Wartorn: Resurrection (13 page)

There Deo would convey Cultat's message to the leaders of Trael. That message was simple. The remaining free states of the Isthmus must unite now against the Felk.

Other members of the premier's family were making similar ambassadorial journeys to other cities, seeking to create the alliance that Cultat envisioned. Petgrad was the most powerful nation in the south. It did not have to politically appease or parley with its neighbors. So long had it held this uncontested status, in fact, that it had no proper staff of diplomats. Now it was up to Cultat's relations to spread the word, for who else would be heard in those rival royal courts? And, according to Cultat, who else should bear the burden of this undertaking but his own blood?

So, to Trael it was.

Radstac shrugged to herself as she walked with her employer/lover, hand still upon her sword's pommel. So long as she got paid.

THE COUNCIL CHAMBER in the Governor's Palace was the largest single indoor space in the city-state of Felk. Here the governor would traditionally meet with his advisors to hear their reports and discuss plans for the running of what was at that time the second largest territory on the Isthmus, smaller only to the mighty state of Petgrad in the south.

Here, too, the governor would hold public trials and audiences once every lune, listening to cases and petitions from any who would seek his judgment or support. In those days, the space was opulently furnished and decorated, both to impress visitors and to remind them of the wealth and power the governor controlled.

Now, it was just a big room, the expensive furnishings gone, and there was no governor of Felk. Matokin was much more than that. It was said he took no hand in the day-to-day operation of his growing empire, preferring to leave minor matters to his underlings with whom he consulted in private. Nor did he conduct public hearings. He believed his time and the national treasury were better spent elsewhere, and felt no need or desire to remind anyone of his power.

Raven, both curious and anxious, paused at the periphery to survey. The space was huge, like a cavern inside this palace. It swallowed even the crowded bustle that infested the place.

The crowd of people ebbed and flowed. There were groupings of men and women huddled together in discussion, occasionally melding with other groups for brief consultation or argument before dividing again. A constant stream of messengers brushed past her, both arriving and leaving.

There was no doubt in her mind that what she was viewing was the nerve center of the empire she was sworn to serve, and she knew instinctively that there were dozens of decisions being made within her sight that would affect thousands of people.

As to exactly what her part in this was to be, or why she had been summoned here, she hadn't a clue.

Unwilling to interrupt any of the huddled planners, Raven approached a woman who was standing alone studying a scroll. "Excuse me?"

Dark eyes fastened on her, and she felt she had been weighed, measured, scrutinized, and dismissed as unimportant all in the space of a heartbeat.

"Well?"

"I was told to report here to Matokin, but I'm unfamiliar with the procedure."

That earned her three more heartbeats of examination.

"The middle door there in the far wall," the woman said at last. 'The one with the guard in front of it. Give your name to the guard and wait to be summoned."

"Thank you," Raven said, but the woman had already returned her attention to the scroll.

Feeling even smaller than before, Raven undertook the journey across the length of the room and eventually stepped up to the guard in front of the indicated door.

The guard stared at her, expressionless.

"My name is Raven," she said, trying to draw herself up, though even with her efforts she barely came midway up on the guard's chest. "From the Academy. I was told to report to Matokin."

The guard did not so much as blink.

"They're waiting for you," he said.

Turning, he banged his fist twice on the door, then stepped back, urging her forward with a quick jerk of his head.

Bracing herself as best she could against the fearful unknown, Raven pushed the door open.

Beyond was a small, unimpressive room, barely half the size of some of the classrooms back at the Academy. There were no decorations other than a large map of the Isthmus hanging on one wall. Scrolls and parchments cluttered the place, giving the appearance of a scholar's retreat, but it wasn't the room or its furnishings that captured Raven's attention. Rather, her eyes were drawn to the two men whose dialogue she had apparently interrupted.

The one behind the small desk was short and heavyset, more portly than muscular. He had dark hair and lively, dancing eyes. The soft blue robe he was wearing appeared to be more of a lounging or sleeping garment than a uniform, but there was no doubt in Raven's mind of his identity or rank. This was Matokin, the most powerful man on the Isthmus and engineer of Felk's growing empire.

Matokin's hair was dark. Just like hers. Just like her mother's.

Raven's heart beat hard. She felt almost giddy, though she would never have admitted to the emotion and showed nothing of it on her face. Here was a lifetime's worth of fantasies coming true. Here was her father! Of course, she meant to stick to her vow to keep that secret, even from him.

The other man in the room, lounging on a heavily cushioned chair, was long and lizard-lean. His soft hands had exceptionally long fingers, while his angular features housed eyes that, at the moment, were flat and expression-less.

"This must be Raven," Matokin said, inclining his head toward her slightly. "If not, the guard will regret it. Eh, Abraxis?"

Abraxis. Raven recognized the name. He was the chief of the internal security for the growing empire. He was supposedly responsible for the terminations that befell those of untrained magical ability who didn't pass muster. Politically, he was second in power.

Whether or not Matokin's comment was meant in jest was left uncertain, as the man on the cushions gave no reaction either by word or gesture, but instead continued staring at the intruder.

"I am Raven, Lord," she said. "I was told that you wished to see me." With great effort she kept her voice from quivering completely out of control.

"Yes. We've been reviewing your records," Matokin said, gesturing vaguely at the small clutter on his desk, "and wished to meet you in the flesh. You seem to be making excellent progress, though your instructors' praise seems grudging at times."

"At the school, we work at perfecting control of the magical arts to the best of our individual abilities," Raven said. "We are discouraged from comparing our efforts to those of our fellow classmates, or from seeking approval from the instructors."

"Do you find the discipline and rules at the Academy to be harsh and demanding?" Abraxis asked, speaking for the first time.

"Words like
harsh
and
demanding
are relative terms," Raven said with a shrug. "I myself do not feel the conditions at the school to be unreasonable. We are living in difficult times and fighting an expansionist war. If we are to achieve our goals, it means accepting as normal conditions that, in other circumstances, might be deemed harsh and demanding."

"And what do you think those goals are, Raven?" Matokin said with a smile.

That smile nearly undid her.
Her father
was
smiling
at her. But she kept control.

"To unite the city-states of the Isthmus under one strong rule, specifically yours, Lord Matokin."

"Yes," Matokin was nodding. "Indeed."

"We have a posting for you," Abraxis said.

Raven's already fast-beating heart gave a sharp start.

"A ... p-posting?"

She winced inwardly, hating the timid sound of her voice. She was off guard. She hadn't yet graduated the Academy. She wasn't a full-fledged mage, not by anyone's measure. She had an aptitude, yes. She was most certainly dedicated to learning the magical arts. But she could only perform tricks at best at this point.

Had some error occurred? Had they meant to summon someone else here?

"Really, Abraxis," Matokin said mildly. "No need to unsettle the girl."

Raven felt a rush of gratitude toward her father.

"There's been no mistake," Matokin continued, as if reading her thoughts. Considering what magical powers he was reputed to possess, perhaps he was. "We know that you are still studying at the Academy. You're no wizard yet, but I'd wager you'll make a fine one someday. Discipline is as key as any innate talent."

She flushed, feeling her face heat. Neither of the men remarked on it.

"Our general in the field, Lord Weisel, has made a specific personnel request."

"He requested me?" she blurted.

This time Abraxis laughed, but it didn't sound as pleasant as Matokin's laughter.

"No," said Matokin. "He wanted a student straight out of the Academy. Someone absolutely fresh."

"Why, my Lord?"

"In his communication," Abraxis said, "he made mention of a desire to be kept thoroughly updated on any magical advances, so that he can immediately implement the techniques against the enemy."

"It's a lie, of course," Matokin added.

Raven's eyes widened. She of course knew Weisel's name. He was a military man, supposedly a brilliant strategist, but not a magician.

"Our Weisel wants to learn about magic," Matokin said.

Raven was confused. "But... doesn't he have wizards with him? A whole company of them?" Naturally many of them were graduates from the Academy.

"He does," Abraxis put in. "But they are under strict orders not to divulge any specifics about magical procedures to the general."

"Why not?" she asked, before she could catch herself.

Abraxis's flat eyes darkened. "It's not your place to ask that of anyone in this room, girl. Understood?"

"Yes, Lord."

"We're sending you to him," Matokin said, businesslike now, moving papers around on the desk. "You are free to divulge to Weisel anything you're able to. In fact, your orders are to supply him with whatever information you've accumulated in your time at the Academy. If Weisel asks about a spell, you answer him to the best of your ability."

"But that's not all there is to this posting," Abraxis said.

Once more Raven, braced herself. She would obey, whatever the order. Of course she would. She was loyal. To the empire. To her father.

"You will spy on our general," Matokin said. "You will become his confidant. You will become whatever else that we subsequently instruct you to become. You will inform us via one of our Far Speak wizards what information Weisel is seeking. These are your orders."

Raven stepped forward and took the scroll that Matokin held out. Her fingers very nearly brushed his. Her father had one last thing to say. "Go now and justify our confidence in you." Raven went. She would do just that.

FOOT PATROLS MARCHED at unfailing intervals. So regular were they—even using the same routes—that one could mark the passing watches by the movements of the Felk occupiers through Callah's streets.

Bryck had surmised that these patrols were meant mostly to intimidate, rather than do any real policing. Everyone he'd met already seemed acutely aware of the Felk and their dominating presence and didn't need the reminders.

He had just bought himself a light but tasty meal. He had surreptitiously tapped a brass coin on the tabletop, thus receiving special service from the proprietor.

Legally only scrip could be used for all transactions within the city. Paper money.
Paper.
The Felk had issued it, and at the same time they had confiscated all the hard currency they could lay their hands on, presumably to help finance the war. The funny-looking pieces of imprinted colored paper were, the occupiers said, worth precisely the same as proper coins. The scrip was marked to indicate denominations. If the Felk took a copper, they issued a red note; if they took a bronze, a green note; and so forth.

Perhaps more than anything else about the occupation, people were having difficulty adjusting to transacting business with scrip. But these were just the impotent grumblings of a defeated people.

One of those patrols was passing, booted feet clomping in a synchronized rumble. The faces of the Felk soldiers were set, hard. The squad was twenty strong and well armed.

People immediately found somewhere else to be. Some shrank into doorways. All traffic halted till the soldiers were past.

Bryck, too, quietly stepped aside. He had been in Callah some days now. He knew its ways. He had also noticed the superficial differences from his home of U'delph, the variations in architecture and style of dress. Fortunately his traveler's clothes were neutral enough they didn't make him stand out.

Even his meal had been unusual—the curious variety of vegetables, the pungent tea he'd sipped only once. Everything was recognizable but also odd, exotic. The way familiar things were made strange in dreams.

On arrival he'd been ordered to report to the City Registry, where his horse had finally been conscripted. He was only surprised that he'd managed to hang on to the animal so long. The horse had been with him since he'd ridden from U'delph, seeking aid from neighboring Sook. Bryck wouldn't even have earned the privilege to ride if he hadn't trifled with those dice, manipulating their outcome with a little wizardry.

At the Registry he had exchanged the small number of coins he purposely kept in his pockets for local scrip, not protesting the trade. His larger cache of coins stayed secreted in his coat's lining. He had used the money to secure himself lodgings, which was where his vox-mellie was currently stored.

The Registry was a large municipal building of white-washed stone at the city center. Evidently it had

been the seat of the city's government before the Felk arrived. There Bryck had also surrendered the civilian travel pass that he'd been issued on entering Felk-controlled country. It was replaced with a temporary resident permit. Temporary, since as a traveling minstrel he wouldn't be here permanently.

"I will stay until winter," he'd said during his questioning; and that was how long the permit was good for.

He was surprised things had gone so easily, surprised that the Felk had the necessary bureaucracy in place to handle his peculiar status as a troubadour. He was certainly being allowed freedoms not enjoyed by others. Callah's residents, for instance, were required to stay inside the city limits. Those that worked the outlying farmlands were restricted to those areas, under penalty of arrest or even summary execution.

As to what was happening elsewhere on the Isthmus ... who knew? People were hungry for news, and when they couldn't find it, they invented it.

There was a mist on the autumn air this afternoon that was fast on its way to becoming rain. Were he still in Udelph, some distance south, this rain would be light. Here it promised to be unseasonably heavy.

The street was already wet, and the soldiers' boots left behind a neat pattern of prints, each foot falling cleanly atop the last.

Bryck moved. His thick greying hair was getting damp. He turned up his coat's collar and kept near the buildings, under their ornamental eaves.

He had learned the details of Callah's conquest since arriving. He didn't need to interrogate anyone; most wouldn't shut up about it once they got started, particularly in the taverns. Everybody had a personal tale of woe.

Did the Felk annihilate
your
city, slaughter
your
people? Bryck always asked silently, darkly. But that sort of bitterness was as useless as it was reflexive. He should feel a kinship with these Callahans. Shouldn't he? The Felk had conquered them. Felk was the enemy of Callah. Therefore ...

Wars had sides. If one was a participant in a war, one chose one side or the other.

Or, perhaps, a sole individual could be his
own
side. A lone front. A singular army. Yes. Perhaps.

Muck oozed up around his boots as he made for a particular alley.

Callah's conquest, he had learned, was orchestrated by a Lord Weisel, who was said to still be heading the Felk forces. That the Felk were using magic as an instrument of war was disquieting. Where, Bryck wondered, had all those potent magicians appeared from so suddenly? Rumor had it that a small contingent of the wizards was here in Callah, as part of the garrison, though nobody seemed to have actually seen any of these magicians. It might be they were secluded somewhere in the Registry building. Or they might not exist at all.

Bryck rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb. The tight alleyway smelled of spoiling meat. A drape of woven fiber hung across the doorway, allowing glimpses into the dim chamber beyond.

There was no response for some while, but he didn't knock again; instead, waited blandly as the rain started in earnest.

Finally feet scraped the floor beyond the doorway. A hand reached up to whisk aside the drapery. "You don't know enough to come in out of the rain?"

"I know enough not to enter uninvited."

"Then you're summoned. Come in." The little man moved back, and Bryck entered. Inside, things smelled much more pleasant—a scent like berries and milk, but mixed with a gentle wood smoke. Bryck inhaled the incense gratefully.

Slydis's workshop was designed to accommodate its master. That Slydis, three tenwinters old, stood no taller than a child meant that Bryck fairly towered above the furnishings. The scribe wasn't merely short, but stunted; limbs ill-proportioned to his somewhat stumpy trunk.

Bryck had once penned a play about little people. A comedy, naturally. In it the "all-dwarf" cast—normal-sized players—acted out their scenes amidst oversized backdrops and props.

Slydis's repute as a copyist was a good one. Bryck had made inquiries at several city market stalls that sold reading matter. He had visited this shop two days ago, offering half of what would add up to a handsome fee—in silver— for the completion of a special job. Slydis had accepted. People still preferred

to transact in coin, despite the prohibition.

Beneath me incense was a rich odor of ink and paper. The workshop shelves were heavy with materials. Slydis settled at a desk that stood only as high as Bryck's knee. The scribe's wispy hair and grey stubble made him look impossibly old as he set a lamp on a hook over the desk, the light cutting shadows from his features.

Bryck had taken a risk with this man. Transacting in coin was a crime in Callah. What he had asked this copyist to duplicate surely constituted a worse offense.

Slydis's permanently ink-black fingers carefully laid out the vellum under the lamplight. "Here we are. What do you think?"

Bryck crouched down for a look. This was a costly purchase, but it was immediately apparent that he'd paid for quality. Studying the imprint in the yellow wax closer only deepened his appreciation of the product. He pinched a corner of the paper. Even the texture felt correct.

"It's a fine job," Bryck said, straightening up. When he dropped a small bundle of Felk-issued colored scrip on the desk, the dwarfs eyes went narrow and his hand slapped down atop the forged civilian travel pass.

"Not
paper. That wasn't our contract." He seemed on the verge of crumpling the vellum then and there.

But Bryck had already dug out the proper number of silver coins. He stooped and put the neat stack on the desk. "That's your payment. And here's another—a goldie. Prepayment for another job, if you're interested."

"Make me interested." The silvers were already in Slydis's tunic pocket. He was eyeing the gold coin lustfully.

Bryck pointed to the notes. "That. The paper money."

"If you want quality, paying with coin is—"

"I
am
paying in coin. What I want copied is that money."

Slydis stared up at Bryck a long time. At last he said, "By the sanity of the gods ... that is a diabolical notion."

Bryck told the little man he wanted to see a convincing facsimile of each denomination. If the work was as good as that which had gone into the travel pass, he would pay for more notes. Many more.

Bryck left the shop with the pass tucked away in his coat. The Felk had confiscated the one he'd been issued earlier. He had decided that having a replacement pass of his own would be prudent, in the event he wanted to leave Callah before the start of winter.

He permitted himself a small smile as he walked. One of the very first theatricals he had ever written was
The Deceitful Doings and Derring-do of Dabran Del.
(Back then he had thought alliteration inherently funny.) It was the sort of unremarkable early effort every artist cringed over, he imagined. Weak, forced, demonstrating more potential for talent than actual skill. Fortunately the play hadn't been performed in years and was by now probably mercifully lost. Bryck himself could remember few of its particulars.

In truth, all he really recollected was that the lead character had forged some crucial document—a certificate of marriage, he suddenly recalled—and that that simple piece of paper had by the play's end brought about the fall of an entire kingdom.

HE STILL MISSED Aaysue. Still missed his children. Their glaring absences were the central source of his internal pain, which was considerable ... which was excruciating at times. But he could temper his agony. He could alleviate its worst heat by applying cooling thoughts of vengeance to it.

The Felk occupiers were handling their captured city shrewdly, he judged. Women weren't being raped; people weren't being killed arbitrarily. Callah's citizens still had their livelihoods, still earned money—albeit the loathed paper variety. There were some food shortages, but not serious ones. The Felk, then, weren't behaving as barbarians.

It seemed improbable that these were the same people that had slaughtered and incinerated his home. U'delph's destruction was an act of evil mindless savagery. Bryck didn't relent an iota in his hatred of his

enemy, but the strange dichotomy in the behavior of the Felk was curious.

He was letting his beard grow. He'd felt only a slight alarm when he found it coming in almost entirely grey. It made him appear older than his—nearly—four tenwinters. Once vanity would have made him shave it, in an effort to still look young and vigorous, no matter that his years might say otherwise.

Actually, he thought as he approached a tavern, vox-mellie on his back, he was more physically fit now than he had been in a long time. He had lost a considerable amount of weight. In fact, he had initially decided to grow the beard to cover the recent gauntness of his once round face.

He wasn't living a coddled noble's life anymore. No rich foods, a minimum of drinking. Once he had been soft. Now he was toughened.

Bryck had scouted out the tavern and made his arrangements with the proprietor. He entered through the rear, stepping over a rivulet of slops and presenting himself to the one-eyed landlady whose remaining eye held a flinty intensity.

"Need a meal?" Animal blood flecked her apron.

"Not now. Later perhaps."

"Play good as y'did before, and there'll be a later. Ycan have a drink now, if you want."

"Hot wine."

"I'll bring it to your corner. Go there now. Play."

He wended his way through the tables. A fair number of people were gathered. It was a good venue for what he intended. The place was spacious enough to accommodate a crowd but still felt intimate. Bryck sat and, ignoring a tingling of stage nerves, started playing.

He deliberately sang songs he knew to be unfamiliar this far north. It was best that these people understand he was a foreigner.

He drank his wine in cooling stages between bawdy ballads and mawkish verses. The tavern's patrons drank likewise, and ordered and ate their suppers, thereby bringing a satisfied glint to the proprietress's intact eye.

His fingers moved with a nimbleness they hadn't possessed even a half-lune ago. He had become, in his own humble estimation, a reasonably respectable musician— certainly a finer one than he'd been before this adventure. Back in Udelph, back during his lighthearted days of carousing and gambling and penning the occasional theatrical, music-making had been merely a hobby, a stunt to make himself the life of the party. And so many parties there had been, so carefree and uncomplicated was his life, what with his nobility, wealth, fame, a loving wife, a cheerful passel of children.

He had played past his allotted time. It would be curfew in another watch. He now picked out the doleful melody of "Lament for the Unnamed Dead," moving the winder with dirge-like slowness, intoning the sad simple words, feeling nothing more than a vague melancholy. It had been some while now since he had actually wept, for Aaysue and the children, for all he'd lost. His tears had gone cold.

The last notes played to a nearly silent room. Bryck blinked, having almost forgotten about his audience. Dimly lit faces regarded him. Here and there in the crowd he saw the shine of tears.