Wartorn: Resurrection (26 page)

He waited, growing worried. Cat could move with great stealth, but even real cats blundered sometimes. In the distance, he heard criers announcing the curfew.

Finally, the boy emerged from the same high window into which he had disappeared. He flitted over to Aquint.

"What
was
it?" Aquint asked the lad.

Cat shrugged. "Don't know. It just felt unsafe."

Aquint ruffled his hair, relieved. "Well, what did you find inside?"

The boy grinned. "Tyber. And some friends."

"Friends?"

"A motley little group. Plus, I'm pretty sure one of them is the fellow who murdered the Felk soldier. He fits the description, minus the beard."

Aquint's eyes widened. "Our minstrel? What's he doing mixed up with Tyber?" Whatever else, that minstrel was dangerous, and his actions had caused harm to the people of Callah.

Cat said, "They've got some pathetic little weapons, and I heard them making plans."

Aquint felt uneasy. "What kind of plans?"

'To overthrow the Felk and retake Callah," Cat said blandly.

Rebels,
Aquint thought, dismayed.
Actual rebels.

"I could go fetch a Felk patrol," Cat offered. "You would have to share the credit for the capture. But there's more than a dozen in there, and I don't think you want to take them by yourself."

Capture the rebels, Aquint thought. Abraxis would be pleased. But.. . then what?

"Then what?" he said, voicing the question out loud to Cat.

Cat looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"We turn them in, and then what happens to us? Abraxis reassigns us somewhere else. Are you in any hurry to leave Callah?"

The boy slowly shook his head. Callah, even under Felk rule, was still home to him and Cat. Neither of them wanted to be anywhere else, in the end.

"What do you want to do then?" said Cat.

Aquint's mind was working fast, cutting through the haze of the drinks he'd had.

"You said there's about a dozen of them, with not much in the way of weapons?"

"Old men and women, a couple kids, maybe one real sword among them," Cat said.

Aquint chuckled quietly. "Then, how much trouble can they cause?"

"How's that?"

"As long as there are rebels in Callah, we stay in Callah. As long as we make progress in tracking them down, Abraxis stays happy. Don't you see, lad? We can nab one of these pretend revolutionaries whenever we need to make ourselves look good. And the thing is, these people will think they actually
are
rebels. They'll probably confess to it."

Cat was thinking it over. "You're probably right. That's awfully sneaky, though, even for you."

Aquint looked gravely at his young friend. "Lad, I didn't ask to be snatched away from here by the Felk. I didn't even ask to be made an officer, let alone an Internal Security agent. I was happy with how things were before this godsdamned war."

"So was I," muttered Cat.

Aquint gazed across the street at the warehouse. "I presume you got a decent look at everybody in there."

"Naturally."

"Then we know who our
rebels
are. And we know where they congregate." Tyber must have picked the warehouse as a secret meeting place. Odd that the old black-marketeer had turned into a revolutionary, but war did strange things to people. Aquint knew.

He smiled. The game was entering a new phase here. These would-be rebels would help him sustain the fiction that an uprising was brewing in Callah.

"And the first one we hand over to the Felk," Aquint said as he led Cat away, "is going to be that minstrel."

"WELL? WHAT'S YOUR answer?"

"I... need time."

"There's none to spare."

"If Praulth says she needs time," Xink said pointedly, "you will give it to her." It was at once a show of assertiveness toward the Petgradite, and subservience directed toward her.

Praulth found, somewhat to her surprise, that she still cared for Xink deeply. They remained lovers. But love, she was learning, was a balance of power. Once, those scales had tipped completely in his favor and she had been absolutely helpless in her feelings toward him, lost in a kind of demented devotion that only the freshly deflowered could truly know.

That unequal balance had since transposed.

The messenger from Petgrad was much older than either her or Xink, and he seemed to radiate contempt for the University. His flesh was leathery, his limbs wiry. He looked built for fast travel. His name was Merse.

"You prefer to stay here?" Merse asked, ignoring Xink. "Looking at word-scratchings and arguing about horseshit that happened a hundredwinter ago? Fine. I'll leave you to it."

Praulth blinked, startled by the man's insolence. He was here at Premier Cultat's behest, he'd said, to fetch her to Petgrad, where her talents were desperately needed. With Honnis gone, the Far Speak link between the University at Febretree and Petgrad had been severed.

Xink bounded to his feet, but Merse was faster, coming fearlessly toe-to-toe with the younger, taller man. Merse's ready stance, the fists at his sides, and the combative glint in his eyes all demonstrated that he was more than willing to brawl. Xink, realizing this, wobbled back a step.

"You won't speak to her in that manner," he said nonetheless, voice impressively steady.

Merse's wind-worn face showed a glimmer of teeth.

"Sit," Praulth said, "both of you."

They were in her and Xink's quarters, in the Blue Annex. Praulth, these last few days, hadn't left these confines. Honnis was gone. Her work as a military strategist—she'd thought—was done. But she didn't know what she was supposed to do with herself now. Somehow it seemed impossible that she could simply resume her studies as a fourth-phase pupil. Too much had happened.

She couldn't go back, but how was she to go forward—
as
what?

Now, here was Merse, telling her she was still needed, still important. It was curious that his manners didn't suit the entreaty he was conveying from Cultat.

"I think your skills as a diplomat require some honing, Merse," she said, trying out a droll tone. Sarcasm and other subtleties of speech were still new to her.

"Diplomat? Petgrad's got no
diplomats."
He had returned to his chair, as had Xink.

Praulth lifted an eyebrow. "Then how does your premier propose to assemble his alliance?"

"He's sent out his family," said Merse.

She absorbed that. "That seems risky."

A sneer pulled at Merse's lip. "It is, young lady. We're all taking risks. Don't you know what's at stake?"

"I do," Praulth pronounced somewhat icily.

"Then why the hesitating? Let's go. We can be back to Petgrad by the middle of tomorrow."

It still felt overwhelming.
Leave
the University? She had never considered such a course, not even as an eventuality, after her primary studies were through. She had meant to stay on here as ... as ...

Did she still have academic aspirations? Did she imagine she would one day inherit Honnis's post as head of the war studies council? That seemed as unreal now as leaving.

"Why can't Cultat send one of those—those Far Speak magicians?" She heard the slight quiver in her

voice. She was delaying. "It could be as it was with Master Honnis."

Before he passed into final unconsciousness, Master Honnis had used that remarkable form of magical communication to report—rather ghoulishly—his imminent demise to his wizardry contact in Petgrad. Praulth had sat alongside the cot and watched, amazed by the proceedings.

Merse was shaking his head. "You'll be safer in Petgrad."

"Safer?" Xink asked.

Merse didn't look his way but responded anyway. "The Felk are on the verge of invading the southern half of the Isthmus. They didn't have much trouble capturing the north part. If they come raging this way, do you think this—what do you call it?—
campus
will stand? Petgrad is the most powerful free city. We've got defenses. If the Felk win the Isthmus in the end, I promise you, we'll be the last to fall."

Praulth felt fear's cold fingers under her flesh. But she felt something more. Excitement. Perhaps even relief that this war wasn't going to pass her by after all.

She stood.

"Xink, did you wish to accompany me," she asked, "or remain behind?" She heard nothing in her voice to indicate which she preferred. He still had a career in academics ahead here at the University, under Mistress Cestrello.

Xink looked back at her with his gold-flecked blue eyes.

PRAULTH LOOKED DOWN at the marker in the tall grass. It was just a temporary one, a plank of wood jammed upright into the ground. Honnis's name was inscribed with a few crude slashes. Here a grander, more thoughtful stone testimonial would stand one day.

Jumper-pine was the variety of timber; the fact summoned itself from her memories of Dral Blidst, the lumber town of her childhood.

She was uncertain whether her mentor would prefer anything more than this simple hunk of wood. Honnis had practiced irascibility as if it were a faith. He hated false sentimentality. If he could be here, alive, he would probably spit scorn at the idea of a monument to his life. He would slap away the tears of mourners. He would do these things without a thought for anyone's feelings.

Praulth missed him.

The marker had been put down in the overgrown foliage that ringed the faculty housing at the center of campus. The trees here were in the grip of autumn, sobbing away their brittle leaves. It was a bathetic setting for Master Honnis's grave, more so since the circular window of his quarters was visible from here, high above, the pebbled glass throwing back the midday's cloud-muted light.

"Idlers," Merse was grumbling a few steps behind her.

Those quarters had been emptied. Honnis's belongings were like most personal effects—junk to the eye that didn't know how and where they fit into the convolutions of a life. Honnis had lived an enormous span of years. He had little in the way of belongings. What he'd been rich in was paper. Parchments. Scrolls. Documents, treatises, scholarly texts that ranged the length of the Isthmus. It was an immensely valuable private collection, and he had bequeathed all of it to the University's Archive.

"Layabouts," Merse continued.

Praulth turned, seeing that he wasn't referring to her and Xink. Instead, Merse's hard gaze was toward the students that walked the campus paths, a veritable army of robed figures going to and from their various studies.

That, of course, was the essence of Merse's objections. "You think they should all be going to war, don't you?" Praulth said. She and Xink were both wearing traveling clothes. It felt strange being without her robe.

Merse had only grudgingly agreed to halt here. His horse was waiting with hers at the edge of campus. They would have to stop at the stables to procure another mount for Xink.

"Young bodies," he said. "Strong hearts. They could learn to carry swords in their hands as well as they carry dusty words in their heads. It's a waste."

Xink made to step forward once more, his earlier lesson perhaps already forgotten. But a small wave of Praulth's hand—what
power
she wielded over him—stopped his move. She looked levelly at Merse's

coarse face. A smile that had nothing to do with happiness tugged at her lips. There were emotions available to her now that she had never had use for before. Disdain. Self-righteousness. She had earned them.

"The only way to fight a war is to hack bodies then?" She tried, with some success, to duplicate Merse's sneer from earlier.

"You've already got a witty rejoinder picked out," Merse said flatly, "or else you wouldn't poke at the subject."

Verbal sparring, only a lune ago, would have been unthinkable for her. Now she struck back. "I would guess you're a fast man, Merse. Fast on a horse. That's why they sent you here. If I asked you why
you
weren't off joining up with Cultat's alliance, you would tell me you'd had no choice in the matter. You serve the war the best you can. Well, I serve—"

Her brows, beneath her bland, brown hair, drew together.

While she spoke, Merse had removed an old scratched bracelet from his coat, gripping it tightly in one hand. He murmured words she couldn't make out.

When his face cleared, he said tonelessly, "Sorry. I missed most of that. You'll have to repeat it for me someday. Shall we go now?"

Xink didn't understand; she did. She had seen Master Honnis work the spell on his deathbed. She stared at Merse.

"I just told Petgrad we're on our way," he said.

"You're a wizard," Praulth breathed.

"As much as we have in the way of wizards here in the south. There's a house in Petgrad, a particular noble blood-line. A large family. The premiers have kept us, down through the years. Supported us. Made sure we kept in practice. Just in case there was need for our kind one day."

"You're from a
noble
house?" Xink intruded.

To Merse, he was now invisible and mute. "We can work the Far Speak," the Petgradite said. "Not much else. But we're the ones who have been scouting this war from the start."

"Your... family has been—" Once more she didn't finish. Honnis had received reports from the field of the Felk advancement, faster than any news could travel by messenger.

"See," Merse said, "Cultat's not the only one who's got family at risk. I've got cousins, brothers, sisters ... sons, and daughters."

His tone had softened finally. There was feeling in his weathered face. Praulth nodded solemnly. Then she spoke a goodbye to Honnis—aloud, the words tight and emotional in her throat, disregarding what her mentor might think of such a display—and they went to collect the horses.

"Do you know how the premier's plans are progressing?" she asked moments later, as she faced the challenge of climbing into a saddle for the first time in years. "Is he anywhere near assembling his alliance?"

Merse vaulted onto his mount, as if clambering onto a comfortable chair. "He finally secured the people's mandate and approval of the Noble Ministry to fully activate Petgrad's army."

Praulth was surprised. "I would have thought Petgrad's military would already be mobilized. What about the rest?"

"The first missions to the neighboring cities have come back successful. Seems people aren't as stupid or stubborn as some expected."

Behind her Xink was having as much difficulty getting himself aboard his horse as she was mounting hers. "What did
you
expect?"

Merse gave his reins a lazy flick; it looked like a shrug. "I tried not to expect anything. Petgrad has accumulated a good number of—well,
enemies
isn't the word. But other cities envy us. Our prosperity. Our stability. I didn't know how quick anyone would be to fall into an alliance with us."

"I suppose," Praulth said, "we're all facing the same enemy now."

Merse grunted. "Figured that out, have you? Thank gods Cultat knows how to pick his military experts."

An angry flush went through her, but she found herself without a ready retort. Well, she was still

learning such things. She wanted to know if the premier had gathered enough troops to reenact the Battle of Torran Flats, as she had suggested, but she didn't want another barb from Merse just yet.

Whatever the current state of the war, she was going to be a part of it. Premier Cultat needed her. She was crucial. She was going off to face Dardas, and that thought was so utterly astounding, it made her giddy.

At last she was fixed into the saddle. She and Xink had packed some supplies, but belongings were useless. Besides, what could she bring away from the University—this place of learning and self-fulfilling academic advancement—that could help in what she was going to do?

Xink had settled matters with the head of the student body council. To her surprise, the man had said that their quarters in the Blue Annex would wait for their return. Unusual, considering the widespread need for student housing on campus. Perhaps Xink's status as Attaché had leveraged it.

Praulth let a soft laugh drift past her lips. The horse moved under her, following Merse's.

If status had anything to do with it, surely it was
hers.
Perhaps word of her accomplishments had spread among the faculty.

They left the campus, then picked their way quickly through the township of Febretree. When they reached the road north, Merse set the pace. It was a fast one, and Praulth didn't know if she was up to handling an animal at such speed for any length of time. But she held on. Xink did the same, at her side.

She looked at him, suddenly wanting to speak. His dark hair whipped very becomingly behind him. His face was as handsome as ever—high cheekbones, soft lips. Praulth felt herself surge, reflexively. The excitement was emotional and physical. She didn't begrudge the sensations.

Xink had deceived her. Yes. As Honnis had deceived her. But Xink had also volunteered to accompany her on this journey. He was leaving behind an even higher academic ranking than she was. He had a future with Mistress Cestrello and the sociology council. Yet, he had not hesitated. Praulth was going to Petgrad, so he was, too.

She smiled, watching him sidelong, as they bounced and bounded atop their steeds. She smiled until he noticed and tentatively returned it. Then she looked ahead, watching the road unfold toward a destiny that awaited her in a city she had never seen.