“Enter.”
“Are we any closer to getting that Arimelin archive from Finvar yet?” Usara inquired without ceremony. While a pale complexion was to be expected with his sandy hair, the scholarly mage was looking almost gray with fatigue.
“Are you any closer to scrying out that unholy sword?” countered Planir, rising from his chair and crossing the room to a sideboard of elegantly simple design. “Cordial?”
“Thank you, a little of the mint.” Usara dropped into a deeply upholstered chair with an explosive sigh of frustration, lifting his dirty boots heedlessly on to a low table heaped with documents. “No, since you ask, we still can’t get any kind of a fix on the cursed thing.”
“You know, I’m starting to think it might be better if D’Olbriot’s man got himself killed after all,” said Planir grimly. “We might get a lead on the sword if that happened.”
“Only if it’s the man being shielded, not the weapon. Remember what Mellitha had to tell us, and there’s what Shannet said about the time she and Viltred were looking for islands in the deep ocean to try and prove Azazir’s stories.” Usara sipped his drink with a small murmur of pleasure. “Anyway, I can’t see D’Olbriot continuing to support you in Toremal if all he gets to show for it is another man dead with an unredeemed oath fee and an heirloom sword lost and presumably in the hands of an unknown enemy.”
“No, I don’t suppose he will.” Planir stared into the depths of his own glass. “Do you suppose Viltred might have anything useful to add? On the scrying? And get your feet off Kalion’s proposals for remodelling the conduits to the bathhouses, will you, ’Sar?”
“A few creases’ll make it look as if you’ve read them.” The younger wizard was unrepentant. “No, I can’t see Viltred having anything to contribute at all; he was a guttered candle before he went off to the arse end of Caladhria and I don’t suppose a handful of years conversing with peasants will have restored him much. Still, he’ll have done more service than he knows if he can get that cursed archive for us. We must find a key to unlock these unholy dreams, to give us some means of controlling them, opening things up once that initial sympathy with the artifact has been established. Has Otrick located any other shrines to Arimelin that might predate the Chaos, or is this still the only one?”
“Sorry? What did you say?” Planir’s gaze had been fixed on the thick sheaf of parchments under Usara’s feet. “I tell you, ’Sar, there are times when I’m tempted to let Kalion loose, let him take all his petty wrangles and pompous plans to restore the authority of wizardry to the Council. I could just say, ‘All right, I yield. You take over as Archmage, Hearth-Master, until a proper vote can be convened and Misaen help you!’ ” The wizard stretched out a hand and studied the heavy golden ring of his office, the central diamond mysterious in the fading sunlight, catching and mingling the colors of the four gems set around it, sapphire, amber, ruby and emerald. “Air, earth, fire and water; we can do what we like with them, can’t we ’Sar? That’s what all the mundane populace think, anyway. I’m the Archmage, you know, most powerful man on an island of wizards with untold powers over the very elements of the world around us. It all counts for nothing, does it, not now we have to find a way to face powers we can’t even start to explain.”
“I’m sure the information will be out there, somewhere. Knowledge is rarely lost, just misplaced or misinterpreted.” Usara went to refill his glass, offering the decanter to Planir, who shook his head. Usara took his seat again before continuing. “Saedrin only send we find it before the Elietimm put their first pieces on the board and start the game in earnest. Oh, by the way, about Shannet—she and Troanna are at each other’s throats over who exactly offered that lad Corian a pupillage first. I’m not going to get any sense out of either of them until they settle it.”
Planir groaned. “He’s that opinionated youth from Dusgate? For such venerable and respected mages, those two can be sillier than first-season apprentices at times. Where will I find Shannet tomorrow, do you know?”
“She’ll be working with Otrick over at New Hall in the morning,” replied Usara after a moment’s thought. “They’re giving a lecture on air and water conflicts.”
“If I get a chance, I’ll just happen to drop in on Troanna too; after all, as she is senior Flood-Mistress I should consult her about Kalion’s desires to mess about with the water supply, shouldn’t I?” A spark of humor reanimated Planir’s countenance.
Usara laughed. “Absolutely, o revered Archmage.”
Planir began pacing in front of the empty fireplace, renewed vitality driving the tiredness from his face and lifting a generation’s burden of years from his shoulders. “And when I’ve sorted that precious pair out, what can I do to stall D’Olbriot, keep him happy until I’ve found out exactly what’s happened to his man?”
“Do you really think you can find Ryshad?” There was surprise rather than doubt in Usara’s question.
“Oh yes, ’Sar. Why? Don’t you have unquestioning faith in your Archmage after all?” Planir smiled, his teeth gleaming white and even in the gathering dusk. He snapped his fingers and candles all around the room leaped to brilliant life. “You should know more than most; the power of this office is based on a great deal more than a gaudy ring and its promises of sorcery. I should have news of Ryshad inside a couple of handful days.”
“Then all you’ll have to worry about is Kalion.” The lines furrowing Usara’s brow were smoothed away as his expression lightened.
“You know, I think the same scent may well divert them both, if we lay it carefully.” Planir paused to look out of the window. “Kalion wants to know why we’re working round the chimes with nothing to show for it; I think I’ll take him into my confidence about the complex Elietimm plots that are frustrating our every move, tying up all our effort just in countering them. I’ll send the Sieur D’Olbriot a despatch too, with just enough dark hints and evasions to give him something more urgent to worry about than his missing hound.”
“Just what plots would these be, exactly?” inquired Usara, a smile spreading across his face nevertheless.
Planir spread his hands in a vague gesture. “I think that’ll be too complicated to explain, don’t you? How about we hint that these Elietimm were somehow responsible for Ryshad’s arrest in Relshaz?”
“Do you think they did?” Usara blinked in some surprise.
“No, not really, I think they just took advantage of the situation. From what Mellitha says I imagine whatever sympathy he’s developed with D’Alsennin betrayed him somehow; she identified the arm ring he was trying to take as an old piece with Den Rannion’s crest. No, the truth of it’s not important, ’Sar. You just tell Kalion what I told you about Ryshad when he comes asking, as long as you swear him to secrecy of course—tell him to keep it closer than the lid on an urn! We suspect these Ice Islanders had some hand in his disappearance into the Archipelago, if nothing else, and it’s certainly this pestilential aetheric magic that’s hiding him after all. Kalion will tell Ely and Galen, in strictest confidence obviously, and once they start spreading their version the rumor mill will find its own grist. That should give us some time to concentrate on getting Ryshad back and by then, Arimelin willing, we should have that archive and some clue as to how to start turning these dreams to our advantage.” The Archmage poured himself a second larger measure of white brandy and raised his glass to the younger mage in high good humor.
“Arimelin willing,” echoed Usara, draining his own drink. “I’m still worried about what might be happening to Ryshad, though,” he added soberly.
Planir nodded. “The Archipelago’s a dangerous place,” he agreed, his eyes dark. “Dastennin grant he’s not being too badly treated, not starved nor beaten nor worked in chains. That’s probably the best we can hope for.”