Aurian climbed gratefully into bed with her lover, ruefully noting the scarcity of covers. “You’d better not steal the bedclothes tonight,” she told Forral. “I’ll have trouble keeping warm as it is.” She snuggled close to him. “It reminds me of when I was little, when I gave you all my blankets so that you wouldn’t have to leave the Valley.” She flung her arms around him. “Oh Gods, Forral, I love you! I couldn’t bear to think of losing you.”
Forral held her close, stroking her hair. “You’ll never lose me,” he reassured her. “Never, while I live.”
As he spoke, Aurian again felt that premonitory prickle of dread, like ice sheeting over her bare skin. She shuddered, and tightened her grasp on Forral until he grunted a sleepy protest. It can’t be true, she assured herself desperately. I’m tired and worried, that’s all—I’m imagining things. She closed her eyes firmly, and did her best to thrust her fears from her mind. But weary as she was, Aurian got no sleep that night.
14
The Death Wraiths
The meetings of the Council of Three were held in the Guildhall, a magnificent circular building near the Grand Arcade. The decisions that ruled the city were made at a small gilded table in the very center of the vast round chamber, and anyone wishing to observe the proceedings could watch from the gallery of the hall, though usually only a few stalwarts were present. Narvish, the City Recorder, sat with the Three to record what took place.
When Forral arrived at the Guildhall, every seat in the gallery was taken. Interest in this meeting was unusually high because the matter under discussion would affect every man, woman, and child in the city. The Archmage wanted to raise the sewer tax, the sum paid by every citizen in Nexis for the upkeep of the sewer system that made life so pleasant and healthy for them. Magic kept the water circulating, pumping the city’s waste away downriver, and no one objected to giving the Magefolk a small tithe for the convenience, but Miathan’s new demands were extortionate, especially for those with large families. There was a great deal of anger among the city’s people at the prospect, and feelings against the Archmage and the Council were running high.
Vannor had already arrived, and was seated alone at the table, looking uncomfortable. When Forral took the Garrison Commander’s chair, the Head of the Merchants’ Guild leaned toward him, his low voice masked by the general hubbub in the room. “Forral, no offense, but I know that Miathan has you in an invidious position on this Council, because of Aurian. But have you thought this business through? The tax will cripple the poor people of the city, and it’ll be your job to enforce it. What will happen to those who can’t pay? What if they all refuse to pay it? The way feelings are running at the moment they well might. If this new law goes through, we’ll be up to our necks in shit—in more ways than one!”
In spite of himself, Forral grinned. “You have a wonderful way with words, Vannor.”
“So they tell me.” The blunt-faced merchant returned his smile, and Forral regretted that his relationship with Aurian had always prevented him from outfacing the Archmage in a public display of opposition. Vannor deserved better. It would be a real pleasure to help him out this time.
Miathan swept into the room, making his grand entrance as usual, flanked by that obsequious little toad Narvish. Forral’s mouth tightened at the sight of the City Recorder—a stringy, gap-toothed old fossil who was the bane of the swordsman’s life. Rumor had it that Narvish took bribes from Miathan, and to Forral’s certain knowledge, the records of recent meetings had been slanted in favor of the Archmage. Nothing major, of course. Nothing that could be proved. But an altered emphasis, perhaps, or an odd word or two displaced, that threw the account of a straightforward discussion into confusion and doubt. Well, there would be no chance of that today, Forral thought grimly. This would be a public debate, settled by a simple majority vote, and now that Aurian had decided to leave the Magefolk, the swordsman no longer had to dance to the Archmage’s tune. Miathan was going to be in for a big surprise, Forral thought. He was looking forward to it immensely.
The debate took up the whole of its allotted three hours, and Forral could feel the surprise emanating from the audience. Such a thing had never been known during the Archmage’s tenure. Miathan had always made sure that he had at least one supporter on the Council, and had always had his way, sweeping any opposition easily aside. But not this time. After a while, Vannor no longer bothered to^iide his smile, as the two Mortal men systematically destroyed every one of the Archmage’s suave arguments between them. Forral contented himself with smiling inwardly as he watched Miathan’s expression gcow blacker and blacker.
At last the Voting Bell was rung, putting an end to any further debate. Narvish, who had been looking increasingly alarmed as the discussion continued, rose to his feet and addressed the meeting. “The Archmage Miathan has put forward a motion to this Council to increase the sewer tax by ten silver pieces,” he intoned. “Those in favor of accepting the motion into the city’s statutes, please rise.”
There was utter silence as the Archmage rose to his feet— alone. Forral saw Miaih^n turn to him, expecting him to have risen also. With a show of nonchalance, he leaned back in his chair, and put his booted feet up on the gilded Council table. A gasp echoed through the room. The Archmage’s expression changed from complacency to baffled rage. Narvish, completely at a loss, looked wildly around, as if searching for a means of escape. “Ah ... Is that everyone?” he squeaked.
“Get on with it, man,” Vannor growled, but his eyes were twinkling. The merchant appeared to be enjoying himself hugely. The greasy little Recorder sidled away from the fuming Archmage. “Ah . . . All those against?”
Slowly, Forral removed his feet from the table and stood up with Vannor, as the chamber erupted into tumultuous applause. The Archmage, his face absolutely livid, opened his mouth to speak, but Forral held his glare with a look of stony defiance. Miathan turned on his heel and stormed out of the hall, for once in his life utterly defeated.
The Archmage paced the floor of his chamber, barely able to contain his rage. This time, Forral had gone too far. How dared he stand with that upstart Vannor, flaunting the supremacy of those Mortal scum over one of the Mageborn! Miathan knew that the rule of the city was slipping out of his grasp, along with all his greater plans. Enough was enough. Aurian or no Aurian, Forral had just signed his own death warrant.
Miathan frowned, remembering something else. Something that he had not previously connected with Forral’s defiance. Since he had exiled D’arvan last night, the Mage had simply vanished. Where could he be? Miathan’s spies had failed to locate him in the city, and the Archmage wondered if he had made the right decision in acceding to the pleas of Eliseth and Bragar to get rid of D’arvan, who, they insisted, was impeding his brother’s progress. Better to have one working Mage loyal to us, they had said, than two who are useless. But Miathan wondered now. Someone of Mage blood was still a potential source of power, and it disturbed him to have D’arvan away from his influence. What if he was hatching some plot with Forral and— Miathan winced at the thought—Aurian? And what did Eliseth and Bragar mean by “loyal to us”? Was Davorshan loyal to the Archmage, or simply to them? Miathan wrestled with the possibilities, falling into the classic trap of those who spend their lives plotting and scheming against others. He was convinced that the others, in their turn, were plotting to overthrow him.
Eliseth and Bragar appeared to be loyal, but he did not completely trust them. Certainly not enough to tell them about this. Miathan stroked the burnished golden rim of the chalice that stood on the table before him. This would serve him well, if they should move against him! Finbarr’s research had provided him with the answers he needed. Here indeed lay the power of the Caldron, and like all the tools of Gramarye, the High Magic, it could be used as boon—or bane. Miathan smiled. The Mages’ Code was for simpletons! Here, under his hand, lay a weapon so formidable—