For a moment, Kharl did not understand the grin. Then he smiled broadly. “That was almost evil, Lord Hagen.”
“What? To remind him that a lord’s task is to seek justice? To suggest that he owes his entire rule to a man who sought justice?” Hagen’s grin faded. “We are at least fortunate that he is one on whom that makes an impact. Though he will need frequent reminders.”
Thinking of Ilteron-and Egen-Kharl nodded.
“You will be honored. I would guess a purse, a small continuing stipend and estate, and the support of Lord Ghrant, which is not to be dismissed, even here.”
“I had not thought…” Kharl had indeed not thought of rewards…or of the possibility of remaining in Austra, and Hagen’s words said that his entire future might well be different-if he desired that future.
“You had not. I know that.” Hagen straightened. “But I thought you should know.”
After Hagen had left, Kharl looked out through the window into the brilliant gold of sunset. What did he want? Really? Could it be that his actions might bring a reward? Could that really be so after all that had happened? Or would he need to remain on the Seastag? Thinking of Furwyl, Rhylla, Ghart, and Tarkyn, he reflected that a man could have a fate far worse-far, far worse.
A faint smile crossed his lips, and he closed his eyes.
LXXXIX
Once Kharl was finally alert and eating, he recovered quickly, although he was left with a scar on his left temple, a jagged red mark no longer than the width of his thumb that resembled a miniature lightning bolt. His hair had been cut far shorter, probably to trim off all that had been singed and crisped. Dead skin had also flaked off over most of his face, leaving new and pinkish skin beneath.
By the end of the eightday, he was up and walking through the keep, which was not so much a keep as a large country house, around which walls had been erected at some time, certainly not a structure designed to withstand a lengthy attack or a siege.
His own garments, doubtless too rent and bloodstained to save, had been replaced before he had even recovered with far finer garb, two dark gray shirts that were almost silvery, black trousers, and a black jacket. Even his boots had been replaced with black leather boots fitted to his feet. The garments signified changes, more than he’d wanted to consider. First, the colors-that had been obvious. The black and gray were because he was a mage, but the quality…that bothered him. He could not have afforded such finery, and yet it was almost plain compared to that of those in the keep who attended Lord Ghrant, although somewhat finer than that of the servants or of Alidya.
In the late afternoon of eightday, he stood on the corner of the upper terrace, outside the walls, looking to the ridge and park to the north. The winter sky was clear, and there was no wind to dissipate the mild warmth of the sun. From close to a kay away, outside of a handful of gashes in the turf, Kharl could see no sign that a battle had been fought days before.
He still had a hard time believing that his tricks with hardening air had been so successful and that everyone seemed to think that he was a mighty mage. He had managed to learn a few things about order and chaos-but he’d be in real trouble if he ever encountered a truly accomplished white wizard. That, he understood, even if no one else seemed to.
“Ah…the mysterious mage…”
At the sound of Hagen’s voice, Kharl turned. He shrugged helplessly. “I’m ready to go.”
“Not yet,” Hagen said with a smile. “You need to stay here for a few more days. Just until threeday.”
“Why then?”
“Because that’s when Lord Ghrant has set your audience,” replied the new lord-chancellor. “It would be most unbecoming to depart before then.” Hagen grinned.
“Do I want that audience?” Kharl asked dryly.
“I would judge so, unless you want to go back to being a ship’s carpenter or a wandering mage. As for the moment, I came out here to suggest that now that you are well, you might join me and several of the lancer officers for supper.”
The thought of company for a meal-rather than being served in one of the small dining halls with minor functionaries he did not know-did have a certain appeal to Kharl, but he had no doubt that Hagen had more than that in mind. “Senior officers?”
Hagen smiled. “I am certain they would appreciate any information you might provide about what you saw…”
“Such as the officers dining in the town the day before the final battle?” asked Kharl. “While others were fighting?”
“They might not like such, but I would be indebted to you for such candor.”
“And they are not likely to doubt a mage as much?”
“They know that you have no history with the Austran lancers,” Hagen pointed out. “Unlike me.”
Kharl thought he understood and gestured for Hagen to lead on.
The two walked back across the terrace and through a narrow bailey gate-where two of Ghrant’s personal guards stood stiffly-before reentering the north wing. Kharl followed Hagen down a wide but short side corridor, one adorned with oversized portraits of men in restrained finery. The corridor ended in two double doors, the right one open.
Hagen motioned for Kharl to precede him, and the carpenter-mage did.
Inside, five officers in the green and gray of Austra stood around one end of the large circular table already set for a meal with white linen cloth and cutlery. More portraits graced the white plaster walls above the blond wainscot paneling.
“Lord Hagen…mage,” offered a gray-haired and mustached officer with a broad forehead, pointed chin, and perfect mustache.
Hagen returned the greeting with a nod, then spoke. “I thought that it might be useful for Kharl to dine with us. He saw a side of the last battle that none of us did.” He inclined his head to the graying officer. “Kharl, this is Commander Vatoran…Majer Reseff, Majer Tralk, Majer Fuelt, and Majer Nyort.”
Kharl nodded solemnly in response, hoping he could keep the names and faces in mind throughout the dinner.
Hagen moved to a place at the table, the one that faced the doorway. “Kharl, perhaps…” He gestured to the chair across the table from him.
Kharl took the suggestion, but waited to seat himself until the other officers began to do so, and they waited until Hagen actually settled into his chair.
A long silence followed, one that pleased Hagen, Kharl felt.
“Commander Vatoran is the eastern district commander,” the lord-chancellor finally explained to Kharl as servers circled the table, asking each man whether he preferred wine, ale, or lager. “In effect, he commands all of the lancer forces east of the Shiltons. Each of the majers commands a subdistrict, usually with between ten and fifteen companies. The organization is the same for the foot, but we’ll be meeting with them later.” Hagen turned to the server waiting patiently at his shoulder. “Wine. Red. The Asolo, if you have it.”
Kharl stayed with lager. To him, wine was too close to sweet vinegar.
“You have not been a lancer, or an armsman, mage, have you?” asked Vatoran, his deep voice calm and even.
“I fear not, commander.”
“But you have been in battle?”
“Against pirates and a white wizard. This was my first battle where both sides were lancers and foot.”
Hagen made no comment, just nodded and waited.
Kharl took advantage of the moment of silence to sample the lager, a slightly edged but refreshing brew. One of the two women servers deftly slipped slices of white meat onto the gold-rimmed, pale blue china plate before Kharl, and the second added dumplings. A third followed with strips of green cetalya, then ladled a white sauce laced with black mushrooms over both meat and dumplings. Kharl cared little for the bitter cetalya and would have preferred the sauce over the vegetable as well.