The Dragon Revenant - Katharine Kerr [137]
After the Old One withdrew, the Hawkmaster’s display of fury vanished just as suddenly. So, the ancient fool thought he could be goaded into a reckless attack like a mere apprentice, did he? He was going to be very surprised when the Hawks turned up at his gates, quite unharmed and with allies at their side. For a long time the Hawkmaster paced back and forth, thinking, wondering at himself and his ambitions, while Baruma cowered and whimpered and his men watched in silent anticipation, as if they knew that great things were afoot.
He would have to be very careful, the master told himself, to make certain that his ambitions didn’t exceed his grasp. For years the Dark Brotherhood had hoarded knowledge of the dweomer like some fat rich man gloating all grease-chin over his feasts and throwing only meager scraps of stale bread and gristled meat to the beggars at his door. Since the Hawks were useful to them, they received these scraps; since they were equally dangerous, scraps were all they got. But in the Old One’s villa were books and consecrated implements, perhaps even captive spirits who would speak of dark magicks upon command—if the Hawkmaster owned those things, wouldn’t every assassin in the islands come grovel at his feet for a share? Wouldn’t they pay with gold as well as adulation to learn what he knew? And once the Hawks were learned and strong in the dark arts, then there would be no more Brotherhood—only Hawks.
Before, no one had dared attack the Old One for fear of retribution, but now he had unleashed a dangerous enemy on the islands. No doubt the other members of the Brotherhood would agree that anyone who would knowingly bring the Master of the Aethyr—and apparently one of his disciples as well—down upon them all was growing daft and senile. No doubt the Brotherhood would not agree that the Hawks should have the Old One’s books, but once the books were in their hands, the Brotherhood could disagree all it wished. Its members would be welcome to try to take them back, if they dared.
There remained, of course, the problem of the Master of the Aethyr. Although the Hawkmaster had no intentions whatsoever of attacking the old man, he could ensure that no one for miles around would willingly help him and his disciple. Eventually, the Old One and the master of the Light would meet on a field of war; no matter who won that battle, the Hawkmaster would profit. Either the Old One would be dead and defeated, or a victor but severely weakened. If Nevyn did win, then the Hawkmaster would merely loot the villa and disappear. Or—and here the elegance of his plan gratified him no end—if he should kill a battle-weary Nevyn, wouldn’t the Brotherhood fear him all the more and let him study the books in peace?
There was, however, one last major difficulty: what if he never found Nevyn again after that last battle? The Hawkmaster had heard that masters of magic could kill one another out on the etheric plane while their bodies were miles apart. The Hawkmaster wanted them together on the physical plane, where he could move in on the winner. To ensure it, he would have to mark a trail in some subtle way that would lead the Master of the Aethyr right to the Old One’s door. It all sounded perfectly reasonable, there on the rainy hillside, reasonable and better yet, immensely profitable.
Smiling to himself, the Hawkmaster turned to his men, sitting patiently nearby.
“Take Baruma into the woods aways—no, don’t hurt him! Put that knife away, you idiot! Just keep him at a distance so he can’t overhear me. Baruma is very important to us. He knows the way to the Old One’s villa. In fact, little piglet, I’ll see to it that you get a real meal tonight, all you want to eat.”
Baruma grinned and drooled, peering