Shanakan (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 1) (21 page)

He tied the rope around his waist firmly, picked out his route with a practiced eye and climbed steadily to about twenty feet above the ground. He tugged on the rope to make sure that it was firmly held at the top, and then stepped out into the air. He was lowered to the ground.

“No real harm can come to you,” he said. “Try.”

Calaine attacked the slope with great vigour, but no real foresight, and quickly worked herself into a position from which it was impossible to move upwards or even to the side.

“Go back,” Corban said. “Try a different route.”

She worked back down the face and moved across at the first opportunity onto a pitch that he knew to be awkward. She went up again, but in a minute or so was in difficulties, breathing hard and struggling to hold on. The holds she was using were too small. Eventually she slipped and was caught by the rope, lowered back to the ground.

“Now look at the face again,” Corban said. “See where you climbed the first time, under that smooth face. Nobody could get past that. The second time you went up the right where it’s not much better.”

“You climbed further to the left,” she said.

“You can see why.”

He was delighted to see that she was tracing his route, as far as it went, and on upwards. There was a fairly clear line that looked quite rough and broken, with lots of handholds.

“There’s a place up there with nowhere to grip again.” She said, pointing at a band of rock forty feet above them.

“It looks that way,” he said. “Walk over here.”

He took her to one side, and as the angle changed a vertical crack across the smooth area became visible.

“I see it!” she said. “This is like strategy. Most of the thinking is done before the climb begins.”

“On a short face like this you can see almost everything,” he agreed. “But on higher climbs it is hard to see all the way to the top. You have to select areas that look promising, and hope that they are climbable when you get there.”

“I want to try again, on the left.”

“Are you rested?”

“I feel strong,” she replied.

This time he moved the second rope even further to the left and climbed beside her. It was a harder route, but he had mastered it years ago. She made good progress, and after a few minutes had reached the vertical crack. It was a point shared by both routes, so Corban made himself as comfortable as he could and waited for her.

Calaine was having trouble getting a grip on the crack. There were no horizontal surfaces.

“Put your hand in and turn it,” he called across. “Make a fist if you can.”

He knew that it would hurt, but she adopted the technique without complaint. Progress resumed, and he followed her up the face to the top, where they arrived at about the same time. Calaine sat heavily on the ground, breathing hard. Her face was quite flushed and she was flexing her fingers to get the stiffness out of them.

“You do this all the time?” she asked. “My arms feel like they have been nearly pulled from their sockets.”

“It feels better as you get used to it,” he said. “On some of the longer climbs you can be on the face for over an hour.”

They stood side by side on the cliff top and looked out over the city. The view was even more spectacular from here than it was from the house, and it was possible to see the whole breadth of Samara in a single sweeping glance.

“I understand why you do this,” she said after a while. “The feeling is different from anything I’ve felt before. It is very enjoyable.”

Corban was equally thrilled. He had never climbed with anyone before, never shared the exhilaration. Although this face was easy, and normally he would have got little enjoyment from it, Calaine’s joy was something that he was able to share, and she’d been good. Her movements on the cliff face had been natural and relaxed.

“Can we climb again tomorrow?” she asked.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said.

Serhan knew where he wanted to go, and he wanted to travel alone. The things that he had to do were secret, forbidden things. It was impossible for him to leave White Rock now without an escort of some sort, so he took the minimum, a group of five guardsmen, and rode east for a day. He had picked the men carefully. He knew that they would obey his instructions to the letter.

They camped in a wood that evening, and he ate with the men, sharing a couple of bottles of wine from the cellars with them, talking with them. He was genuinely interested in their opinions and troubles, and took the opportunity to gauge how his new policies were taking root. He found that oblique questioning after a few drinks was the best way to ferret out the truth. He was pleased to hear that the villages had become our villages, and the people in them were part of the greater community that was White Rock, and the definition of White Rock itself had expanded from the curtain wall of the fortress to include the entire domain.

He slept well, and after a long and large breakfast with the guardsmen he told them that he was going to be absent for a couple of days, and that they should stay in this spot, relax, perhaps do a little hunting, but keep vigil for his return. They were pleased enough at the idea. It was like a holiday for them.

He rode off about the middle of the morning and continued to ride east for an hour or so until he came to a place where the land fell away and there was a spectacular view to the south. He hobbled his horse in a clearing where there was plenty of grass and spoke the words of the spell that created a black door. He stepped through it.

On the other side of the door he was fifty miles north of White Rock in an empty, cold land. There were few hunters in these parts, and his chance of coming across anyone was slim. He set up a small tent, lit a fire and gathered a supply of wood to keep it going.

He had chosen the place carefully. His small camp was pitched on a south facing slope looking over a clear, blue lake and surrounded by ranks of pines. It was a spectacular spot. The mountains above the camp were dressed with autumn snow above the tree line, and cool, scented winds sighed down through the dark mass of the trees.

He sat by the fire, looked out at the lake and allowed himself to review what he had drawn from Corderan’s book.

The mage had believed, for many good reasons that he laid out in detail, that there were more directions than the obvious ones. The familiar ones, up and down, left and right, forwards and backwards, were only the beginning. There was no meaningful way to name the others, so names had been made up: in and out, warm and cold, light and dark, and several others. Corderan insisted that these directions were very small, and that only the tiniest of movements were possible in each additional direction. He also believed that entire worlds, existences even, were hidden in these small spaces. There were uncountable other places.

So it was possible to move inwards and darkwards and come to another place where the sun shone, winds blew and oceans washed the shores, but it was not this place. He had struggled with this idea for a long time, but eventually accepted Corderan’s assertion that each place was very thin in the additional directions, even though it was full and fat if looked at in the up and down, left and right, forwards and backwards way.

Furthermore, the worlds moved through time at different rates, and they rubbed against each other. It was like rubbing your hands on a cold day, which warmed them. The worlds rubbed like hands and produced heat that wasn’t heat. He called it energy, and he called that energy magic.

If two worlds adjacent to each other moved at very different rates through time, then a lot of magic was produced, and was available to those who could use it. This place was such a world.

So it was like this to be a mage; to see the world that others saw, and yet to see something different. It filled him with wonder.

The practical applications were simpler. It was not enough to mutter the words of a spell in order for magic to occur. The mind was the organ that manipulated this magical energy, and the intent of the spell must be held clearly in the mind for it to function. It was the words that shaped the energy, but the mind that directed it. Gestures, too, helped in so far as they focussed the mind. Pointing, touching, raising the hands, all confirmed and strengthened the intent.

This, of course, was the great test. The understanding made it possible, in theory, to create a new spell, something that had never been done before.

Serhan had been working on something simple for weeks. He wanted to prove that he could make a new spell, and here he was in a place with no other people, and with the time to experiment. He had decided on a spell of transference.

He opened the pack that he had brought with him and took out a wooden bowl and a flask of water. The bowl was a plain thing that he had blackened in a fire. He poured water into it and set it before him on a rock where it caught and reflected the blue sky and a hint of a cloud, slowly settling as the water stilled. The words of the spell were clear in his mind, and he concentrated on what he wanted to happen, and spoke the words, at the same time placing a finger in the water.

He felt the surge of power flow through him. It was small compared to other spells that he had used, but it was different this time. His own words had summoned magical energy to do his bidding. He looked down at the bowl and on its surface he saw an image of White Rock, as seen from the road that approached it from the south. It was like looking through a small window, but for a second he felt dizzy because he was looking down at the bowl, but the bowl was looking sideways at White Rock, as though the world was twisted around.

He sat for a moment, completely still, looking at the image. There was no way that he could be seeing it if the spell he had created had not worked. He shivered. The world had just changed, and the lake looked the same, the breeze still ruffled the trees, the ground was solid, and the sky was blue.

He was no longer a slave to the creation of others. It was difficult, yes, but he could make new magic, like Corderan. He spoke more words and the view in the bowl changed, swooping into the courtyard of the fortress. He could see and recognise the guards walking towards the gate to relieve the sentries. More commands, and the view travelled up the stairs to his own chambers. He looked at his own desk, his bed, then out again. There was nothing he could not see.

He ended the spell and emptied the bowl. This was something that Gerique must never know. He was now indeed a mage, and his understanding would grow as time passed. There was still the problem of the Faer Karan, but it did not seem urgent to him. Each day that passed made it more likely that they would discover him for what he was, but now each day would make him stronger. He had the beginnings of what he needed and diligence and time would bring him the solution he needed. It always had.

He felt hungry. It was past his usual hour for lunch, so he unpacked food that he had brought with him and cooked it on the fire.

His only regret was that he could not share this joy. Even so, he thought of Mai.

Delf insisted that they camp outside Sorocaba for a night before they went in. From what Serhan had said he was sure that the people would be unwelcoming, and he wanted a whole day to make it obvious that they weren’t anything other than builders. He had already led them around the surrounding countryside locating supplies of wood and clay that they could use as building materials until even Wulf was getting impatient with him.

It was just after dawn when they finally rode in. People noticed the contingent of White Rock guard almost at once, but the twenty civilians and the wagons loaded with timber and equipment made them curious.

His first problem was to find a place to build. Ideally it should be somewhere near the middle of the town, so he headed for the town square. By the time they got there a group of about thirty people was following them, and it was getting bigger by the minute. It looked like the beginnings of an angry crowd. The sergeant in charge of their small protecting force rode up alongside Delf.

“This doesn’t look too good,” he said. “We need to secure a line of retreat in case we have to get out in a hurry.”

“I think we’ll be all right,” Delf replied. He leaned down from the leading wagon and spoke to one of the sullen faced young men who were keeping pace with them. “You,” he said. “Does this town have a mayor?”

The youth hesitated, then nodded.

“Is he here?” He looked round at the crowd.

“No.”

“I’d be obliged to you if you’d fetch him here so we can talk to him. Will you do that?”

The youth hesitated again. He clearly didn’t want to miss anything.

“I won’t start anything until you get back,” Delf said, and grinned. The young man smiled and ducked away through the crowd. It was a small town, and he would be back in a couple of minutes. In the meanwhile the crowd grew rapidly.

“Delf.” It was the sergeant again. The man was looking really worried, and his hand was never off the hilt of his sword. His men were bunched next to the wagons, and there was a bit of pushing going on. Delf had hoped to wait until the mayor arrived, but this could turn bad very quickly. He stood up on top of the wagon where everyone could see him.

“People of Sorocaba,” he shouted. The noise of the crowd quickly died away and the pushing stopped. They were all looking at him. He’d guessed that their curiosity would be greater than their hostility, and he was right. “We’re waiting for the mayor to get here,” he announced. “It shouldn’t be more than a minute or so.”

The crowd quickly transformed from a hostile volatile crowd to a hostile waiting crowd. The wrong thing said or done could still turn them into a mob, but he thought he could rely on the mayor to avoid that. He’d grown up in a small town like this one, and even if it had been in the south, close to Samara, he knew the sort of man who would be the mayor.

His guess was quickly confirmed as a greying, prosperous figure hurried across the square with the young man Delf had sent to fetch him.

“Who are you?” the man demanded. “What are you doing here?”

“My name is Delf Killore,” he said. “I’m a builder, come to build you a civic building. These fine soldiers,” he gestured to the guardsmen, “have travelled with us to protect us from any bandits that might be in these parts.”

“A building? What building?”

“Your name, sir?”

“I’m Granis, mayor of this town, duly elected.”

“Mayor Granis, I could tell you the whole tale sitting up here on my wagon, but it’s a long tale, and my throat is sore with dust from our journey, and I’d be grateful if these good people would allow us to rest a while. We’ll tell all there is to know under the Kalla Tree in an hour or so. Is that acceptable to you?” By invoking the Kalla Tree he was going through a procedure they all understood. It was the way that things were done in the north.

“It is,” Mayor Granis said. “In one hour, then.”

The crowd seemed disappointed, but the majority dispersed. A group of younger men hung about in the square, watching out of the corners of their eyes and pretending to do something else, but they stayed well away from the guard and the builders. They looked the most disappointed, and Delf could feel the anger in the stones they kicked, the gestures they made when they spoke quietly among themselves. It probably had some connection with whatever Serhan had done here.

His men stayed close to the wagons, but Delf took the opportunity to survey the centre of the town. The square was big, laid with gravel and well kept. There was a large house boarded up on one side of it; a prominent place for a derelict. If they could lay claim to the house, then their building could sit right here on the edge of the square, opposite the Kalla Tree itself.

When the hour was up a few dozen people had gathered at the tree, and Delf took the sergeant and Wulf with him to talk to them. It was always best to take someone. Company made it look like a delegation. The Kalla tree in Sorocaba was a huge spreading oak. It looked a hundred years old. Beneath its cooling shade a mismatched collection of benches, chairs and tables were set haphazardly. The simplest of these were rounds of wood cut from some other tree to make a stool of about the desired height. Granis sat with a group of men the youngest of who was older than Delf. These would be the council.

“Mayor Granis,” he said as they approached. “I thank you for your patience.”

“You are welcome, Delf Killore.” Granis gestured to the seats around the table where they had gathered. “Please sit. Now can you tell me what it is that you have come to build?”

“Of course.” He pulled out the plan that he had drawn up after his discussion with Serhan. It was a professional piece of work, and the look of it impressed the men. He went through it with Granis and the others, explaining the function of each room, the purpose of the building. Others watched from outside the circle.

“We understand what the building is,” one of the councillors said after a while, “but why is it being built?”

Delf had hoped that he wouldn’t have to answer this question. He wished that Serhan were here to answer it himself.

“The lord Serhan,” he ventured, “is trying to restore order to the domains of White Rock.”

“The lord Serhan?” one of the other men asked.

“So they say at White Rock. He is recently made Seneschal.”

Some of the men muttered. There had never been a seneschal at White Rock, and this was news indeed. Gerique was trusting another to rule in his name.

“We already have order,” Granis said. “We have a council, duly elected; we do not have much crime.”

“Mayor Granis, I think that Rollo was not the product of the sort of order that White Rock thinks is appropriate. You are lucky indeed to have a town at all”

The men muttered again, and Delf saw a couple of them exchange looks and nod. Apparently there had not been total support for Rollo’s act of rebellion.

“Besides,” Delf went on. “I’m sure you must have a problem with bandits from time to time, even in a town as large and prosperous as this.”

“It is true that they raid us,” the mayor said. “We lose food and other things, damage is done, and lives are lost. You will fight the bandits?”

“Not I, mayor Granis, but those men and women in armour over by the wagons are skilled in warfare, and will act in your defence. They will stay behind when the building is made.”

This was the first time that the idea of a permanent garrison had been raised, and the men gathered under the Kalla Tree looked uncomfortable.

“Do you have any discretion in this?” the mayor asked.

“None.”

“That is unfortunate. The recent… trouble that we had here had left some of our people angry and seeking a way to avenge themselves. Rollo inspired some, and his death was a blow for them. Left alone their anger would probably fade, but with a contingent of guard in the town, well, you see what might happen. We do not want to rouse the wrath of White Rock again.”

“I see. Well, you have been lucky so far. Gerique would have sent Dragan but for the intervention of the lord Serhan.” A little white lie. “I suggest you make efforts to control these angry people as best you can. Your luck may not hold for ever.”

Granis blanched at the mention of Dragan. The name alone seemed to pierce him. Delf could see a look in his eye that said he was in some other time or place. One of the others now spoke up.

“Rollo said that he could protect us from Dragan.”

Delf laughed. Some of the councillors smiled with him, one looked annoyed, and Granis still looked as though he was elsewhere.

“My friends,” he said eventually. “Dragan did not come. A group of men came, and ten times their number would not have been noticed by Dragan the punisher. Rollo is dead. His record on defence speaks for itself.”

“Your point is well made, Delf,” the mayor said, his eyes focussing again. “Many of us did not have faith in Rollo’s abilities, but many others were won over by his talk of battle and victory. He seemed very wise, and could do things that no man should, but it is not a man’s place to stand against the will of the Faer Karan.”

“At least not by force of arms,” Delf said. He was not sure why he said that, but by the looks on the faces of some of the council members it had been a good thing to say.

“So we will agree to this building, give it our assent?” Granis asked the other men. They all nodded. “There are none who wish to speak against it?” Nobody indicated that they did.

So that was that. For the most part the situation was defused. The council would tell the people that the Kalla House was there to protect them from bandits, and that it was also there to ensure that the town did not repeat its recent error. White Rock was watching them. And there was the smallest hint that the lord Serhan was not just a tool of the Faer Karan. He had acted to save them from Dragan, he wanted order and prosperity for the domains of White Rock, for the town of Sorocaba itself.

Delf walked back to the wagons with the mayor, who seemed to want to talk to him.

“What is White Rock like?” he asked.

“I do not know. I have seen it from the outside, but never entered.”

The mayor seemed surprised, even a little disappointed, but he went on anyway. “I have seen more of White Rock than I care to,” he said. “As a young man I was travelling to the village of Blackwood to visit a relative there. It was long ago, and my memory of the who any why has faded, and I do not know what had passed in Blackwood, but as I topped the hills two miles out from the village – it can be seen from there – I saw Dragan attack the place.”

“You saw Dragan?”

“Yes. I wish that I had not. His wings were a hundred feet from tip to tip, and his body about the same. His terrible claws ripped whole houses from the ground as if they were nothing more than curled dry leaves in autumn. His breath burned everything. I tried to hide, but I could still hear screams and the roaring of wind and flame. Even from such a distance. Again and again I heard the vast wings pass over me as he turned about the village. When all had been silent for an hour I dared to look again, and there was nothing but a burnt scar on the land. Blackwood had gone. I went down in the end, much later when some portion of my courage had returned, looked to see what I could. There were no bodies, no broken houses. Deerfruit that was three feet under the soil was cooked through.” He paused, his eyes closed. “I would have killed Rollo myself if I could. I was afraid for us all, but I was ready to flee the town alone by the time the soldiers came from White Rock. They did us a great service, Delf.”

“It may be so, Mayor Granis.”

Granis left him then, and wandered back towards his house as though still not sure what time and place he was in, besieged by powerful memories reawakened by a name. Dragan the punisher. In a better world Dragan would have been a tale that parents told their children to scare them when they misbehaved, but Dragan was real. Very few had seen him and lived. No man had ever heard him speak. Some even claimed that he wasn’t real, but Dragan’s existence was counted in human dead. It was what he did.

“Are you all right?” It was Wulf.

“Yes. Just visiting someone else’s nightmare.” He walked back to the wagons and began talking to his crew about unloading.

*              *              *              *

Weeks later everything was quite businesslike on the site. Delf had secured permission to demolish the house on the edge of the square. In the process he had found out that it was Rollo’s house, and that Rollo’s son, Jinari, was the owner. The boy was about fourteen, and so not yet able to make his own decisions. In this case the decision was made for him by his mother, who was not sorry to see the house gone for a fair price.

Delf had walked round the house before it was demolished, and found nothing there of interest. The house had been thoroughly stripped by whoever had the right, and there was only dust and empty rooms.

Now there was a new building rising where the old one had stood, and covering an additional corner of the town square. In fact it was three times the size of the building it replaced, and where there had once been wood his men were raising a structure of layered brick, with outer walls two feet thick.

There was still a degree of hostility from the town, despite the efforts of Mayor Granis and the council. They had made Rollo’s support seem small, but it was becoming clear that a good number of the townspeople still resented the presence of anything to do with White Rock. There had been no open confrontations, but after nightfall stones had been thrown at their tents and at the guards they posted. During the day there were always a few young men loafing in the square watching them.