Juliet McKenna: The Gambler's Fortune

“They agreed just like that?” My question hovered just on the polite side of skepticism.

“No.” Planir’s smile turned wolfish. “Not until I also pointed out that seizing land or mines would do them little good if that angered an Archmage who could easily render every bucket of ore worthless. My element is the earth after all, and being born and brought up in the Gidestan coal country I probably know more about mining than any guild master.”

I couldn’t help laughing. One day, when there was absolutely no chance of anything riding on the outcome beyond ill-minted copper, I could see myself playing a hand or two of runes with this man, just to see if he was as good as he thought he was.

Planir’s smile faded. “Though having to use the power of the Archmage with such a heavy hand is something that could cause problems in the longer term. Fear and ignorance still colors people’s notions of wizardry and making threats like this stirs old prejudice. That’s another thing to weigh in the balance.”

“Look at the other side of the coin,” I urged him. “It has been an opportunity to remind the powers of Ensaimin and elsewhere of the value of magecraft. Isn’t that something the Council has been discussing? I’m sure your colleague Kalion must be delighted.”

Planir burst out laughing. “That’s not quite how I would put it.” He rose and crossed to the sideboard standing with unobtrusive elegance against the wall. If Messire paid me half what that piece might fetch on a good day in a Col auction house, I’d have spent my spring and summer profitably. The Archmage took two bottles from the array resting in carved cradles. “You said you were lunching with Shiv? Take this with my compliments.”

I stood to take the gift. “That’s very good of you.” If he thought he was going to pay me off with a couple of bottles of even this finest vintage, the wizard was a few sticks short of a bundle. “You’ll be able to bespeak, what’s his name, Casuel by tonight? You and Messire should be able to agree a sum between you soon enough. I’ll call back for your contribution tomorrow?” I was tempted to ask if he could get me news of Ryshad but decided against putting myself in his debt.

“Make it the day after,” Planir suggested. “Rest assured, Livak, you won’t find me ungenerous. I know what we owe you and your friends.”

There were two edges to that, so I replied in kind. “Assisting you has proved the experience of a lifetime, Archmage.”

A thought halted me on the threshold. “I was very sorry to hear about Otrick.” I had no need to pretend sincerity. “I didn’t know him well, but I liked what I saw of the old pirate. I really did hope that Aritane would know how to bring him back to himself.”

Planir ducked his head against a sudden grimace, lifting his face a moment later, mask fully restored. “At least we can bid him a proper farewell now, him and the others so afflicted.” He coughed. “Let’s hope these are the last deaths we add to the reckoning. Just as I pay my debts, Livak, I collect what’s due. The Elietimm will pay in full.” He smiled with all the warmth of frostbite.

I managed a fleeting quirk of my lips and closed the door behind me, tucking the wine in the crook of my arm.

Keisyl took a long draft of cold water and closed his eyes, savoring the kiss of wind and sun on his brow. If only he could stay here like this, forever, never having to look on his problems again.

“Keis? Lad?” Chance breeze lifted the wary hail over the edge of the hollow.

Keisyl walked out onto the track to see two figures toiling up from the lower reaches of the valley, faces muffled against the dust, clothes stained with sweat. He walked down to meet them, leather jug in one hand and horn cups in the other.

“Mother, Fithian.” He handed each a drink and refilled the proffered cups wordlessly.

“So what’s it all about, Keisy?” Ismenia demanded once she had regained her breath.

“Fith?” Keisyl turned to his uncle in some surprise.

The old man shook his tousled silver head, mouth down-turned. “Not for me to say, lad.” He mopped his forehead with a sleeve, the faded yellow of the cuff newly mended with brighter thread. “It’s for you two alone. I’ll go on up and look to the workings.”

Ismenia watched him go with a mixture of resignation, irritation and affection. “He’s been itching to get back to the diggings, the old fool. Goats is boys’ work, as far as he’s concerned. All right, Keisy, what is so important I have to leave the girls and come hiking all the way up here? I’m not as young as I was, you know.”

Keisyl managed a faint smile at her determined cheerfulness. It died in the next breath. “Come and see.”

Walking into the dell, he skirted the long-dead ashes of the fire and went to the sturdy tool cache. The door was secured by a simple wooden wedge, which Keisyl kicked aside with the split toe of his boot. Reaching into the gloom, he dragged a cowering figure out into the sunlight.

Ismenia’s hands leaped to her face to stifle a startled cry. “Jeirran?”

Keisyl looked down at the naked figure hunched on the ground, hair and beard matted with dirt where they hadn’t been scorched away by fire, body smeared with heedless filth, feet foul with sores, hands bleeding from raw blisters, one finger missing its nail and swollen into a suppurating mass. “I think so,” he said finally.

The sound of voices lifted the wretch’s head, face blank, mouth slack and drool glistening on chapped and crusted lips. The eyes were the worst, blue as ever but as mindless as those newly opened in a mewling pup.

“I thought he was dead,” whispered Ismenia. “I thought Maewelin had claimed her due, rot his heart!”

“Looks like Misaen wanted him after all.” Keisyl chewed on a thumbnail. “Now what do we do with him?”

“Where did you find him?” Ismenia shook her head in wonderment.

“He was scuttling around the diggings.” Keisyl couldn’t restrain a shudder. “I thought it was some gwelgar knitted out of grass and mud, come to look for naughty children.”

His laugh had no humor in it but the miserable thing looked up and mimicked him, the sound hoarse and horrible.

Keisyl raised a hand but could not land the blow. He turned away, shivering despite the hot sun. Ismenia looked down at the hollow shell of a man, just staring vacantly at nothing again. “What are we to do with him?”

Keisyl heaved a reluctant sigh. “I suppose we can keep him up here for a while, clean him up, feed him up.” He looked with distaste at the sores where a few maggots still clung. “If it were only me involved, as Misaen made me, I’d do nothing, Mother, I’d drive him off and bless the day, but Eirys—”

“You think Eirys needs this?” Ismenia turned sharply. “You think Eirys, after Sheltya scared her half witless before declaring her guilt-free, do you think she needs this wreck of a man to drain her of hope and life when she should be looking to her child? Eirys must never know of this. You must never speak of it, never breathe a word, not even on your deathbed, not even when Solstice sun stirs your bones.” She fell silent, trembling, narrow shoulders hunched as she clasped her hands in a vain effort to still them.

Keisyl drew his mother inside strong arms, her faded hair fluttering against the frayed collar of his shirt. Gradually her trembling eased. “So what do we do?”

Ismenia gently eased herself free, patting Keisyl’s shoulder in meaningless reassurance and smoothing the laces of his shirt. “He owes the soke a life, doesn’t he?”

Keisyl drew a long breath before answering. “There’s Eirys’ baby?”