Lightborn. Part 6

"Then that is why we left. That sense." That Tam could believe.

Lukfer interlaced his fingers, staring steadily over them at something Tam could not see. "You said none of the mages in the palace behaved as though they sensed the box. It is my belief that no mage bred in the Temple lineages could have sensed this box."

Tam stared at him in disbelief.

"Have you seen anything around you to suggest they might have?"

"Wouldn't the masters of lineage realize that? Surely they would breed it back in?"

The golden eyes s.h.i.+fted to him. "I do not doubt they tried. They may have failed. Or they may have succeeded, but not cared for the results. Perhaps with the ability to sense comes a diminution of power-sports as strong as ourselves are rare. Even for the masters of lineage, breeding strength is not that precise an art." He s.h.i.+fted his shoulders beneath black-trimmed carmine. "Whatever the reason, lineage mages cannot sense-or manipulate-a form of magic that is potentially deadly."

"Mother of All Things," Tam breathed. It seemed completely implausible, and yet it explained why this small, deathly object should have pa.s.sed unnoticed. "Master, the archmage and the others-do they know that this magic is in the city itself?"

"No," said Lukfer, mouth setting hard. "And you will not tell them."

"But-"

"The Temple looks after its own interests, boy," Lukfer rasped. "We've made vast fortunes from our magic, and the magic as much as the compact protects us against retribution from our greed. But what would happen if the earthborn knew that there was a form of magic that Temple mages could not sense and counter, and was powerful enough to quench enspelled lights and kill a prince? They are already restless beneath the inequity; you know that better than any. This could mean the magic and mind of any mage who knows it, and the life of any earthborn-do you understand?"

Lukfer's magic suddenly surged against him from all directions, a fierce pressure mounting to pain. Tam held it off, gasping with the effort, and sagging as it withdrew as abruptly as it had come.

"Sorry, lad," Lukfer said. "But if anyone should tell them, it will be myself, alone."

Tam started to remonstrate; Lukfer slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair. Around the room, ornaments burst into fine shards of gla.s.s and then spun themselves together again. Lukfer's voice rasped, "You have no sense of history. Amongst high-ranked mages, you are still a child in years, and you have no lineage and therefore none of the-received awareness that mages pa.s.s amongst themselves, parent and teacher to child and student."

"Indoctrination, you mean," Tam said, unfairly-he well knew what Lukfer meant, the magical transfer of knowledge from mage to mage, master to student. No one was likely to give him such a gift, and Lukfer's magic was too uncontrolled for him to bestow it. "They did their best with me."

Lukfer shook his heavy head in rebuke. "The archmage is three hundred and forty years old. He was raised within the Temple by members of the first generation to emerge with real power, who were bred and trained in utter secrecy, in fear of what the earthborn would do when they learned the Temple was trying to rebuild magic. His att.i.tude, and that of many of the high masters, is at its root shaped by the Temple's situation five and six hundred years ago, when the earthborn still had the ability to eradicate us. The high masters may have grown powerful enough to disdain earthborn, and would never admit to fearing them, but that first fear lives on in them, in that place that fears acquired in childhood do."

"This magic killed the prince."

"Not magic," Lukfer said, "the mind behind the magic."

It was a distinction frequently underscored by Temple mages, and Tam detested the hypocrisy of it. No high- ranked mage took a contract he did not agree with, not anymore. "We cannot let this go on-magic or mind-killing unchecked. If we cannot take it to the high masters, we have to find that magic and its users, and, if need be, destroy them. In other words, if we cannot go to the Temple Vigilance, we must be the Temple Vigilance."

Slowly, Lukfer nodded.

Fejelis I have one friend at least, Fejelis thought as he returned his practice epee to the rack and crossed the salle to greet Magister Tammorn. A servant approached with towel in hand and he waved her away, preferring to spare only just enough attention to track her whereabouts rather than weigh the possibility of subtler threats.

He studied the demeanor of the mage, instead. Disregard the wan cast that that scarlet shade lent him, and it was still a burdened man who stood there. Stricken with grief for the prince, or for another reason? "Magister Tammorn," he said formally. "Welcome."

"Your brightness," said the mage, with a small dip of the head. "What may I do for you?"

". . . Come with me while I wash," Fejelis said. He turned and led the mage between the pistes, conscious of the tapping of the other's hard soles on the tiles. His own feet, in their soft soles, squeaked intermittently. Their mirrored images tracked them along all four walls of the room; at this time of day, only the skylight was clear to the sky. Two of the four walls were also windows, and reflected only when in shadow, as now, with the sun on the far side of the palace. Fejelis preferred his practice at this time of day: exertion in direct sunlight was tiring, and shade did keep down the audience.

Locked doors played their part, too, at least for ordinary courtiers, though no locked door could keep out a mage.

He waved the servants out of the dressing room, too. He wanted no witnesses to this conversation, and the servants seemed-they were-more nervous than usual. He was not greatly concerned: he could attribute that to his sudden elevation, the rumors around his guilt, or the company he kept.

He turned to Tam, emotion closing his throat at the sight of the mage's face. He had urged his trainers to drive him hard, so as to force everything else out of his mind but the moment. Now, however-unable to trust his voice, he put out his arm to be clasped in greeting. The mage used the grip to draw Fejelis against him in an importunate but welcome hug. "Jay," he said against the prince's ear. "Oh, curse it, Fejelis. I am so sorry."

Fejelis allowed himself to rest against Tam's peasant-bred strength, a strength that had nearly fifty years of living behind it, and not always easy living, either. Then he eased himself away. Above all, he must remain clearheaded and clear-eyed. Grief was for men secure in their position.

". . . I know, Tam," he said, huskily. "It's far too soon to lose him, and in such a terrible way. But we both knew the risks." His watchful eye caught Tam's distress, and he made note. What risks did Tam know about that he did not?

"What are you going to do?"

". . . Survive," Fejelis said, simply. "Father would be thoroughly disappointed in me if I did not." Then with irony, "I'm rather offended that anyone might think me fool enough as to have my father a.s.sa.s.sinated on the very night I came of age."

"Others have, or at least attempted it," Tam pointed out.

"Well, I'm not one of them. And if you yourself have any doubts, let us lay them to rest now." He offered his bare hand. If it trembled slightly, it was with muscle fatigue. He intended to sleep well tonight. Whether he might safeguard himself by taking up with one of his erstwhile dancing partners, or merely add to his danger, he had yet to decide.

Tam sketched a gesture deflecting the touch. "I trust you."

". . . Then you're probably unique," Fejelis said. ". . . Mistress White Hand told you I want you to investigate his death. Are you willing?"

To a man who had schooled himself to pay attention, Tam's open face could be as readable as a child's. ". . . You already know something, don't you?"

For a moment he thought the mage would object that there was no contract between them, no payment negotiated, no public declaration made. That would have been a lawful objection, and the puddle of muck that remained of his father attested well to the consequences of a broken law.

But this was Tam, the mage who had acted outside contract and compact to save a dying child. "I-can't tell you, yet. It's a Temple matter."

". . . Does that mean you are declining the contract through conflict of interest?"

"I am not declining the contract," Tam said, flus.h.i.+ng, though the question was entirely proper at such a juncture. "This is something that . . ." He caught himself. "Who exactly killed your father, and who else was involved, is not something I can tell you at present, because I do not know."

Fejelis weighed the answer. ". . . If you cannot tell me who was responsible, perhaps you might be able to tell me who is not? It would help if I know whom I might trust."

". . . Yes," the mage said.

". . . Shall we discuss terms of payment, then?"

With an air of challenge, Tam named a sum that matched a skilled artisan's wages.

Fejelis laughed, the first laugh he had enjoyed since he had learned of his father's death. "You mean that, don't you? How do you ever plan to become obscenely rich, as befits your rank?"

The mage's revealing face showed not irritation but frank anger. "You know why," he said, grimly.

Fejelis already regretted his reaction. Indeed he knew why. Tam had lived the consequences of the beggaring of the provinces, the poverty that broke spirits and bodies, the desperate ignorance. ". . . I do," he said, soberly, "and I respect you for it. I am sorry to deny you the chance to express your principles, but I cannot have this contract seen as a mockery of my father's death."

"Then offer what you think fit. I do not care," the mage said. He ran a hand over his face. "I would do this unpaid if I could, for your father, and you."

". . . And wouldn't that be a scandal." Fejelis turned to ply the lock of his cabinet. From within the cabinet, he took two bottles, examined the seals of both with care-intact-and offered one to the mage. Then he pressed the lever to reset the lock, and closed the door. Leaning against the cabinet, he took a long swig of water.

". . . There's an estate on the outskirts," he said. "Nine acres and a manor house. I've been trying to think how to get it to you for some time. With some work it would be suitable for the hostel you've spoken about." The mage had been contributing to the city's charities for dest.i.tute immigrants since he had a coin to spare. ". . . Or you could turn it into a workshop for our friends the artisans. You'll have to figure out the Temple t.i.the yourself. . . . Be warned; Mother had some notions as to what I might do with it. Did she have a part in Father's death?" he asked, launching the question without a beat's hesitation.

"I . . . can't say," the mage said, the momentary pleasure at Fejelis's offer leaving his face.

". . . You do have the information? Or hesitate to say? Please tell me that, at least."

The mage met his eyes directly. "I do not have the information."

That would have to do. ". . . Are you starting to regret taking the contract?" he asked.

"I do regret it," Tam said, low voiced. "I will regret it. But I would regret it far more if I did not-I know and sense and feel that."

Fejelis gave little weight to some mages' claims of prescience, but that statement lifted the hairs on the back of his neck.

He sighed. ". . . My mother took great pleasure in telling me that she had learned that Mistress White Hand had visited my father's rooms in the early hours of this morning." Watching, he saw the mage's perturbation. ". . . Can I trust her, Tam?"

Tam started to say something, and then stopped. "Jay," he said, "this is for friends.h.i.+p, not for contract. I-cannot exclude the possibility that Floria was involved. Knowing how she loved the prince, I can hardly believe it, but I cannot exclude it. The basis of my suspicions I-cannot tell you yet. I need to investigate further."

He looked more than tired now; he looked white, sickly almost. Fejelis set down his bottle-on the top of the cabinet, where he would not lose sight of it-stooped, and hefted the bench some six feet from its original position. The skylight was mirrored outside, the roof well patrolled during sunlight, but he did not, and would not, create opportunities. The servants would be able to describe the layout only as it had been. "Sit down," he said.

Tam sat; Fejelis sat beside him, stretching to ease a twinge in his back. He'd have to get lighter benches in here if he was to have these conversations often.

Neither of them spoke. He settled back on his hands, studying the deep blue sky. He remembered the sweetness of the poisoned peach as he lapped its juices from his hands, standing in the orchard beneath a late summer's sky, just like this one. He had been alone, and the solitude, like the peach, seemed a gift to nourish him. He felt himself expand to his full height in it, relieved of the constantly watching eyes, the constant waiting for him to declare himself one way or the other. He could feel the breeze cooling his scalp through his close-cropped hair, the haircut that had so appalled his mother and her entourage.

He had cut his hair for the most childish of reasons: he had been jealous of his brother, little flame- haired Orlanjis, the pampered darling of the southern faction. He had wanted attention. He had wanted to announce he was different.

In that, he thought, he had certainly succeeded. The delicious peach, the delicious solitude, had, of course, been engineered. The Vigilance drawn away, himself lured-by a girl three years older than he whom he wors.h.i.+pped-into the far orchard, to the peach trees, to the low-hanging peaches. She, three years older, six inches taller, could reach past those, quite naturally. They had plucked and devoured the fruit with m.u.f.fled glee. Then she had blurted that her mother would be looking for her, and dashed away, leaving him licking the juice from his fingers, until the dizziness began, and the painful muscle spasms.

In a sense he had died that day. Whoever had been carried from the orchard, it had not been the child who wandered so blithely in.

". . . Does the Temple want me dead?" he said quietly to the mage beside him.

"No," said Tam. "Not to my knowledge."

Fejelis twisted to study the mage, weighing those words. ". . . I could almost wish they did," he said, half whimsically, half bitterly. ". . . Then I would know they thought we had a serious chance."

"I wish," the mage said, "I had half your courage."

The prince prodded him. "I'll hold you to artisans' wages on future contracts. We will shake the foundations of the Temple yet."

My courage, he thought, is of your making , though you may not know it. He remembered the moment when he had been able to breathe and hear again, the quietly spoken, "He'll be fine now." By the time he had opened his gummy eyes to stare at laden peach trees, and Floria White Hand's frightened face, the two of them were alone. But the voice had lingered, the voice of a G.o.d speaking benediction on him. He'll be fine now. The words carried the accent of the west foothills, but G.o.ds lived in places remote in place and time; the western mountains seemed as likely a place as any.

He held that promise close throughout the slow convalescence that followed-for Tam had not erased all the ill effects of the poison, merely the death in it-and the investigations that, largely unknown to him, led to arrests, executions, and banishments. He was made aware of those only once, when he woke to the sound of the girl's voice crying his name from the outer rooms-she had briefly escaped her captivity, come to beg him for her life. Her voice had filled his throat with sweet, poisoned juice. He rocked miserably on his pillows, hands over his ears, straining to hear the remembered voice of the G.o.d. He'll be fine now.

In time he had realized that his savior had to be a mage, not a G.o.d. But by then the promise had counteracted the last effect of the poison, the one on his spirit. He might be changed, but he was not broken.

He had been fifteen when he finally met the man. By then, he was a boy of guarded actions and many masks, who regularly shed the Vigilance-or so he thought-to wander the city in disguise, studying people unnoticed. In the persona of a rebellious young palace servant, he had fallen in with students from the artisan colleges. Observation guided him to the group at the periphery who spoke quietly amongst themselves of the arts of the people on the other side of sunrise, of firearms that could shoot hundreds of yards with precision, of trains that rode their tracks more swiftly than a horse could run, night and day. And of a magic that was not magic, called electricity, that could-it was in the equations-move impossible loads and heat wires until they glowed with brilliant light.

Much of what he learned, he took back to his father, at their private breakfasts. Isidore listened closely to Fejelis's accounts of Darkborn wonders and the concerns and complaints of people outside court. Isidore in turn spoke of his discussions with the Darkborn archduke, whom he found both shrewd and sympathetic, though Seja.n.u.s Plantageter's distaste for magic was profound and he was hampered by the prejudices of his dukes. Lightborn-Darkborn affairs were mediated by a low-level, relatively powerless shared council. And as Fejelis grew older, Isidore spoke often of the consequences of the compact and the stranglehold that the mages had on the princedom's wealth.

But as Fejelis listened to the young artisans argue about whether heated wires could glow as brightly as the sun, he knew his father would not find this interesting, but alarming. Light was the one form of magic that every Lightborn had no choice but to depend upon. And by their suddenly lowered voices, the artisans knew it, too.

Even as he tried to steady himself, he became aware that he himself was being watched. At a nearby table, a man caught his eye, and crooked a finger. Fejelis took in the red hair, the broad, freckled peasant face, the sharp gray green eyes, the dress of a journeyman artisan. Quite ordinary, but very much a stranger. And he might have been sitting on the other side of a mirrored window, for all the others seemed aware of him.

He knew then what the man was. He pushed his chair back and walked quietly around the table, his fellows' glances sliding off him. He sat down opposite the man; yes, even from here, he could hear every excited whisper.

There was nothing to indicate who held the mage's contracts, and therefore nothing to indicate whether Fejelis could lawfully order him away. Nevertheless, ". . . You ought to leave," he said. "You don't belong here."

The mage's eyes narrowed. "I would say the same of you," he said. "You're no servant's boy. Not watched as you are."

He twitched, but managed to resist looking around to find the guard he had missed. Even so, the man smiled. "Not today, I'm afraid I've made sure of that. . . . What do you think"-he tilted his head toward the artisans-"of their notions?"

He did not trust the lightness of that word, for one. ". . . I think," he said, measuring out his words, ". . . they are very clever, but innocent. They do not understand the implications."

"Not as well as you do, perhaps, but well enough to be dangerous."

". . . Magic is not involved here. Law says this has nothing to do with the Temple. . . . Let's walk out together. I can make it worth your while." He slid his hand across the table, opening his palm to show a single star sapphire on a fine chain. Only those of the reigning prince's blood were ent.i.tled to the stone.

There was no surprise recognition in the mage's face at the sight, only relief. With a gentle touch, he pressed Fejelis's hand closed. "I do believe you are right." His fingers flickered, and suddenly the students cl.u.s.tered around them. "Tam." One of the girls, landing a flirtatious kiss on his wavy hair. "We didn't see you. I see you've met our latest recruit-" She caught Fejelis's expression and looked uncertainly back at the mage.

Who said comfortingly, "Yes, we've met. He'll be fine now. But you do need to be more circ.u.mspect, my children, when you're plotting to turn the world upside down."

Fejelis's world turned upside down. He'll be fine now.

"You're smiling," Tam said now, at his side.

"I'm thinking about the day we met," Fejelis said, "when I tried to bribe you, and you rather more successfully turned me into a co-conspirator. . . . If any good is going to come of this terrible thing, it will be that I can do what we've only just talked about until now. Having a workshop in the manor would let our friends build more and larger prototypes and generators. Now I can push to elevate the standing of the Intercalatory Council, get some higher-ranked earthborn on both sides involved. I also want the palace judiciary to explore the wording of the concord and all subsequent rulings to determine what is and is not allowed within the concord-we have to be protected against interference from the Temple."

"Jay, you have to take care," Tam breathed.

Isidore had said the very same to him, on occasion. But along with grief, he had a heady sense of possibility: he was prince, with all that entailed. He might die tomorrow, from southern ambition or northern schemes. What purpose holding back, then?

". . . The best help you can give me is to find out how my father died." He would push no further, at this moment. Even friends could turn.

He thought about Floria White Hand. Tam had said that she loved the prince, and he trusted Tam's judgment, though no doubt the vigilant daughter of vigilants would scorn such sentimental terms. Isidore had trusted her with his life against repeated poisoning attempts-nine that Fejelis knew of, and more in the years of his infancy. In the palace, Fejelis himself had obeyed Isidore's wish that he eat only dishes that Floria had tasted first. He said, slowly, ". . . I think I must have the Vigilance hold Mistress White Hand."

The mage flinched. Fejelis continued. ". . . What Mother said, I might discount as malice." Though his mother's survival instincts, he knew, were superb. "But along with what you said . . . if I cannot rely on Floria's loyalty, I cannot rely on her a.s.set. And she is herself an expert with poisons."

The sudden taste of ripe peach in the back of his mouth made him want to gag. Hearing the stifled sound, and perhaps mistaking it for a sob, Tam reached over to squeeze his arm briefly. "It's a good decision," he said. "If she's been somehow ensorcelled, you dare not trust her."

Fejelis did not acknowledge either the moment of weakness or the gesture of consolation. ". . . It'll make for a hungry few days, until she's cleared or I have a replacement. But I'll live. If I share Mother's and Orlanjis's table, aside from being vulnerable to our common enemies, I'll burn my stomach out." He stood up. "I need to get washed and dressed and back upstairs. Fortunately"-his smile twisted-"I doubt anyone will want to risk my company, come sunset."

Tam lifted his head. "You're wrong. I'm staying with you now. I intend to find the person or persons responsible for this attack. There's more riding on it than I can tell you, but your life is by far the least."

Floria Balthasar's letter came into her hands in the late afternoon, delivered by the secretary of the Lightborn half of the Intercalatory Council with profuse apologies for its tardiness. Her lips thin, Floria silently cursed the woman for an incompetent-a letter meant for a recipient other than the one it was addressed to was hardly a rarity in her work-and, back against the lintel of the window of the west- facing gallery, turned the letter toward the sunlight. The script was thinner and more untidy than usual, and there were mistakes in the ciphering. It was dated two nights past.

Floria, Baron Strumh.e.l.ler has been arrested for Tercelle Amberley's murder and for sorcerous harm to Lord Vladimer. . . .

Oh, my friend, Floria thought, reading his plea for information on the whereabouts of his kidnapped daughter. I am desperate. . . . And Strumh.e.l.ler, their capable ally, charged with sorcery. She turned the letter over in her hands, feeling the stippling of the Darkborn script, and paused to decipher the covering letter to the head of the Intercalatory Council, Bal's careful strategy for disguising the message to her from his own people. She shook her head: maybe she had taught him too well.

With the prince in no immediate need of her special services, she surely had time enough to go home and check for any further word, and time enough to send an inquiry directly to the archducal palace if there was none. Tam was with the prince; she would speak to him as soon as possible thereafter. A word to the new captain, Lapaxo, and a promise to return promptly before dinner gained her leave to go.

Smoke-tinted sunlight painted the west walls of the palace. Already the first of the palace administrative staff-those not involved in executing the elaborate funeral arrangements-were beginning to return to their own homes in the periphery of the palace round. All wore red jackets over their work clothes. Whether a deposition was rightful or unrightful did not matter to the civil service; tradition ruled.