Vergence (37 page)

“I suppose so. Did you know he's a prince, the son of a king?”

“Is it important? He's still Addae, whatever else he might be,” she said, holding out a hand to pull him to his feet. “I need to go, or I'll be late. Are you heading to the library?”

Ebryn lapsed into silence as he followed her under the gate arch, and up the street towards the circle road. He realised he knew far less about Addae and Sash than he'd thought.

He wondered if his parents had left him the same way Addae had left his son, and, if so who they might be? Or had his father abandoned his mother? In northern Goresyn, unmarried with child, her reputation would have been ruined. Would it have been the same if she'd lived in Senesella rather than Fyrenar?

Looking up as they arrived at the place where their ways usually separated, he found Sash watching him, with a slight frown on her face. In the brighter light he could see shadows under her eyes.

“What about you?” Ebryn asked. “You look worn out.”

“Me? I'm fine. Illusions are easy for a short while, but it's hard to keep them going, and looking real, for a longer time. But Teblin puts more in than anyone — you should see how weary he is after we've finished for a day.”

“It seems all my friends are having a difficult time, and I can't do anything to make it easier.”

Sash reached out hesitantly, and touched his arm as they parted. “I'll see you later, and we can talk, if you want to?”

Instead of heading for the library, as he'd first planned, Ebryn turned back down the lane leading through the third claw, and returned to his chapter house. Addae's anger troubled him, and he had to admit to himself he'd been disappointed with his experience of the Aremetuet order too.

But it occurred to him Brack should be only one of three leaders of his order, if the Aremetuet hierarchy followed the same pattern as the other orders.

At first, he'd considered asking Ben-gan, but had no idea how he might react. Ben-gan had suggested he'd been punished for attempting illegal casting as a cure for diseases — would he even consider helping Addae to train for a war? Would he refuse, or would he try to prevent Addae?

Ebryn quickly settled on Plyntoure as the best person to ask, if not for assistance for Addae, then at least for information about the Aremetuet.

He found Plyntoure in the large study, perched on a too big chair, surrounded by a mess of papers and parchments, and gripping a very large mug of his favourite bitter-smelling infusion. Despite the warmth of the day a low fire burnt in the hearth next to the table.

He looked up as Ebryn entered the room, ears forward. “Good morning, Ebryn. I'm surprised to see you here at this time of the day, is something amiss?”

“No,” Ebryn said. “Well, not really. I wanted to find out something, and I didn't know anybody better suited to ask.”

Plyntoure placed his mug carefully on the table, and straightened up.

“What is it you want to know?”

Ebryn sat in one of the padded chairs opposite Plyntoure, wondering how to broach the subject. He didn't think Addae would thank him for blurting out the real reason for his questions.

“It's about the Aremetuet.”

“Ah, I see. You attended a lesson with Master Brack? Are war-casters not an anachronism in these times? Yet there they are.”

He wasn't sure what Plyntoure meant. “Yes, we went to a lesson with master Brack. He was strange — violent, and he hurt a friend of mine.”

Plyntoure's ears turned back. “There are stories. It is known he favours some peoples above others, and can be harsh in his methods. Do you wish to complain about his actions? I must warn you, there is little you or I can do about him.”

“I'm not here to complain. I wanted to know if there are any other masters in the Aremetuet who can teach? I have a friend in the Hemetuen who wants to — I should say needs to — learn how to defend himself better.”

“That is unfortunate,” Plyntoure said. “Master Brack is the most accomplished of the masters amongst the war-casters. Master Fyloren is very aged. I have heard he needs help drinking soup, and I believe it would be fair to say Master Hibistor has dedicated himself more to accumulation of influence than to knowledge of his craft.”

Ebryn couldn't hide his disappointment. “So there isn't anyone with real ability?”

“Less haste, youngster. Let me think a while.”

Plyntoure picked up his steaming mug and swirled the contents, ears twitching and eyes unfocused, staring over Ebryn's shoulder. Ebryn sat watching Plyntoure's lips moving as if reading from a list, feeling sweat starting to trickle down his back in the heat of the room.

How Plyntoure could tolerate such heat with fur-covered skin was a mystery, yet Ebryn always found him working somewhere uncomfortably hot. Any resemblance between the Merut and the snow-loving Furbeg ended with the fur.

Plyntoure took a long sip from his brew. “It is a sad truth, the greatest casters, save a handful, all perished with the fall of Volane. And afterwards Vergence had no need of warriors, the people of this city struggled to survive, and how could any army of sufficient size journey here. Besides, the greatest living caster, Ben-gan, protected the city then—”

“So you think I should ask Ben-gan to help?”

“You are too quick. Ben-gan was convicted of a crime many years past. He is permitted to assist students as a librarian might, not to teach them to maim others. Besides, what your friend seeks cannot be taught by one wearing manacles of sevyric iron—”

Ebryn opened his mouth to speak, but Plyntoure held up a hand to silence him.

“Wait there is more,” Plyntoure said. “I recall one amongst the Aremetuet thought to posses great skill. Khet'Tuk was his name. However, he was of Fhurzhal, and he left.”

“What's Fhurzhal?” Ebryn asked.

“Fhurzhal is the name of his people. I do not know the reason for his leaving, but we can speculate.”

“Master Brack.”

“Indeed,” Plyntoure said. “That would be my guess.”

“How would I find him? Should I go to the Aremetuet?”

“I would not. Enquire with the Genestuer archivists. They keep a record of all students and adepts.”

“The archivists? Thanks,” Ebryn said, standing up to go.

“Wait,” Plyntoure said. “I will write you a note with Master Tenlier's seal. It will smooth the path. The archivists like to keep their secrets safe — at times it can be hard to learn anything from them at all.”

Ebryn left carrying the piece of paper in his hand, relieved to be free of the hot room, and pleased with himself. After all, what purpose in membership of a Genestuer order if he couldn't discover things to help his friends.

Respite

O
RIM RETURNED TO
Vergence, dusty and tired. Nearly two score days he'd spent on a fruitless hunt, trying to track Spetimane as far as Ryenesse, and many of the points between.

Days of negotiating, according to the local imperial forms of etiquette, all to discover Spetimane had never arrived. And so he'd returned to each of the worlds between, to the places the world-ship supposedly carrying Spetimane had visited — an exhausting journey, which turned up no trace of the man.

Finally he'd traced the ship and spoken to the captain, to discover the man calling himself Spetimane, a tall youngster, had stepped off at Icisor, and disappeared without trace. Clearly a false trail had been set, and a clever one. Long and far away enough to allow Spetimane time to find elsewhere to hide.

A dust storm had blown up just before he left Icisor, scattering a fine grit into the air which infiltrated his clothes, clogging his hair, and beard. His eyes were raw with sand. He felt tiny grains in his nose and between his teeth whenever he moved his jaw.

His injuries had closed, then split and closed again, healing slowly to a fresh layer of dull pink scars, adding to the tapestry of war that criss-crossed his skin. Through his life, nearly every kind of weapon had marked him, including some poisons and castings so exotic they remained unnamed. And on his wrists and ankles the faintest lines where slavers manacles had bound him on his first ever journey to Vergence.

Orim headed for the mess of narrow winding lanes below the eel market in the Chubble district. He kept a room there above a bawd-house, located off one of the many tight upper walkways. A few turns from the entrance, he cloaked himself in a glamour crafted to confuse his appearance and turn curious minds to other things as he passed.

He arrived at an early hour, a short time after light, as the last of the street lamps dimmed, the quietest part of the day in this district, making his way quickly up the steps. Aliya moved through the front room, collecting stray mugs and glasses left by house guests the night just past. He stood inside the doorway, still masked by his glamour, and watched her work.

She looked well, much better than he did. He'd ensured casual cleaning would be the only work any would demand of her for as long as he lived.

He'd first seen Aliya in the eel market a few years past. Her hair, the colour of burnished copper, drew his attention. It shone in the semi-dark of the market alleyways, catching the stray light filtering through the high awnings as she wove through the crowds.

The eel market sprawled along a number of interlinking streets, branching out from a couple of small squares. The exact boundaries shifted over time, and it remained the only market in the city completely free of any of the merchant guilds. Home to a fluid population of temporary stall-keepers and wandering hawkers, a thousand different items might be for sale on a given day — many smuggled, or illegal, or stolen, and sometimes dangerous.

He'd forgotten about the business which brought him there that day, and followed her home. The place she returned to was large, the entrance open throughout the day and night, and the nature of the establishment would have been obvious to the most dim witted observer. Orim almost turned away then, but he'd stood outside, undecided for a long time, eventually something about her drew him in.

The bawd-house keeper turned out to be Aliya's mother, a sharp-eyed, pale-skinned woman of indeterminate years, who'd worked her way up from the back streets to a position of independence and grudging respect by trading in warm bodies, and loose secrets.

She'd seemed to divine what he wanted before he opened his mouth. She'd already calculated her daughter's value before laying eyes on him, that much was plain to see, and he paid her twenty times what she asked.

His terms had been exact — no other man would ever have her. Aliya would always be his alone. Aliya's mother didn't recognise Orim, but she knew men well enough to understand what he was, to hear the unspoken threat, and so she'd accepted.

A few times, before word spread, Aliya had been manhandled by local men. One of the customers grabbed her one morning, drunk and complaining about being overcharged. Orim broke the bones in his hand and arm. A trio of young bravos tried to take her from Orim, and force her to strip for them one evening in the front room. He left two of their bodies, charred and smoking, on the street as a warning. The third he'd hunted down and cut to pieces in the eel market at the busiest hour. After that, nobody touched her again. Men even avoided looking at her when they arrived, and left with their heads down.

Aliya appeared pleased to see him, an expression Orim found himself surprised at every time, however often he visited. She followed him upstairs in silence.

When they were together they spoke little, and he seldom called her by name. She couldn't speak in the language he wanted to hear from her lips, the tongue of his people — a small clan in a different world, and if he could not hear the words he preferred, he would rather hear none at all.

Aliya ran water into a huge old tub, built like the bottom half of a keg, and he summoned the essence of earth-fire stone into the water until it was so hot even he could barely tolerate it. He sat in the water, allowing his muscles to relax as he watched the steam curling up to the ceiling through half open eyes, and when he was ready she poured water over his head from an earthenware jug to wash the sand from his hair and beard.