Mage's Blood (15 page)

‘What, like you looked after me this time? Well, thanks for nothing, big brother!’

He winced.
I deserve that
. ‘I will take care of you, I promise!’

‘Ha! I’ll look after myself, thank you very much.’ She stuck out her chin. ‘I’m going to ask to go north with Ramita, to be her companion. I don’t need your protection!’ She scowled. ‘Ispal has been here every day to tend Father, and so have Jai and Ramita and Tanuva. Everyone has come except you.’

He hung his head, put his face in his hands and burned with shame. Though even now, all he could think was,
If I stay here, maybe I will see Ramita
.

He didn’t manage even that, though – Ramita stayed away, no doubt because Huriya had reported his presence. Only Jai and Ispal, whom he could not bear even to look at, came. The physicians let Kazim sleep on the floor beside his father’s pallet, but he was woken repeatedly to help purge the lungs and change the dressings on the sores, which were purulent and stank. The whole world stank. His sleep was too broken to be any relief or gain to him, and waking and sleeping became one. His father moaned, seldom recognising anyone, and cried aloud of a ‘woman of flame’ until he had to be sedated. He called for Ispal, many times, until Kazim felt as if he were in a torture cell, never able to satisfy the questioner.

The end was a blessing. His father woke crying for Ispal again, then convulsed, gasping for breath like a fish on dry land. Before they could turn him over, he jerked and went rigid. Kazim held him and cried and sobbed as he had not since he was a child in his long-gone mother’s arms.

When he finally awoke he was in a sea of dark faces: Lakh men and women, looking at him, then averting their eyes. The Devanshri priests came, wanting him to move the body as they had other patients
needing the pallet. One asked for money, to pay two bearers to take Raz Makani’s body to the burning ghats – but Raz was Amteh, so must be buried. Kazim decided that he would carry his father himself. Without a another word or glance at the priests and bearers he took up the burden in his arms. His father was both light as feathers and heavy as the holy mountain. He staggered to the entrance, swayed dazedly and nearly fell.

Haroun was there, waiting for him, looking as tired as Kazim felt: waiting to share his burden, as a true friend would.

Turm Zauberin, Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros
Octen 927
9 months until the Moontide

The first day of the exams had finally come: the culmination of seven years of Alaron’s life. He stared blankly at the wall before him, waiting for the bell to ring out from the old college bell-tower. The hour-long time slots were allocated by alphabetic order, starting with Andevarion; Alaron would be second-last, late in the afternoon.

The first subject was History, which he enjoyed, though his father regarded much the master taught him as dubious; Vann’s scepticism and Ramon’s acidic reinterpretations had left him somewhat confused, but at least it was interesting.

Finally the bell rang, the door opened and Seth Korion emerged and just stood there, glassy-eyed.

Hard, was it, Seth?
Alaron thought.
Perhaps you should have paid more attention, instead of just sitting in class like a zombie, safe in the knowledge no one would ever ask you anything tricky
.

Seth turned around slowly, just becoming aware of Alaron. Alaron prepared himself for some insult or mockery, but to his surprise, Korion said faintly, ‘Good luck, Mercer.’ It was so unexpectedly
polite
that Alaron could only stare and mumble something at Korion’s receding back.

He waited for several hour-like minutes until portly Magister Hout poked his head around the corner. ‘Mercer. Come inside.’ His voice was disdainful as always.

Alaron got unsteadily to his feet and walked across the unsteady floor and through the door. In front of him was an array of faces, familiar and unfamiliar; it felt like he was being stared at by row upon row of vultures and ravens, all waiting to pick out his eyeballs. In the front was Lucien Gavius, the headmaster, the masters arrayed about him. Fyrell’s dark features looked savage in the dim lighting. He peered a little further back and stiffened. Governor Belonius Vult – what on earth?
But then, why not? We’re supposed to be the future, aren’t we?
There were others, uniforms he recognised rather than faces: a flat-faced Kirkegarde Grandmaster; a bearded legion centurion; a Crozier of the Kore. Alaron felt horribly exposed.

The headmaster rose. ‘The student is Alaron Mercer, son of Tesla Anborn, of Berial’s line. The father is non-magi. The student is a quarter-blood, born in Norostein.’ Alaron noticed that Governor Vult leant forward when his mother’s name was read. Perhaps he knew her, or Auntie Elena.

‘Are you ready, Mercer?’ Gavius enquired.

Alaron’s throat went dry, the banks of faces overwhelming.
All those eyes
… He swallowed. ‘Yes, Headmaster.’

‘Good. Then let us begin with a recitation of the Rimoni Conquests. In your own time …’

Alaron took a deep breath and began to speak. Initially he felt horribly uncomfortable, but after a while he began to relax and let his words flow. He answered questions about the Rimoni Empire,
then about the spread of Kore into Sydia. He spoke confidently about the Bridge and First Crusade. He got his facts wrong a little on the Second Crusade, but nothing disastrous.

When it was over, he felt almost disappointed, but the small rattle of applause lifted him immeasurably. He’d survived. When he walked out, Ramon was in the waiting room, literally shaking in his boots. There was no time for anything but a quick thumbs-up and a: ‘Buono fortuna, Ramon!’

It felt like he was off to a good start.

Tydai was calculus, a nightmare. They had to create and solve formulae all day in a series of written tests. Malevorn was confident, but the others were as edgy, even Dorobon. Alaron felt he did passably, but no better than that. Seth Korion threw up outside afterwards. Watching Korion being ill was becoming an exam-week ritual. At first it was off-putting, then amusing, and finally he found himself actually feeling sorry for the wretched general’s son.

Wotendai brought Rondian, a welcome relief.
At least it’s my native tongue
, he reflected.
Poor Ramon!
The exam itself was largely the recitation of old poems and sagas – a complete waste of time, in his view.
Sadly, it probably came across that way to the markers
, he reflected as he shuffled out of the theatre.

Torsdai was Theology. He squirmed before the half-seen faces and came out of it absolutely hating Fyrell, who seemed determined to prove him a heretic and burn him on the spot. This was the worst day so far. But he banished it from thought quickly. Tomorrow was Freyadai – thesis day; make-or-break day, or so they were all told.

The auditorium was full. Faces loomed out at him: Governor Belonius Vult, come to run his eye over the students again; Jeris Muhren, a hero of the Noros Revolt and now Watch Captain of Norostein; representatives of all the military arms, the regular army, windship commanders, even Volsai and Kirkegarde recruiters. There were many Churchmen hovering about a jaded-looking Crozier, and clouds of grey-robed Arcanum scholars. They all looked bored – Alaron was the sixth presenter, of course. He swallowed nervously.
Don’t think
about the audience. It’s no worse than the other days. You can do this
…

Gavius looked up, frowned and then addressed the auditorium. ‘This candidate is Alaron Mercer,’ he announced and went on to introduce Alaron’s lineage for the benefit of those who had not attended previously. He turned to Alaron. ‘In your own time, Master Mercer. You have one hour, half of which is reserved for questions. You may begin.’

Alaron bowed, spread out his sheaf of notes and began to speak. Gradually concentration erased his self-consciousness and he forgot the audience. ‘Exalted magi, my thesis presentation is entitled “The Hidden Cause of the Noros Revolt”.’ The title of the thesis caused some interest, he noted.
Good!
He raised his hands and caused a cloud of light-charged dust that he had prepared to billow before him, so that it spread out like a mat of light at waist-height. It was a familiar gnostic technique. ‘The histories talk about the Noros Revolt resulting from a combination of excessive imperial taxes, poor harvests and a dissident military. But what I aim to demonstrate is that there was a fourth reason for the Revolt, that has earth-shattering – I repeat:
earth-shattering
– implications.’

He allowed himself to look around and gave a small blink. The faces of the magi audience were intent. He had their undivided attention. Even the governor and the bishop were listening with intensity that surprised him. Any traces of boredom were gone.

‘Before I reveal the hidden cause of the Revolt, I want to make a few points about the reasons that are normally cited as the causes. Yes, taxes went up, but, as
this
shows’ – he displayed tax records in a visual calculus technique called ‘graphing’ – ‘the tax rises were really not that unaffordable, and they were offset by trading revenue and plunder from the First Crusade. In fact, Noros was better off than pre-Crusade. This has been borne out anecdotally from interviews with townsfolk and officials.’

He risked a look and was struck by the frowning, thoughtful look on the faces. The governor was stroking his beard, while Watch Captain Muhren was chewing his lip.
At least they’re listening
…

‘Secondly, the harvests: the silos were never emptied, and were
used to alleviate suffering amongst smallholders.’ He cited more sources visually, elaborating on the theme. ‘Thirdly, people claim the Noros legions returned from the Crusade in a state of mutiny – however, many of the officers came back rich men. All of them spoke publicly against the poll-tax, but they wanted a peaceful resolution. In memoirs published
after
the Revolt, both General Robler and Governor Vult quoted anti-Revolt speeches they made in 907 and 908 and early 909.’ He glanced up at the governor, ready to display the exact texts if he needed to, but Vult nodded abstractly. ‘In fact, the military leadership was still anti-revolt in Febreux, but it became dogmatically pro-Revolt
before
the poll-tax was announced in Martrois. Governor Vult’s memoir speaks of “an inexplicable yet irresistible swing towards rebellion” in Febreux 909.’

He spread his hands out. ‘It could have been that there was a hidden agenda and discreet troop build-ups, but to me, this might well indicate that there was a secret change in opinion among many generals in Febreux 909. It is this change in opinion that I wish to explore.’

He really did have their undivided attention now. Captain Muhren looked like he wanted to interrupt. Vult had a small smile on his lips and he was leaning forward. Alaron felt a flush of pleasure. ‘I now wish to highlight four unregarded facts that I believe no one has ever linked before.’ He called up an image of three marble busts, fully three-dimensional, and rotated them. He’d spent a long time practising that and he was pleased with how well it came out. ‘These three men used to be familiar to every Noros child. There were statues everywhere, and their faces were in every catechism; we used to pray for their blessing. The three canons – saints in waiting – are the only canons in history born in Noros: Fulchius, Keplann and Reiter. All three were Ascendants, given ambrosia by the emperor for their service and virtue. Before the Revolt, they all dwelt in Pallas, all three heroes of the empire. Yet at the end of the Noros Revolt, every statue of them was destroyed and all the catechisms containing their deeds were collected and have not been seen again. They died of age during the Revolt years, we were told. The Church proclaimed the Noros
catechisms out of date and withdrew them, and they also proclaimed that in punishment for the Revolt, the images of these three canons would not be displayed any more. It sounds half-credible, but strange. How did three Noros Ascendants all die within a year of each other, when Ascendants can live for centuries? And why are they being erased from public memory?’

Alaron was almost transfixed by the intensity of Vult and by the lip-biting tension on Muhren’s face. For a second he faltered, but then he blanked the audience and went on, ‘The second thing I wish you to consider is the continued military occupation of Noros. Schlessen and Argundy have revolted several times; Noros has only once, and far less bloodily. Yet the occupation force here in Noros is eight legions.
Eight!
That is larger than the entire Noros armies of the Revolt! Why? Most Noromen have accepted defeat and now regard the Revolt as misjudged and foolish. No one is fermenting rebellion – yet we suffer a closer and more costly occupation than even Argundy, who have revolted five times in the past hundred years!

‘And what do all these soldiers do? Eight legions – that’s 40,000 men – and the answer is: they dig! They have entirely dug up the manors of every general of the war. The royal palace was taken apart stone by stone, then rebuilt. And still they dig. It is almost as if the Rondians are
looking for something
.’

Alaron became conscious of the utter silence in the auditorium. Captain Muhren caught his eye and gave a small shake of the head. A warning? What did he mean? Alaron blinked and stiffened his resolve. Not far to go now. ‘Thirdly, I want to bring up the fate of General Jarius Langstrit and disclose a fact which I believe is almost unknown. General Langstrit was our most decorated general after Robler himself and remains an iconic figure after the Revolt – but where is he now, dead or alive? I had imagined him in retirement on his country estate, but visiting there to try and interview him, I found the manor deserted. One of our most famous generals has vanished.’ He brought up an image of a famous painting of a dishevelled but resolute general surrendering his sword to a conquering Rondian commander. ‘I’m sure you all know this painting: General
Robler surrendering to Kaltus Korion on the slopes of Mount Tybold. However, any soldier will tell you that Robler was too proud and bitter to surrender, so “Big Jari” did it. Yet ask the people of the Lower Market and they will tell you that Langstrit was found wandering alone and dazed in their market-square the very next day, one hundred miles away. How did General Langstrit end up in Lower Market, Norostein, when he had given his word of honour to remain in camp in the Alps?