Vincalis the Agitator (14 page)

“What would happen to this document if it left the room?” Wraith asked.

“It would immediately disintegrate. Not even dust would remain.”

“I thought so.” Wraith clutched the document, which demonstrated not only how magic would be drawn from the sacrifice of Warreners’
souls in the future, but how it had been drawn from their flesh, their bone, their blood, and their life force for the last
thousand years. Solander had to see it.

“Damnall,” Wraith muttered. “How can I get a copy of this that can leave the room?”

“Request it.”

Wraith stared around the workroom, stunned by the obviousness of that. Master Rone would have to have removable copies of
his work for many purposes; he was, after all, Master of Energy for the city of Oel Artis and its sister city of Oel Maritias,
and rumors attached him as a close personal advisor to none other than the Landimyn of the Hars herself. People speculated
that the Landimyn was old and becoming reclusive, and that Rone stood well placed—with only a few others in serious contention—to
receive her appointment to the post when she stepped down.

He would have to present copies of his work to colleagues, to subordinates, to the Landimyn.

“Make a duplicate of this document that can be removed from the room without its destruction,” Wraith said. “And keep no record
of the existence of the copy.”

“Done,” the voice that surrounded him said. In his hand, an identical copy appeared. Wraith carefully put the original back
where he’d found it and walked to the door clutching the copy. “No one has been here from the time Master Rone left until
he returns again,” Wraith said. “And nothing has left or will leave the room.” He felt that he might be pushing his luck;
still, he didn’t want to leave any chance that Rone might discover his intrusion accidentally.

“Correct.”

He glanced through the copy quickly to make sure that all the pages had writing on them and that the writing matched what
he had already seen. He didn’t trust magic. It had too many loopholes to it, and because he lived within its loopholes, he
always checked for failures that might affect him.

The copy looked perfect. He stuffed it inside his shirt, tucking an edge of it beneath his belt so that it would not slide
around and betray its presence to anyone looking at him. Then he took a breath, stepped back through the door, and closed
it behind him. He heard the magical locks hum to life.

He could see Solander peeking at him from across the hall; he nodded and started toward his room. Solander trotted out of
the library carrying two thick reference volumes—their cover story for being where they were—and caught up with him.

“Well?”

“If we had wagered, you would owe me now,” Wraith said under his breath. “But we have to talk about this in my room. Not here.”

Solander said nothing else until they entered Wraith’s room. Then, however, he turned and said, “All right. You’re going to
make this into a big, dramatic presentation, aren’t you? Just get it over with. Tell me— what’s going on in the Warrens that’s
such a big gods’-damned secret?”

“The Warreners have been the only effective magical fuel source of the Empire of the Hars Ticlarim for at least a thousand
years. Maybe longer.”

All the color drained from Solander’s face. Almost instantly, though, he regained his composure. He shook his head and laughed.
“Damn, you’re good at that. I almost believed you. Wraith, the Empire draws power from a complex combination of earth energy,
star energy, elemental energy, and a few special secret things that are still under development, and that will be announced
when the Research Department can assure their safety.”

“So you’re told.”

“I’ve seen the plants that draw the magic from the sun and the sea and convert it.”

“No, you haven’t. You’ve seen the plants that draw energy from human ‘units’ in the Warrens and run it through some pretty
coils and lights to make it look like it’s from the sun and the sea. The Dragons don’t want the citizens of the Empire to
know they are burning human beings to keep their floating mansions in the air or their lights lit or any of the other millions
of things that now depend on Warrener fuel. According to the paper I found, humans are an excellent source of renewable energy.
Way-fare keeps them as fat as they can be and still survive because when they die, they then provide huge amounts of flesh-and-bone
energy, which has always been some of the strongest available. Their food is spelled to be both addictive and toxic so that
if somehow someone manages to get free of the addiction, he’ll die of the poison— can’t have the truth getting out, after
all.”

Solander’s smile went away. “This isn’t funny. You’re suggesting corruption of the government at a level and of a degree that
would, if it were discovered, lead to the destruction of the Empire. Such a government would have pulled itself apart—or would
have been torn apart by its people—long before this. Any government that survives more than three thousand years can only
do so when standing upon a foundation of righteousness and purity.”

“Really? Who told you that? The Godlet of Governments?”

“I’ve studied government, Wraith! One of the things we discussed in great detail was how corrupt governments die and pure
governments succeed.”

“The person who taught you that ever hold a position in government?”

“Well … of course. Who else could be expected to understand the workings of the Empire?”

Wraith smiled a little. “I’m only saying that your idealistic view of the Hars Ticlarim might not be based on the most unbiased
of opinions.”

“People would riot and hang the Dragons in protest if they thought the Hars was using human-based magic for its fuel.”

“Maybe,” Wraith said. “Maybe not. Maybe all the people who live in cities in the sky or under the sea won’t think the lives
of Warreners will matter much when compared to the survival of their cities. But it gets worse.”

“No, it doesn’t. I don’t know what you think you’ve found, but—”

Wraith held up a hand. “
It gets worse,
” he repeated. “Now they’ve found a way to burn human souls. I have proof.”

He pulled the bound copy of the research paper out of his shirt and handed it to Solander.

“Oh, gods. You stole something from the workroom. Are you insane? That’s treason.”

“It’s a copy,” Wraith said. “A legal copy, for which no tracking will be done, and of which no record has been made.”

“You can’t—”

“Just read it. Please. You can tell me what a terrible thing I’ve done after you’ve read it.”

Solander studied the title, opened the first page, and began to read. After a few minutes, he got out stylus and scribe and
began working out equations. He was quiet for a very long time.

Wraith watched him. He thought about his family, trapped in the prison of the Warrens, chained there by walls, poisons, magic,
and the indifference of the world outside, and now robbed not just of their lives, but of eternity as well. He sat on the
corner of his bed. He tried to push the memories of all of them out of his mind—tried to tell himself that they didn’t feel
anything. That at least they would suffer no pain for the horrors that they were living through and would die from. And in
spite of his best attempts to get control of himself, he started to cry.

M
aster Grath Faregan watched the tracking device he’d placed on the back of his little fish the first time he touched her.
The girl’s simulacrum moved through the maze of the festival in frantic, wandering worm-trails. Fast, never stopping, never
moving off the path into any of the amusements. Faregan smiled. So she hadn’t found her friends yet. She was underage—he was
sure of it. If he could get her while she was still in the festival, he could have her without repercussions; after all, disguised
as an adult, she gave up the protections of childhood. And he couldn’t be expected to know that she had no business being
at the festival, could he? She wore the necessary identifiers, after all.

No doubt the bracelet didn’t belong to her, but that wouldn’t be his fault.

He decided it was time to bump into her again. Perhaps get her very drunk on one of the aerosol intoxicants in a floating
pavilion, take her right there …

… Or maybe he would delay his gratification. Drunk and pliable, she would offer no real resistance and no credible protest.
He could pretend to be anyone, get her out the gate, destroy her bracelet, and take her home to add to his collection. And
there, he could enjoy her repeatedly and at his leisure.

No one would ever know—with the wrong bracelet on, the girl she really was would never show up on festival records. And the
girl who did show up would be found safe wherever she’d decided to stay.

Faregan took his bearings, shut down his tracker, and headed on an intercept course. A genuine stolti girl would be the centerpiece
of his already superb girl-menagerie.

Jess caught a glimpse of the man she’d met just inside the festival entrance. He was smiling and walking toward her. She didn’t
want to meet him—she didn’t know why, but he frightened her. So she bolted back the way she’d come, doubled back around him,
and headed out of the festival.

She’d been pawed, grabbed, groped, and fondled in her search for Wraith, and she couldn’t take any more. She reached the arch,
saw that same man heading toward her
again,
and bolted outside the festival. With her body trembling so badly she almost couldn’t stand up, she ripped the mask from
her face and threw it to the floor. She tore off the bracelet and flung it back through the arch, so that she could never
be tempted to go in there again. If Wraith was in there, he had his privacy guarded—he could be anywhere, doing anything with
anyone. She didn’t know how she could ever look him in the eyes again.

She felt sick. Men and women, singly and in groups, had pursued her, caught at her, tried to drag her into chambers and pavilions
and onto floating beds, all of them clamoring to convince her that this would be good for her, that she would like it, that
it was all a part of growing up.

This was not what being stolti—being free of the Warrens and free of all restrictions on the lower classes—had meant to her.
She’d dreamed of creating beauty, of rising above her beginnings to bring her vision of art and wonder to the world. She’d
hoped in this way to pay penance for her years of deception, to somehow validate her worth to people she saw as inherently
more deserving of the privileges they enjoyed than she could ever be, because they had been born to them.

She did not—would not—embrace this facet of the stolti. She did not think she could look at these people she had known and
ever see herself as part of them again.

It didn’t matter, she told herself, that no one knew who you were. What you did when you were hidden mattered just as much
as what you did when everyone knew you—because you were still the person doing it.

In that moment she realized that the future she’d planned for herself as a stolti—vow-bonded to a stolti man, with a great
house and beautiful things all around her, creating things of beauty as the covil-ossets did—was dead.

And she had no idea what would replace it.

Rone Artis left the festival as quickly as he could—as soon as Torra found a group that interested her, he told her that he
was going to go private and find a party for himself. She’d been pleased by that; this one time of the year, she preferred
that he didn’t stay too close.

He had a temporary patch-up—he’d cast a small version of the new soul-spell in his workroom, and had done the necessary diversions
and buffering from there—but he didn’t want to leave such a volatile spell running in his own home. He planned to pick up
the complete spell schematics from his workroom, gather his supplies, and move his work to the Department of Energy in the
City Center, which had a reliable, full-time buffer running. He didn’t need to deal with a spell backlash and all its attendant
problems now; he’d finally achieved his goal of becoming the Grand Master of the sister cities of Oel Artis and Oel Maritias;
with time and some good luck and a demonstration of his ability to manage the current crisis, he could find himself sitting
in the Dossmere Chair—the throne occupied by the Landimyn of the Hars Ticlarim. From there, he could finally effect all of
the changes that the Empire needed. He had his platform worked out; hells-all, he’d been working on that platform for the
last twenty years, though he would never admit as much to anyone else.