Stalking Darkness (49 page)

“But I doubt they killed all of their own people,” Seregil went on, taking a closer look at a ragged, one-handed beggar. “Have you noticed that no one remembers seeing Mardus and the necromancers leave? Except Hwerlu, maybe. He said something about a huge dark shape rising over the House as he ran toward it. He didn’t get there until it was over, so that may have been Mardus’ exit. A dyrmagnos could have that kind of power.”

Micum felt an unlucky chill go up his back.

“Let’s hope we can stay clear of the thing, then. Anything that can lay Nysander low and then fly off like a bat is nothing I want to face down.”

A swarthy man with a scar through his bottom lip caught his eye. “I know him. He’s one of Captain Tildus’ men,” Micum said, pointing him out to Seregil. “I drank with him a few times at the Pony in Wolde. He’s one of them who gave Alec a hard time.”

“I see an old friend, too.” Seregil stood looking down at a lanky, rawboned man dressed in a soiled leather jerkin. “Farm the Fish, a gaterunner who came up missing a month ago. Tym mentioned him to me just before he disappeared himself. I don’t recognize any of the others. Probably all Plenimaran soldiers and spies brought in for the job.” He tapped his chin with one long forefinger as he frowned down at the dead. “You remember I ran into a Juggler up in Asengai’s dungeon, that night Alec and I first met?”

“The Plenimaran assassins guild, you mean?”

“Yes.” Seregil jerked a thumb at the corpses. “What would you bet there’s a guild mark on one or two of these fellows?”

Micum grimaced in distaste. “Guess there’s only one way to find out. What’s it look like?”

“Three small blue dots tattooed to form a triangle. They’re usually in the armpit,” Seregil told him, adding with a wry grin, “At least this is better than going to the charnel houses.”

Even in the scented coolness of the Oreska garden, however, it was not pleasant work.

Pulling at clothing and cold, stiff limbs, Micum found no tattoos, but two men did have suspicious scars about the size of a sester coin under their arms. The healed tissue was still pink and new.

“I think this might be something,” he said.

Seregil came over for a look and nodded. “There are three more just like it over there. That scar isn’t a burn or a puncture; the skin was sliced away on purpose. If it wasn’t a Juggler’s mark they cut out, then I’ll wager it was something similar.”

“That Mardus is a cagey bastard,” Micum said with grudging admiration. “He wasn’t taking any chances. Not that we can prove it now, though.”

Seregil examined the scar. “You know, I’ve heard that these skin marks go deep. What do you think?” Micum sighed. “It’s worth a try, so long as no drysians catch us at it.”

Slipping a tiny, razorlike blade from the seam of his belt, Seregil held the skin on either side of the mark taut with two fingers and sliced away the surface of the scar. When he’d pulled back the flap of skin, he and Micum inspected the livid flesh beneath.

“See anything?” asked Micum. “No, they must’ve cut deep on this one. Let’s try another.”

Their second attempt was more successful. Scraping gently this time, Seregil uncovered the faint triangular imprint of the Juggler’s guild mark still visible in the flesh.

Seregil rocked back on his heels with grim satisfaction. “That’s proof enough for me.” “Maker’s Mercy! What do you think you’re doing?”

It was Darbia, the dark-haired drysian who’d been helping tend Nysander. Bristling with indignation, she strode up and made a quick blessing sign over the corpse.

“Enemy or not, I cannot condone such barbarous behavior,” she snapped.

“It’s not desecration,” Micum assured her, getting to his feet. “This man and several others wear the mark of Plenimaran spies. The Queen should be informed before any of these bodies are taken away.”

The drysian crossed her arms, still scowling. “Very well then, I’ll see to it.” “Did Valerius send you after us?” asked Seregil. “Yes, Nysander is stirring a bit.” Without waiting to hear more, Seregil and Micum ran for the tower.

Magyana was still in the armchair by Nysander’s bedside where she’d spent the night, one hand still on his brow. Seeing her like that, Micum could almost feel her willing her own energy into her old love, trying to heal and sustain him with her own life force.

To Micum, Nysander looked worse than ever. His face was a dull, chalky grey, his eyes sunken deep in their sockets beneath the unruly white brows. His breathing scarcely lifted the sheet covering him but Micum could hear it, rasping faintly as dry leaves across stone.

The sight of him must have struck Seregil hard as well. He read a hint of despair in Seregil’s face as he approached Nysander, and knew it was born of the conflict between Seregil’s great love for Nysander and his desperate need to learn whatever he could to save Alec.

Seregil paused long enough to cleanse his hands at the washstand, then knelt beside the bed and took Nysander’s hand between his own. Micum moved around behind Magyana’s chair in time to see Nysander’s eyes slowly open.

“I found your map,” Seregil told him, not wasting any precious time. “Yes,” Nysander mouthed, nodding slightly against the pillow. “Good.” “The Pillar of the Sky, Yothgash-horagh. It’s Mount Kythes, isn’t it?” Again, a slight nod.

“This temple you spoke of, it’s on the mountain?” “No,” Nysander told them. “Beneath it, underground?” No response.

Seregil watched the wounded man’s face for any movement, then asked as calmly as he could manage, “At the foot of it?”

Nysander’s throat worked painfully as he struggled to speak. Seregil bent close, but after a few desperate efforts, the wizard’s eyes closed.

Seregil rested his forehead against his clenched fists for a moment. Micum couldn’t see Magyana’s face from where he stood, but her hand was trembling as she reached to clasp Seregil’s shoulder. “He’s gone deep within himself again. I know how desperately you need to speak with him, but he’s just too weak.”

“Could you make anything out of that last bit?” Micum asked, refusing to give up hope.

Still kneeling by the bed, Seregil shook his head doubtfully. “He was trying to tell me something. It sounded like ‘late us’ or ‘lead us,’ but it was so faint I can’t be certain.”

Magyana leaned forward, gripping his shoulder more forcefully this time as she turned him to face her. “Leiteus? Could it have been the name Leiteus?” Seregil looked up at her in surprise. “Yes! Yes, it could have been. And I’ve heard that name somewhere—“

Magyana clasped her hands together over her heart.

“Leiteus i Marineus is an astrologer, and a friend of Nysander’s! They’ve been consulting with each other about some comet for over a year now.”

Seregil jumped to his feet and began searching the floor around Nysander’s hearth. At last he bent and pulled a book from beneath an armchair.

“I noticed this lying open by his chair yesterday,” he said, handing it to her. She opened it and Micum saw that it was full of tables and strange symbols. “Yes,” she said, “this is one of Leiteus’ books.” “Have you ever heard the word ’synodical’?” Seregil asked her with growing excitement. “I believe it refers to the movements of the stars and planets.”

Micum looked to Magyana in surprise. “You mean Nysander really was trying to send us to this astrologer fellow?”

“So it would seem.”

“One place and one time.” That’s what he said yesterday,” Seregil reminded them. “A synodical event, like the advent of this comet. It must have some bearing on whatever Mardus is up to.”

He bent to lay a hand against Nysander’s pale cheek. “I don’t know if you can hear any of this,” he said softly, “but if you can, I’m going to Leiteus. Do you understand, Nysander? I’m going to speak with Leiteus.”

Nysander gave no sign of consciousness. Seregil sadly stroked a lock of grizzled grey hair back from the old man’s brow. “That’s all right. I’m the Guide. You just leave it to me for now.”

Outside the Oreska walls an early spring wind had blown up, clearing the sky and whipping corner whirlwinds out of the dead year’s dust and leaves.

Galloping north out of the Harvest Gate, they left the highroad for a smaller one that wound along the sea cliffs.

The astrologer’s modest walled villa sat perched on a headland overlooking the sea. Above it, gulls wheeled gracefully against the morning sky.

The courtyard gate was shut tight, but a servant soon answered Micum’s relentless knock.

“My master is not accustomed to receiving visitors at this early hour,” the man informed them stiffly, eyeing Seregil’s unkempt appearance and ill-fitting coat with undisguised skepticism.

“We’re here on a matter of the utmost interest to your master,” Seregil replied, affecting his most arrogant tone. “Tell him that Lord Seregil i Korit Solun Meringil Bokthersa and Sir Micum of Cavish, Knight of Watermead, require his attendance at once in a matter pertaining to his friend Nysander, High Thaumaturgist of the Oreska House.”

Duly intimidated by the onslaught of titles, the man relented enough to escort them to a small sitting room overlooking the sea, while he went to speak with his master.

“Prophecies and astrologers,” Micum grumbled, pacing around the tiny room. “Alec’s carried off by crazy butchering bastards and we’re weaving sails out of smoke!”

“It’s more solid than that. I can feel it.” Seregil sat down on a bench under the window and rested one elbow on the sill as he gazed out.

Having a thread to follow, even as tenuous a one as this, appeared to have restored the inner calm Seregil needed to function. After all the horror of the previous day, however, Micum wondered if he wasn’t just a bit too calm.

And what if this astrologer doesn’t have all the answers?

“How did Kari take you going off like this?”

Micum shrugged. “She’s nearly four months gone with child, Beka’s off in the middle of a war, and I charge off again with you. I swore to her I’d be there when her time comes.”

Still looking out the window, Seregil said quietly, “You don’t have to come, you know. Prophecy or not, the decision is yours.”

“Don’t talk like an idiot. Of course I’m coming,” Micum retorted gruffly. “I’ve made my choice and I’ll stick by it,” he went on, sitting down next to Seregil. “Though I’ll admit I don’t like it. Nysander talks of a band of four and here we sit, knocked down to two before we even begin.”

“We’re still four, Micum.”

Micum stared down at the mosaic under his feet for a moment, then laid a hand on Seregil’s thin shoulder. “I know what Valerius said yesterday. I want to believe it as much as you, but—“

“No!” Seregil glared at Micum. “Until I hold his body in my hands, Alec is alive, do you hear?”

Micum understood the anguish behind Seregil’s anger all too well. If Alec was alive, Seregil would fight through fire and death to save him. If Alec was dead, then he’d do the same to track down his killers. Either road, he blamed himself.

“You know I love the boy as much as you do,” he said gently, “but it won’t do him a damn bit of good for us to let that cloud our thinking. If we’re going to come up with any sort of plan we have to at least take into consideration that he might be dead. If this ‘Shaft’ person of yours is really meant to be an archer, then we’d better—“

Seregil stared out the window, his mouth set in a stubborn line. “No.” They were interrupted by the arrival of a short, well-fed man in an enormous dressing gown.

“I beg pardon, gentlemen,” he apologized, yawning as he ushered them into a spacious consultation room. “As you’ve no doubt surmised, the nature of my studies requires that I work at night. I’m seldom awake at this hour. I’ve sent for strong tea, so perhaps you would—“

“Forgive me, but I assume you’re unaware of the attack on the Oreska House last night,” Seregil broke in, “or that Nysander i Azusthra has been seriously wounded.”

“Nysander!” Leiteus gasped, his robe billowing around him as he sank into a chair. “By the Light, why would anyone want to harm that decent old fellow?”

“I can’t say,” answered Seregil, his manner now betraying none of the emotion of a moment before. “He sent us to you, though he was too weak to tell us why. Magyana says he’d consulted you on some astrological matter recently. It could have some bearing.”

“Do you think so?” Leiteus fetched a pile of charts from a nearby shelf and shuffled quickly through them.

“If only he’d allowed me to do that divination for him. He was gracious about it, of course, but so—Ah, here it is!”

He spread a large chart out on a polished table and peered down at it. “He was interested in the movements of Rendel’s Spear, you see.”

“A comet?” asked Seregil.

“Yes.” The astrologer pointed to a series of tiny symbols arcing across the chart. “It has a synodical cycle of fifty-seven years. This is the year of its return. He helped me calculate the date of its appearance.”

Seregil leaned forward eagerly. “And you have it?”

The astrologer referred to his parchments again. “Let me see, going by the observations recorded in Yourindai’s Ephemeris, as well as our own calculations, I believe Rendel’s Spear should be visible on the fifteenth night of Lithion.”

“That gives us just over two weeks, then,” Micum murmured.

“Of course, it will remain in the sky for nearly a week,” Leiteus added. “It’s one of the largest comets, a most impressive display. Of particular interest both to Nysander and myself, however, is the fact that this cycle of the comet coincides with a solar eclipse.”

Seregil shot Micum a meaningful glance, then asked, “Would that also be considered a synodical event?”

“Certainly, and one of the rarer variety,” replied the astrologer. “I assumed that’s why Nysander was so curious about it.”

“Eclipses are unlucky things,” Micum noted. “I once knew a man who went blind afterward.”

“It’ll be a doubly unlucky day with the comet in the sky,” Seregil added, though to Micum’s ear he sounded more pleased than alarmed. “‘Plague stars,’ I’ve heard these comets of yours called, bringers of ill fortune, war, disease.”

“That’s true, Lord Seregil,” Leiteus concurred. “The College of Divination has already sent word to the Queen, advising the suspension of all trade on that day. People should keep to their homes until the evil influence passes. Such a conjunction has not occurred in centuries.”