Mage's Blood (54 page)

‘Norostein Watch. Open up!’

His mouth went dry, and he wondered where the old man was. ‘Just a minute!’ He made sure his periapt was hidden beneath his collar, then pulled the door open, his sword in his hand but not raised.

A square-jawed sergeant looked down at the blade, then up at him. There were three more watchmen standing behind him, looking bored. ‘Expecting trouble, lad?’ the sergeant drawled.

Alaron felt himself flush. ‘We’re a long way from town, sir. Anyone can pretend to be a watchman.’

The man grunted. ‘True enough. But we are watchmen, worse luck, and we’re looking for a missing person – an oldster who ran away from an asylum. Might be dangerous.’

Alaron’s heart thudded, but he kept his face expressionless. ‘No, sir. I’ve not seen him.’

‘I didn’t say it was a “him”,’ the sergeant observed. ‘Crebb, take a look around the stables. Taultier, round the back. Mind if I come in, lad?’

‘Uh, sure.’ Alaron stepped back, his mind racing. The old man usually slept in the stables – and the skiff was there – the
illegal
skiff … He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

The sergeant stepped inside the door. ‘You can put the sword away, lad. We’re not bandits. Morning, ma’am,’ he nodded to Gretchen, who looked outraged by armed men in
her
house. Then he looked down the hall and stiffened. ‘Who’s this?’ He glanced sideways at Alaron as Cym came down the passage, wearing a dress of his mother’s she must have hastily thrown over her head. Her hair was a tangled mess.

‘Staria di Biacchio,’ she answered smoothly. ‘Alaron, darling, who are these men?’

‘You’re Vann’s boy?’ the sergeant asked. ‘What are you doing out
here?’ He ran an appreciative eye over Cym and grinned. ‘Second thought, don’t answer that. I can see why you were nervous: if you ain’t married to her, you better pray her folks don’t find out.’ He addressed Cym. ‘Your people haven’t seen some old geezer mooching about, have they, Princessa? There’s a reward.’

Cym shook her head slowly. ‘I’ll ask about, if the money is good.’

‘Sergeant,’ someone called from the stables, ‘come and look at this.’

Alaron groaned inside as he and Cym followed the sergeant to the stables. They glanced at each other anxiously as the watchman he’d called Crebb flung open the stable door. The old man stood beside the upturned keel of the windskiff.

The sergeant walked straight past the old man as if he wasn’t there and stroked the keel. ‘What’s this, then – a windskiff? But I heard you—’ He stopped, and looked at Alaron meaningfully.

‘Oh, that thing!’ Cym strode through, smiling warmly. ‘Alaron just cuts the wood. One of his friends in town does the actual –
thingy
– you know …’ She waved her hands in a magical sort of way.

The sergeant nodded as if nothing were more reasonable. He continued to act as if the old man just wasn’t there. ‘Well, nothing here; and I can see we don’t need to check the house.’ He smirked and winked at Alaron. ‘Wouldn’t want to know how many other little cuties you’ve got tucked away, eh.’

He pushed the door of the stable shut behind him, then suddenly stopped and looked up at Alaron. ‘Ah, have I looked in here yet?’

‘Uh, yes. Just now.’

‘Oh good. Well, that’s that wrapped up then.’ He was in some sort of daze – all of the watchmen were; it was weird – and within two minutes they had all disappeared back up the road.

All the strength in Alaron’s legs evaporated and he sagged against the doors. ‘Did you do that?’

Cym shook her head slowly. ‘I never did a thing.’

‘They walked past the old man like he wasn’t there – they swallowed that bullshit story about the skiff without a question, then he couldn’t even remember where he’d searched. Someone messed
with their minds in a big way.’ Cym was already shaking her head as he said, ‘It was you, right?’

They both turned and looked at the old man. He returned their stare, smiling vaguely.

Alaron looked at Cym.
‘Who is he?’

Cym stayed another week and they finished off the skiff. Alaron had got used to having her around, but he still couldn’t sleep for longing, wishing for the courage to knock on her door at midnight. A hero from one of the old folk tales would have just gone straight on in and swept her off her feet, but she’d probably kill him if he tried anything like that.

Then the Rimoni arrived, Vann Mercer riding alongside their wagons, puffing a pipe and chatting to Mercellus di Regia. Cym’s father ran an appraising eye over the two of them when they appeared together from the stables and Alaron had the uncomfortable feeling that if he had laid so much as a finger on her during those past two weeks he would now be extremely sorry, mage or no. The gypsy chief pulled his moustache thoughtfully and finally nodded, after which Cym hugged him affectionately while the gypsy boys went back to staring at Alaron with postured menace.

This time the test-flight went much better: they managed to miss both the house and the trees in the yard, and if they weren’t always in complete control, they managed well enough to ensure they didn’t crash, and landed safely. Money changed hands and Cym kissed his cheeks and hugged him before slipping away to rejoin her people. The black-eyed Rimoni youths eyed Alaron with a deal more respect as they left.

‘Well done, son,’ his father said, ‘On all counts.’ And at Alaron’s quizzical look, he explained, ‘Not making a fool of yourself with the girl. And finishing the skiff and flying it without crashing.’ He slapped his shoulder. ‘In that order. Now, how’re the repairs going?’

Alaron grinned. ‘Good. I’ll show you the drawing room. I had to put in new glass and everything—’

He talked with his father into the night, but somehow he failed
to think about the old man at all. He had glimpsed him, standing beside the stable as they flew around the manor, but the Rimoni had not appeared to notice him and he had vanished again by the time they landed, and didn’t reappear all evening. Alaron meant to broach the subject with his father, but it kept slipping from his mind.

The next day they unlocked his mother’s library. Her books were gone, but there were other things left behind: old coins and medals, a rolled-up map from the Revolt with handwritten notes showing troop positions, and an old Keshi scimitar that had fallen behind a desk. Cleaning it all up took most of the day. They enjoyed one last meal with Gretchen and Ferdy and turned in. The Manor was sold; the new owner, Jostyn Weber – Gina’s father – would take possession tomorrow.

‘Ironically, Weber can only afford it because he married young Gina off to some vintners in Bricia.’ Vann chuckled, then peered at Alaron. ‘You’re not upset about that, are you?’ Alaron shrugged. ‘I didn’t think so – though we ought to be trying to get you married at some point. Just because you can’t legally use your powers doesn’t mean you can’t breed magi; you’re still a catch, lad.’

Alaron decided to ignore that.

Jostyn Weber arrived next morning to collect the keys. He had promised to keep Gretchen and Ferdy on, which pleased everyone. Alaron was relieved Gina wasn’t with him.

After Weber had left, Alaron poked into the stables one last time, checking to make sure he’d packed all the woodworking tools.
I’m going to miss this place, Cym, the skiff. Everything, really
…

A hand fell on his shoulder and he nearly hit the roof.

The old man was standing beside him, his face expressionless, his eyes full of mystery.
How did I forget him?
Alaron’s heart raced. ‘Da,’ he called, ‘Da!’ He didn’t take his eyes off the old man, in case he vanished the moment he blinked.

When Vann arrived and saw the old man, his mouth dropped open, his pipe falling unnoticed to the ground. Alaron had never seen his father so shocked. He watched dumbfounded as he reached
out to the old man as if trying to touch a phantom, but when he felt the old man’s hand, Vann fell to his knees and kissed the old man’s hand, crying, ‘My Lord – my Lord—’

The old man stared down at Vann, and then across at Alaron, his eyes unfocused.

‘Da?’ His father was
crying
.

Vann wiped his eyes, staring up at the old man in awe. ‘Alaron,’ he whispered, ‘it’s Big Jari – it’s
General Jarius Langstrit
.’

The anniversary of the Ascension, otherwise known as the Sacrifice of Corineus, was the most important religious event of the Kore, but in 928, as the Third Crusade loomed nearer, it took on even greater significance. Most legions were already marching to the staging camps in Pontus, soldiers, suppliers, messengers and myriad others choking the arteries of the continent in a massive eastward flow. Manipulation of the weather kept the main roads east dry, but resulted in tempests and flash-floods everywhere else. Vital crops were ruined by torrential rain, unnatural hail and unseasonal snowstorms, and farmers cursed and wept as young battle-magi flitted overhead on skiffs, oblivious and uncaring. There were scores of casualties in the camps too, as parochial pride demanded violent settling of scores. The whole continent of Yuros was in turmoil.

Despite this, at dawn on 18 Martrois, Sacrifice Day, silent congregations gathered in every city, town and village, cramming into churches and cathedrals to pray and give thanks for the Ascension of Corineus and the Blessed Three Hundred. White-clad magi kept vigil from dusk the previous day, emerging for the six-hour ceremony as the sun rose. Each of the Three Hundred was named aloud, to the tolling of a great bell, and descendants of that Ascendant would rise and lead the prayers. None of the Blessed Three Hundred were ever forgotten; magi would ‘adopt’ any now-extinct lines, so they would always have someone to stand for them. Only one was unclaimed: dread Selene or ‘Corinea’, the treacherous sister whose blade had martyred Corineus.

The last named was Corineus himself, of course. Prayers were led
by the most senior mage present – in Pallas, that was Emperor Constant himself – and afterwards Mater-Imperia Lucia received the twenty-one genuflections the theologians had decided were due a Living Saint.

The ceremonies ended at midday and gave way to the biggest street party of the year, at which the local rulers distributed alms to the poor; men like Governor Belonius Vult were not the sort of people to neglect their reputations, despite other calls on the public purse, and the Sacrifice Day celebrations were always magnificent.

Alaron had grown up expecting to keep the vigil, to stand beside his mother and Aunt Elena before the people as the name of Berial, his progenitor among the Blessed Three Hundred, was read out. Another dream lost …

‘Are you sure you won’t come, son?’ His father paused at the door. His mother, wearing a red-hooded cloak and gauze over her face, clung to his arm. Alaron liked seeing them together, even though all they ever did was argue.

‘And see all those self-satisfied creeps being lauded by the ignorant? I don’t think so, Da.’ He waved them off cheerily, then filled the kettle, brewed some tea and took it upstairs to the lounge, which was now full of Ma’s old books. Jarius Langstrit spent his days there, reading poetry. They had tried the histories of the Revolt on him, hoping they might trigger something, but he’d shown no interest. Alaron had managed to dissuade his parents from getting a healer-mage to look at him. ‘If the Watch meant him well, they wouldn’t be looking for him in secret,’ he’d pointed out. ‘They’d have announced that a national hero was missing and asked for his return, but instead they’re sneaking around as if he’s a dirty secret.’ His mother took his side, and no healer-mage was called.

Tesla spent hours talking to the general. She had no more success in getting him to speak, but at least it was giving her an interest; she was more engaged than Alaron could ever recall her being before.

He found Langstrit in his usual seat and poured them both tea, then picked a poetry book at random and started reading aloud. The general tapped his finger in time to the rhythm and made displeased
noises if he disliked the verse. He didn’t care for war-poems like ‘Retton’s Charge’, but he enjoyed old rural favourites like ‘Gardens of Sol, Gardens of Lune’ and ‘Love like water runs through my hand’. Alaron had just about given up on him remembering anything.

The bells started pealing: the ceremonies were obviously done. Alaron got up and peered through the grimy windows in time to see huge flocks of doves exploding into the air from Cathedral Plaza, quarter of a mile away across the roofs. He wished for a second he was there; he had always loved Sacrifice Day whilst growing up. There would be money in his pocket, the smell of cooking sweets on the air, the best in performers and entertainments, his friends at his side – but now the thought of being there, a rejected outsider at the fringe of the crowd, hiding his face lest someone recognise him, had turned those fond memories to poison. A wave of misery swept over him and he fell silent.

A hand touched his and he saw that Langstrit was looking at him. The old man pointed to the open pages and the poem he had stopped reading.

‘I’m sorry, old man – General, if that’s who you really are. I just wish …’

The old man tapped the page querulously, the line where he’d stopped reading.

‘Okay, okay—’

Mid-afternoon, Alaron was woken from his dozing by a sharp knock on the door. The old man didn’t stir, so he shouted, ‘Coming,’ went down and opened the front door – and froze.

Cymbellea di Regia leaned against the doorframe. ‘Happy Corineus Day, Alaron.’ She kissed his cheek and breezed past. She was in her normal Rimoni attire, white blouse and colourful swirling skirts, but today she wore even more bangles and her gold earrings were bigger. Her loose ebony hair hung to her waist in a silken cascade. Bells on her ankles jingled as she walked. She was stunning. ‘You look stressed,’ she observed lightly. ‘Oh and leave the door open,’ she added.

‘Why?’

‘So I can get in too.’ Ramon peered around the door, grinning merrily. He was clad in a black and silver doublet of velvet and leather cuffs. His thin black moustache made him look almost grown-up.

‘Ramon!’ Alaron gaped. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Yeah, nice to see you too. We’re looking for somewhere to stay; have you got a spare room?’ Ramon grinned and hugged him. They had brought food and drink, lots of it, and they dragged Alaron into the sitting room, everyone talking at once.