by David Hair
Alaron fought the urge to hit the smirking youth whilst quelling alarm at the news that their house was being watched. ‘You and Besko are a lovely couple. Let me know when you decide to make it official.’ He turned his back to go.
Unseen fists gripped his throat, squeezing the air from his windpipe whilst lifting him kicking and choking into the air. He was peripherally aware of shocked supplicants staring as he fought to breathe through Koll’s gnosis-choke. He was horribly afraid that Koll would probe his mind, but instead Koll just giggled as he spun Alaron slowly in the air. His vision started turning ragged, coming in and out of focus, and he felt himself beginning to black out when he was dumped on the floor, cracking his skull as he fell. He gasped for air like a beached fish as heavy hands picked him up and he was half-dragged, half-carried out the door and down the steps. The two watchmen left him sprawled on the ground in front of a small group of onlookers. He lay there, trying to inhale through tortured throat muscles.
Koll’s voice slithered into his mind from the top of the stairs.
‘Alaron?’ Gina Weber bent over him and soothing, balm-like gnosis suffused his throat muscles until blessed air flowed in without pain once more. He coughed and retched.
‘Gina, darling, don’t waste your time on that failure. Tomorrow night after work, perhaps?’ Gron Koll called, his voice oily and mocking. ‘Wear that lovely green dress.’
Gina ignored him as she helped Alaron to his feet. ‘You know him? Oh, that’s right – he was one of Mal’s friends. What a creep,’ she murmured. ‘Come on, I’ll help you home.’
It’s ‘Mal’ still, is it? Alaron let her steady him until his legs regained their full strength and he was able to stand under his own steam. ‘Thanks Gina,’ he croaked. ‘I can make it from here.’
She looked at him with a pitying face. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
He shook his head, feeling nothing but helpless rage at Koll, Gavius, Muhren and everyone else who had ruined his future. When we’ve solved this Langstrit mystery, I’m going to leave here and never look back. He glared at her, then remembered his manners and softened his look. ‘Sorry. Thanks again, Gina.’
‘That’s okay,’ she said quietly, looking at him oddly, almost as if he were a child. ‘Well, then. Nice to see you,’ she said, slightly awkwardly, and backed away.
She actually wanted to marry me, it dawned on him. It wasn’t a peripheral thing, not to her. What on Urte did she see in me? ‘See you around then,’ he muttered and fled.
They set the evening of Torsdai, 22 Maicin as the night for their raid on the Governor’s Residence. Ramon reacted with vindictive delight at the thought that Gron Koll would be guarding the building. ‘We knew some mage or other would be there – good to know it’s that bastard.’
Alaron frowned. ‘I’m not so sure. Koll is no pushover.’
‘It’s ideal! For one, he’s a known quantity. We know what he’s good at – Illusion, obviously, and Air-gnosis – so we know how to beat him. Two, I’ve been wanting the chance to beat the shit out of him for seven years.’
‘He’s not easy,’ Alaron warned. ‘We’ve both duelled him at college. He’s tough to beat.’
‘It won’t be a square fight,’ Ramon said. ‘We can’t afford the time and noise. He has to go down with one hit.’
‘No killing,’ Cym warned them. ‘It doesn’t matter how much you hate him, we can’t afford that.’
The boys muttered their reluctant agreement.
‘Good,’ she pronounced, ‘because I’ve thought of the best way to do this …’
So it was that Alaron found himself wearing a large green dress and a pale blue half-cloak, and thus cowled, with Ramon on his arm, he tried to walk like a woman through the twilight streets. ‘This is the worst plan ever,’ he muttered sourly.
‘Hush, gorgeous,’ Ramon hissed.
‘Arsehole! You should be the one in the dress. You might even like it.’
Ramon stifled laughter. ‘You look lovely, Alaron. Good enough to kiss.’
Alaron scowled. ‘Don’t you dare!’
‘Shhh! And don’t pull faces, you’ll spoil the effect.’
Gina was a moderately tall girl, bigger than Cym or Ramon, and only a fraction smaller than Alaron. Her hair was a problem, but Cym had somehow came up with a blonde wig. After that, it didn’t really take much work at all to make the transformation, especially with some judicious use of normal disguising techniques: a little padding here, a little make-up there. They even pierced his ears so he could wear earrings. He felt mortified, a complete fool, and his ears stung, but Cym was right: it did have to be him.
‘One moment you’re telling me to toughen up, next moment you’re putting me in a frock,’ he complained.
Ramon chuckled. ‘Part of being tough is taking a hit for your friends, Al. Doesn’t have to be a physical blow – being tough enough to put on a dress is part of being in a team.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely.’ Then Ramon spoiled the pep talk by bursting into uncontrollable laughter.
The sun was gone and the waning moon hung in the eastern sky. There weren’t many abroad in the streets, and the Watchmen weren’t about to harass a girl on the arm of a battle-mage, so they were left alone as they headed for the private entrance to the Governor’s Palace. It hadn’t taken much research to find out that the governor’s new aide was using the guest rooms of the Residence; Koll was ill-liked among the staff, to no one’s surprise.
Ramon left Alaron at the corner of the square and went to join the others in a nearby alley. Alaron crossed the plaza, his head bowed, trying to walk like a woman and praying he didn’t meet anyone.
He wasn’t that lucky.
‘Hello, young Gina,’ came a rough warm voice, and Alaron stole a glance, pursing his lips. Damn! Some young bureaucrat, he couldn’t think of the name. He hoped Gina wasn’t too friendly towards him normally.
‘Hello.’ He used Shaping to soften his tones and Mesmerism to encourage the other to find him as expected, just as he’d practised for the last two days. It must have worked, because the young man appeared to be taken in.
‘Visiting someone?’ he asked curiously.
‘Just a friend,’ Alaron said softly, flicking his head at the Residence.
The young official screwed his face up. ‘Gron Koll?’ he said disgustedly. ‘Well, there’s no accounting for taste, but I’d have thought better of an engaged woman like you.’ He tipped his cap tersely and marched away.
Sorry about your reputation, Gina. Once he was sure the young man was out of sight he hurried on: the third night-bell had already sounded. He would only get one chance if Koll was there. Failure would be fatal. He came to the servants’ door and knocked, his hand trembling.
He had to wait for a several seconds before a middle-aged woman’s voice called, ‘Who’s there?’
Alaron summoned all his courage and spoke in Gina’s voice. ‘I’m here to visit Master Koll.’
He heard a disgusted sigh, then, ‘What name shall I give?’
When he said ‘Gina,’ he heard a small curse.
The viewing slot opened. ‘Let’s look at you.’
He met the servant’s eyes through the slot and reaching out with the gnosis. You see Gina Weber, no doubt about it. Let me in.
Mesmerism wasn’t one of his best affinities, but the maid was busy and not expecting anyone else. ‘Very well,’ she grunted tiredly. She worked the locks open and let him in. Light shone from the kitchen and cooking smells filled the hall. The woman looked about forty, with flour on her hands. ‘I’d have thought better of you, lass,’ she said resignedly. ‘Come on. I’ll show you to the parlour.’
She led him down a hall; outside, Ramon and Cym should be leading Langstrit across the square, ready to follow him through, if he was able to see off the guard and Koll.
The cook called to one of the guards who were casting dice in the foyer. ‘Ku
rt, take Miss Weber to the parlour … Charles, go and fetch Slimetongue.’ She sounded disgruntled.
To know you is clearly not to love you, Gron Koll, Alaron thought. Slimetongue – ha!
The guard, Kurt, led him to a small armless chair in a tiny round room overlooking the square. He reeked of rusty mail and sweat. He peered at Alaron curiously.
Guards of magi houses were often taught shielding techniques, so Alaron put extra effort into his mesmerism. You see an attractive woman, but she is not for you. Leave.
There was little resistance. Kurt sniffed and turned away. ‘What do you want to see Koll for?’
‘None of your business, guardsman – but I’ll be sure to mention that you asked.’
Kurt flinched. ‘Uh, sorry, miss. Didn’t mean nothing by it.’ He hurried away.
Alaron, finally alone, looked around curiously. The ill-lit room was cluttered with books and tables and desks and the smell of lamp-oil. He heard footsteps and tugged his hood into place.
‘Gina,’ purred Gron Koll as he entered the room. ‘What a pleasant surprise! I hoped you would see sense after all.’ He stopped beside a decanter and splashed brandy into a glass. ‘No sense in pining for your fiancé for two years, is there?’
Alaron watched out of the corner of his eye. Come closer, Gron you prick.
Koll ambled towards him. ‘You know, Gina, I really was a little disappointed at your concern for that cretin Mercer, the other day. He got what he deserved. He’s beneath the likes of you and me.’
‘He’s nothing to me,’ Alaron risked saying, patting the seat again, conscious of Koll’s eyes studying him. He hoped the mimicking was effective as he couldn’t risk mental contact.
Koll slurped noisily and replaced the glass. ‘He’s nothing at all,’ he agreed, ‘but I’m someone; the Acting-Governor’s Personal Aide. While those fools are off soldiering, I’m filling my purse here. I could fill your purse too,’ he added with a guffaw. ‘Both your purses!’ He loomed over Alaron, who forced himself to keep his head down. He felt Koll reach out and grasp the corner of the hood. ‘Malevorn’s told me you were quite the little wettie.’ He snickered throatily.
Kore give me strength …
Something thumped in the hall and Koll swivelled, pouting. ‘Damnit, I told them—’
Alaron slammed a bunched fist into Koll’s belly, his illusory disguise vanishing as he struck, but Koll didn’t notice; he’d doubled over in time to meet Alaron’s other fist, straight to the jaw. His head snapped back with a crack as he fell. Alaron leapt onto him, ready to strike again, while he sent a mental jab into his opponent’s brain. Koll’s eyes rolled back and he went limp.
Gotcha!
The door opened and Ramon slipped inside. ‘How’d you do, Al?’
‘Done.’ Damn, that felt good.
Ramon grinned. ‘Well done. I got the guard, and the kitchen staff don’t know what’s going on. Anyone else we need to deal with?’
‘No, I think we’re clear,’ Alaron said as Cym pulled General Langstrit inside. She bent over Gron Koll. ‘This is him? Ugh; he looks the molester sort, doesn’t he? Now, let’s see …’ She closed her eyes and blue light seeped from her fingers into Koll’s temples. Then she leaned back, panting slightly. ‘He’ll be out for hours,’ she told them.
Alaron grinned at Ramon. ‘I nailed the bastard,’ he whispered. He mimicked a one-two combination.
‘I’m absolutely green with envy, amici.’
Cym smiled. ‘Sorry, but he’s not going to remember you thumping him, Alaron. He’ll think he’s spent the evening asleep after too much drink.’ She straightened. ‘Let’s go.’
They left Koll and crept silently to the main foyer, then up the stairs. A serving girl passed them on the servants’ level, oblivious to their presence. They reached the top level undetected.
Cym turned to the boys. ‘So, bedroom or study?’
Ramon pursed his lips. ‘My money’s still on the study.’ He peered down the shadowy halls. ‘First scan for wards: and don’t trigger them. Slow and cautious, remember. Cym, that’s the study; Al, check the bedroom door.’
Alaron touched it gingerly; almost instantly the door was limned in pale light. ‘Warded,’ he whispered.
‘So is the study,’ Ramon reported.
Alaron met the Silacian’s eyes. Now that they were inside Vult’s quarters, the potential for disaster was unlimited. And I still don’t think either study or bedroom is correct …
He walked off down the hall.
‘Where are you going?’ Ramon whispered irritably.
Alaron pointed to the door he was making for: the room marked as spare on the plans. There were no wards on the door, so he slowly pushed it open.
His first thought was that it was a chapel, until he saw the medals and war honours. The wall was decorated with legion banners and captured standards. The plinth itself bore a life-size bust of Vult. The room was indeed a shrine: to Belonius Vult himself.
Cym slipped in behind him, her gnosis-lit eyes pale and translucent in the gloom. ‘Look at all these,’ she said, taking in the bust and the medals. ‘Vult must have the ego of a Sollan demi-god.’
Ramon peered in. ‘What are you both doing?’
‘Alaron wanted to look in here,’ Cym whispered to him.
‘Stay focused, damn it,’ Ramon fretted. ‘Bedroom or study?’
‘Hold on a second—’ Alaron’s mind began to race. Let’s just say that the files are here. It’s not impossible – it’s not the obvious place, but it’s convenient to both bedroom and study … If I were him, I’d want my secret files at hand. I’d want them to just appear, but only to me. I’d use …
He smiled. I would use a Rune of Summoning.
He walked over to the bust and examined it closely until he found the small mark etched into the base. He pointed it out to the others. ‘Look, a Rune of Summoning.’
‘Is it?’ Ramon peered at Alaron intently. ‘So?’
‘Remember how they work?’
Ramon scowled. ‘Of course: you touch the rune, think of the object and call it to you. We did it at college. But not very well,’ he added pointedly.
Alaron pulled a face. ‘The caster is the only one who can use it. But you can override someone else’s summoning by planting your identity into the spell. We did it in class.’ Once.
‘You think you can override a pure-blood mage’s spell?’ Ramon asked. ‘No chance. It’s probably warded, too.’
Alaron stared at the little mark. It probably is warded – a touch-ward, one you can’t even see until you trigger it. That’s what I’d do. ‘We knew we’d be breaking a warding or two sometime,’ he whispered. Before the others could react – and before he could think about it too much – he plunged a gnosis-lit hand onto the symbol while casting a Binding-Rune into it.
If it is here, then this will – oh shit!
The eyes on the bust opened and focused on him. A stab of gnosis drilled into his skull and latched on. He felt his body stiffen, his heart beginning to race.
He was dimly aware of Ramon and Cym reaching out to him, but all he could feel was flowers of pain blooming in his breast. His body went rigid as knives of acid pierced him through. A bubble of sound swelled up inside his throat as his chest constricted. His lungs began to fail, leaving him airless, his sight and sound going dim.
A dazzling burst of light exploded around him and he screamed silently, his back arching, his legs giving way. But it was not death; it was life. Something snapped inside his skull and he could hear again. Awareness followed. He was lying on the floor, clutching his face, moaning, with Ramon’s hand over his mouth. Cym was holding him, trying to confine his limbs – he must have gone into convulsions. But neither of them was looking at him; they were staring at Jarius Langstrit, whose hand was gripping the bust of Belonius Vult.
It had cracked all the way down the middle.
Ramon knelt over him. ‘Al, are you okay?’
Alaron clutched at his head. ‘I think so – what happened?’
‘It was a Mesmerism trap,’ Ramon replied. ‘I thought you were a goner, but then the general grabbed the bust and it broke.’
‘Hel, Alaron,’ Cym snarled, ‘that was unbelievably stupid, even by your standards.’ She peered at the bust. ‘Did it work?’
Alaron looked up at Langstrit, who was staring at the bust with a look of vague interest. ‘I dunno. Hey, maybe me being endangered moved the general to act?’
‘Obviously,’ answered Cym crossly.
‘Did you know that would happen?’ he asked her.
She rolled her eyes. ‘No – my idea was to have him touch any wardings we found and hope his instincts took over.’
‘Oh. Isn’t that rather heartless?’
She met his eye and shrugged slightly.
He swallowed. ‘Okay.’ He pulled himself to his feet and reached for the broken bust, but Cym pushed him to one side.
‘Wait, let me check it first. You look half-dead.’ She placed her hand on the rune-mark and closed her eyes. ‘Okay, interesting,’ she said after half a minute. ‘The ward is gone, but the Rune of Summoning is intact, and it’s got some kind of imprint on it. You did it, Alaron. Unbelievable.’
Alaron exhaled and tentatively placed a forefinger on the symbol, triggering the Rune of Summoning. ‘General Jarius Langstrit,’ he tried, and there was a hissing sound as one of the wooden wall panels peeled back and a scroll-case floated through the air towards him. The panel closed silently. Cym caught the scroll-case, beaming excitedly. She peered at the label and her grin widened. ‘You were right, Alaron: this is it, I’m sure—’ She thrust it into her belt and looked at Alaron. ‘You’re still an idiot, though. That could have killed you.’
Ramon, examining the wall panel, quickly drew his hand back. ‘It’s still warded. They’re poised to explode if anyone tries to break in. If we’d taken a crowbar to the walls, the files would have been immolated.’ He had a faintly admiring look on his face, as though rethinking his security arrangements at home.
‘Vult must be paranoid,’ Cym remarked. ‘Perhaps he’s secretly Silacian.’ Suddenly she stiffened and her eyes widened, round as saucers. Alaron and Ramon felt it too: a sudden oppressive hammering, as if a thousand smiths were pummelling the air itself, trying to smash into the bubble of space they were in. In his mind’s eye, Alaron thought he could see the ghostly outline of an outraged face forming, pounding against his Rune of Hiding. All three threw renewed energy into their wardings, but the attack was worse than anything they had ever come across in training. Alaron felt his protections begin to slip as pain knifed through his skull, and then—
