Chapter 326 — A Secret Gathering

The young mage Cohen stood in this ducal mansion, listening to the spellcasters around him murmur about that mysterious frontier territory in the Southern Marches, chiming in with a word or two now and then, though in truth his mind was elsewhere.

Half the people here had not come in earnest for that recruitment notice, and Cohen knew it well.

Behind them stood declining minor houses, newly risen nobles eager to thrust their way to a higher station, and wealthy merchants striving to curry favor with the aristocracy. Their true aim was not to become builders in some frontier territory in the Southern Marches at all, but to seize this chance to establish some connection with the Cecil family. It was true the Cecils had fallen, but the resurrected Founding Duke had already brought a sliver of hope to that declining house. Word of the Southern Marches frontier had come drifting in repeatedly over the past half year: the Cecil family had not perished on that barren land but was gradually finding its footing, and this set certain calculating minds to stirring.

Nearly everyone acknowledged one fact: even if the Founding Duke really had run off to the border to play at settlement, the Cecil family's return to the kingdom's political stage was only a matter of time. Whether for the sake of the crown's own legitimacy as a symbol or for the propriety of upholding the noble order, the King must needs make the Cecil family a pillar of the throne once more. The King might harbor misgivings about Gawain Cecil himself, but he must reckon seriously with the name "Cecil," newly restored to its ancestors' patronage.

That being so, the Cecil family, still far away at the border, naturally acquired investment value.

Yet be that as it may, the name "Cecil" remained sensitive, and their investment value was still far from clear. So many great houses were still watching and waiting, still weighing matters cautiously, and thus certain small houses—minor houses in the orbit of the great ones—were pushed to the fore, coming under cover of this ducal recruitment of extraordinaries to establish a thread of connection, the better to lay a foundation for future investment.

And apart from those with such particular purposes, the intentions of the rest on hand were no purer either. One thing alone could be certain: scarcely a soul present had truly come in answer to the Duke's summons.

Without a family commission, a professional who had attained extraordinary power had no reason at all to run off to a barren frontier and busy himself with settlement and construction. Even if the Duke's pay was not low, what gain could one reap from that land of nothing? What extraordinaries valued most was the prospect of advancement within the extraordinary domain, next the prospect of advancement in high society; money ranked third in their estimation.

As for whether one might use this chance to strike up an acquaintance with the Cecil family—spellcasters with no family background behind them would not count on that. This was a world that set store by bloodline and family inheritance; what value could a petty mage of common birth with no great fortune have in a duke's eyes?

Cohen knew he was no different. Though he had some personal acquaintance with Santis, and had decided to come and look things over only after receiving a private letter from him, in truth he had no intention of genuinely answering the Duke's recruitment. His purpose in coming here was the same as that of other young, down-at-heel spellcasters: he had merely set his eye on the "connections" this place offered. Those who wished to invest in the Cecil family were themselves but the outermost twigs of the noble order, yet for a low-ranking mage like Cohen, of ordinary birth and ordinary talent, they were still a rare and precious connection. Fully two-fifths of those in the hall had come for the sake of currying favor with such people.

There were only two kinds of people here: the first kind, who wished to curry favor with the Cecil family, and the second kind—Cohen's kind—who wished to curry favor with the first.

A young man with curly brown hair, a hooked nose, and fine silken clothes came over. Cohen recognized him as a collateral member of the Straun family, and at once rose with a smile, lifted his cup in salute, and did his utmost to strike up a few words.

The two had no real acquaintance, and the talk did not last long, but Cohen believed he had left a slight impression on the other. After that young master of the Straun family had gone, the young mage let the stiff smile fade from his face, breathed out softly, set down his cup, and left his seat.

A serving man in a red vest immediately stepped forward to ask whether he needed assistance. These attendants were all hired and dispatched by the crown; after Duke Gawain Cecil's resurrection, the King, seeking to show goodwill, had continued to supply money and men to help manage this property during the Duke's absence in the Southern Marches. Cohen waved a hand, saying only that his chest felt tight and he wished to step outside for some air.

He left the brilliantly lit parlor and came out into the cold wind. The giant sun was already sinking, and the sky was darkening bit by bit.

Cohen sneezed, rubbed his nose, turned, and made ready to drink one more cup of the precious Kalna wine and then go home.

But just then he saw that young woman of somewhat dusky complexion, in a long gown, named Gipley, walking toward him.

Santis truly had good fortune, to have such a beautiful young lady at his side.

Cohen thought this with no little envy, then gave a slight nod of greeting to the apprentice mage before him. "Miss Gipley."

He must pay his respects to the Duke's messenger, yet he must also maintain the reserve proper to a formal extraordinary—the other party, after all, was merely a mage's apprentice.

Gipley lightly touched her forehead with her fingers, returning a standard mage's salute, and asked with a smile, "Mr. Cohen Bonat, is it not?"

"That's right, that's me. Is there something you need?"

"You meet the requirements. Mr. Santis asked me to give you this."

The young apprentice mage handed Cohen a folded letter and a brooch that looked quite ordinary. After taking the letter, however, he could not help frowning slightly and said hesitantly, "But... I haven't made ready to—"

"This is not a registration letter for the Southern Marches, only an invitation to the next gathering," Gipley said with a smile. "Please do not miss this chance. Wearing the brooch is your proof of attendance at the gathering."

Cohen wanted to ask more, but Gipley only smiled mysteriously, shook her head, and turned to walk away. Having no other choice, Cohen could only lower his head, open the folded letter, and read it with curiosity.

It bore but a single sentence: After the first bell tolls tonight, remain here still.

Yet behind that sentence was a small symbol, a symbol bearing the pattern of a lightning bolt and an eye.

"A mages' secret gathering? What is Santis up to... Does he mean to use this chance of running errands for the Duke to hold a private gathering of his own? Does he still mean to return to the mage circles of the royal capital?"

Cohen muttered curiously, frowning, but all the same carefully put the letter away.

Whatever Santis intended, a mages' secret gathering of this sort was well worth attending. Spellcasters exchanging views among themselves was in itself a fine opportunity to hone one's strength and gain knowledge; it was only that organizing a respectable gathering was not cheap. Since someone had stepped forward to organize this one, and one could go on savoring fine wine and good food in the Duke's mansion besides, Cohen was sure most would not let the chance slip.

He glanced at the sky outside and found the sun all but wholly sunk beneath the horizon: the first bell was not far off.