At the Sign of the Crow and Moon: A Sorcery Ascendant Prequel Novella

by Mitchell Hogan

  “Squall and Whisper found him among a refuse pile in one of the canals. The other children he consorted with made themselves scarce, but Squall and Whisper managed to corner one and pry some information out of her.”

  “But Hedgehog… What did they do to him?”

  Avigdor wouldn’t meet her eye. “It wasn’t pretty. They must have caught him spying on them and wanted to teach the children a lesson. He was badly bruised and cut up.”

  Felice’s stomach twisted, and her heart ached in her chest. She’d killed Hedgehog. Her warning to him hadn’t been firm enough, and she’d sealed his fate. Of course Slake would eliminate anyone who crossed him.

  “I should have told him to lie low. As soon as I realized this plot was bigger than we thought. I should have.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “It bloody well is! As for Squall and Whisper, don’t tell them anything else, Avigdor. Do you hear me? They’re in Constance’s employ. Always have been. It was remiss of me not to see it earlier.”

  Avigdor moved closer to Felice. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Do you want—”

  “Leave me!” she shouted. She pushed his hand away and abruptly stood. She rummaged through her desk and, not finding what she wanted, moved to the side cupboards. There was a bottle of raw spirit around here somewhere, and a strong drink was what she needed.

  Whoever this Slake was, he planned something big. Big enough he hadn’t balked at casual murder.

  “Felice—”

  “I said leave me!”

  Bloody ancestors. Her once stable life had been turned upside down. She was effectively working for Constance, First Adjudicator to the Emperor. And now an innocent boy was dead.

  She should never have risked Hedgehog, or any of the street children, after what had happened to Flo. She’d made a mistake, and someone else had paid for it with their life.

  ~ ~ ~

  Felice groaned. She pried one eye open and immediately squeezed it shut again.

  She was on the floor of her office. The spirit bottle lay beside her, two-thirds full. She didn’t usually drink much. It addled her thoughts, and that was unacceptable, so it hadn’t taken more than a few mouthfuls to do its work.

  At least she’d slept. Somewhat.

  Bloody hells, her head ached abominably.

  A glance at the window told her it was dawn. She was in no danger of missing her morning Dominion match today. Avigdor would have come to check on her, in any event. But she didn’t want to see him.

  Felice mixed a herbal remedy and downed the grainy mixture in a few swallows. She performed her morning ablutions in the back room, applied the healing ointment to her thinly scabbed spots, and tugged her gloves on. Changing into a spare set of clothes, she braved the streets.

  From one of the many vendors who congregated on the street corners, Felice bought a warm, sweet bread roll filled with egg. It was salty and good. Closer to the tournament hall, she stopped for a hot tea served by an old woman whose hands were almost crippled with arthritis. She sat next to the woman, exchanging small talk and sipping from her steaming mug. Felice let her mind wander in the silences. The woman served other customers, many of whom drank their tea as fast as possible, risking a scalded tongue, before hurrying off to their workplaces.

  Felice drained her mug, thanked the woman as she returned it, and set off.

  She barely noticed the thickening crowds on her walk. Hedgehog was dead. The boy had had a hard life, but a life it was. Now she’d taken that from him. It ate at her, gnawed at her conscience. The Dominion tournament no longer seemed as important to her as it once had. She’d done everything Constance had asked so far. That was good enough, wasn’t it?

  When she arrived at the tournament hall, she hesitated out front. What was she doing? Was all this worth it? She’d thought of nothing but making ducats and ensuring her investments flourished. But the casualties brought it all into perspective.

  Larard’s gang. Flo’s wounding. Sparrow’s callous death. The warehouse acid attack. The planned attack at the tournament.

  She’d been wasting her life. Constance was…not a nice person. That, Felice could discern. But at least she seemed to stand for something greater than herself, and all her considerable energy and influence was directed toward it. All I care about is money and my own objectives. What does that make me? Who am I to judge her?

  Felice realized that Hedgehog was right: no one was safe while dangerous people had free run of the city, and she alone wasn’t enough to fight the injustice of it. She needed influence, power, resources.

  She needed to be like Constance.

  ~ ~ ~

  Felice romped through her semifinal match the next morning. Her opponent was a thin, pale woman with stringy brown hair, which always fell across her face. She seemed overawed to have reached the finals and made a number of hesitant moves that jeopardized her positions. They weren’t bad moves, decided Felice. Just too…wishy-washy. It hadn’t helped that, in the middle of the game, the Emperor and his retinue arrived. The pomp and trumpets and drums had distracted the woman, as had her closeness to the immortal sorcerer who ruled the Empire.

  It was a fatal distraction. At this level there could be no dithering, no uncertainty. To hesitate was a sure way to lose. Hedgehog’s death still weighed on Felice, but it also gave her resolve and a clarity of thought she’d never experienced before.

  And now Felice was in the final. She didn’t even have a chance for the fact to sink in, as no sooner had the woman conceded defeat than Avigdor rushed up to her, his face shiny with sweat.

  “Felice! I mean Morgaine. I need to tell you what I’ve found. The reagent from the warehouse is a powdered form of an alchemical that, when combined with acid, releases toxic fumes. The alchemist Columele said the fumes are deadly.”

  “So now we’re looking for acid and the powder? Somehow they’re going to mix the two in here under the noses of Constance’s people and with all these spectators, or Constance’s people are involved… How would they conceal and move gallons of acid without anyone knowing? And then somehow combine it with the powder close to the Emperor? It defies belief. And yet, I think that’s their design. And if Constance was in on the assassination, then it would be much easier to pull off. Find Squall and Whisper. Go now! I have to get to the dais for the last match, and perhaps there’s something I can do to stop this madness.”

  Avigdor rushed away just as Felice was bundled up by half a dozen attendants and escorted to a comfortable chair in an enclosed section beside the dais. It seemed that now the Emperor was here, they wanted the grand final to commence as soon as possible. It was, after all, what most of the nobles and merchants had come today to see. The hall was packed, with barely room to move, and the mezzanine gallery was standing room only.

  Felice sat down to wait under the attendants’ watchful eyes. An hour went by as she watched spectators moving around the hall, placing wagers and observing matches, chatting and eating and drinking. She kept a watch for anyone suspicious, but everyone seemed to catch her attention. The smallest move anyone made had her nervous and jumping out of her skin.

  There was no sign of Constance, or Squall and Whisper. She still wasn’t sure if Constance was guilty or innocent, and at this stage she couldn’t take any chances. If anyone was going to succeed in toppling the Emperor, it would probably be someone in Constance’s position after all.

  A dark-haired attendant approached and cleared her throat. “Miss Morgaine? The other semifinal has been completed. You’ll be playing Sir Stryden in the final. He has been allocated a brief rest period.”

  Felice nodded, and the attendant left her to her thoughts. How could she defeat Stryden? And while she was in the middle of a grueling game of Dominion, she was expected to watch for the assassination attempt and unmask Slake. Stratagems and plans ran through her mind, all examined and discarded.

  Half an hour later, one of the attendants nodded, having received a signal from someone on the
dais. He turned to Felice.

  “It’s time. I hope you’re ready. If you happen to be defeated, you are required to leave the dais immediately. The Emperor’s security demands it.”

  Felice swallowed and nodded. She barely had time to straighten her clothes and check her hair before stepping onto the dais and arriving at the board.

  Nobles and merchants and anyone of note were already on the dais. At the far end, surrounded by ranks of attentive warlocks and guards, the Emperor was seated on an elaborate raised chair. Pale-skinned and platinum haired, he appeared almost ghostlike. His unique violet eyes burned with intelligence and power.

  Stryden waved to Felice as she approached. Far above them, the impressive chandelier cast multicolored illumination over the proceedings. Sorcerous globes of various warm colors hung suspended amid decorative crystals as large as her head.

  A roar went up from the crowd as an attendant signaled the game to start. He said something, but his words were lost in the din. Felice decided it was something like, “For the glory of the Emperor, may he live forever! Let the grand final begin!”

  Felice looked around for Avigdor, for Squall and Whisper, but all she could see were strangers cheering and clapping, shouting and stamping their feet. She saw Malko in the crowd, next to a nobleman who looked to have a permanent sneer. Both Malko and the nobleman were engaged in a heated argument, ignoring the announcement of the attendant. Which was unlike Malko… He looked up and caught her eye. He grimaced at Felice, and she had the belated thought that Malko could be Slake. After all, his preoccupation with wagering on Dominion matches had him roaming around the hall at all times. A perfect cover.

  She shook her head, took a deep breath, and wrote down her opening moves.

  An hour later, she sat dejectedly in a chair, head held in her hands.

  Bloody ancestors and pignuts. I’m going to lose.

  Stryden had her strategy in disarray. No sooner had she plugged a hole or fixed a section of the board than two more came under attack. He seemed to know exactly what she’d do before she moved her pieces. In desperation, she’d used a few of her extra moves, but to no avail.

  Was this how it felt to be on the receiving end of her victories? The dread, the sick feeling of knowing nothing you did would stop defeat? Oh, she’d lost matches before, but not when the stakes were so high. Ducats were one thing to lose, easily replaced. To get on the bad side of a First Adjudicator, and possibly fail at detecting the threat to the Emperor’s life, was another. If she didn’t win, she wouldn’t be presented to the Emperor and would have failed. Constance could make sure she never had another client as long as she lived, if she wasn’t thrown into prison and tortured.

  What really worried her was the potential for injury and death. Not just with the crowd at the tournament, but if the Emperor was killed and destructive forces moved to topple the Empire, then thousands of people would die.

  The thought sickened her.

  As she played, Felice tried to keep an eye on the suspicious servers and the bearded supervisor. But she still didn’t know who this mysterious mastermind was, or who were Constance’s plants among the crowd and officials. By the ancestors, it could just as well be one of the spectators. She was searching for a needle in a haystack. Once, she saw Squall and Whisper walk by the dais, though they were focused on something else and failed to notice her.

  It took Felice some time to figure out what Stryden was doing. But when she did, the sheer breadth of his strategy stunned her. Her own game seemed inadequate, her knowledge wanting. Her mouth went dry, and her hands trembled. In truth, she felt like resigning and offering herself to Stryden to be mentored.

  Constance had told her she must win this match.

  And Felice knew she could not.

  There was an underlying current to Stryden’s game. Where Felice would have surrounded and converted her opponent’s pieces, Stryden simply overran and slaughtered them. He reveled in destruction. The heartlessness of the fight seemed to give him pleasure.

  She moved some pieces: automatic alterations designed to give her time to think.

  She was lost. She knew it. Stryden knew it. The attendants and spectators knew it.

  But rather than resign herself to the fact, Felice pulled out every trick she knew and some she improvised on the fly. The Crow and Moon piece ranged swiftly across all three boards, forcing Stryden to counter its progress and block potential paths. Her Wayfarer piece prodded and jabbed at Stryden’s defenses and almost forced him into a rash move. Felice fought with all her might, vowing not to lose, wanting Stryden to make that one mistake that would unravel his strategy and cause his undoing.

  Felice needed to be the one presented to the Emperor, close enough to spot the danger when it came. Stryden wouldn’t know he was in danger; he’d be a lamb to the slaughter if he were to triumph.

  I need to win, she almost whispered to him. It’s more important than you could know. You’ll be rewarded for your service to the Empire. But even though she felt the fate of the Emperor and the spectators might depend on her winning, Felice’s sense of decency and fair play held her back.

  Some of her moves elicited a frown from Stryden, and once he sighed, as if he’d expected better.

  Sorry to disappoint you.

  Stryden must have decided to finish her off, as he signaled to the attendant his intention to use three extra moves. He moved his pieces on the board quickly, then stepped back, hands clasped behind his back.

  Felice blinked. She shook her head, blinked again, and squinted at the Dominion board. No, her eyes were not deceiving her. Stryden had made a serious mistake. She’d forced him into an error, or perhaps it was his own overconfidence that had undone him.

  His mouth opened, as if he’d also just realized what he’d done. He grimaced and met her eyes. A bead of sweat trickled from his hairline.

  Felice considered her options, then used two of her remaining three extra moves. Summoning all the zeal and hope she could muster, she drove wedges between Stryden’s forces, cutting groups of them off from each other.

  Now she could see a path to victory. A slim one, but there nonetheless.

  The match continued apace, both Felice and Stryden vying to tilt the balance in their favor. Perhaps the stress was getting to Stryden, as he made another tiny mistake. Then another. Felice pounced on both, consolidating her positions and weakening his.

  But another thought niggled at her. Had Stryden thrown the match? Why would he? Fame and connections and a goodly sum of ducats had been his for the taking. It seemed an unlikely scenario, and yet… Had he been instructed to let her win? Was he in cahoots with Constance? After all, he had mentioned he was a diplomat in the Emperor’s service when they’d first met… Perhaps Stryden was an ally.

  Felice grunted. If she was being honest, she didn’t care why he’d misstepped. All that mattered was that she’d won, as Constance had wanted. Now, Felice would be presented to the Emperor, when she assumed the assassination attempt would occur.

  She allowed herself a relieved breath and rubbed her weary eyes. She looked at Stryden, hoping to convey her sympathy at his impending loss—and found him red-faced and glaring at her. His hands clenched into fists, and his neck was corded.

  Stryden hadn’t thrown the game. He was livid he’d lost.

  Felice narrowed her eyes. What if Stryden wasn’t on their side? What if…he was Slake? He wouldn’t be presented to the Emperor now.

  A shiver ran through her body.

  Stryden was Slake. She knew it in her bones. The realization sent chills along her spine.

  Felice examined the crowd and spotted furtive looks between people, the glint of steel. Slake’s people. If she made one false move, said anything to reveal she was onto him, she’d be killed in an instant.

  Felice picked up the Crow and Moon piece, to the disapproving looks of the attendants, and held it in her gloved hands. Everything hung in the balance, and what she needed to do was surprise everyone, to pu
sh Stryden off balance. She had to think and required time to gather her thoughts. What she needed was a distraction.

  The attendant cleared his throat again. “Miss Morgaine? Your move, if you please.”

  It was the third time he’d asked. Her thoughts roiled. The specter of Hedgehog hung over Felice.

  She sighed and shrugged. “I resign.”

  Around Felice, the crowd murmured astonishment at her words. As those further behind realized what she’d done, the noise rose to a crescendo of disbelieving shouts and curses. They knew she’d thrown the game on the brink of victory, and they weren’t happy. Something hit Felice in the head, and a nut bounced to her feet. Guards and attendants formed a ring around the board, pushing back against the crowd, who’d become unruly and threatened to swamp her. Somewhere, a fight broke out and fists were thrown.

  Stryden—Slake—grinning like a madman, was hurrying up to Felice while everyone was distracted. He looked pleased and relieved. As well he should be, since his plan had to include being presented to the Emperor.

  “Very well done, Miss Morgaine! I thought I had you for a while, but when I slipped up, you took full advantage. Not many people could have recovered from being so far behind. But then you resigned. Why?”

  She needed to keep him off guard, at least for a little while. “You threw the game,” Felice said bluntly.

  “What? No, I can assure you I didn’t. The pressure got to me.” As if to emphasize his point, he drew out a brightly colored red kerchief and mopped his face.

  A signal. Felice looked around, but couldn’t see anything untoward.

  “I’m not used to these big occasions,” continued Stryden. “Why, the very thought of being presented to the Emperor has my heart palpitating.”

  He wasn’t here alone; he’d have backup. If she shouted or tried to alert the guards, he’d retaliate, and people could be harmed.

  Felice affected an air of nonchalance. Not hard, since she was bone weary. Her wounds ached after she’d been playing all day. And the weight of her revelation was enough to bend her knees. She needed to get out of here to find Constance and tell her, or somehow get her word. Stryden—or Slake—would have people following her. She couldn’t give the game away, if she was to have a chance of catching him.