Vergence (19 page)

Some had wandered towards the exits, but none seemed to have left. A visible ripple went through the crowd as they appeared, and the murmur of conversation died away.

“Before we leave, there is one more matter I need to attend to,” Tenlier said as he scanned the crowd. “Wait here. I shouldn't be long.”

Ebryn moved aside to allow others through the passage behind him and found himself standing next to one of the cheg guards. A few followed Tenlier into the crowd, but most of the assessors gathered on the steps with their newly selected students around them, and bellowed out names over their heads. Some jostled their fellows, or tried to disrupt them by shouting names loudly when they tried to speak. They reminded Ebryn of the marketplace merchants, elbowing one another and haggling loudly over precious goods, fighting to be heard as they called out offers to their customers.

He spotted Brack amongst them, cheeks still red, his face set in a scowl. Sash and Addae were nowhere to be seen so he moved around to the far side of the cheg where he wouldn't be seen. He felt emptied out, exhausted by the strain of the day, and didn't feel like provoking another argument.

The cheg guard followed his movements, looking down on him with small black pupils. It had a broad face covered in fine walnut coloured fur. Two vertical slashes of shining black skin marked its nostrils, similar in appearance to a dog's nose, and its mouth showed as a barely visible line beneath the heavy fur.

In its right hand it held a large pole-arm, a broad axe-head mounted on a thick iron-bound haft, topped with a long spear-like blade.

Tenlier returned through the press of bodies leading Aara. She followed with her head held down, face hidden behind a fold in her headscarf. He could hear Tenlier talking to her as they approached. “—very sorry you had to be subjected to the ordeal of such fearful uncertainty. This selection process we have is far from perfect, but it does work admirably in preventing real fights between the masters, and disputes amongst the orders — which naturally is its real purpose.”

The crowd had surged forward to the bottom of the steps to listen out for names, hopeful faces straining upwards to hear over the babble of competing voices, and Tenlier moved along a short way to avoid the growing throng around the stairs nearest the entrance.

“Unfortunately, I needed to use my entire balance to secure this young man,” Tenlier said. “After his final performance he attracted generous offers from many of my fellows. If I'd had a single counter to spare, I assure you, I would have spared you this tribulation. I gambled none of my friends would see your value and raise a bid, and I was right.”

Ebryn felt surprised, and secretly relieved, to hear he'd been contested between a number of the assessors.

“So here we are,” Tenlier said, surveying them with the satisfied expression of a man who had managed to find two unlikely jewels in a cesspit. “As you have accepted my offer, you are now in the Questors chapter of the Genestuer order and therefore entitled to accommodation in the Questors halls. I assume you are happy with this arrangement?”

“Yes Master,” Ebryn said.

“That's excellent — but not Master, I prefer just my name — Tenlier.”

“Yes Mas — I mean Tenlier,” Ebryn said.

“Plyntoure was supposed to be here to help you sort yourselves out. He seems to have mislaid himself, so I suppose we should proceed to the halls, and you can arrange to have your belongings brought over from there.”

Vittore

“O
RIM — COME IN.”

Duca Vittore spoke without looking up from the papers on his desk. “You don't mind waiting? There is a vawden delegation to be dealt with. Clay has put them off twice already.”

“I am early Duca,” said Orim as he silently pulled the door shut behind him, “I will wait.”

As usual, Orim had entered the study through Vittore's private library, a convenience which allowed him to come and go with minimal scrutiny from the Duca's functionaries and visitors. The narrow library door opened into a shallow recess mid-way along the left hand wall of the room

The study walls were panelled in intricately carved pale redwood, and the flooring made of hundreds of light toned small opalescent tiles which seemed to shift colour subtly as he looked at them. Only a handful of rooms on the upper floors of the palace were finished in this style. The antiquity of the woodwork suggested the materials used hailed from old Volane, fragments of a lost world and more valuable than gold.

Apart from the desk and a few tall hard-backed chairs the room was empty. The only source of light came from a row of tall windows behind Vittore.

Gairlan Clay, Vittore's private secretary, entered the room through the open doors, leading the vawden delegation. Orim waited in the recess, arms folded, watching with interest. Vawden were one of the few true underground dwelling races, and seldom seen amongst men, especially in daylight.

They entered the room huddled together like a gaggle of geese, moving in a tight knot almost on Garlan's heels, heads thrust forward from oversized shoulders. The tallest stood barely two-thirds Orim's height, at least a head shorter than even the Chochin, and wearing knee-length dark brown kilts with belts of interlinked dull iron sections, each cast with the stamp of a different symbol, and smooth caps of a brown leather extending at the rear to the base of their necks.

They wore nothing else, stripped to the waist and bare footed, displaying squat lumpen heavily muscled bodies, the colour of pale blue veined marble. From where they stood, crowded up to Vittore's desk, Orim picked up a powerful musky scent — a combination of old dust, stale sweat and something elusive that reminded him of rich warm soil after rain.

“De Obril guetes de Ducess,” said one of the vawden from the centre of the group.

The speaker seemed to be speaking a mangled form of Volanian, but Orim struggled to make out any of the words.

One of the nearest vawden turned his head to stare at Orim, while edging himself further into the midst of his companions. His eyes were pure black, and reminded Orim of small shiny buttons.

Orim waited impassively as the vawden leader started a long speech. The words were meaningless to him, but the hints of impatience on Vittore's face were clear. The vawden leader seemed to be launching into the start of a long list of arguments or complaints, when Vittore cut him short with a sharp gesture. Moments later, Gairlan Clay opened the double doors at the far end of the room.

“Perhaps I should have them declared vermin,” said Vittore irritably as he watched the retreating backs of the vawden.

“Did you understand any of that?” he asked, glancing at Orim. “They complained about the Koho encroaching on their territory. I had to remind Obril that the Koho have been here the longest, and most of us arrived much later, and by rights he wouldn't have any part of the roots if they hadn't been generous. He didn't like that much, so I told him to put his points in writing and send them to me for consideration.”

Vittore picked up a bundle of papers and waved them at Orim. “But enough with the vawden, we need to discuss something of greater importance.”

Gairlan reappeared at the main doors.

“Thank you, Clay — can you please shut the doors, and ensure we aren't interrupted,” Vittore said.

When the doors were shut, Vittore beckoned Orim closer.

“Were you at the test today, did you witness what happened? These reports are unclear,” Vittore said, pushing the sheaf of papers across his desk, his mouth a thin line.

“Yes,” Orim said. “It is good to see who is chosen, and who chooses.” He left unspoken his desire to spot troublemakers as early as possible.

“Tell me,” Vittore said.

“Three steps there are in this test, do you know this?”

Vittore nodded. “Yes, I understand the principle of the test.”

“With the smaller pieces he was untroubled. This a mark of power. Few complete the second.”

“You can pass the second stage?”

“Yes,”Orim said.

“And at the third stage — what happened?”

“Twice he tried. All sevyric iron in the hall went the second time. Many bindings there were destroyed. Hibgud became enraged.”

“The iron was
destroyed
?” Vittore's face came as close as Orim had ever seen to an expression of incredulity.

“Destroyed? I believe not. Removed, I believe,” Orim said. He picked up a stray glass weight resting near the edge of the desk, holding it in the upturned palm of his outstretched hand. “Folding was his display skill, like so—”

Orim frowned in concentration for a moment, and the after-image of the vanished glass sphere collapsed inwards — slowly at first, then accelerating, as if drained away through an impossibly small hole. He waited until nothing but a faint glow remained in the space above his palm before bringing the paperweight back to his hand with a word, and faintest hint of a gesture.

“As with this,” Orim said, returning the weight to the desk, “the iron pieces have dispersed to his shadow self, his mantle, where they will be carried with him. It may be he can return them.”

“How did the masters feel about this. Were there any bids for the young man?” Vittore asked.

“For their part, confounded. Some fearful, others happy. A few bids there were placed, Master Brack put in all—”

“Yes, Brack wouldn't be able to resist,” Vittore said, nodding.

“Elector Tenlier also.”

“Tenlier?” Vittore asked. “What was he doing there? He hasn't attended a selection for how long?”

“I remember not,” Orim said, shrugging, “but precedence he has. If Ebryn accepts, he will be Elector Tenlier's apprentice.”

“Hmm … perhaps a coincidence. Brack will be frustrated.” Vittore leafed through the papers in front of him. “Did Tenlier choose anybody else?”

“Apprenticeship to a woman by the name Aara Sur, of Deldeon,” Orim said.

Vittore extracted a page from the bundle of papers and ran his finger down a column of names on the right hand side. The writing was tiny and, unlike the runic script of Orim's native lands, ran from right to left — a version of old Volanian, but not one he recognised.

Vittore looked up at Orim. “The boy, he had an assessor called Ethal Quentyn. Do you know him?”

“No,” Orim said. “This is not a name I have heard.”

“From what I read in this report I suspect Quentyn is little more than another's instrument,” Vittore said. “And this Ebryn? Strange chance he is here now, when throwing an enraged cheg into the midst of foraging gullus could hardly create a greater mess.”

There was a long silence as Vittore leant forward on his elbows, fingertips pressed together under his chin, eyes unfocused, lips pursed.

Orim waited patiently for him to complete his thoughts. He watched fine motes of dust as they drifted into the fading light from the windows, wondering how long it would take to clear the lingering sour odour of the Vawden entirely from the room.

“The simplest path would be to kill him. But he may be a ploy, a distraction, and I would rather find out why, before we act,” Vittore said. His chair protested as he settled back. “We have a cord made of many threads, but for the moment each will be occupied watching his neighbour. I can think of a few who will want to find out how he acquired his ability. This Ebryn should be safe until they have discovered the source of this talent he has, but I think it would be wise to set a watch against hotheads. The assessor Quentyn will be their first move, as he is closest to hand. We must take him first. He won’t be able to tell you his name after they've wrung him dry.”

“I should do what with this Ethal Quentyn when I find him?” Orim asked.

“We need to discover everything he knows on this matter. Who sent him to Ebryn, the boy’s circumstances and who taught him. Do whatever is necessary to learn this, then hide Quentyn somewhere he will not be found. We must follow this trail to the end.”

Orim nodded, and turned to leave.

Vittore held up a hand as Orim opened the door. “And Orim, be quick, but ensure our hand remains hidden. Report back if you discover anything of significance.”

Orim closed the door behind him but didn’t leave at once. Instead he stood in silence and listened. At first he heard no noises in the room he'd just left apart from Vittore clearing his throat and shuffling papers, but after a while he made out the faintest click from a closing door, and soft footsteps.

“Please sit,” Vittore said. “Did you hear everything?”

There was the sound of a chair scraping on the floor and a woman’s voice.

“Yes. You think the Vawden are vermin, and you want to exterminate them.”

Orim recognised the cool precise tones of Nee Daelith, head of the watchers chapter of the Aremetuet.

“And the rest — what did you make of it?”

There followed a silence in which Orim guessed some silent communication had passed between Nee and Vittore.

“What is it?” Vittore asked.

“Orim is here, listening,” Nee said.

Vittore made a dismissive sound. “I would be disappointed were he not.”

Nee cleared her throat. “We might differ on the odd point of detail, yet I admit, in every essential Orim has provided an accurate account.”