Tetrarch (Well of Echoes) (33 page)

‘Very good. Tell the men to stay clear of my best stout.’

The foreman laughed. ‘Every man has his weakness, and I imagine you’re referring to me rather than them. I’ll keep it in mind, though it’ll be a thirsty duty, master.’

His loyalty deserved a reward, though Gilhaelith offered it with a tinge of regret. ‘When you come up, you shall have a barrel of the stuff.’

Gilhaelith spring-stepped to Tiaan’s room. Hitherto she had dodged all his questions. Now he had to know.

Her head rotated as he entered. Her eyes were dull; she did not seem to be interested in anything. Pulling up a chair, he sat down. She resumed staring at the ceiling.

He leaned forward, unfolded the letter from his factor and began to read it. She ignored him until he mentioned Vithis, whereupon her hands fluttered under the covers. She bit down on a gasp. He kept reading. At the end, her eyes turned to him and he saw naked terror there. Just as quickly she hid it.

‘You must tell me everything,’ he said sternly.

‘There’s no point. Just take me down the mountain and leave me by my thapter.’

‘Thapter?’

‘The flying construct.’

‘I am thinking of doing just that.’ He inspected her as dispassionately as he would have done the least of his servants. There was no room for sentiment, not for a thief. ‘Why did you steal the thapter?’

‘I didn’t. It’s mine.’

The claim was nonsensical. ‘Tiaan, Vithis is searching for the thapter, and you, and won’t rest until he has interrogated every witness in the land. I cannot resist him, even if I wanted to. You are a thief who wantonly attacked his camp and tried to kill him. I must give you up.’

‘Please, no!’

‘Then talk to me.’

‘He is a liar who callously betrayed me, and attacked me first. I am not a thief.’

He did not believe her. ‘Go on.’

‘I did not steal the thapter,’ she blurted. ‘It’s mine.’

‘Come, Tiaan, patently it was made by the Aachim.’

‘Malien gave it to me in Tirthrax.’

He drew in a breath. ‘Malien is still alive?’

‘She is old, but in health.’

‘How very interesting. Were the other constructs made at Tirthrax?’

‘They were built on Aachan. I created the gate that brought them to our world, for their own is dying in volcanic fire.’

He got a tale out of her, with much probing, and many pauses on her part that made him sure there was little truth in it. It was well into the evening by then. A shiver went up his spine as he understood, at last, the source of that ethyric convulsion weeks ago.
Someone
had made a gate but it could not have been Tiaan. She was not old enough to have mastered the basics of geomancy, far less the greatest of all magic. Gilhaelith was so unsettled that he shouted for a cup of mustard-water.

‘But, master,’ said Mihail, ‘you never drink mustard-water in the evening. Shall I fetch you –’

‘At once, dammit. And tea for Tiaan.’

Gilhaelith sat back in his chair. She could not have made a gate, so who had? Malien, most likely. The situation was more dire than he had thought: for the world, for himself, and of course for Tiaan. Her attack, even if it had been self-defence, would have been the ultimate humiliation for the proud Aachim. And the thapter was worth a continent. Who had made it fly, as Rulke’s original had, two centuries ago? Tiaan had not revealed that. Vithis would do everything possible to recover it. With mastery of the air his forces would be unstoppable; humanity’s clankers would be no more useful than hay wagons.

And then there was the amplimet. Even if Vithis dared not use it himself, it was required for the thapter to fly. Vithis might be capable of scrying out the path flown by the thapter, given time. It would be a difficult task, but not impossible for someone with unlimited resources. Sooner or later he would end up here. I haven’t thought things through, Gilhaelith thought. Should I call Guss back? Perhaps I should tell Vithis where the construct is, and earn the reward.

‘Tell me about the amplimet, Tiaan.’

‘I’ve already talked about it.’

‘There’s much you haven’t told me. It’s a deadly crystal and I can’t see how you survived using it, even briefly.’

Tiaan flushed and looked down at the bed. Mistaking her reaction for guilt, he reared up over her and said sternly, ‘I have been testing the amplimet and I know you’re keeping much from me. My patience has run out. Tell me, or it will go badly for you.’

‘The c-crystal is alive,’ she stammered.

She was less intelligent than he’d thought, but he’d humoured her. ‘How can you tell?’

‘It was drawing power from the field all by itself, without ever being woken.’ She told him about finding it. ‘And in Tirthrax, since the gate opened, it was talking to the node.’

‘Talking to the node? Preposterous!’

She explained about that, and how it had taken over the thapter’s controls. He did not speak after she had finished, but paced the bedchamber, analysing what she had said and calculating probabilities. He
could
not believe her.

‘What are you going to do?’ she said. She seemed to be going through some kind of internal struggle.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Vithis must not get the thapter. You’ve got to give it to the scrutators. It will make all the difference to the war.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk about duty, after running away from your manufactory.’

‘I was on my way to Lybing to give the thapter to the scrutator, but the amplimet brought me here instead. It cut off the field to make sure I couldn’t fight it.’

One absurd lie after another. Did she take him for a fool? But still, there
was
something about her, and her story, that made him pause.

‘Please,’ she said in tones that would have wrenched at the heart of any normal man. ‘Vithis is a monster. He plans to take our world.’

Gilhaelith was not a normal man, but he could not think with her tragic eyes on him. He rose abruptly, sending the chair skidding back. Her head whipped around and he saw terror in her eyes.

He stalked around the rim of the crater, stumbling over the rubble in his agitation. He was not defenceless. Gilhaelith had been born with a talent for the Secret Art, one he had worked hard to master. Nonetheless, the Aachim force must contain many adepts greater than he, and if they discovered what he had done they would destroy him. He could not play that kind of game. Better be seen to be helpful, while hiding his true design.

Or should he give the thapter to the scrutators? A good decision if it helped them to win the war, but a foolish one if, as he suspected, they were going to lose. Gilhaelith took the omens but the numbers were ambiguous. He took them again – different numbers, yet the uncertainty was the same. The choice went three ways and his decision could alter the future of the world. One option was right, the others likely to be disastrously wrong, but for all his auguries and all his logic he could not separate them. The future was scrambled. Randomness, the greatest curse of all, looked like being crucial.

In the early hours of the following morning, Gilhaelith sat in his chair in the basement, a jug of stout at his elbow, staring moodily at the thapter. He could not bring himself to believe Tiaan’s outlandish story about making the gate. A student of geomancy for a century and a half, he knew just how long it took to master the Art. The notion that the amplimet had some will of its own was even more absurd. And yet … there had been that strange reaction when he had tested it with his organ.

Gilhaelith had not got to where he was by having a closed mind. If it did have some kind of mineral awareness, he would discover it. But what
could
a piece of crystal want?

He spent a day and a half cunningly investigating it with the subtlest of his instruments. It shone steadily all the while unusual, but not unprecedented. It did not blink once. It was not communicating at all – that was just another of Tiaan’s fantasies. Once he had gone, the amplimet’s glow faded to the dullest of glimmers, but the central spark began to blink rapidly and, after some hours, the field of the Booreah Ngurle double node started to pulse in unison. Several minutes passed. The spark died and the field went back to normal.

T
he thapter was another puzzle, though one more amenable to logic. Gilhaelith’s smiths had removed its crumpled metal skin and were now beating it back to shape. He had studied every part of the machine’s workings but had not discovered how it hovered, much less flew. It vexed him that a little liar and thief had been able to do what he could not.

Two days later, Mihail came running to Gilhaelith, who had just gone in to check on Tiaan.

‘Master, master!’ he cried, bursting through the door.

‘What is it?’ Gilhaelith snapped. He hated chaos and emotion.

‘Klarm, surr. The dwarf scrutator.’

‘What? On his way up the mountain?’

‘He’s turning onto the terrace right now.’

Gilhaelith jumped. How had Klarm climbed the hill without anyone seeing him? Scrutator magic! ‘Keep this door shut!’ he snapped and ran out, ignoring Tiaan.

Klarm was scrutator for Borgistry, the land south of Booreah Ngurle. Strictly speaking he did not have any authority here, for Gilhaelith held an ancient charter that declared his little kingdom independent. It suited the leaders of the surrounding nations, and more importantly the Council of Scrutators, otherwise they would have repudiated it long ago. But the war had changed the world and Gilhaelith was uncomfortably aware of his vulnerability. He had to please everyone, offend no one, and maintain his usefulness to the scrutators. And still he could not make his choice. Should he give the thapter to Klarm, or lie and pray he got away with it? Even if he did, he would soon have to abandon Nyriandiol and all he had done here. But if Klarm suspected the thapter was being kept from him …

‘Scrutator Klarm!’ Gilhaelith said as he went out the circular front door. ‘It’s very good to see you. Come down.’

Klarm’s groom trotted across with a footstool and stood it beside the stirrup, for Klarm had not grown properly and, standing on tiptoes, his large round head reached no higher than Gilhaelith’s waist. Despite his dwarfism he was a cheerful fellow, though as ruthless as anyone ever to take the robes of scrutator.

Klarm clambered down, nodding to the groom. He walked with a rolling gait, like a man who had spent too long on the deck of a ship. With a dazzling smile, the scrutator threw out his hand. He was a handsome man with a noble mane of brown wavy hair that enclosed his neck like a collar. His eyes were the brilliant blue of the crater lake below. ‘It’s a pleasure to be back, Gilhaelith.’

Gilhaelith bowed low and took the outstretched hand. He had always liked Klarm, though he did not trust him. Scrutator first, friend a distant second. ‘And to you, my friend. How long has it been? Too long, certainly.’

‘Eleven months to the day.’ Klarm always knew such details.

‘Come into the shade. Shall I bring up a jug of my finest stout?’

‘Porter, I think, but don’t be mean. Bring the whole damned barrel.’

A servant was despatched and Gilhaelith led Klarm under the vines. They talked about the splendid weather and the beauty of the blue lake, as custom dictated, until the drink arrived. The first servant bore a jug the size of a large bucket. Another carried a tray of delicacies – the pickled intestinal organs of lake fish, arranged in squares four to a side, for Gilhaelith, and more traditional tidbits for Klarm.

The scrutator wrinkled his nose. ‘Nothing changes with you.’ He chose a cube of blue cheese, which he roofed with slices of gherkin before swallowing it whole.

‘And why should it?’ Gilhaelith selected a pair of small, liver-pink organs between finger and thumb, admiring the colouring. Red-brown material oozed out. He slurped them down.

He poured the scrutator a large tankard of the boot-polish-brown brew. They touched porcelain to porcelain and Klarm drained his in a single swallow. It was his habit to begin a session that way, though he seldom lost his wits no matter how much ale he had taken. He poured another, sinking it as quickly, and a third, which he merely sipped.

Gilhaelith, knowing his limitations, took a sturdy pull at his own drink, sat it on the table and looked the scrutator in the eye.

‘I know you’d come a tidy distance to drink a porter as fine as mine,’ he said. ‘Are you passing by, or have you come about this other matter that everyone is talking of?’ No one passed by Booreah Ngurle, for it was a winding twenty leagues through Worm Wood from the Great North Road, and not on the way to anywhere.

‘I figured your spies would have told you of it,’ Klarm said. ‘Whatever happened to this flying construct, it’s checked the progress of the Aachim, and that’s a blessing. They raced halfway across the continent in a couple of weeks, but since the machine disappeared they’ve not moved their main camp. I need not tell you what a shock their appearance was. They came from Aachan, Gilhaelith.
Through a gate!
What do they want? Are they really refugees, or an advance guard come to bring the rest of their people across? Will they ally with us against the lyrinx, or take their side, or fight us both? On the answers to these questions our very future depends.’