The Steward and the Sorcerer James Peart (read my book .TXT) 📖

those dark virtues for himself.  It never once occurred to him that of the two he was the better man.  He was wary of his Steward’s power, certainly, and it was the reason he had gathered clandestine support to make a stand against Longfellow when the Steward was up for re-election, which was soon.  Men and women he could trust to remain silent until the moment to act arrived.  He had the backing of nine council members as things stood- voting members, many of them in key positions on the council- and maybe that was enough.

Longfellow came to a stop a few feet from where Manch stood.  He adjusted his robe around his frame and took in his surroundings, the view of the city and hills afforded by the bluff.

“Good day, Scrot,” he said heartily, as casually as if the two were embarking on a nature walk together.

“Good day, my Lord,” Manch replied.  “It is a good one.  A clear day.  Unambiguous.”  If this were intended as a jibe its effect was lost on Karsin, who merely nodded his agreement, smiling.

“It is good to have these things out in the open like this,” Manch tried.  “It lets us know where we really stand against nature.”

Karsin’s grin broadened.  “What nature would that be?”

The Vice-Steward matched his smile with one of his own.  “The nature of magic, for example.  Isn’t that what you called this meeting about, to discuss the spread of outlawed sorcery?  By the Druid Daaynan, perhaps?”

Karsin traced a line in the soil with his foot, running it over and back.  “Well, yes, it is true that I have had problems dealing with magic practitioners in the outlying regions, but my control over that is well in hand, and it doesn’t really concern you.”

Scrot was unable to contain his impatience, nor could he hide his growing anger at having his time wasted.  “What did you call me here for then?” he snapped.

“Come here with me, Scrot,” Karsin said, beckoning the other with an outstretched arm toward the edge of the bluff.  Manch walked with him close to the drop, careful not to tread on the weak shelf of soil and loose rock at the precipice.

Karsin peered with him over the bluff.  “Do you see that down below?  What is it, tell me.”

“It- it’s the Utukum Valley.”

“And?”

“Well,” Manch squinted, thinking this was getting silly, “Brinemore, I suppose.”

“Brinemore,” the other exhaled.  “And what does that mean to you?”

“The greatness of our citizenry?  Civilisation.  The means to advance yourself as a...”

“Ah!  Advancement.  Now look closely at it.  See the outlying settlements, the parks, the guarded border gates, the taverns, shops, and markets.  The city’s council buildings, the administration at its very core.  The very centre of power.”  Karsin moved right up against Manch, grasping the Vice-Steward’s neck between his winding thumb and forefinger, shoving him forward to unbalance him, leaning close to whisper in his ear: “now why should I share any of that with the likes of you?  Tell me!”

Manch broke free of the Steward’s grip, stepping quickly away from the precipice.  He glared back at Longfellow.  “You’ve gone mad!  That’s the only explanation.  You led me up here to...to what?  Throw me over the side?  Are you as crazy as you are power-hungry?  Don’t you know I would never let you do that?  Never.”

Karsin laughed, a thin, high, unearthly sound that caused the hairs on the nape of the Vice-Steward’s neck to rise.  He started back down the path he had walked to get here.  “Wait,” Longfellow said, his laughter softening, “I wasn’t about to do that.  I just wanted you to be clear on one thing, Scrot...”

Manch half turned to the Steward yet maintained his stride.  “You’re unstable.  You’re unfit for office.  My first step on arriving back will be to have you removed.”

Karsin’s laughter faded to a harsh burr.  “Who will you tell this to, I wonder?  Your friend and my chief military adviser Drak Poel?”

“That needn’t concern you.”

“Poel is dead.  As is Bron, Poon, the chief of the Home Guard and my principal trade adviser.”

Drake and Alba? Manch thought, his head spinning.  Together with Poel and the other two, they were his main confidants in his bid to have Longfellow removed from office.  Even if he hadn’t done what he claimed, how did he know who was supporting him?  It was supposed to be a secret, by the Gods.

“It was an attack on Brinemore’s ruling elite by those with the use of magic who hold a grudge against the council.  It happened not two hours ago.  I brought you up here to Dram’s Peak to question you as I suspected you of orchestrating the manoeuvre.  You came flying down the hill instead talking of a conspiracy to murder you.”

Manch glared at him, catching something in his expression that made him start.  For a moment he spied past his own self-interest and read the truth in the Steward’s eyes.

“But- but it was you!  You’re a sorcerer or you have links with sorcerers.”

“That’s what you told me when I accused you.  No one will believe you, you know.  Now listen to me carefully, Scrot.  This can go either way.  The way I just outlined or one in which I had your full support in finally putting an end to this accursed sorcery in the Northern Earth.  I’ve chosen you as your family has had a bad experience with it and people will believe you want to assist me in ridding the lands of their influence.  The best thing you ever did was conspire to have me removed in secret.  Nobody suspects you wish me gone or have any issue with me whatsoever.  You were careful to confide fully only in Poel and Bron,” here Longfellow swept his arm to one side, “and they are gone.  What remains is our friendship.  I need you, just as you now need me.  Will you help me?”

Manch looked at him steadily for a long moment, his mind reeling.  With an effort, he calmed himself,