Storm Rising (43 page)

Her eyes narrowed to slits in speculation, although her jaw was still clenched tightly in anger.

“You have not attained and held the rank of Son of the Sun without learning the lesson of expediency, Radiance,” he finished. I
believe this is the place to stop—while my luck is still holding. One more word might turn her the other way.

“No,” she hissed. “I have not.”

She stepped back, and he felt relief sweep over him. She was not going to kill him—which meant that she
was
possibly going to support his bid for a truce and an alliance of his own.

Much as she might hate it, she knew that it would bring the greater good.

She suddenly waved her hand, then gestured with a clenched fist, and he felt the poor, sad remains of his shielding against magics collapse and disintegrate. What the storms had battered, her magic finished—and he felt dread clench at his guts.

“But I do curse you,” she said, with a grim smile. “I curse you, with something the touch of which you have already felt. Your help we need, but know you I do not, and trust you I do not. In the Name of Vkandis Sunlord, and with the power He has granted me as His Son, upon you I lay that you will never to me lie, nor to anyone else tell an untruth, whoever questions you.
Never.”

Chill spread through his body.
She could not have imagined a more terrible curse for a son of the Empire
, he thought numbly. I
can never, ever go home again …
Not that he could have anyway, given what he had already done.

“Feel the curse—or the freedom—of truth,” she finished, her smile widening, her eyes glowing fiercely, “And then will we see what measure of man you are truly.”

She swept up the cat in her arms, and vanished.

With her disappearance, the paralysis vanished also, and he sagged in his chair, gone boneless with relief and reaction.

He let out his breath, and laid his head down on his
arms on the top of his desk, nearer to tears than he had been in all of his adult life. In all of his checkered career, he had never had quite so close an escape, not even on the battlefield—and in all of his life, he had never gotten out of such a situation by doing as he had, telling the truth.

Now I will have no choice
, he thought, that chill passing over him again.
But—perhaps she overestimated her power. I should test this.

“I am Grand Duke Tremane,” he said aloud raising his head from his arms, “And I am a mage of average powers, forty-five years of age.”

He cursed, silently. He had
meant
to say, “A mage of astounding powers, and sixteen years of age.” He had
thought
right up until the words emerged from his mouth, that this was what he was going to say.

The curse was working, and it worked even without having anyone to hear him but himself.

The curse of truth
, he thought, propping his head up on one hand as a headache started.
How my enemies would laugh!

But she was right. Now even
he
would find out just what a measure of a man he was. He only hoped he would be able to live with what he learned.

I am still envoy, I still have all my limbs, my skin has not been flayed from me, and Vkandis help me, but I am actually holding up under this pressure.

Solaris had finally gone, and the wonder of it was that no one but Karal had ever learned about that torturous interview in his suite. She left him and his authority intact and never mentioned to anyone else that the opening of negotiations with Tremane had been anyone’s idea but the Firecat’s. There was even a peculiar sort of respect in the way she looked at him now. Respect for standing up to her? Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was respect for the fact that he stood behind his convictions, that he had not let personal feelings interfere with what was important for the greater good.

He did not know for certain just what it was she had done after she left him. He didn’t really want to ask. Whatever it was, she had gone on to Selaney and convened a small meeting of the envoys and heads of state—that is, a meeting of herself, Selenay, Prince Daren for Rethwellan, Jarim and the Sworn-Shaman for the Shin’a’in, Treyvan for the k’Leshya and Darkwind for the Tayledras. With that smaller, much more manageable group, a basic reply to Tremane was worked out and sent, not via Altra, but via Hansa.

I don’t think she’s ever going to forgive Altra.

Karal had no idea what had made Solaris change her mind, but whatever it was, it pleased her enough that she tacitly forgave him for what he had done.

And, eventually, it was Hansa who Jumped back to
Haven with Tremane’s chosen representative—Karal was just as glad that they would no longer be treating with Tremane personally. He did not think that he would ever be able to face the man without wanting to perform some very painful and undiplomatic experiment upon his body involving knives and large stones.

Karal had given up expecting anything, after learning that the leader of the Imperial Army looked like a clerk, so he wasn’t particularly surprised when the man Tremane chose to represent him was a mage so old and decrepit it looked as if he might break up and blow apart in a high wind. But although the mage Sejanes was old, there was nothing whatsoever the matter with his mind. He was as sharp as anyone Karal had ever met. He already spoke Hardornen well enough to please some of the Hardornen exiles living at the Valdemaran Court, and he began picking up Valde-maran
and
Tayledras with a speed that left Karal gasping.

Finally, though, the old boy confessed that it was the result of a spell, one used successfully in the Empire for centuries. “If we hadn’t had it already, we would have been forced to concoct it,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Or our clerks’ time would be taken up with learning languages and not with their real duties.”

“And what duties are those, sir?” Darkwind had asked.

“Why, running the Empire, of course,” the old fellow countered. “Everyone knows it’s the clerks that run the government and the rest of it is all just for show. At any rate, I’m glad I’m in a place where I can. cast it again, without having to recast it every few days.”

Surprisingly, the old man had completely won over Solaris, perhaps because he reminded her of Ulrich. He had spent several marks closeted alone with her when he first arrived, and when they emerged again, Solaris demonstrated a considerably softened attitude toward the Imperials—and a positively friendly one toward Sejanes himself.

Well, what they had said or done was also none of
Karal’s business, much as it might eat at his curiosity. If she or Sejanes ever thought he needed to know, they would tell him. Otherwise, there were many things in the world he would never know the answer to, and this was just one more.

Much to Firesong’s chagrin, the Imperial mages were
all
taught an analytical, logical approach to magic. Faced with overwhelming odds against the superiority of “instinct,” the Tayledras Adept gave in, and subjected himself and his techniques to a similar analysis. It was just as well, considering that the information Sejanes brought with him indicated a failure of the breakwater just past Midwinter. Firesong volunteered to calculate the exact time, by intuition only, as a last effort to prove the validity of art over mathematics, but he finally acquiesced and helped with the more scientific method. Work on a solution proceeded at a feverish pace. All around them, the capital was preparing for Midwinter Festival with dogged determination, but there would be no time for festivals for the mages and artificers hunting for that elusive solution.

In the anxious concentration on what magic might do to save Valdemar and her allies from the same fate known of in Hardorn, the other projects the artificers and their students had been working on suffered the neglect of the masters.

There were some projects that should never have gone without supervision. It was a week before Midwinter that the artificer’s experimental boiler on the Palace grounds exploded.

The Palace rocked to its foundations, and everyone in the Grand Council Chamber looked up in startlement. Like the worst clap of thunder anyone had ever heard, increased a thousandfold, it vibrated the Palace and everything in it. As it shook the building, it shook everyone who heard it with sudden, atavistic fear. Of everyone in the chamber, only Karal had an inkling of what the cause was.

“The boiler!” he cried, and sprang from his chair in a scattering of pens and papers, heading for the door.
He tripped over the legs of his fallen chair, caught himself by flailing his arms wildly as he staggered across the floor, and continued his run. He burst out of the door to the chamber, startling the guards no end, and tore down the hall in the direction of the Collegia.

One of the student artificers had been working on the boiler-engine project before all the turmoil about the breakwater failure began. Natoli and Master Isak had been helping him with it until the breakwater project occupied their attention; and ever since she stopped helping him, Natoli had been feeling guilty about neglecting him. He had no aptitude for the breakwater project and had been working on the boiler alone and unaided for some time. His idea was to heat the Collegia with the waste hot water from his boiler, while using the steam-piston contrivances attached to it to drive a water pump bringing water up from wells, and to do other mechanical work needed at the complex. Chopping wood, for instance; he had a design for a steam-drive wood splitter that would save servants endless time. His innovations included plans for an ingenious mechanism to supply wood and water to the boiler itself on a constant basis. That was the tricky part, and the one Natoli had agreed to help him with.

This was one of the largest steam-boilers anyone had ever built, almost the size of a man, and it was inherently dangerous. Boilers had exploded before this. He remembered the talk from the Compass Rose. If the boiler overheated, or boiled dry—if it had boiled dry and they weren’t aware of the fact, and they’d then added water to it—

He burst out of the Palace doors into the daylit gardens, and floundered across the snow-covered grounds, oblivious to the cold. Other people ahead of him surged out of the Collegia buildings, heading in the same direction.

The boiler was at some distance from the Collegia, and had been set up inside its own little brick “false-tower” so as not to be a blight on the landscape. Those brick walls would have contained the explosion—

And if anyone was still inside the building, they’d
have been caught between the explosion and the brick walls!

This was like a nightmare, where he ran as hard as he could, until his side and lungs burned and he couldn’t even catch his breath, and he still made no progress in the knee-deep snow. By the time he reached the scene, plenty of other people had already arrived, and the injured had been taken away. All that was left to see were the remains of the boiler and the tower. The wooden door- and window-frames had been blown out of the walls in a shower of glass and splinters, and the brick walls themselves were cracked and bowed ominously outward. Some folk were throwing buckets of snow into the interior of the tower, presumably to put out a fire and cool the remains of the boiler, and every bucketful that went in produced a billow of steam and an ominous hissing.

Karal spotted one of the Masters; the one concerned with mechanics and clockwork, Master Isak. The old man was just standing in the snow, his square, lined face blank, his coat on inside-out. “What happened?” he cried, grabbing Master Isak’s sleeve. “Was anyone hurt? Who was here?”

Isak wiped his forehead, his shock of white hair and side-whiskers standing out like an angry cat’s fur. “The boiler itself didn’t rupture,” he said vaguely. “It was the offset pipe—just blew, tore the boiler out of its footing and drove it into the far wall in an instant. There were four students here, and they were all hurt, but only Justen was hurt badly. Poor boy! Poor boy! He tried to get the safety valve opened wide to let the pressure off, but it wasn’t enough—he ran for the door, but—he was still inside the building when it went, the rest were already at the door and the explosion blew them into the snow. Horrible … just horrible.”

“Was Natoli here?” Karal demanded, shouting and shaking the poor man’s arm. “Was she?”

“They took her with the rest to Healer’s,” Isak mumbled, staring blankly at the blood-spattered remains of the door and wringing his hands with anxiety. “The
Healers have them all. I don’t know anything else. They just left—”

Karal dropped Isak’s arm and sprinted—or tried to—in the direction of the Healer’s Collegium. Running through the heavy snow was like trying to run in loose hay; it was impossible to make any progress. And by the time he got there, they had taken Natoli off to a little room by herself and wouldn’t let him or anyone else near her.

“She just has a concussion, some bruises, and a broken wrist and ankle” they told him. “But we don’t know for certain, and we can’t let anyone in to upset her right now. She’s upset enough as it is.”

Why, he soon found out—Justen, the boy she’d been helping, had lost both legs to the knee, and was badly scalded elsewhere. Only the fact that he had been blown out into the snow through the door saved him from worse burns. His clothing had been saturated with boiling water, but the snow had cooled it quickly enough that the burns where his clothing had nominally protected him were superficial, though painful.

“At least it wasn’t his hands or his eyes,” one of the Healers said grimly, wiping his bloodstained sleeve against his sweating brow. “As an artificer, he can get along without legs, but not without hands or sight. And considering that he was in the same room as the boiler, he could have been killed.”

That was the general consensus; it could have been a lot worse. That was no comfort to Karal.
It is bad enough!
He loitered about the quiet halls, trying desperately to find someone to question, but everyone in the Collegium who was concerned with the four injured students was busy, and none of them had any time to talk to him. Anyone else he asked would only say apologetically that he knew as much as they did.

Finally, he gave up and headed for the chambers set up in the Palace where the artificers were working with the mages. Maybe someone there would know something.

No one did; there was a general air of gloom pervading the place. Some, like Master Levy and An’desha,
were working grimly at the water-table or at other tasks; their set expressions and the tight lines of their mouths told him that they were trying to distract themselves with work. Others were making no pretense at work; they simply sat with hanging heads and nakedly anxious expressions, looking up with wide and hopeful or fearful eyes whenever someone came to the door.

He joined the pair at the water-table; they were trying some new trick of An’desha’s that involved dropping a ring into the table rather than a single stone, and seeing how the waves reflected inward toward the center of the ring. Since the waves of the mage-storms were “echoing back” to their original center, this seemed to be the best way to simulate the effect.

They did this, over and over again, making minute changes and repeating the experiment mindlessly, then making notes in ledger after ledger. More and more people came to the room, as if aware that any news from the Healers would come here first.

Karal sat on a bench and watched the ring drop, over and over. Elspeth and Darkwind sat next to him and Elspeth put one hand gently on his shoulder; he hadn’t seen them come in, but he wasn’t surprised that they were here.

The walls of that tower were bowed outward, and the boiler was nothing more than metal scraps
, he thought, feeling an invisible hand squeezing his heart.
How could she be all right? Pieces of metal must have been shot through the air like lances! Were they just telling me that to make me feel better?

If only he knew! If only someone would come with word!

A box full of the round pebbles they used in the water-table lay on the bench beside him, and he began picking up handfuls and dropping them back into the box, one at a time. Darkwind began wrapping the shaft of a feather with fine silver wire, and Elspeth began methodically sharpening one of her knives. The stropping sound blended with the
tick tick
of pebbles dropping into the box, forming a peculiar and hypnotic pattern.

:Karal!:

Karal’s hand closed hard on the pebbles; Altra materialized with lightning suddenness right in front of them.

Elspeth dropped her dagger.

:Karal, I’ve just been to Natoli—she’s
fine.
Or rather, she’s no worse than the Healers told you. Concussion, cracked collarbone, bruises, broken wrist, but only a badly
sprained
ankle.:

Karal babbled all this to the rest of the room, as quickly as Altra relayed it to him mentally. As he spoke, the atmosphere in the room changed dramatically.

:Justen
will
live, and in fact he’s already making rather narcotic-induced plans for artificial legs or a wheeled chair. His burns are painful, but they have new dressings and new narcotics from the k’Leshya that will make a big difference. Ferd’s concussed and his wrists are both broken, but they’ll heal fine, David broke three ribs and his arm. That’s it. That’s
all.
They’re going to be all right!: