Falconfar 03-Falconfar (42 page)

"It seems that way," said Lord Tesmer, then seemed on the verge of saying something more.

She looked at him, and he smiled thinly and added, "You can also take two things more, Maera."

Something in his tone made Maera stiffen and look at him sharply. His gaze, on hers, was as mild as ever, even approving. She waited, crooking an eyebrow when he remained silent.

That earned her a dry smile.

"End your scrying," he directed.

She did so, and he continued, "The first, patient daughter mine, is that your mother and I agree with your views on dealing with Belard and Talyss. We should plan this together, scrying often in the next few days and talking together often."

Maera bowed her head in acknowledgement and agreement. "And the second?"

Lord Tesmer rose to stand facing her, open robe swirling and hands clenched into fists. "If this is the first step in a bid to seize Imtowers and become head of the house, dearest Maera," he said quietly and coldly, "be very cautious. You are my favorite. I would hate to have to destroy you."

He opened his right hand to her then, palm up, and an emerald glow appeared out of nowhere to fill it.

The radiance was coming from a symbol now visible on his hand. A magical rune.

Maera stared at it, horror clear on her face for her father to see, but could not stop. It was unmistakable.

She had come upon this symbol thrice down the years, in the pages of the most secret and powerful of grimoires she'd managed to get glimpses of—but she had never expected to see it aglow with power, on anyone's hand, in Falconfar.

It was the rune of the long-dead archwizard Lorontar.

Yes, it's mine, said a cold voice inside her, then. The gloating voice Maera had heard in her head for as long as she could remember, not often but whenever her life depended on knowing something. Something it had always provided.

Which meant that her inner voice, the thing that Maera Harilda Mehannraer Tesmer had always taken to mean she was truly special, was not the Falcon or a guardian ancestor but the legendary first Lord Archwizard of Falconfar.

Lorontar, who was not dead, but lived on. Inside her.

Maera would have cried then, if she'd dared. Would have fainted, or turned and fled, shrieking, if a cold claw hadn't suddenly tightened its grip on her mind, controlling her utterly. Making her stand right where she was, still and silent.

Greetings, little pawn. Yes, be as grateful as you know how. I kept you alive all these years for this.

Her father's eyes glowed a piercing, emerald green, a terrible rictus of a smile on his face.

Maera screamed, long and silently, inside her own head, but heard only echoing, gloating laughter.

HO, ASKURR! WHAT d'you think?"

Bracebold was holding up some kind of triple-pronged sword, whose blades appeared removable, although whatever else could be fitted in their place was missing from the rubble.

Askurr shrugged. "If it were me, I'd put that down very gently and carefully, and run far away from it. If it's not a coin or a gem, I don't want it. Being as this was a wizard's abode, anything else could mean some horrible doom for me, that I might not even notice coming until too late. But that's just me. You suit yourself. One man's refuse is another man's plunder."

Bracebold scowled. "I was looking for some words to hearten me, not bid me walk away emptyhanded."

"Then talk to Glorn, or Zorzaerel. They're always eager for treasure and adventure and doing the daring thing, so they'll probably tell you to keep it, carry it off, and find out later what it does. Just remember you'll be learning its purpose the hard way, and don't come crying around my door when you do—if you have anything left to cry with."

Bracebold growled, flung down the three-armed thing, and strode away across the rubble.

He was a good nine strides away when it exploded.

MORL FROWNED DOWN at the man sprawled on the gravel in front of them. "So why did he die, when the other one just fainted?"

Tethtyn shrugged, and spread his hands. "And I became an expert on this 'Earth' place when, exactly?"

Mori sighed. "I wanted one we could question." "So heave this one into this metal bin that smells so bad, set fire to it, and let's be gone from here and trying to find another man to question," Tethtyn suggested patiently. "I think I heard him call it a 'dumpster.'"

Mori gave his fellow wizard a dubious look. "Nothing says 'A wizard did this' as loudly as a body that's been burned to ashes."

"True, in Falconfar. Yet if they have no wizards here, they'll hardly think the same way about a mysterious killing, will they?'" "Now, now; all we know is that this man hadn't heard of wizards, except in something called 'Diznaekartouns.' Didn't the other one call us kulkists, or something? Sussussaetannik kulkists?"

"Cultists," Tethtyn corrected, frowning. "Yes, he did. You think that's the local word for wizards?"

Mori shrugged, spread his hands, and grinned. "And I became an expert on this 'Earth' place when, exactly?"

"BEHOLD," DAUNTRA SAID gently as they regarded the sprawling encampments. "The stormclouds gather at Galathgard."

Garfist shrugged. "I care not, if all of them bring sausages."

Iskarra gave him a sour look. "Sausages you'd not be having, nor the eggs, either, if I hadn't persuaded yon cook to part with them."

"Persuaded, hey? How soon is he likely to wake up? That crack ye gave him was a good hard one—an' the skillet was sizzling when ye did it, too!"

Her look a silent question, Iskarra turned to Juskra.

Who shrugged. "Who knows? I'm no expert on the skulls of strange men. 'Twas me swooping he saw, though; they'll not be looking for Isk."

"Leaving me free to tackle the next camp kitchen," Iskarra concluded triumphantly. "There seems to be no end to them."

"There certainly seems to be no end to the nobles, to be sure." Dauntra said darkly. "Gar, are you about finished? I'd like to get gone from here, up onto the castle roof yonder, before too many more of them wake up and happen to notice Aumrarr flapping around. We're none too popular—and I've noticed no shortage of archers serving these nobles, either."

Garfist thrust all six sausages into his mouth, chewed triumphantly for a moment, then managed to say around them, "Ready. Ye fly, Jusk, an' I'll chew—or is it cuddly little Dauntra's turn to fly me about?" He leered.

Dauntra rolled her eyes, then gasped in mock breathlessness, "I've a notorious weakness for men with sausages; however did you know?"

"YOU WORKED FOR him," Zorzaerel said almost accusingly. "You should know where his jewels are!"

Glorn sighed. "Tell me, bold swordcaptain: how many wizards have you worked for? Have you ever met even one who trusts anyone? Still less, anyone who wears a sword and a dagger, and knows how to use them? He was a glorking Doom of Falconfar, not a lackwit!"

Zorzaerel sighed, nodded, and waved his hands in exasperation. They were standing in an inner room of Malragard, ankle-deep in the shifting rubble of its fallen ceiling.

"I just thought it would all be different," he grumbled. "Easier to find, harder to get in. Where are the guardian beasts, the trap—"

"Youngling," a voice rasped from behind him, "clamp your jaws!"

Bracebold was wild-haired and blackened from head to toe, the rear of his leathers and armor a scorched ruin. He now limped, or stood still, his customary restlessness gone. His every word was tight with pain.

"Aye," Gorongor called, from the far side of the room. "Tempt not the Falcon!"

"As it happens, I agree," Roreld said, from a distant doorway, "but as the last thing I want is for us to end up daggers drawn over any takings, hearken: Tarlund and I have found some gems. A lot of gems. Some of them glowing—and one of them winking like a signal-lantern."

"Get well away from that one," Glorn snapped, "and take the rest of the gems with you. Three or four chambers away, at least."

"My thinking too," Roreld agreed, half-grinning at the sudden eagerness with which all the hireswords were now converging on him, "but you may as well see, first."

They all came, and crowded around, and saw. The winking gem was an angry rose-red and the size of a small man's fist, and in common accord they clawed in the rubble around the other stones—all different, none of them anything like as large; loot from many places, to be sure—until they were sure the room held no more. Then they bore the gems away, using what was left of Eskeln's overleathers as a sack for them. One-and-thirty, in all.

More than one man looked back at the winking gem, sitting alone now, the rubble cleared away from it for several strides all around. Its inner light pulsed, silently and tirelessly, seeming to watch them.

No one wanted to stay within sight of it.

"Back the way we came," Roreld said firmly. "I'm not blundering in deeper when we're all thinking of gems instead of watching for perils. Besides, we know not if anything guards these stones, and will come after us; I'd prefer to fight on ground I know."

"Well said," Gorongor agreed, amid approving murmurs from the rest. They hastened back out to where they'd camped on the edge of the ruins, sat down in a half-ring facing shattered Malragard, and unfolded the improvised sack to look at the gems again.

They sighed with satisfaction. They were gazing at enough wealth, properly sold, for them all to retire in idle comfort. So long as they lived to depart the ruins, and got a fair share. The sidelong looks began.

Roreld saw them and moved to quell that trouble right away, by clapping a gentle arm around Bracebold's shoulders and growling, "This, swordbrothers, is just a start. Yet consider— before we decide whether or not to risk our necks going on busily plundering Malragard—how many wizards may already suspect Malraun has fallen, and be on their way here right now to seek a Doom's magic."

That turned the narrowed gazes at each other into peerings over shoulders and up into the sky, and the oldest of the warcaptains smiled; deed done.

"Well," Tarlund said, stepping into the ploy, "if the Dooms are truly all gone—if, I say—then there's Empherel of Skoum, Lyrandurl—he of the golden, scented beard and arm-bangles like a dancing-lass—Roskryn who enspells swords to fight for him, and... ach, 'twon't come to me; that one in Tauren, he who took down Skelt Tower with his spells..."

"Halavar Dreel," Olondyn supplied rather grimly. "I fought against him once. We were a very small part of an army he destroyed in, well, moments." He shook his head. "Aye, I've fought him—for a few volleys, before we all gained sense enough to run. If I see his face, I'll not be standing my ground to dispute with him, know you!"

"Dreel of Tauren, aye," Bracebold muttered. "I've heard... things."

"He took to killing hedge-wizards, didn't he?" Askurr put in, peering closely at the gems and then sitting back hastily, his hands spread wide to show everyone they were empty.

"So he did, for a time, but he'd have to spend several lifetimes slaying, morn through even, to reap that crop," Eskeln commented. "There are hundreds—thousands—of jacks and lasses in Falconfar who can cast a few spells, and pretend to be able to work more. Enough of them that every noble in Galath who isn't terrified of magic can hire one or two, and be certain of finding others if he fires those he's paying."

"And all a hedge-wizard would have to do is whisper a hint of strong magic for the taking, to get permission—and swift horses and a strong bodyguard—from glorking near every noble in Galath," Zorzaerel said disgustedly.

"No," Gorongor disagreed. "Not now. Any other time, I'd agree, but not right now. Not when a Great Court's been called, and every noble of Galath needs to be seen there, to stand loudly loyal at the side of whoever wears the crown when it's done. Nobles don't trust underlings to go hunt down powerful magic behind their backs, when they need them—wizards and bodyguards both—as their shields instead. A mage who comes to plunder Malragard now is a mage whose only master is himself—or who has slipped away to see to this, probably on some other pretext."

"I'd not want to be anywhere near Galathgard right now," Bracebold muttered.