IT took Anigrel nearly two bells to do what needed to be done—Lycaelon was quite right; his work was never less than perfection—and there were few other Mages in the City, of any rank, who could have equaled it.
And none who could have detected it.
When he had finished, Anigrel felt the weight of weariness pulling at him. Perhaps he should sleep and rest himself before dealing with young Rolfort, though the work he would do there would be much simpler. He considered the matter for a moment, and decided against it. No, to wait might raise questions— he could pass off the length of time he’d spent here by saying he was questioning the boys, but not the need to rest between Excisions. And if his work on Rolfort was less than elegant, well, the boy wasn’t going to live long enough to show evidence of the fact, now, was he?
Unlike young Lord Cilarnen.
Anigrel had plans for Cilarnen.
He gazed down at the sleeping Mageborn with the fondness of a craftsman for a tool that would yet give good service.
To anyone who might think to look, it would seem that Cilarnen’s Gift had been burned from his mind, just as was proper for any of the higher ranks of Magery who were Banished. It would seem that way to Cilarnen himself, for a time.
But Anigrel had other plans. Cilarnen Volpiril was far too valuable a pawn to cast away simply because he had been useful once. And if he were to be useful again, Anigrel wanted him intact and at the height of his powers.
It was possible, for the first time in recent memory, to survive the Hunt— enlarging the City’s boundaries to their old limits would be the work of moon-turns, and when Cilarnen was turned out of the Delfter Gate, the City Lands would only extend over the Central Valley. A determined man—a man who had the wit to steal a horse—might actually escape the City lands in a night.
Rolfort, of course, would not be so fortunate. Anigrel would make certain of that.
But when Cilarnen escaped—and a desire to escape was only one of the compulsions Anigrel had laid upon him in his long Working—there was only one place he could go.
To the Wild Lands, where the Outlaw Kellen lived.
Like would surely call to like. Fellow Outlaws, fellow victims of misfortune, surely they would become as brothers?
And then Anigrel would spring his trap.
Taking a deep breath, and marshaling his strength, Anigrel summoned the globe of Mage-light and walked from the cell, preparing to pay a call upon his other victim.
—«♦»—
AT Dawn Bells, Lycaelon was given the exquisite pleasure of entertaining Lords Isas and Breulin in his Council chambers.
Both Mages, of course, already knew most of the details of the plot and the arrests that had occurred at Midnight Bells. If servants’ gossip ran swiftly in the City of a Thousand Bells, then gossip among the Mageborn ran swifter, and Lycaelon had seen no reason to stifle it. He had known that within a bell at most, the Undermages who had arrested the boys would have seen to it that the details of the matter would reach their families, whether out of spite or from a hope of currying later favor. He had entertained himself with imagining the petitions that must be flying back and forth between the families involved and their High Mage heads—Isas and Breulin—as everyone scrabbled for information that simply wasn’t available.
Isas had always been something of an ally to him, but even Isas had not voted with him against Volpiril in the end, and he would pay for that now. And Breulin had always opposed his policies. It would be well to be rid of both of them.
He saw Isas first. The aged High Mage was escorted into Lycaelon’s chambers by the same Stone Golems who had summoned him from his house. The old man was quivering with such indignation that for a moment Lycaelon was sure Isas was going to drop dead on the spot and save him a great deal of trouble.
“Lord Isas,” he said cordially, “do sit down. You really don’t look well.” Light forgive him, but he was enjoying this!
“Lord Lycaelon—what is the meaning of this?” Isas demanded.
“Oh, I think you already know,” Lycaelon said, almost purring. “The question is, what are you prepared to do about it?”
—«♦»—
THE meeting went very much as Lycaelon intended it to. Jorade was Lord Isas’s only possible heir; to keep the boy whole and unmarred Isas was willing to give up his seat on the Council and take the same oath Lord Volpiril had.
He was, in fact, absurdly grateful to do so.
“My dear Lord Lycaelon—I had no idea—no idea…” he quavered.
The elderly Lord Isas seemed to have aged a decade from the moment he had entered Lycaelon’s chambers. His skin had taken on a greyish tinge and his breathing was harsh.
“Did I not warn you—all of you—what Volpiril was, time and again?” Lycaelon’s voice was stern. “Yet none of you listened—even you, Lawell, and I thought you my friend.”
“I was—I meant to be—” Isas protested. “But—after Kellen—all of us thought…”
Lycaelon’s face froze at the mention of the forbidden name. Yet, he consoled himself, he had a new son now. A better son. A son who would be all to him that The Outlaw had never been.
“You thought I had let my emotions overmaster me,” Lycaelon said heavily. “And now you see that I acted—then, as always—for the good of the City.”
“Yes,” Lord Isas said, bowing his head humbly. “I see that now, Lycaelon.”
“Go home, Lawell,” Lycaelon said, almost kindly. “I will send Jorade to you when the mindhealers have finished with him. Treat him well. A true son is a precious gift.” He reached for the bellpull. “Let me summon a servant to escort you home. You really don’t look at all well.”
—«♦»—
THE meeting with Lord Breulin went a bit more awkwardly. Breulin had always been his opponent in Council; he was a man in the vigor of his prime, ambitious enough to wish to become Arch-Mage himself someday.
But Lycaelon was firm.
“My lord, if you wish to see the matter come to a public trial before the Council, that is, of course, your right. But I and many others find it very difficult to imagine how a handful of children conceived of a plan of this nature by themselves. The question that must be asked—and will be asked, frequently, in the moonturns to come, should you force me to put the matter of young Geont before the Council—is not only where they came by their peculiar notions and the means to carry them out, but who would benefit from a, shall we say, radical rearrangement of the Council?” Lycaelon said.
Lord Breulin regarded him warily, obviously not liking the note of confidence he heard in Lord Lycaelon’s voice.
“May I direct your attention to the names of the conspirators?” the Arch-Mage continued. “Isas—Pentres—Lalkmair—Rolfort—Ogregance—Volpiril. Isas, Lalkmair, Rolfort, and Ogregance we can dismiss at once. Three of them have no Council ties, and all the world knows that Isas is—was—my supporter. He could hardly be expected to see benefit from the overthrow of the Council. This leaves Volpiril and Pentres, and House Pentres is a Breulin supporter, its fortunes tied to those of your House, my lord Breulin.
“How odd. The world believes Volpiril and Breulin to be at odds. Certainly the two of you seemed to be in opposition in Council—except when you were opposing me. How singular to find Volpiril’s heir and Breulin’s dependent so closely linked. Perhaps you believed you could share the spoils. Or perhaps you intended a further betrayal of one another?”
Lord Breulin’s face had turned a deep shade of maroon, making his stiff silver beard stand out even more brightly against his skin.
“You have no proof of that,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I have Lord Volpiril’s resignation from the Council,” Lycaelon said simply. “Lord Isas has also resigned.”
Breulin’s eyes narrowed. Resignation—for a man as ambitious as Lord Volpiril—was as good as a confession of guilt, yet how could it be otherwise, when Volpiril’s heir was the acknowledged ringleader of the young conspirators? Lycaelon needed no spell of Mindhearing to know Lord Breulin’s thoughts. They were plain upon the man’s face, as at last he awoke to his own peril.
“What will be done with the boys?” Breulin asked, after a long pause.
“For some, Banishment,” Lycaelon said. “As soon as the Hunt has space to run free once more.”
“And Geont?” Breulin said when Lycaelon said nothing further.
“In the end, his fate is in your hands, Lord Breulin,” Lycaelon answered. “As is my understanding of the degree of your involvement.”