“But what?” Tiedor asked.
And that, indeed, was the question.
The six young men looked at each other. Finding one another and daring to meet—and openly criticize the High Mages—had been hard enough, both to imagine and to do. To actually go from words to deeds…
“Master Raellan will know,” Cilarnen said firmly. “We must try to come up with a plan, and I’m sure he will have an idea of how to implement it.”
But though they talked until Second Night Bells rang out, none of them was able to come up with any practical notion of how they might cause the High Council to realize the gravity of the situation, or to avert the danger to Armethalieh that they all saw so clearly. They did manage to agree to meet here again in three days’ time, with Cilarnen to bring Master Raellan if he could.
Chapter Seven
Discord in the City of a Thousand Bells
A GIRLS’ SEWING-CIRCLE would make more efficient conspirators, Anigrel decided, entering the now-deserted cellar a chime later and triggering the spell that would release the stored memory of the boys’ conversation into his consciousness. An evening’s worth of pretty speeches, and not one sensible—or useful, from his point of view— suggestion among them. The young idiots could talk from now until the City walls crumbled around them, and do nothing more treasonous than flout curfew! That would hardly be enough for Anigrel’s purposes.
With a sigh, he dismissed the globes of Mage-light that the boys had forgetfully left burning. It would hardly do for anyone to wonder why Mageborn had been lurking here. Not just yet, anyway.
And it seemed he would have to take a more active hand in this “conspiracy” than he had first intended. It was just as his late father had said. “If you wanted something done right, you had best do it yourself”
—«♦»—
IN the sennights that followed, Cilarnen found himself split into three people, and none of them got much sleep. There was Cilarnen the dutiful son and student, who attended lectures at the Mage College and ate his meals at House Volpiril. That role was easy to play: he’d been doing it all his life. And if it was harder now, it was only because he now knew there was so much more to Life than he had once thought. But he dutifully went through the motions, studying hard—for the High Magick obsessed him now more than ever—and being all that was polite to the father he saw ever more infrequently.
Then there was Cilarnen the Entered Apprentice, who went about his tasks throughout the City with ears open wide, listening closely for any scrap of gossip or careless word from the Mages he served, for anything he heard might come in useful later. In this role he practiced effacing himself completely. Gone were the lordly airs and mannerisms suitable to a son of House Volpiril; this Cilarnen made himself meek, and humble, and as invisible as the lowliest Entered Apprentice from the lowest-ranked House in all Armethalieh. He was no one of importance. He was only Cilarnen, a pair of hands to be called upon at need, and ignored when not actually being ordered about.
Last of all there was Cilarnen the Conspirator, who had learned a hundred ways of slipping out of House Volpiril by night, of stealing a few chimes here, half-a-bell there, for errands that served the City in ways that would horrify the City if it knew.
But all would come right in the end. He was sure of it.
—«♦»—
“ARE you sure this works?” Jorade asked curiously, looking down at the small lump of silvery-grey stone in his palm.
“Of course it works. Haven’t you ever seen umbrastone before? Here, I’ll show you,” Kermis said.
He took the lump of stone from Jorade’s hand and set it down on the table. “Who’s got a lantern?”
Several of them did—the back streets were dark at night, and it wouldn’t do to advertise their Mageborn status by walking the streets lit by balls of Mage-light, after all. Margon produced his, and Kermis set it on the table beside the lump of umbrastone.
“Now light it. A Fire Spell’s simple, right?”
Jorade simply glared at him. The spell to summon fire was the first one every student of the High Magick learned. He concentrated on the lantern.
Nothing happened.
“You’ve warded it,” he accused.
“I swear by the Light—I haven’t,” Kermis said. “Try any spell you know. It won’t work. Umbrastone eats magic. The only reason the Mage-lights are still glowing is because they were already lit when I brought this piece in. We couldn’t cast them now, and if this were a bigger piece of umbrastone, it would put them out.”
“How much magic can it eat?” Tiedor asked with interest.
“I’m not sure,” Kermis admitted. “A lot. When it gets full, it crumbles away, though. I know that much from the books in my father’s library.”
“So we’ll need a lot more,” Cilarnen said thoughtfully. “For the guards, for the Stone Golems… enough to absorb all the spells the High Council will throw at us.”
“Where are we going to get that much?” Geont demanded. “You’re talking pounds of this stuff, and it took all our allowances together to bribe that Selken to bring in this much!”
“If I might make a suggestion… ?” Master Raellan said.
The boys turned and looked at him hopefully.
“Now that we have a sample to work with—and have proven that it will meet our needs—wouldn’t it just be simpler to make it here? I grant you that it’s a delicate process, and proscribed, of course, but I am not without certain resources myself, and among you, certainly you have the knowledge to oversee the work? Surely the recipe is to be found in one of your fathers’ libraries?”
Anigrel waited with barely-concealed impatience, wondering if he was going to have to bring them the book from Lycaelon’s library himself. He took care to stay well away from the small piece of umbrastone on the table, for if it touched him it would dispell the small glamouries of misdirection that disguised his true self. And even if Rolfort, Isas, Pentres, and Lalkmair weren’t close enough to the seats of power to recognize him, both the Volpiril brat and young Ogregance would certainly recognize Arch-Mage Lycaelon’s so-effacing private secretary.
At last Kermis spoke. “I think I can find it in my father’s library. He never notices when I go in there, or what I do.”
Anigrel breathed a faint inward sigh of relief. Once the manufactory for the umbrastone was in place—well, that was treason, pure and simple. And easy enough to hang High Mage Volpiril himself with it: yes, and any other members of the High Council he chose to implicate…
“How long will it take?” Geont asked. “To make enough, I mean?”
“Does it matter?” Margon answered. “The problem isn’t going to go away. Or get better. White flour’s being rationed in the Market now, and even the Commons are starting to wonder why. Father’s been in meetings every day for the past moonturn, trying to figure out what to do about it. And the only thing possible is to get the Council to reverse its decree, and take the Home Farms back.”
“But why can’t they just see that?” Jorade said miserably.
“The High Council will never reverse itself,” Cilarnen said bitterly. “Not when it means doing so publicly. By now everyone”—he meant, as his listeners knew, all the Mageborn—“knows about the decree to draw back the Borders to the City Walls. Lycaelon Tavadon was the only one who voted against the decree. That means that reversing the decree is endorsing the Arch-Mage, so they’ll never do it.”
“So the City suffers… for petty politics,” Kermis said grimly.
“Unless young men like yourselves—who love the City, and who set themselves above such things—will save her.” Master Raellan said.
The six young Entered Apprentices regarded each other. What they’d done so far was serious, but if it came to light, they could expect no worse than a severe scolding—at the worst, a censure from the Council. What they were contemplating now, each of them knew, had far graver consequences.
“We’ll meet here again on Light’s Day,” Kermis said. “I should be able to get the book we need by then. We can study it to figure out what materials and equipment we need to buy—or steal.” He looked at Cilarnen.
“If anyone wants to back out, do it now,” Cilarnen warned. “Because once we start making umbrastone… well, there’s no going back.”
“I’m in,” Jorade said.