Cold Steel (Spiritwalker 3)

Every man tensed. In a chamber full of cold mages, the temperature’s drop came as no surprise. Vai’s expression remained impassive, except for the stab of fury that twitched in his cheek.

The mansa’s nephew raised his newly filled wineglass in mocking salute. “Rumor has it you’re the only magister on campaign who sleeps alone every night. If you need some help to make a woman of the Phoenician girl, I would be happy to oblige. Most of the time they like it best when they claim they don’t want it. Just like you. I haven’t forgotten how I had to make a woman of you when you first came to Four Moons House because you stubbornly refused to acknowledge your betters. Someone had to put you in your place.”

I had a moment of stunning clarity as Vai rocked back as if he had been punched.

The gods do watch over us, even if we cannot always recognize the shape their hand takes. A serving man bearing a tureen of beet soup had halted in embarrassment an arm’s length from me. I snatched the tureen out of his hands and dumped its contents over the head of the mansa’s nephew.

th ago, on the Midsummer solstice, an alliance of princely and mage House troops under the command of Lord Marius had fought Camjiata’s army to a standstill at the city of Lemovis. Both sides had been forced to withdraw without a clear victor. Lord Marius had pulled his troops back to Lutetia to resupply and to wait for help from Rome.

“The Romans have fielded their legions at last,” said the mansa. “They have taken their time, considering we princes and mages have borne the brunt of the monster’s aggression for four months.” He looked down the length of the table. “Andevai, by the quiver of your eyebrow I discern you have a comment you wish to make. You may speak.”

Vai’s gaze skipped to me, where I stood holding a carafe, and back to his master. “Mansa, no useful campaign can be planned without taking into account that the general is using fire mages.”

The mansa’s nephew leaned forward with a sneer. “What proof have you for this insane assertion? To call fire is to die in fire.” He turned to the mansa. “Uncle, the village boy is either trying to impress you with lies or is simply too ignorant to know he is wrong.”

No wonder he hated Vai, for no man at the table could mistake the privileged place at which the mansa had seated the village boy.

“What do you think?” the mansa asked the table at large.

Vai sat in perfect rigid silence as they debated the question, some mocking, some serious.

To my surprise Viridor spoke in Vai’s defense, exactly as if he had not betrayed him. “I have seen these troubling incidents also. We cannot ignore them.”

“Blacksmiths forge weapons, and weapons are used by troops,” said the mansa’s nephew, pressing his point with the snicker of a belligerent man who believes he is being challenged by a weaker opponent. “That is not the same as mages who wield fire magic, which is an impossibility. The people in the Amerikes gulled him with tricks and illusions. One such as he cannot help believing anything he is told.”

Vai fixed his gaze on his hands, which he had laid flat on the table as if to remind himself not to clench them into fists. “I do not believe this is going on. I know it. Mansa, I have given you numerous examples, the most obvious of which are the burned estates and palaces of enemy princes, and the burn-scarred bodies of dead soldiers.”

The mansa said, “Burning down buildings is the work of the angry mob. It needs no magic. Likewise, men will deface the bodies of those they hate and fear.”

Vai nodded. “It is true that to tell the difference between what is begun by a fire mage and finished by angry men is difficult.”

The mansa’s nephew snorted. “How convenient! If it is difficult, then one can keep claiming it is true! Why would a fire mage not just burn all enemy soldiers alive, if they could do it?”

“I do not know if blood protects the living body, or if no fire mage dares unleash such a monstrous power. But regardless, all who with their own eyes witnessed the death of the mansa of Gold Cup House at Lemovis know of what I speak.” Vai looked directly at the mansa, his gaze not quite a challenge. “If the Coalition Army and the Romans do not recognize the threat of fire magic and change their tactics, they will lose.”

The mansa’s nephew drained the last of his wine, then laughed as I hastened to refill his cup before he could complain of my incompetence. “The wrath of fire mages is a story told by credulous villagers who know no better than to believe the pap they nurse from their mother’s breast. If, indeed, they even know who their mother really is.”

Vai looked up. “A man can bray like a jackass, but that doesn’t mean his noise means anything.”

Every man tensed. In a chamber full of cold mages, the temperature’s drop came as no surprise. Vai’s expression remained impassive, except for the stab of fury that twitched in his cheek.

The mansa’s nephew raised his newly filled wineglass in mocking salute. “Rumor has it you’re the only magister on campaign who sleeps alone every night. If you need some help to make a woman of the Phoenician girl, I would be happy to oblige. Most of the time they like it best when they claim they don’t want it. Just like you. I haven’t forgotten how I had to make a woman of you when you first came to Four Moons House because you stubbornly refused to acknowledge your betters. Someone had to put you in your place.”

I had a moment of stunning clarity as Vai rocked back as if he had been punched.

The gods do watch over us, even if we cannot always recognize the shape their hand takes. A serving man bearing a tureen of beet soup had halted in embarrassment an arm’s length from me. I snatched the tureen out of his hands and dumped its contents over the head of the mansa’s nephew.

He shouted, staggering up so off balance that I needed only to nudge his knee to send him tumbling ignominiously onto his backside.

“Noble Ba’al, forgive me, Magister!” I cried, slapping a hand to my chest in an exaggerated gesture worthy of Bee. “From the garbage that came out of your mouth, I mistook you for the slops bucket.”

The older men laughed appreciatively and the younger nervously, while the servants looked as if they wished they were anywhere except in the dining room.

I knelt under cover of laughter. “One word more, Magister,” I whispered, “and I will tell the tale of what a fool the Phoenician girl made of you, the day you and your soldiers and your highborn magic could not catch me when you found me unarmed on the road. I’m sure every man here wants to hear the part about how I mocked you and then stole your horse.”

Picking up the fallen wineglass, I rose, handed the empty tureen back to the stunned serving man, and to my surprise was greeted by the head wine steward handing me a full carafe.

“Well done, Maestra,” he murmured.