Maggie Furey - Aurian

Vannor had set up his headquarters within the city’s intricate sewer system, miseries of tunnels built above the level of the major drains to take the runoff from heavy rains or snowmelt. Cleaner than the actual sewers, they would remain fairly dry and habitable until the thaw. The Magefolk had few supporters in th-s northern part of the city, so food and other necessities were smuggled down to the rebels by allies who lived above. The storm drain beneath Tori’s home was an ideal base. With his bitter hatred of the Magefolk, he could be trusted. In addition, the bakery oven was usually alight; a little of its warmth filtered down through the earth to improve conditions in the freezing drain. Karlek, formerly a siege engineer in the Garrison, had broken a chimney through into the flue of the oven, so that they could have a fire without its smoke being seen above, and of course the baker provided them with a regular supply of bread. Really, thought Tori, Vannor and his men were doing pretty well out of him.

It wasn’t far to go. Tori rounded the corner of the bakery and branched off into the narrow alley that ran behind the high-walled stable yard. He paused for a brief glance all around, but no one ever came into this dead end. Putting down the sack, he bent with a grunt to lift a grating that was set into the cobbles. Taking bread and lantern with him, the baker lowered himself into the drain, reaching up to pull the cover down behind him. He was unaware that he was being watched.

Bern could hardly believe it when his father vanished into the drain. He moved quickly from his hiding place in the shadows and sped across to the grating—just in time to hear Tori’s whisper echoing out of the-btackness beneath it, “It’s me, Tori, Look, I need to talk with Vannor. I think my son is getting suspicious.”

Bern stiffened. Vannor? Vannor had been declared an outlaw! There were rumors all over the city that he was gathering an army against the Magefolk. It took seconds for Bern to reach the obvious conclusion—and the solution to his problems. Tori would die for treason and be out of the way for good—and there’d be a reward, of course! He could build up the business again . . . Bern scrambled to his feet, and ran. Should he go to the Academy? No, the Garrison was closer. They could surprise the rebels and catch Tori in the act. He’d make sure of the reward first, though. The new Commander was a vile-tempered mercenary hired by the Magefolk, the sort who’d sell his grandmother for a profit. Still, if he and his troops secured Bern’s inheritance, who cared? Heedless of the snow, Bern ran faster.

“She’s alive, I tell you!” Miathan’s bony fists hammered with soundless violence on the thick quilt that covered his bed. His face, below the bandage that concealed the ruin of his burnt-out eyes, was twisted with frustrated rage.

Bragar stepped close to Eliseth, to whisper in her ear: “Are you sure she didn’t fry his brain as well as his eyes?”

“I heard that!” Miarhan turned toward the Fire-Mage with unerring accuracy, and lifted his hand. A chill, misty vapor flowed rapidly from his fingers and pooled round Bragar’s feet, coalescing into the form of a glimmering serpent that began to make its coiling way up the Mage’s legs. Bragar bit down on a scream, and tried, too late, to make frantic warding gestures as the cruel head reached the level of his face. The serpent hissed, showing ice-pointed fangs that glittered with venom.

“Miathan, no!” Eliseth cried hastily. “He didn’t mean it!”

“She’s right, Archmage! I—I apologize!” Bragar’s voice was no more than a squeak. The serpent vanished.

Miathan cackled spitefully, a laugh cut off with shocking suddenness in mid-breath. “So what are you going to do about it?”

The Weather-Mage frowned, “About Bragar, Archmage?”

“No, you stupid woman! About Aurian! She’s coming! Coming for me, for all of us! She stalks my dreams—corning after us with death in her eyes . . .”

“Archmage, how can that be?” Bragar protested. “She drowned in Eliseth’s storm, We all felt it—”

“It wasn’t strong enough!” the Archmage snapped. “Not like when that ass Davorshan got himself killed.” Eliseth gasped, and he cackled again. “Oh, I knew all about you and Davorshan from the start. I may be blind, but I don’t miss much around here, let me tell you.”

Eliseth turned on him furiously. “That’s beside the point,” she said flatly. “Aurian is dead. What difference does it make that we barely felt her passing? It’s not surprising, with the distance, and the ocean between us, not to mention all the panic from her attack on you—”

“Eliseth, you’re aJo4>l,” Miathan retorted, “Aurian is alive, and a threat to us all. If we’re to keep what we’ve gained, she must be intercepted.” His spidery hands clawed at the crystal around his neck. “And what about that accursed Anvar? I know he survived your blundering storm!”

“Who the blazes is Anvar?” Bragar interrupted.

Eliseth gave him a blank look. “I’ve no idea.”

“He was Lady Aurian’s servant.” Elewin’s respectful voice came from the corner. The Chief Steward had been there so long, devotedly nursing his master, that they had forgotten his presence. “My Lord Archmage never liked poor Anvar,” he continued, “yet he was as diligent a lad as ever I—”

“Shut up!” Miathan spat. “Yes, he was her servant, against my wishes. I want him dead, do you hear? His head on a spike! His heart ripped from his living body! His corpse hacked to pieces and trampled into the ground! I want—”

“Hush now, Archmage,” Eliseth murmured, handing him a cup of wine. “Bragar and I will deal with Aurian and her servant, I promise.”

“Not Aurian, you imbecile! I want her brought to me alive! I want her—” Miathan licked his lips in an unsavory manner, and lapsed into a crooning reverie.

Bragar opened his mouth to protest, but Eliseth waved him silent. “Don’t worry, Archmage,” she said. “You may leave the matter safely in our hands. Stay with him, Elewin.” Taking Bragar’s hand, she hauled him firmly away from the bed.

Elewin bowed them^ respectfully out of the room. Then: “More wine, Archmage?” He tugged the cup from Miathan’s grasp. Slipping a twist of paper from his pocket, he poured its contents, a greenish powder, into the wine, and handed it back to Miathan. “Is that better, Lord Archmage?”

Miathan drained the cup. “It’s good. I don’t recognize the vintage, but it’s very good . . .” He slumped back against the pillows, snoring gently. Elewin took the cup from his hands and straightened; his subservience vanished. Following the Mages, he crept downstairs to Eliseth’s door. Setting an ear to the panels, the Steward composed himself to listen.

Eliseth’s white-painted chamber was spacious and spartan, its furnishings elegant but spare and uncomfortable. Bragar squirmed uneasily on a hard wooden chair, wishing that she wouldn’t insist on presenting such a chilly front to the world. He knew that the bedroom behind those doors at the far end of the room was a den of luxury; a fur-carpeted, silk-hung, perfumed temple dedicated to sensuality and lust. The thought reminded him unpleasantly that since Eliseth had started taking an interest in Davorshan, he, Bragar, had been pointedly denied access to that inner sanctum. How glad he had been when that slimy youth had died!

“Wine?” Eliseth took goblets from a cabinet in the corner.

“Have you nothing stronger?”

The Magewoman raised her eyes to the ceiling. “You’re drinking too much, Bragar,” she snapped. “How can I depend on you if your brains are permanently pickled?”

“Shut up and give me a drink!” Bragar snarled. You wait, he thought. Someday I’ll make you pay for treating me like this. And when I’m done, you’ll be begging for mercy—or begging for more! The thought, along with the glass of spirits that she grudgingly handed him, was some comfort.