Juliet McKenna - The Assassin's Edge

“Don’t look at me,” I warned her. “My tricks with the Forest charms are only Low Artifice and that’s as much as I’m interested in.” That Guinalle barely concealed her disdain for such minor magic didn’t exactly endear her to me.

“You could learn the Higher Artifice,” Halice challenged. “You’ve shown an aptitude for enchantment.”

“I don’t want to,” I told her bluntly.

“You mean Ryshad doesn’t want you to,” countered Halice.

“When did I last hide behind a man’s say-so?” I scoffed. Ryshad hadn’t told me he didn’t want me studying Artifice with Guinalle. He probably wouldn’t, even if I did. But he wouldn’t like it all the same and that was enough to tip the balance in favour of my own reservations, even if I was curious to learn how Guinalle worked her enchantments without the songs that were the only way I knew of using aetheric power. I wasn’t that curious. Tricks to light fires or smooth over footsteps are all very well but I knew better than most how Artifice could get inside people’s heads, even leave them dead without a mark on them. I could count the people I’d trust with that kind of power, even with the best of intentions, on the fingers of one hand.

Halice was scowling. “D’Alsennin’s some skill with aetheric magic, hasn’t he? He should lean a bit more weight on the traces.”

It was a safe bet who’d be telling him that. Which would certainly be more interesting than going home to do the laundry. A new thought occurred to me. “Sutal will probably come back if Lessay does. She’d take some of the load off Guinalle.”

Halice nodded grudgingly. “We could do with a proper surgeon, regardless.”

We got a ride back across the river on a flat-bottomed boat laden with salvaged masonry and I scrambled gratefully ashore at the jetty that marked Vithrancel’s first proper landing. I spotted Werdel among the men piling stone up beyond any risk of flooding.

I waved to him. “Where’s Rysh?”

He rested dusty hands on his thighs. “Taken D’Alsennin up to the drying sheds.”

I looked at Halice. “Do you want to go after them?”

Halice looked around the buildings that were finally giving Vithrancel some appearance of a real town. Colonists and mercenaries alike had tacked haphazard shelters on to ancient remnants of walls and roofs, scant defence against that first uncertain winter. A full eight seasons later, the last of these makeshifts were being cleared as new buildings staked firm claim to the land and we even had an irregular space people were calling the market square. A brewer had claimed the first plot to universal approval and his solid establishment now offered Kellarin’s only taproom where I occasionally found a friendly game among those keen to quench their thirsts. The long low building beside it sheltered looms shared informally by men and women with the skills to use them and I saw the usual throng of people with wool to swap for yarn or finished cloth around the door. The loft above served as a store for the dyers and fullers who’d set up pungent work further downstream.

Halice was glaring at an impressive building at the head of the market square. It had a definite air of authority, roofs neatly slated with stone rather than wooden shingles and walls scoured clean of the mottled stains of age. A splash of bright green on a ground of azure blue hung bashful from a lanyard, waiting for Temar’s return to hoist it to the foremost gable. Held out by a helpful wind, it would show a device of three overlapping holm oak leaves.

“It’s all very well Temar hanging out his flag but as soon as anyone fussing sees he’s never there, they head straight for Guinalle. What we want is some magic to stick the lad’s arse to a chair every morning,” said Halice with a glint in her eye. “Artifice or wizardry, I don’t care which.”

I chuckled. “Shiv might oblige. Let’s see what’s trading while we’re waiting.” I gestured towards the large hall to the offhand of Temar’s residence. That had rapidly become the centre for barter and bargaining among colonists and mercenaries alike. I might find something worth the promise of a few of Ryshad’s bricks.

Hearth Master, Flood Mistress.” A startled maidservant bobbed a curtsey to the stout man sweeping into the quadrangle. He spared her a lordly wave of the full-cut sleeve of his velvet robe. The woman with him ignored the girl, cutting directly across the flagstones towards Planir’s door, unyielding determination on her weathered face. She held the door for her companion with visible impatience but remained silent, setting a punishing pace up the stairs. The man rapped a fat hand on Planir’s door, ruby rings dark on three fingers.

“Come in.” Planir sat in a high-backed, comfortably upholstered chair by the empty fireplace, a book in one hand, a goblet of fruit juice in the other, a crumb-strewn plate on a small table at his side. “Troanna, Kalion, please, help yourselves. There’s caraway loaf or sunrise breads. Something to drink?” He got to his feet.

Kalion, flushed from the exertion of the stairs, smiled at the generously laid table. He tucked a cushion behind him as he sat and unbuttoned the high collar of his scarlet gown, its nap still fresh from the tailor’s brush. “Thank you, Archmage, a little plum cordial, with plenty of water,” he added hastily.

“Just a glass of water, if you please.” Troanna sat unsmiling in an upright chair and ignored golden glazed buns still warm from the oven, split ready for fluffy sweetened cream and the preserves to hand in crystal dishes. As Kalion filled an eager plate, she settled the skirts of an emerald gown in the Caladhrian style favoured by most of Hadrumal’s women. Troanna’s dress was as severe as her expression, without even the usual embroidery to lighten it. Her hazel eyes studied Planir with an intelligence that made it plain she was no mere gap-toothed matron subsiding into dumpy middle age and greying hair. “We came to discuss appointing a new Cloud Master.”

“Or Cloud Mistress.” Kalion looked up from the breakfast table with instant alertness. “Archmage, have you seen the conclusions Velindre drew from her voyage around the Cape of Winds last summer? She’s proving extremely talented.”

“I’ve not had the pleasure of reading her journal as yet.” Planir smiled as he poured drinks at an expensively inlaid sideboard. He waved a hand at the books stacked higher than Troanna’s head on the reading desk. “I have so many calls on my time.”

“You should make time to consider all candidates,” Troanna said, unimpressed, hands laced in her lap.

“Such excessive delay is causing talk around the halls,” Kalion warned as he spread damson jam with precise knife strokes.

“I’m assessing every candidate most thoroughly.” Planir gestured towards the book he’d set aside. “That’s Rafrid’s treatise on the interaction of the southern sea winds and the winter winds from the northern mountains.” He handed a crystal glass to Troanna and set a carafe of water together with a goblet of ruby liquor by Kalion’s elbow.

“If Rafrid had ambitions to be Cloud Master, he shouldn’t have accepted mastery of Hiwan’s Hall.” Kalion emphasised his words with a jab of an empty cream spoon.

“Master or Mistress, we need someone coordinating the proper study of the element,” insisted Troanna.

“Quite so.” Kalion added a little water to the cordial in the goblet. “Archmage, what am I to do when some apprentice appears with a query that should properly be referred to a Cloud Master?”

“Your talents with the air are well known.” Planir resumed his seat, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair as he steepled his fingers. His face was amiable. “I imagine you’re both equal to such questions.”