Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 (112 page)

“Copper makes green glass,” she said only then falling in.

Horton looked taken aback. “Yes, that’s right. You surprise me, Lady.”

“I do know a few things about this world.”

“I can see that you do. I have a mine; it still produces copper but a meagre amount only.”

“And you want me to fill it up like I did with Keverin’s coal.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“I would be willing to p—”

Julia shook her head and tried to explain. “You misunderstand me my lord—”

“I will vote for Gylaren,” Horton said desperately.

Julia shut her mouth and strangled the explanation before she could utter it. Horton was looking at her appealingly making her feel guilty. He didn’t know his story was false. She hadn’t made any coal; all she had done was find a seam missed by the miners. Could she find a way to do what he wanted? It might be possible, but the fact was she didn’t know for sure and certainly didn’t have a spell ready.

She cursed herself for a fool and told him the truth. “It’s not that I don’t want to, Lord Horton. I cannot do what you want.”

Horton’s face hardened and he turned to leave.

Julia reached out and stopped him. “The coal was already there. Your story is false.”

“But I was assured by—”

She shook her head. “Your friend was mistaken. The mine does have coal, but it always did. The miners missed a seam. All I did was find and point it out. I’m sorry.”

Horton’s shoulders sagged. “I see. Thank you for your honesty.”

“My conscience would not allow me to deceive you.”

“I would wish more people had your sense of honour.” Horton inclined his head and turned to leave. “Good evening to you… my vote is for Gylaren.”

Julia gaped and watched him rejoin Ascol as if he had never uttered a word about betraying the man. Was it betrayal to vote for Gylaren when the alternative was a mad man working with the kingdom’s enemies? Not by her way of thinking, but it was still double-dealing.

“You look puzzled,” Purcell said coming up behind her.

“I am I think. Lord Choma has just informed me that he will vote for Gylaren. What do you think of that?”

“I would say he made a good choice, but he still courts Ascol. You’re sure he will take our part?”

“I’m not certain, but I think he will.”

Purcell stared at Ascol’s lackeys. “I wonder how many others would vote for Gy if they could do it secretly. What is Ascol holding over them?”

Good question that. Julia pursed her lips in thought but this kind of thing made her head hurt. Horton had turned her down when she had tried to blackmail him, yet he ostensibly supported Ascol. If he wouldn’t respond to her threats, why had he responded to Ascol’s? Maybe Ascol had not threatened him. Maybe he had paid Horton for his vote, but with what?

“Has Ascol any mining interests by any chance?”

Purcell snorted. “He has interests in everything. His boats are everywhere on our rivers.”

“Horton has a copper mine, you know.”

“Hmmm, yes I know. It used to be a crown mine, but there were some collapses I seem to recall. Pergann closed it down and Horton took it over. It’s played out now, or so I understand.”

She frowned. Ascol supplying copper to Choma didn’t make sense unless Horton was planning to make the glass himself. She knew there was a market for glass; Keef was a friend of hers and a merchant in East Town dealing in figurines. They often chatted about his dealings. The Protectorate was a big market for him, and although West Pass was closed, ships sailed to and from Tanjung and Japura with stops all over Waipara.

She sighed. “I give up. I can’t see what Ascol offered him, but whatever it was, Horton seems to have decided not to accept it.”

“Or he has already received what he wanted and now sees a way to rid himself of Ascol.”

“Possible, very possible, but he doesn’t seem the type. I like him, Purcell. He sticks to his principles.”

“He isn’t known as a dishonourable man,” Purcell agreed. “But courting Ascol and voting for Gy is hardly consistent with honour. I don’t know what to think.”

“Neither do I.”

Keverin gave up his effort of persuasion to join her and they spoke of inconsequential things—the food, the dancing, the music. Gradually their conversation turned to the future and their hopes.

“—and I’ll coach her just like Jill coached me,” Julia was saying.

Keverin smiled. “Ah, but what if we have a son as well?”

“Then I will teach him just the same. Men can do it as well, you know.”

“I’m sure. It would be a good way to strengthen the body for sword work,” Keverin mused. “Jihan hasn’t seen you on the bars like I have, but he did mention something about toughening up his recruits.”

She thought it was a good thing Jihan had not seen her in the gym. He would have apoplexy if he saw her in such scandalous attire as her leotard! Jihan’s so-called recruits were the heirs to Deva’s lords. Jihan had been making them workout with practise swords mostly, but he hadn’t neglected other aspects of their training.

“We will teach them to ride and hunt, and Jihan can teach them to dance!” Keverin said with a boom of laughter.

Julia nodded seriously. “Both kinds.”

Keverin agreed. “I would want our son to have Jihan’s skill with a sword. I could wish I had it.”

“You’re no slouch.”

“No, but no one bests Jihan.”

“There will always be someone better, Kev. Let us hope Jihan never meets a man better than him.”

Keverin nodded seriously. “No one in Deva is his master, I would wager Athione’s walls on it.”

She grinned. “Athione without walls wouldn’t be much good. What would hold the roof up?”

Keverin snorted. “Jessica will teach her granddaughter to sew and her grandson to paint, and Gideon will teach them both to revere the God. You will teach them of your world, and I will sit back and be proud.”

“Oh no, you lazy beast!” she said laughing. “You will teach them honour. I would have them be strong, she especially—”

“Any daughter of yours will be strong, my love.”

“Perhaps,” Julia said turning serious. “This world is dangerous, Kev. I would have her capable of more than sewing.”

Keverin nodded thoughtfully. “Jessica will teach her to play the lute and how to politic the lords so she may wrap one around her little finger—just like you did.”

Julia grinned. “And then there is magic.”

Keverin sobered. “The God will decide.”

Magic wasn’t always passed from father to son, but it wasn’t unknown for a son of a mage to be gifted. Mathius’ father was a mage, but Lucius’ father was a wood-crafter and none of his ancestors had ever been mages. The God chose who would wield his power.

“Let us dance one more before the night catches us,” Keverin said, and they did.

Julia took the opportunity to speak with Horton before they left to find their beds. His consort didn’t like her. Lydia’s eyes blazed when Julia reached out to guide Horton to one side, and out of the path of those leaving, but she ignored the woman. She had something important to discuss.

“What do you wish, Lady?”

She wished for many things—peace and Gylaren on the throne headed the list. “I have been thinking about your predicament—the mine?”

“Yes?” Horton said warily.

“I cannot do what you wish, I do not know how or even if it is possible to—”

“You are the all powerful sorceress,” Lydia sneered. “You cannot even magic up some copp—”

“Be silent!” Horton said with a glare. “We will discuss your outburst later,” he said coolly before turning back to Julia. “My apologies, lady.”

She waved that away. “I have heard worse things said of me, my lord. Do not concern yourself.”

“Perhaps that is so, but that does not excuse it. You were saying about the mine?”

“I’m still new in this world, Lord Horton. What I have learned to do, I learned through battle. The mine was a fortunate side effect of my wish to provide Morton with bricks.”

“I see.”

Julia doubted he really did see. He had the look of a man puzzled about something but unwilling to voice it. Maybe it had something to do with why a noble was dirtying her hands making mere bricks. Whatever it was, he did not explain.

“I would like to offer you my magic, lord Horton. If you wish it, I will ask Keverin to arrange a visit with you. I can inspect your mine and look for deposits of copper. Like Kev’s coal, the miners may have missed some. What do you say?”

“A gracious offer, Lady, and I accept. If you would convey my invitation to Keverin on my behalf?”

“Certainly. I’m sure he’ll speak of it before we leave for home.”

“Until then,” Horton said and bowed before taking his leave.

* * *

“But your Grace! She’s a heretic!” Jymis cried. He couldn’t believe that after all they had done she was going to walk free. “We cannot allow her to remain unpunished!”

“We cannot prevent it,” Patriarch Malvin said. “His Holiness has judged her innocent of the charge. There is nothing further to be said on the matter.”

“But he’s wrong—”

Malvin’s eyes hardened. “You forget yourself,” he said coldly. “The Holy Father cannot be questioned, only advised.”

“But—”

Malvin raised a hand. “I will hear no more of this. Be gone.”

Jymis bowed stiffly and left.

Demophon had told him that this would be Malvin’s answer, but he hadn’t wanted to listen. Demophon, no matter his power, was a heretic too. The necessity of working with such a man disgusted him, but what else could he do? The sorceress was worse than any ten sorcerers, even ten like Demophon!

He reached the ferry in pitch darkness. He dare not light his way with a lamp or torch lest he be seen. It was imperative he not be. He climbed aboard and in silence was ferried across the lake. He had ordered a Red Guard captain to replace the ferryman this night with a squad of hand picked men. They knew not to ask questions, but it mattered not. The squad and their captain would be disposed of after they performed a certain task.

The ferry bumped the far shore and Jymis left the same way as he had arrived, in silence. He quickly made his way through the city streets. He turned down an alley, but leapt back stifling a shriek of utter terror when a pair of luminous eyes glared at him. His heart thundered in his chest as he fumbled for his dagger. The eyes came closer, and Jymis sighed in abject relief. It was merely a mangy dog sniffing for scraps in the gutter. He kicked at it, and the cur snapped at his foot. Skin and bones or not, the cursed thing had enough fight in it to wound. He kicked at it again, this time landing a telling blow upon it, and it ran off yelping. He watched it go, then turned back to the alley. He was not at all happy about entering, but his duty to the God was clear.

He stepped inside.

It was so dark, he feared he might lose his way, but almost as soon as the fear grew in him, it left. He was doing the God’s work and would not fail. He ignored the squelching beneath his feet, and the disgusting smell that arose around him as moved deeper into the alley. Keeping his feet took all his concentration for a time. Whatever he was walking upon, made him slip and slide nearly every step. The fetid mess made him want to gag. He would ruin his boots, and what of his robe? It was his best one! How could anyone live like this?

“You would be surprised at what a man can endure, m’lord bishop,” a voice said out of the shadows.

Jymis gasped. He hadn’t realised that his muttering would carry so far. He peered into the shadows trying to make out the man.

“Kell… is it you?”

“No names,” the voice growled. “What is the word?”

“Demophon, the word is Demophon.”

Kell stepped out of the shadows. “You don’t need that.”

Jymis looked down at what Kell was looking at. He was still clutching his dagger in a white knuckled grip. The way Kell was eyeing the jewelled hilt made him nervous and he quickly tucked it away out of sight.

“Follow,” Kell said and led the way.

* * *

Interlude IV

Mortain, voice of the God, first lord sorcerer, head and absolute ruler of the Protectorate was insane.

“He’s completely, totally, out of his head insane if he thinks I’ll let my son die on this… this
whim!
” Godwinson snarled. He ignored the murmurs of agreement his accusation elicited from the others.

Godwinson re-read the message, but it was no different the third time. That Mortain was paranoid was beyond doubt, and with good reason. More than one had been blasted out of Castle Black since its founding. The current Mortain always killed rivals to his power as soon as he became aware of them, and in so doing, he had held his place longer than any before him. One of the goals that all Mortains purportedly strove for was the strengthening of their kind, but in reality they didn’t want stronger sorcerers born. Why would they when any one of them might turn out to be a successor?

Godwinson smiled grimly. His goal was different in that he truly did want stronger sorcerers—the more the better. He wanted to recruit men strong in their magic and sense of duty. Men with his vision that would do anything,
anything
, to see it achieved. He needed such men, but more importantly, the Protectorate needed such men if she was to survive the coming cataclysm.

Godwinson resolutely turned his thoughts away from the grim vision that had set him upon his current path, and gazed out the window of his Banswara residence at a breathtaking scene. In the harbour below were ships. And what ships! The entire western fleet lay at anchor taking on stores and men on a scale never before attempted, and all of it on his orders alone. Those huge transports could hold almost thirty thousand legionnaires, almost three legions tasked to fight the greatest campaign the Protectorate had ever undertaken. It was an all or nothing venture that made him swell with pride, and at the same time made him sick with dread. The risk was extreme to say the least. If those ships were lost as the
Victory
was lost earlier in the year… no, it was unthinkable.

Godwinson glanced down at the message again and it burst into flame. He hastily dropped it mumbling a curse and sucking his burnt fingers. He ignored Felda’s hiss of amusement, and pretended that the others hadn’t seen his fit of temper. One of these days his temper would break loose where someone outside of his personal circle of confidants could see it. That would be bad for more than his image. He must always project an air of calm confidence and dignity to outsiders lest they see weakness where there was none. He could not afford a challenge to his position as Mortain’s heir, least of all now. He could only truly be himself when with Felda and the others. They were his to their very souls—he had cast the spell himself. All others were suspect and not to be wholly trusted. Even he, Mortain’s heir, did not know how many guardians had been set to watch him. Although Beltran seemed very competent at sniffing them out, he would be a fool to let his guard down.