The Seekers of Fire (32 page)

By now Nan had come back with a tray. She had indeed brought the food to the tower earlier, only not yet to the Council Room itself. She always did so, for they all usually ate here after Council. Ate by the light of normal, many candles, whatever the time of day. Rianor remembered now that it had been darker than usual when Linden's father had been bandaging him two days ago, that it had become darker in the middle of it. Occupied by other things, Rianor had not paid attention, and the mobile Healers' candle he had received shortly after had been much more interesting, anyway.

How could commoners exist on naught but sleep candles at night? And had Rianor not read about this somewhere before? Had he not heard it? Again, he had not paid attention.

If he could, Rianor would have glared at himself now. There were too many things that he was prevented from knowing. He could not afford to ignore the ones that he
could
know easily.

Indeed, he could not afford to not know the rest any more, either.

Rianor waved everyone towards the table and steeled his impatience. Let them eat first. Otherwise, with all that he had to say to them, they would have to wait until breakfast.

* * *

Linden did seem better after eating some bread and
ljutika,
the dish that had chicken, roasted peppers and tomatoes with oil and garlic in it. Mathilda obviously approved of the food, too. She had taken a plate and a fork even before Rianor had let them all eat, and was now stuffing her body with great speed. Jenelly was watching her mother-in-law with envy, probably wondering how a woman could always eat so much and remain as thin as a quill. Rianor almost envied
Jenelly.
Amidst everything that was happening in the world, amongst all the unanswered questions, such were Jenelly's worries.

"Jenelly, don't clutch the napkin like this. What are you trying to do, suffocate it? Inni, you wipe your nose. You are young, eat properly! Don't watch me."

Despite everything—or perhaps because of it—Rianor suddenly wanted to laugh. Mathilda had once been a formidable First Counselor and an overzealous guardian of etiquette, including the etiquette of correct eating. It had not been a rare occasion for Mathilda to slap Rianor's fingers back then when his parents were alive and he was little. He was either holding the fork in a skewed way, she said, or he was watching where he should not be watching, or, yes, he was eating too fast ... She herself had always been a perfect example of how things "
should
" be done in those days.

As if anyone knew anything about "
should,
" or "
should not
" in the world.

"So," Mathilda said a moment later, laying down her fork and turning towards Linden. "A new lady, I see. Without the new-lady ritual. Or was it only me who missed it?"

Linden, who had earlier taken an immediate dislike to Desmond, did not seem irritated or otherwise discomfited by his mother's sharp, scrutinizing gaze. She returned it, sharpness finally surfacing again in her own eyes, together with what looked like a vague hint of a smile. Mathilda scowled, but Linden did not look away, and finally the corners of Mathilda's mouth tilted slightly upwards.

"Lady Mathilda," Linden said just before Rianor would have answered Mathilda's question. "You came from Balkaene, is that right? Starting from the lands of House Qynnsent? What is that, five hundred kilometers from here? You came so fast. Would you mind telling me what your means of transportation was?"

"A carriage," Mathilda stated, her voice now the loud and clear one meant for small children and fools. "What kind of question is that, girl, even commoners know about carriages, they're just like stage coaches but fancier ... Ah. I see. No, I traveled for more than six days, not for less than two as you seem to think, and that despite changing my horses at relay stations at least once every day. I could have come faster had I also traveled at night, of course, but that might have arisen suspicion. Why would an old woman be in such a hurry? She is supposedly only going to Mierber to show herself in one of the Night Fire Ceremonies; she is bringing no important news whatsoever ... No, girl, I have been coming for some time now. I did not come here because of
you.
"

Mathilda sighed, and her next words were quieter, friendlier. "Not that I mind you, girl, you don't have to look at me like this. Rituals, trifles. Whoever be a new lady in Mierber—it is none of my business. This is why I have left my son to be a First Counselor here. These things are his job, and the High Lord's. I am an old woman. My care is Balkaene. My poor horse beasts, too, are my care—now, of course, I will not be at rest until those relay station Stablers have fed and rested the ones I left with them, and brought them home to Balkaene."

"A regular carriage, then." Linden seemed to not have heard the rest of Mathilda's words. Rianor's apprentice had not made a singe motion, but her body seemed as tight as a violin's string pulled to its limits.

Then, "A carriage pulled by harnessed animals, even for a lady in a hurry. Not an Artificery device like the Noble House elevators," Linden added, and Rianor rose from his chair, cursing himself for a fool.

"Yes," he spat. "Good point, my lady. Finally do we see something that has always been before our eyes."

Linden looked at him askance, and so did everyone else. Even his apprentice had not understood his thought, although her own observations had led him to it.

"Magic has a weakness," Rianor said quietly, "that it has always had, even in Magic's strongest days, but we have all been too blind to see it. At least, the Magic of devices has it, of elevators and pipes and wells and other such things that do not rely on a harnessed living being. Think of it, there are no firepipes and waterpipes between cities. No Magical carriages without animals. Indeed, there are no pipes outside the cities at all, for the villages still rely on wells—and even inside the cities the pipes do not go everywhere. Magic and long distance motion do not work together. Magic cannot travel far. It only works
in one place.
"

Rianor

Night 79 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705

And Rianor would learn just how much restricted Magic was.

Linden had jumped from her own chair now, finally without the weakness and lethargy that had seemed to plague her all day.

"Oh, Rianor! It all starts to fit together!" Something was glowing inside her eyes—something for him—and gone was the absent-minded glaze. "You are right, my lord. Of course, you are right. I did not know the elevators existed at all. But they do and Magical carriages don't, and the elevators go up and down but not sideways. They don't go
far.
I did not make the connection you made, though."

"But you did ask." He stepped closer to her, looking into her eyes. "I have known about both elevators and carriages all my life, and yet, I never paid attention until now. It was as if I had never known at all. Is it truly so easy for the Bers to fool us? Why are we so blind? Linde, for this specifically, the Bers did not even lie."

"And perhaps this is why the firepipes are failing. Their range is not correct!" She was pacing now, as if she, unlike Magic, could not stay in one place. "The Bers destroyed the firewells in middle-class neighborhoods when they built the pipes, did you know that? This is what people say, of course; I had not yet been born then. The Bers said that these old firewells would only obstruct the new pipe system. They said that of course fire from the wells was clean and safe in itself, but the centrally-distributed fire would be even cleaner, better, giving even more light and warmth. Perhaps they should not have done it that way! Perhaps they should have piped fire from those same wells, not from wherever they pipe fire now, for the distance would have been shorter. Perhaps the Bers were wrong."

This was perhaps the most aberrant thought Linden had ever uttered before Rianor. Logically, creepily, it made sense.

"Linde," he whispered. "They were—
are
—wrong. Look at what is happening these days."

"Unless, of course, they
intend it
to happen like this."

This was not Linden's voice. "If you two do not mind this old woman taking part in your conversation, that is?"

Rianor and Linden glanced at each other. They had been talking as if they were alone.

Mathilda had risen from her chair and was by one of the walls, staring at the candles. Seven candles burned in the Council Room, one candle for each Council attendant but the High Lord. Their light seemed brighter now and more glaring than the light of other candles. It swallowed minor features on people's faces and carved others, until the people themselves looked different. Just a bit different, not complete strangers in the least—and yet they were not the people Rianor knew.

He blinked, trying to chase the confusion away. Eye illusions. Different, dangerous worlds, the Bers said. How many worlds were there, damn it? Were there any other worlds at all? This world here was already too strange and confused, too alien itself.

The former First Counselor now turned to look at the Council, her back as straight and stiff as her bun, no stray hairs visible around her grim face.

Desmond stood up, too. "So you think that the Bers might play games with us as if they were naught but a Noble House themselves? Before yesterday, I would have never agreed with you, Mother."

"I am not surprised, Son. You must have inherited this stubbornness and vehement adherence to old concepts and old ways—be those ways right or wrong—from your father. Such are more common in Imythra than Qynnsent. So is the resistance to new ideas."

She raised a pacifying hand, for Desmond never liked the mentioning of lord Howard, First Counselor of Imythra, let alone being likened to him so. "It has not been a bad thing, so far, Desmond. I have indeed encouraged it, for it is very strong in you and thus it could be turned into your greatest strength—and was. It was better than making you fight it, for certain, for then you would have become weaker, your strength wasted in fighting yourself. No. Better have strength to fight
the world.
Remember that, youngsters, for the day when you, too, have children to raise."

She sighed, her back now less straight, but she remained standing, refusing the chair Rianor offered her. "Yes, it has been a good choice, raising Desmond like this. Besides, Rianor's own greatest strengths are quite the opposite, so we raised
him
to challenge everything not too dangerous to challenge (though he did not listen to us and challenged even more that that). And we raised Inni to not fight at all, for it was never fighting she wanted—which was one reason that Desmond and not Inni was trained to become the First Counselor of the House. Both a High Ruler and a First Counselor
must
be able to fight, and not in the same ways."

She sighed again and straightened herself, her eyes hard.

"I am sorry, children, but times have come upon us that might require a shift in the balance of ways in the world. What shift exactly? I am afraid I do not know. And if it is
us
who must challenge the ways first, if it is us who must defy what we have known all our lives, I do not know how exactly we should go about it—and what we should aim for. I hope that we raised you well, High Lord. I hope that
you
will know."

"Tell your news, aunt Mathilda," Rianor simply said. Did she have to engage in a long, heartfelt speech now of all times? There was a limit to the allowances one could make even for a dear old woman.

The Council had been going for at least an hour now, and the only useful thing Rianor had heard so far was that commoners did not have light at night. "Tell us why a former First Counselor of Mierenthia's peerage will suddenly turn against the Bers, without even having heard all of
my
news, aunt Mathilda."

"My first piece of news is that the Mills at the Cities of Lightber and Blessedber have started experiencing problems," she replied, "and that most probably it is the same with Roseber's Mill." She could at least be direct when asked. "I know this from a source I trust completely."

She paused, and everyone waited—until suddenly Jenelly exhaled with what sounded suspiciously like relief.

"Is that all? Oh, Master, you frightened me so much for a moment there, Mother Mathilda! This does not really concern us, does it?" Jenelly glanced at her husband, who watched her with narrowed eyes, saying nothing.

"I ... I am sorry for interrupting. It is just that I became so worried. I ... I of course know how important it is that Qynnsent sells its grain—our grain—with good profit. But we will get
some
profit, always, is that not right? The Bers will always make sure that, whatever the Houses' and cities' economical games, each House's grain is always bought. They will pay for a part of it themselves. Right? Besides, they set minimum and maximum prices for all big transactions, between anyone, always. And, anyway, why should we worry about the Mills? We would have sold the grain already, for it to get to the Mills. The Mills are Magic. The Mills are not our duty, they are a duty of—Of—" She swallowed, her eyes jumping from person to person. "Of the Ber lords and ladies!"

"Why should we worry,
indeed,
for anything that is in the hands of our good Ber
lords and ladies.
" Rianor met her eyes, forcing her to look into his, until all she could do was swallow incessantly, her cheeks crimson, all words, if she had any words, stuck in her throat.

Suddenly it was clear to him. If Jenelly had been yesterday at Temple Square, she would have been one of those ready to attack him after the Ber woman's speech. At least, if she had not yet been a Qynnsent lady, she would have.

But she was a Qynnsent lady. Blatant benightedness had free reign even in Rianor's own House. He did not release her eyes. "Think, Jenne. Think. If you tried hard enough, perhaps even you could do it."