City of Night (68 page)

And yet, they followed.

When she rose, she turned to face him, folding her arms across her chest. Her color did not return, and her breath was a little too shallow; she was afraid. “That’s impossible.” There was no doubt at all in her words; they were flat and surprisingly even.

“What’s impossible?”

“Ararath Handernesse isn’t in Gabriel ATerafin’s office. It’s not possible.”

“Oh, isn’t it?”

She shook her head.

“Jewel—Jay, if you prefer—it can’t be impossible. I led him there myself, at Gabriel’s direct request.” After which he had gone straight to the West Wing of the manse, to deliver the news.

“That’s—that’s not Ararath.” Again, the words were flat and certain. She wasn’t nervous. Not yet.

“And how do you know this?”

“Because I—I know he’s dead.”

Carver’s hands rose, and his fingers danced a moment in his palms, but her hands did not rise in like fashion. Whatever message the boy had conveyed—to Torvan’s admittedly jaundiced eye, it appeared to be a warning—she had chosen to ignore or dismiss it.

“Interesting. You didn’t mention this in your interview with The Terafin.”

“No.” She glanced away. It was the first time she had chosen to evade his gaze.

“Jewel, if you’re playing some kind of game, end it now. You weren’t lying there—she would have known it—but I see now that you weren’t telling the whole of the truth.” He shaded the words with more force than he felt; no one in that room had expected that a thief from the holdings would
ever
speak the whole of the truth.

But she was young, and she showed her age; the tone of the words, and the force with which they were spoken, unnerved her. She was not, he thought, a very accomplished liar. This suprised him, but only slightly.

“Torvan,” she said, spreading her hands, exposing her empty palms, “you
have to
believe me.”

“Make me believe you,” he replied, speaking with the same force, but shading it now with anger, with demand. He was not bard-born; the compulsion of his next words existed only within her. “Tell me the truth.”

What she said next should have surprised him. But he had not come to the West Wing without cause. He trusted his instincts.

“All right! But—but you’ve got to get help, and you’ve got to get it now. Call all your guards, get them together, have them ready, please.”

“Why?” He was already assembling the House Guard, and the Chosen, in his thoughts.

“Because I
know
Old Rath is dead! No, I didn’t see the body—and I couldn’t tell you where it is—but the creature that looks like Rath and calls himself Rath is what killed him.

“Old Rath—that’s what we called him—he made me promise never to tell.”

Carver touched her shoulder in warning. He didn’t speak. Torvan noted both, but he waited in a grim silence that was no longer entirely an act. He believed her. He believed a thief from the holdings. It was why, in the end, he had chosen to deliver his happy news.

“I get these—these feelings. And whenever I get them, they’re always right. They’re
always
true. They’ve always been like that.”

The shock of those words held him silent.

If what she was saying was true—and in the end, he could not doubt it, although he was wise enough to make the attempt—she was talent-born. And born, as well, to a talent that existed almost entirely in myth or legend.

She mistook his silence, and he allowed it, gathering—marshaling—his thoughts.

“I don’t know how,” she continued, her voice losing vehemence and strength until it was almost a whisper, “but Rath is dead. And if we don’t stop whatever it is that’s pretending to be Rath, The Terafin—and the rest of us—will die as well.”

“Feelings? What do you mean? Instinct? Hunch?”

“No—stronger than that. I
know
when something’s true, but I can’t control the knowledge. I can’t listen to you and tell you when you’re lying or telling the truth—it’s not some sort of market trick. It’s just—just feeling.” She paled, and after a moment’s silence, asked, “Did you—did you tell him we were here?”

He watched her for a moment, and then said, “No.”

“No? Why not?”

“Instinct.” With that word, he offered her a very slight smile, and he allowed the distance that had masked his expression to lessen.

“Can I say something?” Carver broke in.

“What?” They both turned to face him, the single word a blend of different tones.

“You might want to point out that
this
Old Rath jumped off a three-story building and left a hole in the cobblestones, and then chased us down the streets and kept pace with a set of horses at a gallop.”

“You might want to say that indeed.” Torvan turned to Carver, and he spoke quietly, intently. “What else can you tell me? Be quick about it—we don’t have much time.”

“No,” Jewel said. The sound of her voice made Torvan turn to look at her. She was staring into the distance just beyond his shoulder, and what she saw, he couldn’t discern. “We don’t.”

 

Torvan led them to the chambers of the Chosen. It was in some ways a breach of etiquette, for to these chambers, not even the House Guards or the members of Terafin who were not Chosen came. But the Chosen were expected to exercise discretion, and in emergency, liberties were taken. Jewel Markess and Carver followed in his wake; he walked quickly.

He glanced once at Carver when they reached the outer chamber, and saw that the boy had drawn a dagger. It was a small knife, given his size, and to Torvan’s eye, it was not a particularly
good
one, but he did not tell the boy to sheathe it. Instead, he said, “Have either of you any experience with real weapons?”

Carver understood the criticism implied by the question, but he was tense enough to take no offense. “Some,” Carver replied. “Not much.”

Torvan nodded, unsurprised. Jewel merely shook her head.

“Follow.” He led them quickly past the tapestried walls and the standing weapon racks of the outer chamber and into a room that housed six of his companions.

“Torvan?” Alayra, the Captain of the Chosen, rose from the chair she had occupied. Her expression shaded from curious to the quiet of worry before she had finished speaking his name.

He snapped a salute that was in every way the equal of the salute he offered his lord.

It offered her no comfort. “What is it? What brings you here?”

“We have a hostile mage on the grounds. In Gabriel ATerafin’s office.”

Jay looked up as he spoke. Carver saw her face pale—and he knew that whatever she said next would be two things: bad, and true. “Torvan?” Her voice was soft, and broke between syllables.

“What?”

“He’s—he’s with her.”

The other five Chosen rose at once, joining Alayra.

“He’s with The Terafin?”

“Yes.”

“Let me pass, Primus Alayra,” Torvan told his commander.

Her face was now almost the color of Jay’s, which made the scar down the left of her forehead stand out. “And what will you do?” she asked, although it was clear she knew what the answer would be.

“I’m going to summon the mage.”

“On your head, then.”

“On my head alone.” But he caught Jay by the hand, and he dragged her past the assembled Chosen and into the final chamber.

This room, unlike the previous two, was unadorned by paintings, weapon racks, or armor; it likewise had no tables or chairs. It was not a small room, but it was empty, if you didn’t count the bronze brazier that burned in its center.

The three doorless walls framed that brazier; torches, in sconces, burned against those walls. There were no magestones here; the light was flickering and uneven. But had it not been for that light, they would have been in utter darkness.

As it was, it took Carver’s eyes a few minutes to adjust to the lesser light. When they did, he saw that the walls were not blank, as he’d first thought: they were carved, in slight relief. Each wall contained a single arch, with fine, tall pillars and elaborate keystones. Beneath those arches? Stone. Just stone. It was a very strange room.

Torvan, however, wasn’t concerned. He told them to stay put, and then began to walk, three times, around the burning brazier. At the end of the third small circuit, he raised his hand, drew a small knife, and cut his palm. His fingers wide, he let blood drip into the fire, and as it did, it sizzled, and the smoke the brazier emitted grew black.

Torvan ATerafin then turned toward one wall.

Meralonne APhaniel sat in the tower rooms he occupied. In his hand was the bowl of his favorite pipe, but although he had taken the time to line its bed with the finest of leaf, he had yet to light it. This was not because he did not wish to smoke; he did. But he knew, from hard experience, that the moment he lit the pipe, someone would knock at his door, and the promise of that lined bowl would be ash—and not through any enjoyment on his part.

He rose, and walked the short distance to the tower windows that overlooked the Isle, and beyond it, the stretch of endless sea, whose color did not shift or change for simple things like weather. Storms came, and the port closed for days or weeks, but that was all. He watched the waves strike the seawall, and he turned away; he was restless. A storm was in the air, although it was not carried by cloud.

This morning, he had been summoned to the Chamber of the Magi, in which Sigurne sat unattended by any save Matteos Corvel. She had looked up as he entered the room, and then had simply waved Matteos aside. Matteos did not care for Meralonne, which bothered neither man overmuch, but inasmuch as he trusted any of the First Circle mages, he was willing to trust Meralonne, and he had retreated without comment.

Matteos was just the type of starched and well-behaved individual who was highly unlikely to satisfy his curiosity by eavesdropping; it was one of the more annoying things about him. But Matteos, this morning, was not a concern.

Sigurne looked both delicate and weary. Only one of these things was accurate. Meralonne tendered her a bow; it was not a formal bow, as befit rank; it was, however, not an affectionate gesture. It was a test. Sigurne disliked formality.

But she failed to note—or comment—upon the gesture, and Meralonne understood in that instant the information she wished to impart to him. Saw, from the slight rise of her brow, that she suspected he now knew. She had always been—even as a young woman barely over the threshold of adulthood—canny.

“Ararath failed to report last night.”

Ararath Handernesse seldom ventured into the Order of Knowledge, and the manner in which he made these reports was unknown to Meralonne APhaniel. But he did not doubt her words; nor did he doubt the significance of them.

Meralonne nodded. “I will repair to my quarters,” he told her. “There, I will prepare.”

She lifted a pale jade-veined hand. “It would not be the first time that he has failed to report.”

“This close to Scarran, Sigurne?”

Her eyes were enormous and unblinking, an owl’s eyes. But after a moment, she nodded. She did not look away; she did not lift hand to eyes or face. Her expression rippled briefly as if at familiar and unwelcome pain, no more. “That was my thought. Very well.”

“If he was correct in his assumptions, and if he played his game
well,
we will have our answer.”

“Too many ‘ifs’ for my liking. Too much risk. I dislike the Winter Solstice.”

“With cause, Sigurne. I will wait in my quarters.”

She nodded and he turned toward the doors, but paused before they opened. “I will wait two full days. If it is at all possible, I would like to be uninterrupted.”

“It is not, as you well know, possible,” she replied grimly.

He shrugged.

 

But he had, of course, been less than entirely truthful. He had been prepared for many days now. The preparations themselves had required thought and planning; they had also required the subtle and deep use of magic and the contingency theories so beloved of the academically inclined Magi. These men—and women—would remain in ignorance of his work. So, too, would those rare members of the Order of Knowledge who were also members of House Terafin, for it was within the walls of the Terafin manse that he had labored, waiting Ararath’s final move.

Sigurne grieved.

Meralonne did not. He thought instead. Until the enemy was exposed, their allies could remain hidden. And while it was not explicitly stated in his discussions with Sigurne, it was clear, to him and the woman who ruled the Order of Knowledge, that mages of some power were no doubt involved with the demon-kin.

It angered Sigurne; it was one of the few things that still had the power to do so. She had gained wisdom in her tenure, first as student, then as master, and wisdom had dulled almost all of her youthful edges. Not that one, however. It would be blunted with her death, and little else.

Meralonne was neither angered nor outraged. Men of power sought power, consorted with power, and hoped to gain advantage from it, regardless of the form the power took. It had been true for the whole of his life; it would no doubt be true long after. He did not have a high opinion of human nature, and because he did not, he was seldom disappointed.

He was, however, careful. Once, in his own youth, he would not have been; then, power only needed to be hidden if one was weak. Now? Power required subtlety if one was
lazy
.

He glanced at his pipe, and then, with reluctance, set it to one side. The chair in front of the desk was cluttered with books and papers; the chair behind it was empty. The former was meant to be a strong hint to those who might come to visit—and thankfully, they were few—but the latter was for his use. Taking that chair, he now began to sort through the papers that lined the surface of his desk. Some were old enough that they radiated magic; in no other way would they have weathered the centuries.