The War God's Own wg-2 Read online

  "Not yet," the mage said, still smiling. "My name is Kresko. I'm the senior master of the Belhadan Mage Academy."

  "Are you now?" Bahzell murmured, and his eyes narrowed. There had been a time when "mage" and "wizard" meant the same thing, but that had been long ago. These days, a mere suspicion of wizardry was enough to get a man lynched places-understandably, given what the dark wizards had done in Kontovar-but magi were as trusted as wizards were feared. Unlike a wizard, a mage's skills and talents were those of the mind, and he could draw only upon his own strength, or that of other magi linked in mutual support, not upon the enormous power wizards routinely sought to manipulate. But the true reason they were trusted was the Oath of the Magi, the code which bound them to use their talents only to help and never to harm… and made them mortal foes of any black wizard.

  "Yes," Kresko said, answering the Horse Stealer's question. "Mistress Zarantha told us you and Lord Brandark would be arriving today and asked us to greet you, but I'm afraid her precognition wasn't equal to telling us the precise time of your arrival, and I missed you at the docks."

  Vaijon stood mutely to one side, listening, and fresh confusion flickered through him. Master Kresko was one of the most important people in Belhadan-or, for that matter, in the entire province of Fradonia-but he seemed totally unaware of it as he smiled at both hradani and extended his right hand to clasp forearms with Bahzell.

  "We of the academies owe both of you an enormous debt," he said more seriously. "Zarantha is still new to her talents. When they reach full maturity, she'll be one of the most powerful magi we've seen in generations, and she and Duke Jashân have already begun construction of their own academy. But if the two of you hadn't saved her life-"

  Bahzell made a small, uncomfortable gesture, and Kresko stopped what he'd been saying. He gazed quizzically at the two hradani for a moment, then shrugged.

  "She warned us about you, you know," he said, and let his smile grow a little broader as Bahzell and Brandark exchanged glances. "She said you wouldn't let us thank you properly, and I see she was right," he went on. "But that was only part of why I hunted you down this morning. The main reason was to deliver three messages."

  "And what messages might those be?" Bahzell asked with a touch of wariness, and Kresko chuckled.

  "Nothing too sinister," he assured the Horse Stealer. "First, Duke Jashân asked me to remind you and Brandark that you're now sept to Jashân, and he knows from Zarantha that you lost most of your gear to the Purple Lords. Accordingly, he's used the mage relays to establish a line of credit in his name with House Harkanath's local factors, and he expects you to draw upon it. And Zarantha said to tell both of you that she doesn't want to hear any nonsense about refusing the offer. She says she told you her father would reward you for helping her get home, and all your new relatives will be mightily insulted if you make a liar out of her."

  He paused with an expectant air, and the two hradani looked at one another once more. Then Brandark grinned.

  "She did tell us that, Bahzell," he said. "Neither of us believed her, but she did say it."

  "Aye, and I'd not like to see what she might be doing if she took to feeling 'mightily insulted,' " Bahzell agreed wryly, and flicked his ears at Kresko. "All right, Master Kresko. It's pleased I'd be if you'd tell Lady Zarantha we're glad to accept the Duke's kindness."

  "Good. Now, for the second message. Wencit also asked us to thank the two of you for your assistance. He, ah, said you might not be the smartest pair he ever met, but that your other virtues make up for it." Both hradani snorted, and Kresko smiled. But then his smile faded, and his voice turned more serious. "He also said to tell you he'd be seeing you again, and that he would count it an honor if you called upon him for assistance when the time comes."

  " 'The time comes'?" Bahzell rumbled. He reached up to scratch the tip of one ear and frowned. "And did he happen to be saying just what 'time' he's after talking about?"

  "I'm afraid not." Kresko shrugged wryly. "You know how Wencit is. It's like pulling teeth to get him to tell you anything. I think it's part of his 'mysterious, all-knowing wizard' act."

  "Aye, isn't it just?" Bahzell muttered. He frowned down at the cobblestones, clearly thinking hard, and Vaijon swallowed. It had been bad enough to hear Master Kresko throwing around the name of a duke, even a foreign one, who claimed hradani as members of his own family, but this was worse. There was only one person to whom Kresko could be referring: Wencit of Rūm. But that was ridiculous! What in Tomanāk's name did a pair of hradani barbarians have to do with the last and greatest white wizard of them all?

  "Well," Bahzell said finally, "he's a right pain in the arse with his acts and games, but he's a knack for turning up when things look worst, too. If he's after contacting you again, I'd be pleased if you'd tell him I'm still thinking he's one as knows too much for my peace of mind, but I'll not turn him down if he wants to help."

  "He'll be delighted, I'm sure," Kresko said dryly. "But that brings me to my third message. When Duke Jashân had us contact House Harkanath to establish credit for you and Bahzell, their factor sent word to Dwarvenhame, and Kilthandahknarthas sent back a message of his own."

  "Ah?" Brandark smiled. "And what did the old thief have to say?" he asked.

  Repeated shocks, Vaijon observed, seemed to be stunting his ability to feel surprise. Kilthandahknarthas dihna'Harkanath was the head of Clan Harkanath of the Silver Cavern dwarves and of the vast trading house of the same name. There might be three wealthier individuals in the entire Empire of the Axe; there couldn't possibly be four, and hearing a rag-clad hradani call him an "old thief" should have stunned him speechless. Now it seemed almost minor, and he waited for Master Kresko's response.

  "He said to tell the two of you you were still idiots to leave him in Riverside, but that his offer still stands. And if either of you need a reference with merchants here in Belhadan-or, knowing you, with the Guard-you should mention his name and his factor will post bail for you. At a slight interest rate, of course."

  "Aye, he would be saying that." Bahzell chuckled.

  "Yes, he would," Brandark agreed, "and while you're doing whatever a champion of Tomanāk does in the middle of the winter, I think I'll just take him up on his offer."

  "You will, hey?" Bahzell cocked his ears quizzically, and Brandark shrugged.

  "I actually learned a little something on Wind Dancer. I'd like to learn more, and I imagine old Kilthan has pretty good contacts here in Belhadan. Maybe they can vouch for me and give me an introduction to one of the shipyards."

  "I wasn't after noticing a lot of activity in those yards," Bahzell pointed out, and Brandark shrugged again.

  "No, but there's bound to be something going on, and even if they're not actually building or rigging anything, there have to be brains I can pick."

  "And you the lad who's never learned to swim," Bahzell marveled with a grin.

  "No, I haven't," Brandark replied with dignity. "And if it's all the same to you, I think I'll wait to learn until I don't have to melt the water to practice in, thank you. But there's no reason I shouldn't get started on the rest of my education, now is there?"

  "Not a reason in the world," Bahzell agreed cheerfully, and smiled at Kresko. "Our thanks for your messages, Master Kresko. It's a pleasing thing to be finding so warm a welcome here."

  "No warmer than you deserve," Kresko said.

  "That's as may be, but it makes it no less pleasing. And truth to tell, I'm minded to learn a mite more about magi while we're here. Would it be overimposing to be inviting myself to visit your academy?"

  "Of course not! You'd both be welcome any time. Just give us a little warning. There's always a class of new magi, and their shielding and control aren't all they might be during training, so we need to warn their mentors if nonmagi are coming on campus, but we'll be delighted to see you."

  "Thank you," Bahzell murmured, and Brandark nodded in agreement.

  "In that case, I'll be on my way," Kre
sko said cheerfully. "I've got several more errands to run this morning. I'm delighted to have finally met you both, and I look forward to seeing you again Friday when I drop by for my regular chess game with Sir Charrow." He clasped forearms with both hradani once more, nodded briskly to Vaijon and set off about his business.

  Vaijon stared after him for several long seconds, then looked back at the hradani. Brandark grinned impudently at him, ears weaving gently back and forth, but Bahzell met his eyes with that same wry, oddly compassionate expression, and Vaijon closed his eyes while he tried to digest the violence Master Kresko had done to his worldview in such a tiny handful of minutes. Master magi, dukes, dwarvish merchant princes, and white wizards couldn't possibly have anything to do with hradani. But they did. And quite a lot, to judge by the tone of the messages Master Kresko had delivered. And that meant-

  He shook himself. Just for the moment, he decided, he wouldn't think about all that it might mean. There would be time enough for that later… assuming he could get these two to the chapter house without the Lord Mayor and the entire City Council stopping by to announce that they were old friends, as well.

  Chapter Three

  "Ah! There you are, Vaijon!"

  Vaijon paused halfway through his formal bow of greeting as Sir Charrow's tone registered. It confirmed his suspicion that the knight-captain had deliberately sent him out to be humiliated, and fresh anger flared within him. But he snuffed it sternly and rose, and the touch of color in his cheeks could easily have been put down to the cold wind outside the chapter house. He doubted Sir Charrow would be fooled into thinking any such thing, but the two of them could pretend.

  "Yes, Knight-Captain," he made himself say formally. "Permit me to introduce Sir Bahzell, son of Bahnak-" his voice stumbled over the unfamiliar names, though not as much as on the next three words "-Champion of Tomanāk ."

  "I see." Sir Charrow rose from behind his desk and examined the two hradani. They stood just inside the door to his study, the taller of the two with his head bent to clear the ceiling of what was normally a comfortably large chamber, and the lips half-concealed by Charrow's snowy beard quirked in a smile. "Ah, Vaijon," he said delicately, "just exactly which of them is Sir Bahzell?"

  Vaijon inhaled a jagged breath, yet once again the knight-captain had asked no more than a courteous question he should have answered without asking. Despite his undertow of fury at being rebuked, he knew he had drawn it upon himself… and the fact that he was actually failing even in the courtesy his parents had taught him long before he joined the Order, far less that expected of a knight-probationer, only proved he had, however hard it bit. Whatever Vaijon might think of the idea of a hradani champion, a gentleman owed it to himself to treat even the most basely born with courtesy.

  "Forgive me," he said with a very creditable effort at a calm tone. "This," he gestured at the huge Horse Stealer, "is Sir Bahzell, Sir Charrow. And this-" He started to gesture at the second hradani, and his face went crimson as he realized he hadn't even asked the other's name. But Master Kresko had called him by name, hadn't he? Vaijon thought frantically for a seemingly interminable moment, hand frozen in midair, then-finally-completed the gesture.

  "This is his companion, Lord… Brandark," he said, and made himself face the smaller hradani. "Your pardon, Milord, but I failed to ask your full name so that I might make you properly known. The fault was mine. Would you, of your courtesy, make yourself known to Sir Charrow?"

  Brandark's eyebrows rose as Vaijon's exquisite, aristocratic accent rolled out the words. He hadn't really believed there were people who actually spoke the way bad bards wrote dialogue, and the devil in him longed to twit the youngster. But he also heard the gritted teeth in the young man's voice, and compassion won out. He didn't know if someone could die of mortification, but "Sir Vaijon" seemed to be headed in that direction, and Brandark didn't want his death on his conscience.

  "Certainly, Sir Vaijon," he said instead, projecting all of his considerable suavity, and bowed to Sir Charrow. "My name is Brandark, Sir Charrow, Son of Brandark, of the Raven Talon Clan of the Bloody Sword hradani, until recently of Navahk."

  "Oh, yes." Sir Charrow nodded. "The poet."

  Brandark blinked, then smiled crookedly. "Say, rather, the would-be poet, Milord," he suggested. "I'll claim the title of 'scholar,' but more than that-" He shrugged, and Charrow nodded once more, in understanding.

  "As you say, Lord Brandark, but know that you are welcome in this house as the companion and sword brother of Sir Bahzell. Accept hearth right and come under the protection of our shield."

  Brandark bowed once again, much more deeply, at the ancient words of welcome he had never actually encountered outside a book, but Bahzell shook his head beside him.

  "It's grateful I am for your welcome, Sir Charrow. Aye, and for your welcome of this worthless Bloody Sword, as well. But as I was after telling the young fellow here," he nodded sideways at Vaijon, "it's just plain Bahzell."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "There's no 'sir' on the front," Bahzell explained with a hint of exasperation.

  "But I-" Charrow broke off, looking for just an instant as confused (although far more poised about it) as Vaijon. Then he cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said, "but the God did say you were properly Prince Bahzell, didn't he?" he asked carefully.

  "Aye, I've no doubt himself would be doing just that," Bahzell replied, and this time resignation had replaced exasperation. "He's the sense of humor for it, now hasn't he just?"

  "But… Are you saying you're not a prince?"

  "Oh, well, as to that, I suppose I am," Bahzell said a bit uncomfortably. "That's to say, my father's after being Prince of Hurgrum, and I'm after being his son, so-" He shrugged. "Still and all, my folk are minded to see clan lordship as more important than 'princes,' and there's three brothers betwixt me and any crown, so there's small enough point in putting on airs."

  "Perhaps not from your perspective, Milord," Charrow said with a hint of dryness. "Still, for those of us whose sires aren't princes of anything, it seems worth noting. But my point was that even if you've never been formally pledged to the Order, there are secular orders of chivalry. Surely, as a prince, you were knighted by your father, so-"

  The master of the Belhadan Order broke off in astonishment as Bahzell began to chuckle. Sir Vaijon was inclined to bristle, but the Horse Stealer's expression made it obvious he was fighting hard not to laugh. Unfortunately, he was failing. Brandark at least managed to turn his laughter into a fit of coughing that looked almost natural, but Bahzell couldn't stop himself, and he pressed one hand to his ribs as his huge, chamber-shaking guffaws broke loose.

  It took him only a few seconds to strangle his mirth once more, and he wiped tears from his eyes while he shook his head as penitently as the low ceiling allowed.

  "I beg your pardon, Sir Charrow, and I'm hopeful you'll forgive me, for my father would be after fetching my skull a fearful rap for laughing so free. But it wasn't you as I was laughing at so much as the notion of him knighting anyone. It's not the sort of thing hradani are like to spend much time in doing, d'you see."

  "You mean-?" Vaijon was stunned into the indiscretion. He tried to cut it off, but something else seemed to command his tongue as all eyes swung to him, and he heard his own voice blurt out the question. "You're not even a knight?"

  It came out in a half-wail, like a child's protest that something an adult had just said couldn't possibly be true, and a blaze of scarlet swept over his face and burned down his throat. Yet he couldn't tear his eyes from the Horse Stealer, just as he simply could not wrap his mind around the thought of a champion of Tomanāk who had never been knighted. Who wasn't even a knight-probationer like Vaijon himself!

  "Unless my tongue's taken to saying other than I tell it to, that's the very thing I was just telling you," Bahzell said after a moment and, for the first time, Vaijon heard an ominous rumble in the deeps of his voice.

  "But… but-"

 
; "Peace, Vaijon!" Sir Charrow spoke with a sharpness Vaijon had seldom heard from him, and the flicker of true anger in the older knight's brown eyes did more than anything else to shock Vaijon into silence.

  "Forgive me, S- Prince Bahzell," he said, and bent his golden head in contrition.

  "Let it be," Bahzell said after half a dozen aching heartbeats, and Charrow inhaled deeply.

  "I thank you for your patience with us, Milord," he said gravely. "As I'm sure you must realize, we of the Order have no experience in how properly to address a hradani champion. And I fear that the God was… less than fully forthcoming when He advised me of your arrival, shall we say?"

  "Oh, aye! Himself's a rare one for having his little joke," Bahzell agreed with a snort, ill humor banished. "And as for that, I'm thinking there must be a deal he wasn't after telling me either. Not least that there ever was an 'Order of Tomanāk ' in the first place! I've no more notion what you do, or how, than a Purple Lord has of charity."

  "He didn't tell you about the Order?" Even Charrow seemed taken aback by that, and Bahzell shrugged. The old knight gazed at him for several seconds, obviously considering what he'd just been told, then shook himself. "Well! I see we have a great deal to discuss, Milord. First, however, I think it would be well for Vaijon to escort you and Lord Brandark to your quarters and see you settled. After that, if you would be kind enough to join me in the library, I'll try to fill in the blanks He neglected to deal with."

  An hour later, Vaijon, divested of his mail and dressed in the simple tunic and hose the brethren normally wore within the chapter house (although his were of the finest silk), guided Bahzell and Brandark into the library. After showing them to the quarters set aside for them, he'd used the intervening time to get his thoughts into some sort of order, and his expression was composed as he ushered them through the stone-walled passages. Internally, however, he remained imperfectly reconciled to the entire concept of a hradani champion. Especially-it pained him to admit it, yet it was true-of a backwoods, uneducated hradani champion whose Axeman came out sounding remarkably like that of the unlettered foresters who served on the Almerhas estates in backward Vonderland. He knew it shouldn't matter to him if it didn't matter to Tomanāk , but it did. It truly did, and try as he might, he couldn't quite swallow his resentment that so high an honor should be wasted on such a person… or his disdain for the one on whom it had been squandered.