Dragon's Teeth (13 page)

He was her bodyguard; he was almost literally her possession until and unless he chose not to serve her. And as such he went with her everywhere—even into the hallows of the Council chamber. Just as the bodyguards of the five Councilors did.

The carved double doors of a wood so ancient as to have turned black swung open without a hand touching them, and she and Lyran entered the windowless Council Chamber. It was lit entirely by mage-lights as ancient as the doors, all still burning with bright yellow incandescence high up on the walls of white marble. The room was perfectly circular and rimmed with a circle of malachite; in the center was a second circle inlaid in porphyry in the white marble of the floor. Behind that circle was the half-circle of the Council table, of black-lacquered wood, and the five matching thronelike chairs behind it. All five of those chairs were occupied by mages in the purple robes of the Mage Guild Council.

Only one of the Councilors, the cadaverous Masterclass Mage Ronethar Gethry, gave Lyran so much as a glance; and from the way Ronethar’s eyes flickered from Lyran to Martis and back, the sorceress rather guessed that it was because of the gossip that he noticed her guard at all.

The rest ignored the swordsman, as they ignored their own hirelings, each standing impassively behind his master’s chair, garbed from head to toe, as was Lyran, in Mage Guild hireling red: red leathers, red linen—even one, like Lyran, in red silk.

The Councilors were worried; even Martis could read that much behind their impassive masks. They wasted no time on petty nonsense about her private life. What brought them all to the Council Chamber was serious business, not accusations about with whom she was dallying.

Not that they’d dare take
her
to task over it. She was the equal of any of the mages in those five seats; she could sit there behind the Council table any time she chose. She simply had never chosen to do so. They knew it, and she knew it, and they knew she knew. She was not accountable to them, or anything but her conscience, for her behavior. Only for her actions as the representative of the Guild.

The fact was that she didn’t
want
a Council seat; as a Masterclass mage she had little enough freedom as it was. Sitting on the Council would restrict it still further. The Masterclass mage served only the Guild, the powers of the Masterclass being deemed too dangerous to be put at hire.

“Martis.” Rotund old Dabrel was serving as Chief this month; he was something less of an old stick than the others.

“Councilor,” she responded. “How may I serve my Guild?”

“By solving a mystery,” he replied. “The people of Lyosten have been acting in a most peculiar and disturbing fashion—”

“He means they’ve been finding excuses to put off a Guild inspection,” sour-faced and acid-voiced Liavel interrupted. “First there was a fever—so they say—then a drought, then the road was blocked by a flood. It doesn’t ring true; nobody else around Lyosten is having any similar troubles. We believe they’re hiding something.”

“Lyosten is a Free City, isn’t it?” Martis asked. “Who’s in charge?”

“The Citymaster—a man called Bolger Freedman.”

“Not a Guildsman. A pity. That means we can’t put pressure on him through his own Guild,” Martis mused. “You’re right, obviously; they must be covering up
something,
so what’s the guess?”

“We think,” Dabrel said, leaning over the table and steepling his fingertips together, “That their local mage has gone renegade in collusion with the townsfolk; that he’s considering violating the Compacts against using magecraft in offensive manner against nonmages. They’ve been feuding off and on with Portravus for decades; we think they may be deciding to end the feud.”

“And Portravus has no mage—” said mousy Herjes, looking as much frightened as worried. “Just a couple of hedge-wizards and some assorted Low Magick practitioners. And not a lot of money to spare to hire one.”

Martis snorted.
“Just
what I wanted to hear. Why me?”

“You’re known.” replied Dabrel. “They don’t dare cause you any overt magical harm. You’re one of the best at offensive and defensive magics. Furthermore, you can activate the Gates to get in fairly close to the town
before
they can think up another excuse. We’ll inform them that you’re coming about a day before you’re due to arrive.”

“And there’s another factor,” creaked ancient Cetallas. “Your hireling. The boy is good; damned good. Best I’ve seen in—can’t remember when. No Free City scum is going to get past
him
to take you out. He’s a healer of sorts, so Ben tells us. That’s no bad thing to have about, a healer you can trust just in case some physical accident happens. And you must admit he’s got a pretty powerful incentive to keep you alive.” The old man wheezed a little, and quirked an amused eyebrow at the two of them. Martis couldn’t help but notice the twinkle of laughter in his eyes. She bit her lip to keep from smiling. So the old bird still had some juice in him—and wasn’t going to grudge her
her
own pleasures!

“You have a point,” she admitted. “And yes, Lyran does have something more at stake with me than just his contract.” She was rather surprised to see the rest of the Councilors nod soberly.

Well. Well, well! They may not
like
it—they may think I’m some kind of fool, or worse—but they’ve got to admit that what Lyran and I have can be pretty useful to the Guild.
“How soon do you want us to leave?”

“Are you completely recovered from—”

“Dealing with Kelven? Physically, yes. Mentally, emotionally—to be honest, only time will tell. Betrayal; gods, that’s not an easy thing to deal with.”

“Admitted—and we’re setting you up to deal with another traitor.” Dabrel had the grace to look guilty.

“At least this one isn’t one of my former favorite pupils,” she replied, grimacing crookedly. “I don’t even think I know him.”

“You don’t,” Herjes said. “I trained him. He also is not anywhere near Kelven’s potential, and he
isn’t
dabbling in blood-magic. Speaking of which—have you recovered arcanely as well as physically?”

“I’m at full power. I can go any time.”

“In the morning, then?”

“In the morning.” She inclined her head slightly; felt the faintest whisper of magic brush her by.

Show-offs,
she thought, as she heard the doors behind her open.
Two can play that game.

“We will be on our way at dawn, Councilors,” she said, carefully setting up the
rolibera
spell in her mind, and wrapping it carefully about both herself
and
Lyran. There weren’t too many mages even at Masterclass level that could translate two people at once. She braced herself, formed the energy into a tightly coiled spring with her mind, then spoke one word as she inclined her head again—There was a flash of light behind her eyes, and a fluttery feeling in her stomach as if she had suddenly dropped the height of a man.

And she and Lyran stood side-by-side within the circle carved into the floor of her private workroom.

She turned to see the mask of indifference drop from him, and his thin, narrow face come alive with mingled humor and chiding.

“Must you always be challenging them, beloved?”

She set her mouth stubbornly. He shook his head. “Alas,” he chuckled, “I fear if you stopped, I would no longer know you. Challenge and avoidance—” He held out his arms, and she flowed into them. “Truly, beloved,” he murmured into her ear, as she pressed her cheek into the silk of his tunic shoulder, “we Balance each other.”

They would not be riding Jesalis and Tosspot, those beasts of foul temper and fiercely protective instincts. This was a mission which would depend as much on the impression they would give as their capabilities, and Tosspot and Jesalis would be unlikely to impress anyone. Instead, when they descended the tower stairs in the pale, pearly light of dawn, Martis found the grooms in the stone-paved courtyard holding the reins of two showy palfreys, a gray and a bay. Tethered behind the bay on a lead rope was a glossy mule loaded with packs. The harness of the gray was dyed a rich purple, and that of the bay was scarlet. Lyran approached the horses with care, for the eyes of the bay rolled with alarm at the sight of the stranger. He ran his hands over their legs once he could get near them, and walked slowly back to Martis’ side with his arms folded, shaking his head a little.

“Hmm?” she asked.

“Worthless,” he replied. “I hope we will not be needing to entrust our lives to them. No strength, no stamina—and worst of all, no sense.”

“They’re just for show,” Martis frowned, feeling a little dubious herself. “We aren’t supposed to have to do any hard riding, or long, except for the gallop to take us through the Gates. A day’s ride to the first Gate, half a day to the second. In and out of both Gates, then a ride of less than half a day to the city.”

“If all goes well. And what if all does not go well?”

“I—” Martis fell silent. “Well, that’s why you’re along.”

Lyran looked back over his shoulder at the horses, and grimaced. “This one will do the best one can, Mage-lady,” he said formally. “Will the Mage-lady mount?”

Martis had been doing more with Lyran’s aid than her colleagues suspected. A few moons ago she would not have been able to mount unaided—now she swung into her saddle with at least some of the grace of her lover. The exercises he had been insisting she practice had improved her strength, her wind, her flexibility—she was nearly as physically fit as she’d been twenty-odd years ago, when she’d first come to the Academe.

Lyran mounted at nearly the same moment, and his bay tried to shy sideways. It jerked the reins out of the groom’s hands, and danced backwards, then reared. Lyran’s mouth compressed, but that was the only sign that he was disturbed that Martis could see. The scarlet silk of his breeches rippled as he clamped his legs around the bay gelding’s barrel, and the reins seemed to tighten of themselves as he forced the gelding back down to the ground, and fought him to a standstill. As the horse stood, sweating, sides heaving, Lyran looked up at her.

“This one will do what this one can, Mage-lady,” he repeated soberly.

The gray palfrey Martis rode was of a more placid disposition, for which she was profoundly grateful. She signed to the groom to release his hold and turned its head to face the open wooden gate set into the stone walls of the court. At Lyran’s nod she nudged it with her heels and sent it ambling out beneath the portcullis.

They rode in single file through the city, Lyran trailing the mule at a respectful distance from “his employer.” Four times the bay started and shied at inconsequential commonplaces; each time Lyran had to fight the beast back onto all four hooves and into sweating good behavior. The last time seemed to convince it that there was no unseating its rider, for it did not make another attempt. Once outside the city walls, they reversed their positions, with Lyran and the mule going first. Ordinarily Martis would now be spending her time in half-trance, gathering power from the living things around her. But her mount was
not
her faithful Tosspot, who could be relied upon to keep a falling-down drunk in the saddle—and Lyran’s beast was all too likely to shy or dance again, and perhaps send her gelding off as well. So instead of gathering always-useful energy, she fumed and fretted, and was too annoyed even to watch the passing landscape.

****

They reached the Gate at sunset. The ring of standing stones in the center of the meadow stood out black against the flaming glow of the declining sun. The wide, weed-grown fields around them were otherwise empty; not even sheep cared to graze this near a Gate. The evening wind carried a foretaste of autumnal chill as it sighed through the grasses around them. Martis squinted against the bloody light and considered their options.

Lyran had finally decided to exhaust his misbehaving mount by trotting it in circles around her as they traveled down the road until it was too tired to fuss. Now it was docile, but plainly only because it was weary. It still rolled its eyes whenever a leaf stirred. The sorceress urged her gelding up beside his.

“Can you get one last run out of him?” Martis asked anxiously.

“Probably,” Lyran replied. “Why?”

“I’d like to take this Gate now, if we can, while that misbegotten horse of yours is too tired to bolt.”

He looked at her in that silent, blank-faced way he had when he was thinking. “What if he did bolt?”

“The gods only know where you’d end up,” she told him frankly. “If he got out of my influence—I can’t predict what point beyond the Gate you’d come out at, or even what direction it would be in.”

“And if I can’t get him to a gallop?”

“Almost the same—if you didn’t keep within my aura you’d come out somewhere between here and where I’d land.”

He reached out and touched her face with the tips of his fingers. “You seem tired, beloved.”

“I
am
tired,” she admitted, confessing to him what she would admit to no other living person. “But I’m not too tired to Gate-spell, and I think it’s safer to do it now than it will be later.”

“Then I will force this bundle of contrariness disguised as a horse into keeping up with you.”

“Hold butter-brains here, would you?” she passed him the reins of her mount, not trusting it to stand firm on its own. She drew entirely into herself, centering all her concentration on the hoarded power within herself, drawing it gradually to the surface with unspoken words and careful mental probes. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel the energy stirring, flowing, coming up from—elsewhere—and beginning to trickle along the nerves of her spine. At first it was barely a tingle, but the power built up quickly until she was vibrating to its silent song.

At that point she opened the channels to her hands, raising her arms out in front of her and holding her hands out with the open palms facing the ring of standing stones.

The power surged along her arms and leapt for the ring of the Gate with an eagerness that was almost an emotion. She sang the words of the Gate-spell now, sang it in a barely audible whisper. Her eyes were half-open, but she really wasn’t paying a great deal of attention to anything but the flow of power from her to the Gate.