Trial of Intentions (86 page)

Relothian raised his blade. Sutter rolled, steel striking the dirt where his chest had been a mere second before. It rang out in the battle yard with a metallic ting. Unable to gain his feet, Sutter rolled again, sensing a second blow. And again the blade bit the ground where he'd just been.

He pushed himself up in time to ward off the third blow, blocking it with his own weapon. The ring of steel came brighter and sharper this time, his blade chipping where it was struck by the king's own.

Sutter reared to strike. Before he could, Relothian brought his hammer down in a brutal stroke at Sutter's left arm. He just had time to whip away, using an evasive Latae dance move. He backpedaled to gain control.

Relothian followed, and swung again. This time, Sutter parried the strike, and slipped his blade in under Relothian's outstretched arm, piercing his upper left thigh. Another Latae figure. The king made no sound, and came on undaunted as blood darkened his trousers. As Sutter pressed forward, the king whipped his hammer around, knocking Sutter's blade out of the way, and following with a powerful strike that cut deep into Sutter's left arm.

The slicing metal sent bright shocks of pain through his flesh. Warm blood began to flow down his sleeve. Every movement brought terrific burn, but he managed to raise his Sedagin blade to ward off another hammer attack.

The metal edge of his Sedagin blade chipped again, and the force of Relothian's blow sent him to the ground a second time. He blindly thrust his blade upward, just as another arcing attack came down at him. This time, the king's sword sundered the Sedagin blade in two.

Sutter stared at the cleanly severed steel, shocked and saddened over the ruined gift. The king likewise stared down at the stump of the Sedagin blade. The only sound in the training yard was their labored breathing. Sutter looked up at the sword in the other's hand.

What metal could cut straight through Sedagin steel?

Then Relothian's eyes focused again on Sutter, and the hard anger returned. Before the king could rear back to strike again, Sutter tossed the truncated sword aside and grabbed the king's sword arm. He pulled Relothian forward, lifting his feet into the man's gut and thrusting out hard with his legs—another Far Latae maneuver. Relothian went sailing, landing heavily in the dirt behind him.

Sutter grabbed his broken blade and rolled onto his knees just as Relothian gained his feet and took one charging step with his upraised hammer.

The king skidded to a stop, dirt and dust flying into the air. A look of confusion lit his face.

“You're mad!” Relothian shouted. “Would you die just to have me join a crowd of politicians in Recityv? Those farmers know nothing of war or the threat beyond the Pall. We're defending ourselves well enough without the help of glad-handers, boy! A
Sedagin
would appreciate this, and leave us in peace.”

Sutter frowned in anger and frustration, and fought to catch his breath. “I'm not Sedagin!”

The king's brow wrinkled with impatience. “Yes, I know the sword wasn't originally—”

“I'm a rootdigger,” Sutter shouted. In the long pause that followed, his frustration released him and he laughed at the look in the king's eyes.

The laughter disarmed Relothian, who looked confused and wary.

“And, my lord,” Sutter said, nodding, “your court and army are not what you think. Take it from a working man.”

Relothian's expression moved from confusion to wonder. Sutter guessed that a man who started life as a smith might appreciate one who started life digging roots. After several long moments, the king's own breathing returned to normal. He lowered his sword. “Show me.”

 

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

A Better Parabola

If we ever get the mirror shape just right, I'm convinced our skyglass will peer beyond space and give us a look into the past.

—Lore ascribed to Jahnes Plerek on the very same night he invented the first reflecting skyglass; though, regardless if it's true or not, it did give rise to theoretical models on the nature of light

T
ahn's Succession team had been preparing ceaselessly for their first argument—a tough one, with the College of Physics. He knew they all needed a night to relax and think about something besides Continuity and Resonance. And, maybe more than that, they needed, for an evening, to leave behind the things they'd been finding as proofs for their argument. They weren't easy things to learn. Or believe. After a warm meal of pheasant and roasted potatoes, Tahn led them to the place he remembered most for getting away from other cares: Snellens, a lens and mirror shop at the edge of the Grove.

He ducked through the door, and immediately heard the rhythmic sound of circular movement. It was like listening to a familiar tune. Shem, the shop owner, could polish a lens or mirror all day with minimal breaks. The man seemed never to tire. Tahn smiled. He loved this place. As much as he enjoyed the
higher
-minded problems of charting stars and making suppositions, he liked every bit as well the chance to sit with Shem and polish a mirror.

He made a small laugh in the dimly lit front of the shop, and led his Succession team through a second door. They emerged into a broad, well-lit workshop filled with all the instruments needed to make a lens or mirror. Neatly in their place were Shem's toolbench, buckets of grit, a box of Ebon white sand, cooling posts, pots of agent and coating metal. All of it had been situated relative to a small kiln in the corner, where Shem fired his own glass parabolas preparatory to them receiving their metal coat. The air hung with the scent of pine—pitch used for polishing. Tahn also smelled the speculum—a copper, tin, and arsenic mixture that comprised one type of metal layer used to make a mirror.

He took it all in at a glance as Shem looked up, his well-lined face smiling. The mirror-maker never stopped polishing the mirror in his lap.

“Gnomon!” He nodded with his head for Tahn to come closer. “You're a reflection of your younger you. Grab a pad.”

Tahn sat opposite his old friend, took up a mirror pad, applied a dollop of pitch, and began polishing the opposite side of the mirror in Shem's lap.

“You're still using speculum?” Tahn asked, as though a day hadn't passed since his last visit to this place.

“Oh, I've got new alloys, and silver's popular. But some of the older star-fellows like the older reflections.” His grin widened. “What's a mirror man to do? I just have to moderate the arsenic. It lends a shine, but not worth dying for.”

“No, probably not,” Tahn agreed with a grin.

Without any introduction, Shem spoke to Tahn's Succession team. “You may not know that Gnomon here is responsible for the single most important discovery in Grove history. In my time, anyway. And maybe in a handful of centuries.” He smiled with the joke of it, and held his tongue to heighten their anticipation.

Tahn looked up at Rithy and his new friends, shaking his head in mock embarrassment.

“Pine tar,” Shem finally said, sharing the mystery's answer. He pointed at the bowl of pitch beside him. “Was a good admixture before. But Gnomon made it better. Poured oil and resin and what-all into a bowl, then went out and tapped a piñon pine for something to give it some viscosity and grit. Mirrors got twice as bright, by my eyes.”

Tahn continued to polish, already losing himself in the steady rhythm of brightening the metal mirror. “I'll be famous for sap,” he added.

To her credit, Rithy made none of the obvious jokes.

“Several mirrors need rubbing,” Shem said, indicating benches around his shop. “You can see how it's done. Have a rub.”

Tahn smiled in good humor. “Give it a try,” he encouraged. “Work the metal in small circular motions. It's relaxing.”

His friends all sat and began to polish various shapes of glass, each bearing a metal coating. With the proper amount of polishing, they'd become Snellens skyglass mirrors—best in the Grove. For several minutes, all that could be heard was the sound of pitch pads going around. Shem put an end to that.

“Now I won't diminish Gnomon's pine tar discovery. Truth be told, it's helped me fetch a fine return on my lenses.” Shem often referred to all his skyglass work as “lens work.” But he also sometimes called it “snellens,” like the name of his shop, which was his own mirror joke—a palindrome with “lens” reflected backward at its beginning. “But did you know he's responsible for the new parabola?”

Rithy looked over at Tahn, who hunched his shoulders. He'd never bothered to share this, even when he'd lived here in the Grove.

“Ayuh,” Shem went on, continuing to polish. “Got fussin' over the shape of it. Said his own skyglass had blurry spots. I let him have a mirror cast to play with. Next thing I know, he shapes it out a bit here and there, changing the curvature. Then he runs some hot glass into it, molds his parabolic mirror, coats it with silver, drops it into his skyglass frame, marches onto the east plain, and discovers the three-year comet. You named it Tamara, didn't you, Gnomon?”

Tahn nodded, memories of different kinds colliding in his mind. But like an astronomer with a good parabola mirror, he was seeing clearly now. The deaths of friends were part of that. He relaxed even more into the fondness of being in Shem's shop, polishing. The smell of mirror metal, pitch, linseed oil, burning tallow … he'd missed this place a hell of a lot.

“I'd forgotten you found Tamara,” Rithy said. Tahn heard admiration in her voice.

“A bit of luck,” he said dismissively.

“No such thing,” Shem countered.

They fell into a spate of quiet polishing. And from the looks on his Succession team's faces, he thought he'd picked just the right thing to help them clear their minds before the actual arguments began.

But the feeling soured when three young philosophers stepped into the room.

“We're closed,” Shem said, hardly acknowledging the newcomers.

“I can see that,” said the first philosopher, “by all the visitors you're entertaining.” The sarcasm was subtle, but accusational.

Shem looked up. “I don't need to stand up, do I?” Shem's tone carried the right amount of threat. He was older, but his arms were like iron. Everyone knew it.

“No, no. Keep your seat.” It was Darius, appearing from behind his two philosopher brethren. He stepped farther into the room, surveying the Succession team. “We just wanted to share a few words, then we'll be going.” Darius smiled.

Tahn noted that beneath the philosophy college insignia, in the same subtle threading, the emblem of the League lay embroidered on his overcloak.

“I overheard a bit of your conversation,” Darius finally said. “Pine tar, was it?”

Tahn nodded, not the least embarrassed. “Clever, don't you think?”

“Certainly. And also certainly the most important discovery you
will
ever make in Aubade Grove.” He stepped forward, coming very near Tahn. “You see, Tahn, with the College of Philosophy, it's not whether or not you can prove Continuity is a real thing.” Darius paused, lending weight to what he meant to say. “It's whether or not your use of it is rational and justified. Like killing a child to save us from the monsters.”

This time it was Darius's men who laughed. Tahn's anger flared—clearly Darius had spies. “Why don't we worry about the philosophy argument when the time comes. Here,” he said, proffering his pitch pad, “would you like a rub?”

The loudest laugh came from Myles, Tahn's team philosopher. Darius silenced Myles with a withering stare. “It may be conventional for a member of our college to counsel the Succession arguer,” Darius said with a biting tone, “but it earns you no credit with me.” Myles dropped his eyes to his mirror.

“Still with the accounting language?” Tahn interjected. “Well then, can I get some credit with you? For my pine sap, maybe?” He was trying hard to diffuse the situation. He'd meant this to be a relaxing evening, and didn't want any trouble, particularly here in Shem's shop. The lenses all around were in a delicate state.

Darius leaned forward. “I don't think you understand the League's position on this.”

Tahn looked down at the dual insignias on Darius's garment. “I watched leaguemen burn an innocent woman.” He let that hang in the air a good long time. “I fought leaguemen for poisoning a child.” He let that hang, too. “I don't give an absent gods damn what your position is.” Then he smiled as dismissively as he was able. But even to him it seemed a grim smile.

Everyone had stopped polishing.

Shem stood. “I'm going to ask you to leave.”

Darius seemed not to hear Shem's invitation. He smiled at Tahn. “As before, I'm here to see Tahn in a formal capacity. As Aubade Grove's ranking leagueman, I'm putting an end to your bid for Succession,” he said, his voice gone cool. “There are many reasons to believe you're a fugitive. Among them, your unlawful escape from your prison cell in Recityv, where you were being held for interfering with the hanging of a leagueman. And the reports we have of you killing innocent children, while inconclusive, are ongoing. In the meantime, I'll have to restrict your access to college libraries and towers, and am considering assigning you a permanent guardian … for the safety of our community.”

“You have your facts wrong,” Tahn said, standing.

Darius waved away his objections. “Besides all this, and before we expend any further Grove resources on Succession, we'll want to feel confident that you aren't putting forward an argument … for the wrong reasons.”

Tahn had lost the feeling he'd come to Snellens to find. And his hope of stopping a war was being torn away based on rumor and distortions of the truth. It was preposterous. And maddening. Perhaps Darius just needed to understand Tahn's purpose.