Storm Breaking

"It's not just Tayledras Healing Adepts and earth-witches that use this. Both the King of Rethwellan and my stepfather Prince Daren have earth-sense, in fact," she said, taking the narrative back. "It seems that the Gift has always been in the Rethwellan royal line. They haven't needed it for generations, but it's obvious how useful it is when you know that even though Daren was not familiar with Hardorn and not ritually tied to the land here, he could still sense what Ancar had done to it when he came here to help Valdemar drive Ancar out. That actually proved to be of tactical value, since it gave us an idea of where Ancar was finding all the power he needed."

Tremane nodded, his brows knitted intently, and seized on the phrase that they had both hoped he would. "Ritually tied to the land?" he asked. "Just what does that mean?"

"The monarchs of Rethwellan—and I presume, of Hardorn—have always taken part in a very old ritual known as earth-binding," she told him. "Because we in Valdemar do not have that particular ritual, I can't even begin to tell you how it works, or why, but when it is over, every major injury or change to the land is instantly sensed by the monarch. Ancar obviously never participated in that ritual, or he could not have done the things he did—I suspect that, as in Rethwellan, the earth-binding is part of the Hardornen private rites that take place just before the public coronation. Ancar crowned himself, without the usual rituals, so—" She shrugged. "My stepfather says that those who even have earth-sense latently can have it aroused by such a rite."

"The point here is that the people of Hardorn have found some of the priests of the old ways who know that ritual," Darkwind continued, as she glanced at him to cue him to take up the narrative. "They think that if you were to be tested for earth-sense and had it even latently, that would qualify you for the Hardornen crown. And if you were to undergo the earth-binding ritual, thus awakening the earth-sense and binding you to Hardorn, you would be a—a safe monarch for Hardorn, because you would be unable to harm, abuse, or misuse your land the way Ancar did."

"Because harming the land would hurt me." He lifted one eyebrow skeptically.

:Is he going to laugh?: Elspeth sounded dubious, and Darkwind didn't blame her. This was such a primitive, unsophisticated concept—for someone from the Eastern Empire, so sophisticated in the ways of magic that its power was used for practically everything, this must seem incredibly savage and crude.

But he didn't laugh, and in fact, he seemed to be thinking the concept over. "Can you tell me anything else about this earth-sense? Just what does it entail? How do you learn to use it."

"Among my people, it isn't very complicated," Darkwind told him. "You don't so much learn to use it as you learn to keep it from using you. It's rather like Empathy in a way, or extremely strong Mindspeech. You actually learn how to shut it out so that it doesn't affect you all the time."

"Interesting. I can see how it would be inconvenient to be affected adversely by the very condition you are attempting to remedy." His brows creased in thought. "And does it go the other way? Does the physical condition of the King affect the land?"

"Havens, no!" Elspeth exclaimed. "For one thing, the King is not exactly as—as monumental as a country! It would be like a flea stepping on a horse. For another, it's only a sense, like the sense of smell, and..." She trailed off in confusion as Darkwind shook his head.

"I hate to have to contradict Elspeth, but that's not entirely true, Duke Tremane," he said, feeling the need to be totally frank. "Under certain very specific circumstances, the health of the King who is bound to the land can affect the land. He can, in fact, sacrifice himself—give up his own life—to restore the land to its former health. This is something that my people know, and that the Shin'a'in not only know, but have even, very rarely, practiced. I must also say, however, that I personally do not believe that the Hardornens ever practiced that form of earth-binding. As with all crafts, there are scores, even hundreds or thousands of ways to do them, and nothing that they told us gave me any indication that they even know such a possibility exists. And I must also point out that to be valid, to have any chance of working, the sacrifice must be a self-sacrifice, entirely voluntary—and indeed eagerly sought by the sacrificial victim." He managed a thin smile. "Hauling one's King to the stone of sacrifice and spilling his blood upon the ground only serves as a sort of gruesome fertilizer to the local grass; it won't change anything else without that will to be sacrificed."

Tremane's brows crept halfway up his forehead as Darkwind imparted that choice bit of information, but he made no comment. After a moment, he stood up.

"I'd like to go think about this for a little," he said. "I assume you have a way of contacting someone if I make a decision?"

"I can find a contact,: Gwena said firmly in both their minds.

"We do," Elspeth told him.

"Then give me—about a mark," he replied. "I'll send for you, if you have no objections."

Since it had been a very long time since breakfast, and this would provide an excellent excuse to send their Imperial aide in search of food, Darkwind had no objections whatsoever, and neither did Elspeth. With a polite exchange of bows, they retired to their own quarters, leaving him sitting back in his chair, staring at the ducal ring on his finger, clearly deep in thought.

They were about halfway through a solid, if uninspired meal of bread and cold sliced meat and pickles, when Gwena announced that she had found the contact she had promised. :Go to the Hanging Goose Tavern after dark,: she told Darkwind. :It will have to be you, since I don't think that Elspeth would be welcome in this particular tavern, and if there are two of you, he might suspect a trap.:

Elspeth exchanged a wry glance with Darkwind and shrugged, applying herself to her food.

:You want to speak to the bartender who dispenses the beer, not the one who handles the harder drinks,: she continued. :You tell him, "I drink my beer very cold." He is supposed to reply, "That's an odd habit," and you say, "I picked it up in the West." He'll nod and ask you what your message is. He has a perfect memory, he'll pass it on word for word. If Tremane decides to take the gamble, I suspect you'll have your delegation, priest included, within a few days. Maybe sooner. They might have moved someone into a village nearby, hoping you would be able to offer him the proposition soon after we arrived."

"I rather suspected that the loyalists had agents in the city," Elspeth said, as she ate the last bite. "I couldn't imagine how they knew so much about him just from 'hearing things.' But this sounds as if the network has been well in place for some time. It takes a long time to find someone with a perfect memory who is trustworthy enough to act as a message drop. It makes me wonder if this tavern wasn't a contact point for... other things." She smiled suggestively at Darkwind.

He chuckled. "I am just a poor Hawkbrother scout with no knowledge of you city dwellers and your ways," he protested. "What other things?"

"Smuggling, maybe. Possibly intriguing against Ancar. And I'll bet the reason Gwena doesn't want me to go there is not because I wouldn't be welcome alone there either." She grinned at something Gwena said only to her. "I thought so." She reached out and patted Darkwind's hand. "The ladies working in this tavern will be selling more than just strong drink and food, my poor, uncivilized Hawkbrother. I suggest that you make it very clear to them that you aren't interested in their wares, or you might bring something inconvenient and uncomfortable home with you that would require a Healer's help to clear up."

He grinned back at her, and was trying to think of a clever retort when Tremane's aide came to fetch them.

The Grand Duke was waiting for them when they arrived, looking no different than when they had left him. They took their seats and waited for him to speak.

"Frankly, I am not entirely convinced that this earth-sense you told me about really exists," he said after a moment. "'And I honestly do not think, if it exists, that I happen to have it. It just seems all too very pat and too coincidental that out of all the people who might have been sent here, I would happen to have this sense which is needed at this particular time." He frowned a little. "It's rather too much like something a tale-seller might make up."

"Possibly," Darkwind replied. "But you might consider it before you dismiss this proposition out-of-hand. If you take as your premise that earth-sense does exist, and that the extreme form of it could only be... induced, let us say... by this ritual, then the lesser, or latent forms would be very useful to anyone who was in a position to rule even a small area. Having such a thing could explain why some landowners are more successful at managing their property than others—why some landowners have an uncanny ability to gauge what is going on with their property and people, and why some have remarkable hunches that always prove correct."

"I can see that," Tremane acknowledged.

"So, given that, it is logical to assume that those landowners whose lines were so Gifted would be more prosperous than others. would accumulate more property, and would eventually rise to higher and higher positions of power over the many generations," Darkwind persisted. "And in short, it would actually be logical to assume that a man who had been a ruler of property or even a King would be so Gifted, because his predecessors could not have prospered so well without it."

Tremane laughed out loud; it was the first time that Darkwind had ever heard him laugh, and he liked the sound of it. He often judged aspects of peoples' character by their laughter; Tremane's laugh was open, generous, and not at all self-conscious.

"I think that if you had not been born among the Hawkbrothers, you would have become a diplomat, a courtier, or a priest, Master Darkwind," he said finally. "You certainly can turn a fine argument. Now, hear me out, if you please."

Darkwind and Elspeth both nodded, and Tremane set forth his own reasoning.

"You must know, and they must know, that with or without this earth-sense, if my men and I can recreate order here—as we already have done, you might note—people will come to my banner without the title attached to it. That is the great secret of Imperial success. We wait until a land is disorganized and demoralized, and then we move in, offering peace, order, and prosperity. Usually people welcome us. Then, when they see the high level that Imperial prosperity represents, word spreads, and the lands we move on generally are half-conquered before the Army itself ever reaches them."

"That makes rather too much sense," Elspeth put in dryly.

He nodded his acknowledgment and continued, tapping his index finger on the table to emphasize each point. "You must make it very clear to these people that no matter what happens, I intend to go on holding this particular piece of Hardorn from now on, for myself, my men, and those Hardornens who have accepted my rule and my order without any of this earth-binding business."

"I think they are already well aware of that, Tremane," she answered just as frankly. "But I will make sure that arrangement is openly acknowledged on both sides. To be honest with you, there is no way that you can be dislodged with the few resources these Hardornen loyalists have at their command. That would take an army. The only armies large enough are those commanded by the Allies, and we are here representing the Allies in a gesture of peace and goodwill, so I don't think you need concern yourself about losing your hold on this place."

"Good. just so that we're all clear on that." He toyed with a corner of a piece of paper for a moment. "I can't say that I really care for the idea of subjecting myself to this ritual. It all sounds terribly primitive, somehow. But perhaps even if I don't believe I have this so-called earth-sense, the priest will be convinced that I do, and will let me go through with this ritual even if it is meaningless. Frankly, if that happens, it would be the easiest and quickest way to get all of Hardorn under my wing, and it would be done with absolutely no bloodshed." He smiled; an oddly shy smile, and Darkwind had the feeling that it was a rare smile, as if Tremane had even less to smile about than to laugh about. "How could I possibly turn away that kind of opportunity?"

"In your position, I certainly would not," Darkwind told him. "Well, is that the whole of your message?"

Tremane nodded. "And if you'll excuse me, I have matters regarding my men to see to. My aide can escort you back to your quarters, and if there is anywhere in the city you need to go, he can give you the proper directions."

:That won't be necessary,: Gwena said.

"Thank you," Darkwind replied, without giving any indication that he would take Tremane up on his offer.

Once again, after a polite exchange of bows, they departed for their own quarters. Elspeth had a thoughtful look on her face, but waited until they were alone again before saying anything.

She stood with her back to the cast-iron-and-brick stove holding the mage-fire, warming herself at it. A real fire also burned on the hearth, and between the two, their rooms were as comfortable as any in Valdemar. But the hallways of this fortified manor were still cold, despite the addition of such stoves, and they both tended to get chilled going from their quarters to Tremane's.

There was no doubt that this was one of the worst winters that Hardorn had ever experienced, even without the effect of the magestorms. The main difference in the weather now that the mage-storms had abated, according to their aide, was that now there were only snowstorms, not killing blizzards, every two weeks or so. With the incredible blanket of snow covering the ground, the sun couldn't even begin to melt it before another layer fell.

The modified Heralds' Whites that the hertasi had designed for her seemed particularly well-suited to the icy landscape outside. He wondered what the Imperial soldiers thought when they saw her; did they believe that her costume was meant to reflect the season, as Tayledras scout gear did?

"You know," Elspeth said finally, in Tayledras. "This situation has some interesting parallels in the history of Valdemar—the Founding, specifically."

"Oh?" Darkwind joined her, hands outstretched to the warm stove, wishing that there was something like a Hawkbrother hot spring or soaking pool about. It never seemed possible to be entirely warm except in bed. He responded in the same language. "I wasn't aware of that."

"'Well, Valdemar was fleeing the Empire rather than serving it when he and his followers trekked out in this direction, but when he got to the point where Haven is now and started building, he actually built beside an existing village," Elspeth replied, turning to face the stove and rubbing her hands together. "The locals there were not entirely thrilled with having a foreign power moving in, although they never actually opposed him. But once they saw the advantages of coming under his protection—and the way in which his own followers were treated—they began to act the way the Hardornens are with Tremane. And eventually, of course, they insisted that he call himself a King." She chuckled. "That was really rather funny; it seemed that every little petty ruler for leagues in every direction was calling himself a 'King,' and his own people were embarrassed to be led by a mere Baron. They had a crown made up, called in a priest to concoct a ceremony, and had him crowned before he had a chance to object. I gather that he was rather startled by it all."

Darkwind laughed. "That may be the first time I've ever heard of someone being tricked into becoming a King," he responded. "But you're right, I do see the parallels there."

She stared at the stove, frowning. "I think we can assume that Tremane is going to be offered the Crown, no matter what."

"I think that is a foregone conclusion, yes, lover"" Dark wind admitted. "Even if he doesn't have earth-sense, the priest may perform the binding anyway, just to make him eligible. I think he was right about that."

She sighed and nodded. "The next question may be how we arrange for there to be the same cheeks on the King of Hardorn that there are on the Son of the Sun, the King of Rethwellan, and the Queen of Valdemar. Solaris has to answer to Vkandis, Faram has both the earth-binding and his family's sword to contend with, and Selenay has her Companion." She chewed her lip. "Then again—we may already have those checks partially in place. Solaris did curse him with speaking only the truth, after all."

"Yes, but not the whole truth," he reminded her. "There are ways of lying simply by not telling all of the truth."

She grimaced, and turned away from the warmth to pace the room as she often did when she was thinking. "You may think I'm going mad, but I'm beginning to agree with young Karal; I think this man has a basically good nature. That entire interview about the assassins when we first arrived...."

Darkwind nodded, for he had come away with the same impression out of that interview; that Tremane was a man who would bear the dreadful burden of indirectly ordering the deaths of innocent people, and he would feel guilt about that for the rest of his life. Real guilt, not feigned. And it didn't matter that he had good reason at the time for his actions; what mattered was that he himself had changed over the course of these several months. What had been acceptable to him before no longer was.

But Darkwind also was aware that the man could be a very good actor. Most rulers were, to a greater or lesser extent.

"I still have some reservations," he said after a moment. "What occurred in the past is immutable. He has done terrible things to us, and without any provocation. Perhaps he has regrets now. but I find myself wondering if he might not revert to his old ways under pressure."

She sighed. :I think we'd better continue this conversation in a way that can't be overheard,: she cautioned.

:Good idea. Sejanes had some magical way of learning Valdemaran and other tongues; there might be someone else here who can do the same thing.: Granted, there might not be enough mage-energy for them to do so. but why take the chance? :We Tayledras are more suspicious than any other race, I think, but I wish I knew if it was Tremane's better nature that had been subverted by the expediency of the Empire, or his expedient nature that has chosen to disguise itself as a good heart for—well—!:

:He's in a position to do everyone more good than harm right now,: Gwena pointed out, joining the conversation.

:Gwena's right; and in fact, that's exactly what he has done,: Elspeth seconded. :Look at his record: granted, he coopted the best structure in the area for his headquarters, but other than that, he lives a relatively lean life for someone who is basically the uncrowned king of this area. He eats exactly the same food as his men, he isn't wasting precious resources on extravagant entertainments for his own benefit; in fact, he's pouring a lot of those resources back into the community here. He never asks his men to do anything he wouldn't, and he's usually out there leading them in person.:

:He thinks first of his men, then of the local folk, then of their land and their beasts, and then of himself,: Gwena put in. :That is the pattern that I'm seeing, and honestly, while some of that might be expediency, it can't all be explained by that.:

Darkwind chuckled. :I'm glad he's not handsome; I'd be jealous. He's managed to seduce both my ladies away from me.:

Elspeth picked up an inkstand and pretended to throw it at him; he ducked.

:Consider yourself kicked,: Gwena retorted.

:Honestly, ke'chara, I would like to give him the chance to prove himself, and the way he handles the next crisis—which is going to be very, very bad, I think—will tell us what he's really made of," Elspeth replied.

Darkwind chewed on that thought a while before replying, wondering if they were all making a terrible mistake. He wanted to believe in Tremane, and in the idea that the man was finally allowing himself to behave in a moral fashion rather than a calculated one. How must it have felt, to spend most of one's life having to plot each and every action without regard to whether or not it was ethically right? If he himself had been in that position, he'd have been driven mad.

:All right,: he said at last, :but I have one proviso.: His jaw tensed as he hardened his mind. :If he proves treacherous, and a danger to the Alliance—if he is going to cost more lives—we take care of the situation ourselves.:

:You mean, kill him.: Elspeth nodded, very slowly. :I don't like it—but I don't want another Ancar, much less another Falconsbane. He's used to using magic, and it would be very tempting to resort to the blood-path to get the power he's used to having.: She shivered, and so did he; they had both seen far too much of the results of that path. :We've done this before, and I'd rather the blood were on our hands, I suppose, than find that even more innocent blood had been spilled.:

It was a nasty moral trap; when was murder acceptable? But that was the moral trap that the Tayledras had always been in. Darkwind himself had faced it many times—warning trespassers three times, and assuming that if they did not heed the warning, they were in Hawkbrother lands for evil purposes. How many would-be enslavers of tervardi and hertasi, mages hunting for yet more power for the wrong purposes, and would-be murderers of Hawkbrothers had he eliminated over the years? Enough that he had lost count.

Elspeth only had a handful of deaths on her conscience, but she was prepared to add another if the need was there.

:And with any luck, we'll all discover that our pessimism is unfounded,: Gwena said cheerfully. :I'll tell you what; I will see if I can tell whether or not Tremane has earth-sense, while you make contact with the loyalists. Darkwind, my dear, we need to rummage through your wardrobe and find something in it that will not scream foreigner to every person in the town.:

:What do you mean, we, horse?: he asked her.

Darkwind found his messenger—and Gwena's careful probe of Duke Tremane uncovered only a verdict of "maybe." Four days later, their aide knocked tentatively on the door to their quarters just after they'd finished breakfast. "Excuse me, Envoys?" he said, when Darkwind opened the door to him. "I don't want to interrupt, but there's a religious gentleman below who says that you called for him?"

Elspeth turned in surprise. Despite Gwena's assurance, she hadn't really expected an answer to their message this quickly. The man really must have been fairly close by; that argued for certainty on the part of the Hardornens that they had made Tremane an offer he would find irresistible.

"We have been expecting him, Jem," Darkwind told the young man. "We just didn't know when he would arrive. If you are reasonably sure that it is safe to do so, please show him the way up. Otherwise, if you are not happy with a potential breach of security, we can arrange to meet him in the town."

Jem flushed. "Oh, no. He's just an old man—it won't cause any problems. I just didn't know if you wanted to be bothered with him, if he might be a charlatan or—" He flushed even redder, realizing that he might have inadvertently insulted all of them.

"That's fine, Jem. Please show him here, and arrange for something hot for all of us to drink. And perhaps more food, he might not have broken his own fast yet," Elspeth said, in her kindest tones.

The aide bowed a little, still red with embarrassment, and left quickly. Tremane's aides were far more used to military situations than to the diplomatic ones they now found themselves hip-deep in. Elspeth found it rather charming, actually; military men were, in general, much easier to deal with and much more straightforward than civilians.

The old man and the second breakfast arrived at the same time; Elspeth privately thought that she wasn't too surprised Jem had taken him for a possible charlatan. There was nothing at all remarkable about him. His hair, gray and a touch on the shaggy side, looked as if he had not put a scissors to it lately. His build was that of a long-time clerk whose parents may have been merchants or tradesmen of modest means. His face, square, with a small beard, was lined with care, yet had smile-creases bracketing his mouth and eyes. His robes and cloak were clean and serviceable, but hardly impressive, he wore no liturgical jewels, and his manner was unassuming and cheerful. All of which, in her experience, meant that he was probably a very good priest; good priest, like good leaders, gave more to their followers than they kept for themselves, and were not particularly conscious of appearances.

They introduced themselves and offered the old man, who called himself Father Janas, their hospitality. As Elspeth had anticipated, he hadn't eaten, and he applied himself to the food with a hearty appetite. They kept conversation to a minimum until he had finished; once he had taken his cloak off, it was fairly obvious that, like most Hardornens, he had been sharing in the hard times. He wasn't emaciated, but he was thin enough that he had probably been on the same short rations as his followers.

"Oh, that was lovely," he said at last, when he had finished, and leaned back in his chair cradling a cup of hot tea laden with honey. "I'm afraid that my besetting sin is that I cannot resist good food." He laughed. "Since we are supposed to be concentrating on the spiritual world rather than the secular world, I suspect I shall be chided for my failing sooner or later by those to whom I must answer."

Darkwind smiled at that. "I would rather say that you were showing proper joy and respect for the bounty of the earth," Darkwind replied, and the old priest chuckled, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Well, shall we deal with the reason that I am here, rather than engage in rationalizing my shortcomings" he asked, after taking a sip of his tea. "As I assume you suppose, I have come to test Duke Tremane for earth-sense, which will mean that I will awake it if it is there; and once I have done so, I will bind him to Hardorn. Now, nothing I have been vouch-safed has given me any indication that he does or does not have the Sense, and I am quite sure that he has no idea what is going to happen, do either of you?"

Elspeth shook her head. "We don't use that Gift in Valdemar, or, rather, if we do, it isn't used by Heralds, Bards, or Healers. And those are the only ones whose training I'm familiar with," she said. "My stepfather has it, but we've never discussed it much, and he was never formally bound to Valdemar. I've heard of other latent Gifts being awakened as a theoretical possibility, but no one in my lifetime has ever tried such a thing."

Darkwind shrugged, as the priest turned to him. "The Tayledras Healing Adepts all develop earth-sense along with their other abilities," he replied. "It doesn't come on them all at once, and if anyone has it latently, we've never bothered to awaken it. I haven't any idea how someone would react in such a circumstance."

Father Janas raised an eyebrow. "It can be rather dramatic," he said cautiously. "Assuming that one has it latently, rather than having a very weak version of the Sense, that is. We have always conducted this particular ceremony several days before the actual coronation of our kings, precisely because of that. It sometimes takes the recipient a good deal of time to get used to his new ability, if heretofore it has only been latent and when actuated proves to be very strong."

Elspeth nodded. "Rather like suddenly being able to see, I suppose," she offered. "Well, that is all very well in theory—but you are here to put theory into practice. How soon would you care to see Duke Tremane? Are there any preparations you would like to make, any vestments you need to change into before you are presented?"

Father Janas smoothed down the front of his robe self-consciously. "Much as I wish I could present a more impressive picture, I am afraid that I am wearing my best—indeed, my only vestments." He licked his lips and looked apologetic. "Ancar did not persecute priests and clerics directly, but he found many ways of doing so indirectly. I do not think you will find a single religious organization in all of Hardorn surviving at better than a subsistence level, and many simply vanished altogether as old members died and no new ones came to replace them." He shook his head sadly. "At any rate, it is all moot; I have no preparations to make, and I should prefer to see the Duke as soon as possible, as soon as he has the time free."

Darkwind rose to request their aide to take a message to the Duke. Elspeth had some other ideas, however.

She wrote a short note while Darkwind was talking with Jem, and asked the aide to take the message down to Tremane's chief of supply on his way back from delivering their request for an audience to the Duke. Jem looked baffled, but agreed; he was obviously not going to question why the envoy wanted to send a note to the supply sergeant.

"Just what are you up to?" Darkwind asked her, as they closed the door behind his retreating back and returned to their guest.

Elspeth seated herself before replying. "Tremane told me that he and his men had virtually gutted an entire Imperial warehouse complex," she told him, as well as their guest. "Now, given how the Empire likes to regiment things, even though there is no official Imperial religion, I am betting that somewhere among all the uniforms brought back are at least a few standard imperial Army Chaplains' robes, or something of that nature. And I'm also betting that they look pretty much like every other priest's robes I've ever seen, precisely because an Imperial Army Chaplain would have to be able to conduct the rites of several religions, hence the uniform robe will be as bland and as general as possible."

"I follow your reasoning so far," Darkwind said, still puzzled. "But why should the supply sergeant let us have one of these uniforms, if they exist?"

She grinned. "I've been talking to the townsfolk. I know that it is Tremane's standard procedure to sell anything in stores that is not immediately useful to his soldiers if a civilian wants to buy it. You'll find a lot of townsfolk outfitted in surplused uniforms of some of the odder auxiliary disciplines, if you know what to look for. I asked specifically if I could purchase a set of chaplain's robes if there are any, and asked him to send them up as soon as he found them." She turned to the priest, who was a little flushed. "We'll have plenty of time to alter them into something approximating your own vestments before Tremane has time to see us."

Father Janas looked even more embarrassed. "Really, that's too good of you—"

She interrupted him with a cautionary hand. "You're being generous and forgiving; I know that this was a bit high-handed of me. But we may be more anxious to settle this than you are, and I'd prefer not to leave anything to chance. The Grand Duke isn't even certain that he believes earth-sense exists; I suspect his attitude is more that he is humoring us than anything else. We all want him to agree to go through with something he already considers to be mummery, and we want him to agree to do it now. The better the impression your appearance will make on him, the more likely he is to do that."

Darkwind nodded thoughtfully. "Actually," he put in, "using an Imperial uniform may serve us better than if you had come with your own vestments. He has lived with the chaplains. He is going to respect the uniform and what it represents without realizing he is primed to do so."

Father Janas uttered a faint laugh in self-deprecation. "Well, it is certainly true that most people rely on one's outward appearance for their impressions, and I am afraid my appearance is hardly likely to inspire confidence."

His admission only deepened his obvious embarrassment, and Darkwind quickly changed the subject to that of the conditions over most of Hardorn. The priest was only too willing to talk about the hardships people all over the country had and were suffering, and the spirit with which they were enduring those hardships.

"Everything you saw as you journeyed here is representative of conditions everywhere in this land," he said, with real sadness. "People are not starving, but they are hungry. They are not freezing to death, but they are cold. There is not a single soul in this country that did not lose at least one member of his family to unnatural death in the last five years, and as you saw, entire towns and villages have been emptied. Temples and other places of worship are deserted, or tended by a few old men like myself. Worst of all, we have lost most of a generation of young men, and no matter how much better things become, how can we possibly replace them? Who will be the parents of our next generation of citizens?"

There are several thousand young men, none of whom will ever be able to return to the Empire, camped right here, Elspeth thought. And most of them would be perfectly happy to become the parents of the next generation of Hardornens. I wonder if he's thought of that—I know Tremane has.

At length Jem returned with the answer from Duke Tremane, he would be free immediately after lunch to receive the priest, and if necessary, could clear a good portion of the afternoon for the interview.

"That would be wise," Father Janas said, as Darkwind deferred to him. "Please return, tell him this would be very much to my liking, and ask him to do so."

Jem went back with the reply. Not long after he left, one of the many locals who had been hired to run errands within the Imperial complex arrived with a large, neat package and a handwritten bill. Elspeth accepted both, made a face at the mildly extortionate price the supply officer was charging, but rummaged in her belt-pouch for the correct number of silver coins anyway. They were Valdemaran rather than Hardornen or Imperial, but the price had been quoted in silver-weight and not a specific coinage. Given the circumstances, she doubted that anyone would care whose face was stamped on them so long as the weight was true. Those she sent back with the errand boy, as Darkwind handed the package over to Father Janas.

Just as she had suspected, the official uniform of an Imperial Chaplain was, once the rainbow of specific accoutrements for various religions and liturgical events were set aside, virtually identical in cut to the threadbare robe Father Janas already wore; it was even a very similar gray in color. He retired to the next room to change, and returned looking much trimmer.

Darkwind surveyed him with a critical eye. "Just what form does your deity—or deities—take?" he asked the priest. "Forgive me, but I think we need to make you look a little more impressive."

The priest looked confused but answered readily enough. "The Earth-father and Sky-mother are usually represented by the colors green and blue, and by a circle or sphere that is half white and half black, but—"

Darkwind had already turned to the pile of multicolored stoles and other accessories, sorting through the plethora of plain and appliqued fabrics, and came up with one stole that was green, and one blue. Quick work with his knife gave him four halves, two of which he handed to Elspeth. She had already divined what he was up to, and had gone into the other room for her sewing kit; a few moments later, she draped a stole about Father Janas' neck that was green on his right side and blue on his left.

But it was still too plain, and she took it back from him. While she cut half-circles of black and white fabric from two of the other stoles to applique to the ends of the new one, Darkwind left for their bedroom and returned with a bit of his personal jewelry. "This probably isn't much like something you would ordinarily wear," he said apologetically. "But it will probably do for now, and Tremane isn't going to know the difference between Hardornen and Shin'a'in work."

He handed a copper medallion on a tanned leather thong to Janas; Elspeth recognized it at once as the sort of token the Shin'a'in carried to identify themselves or their allies to Tayledras. She had once carried a similar token, meant to identify her to Kerowyn's kin, as well as to any Tayledras she might have encountered. This one was engraved with a swirling, abstract pattern on one side, and a deer on the other.

But a leather thong simply would not do. Now it was Elspeth's turn to go back to the bedroom and rummage through her jewelry.

Copper. What do I have that is copper?

When they had left, she had simply tossed everything she owned into a bag, including some of the pieces meant to go with the costumes that Darkwind himself had designed for her. A glint of copper at the bottom caught her eye, and she untangled an interesting belt made of a heavy copper chain entwined with a light one. She purloined the light chain to hang the medallion from, then as an afterthought, suggested to Father Janas that he use the heavy chain for the original purpose of a belt. That was the final touch that he needed, for the robe had been just a bit long on him; now with the new robe, stole, belt, and medallion, Janas presented quite a different picture from the man who had arrived.

He seemed to feel the change as well; he seemed less weary, stood a little straighter and with confidence matching his natural cheer. All in all, Elspeth reckoned that they had put in a good morning's work.

"It isn't precisely canonical," Janas told them, "But as you said, no one here is going to know that, and it does look—well—much more respectable, in the sense of worthy of respect. I can't begin to thank you enough."

"Thank us if all of this bears fruit," Elspeth replied firmly. "And speaking of which, here's our lunch."

As usual, it was rather plain fare, but there was plenty of it. Jem seemed startled by Father Janas' transformation, but treated him with more deference than he had shown initially, thus confirming Elspeth's feeling that the effort of reclothing the priest was more than justified. Jem lingered while they ate, which all of them read as an indication that Tremane was impatient to have the interview over with quickly. Spurred by that, they made quick work of their meal.

:I think we should let Janas take the lead in this now,: she told Darkwind.

:I agree; it will establish his authority from the beginning. After all, officially, we're only involved in this peripherally. We were never more than the informal intermediaries,: Darkwind replied.

Elspeth signaled the priest with a slight nod as she set her cup aside. He read the hint as adroitly as she had thought he would.

"I think we are ready to see Duke Tremane if he is ready for us," Father Janas said to the aide, standing up and settling his new vestments with an air of brisk competence.

"He is ready for you, sir," Jem responded with all of the respect that any of them could have asked. "If you would care to follow me?"

He then looked for a moment with confusion at the two envoys, as if he had, for that instant, forgotten that they were involved. Clearly he was uncertain whether they should be properly included in the invitation.

Father Janas solved his problem. "I have asked the Alliance envoys to accompany me," he said smoothly. "If Duke Tremane has no objection."

Jem's face cleared as Janas took the question out of his hands, and he bowed slightly to all of them. "Certainly, sir. If you would all please come with me?"

All during the quick walk to the Grand Duke's private quarters, Elspeth was conscious of an increasing feeling of irrational excitement. Something was going to happen; she wasn't quite certain what it was, but this visit was not going to pass without an event of some sort.

I wish there was something more of Foresight in my family than just an ability to get an occasional hunch, she thought fretfully. It would be nice to have some warning when a mountain is about to drop on us.

At last they were finally closeted with Tremane, seated across from him in three chairs arrayed before his desk. This was not to be the less formal (Tremane was never informal) sort of meeting that she and Darkwind had been having with him of late; he had arrayed himself as the Grand Duke, the Commander of the Army, and the local Power. He wore his uniform, minus the Imperial devices, but with all of the other decorations and medals to which he was entitled. He had both a crackling fire in the hearth and a mage-fire in a stove, imparting a generous warmth to the room and a fragrant scent of pine resin to the air. Sunlight streamed in through the windows whose heavy velvet curtains had been pulled back to let in as much light as possible. He had a choice of chairs to use here, and he had selected the heaviest and most thronelike for his use; the desk separated them from him like a fortress wall made of dark wood.

She was very glad now that she had gone out of her way to dress Father Janas appropriately. If he had entered this interview looking as shabby as he had when he had arrived, he would have begun on an unequal footing with Tremane. As Darkwind had speculated, she could see Tremane responding to the implied authority symbolized by a "uniform" he recognized, and Father Janas assumed his rightful position as an authority equal to his.

As for Elspeth, she was acutely aware of everything around her, her senses sharpened by her anticipation. Her feeling was so strong that it was amazing to her to see that Duke Tremane was concealing a certain amount of polite boredom under a smooth and diplomatic courtesy.

If Janas was put off by Tremane's attitude, he didn't show it. "Duke Tremane," Father Janas said, "you know why I am here. Those who have led the struggle against Imperial subjugation have heard of your defection from the Empire, seen how you have governed and protected the people here, and have come to the conclusion that you, at least. are not necessarily an enemy to Hardorn."

Tremane nodded at this recitation of the obvious, and waited for him to continue. Behind him, a knot in the wood on the fire cracked explosively; no one jumped.

Janas had clearly rehearsed his speech many times, until he was comfortable enough with it that he didn't have to think about it. "The consortium of loyal fighters believes that, since there is no one man who has been able to become their clear leader, and since no one in Hardorn commands the resources that you do, you may be the appropriate person to take up the defense of this land against outsiders and current adversity." He smiled thinly. "I will not mince words with you, Duke Tremane. These men are willing, given other conditions, to allow you to purchase the rule of Hardorn with the resources and men that you command."

He seemed a bit surprised by Father Janas' bluntness. "That would seem reasonable," he replied with care. "And I am certainly willing to put those resources into Hardorn."

Father Janas nodded. "So I have been sent here by those men to discover if you are both fit and willing to lead this nation and help to defend it against those who would subject it to the rule of a foreign power—including the Empire." Janas tilted his head in inquiry. The fire popped again, scattering sparks, as he waited for an answer.

Tremane's reply was brief but polite. "I would welcome the opportunity to prove my worth, but I would like to point out that I am not, and never have been, a traitor to any cause. It was the Emperor and the Empire who abandoned us here; we broke none of the oaths that we had given. But now that those vows are broken, we see every need to hold fast to the oaths that we gave to each other. And if, in keeping those vows, we aid the people here, that is all to the good. Times are perilous, and whenever loyalty is found, it should be rewarded with loyalty." His face hardened. "But any new responsibilities that I assume must work with my vows to my men."

"There will be no conflict." Janas nodded, and there was a great deal of satisfaction on his face. "In keeping with our traditions, the ruler of Hardorn must be possessed of the quality we know as earth-sense, and be bound to the land if he has that quality. In order that your consent to be tested is informed, I shall explain precisely what that means."

He went into a much more detailed explanation than Elspeth or Darkwind had done, and in Elspeth's opinion, Tremane was a bit too cavalier about the entire thing. She had not been certain until this moment that the test for the earth-sense involved actually awakening it if it was latent. And Tremane was clearly preoccupied with some other thought as the priest explained that if he showed the symptoms of having the earth-sense, he would be expected to undergo the earthbinding ritual immediately.

Perhaps his own statements to Janas had reminded him of things he needed to deal with among his own people; perhaps it was only that he was not inclined to spend his time on something even peripherally connected with religion. She had the feeling that Tremane was a man who gave secular respect to religious authority, lip-service to the rituals, and otherwise gave no thought to the subject. And he considered the entire business of earth-sense and earth-binding to be essentially religious in nature, a matter of faith rather than fact.

:He has already made up his mind that nothing is going to happen,: Darkwind commented, as he watched Tremane's attention wandering. :He is good enough at reading people to know that Janas thinks he can be a good leader for Hardorn, and I suspect he thinks that is the only "test" he needed to pass. I think he has decided that Janas will make a couple of mystic passes, then declare he has the earth-sense, mumble a few phrases, and say that he is bound to Hardorn, all without anything he can detect actually occurring.:

:I think he's making a mistake, if that's the case,: Elspeth offered. :I wish he'd listened a bit more closely because I don't think he really knows what he might be getting into.:

Well, it was already too late to say anything, for Tremane nodded with relief when Janas finished, and said, "Please, I am quite ready if you can begin now."

And Janas was not going to give Tremane a chance to change his mind, for the priest stood immediately.

"If I may come to your side of the desk, sir?" Janas asked, and at Tremane's nod, moved around the desk until he stood behind Tremane's chair, and placed the tips of his fingers on Tremane's temples before Tremane had a chance to object.

The priest closed his eyes and opened his mouth before Tremane could pull away from the unexpected touch. Elspeth started, literally jumped, as what emerged from Janas's mouth was not a chant, but a single, pure, bell-like tone.

The sound resonated through her, filling her ears and her mind, driving every thought from her head and rooting her to her chair. She couldn't have moved if the room had suddenly caught on fire. She couldn't even be afraid; the tone drove out all emotion, including fear. It had exactly the same effect on Darkwind, who stared at Janas with round, vaguely surprised eyes.

But it did not have that effect on Duke Tremane.

Beneath Janas' hands, the Grand Duke stiffened, and his own hands came up to cover the priest's, but not as if he was trying to tear Janas's fingers away from his head. His eyes closed, and his hands were clearly holding Janas's hands in place. His own mouth opened, and a second tone, harmonizing with the first, emerged from his throat. The effect of the two tones together was indescribable, and even as Elspeth experienced it, she was unable to analyze it. She was suspended in time and place, and nothing existed for her but the two-note song that resonated with every fiber of her body and soul. In fact, every sense was involved; colors intensified and became richer, and there was a scent of growing things and spring flowers filling the air that could not possibly have been there.

How long that went on, Elspeth could really not have said. It took no time at all, and it took forever. The moment when it stopped was as dramatic as that when it had started, for suddenly Tremane's eyes opened wide, then rolled up into his head; his mouth snapped shut, cutting off the tone. He let go of Janas' hands, and he collapsed over his desk as if his heart had suddenly given out.

Elspeth was still frozen, unable to stir. Janas stopped his singing—if that was what it was—the moment Tremane fell forward. For a moment he stared at the Grand Duke in something like shock, shaking his hands as if he had touched a burning coal.

"Well," he said finally, "he certainly has earth-sense."

Before either Elspeth or Darkwind could move, the priest pulled Tremane back up into the support of his chair, and shook him gently until he awoke.

"Is—" Darkwind began, half standing. Janas waved him back.

"Duke Tremane is simply suffering from the confusion of having a very powerful new ability thrust upon him," the priest said in a preoccupied voice. "But there is nothing wrong with him, I promise you. In fact, he may well be more right than he has ever been before in his life."

Tremane was clearly still dazed, as Janas reached for a letter opener on the Duke's desk, seized one of his hands, and stabbed the tip of his index finger with it. He was so dazed, that he acted as if he hadn't even felt the point of the blade piercing his skin.

Janas held onto the Duke's hand so that Tremane couldn't pull it away, and reached into a pouch on his belt, pulling out a tiny pinch of earth. He inverted Tremane's maltreated finger over the bit of dirt, and squeezed until a single drop of blood fell and mingled with the soil.

"In the name of the powers above our heads and below our feet, I bind you to the soil of Hardorn, Tremane," he intoned, letting go of Tremane's hand and seizing his chin instead. "In the name of the Great Guardians of the people, I bind you to the heart of Hardorn," he continued, and took up the pinch of mingled blood and earth. "In the name of Life and Light, I bind you to the soul of Hardorn, and by this token, you and the land are one."

He held out the bit of blood-soaked earth to the Duke's mouth. Tremane opened his lips to receive it, and fortunately, he swallowed it rather than spitting it out, which would probably have been a very unfortunate gesture and a terrible omen.

Janas stepped back, watching the Duke narrowly, and Tremane blinked owlishly at him for a moment. Then, without any warning, he made an odd little mewling cry and clapped both hands to his head, covering his eyes with his palms.

Now Elspeth started to rise, but the priest waved her back as well. "It's quite all right," he said, with immense satisfaction. "I can't begin to tell you how well this is going. He has the strongest earth-sense that I have ever seen in someone for whom it was latent until now—and just at the moment, he's a bit disoriented."

"Disoriented?" the Duke said from behind his hands. "By the Hundred Little Gods, that is far too mild a description!" He sounded breathless, as if he had been running a long and grueling race. "I feel—I feel as if I have been deaf and blind, and suddenly been given sight and hearing and I haven't the least notion what the things I am experiencing mean or what to do with them!"

He brought his hands down away from his head, but it was quite clear from the bewildered expression he wore and the dazed look in his eyes that he was undergoing sensations he had never experienced before. "I think I may be ill," he said faintly. "I feel terrible. I'm going to be very, very sick in a moment."

"No, you don't." Janas soothed. "That's not your own body you're feeling, it's Hardorn. The land is sick, not you, sick and weary. Separate yourself from it; remember how you felt when you woke up this morning? That is you, and the rest is the land's ills."

"That's easy for you to say, priest," Tremane replied feelingly. "You aren't in my head!" He was pale and sweating, and his pupils were so wide that there was scarcely any iris showing.

But Janas had already gone to the door and had called for Tremane's aides. "The Duke is not feeling well," he told them. "He needs to be taken to his bed and allowed to sleep. I think it would be wise to cancel any appointments he has for the rest of the day."

Both aides looked alarmed at the state of their leader, and one put a hand on the hilt of his weapon and cast a doubtful glance at Janas, suspecting, perhaps, that the priest had somehow poisoned the Duke or inflicted a disease on him.

"It's all right," Tremane reassured them. "I think I've just been overworking. It's nothing serious."

As if that had been a coded phrase to tell the aides that nothing the visitors had done had caused his condition, both aides relaxed immediately and went to assist their leader to stand. "You know that the Healers have been warning you about overworking yourself," one of them scolded the Duke in a whisper that the foreigners were probably not supposed to hear. This was an older man, the Duke's age or even a few years senior to him, and the aide clearly considered it his responsibility to take Tremane to task. "Now look what's happened to you! You can't work yourself half to death and not expect to pay for it!"

"I'll be all right, I just need to sleep," the Duke said vaguely, and although he was not paying a great deal of attention to his surroundings or his visitors, he no longer seemed quite so disoriented, at least to Elspeth. it seemed more as if he had focused his attention inward, in a state of partial trance.

His two aides helped him into the other room, and Janas nodded at the door. Taking the hint, Elspeth and Darkwind rose and followed the priest out.

"Don't you need to be with him, to give him some kind of instruction?" Darkwind asked anxiously as they made their way along the cold corridors back to their own quarters.

The old man shook his head; he still had that air of great self-satisfaction. "No, he already has the instruction; that was what I was giving him at the beginning. It's all there for him to use, he just needs to sort things out while he sleeps. Don't worry—we've been doing things this way for centuries, not just with our monarchs, but with priests whose earth-sense is also latent. But I must say, this is probably the most successful ritual I have ever done!" He rubbed his hands together with unconcealed glee. "Now we'll have to get word across the country what has happened, plan for a coronation, find something like a crown—oh, there are a hundred arrangements we'll have to make."

He shook his head, interrupting himself, as they reached the door of their quarters. "I hope you won't think me rude, but I am going to have to leave immediately. There is just too much I have to do, and not a great deal of time to do it in. We'll be sending important people here soon, as liaisons with our new monarch. In the meantime, I think I can count on both of you to help him through the next day or two."

"I can certainly help explain what he is feeling," Elspeth replied, but with a little doubt, opening the door and waving him inside ahead of her. "I suspect it might be like the first time I was—ah—blessed with Mindspeech."

"Exactly, exactly!" Janas said, as he gathered up his old robe and made it into a neat bundle. Then he looked down in confusion at the clothing he was wearing, and for a moment, certainty was replaced with uncertainty. "Ah—I—"

"Consider the new vestments a gift from the Alliance," Darkwind said, divining his question before he could ask it. "And please feel free to approach us if any of your other liaisons might need similar outfitting."

Janas turned, taking his hand and shaking it with gratitude. "Thank you, thank you for all your help!" he said, brimming with so much effervescent pleasure that Elspeth could not help but smile back at him. "'Now, I really must be off, there is absolutely not a moment to waste!"

He hurried to open the door to the hallway; fortunately, one of the sentries at the door intercepted him and offered to find an aide to escort him out. He accepted absently as he pulled his shabby cloak on over his new finery, and the last that Elspeth saw of him, he was explaining to the aide some of the preparations that would need to be made to get ready for Tremane's coronation as the new King of Hardorn.

Elspeth closed the door behind them, and joined Darkwind who was sprawled bonelessly on the couch. She suddenly felt as if she had been running an endurance test, and collapsed beside him.

"Well," he said finally. "I confess I am at a loss for words."

"I have a few," she told him, putting her head on his shoulder. "But mostly, I can't begin to tell you how relieved I feel."

She turned her head so that she could see his face, and he smiled into her eyes. "You know how the Shin'a'in are always saying to be careful of what you ask for," he chided gently. "'And you did ask for some sort of cheek on Tremane's behavior as a leader."

"I did." She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I can't say that I'm at all unhappy about how this has fallen out. This means the probable end of conflict inside Hardorn. They're going to have a real, competent leader. He is going to be incapable of misusing the land or the people, and I have the oddest feeling that he won't even be able to think about going to war with anyone unless Hardorn is threatened first."

Darkwind kissed her forehead, then rested his head back against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling. "At the moment, I feel a great deal of sympathy for him. This may not be a punishment commensurate with what he did to our people, but he is going to be suffering real and sometimes serious discomfort for quite some time if I am any judge of these things."

"'Because of the state of the country you mean?" she asked.

He nodded. "Absolutely. You heard Janas; Hardorn is sick, injured, and only now beginning to recover. He gets to experience all that, until the land is healed again. What's more, when the mage-storms start up again, whatever they do to the land, he'll feel as if it's happening to him!"

She chuckled, a little heartlessly. "I wonder what having bits of the countryside plucked out and transplanted elsewhere will feel like?"

"'Nothing I would care to share," Darkwind said emphatically.

She contemplated the prospect, and it didn't displease her. And she knew someone else who would find the new situation very much to her liking.

"I wonder how long it will take to get word of this to Solaris?" she mused aloud.

:Not long, trust me,: Gwena replied. :And, oh, to be a fly on the wall when it does!:

As the official-unofficial liaisons to Tremane on behalf of the rest of Hardorn, Elspeth and Darkwind found themselves dealing with a dozen requests the next morning that were the direct result of Father Janas' work the previous day. "You know, it is just a good thing that all this is happening in the dead of winter," Elspeth remarked to her mate, as she dealt with yet another request for "Royal Patronage" from a merchant in the town. "If we were in the midst of decent weather, we'd have half the country trying to get here for this coronation Janas wants to arrange."

Darkwind had handed most of the correspondence over to her, for the Hawkbrothers had no equivalent to royalty and the pomp and display that went with such personages. He shook his head. "I feel as lost as a tiny frog in the midst of Lake Evendim. Or a forest-hare in the middle of the Dhorisha Plains," he said ruefully. "Now I know what your people mean when they speak of feeling like a 'country cousin.' I haven't any idea what half these people want from Tremane."

"Frankly, neither have they," she replied dryly. "Royalty is rather like a touchstone to those who are accustomed to kings and queens and the like. One judges one's own worth by one's worth to the king, whether or not the king is himself a worthy person. All these people are attempting to gather about Tremane in the hope that some of the glitter will rub off."

She would have said more, but at that moment, there came a knock on their door. When Darkwind went to answer it, much to her surprise, Tremane himself stood in the doorway, guarded by his older aide, and looking a bit wan.

"Might I come in?" he asked. "Something in these memories of mine says that you might be able to help me. Sort things out, that is."

Darkwind waved him in; the aide remained behind, but with a look that said he would station himself at the door and not move until Tremane left again.

The Duke took a seat on their couch, and Elspeth made a quick assessment of him. For once he was hiding nothing; she suspected that at the moment he simply was unable to. He was still quite unsettled, disoriented, and distinctly wild eyed. She handed him a fragrant cup of kav, a beverage the Imperials favored that she had also begun to enjoy, as much for the effect it had of waking one up as for the flavor.

"You know," he began plaintively, "when you came here, I told you that I accepted this mind-magic of yours, but to tell you the truth, I didn't entirely believe in it. You could have done everything you claimed simply by having two well-trained beasts and a clever set of subtle signals. Spirits, putting one's thoughts into someone else's head—that was all so much nonsense and only the really credulous would have given it much credence...."

His voice trailed off, and Elspeth nodded. "Now, for the first time, you are in the grip of something you can't explain. Right?" she asked.

He nodded, looking oddly vulnerable and forlorn. "Magic is supposed to be a thing of logic!" he protested. "It has laws and rules, they are all perfectly understandable, and they bring predictable results! This is all so—so—intuitive. So unpredictable, so messy—"

Darkwind started to laugh, and the Duke looked at him suspiciously. "I don't see what is so amusing."

"Forgive me, sir," Darkwind choked. "But very recently a friend of ours, who truly and with all of his heart believed that magic was wholly a thing of intuition and art, having nothing to do with laws and logic, was confronted with the need to regard magic as you and your mages do. And he sounded just like you do now—the contrast is just—" He choked, trying to swallow his laughter, and Elspeth, who recalled quite well how Firesong had sounded, had to work very hard not to join him. That would not have done Tremane's spirit any good at the moment.

"When you have gotten used to this, I think that you'll find it has its own set of rules and logic, and you'll be able to deal with it in a predictable manner," she soothed. "This is simply as if—as if someone had dropped all of the rules of mathematics and geometry into your mind, and expected you to deal with them. You're overwhelmed with information, and I promise you that will change."

Darkwind managed to get himself under control, and took a seat next to the Duke. "I'll help you as much as I can," he pledged. "I am probably the nearest to an expert, until Janas or someone like him comes back here."

Tremane let out a sigh, and began slowly trying to ask questions for which the vocabulary was as new to him as the concepts. Elspeth listened carefully, adding what she could, and relaying when Gwena had any useful information to add.

:Poor man,: she said to Gwena, though not without a touch of faintly vindictive amusement. :The only thing more unsettling to him right now would be for the ghosts of his ancestors to come back to haunt him, or for a Companion to Choose him.:

:Oh, now there's a thought,: Gwena replied, and at Elspeth's reaction of alarm, sent a chuckle of amusement of her own. :Don't worry. The only way that Tremane would ever be Chosen would be for most of the population of Hardorn and Valdemar to be swallowed up by the earth, and even then, I wouldn't put high odds on it.:

:At least now he'll believe us when we say you've said something.: That was a satisfying realization.

Then something else occurred to Elspeth. :Darkwind,: she told her mate, :I think this is best treated as something like Empathy. Janas may have put the rules for dealing with it in his mind, but if the Gift is so very strong, he may be so overwhelmed by the sensations that he can't actually relate them to what is happening. Try taking him through ground and centering, then shielding, just as you would someone with strong Empathy.:

He nodded slightly, and changed his angle of attack on the problem. To Elspeth's way of thinking, this was actually going to be easier than dealing with someone with Empathy; there would be no changes in what he sensed as people around him underwent emotional changes. Since what he felt from the land was quite steady, with no sudden increases in intensity, once he learned to shield he would not have to learn to strengthen or weaken his shields.

In fact, he wouldn't want to; he needed to know when the land was harmed, and he couldn't do that if his shields were too strong.

She watched the two of them as Darkwind coaxed him through his first exercises. She came to the conclusion, watching his rapid progress, that there was more to what Janas had given him than mere instructions; once he had a grasp of the technique Darkwind was showing him, it didn't take him long to apply the technique correctly.

:Too bad we can't teach every young Herald the way Janas "taught" him,: she remarked wryly to Gwena.

:It would take an ability most Heralds haven't got,: Gwena replied frankly, and a bit enviously. :For that matter, most Companions haven't got it either. I didn't realize until now just how remarkable old Janas is.:

Oh, really? That made her reexamine the priest and his mission in an entirely new light, and wonder just what his real rank in the hierarchy of his religion was. Something equivalent to the Son of the Sun, perhaps? Probably only someone like Solaris would be able to tell for certain.

The only conclusion she could make was that the Hardornens had left nothing to chance in this venture, and had gambled a great deal.

But she kept all of this to herself; it wouldn't matter one way or another to the situation, and Tremane had enough on his hands right now with this new ability and the responsibility of becoming a King.

Becoming a King. What a strange idea that is. I can't think of any ruler in this part of the world who has been picked by his people since—since Valdemar. The parallels were coming closer all the time.

Tremane absorbed all that Darkwind showed him like dry ground absorbing rain; slowly the lines of anxiety and strain left his face, and the signs of disorientation and illness eased from his posture and expression. Finally, he sighed and closed his eyes with relief.

"I feel—normal," he said, as if he had never expected to feel that way again.

He opened his eyes, and Darkwind smiled with satisfaction. "That is precisely how you should feel," the Hawkbrother told him. "You shouldn't have to think about those shields for them to be there, since you are already acquainted with setting magical shields. They should remain in place until you take them down or weaken them yourself. Now the only things you will feel will be when something happens to Hardorn for good or ill; you'll sense the change as soon as it happens."

Tremane colored a little, and coughed. "I seem to recall some injudicious words to the effect of wanting an ability that would give me that information."

Darkwind's smile turned ironic, but he didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

Surely every culture has a variation on the saying, "Be careful what you ask for, you may get it."

"Well, sometimes the Hundred Little Gods display an interesting sense of humor," Tremane sighed.

"They've displayed it more directly than I think you realize," Darkwind told him. "Are you aware that thanks to this 'gift' that Janas bestowed on you, that you are literally bound to Hardorn? You can't leave, at least not for long."

Tremane shot him a skeptical glance. "Surely you are exaggerating."

Darkwind shook his head. "I am not. You will not be able to go beyond the borders of this land for very long. Janas was not speaking figuratively as we both assumed when he made his explanations to you. I know enough of magical bindings to recognize one on you, and I doubt that anyone can break it. This is the magic of a very primitive religion, meant to ensure that a ruler could not get wandering feet and go off exploring when he should be governing."

Elspeth watched Tremane's face; though normally opaque, this experience had left him open—not as open as an ordinary person, but open enough for her to read his expressions. "What you're saying is, this earth-binding they put on me ensures that there is no possibility of going back to the Empire."

Darkwind held his hands palm up. "The most primitive magics tend to be the strongest, the hardest to break. Perhaps a better word would be primal. I suspect this one may date back to the tribes wandering this area before the Cataclysm. It was a fascinating piece of work to watch; no chants, no real ritual, just a tonal component as a guide for invocation, and of course the mental component. Simple but powerful, and that argues for a piece of work that is very old, and so proven by time that it is, in fact, a benchmark by which later magics could be judged." As Tremane sat there, with a dazed look in his eyes and a numb expression, Darkwind warmed to his subject. "It really does make sense. If you have a tribe that has recently settled, given up nomadic, hunting and herding ways and gone into agriculture, it stands to reason that your best leaders, the ones who are likely to be the most successful at defending your settlement from other nomads, are the people most likely to want to go back to the unsettled ways. If you want to keep them where they belong and give them a powerful incentive to hold the land in trust and not plunder and ruin it, you'd bind them to it."

"I get the point, all too clearly," Tremane interrupted dryly. "Seeing as I am the one blessed with this particular application of 'primitive' magic, and now am prisoner in an all too clear way." He rubbed his head with his hand, absently. "No disrespect to you, Darkwind k'Sheyna, but speculation about the origin of this bit of religious arcana is moot, and it can probably wait until the happy day when everything is settled again and you and Janas can argue about history to your hearts' content."

Darkwind was not at all embarrassed. In fact, he graced Tremane with the expression of a teacher whose student has missed the point of the lesson. But all he said aloud was, "Duke Tremane, if you wish to know how and why a magic works the way it does, you must learn or deduce its origin and purpose. In complex spell-work, the causes, triggers, paths, and effects are not always obvious, and are often fragile. In more primal spell-work, the variables may be fewer, but they are not necessarily any more obvious. You cannot unmake a thing—supposing you should choose to do so—without knowing how it is made."

"Supposing I should choose to do so..." Tremane's voice trailed off, and he stood up to go look out the window. "I am not, by nature, a religious man," he said, with his back to them.

"We rather gathered that, sir," Elspeth put in, her tone so ironic it made Tremane turn for a moment to give her a searching look.

"There is not much in the Empire that would make one believe in gods, much less that they have any interest at all in the doings of mortals," he said, looking straight into her eyes. "Tangible effect is the focus in the Empire. Results and tasks of the day take a distinct precedence over thoughts of divine influence or the spirit world. The closest thing to a religion of state is a form of ancestor veneration, which takes its higher form as the honoring of previous Emperors and their Consorts, who are collectively known as the Hundred Little Gods. Not that there are exactly a hundred, but it's a nice, round figure to swear by."

"I'd wondered about that," Darkwind murmured.

"Nor have I in the past been one to put credence in either predestined fate or omens. Nevertheless," he continued, "since arriving here, I have been confronted, time and time again, with situations that have literally forced me into the path I am now taking. I find myself beginning to doubt the wisdom of my previous position regarding destiny."

Elspeth could not resist the opportunity. "If you would care for some further proof that your previous position on the divine is faulty," she offered, "I am sure that High Priest Solaris would be happy to arrange for a manifestation of Vkandis Sunlord."

It was wrong of her, but after all that Tremane had been responsible for, she could not help but take a certain amount of vengeful pleasure in the way that his face turned pale at the mere mention of Solaris' name.

"That won't be necessary" he said hastily.

"As you wish," she murmured, with an amused glance at Darkwind.

:Well, talk about fire to the left and torrent to the right—not only does he have Solaris' curse of truthfulness on him, but the Hardornen earth-binding.: Gwena sounded unbelievably smug, but for once, Elspeth was in full agreement with her. :I do believe that Grand Duke Tremane is going to be very cooperative with the Alliance from now on—because if he isn't, he hasn't got the option to escape and he knows it.:

:And I just thought of another good reason for putting the earth-binding on your King,: Darkwind Sent silently, as Tremane turned back to the window. :If you bind him to a place so that he can't escape from it, he has to rule well, because he certainly can't ignore what he is immersed in.:

:Let's hope that's one of the things he's thinking about right now,: Elspeth replied. :He is a skilled leader and an intelligent man, and he is certainly a pragmatic one. It should dawn on him soon just how deep in he is right now, and then he will have to accept it and deal with the tasks at hand. For the sake of the Alliance as well as of Hardorn, I want him to know he has no other option but to rule wisely and honestly. We can't afford anything less.:

Six

Paper rustled quietly, the only sound in the cold, cavernous room. Baron Melles read the last page of Commander Sterm's report with a smile of satisfaction on his lips. Jacona, the throne city, was now effectively secured. Although the capital of the Empire was not precisely under martial law, his soldiers shared the streets and the patrols with the city constables, and both were happy to have the situation that way. He had tried his plan out here, where everything was directly under his careful supervision, and his ideas had all worked. They had not worked perfectly, but he had never expected perfection; they had worked well enough that he and Thayer were both pleased.

As he had predicted, the price of staple food supplies had increased as the availability had decreased, to the point where the average person either could not find or could not afford two out of three meals. That was enough to trigger food riots, his first shoot-to-kill order, and his second tier of plans. Jacona was already divided into precincts, with an elected official, the precinct captain, responsible for arranging local matters such as street repair with the city. That made organization much easier. The citizens of Jacona were now under strict rationing, with so many ration chits per commodity per week each, as arranged and administered by their precinct captains. Price controls went into effect with the rationing. No one was starving, and prices, while high, were no longer as extortionate as they were. Food supplies from the surrounding countryside had been assured, and those ration chits guaranteed that everyone would have access to a minimum diet. The chits did not cover luxury items, only staples, permitting those with higher incomes the ability to buy what they chose.

Naturally, there would be some citizens who would choose barter away their own chits and even those of members of their families for cash or other commodities, such as alcohol. And naturally, the Empire officially took no stand on this, so long as those who were involved were adults.

A child was different, and precinct captains were on orders to watch for children begging for food. If they found a child starving, and if its parent could not produce its ration chits or enough food to cover the household, the child (and its ration allocation) would be taken away and put in an Imperial orphanage.

That would be the end of that; once taken away, a parent could not retrieve a child, and it became the ward of the State. Once it turned fourteen, if male it would go into the Army; if female, underdeveloped, or sickly, an Army auxiliary corps or a workhouse—unless it showed extraordinary ability and qualified for higher training. But that was child welfare, and had nothing to do with rationing.

Naturally, there were luxuries and larger rations available for cash, and the Empire took no stand on this, either, so long as the commodities for sale on the gray market were not purloined from Imperial stores. Meals and services continued normally in the homes of the wealthy, although household expenses had doubled in the past few weeks. From what Melles had learned from his agents, prices on the gray market had stabilized, which meant that the wealthy would simply have to work a little harder to maintain their wealth. Many of them had already begun investment in coal, wood, and other fuels, or speculation in food items. There were a few with new-built fortunes in the city, because they had seen the trend of things and had moved accordingly. There were a few who were ruined, because their stock-in-trade consisted of small items that depended on magic, or because they were dealers in items like Festival costumes that no one wanted to buy under the current conditions. But so far as Melles could see, aside from these few unlucky or clever individuals, nothing much else had changed.

There were no more riots after the first serious one that gave Melles the excuse to issue his shoot-to-kill order, and which had resulted in the death of a dozen fools who happened to be leading it. There were occasional demonstrations, and a great many speeches on street corners, which were officially ignored. There were also no more collapsing buildings, or loss of service because magic had failed. This was because there were no more services left—or buildings still standing—that depended on magic.

There was plenty of work, though, and the one large change was that unemployment simply did not exist anymore. Those who demonstrated or made speeches did so when their working hours were over—unless. of course, they happened to be one of the few wealthy eccentrics who did not need to work to have an income. Where magical aqueducts no longer supplied water, and there were no communal wells, brigades of otherwise unemployed citizens with buckets brought fresh water from reliable sources to fill newly-constructed below- or above-ground cisterns. An entire newly-formed corps of citizens with handcarts now collected garbage, cinders, and ashes from fires, and animal waste from the streets and yards. Fortunately, the sewers were nonmagical in nature, and still functioned reliably.

Life in the city was not back to the way it had been, and never would be again until these mage-storms were over, but the ordinary citizen went to work, received his pay, ate regular meals, and slept securely at night. If he was colder this winter than last, or a little hungrier, well, that was the case for all of his neighbors, too. But not only were his streets kept clear of dangerous riots, they were also kept clear of vagrants and beggars—for vagrants and beggars swiftly found themselves in Imperial workhouses or work gangs, cleaning the streets and carrying water for the good of the ordinary citizen. This made the ordinary citizen happy. What made him even happier was the fact that Imperial workers were toiling day and night to find ways to restore more of the things that he had come to take for granted in the days of reliable magic. Already some things had been replaced—safe stoves that could burn a variety of fuels, from dried dung to coal, were now being made available at a moderate price from Imperial workhouses. Imperial bathhouses and laundries had been established, so that if a man could not afford to heat water for regular baths and laundry, he could still have those baths and get his clothing clean for a few copper bits. The average citizen could look forward to eventually regaining the kind of comfortable life he had lost.

And if he had to give up some of his freedom to get that life back, well, all but a few malcontents thought that was an acceptable loss. Some folk even welcomed these new workhouses and work gangs, and were happy to see soldiers patrolling the streets and sweeping up those with nothing better to do than to make trouble. It was true that crimes like assault, robbery, rape, and burglary had dropped to almost nothing after the deadly-force patrols had been deployed on the street level.

Well, assault, robbery, rape, and burglary by citizens against citizens have dropped to almost nothing. No one in his right mind is going to report a soldier or constable for such a crime. And if there is no report, there is no crime, and hence officially no problem.

So far, everything that he had set in motion in Jacona was working well or would be with a few slight adjustments. Now was the moment to plan the next steps. He put both elbows on the desk, tented his fingers together and rested them lightly over his lips, thinking.

He stared at the flame in the oil lamp on his desk that replaced the mage-light that had once burned there. The desk itself had been placed near to the antiquated fireplace, which held a better, more improved version of the official stove, a contrivance of ceramic and steel that burned coal rather than wood. More Imperial cleverness, that; coal fires burned hotter and longer than wood, and although the smoke coming from them was dirtier and might cause a problem one day, this new "furnace" invention would get them through the winter. All the fires in the Palace and in most of the homes of the noble and wealthy had these furnaces, and the coal mines, which once produced only fuel for the smelting furnaces for the metal trade, now sent huge wagonloads into the city on daily deliveries. A variation on this furnace heated the boilers that once again delivered hot water into the bathing rooms of Crag Castle and other edifices—and also supplied the hot water for the Imperial bathhouses and laundries. Interestingly enough, this entire situation was proving to be surprisingly profitable for the Imperial coffers, for not only was the Empire collecting more tax money, since taxes were based on profits, but the Empire was also something of a merchant, selling heating- and cook-stoves and the services of the bathhouses.

Theft of coal was punishable—like all theft—by being sent to a work gang. So were the crimes of inciting to riot, participating in a riot, looting, chronic public drunkenness, vandalism, vagrancy, and delinquency. Any crime against property rather than against a citizen now bought the perpetrator a stint in hard labor rather than jail or the Army. The new policy made for quiet streets.

Tremane would never have ordered all of this; Tremane didn't have the vision or the audacity, and perhaps not even the intellectual capacity to mastermind such sweeping plans on such a broad scale at such short notice.

Melles continued to stare at his lamp flame, but nothing in the way of inspiration occurred to him. He reached for another, much shorter report, and leafed through it again. Perhaps before he thought more about the next stage of his plans, it was time to deal with his covert operations.

All in all, once the food riots were quashed, there had been fewer complaints than he had anticipated, and very little civil unrest. That came as something of a surprise, because he had assumed there would be a higher level of resistance to his new laws than there actually was.

So, all that meant was the good citizens of Jacona were being very good, going where he led like proper sheep.

There were, of course, a few wild goats out there still—the inevitable underground "freedom" movement, which he had also anticipated. How could there not have been? There were always those who would not be hoodwinked into accepting restrictions on their freedom, no matter how one disguised those restrictions.

The Citizens for Rights group correctly identifies you as the source of all of the new edicts and punishments, the report, written by the head of his network of low-level agents in the city, read. They assume that the Emperor knows nothing, and that with enough work they will be able to draw his attention to your abuses and have you ousted. Failing that, and assuming that you somehow have the Emperor under your personal control, they plan on a general citizens' uprising to overthrow the entire government.

That was also precisely what he had anticipated; not only did it not alarm him, he was actually rather pleased that he had predicted the development so accurately. His agent was not particularly worried, but he wanted more instructions about what to do now that he had identified the movement, its goals, and its members.

He picked up a pen and took a clean sheet of paper from the tray at the side of his desk. He wrote in code without having to think about the translation; he'd had enough experience at it that he could write directly to any of his agents in the correct code. This was a content-sensitive code, rather than an encoded letter; to all appearances, this missive was a perfectly ordinary letter about commonplaces, from a servant in the Palace to a relative in the city.

What it really said, however, was something else entirely.

Do nothing to openly disrupt the movement against me. As for the general citizens, continue to feed them misinformation; concoct tales of my helplessness in the face of the Emperor's growing tyranny. Make them think that I am trying to stem the Emperor's excesses and that Charliss himself is directly responsible for everything they object to. What I want is to hear that even the members of the Movement are starting to call me "The Peoples' Friend." Continue to identify all new members of the Movement, and if any really effective leaders emerge, identify their weaknesses and find ways to handicap them without actually removing them. Keep me informed at all times.

He started to seal up the envelope, then thought of something else and added a second page.

There are always bureaucratic mistakes; men taken up in a street-sweep who were actually on their way to work, outright victims of some soldier's personal feud. These people will know of each and every one—send me the particulars so I can arrange for investigations and turn a few loose with restitution. If any of them have young children suffering hardship without their father, mark them especially.

Now he sealed and addressed the letter and put it in the tray for his house agent to take to the appropriate drop. That last addition was nothing less than inspiration; all he would have to do would be to have one of the clerks deal with the paperwork to free the man, and send the family a little money, some luxury food items, and a basket of sweets for the children, and Melles would be a hero on the street. And he needn't trouble himself about petitioners plaguing him either. Now that he was officially the Emperor's Heir, the layers of bureaucracy between him and the citizen on the street were so many, so complex, and so labyrinthine that the average citizen would die of old age before he completed all of the paperwork required for an audience with him. This would only generate a little more work in the way of petitions, and there were plenty of low-level Imperial civil servants to take care of additional petitions.

Perhaps another man might have sent soldiers to arrest every member of the Movement—but another man did not have the depth of experience that Melles did. As long as he knew who belonged to these organizations, who were the real leaders and workers, and what their failings were, he was better off leaving them all in place. In times like these, insurrectionist movements were like cockroaches; squash one and a hundred more would hatch behind the wallboards. Rebels actually tended to thrive on a certain level of persecution, since persecution validated their cause in the eyes of others. In fact, many of them absolutely required feeling persecuted—and speaking loudly of it—in order to validate their own meager existence, since obviously only a Great Good would be opposed by a Great Evil. What made this even funnier, in a cripple-pitying sort of way, was that they would only proclaim their oppression to those peers least likely to disagree with them.

Melles, of course, played one facet of the same game on a much higher, more sophisticated level. People invariably polarized their views when they were given little information about a situation's complexities. If someone was not for your cause, then they must be against your cause; if not black, then white; if not day, then night. While the perennially-oppressed would use this tendency in human behavior to generate sympathy from others, Melles used it to steer public reaction. his actual plans and coups were more complex than could be briefly discussed by any layman, and he used fronts—like the labor groups and the police—to act as buffers and visible representations. He created simple concepts for laymen to absorb and react to, while giving little information about the greater, more complex goings-on. Thus, even the most clever leaders of rebel movements would be basing their actions upon incomplete information at best, low-end rumor at average, and utter fabrications at worst. Worst for them, anyway; for Melles it was simply human behavior according to schedule.

No, he would watch them, occasionally nurture them, frustrate and thwart them, and use them, but above all, he would let them have their little "committee meetings" and make speeches and inflame one another. That kept them quiet and mostly harmless. The more they ranted about being suppressed under improving conditions, the less anyone would listen to or believe in them.

It was better to remove the occasional competent and dangerous member than to go after the entire group. If he could not manage to do so in any other way, the really dangerous ones would tragically die while defending themselves against a street thug or a house robber. Then, before the person could be martyred, various carefully-contrived "secrets" about them would turn up during "investigation" of the death—evidence that they were child molesters, for instance—to spoil the probable public outrage there would otherwise have been, and that distaste would carry over to be associated with any of the person's movement. It would only take ten or twenty such instances for the general citizenry to feel relieved that these troublemakers were gone.

On the whole, he enjoyed the amateur "freedom fighters" as delightful entertainment, and if no group had sprung up, he would have had to start one just to have an organization to attract the real troublemakers. The most dangerous would be the very few individuals who realized that groups were obvious targets, and determined to undermine the authorities on their own. If he could catch someone like that, it would be by accident.

But the insurrectionist groups had their uses, not the least of which was that they gave the hotheads a place to vent their spleen. When they were making speeches, they were not setting fire to a storehouse of records, counterfeiting and giving away food chits, or breaking into a work camp and freeing prisoners.

Better a thousand fools' ineffectual speeches than a single food riot.

He moved that report from the "pending" tray to the "completed" tray, and turned his attention to the next in line. If conditions had not been so dire, he would have been positively gleeful; never had he possessed so much power over so many, and the sensation brought an intoxication he had not expected.

Report after report, from the heads of his specialized covert operations rings around the city, indicated that events were proceeding with as much smoothness as anyone could reasonably expect. The only things that could not be planned for were the effects of the mage-storms, and he hoped he had made enough allowance for the chaos those could cause. The precinct captains were political creatures, and although they were elected, he could replace them at his discretion. They could and would lie to save their jobs. The Imperial Commander was less likely to lie, yet still might shade the truth to conceal problems. His agents, however, were carefully picked and trained and they never reported anything but the facts, no matter how unpleasant. That was their job; he rewarded the truthful and got rid of those who were not—sometimes permanently, if they had been in a delicate or sensitive position. These reports confirmed his impression that the city was his: pacified, and lying quietly in the palm of his hand.

That was good, because he had no intention of leaving the capital, and he wanted it secured so that he could turn his attention to the Empire beyond without worrying about his personal safety and comfort. The power that gave him his authority was here, and although by now he could carry out his plans if the Emperor changed his mind and made someone else the Imperial Heir, it would be much more difficult to do so. He had the Army, but that might not be the case if the Emperor appointed a new man—and to subdue the rest of the Empire, he needed the Army.

Now that he knew what was working with Jacona, he knew what would work outside the capital. He returned to the longer report that he had set aside; this was the condensed version of what was going on in the Empire itself.

In the immediate vicinity, the countryside could reasonably be declared "pacified" as well. The sources of disturbance were those of chaos rather than man's intention—terrible weather and roving monsters rather than rioters. Within the small towns and villages, people were in no danger of going hungry—but they were terrified. Physical storms could sweep down at any moment, bringing snow that could bury a village to the eaves, winds that could rip a building apart, blizzards combining the two that lasted for days at a time. That was bad enough, but in the midst of the storms, terrible, malformed creatures came ravening into their very streets, monsters that no one recognized or knew how to kill. On the estates, things were sometimes even worse, for most nobles did not keep many retainers who were trained to fight; this close to the capital, keeping a small private army was generally frowned upon. So there had already been a case or two of a storm burying an estate, and before the servants could dig it out again, a bloodthirsty creature had appeared that kept them all penned inside—and in one case decimated the entire estate.

One less annoying minor noble to endure.

The Army was handling that situation with all the efficiency that anyone could ask for. Melles was both pleased and surprised to learn that General Thayer had deployed squads of monster hunters before ever implementing the requisition orders that Melles's secretary had drawn up. With scores of monstrous beasts hanging from hooks on display in village squares and estate courtyards, people had not only been happy to "donate" the items the Army requisitioned, they had even come forward with additional help. Some truly antique equipages had been made roadworthy—but also some very clever work had been put into the hands of the Army as well. Some genius of a village blacksmith had come up with a way to fasten runners on the wheels of carriages after locking those wheels in place, so that instead of having to wait until snow had been removed from the roads, carts could skim over the top of it. Practically speaking, what that meant was that the Army supply trains bringing food into the city could use roads with a single, narrow track cut for the horse or mule rather than needing to clear the entire road.

Pity that the wicker snowshoe for horses didn't really work, then we wouldn't have to clear the roads at all, or even use the roads. It is ironic that the poor are turning out to be the saviors of the wealthy, for only they had the knowledge of how to do things in completely nonmagical ways.

Other than that, life in the countryside was not at all bad; certainly better than in the city. Firewood was immediately available. So was food, in a greater variety than the cities were seeing now. Life on the estates was even better, and Melles was fairly sure that those nobles who had fled back to their possessions were by-and-large congratulating themselves for having had the wisdom to do so.

So much for life in the immediate vicinity of the capital. Now for the other large cities...

With a few variations, it seemed that what had worked for Jacona would work for any large city in the Empire. He had to make allowances for local religion in a few places, and for one brand new cult in Deban that had virtually taken over the entire city, but for the most part, there were not too many changes he needed to make.

Finally, he finished the last of the replies he needed to make to Thayer and to his own agents in the field. His hands were cramped by the time he was done, and one of the servants had come in to check the fire and add coal twice. Despite the fire, the room was icy; for all its luxurious fittings, it was less comfortable than a warehouse.

Perhaps a sheepskin cover for his desk chair would help, and a charcoal brazier for under the desk. Better still, he ought to have his valet bring in the same kinds of amenities that the Imperial clerks used. He flexed his aching fingers and rose, feeling the cold in every stiffened joint. He knew with grim certainty that his battle with the encroachments of age was failing. Before all this nonsense with the mage-storms had begun, he had started on his own minor rejuvenation magics. He resented the fact that they had failed him now, at a time when he most needed his body to be in perfect health. He simply could not afford any distractions, yet what were all these aches and pains but irritating distractions?

Reminders of mortality?

He went to the heavy gilded and carved sideboard where the blown-glass decanters of liquor and special, cut crystal glasses were stored. His nose and feet were so cold they were numb; perhaps a drink would restore circulation and make him feel warmer. He was well aware that the warmth that came from liquor was a false, fugitive thing, but he wanted the comfort of it just now, and the pain-deadening effects that would ease his aching joints.

His valet entered, impeccable and correct in his livery of black and purple, just as Melles poured himself a small glass of potent, doubly-distilled brandy. The liquor gleamed in the glass with the deep glow of fine rubies, as Melles held it up to the light, admiring its color. The valet waited until Melles acknowledged his presence with a nod before speaking. "His Imperial Highness has called a Court, Lord Heir," the man said smoothly, one arm already draped with a suit of court robes in anticipation of the fact that Melles would need them. "Would you care to change your clothing here, or in your more private quarters?"

Melles sighed. This was the last thing he needed right now; he was tired and cold, and really wanted a moment or two to warm up and rest before he dealt with another crisis. But Bors Porthas would not have interrupted his working hours if this had been some bit of social nonsense; no, this must be something serious, and he had better steel himself to meet it.

"Here will do." No one was going to walk in on him unannounced, and Porthas, bland, self-effacing, incredibly competent Porthas, would have brought everything Melles would need with him. The balding little man with the thin, expressionless face was a miracle of efficiency, but that wasn't too surprising. He'd had plenty of practice in more demanding service before Melles retired him to this, his own retinue. In fact, there were a great many of the higher nobles of the Court who would have recognized Porthas' face as that of their own valued personal servant, forced by sudden illness to retire... A fair percentage would have been shocked into speechlessness, and a few would have gone pale, recalling that they had sent floral tokens to the funeral of this particularly faithful servant.

Porthas looked remarkably healthy for a man who had been dead at least three times, and rendered forever incapable of leaving a bed on another five occasions. He looked ageless, in fact, and Melles was aware that not only could Bors Porthas perform every possible duty that would be asked of a valet, he could also still meet and beat many men younger than he in a bout of swordsmanship. As for his other talents—he was the only person Melles would entrust with certain jobs besides himself. That trim body was as efficient as the mind that was housed in it, and just as lithe.

Melles sometimes wondered if, after all the years of serving as Melles' agent, the life of a "mere" valet was stultifying. But then again, Porthas was no "mere" valet, any more than Melles was a "mere" courtier; he was the coordinator for all of Melles' agents, in the city, outside of the city, and most importantly of all, within Crag Castle. He and Melles alone knew the real names and identities of all of Melles' agents. And in the rare event that Melles would need to have a "removal" performed with precision and absolute secrecy, if he could not for some reason perform it himself, he would entrust it to Porthas. There was no one else besides he who was anywhere near Melles in level of expertise at their mutual profession. And he actually seemed to enjoy being a valet. Perhaps, after all his other activities, serving as a valet was restful and amusing.

He was certainly nimble enough at assisting Melles into the cumbersome court robes he despised. In sartorial matters, Porthas was not Melles' equal; he was Melles' acknowledged superior, and Melles was only too happy to give way to his expertise. When the last fold and crease had been arranged to Porthas' liking, Melles thanked him—without overdoing it, but making sure that the man knew that his service was noted and valued. With a smile of satisfaction, Porthas gathered up the discarded garments and retired to Melles' private chambers.

The long walk down the castle corridors, accompanied by the silent and ever-present Imperial Guards, allowed him to rid himself of some of his irritation. He knew that there was something in the air when he entered the Throne Room; nervous whispering did not cease at his entrance, as it often did, and the Iron Throne itself was vacant.

Melles made his way up to the foot of the Throne and his own proper place as First in the Court. General Thayer was already in attendance, with a frown on his face that told Melles he had no more idea than anyone else why the Emperor had called this particular Court into session. The General was also in full regalia, ceremonial breastplate gleaming over the somber livery of Imperial Army full-dress uniform, his ceremonial helm with its jaunty crest of purple horsehair tucked under his left arm, from which position he could fling the useless piece of pot-metal at a would-be attacker while he pulled his not-so-ceremonial sword with his right hand. On one occasion, the General had actually stopped his attacker with the helmet before the man ever came within reach of his sword.

"Have you heard anything?" he asked Melles under his breath. Melles shook his head, and the General swore several pungent oaths, his face darkening. "I don't like this," he said. "Charliss never used to call full Courts without notice. He's been closeted with a messenger or an informant—and now he calls a full Court. He's not acting rationally anymore, and the Hundred Little Gods only know what he can inflate out of tiny rumors. If he's heard something—"

"It won't be about us," Melles said smoothly. "We are proceeding splendidly, and the law-abiding citizens of the Empire are very happy with us, and with the Emperor. Look at the reports—look at the streets! And he signed every law, edict and change to procedure we've instituted with his own hands. Whatever he has heard, it will concern someone else's activities, and not ours."

At just that moment, Emperor Charliss appeared, draped in his own ceremonial robes, moving slowly toward the Iron Throne flanked by two of his guards, with four more following. Melles was shocked at his appearance, although he doubted that anyone other than a highly trained Adept would notice the level of deterioration in Charliss' protections and rejuvenation magics. It only showed in small things—in the careful way that Charliss moved, and in the signs of pain and illness around his mouth and eyes—but it was very clear to him that Charliss was losing his personal battle against age and the mage-storms. And as Thayer had said, only the Hundred Little Gods knew what that deterioration was doing to his mind.

In the past, the Emperor's mind had been the very last thing to go; all of the Emperor-Adepts had died with their minds clear even as their eyes closed for the last time. But that was in the past, with magic working properly; what if the reverse was happening, and Charliss' mind was decaying faster than his body? What if the poisons of age were pouring into his brain, acting like insidious drugs on his thinking processes?

The Emperor surveyed his Court with cold eyes, then placed himself in the chill embrace of the Iron Throne, and regarded his assembled Court again, as if searching for signs of insurrection. Finally he gestured, and a single, weatherbeaten man in the garb of an Imperial soldier stepped out from behind the screen of guards, moving down the stairs to stand below the Iron Throne.

"One of Our agents has returned from the west," the Emperor rasped. "And meanwhile, there have been petitions and questions brought before this throne. Some among you doubt the wisdom of Our declaring a second heir, saying that the rumors concerning the Nameless One are only that, and that We should wait until We had real proof before We acted. We have brought you all here to witness this report, so that you may see that the Emperor rules over you because he is wiser than you."

The man stepped forward, went on one knee before the Throne, and began reciting a report in a dispassionate and unaccented voice. His report was virtually identical to everything that Melles already knew, and he didn't pay a great deal of attention to it. Granted, he had not realized that Tremane had looted the Imperial supply depot in Fortallan quite so thoroughly—the man had practically taken the very walls of the place, and Melles had to give him credit for the sheer audacity of the undertaking—but it was still hardly what he would call news. Charliss himself had known all of this; he'd made it public when he'd declared Melles as his new heir, and there should have been nothing in these words to cause the Emperor to feel the need to call a formal Court just so everyone could hear it.

In fact, there was something odd about the fact that Charliss felt the need to address the petitions and questions of Tremane's few friends in the Court. Charliss had always ignored such voices of dissent in the past. It wasn't at all like the Emperor to behave in such a fashion, anymore than it was normal for him to sit and listen to a report he'd already heard several times over. Nevertheless, Charliss was clearly agitated by what he heard. and grew more so with every word the agent recited.

Then the man reached the part of his report that was actually new information—a speech that Tremane had allegedly given to his troops, the contents of which were very clearly treasonable. Melles was fairly certain that the speech was accurately reported, in no small part because the agent kept referring back to notes he had taken, held in a small book that he took from his belt-pouch.

Melles paid very close attention to that speech, once he realized this was the reason that Charliss was so agitated. As the man spoke, the Emperor's hands clutched the arms of the throne, and he leaned forward with his eyes narrowed, cold rage in every nuance of his posture. This was a problem; the old Charliss would never have betrayed the fact that something angered him, but this was not the old Charliss. If the Emperor lost his temper violently in public, it was possible that his competence might be called into question. If that happened, his choice of Heir might also come under fire. The last thing that Melles needed right now was a Court on the verge of deposing the Emperor and finding a new and more tractable Heir.

Supposedly, Tremane accused the Emperor of violating his own sacred oaths to the Army. He accused Charliss of being the one who created the mage-storms, as a mad experiment in weaponry of mass destruction. He told his troops that Charliss deliberately sent them all out to be left in the area of effect of this new weapon, just to see what would happen to them. He claimed that Charliss had then deserted all of them, leaving them to face mage-storms. and hostile enemy troops on their own, with no supplies, no pay, and no reinforcements. Lastly, he declared that they would have to make their own way, for the Empire no longer cared what became of them.

A strong speech, and one that Tremane might well have believed himself. Certainly, with no clear source for the mage-storms, one could make a case for them coming from the Empire rather than the insignificant little nation of Valdemar. Given that the Empire had centuries of tradition of magic use, and Valdemar, so far as anyone knew, had none, it would be far more logical to assume that combat-mages within the Empire had originated the mage-storms. In fact, if Charliss had actually possessed such a weapon, he might very well have used it in exactly the way he was accused. The Emperor was guilty of such callousness so often that a great part of his anger might stem from the fact that he had been accused when for once he was actually innocent.

Then the agent dropped real news, rather than just relating a speech. By working a team of mages together, his group had managed to get a clean scrying on Tremane until the last mage-storm had passed through. They had proof, besides the speech, of Tremane's perfidy. He had made common cause with Valdemar and her allies against the Empire. He had joined the Alliance, and would soon be crowned the new king of Hardorn, the land he was supposed to have taken for Charliss. And one of the stipulations that the Hardornens had insisted on was that he and his men, Imperial soldiers, would defend Hardorn against any further attempts by the Empire to invade and conquer their land.

It was at this point that Charliss exploded with fury, halting the recitation in mid-sentence.

Melles and Thayer exchanged a startled glance, for neither of them had ever seen the Emperor react in this uncontrolled a fashion. And the moment that the Emperor paused for breath—which was, thanks to his poor physical condition, after no more than a dozen rage-filled words—they both stepped up onto the dais and flanked him.

"I will handle Tremane, Lord Emperor," Melles said before Charliss could start again. "That is why you chose me, and believe me, he will live just long enough to regret his actions."

"And I will deal with the traitors who decided to cast their lot in with him," Thayer rumbled. "They are Imperial soldiers under my command, and as such, they will be executed by Imperial hands." Charliss looked up at them both, face still contorted with rage, and started to rise.

Melles again exchanged glances with Thayer, and nodded at the side door that led from the dais to the Imperial quarters. Melles moved his head in agreement, and each of them took one of Charliss' arms to help him to his feet.

"The Emperor wishes to confer with us as to the appropriate punishment for these traitors," Melles proclaimed, as they got Charliss up and standing between them. It wasn't a good answer, but it was better than saying nothing, and far better than letting the courtiers make something up for themselves. Before Charliss could say anything else, they had him moving, and once they had him started in the right direction, he continued until he was back in his austere, gray marble, high-ceilinged, private chambers. Wisely, the guards did not hinder them, perhaps because they knew that if Charliss went into a spitting, foaming rage in public, it would not do anyone any good except the rumor mongers.

Once Melles and Thayer got Charliss into a seat, however, the temper tantrum they had prevented from occurring in public broke out in private.

Charliss hissed, spat, pounded the arms of his white-leather chair, and probably would have thrown things if he'd had the strength to rise. Flecks of foam dotted his withered lips, and the pupils of his eyes were dilated. The guards stood at the door, eyes straight ahead, pretending to be deaf.

Most of what he babbled was incoherent, and it was painfully clear that Charliss had completely lost control of his formidable temper and of his ability to think. If it had not been for the fact that he was so angry he couldn't even control his voice, his shouts would have informed everyone in Crag Castle just how out-of-control he actually was.

But between his rage and his physical state, his voice didn't get much above a hoarse growl, and much to Melles' relief, he also could not get out of his chair to pace—or to destroy the contents of his chamber, as he had once or twice in the past decades. He could only beat impotently on the padded arms of the chair as he cursed Tremane's name and lineage back to the days of the First Emperor.

He and Thayer took turns trying to soothe the Emperor with promises of personal revenge and Imperial justice, not that any of those promises had any likelihood of being fulfilled. The agent had made it quite clear that there were no more "loyal" Imperials with Tremane's troops; for one reason or another they had all defected over to him. The only way to get at Tremane now would be to send a magical assassin—and that would take the combined abilities of several mages. In light of all of the other pressing needs there were for the little magic that could be made to function, a magical assassin would be an extremely stupid thing to waste time and energy on.

While it was Thayer's turn to distract the Emperor, Melles sent one of the guards for his physicians, and looked around for something that might serve to blunt the Emperor's anger—or at least anesthetize him. This was a fairly public room, filled with gray or white-leather chairs arranged in small groups, with a white desk of bleached wood that was too clean to be used very often off in a corner, and rugs made of bleached sheepskin scattered about on the white-marble floor. There was a sideboard of gilded gray marble to Melles' right that was even more impressive than the one in Melles' rooms; it was loaded down with crystal decanters of liquors he recognized and those he did not. What, in the name of the Hundred Little Gods, would a drink as yellow as a buttercup or as blue as a berry taste like? Or one as green as new spring grass?

Or did he really want to know?

Probably not. If Charliss was used to entertaining the minor rulers of his possessions here, he would probably keep a stock of every vile concoction that every pelt-wearing barbarian ever invented in the name of "something to drink." Over the years, Melles had sampled a few of these, and he was not eager to renew his acquaintance with any of them. There were some things man was not meant to know—or imbibe.

By carefully sniffing the necks of each of the likely bottles, he found a decanter of the same potent brandy he himself had been drinking when the formal Court had been called. He poured a much larger portion than he would ever have drunk himself, and took it to the Emperor.

Charliss seized it in a clawlike hand and downed it without even blinking, then threw the glass across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered, leaving sparkling shards and a few ruby-red drops of bloodlike liquid on the white floor.

Melles raised an eyebrow at Thayer, who shook his head. Evidently the General figured he had the situation in hand and didn't need to turn the Emperor over to Melles just yet. Melles nodded, got another two glasses of the wine, kept one for himself and brought the other to Thayer. Then he stood back until Thayer needed him.

His enforced idleness gave him plenty of time to think about the Imperial agent's report. Tremane had shown more intelligence and initiative than Melles would ever have given him credit for, and on the whole, Melles was impressed. He would never have gotten the troops to stand by him, if he had not come up with a story to convince them that it was the Emperor who had deserted them. It was an adept use of polarity. And to somehow manage to make peace with the Alliance and convince the very people he had been fighting against to make him their new ruler—well, that was nothing short of a miracle. Melles would have given a great deal to know how Tremane had managed that particular feat.

Despite the fact that he hated Tremane with an unholy passion and would happily have seen him slowly drawn and quartered over the course of a lengthy dinner, Melles knew that in Tremane's position he would have done exactly the same things. For all the faults that Tremane had, stupidity wasn't one of them. He wasn't as brilliant as Melles, but he was not stupid either. He was lucky, though, and he had used all of the facts he had to make some reasonable conclusions. Melles had access to all the Imperial records, and he knew for a fact that Charliss had not given Tremane support or orders for months before the looting of the Imperial depot. Once Tremane's magics began to fail, he would have found himself fighting an unsupported war in unfamiliar territory—surrounded by enemies. He would have had no advantage over the enemy without magic to help. By the time the winter storms began, it would have been impossible to retreat across country to the Empire. So just what did Charliss expect Tremane to do at that point? Die in place, like a loyal fool out of the old Chronicles? Men like that had gone extinct in the days of the First Emperor, probably because they kept doing stupidly loyal things that bought them early graves. Charliss could not have concocted a better scheme to get rid of Grand Duke Tremane if he'd tried—except, of course, if he had appointed Melles to do away with him.

Not that Melles would have minded at all if Tremane had been such a loyal fool, but the fact was that he was loyal, like most men, only to a point. And after that point, he saw no reason to repay betrayal with more loyalty. And his luck must be phenomenal, for he had managed to pull an amazing victory out of a well that looked to hold only the bitter water of defeat.

But then, Tremane always had been unaccountably, inexplicably lucky. Fortune always smiled on the man and doubled the effects of his adequate competence. That was part of the reason why Melles hated him.

The liquor had enough effect on Charliss to get him to stop babbling; he still pounded the arms of his chair, but now he focused on Thayer, detailing the excruciating punishments he wanted Tremane and his men to endure before they died. Thayer did not bother to point out that Tremane and his men were quite out of reach of any Imperial punishments; he simply nodded gravely, pretending to pay attention, when in fact he was probably just hoping that Charliss' Healers would arrive before the Emperor erupted into incoherence again. Finally the physicians did arrive, and in a moment they had taken over from Thayer, swarming over the Emperor, pressing medicines on him, urging him to calm himself. Since Charliss' energy had been fading as the strong dose of liquor took effect, he was finally ready to listen to advice, to take those medicines, to allow his servants to take him to his bedroom and put him to bed. Thayer and Melles took the opportunity then to make their escape.

Thayer was in no mood to talk. "I was dragged away from writing out orders for troop movement in the provinces," he told Melles brusquely. "And I need to get those orders out, whether or not Emperor Charliss has other duties he needs me for."

Melles nodded, hearing and understanding the things that Thayer had not said. It would be best to get as many orders out as possible, quickly, while Charliss was otherwise occupied. It was all too clear that the Emperor was no longer entirely sane or stable. The problem was not that he was disintegrating; Melles and Thayer between them could very easily take over if he dropped dead this very night. The real problem was that he was not disintegrating fast enough.

Until he either abdicated or died, the Imperial Guards would make sure he remained the Emperor; that was their duty, and not only were they trained and sworn to it, they were geased to it. He would not be the only Emperor to have gone mad in the last few months of his life; the Empire had survived such rulers before, and truth to tell, with the difficulties facing the Empire now, being ruled by a madman was the smallest of its problems. At the moment, his obsessions were harmless enough. As long as he insisted on pursuing the twin goals of the destruction of Valdemar and the punishment of Tremane, Melles would be perfectly content. If all that happened was an occasional interruption of work, it would be a small price to pay to have the Emperor harmlessly occupied and out of the way of real business. Charliss was an Adept, and he did have an entire corps of mages who answered only to his demands—and it was entirely possible, if he decided to sacrifice all attempts to keep his anti-senescence magics working, that he could find some way to destroy Tremane, Valdemar, or both. Granted, such powerful magics would probably kill him and most of his mages, but that was to be expected, and it wouldn't bother Melles in the least. He did not intend to worry about anything as far beyond practical reach as Tremane, and Valdemar was even farther than that.

The real danger to Melles and all he needed to accomplish was that Charliss might recover his senses and his priorities enough to decide to meddle in what Melles had planned. That would mean nothing short of disaster, for the Emperor had his own nets of agents and spies that rivaled the ones Melles had in place, and he would know very soon just what Melles was doing, overtly and covertly. Most of it, of course, was simply good strategy, but there was that tiny fraction designed to make Charliss into a villain and Melles into a hero, and Charliss would probably not care too much for that.

Charliss would also have his own plans—which would not be a bad thing, if the Emperor was still sane. But he wasn't and the situation was only going to get worse as time went on. If he began to meddle, he could easily undo everything that Melles and Thayer had worked so hard to establish.

Something would have to be done to keep that from happening.

All that flashed through Melles's mind as he stood in the frigid hallway with General Thayer. He nodded slowly. "We both have work to do," he replied. "We need to get our structure too solidly in place to dislodge by any force."

That was an innocuous enough statement, but a brief flicker of his glance toward the closed door of the Emperor's quarters brought an answering glimmer of understanding to Thayer's eyes. "Jacona's under control," Thayer replied. "It's the rest of the Empire that we need to think about now. And with your permission, I'll get to my part of it."

Melles clapped him on the shoulder. "And I to mine; after all, what is the Empire but soldiers and civil servants of various rank?"

The General nodded in agreement, and the two of them went their separate ways; Melles hurried his steps to his own apartments with the determination to get enough in place that no matter what mad schemes Charliss came up with, it would make no difference.

He returned to his suite to find the ever-attentive Porthas waiting, ready to remove the uncomfortable court robes and replace them with loose, fur-lined lounging robes and sheepskin slippers. When he raised an eye at that, Porthas shrugged.

"I assumed that my lord would be working late into the night and would not wish to be disturbed. I had arranged for a meal to be brought here, and declined invitations on my lord's behalf for a card party and a musical evening." Even as Porthas spoke, he assisted Melles out of the heavy over-robe.

The moment that Porthas mentioned the card party and "musical evening"—the latter of which would probably be some idiot's wife, unmarried sisters, and unbetrothed daughters, all performing popular ballads with varying degrees of success—he shuddered. The card party wouldn't have been much better; when he played cards, he played seriously, and it would be a dead certainty that he would have been paired with an unattached female who either bet recklessly or was too timid to make a bid.

"You were correct, Porthas," he replied, as the valet eased him into the comfort of loose robes heated on a rack in front of the fire. "And I do have a great deal of work to do."

Charliss' actions today had given him the spur that he needed to make some fairly bold moves. That long report on the state of the rest of the Empire had left him with uncertainty earlier, but it was clear now that he had no time to waste.

First, the Empire; second, the Court. Thayer would have no part to play in that second act of consolidation.

He sat down behind his desk, and pulled paper and pen toward him. As he had already anticipated, local leaders throughout the Empire had already secured their immediate territories wherever possible. In places where the situation had not yet been secured, he had only to expand his existing arrangements, and he wrote out those orders first. The drafts would go to Thayer before they went to the clerks for copying, just to make certain that they weren't going to step on each others' feet, but the plans were simply extensions of what was already going on around Jacona.

Porthas placed a cup of hot mulled wine at his elbow; the fragrance of the spices in it drifted to his nostrils. He reached absently for it and sipped it, holding it with one hand while he wrote with the other.

The real challenges would come in dealing with those local leaders, people who had made themselves the top wolf in their own little territories, and would not care to hear from a bigger, tougher wolf than they were. Somehow he would have to persuade them that he had authority and power, perhaps in excess of what he really had, and that it was in their best interest to begin taking orders from him.

If he couldn't achieve that objective, he was going to have to eliminate them without direct confrontation, and put someone more amenable to authority in their places.

He put the cup down, out of the way, while he contemplated his options.

The real trick would be to get rid of them in ways that would not be traced back and connected with him. Getting rid of people was never difficult. It was doing so without leaving any tracks or signs pointing to who was responsible that was the hard part. Those clever, perceptive, and skilled enough to trace blame were few but devastating, and all plans had to be made with the assumption that such a sleuth would be investigating, though the odds were slim.

As with cards, duels, and death sports, look at the odds—but consider the stakes.

He picked up the report, leafed through it, and scanned the list of those local leaders and their brief dossiers again; his agents were good, and it was possible to get some idea of who would cooperate and who would not just from the thumbnail sketches of their personalities that had been provided to him. He had a short list of assassins to chose from, "special agents" who were adept at making deaths look like accidents or illness. It was going to be difficult to get them into place, given the current conditions, but it would not be impossible. With the help of the Army, he ought to be able to get any individual to the right location within a few weeks.

It would probably be a good idea to place his best agents on his most likely targets immediately, rather than waste time attempting to persuade some provincial idiot with an overblown sense of his own competence. If the blow came before he even contacted a given fool, it definitely wouldn't be connected with him. That would leave the agent free to take on a second target if a at persuasion of someone worth saving failed.

He switched ink and paper, to the special colors of both that would tell these operatives that he had a job for them. The note he sent would be commonplace greetings, of course; no special agent would ever trust primary instructions that came written. This was a gamble on his part, for many of these people were free-lance workers. When they heard what he had to say, they might even turn him down; although they would be paid more for these targets than any of them had ever gotten for a job before, getting to their targets through the miserable conditions that existed now could be a real problem. And again, that was the privilege of an agent who was as good as these were; you couldn't persuade an artist to make a masterpiece by standing him in front of an easel and threatening him with death. It might be possible to pick off one or two of these provincial leaders with ordinary assassins, and if he came up short on the number of agents he needed, that was what he would do.

But he really would prefer it if all of these operatives found the jobs enough of a challenge to take them on. They were very good. He, above all, should know; he used to be one of them, as did Porthas, and he had even trained some of them in technique.

There was nothing like being able to call on old school ties...

As he wrote out his list of "invitations," it occurred to him that he actually did have a way to fulfill the Emperor's demands and "bring Tremane to justice," provided that the "justice" came in the form of a swift, sure blade or the sharp bite of poison. There were three of these assassins—four, if he counted Porthas, though he did not intend to do without that worthy's talents right here, who could and possibly would go to Hardorn and eliminate Tremane. Magical assassination being out of the question, physical assassination would take a year or more, but it could be done.

He paused to consider it, even though the idea did not appear to be a particularly good one. There was a certain amount of personal satisfaction to be had if he could somehow kill Tremane. How had the man managed to wheedle his way into the hearts and minds of the Hardornens? It did not seem fair that his old enemy should come through a situation that should have destroyed him, only to be made a King. Granted, he would never see his home again, and granted, Melles was going to be an Emperor, not a mere King. Nevertheless, the prospect was galling. It would have been satisfying to bring him down altogether.

Porthas took away the cup, and left a fresh one and a plate of sliced fruit, bread, and cheese in its place. This was a subtle hint that he should eat something. He took the hint, and ate without tasting any of it.

He weighed all the considerations. Given that the agent sent out would be brilliant, crafty, and given every resource, the likelihood of anyone from the Empire reaching the center of Hardorn was remote. Success would be remoter still, for an agent of the Empire, without the magical aids that would enable him to study the people and conditions surrounding his target, would be operating blind in a foreign land. He would stick out like a single red fish in a school of green fish.

In a way, it was possible to sympathize with the Emperor's obsession. Tremane should be dead at this point. Normally, he did not give in to his own emotions, but there was a sick anger in the bottom of his stomach that twisted and bit as if he had swallowed a viper, and it would probably never give him rest. He wanted Tremane dead, and he wanted to do whatever it would take to get him there.

But even when he had been an operative himself, he had known that there was a point past which it was inadvisable to pursue your target, no matter what your employer said or offered. This was one of those times.

He got up from his desk and poured himself another drink, ignoring for the moment the cup of mulled wine; not brandy this time, but a thick cordial with no alcohol in it, made entirely of syrup and stomach-soothing and gut-deadening herbs. He went back to his seat, let himself down into the embrace of the chair, and tried to convince his heart of what his head knew were facts.

When the enemy is "dead" to the world one inhabits, he might as well be dead in totality.

That was something his teacher had told him, and it was as true now as it was then. Tremane might as well be dead; his lands and possessions were confiscated, his name erased from the records, and he could never return here again. He would have to be content with a petty kingdom in a land of barbarians.

Pursuit of Tremane was a waste of resources, which were in very short supply, especially good operatives. There was no point in wasting a man who could serve Melles better elsewhere. It was time to bury the past vendettas with Tremane's name.

There was no point in following the Emperor into madness.

Every time a mage-storm washed over them, anyone with any pretensions at being a magician felt it; there had even been clever daylight robberies timed to coincide with the onset of a mage-storm, when the owner of a building would be incapacitated. The Storms were bad enough when they came during the daylight hours, but when they occurred at night, when everyone was asleep, they were worse, for they became part of one's dream and turned those dreams into nightmares.

Melles woke up in a sweat, clutching his blankets, out of a nightmare of tumbling through empty space. But the waking reality was no better, and he hung onto his bedding with grim recognition of what was behind the dream. Complete disorientation, nausea, the feeling that he was on the verge of blacking out and yet could not have the relief that unconsciousness would bring—this was a mage-storm to him, and he was profoundly grateful that Porthas and his guards were not mages and did not feel these effects.

At that, his own bouts with the Storms were not as bad as those of some of the other mages he knew, though he had not ventured to ask the Emperor how he weathered these things. He had a theory that the amount a mage suffered was directly proportional to the amount of magic he had tried to work in the interval between the Storms. If magic was tied to its caster, and the Storms disrupted magic, it stood to reason that when the Storms hit, they would give trouble to mage and magic together. As a consequence, he had tried to keep from working any magic at all, even giving up his own rejuvenation magics when they had not survived disruption.

When the Storm finally passed, and his dizziness and nausea vanished as they always did, he let go of the covers and tried to relax back into his goosedown mattress. With any luck, the Emperor would be "indisposed" today after his bout with the storm, and with further luck, the mage-storm would send his mental and physical state plummeting again. It was too much to hope that the Storm had killed him, but it was certainly possible that this time he might wind up bedridden.

That would be an excellent thing, for then Melles would have to stand proxy and speak for him. It might even be possible to frighten him into stepping down and making Melles the Emperor. He would not hope for it, and he would not urge it, for the Emperor might well take such suggestions very badly. It was a fine dream, though, and one he was loath to give up.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax in hope of resuming his slumbers, but it was of no use. He could not get back to sleep again. He opened his eyes and stared up at the canopy of his bed, or rather, at the darkness within the sheltering curtains of the bed. No light penetrated those thick velvet curtains, nor would it until morning, when the servants pulled back both window and bed curtains to wake him. Now that there was no magical way to heat Crag Castle, one needed those heavy curtains around the beds to keep the drafts out, just as one needed goosedown comforters and featherbeds, and many blankets. Even then, he often woke with a cold nose.

He was not a heavy sleeper, nor a long one, and never had been. Some would say that a guilty conscience kept him awake, or the memories of all of his victims, but the truth was simpler than that. Sleep, in his profession, was a dangerous necessity, the one time when he was completely vulnerable and had to entrust his safety to others. He had trained himself to wake completely at the slightest disturbance, and once he was awake, his mind leaped into activity whether or not there was any need for it. Once he was that wide awake, it was difficult to get back to sleep again.

He wondered what time it was. If it was near enough to dawn, it was hardly worth fighting to get back to sleep only to be awakened again.

He shifted his weight, and a scent of pungent herbs filled the still air. Porthas had ordered the servants to add those herbs to the bedding, in anticipation of problems when the vermin-repelling spells failed. That was yet another example of Porthas' foresight; he'd seen some of the Councillors scratching surreptitiously at the last meeting of the Grand Council, and suspected fleas, since these were some of the same courtiers who kept dogs or other pets and insisted on having them here at Court. Vermin spread, with or without pets to spread them, unless one took precautions.

Fleas at Court! Well, they were not the only bloodsucking vermin here, only the most honest about it. In some ways, Melles would have preferred fleas to some of the other vermin he had to deal with on a daily basis.

That led his thoughts immediately to the current problem facing him: the Court. He had always known there would be some opposition to him as the Emperor's Heir, but he had not thought that all of his enemies would forget their own differences to unite against him.

His only solid ally was Thayer; in Thayer he had the Army—but not the Imperial Guards. Those were answerable only to the Emperor, and led by Commander Peleun, who was not a great admirer of Melles. How Peleun had managed to climb to the heights he had while still retaining a fair number of illusions about honor and fidelity was quite beyond Melles, but he had, and he was already causing some trouble. He didn't care for the idea of a former chief assassin as an Emperor—although Melles was following in a long and distinguished, if not openly acknowledged, tradition. He had preferred Tremane, who at least pretended to honesty, and had a fine career in both the civil service and the military behind him.

More important than Peleun, however, was Councillor Baron Dirak, who was in charge of the Imperial Civil Servants. He had been one of Tremane's staunchest allies, still defended him openly at Court, and was not at all pleased with Melles' rise to power. He'd had some hope of wedding a sister to Tremane, and was very bitter about losing that chance for power.

Either of these men alone could have caused him some small difficulty, but with both of them allied, things could become serious. And if his sources were correct, they were maneuvering to get Councillor Serais, head of the tax collectors, into their corner.

He had to consolidate his power in the Court. There were other candidates for the Iron Throne, many of them just as qualified as Melles. It was entirely possible that someone could send an assassin out after Melles. Peleun probably would be horrified at the thought, but Dirak would consider it, and there were others who knew how to contact the same list of "special agents" that Melles used. Melles hadn't been able to contact them all, and that meant there were at least a few top-level assassins unaccounted for. Peleun could use his power as the head of the Imperial Guard to allow anyone he wished in to see the Emperor at any time, and given the right set of circumstances, the end result of such an interview could be a brace of guards arriving to put Melles under arrest. With the Emperor's mind so unbalanced, it wouldn't be too difficult to persuade him that Melles was not enthusiastic enough in his pursuit of Tremane. That alone would be enough to get him arrested and replaced.

If he was arrested, his enemies would have the leisure to concoct as much evidence as they pleased to prove whatever they wished, and he would not be able to interfere. It was possible, of course, that Porthas would take up the reins and act in his absence, but Melles preferred not to count on such enlightened self-interest. It was far more likely that Porthas and all of his special employees would offer their services to what they perceived to be the winning side.

He was secure in the city; Jacona was quiet, and entirely his. He had issued his orders and sent out his assassins and negotiators along with Thayer's troops; within a few weeks he would know how successful he had been at taking the rest of the Empire under his rule. Now, while he was waiting for word from the countryside, would be a good time to consolidate the Court. That was one thing that his enemies never counted on; that he would continue to work on another aspect of his projects while waiting for results from the previous phase. They always started on a phase and waited to see what would happen before going on to the next, but that was a costly way to operate.

As for the Court—he would order no assassinations, at least not yet, and only use it as a last resort. If anyone died in the next few weeks, even if it was completely an accident, he would be the first to be suspected of initiating foul play. But he had always used the knife as a tool, not an end, and the skills that had made him the Emperor's most successful agent included blackmail, information brokering, and—of course—rumor creation. He didn't need to kill anyone to be effective. It was more effective to keep a small but omnipresent fear of death in peoples' minds than to actually deliver the blow itself.

Peleun, Dirak, and Serais; he would concentrate on those three, who were outwardly his enemies. The little fish were probably waiting to see who came out the victor, and the bigger fish, the equals of those three, had not yet openly taken sides.

Peleun's weakness was his fortune, or rather, his lack of one; he didn't have a solid financial situation and he had been speculating lately in commodities. He had been doing very well, in no small part because he knew just what commodities were going to be in short supply, thanks to his contacts with the Army. The Army, of course, had taken over the Cartage Guild, and although the Army did not own or profit directly from the cargoes carried, there were Army records of what had just come in that Peleun could easily get access to before the goods ever came on the market. Everything had to go through inspection, weighing, and taxation before so much as a grain of wheat could be sold, and that took several days, enough time for Peleun to purchase goods that were going to be scarce before anyone else knew that supplies were going to temporarily dry up until the next cargoes came in. That was a great weakness in the current market situation, for there was no telling what might come in besides staples. There was no way to effectively communicate back to the farms and estates, so at some point, it might be impossible to find an apple, and at another, there was nothing in the way of fruit in the market but apples. All Melles had to do would be to see that Peleun saw the wrong records, or completely falsified records, and within a few weeks he would be a ruined man.

Dirak was a very nervous gentleman, timid and altogether afraid of his shadow; perhaps that was why he had gone into civil service in the first place. The current situation had him gulping handfuls of calmatives on a daily basis; surely there was something that Melles could do to further destroy his nerves.

And as for Serais—did he but know it, he was the most vulnerable of all. Some quick work among the Imperial tax records, and hundreds of thousands of gold pieces that had never existed in the first place would "vanish" from the treasury. Of course, the errors would eventually be uncovered, but it would take a great deal of work and require referring to all the original tax receipts, and Serais' reputation would be completely ruined by the time it was over. With any luck, he was probably skimming a little off the top anyway, and when Melles was through, that would have been uncovered as well.

That wouldn't be enough to keep the Court completely under his thumb, though. He had to give the malcontents within the Court another target than himself, just as he had done for the malcontents in the city. It could not be a target for blame, however, but a target of profit and reward. It would be very dangerous to blame the Emperor for anything, and there was no point in spreading rumors accusing anyone else of wrongdoing, when those rumors might well be turned on him. No, with all the uneasiness in the Court, offering people hope and profit would be far more effective.

What would happen when the mage-storms were over? What, exactly, would the Empire need? How could those courtiers who remained here profit from the end of the Storms? If he could give them a direction—even an entirely specious direction—that would get them too busy to concern themselves with him.

Last of all, he and Thayer should work together to at least make his position look unassailable. Perhaps by tempting one of his three targets to attempt to persuade the Emperor to do something—something that Melles could come out against—something that Melles would know the Emperor would never even consider. Reliable rumors that the Emperor was actually in favor of the given action would spur the target onward. By urging something the Emperor was against, the target would label himself as a troublemaker and potential traitor in the Emperor's eyes.

He smiled to himself. And what better action could there be than urging clemency for Tremane?

He felt his eyes growing heavier, and his body relaxing. He had a plan. In the mornings he would implement it.

Now he could sleep.

Melles smiled and nodded graciously as one of Viscount Aderin's six unmarried daughters blushed and dedicated her performance on the great-harp to him. He watched her attentively—which had the effect of making her fumble her fingerings—as she labored through a rendition of an old chestnut entitled "My Lady's Eyes."

Musical evenings were the best cure for insomnia that he knew, but attendance at this one was important. If one was going to plant information, this sort of gathering was the place to do so—a room full of very minor nobility, all of them hungry for advancement, all of them so eager for a crumb from the tables of the great that they would listen to and believe practically anything. They would never divulge where their information originated, in the hope that those they imparted their choice bits to would think that it originated with them and give them credit for enormous cleverness.

And none of them could be directly linked to him. He did not mix with them socially, except at extremely large gatherings like this one, which he had been urged to attend by the Emperor's Minister of Protocol. He was not related to any of them. No one had any reason to assume that he had any reason to give them information. For all intents and purposes, he was here to survey Aderin's daughters as possible marriage fodder, not to chat with Aderin's friends.

In fact, the girls weren't that bad. Three of the six were discreet and submissive, able to entertain without embarrassing him, unlikely to try to put themselves forward, attractive enough to satisfy him, and tractable enough to smile and ignore any little excess of his own. He could do worse, and very well knew it. This was probably why the Minister of Protocol had suggested the gathering, at least in part. There was some nervousness among the Ministers about the fact that he was not yet married and showed no signs of wanting that particular state. There had been a single Emperor in the past who had been uninterested in the opposite sex, and there had been trouble during his reign that he could have resolved with a marriage of state but had not done so. This had eventually led to a costly minor war, and at the moment, the Empire could not afford a cheap minor war.

Of course, he could always make the ministers happy by doing what the Sixth Emperor had done. With his reign starting on a shaky note, and unwilling to offend anyone by picking one girl over another, he had handpicked the daughter of a mere Squire, a very plain, very quiet child, and had educated her to be the perfect Empress. She had offended no one in his Court, because she had deferred to everyone; she had every skill needed in an Empress. Even the fact that she was plain had been valuable, because it was quite clear to everyone that she was the Emperor's place-holder and hostess, and nothing more. The Emperor had been able then to appoint dozens of royal mistresses over the course of his reign, all of them enjoying the same status, and he had threaded his way through many intrigues on the basis of which mistress he chose to favor at any one time.

That might be the best solution of all. And if he had to make a state marriage eventually, well, the Emperor could divorce his wife and remarry within a day and a night, and an insignificant place-holder would have no family to make trouble later. In fact, such a girl would probably be very happy to retire from Court with a generous settlement.

As he caught himself playing with the various possibilities of such an arrangement, he sternly brought his attention back to the real reason why he was here. He was going to plant rumors, and he had better get about it before people began indulging themselves a little too heavily in the mulled punch to properly remember what they heard.

Before the evening was over, he had started a whisper-campaign about Serais and the "missing" tax money, had suggested several lines of profit to be pursued when the Storms were over, and had hinted that when he was Emperor, those who confined their attention to conservative ideas and relied on "what always worked before" would take second place to those with innovation and creativity. Since these folk were among the lesser nobility, they had less access to rejuvenative magics, and hence the average age here was much lower than for the Court as a whole. Melles knew that the one thing he could do to attract the support of little fish like these was to suggest that he would be more receptive to fresh, new ideas than his predecessor. This indicated that there was room at the top—and that some old, tired titles might find their Council seats and Ministerial offices taken by those who had been languishing in their shadow.

It had been a profitable evening. And in addition, he had managed to deflect any accusation that he was actually pleased at Tremane's downfall by pretending to a low level of disappointment in "his old childhood friend," thus lending another layer of obscurity to his motives. Now there would be a substantial number of people with the impression that he and Tremane had been friends for most of their lives rather than rivals. So when he laid the trail to suggest that the Emperor might be willing to consider clemency for the Grand Duke, there would be people ready to believe the suggestion since it came from him.

This very evening, a bright young fellow who'd brought himself to Porthas' attention by his brilliance with both forgery and "fixing" account books had been smuggled into the tax office and was ensuring Serais' downfall. Peleun had invested everything he had to spare, and some that he did not have, in smoked ham, bacon, and fancy sausage, certain that the cargo that had just arrived from Tival was frozen fish, not meat. Tomorrow the double caravan of smoked ham, bacon, and fancy sausage that had arrived from Tival would go on the market, and Peleun would be very lucky if he could hold onto his house in the city.

And as for Dirak, well, Melles had something very special in mind for him. Besides being nervous, Dirak was devout—or perhaps it was better to say that he was superstitious. He was about to be the recipient of a great many omens of bad fortune, together with many minor mishaps that might lend further credence to those omens. If Dirak did not collapse with nervous exhaustion before the end of a fortnight, Melles would be very much surprised.

Melles was feeling pleased enough with the way that things were going that he dismissed Porthas early when he returned to his rooms. Porthas had been responsible for setting up most of what Melles had planned for his three enemies, and he was looking a bit worn, at least to Melles' critical eye. "I can take care of myself for once," he told the man. "I'm going to work for a few more hours, then go straight to bed."

"I would argue with you," Bors Porthas replied, rubbing his hand across his eyes, "but I'm too tired. I know my limits, and I've just reached them."

Melles uttered a short bark of laughter. "Good! I was beginning to think you had no limits, and I was wondering when you were going to set yourself up as my rival." He was only half joking about that; it was something anyone in his position had to consider.

Porthas snorted. "No fear of that, my lord. You are a target. I am not. To my mind, my position is the better one. Please sleep lightly and put an extra guard on your door, my lord. And don't try to dress yourself until I arrive to select your robes for the day. I do not want a repetition of the day you wore the sapphire tunic with the emerald trews. I would not be able to live down the shame."

Melles acknowledged the advice with a wave of his hand, and Porthas bowed himself out.

Since he would be doing without his valet's silent attendance, Melles set his desk up with everything he might need to work before he ever sat down. A servant would come in to mend the fire, but otherwise he would be left alone at his own orders until he chose to go to bed.

He had been working steadily on follow-up orders for his agents in Jacona involved with the freedom movement, and similar, but more general orders for similar agents in other cities of the Empire. He had noticed that the room seemed to be getting colder, and had been about to ring for the servant, when the servant finally came in, bearing a metal hod of coal.

He started to turn his attention back to his work, when something about the young man's posture sounded a mental alarm in his instincts.

He was already out of his chair and had slipped free of the cumbersome outer robe as he dove toward the floor, when the first knife hit the back of the chair and stuck there, quivering.

He rolled to his feet beside the fireplace and snatched up a fireplace poker as the youngster threw a second knife that he dropped down from a hidden sheath in his sleeve. Melles easily dodged that strike, too, and his lip curled with contempt. Arm sheaths—that was a trick for sophomores and sharpsters! And against him! What kind of fools were they sending after him anyway?

"'You might as well hold still, old man," the young one whispered, pulling another knife from somewhere behind the back of his neck as he went into a lithe crouch. "You're going to die anyway, so you might as well make it easier on both of us."

Old man! Who did this young idiot think he was? But the stupid speech—so melodramatic and such a waste of breath—told him the kind of assassin he faced. He had to deal with nuisances like this one at least once a year; youngsters who thought they were better and faster than the old masters, and would use any excuse to take them on. He would have to kill this cretin; he had no choice in the matter. If he didn't make an example of the fool, others like him would think he'd gone soft and keep coming at him. Killing the boy would mean that the others would leave him alone for about another year.

But anger boiled up deep in his gut, and not just because some young freelancer, ill-trained and without even a nodding acquaintance with discipline, had decided to show that the master had lost his touch. No, this boy would never have come here if he had not been brought into the palace by someone who belonged here. That meant he'd been hired.

And that was an insult that was hardly to be borne. How dared someone send a rank amateur against him? Did they think his reputation, was inflated? Did they think he could no longer hold his own against even a boy like this one?

Were they that contemptuous of him?

They were about to discover that it was not wise to tease the old basilisk; they would learn that it was only pretending to sleep.

He rushed the boy, startling him into skipping backward; he was used to the flickering shadows cast by flames instead of mage-lights, but the boy obviously was not. As he passed his desk, he feinted with the poker and picked up the tray of sand he used to dry the ink on his documents. The boy's attention was on the poker, not on Melles' other hand. Before he could get out of reach, Melles flung the contents of the tray into his eyes, then threw the tray itself at him. The boy deflected the tray clumsily with one arm; it hit him and clattered to the floor. He could not deflect the sand.

So far neither of them had made enough noise to attract the attention of the guards at the door, and Melles had no intention of calling for help. If the guards came, they'd kill the fool before Melles had a chance to find out who had sent him.

Blinded and in pain, the boy still had a few tricks left; with his eyes watering, he threw the dagger he held at the last place Melles had been standing, and rubbed at his face with one hand while groping behind his neck for another blade. Of course, Melles wasn't where the boy thought, but had dropped down below the level of a thrown blade. He lunged forward before the boy could register where he was, and swept the poker out in a savage backhanded blow at knee-height.

He shattered the boy's left kneecap, and the boy went down with a strangled cry.

"Who sent you?" he hissed angrily, as he stood up slowly, absently pleased that he was not at all winded. The daily workouts with Porthas had been more than worth the effort.

The boy responded with a curse about Melles's sexual preferences, rolled out of the way of another blow, and got his fourth knife into his hands at the same time.

"No matter what you've heard, I don't take any pleasure in that particular pastime," Melles said coldly. By now, his eyes had watered so much that the boy could see again, although his eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Melles was in no mood to take chances, even though he was facing a partially disabled foe, so he watched the young fool warily. The boy did not writhe or take his eyes off Melles, though the pain from his shattered knee must have been excruciating. "I suggest you tell me who hired you, and save yourself a great deal of pain."

The boy inched away, sliding over the slick floor, while Melles moved cautiously toward him. This time the curse was a bit more colorful and less accurate. Melles sighed, and shook his head, as the boy got into a standing position with the help of a chair. What did he expect to accomplish from there? He couldn't walk; his leg wouldn't hold him. And if he couldn't walk, his balance would be off. Didn't he know that? Was he so desperate he'd try anything, or did he really think he had a chance to escape?

Melles backed up, keeping his eyes on the boy at all times, until he reached his desk. Without needing to look to see where it was, he pulled the boy's first knife out of the back of the chair, weighed it in his hand for a moment to get the balance, and threw it.

It hit precisely as he had intended, in the boy's gut with a wet thud; the boy dropped to the ground again with a gurgle, unable to twist out of the way in time, as his own knife clattered to the floor. Perhaps the fool had thought he was going to try for the trickier hand shot. That was stupid of him, if he had. A gut wound hurt more and wouldn't kill immediately.

Melles walked over to the boy and stood looking down at him, with the poker held loosely in one hand. The boy had both hands on the hilt of the knife, trying to pull it out, his breath came in harsh pants, and his eyes were glazing with agony. "Who hired you?" he asked again.

The boy looked up, and spat at him.

He sighed. He was going to have to spend more time than he wanted on this, squandering time that could have been better spent on his orders, but there was no help for it. "You're going to tell me sooner or later," he said, without much hope for sense from this arrogant idiot, who still didn't think he was going to die. "You'll be better off with sooner." This time the boy responded with a suggestion for an unpalatable dietary supplement. Melles brought the poker down on his other knee, and proceeded dispassionately to inflict enough pain to extract the information he wanted.

In the end, he managed to get what he wanted without too much of a mess, and the answer made him even more disgusted than he had been at the beginning of the futile exercise.

Duke Jehan. An idiot with just about as little sense as the cretin he'd hired.

And it was not for any great ideological reason, nor because Jehan was avenging Tremane, or trying to put one of the other candidates in the Heir's suite. No, it was because Jehan had somehow gotten the impression that if he managed to assassinate enough candidates, he would manage to be put on the throne because he was Charliss' second cousin!

Apparently he'd thought that if he used assassins to do his work for him, no one would connect him with the deaths! Melles had no idea who Jehan thought would get the blame if Melles himself was gone, but perhaps this would-be King of Assassins had gotten his order of targets reversed and had gone after the last on the list first.

He finished off the mewling thing on the floor with a single thrust of the boy's own knife, threw the knife down next to the body, and wiped his hands with a napkin, contemplating his next move. It wouldn't be enough to make an example of this boy, or Jehan would think he'd gotten off undiscovered and try some other way of ridding himself of his rivals. Melles had acquired immunity to most of the common poisons, but that didn't mean he wouldn't get sick if someone slipped a dose to him. That would cost still more valuable time, and might incapacitate him long enough for one of his real rivals to get in to the Emperor. No, he was going to have to give Jehan a real fright, and make him into an example for anyone else at Court idiotic enough to try something like this.

In the end, it took all of his skill to pull the job off—not to get into Jehan's quarters without arousing anyone, but to get past his own guards. The nurse who was supposed to be watching in Duke Jehan's nursery was easily incapacitated with a needle dipped in a poison that sent one into a deep sleep rather than death. Jehan's oldest son, slightly more than a year old, sat up in his crib and looked with wide eyes at the stranger who came to lift him out and place him on the floor. He didn't do anything more than babble, though, when the stranger gave him several pretty toys to play with.

Melles dropped the body, wrapped in a bloody sheet, into the crib in place of the child, and left the child himself sitting on the floor, happily absorbed in the bladeless daggers that had been intended to kill Melles.

That was a somewhat melodramatic gesture in and of itself, but Melles had the feeling that anything less wouldn't get Jehan's attention. He'd considered leaving the daggers whole rather than snapping the blades off, but if the baby was as stupid as its sire, it would probably have managed to kill itself with one of them. While that would have been no loss for the Court or the world, Jehan would have been so overwrought that the lesson would be completely lost on him. And killing babies, or allowing them to be killed, was bad for one's public image.

Melles slipped back across the palace and into his own rooms again, feeling drained and no less disgusted. He had lost most of the working hours of the night—and this late, although he had easily gotten the blood off the stone floor with the sheet, he'd used up all the hot water in his suite to do so. He'd have to wash himself in cold water; one more mark against Jehan.

He put himself to bed, chilled and angry, but at least he was physically tired enough to sleep.

And hopefully, his little present would prevent Jehan and several others from sleeping for many nights to come. It wasn't much in the way of revenge, for him, but for now it would do.

Seven

"Amazing!" Silverfox shook his head and stepped away from the teleson crystal, tossing his long, black hair to one side. "If I had not seen this, I would not believe it was possible."

"I couldn't agree more," Karal said. He had been watching over Silverfox's shoulder as the kestra'chern spoke with Treyvan. The round crystal lens mounted on top of the teleson had held a perfect image of the head and shoulders of the fascinated gryphon, and a thin but distinct echo of his voice emerged from the matte-gray metal box that held the crystal cradled in a quarter-moon-shaped depression on its surface. This was even more impressive than the time An'desha had done long-distance scrying on Grand Duke Tremane..

This was a distinct improvement over the original sets. A little fiddling and the addition of the crystals on each set as well as the mirrors—simple polished lenticular lenses that any glassworker could make—had made it possible to have images and the audible voices of the two users. All that had been in the notes that Lyam and Firesong had interpreted, but the crystals had never been installed. Perhaps that was why the sets had been on the workbench.

Karal gazed wistfully at the device, which was now being used by Sejanes and one of the new Mage-Gifted Heralds. "This is quite amazing. I wish you didn't have to have Mindspeech to use it."

"But you don't—" Silverfox began. "Or at least only one of you does."

Karal only sighed, very quietly. Silverfox looked at him askance, with a question in his blue eyes, but it was Sejanes who guessed what lay behind Karal's comment.

"You'd like to use this to speak to that young lady of yours without any of us eavesdropping, wouldn't you, lad?" he said shrewdly. Karal blushed and didn't reply immediately, trying to think of an answer that was noncommittal enough without being an actual lie.

"Well, you need to use it to confer with the others back in Haven," he said, nodding in the direction of Sejanes, Firesong, and Master Levy.. "That's important."

"And you aren't. Is that what you're saying?" Sejanes graced him with a skeptical look.

"What you are talking about is important," Karal replied, knowing that any declaration of how unimportant he was would only be met with a counterargument. "Idle chatter with Natoli isn't. It's not as if I really need to hear about what scrapes our friends are getting into, or who's passed to the back room at the Compass Rose."

Sejanes didn't counter that particular response. Instead, he provided a different answer. "We won't be using this device all the time. Personally, if there is a way, I don't see any difficulty with you using it to catch up on news with the young lady." He tilted his head at Firesong, An'desha, and Master Levy in unspoken inquiry. All three of them nodded their heads, completely in agreement with him.

"We all know that you would give it up to one of us if we even looked as if we thought we might want to use it, Karal," An'desha told him. "If you could think of a way that you can make it work without an eavesdropper, there's no reason why you can't use it, too. It's not as if you're going to wear the thing out, or use it up."

:Pish. I can Mindspeak. And so can Florian.: Altra wrapped himself gracefully around Karal's legs and looked up into his face. :For that matter, so can Need. We certainly wouldn't embarrass you, would we?:

"The Firecat says that he, Need, or the Companion could hold the connection for Karal," Firesong told all of them.

Karal started to protest, then shut his mouth, realizing that he was wrong on all counts and he might as well be quiet. The others wouldn't need to use the teleson all the time, Altra and Florian already shared most of his secret thoughts so why not these, and there could not be any harm in talking a little to Natoli now and then. His cheeks and the back of his neck grew hot. "As long as you don't mind," he said diffidently.

A snort from Firesong was the only reply to that statement, as a Herald in the teleson watched and listened with polite interest.

"Shall I see if Natoli can be found later?" the far-off Herald asked. "If there's no one at the device, one of the Mindspeakers can project to you until Need, the Firecat or the Companion can come hold the connection."

:I would think that would be quite satisfactory,: Florian told Karal :And I think you ought to tell him that, so that he can arrange for Natoli to come as soon as the mages are finished.:

"Ah, Florian thinks that would be a good idea," Karal said, trying to control his blushes. "Thank you."

He hurried away to find something to do before he got himself into any further embarrassing situations.

The most useful thing he could do was to serve in his proper place as a secretary, and right at this very moment the only person who needed the skills of a secretary was Tarrn. The kyree was down in the workroom, carefully describing everything before Firesong and An'desha took it all to pieces. Lyam had already made scale drawings of each workbench, and now he was making notes while Tarrn dictated. He gratefully gave up his place to Karal, even though the notes would now be in Valdemaran rather than Kaled'a'in. Tarrn didn't miss a beat, changing his Mindspeech from Lyam to Karal as soon as Karal held the notepad and graphite-stick. Karal rubbed his nose to keep from sneezing; they had stirred up quite a bit of dust just in walking about. It was amazing how much dust found its way down here once the hatchway was open.

"Why are you doing this, sir?" Karal asked, when they completed one bench and moved on to another. "I'm just curious."

:A number of reasons,: the kyree replied pleasantly. :Later, if we are trying to put together another device, we will know what pieces were laid out on which bench in what order. We will have a historical record of how the workshop looked if we ever wish to reconstruct it. In this way, if for some reason the contents of the workbenches are ever jumbled together, we will know what tool goes with what project. It is not always intuitively obvious.:

Karal nodded, and made another note on the identity of an object. All of that made perfect sense, but it would never have occurred to him to make such detailed drawings, or to measure the distance an object was from the edge of the bench.

:In a case like this, young scribe, records are always important,: Tarrn said. :The more, the better. Once anything is moved, it is changed forever; perhaps that might not be important, but at the moment, we can't know that. The thing is to make drawings and notes on everything, and several exact copies of the documents we find:

Karal laughed, which seemed to surprise the kyree. "It is a good thing that Urtho was a neat man, or you would be copying foodstains, I think, along with diagrams."

The kyree opened his mouth in a wide grin. :It would not be the first time. I am a mere historian; how am I to know what is a diagram and what was a long ago spill of wine? Perhaps a semicircle of dark brown may not in fact be a ring from the bottom of a mug, but rather a notation of where a teleson lens should go?:

Lyam, now freed to go make more of those exact copies of the documents and notes they had discovered resting on the benches, trotted up the stairs. Karal had been amazed to discover just how much he had in common with the little lizard-creature over the past several days. Lyam was good-natured, patient, uncomplaining, and about the same age as Karal. Like Karal when he had first arrived in Valdemar, Lyam never expected to be anything more than a secretary. Lyam was probably right, but if anything was to happen to Tarrn, it would be Lyam who would apply the things he learned from the historian to complete a given task.

Tarrn, on the other hand, was a little easier to work for than Ulrich had been, largely because what Tarrn wanted and needed were simple things. It was quite possible for Karal to anticipate Tarrn's descriptions just by looking at the bench, although Tarrn often had a more succinct way of describing something than Karal would have come up with. And Tarrn, although he did have an air of quiet authority, was not as intimidating as Ulrich had been. Since he was physically much shorter than Karal, and since he looked like a friendly, shaggy sheep-herding dog, it simply wasn't possible to be intimidated by him, no matter how intelligent and knowledgeable he was. On the other hand, he seemed just a bit wary around Karal, which was not too surprising. The Karsites had a reputation for being extremely insular people, and it would be logical to assume that Karal harbored certain prejudices about fourlegged "people." Tarrn could not have known about the Firecats, of course; very few people outside of Karse even knew such things existed.

The work went slowly but steadily. Tarrn had refused to allow anyone else to carry away anything after Firesong had taken the telesons and their notes. Since there wasn't anything down here that was needed immediately, the others had given in to his demands with good-natured humor. Since then, the meticulous description and drawing had been going on every day. Tarrn permitted people to remove articles from the benches only after he had finished with them, but since it wasn't always obvious when he was done with a bench, so far no one had moved much of anything.

Now they were down to the final bench, and Tarrn seemed very pleased with all that had gone before. This bench was virtually empty except for a few pots of dried-out paint and ink and some brushes and pens. :A scribe's bench, I would guess,: Tarrn speculated. :Look at the height of the stool—how close the inkwell and the pots are to the front of the bench. Urtho never sat here, I'll wager.:

"I doubt that any human did," Karal replied, noting the distances down on the diagram. "This is a backless stool, where all the other seats are tall chairs, and to me, that says that whoever used this bench might have had a tail. The seat tilts slightly forward and has an angled, rounded cut-in toward the back, so, I'd say it was a hertasi that sat here. Probably Urtho's personal scribe or secretary."

:Impressive deduction. I suspect you are correct,: Tarrn replied. :And this is good, since it means Lyam can use this bench for his copying work instead of taking an awkward position on the floor. Well, that is all we need from here. Do run up and tell the others that they can come loot to their hearts' content, would you please? Then if you would, tell Lyam about all of this, and could you help him move his supplies down here?:

Tarrn gave the order carefully, phrased as a very polite request, as if trying to avoid giving insult. Karal would have obeyed him no matter what his attitude had been, but Tarrn probably wasn't taking any chances about hurting his feelings since they all had to live together in a very crowded environment. Lyam was very happy to transfer his work from the floor upstairs to the bench downstairs, and Karal helped him carry his effects. As Karal had thought, the backless stool was at the perfect height for the little lizard.

"This will be good," Lyam said, hissing his sibilants a trifle as he tested the seat. "The stool is perfect." The brushes proved to have failed to withstand the rigors of time; Lyam examined them, pronounced them useless for scribing, and added that nothing had changed much in the art of brushmaking over the centuries. It did give Karal a sense of awe to hold in his hand something that had last been held so long ago, but Lyam was right; the brush could have been made last week except for the fact that the bristles were crumbling.

"I admit to having a special regard for the tools of my trade," Lyam confided. The paint and ink in the pots were useless as well and were consigned to part of another bench to await their fate. Lyam and Karal cleared the top of the scribe's bench and set it up to Lyam's satisfaction. It did not escape Karal's notice that the graphite-sticks, silverpoint sticks, ink, pens, and brushes that Lyam arranged were in nearly the same places as those that had once served that long-dead scribe. Together they swept and cleaned out the corner, so that there would be no dust or dirt to smudge Lyam's new-made copies.

"Ah!" Lyam finally said with satisfaction, stretching his tail out and flexing his stubby hand-talons. "This is good, good light, and a good position! I can be very happy here, I think! Thank you, gesten."

"You're very welcome. Really." Karal paused a moment as it struck him again, in a moment of astonishment, that he was chatting amiably with what could be loosely described as an intelligent dog and its lizard secretary, in the ruins of a magic-blasted tower once ruled by a legend. His musings were interrupted as the lizard secretary held up an ancient brush so that the tarnished ferrule shone dully in the workshop's light. "You know, simply by virtue of where this brush has been found, it could be worth enough in trade to feed my family for a season, but its highest value is in what it makes us think of when we see it."

The kyree looked over at the hertasi with a look of pure pleasure, saying nothing. Lyam held the old brush reverently in both hands and continued. "An artifact of Urtho's own workshop. This is history itself, Karal, as great as any carved monument or temple. History is in the small items as much as the huge ones. When we see an edifice, we see what the ancients wanted us to see, and that is important, but we find out so much more from what was so familiar to them that they thought little of it. And one day, perhaps historians will look back at our clothes, our brushes, and our everyday things, and learn who we were, too!"

:Now you know why I enjoy Lyam's company so much, Karal. He is truly a brother in spirit!: Tarrn's mind-laugh was joyous.

"Oh! I—well. It is easy to be overcome by all of this. It is wonder itself we are immersed in here," Lyam muttered, embarrassed, as he gingerly set aside the brush that had been the focus of his oratory. Karal and Tarrn exchanged knowing looks with each other. Even across time, species, and cultures, the enjoyment of history's "wonder itself" could be shared.

Karal left Lyam bent over yet another copy of the ancient notes; this batch seemed to be the jewelry designs. He would have offered to help, but although his drafting ability was up to making sketches of benchtops and their contents, it was not up to making copies of intricate jewelry patterns.

When he went back upstairs, Tarrn came with him, and immediately engaged himself in conference with Firesong and An'desha over another copied set of notes. Firesong and An'desha were chattering away, with odd breaks in the conversation as they listened to Tarrn's Mindspoken replies. Master Levy had replaced Sejanes at the teleson, and was talking to someone Karal did not recognize, but who wore Trainee Grays instead of Herald Whites. Sejanes, who was standing behind Master Levy, simply watching the conversation, turned at the sound of Karal's footsteps and waved him over.

"I understand from Firesong that you were the Channel for the last effort here," Sejanes said, when Karal was within earshot. The old mage looked at him expectantly, motioning him to follow as he moved away from the teleson and Master Levy's intensely technical conversation.

Karal nodded, wondering what Sejanes wanted. "Not that I have any idea of what a Channel is or does, sir," he added. "I'm afraid I put my faith in what I was told, that Channeling is instinctive." He felt very diffident, telling such an experienced mage that he had no idea of what he had been doing. He hoped that Sejanes wasn't going to be annoyed at him for mucking about with things he didn't understand.

Sejanes pulled on his lower lip thoughtfully. "That's true in a limited sense," he finally replied. "You could perfectly well go on that way; many Channels prefer not to know anything about what causes what they're doing. But there are things that can be learned that would make the experience easier for you, and perhaps less frightening. I could teach you, if you wanted to learn; that's why I asked about it. It could make an important difference in how you feel afterward."

Karal's mouth went dry, and he swallowed as a tremor of fear passed through him. How could he tell this old mage that the very last thing he wanted was to have anything to do with more magic? On the other hand, Sejanes seemed to understand how horrible it had been for him, and if there was a "next time," wouldn't it he better to undertake it fully prepared?" Well, sir, if I had a choice—I've done it twice, and I'd really rather not ever do it again. But if I have to, anything that would make things easier would probably be a good idea. So I guess I ought to take you up on your offer."

The old man chuckled at his lack of enthusiasm and patted his shoulder, as if to reassure him. "There's no shame in that reaction," he told Karal. "I've never Channeled, myself, but I've spoken to those who have and they would probably agree with you on both counts. I can't blame you a bit. Yet if we're going to start, I suspect we ought to do so before you lose your nerve about it. If you have some time to spare, we could begin now."

Karal shrugged with a nonchalance he in no way felt. "I'd rather not put it off and take a chance that I might need to channel power in the next few hours. The way my luck runs, I would need what you might have taught me if I hadn't delayed because—"

He stopped himself before he admitted how frightened he was, but Sejanes saw it anyway. He left his hand on Karal's shoulder a moment longer. "I told you, it is no shame to be afraid, young one," he said in a low, reassuring voice. "Channels hold power as great as any Adept, and sometimes greater; the only difference between them is that Channels don't actually use what they carry. And perhaps that is what makes it harder for them. They are used by the power, rather than using it. What sane creature ever gives up control if he does not have to?"

Karal shuddered; he wouldn't ever want to use all that power. It would be more responsibility than he ever cared to handle under any circumstances, no matter how dire. "That's—that's quite a thought, sir. We—we of the Sunlord give up control to Him as a matter of faith. But we are still afraid sometimes, and He only helps those who try hard to deal with difficulties themselves. And I'm afraid I don't know much about magic at all, if it comes right down to it."

"Good. Then you have little or nothing to unlearn. And, yes, your faith will help you." Sejanes led the way to the chamber they were using for storage, purloined a couple of empty buckets and a pair of folded blankets for cushions to sit on, and took Karal over to a quiet corner. When they had made rough stools out of the upturned buckets and rested the cushions upon them, he began. Karal experienced a disconcerting sense of familiarity and an equally disconcerting sense of disconnection; Sejanes sounded like every good teacher he had ever studied under, but the surroundings were nothing like the classrooms of the Sun-priests where he had done all that study. And if he closed his eyes, Sejanes sounded so much like Ulrich except for the accent that it was uncanny.