Mirror 04 The Way Between the Worlds (22 page)

'What does it feel like, Llian?' Lilis asked.
'A bit ticklish around the edges!'
She went over to help Malien with the camp. Jevi sat across from Llian in the
cart, evidently thinking that he needed company, though Jevi didn't actually
say anything.
'How is your arm?' Llian wondered, trying to make conversation.
'Not so bad,' said Jevi. He had never been heard to complain. In fact he had
hardly spoken the whole trip, except to Lilis.
A long silence ensued. Llian gulped his wine, wishing Jevi would either say
something or go away.
'I wonder how Tallia and Shand are getting on at Car-charon?' Llian said idly.
There was a flash of terror in Jevi's eyes, quickly hidden. How interesting,
Llian thought. He's in love with her. I wonder I didn't realise it sooner.
'I hope Tallia's safe,' said Llian. 'She's a wonderful woman.'
Jevi said something incoherent.
The wine began to work its magic. Llian, feeling a reckless thrill, pressed
Jevi a bit harder. 'You know,' he said casually, 'I think Tallia might be in
love with you.'
Jevi choked. 'Don't be stupid! How could she love me? She's so - ' he cried
out incoherently. 'Mind your own business, Llian!' He threw himself off the
cart, heedless of his healing bones, and stumbled off into the scrub.
'Llian, wake up!
It was Lilis, shaking his shoulder. The sun was well up.
'What's the matter?'
'It's breakfast time.'
He ate without noticing what he'd been given, and then Jevi began unwrapping
the bandages. His hands were more articulate than he was, for they were
careful and very gentle. Llian held his breath, expecting that putrid smell
again. Jevi and Malien bent over the wound.
'How is it?' Llian demanded.
Malien shook her head. 'I wouldn't have believed it.'
'What?'
'The gangrene's gone, every bit.'
Jevi held up one of the maggots, grinning broadly. 'Fat little buggers, aren't
they?'
Llian muttered something under his breath.
'What's that?' asked Malien. 'Are you all right, Llian?'
Llian burst out laughing. He was dreadfully hung-over and didn't care. What a
wonderful day it was. 'I thought I might compose - decompose, ha! - an Ode to
Maggots on the way to Thurkad. Let's go!'
The Apprentice Scribe
On the night of Llian's return to Thurkad a meeting was held in Nadiril's
house, a splendid old villa set in its own grounds not far from the citadel.
The journey had been exhausting for the old man and his chest still plagued
him, while the thranx had cast a shadow over them all.
Mendark, Yggur, Malien and Lilis were also there. Yggur was clean-shaven and
dressed in new blue robes, instead of his habitual black. He seemed keen to
begin a new life as soon as possible. He held a mug of hot lasee, a weak
yellow drink brewed from the sweet sap of the swamp sard tree. Steam curled up
from the mug. He looked relaxed, and more confident than Mendark had ever seen
him. The victory over the thranx had restored him to the noble Yggur he'd been
before war and adversity had undermined him. The transformation was
astounding, though Mendark wondered how long it would last this time.
Mendark stood beside the fireplace, sipping from a tiny bowl of gellenia, a
very sweet, aromatic liquor that Shand distilled from fermented, over-ripe
gellon. Stooping, he put the bowl down on the hob to warm. Its luscious
peach-mango aroma filled the room.
Malien had a small glass bowl but she was not drinking. She sat back, admiring
the colours in the glass, the golden
liquor made red, orange and even purple by the firelight.

'How little there is between us and the void,' said Nadiril, pushing himself
up in bed. His pillows tumbled down. Lilis hurried to pack them in behind him.
'Thank you, child.' He lifted a bloodless hand and let it fall on the covers.
It made a grey blotchy lump against the snowy linen. 'How easily we could be
overrun.'
'I want to talk about Llian,' said Malien.
'Colourless Malien comes out of her shell at last,' Mendark said irritably.
'Tensor taught me the failure of leadership, and you two the leadership of
failures! Llian has been grossly mistreated.'
'Is this guilt talking?' said Mendark.
'I do feel guilty,' she replied. 'Llian may be a great chronicler, but he's
helpless out in the real world. I let him down at Carcharon.'
'Bah!' said Mendark. 'He wasn't so helpless when he led Karan up there to
betray us.'
'I know Llian, Mendark. I've looked into his heart, and he's innocent.'
'If you'd seen him in Gothryme you might think differently,' snapped Mendark.
He felt that the whole room was against him.
'I'm no longer convinced either!' said Yggur. 'You've been twisting the truth
so long you don't know what it is any more.'
'I stand on my reputation!' Mendark said furiously.
'Of course you do - you wrote it! You're a manufactured man, Mendark.'
'And you're a miserable failure, Yggur!'
'The thranx would tell a different story,' interjectedNadiril. 'Look, Mendark,
we see Llian differently now.'
'I'll hear Karan's evidence before I agree,' Mendark said. 'Why would she give
herself up to Rulke?'
'Because that's the way she is! I have to say, knowing Karan . . . well, she's
not easily led.' Malien sipped her drink.
'We're agreed then,' said Nadiril. 'This trial is over and Llian is to be
freed.'
'Very well,' said Mendark. 'Have your way, but he must be kept under house
arrest until Karan returns, or otherwise!'
'I'll set some of my remaining Whelm to watch over him,' said Yggur. 'Vartila
will supervise. Be assured that no harm will come to him, Malien.'
Mendark forced himself to smile. The focus of power had shifted again. He felt
insecure, while Yggur was resurgent. Since Havissard everything had gone wrong
and he knew not how to make it right.
'Let's get to the real issue,' said Yggur. 'Rulke!'
'This construct freezes my blood,' said Mendark, perched on his chair like a
vulture on a fence. His shoulders and the fabric of the chair were covered in
flakes of skin. 'Rulke will annihilate us. We have no weapon to use against
him. No defence!'
'Then let's get to work and find one!' said Yggur. Standing tall by the fire
he looked twice the man Mendark was. His black hair swept his shoulders as he
spoke. 'He suffered a blow in Carcharon. Maybe he's not as great as he would
have us think. It gives me new hope.'
'What about Shand's plan,' Malien reminded them, 'to make the golden flute
anew?'
'If we had a flute,' said Mendark, 'we could take him by surprise. Risk all to
gain all - the construct!'
'The flute is not the equal of his construct,' said Yggur. 'All it can do is
open gates from one place to another. The construct is a weapon and a defence
as well. Besides, to make the flute we need Aachan red gold, and we don't have
enough.'
'Faelamor has plenty!' Mendark said, still bitter at the memory.
'Go play with your fantasies, Mendark!' Yggur scoffed as he strode to the
door. There was no sign of his limp today. 'In the real world I've an empire
to manage and rebellions
to put down, not to mention the thranx. It's been seen not far away, in Faidon
Forest. I'm going after it in the morning.'

Mendark, back in his room, knew he was right. The flute had to be remade.
There was no other way.
But there's no gold! It positively screamed at him.
Even lying on his back, his joints burned. The last month felt to have aged
him decades. The ride back to Thurkad had been torment. He limped into the
bathroom to brush his teeth and caught sight of his face in the mirror. The
sight was repulsive. He wanted to smash his fist through the glass. His life
was running out rapidly and there was still so much to do! At the rate he was
failing, he could be bedridden in months, dead within a year.
He wanted to lock the door and never come out again. The despair was not at
his imminent death - he was looking forward to that, after the centuries he
had lived. Death would be the ultimate experience, once his life's goals had
been achieved.
But the greatest goal of all remained. Mendark loved his city and his world
with a passion, and could not die with the threat of Rulke hanging over it.
Once that menace was finished forever, and Faelamor too, he would laugh in his
grave.
He rang the bell and, when the servant came, called for his healers and
spellbinders. While they laboured, easing the knotted muscles and taut sinews,
working their magic on his brittle bones and sandpaper joints, a plan began to
come to life. Faelamor had the Aachan gold that should have been his. She was
the key. But she was a mighty opponent. He'd need a lot of support and only
one person could provide it.
Yggur had the people, the spies and the troops. He must manipulate him to find
out where Faelamor's hideout was, then launch a raid on it with overwhelming
strength and seize the gold. With that he would have the golden flute remade.
And finally, the most daring stroke of all, he would make a gate to Shazmak
and take the construct. That quest
would probably fail, but if it succeeded it would establish his reputation for
all time. And if by chance he did succeed, with the construct he could rid the
world of the menace of Rulke and Faelamor forever. And Yggur, too, if he dared
to stand in his way.
'Enough!' Mendark shouted, and silently everyone filed out again. They knew
his needs and his moods by now. He paid enough to demand instant obedience.
His body, when he slid off the table, felt better than it had in months. It
wouldn't last, of course, but while it did he had plenty to do.
Encouraged that he finally had a workable plan, Mendark unlocked a small
cupboard, inside which were a dozen flutes. Not magical devices - these were
just musical instruments, though beautiful ones. Some were carved out of the
rarest timbers the world could offer, others forged of precious metals. He
selected one made of simple silver, a favourite, sat down in an armchair with
a glass of brandy at his elbow and began to play.
Within minutes his swollen fingers were aching. Once he had been a master
flautist, but Mendark had not played at all this last century. Two renewals
ago. How the decades fleeted by!
He laid the instrument aside. His fingers had forgotten everything. The
renewals must have erased the movements from his nerves. It sharpened his
unhappy mood. Life and the world seemed to be slipping out of his control. All
the more reason to secure his reputation while he still could. All the more
reason to continue with his plan.
Mendark lay awake all night, brooding about his grievances and the lack of
recognition for them. He had done great deeds for Santhenar, but his
greatness, his service had not been acknowledged, and never would be. It was a
festering sore. To be a part of the Histories, to have one's own strivings
woven into that great tapestry, was the greatest honour anyone on Santhenar
could wish for. Mendark was no more immune to that longing than any other.
Once the merest mention in a minor document had been enough to make him glow
with pride. But as he grew older and more powerful, such mentions were an
everyday occurrence that meant nothing. In fact they were worse than nothing,
for they represented an accumulation of evidence that no doubt would be used

to rewrite history one day, to show him for a fool or a scoundrel. He had to
be recognised at a higher level.
Mendark had worked and schemed to have his role acknowledged in one of the
great Texts of the Histories that every school student learned by heart.
Eventually he achieved that goal too. But finally even that could not appease
him, not even when he had his own chapter. Most important of all were the
Great Tales. Then, long after Rulke was imprisoned in the Nightland, the tale
of The Taking of Rulke was made, and at last Mendark had climbed the highest
mountain of all. He was recorded in a Great Tale. His name and his deeds would
be remembered whilever the Histories were kept.
But what had been, at the time, the pinnacle of his life's achievements had
long since ceased to satisfy him. Like any other addiction he wanted more and
more. He knew that he deserved more. The chroniclers had been ungenerous with
their praise. The honour that should have been his had been spread over a
dozen lesser folk, playing down his heroic deeds as they exaggerated everyone
else's.
How could this be remedied? It would take no less than his own Great Tale to
set out all his deeds, but the chroniclers were an unbiddable lot who allowed
no interference in their affairs. Only they could agree that a tale was worthy
of being called a Great Tale, and it was hundreds of years since they'd last
done so. Like sainthood, to be immortalised in one's own Great Tale was
something that happened only after death. Mendark did not mind that - it was
posterity he was concerned with - but history tended to be rewritten. Unless
he made sure of it, his tale might never be written, or written in an
unfavourable light.
Well, not to be recognised is the fate of reformers. I can bear that. But when
I'm dead, I can't bear to think that others will steal the credit for all I've
done, and leave my name burdened with the failures and follies of the Council.
I will have my own Great Tale! No one deserves it more than I do. And I have
the instrument right here under my thumb - Llian! He owes me for the years I
supported him at the college. It won't be easy - the chroniclers are jealous
of their independence - but it can be done. It must! The tale we're in now
will be a Great Tale, not the Tale of the Mirror but Mendark's Tale! With
these mostly comforting thoughts he slipped into sleep.
Llian was held in a ground-floor room in the citadel. It was small but clean
and even had a barred window. Outside was a walled yard with a single leafless
tree, an ancient thing with a warty trunk and knobbly twigs like rheumatic
fingers.
At first light, Mendark appeared at Llian's door. 'Your time has come,
chronicler!'
'What do you mean?' asked Llian carefully.
'I want my tale told. The future must know how I've sacrificed myself for the
world.'
The very idea! 'I'm busy with the Tale of the Mirror at the moment,' said
Llian.
'Good. You can change the name to Mendark's Tale, since at the heart it's the
tale of my life.'
Llian was thunderstruck at his arrogance. 'The college would never allow it. I
suggest that you employ a commercial teller.'
'You ungrateful wretch! It's my tale, and you owe me fifteen years' service!'
Mendark roared.
Llian felt like punching the Magister in the mouth. Instead he limped to the
window, looking out as he tried to control his fury. The guards outside could
not save him if Mendark really wanted him harmed. Then it occurred to him that
this might be the way to find out what had really happened at
the time of the Forbidding, and at Rulke's imprisonment too. Maybe he could
play on Mendark's weakness to get documents that no one else had ever seen.
But he would have to be careful.
'I'm well aware of my debt,' said Llian. 'Send down your records and I'll
consider it. But, even should I agree, you know what the master chroniclers