He did not believe her. ‘Go on.’
‘I did not steal the thapter,’ she blurted. ‘It’s mine.’
‘Come, Tiaan, patently it was made by the Aachim.’
‘Malien gave it to me in Tirthrax.’
He drew in a breath. ‘Malien is still alive?’
‘She is old, but in health.’
‘How very interesting. Were the other constructs made at Tirthrax?’
‘They were built on Aachan. I created the gate that brought them to our world, for their own is dying in volcanic fire.’
He got a tale out of her, with much probing, and many pauses on her part that made him sure there was little truth in it. It was well into the evening by then. A shiver went up his spine as he understood, at last, the source of that ethyric convulsion weeks ago. Someone had made a gate but it could not have been Tiaan. She was not old enough to have mastered the basics of geomancy, far less the greatest of all magic. Gilhaelith was so unsettled that he shouted for a cup of mustard-water.
‘But, master,’ said Mihail, ‘you never drink mustard-water in the evening. Shall I fetch you –’
‘At once, dammit. And tea for Tiaan.’
Gilhaelith sat back in his chair. She could not have made a gate, so who had? Malien, most likely. The situation was more dire than he had thought: for the world, for himself, and of course for Tiaan. Her attack, even if it had been self-defence, would have been the ultimate humiliation for the proud Aachim. And the thapter was worth a continent. Who had made it fly, as Rulke’s original had, two centuries ago? Tiaan had not revealed that. Vithis would do everything possible to recover it. With mastery of the air his forces would be unstoppable; humanity’s clankers would be no more useful than hay wagons.
And then there was the amplimet. Even if Vithis dared not use it himself, it was required for the thapter to fly. Vithis might be capable of scrying out the path flown by the thapter, given time. It would be a difficult task, but not impossible for someone with unlimited resources. Sooner or later he would end up here. I haven’t thought things through, Gilhaelith thought. Should I call Guss back? Perhaps I should tell Vithis where the construct is, and earn the reward.
‘Tell me about the amplimet, Tiaan.’
‘I’ve already talked about it.’
‘There’s much you haven’t told me. It’s a deadly crystal and I can’t see how you survived using it, even briefly.’
Tiaan flushed and looked down at the bed. Mistaking her reaction for guilt, he reared up over her and said sternly, ‘I have been testing the amplimet and I know you’re keeping much from me. My patience has run out. Tell me, or it will go badly for you.’
‘The c-crystal is alive,’ she stammered.
She was less intelligent than he’d thought, but he’d humoured her. ‘How can you tell?’
‘It was drawing power from the field all by itself, without ever being woken.’ She told him about finding it. ‘And in Tirthrax, since the gate opened, it was talking to the node.’
‘Talking to the node? Preposterous!’
She explained about that, and how it had taken over the thapter’s controls. He did not speak after she had finished, but paced the bedchamber, analysing what she had said and calculating probabilities. He could not believe her.
‘What are you going to do?’ she said. She seemed to be going through some kind of internal struggle.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Vithis must not get the thapter. You’ve got to give it to the scrutators. It will make all the difference to the war.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk about duty, after running away from your manufactory.’
‘I was on my way to Lybing to give the thapter to the scrutator, but the amplimet brought me here instead. It cut off the field to make sure I couldn’t fight it.’
One absurd lie after another. Did she take him for a fool? But still, there was something about her, and her story, that made him pause.
‘Please,’ she said in tones that would have wrenched at the heart of any normal man. ‘Vithis is a monster. He plans to take our world.’
Gilhaelith was not a normal man, but he could not think with her tragic eyes on him. He rose abruptly, sending the chair skidding back. Her head whipped around and he saw terror in her eyes.
He stalked around the rim of the crater, stumbling over the rubble in his agitation. He was not defenceless. Gilhaelith had been born with a talent for the Secret Art, one he had worked hard to master. Nonetheless, the Aachim force must contain many adepts greater than he, and if they discovered what he had done they would destroy him. He could not play that kind of game. Better be seen to be helpful, while hiding his true design.
Or should he give the thapter to the scrutators? A good decision if it helped them to win the war, but a foolish one if, as he suspected, they were going to lose. Gilhaelith took the omens but the numbers were ambiguous. He took them again – different numbers, yet the uncertainty was the same. The choice went three ways and his decision could alter the future of the world. One option was right, the others likely to be disastrously wrong, but for all his auguries and all his logic he could not separate them. The future was scrambled. Randomness, the greatest curse of all, looked like being crucial.
In the early hours of the following morning, Gilhaelith sat in his chair in the basement, a jug of stout at his elbow, staring moodily at the thapter. He could not bring himself to believe Tiaan’s outlandish story about making the gate. A student of geomancy for a century and a half, he knew just how long it took to master the Art. The notion that the amplimet had some will of its own was even more absurd. And yet … there had been that strange reaction when he had tested it with his organ.
Gilhaelith had not got to where he was by having a closed mind. If it did have some kind of mineral awareness, he would discover it. But what could a piece of crystal want?
He spent a day and a half cunningly investigating it with the subtlest of his instruments. It shone steadily all the while unusual, but not unprecedented. It did not blink once. It was not communicating at all – that was just another of Tiaan’s fantasies. Once he had gone, the amplimet’s glow faded to the dullest of glimmers, but the central spark began to blink rapidly and, after some hours, the field of the Booreah Ngurle double node started to pulse in unison. Several minutes passed. The spark died and the field went back to normal.
TWENTY-FOUR
The thapter was another puzzle, though one more amenable to logic. Gilhaelith’s smiths had removed its crumpled metal skin and were now beating it back to shape. He had studied every part of the machine’s workings but had not discovered how it hovered, much less flew. It vexed him that a little liar and thief had been able to do what he could not.
Two days later, Mihail came running to Gilhaelith, who had just gone in to check on Tiaan.
‘Master, master!’ he cried, bursting through the door.
‘What is it?’ Gilhaelith snapped. He hated chaos and emotion.
‘Klarm, surr. The dwarf scrutator.’
‘What? On his way up the mountain?’
‘He’s turning onto the terrace right now.’
Gilhaelith jumped. How had Klarm climbed the hill without anyone seeing him? Scrutator magic! ‘Keep this door shut!’ he snapped and ran out, ignoring Tiaan.
Klarm was scrutator for Borgistry, the land south of Booreah Ngurle. Strictly speaking he did not have any authority here, for Gilhaelith held an ancient charter that declared his little kingdom independent. It suited the leaders of the surrounding nations, and more importantly the Council of Scrutators, otherwise they would have repudiated it long ago. But the war had changed the world and Gilhaelith was uncomfortably aware of his vulnerability. He had to please everyone, offend no one, and maintain his usefulness to the scrutators. And still he could not make his choice. Should he give the thapter to Klarm, or lie and pray he got away with it? Even if he did, he would soon have to abandon Nyriandiol and all he had done here. But if Klarm suspected the thapter was being kept from him …