Dangerous Waters (8 page)

Jilseth might as well have said so. Ely looked as affronted as if she had spoken aloud. ‘The Council will never advance a necromancer as Stone Mistress.’

Jilseth laughed. ‘Is that what you think I’m seeking? Truly, my only interest is honing my magecraft.’ She shifted in her seat to look straight at Ely. ‘Why don’t you spend more time with Flood Mistress Troanna? Master Kalion is the finest Hearth Master we could have but with your own affinity in direct opposition to his, he can only guide your studies so far.’

Ely’s lusciously painted lips thinned. ‘You look to your own wizardry and I will look to mine.’

‘As you wish.’ Jilseth shrugged and ate another mouthful of mutton.

Ely bit into one of her wafer cakes. Jilseth drank some more wine and finished eating her meal. She was soon rewarded. Ely could no more sit in silence than a brook could flow without chattering.

‘You’ve been in Lescar a great deal this past half year, haven’t you?’

‘On the Archmage’s business.’ Jilseth raised a hand to summon one of Master Noak’s daughters. ‘A white syllabub, please.’

‘The Duke of Marlier has abdicated,’ Ely observed. ‘With the other dukes dead or fled, Master Kalion says Lescar is entirely ungoverned.’

‘Lescar is no longer governed by dukes,’ Jilseth corrected her. ‘Since those six noble houses have always paid more heed to their squabbles and rivalries than the welfare of the common folk, the ordinary Lescari consider this a considerable improvement.’

‘Until anarchy overwhelms them.’ Ely was clearly echoing Kalion. ‘Until the Emperor of Tormalin sends in his legions to secure peace along his border or Caladhria’s merchants demand the same of their barons and the parliament.’

Jilseth shook her head. ‘I see no reason to fear anarchy. Those ordinary Lescari raised militias to rid themselves of their tiresome dukes and now their guildsmen and priests and noble scholars are spending this very festival debating how to rule themselves.’

Ely dismissed that with a scornful gesture. ‘That will end in chaos unless wiser counsel guides them. Master Kalion is sure of it.’

‘Master Kalion is offering himself as that wise counsellor?’ That seemed entirely likely. Jilseth could see the Hearth Master gesturing emphatically at Planir. She frowned. ‘But what if Hadrumal’s very involvement prompts Tadriol the Provident to send Imperial legions across the river, or Caladhria’s parliament sends armed baronial envoys to safeguard their interests for fear of wizardly interference? Kalion could end up enmeshed in far more than the Lescari settlement.’

Ely smiled, complacent. ‘The Hearth Master is equal to any challenge. He has considerable influence with the Caladhrian parliament and many friends among Tormalin’s noble houses. He has spent many seasons persuading the Empire’s great princes that wizards would make valuable advisors and trustworthy partners in their trading endeavours, rather seeing us as mere hirelings to be summoned when a harbour needs dredging or heath fires threaten their timber.’

Jilseth heard her echoing Kalion’s words again. She decided to remind Ely of Planir’s oft-stated position. ‘The Archmage has always been in favour of magecraft offering every possible assistance to the mainlanders, from humblest to highest. That has no bearing on Trydek’s decree that mainland governance is none of Hadrumal’s concern.’

‘Is that so?’ Ely’s sarcasm was biting. ‘Then why have you been travelling the length and breadth of Lescar’s dukedoms, and visiting Tormalin, Caladhria and Relshaz besides? If the Archmage truly has no interest in influencing any settlement in Lescar?’

Belatedly Jilseth remembered Ely’s superlative scrying skills. Planir often spoke of her potential, if she would only bring that same talent to bear on the magics born of other elements.

She spread innocent hands. ‘We cannot ignore mainland affairs. The Hearth Master is quite correct, just as Planir honours the Council’s wishes by not involving Hadrumal directly. Who better to discover exactly what transpired on a battlefield than a necromancer?’

Jilseth smiled sweetly as Ely recoiled from the notion. Let that put paid to her questions.

Instead the magewoman surprised her with another abrupt change of subject. ‘There are rumours of magic other than wizardry influencing Lescar’s wars.’ Ely sipped her pale wine.

‘Artifice.’ Jilseth wondered where this turn of their conversation might lead.

‘Is it true?’ Ely asked with sudden anger. ‘These ragtag rebels were using some purloined lore to send messages to one another, as easily as you and I sit talking here? While the dukes were left to make do with courier doves and despatch riders?’

Jilseth’s glass of syllabub arrived. She was glad of the interruption giving her time to consider her reply. Whatever she said to Ely would go straight to Master Kalion’s ear and then into the gossip swirling around Hadrumal.

‘Artifice, that’s to say, aetheric magic, is hardly purloined lore,’ she said carefully. ‘This magic of the mind was well understood in the Old Tormalin Empire and our own archivists have been helping those mainland scholars who are trying to piece it back together.’

Since, as Jilseth had heard Planir say more than once, as long as Hadrumal was helping the curious academics in the universities of Vanam and Col, then the wizards would know exactly how studies of this entirely separate magic progressed. Of late, he was pleased to say, the scholars’ understanding of the ways in which Artifice might enable one adept to speak to another’s mind or to see or hear through another’s eyes was advancing imperfectly and very slowly.

The more advanced enchantments continued to elude them; where aetheric magic could supposedly influence the physical world through the concentration of thought achieved through the recitation of arcane rhymes. If only they could fathom the underlying principles which the ancient adepts had followed when devising those resonant phrases, the scholars lamented.

‘Our fellow mages in Suthyfer are also working with aetheric adepts,’ Jilseth pointed out, ‘comparing and contrasting their respective magics.’

‘Entirely typical of those ingrates and malcontents, sharing our secrets with would-be Artificers who owe our traditions no allegiance.’ Ely looked through the open door at the Element Master and Archmage still deep in conversation. ‘That’s hardly the worst of it. The Hearth Master says that the Emperor of Tormalin has his lackeys searching every noble house’s archive for any hint of such lore. He talks of granting a new university its charter to draw every scrap of such learning together. We cannot ignore such an affront to Hadrumal’s standing!’

She seemed genuinely offended, not merely reflecting the Hearth Master’s ire.

‘As I understand it, Emperor Tadriol has talked of founding this new university for the last five years,’ Jilseth observed. ‘No stone’s yet been set atop another. Can you think of a city which would welcome a congress of Aetheric adepts, any more than their forefathers welcomed Archmage Trydek when he sought a refuge for the mageborn?’

‘That could change in a heartbeat,’ Ely snapped, ‘when these so-called adepts of Artifice woo the mainland’s lords and princes with offers of magical assistance that owes no allegiance to the Archmage and is not subject to his authority. Who knows what other underhand means they might use? Sending suggestions into a sleeper’s dreams or strengthening a mere inclination into absolute conviction. You said yourself this is a magic of the mind.’

Jilseth was beginning to think she’d spent too much time away from Hadrumal of late. Was this fear and suspicion of Artifice gaining a foothold on the island? She had only thought it an oddity dredged up by the Lescari rebels. Any real understanding of aetheric magic had been lost in the collapse of the Old Tormalin Empire. Without its arcane enchantments, those noble houses had never been able to regain their dominion over Lescar, Caladhria and Dalasor. Nor would they, now that wizardry had arisen to its present eminence, untrammelled by the fealty which the Artificers had sworn to their princes.

‘You don’t think that the longer we hold ourselves aloof, the more influence these adepts of Artifice will gain?’ Ely demanded. ‘Don’t forget, it’s a magic that anyone can learn.’ Her lip curled with graceful contempt. ‘Anyone but the mageborn, that is.’

Jilseth knew that was the aspect of Artifice that most intrigued Planir; his principle reason for sanctioning Suthyfer’s co-operation with the few truly proficient adepts, which had the added benefit of keeping them safely adrift in the far eastern ocean.

Why was this alternate magic so inimical to elemental affinity? All but the feeblest mageborn could eventually learn some skill, even with the element antagonistic to their own; fire opposed to water, air challenging earth. Not even the most skilled and erudite wizard had yet mastered a single aetheric enchantment of the most elementary kind.

Once again, she chose her words with care. ‘As I understand it, Aetheric magic requires years of study to master. Scholars prepared to devote themselves to it remain few and far between. Those that have done so encounter unforeseen problems at every turn. These would-be adepts among Lescar’s rebels found establishing a link with another’s mind is far easier than cutting that tie. Their dreams were invaded by each other’s nightmares.’

Ely was startled. ‘Do these scholars tell their would-be adepts so?’

‘I believe so.’ Jilseth decided not to tell her that Planir had made very sure that this unsettling knowledge reached the mentors and students of Vanam’s university and Col’s. It was fortunate that so many scholars travelled to Hadrumal to gain wizardry’s insights into their alchemical or botanical studies.

‘That’s all very well but—’ Ely broke off and slid from her stool in a flurry of muted green silk.

Planir and Kalion emerged from the rear parlour. Every head in the wine shop turned, discreetly eager to read the Archmage’s mood, to catch any hint of what the Hearth Master might have said.

‘Fair festival, Madam Jilseth, and good day to you.’ Kalion swept past, barely inclining his head to her.

‘You can be on your way, Ely.’ Planir looked unsmilingly at the slender woman. ‘Why not join the dancing in the Seaward Hall tonight? I’m sure that Flood Mistress Troanna would be agreeably surprised to see you.’

‘Archmage.’ Ely bowed deep to hide the unbecoming blush staining her fine cheekbones and hurried after Kalion.

Jilseth looked warily at Planir. ‘Archmage?’

He frowned at her, not crossly but as if he had no idea why she was there. What had Kalion being saying to him?

He smiled suddenly. ‘Is the mutton good today? I’ll try it for myself, but don’t let me keep you now you’ve eaten. Go and enjoy the festival. Perhaps I’ll see you at the Terrene Hall tonight.’

‘I look forward to it, Archmage.’ With every eye in the wine shop on her, Jilseth wasn’t going to betray any discomfiture at this polite but unmistakeable dismissal.

Leaving the wine shop, she made her way through the crowded side alleys towards her own room in the Terrene Hall’s rearmost ivy-clad courtyard.

She could bide her time until the evening and tell Planir what Ely had said. It looked as though the Archmage was right. Hadrumal had far more immediate concerns than Minelas and his crimes. As Planir had told her, the renegade’s scheming had come to nothing and besides, no one beyond Hadrumal knew the truth of it.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Black Turtle Isle, in the domain of Nahik Jarir

Spring Equinox, Third Day, Morning

C
ORRAIN LOOKED UP
at the sky, through the ragged leaves of the ugly tree he was leaning against. Back home, this was the height of the spring festival. There’d be feasting and drinking and relishing the punishments meted out in Raeponin’s name.

Petty thieves would be pilloried outside the manor’s gatehouse, to be pelted with garbage by their wrathful victims. The worst offenders would be trying to excuse their misdeeds at the baronial court held in the manor’s great hall. Lord Halferan was a compassionate lord, inclined to justice tempered with mercy and restitution wherever possible. Nevertheless, every year or so, there’d be a body hanging from the baron’s gibbet before the day was out.