sommick’s orders, and
averted an embarrassing draw with Dolvaen Lurien. What is wrong with that?”
Kyrus asked.

“Nothing on the surface of it. It is when those words twist
a way I do not like. That is what I worry about: not being able to twist them
back in my favor,” Caladris replied, slumping down into his padded, high-backed
chair. He tipped it back until it leaned against a bookcase. “What had you
needed to speak to me about?”

“Well, for all that bluster in the Sanctum, I was left
holding the reins of an empire with no idea how to ride one,” Kyrus stated.

“You could always just do as Rashan does: put me in charge
of anything you do not wish to deal with. He has already given me purview over
his pet thieves and all the night-stabbing activities—which used to be more of
a figurative term,” Caladris said. He reached for a drawer that was
just
within arm’s reach of his reclined position. He pulled out a pipe and a box,
from which he took a pinch of crushed darweed. He stuffed the bowl of the pipe
with the foul-scented herb, and set it alight, puffing to create little gouts
of smoke.

“What do I do about the murders?” Kyrus asked. “Can Dolvaen
be trusted to follow through on an investigation?”

“Why would he not be?” Celia asked.

Kyrus looked in her direction as she spoke, then quickly
turned his attention back to Caladris.

“Brannis, you can drive yourself mad with such things. If
you like, leave dealing with the murders and Dolvaen’s investigation to me. You
were already seeing to the army, now add the nobles and court matters to that,
and consider yourself sufficiently burdened. It would take me half a season to
get you caught up on all the conspiracies of every make and size that are going
on among the Circle. It was Rashan’s style to deal with every detail, but he is
a demon. You need sleep. Learn to lean on folk whom you can trust.”

“Can I trust you?” Kyrus asked.

“Brannis!” Celia chided, her tone indignant.

“It is all right, my dear. Brannis is showing wisdom, if not
tact. We ward these rooms so that frank conversations are possible. I know that
there are sides being drawn up. I have been drawing up one side of them.
Warlock Rashan had little time to align supporters in his favor. I did all that
work on his behalf. If you would align yourself with Rashan, you align yourself
with me. Thus far, both sides have seen you as a wild card, Brannis. You think
too independently to be thought of in Rashan’s coinpurse, despite all that you
owe him. I do not find that a fault; I feel confident you will see which side
is right, not just follow along blindly.”

“I should still be made aware of these conspiracies, even if
I allow you to manage them,” Kyrus said.

“Fair enough. Celia, if you would be so good, take a few
evenings and give Brannis an understanding of what goes on when you peel back
the layers of this rotten onion of an empire.”

“Of course, Caladris,” Celia said, perhaps a bit too
eagerly.

Kyrus kept himself from objecting. He felt like he ought to,
but really did not wish to. It was the opportunity he had arranged for himself,
after all.

“Now you have other duties to attend,” Caladris said to Celia.
“Be about them, my dear, and leave Brannis and me to discuss some family
matters.”

Celia straightened up the papers she was working on, and
stood to leave. Kyrus stepped aside to let her by.

“I will stop by your room this evening, around sunset,”
Celia whispered to him as she passed by. Kyrus nodded in reply. She opened the
door, stepped halfway through, then leaned back. “See you tonight, then …
Kyrus.” She disappeared as the door closed between them.

“Now, Brannis …” Caladris continued to talk, but nothing
registered with Kyrus. He babbled through replies. His brain needed time to
recover as he sorted through the possibilities conveyed by that one spoken
name.

* * * * * * * *

A blackened timber held up a loose blanket of rubble in one
corner of the basement of what had once been a store peddling imported goods.
Burned wood, shattered pottery, various dented and fire-blackened metal curios
had settled into a cooling, mushy mess within the foundation, like layers of
sedimentary rock: basement, first floor, loft—all compressed to a knee-high
refuse pile that scavengers would mine for treasures once it seemed safe
enough.

Hidden beneath that lonely beam, sheltering under it like a
lean-to, was Aelon Beff. When the Megrenn sorcerers burned their shop to the ground,
he and Faolen reacted very differently. The illusionist had attempted a
diversion and escape—and failed. Aelon had trusted to something different:
dragonflesh.

Aelon Beff and Sanbin Colvern had caught Warlock Rashan’s
attentions after the battle of Raynesdark. Of all the feast-goers after the
battle, the two of them were the ones who became most fond of the taste of
dragonflesh. Of course, fondness is no crime, but stealing crates full of the
cured, smoked flesh of the great reptilian goddess Jadefire (whose proper name
was Nihaxtukali) was another matter. The two men gorged themselves in
clandestine contests of gastric fortitude. The rarest of delicacies was washed
down commoners’ gullets by tankards of cheap ale.

The warlock’s anger had been a capricious thing. One moment,
it seemed as if they would be ripped open, and gutted to reclaim as much of the
precious meat as possible. The next he was marveling at the uncanny resistance
both men had developed to fire. Sanbin’s work as a smith was well served by
immunity to the effects of the forge’s heat. Aelon had found little use for the
gift aside from parlor tricks until he found himself within a burning building.

There is an instinct in all animals to flee from fire. Aelon
fought that instinct once he saw what had become of Faolen. He knew in his head
that the flames could not consume him, but there are organs in the human body
that offer their thoughts as secretions, quickening the heart, clenching the
gut, widening the eyes. It was the smoke that panicked him, nearly broke him.
The heat from the flames was like the summer sunlight beating on his skin,
noticeable but no threat. The smoke clouded his vision, displaced the air,
threatened to fill his lungs.

Draped with Faolen’s invisibility spell, Aelon had pressed
himself flat to the floor, wondering if he dared flee as the illusionist had,
taking his chances against being discovered. In the end, the fear of discovery
won out, and he remained frozen in place as the smoke reached floor level. He
pressed the cloth of his tunic over his face, and breathed through it, still
smelling the disconcertingly pleasant smell of wood smoke despite his
precaution. The cloth blocked too much air to his lungs, though, and in his
panic, he was short of breath, and began feeling light-headed. He took a deep,
sucking breath around the cloth, having the fool idea to fill his lungs as they
demanded, then resume his filtered breathing.

He inhaled the smoke.

He exhaled.

Aelon nearly gave himself away by laughing aloud, exultant
in his relief. He sat up, surrounded by fire and engulfed in smoke, a bemused,
manic expression spreading across his face. He watched the room burn around him
with a rather draconic sense of detachment. He reveled in the absurdity until
the floors began to give way beneath him. Then practical concerns crashed back
down around him. Checking that he was still invisible, he scrambled to the
windows to see if anyone was still waiting outside; they were.

It was tense as Aelon dodged about the shop, seeking to keep
ahead of the destruction, not trusting himself to flee while he could remain
hidden within the safety of his private inferno. Eventually he wound up in the
basement, cowering beneath a sturdy section of timber propped where it had
fallen in a corner.

Something had fallen and knocked him cold. When he had
awakened, it was daylight, although he knew not what day. He hid away until
nightfall, weathering the spring rain that filled the foundation pit a
fingersbreadth deep. By the starlight of the clearing sky, he found little
scraps to shore up his hovel and provision it, unsure of where to go.

Now he awoke with a sense of purpose, but no clear
direction. He had survived, against all odds, against all reason. He had three
choices as far as he could figure them: he could seek out Faolen—should he
still live—and rescue him; he could continue the mission, and try to contact
Anzik Fehr to bargain for the staff; or he could sneak back to Kadrin-held
territory with his tail between his legs, informing Rashan that the mission had
failed.

Aelon propped a large shard of a shattered mirror against
the stone wall. Huddling beneath the protective canopy offered by the beam, he
took a sharp knife, and began carefully scraping away at the hair on his scalp.
Someone had recognized them, had reported about them, knew about them. With no
more of Faolen’s magic to hide him, he needed to become someone else.

None of the three paths he saw would matter if he was
identified and captured.

* * * * * * * *

“Your plan was approved, Tiiba,” General Rozen said.
“Councilor Fehr has sent along two additional instructions, however.”

The general and the blade-priest stood together on a balcony
overlooking the central square of Munne. Foot traffic was brisk, both among
Kadrin citizens and Megrenn occupiers. The general looked out over the city as
he spoke, but Tiiba’s attention was focused solely on Rozen.

“What conditions has the Councilor attached to the plan?”
Tiiba asked. He stood with his feet spread, arms clasped behind his back.

“He will not honor the bargain, if it is accepted,” General
Rozen began.

“I am not concerned about that. It is the Council’s
prerogative, and I shall abide their decision. It will not change the plan.”

“He also requests that, if at all possible, Warlock Iridan
Solaran be captured alive.”

“Does he give any indication of how he will accomplish the
feat of caging a warlock?” Tiiba asked, a scholarly curiosity bubbling to the
surface.

“You can ask Dembeck Drall, if you want to know. I did not
delve into the details of the magic, but Councilor Fehr has instructed him on
how to manage exactly that feat.”

“Hmm, I may do just that.”

* * * * * * * *

“Sir Brannis,” Kyrus heard behind him. He was still in a
haze of mental overflow, unable to put a name to that voice, perhaps able to
put too many names to it. His mind threatened to rebel at the double thinking
required of a twinborn; it would have preferred a nice game of chess.

“Sir Brannis,” the voice persisted.

Kyrus was almost back to his own quarters. He could have
easily made a dash to the safety of a well-warded room where he could collapse
into his bed, and try to sort out everything that was going on.

Some sense of duty, stuffed away in a resilient corner of
his mind, forced Kyrus’s head to turn, and identify the speaker. It was Varnus.
Varnus knew important things.
Blast it!
Varnus was someone he had to
stop and talk to.