“Because I’m sure Dromis is at least as jealous of his secrets as any other maestro. And if his methods empower his students to kill yours, then it’s possible they would also enable him to do the same to you. So watch your back.”
I tracked down Olissimal where I should have expected to find him: in the mansion of Falnac’s kin. I had no doubt that, supported by his ivory crutches, he’d hovered over the boy’s corpse for a long time, ogling the wounds. Now, gray eyes bright, twisted, stunted leg propped on a leather footstool, he sat in a corner savoring the more rarefied nectar of everyone else’s grief.
My mouth and stomach sour from last night’s overindulgence, I felt an urge to grab him and drag him out of the room, but of course that wouldn’t do. Instead, I paid my respects to Falnac’s parents. Who didn’t reproach me, unless it was with their eyes.
Afterward, I approached Olissimal with at least a semblance of the courtesy due a scion of one of the Fifty Noble Houses. “Master Selden,” he said, the corners of his crooked mouth quirking upward, “I didn’t expect to see you here today. Come to collect for the boy’s lessons?”
I took a breath. “I came to express my sympathy and talk to you.”
“Truly?”
“If you’ll favor me with a moment of your time.”
“I suppose. It’s just that you surprise me. You are, after all, the same fellow who called me a degenerate, forbade me to observe the classes at your academy even when I offered to pay, and threatened to whip me if I ever dared watch one of your pupils fighting a duel.”
So I had. Many men who are not themselves warriors are interested in the martial disciplines, and generally that’s all right. But it had always been plain to me that Olissimal’s fascination rose from an underlying thirst to witness killing and mutilation, and while such passive cruelty was relatively harmless, it repulsed me nonetheless.
But now Dromis and his students concerned me more. “Help me,” I said, “and I’ll lift the ban. You can watch everything but the private lessons.” Those were where I passed along my own “secret” techniques, inadequate as they had begun to seem.
“How generous. What sort of help do you require?”
“Nothing difficult. I’m sure you’ve watched many of the duels Dromis’s students have fought. I want you to describe them.”
He laughed, startling the mourners and offending against the solemnity of the occasion. “Trying to figure out what makes Dromis’ protégés so deadly? Maybe you should have done that before you sent poor little Falnac out to fight one of them.”
Once again, I clamped down on my anger. “Will you do it?”
“Oh, why not? After all, there isn’t much I enjoy more than chatting about swordplay.”
To give him his due, the descriptions were clear and detailed. He was observant and understood dueling as well as a man born with a useless leg ever could. After he finished, I said, “So it’s mostly dodging, stop thrusts, and counterattacks. Aggressive responses to the other man’s attempt to score. They seldom take the initiative, give ground, or parry.”
“Exactly.”
“Damn it!” I said. “Only a truly accomplished swordsman can hope to fight that way and get away with it, and even he, only when facing an inferior opponent.”
“Yet Dromis’ pupils invariably win. Even the novices typically fell their opponents at the end of the first exchange.” He smirked as though enjoying my mystification.
“Their success aside,” I asked, “do they look like prodigies?”
“No. They display the same defects of stance, balance, guard, and what have you as other students.”
“Then ...” I groped for a sensible follow-up question. “What about when they brawl in the cockpits and brothels?” Olissimal frequented such places for the same reason he haunted the dueling grounds: he hoped to see men who could walk unaided cut one another to pieces. “Are they similarly successful?”
Olissimal frowned, his pale eyes narrowing. “Now that you mention it, it’s a strange thing. Unlike many other young blades, they rarely brawl, even though they’re as pugnacious a lot as you’ll find in the city. Whenever they give or take offense, they try to steer the dispute in the direction of a formal challenge.”
“And what happens when the other fellow insists on drawing on the spot?”
“They don’t display their accustomed superiority. Not consistently, at any rate.” He cocked his head. “Curious. What do you suppose it means?”
“I don’t know yet.” I turned and left him to play the vulture.
Clad in the nondescript garments he’d borrowed from a servant, the brim of his hat pulled down to shadow his sharp-nosed face, Tregan Keenspur smiled and looked with interest at the bustling life of the street. I realized he was enjoying walking incognito among the common herd like some eccentric prince in a ballad.
That was just as well since I needed him disguised. Dressed in his normal rich attire with lackeys in attendance, a prominent noble and wizard of House Keenspur couldn’t go anywhere and do anything without attracting attention. And I didn’t want Dromis to learn I was making a study of him.
“That’s the school up ahead,” I said. “The dark green building with the rust-colored door and shutters.”
Tregan cast about. “I need a place to work. I can’t cast spells in the middle of the lane without somebody noticing.”
“How about there?” I indicated the narrow, shaded gap between two houses. The space was a stride or two removed from the traffic, yet still afforded a view of the fencing academy.
“That should do,” the sorcerer said, so that was where we went.
I kept watch and did my best to shield Tregan’s activities from view as he whispered incantations and crooked his fingers into arcane signs. The mystical force accumulating in the air made me feel feverish and sick to my stomach. Then it discharged itself with a soft sound like the pattering of rain.
Tregan put his hand on my shoulder and shifted me aside to get a little closer to Dromis’ establishment. The wizard’s eyes now glowed with their own inner radiance, but the effect was subtle. No one could have seen it from any distance, not in the daylight, anyway.
He peered for a time, and then said, “The top floor.”
“There’s something magical there?”
“Yes.”
“Is it Dark Magic?” If so, then Dromis’ possession of it was a crime in and of itself, and my aristocratic companion was just the man to call him to account for it.
“No. I sense that the enchantment may have served a violent purpose, but it isn’t Dark as the law defines the term.”
I sighed. “Of course not. When were my problems ever solved as easily as that? What is it, then, exactly?”
“I can’t say. Not at such a distance, with at least one wall in the way. I’m sorry, Selden. We Keenspurs owe you a considerable debt, and I fear I haven’t done all that much to repay it.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Not out loud, anyway. “At least I know more than I did before.”
“But is our discovery relevant? I still don’t see how. Dromis may possess some form of magic, but if there were no mystical energies in play when Alsagad killed Falnac, how can the one thing pertain to the other?”
“That’s what I have to find out. Now tell me: when was the last time you had a drink in an utterly sordid and disreputable tavern?”
Tregan grinned. “Not since I was a wild young troublemaker myself.”
“Then I’ll stand you one before we go back to Keenspur House.”
Later, it was my turn to don a disguise. Clad in homespun with dirt beneath my nails, I became a prosperous but unsophisticated farmer from Ruvan, dazzled by his first look at Mornedealth and eager for tales of her notorious fencing academies, duels, and blood feuds. Excited enough to buy wine, spirits, and supper for any knowledgeable local willing to regale me.
As I expected, many of Dromis’ students were willing; they were as given to spendthrift habits as the other yo
ung rakes of my acquaintance, and thus often out of funds even when their families were wealthy. And once I had them talking and—I hoped—drunk enough to be indiscreet, I steered the conversation to their maestro.
It turned out that before coming to Mornedealth, he’d been a soldier in Brendan, forced to flee after he killed a noble in a duel over a courtesan. Or a slaver in Ceejay, a bandit in Karse, or a zealot who wound up on the losing side in a religious war fought somewhere far to the south. It depended on who was telling the story, or, for all I knew, they could all have been true. It didn’t matter. There was nothing in any of them to account for his students’ extraordinary string of victories.
Nor was their description of their training any more illuminating. Dromis seemed to teach pretty much the same techniques and principles as his rivals. When a student was about to fight a duel, he worked with him intensively, but the rest of us did that, too. If he used magic to enhance the efficacy of his instruction, his pupils didn’t appear to know about it.
In the end, I decided I’d wasted both my money and my time, but I told myself it didn’t matter. I’d find a way to unmask Dromis’ perfidy eventually.
I didn’t realize I was running out of time.
The Silver Trumpet was just downstairs from my own fencing academy, and it served the best trout, perch, and crawfish dishes in Mornedealth. I ate there often, so I don’t suppose it was difficult for Dromis to find me there.
I didn’t know he’d come in until the room fell silent, and Marissa, my companion at my corner table, turned in the direction of the door. “Damn it!” she snarled.
I looked where she was looking. Sneering, Dromis was stalking toward me with half a dozen of his students and Olissimal following after. The cripple smirked.
I realized I’d made an error consulting him; I’d underestimated his capacity for holding a grudge. I’d hoped that by allowing him into my school, I could win back what passed for his good will, and in fact, he had answered my questions. But then he’d plainly hurried to Dromis to tell him I was making inquiries into his affairs.
“Get up and draw!” Marissa said. I’d explained to her how Dromis’ protégés preferred a formal duel to an impromptu fight. Accordingly, she surmised that I’d be better off in the latter, and I suspected the same.
Still, I didn’t move.
“Do it!” she urged. “Lords Pivar and Baltes are your friends! They’ll keep you out of trouble with the law!”
Possibly they would. But several of my pupils were in the room. If I drew, so would they, so too would Dromis’ followers, and the gods only knew who or how many would die in the melee that would follow.
And even if I could prevent such a fracas by commanding my students to keep their seats, I’d labored to teach them that combat was serious business, best avoided whenever possible. If I jumped up and hurled myself at Dromis like a starving wolf, seemingly without provocation, it would make a mockery of all my homilies and admonitions.
So I simply ate another bite of batter-fried perch and waited for the yellow-beard and his companions to reach my table.
Once he arrived, he didn’t waste any time. Glowering down at me, he said, “Olissimal tells me you claim I teach my duelists to cheat.”
I hadn’t, not to the cripple, not in so many words. Olissimal had figured out what I suspected for himself. Still, I saw no reason to deny it. It wouldn’t change what was about to happen. “That’s right,” I said.
Dromis’ students glared and muttered.
“Then I say you’re a liar.” Dromis pulled a daffodil-colored leather gauntlet from his belt and slapped it down on the tabletop. I picked it up and that was that.
“Marissa will act for me,” I said.
“And Olissimal for me,” Dromis replied.
Olissimal’s leer stretched wider. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Later on, it occurred to me that perhaps I should be glad Dromis had challenged me. It gave me what I wanted: a chance to avenge Falnac’s death.
For after all, I was reasonably confident of my own prowess. I’d survived three decades of warfare and duels. I’d destroyed a fire elemental and the undead warlock in the vaults under Keenspur House. It was conceivable that I could defeat Dromis, too, no matter what tricks he had in store.
But I didn’t really believe it. My instincts warned me I was in desperate trouble, and the only honorable way out was to uncover Dromis’ secret.
Of course, not everyone would agree that house-breaking was “honorable,” but given the circumstances, I was willing to make allowances.
Skulking in the same dark, narrow space where Tregan had performed his divination, I watched Dromis’ school until all the lights went out and for a candlemark thereafter. Then I tied on my mask and, hooded lantern in hand, scurried across the benighted street and around to the back of the building, where there was a secondary entrance.
I didn’t know how to pick a lock—I kept meaning to learn—but I did know how to break open a door with a crowbar. I waited until I was certain no one had heard the crunching noise it made, then crept into what proved to be a kitchen.
Shining my light only when absolutely necessary and only for an instant at a time, seeking the way to the top floor, I groped through darkness. In time, I passed bedchambers and heard the snoring buzzing from within, and I’ll admit, it crossed my mind that I could settle this whole affair by killing Dromis in his sleep. But that would have made me just as vile as he was, especially considering that, my suspicions notwithstanding, I didn’t yet have any proof that he and his pupils were cheats.
I pulled a folding staircase down from a ceiling to reach the garret. Once there, I risked letting my lantern shine continuously. As I played the beam about, it illuminated cobwebs, dusty trunks and crates, and then something more interesting.
It was a block of dark, silver-flecked stone, about the size of a horse’s head, sitting on a little table with a chair in front of it. Though I’d traveled far before settling in Mornedealth, I didn’t recognize the type of mineral, nor the style of the glyphs carved into it, either. I certainly couldn’t hazard a guess as to their meaning.
What I could tell was that the block was broken, some of the sigils marred or defaced. Either the artifact had fallen from a height, or someone had taken a hammer to it. And I could sense the power emanating from it, like a hum so faint that a man didn’t quite realize he was hearing it.
Plainly, it was the talisman whose presence Tregan had discerned, and if he were here, playing burglar along with me, perhaps he could have told me what the magic did. In his absence, I’d have to try to discover on my own.
I sat down in the chair and inspected the block at close range. It didn’t look appreciably different, nor did it react to my proximity. Warily, like a man testing the edge of a blade, I touched a fingertip to the front of it.
That one light contact was all it took. Suddenly everything vanished, including my sense of my own body. In its place there suddenly rushed a torrent of darkness that tumbled me along like a raging river. Except not exactly. But that’s as close as I can come to describing the sensation.
Terrified, I reached out—not with the hands I could no longer feel, but with sheer willpower, I think—for something other than the black rapids. It worked; abruptly, the nature of my experience changed. I could still feel the current sweeping me along, but now I was more like a man floating precariously on the surface than one drowning in the depths.
As a result, I could see. Mornedealth lay far below me, as if I were a hawk floating on the wind, while the sky arched overhead.
But the sky wasn’t behaving properly. It flickered from dark to light and back again in an instant, quick as the beat of a hummingbird’s wing.
Then the trees dropped their leaves almost as quickly. Snow blanketed the earth, then melted away. Several new houses sprang up, the frames clothing themselves in solid walls like a man pulling up his breeches.
Frightened and befuddled though
I was, I had a vague idea what was happening. The dark stone had drawn my spirit from my body. That trick was common enough that even nonmagical folk like me had heard of it. What was unusual was that in the process, it had also yanked me loose from my proper position in time. Now something—perhaps simply the inexorable momentum of time—was whisking me into the future.
I was afraid that if it carried me too far, it would prove impossible to get back. I started swimming against the current, though my struggles had nothing to do with stroking arms or kicking legs. As before, it was a matter of pure resolve.
For a while, I couldn’t tell if I was making any headway. Then, for just an instant, I caught a glimpse of the room and moment from which I’d come.
Unfortunately, my body wasn’t alone anymore. Dromis was creeping up behind me with a dagger in his hand.
I struggled even harder, if that was possible, and fought the pressure until I was certain the effort had taken too long. If I managed to return to my body at all, it would be to find my life gushing from a slit throat.
But evidently a man’s sense of time doesn’t count for much when he’s already come unstuck from it as it’s commonly experienced. For suddenly I had a solid form again, and it seemed unwounded. I sensed Dromis looming just behind me.
I threw myself sideways out of the chair before he could cut me. He came after me, and, sprawled on my back, I kicked at him. I connected with his knee and knocked him staggering off balance.
That gave me time to roll to my feet and draw my sword. The trouble was that when I did, the floor seemed to pitch and I nearly fell down again. My forced jaunt into tomorrow had left me weak and dizzy. I couldn’t win a fight with a fellow fencing master in this condition.
I bolted down the folding stairs. Dromis took a moment to unsheathe his own sword, then gave chase.
Given a chance, he’d catch me, too. He wasn’t suffering from vertigo, and he was thoroughly familiar with the layout of the lightless house.
I spied a square of lesser darkness: a window on the far side of a doorway. I charged it and crashed through the laths and oiled paper.
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