Blood in the Water (28 page)

“Bright as steel on flint, she was,” Gren said cheerfully. “Blood and magefire all around and she wouldn’t let us see her frightened.”

Tathrin’s blood ran cold. If Mellitha didn’t already know Sorgrad’s secret, she did now.

Gren saw nothing amiss. “You’ve always liked fiery girls, haven’t you?”

“You know nothing about it.” Sorgrad’s reply was just a little too swift.

Gren was right, though. Tathrin had seen Sorgrad’s respect for Failla, when she had defied the three of them, even as they were busy kidnapping her. How would that courage serve her now, if she were captured in Carluse?

“Don’t fret, my dear.”

He realised Mellitha was looking at him. What had his face given away?

“Wizardry’s no crime in Relshaz,” Mellitha explained. “Sorgrad and I know where we both stand.”

The Mountain Man demurred. “That remains to be seen.”

“Let’s see if we can clarify matters.” Mellitha rang a silver bell on the table at her elbow.

The room’s second door opened. This place must be an absolute maze. Then again, so were Vanam’s brothels, in Tathrin’s admittedly limited experience.

He knew enough to be sure that the young woman who entered was no whore. Her luminous hazel eyes were striking but she had none of the prostitutes’ superficial prettiness. Her neat grey dress sought neither to display nor to conceal her figure, and her self-possession convinced Tathrin she neither required nor desired any man’s admiration.

“May I introduce Jilseth, recently arrived from Hadrumal? As you might imagine, she enjoys Archmage Planir’s confidence.” Mellitha’s hand swept around. “This is Sorgrad and his brother Gren, and Tathrin, who finds himself in uncomfortably deep water through no fault of his own.”

Tathrin knew his face betrayed his dismay. A second magewoman—and worse, one with personal ties to the Archmage?

Mellitha smiled serenely. “Tathrin, Gren, fetch that table so we can all see more clearly.”

He quickly helped Gren do as she asked, careful not to spill the water filling the shallow silver bowl.

Sorgrad looked at Mellitha. “Who are we scrying for?”

“This is a little different.” Jilseth took a small vial out of a purse at her waist and poured viscous oil onto the water. It wasn’t green oil pressed from olives, or anything else that Tathrin knew from his mother’s kitchen. Yellow scum spread across the water with an acrid odour that caught in the back of his throat.

“What’s that?” Sorgrad growled.

He didn’t mean the oil. Jilseth was unwinding a scrap of muslin to reveal a bloody bone, fresh shreds of meat clinging to it.

“A joint from Downy Scardin’s forefinger.” She dropped it into the bowl.

“Necromancy.”

Gren’s revulsion startled Tathrin. Gren, who’d gone digging in an ancient battlefield to find the bones to fake Failla’s death.

“Gentlemen, if you could pay attention.” Mellitha gestured towards the bowl.

Amber light bubbled up from the bone, consuming the floating oil. Wisps of bitter smoke rose from the seething bowl. Jilseth gathered them with her hands, coaxing them into a ball. Golden light flowed from her fingers, weaving a net among the smoky tendrils.

This wasn’t like a scrying, seeing a flat image floating on water. Something coalesced inside the sphere of light and shadow hovering above the bowl. A miniature vision of a room, like the doll’s house Tathrin’s sisters had played with. The figures inside weren’t fashioned from clothespins and scraps of cloth, though. He desperately stifled a cough.

A fat black-haired man in tunic and trews sat by a desk piled high with papers. He was nodding as he spoke to another man, taller, thin, with a shaven scalp. Dressed in riding boots and breeches, his long-sleeved jerkin hung unbuttoned over his shirt. The thin man handed over a heavy leather purse. The fat man stowed it in a drawer and turned the key. He began writing, pausing several times to gesture.

The thin man nodded and waited patiently. When the fat man concluded his letter, the thin man drew a dagger hidden beneath his tunic and swiftly cut the fat man’s throat to the bone. Taking only the letter, and reclaiming his purse, he cautiously opened the glass-paned door. But he didn’t leave the garden by the gate. Tathrin saw him climb onto the windowsill outside, presumably reaching for the balcony above. His boots disappeared from view as the vision in the smoke dissolved.

“There’s not a Watchman born thinks to track a man over rooftops,” Gren mused. “Not unless he sees him climbing, and even then they don’t like following.”

“As any decent thief will tell you,” agreed Sorgrad.

“Do you know who he is?” Jilseth demanded.

“No.” Sorgrad answered for them both. “Do you know what he wanted with Downy Scardin?”

Mellitha shot him a hard look. “Downy Scardin helps evil men find each other. Would you care to tell us your business with him?”

Jilseth’s gaze was equally penetrating. “Of late, Scardin’s been taking coin from the corsairs who lair in the Archipelago’s fringes and raid the Caladhrian coast.”

Gren shrugged. “We know nothing about that.”

“We’re busy enough in Lescar.” Sorgrad smiled.

“Are you?” Jilseth raised an auburn eyebrow. “When the corsairs are offering a fortune in gold and gems for any wizard willing to dirty his hands?”

“No fortune’s worth Archmage Planir’s enmity,” Sorgrad assured her. “As you’re well aware, if he’s sent you to dissuade any mages tempted to turn mercenary.”

Jilseth looked intently at him. “You’ve never been approached, on your own account, or by someone asking if you know any other renegade mage?”

“I’m no renegade, madam,” Sorgrad assured her. “How could I be, when I owe no allegiance to Hadrumal?”

Staring into the bowl, Tathrin noticed that the finger bone was parboiled. He swallowed queasily.

“Then what was your business with Downy Scardin?” Mellitha demanded.

“None of yours,” said Gren caustically.

Tathrin’s tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He cleared his throat. “That man, who killed the fat one, his name is Karn. He’s a Triolle spy.”

“The man who attacked Branca and Lady Derenna?” Sorgrad’s face hardened.

Gren looked as menacing. “When they were travelling in Sharlac with the apothecary?”

“It’s him,” Tathrin insisted.

When Aremil had told him of that assault, he’d seen every detail of Branca’s recollection. Aremil’s fear for the woman he loved had laid his mind wide open. Tathrin had been stunned to realise the depth of Aremil’s feelings for the plain and sturdy Artificer. And he remembered this spy Karn’s face, no question.

“Kindly explain,” snapped Jilseth.

Sorgrad looked at Mellitha. “Charoleia said Karn was Master Hamare’s closest confidant.”

“Other than Duchess Litasse.” She glanced at Jilseth. “So Triolle’s suborning magic to strengthen their cause?”

Gren was as quick as Tathrin to pick up her meaning.

“You thought someone else was trying to find a renegade mage? You thought it was us?”

Jilseth wasn’t about to apologise. “Archmage Planir knows you have few scruples and no respect for his authority or Hadrumal’s laws.”

Mellitha folded her beringed hands in her lap. “You have already used magic in Lescar’s wars,” she observed mildly.

Tathrin tensed. What now? Would Sorgrad try to fight both magewomen? Tavern tales of magical duels back in the days of the Chaos told of such battles causing wholesale devastation. Surely they wouldn’t do anything so destructive here?

What about Gren? Tathrin stole a sideways glance, fearful he’d see the Mountain Man reaching for some blade. Was a knife any use against a wizard? He realised he had no idea. Even if it was, how could Gren hope to fight his way out past the brothel’s armed guards? Assuming he was thinking that far ahead. Then he realised Gren was smiling.

Sorgrad was too. “You know about that?”

“Archmage Planir is not impressed.” Mellitha might have been scolding them for stealing butter from her pantry.

Jilseth was far more stern. “You’re fortunate that punishing you risks bringing the truth of Emirle Bridge into the light. Then Draximal will insist the magic was Parnilesse’s doing, while Duke Orlin claims just the opposite, regardless of what Planir says.”

“The other dukes won’t care who’s at fault.” Mellitha shrugged. “They’ll just want to secure magic for their own purposes as swiftly as possible, now the Archmage’s prohibition has been broken.”

“Planir would find that inconvenient.” Sorgrad was grinning. “But what’s this got to do with us?”

Mellitha gestured towards the bowl, rank fumes still rising from the water’s surface. “This man Karn is already a thorn in your side. Why don’t you pursue him, and make sure he doesn’t hire any wizard, for your sake as well as ours?”

Jilseth nodded. “That should settle your account with Planir over Emirle Bridge. As long as you use no more magic in Lescar.”

Sorgrad waved that away. “What does Triolle want with magic? Do you know who Downy Scardin wrote that letter to?”

Jilseth paused for a moment before answering. “To a wizard called Minelas. Don’t concern yourself with such scum. I’ll make sure he sees the error of his ways.”

Gren chuckled. “I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes.”

Tathrin tried to hide his relief. They might just escape the Archmage’s wrath, if Planir had a worse offender to punish.

The younger magewoman stood up. “Find Karn and tell me what you learn.”

Sorgrad pursed his lips. “Only if you let us know what you find out when you catch up with Minelas.”

“That sounds like a fair exchange,” Mellitha said firmly, before the younger magewoman could answer. “Now you two have met, you can bespeak each other.”

“I can scry on you any time I want now.” Jilseth looked at Sorgrad, unblinking. “Don’t be tempted into follies like Emirle Bridge again.”

“That would be foolish,” he admitted with a charming smile. Jilseth was unmoved.

“Then I believe that concludes our business,” Mellitha said briskly. “Jilseth, will you go and summon our carriage, please? Can we offer you three a ride somewhere?”

Gren chuckled. “And miss out on the ride I’ve been promised here?”

Sorgrad ran a hand through his blond hair. “This is as good a place as any to listen for talk of Scardin’s death. Whores hear useful rumours. One could get us a sniff of this Karn’s scent.”

“True enough.” Mellitha nodded, rose and made her way to the door. Jilseth followed, her expression still disdainful.

As the door closed behind them, Tathrin drew a shuddering breath. “What now?”

Gren looked towards the hallway. “I fancy ruffling that long lass’s ribbons a second time.”

Sorgrad nodded. “Let her know we’ll pay the girls handsomely for any pillow talk about Scardin. With any luck we’ll have a trail to follow by the morning.”

“What happens now the Archmage knows you’re using your magic?” Tathrin demanded.

“Planir’s lass told us more than she intended.” Sorgrad was unperturbed. “She knew about Emirle Bridge but she didn’t mention anything else we’ve done. So either she doesn’t know or Planir doesn’t think it warrants his attention. She said nothing at all about Reher and if they knew of him, she would have. Planir doesn’t let untrained mages escape Hadrumal’s instruction.

“Mellitha said nothing about us walking back to Lescar,” he continued. “I reckon we can still use my magic for our own purposes, as long as we’re discreet. As long as we find this man Karn and put an end to Triolle’s hunt for a mage.” His face hardened. “Subtle wizardry could cause no end of trouble while the army’s besieging Carluse, delaying Evord while the dukes unite.”

Tathrin’s fears for Failla redoubled. “But we have to get back there. We can’t go chasing this spy.”

“We don’t want to miss all the fun,” Gren agreed. “Either way, if Evord sacks the town, or if Failla and the smith get the gates open. That Jilseth looks as if she can take care of whoever’s twisting Planir’s nose.”

“I wouldn’t want to cross her.” Sorgrad shrugged. “Let’s see what Aremil says, and the captain-general.”

“So we’re going back to Carluse?” Tathrin stood up, bracing himself for the shock of the wizardry.

“Not yet.” Sorgrad unbuckled his sword-belt. “Not till we know if Evord wants us chasing Karn.”

“Right.” Gren rubbed his hands gleefully. “Call me when you know.”

Before Tathrin could protest, he disappeared through the doorway into the hall.

“Why don’t you find a nice girl to clear your head while you’re waiting for Aremil’s call?” The Mountain Man grinned and followed his brother.

Tathrin sat down again. If only he could let Aremil know he needed to talk to him. But no, all he could do was wait, yet again. He sighed and tried not to listen to the sounds of the brothel’s commerce along the hallway. After a while, he began wondering if he could go back to the kitchen in hopes of some supper.

Then the door opened. “Gren said you needed something for your face?” A pretty Caladhrian girl in a lace shift came in. She carried muslin and a bowl of warm water fragrant with herbs. Before Tathrin could say anything, she sat on his knee. The lacy shift rode up her thighs. She clearly wore nothing at all beneath it.