Firebrand 4: The Spellslinger, page 23
Alain swung his sword, and Martel summoned his shield rather than parry with his staff that would require awkward movement. The fire acolyte retaliated with a blast of wind, but the mageknight had grown wise to his tricks, planting his feet firmly in the ground to remain standing. Another sword blow came, striking Martel's injured shoulder, and he grimaced; thankfully, the chain shirt took the worst of it.
"Enough," he admitted, taking a step back. It was silly to force himself to fight when unnecessary; his shoulder needed rest and healing, not further damage. "Sorry. You'll have to take an easy victory today."
Alain grinned before a furrow came across his brow. "It's been a long time since I could beat you. Are you holding back on me?"
"Just some trouble with my shoulder. Had an accident yesterday," Martel explained, trying to provide sufficient information to deter questions rather than invite them. "Nothing too bad, but trying not to exert it too much."
"You should have said so," the mageknight chastised him. "That happens to everyone. We all understand the need to take it easy."
"I guess it's commonplace for you guys, practising every day."
Alain nodded. "Even with all our defensive magic, people get hurt. You have to let your body heal when it happens."
Martel thought about his month in the infirmary and all the mageknights he had seen, appearing with bruises or cuts that needed attention. "You're right. I'll excuse myself for once."
He walked over and sat down on the stands, watching Maximilian and Eleanor spar against each other. Martel realised that one day, he would miss this. When lying sleepless in a tent, or marching through rain, he would think back on the simple pleasure of watching his friends with no problem worse than an ache in his shoulder.
Eleanor looked in his direction and caught his eyes, sending a smile his way. Martel returned the expression, and the ache in his heart seemed worse than any hurt in his shoulder. Maximilian seemed entirely unaware, swinging his hammer with exaggerated movements that made her laugh. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Martel left the arena even before the bell had rung; nobody would mind his early departure from class.
"What happened?"
"Trouble at practice." Martel sat on a stool in the infirmary, his robe and shirt removed.
The nurse gave him a chastising look. "Aren't you supposed to use blunt weapons? And wear armour."
Martel shrugged; a movement he immediately regretted. "You know how mageknights are. They get too eager sometimes."
She sighed, preparing a needle with silk thread. "This will hurt," she warned him.
He nodded, steeling himself, and looked away. It was easier when he did not have to watch the needle pierce his skin. It hurt all the same, but he gritted his teeth and balled his hands into fists.
Painful, but quickly done; the wound was small, after all. "There you are. Keep it rested and avoid big movements," the sister cautioned him. "I won't sew it again if you rip the stitches."
"Understood." Martel stood up and looked at his robe and shirt. Exhaling, he began a slow, cautious dance of getting dressed without actually moving his left arm.
"Message for you." The clerk – an airmage unknown to Martel – stuck a scrap of parchment into his hand. The fire acolyte looked around the entrance hall to see if anyone watched him. He had spent the day occasionally looking over his shoulder, but so far, no inquisitors had come for him.
We have to meet tonight.
Same place as last.
From Ruby, he guessed. It did not matter. Someone had told the inquisitors about last night and helped them set a trap; Martel was not going to attend a meeting with those same people, allowing anybody watching to confirm his involvement.
Besides, he had fulfilled his obligation. He had done his part as the Friar wanted; Martel could not be blamed at the failed outcome. Nor did he care about the betrayal. This reeked of the usual conflicts common between the Nine Lords, never-ending. One of them had betrayed the others; let them fight it out. With a quick burst of magic, Martel burned the parchment between his fingers and raised a brief gust of wind to blow the smoke away.
SIXTY
SHIFTING ALLIANCES
For the next three days, the city and its inhabitants left Martel in peace, until Solday arrived. He had been on his final outing with Mistress Rana beyond the walls to the marshlands, gathering herbs and plants. As they approached the Lyceum, she spoke for the first time in hours.
"That should be enough for now. My stores are full – at least of any plant we can collect within walking distance. Next Solday, we'll resume your training in the laboratory. There's still a handful of simple recipes you should learn, especially concerning diseases."
"Very well, mistress." The days were getting cold, and autumn rains could be expected; as much as Martel had enjoyed leaving the city, he did not regret this change. Next month, trudging around the wetlands would not be amusing.
"You've shown adequate knowledge of herblore, at least for someone with only basic skill in alchemy," she continued, and Martel tried to determine if it was a compliment. "If you were a member of the alchemist's guild, I might recommend you as a journeyman. Someone skilled enough to be trusted with making potions without a master's supervision."
That was undoubtedly a compliment; Martel smiled. "Thank you, mistress."
"Your work has made it so. Now return the animal to its stable while I get our bounty inside." While she gathered the saddlebags with their contents, Martel grabbed the reins of the donkey and led it away. He had not gotten far before he noticed that the city was no longer content to leave him alone; leaning against the corner of a house, Ruby waited for him.
"I've done my part," Martel said as soon as she sidled up next to him. "I went as the Friar demanded. The failure of the other night, and any consequences thereof, have nothing to do with me." So far, the inquisitors did not seem to suspect him; he had no desire to draw their attention by continuing his association with these people.
"Will you at least allow me to talk before you dismiss me?"
He avoided looking at her, knowing that her face only distracted him and softened his resolve. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Martel!" She grabbed his arm, and the concern in her voice seemed real. "Please. Just give me a few moments."
He looked up from her hand to her worried expression and sighed. "Alright. I'll listen."
His errand handled, Martel followed Ruby to a nearby tavern, buying a cup of the local swill for a copper. "What is it?" he asked, sounding perhaps more brusque than intended.
"I think the Pact is falling apart, and the Nine Lords will wage war against each other."
An ominous declaration, but if criminals wanted to fight other criminals, Martel would not get in the way.
"Someone betrayed us," Ruby continued when Martel did not speak. "Another Ninth Lord would be my guess, eager to see us fail."
"It could just be Duke Cheval with a spy in your midst. He is rather crafty," Martel admitted; he had experienced that first-hand.
"It's more than that," she argued. "So few knew the details of our plan. He would not just need a spy, but intimate knowledge of our respective organisations – who could be turned, and who it would be worth turning. For all his power, I doubt the duke would gather such extensive intelligence. No, this smells of another Ninth Lord meddling."
It did make sense, Martel admitted. It would let the duke keep his hands clean, working with a crime lord – or lady. "I'm guessing you want to find out?"
"Yes. I doubt it's anyone from the bridge district, as I'm the only one who knew. Of course, there could still be spies, which is why I'm here. You're the only person familiar with the situation I can trust."
A desperate admission, given Martel had no reason nor inclination to help her.
"I suspect this particular traitor is either Kerra's ilk or Khivan, but they won't be keen on letting me search around. They'll probably do their own investigation, but I doubt they'll share their findings. Admitting that one of your own turned spy is admitting weakness."
"Does it matter? If they plug the leak, shouldn't you be satisfied? Focus on scrutinising your own people?"
"Finding the spy will reveal who paid them," Ruby argued. "I meant what I said at first. I think the Pact will be broken. My mistress needs to know who stands against her."
That explained why so many of these Nine Lords had banded together to help the Khivans. It was a test or early sign of an alliance, Martel figured. With rather poor results. "Aren't you tired of this? The constant fear and suspicion. Always on the brink of disaster."
She took a deep breath and drank from her cup for the first time. "Lady Pearl gave me a home, skills, and safety. The other girls there, they're my sisters," she finally said. "I'll protect them as long as it's necessary, no matter how tiresome."
That, at least, was a sentiment that Martel understood. But he had no such obligations. "In that case, I wish you well. But I want no part of this."
She looked him straight in the eye. "I saved you the other night. Does that count for nothing when I need your help?"
"Is that why you did it? Because you figured I'd be worth something in your pocket?"
"No." She shook her head. "Alliances may shift quickly in my world, but that night, we were on the same side. I helped you because I expected you'd do the same."
Despite his misgivings, Martel believed her. Still, he had no desire to feel indebted to Ruby when he had only taken part to clear his debt to the Friar. "I would. But to build on what you said, we might have been allies that night, which doesn't mean we are now. Last time I got involved with your world, I was used as bait. By somebody serving your mistress, no less. And I got stabbed on the street."
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I didn't know what Flora intended to do."
"You used me as a distraction. Perhaps not with deadly intent, but you understand why I'm hesitant to trust your good intentions."
Ruby chewed on her red lips, which distracted him more than it should. "I did. I've met a few wizards before you. Acting superior to others, us ordinary folk. I thought you were the same – that I better use you before you used me. I didn't know you were different."
It seemed to be a day for half-hearted compliments.
"I'm afraid, Martel. Lady Pearl is under pressure. If she falls, I don't think there'll be any safe place for me anywhere in the city."
Martel had never heard Ruby speak so earnestly before. She meant it.
"I understand how you feel about Flora, but if she had died the other night, we'd be deprived of an ally we badly need. The old weathermage wasn’t so lucky," the young woman revealed. "Inquisitors cut him down on the street."
Although Martel had no relation to him, he felt sorry for any victim of the mage hunters; if only it had been Flora, it would not have bothered him.
"I don't expect you to run around town investigating turncoats with me," she continued. "Just that if I need help from someone I can trust, that you'll consider it."
She stared at him with wide eyes, and Martel found it hard to deny her honest plea. This was a far cry from the self-assured rogue that she normally appeared to be. "I'll consider it," he finally assented.
"Thanks. I should get going. I have people to stalk, suspects to question. I'll be in touch." She gave him a smile that seemed more genuine than any she had previously graced him with.
Aware that he could never trust her, yet still considering that he might give her another chance, Martel simply nodded in farewell.
SIXTY-ONE
FAMILY ADDITIONS
A fiveday after his injury, Martel's shoulder remained sore and stiff, but by some miracle, he had not torn any of his stitches, and the wound was healing nicely. He still had to exhibit caution during lessons, especially as they had resumed their duels during fire magic. As everyone had mastered how to use gems to strengthen their spellwork, the four acolytes now fought each other using the ruby-tipped staves as both weapon and implement for channelling magic.
Normally, Martel would be the first to take advantage of fighting both with fire spells and empowerment, switching back and forth as expedient, but his injury made him rely solely on his spellcraft. He did not even use his staff to parry when William, the only other acolyte comfortable enough with the staff to use it as a weapon, did just that; instead, Martel avoided William's blows by retreating or using his magical shield.
Perhaps sensing a weakness, William pressed his advantage as any good battlemage should. A flurry of attacks forced Martel back until he was nearly out of space for further retreats, and the other acolyte skilfully used his staff to intercept Martel's fire bolts, lessening the impact even if they hit, as they struck the weapon before the student. Martel had few options left, but he was not interested in conceding; he knew that Moira would punish him for giving up so easily.
Forgoing fire and empowerment, Martel chose something else. The next time William stepped forward to strike, Martel unleashed a blast of air instead.
It caught his adversary off guard and off-balance, who fell to the ground. William had clearly kept his attention on Martel's staff with its gem, expecting another fire spell, making him blind to Martel's left hand releasing the air magic instead.
Getting back on his feet with a grumble, William looked towards Moira. "Are we allowed to use any kind of magic?"
The teacher did not bother looking in his direction when she answered. "Do you intend to ask the Khivans for permission on what spells you may use against them?"
William picked up his staff from the ground with angry motions. "Must be nice to always have something up the sleeve," he mumbled.
Martel kept his face blank and his mouth shut, seeing no reason to add salt to injury. The acolytes might be free to use whatever magic they saw fit, but Martel was the only one who had been trained extensively in all the elemental arts, both before and after becoming an acolyte. He knew that as soon as the other students had shown an aptitude for fire, they would have been educated in such magic to the near exclusion of all others. Free reins to use any magic they wanted was an advantage for Martel only.
"Let's go again," William muttered, returning to his starting position.
Martel had begun to feel apprehensive whenever one of the clerks in the entrance hall told him of a message waiting for him. By now, it usually signalled trouble of some kind. Yet as the envelope was stuck into his hand, Martel relaxed. He recognised Father Julius' handwriting. A letter from home, hopefully with no ill news. Returning to his room, Martel made himself comfortable on his bed and began reading.
My dear boy,
You will not believe what has happened of late. In fact, this is why I waited to write to you, to be sure that I could tell you the whole story. Keith, your brother, dour and never saying two words in one breath, has found himself a lass from the southern village. This must have been going on for a while, as she is already several months with child. And all this time, he never told me. Me, his mother!
You can imagine what a whirlwind it has sent through the house. Your siblings have been in various states of uproar, though I believe your sisters look forward to her moving in. None of us know the girl particularly in advance, though I may have seen her now and then on market days. Keith brought her home last fiveday, so at least I have met her properly, but it is strange to think that soon, she will live in our house. Even stranger that she will give birth to my first grandchild. Her name is Clara, if you wish to know. She laughed a lot during her visit, especially when your sisters talked with her. Quite the opposite of your brother. Only the Stars know how the two of them ever found each other.
In any case, the wedding will be this harvest. Weddings in winter are an ill affair, and the baby will be here before spring, so it has to be before the snow falls. We will delay as long as possible to give you an opportunity to make the journey and attend, though Father Julius claims it is doubtful you will be given leave to do so. But at the very least you should be given the chance. This is the first wedding in the family in decades, not to mention you will be an uncle soon for the first time. I do so hope you will be able to come home. If not for the wedding, then to meet your nephew or niece in spring.
While on the subject, how about you? You would not be so cruel as to be courting a girl without telling your mother any hint of this? I shall be most disappointed if you treat me the way Keith has done. A mother's heart can only take so much before it breaks.
Love,
Your mother
Martel stared at the letter with a wry expression, unsure what to think. No mention of their latest exchange, where Martel admitted he was to be a battlemage. Probably for the best; nothing won by ploughing that old field a second time. Much better to rejoice in these tidings. A child on the way, and festivities in the town.
It was wonderful to contemplate; the only thorn would be that Martel knew he could not attend. It would take him two months to reach Engby and return; he could not imagine the Lyceum would agree to that. Just as being a battlemage afforded him leeway in certain regards, it also shackled him in other ways; the school would never let him waste two months when he only had about three left before graduating.
And once that happened, he would be sent to the legions. It occurred to Martel that if things went poorly, he might never meet his nephew or niece. He wondered if his family would tell the small child tales of the uncle who possessed magic and was sent to war, dying for the glory of the Empire. Or maybe he would become a secret, never spoken of, as the very mention of her lost son would make his mother upset.
