Vincalis the Agitator (33 page)

Three years. Three sweet springs, oppressive summers, glorious autumns, bitter winters that rolled across Oel Artis, changing
lives, ending lives, and adding new ones, as seasons do. As time does.

In three years, Wraith made
Greyvmian the Ponderer
the cornerstone of a growing repertoire of plays that touched peoples’ hearts and made them think long after they finished
laughing. Or crying. He eluded any connection between him and Vincalis, other than the obvious one of the plays that showed
up at his doorstep at regular intervals, neatly bound in silk. In three years, he created an unassailable alibi—a carefully
tended and bought stolti family in Ynjarval who had managed its finances poorly and was more than willing, for regular infusions
of cash, to provide proof and testament that they had known the boy Gellas as a child and had sent him off after his parents
died so tragically. In three years he wrote more than twenty plays, built two new playhouses to add to his first one, hired
managers and actors, accountants and lawyers, and made the names Vincalis—and, to a lesser extent, Gellas Tomersin—as well
known as any Dragon’s, and better loved. In three years, he owned a fine house in a fine neighborhood in the Belows, and entertained
in it often.

In three years, he never replaced Velyn, nor did he try. His heart remained broken and his soul scarred, and he kept chaste
as any fanatical follower of Toth.

He and Solander grew further apart with the passing of each day. Solander buried himself in magic studies, got his position
in Research, got his own workroom, won grants and accolades for his early work in
rewhah
-less magic, and began to be suggested as a candidate for the Council.

Jess took her musicians around Oel Artis, and then around the Empire. She and Jyn parlayed their initial investment into a
massive entertainment concern, and created an interest in the live arts that spread not just through the stolti class, but
through all the classes. Both women became very rich. Jyn claimed her share of profits, sold her portion of the business to
Jess, and took vows with a charming man she’d met while booking tours in Arim. Jess took lovers, but did not keep them long.
She kept looking for something, but not finding it. In all the world, her only constant companion was her assistant. She found
this a sad statement on the emptiness of her life, but accepted it nonetheless.

And Velyn. Ah, Velyn. Her mistakes compounded, but Luercas was her first and greatest mistake. She was his revenge against
Wraith—and with every new success that Wraith had, Velyn got another opportunity to suffer.

Luercas in his stolen body rose in influence among the Dragons, and his vowmate lived in fear and misery. They had no children,
not because she never became pregnant, but because each time she did he claimed the child was not his—even on those occasions
when he knew it was. Each time she came to him with her news, he cast a spell to determine the legitimacy of the child, and
each time worked the spell so that it would “prove” her unfaithfulness. Each time he demanded, by the articles of the contract,
that she terminate the pregnancy. When finally she knew that the baby could be none but his, and his test still lied to her,
she realized that he had found a way to keep her forever in breach of her contract, and forever unable to dissolve their vows
without ruining her family financially. As long as he could manipulate the paternity tests, she could not hope to leave him
on favorable terms.

Velyn was trapped. And when she realized it, Luercas’s treatment of her grew just that much worse.

Three short years, and the seasons passed oblivious to the lives of those who lived through them. For every change that happened
in view of everyone, another change occurred beneath the surface, hidden in the darkness. These were the dangerous changes,
changes that crept toward chaos and evil and pain and grief. They began to surface with a single crack in the veneer of one
lovely day.

Vincalis the Agitator

All men die, Antram. All men age and wither and creep at last into their dark graves, and from thence into the flames of Hell
or cold oblivion, as their theology dictates. But to only a few men do the gods give a task, a burden, a road to greatness
that can, if they take it, raise them above the thick clouds of complacency that blind most eyes and plug most ears. To only
a few men do the gods give true pain, which removes the bloated cushion of softness and brings sharp awareness of the preciousness
of life; which raises up heroes and strips cowards naked before the world. You, Antram, will do great things. You will see,
you will feel, you will breathe and touch and revel in each moment you are given. And you will suffer great pain. And someday,
whether soon or late, you will die.

But all men die, Antram. Few ever live.

F
ROM
O
N
A
F
AR
H
ILL
V
INCALIS THE
A
GITATOR

D
ark, and silence, and city guards moved through another out-lander district of Oel Artis. But no one answered the doors upon
which they knocked, and when those guards kicked in doors and searched houses, they found no one at home—though signs in the
homes showed that people had been there, sometimes so recently that food sat hot on tables—so recently that chairs or beds
were still warm to the touch. The guards should have come away with a full complement of fodder for the Warrens from the district
they had been sent to harvest—but they left empty-handed.

Lights flashed from rooftops when they passed, and aircars dropped out of the sky and silently deposited people back in their
homes—to pack, for they could not hope to survive in their old homes in their old districts once the guards had come hunting
them. They had friends now, though, and they would find other places to live—would move through a chain of hands, get new
names and new papers, find new homes and new jobs. Many of them, knowing that they and their children owed their lives to
the nameless people who dropped out of the sky to pull them away from disaster, joined the underground. These rebels knew
only one name for certain among those with whom they fought, but that one name gave them hope.

Vincalis.

On such a morning, with the breeze fresh and sharp and scented by the sea, with the sunlight warm on his uplifted face in
wondrous contrast to the frost-brushed wind, with the sounds of the city all around him shaped and transformed by a bell-like
resonance of the air, Wraith wanted nothing more than to walk away from Oel Artis to his home in the countryside, to revel
in the day. Perhaps he could do that tomorrow. Today—today he would have a full schedule.

He smiled slightly at the facade of the West Beach Experimental Playhouse, the newest of his creations. This building he’d
designed from the ground up; no more refurbished factories, no more cutting corners. He had three major plays going on in
the city at any time, and fifteen troupes of traveling players on extended tours throughout the rest of the Empire. Managers
took care of most of the day-to-day work, so that he was free to write in secret the plays that kept the machine in motion.
But some things only he could handle.

His assistant greeted him as he stepped through the private side door, her usual smile oddly missing.

“You’ve received invitations to several First Hallows parties, and the Benedictan envoy from Kirth has asked to meet with
you to discuss the touring of one troupe of players; the Kirthans are most especially interested in the comedies, but understand
that the tragedies usually come as part of the repertoire; they have made
quite
a substantial offer. Your bookkeepers have finished the reports for Pombolen, Falzan, and Sheffen, and request some of your
time to go over the profits and losses— they seemed quite pleased, so I’m assuming the news is good. You have a meeting with
potential investors in the Round Hall at naught-and-half by Work. And last but certainly not least, a woman is sitting behind
your desk crying. She says she knows you and is quite sure you’ll remember her. I suggest you do not go into the room alone—you’ll
want at least one reliable witness present, and perhaps several.”

Wraith, who had been walking up the stairs to his top-floor office, stopped at that last comment and said, “A witness? Why?
Has she accused me of something?”

“No. But you’ll want people who are able and willing to testify that she was in that condition when you walked into the room,
and not just when she walked out of it.”

“Condition?” Wraith had hired Loour because she was dependable, ungodly efficient, and trustworthy. He wouldn’t second-guess
something she told him in seriousness. He said, “You’ll come in with me. Also Dan and Murin. They’re both in the finance room.
Go get them.”

Loour said, “You need to do that. I’ll stay here and make sure she doesn’t leave—but I don’t want you to be alone with her
for a minute. There is something … something terribly
wrong
about her.”

“We could just have her removed.”

“She’s stolti.
High
stolti. You aren’t going to be able to send her anywhere.”

Wraith nodded, went to the finance room, and returned with his witnesses. He hoped that the woman would be a stranger; he
feared that she would not.

The poor, battered creature curled in the corner shocked him, though. This was no one he had ever seen before. Half starved,
bruised, cut, with dried and crusted blood caked on her arms and legs, she lifted a swollen face to look at him, and stared
at him out of the single eye that would open. She had glossy copper hair, beautifully cut, perfectly groomed, and the finest
of clothes; on her, they were a travesty, a horror.

He stared at her for a long moment, trying to see past unimaginable damage to the woman she must once have been, and as he
did, she pushed to her feet and stood there, weaving and shaking. And he recognized her necklace.

Gods in hell, he recognized her by her necklace, and if she had not been wearing it, he would never have known her at all.
And he had loved her for years, and some part of him loved her still.

“Velyn?” he whispered.

She tried to smile—her cracked lips made the expression dreadful. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Gods above, Velyn—I can’t pretend to polite conversation while you stand there looking like death. What happened to you?
Who did this to you?”

“My vow-lock was … not the best decision I ever made,” she whispered. She laughed just a little.

Wraith clenched his fists. “Luercas did this?”

“Luercas has been doing this since we got together. It has always been bad. But last night he tried to kill me. I … I didn’t
really have anyplace else to go. I need help.”

And what was he supposed to say to that? That she hadn’t wanted him all those years earlier? That she had chosen the life
she ended up with? She hadn’t chosen this—to be beaten and starved and … How in the names of every deity had Luercas been
able to do this to her without anyone knowing? Without anyone stepping in and helping her?

He took a deep breath and looked to his associates. Loour had gone to Velyn’s side, had offered her a light blanket to wrap
around herself, had brought her a good hot mug of tea. Dan and Murin were consulting over against the west wall, their backs
to Wraith and Velyn, their bodies stiff and tight and radiating shock and fury. Wraith understood. Looking at Velyn, he wanted
to go out the door right then, find Luercas, and murder him.

“I don’t know how to help you,” he said softly. “But I’ll find a way, Velyn. I’ll find someone for you to stay with while
I talk to my legal people to see if they can offer any suggestions on how to proceed.” He lost the cool, professional demeanor
he’d been fighting to maintain and said, “How could he do this to you? How could you stay and
let
him?”