“Lord Brandark, the severity of mage crisis is directly proportional to the power of the mage’s talents. The more powerful the talent, the more of them the mage might possess, the more severe the crisis. But the truth is that the majority of magi have only one or two talents, and many of them are far from powerful. In fact, there are far more ‘magi’ than most people ever suspect running about, most of them with talents too weak to train effectively, and many of them never even realize they’re talented at all. For someone like that, ‘mage crisis’ might seem no worse than a particularly protracted case of the flu, with the sort of fever dreams you might expect to experience with a high fever.” Daggeraxe shook his head. “No, Milord. Zarantha was absolutely right about that. There should have been at least a handful of magi who survived their crises on their own but whose talents were still powerful enough to be recognized after the fact. The only explanation for why there never were is that someone made certain they didn’t survive. And who would have a greater interest in that than someone dabbling in wizardry?”
“I’m thinking you’ve the right of it,” Bahzell said after a moment. “Mind you, I’m also thinking as how it’s a tempting thing to be finding ‘proof’ someone I’ve so little fondness for is after being blacker than black.”
“That’s the way a champion of Tomanak is supposed to think, Milord.” Daggeraxe smiled thinly. “I’m only a mage, and I know what I sensed in Bortalik. If I never have to go back to that city again, it will still be a lifetime too soon!”
“What a pity we missed the opportunity to tour the city on our last visit to the Purple Lords, Bahzell,” Brandark said lightly. “You could have slaughtered another couple of dozen landlords before you set it on fire!”
Bahzell snorted and twitched his ears at the Bloody Sword, then looked back at the Daggeraxe.
“I’m thinking we’ve gone a bit astray, Master Brayahs?”
“Yes, we have.” The mage smiled apologetically. “Whatever my experiences in Bortalik may have been all those years ago, Duke Caswal’s factor’s experiences there are much more recent, and the Duke specifically asked Zarantha to pass them on to you. She tells me a written letter is on its way, giving more detail, but her father wanted you to have what you might call the high points of his factor’s account of his last trip downriver to Bortalik as soon as possible. In fact, he’s specifically asked you to pass them on to your father, to Kilthandahknarthas, and to Baron Tellian.”
“Ah?” Bahzell cocked his ears, and Daggeraxe smiled mirthlessly.
“Duke Caswal’s never been particularly popular with the Purple Lords. He’s too independent-minded to suit them at the best of times, and he hasn’t made any secret about his suspicion that ‘parties unknown’ among the Purple Lords-no doubt acting without the knowledge of any Purple Lord official, of course-were directly responsible for what almost happened to Zarantha. What would have happened to her without the two of you and Wencit. That’s put him on the bad side of Bortalik, and they’ve punished him for it often enough, so his factor wasn’t exactly surprised when they decided to call him in and threaten him with retaliation if Duke Caswal didn’t toe the line this time. For that matter, Zarantha says, her father’s of the opinion the Purple Lords are aware of your connection with Jashan. They don’t pay a great deal of attention to what happens here in the Kingdom, but they appear to have at least determined who the prime movers behind the Derm Canal project are, and you have been a little more visible than most folk up this way. That song about you is quite popular among the crews of Axeman merchant vessels-and especially, for some reason, apparently, among the crews of Marfang Island merchantships. They seem to take a particular pleasure out of singing it where Purple Lord ears are likely to hear it, so it wouldn’t be too hard for even a Purple Lord to put you, Zarantha, and your father together.”
Bahzell managed not to glare at Brandark, but it was hard when the Bloody Sword pursed his lips, looked intently up into the branches of the tree under which they stood, and whistled tunelessly.
‹ I am going to step on him this time,› Walsharno said.
Aye, well, I’m not so minded as usual to be stopping you this time, and that’s a fact, Bahzell replied.
“So they’ve decided as how if any Spearman’s likely to be encouraging the canal, Caswal would,” he said out loud, and Daggeraxe nodded.
“That’s the Duke’s conclusion, at any rate. And they were quite clear about their intentions, as well. Anyone who dares to trade directly with the Axemen courtesy of your canal will be embargoed in Bortalik. All traffic upriver to that noble will be cut off.”
“A bit of cutting off their own noses to spite their faces in that, don’t you think?” Brandark put in with a grin. “It seems to me that would be most likely to encourage the offender to switch all of his trade to the new route.”
“No doubt it would,” Daggeraxe acknowledged. “There were also some suggestions-less explicit ones, of course-that the new route was likely to find itself seriously beset with piracy and accidents of navigation, however. Which, as they pointed out to Caswal’s factor, would probably have an unfortunate effect on insurance rates. And, finally, there was a very explicit threat that they’ll seize any Spearman monies invested in Bortalik or any other Purple Lord trading venture if the investors take advantage of the new route. And, of course, at the same time, all debts of any Spearman foolish enough to do such a thing will be immediately called by their creditors.”
Brandark’s grin disappeared, and Daggeraxe nodded.
“Given how much a typical Spearman noble already owes the Purple Lords, that could turn into a very potent threat, indeed. And if I were someone like Duke Caswal, I wouldn’t much care for that business about piracy and ‘accidents,’ either,” Daggeraxe said. “As I say, Prince Bahzell, I understand why my cousin has no desire to mix in Baron Tellian’s quarrel with Baron Cassan, and I have no intention of doing anything which might drag him-or even seem to drag him-into it. But speaking purely for myself and on behalf of a very dear friend and her father, I think it might be wise for you to look very closely at any…connection between Cassan, the River Brigands, and the Purple Lords. And if I were you,” the mage’s expression was grim, “I wouldn’t be so very surprised to find a wizard or two buried somewhere in the mix, as well.”
Chapter Fifteen
Leeana Hanathafressa tried to analyze her feelings as she watched the familiar towers and turrets rising steadily against the horizon from Hill Guard Castle’s perch on the swell of granite overlooking Balthar. Boots moved sweetly and steadily under her, and she watched his mobile ears swiveling, pricking higher with anticipation. There wasn’t much doubt about his mood, she thought fondly, reaching down to rest one hand on his shoulder. This was the land where he’d been foaled and raised, gentled to saddle, lived half his life, and first become her horse, and he felt that homecoming in his bones just as surely as she did.
Yet there was a difference between them, and she felt it looming before her even as Hill Guard drew closer and closer, for Boots could be certain of his welcome. He might have had the ill fortune to belong to Hill Guard’s ne’er-do-well disgrace of a daughter, but that wasn’t his fault. No one would look askance at him, or find themselves feeling awkward and out of balance trying to deal with what that same daughter had become.
She felt it again, that yearning for the place where she too had been born and lived almost two thirds of her life. For the familiar fields, the familiar faces, the welcome which had once been hers without stint or limit. She supposed everyone experienced at least some of that sense of loss, of never being able to return to who and what they’d once been. But for any war maid, the old cliche about not being able to go home again had a special poignancy.
Oh, stop that! she told herself. No, it’s not like it used to be, and it never will be again. But think about someone like Raythas. The last thing she’d ever want is to “go home again”! Unless she took two or three of us along to geld that bastard brother of hers, at least.
Her jaw clenched with remembered fury as she remembered the night Raythas Talafressa had gotten drunk enough to tell her seventy-five why she’d run away to the war maids, and there were hundreds of others who could have told the same tale-or worse. Not that those who lifted their noses at the war maids from the security of their own lives ever thought about the sorts of things that drove women into choosing that escape. After all, those weren’t the sorts of things nice people talked about, far less wanted to admit happened.
At least you do want to go home…and at least Mother and Father are glad to see you when you do, whatever the other citizens of your hometown may think. That’s something most of the others will never have, so why don’t you just take a deep breath and deal with it?
It was a conversation she’d had with herself every time she’d come home for one of her brief, infrequent
