The Death of the Necromancer

by Martha Wells

  Nicholas handed Halle the candle and stepped up beneath the ladder, which led upward to a round metal cover in the curved roof. It was a street access for the sewermen. "Reynard, would you make certain we’re in the right place?"

  "The wrong place being the prison courtyard or the steps in front of the Magistrates Court, I presume." Reynard handed the rifle to Nicholas, then caught the lowest rung of the ladder and swung up it. Nicholas faced back the way they had come, the gunstock sweat-slick in his hands. He heard the heavy metal cover slide over, grating on stone, then muted daylight suddenly washed down through the tunnel. Nicholas thought he saw a form scramble back to the edge of shadow. He had the sudden conviction that it had changed, that it had taken a shape more suited to this fetid underground river. "Hurry," he suggested from between gritted teeth.

  "It’s Graci Street," Reynard said from above. "Come on!" Halle came forward, half-supporting Ronsarde, and Nicholas realized the Inspector was in far worse case than he had been before. In the wan daylight his face was gray and he was gasping for breath. He’s old, Nicholas thought suddenly. He wasn‘t a young man when Edouard died, but I didn’t realize how old. . . . Halle climbed far enough to hand his medical bag up to Reynard, then reached down to pull Ronsarde up the ladder, apparently on strength of will alone. It was going to be slow. Nicholas told Crack, "Help them."

  Crack hesitated and Nicholas gave him a push. "Go, dammit, help them." Crack pocketed his pistol and gave Ronsarde a boost from behind, climbing up after him.

  Nicholas looked back down the sewer. The darkness was pressing close, a palpable barrier. He swallowed in a dry throat. The next few moments would make all the difference.

  Crack was through the opening now and looking anxiously down at them. Staring into the sphere, Madeline said tensely, "Go on." Nicholas caught her arm. "Madeline, I’m not going to argue with you—" The darkness surged forward, blotting out the fading daylight from the opening overhead just as a burst of white light flared with the strength of a bomb blast. Madeline cried out and they both fell back against the slick wall.

  It took long moments for Nicholas’s vision to adjust to the dimness again, to be able to see anything beyond the spots of brilliance swimming in front of his eyes. The light from the opening overhead showed him nothing but empty ledges, the water below, the brick-lined tunnel leading off into the dark. But he could see further than he had before and there was nothing moving in those shadows but the flow of the stream. The others were shouting down from above, demanding to know what had happened.

  Madeline pushed herself away from the wall and made a futile effort to brush at the stains on her dress. The sphere she was still holding carefully in the crook of her arm was silent. "I told you so," she said, preoccupied. "Edouard built it for this, after all." She caught the rung of the ladder and swung up easily, one-handed.

  I’m beginning to believe he did, Nicholas thought, and slung the rifle over his shoulder to climb after her.

  It was full dark by the time they reached the warehouse but Nicholas only meant to stop there temporarily. The small offices there were fairly comfortless and he wanted to avoid Coldcourt and every other place that Octave might have some knowledge of. So after greetings and exclamations of relief from Cusard and Lamane, he bundled everyone into Cusard’s wagon and directed him to a safehouse they had had some occasion to use in the past, an apartment on the third floor of a small limestone-faced tenement near the Boulevard Panzan. There was no concierge to ask awkward questions and few other tenants.

  The wagon pulled into the carriage alley between the buildings and Nicholas climbed down to unlock the side door. The small lobby was dusty and undisturbed, but he sent Crack up to make sure the stairs were clear anyway.

  Madeline swung down from the wagonboard and climbed the stoop to stand next to him. Her hair was in wild disarray and she looked exhausted. She said, "Ronsarde doesn’t look well. We’re lucky Halle is here."

  "I suppose." Leaning against the ornamental iron railing around the stoop, Nicholas rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head was still pounding from the explosion and standing still for a moment had made him realize how very badly he needed a bath and a change of clothing. And to fall down on a bed for a week.

  To fall down on a bed for a week with Madeline would have been even better. "This day is not going quite as I had originally planned."

  "Quite." Madeline’s expression was wry.

  "Thank you for saving our lives."

  Her mouth twisted. "You’re welcome, I suppose."

  Before Nicholas could question that comment, Crack appeared in the darkened hall and gestured for them to come up.

  Nicholas went first to unlock the door and briefly check the apartment. It was a modest town residence with a salon and parlor, dining room, bedchamber and dressing room, maid’s room and kitchen. The air was stale and dusty and the windows were covered with thick draperies and shades, the furniture concealed under dust covers. He went through the small kitchen to check the back door, which gave on to an outer wooden stair that led down into a narrow alley next to the building’s court; that and the small trapdoor in the pantry that allowed access to the roof were the chief reasons he had originally selected the place. After reassuring himself that all the outer doors and windows were securely locked and showed no signs of tampering, he returned to the front door and called softly for the others to come up.

  He stepped back as Reynard and Doctor Halle helped Inspector Ronsarde inside. "Take him to the salon," Nicholas said, opening one of the doors off the small bare foyer. "There’s a couch and the lamps are better."

  Nicholas went down the hall and back to the kitchen, to lean against one of the cold stone counters and try to get his thoughts in order. He heard Crack rummaging in the pantry for the coal store, Madeline’s voice giving instructions, the others tramping about.

  Finally Madeline came in, eyed him a moment, then leaned against the china closet and said, "Well?"

  Nicholas took in her appearance thoughtfully. "You look like a charwoman. I don’t suppose there are any roles at the Elegante next season which require that?"

  "Thank you," Madeline said, inclining her head graciously. "I shall certainly keep it in mind." Her expression turned serious. "I gave my word to Halle, you know."

  "Is that what this is about?" Nicholas couldn’t quite manage to laugh. "They are the least of our worries."

  Madeline hesitated. "This sorcerer. . . ."

  "Is determined to kill all of us, true, but that’s not what I was thinking of. Donatien is dead, Madeline. It’s over."

  At the mention of the name, Madeline glanced reflexively at the closed door. "But they don’t know—"

  "I suspect Ronsarde does know. Whether he will act on that knowledge or not, I have no idea. After we saved his life, I think not. And he still needs our help."

  She was silent a moment. "So it’s over."

  "Yes."

  She looked away, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. "Is that such a bad thing?"

  Nicholas’s jaw hardened. "It also means the plan for Montesq is over."

  Madeline stared at him, startled. "I’d forgotten it. With everything . . . I can’t believe I forgot about it." She shook her head, disturbed. "But we can’t just let that go. Perhaps—"

  It was Nicholas’s turn to look away. That it all still meant something to Madeline was a relief but he wouldn’t show it. "We can’t continue with the plan. Ronsarde would know and that would destroy the whole point of it."

  Madeline paced the cold tile floor, coming up with several objections which she started to voice and then reconsidered. Finally she stopped, hands on hips, and said, "So that’s it. We’re letting Montesq get away with it?"

  Not necessarily, Nicholas thought. He would have to kill Montesq himself. It lacked the elegance of allowing the state to execute the Count for a crime he hadn’t committed, but it would be accomplishing the same end, even if Nicholas himself didn’t survive it. He said, "For al
l practical purposes."

  Madeline did him the courtesy of looking worried instead of skeptical. She said, "Donatien would kill Ronsarde."

  Nicholas pushed away from the counter. "You’re the one who gets lost in your roles, my dear. Besides, Donatien isn’t in charge anymore, I am."

  "That’s supposed to reassure me?"

  Nicholas had no answer for that so he pretended not to hear her and went down the hall to stand in the open doorway of the salon. The lamps had been lit and Crack had gotten a fire started in the hearth, dissipating the cold dampness and making the room almost livable.

  The dust covers had been pulled away from the broad divan and Doctor Halle was trying to tend to Ronsarde, who was fending him off with acerbic comments about physicians who thought their services indispensable; Halle deflected the sarcasm with the air of long practice and continued treating the Inspector’s injuries. Reynard was leaning against the mantel, watching them. Nicholas waited until Halle had finished and was repacking the contents of his medical bag, then caught Reynard’s eye. "I’d like a word alone with the Inspector, please."

  "Of course," Reynard said easily, gesturing for Doctor Halle to proceed him out. Halle went but his face was guarded; Reynard was worried too, though only someone who knew him well would have been able to discern it. Nicholas smiled bleakly to himself. So Reynard was uneasy about what attitude Nicholas would take to their new allies as well.

  The only person who didn’t appear uneasy was Ronsarde himself, who was smiling expectantly at him as Nicholas closed the door behind Reynard and Halle.

  Ronsarde was still pale and had a swollen eye and a darkening bruise on his jaw, but with the wound in his forehead stitched and the dried blood cleaned away, he looked considerably better. He said, "You were saying?"

  Nicholas hesitated, but couldn’t for the life of him think what Ronsarde meant. "Excuse me?"

  "About the sorcerer who is so intimately involved in this affair. We are still pooling our resources?"

  Ronsarde was continuing the conversation begun when they had first taken refuge in the prison, as if all the intervening struggles hadn’t taken place, or had meant nothing. Well, perhaps they hadn’t. Nicholas said, "I was saying that it is very possible he believes himself to be Constant Macob. But you already knew that."

  Ronsarde shook his head. "Young man—"

  Nicholas fought a flash of annoyance and lost. "You know my name, sir, don’t pretend otherwise." This was no time for masquerades.

  "Valiarde, then." But the Inspector said nothing for a moment, only watched Nicholas thoughtfully. "I had heard you meant to become a physician," he said finally.

  "Events conspired against me." Nicholas moved to the window, lifting the musty damask curtain just enough to give him a view of the street. "I recognized you that night at Gabrill House, though I don’t think you recognized me."

  "No, I did not," Ronsarde admitted. "I thought your voice familiar, but it had been too long since we last spoke."

  "Since the trial, you mean." Ten years, eight months, fourteen days. Nicholas performed the calculation automatically. "You must have recognized the sphere."

  "Yes, that I knew only too well. I would have come to you eventually, if you had not come to me, so to speak." Ronsarde hesitated, then said, "Count Rive Montesq has had such a run of poor luck since that time, hasn’t he?"

  Nicholas dropped the curtain and turned slowly to face the older man, leaning back to sit on the windowsill and folding his arms. Ronsarde’s expression was merely curious, that was all. Nicholas smiled and said, "Has he really?"

  "Oh, yes. He has had several large losses of funds and property in the last few years. Not enough to bankrupt him, of course, but enough to seriously inconvenience. And then there have been the losses among his staff. One of his chief financiers, a solicitor, and two personal servants, all vanished without a trace."

  "How terrible," Nicholas commented. He was glad at least that Ronsarde didn’t know everything; Montesq had suffered more losses than that. "But then perhaps it’s simply a visitation by Fate."

  "Perhaps." Ronsarde shrugged, then winced as if the motion pained him. "If I didn’t know that the solicitor was a blackmailer of the worse stripe, who had ruined a number of individuals and provoked the suicide of at least one victim, that the financier was his ally in that enterprise, and that the two servants had second careers as thugs and extortionists, I might have been moved to do something about it. But somehow I never quite found the time."

  And am I expected to thank you for that? Nicholas thought. He looked away. This cat and mouse game was not particularly to his liking, even though they both seemed to be taking the role of the cat. "Why were you watching Doctor Octave that night?"

  Ronsarde accepted the change in subject gracefully. "Several weeks ago a lady came to me for my assistance in a matter concerning Doctor Octave. Her mother was paying him to hold circles for her and produce various deceased relatives on command. As you might expect, the family was quite wealthy. I began to investigate the good doctor, but could prove nothing definite. He was very careful." Ronsarde stared into the middle distance, a rueful anger in his expression. "I realize now he was warned against me by this sorcerer whose necromantic activities he evidently supports. Sorcery gives the criminal an unfair advantage."

  "There are ways to even the balance," Nicholas said, his voice dry.

  Ronsarde’s quick smile flickered and the good humor returned to his eyes. "I imagine you are quite familiar with them. But to continue, I managed to help the lady convince her mother to leave the dead in peace, but I still pursued Octave. I discovered that Lady Everset would be hosting a circle and that in all probability it would be held in her garden. This was the first opportunity I had had to observe a circle at close range, when Octave had no knowledge that I would be present."

  "That’s why I was there, too," Nicholas said, without thinking, and then grimaced and reminded himself not to say too much. All these years of caution and concealment and here he was talking to Ronsarde as if he were as close a colleague as Madeline or Reynard. Being hunted by mad sorcerers and ghouls had obviously unhinged him. "You didn’t realize he was connected with the disappearances."

  It was Ronsarde’s turn to look uncomfortable. He tugged the blanket more closely around him with a short angry jerk. "No, I did not," he said. "Halle had examined the three bodies that had been recovered at various times from the river and he drew my attention to the lichen. It is a variety that flourishes in the presence of magic. That, and the style of the injuries made before death caused me to believe someone was imprisoning these individuals and killing them in the course of necromantic magics. I noted the similarities to the murders of Constant Macob, committed two centuries ago."

  Nicholas frowned in annoyance. He hadn’t noted it, not until the scene in the cellar of Valent House, when it had become obvious. The Executions of Rogere, the book Doctor Uberque had lent him, had been even more illuminating. One of the methods Macob had used to lure his victims was to poison them with an herbal mixture that caused symptoms anywhere from mild confusion all the way to unreasoning terror. How he had gotten his victims to ingest it was a mystery to the writer of the account, though Nicholas wondered if the stuff might be so potent it could be absorbed through the skin. It explained the confusion and odd behavior of Jeal Meule, as described by the penny sheet The Review of the Day, and why her neighbors had been unable to convince her to go home before her second disappearance. She must have escaped her captor at some point but the poison had clouded her mind and kept her helpless, until he had been able to collect her again. Nicholas asked Ronsarde, "Why did it suggest Macob so readily?"

  "Macob’s crimes and his trial were well documented for the time and give much vital information regarding the mind of a man bent on mutilation and mass murder. I’d read the history of it before, but I found it especially useful three years ago in the case of the Viscount of March-Bannot, who was—"

  "Cutting peop
le’s heads off and throwing them in the river. Yes, I vaguely recall it."

  "Octave and his associates made the mistake of disposing of one body under the bridge at Alter Point and not into the river itself. The presence of the lichen marked it as part of the same case and not one of the many other unfortunates who are found dead every day in Vienne. Mud adhering to the pants legs indicated the edge of Riverside where it bordered on the Gabardin."

  "Yes, I found Valent House as well."

  "Before I did." Ronsarde smiled faintly. "Octave was frequently seen near the place, by a person who is at times my informant, who recognized the good doctor after he had been described to him." His expression turned pensive. "After the circle at Gabrill House I knew someone else had Octave under observation. When I discovered Valent House two days ago it also became apparent that someone else had discovered it first. The signs that my quarry had left in haste and that his lair had been thoroughly searched were unmistakable. I wasn’t certain if I had a second opponent, but I knew that Octave did."

  Nicholas didn’t comment. It had been so very close. Ronsarde had been one step behind him, at the most. He said, "Surely you weren’t arrested for breaking into Valent House."

  "Oh, no," Ronsarde said, gesturing dismissively. "I was arrested for breaking into Mondollot House."

  Yes, exactly. Nicholas kept his elation in check; there were still too many questions unanswered. "You wanted to look at a small sealed room in one of the subcellars. If you got that far, you found it empty, but there were signs it had not been unoccupied for long."

  "Yes." Ronsarde was watching him as intently as if Nicholas were a suspect he was questioning. "In actuality the chamber belongs to Ventarin House, destroyed years ago when Ducal Court Street was cut through. I realized Octave had an interest in the Ventarins during the first circle I watched. The family whose deceased relatives he was currently interfering with had been a distant connection of the Ventarins, virtually the only people left in the city of any relation to them whatsoever. Octave questioned their dead on the old Ventarm Great House’s location and its cellars. I believed at the time that he was only after hidden family plate or other trinkets. It wasn’t until I made the connection with Macob that the facts took on a more sinister tone."