The Gambler's Fortune (Einarinn 3) (31 page)

Usara came over and Sorgrad wordlessly handed him a cup.

“Are you all right?” I looked at him with some concern, but his color was improving

Usara wrapped his hands around the warmth of his cup, breathing in the steam. “Well enough, just weary. I think I’ve done more magic since Equinox than in the past half-year,” he said with a rueful smile. “It’s really not the same as just exploring the theories of wizardry. Still, one of the reasons I wanted to come with you was to test my skills.”

“We need to decide what we’re about here,” Sorgrad stated firmly. “Has anyone found so much as a sniff of aetheric lore among these folk?”

Usara shook his head. “Even supposing it was something they were keeping secret, I feel sure someone would have let something slip by now, given how open they are.”

I studied my bread for a moment. “I still think there’s something to this jalquezan. And there was the hunt today; that Iamris was finding game with something more than a good eye and a sharp nose, I’m sure of it. How did word of the trouble get back to the camp so quick? No one could have run that fast! What about Zenela? When did you see anyone heal so fast and so fully from putrid lungs? I’ve finally found someone who knows a ballad where someone uses a charm to light a fire like me—”

“Livak, I’ve spent the last three days listening to ballad after ballad after ballad,” said Usara, exasperated. “Every second person has a different version, some minstrel’s variant on the words or the order of narrative. It seems to be a point of honor to fiddle about with the tune and add embellishments. I’m sorry, believe me, but these stories are so fluid, so much changes from year to year, that whatever knowledge they might have once held is lost beyond retrieval. I could give you five different versions of ‘The Hunt of the White Stag’ for a start.” He shut his mouth with an obstinate snap.

“We’re not here to write a treatise on the history of the Folk.” I tried to contain my own annoyance. “Stop trying to pin down facts and look at the stories! Look at the unexpected, the remarkable, and the impossible and tell me you don’t think there’s magic involved. And where there is magic, there’s the jalquezan, every time.”

“Perhaps.” The skepticism in Usara’s voice left little doubt as to his opinion. “But how are they doing it? How do we test their abilities, determine the efficacy of whatever lore they might have?”

“Why do you wizards always have to pick and pry and pull things apart? Can’t you just believe it?” I glared at the mage.

“If we don’t know how they are doing something, how are we to repeat it?” demanded Usara.

I waved him to silence as an idea jumped up and bit me. “It was your own work that identified the collective belief of a group of people as the source of the power that Artifice draws on, wasn’t it?”

Usara looked perplexed. “The main credit belongs to Geris Armiger—”

I raised a hand, frowning as I struggled to find words for my new notion. “What if enough people believing a person can do something is enough to make it happen? What if that’s sufficient to bring aetheric influence to bear on someone’s abilities?” Now that I said it, it all made sense, the pieces falling into place like a child’s puzzle.

“I don’t follow you,” said Usara in weary tones.

“Everyone tells me Rusia is the best at reading the runes. She believes it and so does everyone else. That belief is enough to make it true. Orial is a noted healer; she sings the songs that she believes will add luck to her medicines. The words of the jalquezan don’t matter so much as the fact she believes in what she’s doing. That’s what makes it happen. Everyone knows that Iamris will find game, so he does. Every time it happens, it strengthens the belief, the expectation that it will happen next time, so it does!”

“Self-fulfilling prophecy,” murmured Sorgrad thoughtfully.

“But Guinalle and her Adepts studied Artifice back in the Tormalin Empire’s height,” protested Usara. “Her skills are born of discipline, not just blind belief.”

“Where does learning stop and belief begin?” countered Sorgrad. “Which comes first and then supports the other?”

I picked a twig from the ground, dead wood with a spray of parched and brown leaves still clinging to it. I’d spent too long with these mages with their questions and insatiable curiosity. “Talmia megrala eldrin fres.” The leaves crackled as they were instantly consumed, the dry bark split, the wood beneath charred. I dropped the twig to the ground and stamped on it, grinding it down beneath the top layer of dry litter into the damp leaf mold beneath. The sharp smell of smoke hovered in the air. “That’s Artifice. Tell me how I did it, wizard! I don’t know how but I believe I can and it’s never failed me yet.”

Usara opened his mouth and then shut it again. The mage’s essential honesty and scholarly training made it impossible for him to dismiss my idea out of hand, however much he might want to. “But how do we test the notion? We have to have some proof, if we’re to take anything to the Council or the Archmage.”

“Presumably, if someone started doubting their abilities they could lose them,” said Sorgrad slowly. “A bit like losing your place in a dance when you suddenly become conscious of what your feet are doing.”

I frowned. “How could you just choose to stop believing in something?”

“We could fuzz the runes in a game with Barben,” said ’Gren with feeling. “Or break his fingers. I wouldn’t mind seeing him learning it’s possible to lose. Everyone’s certainly convinced he can’t be beaten.”

“There’s another one,” I nodded to Usara. “He believes he’s lucky, and all the others believe it too; that invokes some unconscious element of Artifice and the runes run his way.”

“He’s certainly not cheating,” remarked Sorgrad. “Trust me, we’d know if he was.”

Usara brought his hands together, fingertips touching, tucking them beneath his chin. His eyes were distant among the bustle of the disintegrating camp. “It’s an interesting notion and who’s to say it’s wrong, we know so little of Artifice. But where’s the proof, where’s the trial?”

“Why do you need that?” I shook my head. “Does every mage in Hadrumal reduce a timepiece to cogs and springs before they accept it’ll mark the passing chimes?”

Usara grimaced. “We could find ourselves risking apples against ashes, couldn’t we? If we ask questions of Guinalle that start her doubting her own abilities, we’ve not only lost our most advanced practitioner of Artifice but also one of the main defenses the Kellarin colony has against Elietimm raids.”

He jumped as two Forest men swept a sheet of woven bark past his head. Our sura was being reclaimed as we spoke. We moved to one side and left them to it.

“Rusia says that Ravin will be able to hide them from any pursuit,” I said suddenly. “How about we test that?”

Usara looked blank for a moment. “How?”

“We let them go off, let them get a few chimes ahead, then see if we can track them.” I was hard put to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“They’re going to have far more woodcraft—” began the mage.

“We grew up spending half the year tracking fur animals through thicker woods than this,” interrupted ’Gren, scornfully.

I could see the wizard was still looking doubtful and that Sorgrad was thinking the same as me. “We will try our best, you know. We won’t just lose them because we want it to be true!” Usara tried to look surprised but his fair color betrayed him with a blush of red.

“You’ll be trying to scry for them, won’t you?” Sorgrad was looking amused at something I was missing. “Artifice can hide from elemental magic, can’t it?”

Usara looked at him sharply. “It has seemed so.”

“Then put your money where your mouth is, mage,” Sorgrad said softly. “You wanted a test, let’s make one.”

I could see Usara was still looking for some trick or deception. “You’ve got to trust us sometime,” I pointed out. “You got close enough to Orial to be able to scry for her, didn’t you?”

Usara threw up his hands. “Very well. Let’s see where this takes us.”

I didn’t trust myself to talk to him for a while so busied myself helping the Folk dismantle their camp. ’Gren slipped away to bid some tactful farewells and I saw Sorgrad in seemingly casual conversation with Frue.

“Did you make our thank you?” I asked when he returned to my side. I wiped some sweat from my face with a rope-scorched hand.

He nodded. “Frue’s going to share out our cut of the meat and he said to tell you he was grateful for the new songs, or rather the ancient ones.”

We stood and waited in the middle of the trampled glade and watched as the Folk melted into the forest, leaving us and our donkey and a pile of baggage. I felt a pang I didn’t want to examine too closely. I wanted them to be my kin, but then again I didn’t. And wanting wouldn’t make it so, in any case. I didn’t belong here, any more than I belonged in Vanam. So it was up to me to make my own place, wasn’t it? With Ryshad, and that meant showing these skeptical wizards that I had found something worth solid coin. My spirits rose as I realized the song various voices were raising as the Folk moved away was a tale of Seris evading pursuit by Mazir. That was in my book and it had the jalquezan in every second verse.

“How about a hand or so of runes, to pass the time while we wait?” I took the bones from my pocket and sat down. By the time I’d taken all Usara’s small coin off him and what remained of Sorgrad’s loot from the raiders, the sun had slipped down to skirt the edge of the treetops.

“Now Livak’s got everything she wanted, how about we try to follow those Folk,” suggested Sorgrad with a grin.

“I’m game!” ’Gren sprang to his feet and began quartering the edges of the glade.

“We know they went in that direction,” pointed out Usara apologetically.

’Gren ignored him. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll do it properly,” Sorgrad said firmly.

“I’ve some tracking skills of my own,” I told the wizard. “You come last with the donkey so as not to foul the ground.”

“Right, we have hoof prints plain enough here,” called ’Gren. “Let’s see how far they go.”

The trail was plain enough and the brothers followed it with close attention. We moved steadily and silently, the two of them a way ahead, bending over scuffmarks, noting crashed flowers, bent twigs. I checked the sun and worked out we were bearing north and west. We’d be reaching the river soon, I judged. Usara walked behind me, idly plucking leaves from bushes and offering them to the donkey who mumbled them before letting the pieces fall to the damp earth.

’Gren and Sorgrad slowed and stopped, conferring in low voices. Separating, they cast about like hounds after a scent and after a while came back to Usara and me.

“Lost them,” said ’Gren baldly. “The trail’s been getting fainter and fainter and now it’s given out altogether.”

“Doesn’t that happen anyway, if someone is being careful to avoid pursuit?” asked Usara, choosing his words with care.

Sorgrad stepped forward and pressed his boot into a mossy patch. “On stony ground, on hard mud, maybe even on thick litter, if you’re very careful. Not on this terrain.”

“And we can track mice over a scree, if we put our minds to it,” added ’Gren with a hint of menace.

We looked at the deep imprint of Sorgrad’s foot and then at the soft, unmarked ground all around. “They were singing ‘The ballad of Mazir’s Search,’ ” I pointed out to the mage. “I can find that in the book, if you want to read it.”

Usara nodded. “Very well. Then let’s see if my magic can do any better than your woodcraft.”

I held my tongue and ’Gren and Sorgrad exchanged an amused glance. Usara dripped green magelight from one negligent hand and the boot print in the moss filled with water. Usara knelt, bending closer with a faint frown. ’Gren, uninterested, pulled up grass for the donkey, stroking its velvety nose. I watched Sorgrad, whose expression was a singular mixture of skepticism and curiosity. Birdsong fluted around and about as the creatures of the woods went about their business, unbothered by our arcane concerns.

I restrained my impatience with a firm hand. Usara had to come to this conclusion on his own, unhurried and unprompted, or he’d never acknowledge it wasn’t his own. I shoved my hands in my breeches pockets and fingered my rune bones. Sorgrad winked at me when I looked away, in case my gaze scorched the back of the mage’s neck. I stifled a laugh.

“I can’t scry them.” Usara sounded genuinely astounded. “I can find absolutely no trace!”

I bit my tongue.

“What else could explain that, other than Artifice?” asked Sorgrad in a neutral tone.

“At this distance, over this time, given the time we’ve spent with them—” Usara rubbed a thoughtful hand over his mouth. “You know, I really can’t think of anything.”

The arrogance that had these wizards thinking they could never be wrong was a coin with two sides, wasn’t it? I released my breath slowly. “So now you believe me?”

“I think you’ve an argument worth further consideration,” the mage admitted.

“So, what do we do now?” ’Gren had wandered back to us. He grinned. “You’re prepared to admit these Folk have some Artifice, but now we’ve gone and lost them. Do we go looking for another gang of them?”

“I’ll grant the Folk look to have real Artifice but there’s still no clear lore or anything we could put to immediate use,” frowned Usara.

“What about the song book?” I objected.

“Sing me something, make it work,” challenged Usara. “Do you believe it wholeheartedly enough to harness the aetheric influence? Show me how to explain it to Planir, to the scholars studying with Guinalle. Show me how to use it against the Elietimm!”

“Sheltya could,” suggested ’Gren obligingly.

“What?” Usara and I spoke as one, rounding on the Mountain Man who smiled cheerfully.

“That’s why you wanted to go into the uplands, isn’t it? To ask Sheltya’s help?” ’Gren looked at his brother, faint puzzlement wrinkling his brow.

“What is it you haven’t told us?” demanded Usara.

I stepped between him and Sorgrad. The only person who was going to take that tone with him was me. “Who or what is Sheltya? I’ve never heard the word before.”

Sorgrad’s face was a blank parchment, nothing to be read. “They hold the sagas and the histories of the mountains. If any Anyatimm know of aetheric magic, it’ll be Sheltya. Those Solurans straightening Halice’s leg after her breaking her thigh, even when it was half a year healed, that’s the kind of thing Sheltya are said to do.”