Dark Magic (24 page)

So brusque was his inquiry Calandryll came close to laughter that he knew would come out hysteric.
Other matters? Aye, he thought, I’d discuss the manner of your master’s death and the fact that he sought—still seeks, likely in another’s form!—to raise the Mad God
. He bit back the threatening laughter and said aloud, “Our contract with Lord Varent is ended with his death, though I’d fain see his library again. He had rare volumes there, such as are not found in lesser collections. And he promised me its run on my return.”

Symeon’s plump mouth pursed and he plucked at
his lower lip with ink-stained fingers, as if debating the matter.

“Mayhap I’d find volumes I might wish to purchase,” Calandryll urged, “and thus render your accounting easier. Price is no object.”

The majordomo smiled avariciously at that and said, “I see no reason why we should not negotiate a suitable price. Darth, do you take them there?”

Without further courtesies he bent his head once more to his desk, busily scribbling.

“Fat slug,” Darth muttered when the door was closed, “coin is his only love.”

He led them to the familiar room, producing a tinderbox that he set to the candles there. As he worked, still muttering to himself, Calandryll put his mouth close to Bracht’s ear and whispered, “Get him away if you can, and learn what you may—I’ll see what’s to be found here.”

It was not difficult: the hearth was cold and the chamber chill, Darth evincing no hesitation when Bracht clapped a companionable hand to his shoulder and suggested they leave Calandryll to inspect the shelves while they repaired to warmer quarters and sampled the wine doubtless remaining in the dead man’s cellars. Katya smiled refusal of their invitation to join them, declaring herself more interested in the library, and instantly the door was closed Calandryll dropped the latch and set to examining the room.

It seemed unlikely the wizard would be so foolish as to leave behind him the means by which he might be found, but still Calandryll hoped some indication might be revealed. It was, he knew, a threadbare hope and his optimism faded swiftly: it was soon apparent there were no obvious clues to Rhythamun’s destination. The library had been tidied, the table on which Calandryll had spent long hours tracing Orwen’s charts was bare, the shelves neatly stacked with such a profusion of scrolls and parchments and manuscripts that it would take weeks to study them all, and that with no certain guarantee of success. In
mounting desperation he looked about him: it seemed the shelves laughed back, mocking. And then he remembered the hidden compartment from which Varent had taken the charts.

It was a straw he clutched at, but still it seemed his blood ran afire in his veins as he removed books that would once have engrossed him, occupying him for hours, for days, but that now were only an encumbrance to what he sought. He tossed them carelessly aside, revealing the secret panel, turned the knob that sprung the compartment open.

Whatever he had dared hope might be there—some other map, some clue to where the wizard went—he had not anticipated what he found. The compartment was empty save for a dull red stone attached to a leather thong: the talisman he had worn so long. The key that had opened Rhythamun’s way to Tezin-dar. He snatched his hand back as though from a serpent’s fangs, snarling an ugly oath. Katya gasped, drawing out her own periapt, her grey eyes wide and stormy as she clutched the jewel and matched his curse with one no weaker.

“Thus he led us here,” she said hoarsely. “And now eludes us.”

“No!” Calandryll snarled unthinking refusal, his voice steeled with a rage born of frustration. “He shall not!”

Unthinking, he grasped the pendant stone and drew it out, cursing Rhythamun all the while, the curses halting as he felt the thing grow warm in his hand, the faint, dull fire at its center becoming a flame that spewed the scent of almonds like mocking laughter in his dumbstruck face.

He flung the stone away, the straightsword drawn in the same movement, instinctive, for all his intellect told him the blade was useless against the glamour of the talisman. Wide-eyed, his scalp prickling with horrid anticipation, he saw the flame jet upward, the shape of a man forming within its dancing light.

He cursed anew as he recognized the features, staring
aghast at the face of Varent den Tarl. The ghostly figure smiled scornfully back, the dark eyes filled with contempt, the voice that whispered like crackling flame, urbane, underpinned with horrid amusement.

“So, Calandryll, you escaped from Tezin-dar, for only your hand could invigorate the stone that doubtless led you here. Mayhap I should congratulate you, for I’d thought you safely ensnared.”

Katya’s saber sliced the indistinct form: it wavered, like smoke disturbed by a random breeze, and the mocking voice went on.

“Well done, then—you demonstrate a swiftness of thought I’d not expected. No matter! You served your purpose well enough when you brought me to the city and put the Arcanum in my hands.”

The apparition laughed: insult and assault, both. Calandryll stared, unaware that he snarled, a leashed hound thirsting to attack.

“And now the book is mine, and I need only go to where Tharn rests, need only work the gramaryes of unbinding to raise the god. What then shall not be mine for the asking? Such might as petty men dream of, but dare not take for their own! And it is to you I owe thanks for that unlocking—know you, Calandryll, that without your aid I might not have accomplished this.”

The phantom bowed; Calandryll’s teeth grated.

“Do you hail me? Or do you curse me? The latter, I’d suspect, for your innocence was a wonder to behold, and I think that such as you cannot aspire to the heights of my dreaming. Still, you served me well and mayhap when I come into my own I shall reward you . . . if you live still when great Tharn once more walks abroad. If not, count your life well spent for what you gave me.

“And now, farewell. This body you knew is quit and I go on. Shall I tell you where? Mayhap not—the path I tread is not for such as you. So farewell, my dupe; and once more, my thanks.”

The hated figure bowed again, its laughter ringing loud and mad and mocking. The flame that held it died. The scent of almonds faded and the room fell silent. The red stone lay dull, its animating magic spent, no more now than a worthless bauble.

Straightsword and saber slid into scabbards and for long moments Calandryll and Katya said nothing. It was she who at last spoke, her voice muted, empty of hope.

“He is gone and our quest comes to naught,”

“N
O
!” Calandryll came close before her, taking her arms, his grip harsh as the single word. He felt none of the despair that had earlier afflicted him, only a great rage now, as if Rhythamun’s mockery had burned away all pessimism, leaving behind only determination. “Did you not say the taking of another’s shape is arduous, a thing needing time?”

Katya nodded dumbly, her grey eyes clouded with resignation.

“And where should he do that, save here? Where he might work his filthy magic at his leisure.”

Confusion took the place of resignation and she shrugged helplessly. “Likely that was so, but what good to us?”

Calandryll realized his fingers dug into the fine mail of her tunic: he loosed his hold, his face still close to hers, his voice fierce.

“Then it may well be the folk here saw his victim!” Now hope flickered in the grey orbs. She nodded. “So we must question them. Carefully! Come—we’ll go to Symeon.”

It seemed at first that she was rooted by confusion and he took her arm again, dragging her to the door, throwing up the latch, and slamming the wood panel
back with such force it thudded against the outer wall. In the corridor beyond she regained some of her customary vigor and he let go her arm as she matched him stride for stride, close to running in their urgency, hurrying to where the little majordomo still sat.

Symeon’s shortsighted eyes blinked as they burst in, an expression of mingled irritation at so dramatic an entry and greed at the prospect of reward upon his round face.

“Did you find such volumes as interest you?” he asked, setting down his quill.

Calandryll resisted the impulse to seize the man, to shake answers from him. He did not doubt their story, were he to blurt it out, would find little credence with the scribe. Symeon would most likely dismiss them as mad, perhaps call servants or even the watch to eject them, answerless. Tact was called for here, hard though it was to rein in his temper, he forced a smile and said, “So many I must think on the matter, decide which interest me the most.”

“There will be many coming to examine so fine a library,” Symeon warned, “I suggest you decide ere long.”

“Indeed I shall, and likely return on the morrow.” Calandryll assumed a mask of remorse. “Tell me, when did Lord Varent die?”

“Three weeks past,” came the now somewhat sullen answer, as if the death were relegated to the distant past, replaced now with the more important matter of disposing of the household.

“How?”

The single word was sharp and Symeon frowned, favoring him with a curious look as he replied, “None could say. He was hale enough, it seemed. We found his body in the library . . .”

“The library?”

“He’d spent the night there.” Symeon nodded. “Such had become his habit of late—to spend hours poring over his books to the exclusion of all else.”

Calandryll’s gaze remained steady on the portly man’s ink-flushed face as he felt excitement swell, struggling to conceal his urgency, aware that the future of his world might rest upon the acuity of his questions.

“Was he alone?”

Symeon’s irritation grew, his eyes narrowing in puzzlement. Calandryll essayed a smile he trusted was reassuring, resisting the temptation to take out his sword, prick faster answers from the man.

“No, he’d business with some trader in horseflesh,” Symeon said slowly, adding new stains to his sash as he absently wiped his fingers. “‘Twas him alerted the household. A dealer with the Kerns, I believe, out of Gannshold. Darth spent more time with him than I.”

Calandryll nodded, deciding that more was to be learned from Darth than from the reticent major-domo. “A sad loss,” he murmured.

“One that leaves me with much to do,” said Symeon, with obvious impatience.

Calandryll took the cue to leave. He ducked his head, saying, “Then I’d find my bodyguard and be gone. My thanks for your help.”

Symeon waved an inky hand, not looking up as they quit the chamber and went in search of Bracht.

The freesword was settled in a chamber off the kitchen that gave access to the rear courtyard and the stables. A low arch separated the room from the larger area, where others of the bereaved household sat, and as Calandryll strode toward the sound of the Kern’s voice he noticed Rytha among them. The girl favored Katya with a speculative stare that went unnoticed by the Vanu woman. Beyond the arch Bracht sat facing Darth over a wine-ringed table, a flagon of red wine half drunk between them, the better part of it, so Calandryll judged, gone down Darth’s throat.

The retainer greeted them with drunken cheerfulness, rising unsteadily to fetch more cups and a fresh
flagon from the outer room. Once his back was turned, Bracht’s eyes framed an unspoken question.

“Rhythamun spent time with a horse trader out of Gannshold,” Calandryll murmured as the sound of breaking glass was echoed by a woman’s complaint, that with Darth’s careless dismissal. “This man was with him when ‘Varent’ died. Have you learned aught else?”

“No more than that as yet.” Bracht lowered his voice, glancing warily at Katya. “Rytha was here—it took a while to shake her off.”

Katya eyed him in a way that suggested he would have other questions to answer at some more appropriate time and he grinned nervously, clearly relieved when Darth came back and set the cups and flagon down. He filled them, beaming hugely at Katya.

Calandryll drank and said idly, “Lord Varent was dealing with a trader out of Gannshold, so Symeon told me.”

“Aye,” Darth agreed with owlish gravity. “He was thinking of buying fresh stock and this fellow claimed to have the best. He made an offer for that stallion of yours.”

This came with a nod in Bracht’s direction and the Kern took up the interrogation. “How was he named?” he asked. “Mayhap I know him.”

“Daven Tyras, as I recall,” Darth said. “He spoke with an accent like yours.”

Calandryll felt his pulse quicken. He thought Darth must surely hear the furious beat of his heart, perceive the urgency in his eyes. He forced his racing mind to some measure of calm, knowing that he must think clearly—if Rhythamun had quit Varent’s body while in company with another, then surely that man must be the new receptacle for the wizard’s malign intelligence, and he must learn all he could of the stranger. From the corner of his eye he saw Bracht frown, and heard the frees word murmur, “Daven Tyras,” as if struggling to identify the name.

“A fellow about your size,” Darth offered, “though sandy-haired.”

“An ugly man?” Bracht invented. “With a drunkard’s nose?”

“No, a comely enough fellow.” Darth shook his head and winked lewdly. “Rytha took a fancy to him.”