She supposed she hadn’t really needed to watch the actual decapitation, but she had been too fascinated to turn away. For a moment, when the assassin’s sword finished its cut through the imperial neck and emerged from the other side, Sarai had thought that this might be too much for even Tabaea’s magic—but then she had seen that the wound was already healing where the blade had entered, that the head had never been completely severed from the body, and that Tabaea was already tugging the Black Dagger from its sheath.
Each time someone had openly tried to kill the empress Tabaea had pursued her attacker, and two times out of three she had caught and killed someone she claimed to be the assassin.
At least, Sarai thought she had; certainly, she had caught the archer the first time, and judging by her remarks to her courtiers and the satisfied expression on her face, she had caught this swordsman, as well.
She hadn’t caught anyone when magical attacks had been made, of course, but those attacks hadn’t inflicted any deadly wounds, either; the Black Dagger had dissipated any wizard’s spell used against her, and Tabaea, using her own powers, had fought off all the others before they got that far.
She hadn’t eaten the poisoned meals, either; Sarai didn’t know why.
At least, she had turned away meals she said were poisoned, but Sarai had no way of knowing whether poison had actually been present, or that Tabaea hadn’t cheerfully consumed poisons in other meals without detecting them—and without being harmed.
And for that matter, if magical attacks had reached her undetected, perhaps they had used up some of her store of stolen lives—but Sarai had no reason to think that had happened. As far as Sarai could see, neither magic nor poison had affected Tabaea’s vitality.
The more direct assaults, however, surely did.
If Sarai correctly understood how the Black Dagger worked—which Sarai doubted, since her information was third-hand at best, relayed by Mereth or Tobas or one of Tobas’ wives from analyses provided by various wizards—then each time Tabaea killed someone, she added another life to her total; each time she received a wound that would have killed an ordinary person, a life was lost from that sum.
So while she had lost three lives to assassins, she had recovered two of them, tracking down her enemies and stabbing them to death before they had a chance to escape. Neither one had even gotten out of the Palace.
That must have been a ghastly sight for the would-be killers, Sarai thought, to look back and see Tabaea, covered with her own blood and wielding that horrible dagger, in hot pursuit. And it had presumably been the last thing they ever saw—at least, for two out of three.
The chase was over now, and Tabaea had retreated to her apartments, to change out of her bloody clothes, to wash the blood from her skin and hair, before going on about the business of ruling the city. She had sent her chancellor and her other followers away, so that she could clean up in private.
And this was what Sarai had been waiting for. The instant Tabaea had set out after the assassin, Sarai had hurried to the imperial quarters, where she had filled the marble tub and hung the kettle over the fire.
“The bath is ready, your Majesty,” she said. “I hope the water’s warm enough; it’s not my usual job.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Tabaea said wearily, as she handed Sarai her tunic and ambled into the bath chamber. Sarai accepted the garment, bowed, and hurried after.
Tabaea dropped her skirt, stepped out of her girdle, and stepped into the tub.
“It is a bit cool,” she said. “See to the kettle, whatever your name is.”
“Pharea, your Majesty,” Sarai said. She put the bloody clothes aside and fetched the kettle from the fire, then poured steaming hot water into the tub, stirring it in with her other hand.
She wanted Tabaea to be comfortable, to take a nice, long bath—and give her a good head start.
“You’re nervous, Pharea,” Tabaea said.
Sarai looked up, startled.
“Don’t be,” the empress said, “I won’t hurt you.”
Sarai was not reassured, but she tried to hide her discomfort. “Of course not, your Majesty,” she said. “I suppose it’s just the blood.”
“Your Majesty?” a new voice called.
Sarai turned, as Tabaea said, “Ah, Lethe! Come in here and help me get this blood out of my hair.”
Sarai bowed, collected Tabaea’s remaining garments, and backed out of the bath chamber as Lethe stepped in. The servant gave Sarai a startled glance, then ignored her as she tended to her mistress’ needs.
Sarai collected Tabaea’s bloody clothes into a bundle, and dumped it in the hallway, to be disposed of or cleaned, whichever was more practical—she really didn’t know, and didn’t much care. Her servant act was almost over. In a few seconds she would have what she wanted. She returned to the bath chamber and leaned in.
“I’ll just close this door to keep the steam in, shall I?” she said.
“Yes, thank you, Pharea,” Tabaea said with a wave.
Sarai closed the door, quietly but firmly.
Then she hurried to Tabaea’s belt, still lying on the floor where the empress had flung it; she snatched the Black Dagger from its sheath, took her own knife from concealment beneath her skirt, and substituted the ordinary belt-knife for Tabaea’s magical weapon. She tucked the Black Dagger carefully under her skirt, then looked around, checking to see if she had forgotten anything.
As she turned, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror; at first, she paid no attention, but then, startled, she stared at the glass.
Her magical disguise was gone; she was no longer Pharea, a moon-faced servant, but herself, Lady Sarai.
The Black Dagger had done that, obviously; it had cut away the illusion spell.
She certainly couldn’t afford to stay here, in that case, not that she had intended to. Moving quickly, but not hurrying so much as to attract attention if someone saw her, she stepped out into the passageway and closed the door behind her.
And then, carefully not hurrying, trying very hard to appear as ordinary as possible, she strolled down the hall, down the stairs, and a few minutes later, out of the Palace entirely, across the plaza onto Circle Street.
She had done it. She had the Black Dagger.
Now what?
She didn’t want to do anything hasty or ill-considered. The obvious thing to do would be to go to the Guildhouse on Grand Street and tell the wizards that Tabaea had been disarmed—but Sarai did not always trust the obvious.
Would magic work against Tabaea now? She still had the strengths and talents of a dozen or so people, even if she could no longer add more. And there was the question of whether it would be for the best in the long run if wizards removed the usurper empress; however much she might like some of the individual members, Sarai did not like or trust the Wizards’ Guild. They had claimed they didn’t meddle in politics, yet she was quite sure that if she told them the Black Dagger was gone, they would immediately assassinate Tabaea. Like it or not, Tabaea was the city’s ruler. What sort of a precedent would it set if she helped the Wizards’ Guild kill a reigning monarch and go unpunished?
Not only would they surely go unpunished, they might expect to be rewarded for such a service. They might well demand a larger role in running the city, or some tangible expression of gratitude. Sarai did not for a minute believe that their strictures against interfering in politics, or their insistence that they wanted to kill Tabaea for themselves rather than the good of the city, would prevent them from expecting payment for such a service to the overlord.
What if they demanded the Black Dagger?
Sarai frowned. She didn’t like that idea. The Black Dagger was dangerous.
Of course, wizards were dangerous—but still, why hand them even more power?
And then again, it might be, for all she knew, that the Black Dagger would only work for Tabaea. It might be that the wizards already knew how to make such daggers.
It might be th
at Tabaea would be able to make another as soon as she found that this one was gone, in which case Sarai really shouldn’t be wasting any time—but still, she hesitated. Wherever the Black Dagger came from, whether more could be made or not, Sarai was sure that the wizards would want it.
Well, the wizards had things she wanted—not for Ethshar, but for herself. What if she were to trade the dagger to them in exchange for a cure for her father and brother?
This all needed more thought, despite any risk that Tabaea would make another dagger. The time was not yet right, Sarai decided, for a quick trip to the Guildhouse.
But then, where should she go?
Lord Torrut, she decided. There was no point in letting more assassins die for nothing, not when a single spell might now be enough to handle the problem. She had no doubt at all that the assassins were sent by Lord Torrut; when open battle had failed, he had gone underground, but she was sure he was still fighting.
The question was, where?
The obvious place to start looking was the barracks towers; with that in mind, she headed out Quarter Street toward Grandgate Market.
And as she walked, a thought struck her.
Ordinary swords and knives and arrows could not kill Tabaea, as long as she had extra lives saved up—but what if she were stabbed with the Black Dagger? Wouldn’t that steal all her lives at once?
Maybe not; it would certainly be a risky thing to try. Most particularly, it would be risky for an ordinary person, with an ordinary person’s strength, to attempt to stab Tabaea, with all her stolen power.
But what if someone used the Black Dagger to build herself up to be Tabaea’s equal, or her superior, and then stabbed Tabaea?
Whoever it was couldn’t go about murdering magicians, of course, or even just ordinary people, but perhaps if there were condemned criminals...
Did the Dagger’s magic work on animals? Sarai remembered that dogs, cats, and even a pigeon had been found with their throats cut; Tabaea had, at the very least, experimented with animals. Someone with the strength of a dozen oxen might be a match for her.
Of course, if anyone tried that, then the knife’s new wielder would be a threat to the peace of the city—unless it was someone completely trustworthy, someone who would simply never want to disrupt the normal flow of events.
Someone, for example, like Sarai herself.
She glanced briefly toward the Guildhouse as she crossed Wizard Street, but walked on toward the Wall Street Field without even slowing.
In the Guildhouse, Tobas watched uneasily from the landing.
“I know that I sort of suggested some of this,” he said, “but I’m not sure it’s really a good idea.”
Mereth glanced at him uneasily, then turned her attention back to Telurinon. The Guildmaster was seated cross-legged on a small carpet, his athame held out before him, its point directly over a shallow silver bowl supported on a low iron tripod; he was chanting intently. Fluid bubbled and steamed in the silver dish. A sword lay on the floor beneath the bowl, and an old and worn noose encircled the tripod, the sword’s blade passing under it on one side and atop it on the other.
“Well,” Mereth said, “if any kind of wizardry can kill Tabaea, this can—can’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Tobas said. “I just hope it doesn’t kill everybody.”
“Oh, it won’t do that,” Mereth said, not anywhere near as certainly as she would have liked.
“It might,” Tobas replied. “The original countercharm is lost, has been lost for four or five hundred years now, and in all that time no one’s been foolish enough to risk trying it. The spell book I found it in had a note at the bottom in big red runes, saying, ‘Don’t try it!’, but here we are, trying it.”
“But we’ve got it all figured out,” Mereth insisted. “As soon as Tabaea’s dead, the warlocks pick it up and push it through that tapestry of yours, to the no-magic place, and it’ll be gone!”
“That assumes,” Tobas pointed out, “that the warlocks really can pick it up, and that the tapestry really will transport it. For the former we have only the warlocks’ word that they can lift anything that isn’t too immense, and for the latter, all we have is assumptions and guesses. What if, instead of the tapestry transporting the Seething Death, the Seething Death destroys the Transporting Tapestry?”
Mereth went pale.
“Oh, gods,” she said. “What if it does destroy the tapestry? Tobas, why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
“I did,” Tobas replied. “I argued until my throat was sore and my lungs wouldn’t hold air, and Telurinon promised to think it all over carefully, and when I came back he’d started the ritual.”
“Oh, but ... but it’s so dangerous ... How could he?”
Tobas turned up an empty palm. “He’s frustrated,” he said. “We’ve all been throwing spells at Tabaea for a sixnight now, and they’ve had even less effect than Lord Torrut’s archers and booby-traps—by the way, did you hear about the tripwire and razor-wheels? The spies said it took Tabaea almost five minutes to heal.”
Mereth shuddered.
“Well, anyway,” Tobas continued, “all his life Telurinon has had these spells too terrible to use, he’s heard about how wizardry is more powerful than anything, and now there’s someone who just absorbs anything we throw at her—I can see why he’d want to try some of the real World-wrecker spells on her. He’ll probably never have another opportunity to use any of them. But I don’t think he should use the Seething Death.”
“Then why don’t you stop him?”
“Oh, now, you know better than that,” Tobas chided her. “Have you ever interrupted a wizard in the middle of a spell?”
“Um ... once.” Mereth winced at the memory. “When I was an apprentice. Nobody died, but it was close.”
“Low-order magic, I assume?”
“Very.”
Tobas nodded. “Ever see the Tower of Flame?”
Mereth turned to him, startled. “No, have you? I wasn’t even sure it was real!”
“Oh, it’s real, all right,” Tobas replied. “It’s in the mountains southeast of Dwomor. You can see it for a dozen leagues in every direction; it lights up the whole area at night. It just keeps going and going and going, spewing fire upward out of a field of bare rock. The best records say it’s been burning for eight hundred years now, and the story is—I can’t swear it’s true—the story is that it was only about a second or third-order spell that went wrong, some ordinary little spell, meant to sharpen a sword or something.”
“Yes, but...”
“And for myself,” Tobas said, interrupting her protest, “I’m not about to forget that every spriggan in the World, and there must be hundreds of them by now, maybe thousands, but every single one of them is out there running around, causing trouble, because I got a gesture wrong doing Lugwiler’s Haunting Phantasm.”
“But...”
“Not to mention,” Tobas added forcefully, “that all our problems with Tabaea and the Black Dagger are the result of a mistake during an athamezation.”
“So you aren’t going to stop him,” Mereth said.
“That’s right,” Tobas said. “That’s got to be tenth-, maybe twelfth-order magic he’s doing down there; I can’t handle anything like that, hardly anyone can, even among Guildmasters, and I’m not about to risk seeing a spell like that go wrong. It’s bad enough if it goes right.”
“What happens if it doesn’t?” Mereth asked. “I mean, Telurinon could make a mistake even if we don’t disturb him.”
Tobas shrugged. “Who knows? Dragon’s blood, serpent’s venom, a rope that’s hanged a man and a sword that’s slain a woman ... there’s some potent stuff in there.”
“How is it supposed to work?”
Tobas sighed. “Well,” he said, “when he’s finished, that brew in the silver bowl there is supposed to yield a single drop of fluid that’s decanted into a golden thimble. It’s almost stable at that point; it won’t do anything to the thimble
as long as the drop stays entirely within it. But when the drop is tipped over the edge of the thimble, whether it’s deliberately poured, or spilled, or whatever, the spell will be activated, and whatever it falls upon will be consumed by the Seething Death, which will then slowly spread, destroying everything it touches, until something stops it.”
“And we don’t know of anything that will stop it,” Mereth said.
“Right. Unless Telurinon’s scheme to transport it to the dead area works.”
“What if the Black Dagger stops it?”
Tobas shrugged. “Who knows?” he said.
Mereth blinked. “I’m not sure I understand exactly,” she said. “The way I understand it, the Seething Death forms a sort of pool of this stuff, right? A pool that gradually spreads?”
“That’s right.”
“How will that stop Tabaea? Are we planning to push her into the pool?”
Tobas grimaced.
“No,” he said. “Telurinon intends to pour the drop directly on her head.”
Mereth was a wizard, and had been for all her adult life; she regularly worked with bits of corpses and various repulsive organic fluids. What was more, she had worked for the Minister of Justice and his daughter, the Minister of Investigation, studying and spying on all the various things that the citizens of Ethshar did to one another when sufficiently provoked. All the same, she winced slightly at the thought of pouring that stuff on someone’s head.
“Ick,” she said. Then, after a moment’s thought, she asked, “How?”
“The warlocks,” Tobas told her. “As soon as it’s ready, the warlocks will transport it to the Palace and pour it on Tabaea. Then, as soon as she’s dead, they’ll lift her corpse, so the stuff won’t get on anything else, and send Tabaea and the Seething Death through the tapestry. It’s all ready to go, rolled up by the front door.”
“Couldn’t they just send her through the tapestry alive? Then we wouldn’t have to use the Seething Death at all!”
Tobas sighed again. “Maybe they could,” he said, “but they don’t think so; she’s a warlock herself, while she’s alive, and she can block them. I don’t understand that part, I’m not a warlock any more than you are, but that’s what they say.”
The Spell of the Black Dagger Page 28
