Spellbound (28 page)
Authors: Blake Charlton
“Her Language Prime text shines brightly.”
“You are fascinated.”
He paused before admitting that he was. He paused a moment longer before saying. “But am I fascinated like a boy admiring a pretty girl or like one of those fish?” He nodded toward the silhouettes circling around Jasp's fishing light. “In either case, I shouldn't think about her; I should focus on the emerald.”
“You can still sense the gem?”
“It is still pushing against the spells tattooed around my scar.” He rubbed the back of his neck and found himself thinking again of James Berr, his murderous cacographic relative who had lived three centuries ago. No one knew if Typhon had made Berr a cacographer or if Berr had been born that way. Nicodemus looked at the goddess and changed the subject. “How do you think Magister is holding up?”
“After seeing his ghost again? He's heartbroken.”
Nicodemus closed his eyes. “We must help him keep fighting. Deirdre has a plan.” He looked at Boann. She was staring down at the kobolds. “Goddess, if you don't mind my asking, what has it been like to miss Deirdre for so long? To spend all these years circling around her but never recovering her ⦔
“The worst moments are when I blame myself for being jealous of Kyran, for pushing her away. There are days I can barely stand to be myself.”
Nicodemus nodded.
Boann pointed. “They should strike now. The fish are as close as they're going to get.”
The kobolds remained stone still.
“Nicodemus, something occurs to me now,” the goddess said gently. “If
you are mesmerized as those fish are, it may not be by Francesca.” She stood. “It may be by the emerald.”
you are mesmerized as those fish are, it may not be by Francesca.” She stood. “It may be by the emerald.”
Just then Jasp yanked the light away from the water to where Flint smothered it in a leather bag. With the redwood canopy blocking out moon and starlight, the lake surface became complete black. Vein cast a net of coruscating indigo prose into the water, where it tied itself into a tight bundle.
Whooping delight, the kobolds hauled a tangle of luminous sentences and flopping fish out of the reservoir. Nicodemus called out his approval. Dinner was caught.
But then, as often happened when he contemplated fresh food, Nicodemus's elation subsided. His stomach was empty, but he'd have to wait hours before eating any fish. If he put food too fresh into his mouth, his lips would misspell its still-viable Language Prime and distort the tissue into tumor.
Shortly after dawn, the rain clouds rolled away from Avel and left the sky a pale, limpid blue. For the first time since the rains began, the winds had calmed to breezes. Even with the sun only an hour into its climb, the morning was warmer than so many of the previous.
This late in the rainy season, it was possible the storms were over, that from now on the year would be a succession of burnished days with the city gardens flourishing and the walled fields below the dam growing chickpeas, wheat, and lentils.
The fine weather had brought buyers out of their houses and into the South Market. The weather was pleasant, but talk was tense and nervous. Craftsmen whispered to cooks and housewives about the lycanthrope incursion in North Gate or trouble within the sanctuary.
Through the warm air and whispers, Magister Robert DeGarn walked. People eyed his black robes and afforded him space, which he acknowledged with a smile and a nod. He went to two different spice stalls. Neither time did he seem to find what he was looking for. Smile gone, DeGarn approached the third spice stall. In clipped words he explained that he wanted to buy mint for the day's tea but that someone else was buying up all of the herb in the market.
The stall's owner, a young man with a sparse black beard, looked nervously between DeGarn and the man beside him. Short and dressed in a too-heavy white cloak, the newcomer grabbed DeGarn's sleeve. A puff of wind blew the wizard's red-lined hood over his head.
“Whâ” DeGarn spoke the single surprised syllable before a strip of his hood cut itself free and then wrapped around his mouth.
Francesca stepped from the crowd and slid her right hand under DeGarn's left arm. The cloth of his robes had become as hard as steel. With her free arm, she tossed two silver coins to the spice seller. “As we agreed, you saw two ordinary citizens greet Magister DeGarn and walk away with him. Keep to that story, and I'll be back with twice your payment.”
The young man nodded.
Francesca secured her grip on DeGarn's arm. “Cyrus, relax the skirt of his robes a little more. Otherwise he can't walk.”
By pulling on DeGarn's arm, Francesca led them out of the market, down an alley, and into a courtyard. The place belonged to the tavern that surrounded it, and Francesca had paid a heavy purse to ensure they wouldn't be disturbed.
The courtyard's white walls were covered by thorny clouds of bougainvillea vines, their crinkled-paper flowers of purple and yellow just beginning to open. Four dwarf orange trees grew among the court's terracotta tiles, their waxy leaves glinting with retained raindrops. In the courtyard's center stood a small raised reflecting pool. Francesca and Cyrus sat their captive on the pool's brightly tiled edge. DeGarn's robes allowed him to sit but then tightened around his body.
Fran stood next to Cyrus, in front of the older wizard. Cyrus pulled back the man's hood to reveal an enraged expression bound by a tight headbandâcontaining Cyrus's censoring spellâand a cloth gag. DeGarn's fierce brown eyes glared at Francesca.
She met his gaze and then pulled from her satchel the metallic cat they'd caught the previous night.
DeGarn's eyes fixed on the object. His jaw muscles flexed and his pupils dilated. Genuine surprise.
Francesca dropped the cat. It struck the tiles with a clang. Then Francesca dropped the sheet of Lornish steel. DeGarn looked at the new object and then back up to her.
“You know how these got into Avel?”
He shook his head.
“Don't try to lie. Your bald head is going pink with embarrassment.” It wasn't, but judging by the way DeGarn's eyes widened, he didn't know that. “You've got two of these constructs”âshe kicked the metal catâ“sitting on the war-weight gargoyles that guard the inner door to your colaboris station. One of them was missing its left eye. I thought they were decorations when I saw them. But they're not. They're safeguards for your guests ⦠your Lornish guests.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“You're hiding highsmiths in your station,” she said flatly. “One was dressed up like a servant and served us mint tea. I saw his tray indent around his fingers. At the time, I thought the tray was thin or old. But that wasn't it, was it? There was text in the tray, warping its metal, because the man holding it was a highsmith.”
Again she kicked the metal cat. “You've let these constructs sit on your
gargoyles as proof you wouldn't use the brutes against the metal mages. And you let the druids fly their raven familiars all over your station and your city.”
gargoyles as proof you wouldn't use the brutes against the metal mages. And you let the druids fly their raven familiars all over your station and your city.”
DeGarn didn't move.
“And that's why you were so damn ⦔ she searched for the right word
“ ⦠smarmy about Starfall being a miserable nothing and Astrophell being exultant. You wanted to see if I'd declare my allegiance to the North. You're a Starfall agent, aren't you? You're out here fighting to form the League of Starfall so that Starfall can break away from Astrophell?”
DeGarn still didn't move.
“Well then,” she said, “that begs three questions. First, why are you sheltering highsmiths and druids in a colaboris station? Second, how in the Creator's name have you managed to stop them from tearing each other's hearts out? And finally, how were you so completely, incredibly, brain-blisteringly stupid enough to walk out into the market by yourself after we disspelled the metal cat?”
She nodded at Cyrus, who tapped DeGarn's shoulder. His gag fell away.
DeGarn frowned but said nothing.
Francesca waited a few moments and then said, “Let's play a game: I'll tell you what I think is happening, and you'll sit there dumb as a bag of mush until I say something wrong. Fair?”
He glowered at her in silence.
“You've already got the hang of it!” She smiled. “So, I learned about the League of Starfall from a man who believed that Starfall was looking to join forces with Starhaven against Astrophell. But seeing a highsmith construct working with druidic familiars got me wondering if Starfall has stopped looking for allies within the wizardly academy. Up north, the counter-prophecy faction has a young woman they're going to dub the Halcyon. I'm guessing Starfall got wind of this and became desperate enough to do the unthinkable and look for allies outside of the academy. How close am I?”
DeGarn looked away from her.
“Well done, Magister! You have this game down pat.” She smiled. “So, who would join Starfall to oppose Northern power? The two ancient enemies, Lorn and Dral? Might not seem likely candidates until one considers that the only thing ever to get druids and highsmiths in bed together was the war to break free of the Neosolar Empire ⦠which was, unless I've forgotten my history, ruled from Trillinon.”
Finally, DeGarn spoke: “You're spinning this loose assemblage of ⦠conjecture out of one metal feline statue and a few blackbirds.”
“Don't forget about your being a consummate snot,” she quipped happily. “That was a big tip-off.”
“I don't have to take this abuse.”
She made a show of looking around the courtyard. “Hmmm, maybe you mean that these are druidic orange-tree constructs? That they're going to pelt Cyrus and me with unripe fruit until we let you go?” She looked expectantly at the trees for a moment. “Oh, wait, they're not. Pity. Because now I'm really God-of-gods damned certain that, actually, you do have to take this abuse.”
“Cleric,” DeGarn said with all the dignified loathing of a Lornish courtier, “you are a rude and vulgar woman.”
“And you're a blooming idiot,” she said brightly. “Truly, what made you dumb enough to stroll around the market after we'd disspelled the cat? The ravens saw us do it and flew away.”
Cyrus grunted. “Unless the druids and the highsmiths didn't tell you what their spies saw.”
DeGarn glowered at him.
“Huh,” Francesca said. “There's a thought. Now why would they not tell youâ”
“You found Nicodemus Weal,” DeGarn said.
Francesca found that it was her turn to be struck dumb.
“It's the only thing they would hide from me,” DeGarn said, his keen brown eyes fixed on Francesca's. “You found Nicodemus Weal.”
Francesca looked at Cyrus, but it was too late; her reaction was as good as an admission.
“Cleric, you have an extraordinary opportunity to shape history,” DeGarn said, now in earnest. “Starfall must be free. Lorn and Dral will not submit to Northern rule. The woman who would be Halcyon cannot be convinced of this. We have tried diplomacy, but she believes she is prophesized to rule the entire continent. Unless she realizes that the South will not kneel, there will be long, bloody war.”
Cyrus grunted. “And Nicodemus is simply going to ⦠induce the soon-to-be Halcyon to abandon her ambitions?”
“No,” Francesca heard herself say. “Starfall wants something to make Astrophell nervous; it wants its own Halcyon.”
DeGarn shifted under the robes that had become his restraints. “Rude and vulgar, Magistra, you are certainly that. But you are also irritatingly perceptive.”
Francesca bowed. “I'm rather fond of you too, Magister. Especially your flouncy Western Lornish way of speaking. It reminds me of the Lornish romances I like to read.”
DeGarn rolled his eyes. “Spare me your poor literary taste.”
She laughed. “Magister you are in a rare and truly miserable position.
You've got Vivian and Lotannu in the city, Northern agents who are also searching for Nicodemus. What do you mean to do with them, assassinate them?”
You've got Vivian and Lotannu in the city, Northern agents who are also searching for Nicodemus. What do you mean to do with them, assassinate them?”
“The League of Starfall wants independence, not carnage. Listen, you must take us, or at least our message, to Nicodemus. The Astrophell spies are here to destroy him; they think he is the one of counter-prophecy.”
“What if he is the one of counter-prophecy?” Cyrus asked.
“The counter-prophecy is rubbish. Besides, if he can keep us free, we don't care if he is Los's child and sprouts antlers from his head whileâ”
“He's rediscovered Language Prime, you know,” Francesca casually interrupted.
DeGarn held motionless for a long moment. “What did you say?”
Francesca explained how Nicodemus had learned the magical language that composed the basic elements of life, how his touch could distort flesh into a bulging necrotic tumor, how he had known the metal cat at her feet was not alive by looking at it. “Still sound like a fellow you want to lead your bid for independence?”
DeGarn grunted. “Assuming you're telling the truth, the whole thing will fit quite well. Both the tree lovers and metal mages have ⦠shall we say ⦠peculiar prophecies. The highsmiths believe in a savior they call the Oriflamme, who will create living metal, with which they will fight off the demons during the War of Disjunction. Understanding the language that creates life would greatly impress them ⦠once ⦔
“Once they got past the whole blaspheming against the Creator part of things?” Francesca suggested helpfully.
“As you say,” DeGarn replied uncomfortably. “Meanwhile, the druids are aflutter about the Silent Blight, which as far as I can tell involves dying trees. Around the highsmiths, they embark on intensely poetic descriptions of nature being unbalanced.”
“How many of each are you hiding?” Cyrus asked.
“Five druids, seven highsmiths.”
“And the metal you're smuggling into the city?”
DeGarn scowled. “The highsmiths are doing that against my orders. They're nervous because the druids have snuck so much wood charged with their runes into the city.”
“Los in hell!” Francesca swore. “Magister, how much linguistic weaponry do you have in this city?”
“Enough to protect Nicodemus from almost any action,” he answered with a note of pride, “if Nicodemus accepts our invitation to join the League of Starfall.”
Francesca sniffed in disbelief. “Or enough to eliminate him if he doesn't?”
“We are not as bloody-minded as you suppose,” DeGarn insisted.
“Then why are the druids and the highsmiths withholding information from you?”
“They desire first access to Nicodemus. If he does become our champion, and if one group should catch his ear first ⦔
Francesca nodded. “I see.”
DeGarn looked between her and Cyrus. “Come with me to the station to talk about the League. We shall discuss howâ”
“I'd rather beat my face with a hot brick,” Francesca interrupted. “I can't think of a single earthly reason why I should trust you.”
DeGarn started. “I've just recalled something. A neophyte delivered your clinical journal to us before dusk last night.”
“My clinical journal? Who sent my clinical journal?”
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