Night Season

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Not again," McClosky moaned.

"One moment." That was Cullen, and a second later four mage lights bounced into place in the center of the room, making it about half as bright as before.

The room felt better. The air was just air—cool and dry and tinged with unfamiliar smells, but no longer oily. Cynna lifted a hand to run a diagnostic, curious about what kind of spell he'd used.

"Don't," Cullen said sharply, taking a seat on one of the floor cushions. "We're in a magical dead zone. It's temporary, and I left a loophole so I could pop out the mage lights, but if anyone else tries to use magic before the effect fades, the results could be… unpredictable."

"But what did you do? You didn't have time to set wards."

"No. They wouldn't work. The walls of this place are crawling with shaped magic—that's why you were uncomfortable, by the way. Gnomish magic is not a good mix with Air."

"That makes sense. It doesn't answer my question."

"The gnomes have had centuries to fine-tune the spells in these walls. They've got an abundance of power. I couldn't outpower or outfinesse them, so I shorted things out."

Cynna snorted. "Magic is not electricity."

Cullen grinned. "Which means I had to be clever, doesn't it? Congruencies, Cynna. At the moment all the spells for about thirty feet around us are confused about where to draw power because of a little chaos I introduced in the system. It won't last, but for now no one can eavesdrop."

But how could… her breath caught. He was playing with raw magic again. That was the only way he could have done it. He'd sent a surge of power through the walls, disrupting the spells they contained. He'd shaped it some, she guessed, with that chant, but it was still dangerous.

He must have read her expression. "It worked, didn't it?"

She wanted to point out that the spells he'd disrupted might have other purposes—like, say, holding up the walls. But nothing seemed to be crumbling, and if it was temporary…

Ruben interrupted her worrying. "We can't be overheard now?"

Cullen gave a graceful shrug. "Not by the spells they had in place. I won't guarantee anything more."

"Very well. First, I want everyone to be clear on our roles while we're guests here." He gave Cullen a small smile. "However we define guests. We represent the government of the United States. We expect to be treated as such. They will likely concede to our demands with many smiles. They will patronize us… with the possible exception of Mr. Seabourne, They tend to discount humans. He is both lupus and sorcerer, and consciously or otherwise, they will expect him to be in charge."

"We're supposed to act important?" Cynna was dubious about her ability to pull that off.

"Don't act," Cullen said. "Their lives and the lives of everyone here depend on you. They know it. You just keep that in mind and leave the acting to the rest of us." His smile was chilly and not pleasant. "I'll play to their expectations. Brooks, I suspect, will confound them."

She wasn't sure what he meant, but Ruben often confounded people. She nodded. "Is that why we were supposed to turn down the clothes? Because we're important?"

"Not exactly. The gnomes are trying to own us."

Ruben's eyebrows lifted. "You caught that, did you? Yes, though I'd say 'claim' rather than 'own.' They want to isolate us, then present us to the rest of Edge as if we'd already allied with them. Part of their plan involves dressing us in clothes that speak with their cultural voice."

"Yes," McClosky said slowly. "That makes sense, given what I've learned about the economic situation here."

"Please summarize for the others."

McClosky's suit was dirty and wrinkled; his tie, missing; his shoes, scuffed. Add that to his three-day beard, and he looked more like a drunk coming off a bender than the pressed and proper diplomat she'd first met. He still sounded like an asshole sometimes, but not as often.

At the moment he was earnest, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. "There are many factions in Edge, as I'm sure you've all realized, but the gnomes are top dogs. They control the City and the gates. Gates mean trade, and trade is the realm's lifeblood. Their entire economy is based on it. They even import a percentage of their food, which may be out of necessity. Given the limited amount of arable land, short growing seasons, and relatively small number of crops that have adapted to conditions here, I suspect they'd have a hard time feeding their population without the gates."

"So the gnomes are power players," Cynna said. "I get that. I don't see what that has to do with dressing us up like their oversize cousins."

"We're game pieces. The Turning changed the political situation here. I'm not sure how—no one would speak of specifics to me. But the balance of power is shifting, or they think it will."

Cullen was playing with one of the mage lights, sending it up and down with little pats of his hand. "Maybe the gnomes are afraid the Turning somehow made it possible for one of the other groups to open a gate. They'd hate to lose their monopoly. Though all this speculation and gamesmanship is moot, isn't it? If we don't locate their missing jewelry, no one is opening any gates… or so we're told."

Ruben looked intrigued. "You have reason to think they're deceiving us about the medallion's function?"

"Aside from the gnomish reverence for a good lie, well told, you mean?" Cullen shrugged. "Not really. Under the circumstances, we have to proceed as if they're telling the truth about it. But I'm reserving room for a doubt or two."

"A sensible precaution. I do feel strongly we must locate it… though that's an incorrect usage of first person plural. We will not find the medallion. Agent Weaver will." Cullen and McClosky looked at her, but Ruben didn't give them a chance to ask how she expected to save the world. Instead, he asked her, "What have you learned about the various races here?"

"There's a lot of them," Cynna said promptly. "And like you said, humans rank pretty low on everyone's list. We're seen as useful but weak because we aren't of the Blood. Also, I've got the impression not many humans here have Gifts. I don't know why that would be true. Maybe it isn't. But they don't have a good Finder, do they?"

Cullen gave her a thin-lipped look. "Quit with the modesty. Your Gift isn't rare, but you are. I don't know of another Finder on Earth with your strength and training, and there aren't that many humans here. I'm not surprised they don't have a Finder of your caliber. I do wonder why they don't have any spells that can locate it."

"Have you asked about that?" Ruben said.

He snorted. "Bilbo turns purple when I mention the medallion at all. Tash says she doesn't know much about gnomish spells. Wen says the Ekiba have only the most basic search spells—their abilities lie elsewhere."

"What about the Ahk?" Cynna asked.

"The what?" McClosky said.

"Ahk. Large, tusked, bipedal, don't like anyone who isn't an Ahk. Warrior types with a closed culture and one of the power players here. They live in some mountains to the south. Tash's father was an Ahk."

Cullen shook his head. "Guess I didn't ask the right questions. No one mentioned the Ahk."

"What about brownies?" McCloskey said. "I saw some on the street. They're supposed to be good at finding lost things."

He'd surprised her. Most people didn't know squat about brownies beyond oh, aren't they cute. "They are, but their range is real limited, and they have very little power outside their own territory. Not much power, period, which is why they aren't considered major players even though there's a lot of them. They're territorial but not aggressive or acquisitive, and they can only use their innate magic."

"Meaning?"

Cullen answered for her. "Brownies don't cast spells, and spellcasting is Edge's technology. Power, wealth, prestige—they're all tied to magic here. Innate magic is respected, but if you don't or can't shape it, you don't get to play with the big boys."

Ruben spoke. "And the big boys are the gnomes, the Ekiba, and the Ahk?"

"Those are the ones everyone agrees on, yeah. And the elves, of course." Cynna darted a glance at Cullen. "There aren't many of them, and they mostly stay on their estates, but they've got power. Sometimes they use it, sometimes they don't."

"So we have a pastiche of power," Ruben said, "once we leave the City. No common laws, no central authority, yet the various races trade, travel, and mingle freely. Are they culturally or inherently averse to violence, or is something else keeping them from war?"

"The elves," Cullen said. "Though we need to get in the habit of calling them 'sidhe.' They hate being called elves."

McClosky frowned. "She? They're all female?"

Cullen looked disgusted, but spelled the word for him. "Pronounced 'shee.' I'm not sure which group of sidhe we're dealing with here, but not the high lords—they'd be running things openly, not covertly."

"You believe they use their influence to prevent war?" Ruben asked.

"Wars they don't want, anyway, or at least most of them don't. They disapprove of war on aesthetic grounds. The various factions here have probably learned the hard way to avoid open warfare."

"They have that much power?" McClosky said dubiously. "Cynna said there aren't many of them."

"It doesn't take many. Think of them as the guys with the stealth bomber and the A-bomb. No one wants to piss them off."

No one said anything for a moment, then Ruben spoke slowly. "Surely, if the sidhe are as powerful and proficient as you believe, the gnomes tried to enlist their aid to find the medallion. The sidhe live here, too. They must need this medallion restored, if it operates as we've been told."

Cynna had a highly uncomfortable thought.

"Maybe," Cullen said. "Sidhe are hard to predict, but some of them can cross without a gate, so…" He stopped, cocking his head. "We're about to be interrupted. Any last instructions?"

"Do any of them have hearing like yours?" Ruben asked.

"Tash," he said promptly, "which suggests that the Ahk do. None of the others I've met. Gnomes definitely don't."

In the pause that followed, Cynna heard the thud of many feet coming their way quickly. Cullen heard something more, because he grinned at Ruben. "That works."

"Good. Everyone, if you need to pass information privately, subvocalize to Mr. Seabourne. When—"

The door slammed open and half a dozen angry gnomes spilled into the room.

None of them were Bilbo. There was a great deal of babble, hard to sort because of the way the translator charm ran everyone's words together. The basis of their ire was, of course, Cullen's tampering, which had done something to other spells, not just the ones in this room. Some kind of chain reaction, Cynna thought. And something about toilets?

Yes. He'd made the plumbing all over the Chancellery stop working. Oh, my.

Cullen was polite in a way that turned courtesy into insult. He apologized for the inconvenience. He offered to help them fix their spells—the inference being that they needed help. Ruben was bland and immovable. Surely their hosts didn't expect them to leave eavesdropping spells operating in their private rooms.

In the midst of the commotion, Cynna edged closer to Cullen.

Subvocalizing felt awkward. You had to talk sort of deep in your mouth and throat without moving your lips, which mangled some of the consonants, but she did her best: "Maybe the gnomes didn't ask the sidhe to search because they think one of the sidhe took it."

He looked at her, and behind the arrogant mask he was wearing for their hosts, she saw grim agreement.

Gan didn't expect to enjoy the Council meeting, but she enjoyed going to it. She liked walking past the guards and sitting at the big table on a pretty embroidered cushion with all the other important people.

One cushion was left empty. Gan felt the bite of disappointment. She'd hoped…

"So what have you been up to?" Cynna Weaver said to her.

Cynna Weaver, like the lupus and the other humans, was wearing her same old boring clothes. Gan wondered why they hadn't changed into the pretty things they'd been given. "I've been at the market. They use money here, too. I want to get some money."

"I hope that means you didn't steal anything."

"Didn't you get a copy of the rules? In the City they cut off people's hands for stealing." Gan was pleased with herself. She hadn't quite been able to lie, but she had deceived the human woman.

"Thanks for the tip. I haven't seen any rules. I see you've got both hands, so you didn't get caught. What did you take?"

Gan looked at her, indignant. "Why do you think I took something?"

"Because I'm smart. How come you told us your minder's name earlier, if names are such big secrets?"

"Stupid. I didn't tell you Jenek's real name. I only know his call-name."

"Aren't those reserved for family?"

"Jenek is Hragash, not Harazeed. The Hragash aren't stuffy about call-names the way the Harazeed are." She sniffed. "They've hung around with sidhe too much. When I—"

"We is starting now." Thirteenth Councilor—the one Cynna Weaver had nicknamed Bilbo—glared at Gan and the human beside her. He didn't like either of them, but he had to put up with them. Gan stuck her tongue out at him.

The meeting started out like she'd expected—talk, talk, talk. The humans wanted the gnomes to get rid of the spy-spells in their rooms. They wanted clothing that suited them—they didn't like the clothes they'd been given. Humans had no taste at all. They also wanted a copy of the City rules that Gan had mentioned, and a map and more stuff like that. The councilors pretended everything was a big deal, but of course it wasn't, so they agreed.

Except about the baths. Humans were weird about clothes and being naked and all, but they couldn't expect the councilors to make everyone else leave the baths just so no one would see a naked human. That was just silly.

Finally Ruben Brooks said, "Very well. Let's proceed to the problem with your medallion. We have several questions."

The gnomes all looked at each other. Then they looked at the little door at one end of the room. It opened.

At first Gan was disappointed all over again. The gnome who came through that door was tiny and wrinkled. She had little round breasts and a little round belly and wore a really dull gown, a purplish gray with only a bit of gold on the sleeves. She had a lot of gems woven into the braids in her hair, but her face was so plain she looked almost human.

Nice teeth, though. They looked real sharp.

Then Gan saw her eyes and üthered her density and her hearts fell out of rhythm. "Eldest," she whispered. And that was all she said. All the questions she longed to ask, the ones she knew and the ones she didn't have words for, pushed up into her mouth and packed her throat so tightly she could barely breathe.

The Harazeed Eldest gave her a glance out of gray eyes swimming with secrets. "You are called Gan."

Gan nodded, terror and thrill mingling in a jellied mass.

"You will be quiet, Gan, until I am finished speaking."

Gan nodded again. She would. She would do whatever this one wanted.

The Harazeed Eldest spoke to the humans. "I am called First Councilor. I will tell you of the medallion."

She moved slowly, as if her bones hurt, but she settled onto her cushion easily enough. "At the end of the Great War, the realms were in chaos. Much had been destroyed. Much knowledge was lost. Your realm," she said to the humans, "was entirely sundered, of course, save for its tie to Dis. The others were all but cut off one from another, also. The Great Gates were gone, and few remembered how to erect even the small gates.

"The Harazeed remembered. And so the medallion was given us, and we came to a realm which wild magic had made impossible to settle before. Our numbers were few. At first we lived here alone, save for the beasts. Even the sidhe did not linger in Edge in those days. Gradually the medallion settled patterns onto the realm. Even in the areas of high magic, day and night had meaning and season. Near the river, order strengthened its hold. We prospered, and others came to Edge.

"Then, as now, Edge was seen as a refuge for the outcast, the criminal, or the lost. In the early years there was much fighting, but Harazeed, like most gnomes, prefer trade and wealth to war. Eventually we settled into alliances which stabilized the distribution of power much as the medallion had stabilized the magic. But envy and covetousness can outshout reason. You will hear from the envious that the medallion does not have to be held by the Harazeed to work. Some who say this are merely ignorant. Others know this for a dangerous partial truth. Theoretically, the medallion imposes order no matter who holds it… but the type of order depends on the holder, and medallion and holder must form a true bond first. Very few are capable of forming such a bond with the medallion. In four thousand years, only Harazeed have been capable of this."

The Eldest paused, folding her hands together on the table in front of her. "There have been many attempts to steal the medallion. A few times one or another thief succeeded—but never for long. The medallion does not wish to be parted from its holder. This theft is different. When the power winds blew, the bond between the medallion and its holder was broken. One of the half-halfs who works at the Chancellery saw that this had happened, and seized what she believed was a gift from the gods. She took it."

"You know who took the medallion?" Ruben Brooks asked.

"Oh, yes." The Eldest looked at one of the other councilors. He got up and went to the main door, the one sized for humans and other biggers. He opened it and said something to those on the other side.

Fist Councilor spoke again. "Since the medallion was stolen, there has been a flood in Rhanjan and earth tremors in the Northern Mountains. A tributary of the Ka has changed its course."

Ruben Brooks asked, "You believe these things were caused by the loss of the medallion?"

"I do not believe. I know." She looked toward the door. "Hare is the medallion's first thief."

The half-half the guards escorted through the door was one of those with bits from lots of species. She was taller than a gnome, smaller than a human, colored like the Ekiba, but furry on her neck and shoulders and arms. She was thin and naked, with the large eyes of a Makeen and the heavy jaw of an Ahk.

She was drooling.

Her body was empty, or as good as, according to Gan's üther sense. It was as if someone had eaten her without eating her flesh. Gan almost forgot and asked what had been done to her.

The humans hadn't been told to be quiet. "What did you do to her?" Cynna Weaver demanded.

"We did not destroy her. She did that herself when she laid hands on the medallion."

After a moment Cynna Weaver said, "I guess the chancellor isn't really ill."

"He died within hours of the theft. His mind was unable to recall how his body functioned. The medallion is reshvak."

Oh, that was bad. That was really bad.

Ruben Brooks shifted slightly. He reminded Gan a little of cautious old Mevroax, part of whom she'd eaten back when she was a really young demon. Ruben Brooks always put his words together carefully. Only she thought Ruben Brooks had more sense than old Mevroax, who after all had been stupid enough to get himself eaten by a really young demon.

"My charm was unable to translate that word," Ruben Brooks said in English. "Reshvak,"

Cullen Seabourne answered before the Eldest could speak, which was rude and not smart. "She means it's alive, more or less. And a parasite. Madam." He did have the wit to speak with respect when he addressed the Eldest directly. "This medallion is one of the Great Artifacts, isn't it?"

The Eldest leveled a look at the young lupus. "You think you know what that means, sorcerer?"

"Not precisely, no. But they are said to be hungry."

Her mouth quirked up as if he'd said something funny. "Hungry. Yes. The medallion hungers for order. It is supremely able to create order because of that hunger, but it cannot order itself. For that, it requires the mind of its holder. Unless the fit is very good, however, it cannot form a permanent bond. Without that bond, it eats the minds of any who hold it."

"Madam," Ruben Brooks said slowly, "you are telling us that the medallion possesses a degree of sentience, but an essentially disordered sentience."

"Precisely. From the moment its bond with the chancellor was broken, the medallion has been insane."