Defiant Peaks (The Hadrumal Crisis) Page 10

  Corrain remained in his chair as Baron Gyrice’s lackeys opened the double doors at the far end of the room, to admit a welcome draft to set the candles flickering and the sounds of festival revelry in the market place outside.

  He watched the lords of Saldiray, Myrist, Taine and Blancass depart amid the throng, each unobtrusively following a particular lord. They had not secured their new law today but by tomorrow those noblemen would have shared a few choice thoughts on the perils of isolation so vividly demonstrated by Halferan’s fate with the barons most easily persuaded to vote in favour of such mutual support.

  Maidservants began straightening the benches and chairs and clearing away flagons and goblets. One gave a silver wine jug a hopeful shake. Opening its lid, her expression brightened and she hurried to add the jug to a handful of others set aside on the table by the door. Other servants carried silver and glassware briskly away.

  A pointed cough echoed through the room. Baron Gyrice was conferring with Lord Pertynd and Baron Matase by the lectern beneath the tall north window. Matase in particular glared suspiciously at Corrain.

  He rose to his feet and strolled towards the door. Were those barons innocently intent on feasting with families and friends before piously remembering their dead? Or would they go seeking some illicit partner to share a bottle, a wager or a bed? Every parliament offered opportunity for a little wildness away from hearth and home to set the heart racing, blood pumping through noble and humble veins alike, celebrating life’s vigour by defying midwinter’s stillness.

  Corrain smiled, recalling one summer parliament in Trebin. The local lords had supplied so much excellent wine on the festival eve that Corrain and his fellow guard captains had spent the following morning carrying apologies from their masters who apparently found themselves belatedly stricken by an excess of sun on the road.

  They had also been asked to discreetly discover exactly what had been debated and decided the previous day. Corrain and his friends had amused themselves concocting ever more outrageous possibilities to horrify their wine-sick liege lords. Then they had simply asked the servants who’d fetched and carried the flagons and goblets.

  So which of the youthful Halferan guards would have most success wheedling information out of these maidens? Corrain considered Linset’s beguiling manner as he continued unhurried down the broad staircase to the entrance hall. Liveried guardsmen stood by the bottommost steps.

  Baron Erbale’s men, crumpled and heavy-eyed after this overlong day on watch, were yielding their duty to a crisply-dressed contingent. Fresh-faced from a day’s rest, Lord Vildare’s men were ready to stand sentry through the night, midwinter feast or not. Corrain acknowledged the troopers with a lordly nod while assessing them with a guard captain’s sharp eye.

  A couple looked back, their expressions more knowing than deferential. Had they heard barrack hall stories from guard captains who’d known Corrain of old? Was deliberate malice prompting such stories of his erstwhile taste for festival dalliance? Those nobles still outraged by Corrain’s elevation to their rank would be delighted to wound him with truth rather than lies.

  Those runes could roll either way; it made no difference to him. Corrain would return to The Silver Boar, to eat his festival dinner with a modest measure of ale and take to his solitary bed. He’d be rising as early as any guardsman tomorrow, to see the vote on Caladhria’s edict forbidding wizardry formally proposed and carried through this parliament.

  Outside, the market place was lit with lamps hung outside every doorway. Iron fire-baskets warded off night’s chill, as ale, wine and white brandy were sold from the open windows of every inn. Peddlers offered trinkets for sale while hucksters extolled the virtues of any number of taverns and brothels. Sharp-eyed tricksters sought the drunk or gullible, offering a few trios of runes cast on an empty barrel top, just for a friendly wager.

  ‘Lord Halferan!’ Baron Dalthran stepped out of an alley.

  Corrain noted the guardsman a few paces behind him. A swift glance reassured him that neither man’s hand rested on a blade so Corrain held off reaching for his own sword. ‘Fair festival, my lord.’

  Baron Dalthran took an unsteady step forward. ‘We’ll look to you for recompense when the Relshazri beggar us all.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Corrain was wrong-footed by this attack.

  ‘How much of the corsairs’ loot did those wizards help you bring home, you and Lord Tallat’s men?’ Dalthran demanded. ‘And Licanin and Antathele?’

  ‘There was no booty,’ Corrain assured him. ‘We didn’t think we’d get back alive, still less have time to stuff our pockets. Ask Lord Tallat if you don’t believe me or Licanin or Antathele.’

  ‘You think they will admit to such ill-gotten gains?’ Dalthran spat. ‘Did you think that you wouldn’t be called on to surrender such plunder? Those corsairs raided up and down the Caladhrian coast, thieving from countless fiefdoms. Every barony deserves reparations.’

  Corrain reminded himself of the folly of debating with drunks. Besides, Dalthran was doubtless only repeating other barons’ gossip. He was too idle and blinkered to have thought of this unprompted.

  ‘I have no notion what happened to the corsairs’ loot. I can tell you that we have none of it, nor ever sought it, and I’ll swear to that on any altar you propose.’

  ‘Do you think anyone will believe you?’ Dalthran’s finger wavered in the air before he jabbed at Corrain’s shoulder. ‘We will send our own messengers to the Archmage to find out how much treasure you’re hiding, and curses on your law forbidding dealings with wizardry. Don’t imagine we don’t see your reasons for shunning Hadrumal’s mages. You simply want to hide your own thievery.’

  Corrain looked past the nobleman to Dalthran’s guardsman. ‘Take him to his bed. When he sobers up, tell him how I dealt with insults in my days as Halferan’s captain. He can count himself lucky I respect my new rank and those worthy of it.’

  He turned away, not checking his stride when he heard a yelp from Dalthran suggesting that the guardsman had forcibly restrained his inebriated lord.

  Corrain was already composing the message he must now send to Lady Zurenne, brief and miniscule on a slip of onionskin paper to be rolled tight and stowed in the silver cylinder fastened to a courier dove’s leg. She needed to know of this new rumour of undeserved riches in Halferan’s strong room, to go with their hoard of wizardly gold. Though that tale was somewhat more inconveniently true, or at least it had been before rebuilding the manor and restoring the demesne had seen most of Planir’s coin spent.

  He would have to wait until morning before loosing one of the handful of Halferan-hatched birds which Sergeant Reven was so diligently tending in his bedroom. Still, he could send messengers tonight to warn the lords of Tallat, Antathele and Licanin of these accusations, if he could find anyone sober enough to reliably carry a discreet note.

  Would Dalthran repeat his claims before the whole parliament? Would some other lord who might be listened to more readily? Corrain decided to send notes to the barons of Myrist, Saldiray and Taine as well, to warn them of such potential distraction when debate on this new law resumed.

  At least no one had yet levelled the accusation which Corrain feared most. He didn’t relish having to stand up in front of the entire parliament and swear to a blatant lie, even if he no longer feared divine retribution.

  That secret should be safe though, held close between the two of them. No one else could possibly know that Planir had demanded Corrain’s endeavours to pass this law as the final price for his wizards’ assistance in saving Halferan.

  No one would believe that the Archmage wanted to see Caladhrian law forbidding the suborning of magecraft in warfare, still less that Planir hoped to see similar decrees signed and sealed by every mainland realm and dominion.

  Corrain had readily agreed to do whatever he could to convince Caladhria’s parliament. He wanted all accounts settled with Hadrumal, so he need have nothing more to do with any other w
izard, not even a mild-faced maiden like Madam Jilseth.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The residence of Mellitha Esterlin, Relshaz

  Winter Solstice Festival, 3rd Night

  JILSETH DREW A deep breath and wove her translocation. Kerrit was dead but she must set aside her grief and anger for the moment. Unrestrained emotion provoked untamed magic. Every mageborn newly come to Hadrumal, homesick, fearful or defiant, was warned of the dire consequences when wizards gave way to unbridled passion. Those inclined to scoff were sent to read the chilling letters and journals detailing the stomach-churning destruction which followed.

  As pure white light enveloped her, she considered what she would say to Mellitha and Velindre about Despin’s attempted theft. What would Planir—

  Sapphire magelight dazzled her. Jilseth lost any sense of elemental earth, the very foundation of her magecraft. She was buffeted by elemental air as brutal as a hurricane. Fire escaped her mastery next and the punishing winds scorched her like furnace blasts.

  Jilseth fought for composure. Panic would be the death of her. She realised that her wizardly strength was untouched. That was no great relief. Not when she had lost all ability to harness and channel such perilous power. No prentice-mistress or pupil-master had ever taught her how to handle this particular circumstance. How could she regain control of her magecraft when she was denied her own affinity? Despite her best efforts, dread threatened to choke her.

  ‘Jilseth!’

  She heard Mellitha through the deafening roar and felt the soothing touch of elemental water. Coolness flowed between her wizard senses and the chaotic brutality of fire and air. In that moment of respite Jilseth sensed the elemental earth. Channelling her learning and strength, she anchored herself amid all four elements. The turmoil enveloping her paled into the white mist of translocation.

  ‘Jilseth!’ Mellitha grabbed her arm even before she felt solid ground beneath her feet.

  ‘What’s going on?’ They stood on the paving between the lawn and the white stone house’s gates. Jilseth was chilled to realise that she had lost any sense of where her disrupted spell might have carried her.

  ‘The local malcontents are no longer satisfied with hurling abuse.’ Velindre’s contempt was scathing as she drew a curtain of azure magelight along the top of the wall to shatter a volley of stones into a shower of gravel.

  Jilseth realised that her translocation must have become entangled with Velindre’s warding spells. Ordinarily, she would have demanded her immediate attention. They must establish precisely what elemental conflicts had arisen as the spells clashed. Disseminating their conclusions through Hadrumal’s halls would be vital to warn other mages of such a hazard.

  Such wizardly concerns would have to wait. The air crackled as though a thunderstorm were about to break over their heads. Inside the stables Jilseth heard a horse whinnying uneasily and the thud of hooves against wood.

  Bricks hurled over the wall were reduced to dust by Velindre’s shimmering magic. Jilseth noted that these attackers had found far larger missiles than anything lobbed at Kerrit’s house. Her throat tightened painfully at the thought of the guiltless wizard’s death. ‘I must tell you—’

  ‘Do these fools imagine they can defeat our spells with such nonsense?’ Mellitha flung up her hands and emerald mist captured and quenched a blazing bottle.

  ‘They know that mages must tire eventually,’ Velindre said grimly.

  A handful of bottles stuffed with burning rags followed the first. Mellitha’s magic reduced them to a rain of molten glass pattering harmlessly onto the paving.

  ‘Where is the Watch?’ she raged.

  Jilseth found the customarily serene magewoman’s fury more disconcerting than this unprecedented attack.

  ‘Jilseth, scry beyond the wall. Find out what we are facing.’ Velindre repulsed another wave of broken masonry and cobblestones. Rage-filled shouts turned to choking and coughing as she sent the resulting cloud of dust to swirl around their attackers.

  ‘Find out why the cursed Watch aren’t here,’ Mellitha snapped.

  ‘Of course.’ Jilseth ran into the house.

  Mellitha’s servants were gathered in the marble-floored hallway.

  ‘The mistress said—’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Jilseth didn’t wait to hear Mellitha’s instructions repeated. It was enough to know that the vulnerable were safely out of harm’s way.

  Flinging the salon door open, she wrung water out of the air to fill the scrying bowl on the distant table. With Mellitha’s magecraft pervading the house, Jilseth barely had to brush against the element. She didn’t waste time with ink or oils, simply cupping her hands around the overflowing bowl. Emerald brightness banished every shadow to the far corners of the room

  Usually the cool touch of pure silver soothed her. Now apprehension chilled Jilseth as she contemplated the scene in the scrying, as clear as if she walked, invisible and insubstantial, along the coping stones of the tall white wall.

  This was no mob of drunken fools to be easily scared away. The crowd was ten deep in places. The street outside the gates was impassable and the path circling the house was choked with people.

  Jilseth could see fearful men and women trying to fight their way free of this stifling throng. Some were plainly regretting whatever hatred or hysteria had swept them here, drink-fuelled ire cooling. A few had visible reason to leave; bleeding heads wounded by missiles falling short of their target.

  None could get away. For every one trying to depart, a handful more arrived, their faces ugly with mindless viciousness. Shoving turned into scuffling, restrained only by the crushing lack of space to throw punches. More people struggled to escape the spreading fracas. Their frantic efforts only provoked more hostility from those thinking themselves attacked. Dagger blades flashed in the moonlight.

  A tremor sent ripples across the scrying water. Jilseth snatched her hands from the bowl and dropped to one knee. As she pressed her hand against the floor, she felt the ominous disturbance more clearly.

  Abandoning the silver bowl, her untended spell fading, Jilseth ran out of the salon and through the hall. She waved away the servants desperate to ask her questions, flinging a trivial cantrip ahead to open the door.

  ‘Mellitha! Velindre!’ She stood on the topmost step, a dart of air carrying her words to each magewoman’s ear.

  ‘What?’ Velindre crossed the thirty paces to her side in a single step.

  More stones soared upwards only to disintegrate amid the blonde magewoman’s magic.

  ‘Where are they still getting these cobbles?’ Mellitha demanded, irate. ‘Have they stripped every street between here and the Rel?’

  All the older woman’s attention was focused on the gates. Jilseth’s wizard sight showed her the water magic suffusing the sturdy barrier. Despite the assaults of sharp-edged stones, boots and belt-knives, Mellitha’s wizardry was repairing every splinter and crack, the wood as solid as though it flourished uncut in some distant coppice.

  ‘The wall is about to fall!’ Though only an earth mage would sense the strain in the close-fitted and mortared joints, the shifting in the foundations below the ground, Jilseth knew beyond any possibility of doubt that the press of this crowd would soon overwhelm the masonry.

  Mellitha stared at her in momentary disbelief. ‘Use your magic to hold it firm.’

  ‘Then those being crushed against the stones by the rest will surely die.’ Jilseth had already glimpsed unconscious faces in the crowd, only saved from falling to be trampled to death by the press of people around them.

  ‘If the wall falls, those closest will fall with it,’ Velindre said grimly. ‘They’ll be crushed underfoot by the rest rushing forward to attack us or to loot the house.’

  Unable to deny that horrible truth, Mellitha narrowed her eyes. ‘Where is Merenel? If we have a fire mage, we can form a nexus—’

  ‘Do you honestly believe we could work quintessential magic with rocks raining down on our heads?�
�� Velindre demanded before glancing at Jilseth. ‘Besides, Merenel has gone back to Hadrumal to tell Planir what’s amiss.’

  Jilseth felt another tremor running through the wall’s foundations. The masonry was close to fracturing in a handful of places. She reached deep into the earth to buttress the stones with the memory of the mountains they had been hewn from. It was no easy task, standing on delta mud threaded through with the city’s constrained streams.

  ‘How much longer can you defend those gates?’ Velindre challenged Mellitha. ‘How long until Jilseth exhausts herself keeping that wall intact? I am already weary of pounding bricks into dust.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Mellitha asked Velindre acidly. ‘A wall of fire to burn the closest to ashes and send the rest fleeing in terror? An ice storm to freeze them to the ground and bad luck to those who lose fingers or feet to the frost? How many friends will that win Hadrumal? How will that reassure those merchants harassed by Aldabreshin demands to shun all wizardry?’

  Before the blonde magewoman could answer, an uprush of flames framed the top of the gate. Oil or pitch had been hurled against the wood swiftly followed by a burning brand. Mellitha’s eyes glistened green; unshed tears reflecting the emerald radiance quenching the fire beyond any possibility of relighting.

  A scream rose above the tumult beyond the wall only to be cut short with eerie abruptness. Then countless screams and shrieks of pain ripped through the silence.

  Mellitha spun a globe of swirling water out of the empty air between her hands. The ensorcelled water flowed into a floating disc and a vision of the street outside floated across the water’s surface.

  Before Jilseth could marvel at this unsupported scrying, she was shocked at the mayhem it revealed.

  The Relshazri Watch had arrived to find themselves unable to force a path through the crowd with their polearms’ staves. So they were using their weapons’ blades. Blood glistened on churned mud where cobbles had been dug from underfoot. Bodies slumped motionless or curled in agonies around some murderous thrust. Those wounded who could still walk lurched and stumbled away. Those beyond reach of the biting steel took flight as best they could.