Dark Magic

by Angus Wells

  Straightsword and saber slid into scabbards and for long moments Calandryll and Katya said nothing. It was she who at last spoke, her voice muted, empty of hope.

  “He is gone and our quest comes to naught,”

  “NO!” Calandryll came close before her, taking her arms, his grip harsh as the single word. He felt none of the despair that had earlier afflicted him, only a great rage now, as if Rhythamun’s mockery had burned away all pessimism, leaving behind only determination. “Did you not say the taking of another’s shape is arduous, a thing needing time?”

  Katya nodded dumbly, her grey eyes clouded with resignation.

  “And where should he do that, save here? Where he might work his filthy magic at his leisure.”

  Confusion took the place of resignation and she shrugged helplessly. “Likely that was so, but what good to us?”

  Calandryll realized his fingers dug into the fine mail of her tunic: he loosed his hold, his face still close to hers, his voice fierce.

  “Then it may well be the folk here saw his victim!” Now hope flickered in the grey orbs. She nodded. “So we must question them. Carefully! Come—we’ll go to Symeon.”

  It seemed at first that she was rooted by confusion and he took her arm again, dragging her to the door, throwing up the latch, and slamming the wood panel back with such force it thudded against the outer wall. In the corridor beyond she regained some of her customary vigor and he let go her arm as she matched him stride for stride, close to running in their urgency, hurrying to where the little majordomo still sat.

  Symeon’s shortsighted eyes blinked as they burst in, an expression of mingled irritation at so dramatic an entry and greed at the prospect of reward upon his round face.

  “Did you find such volumes as interest you?” he asked, setting down his quill.

  Calandryll resisted the impulse to seize the man, to shake answers from him. He did not doubt their story, were he to blurt it out, would find little credence with the scribe. Symeon would most likely dismiss them as mad, perhaps call servants or even the watch to eject them, answerless. Tact was called for here, hard though it was to rein in his temper, he forced a smile and said, “So many I must think on the matter, decide which interest me the most.”

  “There will be many coming to examine so fine a library,” Symeon warned, “I suggest you decide ere long.”

  “Indeed I shall, and likely return on the morrow.” Calandryll assumed a mask of remorse. “Tell me, when did Lord Varent die?”

  “Three weeks past,” came the now somewhat sullen answer, as if the death were relegated to the distant past, replaced now with the more important matter of disposing of the household.

  “How?”

  The single word was sharp and Symeon frowned, favoring him with a curious look as he replied, “None could say. He was hale enough, it seemed. We found his body in the library . . .”

  “The library?”

  “He’d spent the night there.” Symeon nodded. “Such had become his habit of late—to spend hours poring over his books to the exclusion of all else.”

  Calandryll’s gaze remained steady on the portly man’s ink-flushed face as he felt excitement swell, struggling to conceal his urgency, aware that the future of his world might rest upon the acuity of his questions.

  “Was he alone?”

  Symeon’s irritation grew, his eyes narrowing in puzzlement. Calandryll essayed a smile he trusted was reassuring, resisting the temptation to take out his sword, prick faster answers from the man.

  “No, he’d business with some trader in horseflesh,” Symeon said slowly, adding new stains to his sash as he absently wiped his fingers. “‘Twas him alerted the household. A dealer with the Kerns, I believe, out of Gannshold. Darth spent more time with him than I.”

  Calandryll nodded, deciding that more was to be learned from Darth than from the reticent major-domo. “A sad loss,” he murmured.

  “One that leaves me with much to do,” said Symeon, with obvious impatience.

  Calandryll took the cue to leave. He ducked his head, saying, “Then I’d find my bodyguard and be gone. My thanks for your help.”

  Symeon waved an inky hand, not looking up as they quit the chamber and went in search of Bracht.

  The freesword was settled in a chamber off the kitchen that gave access to the rear courtyard and the stables. A low arch separated the room from the larger area, where others of the bereaved household sat, and as Calandryll strode toward the sound of the Kern’s voice he noticed Rytha among them. The girl favored Katya with a speculative stare that went unnoticed by the Vanu woman. Beyond the arch Bracht sat facing Darth over a wine-ringed table, a flagon of red wine half drunk between them, the better part of it, so Calandryll judged, gone down Darth’s throat.

  The retainer greeted them with drunken cheerfulness, rising unsteadily to fetch more cups and a fresh flagon from the outer room. Once his back was turned, Bracht’s eyes framed an unspoken question.

  “Rhythamun spent time with a horse trader out of Gannshold,” Calandryll murmured as the sound of breaking glass was echoed by a woman’s complaint, that with Darth’s careless dismissal. “This man was with him when ‘Varent’ died. Have you learned aught else?”

  “No more than that as yet.” Bracht lowered his voice, glancing warily at Katya. “Rytha was here—it took a while to shake her off.”

  Katya eyed him in a way that suggested he would have other questions to answer at some more appropriate time and he grinned nervously, clearly relieved when Darth came back and set the cups and flagon down. He filled them, beaming hugely at Katya.

  Calandryll drank and said idly, “Lord Varent was dealing with a trader out of Gannshold, so Symeon told me.”

  “Aye,” Darth agreed with owlish gravity. “He was thinking of buying fresh stock and this fellow claimed to have the best. He made an offer for that stallion of yours.”

  This came with a nod in Bracht’s direction and the Kern took up the interrogation. “How was he named?” he asked. “Mayhap I know him.”

  “Daven Tyras, as I recall,” Darth said. “He spoke with an accent like yours.”

  Calandryll felt his pulse quicken. He thought Darth must surely hear the furious beat of his heart, perceive the urgency in his eyes. He forced his racing mind to some measure of calm, knowing that he must think clearly—if Rhythamun had quit Varent’s body while in company with another, then surely that man must be the new receptacle for the wizard’s malign intelligence, and he must learn all he could of the stranger. From the corner of his eye he saw Bracht frown, and heard the frees word murmur, “Daven Tyras,” as if struggling to identify the name.

  “A fellow about your size,” Darth offered, “though sandy-haired.”

  “An ugly man?” Bracht invented. “With a drunkard’s nose?”

  “No, a comely enough fellow.” Darth shook his head and winked lewdly. “Rytha took a fancy to him.”

  Bracht made a noncommittal noise and asked, “Were his eyes blue and small?”

  “Brown and large,” said Darth. “And his nose was sound enough, save it had been broken and spread across his face.”

  “Not the one I’d thought of, then,” said Bracht; and to Calandryll’s relief added: “Though I’d lief meet with him—he may have news of Cuan na’For.”

  “Too late for that,” said Darth, filling his cup, “for he was gone the next day. Back to Gannshold, he said.”

  Calandryll heard the Kern bite back a curse. “It seems we return too late,” he murmured with feigned distress. “Poor Varent.”

  “Aye,” Darth agreed, “and poor us—he left no kin behind and the house is to be sold off. I’ve fresh employment to find.”

  “We all suffer loss, it seems,” Calandryll declared sententiously. “Were I able, I’d offer you a position.”

  Darth shrugged, helping himself to yet more wine, succeeding in spilling a generous measure over the table. He grinned foolishly, then frowned and slapped the heel of his han
d to his forehead in mock admonishment. “I’d near forgot you hail from Secca,” he declared. “You’ve family there?”

  Calandryll nodded. That Secca was his home was common enough knowledge to those such as Darth who had formed Varent’s retinue when, in that guise, Rhythamun had visited the city, but none knew he was second son to Secca’s Domm.

  “You’ve not heard the news?” asked the man.

  Calandryll shook his head. His impulse was to leave, believing they had gleaned all they might from Darth, but something in the retainer’s tone stayed him.

  “The Domm . . . Bylath, was that his name? . . . he’s dead. His son Tobias holds the title now,”

  Calandryll felt his hand clutch tight about his cup. Carefully, he set it down, not sure what impact this information had on him, not sure of his own emotions. His father was dead—did he experience grief? It seemed an age ago that Bylath’s unthinking blow had determined him to flee, to pursue the high adventure, the great quest, Rhythamun trailed before him, bait to the innocent youth the wizard sought to dupe. In all the time since then he had thought little of his father, save that what he did disproved Bylath’s contempt for his weakling, bookish son; thinking vaguely that if he survived the quest he should return in triumph to confront his father with his achievement. But now Bylath was dead and he felt . . .

  He could not name it. Grief, perhaps; or perhaps anger, as if somehow Bylath thwarted him, denied him even now the satisfaction he had craved while still his father lived and scorned him. There was a sense of loss, but of what nature he could not define and he pushed it ruthlessly aside: if there was grief, he would mourn later; for now it was more important he determine how this changed situation might affect him. Bylath was dead and Tobias raised up—his brother, who had made compact with the Chaipaku to slay him, was Domm. On command of Burash the Brotherhood of Assassins no longer threatened him, but with all of Secca’s resources at his command what stratagems might Tobias now employ?

  And Darth—indeed, none in Aldarin—knew he was the late Domm’s outlawed son. Through the chaotic emotions he felt came a single certainty: that his parentage was best kept secret.

  “How did he die?” he asked in a voice he trusted was sufficiently indifferent no suspicion should be aroused. “When last I was . . .” he almost said, “in the palace,” but caught himself, “. . . was in Secca he seemed hearty enough.”

  “A wasting sickness, so it’s said,” Darth expounded, “but there’re rumors. I saw him, you know—when I was there with Lord Varent—and as you say, he looked in rude health.” He tapped his nose in conspiratorial gesture, warming to his theme. “It’s said Tobias couldn’t wait to claim the throne and helped his father along. There’s talk of poison. Not openly, mind you, but it’s what folk say and it wouldn’t be the first time some ambitious son decided he couldn’t wait, eh?”

  He chuckled, shaking his head in contemplation of the devious ways of the aristocracy. Calandryll brought his cup to his lips, drinking deep, less in need of the wine than the pause it gave him to think. This news could not—must not!—affect his pursuit of Rhythamun, but if Darth’s gossip was true perhaps it was further indication that the Mad God stirred in sleep and, dreaming of release, even now cast his malign influence over the world. Civil war gripped Kandahar; Bylath was likely poisoned. Could Tharn somehow sense that Rhythamun moved toward his raising? More immediately, how might Tobias’s ascencion affect the quest?

  His expression must have reflected his interest, for Darth continued: “It’s caused a stir, I’ll tell you. Aldarin and Secca made pact to found a navy—that was why Lord Varent went there—to fight the corsairs. Now Tobias is talking about using it to attack Kandahar. You know there’s war there? Well, it seems like Tobias wants to form alliance with the other cities and attack the Kands while they’re fighting among themselves.” He broke off to empty his cup, chuckling again as he refilled the mug. “Mayhap I’ll find employment there, eh?”

  “Aldarin agrees with this?” asked Calandryll, pale-faced. Surely such a design must mean Tharn stirred! “The other cities?”

  “Not yet.” Darth wiped his mouth, shrugging. “Our Domm wavers. Tobias came avisiting a while back, though, and spent a good deal of time with Lord Varent. From what I overheard, Lord Varent favored the notion, but now he’s dead”—this with exaggerated grief and a cup raised in mournful toast—“well, Daric relied on Lord Varent for sound advice. Tobias went on, him and his new bride, to Wessyl. A ceremonial progress they called it, to assure the cities of Secea’s good intent, but those of us close to such matters know he’s looking to persuade all Lysse to war.”

  That Tobias had claimed Nadama for his wife was no surprise to Calandryll; that he felt no pain was a pleasing shock. It seemed as if another had loved Nadama, some earlier incarnation now passed beyond that youthful passion. He murmured an inarticulate response and said, “I’d heard talk of a younger brother . . . some family dispute?”

  “Aye,” said Darth, and laughed loud, stabbing a finger in Calandryll’s direction. “Dera, but I’d forgotten! You share his name, no? Calandryll?”

  Calandryll smiled and nodded.

  Darth said, “That’s right. He fled the city round when we left it, I recall. Just why I don’t know, but Tobias had him posted outlaw with a reward of ten thousand varre on his head. Some say ’twas him poisoned Bylath, but that doesn’t make much sense to me. If he was plotting against his father, why’d he not poison his brother, too? And why run away if he was after the throne?”

  “Why indeed?” murmured Calandryll blandly.

  “Still,” said Darth, “ten thousand varre’s a handsome reward, eh? I’d not mind getting my hands on him for so much.”

  “Nor I.” Bracht rejoined the conversation, his dark face a mask as he looked to the topic of the discussion. “But where might he be?”

  “Who knows?” Darth returned. “Hiding somewhere, I’d guess. Unless he’s dead—I heard a rumor Tobias set the Chaipaku on his tail.”

  “The Brotherhood of Assassins?” Bracht nodded solemnly. “Likely dead, then.”

  “With them after him, aye,” Darth agreed, squinting as he turned his glazed eyes in Calandryll’s direction, their focus hard to find. “I’ll tell you something funny, though—Tobias had his likeness posted and there’s some resemblance to you. You’d best be careful, eh?”

  “I shall,” Calandryll promised, forcing humorless laughter.

  “Of course,” Darth went on, “it’s not much of a similarity. Calandryll den Karynth looks a fop. As if he never set foot outside the palace; not like you, my friend.”

  “Even so, I’ll heed your warning,” Calandryll averred sincerely. “And look to avoid Tobias.”

  “In that case you’d best not visit Wessyl.” Darth giggled. “Or Eryn or Gannshold, for he was northward bound. And come to think of it, his progress was to take him along the Gann Peaks to Forshold before returning south by way of Hyme. In fact, you’d best stay clear of all the cities, for it was his intent to visit every one!”

  This struck him as mightily amusing and he began to rock unsteadily in his chair, spluttering wine as he laughed. Calandryll stretched his own lips in approximation of a smile, catching Bracht’s eye and motioning toward the outer door. The Kern nodded, glancing at Katya, who stared in barely concealed disgust at the drunken Darth. She in turn took the hint, leaning back to vent a huge yawn.

  “Best we depart,” the frees word suggested.

  “The night’s young yet,” Darth slurred, “and there’s wine aplenty to be drunk.”

  “Even so.” Bracht smiled, looking again to Katya.

  Darth’s unfocused eyes followed his gaze and he raised a knowing finger: “The night’s young and you’d not waste it, eh? Were I in your boots I’d feel the same. Rytha’ll be upset, though.”

  “I’ll take my horse,” Bracht said quickly, his smile faltering as Katya’s eyes flashed a stormy warning of explanations to come. “My gear is in the tack room?”


  “It is. I’ll show you.”

  Darth attempted to rise. Unsuccessfully: halfway to his feet he toppled backward, sending his chair tumbling as he sprawled full length on the floor.

  “Mayhap you’d best remain,” Bracht murmured.

  “Mayhap,” agreed Darth cheerfully, and promptly closed his eyes, commencing a stentorian snoring.

  “Darth needs help to his bed,” Calandryll called into the outer room, answered by a chorus of dismissive laughter.

  A fat woman replied, “Let him lie, the drunken sot,” and Calandryll shrugged, following Bracht and Katya out into the courtyard.

  The moon stood high by now, close to midnight, and they hurried to the stables. The stalls were built along the outer wall, half gated, with the upper sections folded back. Calandryll thought they must check each one, but Bracht paused, emitting a low, keening cry that was answered with an eager snicker as a glossy black head emerged, loosing a loud whinny as the stallion recognized his master.

  “So, you remember me still.” The Kern fondled the great head, gently as if he caressed a woman. “Come then.”

  He swung the lower half of the gate open and the stallion pranced out, nudging the freesword with such rough affection that Bracht was sent staggering backward. He flung his arms around the neck, rubbing the stallion’s cheek with his own as he crooned softly in the language of Cuan na’For.

  “Tekkan awaits,” Katya warned, “and while I’d not spoil a second reunion . . .”

  “Aye.” Bracht took a handful of nigrescent mane and led the horse to where the household stored its harness. A solitary lantern hung by the door and Calandryll snatched it from its hook, holding it aloft as they entered. Bracht found his tackle and swiftly saddled the horse, leading it back to the gates. A few pale faces watched them from the kitchen, but no keeper waited at the egress and only a simple bolt secured the panels: in moments they stood in the avenue.

  Farther along the broad roadway a carriage deposited folk outside a mansion where lights blazed and Calandryll hailed the driver, instructing him to bring them with all haste to the Seagull tavern. Bracht declined to take the coach, preferring to reacquaint himself with his mount, and so Calandryll found himself riding alone with Katya.