by Glen Cook
She played him tough. He could not shut his mind down.
The back door rattled suddenly, frantically. Chames rose. “Something’s gone wrong. Slide out the other way. Go to the shop. Wait there. No lights.”
Rattle again, accompanied by hoarse, worried whispers.
Marks opened the door. Three men tumbled in, one bleeding from wounds on his face and hands. “Shut that, Edam. All of you, take a deep breath. Calm down. Then somebody tell me where Madden is and what went wrong.”
Edam locked the door. “It went just like you said till we went inside the Wrench. We never got a chance to ask questions. The barkeep saw us and said, ‘You would be the ones.’ He started filling mugs. ‘On the gents that just left,’ he says.”
“I see. Well. I didn’t expect them to taunt me back. Go on. Then what?”
“So we drinks our beers. Minter says how Hartaway was gonna be browned off on account of he was following them others and gonna miss out. So then the barkeep asks do we want to top up, the guy from the castle paid for plenty. We says, yes sir, thank you very much, sir, since it’s on somebody else. The barkeep tops us up, then he hands Madden this big-ass bronze medal with some kind of blue stones set in it. Then he gives Minter a folded piece of paper. Madden goes, ‘What’s all this, then?’ The bartender goes, ‘I don’t know. The guy running that bunch said give it to the guy running your bunch. He said give the note to the guy that looked the stupidest.’”
“And?”
“So Madden is looking at that medal and we’re looking over each other’s shoulders. The barkeep is on the other side of the bar, trying to see, too. Madden touches one of them blue stones. And, Bang! The medallion explodes.”
“It tore him all up,” said the man who was bleeding. “Took both of his eyes, blew off the hand he was holding it in, and ripped out the side of his throat. He had it in his left hand, like this, maybe a foot from his face. I had to pick pieces of his fingers off’n me.”
Edam said, “The blast got the barkeep, too. His face was messed up.”
“I get the picture.” Better than did they. The barkeep was not part of the plot. “You still have that note, Minter?”
“I sure do, boss. I never even looked at it.”
Where would be the point? The man could not read. “Lucky you.”
Minter went pale behind his shrapnel wounds. “You think…?”
“Unless that note is just a bit of mockery we may have only minutes to live. Give it here. And hope some ‘Neener neener!’ is all it is.” Marks took the note. “All right. Everybody out. Find Hartaway, then get out of town. Right now if they didn’t shut the gates tonight.”
The gates did get left open more often than not, depending on how far the guards’ pay was in arrears.
“What about my face and hands?” Minter asked.
“The wounds aren’t dangerous. Clean them up once you’re twenty miles out of town.”
“Oh. Yeah. Shit. Let’s get the flock out of here, troops.”
Marks shut the door behind the three. It was a shame about Madden. But he could do nothing about that, now.
Madden being the victim might actually have been good luck. The others were good men, but stupid. Madden would have carried nothing to connect him with anyone else.
He pushed the folded paper over beside the chess set, stared at it. He felt no obvious danger but had little feel for sorcery. He used his belt knife to prod the paper.
Nothing happened.
He sniffed.
Nothing.
He used two butcher knives to unfold the sheet. How long did he have? A while, probably. With Gales in hand those men would report to the Queen first. After that they would try to track the tracer spell sure to be attached to the note.
Clever, evil bastards. Kill the only man smart enough to be in charge and the stupid ones would run straight to their control carrying a tracker spell.
Never touching the paper with his fingers, Chames spread the note. Which was blank. Presumably the tracer was inscribed in invisible ink.
He held the sheet with one knife and smoothed it out with the back of the other. The note convulsed suddenly and said, “Boo!”
Time to go.
...
“I doubt that we’ll catch anyone,” said Babeltausque, watching soldiers load the dead man into a cart. Poor old Wachtel would have to get out of bed again.
“We need to try,” Wolf replied.
“Of course we do. For our own sakes as well as the Queen’s. If we fail her we fail ourselves.”
Wolf grunted, unhappy with that truth.
Rumor had an angry Kristen ready to come out of hiding, hell-bent on revenge for the murders of her best-loved companions.
The sorcerer told the soldiers managing the corpse, “Take him to my workroom after Wachtel says he’s really dead. I’ll see what he can tell me.”
The soldiers looked uncomfortable.
Let them think he could conjure the shades of the dead. Let that notion gain currency. There were spies in Castle Krief. Fear might make them reveal themselves.
Wolf asked, “Can you still detect that charm?”
“I can. It’s down that way, probably less than three blocks.”
“Think they figured out what it is?”
“I hope so.”
Wolf said, “You puzzle me, man. Maybe even scare me a little.”
Babeltausque whispered, “I’m starting to scare myself.”
Wolf laughed but only from nerves.
Babeltausque said, “Let’s go find our operative.”
Five minutes later he, Wolf, and a half-dozen Itaskian soldiers arrived outside a butcher shop. Babeltausque said, “There’s no one in there now but this is where the tracer ended up.”
“Should we go in?” the Itaskian noncom asked.
“Sure. Front and back, with someone watching the windows. Be careful. Something clever may be going on.”
The sorcerer was confident that he would not find anything useful. The butcher himself would, surely, be clueless. Still, the effort had to be made. There was no excuse for not seeing if the villains had not left some trivial clue that might lead to their downfall.
Babeltausque asked Wolf, “What do you know about the night the treasury monies vanished?”
“Nothing new. The movements of the principals are common knowledge, subject to hearsay distortion.”
Babeltausque grumbled, “Common knowledge. They were supposed to hide the treasure in a preplanned place but didn’t because events got in the way. Then they died in the riots.”
“All apparently true. Prataxis and Mundwiller showed up for their own funerals.”
“Nathan. A joke. How unlike you. Tell me, do you have any sense that we’re being watched?”
“Somebody must be keeping track. I would be.”
“So would I.” Babeltausque wished he owned the skills needed to fix the villains.
The senior noncom called, “We’re in, sirs. The place is empty except for one unhappy pig.”
Babeltausque muttered, “We’re all comics tonight.” He went to meet the pig. “Stinks in here.”
Wolf said, “Rotten meat and blood. Even the cleanest butcher shop smells. And this one isn’t the cleanest. Hello, pig. Wasn’t your lucky day, was it?”
The noncom called, “Somebody was here in back not so long ago.”
Babeltausque joined him. “Everyone freeze. I may be able to… Well!” His ugly face split in a huge grin. The noncom was pointing. “I should be able to guess the movements of anyone who was here during the last two hours.”
He shut his eyes and tried to slip into the state that would let him read the memories of the air. He could not push past the excitement caused by the presence of that partial pail of beer.
He hoped to see that girl again. She was a tad ripe, but beggars can’t be… He had not indulged in a long time.
Oh, the potential he had seen in those big, beautiful eyes!
Oh, the wonder�
�after she gave up the villains for whom she had bought the beer!
Sigh. “Mr. Wolf, we need to leave this place. We’ll touch it no more than we have already. We’ll go back and concentrate on the missing treasury.” Babeltausque winked when only Wolf could see.
Nathan Wolf showed him a raised eyebrow but said nothing.
The sorcerer got heads together with the noncom managing the soldiers. He wished he could throw an arm across the man’s shoulders in comradely fashion. He did not, not because the man would be repelled but because he was too tall. Babeltausque murmured instructions behind his hand so a clever spy could not read his lips.
The noncom nodded, indicated two men, took off.
Wolf asked, “What was that?”
“Royal charity.” He scanned the surrounding night but could not find the watcher.
...
Chames Marks eased back from the dormer vent in the attic over the apothecary shop. That man knew he was being watched. Best not tempt fate. He had shown unexpected abilities already, as a thinker and a magic user.
The sorcerer had not been distracted by the return of Colonel Gales and he had left the butcher shop looking like he had gotten a concrete lead.
Marks could not imagine what had gone wrong. He had done this his whole adult life. He did not make mistakes. That was why he was still alive. Minter had brought the tracker spell but he had been ready for that.
Black should be squarely in the center of the frame.
Marks took a careful look.
The party was breaking up down there.
He could hear some of their talk. They were not going to go after the butcher.
Damn! The man deserved the intimate attention of the Queen’s interrogators.
Chames backed up again. “I suppose that’s true justice. I shouldn’t be so petty.”
Forward again, to get the best last look he could. In a similar situation he might hide a man or two to see what happened after it looked like the nosies had cleared away.
No one had stayed behind.
He went downstairs. Haida was in the back room, looking shaken. She husked, “That man was looking for me, wasn’t he?”
“No. He had no reason to connect you…” His eyes widened. “What happened to the beer? What did we do with that?”
“I don’t know. I gave it to you.” Then, “It’s probably still over in the cutting room.”
“And the sorcerer saw you buy it.” Chames sighed. “He wasn’t after you before but he will be now. We need to get you on the road west.”
“But…”
“You knew what he was thinking when he looked at you?”
“Yes. Uncle Paget used to get that look when…”
“This one might be worse than any of your uncles. Which means you need to be somewhere that he isn’t.”
“Yes, sir.” Wearily. Resigned. “I’ll get my stuff. Who should I be?”
“Bertram Blodgett. He’s your best character. Go to Errol enThal in Sedlmayr. While you turn into Bert I’ll write letters of introduction in case you can’t get to Errol or someone else you know.”
Carrying a small pack, looking like just another vagabond, the newly minted Bert slipped out the back of the apothecary shop half an hour later.
Chames Marks sat alone, contemplating a candle nearing the end of its life. Everyone else was covered. Now to cover himself.
He had tempted fate by tugging the royal beard. The stunt had snapped back in a big way.
...
Babeltausque chatted with the injured publican while tired old Dr. Wachtel tried to repair the man’s face. The sorcerer convinced the bartender, Rhys Benedit, that the explosion had not been meant to happen inside the Wrench. Those men should have taken the medallion to their boss.
“Doctor Wachtel is the best doc in Kavelin. He’ll make you right. There’ll be an annuity, too, while Inger is Queen. Mr. Wolf has already told the troops that the Wrench is the official watering hole of the garrison again.”
Babeltausque inscribed strings of characters and symbols in precise calligraphy on strips of the same heavy paper he had used to carry his tracer spell. He used five pens and five inks, sometimes including several colors in a single glyph. In addition to black he employed an intense scarlet, a dark green, a fierce yellow, and an ink that could not be seen at all, thus leaving spaces that looked like blanks.
Dr. Wachtel said, “I’ve done everything I can for Master Benedit. From now on he’ll have to depend on luck and clean healing. He’ll probably lose sight in his right eye. Unless you can do something.”
“Other than reducing the risk of infection all I can contribute is moral support. My healing skills are limited. Although I do have the ability to find the best medical man available.”
Wachtel gave him a brief, inscrutable look, as though unsure he had just heard that.
Babeltausque said, “Mr. Wolf, I have something for you.” He folded a paper strip. “I’m creating protective spells to surround my space here. I expect to hear from Kristen’s gang before long. I want to be protected but I don’t want to have to drop everything whenever somebody trustworthy needs to get in. That script will get you through the barrier spells. Come. I need to prick your thumb and draw a drop of blood. Once that’s in the paper it won’t do anybody any good to steal your pass. It won’t work for anybody but you. Doctor, I have one for you, too. I’ll see Toby, the Queen, and some others tomorrow. But right now I’m ready to collapse.”
Wolf was not happy about having to wound himself, however trivially, but did what needed doing. As did Dr. Wachtel.
Babeltausque then said, “Friend Benedit is miserable. He’s in pain, he’s scared, and he’s exhausted. Doctor, do you want to take him with you? Or should he stay here? I have the spare cot Toby uses sometimes.” Which was, right now, occupied by the man killed in the explosion at the Wrench.
The barkeep mumbled.
Babeltausque said, “He says he’d be more comfortable staying with you.”
“As you wish. Come along, then, sir. There is an infirmary off my quarters. We’ll keep you there till you’re fit to go home.”
Wolf stayed. Once the others were out of earshot, he asked, “You got what you wanted?”
“I did. But I can’t do anything about it now. I am exhausted. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
“Let me know when you’re ready. I’m enjoying this.” Wolf slipped his pass into a pocket as he departed.
Babeltausque went to bed right away. He stared at the ceiling, wondering how best to enjoy himself once they captured the girl.
The prospects were delicious.
†
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1017 AFE:
EYES OF NIGHT
Nepanthe deposited Varthlokkur’s dinner on the table designated for the purpose, close by where he was working. “Hey. You. Wake up. Time to eat.”
He did awaken, displeased with himself for having fallen asleep.
Not good.
Sorcerers who fell asleep at work became known as late lamented sorcerers.
“I was resting my eyes.”
“Right. Why are you taking chances? What are you doing?”
“Looking to build a better rat trap based on the latest research.”
It was too damned cold for rats in Fangdred. “Ethrian tried to talk this afternoon. He couldn’t put a sentence together right but he tried hard.”
The wizard moved to the food. Nepanthe settled opposite him. She had brought something for herself. She could pretend to share a meal.
“That sounds good. Why not let him help with Smyrena? Teach him to change diapers.”
“Oh! I don’t know. He’s really clumsy. And he gets frustrated.”
“Sometimes I think he must have had a stroke. Sometimes it feels like he’s completely aware but is trapped behind a wall he can’t break through.”
“You told me…”
“I know. But I’m no life-magic specialist. If the Old Man was here�
�”
“He’s gone. Wishes and fishes.” She noticed a change. “What happened to the mummies?”
“I got worried that the Star Rider might find a use for them. I put them where he’ll never get to them.” Each now resided inside a block of concrete distressed to look like an old aggregate boulder in the shadowed bottom of a distant canyon. And that was temporary. He wanted to reduce mummies and concrete to dust that Radeachar could scatter across a thousand miles of wilderness.
“Part of your strategy of denying him his resources?”
“Exactly.”
“Any plan for the Place of the Iron Statues?”
Varthlokkur’s spoon halted inches from his mouth. His eyes went vague.
“You didn’t think about that.”
“I didn’t.” That stronghold of the Star Rider had not intruded on his consciousness for decades. “I’m amazed that you did.” With her memory problems of late. “I don’t even recall where it is.”
“Somebody went there during the wars. Maybe Michael. Maybe one of my brothers. I don’t remember.”
She had had memory problems since the night they died together. He had some himself. Even concentrating he could come up with only the vaguest recollection of someone ever having gone looking for the Place. He could not recall who, when, why, or what the result had been.
Nepanthe said, “The night we all died…” And quit. The pain was too intense.
“You’re right. Iron statues were there. They tamed the Princes Thaumaturge.”
“You had something to do with that place, too, once, didn’t you?”
“Maybe when I was Eldred the Wanderer. I don’t remember it now.”
That troubled him. He was having ever more trouble remembering details of his earliest years. It would be awful to lose those memories altogether. Things he had done, bargains he had made, impacted the world every day, even now. And his mother lived on nowhere else but inside the reaches of his mind.
Ekaterina and Scalza bustled in. They wore heavy clothing so must have been playing outdoors. Scalza hollered, “We’re going to see what Mother is doing, all right?”
“Don’t touch anything but your scrying bowl.”
He had set them up with their own means of farseeing. They could use the bowl any time, though he insisted on being told first. He wanted to be aware that he needed to keep an eye turned their way.
