“Dammit, Martis, you’ve complained about every guard I’ve ever assigned to you! This one was too sullen, that one was too talkative, t’other one snored at night—” he snorted contemptuously. “Mother of the Gods, Martis, snored?”
“You ought to know by now that a mage needs undisturbed sleep more than food—besides, anyone stalking us would have been able to locate our campsite by ear alone!” she replied, pushing a lock of blond hair—just beginning to show signs of gray—out of her eyes. The gesture showed both her annoyance and her impatience; and pulling her robe a bit straighter could not conceal the fact that her hands trembled a little.
He lost a portion of his exasperation; after all, he and Martis were old friends, and she did have a point. “Look, when have I ever sent you a guard that couldn’t do the job? I think this time I’ve really found the perfect match for you—he’s quiet, half the time you don’t even know he’s there, in fact—and Mart, the lad’s good.”
“Him? Ben, have you lost what little mind you ever had? Who told you he was good?”
“Nobody,” he replied, affronted. “I don’t take anyone’s word on the guards I hire. I tested him myself. The boy moves so fast he doesn’t need armor, and as for those two toy swords of his, well—he’s good. He came within a hair of taking me down.”
Martis raised an eyebrow in surprise. To her certain knowledge, it had been years since anyone could boast of taking Trebenth down—or even coming close.
“Why’s he dress himself up like a friggin’ faggot, then?”
“I don’t know, Mart. Ask him yourself. I don’t care if my guards wear battle-plate or paint themselves green, so long as they can do the job. Mart, what’s bothering you? You’re not usually so damn picky. You generally save your complaining till the job’s over.”
Martis collapsed tiredly into a chair, shoving aside a box of tagged herbs and a pile of wrinkled clothing. Trebenth saw with sudden concern the lines of worry crossing her forehead and her puffy, bruised-looking eyelids.
“It’s the job. Guild business—internal problems.”
“Somebody need disciplining?”
“Worse. Gone renegade—and he’s raising power with blood-magic. He was very good before he started this; I’ve no doubt he’s gotten better. If we can’t do something about him now, we’ll have another Sable Mage-King on our hands.”
Trebenth whistled through his teeth. “A black adept in the making, eh? No wonder they’re sending you.”
Martis sighed. “Just when I’d begun to think the Guild would never set me to anything but teaching again. But that’s not what’s troubling me, old friend. I knew him—a long and close association. He was one of my best students.”
Trebenth winced. To set Martis out after one of her old students was a cruel thing to do. The powers manipulated by mages gifted them with much that lesser folk could envy—but those powers took as well as gave. Use of magic for any length of time rendered the user sterile. In many ways Martis’ students took the place of the children she’d never have.
They often took the place of friends, too. She’d served the Guild since she’d attained Masterclass, and her barely past what for the unTalented would have been marriageable age. There were few sorcerers among her contemporaries, male or female, that didn’t secretly fear and envy the Masterclass mages. There were no mages of her own rank interested in taking a lover whose powers equaled their own. They preferred their women pliant, pretty, and not too bright. Martis’s relations with her own kind were cordial, but barren.
Trebenth himself had been one of the few lovers she’d had—and she hadn’t taken another since he’d toppled like a felled tree for his little Margwynwy, and she’d severed that side of their relationship herself. It was times like this one, with her loneliness standing bare in her eyes, that he pitied her with all his heart.
Martis caught his glance, and smiled thinly. “The Council did their level best to spare me this, I’ll give them that much. The fact is, we don’t know for certain how deeply he’s gotten himself in yet; we know he’s been sacrificing animals, but so far rumors of human deaths are just that—rumors. They want to give him every chance to get himself out of the hole he’s digging for himself. Frankly, he’s got too much Talent to waste. One of the factors in deciding to send me is that they hope he’ll give me a chance to reason with him. If reason doesn’t work, well, I’m one of the few sorcerers around with a chance of defeating him. After all, I taught him. I know all his strengths and weaknesses.”
“Knew,” Trebenth reminded her, “Can I assign Lyran to your service, now that I’ve vouched for his ability, or are you still wanting someone else?”
“Who? Oh—the boy. All right, Ben, you know what you’re doing. You’ve been hiring guards as long as I’ve been training mages. Tell him to get the horses ready, I want to make a start before noon.”
When Martis had finished ransacking her room for what she wanted, she slung her packed saddlebags over her shoulder and slammed the door on the entire mess. By the time she returned—if she returned—the Guild servants would have put everything back in order again. That was one of the few benefits of being a Masterclass sorceress. The Guild provided comfortable, safe quarters and reliable servants who never complained—at least not to her. Those benefits were paid for, though; a Masterclass mage lived and died in service to the Guild. No one with that rating was ever permitted to take service independently.
Martis had a liking for heights and a peculiar phobia about having people living above her, so her room was at the top of the staircase that linked all four floors of the Masters’ quarters. As she descended the stairs, she found that a certain reluctant curiosity was beginning to emerge concerning this unlikely swordsman, Lyran. The order she’d given Trebenth, to have the lad ready the horses, was in itself a test. Martis’ personal saddlebeast was an irascible bay gelding of indeterminant age and vile temper, the possessor of a number of bad habits. He’d been the cause of several grooms ending in the Healer’s hands before this. Martis kept him for two reasons—the first was that his gait was as sweet as his temper was foul; the second that he could be trusted to carry a babe safely through Hell once it was securely in the saddle. To Martis, as to any other mage, these traits far outweighed any other considerations. If this Lyran could handle old Tosspot, there was definitely hope for him.
It was Martis’ turn to blink in surprise when she emerged into the dusty, sunlit courtyard. Waiting for her was the swordsman, the reins of his own beast in one hand and those of Tosspot in the other. Tosspot was not trying to bite, kick, or otherwise mutilate either the young man or his horse. His saddle was in place, and Martis could tell by his disgruntled expression that he hadn’t managed to get away with his usual trick of “blowing” so that his saddle girth would be loose. More amazing still, the swordsman didn’t appear to be damaged in any way, didn’t even seem out of breath.
“Did he give you any trouble?” she asked, fastening her saddlebags to Tosspot’s harness, and adroitly avoiding his attempt to step on her foot.