Magician (76 page)

“Of course,” Milamber said
dryly.

“Yesterday the question of your
continuation became critical. When the time came for your final
acceptance into the Assembly, the issue was put to the vote and ended
in a tie. There was one abstention, myself. As long as I remain
unallied with one side or the other, the question of your survival is
moot. You are free to act as a full member of the Assembly until I
recast my vote to ratify your selection into the Assembly, or not.
Our tradition does not allow a change of vote, once cast, except
abstentions. As no one absent during the voting may add their vote
later, I am the only one who can break the tie. So the result of the
voting, no matter how long delayed, is mine to decide.”

Milamber looked long and hard at the
older magician. “I see.”

Hochopepa shook his head slowly. “I
wonder if you do. To put it in its simplest form, the question of the
moment is, what am I to do with you? Without meaning to, I find your
life is now in my hands. What I have to decide is whether or not you
should be killed. That is why I wished to see you, to see if I might
have erred in judgment.”

Suddenly Milamber threw back his head
and laughed, long and hard. In a moment tears were running down his
cheeks. When he quieted, Hochopepa said, “I fail to see the
humor.”

Milamber raised his hand in a placating
gesture. “No offense was intended, my civilized friend. But
surely you must see the irony of the situation. I was a slave, my
life subject to the whim of others. For all my training, and
advancement in station, I find that this fact has not been altered.”
He paused for a moment, and his smile was friendly. “Still, I
would rather have you hold my life in your hands than my former
overseer. That is what I find so funny.”

Hochopepa was startled by the answer,
then he, too, started to laugh. “Many of our brothers pay
little heed to the ancient teachings, but if you are familiar with
our older philosophers, you will understand my meaning. You seem to
be a man who has found his wal. I think we have an understanding, my
barbaric friend I think we have started well.”

Milamber studied Hochopepa. Without
knowing the unconscious process whereby he reached the conclusion, he
judged he had found an ally, and perhaps a friend. “I think so,
as well. And I think you also a man who has found his wal.”

Feigning modesty, Hochopepa said, “I
am but a simple man, too much a slave to pleasures of the flesh to
have reached such a state of perfect centering.” With a sigh he
leaned forward and began to speak intently. “Listen to me well,
Milamber For all the reasons enumerated before, you are as much a
weapon to be feared as a possible source of knowledge.

“Tsurani are slaves to politics,
as any student of the Game of the Council can attest; while we of the
Assembly are reputed to be above such things, we have our own
factions and infighting, not always settled in a peaceful, bloodless
manner.

“Many of our brothers are little
more than superstitious peasants, distrusting that which is alien and
unknown. From this day forward, you must bend yourself to one task.
Stay peacefully hidden within your wal, and become Tsurani. To all
outward appearances, you must become more Tsurani than anyone else in
the Assembly. Is that understood?”

“It is,” Milamber said
simply.

Hochopepa poured another cup of hot
chocha each. “Be especially wary of the Warlord’s pets,
Elgahar and Ergoran, and a reckless youngster named Tapek. Their
master rankles at the progress of the war upon your former homeworld
and is suspicious of the Assembly. Now that two of our brothers died
in the last major campaign, fewer of our brothers are willing to lend
further aid to that undertaking. The few magicians left within his
faction are overtaxed, and it is rumored he will be unable to subdue
any more of your world without a miracle. It would take a united High
Council—-which should happen when the Thün raiders become
agriculturalists and poets, and not before—or a large number of
Black Robes agreeing to do his bidding. The latter should occur about
a year after the former, so you can see he is in a somewhat poor
political situation. Warlords who fail in conducting war tend to fall
from grace quickly.” With a smile he added, “Of course,
we of the Assembly are far above matters political.” His tone
turned serious once more. “You must face one thing: he may view
you as a potential threat, either influencing others not to aid him,
or openly opposing him from some deep-rooted sympathy for your former
homeland. You are protected from his direct actions, but you still
might run afoul of his pets. Some still blindly follow his lead.”

“ ‘The path of power is a
path of turns within turns,’ ” Milamber quoted.

Hochopepa nodded, a satisfied
expression upon his face. His eyes seemed to glint. “That is
Tsurani. You learn quickly.”

In the following weeks Milamber grew
into the fullness of his new position, learning the responsibilities
of his office. It was remarked on more than once, and occasionally
with distrust, that there had been few who had demonstrated so much
ability so soon after donning the black robe.

For all the changes in his existence,
Milamber discovered many things were unchanged. With practice he
discovered he still had untapped wells of power within, which could
be called up only in times of stress. He studied to bring this wild
augmentation of power under control, but with little success. He also
discovered he was able to put aside the mental conditions placed upon
him during training. He chose not to reveal this fact to anyone, not
even Hochopepa. His reordering of these mental conditionings also
regained him something else, a nearly overwhelming desire to be with
Katala once again. He put aside that desire, to go to her at once and
demand her release from the Lord of the Shinzawai, well within his
ability now he was a Great One. He hesitated for fear of the reaction
of the other magicians, and for fear her feelings might have changed
toward him. Instead he plunged into his studies.

His time in the Assembly brought forth
his true identity, as he had been told it would. This identity proved
the key to his unusual mastery of the Greater Path. He was a being of
both worlds, worlds bound together by the great rift. And for as long
as those worlds stayed bound together, he drew power from both, twice
the power available to others of the black robe. This knowledge
revealed his true name, that name which could not be spoken lest it
let another gain power over him. In the ancient Tsurani language,
unused since the time of the Escape, it meant, “One who stands
between worlds.”

M
artin
watched.

Motioning silently to his companions,
they slipped through the wood line, just out of sight of those in the
meadow. They could easily hear the shouts in the Tsurani camp as
orders were given. Martin crouched low, so no hint of movement would
betray their presence. Behind him scurried Garret and the former
Tsurani slave, Charles. In the six years since the siege of Crydee,
Charles had met Martin’s expectations, proving his loyalty and
worth a dozen times. He had also become a passable woodsman, though
he would never have Garret or Martin’s natural ease.

Whispering, Charles said, “Huntmaster,
I mark many new banners.”

“Where?”

Charles pointed to a spot near the
farthest edge of the Tsurani camp. With the aid of the dwarves
remaining in the high villages, Martin and his two companions had
made the dangerous climb over the Grey Towers, easily passing the few
Tsurani sentries left along the western edge of the valley, the flank
thought least in need of vigilance. Now they were within a few
hundred feet of the main Tsurani camp.

Garret let forth a nearly silent
whistle. “The man has eyes like a falcon. I can barely see
those banners.”

Charles said, “I only know what
to look for.”

“What do the new banners mean?”
asked Longbow.

“Ill news, Huntmaster. Those are
the house banners of families that were loyal to the Blue Wheel
Party. At least when I was captured. They have been absent since the
siege of Crydee. This can mean only another major shift in the High
Council.” He studied the Huntmaster’s face. “It
tells us the Alliance for War is again restored. And next spring we
can expect a major offensive.”

Martin motioned for them to move back
into the woods. The trees were fully covered in fall colors, riots of
red, gold, and brown. Moving quietly through fallen leaves, they
found a sheltering stand of brush skirting an ancient oak and knelt
behind it. Martin took out a small piece of dried beef and chewed it.
The climb over the Grey Towers, even with the dwarves’ help,
had taken its toll: they all were hungry, tired, and dirty. “Where
are the new companies of soldiers?” Martin asked.

“They won’t bring them
through this winter. They can stage outside the City of the Plains on
Kelewan, at ease in a milder climate. They’ll move through the
rift just before the spring thaw. By the time flowers are blooming in
Princess Carline’s garden again, they’ll be marching.”

A high-pitched keening sound came from
the north. Charles’s expression changed to one of controlled
alarm “Cho-ja!” He glanced around, then pointed upward.

Martin nodded and made a stirrup with
his hands. He boosted first Charles, then Garret, into the oak tree.
Then he jumped, and they caught his hands and pulled him up.

Moving into the higher branches, they
were motionless and had weapons ready when the cho-ja patrol came
into view, passing beneath the tree. Six of the antlike creatures
moved at steady pace; then the leader, marked by a crested helm of
Tsurani make, motioned them to halt. He turned one way then another,
then made commands in their high-pitched language. The other five
spread out, and for nearly ten minutes the three men in the tree
could hear them searching the area.

When they returned, they quickly formed
up and moved off. When Martin was certain they were out of hearing
range, he whispered, “What was that?”

“They smelled us. My scent will
have changed from all the Midkemian food I have eaten. They knew we
were not Tsurani.”

Climbing down from the tree, Charles
said, “Cho-ja cannot look easily upward, so they rarely do.”

Garret asked, “What if some of
your former countrymen had been along?”

Charles shrugged. “The cho-ja
would have been speaking Tsurani. Their language is almost impossible
to learn, so no one tries.”

Martin said, “Will they be able
to mark our trail?”

Charles said, “I don’t
think so, but—” He stopped as loud barking came from the
Tsurani camp. “Dogs!”

Martin said, “They can track us.
Come.” He set out at a controlled run, back toward an ancient
trail into the mountains, one almost completely overgrown and
undiscovered by the Tsurani but used by Martin’s band to enter
the valley.

For a few moments the three men loped
through the woods, listening to the barking behind. Then the sound of
the dogs changed, and barks became howls and baying. “They’ve
gotten the scent,” said Garret.

Martin only nodded and picked up the
pace. They ran for another minute, the sound of the dogs steadily
gaining on them, when Martin halted and grabbed at Garret’s arm
to keep him from running past. With a signal, he changed directions
away from the trail and led the others to a small stream. Entering
the water, he said, “I remembered hearing this when we passed
by before.”

The other two entered the water, and
Martin said, “We gain only minutes. They’ll search up-
and downstream.”

Garret said, “Which way?”

Martin said, “Downstream. They’ll
search upstream first, as that’s the way out.”

Charles said, “Huntmaster,
there’s another way.” He quickly un-shouldered his
backpack and removed a large pouch. He began sprinkling black powder
up and down the shore of the stream where they had entered.

Garret felt his eyes tearing and blew
hard through his nose to keep from sneezing. “Pepper!”

Charles said, “Mastercook Megar
will be angry, but I thought we might need it. The cho-ja and the
dogs will smell nothing for hours when they sniff around here.”

Martin nodded. “Upstream!”

The three men splashed through the
water, then got into a quieter, steady rhythm. They were out of sight
of the place where they entered when the baying of the dogs was
interrupted by sneezes. Angry voices shouted commands, and frustrated
replies were heard. Charles indulged himself in a faint smile as they
continued to move through the water.

Finding a branch low enough over the
stream, Martin boosted his companions out and climbed up after them.
They moved along the tree until they found another branch of a nearby
oak close enough to jump to.

They touched the ground again a dozen
yards from the stream bank Martin glanced around to ensure they were
not seen and motioned for the others to follow as he led them back
toward the Grey Towers.

Sea breezes swept the walls. Arutha
looked out at the town of Crydee and the sea beyond, his brown hair
ruffled by the wind. Patches of light and dark flashed across the
landscape as high, fluffy clouds raced overhead. Arutha watched the
distant horizon, taking in the vista of the Endless Sea whipped to a
froth of whitecaps, as the noise of workmen restoring another
building in the town blew by on the wind.

Another autumn visited Crydee, the
eighth since the start of the war. Arutha considered it fortunate
another spring and summer had passed without a major Tsurani
offensive; still, he felt little cause for comfort. He was no longer
a boy fresh to command, but a seasoned soldier. At twenty-seven years
he had seen more conflict, and had made more decisions, than most men
of the Kingdom knew in their lives. In his best judgment, he knew the
Tsurani were slowly winning the war.