Elvenborn

'And he could see no reason why magic should be thinning in our bloodlines.'

'A good point.' Kyndreth mulled that one over, as the other Councilors looked interested, even eager. Even the sour-faced one lost some of his dour look.

Kyrtian thought about saying more, thought again, and held his peace. It was Moth who dropped another tidbit into the pool for the shining carp to gobble.

'It was all of the oldest books that were left lying about,' she

observed innocently. 'The same sorts of chronicles exactly that Kyrtian's father used to look at. And my word—the dust was unbelievable!'

'Kyndreth, I think we ought to let the boy investigate this,' the sour-faced Councilor said decisively. 'Let him keep his own fighting slaves in case he finds nothing and elects to hunt down our fugitives, while you take the rest of the army back to the mustering-barracks. We can decide what to do with it after Kyrtian determines if there's anything to this hunting about in the old chronicles or not. Meanwhile, we've got men and arms ready to send out on the chance that one of our puppies man­ages to scrape together another force and mounts an attack on one of the outlying manors.'

'Good plan!' seconded the one in blue, and drained his wineglass. 'Personally, I think they're going to crawl back to us begging for mercy, but I'd rather be ready for the treacherous young dogs just in case.'

Lord Kyndreth looked in bemusement from one to another of his fellow Councilors—evidently he was the one who normally concocted all the plans in Council of late, and he was somewhat taken aback that these three had suddenly devised a solution of their own.

'We don't need a majority vote for this, Kyndreth,' the wine-lover pointed out. 'Kyrtian won't actually be doing any­thing, not unless he decides that there's nothing to be found in that library, and by then the whole Council will have had a chance to sit.'

Lord Kyndreth laughed. 'I see that you have already made up your minds,' he said, genially—though Kyrtian wondered if there was a hint of annoyance, and even anger, under his smooth words. 'As it happens, I am entirely in agreement with you, if for no other reason than that it gives our fine young com­mander an opportunity for some well-earned leisure before we lay any further burdens on his shoulders.' He cocked an eye­brow at Kyrtian. 'I am correct in recalling that you consider delving into mountains of musty old books to be an enjoyable leisure activity?'

Kyrtian laughed. 'You are correct, my lord,' he agreed, smil­ing a genuine smile for the first time that afternoon. 'Like fa­ther, like son, you see.'

'Well then.' The smile Lord Kyndreth returned never reached his eyes, but there was no sign of disapproval that Kyrt­ian could detect in it.

I suspect his annoyance is reserved at this moment for his fellow Councilors.

Kyndreth spun, and fixed one of Kyrtian's subordinates with a steely gaze. 'You've heard the plan, Astolan. You're in charge of everything but Kyrtian's slaves. Give the lot a good feed and good rest, then march them and the prisoners back to mustering-barracks. We'll sort out the prisoners there. And see to it that you make as good time coming back as Lord Kyrtian did going out.'

Lord Astolan went flushed, then pale, and drew himself up straight as any of Gel's recruits. 'My Lord!' he responded, with a crisp salute, followed by a bow, just for good measure.

Kyndreth transferred his gaze to the others. 'The rest of you see that he succeeds in making good time,' he concluded, mak­ing it perfectly clear that the penalty for failure would land on all of their shoulders.

Before they could make any reply, Kyndreth's attention had already gone back to the other Councilors. 'Shall we make our departures, my lords?' he asked, making it very clear that he was leaving, and if the others wanted to remain, they would have to find their own ways back. And since he held the key to the temporary Gate ...

There was no dissension.

Kyrtian escorted them to the Gate, and watched the strangely shining structure fade and disappear after they passed through it. He returned to his tent to find Lady Moth entertaining his subordinates with scandal.

'Well, Astolan!' he said cheerfully as he pushed the tent-flap aside. 'My things are already packed up and out of the way, and yours are here—well, part of them anyway—so why don't I just round up my slaves and escort Lady Moth back to her es­tate and leave you free to follow Lord Kyndreth's orders?'

Astolan swelled with pride and self-importance. Clearly he hadn't expected to be confirmed in his new—if temporary— command so soon. 'Certainly, my lord, if that is your wish—'

'It is; if we start now, we will all be at Lady Moth's estate well before sundown,' he said firmly, and offered Lady Moth his arm. 'My Lady?'

She swept him a curtsy, and allowed him to see a glimpse of the wicked amusement in her eyes before accepting his arm. 'My lord,' she replied. 'Let us go in search of that so-admirable chief of your slaves, that so-stern fellow Gel, and be on our way. I cannot wait to be home, now that I know that my home is safe again.'

How is she managing to keep a straight face? 'I shall be at pains to keep it ever so, my lady,' he replied, deadpan, and was rewarded by the shaking of her shoulders as she tried to keep from laughing as they swept out.

20

Her guide paused at the edge of the mining-pit, and Shana surveyed the activity below her with an intense feeling of satisfaction. The dragons had, incredibly, found a place not that far from the New Citadel where iron ore lay near to the surface of the earth, making it possible to extract the precious substance without having to dig dangerous under­ground tunnels.

The dragons, however, had given some strict orders regard­ing mining operations. The fertile topsoil was to be carefully removed before true mining began, and set aside; when a spot had been played out, the harvested soil was to be returned and replanted with saplings culled from the forest, or clumps of meadow-flowers. Although this made very little sense to most

of the Wizards and all of the humans, the dragons were so adamant about this that no one argued.

Shana, however, fully agreed with this injunction. She had lived among dragons for too long not to think in terms of cen­turies rather than years—and the scars left on the land by un-considered mining would last for centuries. In the desert and the mountains, resources were not inexhaustible; to scar the land and leave it that much less able to support the humans and Wizards of the Citadel was unthinkably stupid. No matter what else she was, she hoped that even her own worst enemies would never think of her as that stupid.

A great deal of work was required to produce a few ingots of iron. In the pit below her, twenty or thirty quite burly men, broad shoulders and backs pouring sweat, labored with picks and shovels to fill crude wheelbarrows. The barrows were in their turn trundled up a dirt ramp to the rim of the pit by less burly men, some women, and even a few adolescent boys with the muscle to make the grueling trip over and over.

At the opposite rim of the pit stood their primitive smelter, the mysteries of which were of no interest to Shana. That was Zed's purview, and so far as Shana was concerned, as long as his fuel-cutters and charcoal-