“A dark avenger,” Aiul marveled. “Elgar is much maligned.”
Logrus’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Aiul. “Perhaps,” he said. He reached into his pocket, produced a book, and tossed it to Aiul. “I am tired,” he said. “The rest of the story is there.” Logrus flattened himself on the ground and closed his eyes.
“Good night to you, too,” Aiul muttered as he turned the book over in his hands. It was just as Logrus had described, but it seemed too small to hold the rest of Logrus’s story. He flipped through the pages in growing amazement as he realized that there were far more in the book than he would have guessed. It seemed to grow more pages as he neared the end, and absorb earlier pages, never changing size.
As Logrus began to snore, Aiul read with growing fascination and horror. The pages detailed twenty years worth of bloodshed, written in Logrus’s spiky, clipped penmanship. The writing was stilted, matter of fact, and dry, but for all that, it was meticulous. Aiul was transfixed by his companion’s attention to detail, his relentless pursuit of his quarry. None were ordinary criminals. They were all fiends that even pirates and bandits would strike down: child killers, torturers, cannibals, beasts unworthy of being called human.
For every entry declaring that it was necessary for some monster to die, a series of them followed detailing the hunt, sometimes covering years of dogged pursuit. And for every entry, there was a final description of how the villain had met his end at Logrus’s hand. Apparently, they had all died in screaming horror. They seemed to see Logrus as something from a nightmare. Logrus had dutifully recorded their last words. Aiul was uncertain, but it appeared that each final entry was written not in ink, but in blood. He counted over a hundred deaths before he closed the book with a shudder, unable to continue.
Drunk as he was, sleep was a long time coming, and when it did, he was plagued by dreams where Logrus, Kariana, and Southlanders struggled against one another as Nihlos burned.
Chapter 12
Cyanide and Cheap Theatrics
Sadrik had rarely visited Maklin Yorn, and certainly never out of fondness. The young sorcerer could have listed fifty or so unpleasant things about Maklin without breaking a sweat, not the least of which was that he had a peculiar smell. Nevertheless, that and his other myriad eccentricities would have to be borne.
One of Maklin’s slaves answered Sadrik’s insistent knock. He was a large man, broad of shoulder, and bald. He was not quite as tall as Sadrik, but he looked up at him with a scowl that said such things did not matter. “It’s very late,” the slave observed.
“So it is,” Sadrik replied, finding the man’s tone irksome “Be that as it may, inform your master that Sadrik of House Tasinal must speak with him at once.”
The slave made no move to do anything other than bar Sadrik’s entry. “The master needs his rest. He is old.”
“I assure you, he will continue to be old for quite some time. Must I grow so as well before you fetch him?”
The slave’s eyes narrowed, and he reached to grab a handful of Sadrik’s shirt. “You don’t understand— ” He cut himself short with a squeal of pain, and withdrew his hand quickly. Smoke and the scent of singed hair wafted through the air.
“No, my friend. I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand, hmm?”
The slave offered a series of nods in quick succession, considerably less belligerent. “I do now. You’re one of the master’s special friends. You’re usually older, though.”
“I suppose I’m something of a prodigy, at that.”
“I’ll fetch him at once.”
Shortly, Sadrik found himself ushered into what seemed best described as a mad scientist’s laboratory. Books and beakers, mortars and pestles, wrenches, and a thousand other random items were scattered about various shelves and tables in an almost but not completely random manner. There was an order to it, but that order was visible only to Maklin.
That individual sat at a desk in the heart of the chaotic mess, eating a sandwich and glaring at his unwelcome guest. “Sadrik! I should have expected it would be you roughing up my people!”
“Oh, please. I barely singed him.”
Maklin picked a hair from his sandwich and examined it, apparently decided it belonged to him, and ran a hand through the tangle of white hair covering his head, trying, unsuccessfully, to corral it. He took another bite of the sandwich and muttered around the mouthful, “Jonas is a good boy. He brought me this!” He waved the sandwich at Sadrik in accusation.
“It’s not quite the remarkable feat you make it out to be,” Sadrik groused. “You know, some of us actually manage our own affairs instead of having slaves do everything for us.”
Maklin waved the notion aside. “Some of you are idiots.”
“Hmm, well, then I suppose I can’t possibly have anything of worth to tell you. I’ll be on my way then.”
“Oh, you needn’t be such a baby about it! Fine, fine, what was it, then?”
Sadrik waited a moment, smirking, enjoying the old man's growing impatience. “Oh, nothing too important. Just that my cousin mentioned, in passing you understand, that the piece of the Eye of the Lion she keeps is missing.”
Maklin sucked in a bite of sandwich with his gasp and began choking. From a dark corner of the room, a young woman shrieked, ran across to the old sorcerer, and began pounding him on the back, knocking over several flasks and beakers in the process. Maklin, wide eyed, took the beating for a few moments before hacking up the offending matter. He breathed a sigh of relief, then promptly resumed a demeanor more befitting the end of the world.
“Mei! Impossible,” he wheezed. The young slave looked on worriedly.
For some reason, Sadrik found the whole affair extremely annoying. “Do you really have slaves standing by in the event you might choke on a sandwich?”
Maklin looked at Sadrik in confusion for a moment, then shook his head. “Me? No, they do it themselves.”
The slave looked at the old man with something akin to worship in her eyes. “The master tends to forget himself. We keep him safe.”
Maklin frowned at this, but tolerated it. “Yes, yes, that’s fine, Mara.” He scowled at Sadrik. “They want me to produce an heir, you know. As if I have the time!”
Mara, busy checking Maklin for any signs of injury, commented softly, “I’d be glad to help you with that, master.”
Maklin had had enough. He shook himself free from Mara and slapped at the air around him, making it difficult for her to approach without being hit. After a few moments of deft attempts to smooth his hair she stepped back and gave him a stern look, hands on her hips in exasperation.
“Now see here, Mara,” Maklin told her. “I appreciate your care, but this is private business. Out you go!”
Sadrik gazed in wonder as the slave, pouting, slipped quietly out of the lab. “I’m not exactly certain who is the slave here.”
“Nor am I! Now, what is this idiocy you come here spouting? It’s absolutely impossible. No one can even access it without keys from House Tasinal, House Amrath, and House Yorn. She couldn’t even know it was missing!”
“Apparently, there are ways to access it, assuming one is capable of punching through several inches of steel with a bare hand.”
Maklin was growing angry now. “Several inches of steel protected against sorcery! What game are you trying to play, boy? Get me to open it and have a go at stealing it? Prodigy or no, I will squash you like a bug if you test me, make no mistake”
“It was not a Meite, and, no, I am not testing you, old man. It was, apparently, Elgar who took it.”
Maklin’s jaw fell open, and he very nearly toppled from his stool. “What?” he gasped, eyes wide in shock.
Sadrik started to respond with something acid, but the realization struck him that Maklin was truly dumbfounded. “They didn’t tell you, either.”
“Who didn’t tell me what?”
“Maranath, Ariano, and Prandil. They’ve had my cousin under very close observatio
n since Aiul’s escape.”
“And what does that have to do with Elgar?”
“Everyone is convinced that it was Elgar.”
Maklin leapt to his feet. To Sadrik’s discomfort, any number of items about the room began to move and gather together into vaguely humanoid forms: twenty books floated together and struck a threatening pose behind the old sorcerer; fifty or so beakers arranged themselves into a semblance of a spider and scuttled menacingly toward Sadrik. A flock of knives rose from a workbench and circled in the air overhead, blades flashing deadly and sharp.
Maklin was no longer a silly old man. He asked Sadrik, in a very calm voice: “How long have you known about this?”
Sadrik took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he raised his hands in surrender. This could prove disastrous. The elders were not merely powerful, but quite volatile as well. It was certainly possible he could beat the old man, but no one would have given any odds in that direction. Truth was far and away the better option. It wasn’t as if he had come here to deceive anyone.
“I've known about the Elgar connection for weeks, ever since Aiul escaped. I thought it was common knowledge. As for the Eye, I only know because Kariana told me this very night, and I came straight to you.”
Maklin’s gaze held Sadrik’s for several long, very tense moments. At last, apparently satisfied, Maklin gave him a nod, and the deadly constructs retreated back to their tables and shelves. “We must go to the vault at once.”
Maklin wasted no time with talking. Instead, he simply grabbed Sadrik by the collar and shot toward the ceiling. Sadrik looked up in dismay, cringing at an impact with the metal ceiling which never came. Cunningly disguised doors opened as they approached, and the pair shot into the night sky.
Sadrik shivered, partly from the cold, and partly from real fear, as Maklin swept them high above Nihlos. He had the sense that all that stood between him and a drop to the roofs a hundred feet or more beneath his feet was the thin cloth of his shirt, though in fact it wasn't under any pressure at all. It felt as if he, too, were simply flying, but he was all too aware of Maklin's hand grasping his garment. If he were to let go, would I fall? Or is that just his way of showing me the leash?
Even so, it was truly a marvelous, wonderful thing, an experience beyond anything he had ever known. Nihlos lay spread below him, small and toy-like. It was the proper position for a sorcerer to view the city, but so far, Sadrik had yet to master flight. It was damnably difficult, even being a gifted student of an art that involved convincing himself of contradictory notions. It was easy to believe objects were on fire, that temperatures were malleable, and many other variants. But Sadrik had never been able to accept that if he walked off a ledge, he would not plummet to the ground. He had no idea how the elders managed it.
Maklin said nothing during the trip. Sadrik couldn’t discern the exact cause for his silence. Perhaps flight required focus? Or maybe he was simply so furious about the Eye and the associated chicanery that he had no words. Did it really matter? In either case, pursuing it at the moment could very well end in a precipitous drop. Sadrik decided to keep quiet.
Maklin set them down in a dark, discrete alley near the palace grounds. Sadrik noted with relief that the old man hadn’t completely abandoned decorum. It would have been awkward if he had dropped them right on the palace doorstep, what with sorcery being illegal. Not that Maklin would have had a real problem dealing with anyone foolish enough to try arresting him, or many regrets about what he did to them, for that matter, but Nihlos was already running low on guardsmen. It was rumored to be a dead end job.
As they came the palace stairs, the guards at the doorway seemed to debate whether or not to challenge them. The guards had no idea they were sorcerers, of course, but certainly Maklin was well known as a Patriarch, and had an aura of seriousness about him that gave them pause. The sergeant in charge opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and Maklin simply walked past him, Sadrik at his heels.
The elders were not people to be trifled with.
Kariana lay curled like a cat on her bed, eyes sleepy and drooping. Caelwen stood at the foot of the bed, blathering on about some thing or another. Did it matter? She had the important part: he was leaving the city to capture Aiul, and during his absence, she would likely be assassinated if she stepped out of her quarters for even an instant. She couldn’t help but titter at his feigned concern.
Caelwen gave her a suspicious look. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
Kariana's eyes widened as she struggled to feign attention. “Oh, yes, of course.”
“What’s so amusing about it, then?”
Kariana wiped the smile off her face and assumed a pose of rapt attention. “I hear nothing but your voice, Captain.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Is it not your title?” she mocked.
“You make it sound like…” He trailed off, jaw bulging, as she smiled at him in smug satisfaction. “Fine. As you will.”
“You were saying?”
Caelwen rolled his shoulders a bit, his face still lined with annoyance, preparing to speak when the door to the room burst open as if it had been kicked. Maklin Yorn, looking as if his tangled, white hair was on fire, stood in the door frame. Sadrik leered over his shoulder like a buzzard waiting for a lion to finish with its kill.
“Kariana Tasinal!” the old sorcerer shouted. “What have you done?”
Caelwen and Kariana, both momentarily stunned by the interruption, blinked at the two sorcerers in confusion. Sadrik was doing something with his hands. Oh, really, is he actually trying to communicate that this isn’t his fault? Kariana waved a hand of dismissal at him, a subtle betrayal, but one that Maklin recognized. Kariana could barely suppress jumping up and down with glee as the old sorcerer turned quickly and caught Sadrik mid-denial. Maklin scowled at Sadrik for a moment before turning his glare back to Kariana. “Well?”
Caelwen recovered first. He cast Kariana a baleful glance. “What could it be this time?”
Maklin gave Caelwen a suspicious glare. “She’s hardly the only one in the shit house!”
Caelwen raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Are you insinuating I’ve done something, old man? Why not come out and say it outright?” Oh, bravo! Perhaps there will be a fight!
Maklin chuckled at this. “Fine, boy, I will. You’ve failed miserably and let some miscreant abscond with a piece of the Eye of the Lion!”
Caelwen’s eyebrow stayed in its raised position. “What, pray tell, is an ‘Eye of the Lion’?”
“Never you mind that! What’s important is that the two of you have lost it, and I am here to get it back!”
Caelwen’s face grew dark as he made the connection. “I’d like to have seen you do better!”
Maklin poked a finger into Caelwen’s chest. “Oh, I will, sonny. Watch and see.”
Kariana watched them both for a moment, hoping for more, but it seemed played out. No fight, not for the moment. She shot Sadrik a sour look. “I thought I could trust you!”
Sadrik shrugged in response and put on his ‘I am terribly wise’ face. “You can, cousin. This was the proper course of action. He’s just more excited about it than I expected.”
Maklin scowled and stepped to Kariana’s bed. “Let’s see the vault. Then we’ll talk.” He stood, glaring down at Kariana while she smiled back at him. “Do you prefer to move yourself, or do you want me to move you?”
Kariana giggled as she slipped from the bed wearing nothing but her nightclothes. What would the old man do?
As it turned out, he waved a hand and the entire bed vaulted on edge and slammed into the wall, smashing her lovely collection of intoxicants. Mei! Some of those were older than I am! Kariana felt tears welling. “Really?” she shouted. “That was unnecessary!”
Maklin looked her up and down, and not in the way she preferred. It was as if he were searching for someone worth talking to, looking for brain rather than boobs, and finding none. It was disti
nctly uncomfortable and insulting. “I’ll decide what’s necessary,” he muttered, and turned back to the wall.
Maklin reached toward the tapestry, then recoiled at the scene. “People actually do these sorts of things?”
Caelwen grunted. “Some people.”
Maklin looked as if he were about to be ill. “How revolting.” He reached for the tapestry again but paused. Was the old man squeamish about sex?
“It’s no wonder you don’t have an heir,” Kariana spat.
Maklin turned back to her, annoyed. “Now see here—” he began, then, with a look of surprise, asked, “Do you smell smoke?”
Kariana not only smelled it, but could see the source. Her beautiful tapestry was burning! She let out a wail as Caelwen rushed forward to beat at the flames.
Sadrik gave Kariana a reproachful look. “These Meites are powerful creatures, cousin. You would do well not to anger them.”
Maklin snickered at Sadrik, then shrugged and turned back to the wall. “Quite right.”
Caelwen had managed to stop the flames from spreading, but the tapestry was a total loss. Kariana bit her lip in frustration, and resolved to say as little as possible. Maklin obviously enjoyed destroying her favorite things, so it would be best not to give him any more excuses.
Maklin brushed the charred ruins of the tapestry aside to reveal the gaping hole in the plaster. He turned back to Kariana in shock. “You just left it here?”
“It’s not as if I could lift it!” she shouted back in a shrill voice. Her promise to be quiet had lasted all of ten seconds, if that. Oh, well, it’s hardly the first time.
Maklin chuckled softly and elbowed Sadrik. “Oh, she’s feisty!” He turned back to Kariana, the humor gone from his face as if it had never existed. “Tell me how this happened. Leave nothing out. And be aware I have not yet decided if you actually survived this encounter.”
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