A draft of high wind suddenly blew down the chimney, sending smoke and ash across the breadth of Halun's workroom. Halun bent over in a fit of coughing, and batted at the smuts heading straight for his book.
There was a glass beaker full of brown liquid being heated over an alcohol flame on the table. As Halun choked in the smoke and tried to clear his watering eyes, the flame beneath the beaker licked high in that wind, and the flame beneath the beaker licked high in that wind, and the beaker was suddenly under stress of heat on one side, cold on the other, that it was never made to meet.
It shattered, spilling its contents all over everything on the bench. Brown liquid splashed and hissed on the metal of the lamp.
Halun cursed, and promptly canceled his ill-wish; the draft vanished, and the smoke began dispersing.
He stood and surveyed the wreckage with his hands on his hips. There was ash spread halfway across the floor. His good blue robe was now smutched with it. The lamp-flame was out, the lamp probably ruined; at the least it would need a new wick. There were shards of glass all over the workbench, and it was pure luck he hadn't had anything on that bench except the lamp, the stand for the beaker, and the beaker itself. Brown liquid, full of ash, dripped down onto the floor. Thunder growled overhead, sounding almost like laughter.
He sighed, collected an armful of rags from the pile ready in the corner, and went to deal with the mess.
Thank the gods all I was doing was heating some chava. That could have been naphtha in that beaker.
But he found himself grinning sardonically, as he dirtied his robe further, down on his knees on the ashy floor. You're a worthy opponent, Master Felaras. Forethought enough to have someone guard you, hm? Wonder who it is. Hm. Probably Diermud. He's good; better at deflection than offense, but good. As I should know, who trained with him.
He swept the ash back into the hearth, then changed his robe when there was no more sign that his wish had been turned back on him. Last of all he picked up the bits of glass carefully. Lisan would want the shards to re-mold, especially with the barbarians out there barring the way to the best sand-pits.
Well, so much for my hot mug of chava before I go to bed—but I wonder—
He padded across the smooth wooden floor, opened the door leading into his novices room, and poked his head around the edge of it. Jeof, a lanky blond Ancar boy of about fourteen in nondescript clothing three sizes too big for him, was still awake, curled up beside the fireplace with a book, oblivious to everything about him. Halun cleared his throat. Jeof jumped, and went crimson when he saw Halun looking in at him. Halun got a brief glimpse of bright pictures before the book vanished behind Jeof's back.
Halun raised one eyebrow. "If that's the book I think it is—no, Jeof, don't tell me. I don't officially want to know, that way I don't have to officially reprimand you. Just make sure it's back in the Library before dawn, hm? Come to think of it, the Library is on the way to the kitchens, and I'd like some hot wine if there's any left."
"Yes, Master Halun." Jeof jumped to his feet, managing to hide the illustrated Pillow Book of the Prince of Beshem behind him as he rose. Halun would know that particular battered cover anywhere. . . . "I'll get you some; there was a messenger from the Vale, so they'll have put more wine in the kettle for him. Likely there's plenty left."
He backed up to the door, got it open with one hand, and slid out without ever letting Halun "officially" see his erotic prize.
Halun returned to his study, chuckling. It didn't seem all that long ago that he'd been the one hiding the Prince's Pillow Book from his Master.
But Halun's Master had also been the Master of the Order.
Which was the reason why Halun was not the Master of the Order now, instead of Felaras.
The Master of the Order could never be from the same chapter of the Order as the previous Master. That was the rule laid down by Master Vahnder, who had seen the need to divide the members of the Order into the three chapters of Watchers, Seekers, and Archivists in the first place.
It was a reasonable rule, in that it kept the power from being concentrated in the hands of one chapter.
But it was an unreasonable rule when it put people like Felaras into the Master's seat in preference to someone with twice her qualifications.
And twice her sense.
Better her than Zetren. Halun shuddered at the thought. He'd have turned us into an Order Militant and probably gotten us all killed doing so.
He brushed the last of the scattered ash off his book and went back to his chair, to stare at the fire and brood. Damn the woman anyway! Can't she see she's not the leader the Order needs, especially now? And if I could just get her out of the way—I am the only logical candidate for the seat, and if I'm following her, I'm no longer disqualified. I have got to think of a way—
Before those barbarians out there leave me with nothing to lead.
Kasha pushed the study door open with her foot. "He's gone, Felaras," she said softly.
Felaras looked up from her rapt contemplation of the lamp-flame. Her high cheekbones were more prominent that usual; Kasha had suspected her of skipping meals lately, and now she was certain of it. The Master's clear hazel eyes were a bit darker than usual with brooding, and there were rings under them that told her Second she'd been skipping sleep, too.
Kasha waited in the doorway for the Master to respond, steaming jug in one hand, two clean mugs in the other.
"I hope that's more wine, girl. If it's chava, I'll never forgive you."
Kasha laughed. "Of course it's wine, I'm no fool. I know you—remember, I started as your novice. Besides, you need to get some sleep tonight, and chava would only keep you awake." She crossed to the desk and planted one of the mugs on the softly gleaming wood in front of Felaras, the other in front of the visitor's chair, and filled both without spilling a drop.
Felaras took her mug in both hands and sipped at it gingerly. Kasha took up her own mug, breathed in the cinnamon-scented steam with pleasure, then planted her rump in the visitor's chair and propped both her feet on the desk.
"Have you no respect for your Master, girl?" Felaras chuckled. "Zetren would have a litter of snakes if he saw you now."
"Zetren is a litter of snakes. I respect you; you know it. That's enough." Kasha dismissed Zetren with a shrug of one shoulder. "The Elder is on his way back down the Pass; Vider is with him, and he took a donkey-load of medicines; says he plans to stay with them until this mess is over."
"Good for him." Felaras rubbed her broad forehead with the heel of her right hand. "He'll do more good down there than up here, but I didn't think he had it in him to stick out an exile in the caves."
"He says he doesn't mind; says he wants to train some of the midwives the way you've been training some of the Elders." Vider's actions had surprised Kasha too; he was so quiet she'd mostly overlooked him. "Well, Zorsha is getting inventory from the cook; he's already been to the armory. Teo is ankle-deep in scrolls; he thinks he may have found something to give you an edge—if you still want to deal with these folk instead of holing up and pretending we don't exist or trying to fight them."
"So?" Felaras leaned forward eagerly; Kasha worried as the shift in light revealed more clearly the dark circles under her eyes and lines that hadn't been in her face a week ago. "What?"
Kasha snorted; Teo had been his usual obdurate self. "He says he wants to tell you himself; you know Teo—'three independent sources or it's only hearsay.'"