Magebane (44 page)

He sighed and tried to put the image out of his mind. He took another look at the envelope. He'd asked that it be rolled up and tied in a round bundle, and the Minik had done a neat job of it, much neater than the job they'd done when they'd first transported it to the shore from the ice. That was why he'd examined it so carefully than first time. It was one thing to mend wicker, quite another to mend the thin silk of the envelope without sewing machines or . . . magic.

He shook his head. Here, with magic no more in evidence among these Minik than those he knew on the Outside, it was hard to believe that he had truly seen the things he had seen back in Lord Falk's estate. But he
had
seen them, and the fact they had successfully flown across the lake at all was proof of it. Those mageservants . . .

And then his thoughts were interrupted as two sleds came roaring up the trail from the lake, both pulled by panting dogs whose breath sent huge clouds of steam into the air. The one in front he recognized as the one that they'd ridden in from the crash site. The one in back . . .

He straightened.

It was larger than any of the Minik sleds; larger, and with a very different look. The dogs were different, too, larger but somehow not as tough-looking as the Minik dogs. There were more of them, though.

The sled had a kind of flagpole attached to it from which hung a bright blue banner, very nearly the same color as the airship. And on it were . . . Minik-na.

There were four men, wearing coats that looked both bulkier and not as warm as the furs of the Minik, and hats with large earflaps that were almost comical . . . not that Anton felt like smiling. He could think of only one reason the Minik would suddenly allow Minik-na into the camp, and he didn't like it.

High Raven was talking to the men; he turned suddenly and came walking toward Anton. “Where is Brenna?” he said.

“In the longhouse,” Anton said. “I'll get her.”

“Stay where you are,” said High Raven. “I will get her.”

He went into the longhouse and emerged a moment later with Brenna, who was tugging her coat on as she came. She reached Anton and stopped. Her eyes widened as she took in the new arrivals.

“Your time as our guests has ended,” High Raven said. “You will go with these men.”

“Who are they?” Anton said.

“They are servants of North Wind,” Raven said.

Brenna gasped. “You can't mean . . . you're not sending us back to that . . . that witch!”

“That ‘witch,' ” said High Raven softly, “lived with this clan for ten years. That ‘witch' saved the life of my wife and the life of my firstborn son, turned the wrong way in the womb. That ‘witch' avenged the massacre of Minik by the MageLord Starkind, securing the honor of this clan and her place in it. That ‘witch' is, and always will be, a friend of the Minik, a friend of this clan, and a friend of High Raven. She tells me she has need of you. I will send you to her.”

Anton knew there was nothing they could say against such an argument from a Minik clan leader, but Brenna tried anyway. “But I told you what she wanted to do!” she cried. “She reached into Anton's mind, stole his thoughts . . . she will twist his mind until he is no longer himself, but a mere puppet of Falk's. If you give us to her, you are giving us back to him. You are giving us back to the MageLords you claim to hate!”

Most of Brenna's words seemed to roll off the implacable Minik like water from a smooth stone, but her last outburst caused his eyes to narrow. “I am giving you to North Wind,” he said. “If you think that is the same as giving you to the MageLords, then you know nothing about North Wind.” He made a chopping gesture with his hand, as if it were a knife severing a rope—severing the thread of conversation, Anton guessed. “It is done. They will take the airship, and they will take you, to where North Wind wants you to be. The Minik are done with you. You are no longer guests. You are no longer welcome in our camp. Do not come here again.” And then he walked away without looking back.

A soft sob escaped Brenna. Anton, feeling drained and helpless, reached out and took her gloved hand. Then he led her toward the waiting sled.

Karl woke on his third day as a captive of the Common Cause to the sound of arguing.

He rolled over and sat up. Gray light seeped through the curtained window; midmorning, then.

He could make out Vinthor's voice, and Beth's, but the loudest voice . . . was that Jopps'?

Intrigued, he rolled out of bed, pulled on the warm dressing gown Goodwife Beth had provided, slipped his feet into the slippers she had given him, went out, and descended the stairs.

He had rather hoped to do so silently, but he was defeated by the slippers, which flapped against the bottom of his feet like the warning tail slaps of a beaver in a pond. Rather than creep down unobserved, he found himself being stared at by Vinthor, Goodwife Beth, and Jopps as he entered the kitchen. There was no sign of Denson.

“Your Highness,” Vinthor said.

“What's all the noise?” Karl asked.

“None of your concern,” Jopps said gruffly.

But Goodwife Beth seemed to have no qualms about telling him. “Oh, it's a terrible thing, duckling,” she said. He found the comic-character act a little creepy, having seen what lay behind the jovial mask, but she hadn't shown the hidden steel since. “Lord Falk has been blowing up buildings in New Cabora, he wants you back so bad. First City Hall, then the Grand Theater and the Courthouse. He must love you a whole bunch, sweetie.”

Karl gave her a hard look, but she returned it blandly.

“Yeah, he loves you so much he's left my parents homeless,” Jopps snarled. “When the Courthouse came down, it took a street of apartments with it.” Jopps turned to Vinthor again, voice pleading. “Sir, I have to go to them. They need my help. You don't need me here . . .”

“What if Falk finds us and attacks?” Vinthor countered. “I'll need every man.”

“If he attacks, you'll slip out the back door and escape while he's knocking down the front,” Jopps said. “Whether I'm here or not won't change that.”

“It's a matter of duty,” Vinthor said. “You swore an oath . . .”

“Oh, let him go, there's a good cell leader,” Goodwife Beth said. “One man won't make a difference. And you're the only man here with any family, aren't you, poor dear?” she said to Jopps.

He nodded. “Denson's got no one. None of the others, either.”

Vinthor frowned, but Goodwife Beth's gaze had become . . . penetrating. “All right,” he said at last, almost explosively. “All right,” he repeated, and this time he just sounded resigned. “Permission granted. Look after your parents. And then come back here.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir!” Jopps said, and almost ran from the room.

“You did the right think, cupcake,” Goodwife Beth said warmly to Vinthor, and then she looked up at Karl, who still stood on the stairs. “I'm afraid you're not the most popular person in New Cabora right now, Your Highness, love,” she said. “Old Falk is making sure of that.”

“I would stop him if I could,” Karl said. “If you returned me to the Palace—”

Vinthor let out a laugh that sounded more like a snort, and Goodwife Beth smiled hugely. “I'm afraid we can't do that, precious. Patron's orders.” She cocked her head to one side. “Come here and let me see how that dressing gown fits, there's a lamb.”

Wishing he'd never come down, Karl flip-flopped over to her.

“Turn around, chickadee,” she said. He did. “Come closer.” He took a step in. “Let's just check the size,” she said, and before he could react, had opened the dressing gown wide. “Oh, my,” she said, “I guess I should have given you some pajamas, too!” And then she flicked the dressing gown closed again. “Looks like everything is sized just fine, ducky!” she said cheerfully. “Toddle off now and get yourself dressed, if you're up for all day.”

Cheeks burning with shame, Karl turned and headed toward the stair, exchanging a look with Vinthor, who wouldn't meet his eyes.

From his bedroom window, Karl watched Jopps mount up and ride out of the farmyard, heading back to New Cabora.

What else has Falk done, trying to find me?
he thought sickly.
What other atrocities have I brought down on the Commoners' heads by my stupid, childish behavior?

None of this would have happened if he hadn't decided to follow the two men he had seen out his Palace window. City Hall would still stand. The Grand Theater. The Courthouse would still be there, and the apartments behind it.

And Falk wouldn't stop. He would keep up the pressure on the Commoners, pushing harder and harder until someone broke and told him where Karl was hidden.

And then what? An armed assault against Goodwife Beth's farmhouse?

If that happened, magic-wielding guards against Commoners armed with swords and crossbows—sticks and stones, for all the good they would do without magic—then how many more would die? How many more would die because of Prince Karl, the man who had promised to the Commoner in the Council Chamber that he would be a better king than his father, that he would bridge the gap between Commoners and Mageborn?

It would be better for everyone if the assassin had killed me
, he thought darkly.
Better if I had never been born
.

Jopps disappeared in a cloud of snow down the road leading out of the little valley, and Karl flicked the curtain closed and turned, pointlessly, to getting dressed.

The cloaked man on horseback watched from a hillside as, out on the ice of the lake, two dogsleds hurried south. He had been very careful to position himself below the hill's crest, to avoid silhouetting himself against the bright morning sky.

There was little chance he would be noticed now, with the light behind him turning the hill into a giant lump of shadow, while illuminating the two dog sleds—and especially the bundle of bright blue that seemed to form a large part of the second sled's cargo.

Like all members of the King's Mounted Rangers, Constable Orlam was Mageborn, and though his own magic was slight, it was sufficient for his needs. All of the “Mounties” were trained in the construction and operation of certain enchanted objects to help them in their duties. Orlam took one of them now, a magniseer he had crafted himself, from a case hung on his saddle. Though the air was already frigid, sparkling with ice crystals in the westering sunlight, the magniseer frosted over . . . and to Orlam, it appeared the dogsleds on the lake leaped a dozen times nearer.

Of course, Orlam had never seen an airship, as the orders from the Palace telling him what to look for had termed the object of his search. He didn't really believe the rumors flying through the ranks of the Rangers that this airship was a kind of flying carriage from beyond the Great Barrier. But there was no doubt that the thing on the second sled, one of the big sixteen-dog freight sleds that carried cargo to communities all along the shoreline in winter, matched the description. The dogs were pulling it well enough, but Orlam could tell it was a heavy load. Two men rode with it, one driving, the other resting.

The smaller eight-dog sled in front carried supplies wrapped in hides and tied down with ropes, and four people. Bundled against the cold as they were, it was difficult to tell much about them, but it looked to Orlam very much as though one of them was smaller and more slender than the others . . . and the coat she wore matched another part of the description he had been given.

He lowered the magniseer and tucked it away again. It was pure happenstance that he had come close enough to the lake to see them down there, running that close to the shore. Normally at this stage in his patrol he would have been miles away to the east; but he had been summoned in his capacity as a dispenser of the King's Justice to rule in a land dispute near Birchwood that had grown heated enough to come to violence, and from Birchwood it had made more sense to reverse his usual patrol pattern.