“Willingly, my lady,” he said. “Suppose you tell me something about your new method and how the hitch develops, and I will see what Arth can provide that might help you.”
But of course, she would not tell him. She talked for the next half hour without saying one thing to the purpose, and he realized that this was just another attempt to get him off his guard.
Really, he thought, stretching in his chair, he had let her bother him badly, if he found himself reliving the ladies’ visit like this! Arth discipline enjoined you to banish this kind of obsessive stuff with a short meditation followed by a short specific weave. But he was simply not in the mood. The most he could do was to utter his devout thanks to the workings of the Cosmic Wheel, which had placed him in Arth rather than left him on the estate of Lady Istoly, where he had been born. If you were born a man in Leathe, you joined the Company of Arth and hoped passionately that you would eventually be received into the Brotherhood. Otherwise your life was miserable. And he had been lucky, one of the fortunate tenth who passed all the tests, and luckier still to rise to High Head of the citadel.
Which reminds me, he thought. I have responsibilities. Better get on with the work those harridans interrupted.
He swung around and gestured at his wall. It responded by becoming a rank of mirrors, most of them apparently reflecting blue-clothed mages peacefully at work, though about a third had this reflection covered by a pulsing sigil. The High Head smiled as he collected these pulsing ones into the main reflector before his desk and gestured at them to elucidate themselves. This was a very useful adaptation of an idea from otherworld. Research Horn was still working to discover what otherworlders actually used it for.
The sigils spread to rows of print, most of them routine reports. Defense Horn was still having problems with those otherworld rockets. Housekeeping Horn was inundated, because a year’s supply of goods had come over on the last of the tide. They requested help from either the cadets or the servicemen to unload capsules and stow provender. It would have to be the cadets who did that, because the newest recruits had been over for two days now and presumably knew their way around — enough to haul goods anyway. The servicemen had only come over in the carrier that brought the Ladies of Leathe, and thanks to those ladies, he had not even seen them yet. They should be about through with the rest of their induction by now. But here was Healing Horn — for which read Edward — wanting to see him about those same servicemen. Not yet, Edward, for Observer Horn was reporting some considerable etheric troubling centered on that spot in otherworld which they had learned to connect with the most useful mageworkings. And Maintenance had another leak in the atmosphere.
Maintenance Horn came first. That was a cardinal rule. The High Head indicated that they had his attention.
“It’s due to the tides, sir,” said the Duty Mage, briskly materializing in the mirror. “Tides always cause trouble, and this one’s bigger than usual, and there seem to be eddies. We’ve thrown up some patching wards, and they’ll hold till tonight, but I’m afraid it’s going to take a full-scale mage work to get it properly sealed.”
“Get Augury and Calculus to give you their best times for the ritual then,” the High head ordered. “I’ll have fifty mages stand by.”
Back to routine, he thought comfortably as the image of the Duty Mage dissolved. He called up Ritual Horn and gave them his instructions. Then he summoned to his reflector the otherworld site Observer Horn was so excited about. There was very little going on now. Hellband! It was high time something happened there. The Ladies of Leathe were not the only ones who were getting impatient. But the corner of his eye was catching the winged sigil flashing repeatedly in its mirror — Edward’s sigil — which meant that his friend wanted him urgently. He let Edward know he was free.
“Coming now,” said the mirror.
There was a delay while Edward traversed the corridors and ramps. As a healer, Edward claimed not to be very adept at projecting to a mirror. Oh, he could do it right enough, he always said when challenged, but walking was good exercise, and besides, having walked to where a person was made him feel as if he was truly meeting him. The other ways, he said, smacked of illusion.
Equally typically, when Edward actually arrived, he slid apologetically among the door-veils, ducking his head under the lintel. He always did duck, despite the High Head having several times stood him in the doorway and proved to him it was plenty high enough. And he advanced equally apologetically to put two steaming mugs on the worktop.
“I thought you could do with some coffee,” he said, “after Leathe first thing in the morning.”
“Rather than brandy?” said the High Head.
“Not straight after breakfast,” Edward said, “though I did consider beer — Oh, blast you, Lawrence! Why do I never see your jokes?”
“You usually do in the end,” said the High Head. “So what did you want to see me about? To make sure I hadn’t become a Leathe puppet overnight?”
Edward laughed. The High Head was gratified to see that the possibility had never occurred to him. “Great gods, no! No, it’s about this year’s servicemen — I imagine you haven’t had a chance to see them yet. I’m afraid you’re in for a shock when you do.”
“You mean the numbers are down? I saw that from the list. What happened? My guess is that the Ladies of Leathe quietly slung two-thirds of them off so that the Inner Convent — whom the Goddess bless! — could have plenty of space in the transfer carriage.”
Edward shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I talked to some of them, and they all say that this is all of them there ever were. I’m afraid it’s worse than that, Lawrence. It looks as if every single district that owes us service, in every single Fiveir, has sent the absolute legal minimum, and on top of that, almost every lad is wrong in some way. I’d say the Corriarden district turned out their youth prisons for us. There’s a lad from one of the north Trenjen places who can barely write his name — though he seems to have the rudiments of magecraft, so he’s within the letter of the law, just. And as for the rest, I’ve seldom seen a set of sorrier physical specimens. About the only normal one is the son of the Pentarch of Frinjen, and he’s only come because he had to — he’d be too old for next year’s batch — and he’s sulking like an infant over it. The rest are frankly demon fodder.”
“What?” said the High Head. “Even from the Orthe? What have they sent?”
“A spavined centaur,” said Edward, “and a gualdian with two left feet.”
The two of them looked at each other. The Other Peoples of the Orthe were under the king’s direct rule. Normally they took pride in sending the best of their youngsters for the year’s service on Arth, and it was not unusual for them to send several members of all five Peoples. If they, too, had dispatched only the very least they were obliged to send, then things were bad indeed.
“I’m not saying the king’s been got at by Leathe,” Edward said anxiously. “Though he could have been.”
“I doubt it.” The High Head got irritably to his feet and strode from wall to window to wall. “The king may be as scared of Leathe as the rest of us, but he can hold his own or he wouldn’t be king. I suppose we can be grateful to His Majesty for not coming here and giving us a piece of his mind like the Ladies of Leathe. Instead, he’s simply made it plain that the entire Pentarchy has lost confidence in Arth. Edward, it’s not my fault. I’ve worked like a demon to pull us out of the mess Magus Peter left us with. I’ve got everything running smoothly again — now this! What am I supposed to do?”