L. Modesitt: Ordermaster

“I can take it,” Kharl said.

“But … ser …”

“I’m escorting the mage.” Charsal stepped forward and took the tray, then turned and led the way to the northwest corner of the kitchen, through an archway, and up a circular set of stone steps into an airy room with wide windows overlooking a stone terrace. “This is one of the dining rooms, ser. For those guests and staff here who are not being fed at various functions.”

Two younger men were seated at a circular table in one corner, clearly finished with eating, but talking in low and intense voices. Besides Kharl and the undercaptain, they were the only ones in the room.

Charsal set the tray on a table before the windows. “Is this all right, ser?”

“That’s fine. Thank you, undercaptain. I can find my way back to my chambers, and there’s no need to keep you from your other duties.” Kharl paused. “You have eaten, haven’t you? There’s more than enough-”

“I ate just a little while ago, ser, but I appreciate your kindness.” Charsal bowed. “If you would not mind …”

Kharl smiled. “Go.”

After Charsal turned, Kharl settled into the breakfast. While he had thought the portions large, he was surprised to find that he left little enough, except for half a loaf of bread. The black bread was heavy and sweetish, some of the best he recalled having, and he’d appreciated it. He still recalled all too well the days of hiding between the renderer’s walls in Brysta, when he and Jeka had gone days with little sustenance.

With his hunger satisfied, using his order-senses, he tried to pick up the conversation of the two men in the corner, both wearing dark green tunics and trousers, the same color as the green of the Austran armsmen and lancers.

“ … taking a chance to stay here … Lord Ghrant … be vindictive …”

“ … not that bad … worse to worry about Fostak …”

“ … say Guillam has audience with Ghrant … what if …”

Kharl strained, but could not make out the words for the next several moments. He refilled his goblet with cider.

“ … wouldn’t know a mage … saw one … not here in Austra …”

“ … wear black or white sometimes … Lyras does … black … not much of a mage …”

“ … say the new one killed Ilteron with a thunderbolt …”

Kharl wanted to snort. He couldn’t create a spark, let alone a lightning bolt. He’d just surrounded Ilteron and his wizard with an impermeable barrier of solid air and let them suffocate. It had been the only thing he’d known how to do.

“ … fellow who’s over there wearing black …”

There was a strangled gulp. Kharl did not look up as the two young men hurried out of the breakfast room.

A wry smile crossed his face. From the fragments of the conversation he’d overheard, he doubted that either man had been the one who had tried to poison him. On the other hand, the younger man had glanced back worriedly, and his hand had been held close to the hilt of the sabre at his side.

Kharl got up slowly, glancing around. As he did, a serving girl, not even so old as his younger boy Warrl, dashed out from the archway at the top of the steps from the kitchen.

Kharl held out a hand.

“Ser?”

“Those two men who were seated in the comer. Do you know who they are?”

“Ser?”

“Do you know who they are?”

The girl looked down, then up. She did not meet Kharl’s eyes. “The taller one, ser, that was ser Zerlin. He’s the youngest son of Lord Woren. The other man … I have seen him, but I don’t know his name.”

Kharl sensed the truth. “Thank you.” Unfortunately, he could have used the name she didn’t know. He stepped back and let the scullery girl collect his tray and the dishes on the table the two men had vacated.

He’d been in the Great House less than half a day, and he was beginning to see why Hagen had never wanted to serve as lord-chancellor. He thought about attempting to use his order-abilities to shield himself from view; but that was hard work, and he’d have to move slowly. For what? Because he was worried?

Still … he needed to be watchful.

He passed two guards in yellow and black on the main level as he made his way toward the staircase up to his chamber. Both nodded politely, and he returned the nods.

For the residence of the Lord of Austra, the Great House was surprisingly stark and simple. The walls on the main level were of simple polished stone, as were the floors. There were occasional niches, set shoulder high, in which there were busts of figures Kharl did not recognize. The ceilings were of a white plaster, and unadorned. All the doors were of ancient golden oak, and the fixtures upon them were brass, tarnished in many cases.

Kharl was halfway up the closed circular staircase when he thought he heard something below. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. He couldn’t see the bottom of the staircase because of the curvature and the walls, but there was no one on the steps as far down as he could see.

He turned and continued up the stairs, stopping at the top landing, and listening. Then he extended his order-senses. Two figures were frozen around the curve of the stairs, as if waiting for him to go on. Kharl considered. Now what? He wasn’t carrying any weapons, not that he was any good with anything except a staff or a cudgel, and even if he had been, he couldn’t very well attack someone for merely following him.

He smiled, then turned and walked quickly through the archway at the end of the landing, turning left and heading toward the north wing.

He swallowed. Ahead of him was a figure in the shadows of the space where the corridor ended, intersecting the narrower hallway that served the north wing. The figure was lifting something. Behind him, he could hear boots racing up the staircase.

Kharl concentrated, first hardening the very air on each side of him into a barrier, but with a good three cubits between each barrier, then wrapping himself in darkness-and invisibility. He also flattened himself against the wall, as an added, if unnecessary, precaution.

Clank! Something had struck the barrier. Clank! Clank!

“Frig!” The single word was half-whispered, half-hissed, and came from the hallway, probably at the top of the staircase, but Kharl could not see, not wrapped in the darkness of invisibility, and he was having enough trouble managing the barrier and invisibility, without trying to extend his order-senses forty or sixty cubits.

“ … gone …”

“ … friggin’ mage … get out of here …”

At the sound of boots on stone, Kharl dropped the invisibility, but, even so, could only catch the vaguest glimpse of two figures in dark green or gray as they darted from the hallway down the staircase. He turnedback toward the north wing, but that figure had vanished as well. He could not see or sense anyone else nearby.

With more than a little trepidation, he released the barriers, quickly. He was breathing as hard as if he had run half a kay, but that was to be expected. Using order-magery the way he had took strength and endurance.

Kharl collected the three bent crossbow quarrels, then, with his order-senses extended, made his way to the end of the central corridor and down the narrower hallway back to his own chamber. His order-senses told him that it was empty. He unlocked it and stepped inside, sliding the lock plate into place.

He sat down in a straight-backed chair to catch his breath and collect his thoughts.

Should he tell Hagen?

He decided against immediately telling the lord-chancellor. What good would that do? Hagen already knew that someone didn’t want Kharl at the Great House. Kharl didn’t want to run down to Hagen and once more convey news about which Hagen could do little. Doubtless crossbows and men in green were all too common in Valmurl and probably in the Great House. Also, he wouldn’t be surprised if someone had planned for him to do exactly that.