Maggie Furey - Aurian

“What?” Forral flung back his chair and leapt to his feet. “Stay here,” he told Aurian, and was gone.

For a moment, the Mage’s childhood habit of obedience to the swordsman held firm. Then her brows knotted, and her jaw began to clench. Stay here, indeed, as though she were still a child? Sit and drink tailin, while he went into danger? “Some chance!” Aurian muttered. Rising swiftly, she hurried after Forral.

The mess hall of the Nexis Garrison tended to be busy during the hour of the midday meal. The noise was usually close to deafening, as the cheerful clatter of knife on plate and the din of competing talk and ribald jests echoed round the bare walls of whitewashed stone. Today, nothing could be heard but a desultory murmur of conversation and the buzz of the fat black flies that clustered round the discarded food on the tables. Because of the drought, the imminent change of Commander, and the looming threat of civil unrest, morale at the Garrison was at its lowest ebb.

Maya looked at the rows of empty tables and benches, and frowned. She was not surprised that no one was eating. Rations were short because of the drought, and food went rancid quickly in this heat. Vegetables and fruit were in short supply. They went mostly to the well-off, who could afford the inflated cost; to inns like the Fleet Deer that catered to the rich; or—the small, dark-haired warrior scowled—to the blasted Magefolk! Maya clenched her fists beneath the table. What had happened to justice? Everywhere else in Nexis, including the Garrison, folk were mainly living on the stringy, fly-blown carcasses of the beasts that were dying like flies in the scorched countryside.

“What a bloody awful life!” Maya muttered, hardly sure whether she was speaking to herself.’br to Hargorn.

The aging warrior, well aware of what lay behind her gloom, gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze. “Don’t take it to heart, lovey. It’s no reflection on your abilities, or the fact that you’re a woman, that the Archmage won’t have you on the Council of Three. In fact, to the troopers, it’s a compliment. At least it proves that you aren’t in the old bastard’s pocket. And Second-in-Command to that great a swordsman isn’t such a bad promotion, is it?”

Maya grimaced. “It is if you’d planned to be Commander! Besides, Forral may be the world’s greatest swordsman, but we all know he got the post because he’s so matey with the Magefolk.” She banged her fist on the table. “Miathan might as well take command himself and be done with it. If it wasn’t for Vannor, the poor bloody Mortals who live in this city would have no representation at all!”

“Woman or no, you’d never have got the post with those views,” Hargorn told her bitterly. “They were what ruined my career at the Garrison. Mark my words, lassie—stay out of city politics.” He adjusted the band that held back his long, gray-shot mane of hair, and stood up. “I’d better go. If Parric doesn’t get back soon I’ll be needed to—”

“He’s not back from seeing Vannor?” Maya wished that she had drawn that duty. She both liked and respected the tough, stocky little Head of the Merchants’ Guild, with his wry sense of humor and uncompromising attitude to life in general and the Magefolk in particular.

Hargorn shook his head. “Why Rioch sent Parric up there with word about his successor, I don’t know! As if it makes any difference to Vannor who the Archmage has picked—”

“Here comes Parric now,” Maya interrupted.

It was a long-standing Garrison joke that the wiry little Cavalrymaster could never enter a room quietly. This time, Parric was in a paroxysm of coughing from the white dust that blew endlessly around the dried-out Parade Ground. He was also in a tremendous hurry. Crossing to their table, he wiped the dust from his tanned face and balding head and downed the flat, lukewarm remains of Maya’s tankard of ale in a single gulp. “There’s trouble,” he said, “and I can’t find Rioch anywhere!”

It had been a long walk from the mill to Nexis. It seemed like an even longer climb from the river path up to Green-market Square, where the farmers from outside the city came to sell their produce. Sara tucked stray wisps of sweat-damp hair back into her kerchief as she trudged up the steep cobbled lane, and shifted the clumsy basket to her other arm. She stamped her foot in annoyance as the loose weave of the basket snagged the thin fabric of her gown. Why had her stupid mother made her trail all this way on a fool’s errand? As if there’d be any produce to buy! Is it my fault we’re short of food? she thought irritably. Did I make the wretched drought? To add to her list of complaints, her usually indulgent father had given her a thorough scolding for not getting up early enough to reach the market when it opened. Sara scowled. There’d been no living with the man, since the shrunken river had left the mill wheel high and dry. And since Anvar no longer needed to come in his cart for flour, she’d had to walk all this way\ Not, she mused, that Anvar was any fun nowadays. He was always working, as if that would get him anywhere. The trouble was, he had no ambition.

Nearly there! Sara sighed gratefully, as she started to drag herself up the steep flight of steps that led to the entrance of the square. Hot, footsore, and hungry as she was, she was far too busy nursing her grievances to notice the rising hubbub of angry voices. Entering the square, she walked straight into a riot.

Vannor galloped through the city streets at breakneck speed, having flogged his poor horse all the way from his home on the south bank of the river. He’d received word from the frantic stallholders of the Greenmarket, who, on seeing the ugly mood of the crowd, had sent for the Head of their Merchants’ Guild. “Stupid idiots!” Vannor muttered in exasperation. Why hadn’t they sent to the Garrison, which was closer? It was sheer luck that Parric had been with him today, when the flustered messenger had arrived!

Not daring to waste time in taking a longer way around, the merchant urged his reluctant horse straight up the stone steps that were the quickest route into the market. By the time Parric managed to alert the troopers, the situation could be well out of hand. On reaching the square, Vannor discovered that it already was. A huge bonfire, made from torn-down stalls, burned in the center of the marketplace. The square was filled with a seething mass of people. Some bore cudgels, while others, to Vannor’s alarm, were armed with torches, stones, and knives. “Down with the merchants!” they chanted. “Down with the Magefolk!”

Vannor cursed. He agreed, in his heart of hearts, with the latter sentiment, but as Head of the Merchants’ Guild he could hardly condone the former. The merchants were huddled behind a barricade of upended carts, the target of missiles and abuse. It was easy to see what had sparked the riot. Behind the traders was a wagon laden with produce: boxes of summer fruits; root and leaf vegetables, shriveled but sound; assorted cheeses; and two crates of live poultry. The cart was stamped with the mark of the Magefolk, and had clearly been destined for the Academy. The merchants, even in the face of the mob, were too terrified of Miathan’s wrath to renege on their bargain with the Archmage, and were still trying to defend the wagon with its precious cargo.

Struggling with his shying horse, Vannor paused at the edge of the square. What can I do, he thought, against this? Where are the troopers? The trouble was, having fought his way out of a childhood of squalid poverty to his present high station, he sympathized with the desperate, hungry folk in the square. Yet he was Head of the Merchants’ Guild now, and his people were in danger—he had a responsibility to them . . . He must get through to the traders, and force them to abandon that stupid wagon! Not daring to think of the consequences, he began to urge his shrinking mount through the impacted crowd.