Wartorn Obliteration

people.'

This did not move Bryck. In fact, it had the effect of chilling his feelings of sympathy. True, these Callahans had fallen under the unwanted rule of the Felk. But they were still alive. Their city hadn't been burned, destroyed. Not like U'delph.

'It's time for your people to decide who they are, then,' Bryck said. 'Permanent subjects of the Felk... or men and women with the determination to overthrow that rule.'

They continued on in silence.

At another intersection they paused briefly to again perform. Bryck had procured a tinny whistle and now blew a repetitive tune on it, something catchy and fast. It drew enough interest for Tyber to once more launch into his act.

As Tyber performed, Bryck realized that many of the seemingly spontaneous comments he was making were ones he'd used earlier. Well, one didn't have an endless supply of wit. Bryck himself acknowledged that in his days of carousing at pubs and being the reliable wag at every gathering, he would often tell the same jokes and stories incessantly. They were always amusing, though, and few people were graceless enough to point out that they had heard this or that one before.

They enacted the flaming sigil again, and again there was scattered response throughout the crowd. The Broken Circle's members had been spreading the word. Bryck himself had been responsible for those twenty-eight sigils burned onto doors and walls during Lacfoddalmendowl. The Broken Circle was a rebel underground intent on overthrowing the Felk here in Callah.

It was a fiction. It had begun, just as all those theatricals he'd penned, as an idea in his mind, a fancy. But now it was being played out in reality, not on a stage. Even the players—Tyber and Quentis and Ondak and Gelshiri and the rest—weren't aware they were enacting predesigned roles.

In the past Bryck's contribution to the culture of the Isthmus was his talent to amuse audiences. His plays were exported from U'delph and performed by troupes throughout the Isthmus. They were a worthwhile offering, so he had always thought, though he had never quite taken himself seriously as a playwright, despite his success. Cheering people, making them laugh—that was valuable in a very basic way.

But this, here, was more important. His fight against the Felk in Callah. It was possible he would be remembered for it... but he would be remembered as the Minstrel, not as Bryck of U'delph. That suited him perfectly. He no longer was Bryck of U'delph, after all. There was no U'delph. And the man he had been was equally lost.

When the performance was done and Tyber was taking his grandiose bows, Bryck again circulated with his cap, just for show. As before he refused to accept any money when it was offered. Twice, however, members of the crowd seized his hand and asked, in sharp urgent whispers, how they could join the Broken Circle.

He had no ready answer and felt the fool for not anticipating this situation. Of course more of these people would want to join up with the movement. Some would be impulsive about it, others more serious. The Broken Circle would inevitably have to accept new recruits. How Bryck could make use of those extra numbers was something he had to give serious thought to.

He and Tyber dispersed hurriedly this time. Bryck was satisfied that he could travel Callah's streets in this costume, behind this face paint, and go unrecognized by the Felk patrols. But the day was waning. It was time to get back to the Circle's base before curfew.

As they were striding along, Bryck chanced to glance up and to his left. By now he had a good sense of Callah's layout. He knew what he would see, peeking out between intervening buildings, before he looked. It was the Registry. The seat of the Felk occupational government.

Bryck's steps slowed, stopped. The great white structure was some distance off. Its tall wide walls caught the dwindling rays of sunlight.

'What's wrong?' Tyber asked, glancing back.

Bryck shook his head. Nothing was wrong. The Broken Circle was becoming real. It was real, in fact. If more recruits enlisted, its reality would only increase. And Bryck had just had a thought as to how to use those potential new members.

He gave Tyber a pat on the arm, and the two men headed onward.

* * *

He explained his ambition to the rest of the Broken Circle that evening. It was still something of a marvel to him how they all deferred to him, hung on his words. He was truly the leader here. The Minstrel.

It didn't matter that he wasn't a minstrel, that he didn't even have a vox- mellifluous anymore. He, too, was a player in this piece.

They liked his plan. They agreed that new members to the Circle would help realize it. Later, they discussed means of recruitment, how to weed out the useless from the worthwhile.

These rooms didn't afford a great deal of privacy for their more than a dozen occupants, but Bryck still had the most comfortable berth, partitioned off from the others by a decorative screen that was painted with birds in flight above a lush grassy field. He had often spent some while at bedtime staring at those images, waiting for his mind to slow and slacken so that he could sleep.

Tonight as he lay on his bunk, drained by the minor magical efforts of the day, there came a soft rapping on the screen. He had washed away the paint from his face.

'Who is it?' he murmured.

Quentis peeked her head around the edge. Her amber eyes blinked. 'I'm not waking you?'

He shook his head, making to sit up, though he was quite comfortable where he was. Beyond the screen the room was dim, lit only by the light of a single candle. The noise of the workshops on the other side of the wall had gone still watches ago.

'Don't get up,' she said. Her voice was quiet, edged huskily. She wore clothes he had seen her wear before, though now the front of her garment was loosened. Not enough to be flagrant; but too much flesh exposed to entirely ignore.

She was Bryck's age, and her face showed those winters. But it was still a comely face. And she had been the one who had saved him when he was first on the run from killing that Felk soldier.

'What do you want, Quentis?' he heard himself asking, his own words faint, uncertain.

She stepped around the screen but did not approach his bunk. She was regarding him intently. There was something sad in her eyes, he thought. And perhaps something needy.

'I want to know if there is anything you want,' she finally said.

Bryck felt his heart beating hard, the blood rushing. It was an almost adolescent anxiety, an uneasiness and excitement that was unmistakably sexual.

So much had died within him. So much, he presumed, that would never live again. Nonetheless he felt a stirring, but it was so odd, so out of place, so alien. He had not known a woman since the last time he and his wife, Aaysue, had made love. It wasn't something he thought about.

He wasn't sure he could even imagine himself being with another woman...

'There's nothing I want,' he said at last. Frail words. Helpless words.

But Quentis accepted them, and she nodded her acknowledgment and turned and went, even as Bryck caught the shine sparkling her amber eyes. When he felt the wetness on his cheeks, it took him a moment to realize that he, too, had shed tears.

RAVEN (3)

'The informants from the many various individual units in your battalion will submit reports to you,' Raven explained, 'and you will pass on any relevant information to me.'

'Informants?' the officer asked. 'You mean spies, right?'

'I mean,' Raven said, 'that in every unit of this great army there is one soldier who is, above all the others, most loyal to General Weisel. One who would gladly lay down his or her life to protect him. I have sought out these individuals one by one, and am still doing so.'

'Sounds like quite a task,' the officer said.