Feast of Souls (36 page)

“Interesting meeting place,” Colivar commented, as the last of the other’s feathers faded into flesh. “I do like the privacy of it.”

“A city with so many Magisters requires some sort of neutral ground.”

Colivar nodded. “Of course. Will more be coming?”

“If your business requires it.”

“Very well.” He looked about the room. “You must forgive me, I have never before been in a city that had so many Magisters living shoulder to shoulder, and with equal claim to the greater territory. You must have customs worked out as to who does what that are quite… labyrinthine.”

His host smiled slightly. “It is not always harmonious, but it never fails to be… interesting.” He bowed his head a mere fraction of an inch, a gesture of polite acknowledgment to an equal. “Colivar, yes? I remember you from Ramirus’ little soiree. Magister Royal of An-shasa, as I recall? I am Tirstan. We do not bear such pretty titles here, but I serve House Iabresa.”

“Masters of the local silk trade, yes?”

He nodded. “You do your research.”

“Always.”

Tirstan waved his hand over the table; the air shimmered briefly, then a pewter goblet and two matching cups appeared. “You are far from home, Magister Royal Colivar. Shall I guess at the reason?” He poured both cups full of a deep-hued ale; a cold sweat was be-ginning to condense on the pitcher even as he set it down.

“Hardly a challenge, given the recent news here.”

Again the faint smile. “I do cling to hope that some visitor will surprise me.” He waved absently toward two of the chairs, binding enough power to clean the dust off them first. “Please, sit, relax.” He offered him one of the pewter cups. “We are a far flight from Anshasa, and travel is dusty business.”

Colivar accepted the cup but did not drink from it. “A good helping of news is all the refreshment I seek. The death of a Magister is not a common occurrence.”

“No, thank the gods, it is not.”

“Who was it?”

“He called himself Raven. Yes, after the carrion bird. I think he used other names before that, but he was the secretive sort and rarely shared information about himself. And in Gansang we have learned not to pry into each other’s affairs.” He sipped from his own cup, and nodded his approval of the chilled ale within. “Some say the name captured his essence. I believe it fell short.”

“I know the man. And I’ve heard him called much worse things.”

“At any rate, the true ravens have him now, or at least his ashes.”

Colivar looked startled. “You burned him?”

“Had to. Otherwise we’d have had every treasure hunter this side of Sankara scouring the city for his bones. Did you not know that the secret of a Magister lies in his magical flesh, and that after death his powers can be claimed by any witch who—well, I will spare you the process. Those are the tales, anyway, and since a dead Magister only comes along once in a lifetime, we decided not to test how many might believe in them.”

Colivar nodded. “Wise.”

“He fell from a bridge,” he said, gesturing with his cup, “a curiously mundane end for one of our kind. He was following a woman at the time, some witch that Lord Ravi had found in the foulest district of the city, cleaned up, and was passing off as a lady. He introduced her as Sidra. No information has been found regarding the woman or the name, apart from what little bit Ravi himself knew; it is as if she appeared out of nowhere.”

“Where is she now?”

Tirstan’s eyes glittered darkly. “If you were alone with a Magister and he died, would you remain in that place one minute longer than you had to? Whatever sort of witch she is, she had enough power to call all her personal possessions to her when she left, so we have nothing to trace her with.” He took another swallow of the ale. “All this we learned afterward, of course; that night, all anyone knew was that she was a mystery and Ravi believed she had power. Those were reasons enough for any Magister to show interest in her. There are also rivalries between the great houses here in which some of us have vested interest; Lord Ravi showing up with some sort of magical prize on his arm was a direct challenge to those who did not wish him moving up in the ranks.” He sipped from his cup again. “And witches, of course, must be taught their place. Many reasons for a Magister like Raven to show an interest in her. None of them shed any light on the matter of his death.”

“You questioned Ravi about her, I assume?”

“Of course. The information I give you comes from him. Apparently he heard news of some fight a witch was involved in down in the Quarter and took the chance that anyone who would throw her power around like that might also be interested in a little social advancement. For a price.”

“Only a fool barters his life force to another, for any price.”

“Yes, well, that is a safe statement from our perspective, yes? Not everyone has the option of bartering other men’s life-force instead.”

“So tell me of this Raven’s death.”

He shrugged. “Apparently he stepped out onto one of the city’s bridges during a fete, either for a moment of fresh air—these city affairs are stifling—or specifically to seek this woman out. We know she was there, for we have found traces of her presence on the bridge. Much power seems to have been thrown about, some of which shattered the railing near to him, but none of it looks like witchery, so it must all have been his. I myself believe that Raven was having his sport with her.”

“And she did not respond in kind? Even to defend herself?” Colivar’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If she were truly a witch, I find that hard to believe.”

“You are welcome to look for yourself, though by now most of the important traces have been muddled past recognition. And of course Raven’s body is dust. But I assure you, we found no signs of witchery having been used on the bridge, on the rail, or upon Raven’s person.”

“Nothing to explain why he fell?”

“Oh, we know why he fell.” His tone was dry. “A fitting end, if you do not mind my saying so.”

“Goon.”

“He was… ah… how shall I say…” He bit his lip for a moment as if considering. “Well, he was kicked in the balls.”

Colivar blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“His nether regions were bruised. Dramatically so. It was the only wound on him.”

Colivar sat back in his chair. “So you are telling me you believe she struck him, and he… fell? Just like that?”

“Well, we are assuming he entered Transition during the fall, and thus could not muster power in time to save himself. If he was throwing that much power around, it is not an unreasonable theory. Of course, you are welcome to offer a better one if you like.”

He shook his head. “There must be more to it.”

“You would think so, yes? Yet there is no evidence of anything more than I have told you… you are welcome to inspect the site yourself, if you doubt me.”

Colivar waved off the suggestion. “I am sure you have been quite thorough.”

“Mind you, there are those who have suggested that his death was not necessarily a bad thing; he was not, how shall I say, the most personable of our kind—”

“He was a prick,” Colivar said shortly.

Tirstan sighed. “Yes, but he was an
immortal
prick, and that entails certain obligations on our part.”

“You will avenge him?”

“The death of a Magister cannot go unpunished.”

“Even if it was his own foolishness that got him killed?”

Tirstan shrugged. “If the morati see that a Magister is killed and we do not punish the offender, they may begin to wonder where our limits lie. A bad question for any man to be asking.”

“You must find the woman, then.”

“With such a dearth of clues? Every day we spend trying to locate her would cost us more in reputation than the hunt is worth.” He chuckled darkly. “It is hard to appear omnipotent when one cannot track down a single witch.” He reached for the pitcher and poured himself some more ale, chilling it anew with a touch. “No, we put the blame where it rightfully belongs, on the man who brought her into our company. A shame, that; Pahdman Ravi had his uses. But an example had to be made of someone, yes?” He sipped from his cup. “So now the morati see that we are swift and merciless in our vengeance, and they will tremble at the mere thought of displeasing us, which is far more important in the long run than hunting down one terrified witch.”

“You will not seek her?”

He waved expansively. “Please, search for her if you like. Bearing in mind that we have no personal objects to serve as a link to her, or any knowledge of her true identity. By now I expect she has taken a new name, wears a new face, and if she has half a brain she is so far from this place that one must learn a foreign language to ask after her.” He shrugged and drank deeply from his cup, emptying it. “At least, that is what I would do if I were in her shoes.”

“She left nothing behind?”

“She had a room in Ravi’s tower. I can show it to you if you like. I believed she lived there for all of a week before this incident.”

“I should like to see that, yes.”

Tirstan raised an eyebrow. “You find her… interesting?”

Colivar was careful to keep his face impassive. “Let us say I enjoy a good mystery.”

Tirstan stood with a sigh, dropping his pewter cup; it disappeared before it hit the ground, and the pitcher followed soon after. “As you wish. Though I fear you will find the visit unenlightening. So many others have, you know.”

It was twilight by the time the two Magisters reached Tower Ravi, and they wrapped the shadows of early night around them so that none might see or hear them as they slipped past the gauze curtains and through the half-open window into what had once been Kamala’s room.

Inside, Tirstan set the lamps alight with an easy gesture, and waved for Colivar to inspect whatever he liked. “There is nothing of hers here that we could find, save for those gifts that Ravi had given her.” Even though his sorcery would keep their voices from being heard outside the room, or the light from being seen, still his voice had instinctively dropped to a whisper. “Nothing she identified with herself, that might be of use in reading her. Or in calling her.”

The room was a rich one, whose furnishings spoke eloquently of how much Ravi had wished to please its resident, but it was clear that most of his efforts had gone unappreciated. The fine gold toilet items on the marble-topped vanity were untouched, bottles of unguent unopened, flasks of perfume still sealed. Coli-var picked up a comb and studied it closely.

“Not a single hair of hers anywhere,” Tirstan informed him. “As I said, she either destroyed such things as might be used against her, or else she called them to her later that night. Nothing was here by the time we came to search.”

A pile of finely embroidered silk garments lay neatly folded on a chair near the window, probably in the same position they were in when they were first delivered; she had never even looked at them, Colivar guessed. “Not as vain as her host assumed she would be,” he said quietly. Then he looked up at Tirstan. “Do you know where she might have kept her personal things while she was here?”

He indicated a leather-bound trunk set in the darkest corner of the room. Colivar went to it and lifted the heavy lid. It was empty.

“Not so much as a speck of lint left behind,” Tirstan said. “You’re not the first to look, you know. What do you hope to find that we did not?”

Colivar knelt by the trunk. Propping the lid open, he reached down into the dark space within until his hands pressed against the bottom of it. “If she called her things to her, as you suggest, there should be some trace of her witchery here.”

“Yes,” Tirstan agreed. “And there is not.”

Colivar looked for it himself, drawing enough athra from his consort to alter his senses so that he could detect such things. But the interior of the trunk was dark. His questing hands felt nothing. As Tirstan had said, there was not the faintest trace of witchery present. If she did indeed have the power, it had clearly never been used on anything inside the trunk.

Tirstan picked up a perfume bottle from the vanity, took note of the fact that the seal was intact, and put it back down. “Magister Tamil has suggested that perhaps she was not a witch at all, but secretly served one of our kind. That the power she had called upon in the Quarter was not her own witchery, but rather the sorcery of her patron. Perhaps it was not even an accident that she was attacked that night, he has suggested, but rather the whole scene was staged, to draw the right kind of notice and win her noble patronage. As it did.” He shrugged. “It is a curious theory, and not the kind of game a Magister usually plays, but it would explain why she left no signs of her own power behind her.”

No witchery had been used on the bridge either. Colivar recalled him saying that. Only sorcery, pure sorcery.

“That is one possibility,” he agreed.

There was another one, but he would not speak its name yet. Not until he was sure.

Slowly he reached his hands into the trunk again, running them along the bottom. This time he did not look for witchery, but for something more subtle. Not for the hot, fiery residue of mortal magic, but for the cold, whis-pery touch of true sorcery. Not for life force sacrificed in passion or need but power coldly stolen, wielded by men who were no longer alive in their own right, who could no longer leave the kind of hot imprint on the mortal world that was the birthright of living creatures. To the morati world, the powers of witches and Magis-ters seemed all but identical; to one who truly understood them, however, they were as distinct from one another as life and death.

After a moment he leaned back on his heels. He stared into the darkness without words, trying to gather his thoughts.

“Colivar?”

“Tamil may well be right,” he said at last. “There are traces of sorcery here as well.”

“Magister Kant has suggested she might even have been a Magister herself, shapechanged to pass as a woman.” Tirstan shrugged. “I find that theory hard to credit, myself. It is difficult to imagine a Magister willing to pass as a woman for any length of time.”

Colivar nodded his agreement. Technically it was possible, of course—a Magister might alter his appearance however he liked—but the kind of man who survived First Transition was unlikely to find the social station of women a comfortable refuge. Those few instances Colivar had heard of where sorcerers had tried such a thing, they had been quickly unmasked; Magis-ters could make their bodies appear female easily enough, but they could rarely play the role that went with it.