Agents of Artifice: A Planeswalker Novel (28 page)

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one of the Consortium healers would touch him, not this time. Everyone knew just how he’d been injured, and nobody was willing to interfere with Tezzeret’s discipline. For almost two days, Jace tossed and turned in agony, unable to sleep, barely able to move. His sheets and mattress were stained with dried blood. The cuts along his back and his arms were shallow but long. The pain was excruciating, but not nearly so much so as the pain within.

Jace felt as though he’d been burned from the inside out. The very notion of spellcasting made him queasy, and he’d been unable to absorb so much as a sliver of mana, no matter how hard he tried to concentrate.

By the evening of the second day, he knew that he could take no more of it. Staggering out of bed, he pulled on the first tunic he found, wincing with every move, every bend. He slowly made his way out of his chambers and down the hall, heading for the nearest exit.

If nobody in the Consortium would help him, he’d go to someone who would.

He’d made it as far as the first main corridor when someone appeared from the shadows off to the left.

“I was wondering if you were going to try something like this,” Kallist said.

“Have to. No choice. Hurts too much.”

“Jace,” his friend told him, voice ripe with worry, “you can barely stand. How do you plan to get out? I don’t think the guards would hurt you, but they’re certainly not going to let you leave without permission, not until they’re sure your punishment’s up. Go back to bed. I’ll bring you something, some brandy maybe, to help you sleep.”

“No. Kallist, please. You’ve no idea what it’s … I need your help.”

Kallist frowned, and then sighed deeply. “You owe me,” he said softly. “How long do you need to get to the exit?”

Jace took a moment to picture the halls, thought about his current state. “Ten minutes.”

“All right. Get close and be ready.”

Jace never did find out exactly what Kallist did to trigger the magical alarms that protected the complex from unauthorized entry—but he did so, and clear on the other side of the building. By the time the chaos was sorted out, and the patrols returned to their standard routes, Jace had slipped out the nearest door and onto the streets of Rubblefield.

What should have been a five-minute walk took him fifteen, but he finally found himself in the next district. It took another twenty minutes, given the lateness of the hour, to flag down a coach-for-hire.

“Where to?” asked the centaur who was both driver and hauler.

“Ovitzia,” Jace gasped, all but collapsing into the seat.

“Hrm. I don’t know, sir. That’s an awfully long trip for this late at night. Maybe—”

Jace groaned, reached into a pouch and dropped a handful of gold coins on the shelf before him without
even bothering to count.

“Ovitzia,” the centaur announced, standing suddenly straight. “Right away, sir.”

The jostling of the carriage over the cobblestones, though agonizing, almost managed to lull Jace to sleep with the promise of relief to come.

“You sure I can’t get you anything, Berrim? You really need to keep your strength up.”

“Just my shirt,” Jace said, shuddering slightly—and not just from the chill—as Emmara’s fingers softly, gracefully traced the newly healed scars across his back. “It’s pretty cold in here.”

“You’ll get dressed when I’m satisfied these are healing properly, and not one second before. And Berrim,” the elf added, “if you make one snide remark about me touching you like this, I may just heal your mouth shut.”

Jace clamped his teeth together, swallowing the comment he was about to utter like a half-chewed dumpling.

They sat together, not at Emmara’s dining table downstairs, but at a small desk in her library—”library” being defined as “that bunch of pillars with the bookcases between them.” It and the guest quarters were the only areas Jace had seen in the two days he’d been here. He’d slept a great deal as his body recovered from Emmara’s magic, and tried to pass the rest of the time perusing those shelves. Unfortunately, the only books that were written in any script he could read were either cloying romances or high adventure fiction for which, thanks to recent events, he was very much not in the mood.

“All right,” she said finally, standing up and handing him his wadded tunic. “I think I’m done. It looks like the physical damage is mostly healed. How about …?” Jace hadn’t given her much in the way of details,
of course, but he’d had to explain the nature of the manablade to ensure she could heal him properly. He frowned briefly, turning his attention inward, flexing muscles that weren’t at all physical.

“I’d feel better if I could get near the water,” he said finally, “but I think I shouldn’t have any trouble once I do. It feels like everything’s working.”

“I’m glad.”

“Are you sure you won’t let me pay you something?” Jace asked. “I really feel like I owe—”

“Berrim, no.” A shallow smile, then. “Although, if you find yourself in possession of another shipment of fruit …”

For a time, they sat in silence. Then, “I think he’s losing it, Emmara,” Jace said softly. “Tezzeret?”

He nodded. “He’s always been a hard man, but now he’s getting cruel. Or maybe … Maybe he always was, and it just wasn’t aimed my way.” Jace shook his head miserably. “I knew from day one he wanted power. It’s part of what drew me to him; I thought I could share in it. But now I think he’s honestly going mad with it. He may have just started a war with a competing mercantile interest, for no better reason than he got overconfident in his abilities. His and mine both, actually, but he’s only interested in my mistake, not his.”

“And was your mistake so very awful?”

Jace shrugged. “My mistake was not realizing from the get-go that I wasn’t powerful enough to do what he asked of me. But he should’ve known that, Emmara, even better than I. It’s almost as if he’s forgotten there’s anything he can’t do. So every time something goes wrong, it’s somebody else’s fault.

“But that’s not even the worst of it.” Jace knew he should stop, that even without offering details he was revealing more about the Consortium than Tezzeret or Paldor would approve of. But he found that once he’d
begun, he couldn’t stop. “I think—I think I’m more scared about what he’s doing with that power than what he’s doing to acquire more. I’m about as far from a saint as you can get, but some of what I’ve seen, especially lately … Some of what he’s done to me … I’m scared to death of him, of what he might yet do.”

“So why do you stay?” she asked softly.

There it was, the question he’d hoped wasn’t coming, though he had asked it of himself a thousand times since he’d first felt the manablade on his skin.

“Because he
has
shared his power,” he admitted finally. “My magic is stronger now than I ever thought it could be. Because I’m rich, and I don’t want to go back to being what I was.”

Emmara placed a soft hand on Jace’s own, and pretended not to notice his was shaking. “And maybe,” she whispered, “because you’re afraid of what he’ll do if you leave?”

Jace looked down at the table and said nothing at all.

“What am I going to do with you, Beleren?”

The question didn’t seem to demand an actual answer, so Jace didn’t offer one.

He stood arrow-straight in the lieutenant’s chamber, where he’d been ordered to appear in no uncertain terms the instant he returned to the Consortium complex. Paldor paced behind the desk, the room shaking mildly with his tread, and glancing at Jace only occasionally.

“I mean, on the one hand, I think it’s pretty clear that Tezzeret intended his punishment to, ah, linger a lot longer. That’s why he wouldn’t let you see any of our healers.”

Jace scowled but still said nothing.

“On the other,” Paldor said, suddenly stopping and turning to face the mage directly, “nobody actually
ordered
you to stay put, did they? Everyone just assumed
you knew better, but I guess it’s never come up for you before. And it’s not as though you ran off on an assignment, since nobody figured you’d be up for any sort of duties for at least a few weeks.”

The lieutenant drummed the fingers of one hand on the desk. The other was hidden inside his robe, where Jace knew the manablade rested. Jace licked his lips and otherwise tried not to appear half as nervous as he felt.

Finally, Paldor shrugged. “Go back to your quarters. We’ll call this whole situation over and done with. But Beleren? Next time the boss punishes you, you do not try to weasel out of it. Consider that a standing order. And I suggest you see about keeping pretty much to yourself until your next assignment comes down.”

With a sigh of relief he couldn’t quite suppress, Jace turned away. Just as he reached the door, however, Paldor’s voice stopped him cold.

“Oh, Beleren? Kallist
did
know better. And he was punished for his little part in your song and dance.”

Jace’s fist clenched hard on the latch. “Is he … Is he hurt?”

“A lash or two, nothing that won’t heal a lot faster than you did. Plus a few fines and some menial chores. Just enough to make my point.”

“And that is?” Jace couldn’t help but ask.

“That is,” Paldor said, his gruff voice suddenly very heavy, “that I know what happens in my building. And that when you decide to take a flying leap into a pool of crap, it splatters on the people near you. You get me?”

“I get you,” Jace whispered.

“Good. Then get the hell out.”

Some weeks later, in a large but modest chapel built in the shadow of the ancient Ethereal Temple, an old man leaned back in his chair and sighed as he pondered that evening’s address. Talqez was his name, and he
was the August Questor of the Church of the Incarnate Soul. His skin was the rich brown of an old chestnut, his beard the gray-white of moss. In conjunction with his deep green robes of office, it had inspired his youngest students and parishioners to dub him Grandfather Tree. He’d never admonished them for it; in truth, he rather enjoyed the endearment.

For all his life Talqez had served his faith, first as a simple congregant and apprentice, then mage and Questor, until he finally occupied the highest ecclesiastical seat. And it was, quite frankly, getting almost impossible to give an original address anymore.

The August Questor waved a hand across the paper, watching the last paragraph fade and disappear. He turned aside, took a swig from the half-empty mug of mead (now warm) and a bite of the half-finished plate of venison (now cold) that sat on the desk’s far side. Sighing, he returned to the paper and began again. He lifted no quill, used no ink, but simply ran a finger across the page and watched the words appear. A simple magic, yes, but a practice of one of the central tenets of his faith—that a worshipper of the Incarnate Soul never used manual labor, however minor, when he’d mastered a spell to do the job.

So focused on his sermon was he that he scarcely noted when the door to his rectory office opened behind him. “Have a seat, my Sibling,” he offered by way of distracted greeting. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Nothing struck him as wrong at all until he heard the double-click of the door not only being shut, but locked.