Halice was glaring at an impressive building at the head of the market square. It had a definite air of authority, roofs neatly slated with stone rather than wooden shingles and walls scoured clean of the mottled stains of age. A splash of bright green on a ground of azure blue hung bashful from a lanyard, waiting for Temar’s return to hoist it to the foremost gable. Held out by a helpful wind, it would show a device of three overlapping holm oak leaves.

“It’s all very well Temar hanging out his flag but as soon as anyone fussing sees he’s never there, they head straight for Guinalle. What we want is some magic to stick the lad’s arse to a chair every morning,” said Halice with a glint in her eye. “Artifice or wizardry, I don’t care which.”

I chuckled. “Shiv might oblige. Let’s see what’s trading while we’re waiting.” I gestured towards the large hall to the offhand of Temar’s residence. That had rapidly become the centre for barter and bargaining among colonists and mercenaries alike. I might find something worth the promise of a few of Ryshad’s bricks.

Hearth Master, Flood Mistress.” A startled maidservant bobbed a curtsey to the stout man sweeping into the quadrangle. He spared her a lordly wave of the full-cut sleeve of his velvet robe. The woman with him ignored the girl, cutting directly across the flagstones towards Planir’s door, unyielding determination on her weathered face. She held the door for her companion with visible impatience but remained silent, setting a punishing pace up the stairs. The man rapped a fat hand on Planir’s door, ruby rings dark on three fingers.

“Come in.” Planir sat in a high-backed, comfortably upholstered chair by the empty fireplace, a book in one hand, a goblet of fruit juice in the other, a crumb-strewn plate on a small table at his side. “Troanna, Kalion, please, help yourselves. There’s caraway loaf or sunrise breads. Something to drink?” He got to his feet.

Kalion, flushed from the exertion of the stairs, smiled at the generously laid table. He tucked a cushion behind him as he sat and unbuttoned the high collar of his scarlet gown, its nap still fresh from the tailor’s brush. “Thank you, Archmage, a little plum cordial, with plenty of water,” he added hastily.

“Just a glass of water, if you please.” Troanna sat unsmiling in an upright chair and ignored golden glazed buns still warm from the oven, split ready for fluffy sweetened cream and the preserves to hand in crystal dishes. As Kalion filled an eager plate, she settled the skirts of an emerald gown in the Caladhrian style favoured by most of Hadrumal’s women. Troanna’s dress was as severe as her expression, without even the usual embroidery to lighten it. Her hazel eyes studied Planir with an intelligence that made it plain she was no mere gap-toothed matron subsiding into dumpy middle age and greying hair. “We came to discuss appointing a new Cloud Master.”

“Or Cloud Mistress.” Kalion looked up from the breakfast table with instant alertness. “Archmage, have you seen the conclusions Velindre drew from her voyage around the Cape of Winds last summer? She’s proving extremely talented.”

“I’ve not had the pleasure of reading her journal as yet.” Planir smiled as he poured drinks at an expensively inlaid sideboard. He waved a hand at the books stacked higher than Troanna’s head on the reading desk. “I have so many calls on my time.”

“You should make time to consider all candidates,” Troanna said, unimpressed, hands laced in her lap.

“Such excessive delay is causing talk around the halls,” Kalion warned as he spread damson jam with precise knife strokes.

“I’m assessing every candidate most thoroughly.” Planir gestured towards the book he’d set aside. “That’s Rafrid’s treatise on the interaction of the southern sea winds and the winter winds from the northern mountains.” He handed a crystal glass to Troanna and set a carafe of water together with a goblet of ruby liquor by Kalion’s elbow.

“If Rafrid had ambitions to be Cloud Master, he shouldn’t have accepted mastery of Hiwan’s Hall.” Kalion emphasised his words with a jab of an empty cream spoon.

“Master or Mistress, we need someone coordinating the proper study of the element,” insisted Troanna.

“Quite so.” Kalion added a little water to the cordial in the goblet. “Archmage, what am I to do when some apprentice appears with a query that should properly be referred to a Cloud Master?”

“Your talents with the air are well known.” Planir resumed his seat, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair as he steepled his fingers. His face was amiable. “I imagine you’re both equal to such questions.”

“That’s no answer and you know it.” Troanna’s response was curt. “Those coming here to explore their affinity deserve guidance from the leading proficients in each and every element.”

“I agree.” Planir’s expression was more serious. “Which is why I won’t rush such a crucial decision.”

“All delay gets you is dirt and long nails,” Troanna retorted.

Kalion took another bun with a casual air. “It would be quite proper for you to nominate two or three candidates to the Council and ask for a vote. There’s plenty of precedent for such appointments.”

“The Council won’t select Rafrid,” Troanna warned. “He can’t be Cloud Master and run a hall.”

Kalion’s laugh was forced. “He can’t run with the hare and hunt with the hounds.”

Planir looked at him, unsmiling. “You have a point to make?”

Troanna was unmoved by the chill in the Archmage’s voice. “You say you’re so busy? Perhaps you should set aside some duties. Let the Council choose a new Stone Master at the same time as the Cloud Master we need.”

“Or Mistress,” interjected Kalion.

Planir shrugged dismissively. “I’m hardly the first Archmage to be an Element Master at the same time.”

“Sooner or later, they all relinquished the lesser duty,” said Troanna bluntly. “I thought you’d have the wit to see the necessity sooner, Planir.”

“Archmage, you’ve naturally been preoccupied with guiding Hadrumal through the last few years’ upheavals in the wider world.” Kalion’s sincerity was unaffected by the cream smudging his plump chin. “It’s no reflection on your abilities but can you honestly claim to have time for assessing some apprentice’s notions on the cohesion of rock?”

“What if these Elietimm with their peculiar enchantments reappear?” Troanna spoke mercilessly over him. “Can Hadrumal stay uninvolved if they threaten Tormalin or Kellarin again? As Archmage, you’ll have Emperor Tadriol, the dukes of Lescar, the Caladhrian Parliament and whoever else come running in a panic and asking for our aid.”

“What if they attack Hadrumal itself?” Kalion’s ruddy cheeks paled and recollection haunted his eyes. “We’ve seen their abhorrence of wizardry. You’ll need a full nexus of Element Masters backing you to work quintessential magic to stop them.”

“I hardly think it’ll come to that.” Planir took up his fruit juice and sipped it with unconcern.

“No?” Troanna’s scepticism was biting. “Otrick was my friend and this Artifice left his mind dead within him. I can’t forget that. Nor do I want to sit vigil over any more living corpses because you were tied up in disputes over pupillage agreements when you were needed to defend someone else.”

“Set the Elietimm aside, Archmage.” Food abandoned, Kalion leaned earnest elbows on the table. “Even without them, your duties as Archmage increase with every season from what I can see. Hadrumal is committed to helping these people in Kellarin. They need our magecraft to sail the very oceans, never mind anything else. You’ve extended invitations to any wizards in Solura who might care to study here. You’ve been talking about pursuing Usara’s discovery of magebirth among the Mountain and the Forest races. We have Mentor Tonin trying to search out Artifice’s secrets and Vanam’s scholars visiting here while our mages travel to their university. The pace is hardly going to slacken. All we ask is you consider setting aside some of your other burdens.”