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  Fire Logic

  ( Elemental Logic - 1 )

  J. Marks Laurie

  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 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, scholar and reluctant warrior; Zanja, the sole survivor of a slaughtered tribe; and Karis the metalsmith, a half-blood giant whose earth powers can heal, but only when she can muster the strength to hold off her addiction to a deadly drug. Separately, all they can do is watch as Shaftal falls from prosperity into lawlessness and famine. But if they can find a way to work together, they just may change the course of history.

  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 Logiccuts 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

  Copyright © 2002 by Laurie J. Marks

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  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 wrongdo
ers 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 surefooted. 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.