Wellspring of Chaos

LXXXIX

Once Kharl was finally alert and eating, he recovered quickly, although he was left with a scar on his left temple, a jagged red mark no longer than the width of his thumb that resembled a miniature lightning bolt. His hair had been cut far shorter, probably to trim off all that had been singed and crisped. Dead skin had also flaked off over most of his face, leaving new and pinkish skin beneath.

By the end of the eightday, he was up and walking through the keep, which was not so much a keep as a large country house, around which walls had been erected at some time, certainly not a structure designed to withstand a lengthy attack or a siege.

His own garments, doubtless too rent and bloodstained to save, had been replaced before he had even recovered with far finer garb, two dark gray shirts that were almost silvery, black trousers, and a black jacket. Even his boots had been replaced with black leather boots fitted to his feet. The garments signified changes, more than he’d wanted to consider. First, the colors-that had been obvious. The black and gray were because he was a mage, but the quality…that bothered him. He could not have afforded such finery, and yet it was almost plain compared to that of those in the keep who attended Lord Ghrant, although somewhat finer than that of the servants or of Alidya.

In the late afternoon of eightday, he stood on the corner of the upper terrace, outside the walls, looking to the ridge and park to the north. The winter sky was clear, and there was no wind to dissipate the mild warmth of the sun. From close to a kay away, outside of a handful of gashes in the turf, Kharl could see no sign that a battle had been fought days before.

He still had a hard time believing that his tricks with hardening air had been so successful and that everyone seemed to think that he was a mighty mage. He had managed to learn a few things about order and chaos-but he’d be in real trouble if he ever encountered a truly accomplished white wizard. That, he understood, even if no one else seemed to.

“Ah…the mysterious mage…”

At the sound of Hagen’s voice, Kharl turned. He shrugged helplessly. “I’m ready to go.”

“Not yet,” Hagen said with a smile. “You need to stay here for a few more days. Just until threeday.”

“Why then?”

“Because that’s when Lord Ghrant has set your audience,” replied the new lord-chancellor. “It would be most unbecoming to depart before then.” Hagen grinned.

“Do I want that audience?” Kharl asked dryly.

“I would judge so, unless you want to go back to being a ship’s carpenter or a wandering mage. As for the moment, I came out here to suggest that now that you are well, you might join me and several of the lancer officers for supper.”

The thought of company for a meal-rather than being served in one of the small dining halls with minor functionaries he did not know-did have a certain appeal to Kharl, but he had no doubt that Hagen had more than that in mind. “Senior officers?”

Hagen smiled. “I am certain they would appreciate any information you might provide about what you saw…”

“Such as the officers dining in the town the day before the final battle?” asked Kharl. “While others were fighting?”

“They might not like such, but I would be indebted to you for such candor.”

“And they are not likely to doubt a mage as much?”

“They know that you have no history with the Austran lancers,” Hagen pointed out. “Unlike me.”

Kharl thought he understood and gestured for Hagen to lead on.

The two walked back across the terrace and through a narrow bailey gate-where two of Ghrant’s personal guards stood stiffly-before reentering the north wing. Kharl followed Hagen down a wide but short side corridor, one adorned with oversized portraits of men in restrained finery. The corridor ended in two double doors, the right one open.

Hagen motioned for Kharl to precede him, and the carpenter-mage did.

Inside, five officers in the green and gray of Austra stood around one end of the large circular table already set for a meal with white linen cloth and cutlery. More portraits graced the white plaster walls above the blond wainscot paneling.

“Lord Hagen…mage,” offered a gray-haired and mustached officer with a broad forehead, pointed chin, and perfect mustache.

Hagen returned the greeting with a nod, then spoke. “I thought that it might be useful for Kharl to dine with us. He saw a side of the last battle that none of us did.” He inclined his head to the graying officer. “Kharl, this is Commander Vatoran…Majer Reseff, Majer Tralk, Majer Fuelt, and Majer Nyort.”

Kharl nodded solemnly in response, hoping he could keep the names and faces in mind throughout the dinner.

Hagen moved to a place at the table, the one that faced the doorway. “Kharl, perhaps…” He gestured to the chair across the table from him.

Kharl took the suggestion, but waited to seat himself until the other officers began to do so, and they waited until Hagen actually settled into his chair.

A long silence followed, one that pleased Hagen, Kharl felt.

“Commander Vatoran is the eastern district commander,” the lord-chancellor finally explained to Kharl as servers circled the table, asking each man whether he preferred wine, ale, or lager. “In effect, he commands all of the lancer forces east of the Shiltons. Each of the majers commands a subdistrict, usually with between ten and fifteen companies. The organization is the same for the foot, but we’ll be meeting with them later.” Hagen turned to the server waiting patiently at his shoulder. “Wine. Red. The Asolo, if you have it.”

Kharl stayed with lager. To him, wine was too close to sweet vinegar.

“You have not been a lancer, or an armsman, mage, have you?” asked Vatoran, his deep voice calm and even.

“I fear not, commander.”

“But you have been in battle?”

“Against pirates and a white wizard. This was my first battle where both sides were lancers and foot.”

Hagen made no comment, just nodded and waited.

Kharl took advantage of the moment of silence to sample the lager, a slightly edged but refreshing brew. One of the two women servers deftly slipped slices of white meat onto the gold-rimmed, pale blue china plate before Kharl, and the second added dumplings. A third followed with strips of green cetalya, then ladled a white sauce laced with black mushrooms over both meat and dumplings. Kharl cared little for the bitter cetalya and would have preferred the sauce over the vegetable as well.

“What weapons have you used? Besides your magely skills, that is?” asked one of the majers.

“I’m not one for the blade,” Kharl admitted. “Cudgel and staff.”

One of the other majers sniffed, but did not speak as the first majer asked, “How many men have you killed, mage, that is, with your weapons, not magery?”

Kharl didn’t care much for the majer’s tone, or the unspoken condescension of the other majers, but he fingered his chin before replying, thinking about Tyrbel’s assassin, about the very first white wizard and his guards, and about the pirates. “I can’t say for certain. I know about five for sure, before the battle here.”

“The mage is being modest,” Hagen interrupted. “Against the pirates alone, he took out ten men with his staff.”

Kharl reflected once more. If he counted the deaths of the men killed on the ridge by the white wizard’s efforts to stop him, then the total was doubtless several score.

“Would you agree with Lord Hagen’s assessment?” asked Vatoran, a slight smile without humor lifting the corners of his mouth.

“Lord Hagen may have seen more than I did. He had a better vantage, and he is more familiar with fighting and warfare,” Kharl said. “I was just doing the best I could.” He took a bite of the meat-boar, he thought-and a mouthful of the flavorful dark bread. Then he tried a dumpling, surprisingly delicate, with a plumlike flavor.

“The mage cleared the deck of one vessel,” Hagen explained, “but he lost two toes and cracked his ribs in a number of places.”

“What about-”

“I think we can dispense with more questions about the mage’s familiarity with weapons and fighting,” Vatoran interjected, turning back to Kharl. “Did you see much of the fighting before the day that you bested the wizards and Ilteron?”

Hagen gave the slightest of nods to Kharl.

“I had not realized that the fighting had begun,” the mage replied. “I was in the town, looking for somewhere to eat, and I went into a café. There were four lancer officers there, and they were eating and drinking, and talking about the fighting…about how close the rebels were to Dykaru-”

“…must be some mistake…”

“…sure they wore the green and black?”

“They were in the green and black,” Kharl affirmed, “and when I left, I saw a wagon filled with wounded, and the teamster was complaining that he’d lost his way and that his captain didn’t seem to know much about where the battle was or how to direct the teamster…” Kharl took a swallow of ale before continuing. “That was what I saw and heard before we got into battle the next day.”

Vatoran nodded as if to himself before continuing. “I’d be most curious, mage, as to why you risked your life for Lord Ghrant. You don’t have to speak to that, if you don’t want to, of course. It’s enough that you acted, whatever the reason.”

“I’m not sure that it is, commander,” Kharl found himself saying. “I used to think that myself. I was a cooper. No secret about that. So long as I made good barrels, didn’t matter to me why I made them. But it did.” He shrugged. “I found that out. Heard enough about Ilteron and had seen enough of Lord Hagen to realize there was a difference. Didn’t get to make a difference in Nordla, but I had a chance in Austra. That’s why.”

“But you are not Austran,” Vatoran pointed out.

“Lord Hagen’s acts had made it clear that right is right. Wrong is wrong. Doesn’t matter where. If you only protect what’s yours, and everyone does that, then wrong usually wins, and right loses. In the end, you do, too.”

Vatoran looked as though he wanted to reply to that, but, instead, the commander frowned, then asked, “How did you get into battle?”

“Lord Hagen thought that I might be of some use in making sure that Lady Hyrietta and the heirs were safe…” Kharl went on to tell about the battle, but avoided any exact details about what magery he had used, only saying, “I managed to use what I knew about order to block their firebolts and imprison them in a web of order. That killed the two wizards and Ilteron. Then I dragged Lord Ghrant off the ridge and managed to get him onto a mount. It took a long time to get him back to the harbor.”

“In the middle of the battle?” Vatoran’s eyebrows lifted.

“That part of the battle was pretty near over. At least, no one was fighting there right then, and no one was looking at a carpenter dragging and carrying a wounded man. They were still worried about the firebolts on the top of the ridge.” While what Kharl said was true-no one had been looking at them because they couldn’t have seen them-the evasion of truth bothered him, but he didn’t want to reveal exactly what he had done.

“And you just rode to the harbor?”

“What he says is true,” Hagen interjected in a calm voice. “We were on the Seastag, and we saw a rider come up the pier with a figure over the saddle before him. Until he dismounted, we didn’t realize that it was the mage with Lord Ghrant.”

“It took a long time,” Kharl added. “I couldn’t get there directly.” That had been absolutely true.

“I see. What did you notice about the foot and lancers in the battle that we should know?”

“Some of them-Lord Ghrant’s men who held the little stone pavilion on the south side-they were brave and well-ordered. They were holding the pavilion even against the one mage until I killed him. There were others who ran and fled from the white wizards before I got there. More of them were in green and black, but there were some in yellow and black. Lord Ilteron’s forces withdrew a number of rods when I was battling the last white wizard, but I didn’t see any of them breaking or running.” Kharl shrugged. “That’s what I saw. I wasn’t looking at the lancers and foot, though. I was trying to stop the wizards and find Lord Ghrant and Ilteron.”

“Did you see any standards or banners…”

“Did you see any other rebel livery besides the blue…”

“What about cannon…”

Kharl replied to the questions as well as he could, even if most of his answers were negative. In between questions and answers, he kept eating.

After a time, Hagen cleared his throat. Loudly.

“I think the mage has been most forthcoming. It is most clear to me, both from what I saw and from what the mage and others have reported, that we have a solid task ahead of us if we are to be successful in halting other attempts by Hamor to weaken Austra.” Hagen’s smile to the officers was polite, but far from warm as he stood and nodded to Kharl.

Kharl stood and inclined his head to the commander. “My best to you, ser, and I trust I have not disturbed you too greatly, but I could only report on what I saw and experienced. I know too little about lancers to say anything but what I saw.”

“I am certain that is so, mage.” Vatoran had risen, as had the majers, and he inclined his head in response.

Kharl followed Hagen out and down the corridor.

The lord-chancellor said nothing until they were back in a small study or library, where both walls were filled with shelves brimming with leather-bound volumes. Hagen closed the door, but made no move to seat himself at the black oak desk. “That will do.”

“I don’t think they were happy with my words,” Kharl said.

“They weren’t supposed to be. I wanted them to know that more than a few people understood that some of the lancers had not responded well. Eating in town while the fighting was going on.” Hagen snorted. “Running from battle while others fought…”

“Was that why you did not see eye to eye with Lord Ghrant before?”

“Something like that.”

“Is there anything else you’d like from me?” asked Kharl.

Hagen laughed. “Just be polite and mysterious for the next few days, until you meet with Lord Ghrant, and then we’ll talk about what you’d like to do next.”

Kharl understood that, too. He wasn’t going to get a direct answer until something else happened, probably between Hagen and Lord Ghrant.