Juliet McKenna - The Assassin's Edge

“I could write to Lessay, if anyone’s got a notion where to send a letter,” mused Sorgrad.

’Gren’s thoughts had already moved on. ”They need someone to make up that set. Look after my wine, ’Grad.”

“That wound’s not holding him back then.” I watched him bow deftly to a girl who’d been looking uncertainly for a partner. “Nor yet the notion he should be dead on the Ice Islands?”

“You know ’Gren,” Sorgrad said easily. “Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling.”

The timorous girl was blossoming under ’Gren’s charm. “I take it she’s not yet had the chance to learn how much she owes him, see his scar and kiss it better?”

Sorgrad nodded. “She looks better than she did, doesn’t she?”

I studied the girl but beyond a vague recollection of hysterical weeping, I couldn’t put a name to her.

“Guinalle’s done a good deal for the worst abused,” Sorgrad continued. “Taking the edge off memories, blunting dreams. Seems Artifice can help heal the mind as well as the body.”

“I’m still not taking any interest in it,” I told him firmly.

“That’ll please Ryshad.” Now it was Sorgrad’s turn to dangle a provocation.

“When did you last see me hiding behind a man’s wishes?” I stuck my empty cup on the top of his wine bottle. “You won’t talk or trick me into sitting for lessons at Guinalle’s feet, just so you’ve got an excuse for hanging round to talk magic with Shiv and ’Sar.”

“It was worth a try.” Sorgrad grinned, unrepentant.

I was watching ’Gren blithely whirling the dark-haired girl around. “It really doesn’t bother him, does it?”

“How am I supposed to take a drink with everyone giving me things to hold?” Sorgrad frowned at the cups and bottle in his hands. “What? No, you know ’Gren. There’s no future in looking at the past, that’s what he says.”

“A sound philosophy as far as it goes,” I allowed. “But a little forward planning doesn’t come amiss.”

“Words to warm Ryshad’s heart,” mocked Sorgrad.

I still wasn’t biting. “His father’s a mason, ’Grad. Making plans means the building won’t come tumbling down around your ears.” Everything had so nearly crashed to ruin around all of us. It was high time I went back to a life where the biggest risks were marked by the roll of the runes and the weight of your purse.

“Where is he?” Sorgrad scanned the lively scene by the water. “You’d best go and find him, let him know there’s food for the eating.”

“Don’t drink all the good wine.” I looked but couldn’t find Ryshad among the dancing or the hungry throng gathering by the fires.

“Try the shrine,” Sorgrad suggested.

The full heat of the afternoon beat down on Hadrumal’s roofs, striking motes of silver from stone slates and turning masonry beneath to warm gold. Planir stood at his window looking down at the bustling courtyard below. Apprentices hurried about the errands they’d been given by their masters. Mages elevated to the status of pupil walked more slowly back to their lodging, weighed down with carefully cherished dignity and the substantial books many carried. Styles of dress and a general predilection for elemental colours were common to all but cut and quality of cloth inevitably distinguished those born to greater wealth whose families refused to let the accident of magebirth divide them.

In plainer clothes and oblivious to the lofty concerns of wizards, the ordinary folk of Hadrumal came and went; laundresses, maidservants, apprentice boys fetching and carrying so that no mundane distractions need divert those with the privilege of affinity from studying their arcane calling.

Planir watched, face cold. When a knock sounded at his door, he didn’t stir. “Enter.”

Usara came into the room. “Archmage.” He wore everyday breeches in washed-out maroon and a full-sleeved shirt under a buff jerkin with bone buttons. Both had been cut for a man thicker in the waist and broader in the shoulders. He carried a plain leather bag slung over one shoulder by a braided strap.

“ ’Sar.” Planir still didn’t move. “I heard you were back.”

“Just for a day or so. I had some things to bring you.” Usara moved to the table, empty surface glossy with diligent polishing. The whole room was bright as a pin, neat as new paint. “This letter for one.”

That turned Planir’s head. “From whom?”

Usara winced at the apprehension and hunger in the Archmage’s face. “Just from Temar.”

Planir managed a wintry smile. “What can I do for the Sieur D’Alsennin?”

“I suspect he wants your permission to wed Allin.” Usara set the sealed letter on the table. “He thinks you’re the one he should ask.”

Planir returned to gazing out of the window. “It’s always been an Archmage’s duty to care for those seeking learning and guidance from Hadrumal.” His voice was harsh with self-accusation.

Usara lifted a small copper urn out of his satchel, setting it on the table with gentle hands. The round-bellied vessel was bright with enamelled leaves and birds, mismatched lid secured with wax and cord.

Planir’s head turned involuntarily at the slight sound. “Larissa?”

“She saved countless lives.” Sorrowful, Usara looked at the urn. He reached into the neck of his shirt and pulled a cord over his head. The silver ring was knotted securely on to it. “We’d never have been able to use Artifice and wizardry together without this and we couldn’t have saved those women from Olret.”

“Which, as Archmage, I should of course be glad for.” Planir turned back to the window. “Forgive me. As yet I cannot appreciate the wider benefits of losing the woman I loved to a horrible death.”

“Halice gave us the urn. It seems she’s always carried one, reckoning she’d be killed sooner or later.” Usara set the ring down on the table. “Temar wants to name one of the Suthyfer islands for Larissa. We’ve built a shrine and she’ll be remembered with honour if that’s where her ashes rest.” He hesitated. “I thought you might want her here, though. It’s for you to say.”

“My last duty as her Archmage?” Pain cracked Planir’s sarcasm.

“Your right as her lover,” said Usara quietly.

“Is that all?” asked the Archmage curtly.

“No.” Usara ran a hand over his non-existent hair. “Forgive me but I asked Kalion and Troanna to join us.”

Planir glared at him. “Just to make my day complete.”

Usara squared his narrow shoulders. “I have things to tell you all, in your capacities as Archmage and Element Masters.”

“Have you now?” A spark of interest struggled through the grief darkening Planir’s grey eyes. “That Kalion’s dream of closer ties with Imperial Tormalin is to be realised now Temar’s realised little Allin’s loved him for the better part of a year?”

Usara coloured beneath his sandy beard. “I also have hopes of marrying into that House.”

“Do you?” Planir managed a faint smile. “Guinalle has accepted you?”

“I haven’t exactly asked her,” Usara admitted. “Not as yet.”

“Temar’s her legal overlord.” Planir moved to the high-backed chair by the fender and waved Usara towards the other. “You’ll be asking his permission for her hand. Do you want me to tell him he can’t wed Allin if he turns you down?” The notion surprised the Archmage into a brief laugh.

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Usara looked shocked. “That Temar has rights in the matter, I mean.”

Hasty feet sounded on the stairs beyond the open door.

“Kalion’s on his way.” Planir settled himself with calculated care, nodding to Usara to do the same. “I didn’t think it would take him long.”