Chapter 7

Midnight, forested knoll outside Coronnan City

Kinnsell O’Hara scanned the forest landscape uncertainly. Why did these primitive bushies always insist upon clandestine meetings in the midst of all of these trees? And they always chose midnight, when civilized men should conduct delicate negotiations over a fine port wine in cozy dens furnished with large, well-padded chairs. Not standing out in the cold wind freezing their arses off.

He felt naked without the protective walls of a building, or his shuttle, or the atmosphere domes of cities back home. But this wasn’t home. This was a primitive world where the locals believed that magic worked and dragons were real.

Even the king here was addressed as “Your Grace” because he ruled by the grace of the dragons. Kings should have majesty, as well as grace.

He shuddered in the chill night air. He couldn’t leave the country of Coronnan and the planet Kardia Hodos fast enough. Just as soon as he accomplished what he’d come here to do, he’d hightail it away from all this open space and unconfined air and back to civilization.

But his mission would guarantee that he would be the next emperor of the Terran Galactic Empire. None of the other candidates—any of his three siblings and all of their combined children could find themselves elected emperor—knew how to keep the sprawling territories bound together into a cohesive unit. None of them valued the fresh food produced on planets such as this one. They all believed tanked food sufficient to sustain life. None of them understood that truly enjoying life meant unique tastes, unique experiences, and the hope that every citizen might eventually be able to enjoy them. If that hope died—no matter how remote—the citizens had the power to depose the central government. Then the TGE would fracture into dozens of scattered autonomous and warring worlds.

Control would vanish. Briefly, he thrust his right hand forward as if guiding the joystick of a shuttle in atmosphere flight. By dropping the nose a little, he could regain control of airspeed. Then he eased his hand back, control reasserted.

Kinnsell intended to maintain control, starting with the bushie lords and his far too independent daughter.

A rustle of underbrush off to his left told him that someone—or something—large and clumsy approached. His heart climbed into his throat. Suddenly all of the local tales of predatory gray bears, spotted saber cats, and . . . and dragons didn’t seem so preposterous.

Something eerie about the place sent his imagination into overdrive, dredging up childhood horror stories of monsters under the bed.

The night breeze chilled his skin despite the heavy layers of protective clothing. He swallowed his fears and checked his scanner. The readings indicated one human, leading some kind of riding beast. Steeds they called them. The locals couldn’t even remember the proper name for a horse. Not that Terra had been home to any horses outside natural history museums for many generations.

Kinnsell relaxed. His overactive imagination had tricked him once more. His daughter Katie had the same tendency. Now that she was queen of this backwater, she could give vent to her storytelling without the hindrance of civilized conventions.

She hadn’t been on the planet a full day when she started filling his head with tales of dragons.

Imagine, the girl actually claimed she had seen and touched a dragon! A huge beast with crystal fur and telepathic capabilities had “blessed” her marriage to Quinnault. Didn’t she know that every myth and legend made dragons—sacred or evil—reptiles with jewel-colored scales?

Even his pragmatic and obedient sons had spouted tales of magical creatures and enchantresses after visiting their sister. Kinnsell had ordered all three of them to remain aboard the mother ship. He hoped Katie’s egalitarian attitudes hadn’t contaminated them. Otherwise they might all challenge him for the crown of the emperor when Kinnsell’s father finally died. The old man was taking his own sweet time about it. The Terran Galactic Empire grew shakier every year. It needed Kinnsell’s firm hand on the joystick to guide it back to prosperity.

“Master Varn?” the approaching human spoke confidently, as if he could see in the dark. Maybe he could. The locals constantly surprised Kinnsell with their uncanny abilities.

Kinnsell quickly donned the heavily veiled headdress that kept his identity as a human from a different planet concealed. He hated the costume of layer upon layer of wispy chiffon. But the family insisted. This world must not be tainted by knowledge of its Terran past or by technology and pollution. Soon he’d end the charade. The TGE needed the fresh food produced by this world. But not tonight. He’d not reveal himself or his mission to this bushie noble with delusions of grandeur. Not until Kinnsell had control of the situation.

“ ’Tis, I, Chieftain of the Varns,” Kinnsell replied in solemn tones suitable to an awesome being of unknown origin and proportions.

“Do you have enough wealth to bribe me to release my entire plantation of the Tambootie?” The man’s voice didn’t show any sign of deference or awe in the face of one of the legendary Varn traders.

A niggle of disappointment knotted at the base of Kinnsell’s spine. His ancestors had started the cult of the Stargods here. His people should appear as gods to these primitives! Instead he was forced by an outdated covenant to effect this ghostly appearance.

But he needed the Tambootie. Lots of it. A lot more than King Quinnault and his own daughter had been willing to give him.

The plague raged throughout the TGE; Tambootie was the only known cure. If he had enough of the weed, he could eliminate the disease forever—as it should have been when genetic scientists first realized their experimental microbe not only ate toxic waste and air pollution, it ate the toxins within human bodies that had built up over generations of uncontrolled industrial waste. And then ate the human hosts.

“I have seeds that will triple your yield of grains,” Kinnsell intoned. “Provided the Tambootie is from the spring harvest, and not fallen leaves from last autumn.”

“Seeds won’t do me much good. Most of my land is crags and ravines.” The bushie noble spat into the dirt on the forest floor.

“I have sheep embryos that when grown will yield wool so long it will spin almost as fine as silk.”

“Embryos? What are they?”

“Fertilized eggs you implant into the uterus of a female sheep.”

“Demon spawn!” The man shuddered and made a curious flapping gesture with crossed wrists. His heavy signet ring glinted in the moonlight.

Kinnsell realized the man did not wear a traditional seal set into the ring. Instead, the fine silverwork represented an elaborate and twisted knot reminiscent of his Celtic ancestors on Terra. He suddenly knew lust for that ring. He’d have it on his own hand before he left this backwater for home. His hand thrust forward, reasserting control.

“I’ll not impregnate my good sheep with demon spirits.” The lord continued. “I’ll continue feeding the s’murghin’ dragons my Tambootie rather than deal with demons.”

“Can you mine your land?” Kinnsell was running out of options. His hand remained forward, still trying to regain control. He hadn’t much left on his mother ship that would help these people—or bribe them.

“My mines were played out generations ago. Not enough iron and copper left to make it worth hauling the slag to the surface.” The man’s eyes shifted to the side, sure indication he lied.

He had coal. Coal that could fuel industrial plants—here or elsewhere. Kinnsell had smelled the dust the last time he visited Balthazaan.

He smiled and swallowed any lingering loyalty to the anachronistic family covenant. His hand came back in a position of smooth flight. “I can give you tools that will cut through solid rock to the hidden veins of ore.”

The lord’s eyes opened wide in greed, then narrowed in speculation. “What good are those tools if my miners don’t know where the veins are?” He twisted his ring. A sign of agitation or greed?

“I have a second tool that senses the presence of precious metals, iron and coal as well.” Kinnsell’s mind brightened at the thought of gleaming steel, a commodity of increasing scarcity now that the largest iron-producing colonies had domed their cities and abandoned their mines in favor of full citizenship in the TGE. Now that he’d transgressed a little against the family covenant, he might as well go all the way. “But for the tools, I’ll need more than the plantation of the Tambootie trees in trade.”

“I haven’t got much else. The wars stripped me of everything but a few worthless acres and a bunch of daughters.”

“Then with your first profits from the veins of ore my tools find for you, you must buy every ton of surplus grain you can find.” The Empire needed food more than additional supplies of steel.

“Surpluses are supposed to go to the king. Security against drought, he says.” A note of disgust tinged the man’s reply. He abandoned twisting his ring to clench his fist and shake it in anger.

Kinnsell got a better look at the ring and coveted it more. He also knew he could exploit the lord’s emotion. King Quinnault’s foresight in preparing for a drought still five years off—if the normal weather cycle prevailed—had been denounced as ludicrous by his shortsighted nobles. They wanted profit. Now.

“My people suffer from drought now,” Kinnsell said. A drought of resources of their own making, not weather induced. He couldn’t change a situation created almost a thousand years ago, but he could profit from his society’s policy of stripping planets and moving on. “We need the grain now. Your king doesn’t need surplus food until a new drought hits you. Droughts are the whims of the Stargods. The next one may never come, or it may be delayed.”

“Or it might come tomorrow. I’m not certain incurring the king’s wrath by giving up so much Tambootie and selling surplus food is worth a few sledgeloads of ore.”

“No mere mortal can tell for sure when a drought will come.” Kinnsell fought to keep the desperation out of his voice. These bushies weren’t easy to corrupt. Or rather, they were so corrupt already he couldn’t turn their vices to his own benefit. The benefit of the TGE, he corrected himself. “You haven’t hoarded surpluses before and your people always survived. A year’s delay in adhering to the king’s new laws won’t hurt.”

“Give me some reasons not to obey these new laws now. I did just fine in the old days making my own laws and ruling my lands by myself without inference from any king.”

Kinnsell swallowed a sharp retort that the lord hadn’t done “just fine” during the generations of war. Instead he said, “King Quinnault is like a fanatical priest. He wants everyone to believe as he does without variation and without logical explanations. He doesn’t want the good of the country, he wants control of your lives, your resources, your minds.” Kinnsell paused a moment to let that thought sink in. “The sooner Quinnault is brought down, the sooner you can go back to making a profit any way you see fit.”

“The other lords and I signed agreements to support him. The people love him. Chancy thing to depose him.” The bushie lord was back to twisting the ring.

“The people love him now because they don’t truly know him. He won’t let them see the truth of his need to control every aspect of life in Kardia Hodos—including their thoughts. How do you think he quelled that riot last autumn if not by mind control? You must show them the truth. Then you will be free to sell your resources for a profit rather than pay the king’s useless taxes.”

“You’ll trade me rock cutting tools and ore finders?” The bushie noble tapped his lip with his forefinger as if mulling over the possibilities.

Kinnsell sincerely wished his telepathy could penetrate the man’s mind. The locals like this lord with dark hair and olive skin, similar to the natives of the Mediterranean on Terra, seemed totally impervious to the family talent. The ones with fairer coloring opened easily to telepathic probes—unless they had psi powers that allowed them to pretend to be magicians. He hadn’t met anyone with Asian or African features to know how widespread the natural shields were. Each race resided on a different continent here; except for the ones like this lord. They wandered the whole planet like Gypsies.

“You Varns always trade in diamonds. If I had some diamonds, I could buy my neighbor’s surplus tomorrow,” the bushie lord suggested. “You wouldn’t have to wait until I reopened the mines and found a viable vein of ore, then found a market for it and sold it.”

“A sudden influx of gems will shout to all of Kardia Hodos that you have traded with Varns. King Quinnault will look closely at your plantations of the Tambootie to see if you have violated your covenant with the dragons.”

The noble crossed himself and murmured a prayer. Then he crossed his wrists and flapped his hands.

Kinnsell wished he knew the origin of that bizarre gesture.

“Dragons and magicians have never done me any favors. Don’t see why I should give up a tithe of land to the trees of magic, and another tithe of my few sheep to the dragons.”

“You shouldn’t have to give up anything to charlatan magicians and nonexistent dragons.” Kinnsell pressed the man toward a decision. “My mining tools will work better than magic.”

The noble’s eyes gleamed with greed.

“You get the Tambootie and the grain when I sell the first load of ore.”

“I need the Tambootie now.”

“I need working capital now.”

“Gold. I’ll give you gold.”

“How much?”

“One hundred coins the size of your thumbnail.”

“Coins from where? Merchants don’t take every mintage.”

“The coins of Varnicia, the spice merchants, are good everywhere.” Kinnsell knew how to counterfeit those.

“And hint of Varn origin, just like diamonds.”

“Then the coins of Jihab, the jewel merchants.”

“Tainted by Maffisto assassins. You guarantee your tools will serve me better than magicians?”

“My tools will eliminate the need for magicians. You and your kind will be free of them once and for all.” And with improved technology, I’ll have a planet producing enough food to feed three civilized worlds. We’ll export the coal and iron to industrial worlds and leave more men to work the land.

“Gold bullion will do. I can sell it anywhere.”

“Done. I’ll take your signet ring as surety . . .”

“I have neighbors willing to trade grain and Tambootie for freedom from magicians.” The lord totally ignored Kinnsell’s last request. “They trust me to bargain for them. I have a list of what they need.” The bushie pulled a long roll of parchment from his tunic. A very long roll, indeed. “I found a man to write it who failed as a magician apprentice. He stayed at the cursed University long enough to learn to read but not much else.”

Kinnsell licked his lips eagerly. He’d have this planet mechanized and shipping massive surpluses within a decade. But he didn’t think he’d ever inform the locals of their right to dome their cities and join the Empire as full citizens. Terra needed food, not more citizens. He needed the crown that this world’s food could give him. His hand came back, soaring higher in his personal agenda.

Briefly he wondered if he should lift the ban on reading and writing on this world. Not yet. The lcoals might learn too much too fast.

University of Magicians Library, Coronnan City

Bessel stared at the strange paragraph in the old text. He’d been shelving books for Master Lyman when his talent insisted he open this book and read. The pages had fallen open right where he read and reread the same paragraph.

A person with the healing talent can diminish the effects of disease by symbolically exchanging blood with the patient.

What? How? He had to read further. The three other books he cradled in his arms dropped to the floor with a resounding thud. He ignored the echoes in the normally hushed library. Several apprentices looked up from their studies. Bessel didn’t care how much attention he attracted, or about the sniggers of the other students.

He knew his pudgy hands were clumsy. That didn’t matter. This book offered a clue to the end of the plague. If he found out how to do this, maybe he could get permission to return to Lord Balthazaan’s disease-ridden province. He couldn’t save his mother, but he might save some of the others before the plague spread any farther. And he wouldn’t have to tap a ley line or access the void to do it.

He grabbed the book with both hands and stumbled over the fallen books to the nearest study desk. He was already reading when he plunked down on the stool.

The healer must first trigger a middling trance being careful not to fall too deep in thrall with the void. While still in contact with his body and his mind, the healer takes his ritual dagger in his left hand and carefully cuts across the right palm of the patient. Then he must repeat the cut on his own left palm. The ritual dagger may then be placed upon a silk scarf to await later cleansing. The healer must place his left palm across the patient’s right hand, making sure to align the cuts. With his free hand the healer must bind the hands together with a pristine white bandage, also made of silk.

If the healer has been properly trained and successfully passed the trial by Tambootie smoke, no contagion will spread to his own body, though all mundanes within the room become infected.

Bessel turned the page for the ritual words that would complete the healing spell. The next three pages had been torn from the binding.

He flipped back and forth in the book seeking the missing pages. Ragged edges at irregular intervals testified to several more clumps of pages that had been removed. Whoever had mutilated the book had done it hastily, not taking time to cut the pages cleanly.

Who? Who would damage a precious book?

“Master Lyman?” he asked in a hushed voice. The Master Librarian should be nearby. He rarely left his beloved books. Bessel often wondered if the old man ate and slept in the library as well.

Journeymen whispered legends into the ears of awed apprentices that Old Lyman ate only knowledge and never slept.

“Yes?” Master Lyman peered at Bessel through an opening in the bookshelves. He seemed to have simply moved books aside rather than walk a few feet around the shelving unit.

“Master Lyman, have you read this book?”

“Title and author?” Lyman scrunched up his wizened face in thought.

“Ceremonies of Symbolic Magic written by one Kimmer, a scribe from the south. I think this was copied from the original text.” Bessel stared at the fine tooling on the leather cover. Traces of gold leaf still clung to the ancient embossed lettering.

“Kimmer? Ah, yes. Kimmer of the south. A fine scholar and one of our most prolific authors. Sadly, I have not had time to read this text.” Lyman started to shove books back into place, withdrawing from Bessel’s presence.

“Uh, Master Lyman?”

“You have another question?” Lyman poked his head back into the shelf opening. “Two questions in one sitting from the same student? Could it be that one of you is beginning to think enough to ask questions?”

“Master Lyman, someone has torn some pages from this book. Who would do such a thing?” Distress made Bessel’s voice rise in pitch and volume. He immediately lowered it to a more appropriate whisper. “I think I’ve found a reference to early blood magic. It was used for healing rather than power! This is important.”

“Hush, boy. You must never say that out loud! I told Powwell the same thing when he read from this text. I also told him to hide this book.” Lyman scuttled around the bookshelves and grabbed the book away from Bessel. His funny, old-fashioned tunic that hung to his knees and he’d belted on the outside to hold up his trews made him appear more a harmless gnome than a powerful and wise magician.

Had Powwell removed the crucial pages from the book? Why? Surely he wouldn’t need blood magic to rescue his sister. But then, in Hanassa, maybe he would.

The main door to the library banged open. Master Scarface stood framed by the massive double doorway. The scar that gave him his cognomen made a vivid red pathway from temple to temple across the bridge of his nose.

“Out!” he commanded. The scar bleached white, clear evidence of the tension he kept carefully contained. “All of you students out of here now. The masters have important work to do. We cannot be disturbed.”

A dozen apprentices gathered up their books, scrolls, and writing implements in preparation for leaving.

“Don’t take anything with you. Leave the books behind. Just get out of here. Now.”

While I still have the courage to do this. Scarface’s stray thought penetrated Bessel’s mind. What was the Senior Magician going to do?

“Quickly, boy, hide the book and get yourself away by the postern door.” Lyman thrust the book back into Bessel’s hands and shoved him toward the back corner of the three-story-high room that filled the entire central wing of the U-shaped University building. “Hide yourself well without magic. He’ll smell your magic if you use it.”

“Lyman, show yourself,” Scarface ordered as he stalked into the library. Three master magicians, all of them new since Scarface had taken over leadership of the Commune a year ago, followed closely upon his heels. All of the master magicians seemed more willing to follow Scarface than make a decision on their own. That was how Scarface had become Senior. No one else wanted to do it.

“Yes, Master Aaddler?” Lyman stepped in front of Bessel, giving the journeyman cover for his quick retreat.

Bessel kept his ears open and his magical senses alert as he sought a dark corner for himself and his book. He knew he needed to hear the truth beneath the spoken words.

The Senior Magician winced at the use of his true name. Since he had taken over, all of the masters had adopted working names and reserved true names for only the most solemn occasions.

“The books must be separated by categories,” Scarface said, looking directly into Lyman’s eyes rather than at the books. The intensity of his gaze suggested he attempted to influence Lyman with magic.

“They already are cataloged and categorized.” Lyman didn’t falter or succumb to the mental manipulation.

“For the safety of the Commune and those who seek knowledge here, a further separation is required. The queen’s dragon dream foretells danger in the knowledge contained within these books.”

The three satellite magicians moved to flank Scarface, becoming a solid wall of determination.

“I have studied the matter. We can no longer delay in removing dangerous information from the reach of vulnerable apprentices.”

“Dangerous as in . . . ?” Lyman remained firmly in place, blocking the other magicians.

“All references to rogue magic must be placed where only master magicians can access them. All references to machines that mimic magic must be set aside for later culling,” Scarface announced. “None of my students have need of this forbidden knowledge.”

“You are going to ban books?” Lyman asked. For the first time, Bessel watched the old man fumble for a retort that would misdirect or perplex. Lyman stood blinking, mouth agape. He radiated emotional pain.

“We must remove dangerous books from the hands of vulnerable children and those who would misuse the forbidden knowledge secreted therein.”