Laurie Marks - Elemental Logic 01 - Fire Logic

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EARTH-AIR-WATER-FIRE

These elements have sustained the peaceful people of Shaftal for generations, with their subtle powers of

healing, truth, joy, and intuition.

But now Shaftal is dying.

The earth witch who ruled Shaftal is dead, leaving no heir. Shaftal’s ruling house has been scattered and

destroyed by the invading Sainnites. The Shaftali have mobilized a guerrilla army against these marauders,

but every year the cost of resistance grows, leaving Shaftal’s fate in the hands of three people:

Emil the Shaftali paladin: an officer and a scholar whose elemental powers make him an excellent

judge of character;

Zanja the diplomat: the sole survivor of a slaughtered tribe, her fire powers bringing the gift of

prescience;

Karis the metalsmith: a half-blood giant whose earth powers can heal and create, but only when she

can muster the strength to hold off her addiction to a deadly drug that suspends her will.

Separately, all they can do is watch as Shaftal falls from prosperity into lawlessness and famine. If they

can find a way to work together, they may just change the course of history.

In the tradition of Ursula K. Le Guin and Elizabeth Lynn, Laurie J. Marks weaves a complex tale of

political and personal struggle, set in a world whose concerns are as familiar as today’s headlines.

Praise for Fire Logic

“Laurie Marks brings skill, passion, and wisdom to her new novel. Entertaining and engaging—an

excellent read!“

—Kate Elliott

“This is a treat: a strong, fast-paced tale of war and politics in a fantasy world where magic based on the

four elements of alchemy not only works but powerfully affects the lives of those it touches. An unusual,

exciting read.“

—Suzy McKee Charnas

“A glorious cast of powerful, compelling, and appealingly vulnerable characters struggling to do the right

thing in a world gone horribly wrong. I couldn’t put this down until I’d read it to the end. Marks truly

understands the complex forces of power, desire, and obligation.“

—Nalo Hopkinson

“Since reading Dancing Jack, I’ve been yearning for a new book by Laurie Marks, and the long wait

has been rewarded: Fire Logic cuts deliciously through the mind to the heart with the delicacy, strength,

beauty, and surgical precision of the layered Damascus steel blade that provides one of the book’s

central images.“

—Candas Jane Dorsey

FIRE LOGIC

Laurie J. Marks

TOR®

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are

used fictitiously.

FIRE LOGIC

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Edited by Delia Sherman

Design by Heidi Eriksen

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates,

LLC 175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Marks, Laurie J.

Fire Logic / Laurie Marks.—1st ed.

p. cm.

“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”

ISBN 0-312-87887-7 (alk. paper)

I. Title.

PS3613.A369 F57 2002

813‘.54—dc21 2001058352

First Edition: May 2002

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

Part 1: Foolhardy

1 2 3 4 5 6

Part 2: Fire Night

7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Part 3: The Hinge of History

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

For three enduring friends, who, with their elemental talents of fire,

earth, water, and air, bound into this book their insights,

truths, joys, and intelligence:

Rosemary, Delia, and Didi

Acknowledgments

I am fortunate in my friends, a sustaining community of people who read this manuscript again and again,

and whose thoughtful responses helped this book and its author to transcend her limitations. I am

particularly indebted to the group known fondly as the Genrettes: Rosemary Kirstein, Delia Sherman, and

Didi Stewart, whose cappucino-inspired insight saw to the heart of many an incoherent draft, and whose

energized and entertaining companionship spirited me through a long labor. In addition, for commentary,

advice, and support in every imaginable form, I am profoundly grateful to Deb Manning, Susanna Sturgis,

Wendy Marks, Gretchen Marks, Diane Silver, Gillian Spraggs, Donna Simone, Amy Hanson, Ellen

Kushner, and my beloved Deb Mensinger.

Fire Logic

Part 1

Foolhardy

What is worth doing is worth merely beginning.

— MACKAPEE’S Principles for Community

Who breeches the wall breeches the trust of the people, for without walls

there can be no defense.

—MABIN’S Warfare

Without a history, we cannot distinguish heroes from fools.

—MEDRIC’S History of My Father’s People

Chapter One

In the border regions of northern Shaftal, the peaks of the mountains loom over hardscrabble farmholds.

The farmers there build with stone and grow in stone, and they might even be made of stone themselves,

they are so sturdy in the face of the long, bitter winter that comes howling down at them from the

mountains.

The stone town of Kisha would have been as insignificant as all the northern towns, if not for the fact that

Makapee, the first G’deon, had lived and died there. His successor, Lilter, had discovered the

manuscript of the book in which were laid out the principles that were to shape Shaftal. During the next

two hundred years, the library built to house the Makapee manuscript had transformed the humble town

into an important place, a town of scholars and librarians who gathered there to study and care for the

largest collection of books in the country. The library had in turn spawned a university, and the scholars,

forced to live in the bitter northern climate, tried to make their months of shivering indoors by a smoky

peat fire into an intellectual virtue.

Emil Paladin considered frostbite a small price to pay for the privilege of being a student in the university

at Kisha. He was older than some of the masters, and his long-time teacher, Parel Truthken, had warned

him that he might be more learned, as well. For ten years, since his first piercing, Emil had accompanied

Parel on the rounds of his territory, capturing fleeing wrongdoers and occasionally executing them when it

was necessary. It was Parel who had finally arranged Emil’s admission and who would be paying his

fees. So now Emil had arrived for the spring term, with a letter of introduction that was about to bring him

into the presence of the Makapee manuscript itself.

Despite expensive carpets, rooms crammed with books, and fires that burned year round to prevent the

damp, the library was a chilly and echoing place where men and women in scholar’s robes tiptoed about.

Being admitted to the Makapee manuscript, which set forth the principles that now unified Shaftal, was

like being admitted into a temple. As he put on the silken gloves that he was required to wear, it occurred

to Emil that Makapee himself would have found this ritual tremendously peculiar. The first G’deon had

been an obscure potato farmer, who sat by a peat fire all winter long, writing of mysteries in a crabbed,

nearly unreadable handwriting. The paper, Emil had been told, still smelled of peat. He doubted that the

frowning librarian would let his nose come close enough to the paper for him to sniff it, but still, Emil felt

almost giddy with anticipation.

A door opened, and the sound of an urgently ringing bell intruded on the silence. The librarian turned her

head, frowning. “What!” she breathed at the man who hurried towards her.

The man whispered in her ear. Paling, she turned aside and hurried away. Emil was left with the gloves on

his hands and the door to the Makapee vault still bolted shut. He felt a tearing, a sense of loss so

profound he could not believe it had anything at all to do with the manuscript. Something momentous had

happened. Dazed, he went through the halls, following the sound of the bell out into the square that

fronted on the library.

As the bell continued to ring, the square became crowded with scholars carrying pens with the ink still

wet on the nibs, librarians carrying books, townsfolk wearing work aprons, with babies in their arms and

tools in their hands, and farmers from the countryside in heavy, muddy boots, with satchels on their

shoulders. The farmers must have spotted the messenger on the road, and followed him into town to hear

the news. The messenger’s dirty, ragged banner hung limp from the bell tower, and Emil could scarcely

make out the single glyph imprinted on it. It was Death-and-Life, he realized finally, which was commonly

depicted on glyph cards as a pyre into which a man stepped and became a skeleton, or, alternately, from

which a skeleton stepped and became a man. It was the G’deon’s glyph, carried through Shaftal only

once in each G’deon’s lifetime: when the previous G’deon died and the new one was vested with the

power of Shaftal. It called the people to simultaneously mourn and rejoice. Soon, the messenger would

announce the death of Harald G’deon, who had given the land protection and health for thirty-five years,

and would name his successor.

Emil did not envy the young elemental selected to inherit that burden of power and decision. The

government of Shaftal had been in discord for some years, and the coastal regions were occupied by

foreigners who lacked the Paladin compunctions over the use of violence. This was a time that demanded

wisdom, and the new G’deon would not have much leisure to learn it.

A townswoman with a child clinging to her leg turned to Emil and said anxiously, “Well, it’s a pity about

Harald. But what I most want to hear is the name of his successor. It would relieve my heart to know that

the rumors we’ve heard are wrong.”

“Rumors?” said Emil. “I’m sorry, I was isolated all winter, and have only just come into town.”

“Well, they say that even though Harald has known since autumn that he was dying, he refused to name a

successor. Surely he did it at the end, though. He’d change his mind when he felt the breath of death at

his heels. And now all this Sainnite nonsense will come to an end, at last, for a young G’deon won’t fear

to act against them.”

The bell stopped ringing. The messenger, whose road-grimy clothing had once been white, stood up on

the bell platform to speak, but he could utter only a cracked whisper that those closest to him could

scarcely hear. The people pushed a big man forward to stand beside him and listen to his broken voice,

then shout his words in a voice that carried across half the town.

“Harald G’deon is dead!”

The gathered people nodded somberly.

“He vested no successor!” the big man boomed.

Some listeners groaned, and others cried out in dismay, but Emil stood silent in horror. It was

unimaginable that a G’deon would allow the accumulated power of ten generations of earth witches to

die with him.

“The House of Lilterwess has fallen in a Sainnite attack!” the big man shouted. His words were heard in

stunned silence, followed by an outcry of shock and grief that swelled to fill the square. The big man’s

final words could scarcely be heard. “No one survived.”

From every quarter, the townspeople shouted frightened, frenzied questions. The messenger sank down

onto the bell platform and replied in his broken whisper, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Emil had already stripped off his silk gloves, and now handed them to a nearby librarian—the same one

who had been about to admit him to the vault. “What will become of us?” she cried.

“Shaftal is at war,” he said.

He pushed his way through the weeping crowd and headed for the nearest Paladin charterhouse, where

he knew the members of his order would gather. He noticed that he himself was weeping, though, except

for that first tearing sensation in the library, he felt nothing. It was a small thing, insignificant beyond

notice, that the fall of the House of Lilterwess had severed Emil’s soul, separating the scholar from the

soldier, leaving his heart on the steps of the library while his duty called him away to war.

At the edge of the crowded square, an old man and a young woman observed the aftermath of the

messenger’s terrible news. Though they did not look like anyone else in the square, they were distinctly

similar to each other: small-framed where the Shaftali were sturdily built, dark-skinned where the Shaftali

were fair, with eyes and hair black as obsidian, where the townsfolk were generally tinted the color of

earth. In dress also, they stood apart as strangers, wearing long tunics of finely woven goat’s wool and

jerkins and leggings of deerskin, while the working people wore breeches and longshirts. Both had long

hair plaited and knotted at. the backs of their heads. Let loose from its bindings, the young woman’s hair

would have brushed her thighs, and the man’s hair would have reached his knees. Even their faces were

shaped differently from those of the townsfolk: narrow and pointed, with hollows under the cheekbones

and eyes deep set in shadow.

With their pack animals tethered nearby, the two strangers stood beside a pile of beautifully woven

blankets and rugs. When the messenger first arrived, they had been negotiating a large sale to a trader of

woolens. The old man turned from his consideration of the weeping crowd to speak quietly to his

companion, in a subtle, singing language. “So we cross the boundary into a new world.”

She said, “But I feel the world is dissolving away before us, like a crumbling ledge above a crashing

cataract.”

“Every boundary crossing feels like this,” the old man said. “When we cross a boundary, it is a loss, a

death, an ending. It always seems unendurable. It always seems like plunging over a cliff.” He added

kindly, “Zanja na’Tarwein, what has happened here portends a future that is more yours than mine. It is

not too late to change your mind and refuse the gods.”

Though she was young, her face did not seem much given to laughter. She smiled though, ironically.

“How shall I do that? Shall I unlearn all I have learned, these last two years? Shall I tell Salos’a that now

I have seen the world beyond the mountains I want nothing to do with it?”

“You could,” he suggested. “The mountains protect our people like a fortress. You might retreat behind

those walls and never come out again.”

“No, Speaker,” she said, seriously and respectfully, “I could not.”

They stood silently for a long time, watching the crowd divide into arm-waving, wildly talking clusters.

The youths sent from the farms left to bear their news to the waiting elders. Zanja imagined the people of

the entire country standing about like this, bereft and bewildered. She said, “Now the Sainnites will

overpower them like wolves overpower sheep.” Her people got their wool from goats, who were brave

and clever and sure-footed. She had no admiration for sheep.

The Speaker said, “No, I think not. Perhaps the Shaftali people are not wolves, but neither are they

sheep.”

The trader finally remembered his visitors and their pile of woolens, and came over wringing his hands. “I

don’t know what to say to you. Ashawala’i woolens are a luxury, and I don’t know if I can sell luxuries

to a country at war.”

The Speaker said dryly, “Good sir, this land has been occupied by Sainnites for fifteen years, yet you

never had any difficulty selling your wares before.”

“But now the House of Lilterwess has fallen.” The man could not continue. “Come back tomorrow,” he

finally said in a choked voice. “I need to consider my future.”

“I am considering whether the Ashawala’i people would be better served if we sold their woolens to a

more decisive trader. One who will not make us spend an entire afternoon unpacking and repacking with

nothing to show for it.” He gestured, and Zanja, who understood the value of drama, began painstakingly

and with evident weariness to roll up the large, beautiful rug over which they had been dickering. The

trader thought better of his caution, and money changed hands.

As they led their string of sturdy horses away, the old man commented, “We will travel more lightly

now.”

The Speaker had said he would bring her to the House of Lilterwess, to introduce her to its most

important residents: Mabin, the council head, the other eleven councilors representing the Orders of

Lilterwess and each of the regions of Shaftal, and Harald G’deon himself. Now, the House of Lilterwess

was rubble, the twelve councilors were dead, and so was Harald G’deon. Now, Zanja asked, “But

where will we travel to?” The Speaker did not answer.

They walked down one of the town’s main streets until they reached a place where an inn stood on one

side of the road, and on the other side stood a Lilterwess charterhouse. The yard was busy with horses

being saddled and armament and supplies being distributed to a company of Paladins. Most of them

seemed very young, not yet pierced with the first gold earring that would mark the day they took their

vows to spend their life in service to Shaftal. Their senior officer, a woman whose two earrings glittered in

the bright spring sun, came over to the fence. “That’s a fine string of animals you’ve got there. The

Paladins have need of them.”

“I am the Speaker for the Ashawala’i before the Council of Lilterwess, and these are the only horses and

donkeys owned by my people. Without them, the trade between my people and yours would come to an

end.”

“That seems a small matter when the world is coming to an end.”

“It is not a small matter.” The Speaker leaned his elbows unconcernedly on the fence. “And you will not

take my people’s stock, for we are protected under the law.”

“What do we know anymore?” the commander muttered. “Isn’t it against the law for children to ride to

war? Isn’t it against the law for the House of Lilterwess to be turned to rubble?” She turned rather

agitatedly to shout something at someone.

“You may borrow our donkeys,” said the Speaker, “If we accompany them.”

“We ride out on Paladin business.”

“It is the Speaker’s duty to advise and protect our people. For that, we must know all we can about

events in Shaftal. And we are katrim, warriors like yourself, with vows to fulfill. We will observe, and

not interfere, and perhaps we might even be of some help.“

The commander looked at them then. She saw two schooled faces and disciplined stances. The

Speaker’s hands had many small scars, of a kind a blade fighter might get in practice bouts. His young

companion’s hands were scarred also, though not so heavily. Both of them had a rather unnerving quality

to their gazes, an intentness and seriousness that seemed almost unnaturally alert and intelligent. Perhaps

these two had elemental talents. In any case, they almost certainly would be valuable companions.

The commander said, for she was desperate for beasts to carry the gear of war, “We ride to a gathering

of Paladins, and after that we ride against the Sainnites. Come with us if you like, but I can’t promise

your safety, or the safety of your animals.”

Seeming amused, the Speaker accepted her terms.

Zanja na’Tarwein closely watched these negotiations. Like her, the Speaker once had accompanied his

predecessor when he was a young katrim. Like her, he belonged to a fire clan, and had been born with

an elemental talent for languages and insight. And, like her, when he went on his vision journey he had

dreamed of the god Salos’a. Now, by watching him she continued to learn what it meant to be chosen by

the one who crosses between worlds, who sees in all directions. Though the hawk, the raven, and owl

were all associated with death, Salos’a was not a killer like the hawk, or a trickster like the raven. The

owl conducted souls to the Land of the Sun, and was a restless wanderer who acknowledged no

boundaries.

Zanja had already learned that she who crosses between worlds is a stranger everywhere, even in the

land of her birth. Having lived for six seasons with a Shaftali farm family, she had developed two minds

and two ways of seeing, to go with her two languages. After that, her own family found her peculiar, and

said that she stumbled between contradictory cultures and languages like a drunken fool. The Speaker

had explained, “That is what it means to be a Speaker. Did you think it would be easy or graceful?” He

had added, no more reassuringly, “What you see and know depends on which eyes you see with.”

Today, she had come to understand more clearly why a crosser of boundaries must learn to see through

the eyes of strangers. Twice today, the Speaker had settled a difference in his favor by constructing an

argument from the materials of his opponent’s self-interest and values. As they began the journey

southward in the company of Paladins, she considered in silence the Speaker’s methods, and what he

had needed to know about the person he spoke to in order to properly advocate for his people’s

interests. Now, when he spoke to her about the towns they passed, and described the peculiar ways and

customs of the people there, she listened attentively, thinking all the while about the potential usefulness of

the information.

The Paladins with whom they journeyed seemed a random collection: some were well-equipped and

travel-hardened, others had the pale skin and soft hands of scholars and their riding gear was creased

from having been folded away in trunks. More than half of them seemed to have only recently left their

family farmholds. Except for the fact that they all traveled armed, and they shared a propensity for

lengthy, arcane discussions of philosophy, it might have been difficult to tell that they all were members of

the same order.

One of the Paladins had been riding somewhat separate from the others. A man neither young nor old, he

did not eat or drink or join in conversations, and walked away alone when they stopped to rest the

horses. “What about him interests you?” the Speaker asked Zanja, when he noticed her watching the

man.

“He is so solitary,” she said.

“Is that all? You must listen more carefully to your intuition, or you will not survive for long.”

She considered the lone man, who now stood a good distance away, gazing at something beyond the far

horizon. “He is not merely sad,” she said. “He is complex. He knows so much that it weighs him down.

And yet I think he could be merry. The same knowledge that he finds so heavy might also give him joy.”

The Speaker grunted approvingly. “You’re guessing, of course. But you’re learning to let your

guesswork reveal the truth. Now tell me what kind of man you have described.”

Zanja considered some more, and abruptly felt quite stupid. “Of course, he is a fire blood, like us.”

“Next time,” the Speaker said, “It will not take so long for you to realize it.”

* * *

They had neared their journey’s end when the solitary man, with apparent effort, began making himself

more convivial. Eventually, he dropped back and walked his horse beside the Speaker’s and soon had

convinced Zanja’s teacher to give a lengthy, detailed exposition of the differences between the

Ashawala’i and the Shaftali people.

The solitary man’s name was Emil. He told them that after fifteen years as a Paladin, he recently had been

pierced with the earring of Regard. He self-consciously fingered the two gold earrings in his right earlobe.

“I suppose they’ll make me a commander now,” he said, without enthusiasm. “And what will become of

you, now that we have no G’deon or Lilterwess Council for you to speak to? How will you advocate for

your people?”

The Speaker said, “In just a few years, these problems will be Zanja’s, so perhaps she should answer

your question.”

Zanja was unprepared, but she could not defer to her elders when the Speaker made it so clear she must

think for herself. “As Shaftal changes, my duties must change as well,” she said. “But how could I say

how Shaftal is going to change? Perhaps Shaftal will form a new government, to which I might be an

ambassador. Or perhaps the Sainnites will.” Emil looked rather startled by this grim possibility, but

refrained from objecting. “Perhaps Shaftal will become a land of violence and confusion,” she continued,

“And I will keep that turmoil from affecting my people.”

The Speaker grunted with approval, which encouraged her to add, “Perhaps my duties will become

impossible to fulfill.”

“Perhaps they will,” the Speaker said.

But Emil, who seemed much impressed by her answer, said, “Impossible? For a woman of less talent,

perhaps.”

The Ashawala’i did not compliment each other so directly. Zanja glanced confusedly at the Speaker,

who said on her behalf, “You are too kind.”

“We have arrived,” said Emil, standing up in his stirrups to see better. For some time they had been

Laurie Marks - Elemental Logic 01 - Fire Logic

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