by Dave Gross
“Exactly.”
“Perhaps a resentful colleague saw an opportunity in Ygresta’s death and looted his laboratory.”
“That’s possible,” said Illyria. “But wouldn’t they have looted the library, too?”
“Not if they knew of Ygresta’s bequest to me and wished to avoid drawing my attention.”
“Yes, no one would risk attracting the eye of Count Varian Jeggare, scourge of kleptomaniacs everywhere.”
The boss got all rigid. “Do you mock me, lady?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Ask me again in a little while.”
I was warming to Lady Illyria. I said, “It didn’t have to be an inside job. It could have been a burglar.”
“One would have to be bold indeed to break into a college of wizards,” said the boss.
“There’s a thief in town who specializes in this kind of break-in.”
“The count said you didn’t know Korvosa.” Illyria managed to look down her nose, even though she was a good four inches shorter than me.
“Yesterday I went to the barber. Now I’m pals with a bunch of war veterans, three or four pickpockets, a bounty hunter, some Sczarni cutthroats, and half the city guard.”
Illyria laughed like she didn’t believe me, but when she looked at the boss, he nodded. He gives me a hard time, but he backs me up. “Radovan has a knack.” He looked at me. “Do you think this bounty hunter might suggest suspects for these thefts?”
“She might, but I can tell you who did it. She’s wanted by the Korvosan guard.”
“You’ve spent one night on the town and you expect us to believe you know this burglar by name?” said Illyria. “That’s preposterous.”
“I know, pretty great, huh?”
“That is not what ‘preposterous’ means.”
I knew what it meant. “You want to see her picture?”
“You have her picture?” said the boss.
“Sort of,” I hiked up my jacket.
“Radovan! There is a lady present.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t mind,” said Illyria. “Let me see how rugged he is under that ragged jacket.”
“Ragged?” Maybe it was a little scuffed, but I’d kept it longer than any of my other jackets.
“Go on,” said the boss.
I shucked off my jacket and shirt to let them have an eyeful.
“Why is it upside down?” said Illyria.
“This bounty hunter and me, we went back to her flat for some—”
“Radovan,” said the boss.
“I guess you had to be there.”
The boss pulled me over to the slab. It’d been made for somebody two feet taller than me, but I leaned onto the heavy oak. The boss released a lever, and the slab tilted until I was flat on my belly.
The boss and Lady Illyria moved around for a better view. He read the text of the wanted poster out loud. He thought for a second and asked, “What is this bounty hunter’s name?”
“Janneke.”
“Do you think she can tell us where to find this Zoran?”
“Maybe. We almost had her last night, until her Sczarni pals got involved.”
“‘Her’?” said Illyria. “The poster says—”
“The poster’s wrong. I know the difference between a man and a woman.”
“You couldn’t tell the difference between a male and female drake.”
“That doesn’t mean nothing.”
“I want you to find this Janneke,” said the boss.
“All right,” I said. “And then what?”
“I want you to hire her for me.”
5
Upslope House
Varian
The declining sun cast a glare on the windows, forcing me to shade my eyes. It blinded me at the same time each day. I had begun taking it as a sign that I should retire from my studies, if only long enough for a light repast.
Before descending to the dining room, I went again to the mirror. My cheeks had filled out after another week of proper eating and the occasional snack to fill in the corners. After adjusting to our return to civilization, I realized how much I had missed dining for pleasure rather simply for sustenance.
I drew the Shadowless Sword and gazed into the mirror, searching for the shadow Vencarlo said he saw on my face. Perhaps it had been simply a trick of the light, or of the wine he had drunk before I joined him, but it troubled me. I wondered whether it was possible that, for all its power, the sword had a blind spot. Could it reveal the true nature of its wielder or only of others?
A knock at the door interrupted my thought. I sheathed the sword and set it aside.
“Come.”
The innkeeper entered. “Your Excellency, I beg your pardon, but the lady asked…”
“Insisted.” Illyria swept past holding a waxed-paper box tied with a satin bow. She paused to find a surface not covered with opened books. Setting the box on the divan, she surveyed the suite. “There’s a nice room buried under this library, isn’t there?”
The innkeeper winced. It pained the man that I did not allow his servants to disturb my careful arrangement of reference material. “If you wish me to send up a chambermaid, Your Excellency—”
“Not at all. Everything is arrayed as I wish it.”
Illyria summoned a coin from her pouch and pressed it into the innkeeper’s hand, dismissing him.
Illyria surveyed the books. “They’re reproducing faster than drakes in springtime. Where do you find them all?”
“A few are mine. I kept one or two from Ygresta’s collection. Some I borrowed from the University of Korvosa.”
“They can hardly refuse a Jeggare after your family built them a library.”
“Indeed. Most of these volumes came from the Theumanexus.”
“That won’t please Uncle Toff, your going to the rival college of wizardry.”
“He should have considered that likelihood when he declined to assist me.”
“He can’t bear the thought of an outsider interfering in Acadamae matters.”
“That much I understand.” After we presented Headmaster Ornelos with our findings, he confiscated my key and rescinded my welcome. Illyria promised to entreat him to reconsider, but each day she visited with news that he remained intractable. “Have you been able to soften your uncle’s position?”
“Today he wouldn’t even see me, the brute.”
“My thanks for the attempt.”
“I didn’t come away completely empty-handed. I visited the Hall of Seers. Their diviners confirm that Professor Ygresta was not murdered.”
“Yes, but—”
“They also confirmed that he died.”
So much for my latest hypotheses. “If only they had permitted me to direct the phrasing…”
“Don’t tell me you’ve abandoned your principles.” She saw that I did not understand her inference. “I read your essay on the dangers of relying on divination.”
“Ah.” Beyond the essential cantrips to reveal magic, poison, or otherworldly intrusions, I eschewed divinatory magic. Excessive reliance on them dulled the mind’s greatest tool, deductive logic. However, there were limits to how far even I would present myself with a handicap to hone the intellect.
“Uncle Toff’s secretary told me Professor Ygresta put on a hog’s weight these past few years. And I have discovered the cause.” She tugged open the ribbon and opened the box she had brought. Inside lay a circle of cream tarts crowned with glazed berries.
I picked one out and took a bite. “Delicious.”
“Apparently the professor was fond of this shop. I’ve never seen such sincere grief as on the confectioner’s face. She says the professor bought so much that he had to conjure a second servant to carry it all home.”
“I can understand why.” My hand flew to my mouth. I had spoken with my mouth full.
Illyria laughed and mashed a tart between her teeth. My gaze strayed to the next tart in the box. Illyria said, “I brought enough for your body
guards, but the spoils go to those who claim them first.”
Hungrier than I realized, I took another tart. “Radovan went to meet his bounty hunter, and Arnisant needed a walk.”
Illyria went to the desk and peered at the blood-scribed codex. “Have you discovered anything new?”
“Not in the text.” Illyria already knew what the blood of eight chickens had revealed. The eighth folio offered instructions for constructing an amalgamation of corpses—a golem. The preceding seven contained necromantic spells, from simple rays to mighty symbols. After browsing the book, Illyria assured me it contained nearly every necromantic spell she had ever seen.
Necromantic spells were like an unpracticed language to me, yet I began to view them in a new light. Their formulae stirred my imagination rather than my intellect. I saw them no longer as problems but as poetry.
Wizardry and sorcery are but two of many arcane traditions, yet they are by far the best known and most widely practiced. Together, they represent the extreme ends of a spectrum.
To a wizard, spells are logical constructs. The practitioner sets their formulae in the mind like traps awaiting a trigger of incantation, gesture, and sacrifice to release their power. To a sorcerer, those same spells magnify emotions—fear, desire, hope, or fury—and unleash their power by force of will.
“What is it?” asked Illyria.
Her words shook me from an almost transcendental reverie. I realized my lips had been moving, reciting the verbal components of a spell I had sworn never to utter. With a chill, I realized I hungered—not for food, but to complete casting the spell.
“Do you feel any strange compulsion associated with the codex?” I asked her.
Lady Illyria furrowed her brow and slipped the monocle from a pocket in her vest. “Let me look at you.”
Standing still, I endured her scrutiny.
“Nothing but your usual enchantments,” she concluded. She turned the monocle on the codex. “Still nothing.”
“That is more troubling than reassuring.”
She nodded, understanding as well as I that only the most potent of arcane artifacts radiated no magic. She said, “What is it that you feel when reading the spells?”
“Naturally, I understand the theory. That much is universal across all schools of—”
“That’s not what I asked. What do you feel?”
When I revealed my sorcerous bloodline to Illyria, I had braced myself for scorn, or at least her usual badinage. Instead, she had reacted with acceptance, curiosity, and even concern. Yet even to so sympathetic an ear, I hesitated to admit the truth. “I feel a certain affinity for these spells, detestable as they are.”
“Don’t forget what the professor would say,” she said. “Few spells are truly evil. They’re tools. How we use them is what matters.”
“I remember Ygresta’s arguments.”
“But did you truly hear them? He may not have been the most brilliant wizard at the Acadamae, but he had a big heart.”
“Perhaps because it was full of these delicious tarts.” I eyed another. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all, but be careful. You’ll have a big heart soon, too.”
Illyria jested, but she did not know my secret. Since Radovan informed me that the lady enjoyed romantic novels, I knew my tale of escaping death through the healing power of a celestial dragon’s heart would impress her. I was tempted to tell it.
Yet one does not wish to seem vainglorious.
“I have been wondering why a burglar would loot Ygresta’s laboratory yet leave the library untouched.”
“I thought you decided it was because your name was on it, and no thief dares cross the celebrated Count Varian Jeggare.”
“Would you recognize Professor Ygresta’s handwriting?”
“It has been a few years since he last marked one of my essays. But yes, probably.”
From the settee I fetched the card I found atop the box containing the codex. “Is this his hand?”
Illyria inspected the card. She appeared ready to nod, but then she seemed to change her mind. “It could be.”
“My reaction exactly. It appears to be his handwriting, but it is not quite right. Here, compare it with this.” I showed her a copy of Cevil Charms’s Eidolon, which Ygresta had annotated in pencil. His elegant script appeared exactly as I remembered from our correspondence.
Illyria studied the two samples. “Someone forged the card.”
We raised another pair of cream tarts in celebration of our conclusions.
“The question is…” I began.
Illyria licked a cream mustache from her lip. I quite forgot what I was saying. She finished my thought: “‘Why?’”
“Exactly. It would appear that someone wished me to believe that Ygresta left the codex for me.”
“But again, why?”
“That depends on whether the culprit knew the book’s secret. If so, then it was to draw my attention to the codex. If not, then it might have been a gambit to draw my attention away from the secret laboratory.”
“It has to be the first one.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be too great a coincidence for a schemer to mistake the codex for a blank book and then use it as a distraction.”
Our eyes locked for a moment. In unison we said, “And there are no coincidences.”
“So it follows that Ygresta’s death was not coincidental to my arrival.”
“But the seers said he wasn’t murdered.”
“Then we cannot trust their report. They may have intentionally deceived you, knowing you would share their report with me.”
“So perhaps the professor was murdered—well, not for the codex, which they didn’t take—but maybe for whatever was stolen from the lab?”
“That seems more likely.”
“Do you suspect someone from the Acadamae murdered him?”
Keenly aware that Lady Illyria could be reporting to her uncle as much as to me, I kept my response vague. “Most murderers are known to the victim.”
Illyria frowned. “But if the thief was adept enough to break into his laboratory, why kill the professor? And why not take the stolen items then instead of waiting until a few days before your arrival?”
“Perhaps the motive relates to Ygresta’s creation of a golem.”
“Which we haven’t found.”
“And which he might never have completed.”
“Do you think he might have hidden this codex because he knew someone was after the golem manual?”
“An attractive hypothesis, but what evidence do we have to support it?
She hesitated before answering. “It makes more sense if he had written the note himself.”
“But he did not.”
“That means he didn’t put it on the box, either.”
“Ah!” I retrieved the teak box in which I had first found the codex.
“Ah!” she mimicked me.
I frowned, but in truth I was beginning to enjoy her teasing. I showed her the trade stamp under the velvet lining of the box. “What do you make of this?”
“Kaer Maga,” she said, recognizing the symbol. “The professor was getting fat. What do fat wizards and Kaer Maga make you think of?”
“Bloatmages.” I shuddered to think of the blood-gorged practitioners of hemotheurgy.
Illyria shivered in agreement.
“It seems unlikely Ygresta had turned to blood magic. The weight gain among hemotheurges is a symptom of their organs’ generating surplus blood to fuel their spells. Besides, one of Ygresta’s colleagues would surely have noticed a ruddy appearance, the burst veins, and of course the leeches.”
She gazed at me with an uncomfortable intensity.
“What?” I said.
“We’re in the middle of one of your stories, aren’t we?”
“Pardon me?”
“The stories you told when you visited after Uncle Fedele’s funeral. Most of them started with you not knowing the answer
to a problem. That’s where we are now. You’re just starting to solve a mystery, and I’m helping you.” She spoke with such open delight that I dared not trust its sincerity. Better to change the subject.
“Ah.” I took another tart and held it up as evidence. “As for the bloatmage theory, your confectioner’s testimony suggests a more quotidian explanation for Ygresta’s obesity.”
“And for yours, too, if you keep inhaling those like snuff.”
I would have protested, but it is rude to speak with one’s mouth full.
“Perhaps the codex holds the answer. Professor Ygresta must have known you’d discover its secret. What did he want you to do with it?”
“If he suspected a threat to his life, perhaps he meant me to solve his murder.” The words had barely escaped my lips before I dismissed the theory. A man does not plan for another to revenge his death when there is time to prevent it. “Never mind that. It is preposterous.”
She tapped her chin as she thought. “You know, I recall a guest lecture about famous spell collections. ‘Obscure Necromantic Texts,’ or something like that.”
That lecture had not been part of my Acadamae curriculum. “The speaker was not memorable, I take it?”
“Dry as dust, but I remember bits of the talk. Most of the texts covered were caught halfway between legend and history. Could Professor Ygresta have found such a book?”
I touched the teak box. “It stands to reason that the sihedron is another intentional clue, either from Ygresta or from whoever placed the codex in the box. The sihedron suggests King Xin, Thassilon, and the runelords. Do you recall the names of the last runelords?”
“Alaznist, Belimarius, Karzoug, Krune, Sorshen, Xanderghul, and Zutha.” She curtsied like a child presented to her parents’ friends—which was precisely how we had first met.
I chided her. “Rote memorization is the least of the academic virtues.”
“Shall I recite their associated sins, Professor?”
Illyria clearly knew the foundations of rune magic as well as any Acadamae student. The original runelords aligned their magic specialties with the ideals of just rule. Sadly, the later runelords perverted these ideals into the seven sins. It was a perfect allegory for the way each school of magic had its positive and negative sides—even, I had to admit, necromancy.
