Sorcerer's Code

by Christopher Kellen

  III

  Where else does one go when confronted with a mystery? We returned to the scene of the crime. Or, at least, the scene where I'd discovered the Arbiter's body – the dingy alley filled with the smell of filthy clothing, human sweat and offal.

  Gaerton's body was not where I'd found it, of course, having been moved by the city guardsmen some hours earlier. It didn't take us long to find it, though. It hadn't gone far. Instead of lying in the middle of the street, it was now wedged in the narrow opening between two closely-built structures, along with a pile of refuse dating back weeks, and any number of odds and ends that had simply been disposed of. The reek was powerful, and I was forced to cover my nose with the neckline of my robe to filter out some of the stench. I was only marginally successful in my attempts to ease my breathing.

  The Arbiter, Tal, seemed unfazed by the smell. He simply stared at the broken and discarded body of the man who'd been his friend, and there was a kind of melancholy around him. It didn't show on his face, or in his body language – both of those were stoic, impenetrable – but seemed almost to shimmer in the air surrounding him.

  At last, he looked up, and gazed at me. "Was he wearing his sword when you found him?"

  I shook my head. "The scabbard was empty."

  "I see."

  "Does that mean something?"

  "Possibly."

  There was a long pause, and both of us were silent.

  At length, he spoke again. "Something is strange. It is… rare for any member of my Order to leave behind a corpse."

  "That certainly explains why I've never seen a book regarding an Arbiter's autopsy," I said, the words tumbling blithely from my lips before I'd even realized they were there. He turned a stony gaze on me, and I went on hastily, "but what are the circumstances in which they do?"

  Tal frowned, lines furrowing deep in his brow and around his eyes. At first glance, he looked to be about thirty years old, but in that moment, I got a sense of much greater age behind those glittering eyes. "I cannot think of any."

  "You can heal yourselves, correct?" I asked. "That's why it's so rare for a corpse to be left behind. Enough damage would have to be done to overwhelm your ability to self-heal."

  He nodded, a bit reluctantly, as though I were dragging diamonds from between his teeth.

  I tapped my stubbled chin with two fingers as I considered. "Then something must have robbed him of his power before killing him. It's the only plausible explanation."

  "Is there a manna font in this city?" he asked abruptly, casting a look at the alleys around us.

  "Several, why?"

  "I will need to consult with one."

  My left eyebrow elevated. "Consult?"

  "It's difficult to explain," he said. "Where is the nearest one?"

  I pointed down another alley which led toward the city center. "That way, I believe, but as far as I know, they're all boarded up. You'll have a hell of a time getting inside the chapel."

  He barely acknowledged me, but leapt into motion, purposeful strides carrying him down the side streets in the direction I'd pointed. It was all I could do to hike up my robes a bit above my ankles and hurry after him, trying desperately not to trip and fall on my face. I'm certain I looked quite the fool, scurrying down the filthy alleys, clutching my robes in my fingers like a noblewoman hurrying down a steep flight of stairs, but I couldn't afford to lose sight of him now.

  There were few things in this world which could simply drain the life out of a normal person, much less suck an Arbiter dry. It would have to be something phenomenally bad. There were a few theories which sprang immediately to mind, but I was huffing so hard from the exertion that I couldn't actually raise my voice enough for Tal to hear me. Lab work isn't exactly the most aerobic vocation.

  He drew to a halt outside a small, white stone building which looked entirely out of place among the angular, thatched-roof houses of the neighborhood we were in. This was one of the more populated sub-streets, and I could feel the eyes of the passersby on us as they slowed to gawk at the strange man in drab clothing and the silly sorcerer waddling along behind, trying not to trip over the hem of his robes. The peasants loved to gawk more than anything, except perhaps gossip. It was the little things that lightened up their dreary, desperate and ultimately fruitless lives. I was certain to be the talk of the town before nightfall, which would probably do good things for my business, if not my reputation.

  The font chapel was indeed boarded up, and the Arbiter stared at the wooden planks nailed two deep across the entrance as though it were a venomous snake.

  "You don't need to get inside, do you?" I asked hesitantly.

  He glowered at the barrier. "No. I can see from here."

  Inwardly, I sighed with relief. If he'd gone barreling through those wooden planks we'd have had much bigger problems, when the gathering crowd, exposed to the light of the manna, would have gone stark raving mad at best. Instead he just continued to stare at it, gazing through it, at what I couldn't be exactly sure. None but the Arbiters had ever truly laid eyes on a manna font, and those mortals who dared did not often have a story to tell afterward.

  Something was nagging at me, and I paused a moment to consider, while the Arbiter was staring through the slats. The dead Arbiter, Daen, had been missing his sword. Who in their right mind would steal a crystal sword – something only carried by some of the deadliest men in the world – off a body? Where would it have ended up?

  I didn't know the answer to the first, but the second question only had one answer.

  Finally, he turned to me. "Whoever did this must be a visitor to this town. There is no trace of them in the flow."

  "Then I suppose we'll have to do things the old-fashioned way," I said, allowing a grin to creep over my face. "Come with me. There's someone we should talk to."