Steel And Flame (Book 1) (56 page)

“That’s all for a month’s work?  How did you get the
chief mage position around here?”

“Be silent, whelp!  I told you scrying is not my
specialty!  Your father headed north and crossed the borders into the
Kello-beii desert six years ago.”

“The Kello-beii?  Why?  Where did he go then?”

“I can’t see that yet.  The problem is he never used
the sword, only carried it.  It must have been battle loot; equipment he’d
intended to keep as a spare or pawn for a few coins.  Also, he didn’t take the
sword with him on this trip so I’m having to match his residual signature
against the trail he left separately instead of merely tracking the movements
of the sword.  And you’ve actually used it, and for far longer than he ever
carried it, so the predominate signature on the thing is yours, not your
father’s.”

“Then what next?  At least I know he passed out of the
kingdom.”

“Unless you have anything else of his, there are few
options.  The sword has told me everything I think it ever will in regards to
Rail.”

“Few options.  The same old story all over again,”
Marik muttered with sharp bitterness.

“I concentrate on other areas of magecraft, but I
collect books and writings by other mages whenever I can.  They are very hard
to come by.  I have two books listing a few scrying methods I’ve never used. 
If you intend to specialize in scrying, then you will learn them yourself.  One
is a method for finding a specific person by using either hair or blood from
them or their direct family.  Ancestors or descendants, as long as they’re from
a direct bloodline.  I feel this will be your best shot.”

Marik perked up slightly.  “Using my hair?”

“Blood draws a purer signature, but perhaps the hair
will be enough as you’re his son.”

“Well, I don’t have anything else left from my old
life besides the sword, so I guess that’ll have to do.”

“Fine.  Now go find Caresse and tell her to teach you
the next shields.  She already knows which ones I mean.  If you intend to march
out with your squad in a few eightdays, you’d better master them quickly and
learn a basic attack.  They can be difficult to use, so they’ll take
you
a substantial block of time.”  He rose to walk for the door again.  Intending
to make his important exit after all, he turned to declare, “Don’t test my
sincerity on this!  I won’t release you until you master all of them!”

He decamped and Marik muttered under his breath, “Old
showoff.”  Then he left to search out Caresse.

A commotion erupted on the first official marching day
of the new fighting season, though not the one most in the Ninth Unit had
anticipated.  Tollaf’s mandate that Marik would remain behind in Kingshome to
continue his development during the contracts had become a contest of wills no
one wanted to involve themselves in, including the officers, who dismissed it
as a matter to be settled between apprentice and master.

Strangely, the orders for the band were closely
guarded this year.  Only a handful of squads knew what to expect in the coming
months, the Ninth among the few who did.  The Ninth would break into halves for
the first few eightdays this fighting season.  Units One and Two were returning
to Baron Dornory’s lands to make a show of force to the recalcitrant Fielo,
while Three and Four would head north, though far shy of the distance the
previous contract had brought them.  They would cooperate with the authorities
in the port town of Rawlings to track down a burglary ring that continually
cleaned out warehouses off the waterfront.  Local law enforcement had proven
unreliable in the matter, and the merchants pooled their funds to raise the
contract fee.

Marik insisted that his mage skills were progressing
nicely and would be damned before remaining at the beck and call of a senile
old fool for the next year.  Tollaf tried to pull Torrance into the argument to
enforce his authority, except the band commander suddenly seemed reluctant to
take sides.  It made little sense to Marik, who had expected him to rally with
the old mage, but he would not look this gift horse in the mouth.  Instead he
rode the horse given to him, quarreling with the old man continuously until the
first marching day.

The Ninth was due to leave the next day.  Most unit
members were eagerly anticipating a blowout between the two.  Naturally Kerwin
ran as many betting pools as he could manage by himself and everyone rooted for
their boy, even if the odds favored the cranky old Tower resident.

The goodwill of the men in the Ninth only added to
Marik’s determination.  He had feared that his new abilities would create a
wedge between himself and his friends.  That proved groundless with the
mercenaries of equal or greater seniority, and yet he could see caution in the
new squad members’ eyes.  After pointed questions, Dietrik, Landon and Hayden
finally admitted the new recruits were wary of him.

“But do you truly care, mate?  Once they’ve been on
the road with you awhile, they’ll loosen up as they come to know you.”

“If they live that long.  What about you, Hayden?”

“I’ve already told you three hundred times, damn it! 
When are you going to finally believe me?”

“About the new fish?”

“Naw!  I mean about you!  You ain’t no magiker or
trickster or whatever you want to call it.  Not at heart, at any rate.  You’re
a frontline fighter.  Always will be no matter what fancy new tricks you
learn.”

“Thank you.  I hope you’re right.”

“But I still won’t dice with you no more.”

“Thanks.”  This repetition came out considerably
sourer.

His survival also fostered goodwill among his lesser
known shieldmates.  Several disagreed with the majority but they were, by and
large, from remote corners or from outside Galemar entirely.

Superstition was a strange force, ever changing from
region to region, based on vagueness.  If ever lived a breed of man as riddled
with it as sailors, they were mercenaries.   Never mind the hoodoo surrounding
him, never mind the tougher skin and scars.  Marik had felt the touch of
Death’s bony hand, and either the Goddess Fate, the warrior’s god Ercsilon or
Marik’s own raw fighter’s spirit had turned it away.  As such, he was a good
man to be near when the fighting grew thick and the risks ran wild.  Perhaps
his luck would extend beyond his own skin.

The dissenters believed a man unlucky enough to draw
the disaster Marik had was a bad one to be near in a similar situation, lest it
happen anew.  Kerwin remarked offhandedly that they all bet on old Tollaf.

So with heightened anticipation, the Ninth greeted the
first marching day.  The Seventh and the Twelfth marched a candlemark after
dawn.  Two marks later most in the Ninth lingered around their dining area. 
Few had found business elsewhere, unlike a normal morning.

Marik and his friends ruled the table nearest the
kitchen window enjoying fresh bread still warm from the ovens.  He knew
everyone waited because he still lingered, and they hoped Tollaf would storm in
to pick another fight in full view of the dining area.  Well, let him.  The old
man did not command the support he had expected from Torrance, and he also
could not make the case that Marik remained unable to perform the requisite
workings.

He spared a moment to wonder why Torrance suddenly
seemed uninterested in him, then laid the problem aside when shouts were heard
from outside.  Little enough noise had filled the hall this morning.  Everyone
went silent in anticipation at the sudden ruckus.

Here we go,
could be clearly felt in the air of the vast room. 
Glad I waited around
after all.  This should be good for a laugh and maybe up the ante a little on
the betting odds.

The commotion arrived.  It was not what they had
expected.

*        *        *        *        *

From his third floor office, Commander Torrance
watched the dustup between the lieutenants of the Seventh and Twelfth Squads
and the king’s messenger.  He liked the view the window afforded him of men
practicing on the Marching Grounds or the main gate admitting people to his
tiny kingdom.  Today it showed his two lieutenants nearly coming to blows with
the messenger’s guard escort while they demanded answers.  Or tried to at any
rate, the messenger having entered the building moments before, leaving the
grunts behind to face his irate officers.  The grunts probably possessed none
of the answers his men sought, for they ignored both the lieutenants and the
two full squads who were shouting at them.

Torrance closed the shutters, leaving the view, along
with most of the noise, outside the room.  He took a moment to arrange his
desktop.  Being an oversized dark mahogany desk with gilt, carving and an inlaid
top, it hardly needed embellishments to make it impressive.  It had rested in
this same spot, facing the door with its back to the window, since the building
had been constructed.  The desk had served many a Crimson Kings commander.

His office was not quite large, but still roomy enough
to qualify as a library in a minor lord’s holding.  It looked somewhat like
one, too.  Walls paneled in the same dark wood as the desk were lined with
shelves containing all manner of paperwork.  The east wall held one shelf
running the entire room length, containing only books lined spine to spine. 
There must have been nearly seventy there, if he ever bothered to count them. 
Shelves below and above the books overflowed with scrolls, sheaves of paper
covered with writings and dozens of large, rolled-up maps.  Torrance’s office
gave the impression of a scribe’s mind brought to life, filled with stacks and
piles threatening to tip over on their neighbors.

Despite the seeming chaos, he could find every paper
he needed at a moment’s notice.  Janus had been after him for ages to allow his
staff to sort these documents and store them with the rest of the Kings’
records.  Torrance would never allow it.  Every single scrap in his office
contained valuable information he needed to run the Kings efficiently.  Notes
on disputes between several dozen Galemaran lords, minor and major alike as
well as many in the bordering kingdoms, were available on the instant.  The
troubles in the major towns and cities were cataloged until he knew more about
their problems than many of their citizens.  Craftsmen of skill and quality
were known to him in all the corners of Galemar.  Their files could be in his
hands in eye blinks, helping him plan the larger campaigns he would send his
men into.

Information was the name of the commanding game, and
he kept his ear very close to the ground indeed.  The Kings commanded the
highest fees of all the mercenary bands in Galemar.  They funneled a large
portion of that gold into the Kings’ information gathering network.  Not that
Torrance had placed spies inside any noble’s inner circles, but dropping a
steady line of coin into a struggling local butcher’s hands or a failing mill’s
operator easily paid for itself in the long run.  Torrance had been greatly amused
when the former commander prepared to turn the reins of leadership over to
him.  Many informants feeding the Kings information were the sons and daughters
of previous informants, who in turn had been the children of still more. 
Nosing out a rumor here or there became a profitable family enterprise, at
least as far as the Kings were concerned.

This network of folk friendly to the Kings and their
coin kept Torrance informed of the goings-on in the kingdom at large.  So
prepared, he had expected this visit from the king’s messenger.  In fact, he
had expected it some time ago.  He’d had the necessary papers on his desk for
the past two eightdays, waiting for the man’s arrival.

Deciding he would be cordial after all, Torrance rose
to retrieve a decanter of spiced brandy from the cabinet against the west
wall.  This wall was less cluttered than the eastern one, yet still sported
shelves as well as a small fireplace with three overstuffed chairs arranged
around it.  Above the fireplace hung a large map showing Galemar with its
current land distributions and borders marked clearly.

Torrance heard his official secretary speak in the
outer office, meaning the messenger had arrived.  Seeing no point in keeping
him waiting, despite the clear message it would send regarding Torrance’s
feelings about those who came to
his
home to tell him
his
business, he returned to his seat behind his desk, enjoying the feel of the
imported carpets on his bare feet.  Although he always dressed in a
quasi-military uniform to remind his men both of his position and the fact they
were better than a rugged collection of cutthroats, he never wore his boots in
his office.  Why spend the funds on expensive floor covers and then tromp them
beneath your soles, never enjoying their texture?

He spent nearly a full heartbeat considering whether
to put his boots on for this meeting, decided he did not need to be that
deferential to the intruder, then relaxed in his leather chair, sinking as his
weight settled into the thick padding.

Torrance arranged the decanter and four glasses at the
desk side, away from the many paper piles, when his secretary knocked on the
door.

“Yes?”

Wainright cracked open the door and slid through
sideways, allowing no view into the room from outside.  He stood lightly, avoiding
the rigid postures so loved by the personnel in the army.  Torrance always
approved of his easy, competent grace.  “A messenger representing King Raymond
Cerella wishes a conference with you.”

“Right now, I gather.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then show him in.  Can’t keep the king’s man waiting,
I suppose.  And summon Janus and Tollaf immediately.  Tell them whatever
they’re doing, it can wait.  Send them in immediately when they arrive.”

Wainright nodded before opening the door further.  He
spoke to the man waiting, stood aside as the messenger entered and shut the
door behind him.

This man did stand rigidly, and at full attention,
which made Torrance wonder if he cared little for dealing with a merc, had
himself been in the king’s army, or if he acted this way with everyone he met
in his official capacity.  His hand twitched as if he stifled the urge to
salute.

He bore the look of a man long on the road, or at
minimum one who had traveled a hard journey thus far.  His riding leathers and
tunic were overlaid by a tabard displaying the king’s device.  All looked in
need of a thorough cleaning.  Accustomed to the road dust and wear of a
season-long campaign, Torrance accepted the appearance, but further wondered if
the man would have taken the time to freshen up if he had been meeting the
nobles or a lesser lord.

“Commander Torrance?”

“That would be me, yes.”

“I am Fredrick Irons.  I apologize.  I do not know
your family name.”

“It’s not important, and I don’t make an issue of it
at any rate.  You are here on the king’s business.”  The last came out as a
statement of fact.

“Of course.  I have missives and orders for you.”

“Well, ‘orders’ is a rather strong word, Fredrick.” 
Torrance’s tone hardened.

Fredrick’s expression tightened at the familiar use of
his name.  “I assume you are familiar with the articles in the agreement
between the Crimson Kings and the Kingdom of Galemar.  Failure to adhere to the
agreement will constitute a breech of that agreement, and a direct challenge to
the sovereignty of the king.”

“The agreement stands,” Torrance softly assured.  “The
articles I assume you refer to state the band will heed a call to muster by the
king as any of his lords must.  In return, we are not pestered by the agents of
the king as long as we regulate our numbers.  Are you saying such a call to
muster has been issued?”