Fiddler Fair (anthology)

at offensive and defensive magics. Furthermore, you can activate the Gates to get in fairly close to the town before they can think up another excuse. We’ll inform them that you’re coming about a day before you’re due to arrive.”

“And there’s another factor,” creaked ancient Cetallas. “Your hireling. The boy is good; damned good. Best I’ve seen in—can’t remember when. No Free City scum is going to get past him to take you out. He’s a healer of sorts, so Ben tells us. That’s no bad thing to have about, a healer you can trust just in case some physical accident happens. And you must admit he’s got a pretty powerful incentive to keep you alive.” The old man wheezed a little, and quirked an amused eyebrow at the two of them. Martis couldn’t help but notice the twinkle of laughter in his eyes. She bit her lip to keep from smiling. So the old bird still had some juice in him— and wasn’t going to grudge her her own pleasures!

“You have a point,” she admitted. “And yes, Lyran does have something more at stake with me than just his contract.” She was rather surprised to see the rest of the Councilors nod soberly.

Well. Well, well! They may not like it—they may think I’m some kind of fool, or worse—but they’ve got to admit that what Lyran and I have can be pretty useful to the Guild. “How soon do you want us to leave?”

“Are you completely recovered from—”

“Dealing with Kelven? Physically, yes. Mentally, emotionally—to be honest, only time will tell. ­Betrayal; gods, that’s not an easy thing to deal with.”

 “Admitted—and we’re setting you up to deal with another traitor.” Dabrel had the grace to look guilty.

“At least this one isn’t one of my former favorite pupils,” she replied, grimacing crookedly, “I don’t even think I know him.”

“You don’t,” Herjes said, “I trained him. He also is not anywhere near Kelven’s potential, and he isn’t dabbling in blood-magic. Speaking of which—have you recovered arcanely as well as physically?”

“I’m at full power. I can go any time.”

“In the morning, then?”

“In the morning.” She inclined her head slightly; felt the faintest whisper of magic brush her by.

Show-offs, she thought, as she heard the doors behind her open. Two can play that game.

“We will be on our way at dawn, Councilors,” she said, carefully setting up the rolibera spell in her mind, and wrapping it carefully about both herself and Lyran. There weren’t too many mages even at Master­class level that could translate two people at once. She braced herself, formed the energy into a tightly coiled spring with her mind, then spoke one word as she inclined her head again— There was a flash of light behind her eyes, and a fluttery feeling in her stomach as if she had suddenly dropped the height of a man.

And she and Lyran stood side-by-side within the circle carved into the floor of her private workroom.

She turned to see the mask of indifference drop from him, and his thin, narrow face come alive with mingled humor and chiding.

“Must you always be challenging them, beloved?”

She set her mouth stubbornly. He shook his head. “Alas,” he chuckled, “I fear if you stopped, I would no longer know you. Challenge and avoidance—” He held out his arms, and she flowed into them. “Truly, beloved,” he murmured into her ear, as she pressed her cheek into the silk of his tunic shoulder, “we Balance each other.”

* * *

They would not be riding Jesalis and Tosspot, those beasts of foul temper and fiercely protective instincts. This was a mission which would depend as much on the impression they would give as their capabilities, and Tosspot and Jesalis would be unlikely to impress anyone. Instead, when they descended the tower stairs in the pale, pearly light of dawn, Martis found the grooms in the stone-paved courtyard holding the reins of two showy palfreys, a grey and a bay. Tethered behind the bay on a lead rope was a glossy mule loaded with packs. The harness of the grey was dyed a rich purple, and that of the bay was scarlet. Lyran approached the horses with care, for the eyes of the bay rolled with alarm at the sight of the stranger. He ran his hands over their legs once he could get near them, and walked slowly back to Martis’ side with his arms folded, shaking his head a little.

“Hmm?” she asked.

“Worthless,” he replied. “I hope we will not be needing to entrust our lives to them. No strength, no stamina—and worst of all, no sense.”

“They’re just for show,” Martis frowned, feeling a little dubious herself. “We aren’t supposed to have to do any hard riding, or long, except for the gallop to take us through the Gates. A day’s ride to the first Gate, half a day to the second. In and out of both Gates, then a ride of less than half a day to the city.”

“If all goes well. And what if all does not go well?”

“I—” Martis fell silent. “Well, that’s why you’re along.”

Lyran looked back over his shoulder at the horses, and grimaced. “This one will do the best one can, Mage- lady,” he said formally. “Will the Mage-lady mount?”

Martis had been doing more with Lyran’s aid than her colleagues suspected. A few moons ago she would not have been able to mount unaided—now she swung into her saddle with at least some of the grace of her lover. The exercises he had been insisting she practice had improved her strength, her wind, her flexibility—she was nearly as physically fit as she’d been twenty-odd years ago, when she’d first come to the Academe.

Lyran mounted at nearly the same moment, and his bay tried to shy sideways. It jerked the reins out of the groom’s hands, and danced backwards, then reared. Lyran’s mouth compressed, but that was the only sign that he was disturbed that Martis could see. The scarlet silk of his breeches rippled as he clamped his legs around the bay gelding’s barrel, and the reins seemed to tighten of themselves as he forced the gelding back down to the ground, and fought him to a standstill. As the horse stood, sweating, sides heaving, Lyran looked up at her.

“This one will do what this one can, Mage-lady,” he repeated soberly.