Trial of Intentions (54 page)

Mira shook her head at the apology. Then said simply, “The
king
commands the army.”

Even the gearsmith's fidgeting thumb stopped. He stared at her for a long time. “You didn't really come to see my work, did you?”

“You're the king's head gearsmith,” Mira replied. “I want to understand what moves when he asks it. The state of his warcraft.” She paused, looking around again.

“And he knows you're here asking?” Gear Master Mick's playful smile slowly returned.

Mira let herself respond with a grin. “He knows that the regent of Recityv has called a Convocation of Seats. He knows he's been asked to attend. And he knows that it means these toys of yours could be built at scale and pushed by a column from Recityv, or Pater Ful, or Kali-Firth, or Masson Dimn … or Naltus Far.”

The gearsmith's eyes beamed again. “That would be superb. Superb!”

With his knife hand, he waved her to follow, and he led her through his gear house, toward the far wall. They passed great racks, where the models became progressively larger, as though the applicable physics were being tested at incremental size increases. Going along, more metal was used in the larger iterations, and fewer designs appeared to have passed muster. Bins of broken gears stood beside each table.

They shuffled through sawdust and cast-off tools and stray wooden rods and bits of steel. The rafters seemed to heighten as the models became nearly the size one might take to battle. And at the far end of the wide gear house, racks of weapons and armor and a few smaller, strange-looking siege machines sat silent, ready for use.

Mira had seen her share of war weaponry. But this was new country. Master Mick must have seen something of that in her face, as he visibly held back a snigger, and led her toward the far wall.

They walked on for ten strides before he stopped and turned to her, a new look on his face—concern, maybe. “I'm no warmonger. I want you to understand that. But my gears…” His face took on the bright, gleeful quality she'd remember it for. “Isn't it grand to think of a thing, and figure out how to make it work.” He shrugged his shoulder once, as though to say he was helpless to do anything but obsess about his gear work.

He then pulled a lever that released a locking hook, and slid back a great section of the wall. It rolled at the bottom, and glided at the top on an iron track. And beyond it lay a deep and wide courtyard, walled in by long-cut timber. Sitting here and there were the full realizations of the whittled models back inside his gear house. A few of them, anyway. Some stood the height of a man. Most were ten times that size, great, hulking, but elegant things, crafted of lumber and iron and rope. All were set on sturdy wheels for travel. And all, even in the bright sun of morning, hinted of menace.

Mira stepped into the immense courtyard, unable to name most of the war machines, though several appeared to have functions similar to others she had seen—casting boulders, iron balls, heavy spears. Others, though, she couldn't see how they worked. Some appeared to twirl large spiked balls. A few smaller contraptions were tethered to what looked like thin-canvased hot-air balloons.

And she realized there were yards like this all across the expansive city of Ir-Caul.

“Who takes care of these during battle?” she asked. “Do you go out with them?”

“Oh my gears, no. I'm a bit too gimpy for war business anymore. We have gearsmiths assigned to each machine. Usually come up through the smithy ranks. Fine crop of young men, I must say, to tend a fine crop of gears.” He beamed with pride.

But the collection of siege weapons … they stole her breath. They spoke of devastation, and left the sunny courtyard feeling like a field of graves. As hand models hewn in the sweet smell of pine they were more a toy than a gearsmith's engine for war. But standing tall and throwing shadows the way a full-grown elm would … they had a silent roar of their own.

The gearsmith startled her when he came to stand beside her and spoke. “These were commissioned by House Relothian.”

Something in that sounded off. “The king is Relothian.”

“Yes,” said the gearsmith. “And so are all the members of his family.”

She turned to look at him. The playful grin seemed more knowing this time, and Mira knew where to call next.

 

CHAPTER FIFTY

Thank You

We are the choices we make. So choose well.

—Sheason teaching most often attributed to Palamon

“
V
endanj?” The voice sounded very far away. “Vendanj?”

Slowly, he opened his eyes in the dimness. His circumstances rushed in—Recityv, Convocation, imprisoned in the pits deep beneath Solath Mahnus for rendering—and he looked back into the eyes of Artixan, the finest mentor he'd had in his early Sheason years.

“How long have I been asleep?” He looked around, finding himself the lone prisoner in the dark cell. “And where's Rolen?”

“Roughly eighteen hours,” his old friend answered, “and I daresay your hope of being shackled in the same place with another Sheason was a bit fanciful.”

He rubbed the back of his head, which had apparently taken several swift licks with a cudgel. “I figured I could find him if they didn't put us together.”

“Mmmm, yes, that would have gone over well, too.” Artixan shifted where he sat—on the bottom stone step that led up to the cell door. “Your politics haven't improved much.”

Vendanj made a weak laugh, and instantly regretted it, pain spinning through his head as he did so. “I like to think they have. Everyone at Convocation is still breathing, aren't they?” He thought a moment. “So, it's what, third hour?”

“Round about. Safe time for an old man like me to shuffle down to see an old student. Give him another lesson or two, perhaps.” Artixan's smile was playful, but still sad.

“Good trick if you can do it,” he said, and tried to sit up. New waves of pain rippled through him.

“Stay still,” Artixan ordered with a bit of vim. “Let me share the news that needs sharing, while you rest.”

Vendanj nodded, and settled back.

“Convocation didn't get far after you were carted out. Lots of squabbling to establish a pecking order, if you ask me.” Artixan shook his head. “Beyond that, there's some good and bad you should know about.”

Vendanj braced himself.

“Randeur Thaelon has sent an envoy to broker peace with the League.” Hope rang in Artixan's voice. “Sent his own daughter to do the negotiating. You know her?”

“Ketrine,” Vendanj said, gladdening to hear this news. “Smarter than you and I together. But I didn't think she'd been given the authority to render yet.”

“She hasn't. But she's not alone. I have to think Roth will take it seriously that Thaelon sent her on this errand.” Artixan fell silent for several long moments.

“Out with it,” Vendanj coaxed. “Whatever it is can't be worse than I've seen recently.”

Artixan hesitated a moment more. “First Sodalist E'Sau was murdered tonight. The assassin has implicated the Sheason Order—left one of our knives in the poor man.”

“Dead gods!” Vendanj seethed through gritted teeth. He welcomed the pain in his head that came with it. “Roth.”

“Bastard dragged E'Sau's new widow and children to the scene.” Artixan sounded both weary and angry. “Word of it will spread without the League itself as gossipmonger. That will all happen, I'm sure, before we can prove it was Roth behind it all.”

Vendanj calmed himself in order to think past the act and toward intentions. “Who will replace E'Sau?”

“The Sodality will vote, of course,” Artixan began. “But a young man by the name of Palon is the likely successor.”

“I've met him. Urge the Sodality to replace E'Sau quickly. We'll need their support.”

Artixan nodded as though such was already under way.

After several long breaths, Vendanj turned to his old friend and mentor. “And you're here on Helaina's behalf, too.”

Artixan smiled. “She shouldn't be seen in the pits. Especially not with you. And especially not during Convocation.”

Feeling a bit stronger, Vendanj propped himself up on his elbows. “Tell her Tahn is fine. He survived Tillinghast. And his memory has been restored.”

“Where is he now?”

“Aubade Grove.” Vendanj shared with Artixan that Tahn had stopped using the guiding words he'd been taught by his father. He also shared with him Tahn's enthusiasm to get back to the Grove and try to find a way to strengthen the Veil. “It's odd the path life takes, isn't it?”

“What about you?” Artixan asked, probing as he'd done when Vendanj had studied
knowledge
and
influence
with the man.

“Older. More bitter. Less trusting.” The small smile that had spread on his face quickly faded. “Disappointed and angry that the Sheason are divided.”

Artixan's brows rose, questioning. “Is that disappointment in yourself, then?”

The smile returned by half. It was good to have his mentor goading him again. He'd spent eight years under the man's tutelage. The first four as a Sulivon—mastering the requisite knowledge to command the Will—and the latter four learning the art of influence—the actual use of the Will. He remembered fondly that much of that time had been spent answering questions about his own motivations and feelings. When it came to Vendanj's decisions and actions, Artixan was a man who cared more about
why
than
how
. What had mattered to Vendanj was that Artixan cared at all. That concern was something even Vendanj's father had never bothered to show.

Vendanj left that part of his past alone. He had no time for it right now.

“Yes,” he said. “Disappointment in myself. Not just me. But yes.”

“Good,” Artixan said, looking pleased. “Then I can trust that you plan to repair it.”

He nodded, feeling new aches in his neck. “I do. Once we're through with Convocation, we're heading to Estem Salo. I believe, with Tahn and the others, we'll right this ship.”

Artixan studied him for a moment, running his knuckles down his bearded jaw. “Don't bully Thaelon. I've a lot of respect for the man. He's reasonable, and unusually creative in his solutions.”

“No bullying,” Vendanj agreed. “I just need him to see things for what they are. Same as Convocation.”

“And be careful as you do it.” The admonition had the feel of a parent's caution. His mentor hadn't had children of his own, and Vendanj had been glad to fill that role as an unspoken surrogate. “But don't go in all milksop, either.”

“No milksop. Understood.”

After it all, this was how he'd originally bonded with the man. Artixan had a benevolent demeanor, and could be trusted to be fair. But he followed his conscience without fail, regardless of anything else. Even his Sheason oath. Just as he'd done when he'd revived Helaina's stillborn child, Tahn.

Vendanj shared a long look with the man he'd come to think of as his father in many important ways. “Do you ever regret it?”

“It” was another thing that needed no context between them. They'd spoken of it many times.

“No,” he said firmly but without sharpness. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face softening a bit in the shadows. “Helaina was suffering. Just as one with leprosy or cowardice. Just as one who others won't allow to outlive a reputation earned by poor choices. And by some small miracle, she got pregnant, which was the answer for her suffering. So”—he hunched his shoulders—“when her child came still, and she asked me to help, I helped. I don't regret it any more than I would regret counseling a coward, curing an illness, or helping someone who needs to start over.”

“Except that helping her was an illicit use of Will.” Vendanj was more calling to question the Sheason oath than Artixan's choice.

His old friend sat considering a long while. “I suppose it makes you and I more alike than either of us might care to admit.” Then he laughed, full and loud, the sound of it echoing in the pit cell.

Despite the pain it caused him, Vendanj joined in.

After their laughter subsided, he looked his old friend in the eye. “Did I ever thank you for sitting with me in those days after Illenia died?”

Artixan's smile turned sad. “Every time we meet. And you're welcome, my boy. You're welcome.”

 

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Pendulums

One must admit the possibility that the Veil and the Quiet weren't an unforeseen aberration, but part of the Framers' plans from the beginning.

—
A New Take on Reconciliation, an Argument for Design,
from the office of the Third Prelacy of Recityv

I
t had been a long time.
Too long,
Tahn thought, as he stepped into the wide observation dome atop the tower of astronomy. He'd made the long ascent up the tower stairs in anticipation of this moment. Nowhere had he seen a view of the night sky like the one he had now. The view was, quite simply, magnificent.

In the shadows stood sky tools. The great skyglass dominated the center of the dome. But here, too, were armillary spheres, orreries, astraria, astrolabes, quadrant maps, and more. They sat silently waiting for an astronomer to make use of them to measure the sky above.

Polaema had ensured Tahn had access to college resources as he began piecing together his Succession argument. But that wasn't why he was here tonight. Before he formally declared Succession tomorrow, and got to the heart of his reason for returning here, he had one thing he wanted to pursue with his access to Grove annals and archives.

Quillescent
.

Even that, though, faded momentarily from his thoughts. The vault of heaven opened above him as though near enough that he could reach out and touch it. He'd always loved the feeling here. A calm lay over everything. The patience of the stars. Thoughtful study and observation high above the rest of the Grove gave the domes a reverence all their own. They called it “walking with the stars” up here. Tahn smiled, relaxing more than he could remember since leaving the Hollows.