The Spell of the Black Dagger

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Somewhere behind that wall lived old Ederd IV himself, overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, master of the fates of over a million men, women, and children, one of the three most powerful mortals in the World. And Lord Kalthon, Ederd’s Minister of Justice, who could have a man flogged, hanged, beheaded, exiled, or sold on a moment’s notice. Lord Torrut, commander of the guard, was in there as well—and his slightest word could send ten thousand men out to fight, kill, and die.

  Tolthar did not particularly care to join them.

  He had no choice, though; when he hesitated on the threshold of the little side door the soldiers heaved him through without even slowing.

  The floors inside were stone—not rough slate or flagstone, like an inn’s hearth, but polished granite and marble. Tolthar had never seen such floors.

  The walls, too, were stone—some of them, anyway; others were paneled in wood, or hidden by drapes or tapestries. He could see them through the archways and open doors as he was hurried through what seemed like an endless maze of antechambers and corridors.

  At last his escort stopped at the door of a small chamber with bare walls of pale grey stone; in the center of the room stood a large desk, with wood-and-brown-velvet chairs behind and before. Papers, scrolls, and ledgers were spread across the desk and stacked on the floor.

  Two people were in the room, a tall young woman with thick brown hair and a large man in the uniform of a guard captain; they were standing by the desk, arguing. At the sound of arriving footsteps they stopped and turned toward the doorway.

  “Captain Tikri,” one of the guardsmen said, “this is Tolthar of Smallgate.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” the man in the captain’s uniform said. “Bring him in.”

  Deran and the lieutenant brought Tolthar into the little office, while the third man returned to the corridor.

  The woman was wearing clothes of fine gold linen, and Tolthar might have guessed that she was a noblewoman of some sort, but he was still startled when Tikri addressed her as Lady Sarai.

  “Which magician shall I send for, Lady Sarai?” he asked.

  “More than one,” the young woman replied. “I don’t want any doubt about this. Teneria, certainly, and Mereth, if you can find her, and Okko, and I suppose you should get that Tobas and his witch wife back here, and anyone else you think we might want.” As an afterthought, she added, “Not the pregnant wife, though—she’s not a magician.”

  “This may not have anything to do with the case, remember,” Tikri reminded her. “And we have half a dozen other chances, if this one doesn’t work out.”

  “I know that,” Lady Sarai snapped. “But this man is here, now, and he’s one of the more promising possibilities.” She turned to the guards. “Sit him down,” she ordered.

  Abruptly, Tolthar found himself seated, on the chair in front of the desk. He stared up silently at the woman.

  “Do you know who I am?” Lady Sarai demanded.

  Tolthar blinked, and didn’t answer.

  “He’s drunk,” Deran remarked. “We dragged him out of a tavern in Northangle.”

  Lady Sarai nodded. Tolthar didn’t bother to argue, although he didn’t feel very drunk any more.

  A messenger appeared in the doorway. “You wanted me, Captain?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Tikri said. He crossed the room quickly. “You go ahead, Lady Sarai.” He stepped out into the corridor to give the messenger her instructions.

  “Close the door, lieutenant,” Lady Sarai directed. “Let’s have some privacy.”

  Senden obeyed. Lady Sarai stepped up close to the seated Tolthar and stared down at him.

  “You’re drunk?” she asked.

  “A little,” he admitted. He was beginning to recover his nerve.

  “That might be just as well. Do you know who I am?”

  “They call you Lady Sarai,” Tolthar said. “I can still hear.”

  “That’s my name; you know who I am?”

  “Lord Kalthon’s daughter,” Tolthar answered.

  Lady Sarai’s face hardened. “I am Lady Sarai, Minister of Investigation and Acting Minister of Justice to Ederd the Fourth, Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, Triumvir of the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Armies and Defender of the Gods, and I am speaking to you now in the performance of my duties and with the full authority of the overlord. Do you understand that?”

  “Uh...” Tolthar hesitated, then said, “I’m not sure.”

  “That means that I can have you flogged, or tortured, or killed, right here and now, without having to worry about appeals or consequences. And I’ll do it if you don’t cooperate.”

  Tolthar stared up at her. He did not see Deran and Senden exchange doubtful glances behind him.

  “Now,” Lady Sarai said, “I understand that on or about the fourth day of the month of Summerheat, you received two knife-wounds in your left leg. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Tolthar replied softly, thoroughly cowed.

  “These were both inflicted with the same knife, at approximately the same time?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that knife was used by a woman?”

  “That’s right,” Tolthar admitted.

  “How tall was she?”

  “Uh ... if you want...” Did they think he didn’t know who had stabbed him?

  “How tall was she?” Sarai shouted, leaning closer.

  “She’s short,” he said quickly. “I mean, not tiny, but she’s ... she’s pretty short.”

  “What was she wearing? What color?”

  “Black,” Tolthar said. “She usually wears black.”

  “What’s the shape of her face like?”

  Baffled, Tolthar wondered why Lady Sarai didn’t just ask for Tabaea’s name. He said, “I don’t know...”

  “Did you see her face?”

  “Well, yes...”

  “What shape is it?”

  “Let me think for a minute!”

  Sarai backed away from him slightly, giving him room to breathe. “Take your time,” she said.

  “Thank you, my lady,” Tolthar said, resentfully. He tried to picture Tabaea’s face. “Sort of straight,” he said, “and wide. She has a square chin, almost.”

  “A long nose?”

  “No, it’s more wide.”

  “Brown hair?”

  “I think it’s black...”

  “Green eyes?”

  “I didn’t notice, I thought they were brown...”

  “Dark skin?”

  “No, she’s pale...”

  “Full-bodied?”

  “Skinny as a steer in Srigmor.”

  “Clumsy?”

  “If she were clumsy, do you think I’d have let her get me with the knife?” Tolthar protested angrily. “I wasn’t that drunk!”

  The door opened, and Lady Sarai paused in her questioning. She looked up as a thin, black-haired girl entered.

  For a moment, Tolthar thought it was Tabaea herself, and he began to imagine elaborate schemes to blame him for some crime he had not committed, to punish him for making false accusations; then he saw that this person wasn’t Tabaea, that she was taller and generally thinner, though perhaps fuller in the chest. And the new arrival had a long, narrow face that was not like Tabaea’s at all.

  “Teneria,” Lady Sarai said, “we think this man may have survived an attack by the killer. We want you to check his wounds, if you can, to see if the same knife was used.”

  “I’ll try,” the woman Lady Sarai had called Teneria said quietly.

  “They’re healed,” Tolthar protested. “My wounds are healed!”

  “I’ll try, anyway,” Teneria replied.

  “Thank you,” Lady Sarai said. “But first,” she added, turning back to Tolthar, “I believe that this man was about to tell us the name of the woman who stabbed him.”

  The long-awaited question came as a great relief.

  “Tabaea,” Tolthar said. “Tabaea the Thief.”


  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tabaea was coming down the stairs of her current residence, a pleasant little inn called the Blue Dancer, and thinking out her plans for the evening, when she heard the sound of soldiers walking. The distinctive slapping of scabbard against kilt, the heavy tread of the boots—definitely soldiers, on the street out front, drawing nearer. She sniffed the air, but with the inn’s door closed she could make out nothing unusual. Dinner had been beef stewed in red wine, and she could still smell the lingering aroma of every ingredient, and of the half-dozen different vintages that had been served to the Dancer’s customers. The chimney was drawing well, so the scent of the hearthfire itself was relatively faint, but its heat was making Beren, the serving wench, sweat as she swept the floor; Tabaea could smell that, too. She could distinguish the moist odors of Beren’s cotton tunic and wool skirt.

  Dogs were amazing creatures, Tabaea thought. She had never realized how amazing until she had started killing them. They could all smell all these details.

  The booted steps were coming directly up to the door of the inn; Tabaea wondered why. Soldiers were a common enough sight in the taverns and inns of Wall Street, but the Blue Dancer was a quiet and rather expensive place several blocks down Grand Street from the market, and the city guard was not generally found here unless someone had sent for them.

  There were other footsteps as well—she hadn’t heard them at first, with the door and the windows closed and the various sounds of the city drowning them out, but someone in slippers was walking with the soldiers, someone wearing a long, rustling garment.

  Suddenly nervous, Tabaea hurried down the last few steps. The guards couldn’t have anything to do with her, of course—nobody except the innkeeper and a few strangers knew she was here, no one would have any reason to connect her with any recent disturbances—but still, she didn’t care to be caught in her room upstairs if there were trouble.

  Now the soldiers were at the door, five of them, in addition to the person in slippers, and one soldier was lifting the latch. Now even Beren heard them; she straightened and leaned her broom in the chimney corner as Tabaea slipped back into the little alcove under the stairs. The table there was usually occupied at meals by young lovers, as it was the most private spot in the dining room; there was nothing suspicious about it if Tabaea should happen to sit there on a quiet evening, just minding her own business.

  And it would scarcely be her fault that she could hear everything that went on in the main room.

  “Can I help you?” Beren asked.

  “We’re looking for a woman named Tabaea,” an unfamiliar man’s voice said. “We don’t know what she’s calling herself. A little below average height, thin, black hair—probably alone.”

  Tabaea could almost hear Beren frowning.

  “Let me get my master,” the serving wench said.

  “Is she here?” a different voice asked.

  “I don’t know,” Beren replied, “I’ll ask.” Tabaea watched through the archway as Beren vanished into the kitchen.

  Tabaea bit her lip, worrying and wondering. Why were these men—these soldiers—looking for her? How did they know her name, or what she looked like?

  And what should she do about it?

  It registered that the alcove was a dead end, that she could be trapped in it. True, she could hold off a small army, as they wouldn’t be able to get at her more than two or perhaps three at a time, and she could use the table as a shield, but they could besiege her there and wait her out.

  That would not do. Better to get out now, while she could!

  But the soldiers were in the front door, while Beren and the innkeeper might be emerging from the kitchen at any moment, blocking that route. That left the window.

  Tavern windows varied greatly in Ethshar, in number, size, placement, and nature. The Blue Dancer gloried in a single great bow window, a long, graceful curve made up of several hundred small panes, framed not in lead, but in imported hardwood, an exotic touch that added to the inn’s expensive atmosphere. Three small casements were built into this structure, for ventilation; none of them looked large enough for even a person of Tabaea’s size to fit through.

  Tabaea knew that appearances could be deceiving, though. Moving as quietly as she could—which was very quietly indeed—she rose, and crept to the edge of the sheltering arch.

  There, she reached out with her poorly-developed and ill-understood abilities, the witch-sight and warlock sense, and dimly perceived the intruders.

  She could distinguish their scents, as well, but identity was not what interested her now. She wanted to know where they were looking, to be sure that she was somewhere else.

  One was watching up the stairs, very carefully. Another was guarding the door. The one in slippers ... that one was a woman, and she smelled of magic. That was bad. She was looking about the room with interest, not focusing on anything in particular.

  One of the soldiers was watching the magician; he was no threat to anyone just now.

  That left two soldiers and a magician who were looking out into the dining room; one soldier was watching the kitchen door, the other peering into the dimly-lit farther recesses—including the one where Tabaea stood.

  She nudged the one in the door, ever so slightly, with a little warlock push; he started, and made a surprised noise.

  The others turned to look at him, and Tabaea made her run, fast and smooth and silent, across the room and up onto the broad sill. She was almost there when she was spotted; her distraction had only held for a fraction of a second.

  She swung open the nearest casement and thrust her head through; her ears scraped the frame on either side, her hair snagged on the latch.

  “Damn,” she whispered. She wouldn’t fit out that way.

  “Hey!” a guardsman called, and Tabaea, desperate, pushed at the wooden frame with the heel of her hand.

  She had never really tried her accumulated strength; she had never had any reason to. Most of her killings had been for skill, more than strength. She knew she was strong—she had flung that demonologist, Karitha, around like a doll. But she had not realized until this very moment just how strong she had become.

  Her hand punched through the polished window frame as if it were paper, spraying splinters of wood and glass into the street beyond.

  “Stop her!” someone shouted, and the guards started for her. Frightened, Tabaea kicked at the window.

  Debris burst out into Grand Street like spray from a wave-struck rock; the casement itself hung for an instant by one corner, then tumbled onto the street with a shattering of glass.

  Tabaea dove through the hole and landed, catlike, on her feet; she leapt up and ran, eastward, without thinking.

  Behind her, men were shouting.

  Run, hide, run, hide—her years as a thief had drummed that into her. When anything goes wrong, you run; when you have run the pursuit out of sight, you hide. If they find you, run again. No need to think or plan; just run and hide.

  And the best places to hide weren’t empty attics or dark alleys; the best places were in crowds and busy streets, where there was always another escape route, were always other faces to distract the pursuers.

  And the very best place of all was the Wall Street Field, where the clutter of destitute humanity lay down an obstacle course of ramshackle shelters and stolen stewpots, where most of the people would be on her side, where the soldiers felt outnumbered.

  She ran east on Grand Street, straight toward Grandgate Market and access to Wall Street.

  Behind her, the soldiers poured out the door of the Blue Dancer; a raised sword whacked the signboard and set it swinging, and even through the shouting Tabaea could hear the metal links creaking. Booted feet ran after her.

  The woman, the magician, did not run; Tabaea could vaguely sense her presence, far back and growing farther with every step. She was working a spell, Tabaea was certain, some kind of spell that would flatten her, steal her powers, turn her to a statue or a mou
se. She ran, expecting to be felled at any instant, by spell or sword.

  She was not felled; she ran headlong into Grandgate Market not even panting, and spun to her left, turning north toward the part of the Wall Street Field she knew best. Late-night shoppers on their way home, the last merchants in the midst of packing up for the night, and a few strolling lovers turned to stare after her.

  The guards were shouting, but they were farther behind than ever, she was outrunning them. Other soldiers were emerging from the towers by the gate, but not in time to cut her off. She was into the Field, into the strip that ran alongside the barracks towers, and no one had touched her yet.

  Then a man, his red kilt and yellow tunic visible in the light of a nearby torch but his face in shadow, stepped out in front of her, reaching out to grab her; she thrust out an arm and knocked him aside without slowing.

  She rounded the corner of the North Tower into the wider part of the Field and promptly tripped over a sleeping figure.

  She stumbled, but caught herself, arms outflung, balanced like a cat, then was up and running again.

  There were no torches here, no lanterns; yellow light leaked from the distant windows of Wall Street, the orange glow of the greater moon limned the top of the city wall above her, and the scattered remnants of the evening’s cookfires made pools of lesser shadow here and there, but most of the Field was in darkness. Its inhabitants, asleep or awake, were but shadowy lumps in the gloom; her cat-eyes, still not yet fully adjusted from the cozy light of the Blue Dancer’s dining room, let her see movement, but not colors or details. She danced through the dark, avoiding bodies and shelters at the final fraction of a second.

  Then, abruptly, fire bloomed above her, orange light a thousand times brighter than any moon. She stumbled, stopped, and looked up.

  A warlock hung in the air, glowing impossibly bright, like an off-color piece of the sun itself. She knew he was a warlock, but she couldn’t have said how she knew; the light simply felt like warlockry.

  Without thinking, she reached her own warlockry up to counter him, to extinguish the glow, but his power was greater than hers, it was like fighting the tide. She could stop anything he did from reaching her, but she couldn’t put out the light or drive him away.