"I don't know about that, but we'll be lucky to see you back before Aft-Autumn." Gruit's enthusiasm wilted.

"I can get me, Gren and the long lad there to Evord's doorstep before nightfall." Sorgrad smiled as the wine in his glass boiled into a pink mist, filling the room with its fragrant bouquet. "Though leaving tomorrow morning would suit me better. I have a dinner engagement this evening."

Aremil saw that Tathrin was as dumbfounded as he was, along with everyone else. No, not everyone. Gren was just grinning. Of course he'd know. Charoleia also looked entirely composed. She would also have known something as momentous as that.

"You're a wizard?" he finally managed to say.

"Not a wizard." Sorgrad pulled at the glass, as malleable as soft wax in his hands. It sparkled with the unmistakable crimson of magelight. "Mageborn, if you like, but I've never studied in Hadrumal's halls. I've sworn no loyalty to Archmage Planir the Black. Which is how I know he has no secret means of keeping track of everyone using elemental magic."

"They say a wizard can only use magic to travel somewhere he's already been," Aremil said slowly. "Then you've visited Solura before?"

"Obviously." Sorgrad rolled the glistening glass into a ball and set it carefully on the table, where the vivid red at its heart slowly faded. "It'll take us rather longer to get back, of course." He looked around the room with a brisk smile. "Regardless, you should be starting your war before Aft-Summer sees its second brace of full moons. As long as you really want to do this. Do you? All of you?"

"Yes."

Reniack's determined assertion was followed a breath later by Gruit.

"We do."

Failla just nodded. Tathrin looked at Aremil.

"Yes, we do." For the moment, Aremil refused to contemplate all the things that could hamstring them. Not least his failure to deliver the promised aetheric adepts.

"Yes." Tathrin nodded.

"Madam?" Sorgrad turned to Derenna.

She pushed at the ball of glass with a curious fingertip. "I'm beginning to think we should at least try."

Chapter Fifteen.

Tathrin Master Wyess's Counting-House, in Vanam's Lower Town, 7th of For-Summer of For-Summer

"Tathrin? Two Mountain Men want to see you." His face dubious, Eclan came down the stone stairs.

Tathrin had been sitting in the clerks' dining hall since before the pearly dawn light had reached the half-basement's barred windows.

Everyone had been so astounded by the realisation that Sorgrad was mageborn that no one had objected to the Mountain Man including him in this trip to Solura. Even Tathrin hadn't thought to challenge it until too late, when everything seemed agreed.

He'd sat silently as the others had discussed how soon Reniack might reach Parnilesse. They had debated how Failla could travel discreetly back to Carluse. Even Lady Derenna had agreed to write to her fellow noble scholars across Sharlac. Charoleia had assured everyone she had contacts travelling throughout Lescar who could safely act as couriers until they had secured communication through aetheric enchantments. Aremil had looked as confident as ever, promising he would deliver this capability as soon as possible.

Succulent ham lay untouched on Tathrin's plate. He'd thought he would choke on the single mouthful of bread he'd eaten. He hadn't dared try a second bite.

How could he refuse now? He'd be letting Aremil down horribly. He'd look like a coward. What would Failla think of that?

But he didn't want to go. It was as simple as that. He didn't want to ask leave of Master Wyess a second time and risk all his prospects here. He didn't want to travel to some unknown land with those unnerving brothers. Why was it so essential he went with them to serve the cause of peace in Lescar?

How were they going to travel? He hadn't dared ask. Having Aremil find people willing to use this Artifice, this old-fashioned magic that had the historical scholars so fascinated, that was one thing. But what might an outraged Archmage do to those implicated in unsanctioned magecraft?

"Tathrin, what's going on?" Eclan asked in an urgent undertone.

"Never mind." Tathrin pushed away from the table and headed for the courtyard. He wasn't ready for this. He had to talk everything through with Aremil. There had to be an alternative.

Sorgrad and Gren were sharing the seat of a two-wheeled gig, looking idly around. Both wore travelling cloaks and sturdy boots.

"Hop up." Gren gathered his reins.

"Where's your gear?" Sorgrad frowned.

"I can't come, not just yet," Tathrin said quickly. "I have duties here. I've already been away too long."

"This was all agreed yesterday." Sorgrad looked sternly at him.

"No one asked me." Tathrin shook his head. "I want to talk to Aremil. He'll understand."

Gren pursed his lips. "Will Failla?"

Tathrin didn't want to think about that. "You can't make me come with you."

"He can."

"Believe it, long lad."

Tathrin didn't know which was more unnerving: Gren's cheerful conviction or the cold certainty in Sorgrad's blue eyes. Just what could wizards do? All he knew about magic was culled from highly coloured tavern tales.

"You don't need me in Solura." He hesitated. This conversation was attracting unwelcome attention from everyone else in the courtyard.

"Yes, we do." Sorgrad looked at him, unblinking. "Our friend will want more convincing arguments than we can offer him. We're Mountain-born and mercenaries besides. What's Lescar to us but a means of making money?"

"Tathrin?" It was Eclan again.

He spun around. "It's nothing."

"Master Wyess wants to see you." Eclan looked apprehensive.

"That's not necessary." Tathrin shook his head. "These men are just leaving."

"Not till Master Wyess says so." Eclan waved a hand.

Wood and iron slammed against stone as the heavy gates to the courtyard closed. Burly men stood in front of them, arms folded.

"This raises the stakes," Gren observed with interest.

Unwillingly, Tathrin looked at Sorgrad. "Wait."

Wyess was in the hallway. "In here," he said curtly.

Tathrin followed him into the antechamber. Empty chairs lined the walls, ready for callers waiting on Master Wyess's convenience. Strip maps ran around the walls, detailing the routes leaving each of the city's gates.

"What's going on, lad?" Wyess wasn't angry, just concerned.

Tathrin felt as if that lump of obstinate bread was still lodged in his gullet. "May I have another leave of absence, Master?"

Faint hope teased him. If Wyess refused to let him go, that would at least win him some delay, till he could find the reasoning to counter Sorgrad's arguments. Surely he could serve Aremil and the cause of peace in some different way?

"Another sister's wedding?" The furrier sounded sceptical. "My counting-house will be left half-empty if I let you come and go as you please. How can I deny the other clerks if I allow you such liberty?"

Tathrin could feel himself colouring. "This is urgent business for my father."

"He's entitled to some call on your time." Wyess nodded slowly. "But he sent you here to learn from me. Must I write to him, to remind him you cannot serve two masters?"

Tathrin could only shake his head.

"A merchant needs to know how to tell a convincing lie and how to tell when someone else is lying." Wyess studied the closest map, intent on every crossroads, inn and watering place on the highway between the Pazarel Gate and Leverda on the Selerima Road. "I spend all my days balancing the dross in a man's words against the gold. Don't try to deceive me. What's really going on?" he asked more urgently. "Mountain Men? Have you been gambling? Raeponin knows, uplanders play their runes seriously and take their losses hard. Do you have debts you can't honour? I'll lend you the coin before I let them take you to some back alley and beat you senseless!"

"No, it's nothing like that," Tathrin protested, stricken.

"You've been spending time with Master Gruit and he drinks like a man with a five-day fever." Anxiety furrowed Wyess's weather-beaten brow. "Have you tripped into some mischief when you were too drunk to find your feet? Insulted one of their women? I can have a handful of wagoners give those yellow-headed short-measures a kicking if that's what's needed."

Tathrin felt sick despite his empty stomach. How would he explain that to Aremil or to Charoleia? Or, more likely, how would they explain to the Vanam judiciary what lay behind Sorgrad and Gren killing a yardful of innocent men? If the pair weren't wearing the swords they had routinely carried on the road, Tathrin had no doubt they were both still armed with the remarkable number of daggers they seemed to find necessary.

He had no choice. It was as simple as that.

"I'm sorry. I have to go." He looked Master Wyess in the eye. "There are people, honest Lescari, trying to bring some peace to our benighted homeland. I've agreed to help them."

"You're caught up in Gruit's madness? He's raising some troop of Lescari lads to go and fight again?" The furrier seized him by the shoulders, shaking him in his exasperation. "Don't be a fool, boy! When have you ever held a sword, never mind used one against another man?"

"It's nothing like that." Tathrin resisted the urge to push the older man away, but it was a close-run thing. He couldn't back down. If he hadn't wanted to go, he should have spoken up earlier. Realising he had only himself to blame, he felt oddly calm.

"No." Exasperated, Wyess shook his head. "These ideas come around every few years like the sweating sickness off the lake. The only thing to be done is grit your teeth and stay home till the fever fades, then thank Saedrin you'll never suffer the same way again when you hear how the boys who succumbed can't even be found and brought home for decent burning."

"Boys I grew up with died beneath the walls of Losand and in the towns and villages all around that were pillaged by mercenaries in the pay of both Sharlac and Carluse. Their own mothers couldn't put names to some of the dead's faces to claim them, so every shrine has anonymous funeral urns." Now that he'd opted for honesty, Tathrin found the words coming easier.

"I've been here two years now, Master. Seeing Vanam's justice at festival time only reminds me of the hangings and the floggings that Duke Garnot thinks will keep us loyal, or cowed--he doesn't care which. Every cripple I see on Vanam's streets reminds me of the men who'd come to my father's inn begging for bread because they'd lost an arm or a leg or an eye to the fighting and couldn't work at their trade any longer or in the fields. I see them all in my nightmares."

"Then take yourself off to Arrimelin's shrine," Wyess said angrily. "Talk the moons down from the sky with her priestesses until the horrors fade."

"The gods help those who help themselves." Tathrin squared his shoulders. "I can't stand idly by, Master, not any more."

He'd been talking in hopes of convincing the merchant. Now he realised he'd convinced himself.

"You're not the man I thought you were," Wyess said bitterly. "Get your gear and go. Don't show your face here again." He strode from the room, shoulders hunched and head bowed. Crossing the hall to his private office, he slammed the door hard behind him.

Tathrin walked slowly out of the antechamber.

Eclan was still by the front door. "Tathrin, what's going on?" he asked in a strangled whisper.

"Nothing. Everything." Tathrin ran up the stairs to his sleeping quarters.

It was the work of moments to throw his modest possessions into his leather-bound chest. He was only grateful there was no one around to see the angry tears he couldn't hold back. When he found the book of maps he'd bought so recently, he nearly threw it down on the floor. Why not leave it behind, along with all his hopes of a merchant's life?

Had he ever really wanted to be a merchant, though? If he had, wouldn't he have spent his leisure in the lower town during these past few years? Wouldn't he be glad to go out carousing with Eclan and the other clerks and learning all he could about their lives? Instead of sitting with Aremil and endlessly debating how someone, someday, might somehow bring peace to Lescar. Until someday was now and someone was him.

There was no point thinking about that. He drew a shaking breath and scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. Thrusting the book into the chest, he buckled the straps. There was no point thinking about anything apart from getting through the next few moments.

Hoisting the chest on his broad shoulders, he made his way carefully back down the stairs. Falling and breaking his legs probably wouldn't get him out of this obligation anyway. Not by Sorgrad's reckoning.

The dapper Mountain Man was waiting patiently, holding the horse's head and talking quietly to the beast in his own tongue. Gren was up on the gig seat, whistling the same casual snatch from a ballad over and over again.

He raised his pale brows when he saw Tathrin's burden. "You need travelling gear, not your whole inheritance."

"I'm not coming back." Tathrin threw the chest into the gig and climbed up to sit beside it.

The courtyard was still full of men waiting for Master Wyess's instructions. Tathrin fixed his gaze on his boots to avoid catching anyone's eye.

"Open up." Eclan appeared in the doorway, his face sorely troubled.

The gates were so well balanced and oiled that there was no squeal from the hinges or scrape along the flagstones. The louder sounds of the street told Tathrin they were free to go. That he was leaving for the last time.

"That's that." Sorgrad climbed up next to Gren, took the reins and set the horse trotting briskly through the archway.

They had gone along several streets, taking turns to right and left, before Tathrin looked up again. "Why did you come with a vehicle?"

Sorgrad glanced at him. "You thought we'd disappear from the steps of Master Wyess's counting-house in a haze of magelight?"

"No." Tathrin hadn't thought much beyond refusing to go.

"This way, you've gone off on a journey just like anyone else. No one will be spreading tales in the taverns about anything else." Sorgrad concentrated on the busy road. "Only about your breach with Master Wyess, and I don't suppose that could be helped. We're playing a long game here. The winnings should outweigh the losses."

"Indeed." Tathrin said curtly. He didn't want the Mountain Man's sympathy.

"Evord's no fool," Sorgrad continued. "If Gren and I put this proposal to him, he'll have no end of questions. Is Master Gruit setting up all this commotion to make a little fortune for himself? Reniack's some firebrand son of a whore. Would you trust him? Either of the women in this coil could just be out to make trouble, curdled by love and revenge: Lady Derenna's intent on getting her husband out from under Duke Moncan of Sharlac's boot heel, while Failla was Duke Garnot of Carluse's doxy. Who's to say she left him, when it could just as easily have been him throwing her out on her pretty arse?"

"Don't talk like that about Failla," Tathrin snapped.

Sorgrad shrugged. "After travelling back to Vanam with the pair of you, I could tell Evord more about her than the rest of your friends. I can tell him I asked you all the awkward questions I could think of on that journey. That still wouldn't be enough. You know Aremil, you know Master Gruit. Lescar's your home. You're the one who needs to come and explain everything."

"So I'm coming," Tathrin growled. "Happy?"