The Spell of the Black Dagger

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Yes?” Sarai asked, as Tikri apologized and slipped past.

  “I’m looking for Mereth of the Golden Door,” the messenger said warily, eyeing Tikri’s departing back. “She has a visitor, and someone told me she might be here.”

  “Mereth isn’t here right now,” Sarai replied. “What visitor is this?”

  The messenger finally looked into the room. “Oh, is that you, Lady Sarai? It’s three visitors, really—the man gives his name as Tobas of Telven, and the women as Karanissa of the Mountains and Alorria of Dwomor.”

  Sarai recognized two of the names. These were the foreign experts the Wizards’ Guild had sent for. “Show them in,” she said.

  The messenger hesitated. “Well, they aren’t...” she began.

  “Bring them here!” Sarai commanded, fed up with delays and explanations.

  “Yes, my lady,” the messenger said, bowing; she turned and hurried away.

  For the next few minutes Sarai sat looking through old reports; then the messenger knocked again.

  A spriggan scurried into the room, and Sarai took a moment to chase it to the corner and warn it, “If you tear a single piece of paper, or chew on one, or spill anything on one, I’m going to rip your slimy green guts out and wear them as a necklace; is that clear, you little nuisance?”

  “Yes, yes,” the spriggan said, bobbing its head and staring wide-eyed up at her. “Not hurt paper. Nice paper. Nice spriggan not hurt paper.”

  “Good,” Lady Sarai said, turning away and finding a young man standing in the doorway. He looked just about her own age; she had expected this famous expert on certain wizardries to be a good deal older.

  Well, maybe he had some way of disguising his age—an illusion of some sort, or a youth spell. But then, he looked rather sheepish just now, and Sarai had trouble imagining a wise old wizard, one capable of a youth spell or other transformation, looking so embarrassed when he had done nothing to cause it. Maybe this wasn’t Tobas of Telven at all.

  “I’m sorry about the spriggan,” the young man said.

  “Oh, it’s not your fault,” Sarai said, waving a hand airily. “The little pests are turning up everywhere lately.”

  “Well, actually, I’m afraid it is my fault,” the man insisted. “I created the spriggans. By accident. A spell went wrong on me about six years ago, and they’ve been popping up ever since. And they still tend to follow me around even more than they do other wizards, which is why that one came running in just now.”

  “Oh,” Sarai said, unsure whether she should believe this story. It was true that spriggans had only been around for a few years, but had they really come from a single botched spell?

  “I’m Tobas, by the way. You’re Lady Sarai? Or...” He paused, confused.

  “I’m Lady Sarai,” Sarai confirmed.

  “Ah.” Tobas bowed politely in acknowledgment, then stepped aside and ushered a black-haired young beauty into the room—one whose green velvet gown failed to hide a well-advanced pregnancy. “This is my wife, Alorria of Dwomor,” Tobas said proudly.

  Alorria did not bow, Sarai noticed, and a silver coronet held her hair back from her face—she was presumably a noblewoman of some sort from one of the Small Kingdoms.

  Or maybe the coronet was just an affectation, and bowing was uncomfortable because of her belly; Sarai had no first-hand experience to compare.

  A second woman, taller, thinner, older, and not visibly pregnant, but also black-haired and beautiful, appeared in the door. Where Alorria wore green velvet, this other wore red.

  “And this,” Tobas said, “is my other wife, Karanissa of the Mountains.”

  “She’s a witch,” Alorria volunteered.

  Tobas nodded agreement. Karanissa bowed.

  Sarai didn’t comment, but her lips tightened. Over the years she had met a few men who had two wives, and even one eccentric old fellow with three, and she hadn’t liked the men, their wives, or the whole idea very much; it had always seemed a bit excessive and in doubtful taste. This wizard not only had two wives, he had brought both of them along, despite Alorria’s pregnancy.

  The black silk tunic that Tobas wore was hardly extravagant, and his manners seemed acceptable, but still, bringing not just one wife but two, and claiming to be responsible for an entire species, in addition to his supposed expertise in magic—Sarai thought that despite his show of diffidence, this wizard appeared a little too pleased with himself for her liking. She was not favorably impressed.

  “I understand you’re an expert on the magic we’re dealing with,” Sarai said, without further preamble. She was not disposed toward idle pleasantries with this man.

  “Well, not really,” Tobas said, with a wry half-smile. “I don’t know what you’re dealing with. I understand it’s an enchanted blade that appears to have a neutralizing effect on wizardry, and I know a little something about that, though—about things that neutralize wizardry. I don’t honestly know a great deal, but probably I know a little more than anyone else.”

  “Do you,” Sarai said. The fellow spoke well enough, and wasn’t really an obvious braggart, but she still didn’t like him. “Why is that?” she asked.

  “Oh, well, I have rather a personal interest in it,” Tobas explained. “I happen to have inherited a castle...”

  “No, you didn’t,” Alorria protested. “You found it abandoned.”

  “Oh, be quiet, Ali,” Karanissa said. “That’s close enough to inheriting.”

  “It isn’t the same thing at all!”

  “Shut up, both of you,” Tobas said—not angrily, but simply making a request. To Lady Sarai’s surprise, it was obeyed, and the wizard continued.

  “Let us say, then, that I have acquired a castle that happens to be under a spell cast during the Great War that renders wizardry ineffective,” Tobas explained. “And for reasons I prefer not to explain, I can’t just sell it or abandon it; I pass through its neighborhood fairly often, and being a wizard, I find the spell very inconvenient—I can’t use my magic there. So I’ve taken to studying what little is known about neutralizing wizardry, in hopes of someday reversing the spell.”

  “Ah, I see,” Sarai said. “And are you close? Have you learned much about this sort of negative magic?”

  “No.” Tobas shook his head. “Hardly a thing. But I’m still trying. This thing you’ve got here—I spoke to Telurinon about it, and some of the others, before Heremon insisted I come find Mereth and talk to you. They tell me that someone has an enchanted weapon that appears to absorb wizardry, that they’ve been studying it, but they weren’t getting anywhere, because this thing is completely immune to wizardry, so much so that they only know there’s magic there because wizardry isn’t, you see.”

  Sarai looked blank.

  “Well, ordinarily,” Tobas explained, “wizardry is sort of everywhere at once, in the light and the air and the earth, but wherever this thing has been used, this enchanted dagger or whatever it is, wizardry doesn’t work right any more.”

  “So it’s an entirely new kind of magic?” Sarai said.

  “Maybe,” Tobas said. “Or maybe it’s just a special sort of wizardry. I don’t really know a thing about it. But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to come and take a look.”

  “Besides, we felt so sorry for all those poor people who were killed,” Karanissa said. “We felt we had to try to do something.”

  “If we can,” Alorria added.

  “Tobas is a wizard, Karanissa’s a witch,” Lady Sarai said. “Are you a magician, too, Alorria?”

  The woman in the coronet shook her head quickly. “Oh, no, nothing like that,” she said hastily. “I just wanted to come along ... I mean, Tobas is my husband.”

  Lady Sarai nodded. She wondered, though; was it comfortable to go traveling about when one was, by the look of her, six or seven months pregnant? Sarai had the feeling there was a story here she didn’t know, but it wasn’t really any of her business, so she didn’t pursue it. “And do any of you know anything about th
e conspiracy that’s behind the killings?” she asked. “Or is it just the murder weapon you’re interested in?”

  “Is it a conspiracy?” Tobas asked, interested. “I hadn’t heard that. Please, Lady Sarai, you must understand, we only arrived in the city a few hours ago, and all we’ve heard about these terrible crimes came from the other members of the Wizards’ Guild. Naturally, they’ve paid most of their attention to the magic involved. I’d be very glad if you could tell us more. Do you have any idea who’s behind it?”

  Lady Sarai eyed the wizard suspiciously. He wasn’t entirely living up to her first impression of him as a self-assured and superior boor.

  “We have a description of a woman,” she admitted. “There are guards out now looking for someone who may know who she is. We know she’s involved somehow.”

  “And you think this man will tell you where to find her?”

  “We certainly hope so. If not, once we have a name, won’t a fairly simple spell lead us to her?”

  “If it’s a true name,” Tobas admitted. “The first name she knew herself by.”

  “Well, if it’s not her true name,” Sarai said, “we’ll send the city guard to look for her, too.”

  “Lady Sarai,” Alorria asked, “what will you do with her when you find her?”

  “We’ll arrest her, of course! On suspicion of murder. And bring her to the Palace for questioning.” Only after she had spoken did Sarai remember that she was addressing a member of the Wizards’ Guild, and the Guild wanted Serem’s murderer turned over to them.

  Well, this woman would need to be questioned to be sure she was Serem’s murderer. Anyone intelligent would see that.

  “Of course,” Tobas said. Then he remarked, “It may not be that easy, arresting someone who was able to kill several different magicians.”

  Sarai glanced at him, startled. “That’s a good point,” she said. “If she is the killer. I’ll have to see that whoever is sent after her takes special precautions.”

  “But you think this woman you seek is part of a conspiracy?” Tobas had moved around to the front of the desk; now he leaned back comfortably against it. Karanissa settled against a wall. To Lady Sarai’s distress, Alorria began looking around for a clear patch of floor to sit on—the chairs were stacked with reports. The spriggan in the corner rustled papers and peered out curiously; Lady Sarai turned and kicked at it, sending it squealing out the door.

  “Maybe we should go somewhere more comfortable,” Lady Sarai suggested. “And I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tolthar of Smallgate stared into the empty mug, wishing he had the price of another pint. The Drunken Dragon never gave credit, especially not to him, so there was no point in asking for it, and he didn’t have so much as an iron bit left in his purse.

  He didn’t feel well enough to rob anyone, either, though he thought he might once he sobered up a little. It was too late in the day to find honest work, or to expect much from begging—not that he really wanted to try either one. That meant that dinner, if he got any at all, would probably come out of Mama Kilina’s stewpot, over in the Wall Street Field.

  Maybe that little hellion, Tabaea the Thief, would turn up there tonight. After all, her lucky streak couldn’t last forever.

  That assumed, of course, that it was a lucky streak that had kept her out of the Drunken Dragon, and out of the local portion of the Wall Street Field, for the last few sixnights. He thought that if she had gotten herself killed someone would know about it; that meant she was still somewhere in the city. Tolthar couldn’t imagine that she would ever leave Ethshar of the Sands; the people he knew, the people he thought of as his own kind, simply didn’t do that. The outside world was for rich merchants and stupid farmers, not the people who lived on the fringes, who spent an occasional night in the Field.

  The idea that Tabaea might have found a permanent job somewhere never occurred to him. Thieves and beggars simply didn’t do that, in Tolthar’s view of the World, and Tabaea, as her very name proclaimed, was a thief.

  He supposed she might have wound up in a brothel somewhere, but that wasn’t usually permanent. Slavery was permanent, but he thought he would have heard if she had been auctioned off. He had friends—or rather, he had people who were willing to talk to him—who had promised to tell him if they saw Tabaea anywhere.

  So he assumed that she’d committed a few successful burglaries.

  But the money would run out; it always did. Sooner or later, he would find her again, in the Dragon or at Kilina’s stewpot or somewhere else among his familiar haunts.

  And when he did, she would pay for the wounds in his leg. They were healed now, the leg was as good as new, but she owed him for the pain, the blood, the time he had spent limping. She owed him for the embarrassment of having to talk to that young snot of a guardsman, Deran Wuller’s son.

  And he had a wonderful idea of how she could repay him for his troubles. She might even enjoy it; he wouldn’t mind if she did. Sometimes it was even better that way.

  He shoved the mug aside and got to his feet. He was not entirely sure where he was going, whether he would head directly for Mama Kilina or make a stop or two along the way, but he knew he would have to stand up, so he went ahead with that part of the job. Once he was upright he didn’t have to worry about the proprietor of the Dragon harassing him to buy another ale or get out.

  His head swam slightly. Maybe, he thought, he should have spent some of his last coppers on food, rather than ale.

  Well, it was too late now. He turned toward the door.

  Then he sat heavily back down. There was a guardsman standing in the doorway, and Tolthar recognized him. It was Deran Wuller’s son. Deran might be there for something entirely unrelated to Tolthar, but Tolthar did not care to try walking out past him.

  Then Deran stepped in and marched straight toward Tolthar. He pointed, and Tolthar realized there were two other soldiers behind Deran. One of them had a lieutenant’s band on his arm.

  “Oh, gods,” Tolthar muttered. “Now what?”

  “Tolthar of Smallgate?” Deran asked loudly, stopping a step away.

  Tolthar winced at the volume. “Yes,” he said. “You know I am. What is it this time?”

  “We are ordered to bring you to the Palace immediately,” Deran said.

  Tolthar’s eyes widened, and the shock of Deran’s words seemed to cook away a good part of the alcohol in his body.

  “Why?” he asked. “What did I do?”

  “You’re wanted for questioning,” Deran said, a bit more kindly. He didn’t like seeing anyone, even a worthless drunkard like Tolthar, needlessly frightened. “They didn’t tell us, but I think they want you as a witness, not for anything you’ve done yourself.”

  “I haven’t seen anything,” Tolthar protested. “I haven’t heard anything, either. I don’t know anything.”

  “Well, you can tell the folks at the Palace that,” Deran said, reaching for him. “Come on.”

  Tolthar pressed back against his chair, but the guardsman’s hand clamped around his arm like a noose drawn tight. Reluctantly, he yielded to the inevitable and allowed himself to be led out.

  As he and the three soldiers marched down Wall Street in a tight little group, one at each side and the third behind, Tolthar remembered all the other people he had seen escorted away over the years. He had even escorted a few himself, before he was kicked out of the guard—but to a district magistrate, not the Palace.

  A good many of them never came back; they were executed, or sold into slavery, or exiled. Others took a beating, or paid a fine, and then, presumably chastened, went on with their lives. A few returned untouched and continued as if nothing had happened.

  Tolthar hoped very much that he would be one of those few.

  At the gate the party turned right; Tolthar was escorted across one side of Grandgate Market and into Gate Street. He could see the dome of the Palace ahead already, even though it was still over a mile a
way—the dome was the highest structure in the city, even taller than the Great Lighthouse, and it towered over the surrounding buildings, above the rooftops, a great dark semi-circle against the scarlet sunset. In the mornings Tolthar had seen it gleaming golden-white, like a huge pale moon rising in the west, but now it was shadowed and ominous. The sun was sinking just to the left of the dome, almost behind it, and for a moment Tolthar fancied that the dome was some sort of shadow-sun trying to blot the true sun out of the sky.

  The foursome marched down seven blocks to the fork and bore right onto Harbor Street; now the sun was a tiny red sliver nestled at the base of the looming dome of the Palace, and the sky was darkening overhead.

  Tolthar glanced Deran, then up at the dome.

  “Can you tell me where you’re taking me, and why it’s the Palace instead of the magistrate’s office?” he said. “Am I going to see the Minister of Justice?”

  “We’re taking you to Captain Tikri’s office,” Deran said, “to talk to Lady Sarai, the Minister of Investigation. She’s also Lord Kalthon’s daughter, and Acting Minister of Justice.”

  “But you aren’t taking me to the justice chamber?”

  “The Captain’s office.”

  “Why?”

  Deran shrugged apologetically. “They didn’t tell us,” he said.

  That brought them to the second fork, where they bore left onto Quarter Street. The dome of the Palace had blocked out the sun entirely, or perhaps the sun had set; Tolthar couldn’t be sure. The sky overhead had darkened to a deep sapphire blue, and the lesser moon shone pink in the east.

  They came to Circle Street, and then to the colorful pavement forming a ring around the Palace; they marched directly across, past the final line of stalls owned by elite and fortunate merchants. The Palace itself stood before them now, the dome hidden by the wall and the eaves.

  Tolthar had never been here before; even during his days in the guard, he had never drawn duty in the Palace. He had never been closer than Circle Street.