Through the Darkness

But walking through Setubal also reminded him that even a free Sibiu could never hope to measure itself against Lagoas again. That hurt. Setubal alone held as many people, did as much business, as all the five islands of his native kingdom. And, while Setubal was the greatest city in Lagoas, it was far from being the only Lagoan city of consequence.

How do people live here without going mad? Cornelu wondered as Lagoans streamed past him, every one of them moving faster than he cared to. More ley lines came together at Setubal than anywhere else in the world; that was why the city had blazed into prominence over the past couple of hundred years. And the sorcerous energy seemed to fill the people as well as the place. Cornelu knew that couldn’t be literally true, but it felt as if it were.

A hawker waved a news sheet in his face and bawled something half comprehensible. He caught the words Ice People, and supposed the headline had to do with the Lagoans’ continuing advances on the austral continent. He was all for those advances, as he was all for anything that hurt the Algarvians, but he didn’t care to spend money on a sheet he could barely puzzle out. The news-sheet vendor said a couple of uncomplimentary things that weren’t much different in Lagoan from what they would have been in Sibian.

A few blocks later, Cornelu turned the corner and strode up to the ornate neoclassical headquarters of the Lagoan Guild of Mages. No one stopped him from approaching the great white marble pile, and no one stopped him from going inside, either. It wasn’t so much that he looked like a Lagoan; he could have been as hairy as a man of the Ice People and no one would have stopped him. Business was business.

He knew the way to Grandmaster Pinhiero’s offices. He’d been there before. He hadn’t got what he wanted, but he did know the way. The grandmaster’s secretary, a portly fellow named Brinco, looked up from the papers he was methodically going through. He beamed. “Commander Cornelu! Good to see you again!” He spoke Algarvian, which he knew Cornelu understood.

“Good day,” Cornelu answered. Brinco had met him only once, and that months before. But the mage remembered him right away. That bespoke either some unobtrusive sorcery or a well-honed recollection.

When Cornelu said no more, Brinco asked, “And how may I serve you today, your Excellency?”

He sounded as if nothing would delight him more than doing Cornelu’s bidding. Cornelu knew that to be untrue, but couldn’t decide whether it flattered or irked him. He decided to stick to the business on which he’d come: “I have heard that the mage Fernao, whom I once brought back from the land of the Ice People and who had the misfortune to go there again, was wounded. Is it so?”

“And where did you hear this?” Brinco asked, nothing in his face or voice giving any sign about whether it was so. Cornelu stood mute. When it became clear he wouldn’t answer, Brinco shrugged, said, “Good to see you again,” once more, and returned to his papers.

Curse you, Cornelu thought. But Brinco had power and he had none; that was part of what being an exile meant. His stiff-necked Sibian pride almost made him turn on his heel and walk out. In the end, though, he growled, “I was in a tavern with the dragonflier who brought in a man he thought to be Fernao.”

“Ah.” Brinco’s nod was almost conspiratorial. “Aye, dragonfliers will run on at the mouth. I suppose it comes from being unable to talk with their beasts, the way you leviathan-riders do.”

“It could be.” Cornelu waited for the Lagoan to say more. When Brinco didn’t, Cornelu folded his arms across his chest and fixed the grandmaster’s secretary with a cold stare. “I answered your question, sir. You might have the common courtesy to answer mine.”

“You already have a good notion as to that answer, though,” Brinco said. Cornelu looked at him. It wasn’t a glare, not really, but it served the same purpose. A slow flush mounted to Brinco’s cheeks. “Very well, sir: aye, that is true. He was wounded, and is recovering.”

Cornelu took from his tunic pocket an envelope. “I hope you will do me the honor of conveying this to him: my best wishes, and my hope that his health may be fully restored.”

Brinco took the envelope. “It would be my distinct privilege to do so.” He coughed discreetly. “You understand, I trust, that we may examine the note before forwarding it. I intend no personal offense in telling you this: I merely note that these are hard and dangerous times.”

“That they are,” Cornelu said. “Your kingdom trusted me to join in the raid on Dukstas, so of course you would assume I am engaged in sending your mage subversive messages.”

Grandmaster Pinhiero’s secretary flushed again, but said, “We would do the same, sir, were you his Majesty’s eldest son.”