The Death of the Necromancer

by Martha Wells

  Arisilde stopped abruptly, heedless of the sprinkle of rain and the people hurrying past, the wagons splashing in the street. He stared into space, concentrating so hard that Nicholas thought he was performing a spell. The sorcerer shook his head suddenly and gazed down at Nicholas seriously. "No, I don’t think I told anyone about the spheres. I’m sure I’d remember if I had. And Edouard wouldn’t have wanted me to, you see. No, I’m sure I’d remember that."

  Nicholas smiled. "That’s good to know, but I didn’t really suppose you had."

  Arisilde looked relieved. "Good. If you were sure it was me, of course I’d have to take your word for it."

  They continued up the street, a torrent of water flung up from the wheels of a passing coach narrowly missing them. "I can’t see Asilva telling anyone about them, either," Arisilde added. "He didn’t really approve of Edouard’s experiments with magic, you know. It didn’t stop him from participating at first—he believed very strongly in knowledge for its own sake, which is not a dictate that everyone at Lodun follows."

  Nicholas glanced up at him and saw Arisilde’s face had taken on a hunted look. He said cautiously, "You mentioned something about that last night, in connection with Ilamires Rohan."

  "Did I?" Arisilde’s smile was quick and not completely convincing. "It doesn’t do to take everything I say too seriously."

  Nicholas decided not to pursue the point. He’s more coherent today than I’ve seen him in the past year— I don’t want to send him back to oblivion with prying questions. It was safer to stick to the present. "That room in the cellar, where the man was killed. Have you ever seen anything like it?"

  "I should hope not."

  "I think I’ve seen a drawing, or a woodcut actually, in a book describing it. I’m wondering if it means that this was some sort of specific ritual of necromancy." Arisilde was frowning down at the wet pavement and didn’t respond. Nicholas added, "If we could identify what our opponent was trying to do, we would be a little further along."

  "I can’t remember anything offhand—of course we both know what that’s worth." Arisilde smiled a little wryly, then brightened. "I’ll look for it. That will be my job now, won’t it?"

  "If you like." Nicholas wasn’t sure what Arisilde meant to look for, but you never could tell. "We still need to know where Octave got his information and you know the most about Edouard’s research. Was there anyone else who could have known enough to be of help to Octave?"

  "That’s the question, isn’t it?" Arisilde wandered into the path of two well-dressed ladies and Nicholas tipped his hat by way of apology and took his friend’s elbow, guiding him out of the middle of the promenade and closer to the wall. "It bears thinking about." His face growing serious, Arisilde said, "I’m glad you’re looking into this, Nicholas. We can’t really have these goings-on, you know."

  Nicholas had arranged to meet Madeline at the indoor garden in the Conservatory of Arts. It was crowded as more people sought shelter from the rain that was trickling down the glass-paned walls and making music against the arched metal panels of the roof high overhead. Most of the little wrought iron tables scattered throughout the large, light chamber were full and it was hard to see past the hanging baskets of greenery and the potted fruit trees. He finally spotted her beneath an orange tree. She was dressed in burgundy velvet and a very extravagant hat and had simply managed to fade in with the fashionably dressed crowd.

  "Did you discover anything about Madame Everset’s late brother?" Nicholas asked as they took seats.

  "Yes, but first tell me what you found out at that house." Madeline rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward anxiously.

  Nicholas let out his breath in annoyance. She was always accusing him of not sharing his plans with her. "Madeline—"

  Arisilde pointed at the remains of Madeline’s iced fruit and said, "Are you going to finish that?"

  She slid the china plate toward him and said to Nicholas, "Yes, yes, I know I’m a great burden. Now talk."

  So as the light rain streamed down over the glass walls and the waiters hurried by, he told her about their morning at Valent House, the ghoul and the tunnel to the sewers, and what Madame Talvera had said of Octave’s background.

  "Another ghoul? How many of those creatures are we going to run into?"

  "The dead brother, Madeline," Nicholas prompted. "What did you find out about him?"

  "Oh, that. Yes, it was as you thought. The ship he was on went down with a very expensive cargo."

  That confirmed his suspicions about what Octave’s game was with the circles. But using spiritualism to fleece the wealthy out of riches their dead relatives might have had some knowledge of is one thing; what we found in Valent House is quite another, Nicholas thought.

  "Oh," Madeline continued, "I ran into Reynard and he wanted me to tell you that he spoke to Madame Algretto and she said Octave has apparently taken rooms at the Hotel Galvaz. Everset never did confront him about the odd events at the end of the circle last night, but that’s to be expected, I suppose."

  "The Hotel Galvaz, hmm?" Nicholas looked thoughtful. That was only a few streets over.

  They obtained the number of Octave’s room by a trick that must have been invented at the dawn of creation shortly after the building of the first hotel: Madeline fluttered up to the porter’s desk and asked for her friend Doctor Octave. The porter glanced at the rows of cubbies for keys in the wall behind him and said the good doctor was not in at present. Madeline borrowed a page of hotel stationery to write a brief note, folded it and handed it to the porter, who turned and slipped it into the cubby for the seventh room on the fifth floor. Madeline suddenly recalled that she would be seeing the doctor later at the home of another friend and asked for the note back.

  As they climbed the broad stairs up from the grand foyer and the other public rooms, Arisilde used what was for him an easily performed illusion, obscuring their presence with a mild reflection of the available light that caused the eye to turn away without ever quite knowing from what it had turned. It could be broken by anyone whose suspicions were aroused enough to stare hard at them, but in the middle of the afternoon at the Hotel Galvaz, with people streaming back from late luncheons to prepare for evening entertainments, there was no one whose suspicions were aroused.

  The fifth floor hall was presently occupied only by a basket of dried flowers on a spindly legged console table and the light was dim. Madeline hung back at the landing to watch the stairs and give warning if anyone approached. Nicholas knocked first on the door, waited until he was sure there was no answer, then took out his lockpicks. He glanced at Arisilde, who was studying the vine-covered wallpaper intently, and cleared his throat.

  "Hmm?" Arisilde stared blankly at him, distracted. "Oh, that’s right." He touched the door with the back of his hand and frowned for an instant. "No, nothing sorcerous. Carry on."

  That didn’t exactly engender confidence, Nicholas thought. He looked down the hall at Madeline, who was rubbing her temples as if her head hurt. She signalled that no one was approaching and, holding his breath, Nicholas inserted a pick into the lock. Nothing happened. Breathing a trifle easier, he started to work the lock. There couldn’t be too much danger; after all, members of the hotel staff would be in and out several times a day. But a very clever sorcerer could have set a trap that was only tripped if the door was forced or opened without a key. Either Octave’s sorcerer was not very clever or. . . . There’s nothing in the room worth the trouble to guard, Nicholas thought grimly. After a few moments more he was able to ease the door open.

  The small parlor just inside was shadowy, lit only by a little daylight creeping through the heavy drapes covering the window. There was a bedroom just beyond, also dark. Octave had been able to afford one of the better class of rooms: the furniture was finely made and well upholstered, and the carpets, hangings and wallpapers were of a style only recently in fashion. Arisilde slipped in after Nicholas and took a quick turn around the parlor, touching the
ornaments on the mantel, bending over to poke cautiously at the coal scuttle. Nicholas watched him with a raised eyebrow, but Arisilde didn’t voice any kind of warning, so he continued his own search.

  He went through the drawers and shelves of the small drop-leaf desk first, finding nothing but unused stationery and writing implements. The blotting paper revealed only past notes to a tailor and to two aristocratic ladies who had written thanking Octave for holding circles in their homes. Neither was from Madame Everset. Nicholas removed the blotting paper for a sample of Octave’s handwriting, knowing the good doctor would assume the floor maid had done it when she refreshed the writing supplies.

  Reynard had said that Octave seemed to have the air of a professional confidence man and Nicholas felt that supposition was confirmed by an examination of the doctor’s belongings. He went through the suits and coats hanging in the wardrobe, carefully searching the pockets, finding the clothes were a mix of items well cared for but in poor quality and items of excellent quality but not cared for overmuch. When he is in funds, he becomes careless, Nicholas noted. The state of Octave’s personal effects confirmed several of Nicholas’s theories about the man’s personality.

  None of which disguised the fact that there was nothing of importance here.

  Nothing under the bed, between the mattresses, in the back of the wardrobe, behind the framed pictures, and no mysterious slits in the cushions or lumps under the carpet. Nicholas searched the sensible places first, then the less likely, finally progressing to the places only an idiot would hide anything. No papers, no sphere, he thought in disgust, resisting the sudden violent urge to kick a delicate table. There were no books to be found, not even a recent novel. He took this room for show; his real headquarters is somewhere else. Somewhere in the city there was another Valent House in the making. And he’s using one of Edouard’s spheres. For a moment rage made it difficult to think.

  "Hah. Found it," Arisilde reported, leaning around the door. "Want to see?"

  "Found what?" Nicholas stepped back into the parlor.

  Arisilde was looking at the small framed mirror above the mantel. "It’s a bit like that little job I did for you. The painting of The Scribe. This works on the same principle. I had the feeling there was something here, not something dangerous, just something. . . ." He touched the mirror’s gilt frame gently. "It’s for speaking back and forth, I’m fairly certain, not spying. Hard to tell, though. It works like mine, with the spell all in the other end."

  Nicholas studied the mirror, frowning. "You mean. . . . You told me the painting was a Great Spell."

  Arisilde nodded vigorously. "Oh, it is."

  "So the sorcerer who did this is capable of performing Great Spells?" Not Octave. If the spiritualist had been so powerful he would have had no need for a confidence game. Madame Talvera had said that Amelia Polacera had sent Octave away because his shadow in the ether was dark. Perhaps it hadn’t been Octave’s shadow she had seen.

  Arisilde nodded again, preoccupied. "Yes, I suppose that’s the case. He’s asleep right now, I think, or perhaps in some sort of trance state. Whatever it is, I can’t tell anything about him. If he wakes and looks in the mirror, I can get a better sense of him."

  Feeling a prickle of unease crawl up his spine, Nicholas took hold of Arisilde’s arm under the elbow and urged him gently to the door. Resisting the impulse to whisper, he said, "But if he wakes, he could see us, Ari."

  Arisilde stared at him in puzzlement, reluctant to leave this interesting problem. "Oh, yes, of course." He started. "Oh, yes, that’s right. We’d better go."

  Nicholas took one last quick glance around the room, making sure nothing was disturbed. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought Arisilde. The other sorcerer might be able to sense his past presence here the same way Arisilde had sniffed out the spell in the mirror. But if you hadn’t brought Ari, you would never have known about the mirror and you might have lingered too long, or tried to confront Octave here. And there was no telling what might have happened then.

  Nicholas closed the door behind them and locked it, leaving the mirror to reflect only the dark, empty room.

  This particular private dining chamber at Lusaude’s boasted a little bow-shaped balcony and over its brass railing Nicholas had a good view of the famous grill room below. The banquettes and chairs were of rich dark wood and red drapes framed the engraved mirrors. Women in extravagant gowns and men in evening dress strolled on the marble floor, or sat at the tables between stands of hothouse Parscian plants and Dienne bronzes, their laughter and talk and the clatter of their plates echoing up to the figured ceiling. The air smelled of smoke, perfume, salmon steak and truffle.

  Nicholas took out his watch and checked the time, again: the only nervous gesture he would allow himself to make.

  The private chamber was small and intimate, its walls covered in red brocade and the mirror above the mantelpiece etched with names, dates, and mangled verses by diamond rings. On the virgin white cloth of the table stood an unopened absinthe bottle and a silver serving set with the other paraphernalia necessary for drinking it. Nicholas normally preferred wine but for this night he favored the dangerous uncertainty of the wormwood liqueur. For now he was drinking coffee, cut with seltzer water.

  He glanced up as the door opened. Reynard sauntered in, crossing the room to lean heavily on the table. "They’ve just arrived—they’re getting out of the coaches now," he murmured.

  His evening dress was a little disheveled and Nicholas could smell brandy on his breath but he knew Reynard was only pretending to be drunk. In the doorway behind him were several young men and women, laughing, leaning on each other tipsily. One of the young men was watching Reynard jealously. Nicholas pitched his voice too low for them to hear. "Very good. Will you be free to alert the others?"

  "Yes." Reynard jerked his head to indicate his companions. "I’m about to shed the window dressing and head for the hotel." He took Nicholas’s hand and dropped a lingering kiss on his fingers.

  Nicholas lifted an eyebrow. "Reynard, really."

  "It will make your reputation," Reynard explained. "I’m quite fashionable this week." He released him and turned to gesture airily to his audience. "Wrong room," he announced.

  Nicholas smiled and sat back as Reynard left, pulling the door closed behind him. No one in the merry group would have the least bit of difficulty believing that Reynard had gone to an assignation when he disappeared from their company in the next half hour.

  He lost his amusement as the main doors in the grill room opened to emit a new party from the foyer. Several men and women entered, among them Madame Dompeller. On the fringe of the group was Doctor Octave.

  One of the things Reynard had discovered today was that Octave would be performing another circle tonight at the Dompeller town residence near the palace. It was not a house Reynard could gain entrance to, but he had also discovered that Madame Dompeller meant to finish the evening with a late supper at Lusaude’s, the better to advertise the fact that she had just hosted a spiritual gathering.

  Nicholas tugged the bellpull to summon the waiter and with a brief instruction handed him the folded square of notepaper he had prepared earlier.

  Below, the Dompeller party was still greeting acquaintances and foiling the majordomo’s attempt to lead them to their private dining room. Nicholas watched the waiter deliver the note to Octave.

  The spiritualist read the note, refolded it and carefully tucked it away in a vest pocket. Then he excused himself to his puzzled hostess and moved quickly through the crowd, out of Nicholas’s field of view.

  In another moment, there was a knock at the door.

  "Come," Nicholas said.

  Octave stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him. Nicholas gestured to the other brocaded armchair. "Do sit down."

  Octave had received the note calmly enough but now his face was pallid and his eyes angry. He moved to the table and put his hand on the back of the empty chair. He had removed his glov
es and his nails were dirty. He said, "I know who you are, now. You’re Donatien. The Prefecture has searched for you since you stole the Romele Jewels five years ago."

  "Ah, so you know. Your source of information is good. Too bad you can’t afford to tell anyone." Nicholas put his cup and saucer aside and reached for the absinthe. "Would you care for a drink?" After last night, he had expected Octave to discover his other persona, sooner or later. The game was deep indeed and Octave wasn’t the only player on the other side.

  "And what is it that prevents me from speaking of what I know?" Octave was outwardly confident but sweat beaded on his pale forehead and the question was cautious.

  He’s wary now, too, Nicholas thought. We’ve made explorations into each other’s territory, and perhaps both of us have made discoveries that we had rather not. "I’ve been to Valent House," Nicholas said simply. He opened the bottle and poured himself out a measure of the green liqueur. "You didn’t say if you’d like a drink?"

  There was a long silence. Nicholas didn’t bother to look up. He busied himself with the absinthe, placing the perforated spoon containing chunks of hard sugar over the top of the glass, then adding a measure of water from the silver carafe to dissolve the sugar and make the intensely bitter stuff drinkable.

  In one nervous motion Octave pulled the chair out and sat down. "Yes, thank you. I see we need to speak further."

  "That’s certainly one way of phrasing it." Nicholas poured out a measure for Octave, then took his own glass and leaned back in his chair. "I’ll taste mine first, if that will make you more comfortable. Though I assure you that adding poison to absinthe is redundant."

  Octave added sugar to his glass, his hand trembling just a little as he held the spoon and carafe. He said, "I realize now that I made a mistake in sending my messenger to you, the night of the ball. I thought you were attempting to meddle in my affairs."

  "You’re not a sorcerer yourself, are you? You didn’t send that golem. Who did?"