“I talk to people every day, missy,” Biddleby replied, his abrasiveness only marginally subdued by her darkening tone. “Fraal is a busy place.”
Ennalen’s eyes darted right as Rass slipped back into the apartment and eased the door shut behind him. The corner of her mouth tugged upward.
Seeing Biddleby bustle into the Ministry building no doubt piqued Rass’s interest as well and made him turn around. She also had no doubt that, upon his return, Rass had dismissed the acolyte outside her door. Pragmatism aside, along with the satisfaction of watching Biddleby’s pretense fall away as he also noticed Rass, Ennalen had to concede the comfort of having him in the room.
She stood once more and clasped her hands in front of her, putting Rass at her back as she faced Biddleby. “I want to know the name of every person to whom you’ve mentioned the disappearance of your apprentice.”
“Bah,” Biddleby said with an irritated toss of his hand. “I haven’t told anyone why I’m here. This is just wasting more time.”
“What you’re telling me is that while expending great amounts of effort trying to meet with me out of concern for your missing apprentice, it never occurred to you to seek the help of another Magistrate instead of waiting for me to become available? Did you even contact the assigned advisor?”
Biddleby shrugged. “I’m old, girlie, in case you hadn’t noticed. Sometimes I don’t think straight when something gets my dander up.”
“But straight enough to say with confidence you haven’t spoken about your apprentice to another soul since your arrival. Which I find odd since surely you must realize, given your many years, just how unprecedented your situation is. And speaking of odd, I cannot help wondering, Brother, why you would be so intent on meeting with me specifically, as it seems you were.”
“I don’t see the point of this. Are you going to help me find my boy or not?”
Ennalen studied the old man, then asked what her honed instincts as an investigator bade. “How old is your apprentice, Brother Biddleby?”
Biddleby slapped his legs with his palms. “What has that got to do with anything?”
His tone remained gruff, but the elder mage’s expression assured Ennalen she had skimmed too closely to something Biddleby preferred remain obscured. His reaction drove Ennalen forward, and made the thing inside her guts roll and gnash.
She opened her mouth, and let the questions spill.
“Is he older than customary? If so, why did you keep him so long? Where did you find him, Brother Biddleby? What were his parents’ names? How much did you pay to acquire him? Why come all this way instead of simply informing the College and letting us search for him? Is this boy special in some way? If so, in what way?” She balled her fists and pushed her face close to his. “Tell me why you are HERE, old man!”
“From what I recall,” Biddleby stated, his voice calm despite her outburst, “I’m not required to answer any Magistrate’s questions not preceded by a formal charge.”
There it was again. She saw it. Felt it. Something not quite right with what Biddleby was saying. With the way he was saying it. The elusiveness infuriated her, but she had no doubt her observation was on the mark.
Ennalen stepped back. “Then Magistrates are not the only ones to have dulled over time, as you are obviously too stupid to realize the sanctuary of law is no longer yours to claim.”
Biddleby’s face twisted with outrage, and he leapt to his feet. The end table on which his hat rested clattered over from getting caught in the hem of his too-long gown.
“How dare you!” he shouted. “I will not be spoken to like that by anyone, let alone some godsbedamned, impudent young cow who’s barely got teats enough for milking. By gods, when I tell—”
She gave but the slightest of nods, and following an instantaneous blur of movement from Rass a knife sank into Biddleby’s shoulder with enough force to spin the old man around to face the other way.
Biddleby uttered no cry as he looked at the hilt protruding from him, which impressed Ennalen. He suffered only a moment more of shock before beginning a spell to defend himself.
The swell of magical energy in the room brought the writhing thing inside Ennalen to thrash more violently still. She shuddered again, but a second knife from Rass—in the same shoulder, but from the opposite side—fouled the old man’s incantation by making him scream in agony.
Ennalen’s convulsion fell quiet.
Biddleby collapsed to his knees with a grunt. He leaned forward on his good arm, gathered a large breath, and turned his face up toward them both. His mouth began working anew, and again the air thickened with magic.
A third knife caught him squarely in the forehead. However, Rass had spun it so the pommel struck rather than the blade. Biddleby slumped unconscious onto his side. On the floor spread a ruby pool of blood from beneath his shoulder, stark against the milky marble tile.
Ennalen stood over the old man’s crumpled form. A dreadful wound, to be certain. But not fatal. Not yet. She thought his tenacity commendable in persisting with his masquerade even after realizing she’d recognized it as such; she’d practically tasted the deliciously profound fear beneath his contrived indignation. Fear, and something even deeper that taunted her from a great distance—as had the vision in her workshop doorway.
Ennalen was weary of chasing avalanches. But before she again set foot outside her chambers she would know everything the old man named Biddleby had hoped to hide.
Even if it meant for the time being setting aside the entire world.
26
Niel had never sought details about the arrangement between his parents and Biddleby—not who they were, not where they were, nothing.
It was not that he had no curiosity about them whatsoever, but that he simply saw no point; a life without studying magic was something he cared not to contemplate. Lleryth’s claims, however, had pulled the stopper on long-bottled questions. What did he know about himself, and what did he only think he knew? For that matter, how much of Biddleby’s tutelage had been legitimate Canon, and what portion had been based on Galiiantha ways? Given the miniscule chances of his ever attending the College, was he even still an apprentice?
Niel decided the answers probably didn’t matter. As soon as he settled on one perspective, someone was sure to come along and reveal why that was wrong and what had really been going on the whole time.
He made his way to where Arwin and others had taken refuge, and could all but feel poking at his back the arrow tips he knew tracked his progress. He moved at a deliberate pace, ignoring the urge to hurry over to the…
Wineseller’s shop. He could finally see the sign.
An impressive feat, what Lleryth had done to let him understand their language. And so effortless. A comparable spell from Canon would have been elaborate and lengthy. But why could he read the engraved board overhead and not the symbols inside the tree on their way down to the plaza? He would have to remember to ask.
As Niel reached the arched doorway, he paused. Should he knock? Somehow that felt silly. He turned his ear toward the door and leaned his head close.
“Arwin?” he whispered. “It’s me. Niel.”
He heard movement within. Then Arwin’s voice.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes,” Niel replied.
A few more shuffles. “Open the door then, very, very slowly.”
Niel looked down and turned the cold iron ring until he heard the click of the latch and the door jump open a thumbwidth. Wood groaned as he pushed inward.
“Stop,” Arwin said. Niel froze.
“Slide your sword arm in, hand open and palm up.”
He did. What looked like candlelight from within the dark room danced dully on his arm.
“Now show me your other arm the same way.”
As his other hand cleared the edge of the door someone grabbed both wrists and yanked him inside. Cally, a Galiianthan sword in her hand, slammed the door behind him. Jharal, in whose grip he dan
gled, spun him around and set him back on his feet facing Arwin, who leaned with arms crossed against a long table filled with various casks and boxes.
“I didn’t think you’d make it,” he said.
Niel rubbed at his aching shoulder. “That makes two of us.”
“You all right?”
“I’m fine.” He glanced about the room. “Where’s Peck?”
Arwin tilted his head toward the back of the shop. “In there, entertaining our guest.” He held up a wineskin. “Drink?”
Cally huffed with irritation at Arwin. “Niel, where have you been?”
Niel sighed. “That’s going to take time to explain. More than we have right now.”
“I, for one, got nothing else to do,” Jharal rumbled. While considerably more alert than earlier, the big man still looked awful—blood-crusted and pale.
“Listen,” Niel said with a hard swallow, “I know how this is going to sound, but the Galiiantha don’t want to hurt any of us, provided we let whoever you have in here go.”
Arwin pushed himself away from the table. “Apprentice, we were caught stomping about their territory, and in a pretty special place from what I’ve heard. We’ve since taken one of their own hostage. I’m no authority on the Galiiantha, but I doubt they’ve taken kindly to our visit thus far.”
Niel nodded. “Yes, I know. But I’ve been talking to them. Well, to one of them, and he’s assured me that the important thing is for you to come out and prove we’re not the barbarians they think we are.”
“Barbarians!” Jharal scoffed. “Those savages have done something to your mind, boy. Just who are you trying to help here, anyhow?”
Niel’s head pounded again. “They’re not savages, you big… stupid… ass! I don’t know what they want with me, or you. But I do know there are scores of them outside with no qualms about pinning us to the wall if we do anything other than come out peacefully.” He turned to Arwin. “I’m trying to tell you that if you stay here much longer, you’re going to die.”
Arwin stared hard at Niel. “Peck?”
Jharal stepped aside as Peck emerged, pulling along their captive: a bound and thoroughly deadly-looking Riahnn.
Peck smiled when he saw Niel. “Greetings, Lord Elder.”
Niel shook his head, then faced Arwin. “What happened?”
“It was an accident, oddly enough,” Arwin said. “Peck was busy untying us when she came along. She tried raising an alarm, so we dragged her in here to keep her quiet, but not before being spotted. Things being what they are, we had no choice. For what it’s worth, though, we considered using her to get them to bring you to us.”
The explanation brought Niel a modicum of relief. “Well, I guess it worked.”
Arwin shrugged. “I’ve a gift for strategy.”
Niel looked at Riahnn. “They are not going to harm you,” he said.
“It changes nothing, intruder,” came her venomous reply.
“Excuse me, Apprentice.” Arwin said, eyebrow raised in concern. “When, exactly, did you learn their language?”
“Damn,” Niel said, holding up his hands. “I should have mentioned that. Sorry. I’ll explain once we get out of here.”
“Niel,” Cally asked, “do you have any idea what they’re going to do with us once we surrender?”
Jharal groaned.
“No,” he said, “I don’t. All I know is there’s more going on here than us being caught in their territory. A lot more.”
Another brief silence.
“Well,” Arwin said, “at the very least we’re all in it together.” He placed a hand on Niel’s shoulder and gestured to the door. “Lead the way.”
27
Five stories high, crammed to the point of bursting with tomes and scrolls of every size and condition, the Ministry’s reading room was the hub of the building’s architecture; all the chief corridors intersected there. Though tiny in comparison to the College’s Main Library, the dark wood panels and plum-colored leather chairs, saturated by the must of centuries-old parchment, provided a quiet counterpoint to the usual commotion of Ennalen’s day.
Ironically, because the law library was generally empty of Magistrates.
Despite her resolve and Rass’s artistry with bladed implements, Biddleby had told her nothing. Toward the end Ennalen had even come close to using Canon to glean from the old man what she wished to know, no matter that magic was rarely a reliable method of wringing information from someone determined to conceal it. Magic as an interrogational tool almost always resulted in details skewed by subjective imagery, hence why the Ministry had long banned from the courtroom evidence obtained by such means. Ennalen had wanted facts, not more riddles to solve. Besides, she had no guarantee that her cantle’s influence would not have distorted even more greatly anything Biddleby might have revealed.
While disappointing in itself, Biddleby’s reticence meant one of two things: Whatever he had been hiding resided too deeply to be pried, in which case obsessing over her inability to tear it free would be pointless, or the old man had nothing to hide in the first place.
Unlikely, she thought, but not impossible. Nonetheless, the lack of answered questions changed neither where she was nor what lay ahead.
She seated herself at the end of the longest table on the lowest floor. At the corner to her right was the only other chair present. An arm’s length away, within a wood-and-greased-paper lantern, a large candle of sweet-smelling beeswax augmented the waning light from the windows with a soft sphere of gold.
Ennalen closed her eyes. Even as she appreciated the comfort of the library, her cantle tugged her steadily, jealously, away from endearments of the past. She knew the day drew near when she no longer would have the means to resist, or to temper with reason and discipline the feral impulses laying claim to her.
She also knew when that day came, she would not care.
That day, however, was not this day, and so long as she possessed the capacity for careful consideration she would avail herself of it. This place, the reading room, throughout her schooling and after, was where she had done some of her best deduction. Most if not all of her most illustrious victories in the courtroom had their roots here. Amongst the words and wisdom of two millennia of peers and predecessors, Ennalen had found inspiration and guidance—precisely what she sought now, even if for the last time.
She took a deep breath, then presented her case to a surprisingly anxious gallery of one:
Herself.
The progression leading her to this point had been of her own initiation. True. While no person undertaking any endeavor could predict every variable that might happen along—Thaucian’s search for the Apostate being the prime example—Ennalen prided herself on having done as well as she had in her foresight.
That was, of course, never-minding her having landed on entirely different ground than she’d intended while readying for the leap.
Regardless of intention, she was where she was: a place of potentially greater historical significance than any sane person could have rightly envisioned. A place where she felt in her marrow she deservedly belonged; a place to where the evidence had brought her, something against which she could no longer argue given a lifetime spent following clues to their endpoint without prejudice.
Did being where she was change the goal she had maintained all along? No. It did not. If anything her designs could be broadened immeasurably, even if not all at once. Given the likely boundlessness of the resources at her disposal, there was no reason Ennalen could not reshape everything.
The entire world.
Ennalen paused as a thrill of the power that would be hers rushed through her body, tantalizing both the beast and what remained of the scholar within.
She would be the catalyst for a revolution unlike anything civilization had experienced. Revolution meant waging war on everything old. War required a level of strategizing beyond her experience. It required marshals, who in turn required minions.
With the
aid of a trusted few to do her bidding, Ennalen would wipe clean the landscape and usher in a spectacular new age.
Precisely as any good storybook character ought.
Wearing a leer far more monster than Magistrate, Ennalen stood.
And rested her case.
***
Denuis’s face turned up from his papers as Ennalen strode into his study. His eyes only briefly acknowledged her gloves. If it surprised him at all to see her unannounced and uninvited, he gave no indication. He set his quill into its inkwell.
“Magistrate Ennalen. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Ennalen stopped and stood directly in front of the Lord Magistrate’s desk. “I know who the Apostate is,” she said with a genteel lilt.
Denuis’s expression fell dark, but still there came nothing of the dismay to which Ennalen had looked forward.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Just what I said. I have discerned the identity of the person whom you and our illustrious Lord Elder asked me to find.” She smiled at her deliberate circumlocution. “That, and much, much more.”
Denuis rose, put his fist against his mouth in thought and walked slowly behind a nearby settee. “And how do you know this person is who you think he is?”
“Because I’m very good at what I do?”
His head snapped around toward her. “Answer the damned question, Ennalen.”
The bite of anger in his tone stirred in Ennalen the same feeling as in the arboretum, the same as her conversation with Biddleby—something deep, hungering to be released. She flinched with irritation, but breathed through it and ladled her response with even more exaggerated cordiality.
“I’m afraid you’ll not like what I’ll say.”
“And why is that?”
Ennalen crossed the room and sat on a smaller couch perpendicular to the large desk, opposite the one behind which Denuis stood. She smoothed her robes, tucked one leg beneath the other, then knitted her fingers over her knee.
“Because it would seem, my dear Denuis, that I am the Apostate.”
A Mage Of None Magic (Book 1) Page 20
