Vergence (27 page)

His eyes drifted past the larger man to where the black tarry liquid he'd liberated from Sketik lay uncovered, pooling in a small stone basin. An unfamiliar trickle of anxiety loosened his limbs. Orim might overlook many indiscretions, even true summoning, but instinctively he knew the Ronyon wouldn't be happy finding a sample of Sketik's little experiment lying around.

In his gut he felt the small puddle of living darkness could be many magnitudes more dangerous than anything he'd worked with before. He just needed time to experiment with it.

He shuffled around a sarcophagus, drawing Orim's eyes in the other direction, and pushed back his hood. “You here for company, or hoping I'll lick you wounds for you? I hear dwarf spit is good for that in Haeldran.”

“Your bile is enough,” Orim said, his thumb running absently along the hilt of a large knife hanging from his belt. Some of the sheaths next to it, where he usually carried an assortment of blades, were empty.

“What then? Vittore tired of you and wants me for his Ronyon? You getting a bit to slack for the big guy? Tell him I'm not interested in being his back door man.”

“Ha — Vittore has too many enemies to be wanting you for Ronyon,” Orim said. “Small respect for you, there is. Too many enemies he'd soon have.”

Fla fixed Orim with a malevolent glare, heat rising in his cheeks. “So why are you here?”

“An occupation. I have work for you.”

“Spying again?”

“No,” Orim said, producing a Perillian face mask. “This.”

The mask flowed in Orim's hand, coalescing into a face. Broad, intelligent features with a wide mouth. Grey eyes under a sweep of dark hair. An open expression, but with a shadow of caution.

“And? Do you want me to kill him? Who is he?”

“Ebryn Alire, an apprentice of Tenlier. Folding, the third skill he used at selection—”

“Folding?” Fla asked. “Where did he learn that?”

He examined the face again. Folding was acknowledged a challenging skill amongst the more advanced adepts. Possession of such talent at an early stage was a mark of great power and ability.

“Sevyric iron he folded,” Orim said.

Fla felt as if something inside had fallen away. He turned the better side of his face away from Orim to conceal his expression. “Then he's a dead man.”

“No, a dead man he is not. You will protect him.”

“Ask someone else. I'm not a wet nurse.”

“Asking I am not,” Orim said.

Fla scowled, and glared at Orim. “Very well, but what you want from me isn't easy—”

“Easy and I would ask another.”

“What about recompense?”

“Our arrangement will be as before,” Orim said.

Fla scowled again. “There may be injuries … or deaths. I will need a letter absolving my part. This isn't going to be easy.”

“A letter I will give to you, bearing Vittore's seal.”

Plyntoure

E
BRYN WOKE SLOWLY
the next morning. His head felt as if it had been squeezed between two large rocks, his tongue swollen and dry, with a lingering rancid taste in his mouth. He swung his feet out of bed and sat on the edge as his eyes adjusted to the morning light. It seemed much brighter than previous days. A fresh breeze carried an evergreen scent into the room.

His cloak lay crumpled in an unruly heap on the floor, and discarded boots sprawled in the corner near the balcony. He'd spent the night lying on top of the bedsheets, fully dressed. Most of the preceding evening was still clear in his mind, but after a certain point his recollections became jumbled — he had no idea how he'd managed to get back to his rooms.

After a while, sitting on the edge of his bed, Ebryn remembered his arrangement to meet with Plyntoure that morning.

He managed to lose his way a couple of times in the large house before finding Plyntoure in an alcove, to one side of the kitchen antechamber. The room was hot, and the smell of cooking riled his stomach, but he forced himself to sit.

Plyntoure's ears swivelled forward. “Are you unwell?”

“I had too much to drink last night. Too much beer,” Ebryn said, massaging his forehead.

“How unfortunate for you.”

One of Plyntoure's ears turned back as if searching for some distant sound. Ebryn looked at him uncertainly. He couldn't sense whether his words had been humour or sympathy.

A tryth padded up to the table, deposited a tankard in front of Ebryn, and a bowl of what looked like nuts before Plyntoure. For a moment he thought they'd brought him more beer, but the drink turned out to be watery with a sharp lime flavour, sweetened with honey. Something in it warmed him as he sipped it, settling his stomach, and easing his headache.

Plyntoure quickly crunched his way through the contents of his bowl, then sat upright, and looked at Ebryn with his ears tilting forward.

“Are you well enough? We can discuss later if you need?” Plyntoure said.

“No, I'm fine, much better for the drink, thank-you,” Ebryn said. “Are you planning on telling me about the work Tenlier wants me to do?”

Plyntoure made a clicking sound with his mouth. “Master Tenlier has no regular work for you to do. You are to spend your time learning. You are fortunate — most apprentice casters are given many kinds of hard work. They are bound to to serve for the benefit of their chapter and order, until they become adepts or leave—”

“Why hasn't he got work for me?” Ebryn asked.

“In time,” Plyntoure said. His long ears twitched as if warding off an insect. “Take no offence. Master Tenlier has great esteem for your skill. He told me your wards, far-sensing, and folding, would shame many adepts. On the other side, he said your learning has been narrow.”

“Narrow?”

Plyntoure's ears twitched again. “As I say, take no offence. Master Tenlier said the greater part of your affinities lie undiscovered. What you know now would serve for the Aremetuet, not the Genestuer — and so training.”

“What is the Aremetuet?” Ebryn asked, watching Plyntoure's ears. He found the movement distracting. At first they reminded him of a horse, then a deer, signalling Plyntoure's thoughts as clearly as the expressions on any face.

“Forgive me, I forget such things are new to you. Casters in Vergence belong, for the most part, to one or other of the Orders. Ours is the Genestuer, with chapters for archivist, and teachers. We are in the Questers chapter. The other Orders are Hemetuen, Mechetuet, Emesues, and the Aremetuet. In old Volane the Aremetuet were a military order. Now they are reduced to the duties of civic guard and policing.

“The purpose of our chapter is to improve the understanding of our art, discover new things, recover what has been lost. Our chapter is one of the few without set obligations to the city. We support the orders by seeking out what they need to know and finding better ways.”

“Which is why Master Tenlier wanted Aara. Finding things?”

“You have it exactly.”

“I see,” Ebryn said. “What does Master Tenlier want me to study?”

“Master Tenlier asked me to guide, not teach you. I have little skill in casting — there is no doubt your least accomplishment outshines my greatest.”

“So, where do I start?”

“I expect Master Tenlier would wish you to study broadly, in whatever you feel drawn to. If you have affinities, this is your chance to discover them. The masters of most orders are obliged to provide lessons which are open to all. An obligation, I must admit, each meets with a different level of commitment. You are free to attend whichever you choose.

“One I do recommend is the study of the workings of casting, taught each week by our Dem DeLare. Her introductory lesson is in the morning on first day in two weeks, so twenty-six days. The other masters post which lessons they are teaching, and the times, outside the training rooms.”

“Two weeks, twenty-six days?” Ebryn asked.

Plyntoure made a snuffling sound, which sounded like it might be laughter. “Twelve days in each week, and twelve seasons in each year. Fortunately, there are a mere four weeks in each season, or a year would be a lifetime.”

Ebryn tried to imagine how twelve seasons might work. “So, does it snow in only one season, or four?”

“Here, seasons merely mark the passing of days. We have no cold winter, and no hot summer. The weather changes little from day to day, sometimes warm, sometimes rain, regardless of which day, or which season.”

“Like the missing stars at night, and sun in the day?”

“Just so.”

Ebryn nodded. “Twenty-six days until we start. I'll remember.”

“Hmm, what else … ah yes, I must give you your stipend,” Plyntoure said, placing a small bag on the table and pushing it towards Ebryn. It clinked as it came to rest. “Accommodation and meals are free while you remain within the order, and you receive a small weekly payment for all other expenses, which you must manage for yourself. You need to pay for your own clothing, parchment and ink, and anything else you may need. There are guilders for two weeks in there — an extra week in advance — I hope you have no objection?”

“That's fine. I can't see I'll be spending much,” Ebryn said.

It was the first time in his life he'd had any real money for himself, and now he had some, he had no idea what to spend it on. He picked up the bag and folded it away, with a word and a twist of his wrist.

“So I suppose I'm free for the next two weeks?”

“Yes, free. Time enough for you to learn your way about the city, and refresh before the start of the new year.”

As he stood to go, Ebryn recalled a question troubling him from the previous day. “There was something I meant to ask master Tenlier yesterday. Before the selection test, one of the recorders told me my family name — Alire — was Volanian.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I was wondering if there's a way of finding out if Alire is a Volanian name?”

Plyntoure scratched at his chin with one long finger. “I imagine there is.”

“Do you think I look Volanian?”

Plyntoure paused before answering, both his ears turned back. “Truthfully, I am ashamed to admit I cannot distinguish between one kind of Volene and another. Aside from the manner of dressing, I could not tell a Haeldran from a Volanian, or a Yotepulatan from a Cassadian. I cannot say.”

“I'm not trying to cause trouble, it was just an odd thing to say, and I'd like to know.”

“I will seek guidance from Master Tenlier,” Plyntoure said, smoothing the fur on the side of his face with his hand. “There is the library, and our archivist cousins keep many records in their vaults. He will know the best place to look.”

“Thanks. It may be nothing, but I'd like to know.”

“I will enquire for you,” Plyntour said, “and that way you will not be diverted from your studies.”

“Ebryn … Ebryn, are you awake?”

The question penetrated his dreams and he rolled over, throwing an arm over his head to block out the morning light. He'd been riding Soren through the woods on an early summer day, stretching out with his hand to fetch a bird from a tree.

“No … yes …”

He opened his eyes to find Sash sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at him.

“Sash? What are you doing here?”

“I need help with Leth.”

“Leth? What hour is it?”

Sash shrugged. “It's morning — early. I've been up a for a while. I always get up at first light. Leth is behaving strangely, he won't come back to me. He's been perched on a ledge for a while, and I can't get him to come down.”

Ebryn rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the fleeting images of his dream and focus on her. He'd never seen her worried before, and the change was startling.

“Where is he?”

“Just outside the window of my room.”

Ebryn sighed and sat up. Since the second time he'd found Sash in his room in the morning he'd stayed partially dressed whenever he went to bed. “Show me. I'll see what I can do.”

“Can you bring your book with you?” Sash asked. “There might be something in there to explain why he's being so strange with me.”

When he'd dressed, Ebryn followed Sash outside, across the courtyard, through a small door, and up flights of creaking stairs barely wide enough for two people to pass each other. The door to Sash's rooms had been left open.