The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) (3 page)

Master Smythe nodded and blinked. “Ah—I expected him here. He is in Morea.”

“Where he belongs, at school.” Ser Gabriel leaned forward.

“You have left half your company in Morea?” Master Smythe asked.

“Ser Milus deserved an independent command. Now he has it. He has almost all the archers and—” The Red Knight paused.

Ser Michael laughed. “And all the knights we trust.”

Master Smythe nodded. “Hence your escort of Thrakian… gentlemen.”

Ser Gabriel nodded. “I don’t think any of them plan to put a knife in my ribs, but I think it’s better for everyone that they aren’t in Thrake for a year or two.”

Count Zac came in and, at a sign from Sauce, closed the door with his hip. He had a tray full of bread and olive oil. He went and balanced with Sauce on a small stool.

“And we have Count Zacuijah to keep the rest of us in line,” Ser Gabriel said.

“And the magister you carried in your head?” asked Master Smythe.

There were some blank looks and, again, Sauce made a face that indicated a connection made. She bit her lip and looked at her lover. He shrugged.

Most of the men and women present had never seen the captain so at a loss—so hesitant. But he mustered his wits. “All my secrets revealed. Well. Maestro Harmodius has re-established his place in the… um… corporeal world.”

Master Smythe nodded. His gaze rested on Count Zac. “And you just happen to have joined our little cabal?” Master Smythe asked.

“I want to see a tournament,” the easterner said. “Besides, nothing exciting will happen in Morea now.”

Alcaeus grunted. “Your mouth to God’s ear,” he said.

Count Zac shrugged. “Yes—unless
someone
poisons the Emperor.”

Alcaeus put a hand on his dagger.

Master Smythe allowed a wisp of smoke to escape his nose. He pulled a pipe from his pocket—an amazing affectation, an Outwaller habit almost never seen in civilized lands—and began to pack it full of red-brown leaf mould. “Could we begin?” he asked mildly.

Gabriel spread his hands. “I have very little to report. And little to say beyond—thanks. We really could not have accomplished anything without you. It pains me to say it, but without your hand on the delicate balances of power and
logistika,
we’d have failed last winter.”

Master Smythe bowed his head in gracious assent. “How was the petard? The explosive device?”

Ser Michael barked a laugh. “Loud,” he said. “My ears still ring sometimes.”

Master Smythe played with his beard as if he’d never noticed he had one before. “Splendid. There will be more toys of a similar nature coming along in the next months. Indeed, I have arranged—or I will—that you can collect them in Harndon.” He looked around. “We are coming… to the difficult part.”

Sauce allowed her nostrils to flare. “That was the easy part?”

Master Smythe sighed. He put his pipe to his lips—a very long-stemmed Outwaller pipe decorated in an extravagant excess of porcupine quill work—and inhaled, and the pipe lit itself. “Yes,” he said. “In the next phase, almost whatever we do, we will be noticed. Even now, our adversary must be wondering if there is another player in the game. Or if the dice are rigged. He has made two attempts to put his pawn on the throne of Alba. He has made a half-hearted attempt to bring about the collapse of Morea. I think he believes that his adversary is Harmodius. So far.” Master Smythe smiled with prim satisfaction. “Now—” He exhaled smoke. “Now he is bending his schemes to Ticondaga and Dorling. My own backyard.”

Ser Gavin stiffened.

“Down, boy,” Ser Gabriel said. “I’m sure that Mater can overcome anything we face.”

Master Smythe shook his head. “Ghause is the victim of her own vanity,” he said.

Gabriel nodded. “I’ve always thought so.”

Father Arnaud laughed, and so did Sauce. Bad Tom allowed a snort to escape him. “Comes by it honestly,” he said.

Gabriel pretended to fan himself with his hand. “If you are all quite finished,” he said.

“They love you,” Master Smythe said. “Laughing at you helps them deal with your tiresome arrogance.”

“You do just keep saying these things. You must be very difficult at parties.” Ser Gabriel nodded. “Can I try that thing?”

“He just wants to learn to blow smoke,” Sauce said.

Ser Gavin was unhappy and it showed on his face. He pulled on his own beard and then shook his head. “He’s going for Ticondaga? What are we doing to counter him?”

Master Smythe handed his pipe to the captain. “We’re trying not to be deceived. We’re trying not to tip our hand. He—you know who I mean—does not care a whit for Ticondaga. He wants Lissen Carak and what lies beneath it. But—but. Do you know how my experience of your reality functions?”

Silence fell.

“You can imagine from the intensity of our stares how much we’d
like
to know,” Ser Gabriel said. He coughed and handed the long pipe to Master Smythe.

Master Smythe laughed. “I had that coming. Very well. If I play no part in your affairs, I find it fairly simple to observe them in a general way. In fact, it is as easy as breathing for me to regard the general flow of your reality, past, present and, as you see it, future. Or, as I might put it in your excellent language, in your infinity of presents.”

He looked around. “But once I reach out to interfere—” He adjusted a
cuff. He seemed to notice the back of his hand for the first time—stared at it, and as he stared it became less smooth, more like the back of a mature man’s hand. He raised his eyebrows as if surprised. “Hmm. At any rate, once I poke about, I change everything. As do all my kin. As do you, for that matter—heh, heh.”

He laughed for a moment. No one joined him.

“Bother. What I mean is that the closer I am to the action, the less I see. The fewer infinities of the present are eventuated.” He paused. “Understand?”

Sauce sighed.

Mag smiled. “Because you have chosen to interfere, you are in this sequence of events with us, and you can’t see much else.”

“Well said. Yes. But the delicate bit is that my presence here modifies the… the… the everything. It is a different everything than if I were not here. With our adversary and others also—I like the word interfere, it’s absolutely correct—with all this interference from my kind, none of us can see anything. It is possible that we’re drawing everything into a single thread.”

Mag spoke like a character in a passion play. “Fate,” she said. “Fate is when several of you all interfere together.”

“As perceived by you,” Master Smythe said. He raised his eyebrows. “At any rate, I know depressingly little about the next few months. But enough of us are now interfering that our adversary has to notice. Further, he’s pouring power into several of his shadows and his puppets and his tools, and the results will be… cataclysmic.”

“Couldn’t you do the same?” Tom asked. “I mean—if the bastard cheats, cheat back.”

Master Smythe nodded. “I already have. The sword by your side, Ser Thomas—the black powder that burns.” He put a hand to his chin. There was something wrong with the gesture, as if his arm joints had a little too much free play. “But if there are sides in this game, I represent a side that wishes for—the most powerful entities to play by the rules. I would hesitate to describe my side as
good
. I would merely emphasize that my side has a smaller body count and tends to minimize—” He glanced away. “Negative outcomes,” he muttered.

“That’s heartening,” Gabriel said. “We’re on the side with fewer negative outcomes. We could embroider that on the company flag.” He took a long pull at his ale. “I appreciate that you are not
trying
to be mysterious and difficult, but you are succeeding magnificently. May I try returning your words? You are saying that the more you help us, the less you can see of what’s actually happening. You are saying that there are several of you, which I guessed but I don’t think we’ve ever heard said plainly before. You’ll help us to a point, but to do more would jeopardize—” Here Ser Gabriel laughed. “Your moral convictions as a deity. Or a dragon.”

“Or whatever the fuck you are,” said Sauce.

“Yes,” Master Smythe said. “You are an apt pupil.”

“Can I ask you some questions?” Ser Gabriel asked.

Master Smythe drank. “Of course. But you understand that this is about entanglement with your… event sequence. The more questions I answer, the more entangled I am, even if I take no action.”

“Bless you,” Ser Gabriel said. “But that’s your trouble, not ours.”

“I agree,” said the dragon.

“Will Harmodius now change sides?” Gabriel snapped.

A pained look crossed Master Smythe’s usually immobile face. “Master Harmodius is far along the road,” he said. “So far that he may decide to be a side, rather than adopt one. It heartens me that he was so conservative with his powers in the recent contest. I cannot go beyond that.”

“Will de Vrailly kill the King?” Gabriel asked.

There was the sound of a dozen breaths all sucked in together.

Master Smythe let a trickle of smoke—artificial smoke, not his own—come out of his mouth. “The sequence, as it applies to the King of Alba, is now completely opaque to me,” he said. “I can’t see a thing.” He sighed. “But I do not see anything happening to the king except his becoming more of a tool.”

Ser Gabriel sat back. “Damn. How about this spring? Right now? The drove and the fairs?”

Master Smythe nodded. “Again, I am too close to all of these. My adversary must be very close to exposing me. But I see this much; Thorn has made alliance with the entity who calls himself ‘the Black Knight.’ They have both slaves and allies in the north—and elsewhere—and they are preparing a major effort. Their scouts have already entered the Adnacrags—indeed, a few foolish creatures attempted to pass my Circle and a dozen raids are aimed into the valley of the Cohocton even now. So yes—yes, I expect that you will be attacked on the road, and that efforts will be made to disrupt trade. My adversary understands trade.”

They all sat, digesting this packet of information.

“Will there be another attempt on the Emperor?” Ser Alcaeus asked.

“I’m not a prophet,” Master Smythe said with visible irritation. “And given your own hand in these events, you are perilously close to annoying me.”

Every head turned.

Alcaeus flushed. “I have chosen my side. I’m here.”

Master Smythe shrugged. “Any road, I’m too close to it. But I will say that any event that threatens the stability of the city is a threat to… everything.”

“How very enigmatic and helpful,” Father Arnaud said. “Will you attend the Council of the North? You are one of the important landowners.”

This sally caused Master Smythe to smile. “By your God, Father, that was witty.” He looked around. “No, I will not attend. We are, as I have
tried to say, too close to the tipping point where our adversary detects my interference pattern. That would be very difficult for me. I cannot be seen to directly aid you or I am revealed. And then—then, we fail.” He shrugged. “Even this is an evasion. I can take certain actions—others are too revealing.”

“Because he is stronger than you?” Ser Gabriel asked.

Master Smythe frowned. “Yes.”

“Drat,” Ser Gabriel said.

“Is there a God?” asked Sauce.

“You don’t mince about, do you?” Master Smythe asked. “Child of man, I have no more idea than do you.” He took a long pull on his pipe. “I will say that as my kind is to your kinds, then it would not surprise me to find an order of beings that were to us as we to you, and so on. And perhaps, above us all, there is one. And perhaps that one caring and omnipotent, rather than uncaring, manipulative, and predatory.” He shrugged. “May I share a hard truth?”

“Do you do anything else?” the captain snapped back.

“All practitioners of the art—of whatever race—reach a point of practice where they ask:
what is real?
” He looked around. Mag shrugged, as if the question was unimportant, and Gabriel flinched.

“Yes,” he said.

“If you can manipulate the
aethereal
by the power of your will alone, and shape it to the image you hold only in your head,” Master Smythe said softly, “then it behooves all of us to ask what the act of belief actually contains. Does it not?”

Sauce shook that remark off the way she’d shake off an opponent’s inept blow. “But you don’t know, yerself,” she said. “One way or another.”

Gabriel suddenly had the same almost feral look of understanding that Sauce had worn when she understood that the Muriens family now controlled the whole length of the wall. “You mean that—my whole life”—he took a breath as if it hurt—“is not by God’s will or his curse, but by an interference pattern of your kind creating my
fate
?”

“Ah!” said Master Smythe. “That is, in fact, exactly what I mean.” He paused. “But not just my kind, children of men. All kinds. Your reality is the very result of the interference pattern of an infinite maze of wills. What else could it be?” He smiled, the smile of the cat about to eat the mouse. “Your kind twist the skein of fate, too. You yourself, ser knight. Mag, here. Tom Lachlan. Sauce. Alcaeus. All of you.”

Gabriel drained all the ale in his cup.

“Fuck you all, then,” he muttered.

Mag glanced at him. “I have a question, too,” she said quietly.

Master Smythe’s eyes rested on her. She met his squarely. And smiled. He had beautiful eyes, she thought.

“The Patriarch,” she began.

“A very worthy man,” Master Smythe said.

“He suggested—mm—that living on the frontier—with the Wild—had some effect on our powers.” Once she began to speak, it appeared that Mag wasn’t sure what she was asking.

Master Smythe pursed his lips. “An astute observation to which I will add one of my own. When two cultures face off in a war, do you know what the most common result is?”

Mag swallowed. “One is destroyed?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky.

Master Smythe shook his head as if she was an inept student. “No, no,” he said. “That scarcely ever happens. They come to resemble one another. War does that.”

“So you’re sayin’—” Mag paused. “That we are coming to resemble the Wild?”