Spellbound (18 page)
Authors: Blake Charlton
“About two years ago. Ah!” She stopped and looked down at a muddy puddle she had stepped into. Swearing softly, she pulled her boot free and continued. “People catch plague mostly when rats infest a warehouse. But we've not had an epidemic in my time. The hydromancers can write these tiny waterborne texts that cureâ”
“Is that tobacco salon near here still popular? It was called the Caravan Wheel when I left.”
Her headdress moved as if she were frowning. “It still is. Just down that alley. But the guards will pull up the ladders at sunset, and we need to pass through at least two districts. Remember, I can't loft over the walls.”
“This won't take long. Take me to the tobacco salon. And follow my lead.”
She was skeptical but sped up her pace. A few moments later, they turned down an alley and heard a din of conversation. Soon they reached a two-story building. Its door was open but covered by a leather curtain. Golden light shone from the windows, and from a pole on the second story hung the eponymous caravan wagon wheel.
Cyrus pulled back the leather curtain and stepped into the warm room rich with aromatic pipe smoke. The place was filled with men and women. Many lay on cushions, smoking tobacco from elaborate water pipes and sipping from pewter cups of wine or steaming mint tea.
In the far corner, a young woman with olive-colored skin and brown hair was singing a popular love ballad. An old man accompanied her on a Spirish guitar.
Francesca removed her headdress and shook the water off her robes. Cyrus did likewise and lowered his veil.
By the door stood a large balding man wearing a blue longvest and a
large knife tucked into his belt. He nodded at them, and Cyrus could see a thin scar running down one side of his jaw. This would be the hired muscle.
large knife tucked into his belt. He nodded at them, and Cyrus could see a thin scar running down one side of his jaw. This would be the hired muscle.
A stately woman with smooth black skin appeared before them and ushered them to an empty pair of cushions. He handed her two silver Spirish sovereigns and ordered a plate of her best lamb dish. He said they would pay more if it came quickly.
Shortly after she took his coins, Cyrus settled into his pillows and murmured, “Don't pay attention to our tagalong when he comes in.”
“He already has,” Francesca replied as she patted her hair to make sure the headdress hadn't disturbed it. “He's sitting by himself near the door. He didn't notice my noticing him.”
“Good,” Cyrus said. “Are you hungry?”
“Always.”
“The food here is excellent, or it was.”
“Cyrus, what are you planning? You can't just have me yell âplague' in here. It'd start a rush for the door. Someone might be hurt.”
“You're always so worried about doing the right thing when it doesn't involve my internal organs.”
She looked away to the singer. “I haven't always done right by your heart.”
She was trying to be sincere, but he didn't want to rehash the past. “So stop then,” he said bluntly. “We're in this little caper together. If we pull it off, I make captain and leave you alone all the sooner.”
This seemed to surprise her. She studied his face and was about to say something more when the hostess returned with a plate of lentils and lamb. They ate in silence. The lentils were hot; the meat tasted of honey, cumin, cayenne. In moments the plate was clean.
“Get ready,” Cyrus whispered to Francesca and then gestured for the hostess.
“Magister and Magistra,” the hostess said as she approached. “Is there something more I can do?”
He held out another silver. “Our compliments on the lamb.” She graciously took the coin. “But we have a problem. More a concern for your establishment, really.”
The hostess raised her eyebrows.
“My colleague here is a cleric, as you can see by her red stole. Just before we came in the door, she noticed that man by the door has the plague.”
“The plague?” The hostess looked at Francesca. “You're sure?”
“Quite sure,” Francesca said, quickly playing along with his lie. “On the side of his neck, the man has what we call a buboâa swollen lymph node. In this case, it is erythematous and edematous. Can be nothing but bubonic plague.”
Cyrus narrowed his eyes at the words “erythematous” and “edematous” but then decided that they might impress the hostess. Sometimes the most effective words were not magical.
“Out on the street, my colleague approached the man and he ignored her,” Cyrus continued. “I've no doubt that he contracted the disease elsewhere, but I worry that if someone was to see him in here, they mightâ”
The hostess held up a hand. “Say no more. I will see to it.”
Cyrus bowed his head.
As soon as the woman left, Francesca started to say something. He held a finger to his lips. “Get your headdress.”
The hostess went to the man with a dagger standing by the door. They held their heads together for a moment and then approached the man who had been following Cyrus and Francesca.
The man had been watching the singer and steadfastly not looking at Cyrus or Francesca. Now he jumped and looked from the hostess to the door guard with wide eyes.
Cyrus sniffed. The wizards had hired an amateur. “Come on,” he said, getting to his feet. “There's another door in the kitchen.” Francesca stood.
Just then there came a short cry. Cyrus turned to see the man who had been following them on his feet. The door guard put a hand on the man's chest and rested his other hand on his dagger.
Cyrus and Francesca hurried out of the room and through the kitchen. Several cooks looked at them oddly, but no one said anything.
Once out in the alley, they discovered that the rain had let up almost completely. Several cats, gray and black, stalked the place for kitchen scraps. Somewhere above them a raven began to call out. Francesca let out a long peal of laughter. “That was grand!”
He bowed. “Thank you, Magistra.”
“I'm sorry I distrusted you back in the tower.”
“Not as sorry as I am,” he muttered. “Come on let's get out of ⦔
His voice trailed off as she put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Don't be such a fractious old man. I trust you now.”
Her tone was teasing, possibly flirtatious. She was trying to smooth things over. Just then Cyrus found it mildly manipulative, intensely irritating. “Good,” he said curtly and turned away. “Now let's move before our tagalong catches up.” He started to hurry out of the alley.
“We're headed to the North Gate District,” she said catching up to him. “Nicodemus Weal was seen last among the Canic people.”
He raised his veil and looked away from her.
Deirdre pulled her shawl around her shoulders. She was standing near the back of the Hall of Governors, a spacious room with blue and white mosaics and rows of horseshoe arches. Though it lacked the gilded ceiling of the Hall of Ambassadors, it enjoyed a view of a broad courtyard with a reflecting pool flanked by myrtle bushes. The rain was striking water and leaf hard enough to make a pleasant hush.
The hall held a wide rug and large cushions arranged around hexagonal tables. Clicking braziers radiated islands of heat into the chill air.
City officials and dignitaries occupied the cushions. Deirdre recognized militia captains and the governors of the outer districts. The unfamiliar faces were likely wealthy denizens of the Palm and the Merchant Districts.
Presently the Commander of the City Watch was describing the morning's lycanthrope attack and the need of all present to help improve the city's defenses.
Deirdre's function was to be seen. Most would recognize her as the prodigal Lornish courtier whom Cala had favored for the past ten years. Many were themselves demon worshipers and so knew her importance. Others would suspect her of being Cala's Regent of Spies. To all, she was living evidence that greater forces were watching them.
But now that she'd been recognized, Deirdre had nothing to do but stand and consider what Cala had told her: the Silent Blight was an inhibition of Language Prime misspelling.
At first, this statement hadn't made sense. Back in Starhaven, Nicodemus had told her that Language Prime misspelling could create disease; that was how Fellwroth had given Shannon a canker curse. How then could a halt to misspelling cause trees across the continent to die? Cala had claimed that misspelling was one way in which Language Prime created original text. Without original text, plants were failing to adapt to changing environments.
Deirdre couldn't understand it. She wondered if there was a way to inform Nicodemus. The boy might comprehend the larger implications of her discovery.
Her thought broke off as she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Standing in the hall's entrance was a middle-aged man with short brown hair and a thick beard. Deirdre recognized him as Amal Jaen, a senior sanctuary clerk appointed to record the canonist's diplomatic correspondences. He was anxiously looking about the hall.
Two of the district governors were debating how certain city funds should be spent. Quietly, Deirdre stepped away from the meeting and then jogged up to the wall.
Amal saw her coming and left the hall. Deirdre followed, catching up with him in an open-air walkway. The rain came down on the garden with such audible force that when he whispered, he had to do so loudly. “Y-your physician ⦠returned t-to the city t-t-today in South Market.” As always, Amal stuttered. “An hour ag-go. With two black-robes.”
“Wizards?” she asked quickly.
“They were let i-into ⦠the wizards' station. A long time after, your physician and a hierophant left together.”
“Were they followed?”
He shook his head. “You ordered they n-not be.”
“Good. What about the two other black-robes? Any report from agents in the garden tower?”
“Th-that's ⦠that's why I came. A report from the garden tower said the b-black-robes came in on a Kestrel-class warship.”
“What?” she said in alarm.
“A-and the black-robes that went into the station, th-they didn't come out ⦠or rather ⦠they came out dressed up as wealthy Verdant m-merchants. Our agent followed th-them here.”
“Here, to the sanctuary?”
“They d-didn't enter with the worshipers. They went straight t-to the canonist's guards ⦠wh-who took them to the Hall of Amb-bassadors.”
“When?” This was outside anything Deirdre had anticipated. Wizards in a Kestrel? It implied cooperation between the academy and the Celestial Court.
Amal glanced down the walkway. “Not a qu-quarter hour ago. Soon as I ⦠I got the report, I sought you out.”
“Whatever we are paying you, remind me to double it,” she said while laying a hand on his shoulder. “Has anyone else been granted an audience with the canonist today?”
“N ⦠not according to schedule.”
“Good, seek me only if faced with an emergency.” She turned and hurried from the walkway to a narrow flight of stairs. After sprinting up to the third floor, she ran along a hallway flanked by geometric screens.
A few feet before the entrance to the Hall of Ambassadors, she stopped beside an unremarkable panel. Hidden among the fretwork was a latch that, once released, allowed her to push a section of the screen out on its hinges. She stepped out onto a catwalk.
The rain clouds had dimmed the daylight to gloom and poured rain so insistently it pressed down on shoulders and head like a wet blanket. Deirdre ran along the catwalk to a short opening into the sanctuary's dome.
Once inside, she stood behind the screen that separated the Hall of Ambassadors from the dome's dark interior. Somewhere in this blackness stood Cala's ark.
Holding her breath, Deirdre crept along until she was behind the redwood throne. The canonist was speaking in a stern tone. Deirdre stood close to the screen to peer through one of the narrow slits.
A man and a woman, both dressed as Verdantians, stood before the throne. Presently the demigoddess finished speaking and the woman replied. Deirdre listened to their conversation and with fear realized that these were two Astrophell wizardsâagents of Nicodemus's half sister, the woman who would be Halcyon.
The academy had been sending requests to Cala to allow them to search Avel for Nicodemus. Typhon had claimed he could delay such an investigation for at least another year. But neither the demon nor Deirdre had ever imagined a Celestial warship would fly a wizardly investigation into Avel. The Spirish crown and Astrophell had somehow formed a pact and forced the canonist to submit to a search.
The newly come black-robes would complicate Typhon's plans. More important to Deirdre, they would endanger Nicodemus and Francesca. To retain any hope of recovering Boann, Deirdre had to eliminate the wizards. She hurried along the screen to a tight spiral staircase.
Typhon was in his private study, his mind partially deconstructed to better conduct his research. Since the rains had started, he had begun work on a metaspell that would help demons survive on the new continent.
Deirdre charged up to Typhon's private library. She hurried past the door guards and the scribes working at their desks. Servants had removed the bodies Nicodemus's raid had left behind. At the end of the library, she swung open the heavy vaulted door and stepped into the demon's private study.
Typhon's giant alabaster body sat before a table. He had disassembled his head into what looked like shards of onyx and ivory. These he suspended in the air above open books and loose pages. A small tear-shaped emerald hung amid the floating matrix of his mind.
“Typhon!” Deirdre yelled. “Demon!”
The demon couldn't hear. His right hand was running down an open page while his left repositioned a white disc of his mind over a codex.
Deirdre hammered his shoulder with her fist. The fiend took a moment to react, and when he did it was with a vicious backhanded swing. She ducked under his massive right arm and jumped back.
More rapidly than she would have thought possible, the demon assembled several hanging shards of his head into one bright black eye and one white ear. He held the first in his right hand and placed the second on the table.
After pointing the eye at her, he paused and then gestured for her to approach. When she did, he began plucking the remaining bits of his head from the air.
Deirdre picked up the white ear and into it described everything she knew about the two disguised wizards currently meeting with Cala. She finished with, “I will eliminate them both immediately.”
If she could kill both black-robes, it would give Francesca and Nicodemus more time. “We can arrange for it to seem that their transport had to land in the savanna and was attacked by lycanthropes. It wouldn'tâ”
A strange buzzing, like that of an exotic instrument, sounded. Deirdre started as she realized the demon had made it. He had assembled enough of his throat to produce noise but not a mouth to shape it into voice. His giant white hand held up one finger in a gesture to wait. She frowned as the demon pieced together a jaw and lips.
“I must look at the newcomers,” the demon rumbled, his words nasal. “Run this down and point it at them.” He held out his open palm. An onyx eyeball rested upon it.
Deirdre scooped it up and dashed out of the private library and down the stairs. When she reached the screen behind the throne, her breathing was rapid. Only with effort could she keep each footstep quiet as she approached the screen and held the onyx eye up to it.
The woman was speaking to Cala with steady, almost challenging words. Deirdre bit her lower lip.
Deirdre held the eye up to the screen. Then she realized she hadn't checked that the pupil was pointing forward. She leaned closer and turned the eyeball around. It was hard to see in the dim light and she had to squint. Accidently she bumped the screen and conversation on the other side stopped.
Deirdre froze, wondering if she had just revealed herself. Blessedly, the canonist began scolding the woman. Slowly exhaling, Deirdre crept out of the darkness and dashed back up to Typhon.
She found the demon, his white face reconstructed, staring with one black eye at a few pieces floating above his opened forehead. “We don't attack in the sanctuary,” he rumbled as she closed the door to his study.
She objected. “But in the city, people will see. It will be impossible to hide their murdersâ”
“No.” He held out an open palm.
She gave him back his eye. “Here we can kill them discreetly. You canâ”
“That woman down there is not what she appears,” he said while jamming his eye into its socket with a wet pop. “This will work to our advantage.”
“What is she?”
“I am not entirely sure, but I have a strong suspicion. You will leave this matter to me.” He turned back to the books and scrolls laid out on his table. “If I am right, I will need this metaspell far sooner than I anticipated.”
“This woman will hasten the Disjunction?”
Typhon smiled at her. “If we are lucky. But I dare not attack her here; it would be too dangerous.”
“Dangerous for you? What is she, a disguised goddess?”
Typhon smiled. “You're getting ahead of yourself, daughter. Don't interfere with the newcomers. I will see to them. I want you to double your efforts to retrieve Nicodemus. He must be hiding somewhere in the city until nightfall.”
Deirdre licked her lips. “But what about the danger to Francesca?” “Not your concern,” Typhon replied while reaching into the cloud of stony objects floating above his head. He plucked out the tiny, tear-shaped emerald. “It is time we completed a dragon. Go; find Nicodemus. If I'm correct about the woman speaking to Cala, it won't matter if you have to kill Francesca.”
Â
VIVIAN ADJUSTED HER hood. She and Lotannu were walking away from the sanctuary. Over the rain she could hear the sounds of a city: children yelling, someone clanging pots, a donkey bleating. Apparently they had reached the edge of the Holy District, where those privileged citizens who worked in the sanctuary kept their homes.
She had her hand on Lotannu's shoulder as he led her to the tavern where they would spend the night.
“Old friend,” she asked, “what did you think of our audience with the demigoddess?”
“I think you nearly got your wish. Cala seemed an inch away from attacking us right then and there.”
Vivian exhaled. “Pity she didn't. And what about the mysterious watcher?”
“Whoever was lurking behind the screen?”
“Yes, any ideas?”
Lotannu slowed down a bit before replying. “It wasn't Typhon; his thought patterns changed radically during our audience but they never moved from their position high up on the dome.”
“And what of the unknown creature?”
“Vanished without a trace.”
Vivian nodded to herself. “Good, good. This is all good.”
Lotannu grunted. “Why didn't you just chase after the demon?”
“He would have fled.”
They walked on in silence. It sounded as if a horse was trotting nearby. Suddenly Lotannu spoke, “Might I say something candidly?”
“Not if you're going to candidly criticize my plan.”
“I'm going to candidly criticize your plan.”
“Bastard,” she said mildly.
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