Neat and clean, Gael presented himself at Nathiar’s door with a smart rap on the wood. He’d recovered the anger he initially felt upon seeing the magus’ stolen supplies, but it was a cold anger, no longer heated.

Nathiar himself answered Gael’s knock. He looked remarkably fresh, given his late night and strenuous magery, his muddy green eyes without the typical redness in their whites, his thick lips firmly closed. He wore a robe of orange suede embroidered with purple arabesques and dotted with bronze rose-rivets. His silver hair hung in its usual multiple braids.

His brows rose when he saw Gael. “W-e-e-l-l,” he drawled. “Fancy meeting the secretarius just outside his proper chambers. Have you decided to occupy your official residence after all?” His voice was deep and mellifluous.

“May I come in?” answered Gael.

Nathiar’s brows lifted still higher. “Sabel’s gifts! To what do I owe this honor?”

Gael said nothing, and Nathiar ushered him inside.

The receiving room was richly appointed with textiles—so rare in the north—and intricately carved furniture. Wool carpets worked to resemble flowery meadows covered the floor, brocade tapestries depicting a magus at work hung from the walls, and divans upholstered in turquoise satin or yellow velvet or spring green damask provided seating. Delicate bronze figurines rested on low, red-lacquered tables. Spatters of colored light, cast by the stained-glass ornament edging the paned casements, dotted the surfaces erratically.

Gael’s lips tightened. All this wealth could only be spoils of war or pirate booty. Belzetarn’s artisans had little wool or linen or leisure for luxury work at their disposal.

“Have a seat,” said Nathiar. “The boys will be here with food soon. We shall break our fast together.”

Gael remained standing and proffered the rose-riveted pouch he’d brought with him the previous night. “I understand this is yours, Magus. I wish to return it to you.”

A gleam of humor sparked in Nathiar’s eyes. “S-o-o-o, where did you find it?”

“Tucked into the pack straps of the mule from the tinworks,” said Gael levelly.

“Goodness! How ever did it get there?”

“I’ll mention that it has tin dust within it,” said Gael. “I’ll further mention that I’ve been next door—in my chambers—and have seen what you store there.” Gael unclenched his jaw. “You have some explaining to do.”

Nathiar started to laugh.

“Well?” said Gael.

Nathiar’s laughter grew louder. The magus fetched out a purple handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his eyes. “W-e-e-l-l, this is awkward,” he said, subsiding.

“For you,” said Gael. “I’m waiting, Nathiar.”

“Yes, I see you are. Dear me. Won’t you sit down? We may as well be civilized while we converse.”

Gael let his hand fall, the pouch still in its grip. “How is stealing the least bit civilized?” he inquired.

Nathiar started to laugh again, but repressed his merriment. “Very well, I’ll admit that I’m not the least bit civilized, but I do prefer comfort. You need not sit, if you do not wish to, but I shall!” He strolled over to a turquoise divan and lowered himself onto it, leaning one elbow on the upward slanting end.

Gael followed him, deliberately coming to stand too close, forcing Nathiar to crane his neck uncomfortably, should the magus wish to meet his eyes. Nathiar chose to study the nails on his left hand instead.

“How much do you know?” queried the magus.

“Assume I know it all, and you’ll be close,” grated Gael.

“And, yet, I’d rather not confess any small detail needlessly,” said Nathiar. “Why accept needless guilt?”

Gael shifted his stance impatiently. “Lannarc stole tin for you before it was weighed. You fashioned a covert ore tap in the oxhide furnace at the copper mines. You’re storing your stolen tin and your stolen copper and your stolen forging tools in my chambers.” Gael refrained from emphasizing ‘stolen’ and ‘my,’ just barely.

“I see,” said Nathiar. “No doubt you wonder what I am doing with all that?”

“No.”

Nathiar’s brows jumped again. “No?”

“I saw you hardening the edges of the enchanted sword you’d no doubt forged from the fruits of your thefts,” said Gael.

“W-e-e-l-l, my dear Secretarius.” Nathiar chuckled. “It would appear you do indeed know it all. I am in your hands, as they say.”

“I suppose I need not ask why.” Gael had expected to grow more angry once the magus had admitted to stealing. Instead, he felt merely jaded, his anger ebbing.

Nathiar sniffed. “Carbraes permits me magery on the battlefield. He encourages my magery when we besiege a Ghriana stronghold. He beseeches my magery whenever the tides of war turn against us. But he will not allow me to improve the weapons with which our warriors fight.”

“Is it so necessary?” asked Gael.

“You saw my work last night?” Nathiar looked up from his nails.

Gael nodded and took a step back, having mercy on Nathiar’s craning neck.

“With your inner sight as well as the outer?” asked the magus.

“Yes. I perceived the living heart node.”

“All the Ghriana warriors wield blades like that,” said Nathiar.

“I’d heard rumors . . .” said Gael slowly.

“Our trolls do not look with their inner sight, of course. They merely see the impossible agility with which those Ghriana blades strike. Thus the rumors. But when I take the battlefield, my inner sight is open, perforce. There is a reason why we lose more battles than we win.”

Gael had never expected that he might find himself at sympathy with any of his old enemy’s views. But if Belzetarn’s Ghriana foes all bore enchanted blades . . .

“Have you discussed this with Carbraes? Really sat down with him? Not merely flung your half-jesting insults at him in passing?”

Nathiar snickered. “Oh, yes.”

“You couldn’t convince him?” Gael wondered what Nathiar was not telling him. If Carbraes still believed Nathiar to be wrong about the need for improved weapons, the regenen would have good reasons behind him.

“Gael, think,” said Nathiar.

Hearing his name on Nathiar’s tongue took Gael aback. It had been so very long ago, but in his boyhood, he and his closest friends had been ‘Erastys’ and ‘Heiroc’ and ‘Nathiar’ and ‘Gael’ to one another. Only within Belzetarn had Nathiar and Gael become ‘Magus’ and ‘Secretarius.’ Longing for that earlier time pierced him. If only . . . if only . . . but neither youth nor health returned when the years and the truldemagar had claimed them. Nor did trust or good will.

“How many swords do your smithies complete each day?” demanded Nathiar.

“Eight. Sometimes ten,” answered Gael.

“And I could create but one in that time,” said Nathiar. “Would you have me train your smiths in weapons magery?”

“Few of them have skill enough with energea to be so trained,” admitted Gael. “Even were Carbraes willing.”

“Which he is not,” said Nathiar.

“But blades enough for the brigenens? The preceptorii? The bellatarii? Made by you alone?” suggested Gael.

Nathiar sighed, and Gael sat on the lemon velvet divan across from Nathiar.

“What do you imagine our battlefields are like?” asked Nathiar.

“I’ve stood on battlefields,” said Gael.

“Yes, you have. In Hadorgol.”

“Are the battlefields in the foothills of the Tahdfiarns and the Fiorsmarns so different?” asked Gael.

Nathiar flared the nostrils of his fleshy nose. “The march insists on drill and more drill, and it is well he does. The trolls devolve into a mob on the battlefield in spite of it. Without it . . .” The magus shook his head. “Without it, they’d fight each other as often as they fought their enemy.”

Gael followed this to where Nathiar was leading him. “With some trolls bearing superior weapons and others not, those-without would fight those-with to gain the better weapons for themselves.”

That was the curse of the truldemagar. Unafflicted men varied all the way from the supremely self-controlled to the utterly undisciplined. But most men occupied some middle ground. Among trolls, the disciplined were fewer, the unruly more numerous, and the middle ranks more heedless.

“Why bother with your secret experiments then? When there’s no use to them?”

“R-e-a-l-l-y, Gael. Why do you think?” drawled Nathiar. “I like energetic experimentation. Isn’t the sheer fun of it reason enough?”

Gael repressed a sniff, refusing to rise to the bait. Nathiar had always loved catching his acquaintances off balance. Gael couldn’t imagine why Nathiar hadn’t tired of it long since, but the magus hadn’t.

“Is that your only reason,” Gael inquired mildly.

Nathiar’s thick lips twisted. “I had some hope that showing Carbraes what is possible might persuade him to alter his position,” he admitted.

Gael sat back, concealing his surprise at hearing his old enemy confess to good intentions. As a youth, Nathiar had loved playing pranks a little too much, but he hadn’t been truly bad. After he’d reached manhood his predilection for mischief seemed to grow nastier, and his concern for his victims—always slight—grew less. He wouldn’t expect Nathiar, as a troll, to possess interest in anyone’s well-being save his own.

Could Gael have misjudged his colleague? It seemed unlikely.

Questions from the past—the distant past—stirred within him. “Why did you do it? Cast that mean-spirited glamour?” he blurted. It had been the glamour that brought the truldemagar upon Nathiar, hadn’t it?

The magus recovered his sardonic mien. “Really, the rumors were endless, my dear Gael. Which ones did you hear?”

“That the ambassadress of Solmundia was prudish. That Erastys fancied her in spite of that. Or because of it. That you coveted her amulet from ancient Navellys. That you attempted to gain your way with the lady—for the both of you—by magical force, and it ruined you.”

“Ah.” Nathiar straightened and glanced at the carpet, more uneasy than Gael could remember ever seeing him. “That was the version we encouraged to spread.”

“But it was not true,” said Gael quietly.

Nathiar swallowed, pursing his lips. “No. It was not true.”

The receiving room’s door swung open before Nathiar could say more.

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The Tally Master, Chapter 12 (scene 61)

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As Gael opened the door onto the antechamber shared by the apartment of the magus and that of the secretarius (were he in residence there), a scullion emerged from Nathiar’s quarters. Carrying an empty tray, the boy took two casual steps toward the Cliff Stair and then stopped dead, eyes wide, at the sight of Gael. Unsurprising, given that Gael had never before spent a night (or even a day) in his official chambers.

“S-secretarius,” the boy stammered.

“Are you tower staff under the castellanum?” asked Gael, “Or one of Nathiar’s?”

“T-tower, sir.” The boy bobbed a bow.

“Could you fetch me a basin and a ewer of water?”

“Y-yes, sir! Right away, Secretarius!”

The boy started to scurry away.

“Will you have to go far?” asked Gael. “All the way to the well in the yard?”

“N-no, sir. Th-the castellanum insists that service be prompt. I’ll go to the closet on the next level down. And there are cisterns that supply water up here. S-sir.” The boy looked scared.

“What’s your name, son?” Gael made his voice gentle. He hadn’t meant to alarm the boy so.

“Alton, s-sir.”

“Well, Alton, there’s no need to be afraid. Are there more than merely basins and ewers in the castellanum’s supply closets? Could you fetch me a tooth twig and powder and jar in addition?”

“Of course, sir!” Alton looked surprised. Apparently the closets near the tower’s top held almost anything an important troll might desire. Gael wouldn’t know, since the chambers he occupied were considerably lower.

“What of a fresh shirt? Fresh socks and caputum?”

“I’ll get them right away, sir,” gasped the boy.

Well, those were welcome words. “Are you on an urgent errand for the magus? Or someone else important?”

“N-no, sir. I mean, yes, sir.” Alton didn’t seem to be sure if he were on his feet or on his head.

“Don’t neglect your other duties to administer to my needs,” said Gael.

Alton swallowed, then lifted his chin. “The magus is the only one who needs water so early, sir. I’d never neglect anything for any reason, sir,” he said earnestly. “I’d be honored to bring you whatever you need. Sir.”

Gael nodded. He wanted to get Alton in trouble no more than he’d wanted to startle the boy.

“I’ll await you just inside the door,” he said. “Knock when you return.”

“Yes, sir.” Alton’s stride was brisk rather than fearful as he hastened toward the stairs.

Back in the apartment of the secretarius, Gael scrutinized the receiving room. He’d prefer that the scullion not see the evidence of Nathiar’s illicit doings. He could simply relieve the boy of his burdens in the vestibule, but it would be more natural to allow him to carry the items through to the bastan’s room.

Gael bundled the smithing tools and gloves into the quenching bucket and carried them to the small room on the opposite side of the passage from the bastan’s chamber. It was empty. He left the bucket in a corner and then, returning to the receiving room, covered the biscuit ingot of copper with the leather apron, tucking in the strings so that it looked like a plain piece of hide. Did the ingot seem smaller than it had been? Just as he was checking the sacks of tin pebbles to be sure their openings were rolled well closed, Alton’s knock sounded on the front door.

Gael cast a swift look around—yes, the sacks and the concealed ingot were unremarkable—and went to open the door.

Alton’s eyes widened again when Gael ushered him into the bastan’s chamber to set down his loaded tray on the chest.

“You slept here, sir?”

Gael smiled. “Lord Carbraes urged me to reconsider occupying these rooms, but I haven’t decided if I will, which is why they possess no furnishings. The bastan’s bed was infinitely more comfortable than the floor, I assure you.”

Alton giggled, then flushed and looked at the floor. “I didn’t mean—”

“I intended you to laugh, Alton,” said Gael. “You were not disrespectful.”

“Oh, good,” gasped Alton.

“Is the castellanum very strict?”

“Oh, no, sir. I mean, yes, sir.” Alton pulled himself together with effort. “That is, he’s strict, but he’s fair.”

“Then why are you scared?” asked Gael. “You have done nothing wrong.”

Alton just stared at him, saying nothing.

“Is it because you do not know me? You’ve never served me before and don’t know what to expect?”

Alton nodded, eyes round.

“Have there been others who were unkind to you? Who hurt you?”

“The—the brigenen of the First Cohort. Sir.”

That was Dreben. Gael’s lips compressed, but he stayed silent. Anything he might say would only alarm Alton more.

“The castellanum won’t let any of us boys wait on the First anymore,” added Alton. “They have to manage for themselves. Lord Theron said to tell him if anyone else ever slapped us or threatened us, and he’d take care of him.” Alton’s shoulders had relaxed, and admiration shone in his face. “The castellanum protects us boys.”

Gael was glad to hear it. He might dislike Theron—he did dislike Theron—but he was relieved that the castellanum took care of the trolls under his authority.

“Well, I am not like the brigenen,” he said. “Do you believe me, Alton?”

The boy stood a little straighter. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” Gael nodded. “So. I will perform my ablutions and change my dress and then depart. Do you have a way to enter later to clear away your tray and the chamberpot?”

“I’ll ask the steward for a key, sir.”

“And will there be trouble about it?”

“No, sir. The scullions sweep all the chambers regular.”

Gael had noticed that no dust had accumulated on the floors or in the corners.

“Then I will thank you and bid you depart upon your own business,” said Gael.

“Won’t you need anything else, sir? I can check back again, just in case,” suggested Alton.

Gael’s lip twitched. “You may check back, but do not be surprised if I am not present. My errand here is nearly complete.”

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The Tally Master, Chapter 12 (scene 60)

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The Tally Master, Chapter 12 (scene 58)

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Daylight seeping in through the cracks around the bed cupboard doors woke Gael sometime after dawn. His mouth felt fuzzy, and the rest of him had that rumpled, grimy sensation that sleeping in one’s clothes always engendered. For a moment, he expected to see last year’s brown leaves beneath him and this year’s leaves—green and on their tree boughs—above him, as he had while wandering in the wilderness before he came to Belzetarn. He caught his hand reaching for Morza’s faithful canine head before he remembered where he lay: in a bastan’s chamber at the top of Belzetarn’s tower after witnessing the magus performing illicit magery.

Swallowing hard, he pushed the painful memory of the landseer down and opened the cupboard doors. The lone window in the room—glass-paned, narrow, and unshuttered—looked north over the lake, so the light flooding through it was cool and diffuse.

Gael surveyed the bastan’s room: stark stone walls, naked stone floor, the chest he’d delved into for the sheepskin, a lidded chamber pot beside the chest, and the cupboard bed in which he’d slept. He hoped these bare bones had been clad with better amenities when last a servant had occupied the space. If his bastan were living here—not that he possessed a bastan, but if he had—and he could have, if he’d wished to—he’d have insisted there be floor matting, wall hangings, a comfortable chair, perhaps a footstool. The unadorned room was very austere.

With effort, Gael recalled his thoughts from an unlikely might-have-been to the present. What would his next step be?

He’d watched Nathiar complete his magery on the energea-imbued sword last night. The magus had allowed the metal to cool enough that it no longer glowed, and then tidied up after himself by cool blue magelight. When the magus turned to depart, Gael had considered detaining him then. He’d wanted answers.

But the middle of the night was rarely a good time for sensible doings.

Just as he’d taught Keir to continue on a fresh sheet of parchment, when he ran out of working room at the bottom of the old sheet, so he’d also insisted on adequate sleep, early rising, and an end to the day’s labors well before the evening meal. Regular habits ensured error-free work and kept the worst symptoms of the truldemagar at bay. The more challenging a task, the more important that it be tackled in the morning, after a good night’s rest.

Tackling Belzetarn’s magus . . . would be a very challenging task indeed.

And so Gael had let him depart unimpeded.

Now, in the clear light of morning, he felt grateful for his self-restraint. In fact, looking back on his evening decision to check the hidey-hole in the latrine, and then his choice to climb nearly all the way to the tower’s upper battlements, he wondered at himself. What had he been thinking? Obviously, he hadn’t been thinking at all. Fatigue and injury had clouded his judgment.

But now that he was here . . . ? Now that he knew what he knew . . . ? What now?

He looked down at himself, assessing what he saw.

His shirt sleeves and caputum were badly creased and sweat-stained. His robe looked fine; suede rarely wrinkled. He’d love a thorough wash with basin and ewer, but they wouldn’t be forthcoming. At least there was a chamberpot. And he would finger comb his hair.

More important than his superficial appearance: how were his injuries?

He probed his ribs and breastbone gently. Tender still, but not badly so.

He stood up. His legs felt fine, ready for as much stair climbing as he might demand. Even better, his gut didn’t twinge at all with the change of position, and he felt no need to guard it with careful movement. No doubt leaping or hopping or falling would be a bad idea, but simple walking no longer posed a risk, even should he put a foot wrong.

So. Chamberpot. Finger comb hair. And then he would go confront the magus.

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The Tally Master, Chapter 12 (scene 59)

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The Tally Master, Chapter 11 (scene 57)

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The Tally Master, Chapter 1 (scene 1)

Gael awoke to splinters of brilliant light—amber edged with gold—darting through the cracks where the cupboard doors touched their frame. Groggily, he reached for his pillow to dive under it, but no pillow met his searching fingers. Pulling at his sheepskin covering, seeking darkness, he froze.

Was it energea—dangerous gold and orange—producing these coruscating scintillas?

He sat up abruptly, stopping himself again just before he banged the doors of this cupboard open.

An energea-wielding intruder could only be the magus. Was Gael fit for a confrontation—potentially a lethal one—with his old enemy? Seven years ago, he was Nathiar’s equal in magery. Now? Nathiar had brandished his energea all seven of those intervening years, while Gael had eschewed his own.

No. Confrontation would not be his best course. Especially because he really wanted to know what in hells Nathiar was doing, before he accused the magus of . . . Exactly. He needed to know what precisely his accusation should consist of, beyond stealing copper and tin from the regenen’s mines. Subtlety, not belligerence, would be the better part.

Sitting upright in the gold-spattered darkness, he checked his physical condition. The bruises on his torso remained tender to the touch, but his innards felt less delicate. Apparently he’d continued to heal in his sleep as Keir had promised. What of his legs? Would they bear him?

He eased the cupboard doors open.

The darting glints of light became a flood of it, flaring and dimming in an irregular flicker, and accompanied by a crackling hiss and the scent of heated bronze. What in the north?

He set his feet on the stone floor and stood. His legs felt fine, so long as he didn’t crouch. He stifled a groan as he aborted that particular test. Right. Standing, sneaking, no clever positions requiring crouching with the idea that he might stay better hidden that way. Noiselessness and stillness must suffice.

He crept through the room’s door, still ajar, and along the passage toward the receiving room. Pressing himself against the wall, he peered around the corner.

A silhouetted troll stood facing the outer wall with its window casements shuttered and leather-muffled. It was Nathiar. Even from the side and back, Gael recognized the magus’ stance, arms upraised in a flamboyant angle, fingers spread wide, the littlest flared forward, and his head flung back.

The light flowed from a sword hovering in midair, its metal not molten, but glowing cherry-red, flaring to amber as Nathiar twitched his fingers, dimming as the magus stilled his gestures.

So, it was heated bronze, not dangerous energea, that had awakened Gael, but Nathiar was performing magery.

Gael allowed his breath to sigh out, very softly, and then to flow back in, equally gently. His inner sight bloomed, and he stood amazed. A living heart node glowed green within the sword’s hilt—or what would become its hilt when the metal was riveted between carefully carved and smoothed wood. Silver traceries through the blade—living arcs—pulsed with the heart node’s rhythm.

Was Nathiar creating a cursed sword to match the cursed gong lying at this very moment in Gael’s storeroom? Why would he do such a thing? And how had he known it was possible without ever seeing the prize dragged from Olluvarde? For Nathiar had not seen it, Gael was sure.

Gael studied the array within the sword, trying to understand its configuration, to compare it to his memory of the gong’s configuration. Their shapes were so different, the one circular, the other linear. Were the differences in their energea lattices due to that? Or was there some other difference? He thought he perceived some other discrepancy, but could not identify it.

He allowed his attention to move to the energetic manipulation performed by Nathiar, for the magus was doing more than merely suspending the sword in midair. Each time the light flared and the metal hissed, a lance of energea bolted from Nathiar’s fingers—safe energea, aqua blue—to touch down along the blade’s edge, sometimes right at the edge, sometimes a short ways in.

Ah, this Gael recognized and understood. It also explained why Nathiar had not bothered with hammer and anvil. He was hardening the edge with blows of energea, rather than blows with a physical tool. Which made sense. Gael suspected the magus would make a poor smith, while his control of magery was superb. Clearly, given that he must have shaped the blade in midair as well, without any mold.

Gael returned his scrutiny to the weapon’s energetic lattice. The heart node throbbed rhythmically, pulsing silver sparks along the arcs toward their scrolling ends where they glittered. Ah . . . but there were no arcs flowing into the heart node, only those flowing out. What could that mean?

For the answer, Gael suspected he would have to ask Nathiar. But he definitely had better questions now than heretofore.

Next scene:
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