Ingrates! He'd show them! If they forbade him meals, he'd go back to the old ways, and steal his own food by magic from the Elvenlords' stores, and to the Netherworld with Lashana's stupid treaty! That would show them!
At least he'd have something decent then; real cheese, real bread, ham and sausage. Hah. If he even filched food from the kitchens, he could have anything he liked!
He thought sourly of his last meal; harshly-flavored goat-cheese, stringy mutton and not much of it, some nasty mess of wild greens, and bread made with coarsely-ground flour, heavy and dark. If they wanted him "punished," die quality of the food
around here was punishment enough. How he longed for the good things filched from the Elvenlords, the delicately-smoked meats, the fine cheeses, sweet butter and clotted cream, the cakes made with proper flour and sweetened with white sugar! His mouth watered at the mere thought of them.
He glared at the fire in his "fireplace"—fortunately for him, he had secured this room before his current disgrace, so at least it had a fireplace: If you wanted to call a mere alcove in the rock wall with an open-topped shaft punched up to the surface with draconic rock-magic a "fireplace." When it rained up above, water dripped down into the fire, and when the wind blew wrong, it drove the smoke back down into his room. Right now it was raining, and drops sizzled and spat in the flames, threatening to put them out. If he wanted a fire, he now had to gather the wood himself, and if he didn't want the plaguey thing clogged with ash, he had to sweep it out and dispose of the ashes himself.
At least he was putting some things over on them all. He knew very well when firewood was delivered to other rooms; he just helped himself when the occupants were out. And as for the ashes, well, he didn't sweep them any farther away than the hall, and serve them all right. They could either sweep them up themselves or trample them everywhere; he didn't care.
It had finally come down to this; a job he'd spent most of the day on until the anger in his heart started to interfere with his scrying spell. Spying with his own magic on the Wizardling children teaching his former cronies the magics that they used to transport themselves without harm and magnify their own powers, so that he could learn to use those magics without having to humiliate himself further. And he had to have those lessons, because he had no choice; if he wanted something, he had to obtain it himself, and he didn't have the power he needed, alone.
And every day, new humiliations were piled atop the old. No one appeared to clean his quarters, and he, he, had to either do it himself, or find something one of the wretched children wanted and use it to bribe the little beast to do the work! And, of course, what they wanted was never some useless trinket of
his own or something he could just go and appropriate from the stores, oh no—it was always something difficult, and usually something he had to use his own powers to fetch from the old Citadel! It made him so angry he could hardly think for hours afterwards. He longed for the days when he could drop something on the floor in the supreme confidence that whatever it was would be whisked off immediately to be discarded, put away, or cleaned as the case might be.
And it was all the fault of that overweening female.
She was up to something, too. No good, of course; that went without saying. He could tell that there was something in the air, something clandestine going on; from the way she acted, from the way that lover of hers acted. He'd felt the transportation spell being triggered more times than it should have been of late, now that he knew how to recognize it. A noisy magic, that; nothing subtle about it, and oh so typical of a female, to use something that only drew attention to the caster. He knew how to use it himself now, of course, no thanks to anyone's effort but his own. He'd gone back to the Old Citadel in person, to rummage through not only his own quarters, but the rooms of as many other people as he could before he grew too tired and hungry to stay there any longer. After all, if you didn't know or remember what was in a particular place, you couldn't bring it back by magic unless you did some fairly painstaking scrying. He'd piled what he wanted in his room when he could, and he'd made plenty of notes on what he couldn't pick up that he wanted in other rooms. He was getting more possessions together now, besides the armload of things he'd brought back with him.
So he knew quite enough about the transportation spell to recognize it, and there was no doubt in his mind that it was being used a great deal by Lashana herself of late. And for what? There was no need to use it to bring living things here anymore, now that they had flocks of sheep and goats and even cattle— you could bring anything you wanted here quietly, with the old magics that the Wizards had always used before, to steal what they wanted right out from beneath the noses of the Elvenlords.
In fact—that peculiar discordant feeling in the back of his
skull signaled that someone within the Citadel had used that particular magic again. It had to be Lashana. And in no way could it be for anyone's good except that selfish brat's.
But no one, no one would believe a single word he said against her. Not their dear Elvenbane, the person who had brought them the dragons (treacherous, sneaky beasts, whose minds could shift as easily as their shapes), the Trader clans (untrustworthy, wild human barbarians), and the Iron People (folly to put faith in any people who were not only wild human barbarians, but who had their own defenses against the Elven-lords and didn't need allies). Everyone so easily forgot that it was because of Lashana that they had needed those "allies," and needed to leave their comfortable, easy life in the old Citadel in the first place!
She was up to something; he knew it, he could taste it! She was up to something, and it could only mean new trouble for everyone else!
If only he could find out about it before everything fell apart—if he could catch her at some folly and prove she was up to something that would only drag everyone here into some new danger, they'd all believe him again!
That was it—that was it!
He kicked another shoe from his path, but this time with a triumphant cackle of laughter. That would serve the brat her just desserts! He'd use her own fancy magics to spy on her and find out exactly where she was going—then he'd use more of them to find out what she was doing! He'd catch her red-handed, and then he'd haul her back to the Citadel and make her confess in front of everyone! Oh, it would serve her right for her own magic to be used against her!
He turned abruptly and rummaged through the litter on his desk for the piece of smoke-quartz that served him for a magnifier of his power, then cleared a space and concentrated on the scrying spell. Lashana didn't discover everything about magic, after all! She hadn't been the one to learn that in scrying, you didn't have to look for a place you knew, or even a person—just a particular object or kind of object. That was how they filched provisions from the Elvenlords, back in the good old days....
So rather than look for Lashana—because she might be alerted if she sensed someone scrying for her—he looked for an object. Something she always wore. A dragon-skin belt, made from the shed hide of her so-called "foster brother" and unique in that it had been dulled with dye so that it didn't catch the eye the way the brilliantly colored skin normally did.
When he found it, he would find her—then he would study where she was carefully—very carefully.
Then the next time she left, he would follow, a little behind. He'd find out where she was going, and what she was doing.
And the moment that he found out her secret—
He closed his hand into a fist, and smiled.
29
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Triana lay on her stomach on the cold, hard ground beneath a bush, peering down at an encampment in the tiny valley below her. Water dripped down on the hood of her cloak from the branches above her, and although the cloak itself was waterproof, mist permeated even the cleverly-magicked fabric somewhat. It was not a comfortable position, but her sheer astonishment at the sight that lay beneath her allowed her to ignore her discomfort.
There was a campsite down there in the mizzle, with six or eight standing figures, putting the place to rights, and one sitting figure. It was the seated one that had her attention.
"You see, my lady?" murmured the human tracker in Tri-ana's ear. "It is as I told you. There is the Elvenlord you wished to find."
Well, it was an Elvenlord, all right, but it was not the one she had intended to find. Not that the tracker could be blamed in this case. He didn't know what Lord Kyrtian looked like, especially at a distance. He couldn't know that Kyrtian, the fool,
would never have sat back and watched while his slaves put up a camp. But what in the name of all the Ancestors had gotten Aelmarkin to stir his lazy behind and come out to this howling wilderness?
She was rather pleased to see that he didn't look very happy. Hunched over, elbows on knees, even from here she could see his frown. Ancestors! She could feel his frown. His slaves were trying to light a fire and not having a lot of success with the wet wood; he slumped on a stool beneath the shelter of his tent, watching them. She couldn't tell what he was thinking from here, but a moment later, he pointed his finger at the pile of wood and it roared up, causing his slaves to leap back lest they be scorched.
Could it be that he, too, was following Kyrtian? And without ever bothering to inform her?
She ground her teeth in a sudden flare of temper. The nerve of him! How dare he—
But just as quickly the temper subsided, because she couldn't honestly sustain it. Hadn't she expected this? And had she bothered to tell him what she was planning? Of course not, so why be angry with him when she was doing the same thing? And although to her this was just a wager, to him it was a great deal more than that. Enough to force him into a place that was as alien and uncomfortable to him as it was to her.
Well, if he was following Kyrtian, she would just follow him! It would save her a great deal of work, for he was by no means as woods-wise as his cousin, nor were his men. Only if he began to flounder would she have her men strike out on their own.
Meanwhile, Kyrtian was bound to go underground eventually; he had to look for Wizards, and he wanted to look for the Great Portal, and both would be in caves. If the caves were as extensive as rumor painted them, it would be child's play to get ahead of Aelmarkin.
"You've done well," she whispered back to the slave, who beamed at her, the smile of pride transforming an otherwise unhandsome face. "Watch them. I will send Kartar to you. When they leave, you both follow. Send Kartar back to fetch us to where they camp next."
"My lady," the slave bowed. He was a hard man, as were the others she had with her; forest-trackers all, they were used to the roughest of conditions. He was outfitted for the forest, in tough canvas, sturdy boots and a waterproof, hooded tunic. She wore the same, with modifications-—an additional waterproof cloak, and her clothing made of materials that were just as tough, but softer to the skin. From the look of it, Aelmarkin had taken no such precautions, and she smiled grimly as she eased her way out from under the cover of the bush and back down the other side of the hill, where another of her slaves awaited her.
He led her silently down a tangle of deer-trails; only the Ancestors knew how he was finding his way, and she didn't worry about it. That was his job, and he'd been trained very, very well for it. She did wish, however, that the need for stealth had not required the horses be tied up quite so far from Aelmarkin's camp. The thing about deer-trails was that the deer didn't care a bit if there were branches stretched across the path, or roots to trip up the unwary.