by David Hair
‘That sounds right,’ she said, touching his cheek. ‘You really are an idiot, you know. But you’re interesting to be around. We need to make plans. I’ll go and pacify Ramon.’
He tried to thank her, but she just waved a hand and left him alone, his eyes full and his throat so tight he struggled to breathe, thinking, I’m not too clever, but I’m lucky in my friends.
They returned a few minutes later, Ramon still clench-fisted and simmering, Cym with a matronly look on her face. Alaron looked at her gratefully. ‘Ramon, Cym, I’m really, really sorry. The only one he can pin the break-in to is me – it’s my fault, and I deserve the consequences. If I were you I would run and leave me to it.’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Cym said. ‘You’d stay and help, just like we’re going to. You’re an idiot, but you’re loyal to a fault.’
‘One of many faults,’ Ramon growled. He still looked ready to spit, but Cym put a warning hand on the Silacian’s shoulder. ‘Vult can’t get here for days,’ she said, ‘so we’ll solve it by then. Then we’ll hide you somehow until we work out what to do next. We’re not going to leave you in the lurch.’
‘However richly you deserve it,’ Ramon muttered. He glared at Alaron, and then forced a grim smile. ‘Well, instead of having the leisure to solve this in our own time, we’ve got about four days before a legendary pure-blood mage descends upon our sorry arses. So let’s get on with it.’
‘I mean it,’ Alaron insisted. ‘If you go, I’ll not—’
‘Yes, we got that,’ Ramon said sarcastically, ‘now shut up and concentrate. Realistically, we probably only had about a week to solve it anyway, before we all had to get on with our lives, so apart from having attracted the attention of the most powerful man in Noros, what’s changed, eh?’ He held out a hand. ‘Where’s that bloody arrest report?’
They spent some time poring over the Watch Report, penned in the flowing hand of Special Constable Darius Fyrell, bane of their college lives. Fyrell had left a detailed written report of the arrest, the skirmish that followed and the condition of the general, which was just as he was now: disoriented, with memories and self-identity gone. He did note marks on Langstrit’s hands and forearms, recently inflicted, as if he had been either tortured, engaged in combat or caught in a gnosis energy blast.
Fyrell had also listed what he found in the chapel:
General Langstrit, wearing commoner’s clothing and his periapt (emerald set on neck-chain).
A flask of gnosis-brewed truth serum, partially consumed and detectable upon the general’s breath.
A bowl of milk, mostly consumed, containing a fast-acting and lethal poison.
A dead wolf-hound, identified as JL’s favourite, recently deceased from ingestion of said poison.
A sheath of papers containing writings from the Scriptures, with possible encryption markings.
A scratching in the paint of the floor, reading ‘JL 824: Argundun my wife’.
The rest of the scroll-case contained the Scripture pages mentioned under item 5: sheets pulled from a Kore Scriptorium, with red markings under various letters. There were also several pages of notes in a different hand, probably Belonius Vult’s, which looked to be attempts to solve the encryption. Judging by the crossings-outs and increasingly ragged writing, it hadn’t been going well. The final page looked like it had been screwed up several times before Vult decided to keep it. It contained a complex chart of numbers and letters and lines drawing conclusions. The final line appeared to be his conclusion, a series of dotted lines, each containing a letter. Vult had got most of the way through, then stopped. What he had ‘solved’ read:
W R O N G | A G A I N | B E L O _ _ _ _
Ramon laughed aloud when he saw that. ‘So the old general outsmarted Vult – good on him.’
‘But if Vult couldn’t solve it, what hope have we got?’ Alaron asked worriedly.
Ramon shrugged. ‘I can solve anything.’ He’d recovered his normal good humour somewhat, though he still shook his head disbelievingly whenever he looked at Alaron.
‘It’s all the murder investigations they have in Silacia,’ Cym observed tartly. ‘It sharpens their minds.’
‘My mind was already a razor, Cym-amora.’ Ramon frowned. ‘Let’s assume that Belonius has worked them over thoroughly. So does this mean there is a real clue here, or was it just a puzzle Langstrit left to annoy Vult?’
‘Or both,’ Cym added.
‘Or both,’ Ramon agreed. ‘So, Fyrell gets the word that Langstrit is in Lower Town. He arrives with his men, cracks a few skulls and grabs him. Langstrit has a few burns and his mind is gone. Inside the chapel there is a poisoned dog and traces of a truth serum. What are his conclusions?’
Alaron tried first. ‘How’s this: someone was trying to get information out of Langstrit. They threatened him with the death of his dog and when threatening didn’t work, they killed it. They hurt him with mage-fire – so they’re a mage. They fed him the serum, he told them what they want, so they destroyed his mind and left the other stuff to taunt Belonius.’
Ramon shook his head. ‘No, no, we know that is exactly what didn’t happen because we know something that Fyrell and Vult haven’t worked out yet: Langstrit did this to himself. I’m sure Vult hasn’t seen the rune we deciphered, so they were working under the assumption that there’s another party involved, someone who erased Langstrit’s mind. That puts a whole new slant on it, doesn’t it?’
Cym agreed. ‘It means that Langstrit did all of this himself: he swallowed the serum, he burnt himself. Sol et Lune, he even poisoned his own dog – so why would he do that?’
‘It knew too much,’ Ramon sniggered, before waving a placating hand. ‘Sorry, bad joke.’
‘What it might mean,’ said Alaron carefully, ‘is that Langstrit hid the Scytale and wanted to leave a trail for friendly eyes. If we hadn’t seen the rune, we would believe someone else was involved too.’
‘Vult must be terrified that whoever that person is will show up one day and demand some answers – for Lukhazan, and a few other things. How does he sleep?’ Cym wondered.
‘Badly, I hope,’ Ramon said. ‘So: why would Langstrit take truth serum if he’s about to erase his own mind?’
Alaron pulled a long face. ‘I can’t think of one good reason – unless it’s just a distraction to hide the real clues.’
‘I agree,’ Cym said. ‘The truth serum only makes sense if he were being tortured, not if he did it to himself. It’s a false trail.’
Ramon rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘Okay, that’s possible.’
‘But why would he kill his own dog?’ Alaron wondered. ‘That makes no sense at all.’
They were quiet for a long time.
‘What about this, “JL 824: Argundun my wife”?’ Ramon asked eventually. ‘Is that year significant to the general somehow?’
Alaron consulted Generals of the Glorious Rebellion, but there was nothing there. He found what he needed in another of his mother’s books. ‘Langstrit was born in 824,’ he reported excitedly, ‘and he was married for a long time ago, to a mage-woman called Beatta. Hey, don’t Argundians call themselves “Argundun”?’
‘Yes,’ Ramon said, ‘but why scratch it on the floor of the chapel?’
There was another long silence.
Cym leaned forward. ‘Who or what burnt him if he was there alone? Maybe it was just another attempt to throw everyone off the scent?’
Ramon jabbed a finger at her. ‘Probably – but it would also have messed up all the psychic residue in the chapel.’ He snatched up the sheet containing the runes-pattern they’d been studying for so long. ‘Look – remember that squiggle in the rune that we couldn’t explain? It could be a “wild energy” sigil.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘That means the burn-marks were deliberate and self-inflicted. Langstrit knew that other magi would try and investigate, so he covered his traces.’
Alaron sat up, feeling like they were making progress. ‘So what next?’
‘Let me think about that.’ Ramon looked hard at Alaron. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice what Vult said in that memorandum: he told Gavius and Muhren not to intervene if they saw you using a periapt. That is absolutely non-procedural. Vult wanted you to have a periapt.’
‘He’s a Diviner. I think he’s Divined something.’
‘Agreed. After he heard your thesis, he must have asked: “Who is this boy? Is he right?” He must have been crawling out of his skin trying to figure out what he’d missed. And then Langstrit escaped from wherever he was being held—’
‘I did wonder if perhaps he pushed Langstrit my way,’ Alaron mused. ‘If he’d been getting nowhere with him, maybe he thought we might unlock the problem for him?’
Ramon whistled softly. ‘Possible, amici – but no, unlikely. No, I think he just Divined that you might be onto something and decided to give you some rope.’
‘You mean we’re leading him to the Scytale?’ Cym looked aghast.
‘He will believe so.’ Ramon pulled a face. ‘But what choice do we have now?’
‘I wish there was someone we could trust who would help us,’ Cym said. ‘There must be someone in this city who wouldn’t just turn us over to Vult or rob us and use the information for themselves.’
‘You would think so,’ Alaron agreed, ‘but there’s no one I can think of. I don’t trust the Church – and don’t even mention the Watch. That memo suggests that so-called hero Jeris Muhren is in this up to his eyeballs.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Cym disagreed. ‘He could be totally unaware and just following orders.’
‘You just fancy him,’ Ramon grinned, and when Cym blushed girlishly, ‘Ha! Knew it!’
‘He is a friend of my father,’ Cym said, a little sheepishly. ‘He’s always been decent to my family.’
‘We can’t risk telling him anything,’ Alaron repeated, piqued by Cym’s reaction to Ramon’s jibe, and Cym nodded grudgingly. They all winced a little as they heard Tesla start another coughing fit in the next room.
‘I don’t like your mother’s cough,’ she added quietly to Alaron. ‘She’s not as healthy as she pretends.’
It was another thing to worry about – not what Alaron needed.
Tydai, 26 Maicin 928
The valleys of East Verelon had been transformed into a floodplain, Belonius Vult noted grimly as his windskiff roared above. Repeated weather-working by Air-magi as the legions traversed the Great Road had left a trail of devastation; storms, flash floods and furious gales battered the farms and villagers, ruining crops and houses. Half the trees had been ripped up by tornados and hurricanes, and dead cattle floated in the miles of trapped floodwaters. The air stank of rotting bodies and muddy water, heated by the summer sun until the land was nothing but a series of tepid lakes of cesswater. All along the Imperial Road, miles-long caravans were bogged down in the sludge.
What a rukking waste of time and money, he thought.
They had flown all night, only putting down near dawn for his pilot-magi to get some rest. He himself had barely slept, consumed with anxiety over what awaited him in Norostein. Still, tomorrow Norostein would come within his clairvoyance range and he would be able to set things in motion. In the meantime, there were many other issues to consider. He let his mind run free …
What was Gurvon doing? Had he struck against Elena Anborn yet, or was this some elaborate game Gurvon and Elena were playing to hold the emperor to ransom? Perhaps I need to distance myself further? A year ago we outlined a programme of conquest to the emperor: does it still hold? Will the events in Javon ruin it all? Can we trust this Rashid Mubarak, on whom much rests? Is Antonin Meiros a senile fool or cunning snake? Why did he marry a Lakh – who is she, really?
A worst-case scenario haunted him: that someone else had gained the Scytale of Corineus … Where in Hel was Jarius Langstrit? How had a helpless, mind-erased old man managed to escape custody? And why did his divinations constantly tell him that Tesla Anborn’s son was a factor? Tesla, Elena’s sister – was that connection significant? Who was the hidden hand here; the mage who had destroyed Langstrit’s mind, then vanished?
What am I flying back into?
Wotendai, 27 Maicin 928
Tydai had passed without any breakthrough and the search for clues was becoming desperate. On Wotendai Alaron visited General Langstrit’s last remaining relative: the widow of his son, Ardan. She lived in Quatremille Parish, a poor area near the lake. Ardan Langstrit had been a mage, but he had married for love: a milkmaid named Kyra from the Knebb. Ardan had served in the Revolt, but he had been captured at Lukhazan and his health had been destroyed by the prison’s dreadful conditions. By the end of the war he had looked older than his father.
‘So you’re Vann and Tesla’s son,’ Kyra Langstrit said, staring at Alaron across her kitchen table. ‘I can see a little of both of them in you. Everyone thought well of your father,’ she added. Kyra had grey-streaked hair and a sad face. Ardan Langstrit had been the Principal when Alaron and his friends started at Turm Zauberin, but once Vult became governor he’d been displaced by Lucius Gavius. Ardan had hanged himself soon after, leaving Kyra with no income, no looks to attract, no sophistication and a country woman’s caution of charlatans. She’d been gradually selling off her husband’s estates to survive and now rented a room in her own house, clinging on like a limpet, with no hope of a better life. She was forty-four, and already dead.
‘What do you remember of the general?’ Alaron asked, wondering if this was a waste of time. Yes, she has a sad life, but still …
‘Old Jari? I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead – no one can tell me. He would have been one hundred, four years ago. Of course, he is a mage, and they live longer lives than we unblessed folk. I do wish I could have had children, but my Ardan was taken from me too soon …’ She trailed off, and blinked the tears from her eyes.
‘And the general?’ Alaron prompted gently.
‘Oh, he was always kind to me. You know he had a dog? Lovely old thing. I wonder what became of it – Nye, he called it. He was a funny dog, that one: dead loyal. He loved old Jari, he did, and Jari loved him back. He used to walk him every day, even during the siege, down from Old Town, across the Mint Bridge and all the way to Pordavin Square. He reckoned the old boy could do it blindfold.’
Alaron rolled his eyes. ‘Did the general ever speak of Belonius Vult?’
‘Who?’
‘The governor – the general at Lukhazan?’
She shook her head. ‘I never concerned myself with men’s talk; left that to Ardan. Would you like another biscuit?’
*
Alaron went home to report failure. ‘It was purgatory,’ he groaned to the others. ‘She went on and on about absolutely nothing – she knows nothing about the general, or even her husband. She didn’t even know he’d been fired from the college! She must have been living in cuckoo-land even then.’
It hadn’t been a good day. They’d eliminated a few possibilities, but it didn’t feel like progress. Alaron went to bed shaking with worry. He was on the verge of begging his friends to run for it. It wasn’t fair to leave themselves in the firing line when Vult returned or when Muhren came knocking.
One more day, and then we’ll all have to run …
Belonius Vult pulled the ball of light in his hands into a wider sphere, cloaking it in illusion so that his mage-pilots could not eavesdrop, and reached out with his mind.
Fyrell’s face appeared immediately within the ball of light: black-bearded, with beak-like nose above a thin-lipped mouth.
He broke the contact and let the ball of light dissipate. Fyrell was usually reliable, but he was not to be trusted, of course – too much pent-up ambition. Already he was chafing at his rank in the college, wanting more, too soon. But for now, he was the best tool at hand.
Though Koll was hired on Fyrell’s recommendation … Are you involved in this, Darius?
Torsdai, 28 Maicin 928
Alaron took a turn bathing his mother’s forehead that afternoon; her fever had risen and he had sent for a healer. They were running out of time to sold the puzzle, so Ramon and Cym had turned their attention to hiding Alaron from Belonius Vult.
Tesla slept poorly and her ruined face looked corpselike. His father had kept a painting of his mother done before Tesla flew off to Pontus and the carnage of the First Crusade. She had been lovely, with a determined face and a mane of red hair. Her sister Elena had been in the portrait too, angular and moody-looking. The painting was in storage; he wondered aloud where his Aunt Elena was.
‘Causing trouble, I don’t doubt,’ Tesla rasped. She grimaced and groped for a glass of water. ‘Elena will be at the heart of things, she always was. And giving the bastards Hel. Don’t be fooled by what Besko said, boy. If he says “betrayal”, you can bet it means something more like “plot thwarted”. Perhaps she’s even grown a conscience. Stranger things have happened.’
‘No one screws with Aunt Elena, right?’
His mother chuckled, a rasping sound that turned into a cough. ‘Mind your language, boy,’ she warned as an afterthought. ‘So, what are you and your friends doing that’s such a big drama?’
‘Just trying to help the general, Ma,’ Alaron replied cautiously.
‘Seems to necessitate a lot of arguing and shouting and running around,’ Tesla remarked dryly. ‘Making any progress? Still all friends?’
