by David Hair
‘Not sure.’
‘On which point?’
‘The progress. Yes, we’re still friends.’
His mother turned and focused her eyeless gaze on him. ‘You’re in trouble, aren’t you, son?’
‘No, no – not at all—’
‘That bad, is it?’
Alaron hung his head. ‘I had to steal something. It might be pinned back to me.’
She stiffened slightly. ‘Idiot boy. Didn’t your aunt teach you anything, or that jackanapes Silacian? You never, ever, leave a trail. Who did you rob?’
He couldn’t lie to her. ‘The governor.’
She went dead still and he saw the beginning flicker of flames about her fingers. He hurriedly reached out and clutched her hands closed. They were painfully hot to touch.
‘The governor? You robbed Belonius Vult?’ She clutched his arm and wrenched him close. ‘You need to go to Jeris Muhren – he’ll shield you. Vann and he fought together. Go to Muhren—’
‘I can’t, Ma. Muhren is in it with Vult.’
‘Impossible.’ Her voice was flat and absolute. ‘They despise each other.’
‘It’s true. They’re partners in something shady. But Cym’s family know a cellar in an old warehouse down by the docks in Old Town that’s deep enough to block scrying. We can hide there, wait it out. Ramon has been preparing it, laying down food and water. Cym’s people will keep an eye out for me and I’ll take care of the general. They remember what he did for them in the Revolt. It’ll all be fine. And Cym will look after you for a while, until I can come out again.’
‘You’d be better off running to Silacia, though you should have left by now.’ She bared her yellowed teeth. ‘Why hasn’t Vult been here already?’
‘He’s away, Ma, but he’ll be back any day now.’
She wrapped her claw-like hands about him and held him against her bony frame. ‘Oh, you foolish boy.’
Alaron didn’t move until his mother fell asleep. He disentangled himself and went back to the lounge, poured himself cold lemon tea and sat staring at the sheaf of notes. Ramon had started working on the phrase ‘JL 824: Argundun my wife’, but he’d not got further than writing ‘anagram?’; ‘code?’; ‘Scripture?’ and a series of doodles.
I hate puzzles. Why kill your favourite dog, then wipe your own brain? And what on Urte does this stupid phrase have to do with anything?
He was still sitting there when the others returned. He’d forgotten to drink his tea, but he was trembling with excitement. The room was almost pitch-black and Alaron could scarcely make out the papers any more. The general snored in an armchair.
Cym pulled the curtains open. ‘You’ll go blind working in the dark.’
Ramon trailed in behind her, carrying bags of vegetables. ‘What’s up, Al?’ he asked. ‘You look like Corineus just touched you.’
‘I just had a thought, that’s all.’
‘I guess that’d be pretty stunning for you.’
Alaron made a rude sign. He’d been sitting there turning the thought over in his mind for an hour or more. ‘I think I’ve solved part of the mystery of the dog,’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant.
They looked at him expectantly. ‘Well?’
‘I was looking at that phrase – ‘JL 824: Argundun my wife’. This might sound dumb, and unless you know the name of the dog it wouldn’t work, and even then you have to know that Langstrit killed the dog himself, which Vult and his lot don’t know, but—’
‘Alaron, you’re babbling,’ Ramon said tersely. ‘Spit it out, amici, spit it out.’
‘Uh, sorry! You know that number: 824? I noticed it matches the number of letters in the phrase with it: “Argundun my wife”. See? An eight-letter word, a two-letter word, then a four-letter word. And if you take the last letter of each – the eighth, the second and the fourth, you get three letters: N, Y and E: Nye: the name of his dog.’
Cym cocked her head. ‘That’s a clue?’
Ramon was more enthusiastic. ‘You know, you might be right. It isn’t all that sophisticated, but it might mean something. Any further thoughts, Al?’
‘Well,’ Alaron replied, ‘the poison he used on the dog reminded me of something from Necromancy lessons. It was made from mottle-hood, which is known to enhance the likelihood of the spirit lingering close to the body. We did a whole class on them, remember? They’re called shadow-poisons.’
‘Wouldn’t Vult know that?’ Cym enquired doubtfully.
‘Only if he’s a necromancer,’ Ramon responded. ‘His profile in the Generals of the Inglorious Rhubarb doesn’t suggest that. Necromancy is part of Sorcery, which he doesn’t seem to do, and it’s associated with Earth and he’s an Air-mage, the diametric opposite.’
‘So you think Alaron might know something Belonius Vult doesn’t?’ Cym pulled a face.
‘Put like that, it does seem far-fetched,’ Ramon agreed, winking at Alaron.
‘I’m going to ignore you both and carry on,’ Alaron said. ‘Mottlehood is common enough: people use it to kill weeds, mostly, not animals. But if you wanted to create a ghost, that’s what you’d use.’
‘The ghost of a dog?’ scoffed Cym.
‘The ghost of Nye,’ Alaron corrected, ‘a dog whose master walked him every day from Old Town across Mint Bridge, all the way to Pordavin Square and the chapel where Langstrit was found.’
Ramon blinked. ‘You think that the ghost of his dog could lead us to the next step of the puzzle?’
Alaron shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘But was Langstrit a necromancer?’
‘He was an Earth-mage, and necromancy is Earth-related, so that suggests some affinity. We need to take another look at that chapel, by night. Necromancy is an affinity of mine, even though I’m rubbish at it. It works better at night-time, but I need to prepare.’
Ramon shook his hand. ‘Good work, Agent Mercer. We may yet save your butt.’
Ramon led them through the winding alleys of Pordavin, effortlessly avoiding the Watch patrols. It was moon-dark and the predawn glow in the east was still faint, so the silent streets were lightless. They were all clad in dark clothes, and grateful for the scarves muffling their faces; Noros was high above sea-level and the nights were always cold. Dawn was still two bells away. Alaron had scarcely slept, but he felt invigorated by this possible breakthrough.
They slipped into the chapel on Pordavin Square unseen, and were relieved to find no beggars inside. The flooded floor had only partially drained, which had probably kept the homeless out. The stagnant water stank abominably. Ramon made a florid gesture at it. ‘Alaron, the floor is yours. Well, the puddle is yours, anyway.’
Cym closed the main door to prevent their lights reaching the street. Alaron steeled himself as he splashed through the main chapel to the side chapel, where the dog’s body had been found all those years ago. He glanced back at Ramon, seeking reassurance.
‘You can do this, Al,’ his friend whispered. ‘Confidence.’
Confidence … Alaron nodded and closed his eyes. He called to mind the small things he’d got right in college and blanked the failures. Ever since Ramon’s lecture at the tavern, he’d been trying to convince himself that he was capable of leaping the hurdles he’d always fallen at before. But necromantic-gnosis – ugh! Fyrell had taught Necromancy, and he’d hated all of Fyrell’s classes, so he’d always done badly. Mostly he hated the way it felt: necromantic-gnosis was horrible, manifesting as a gelid purple energy that oozed through his fingers like slime. And he hated being around corpses; the horrible cold-jelly feel of dead flesh and the stare of lifeless eyes terrified him.
Toughen up, he told himself. You’ve no choice now. Do this, or Vult will slaughter you.
The gnosis came painfully, leeching the heat from his body. As he sent out his call, it felt like a million rats with dead flesh clinging to their teeth turned and hissed at him. There was a murmur of half-heard voices in his ears, the voices of those who had died here. He blanked them out, f
ocused only on his call.
His normal sight faded and instead he could see dark shadows creeping from corners, sliding along the walls: half-seen faces, lost souls, drawn like moths to flames.
‘Alaron?’ Cym’s voice was ragged. She suddenly snatched her hand back as a new crack silently appeared in the wall she was standing against.
A chill voice seeped through from some deeper place beyond.
Cym backed away as a human shape imprinted itself like a wet stain on the stonework. Without thinking, Alaron raised a hand and muttered a spell to banish the dead. Something shrieked, an inhuman sound, and the shape was gone.
Wow, I did that!
‘What happened?’ Ramon gasped.
Cym backed towards the door. ‘Alaron, I’m not sure this is a good idea—’
‘I’m not liking it either,’ Ramon admitted. ‘Get it over with, will you?’
Alaron called again, focusing on the dog. He wished he’d actually met Nye, but of course he’d not been born then. He knew the breed, though – perhaps that would help?
A damp furry body rubbed itself against his leg and he shrieked and almost hit the roof. He stumbled and landed on his backside as a wolfhound padded out of the shadows, with lolling tongue and matted fur, faintly limned in purple light. Alaron almost forgot to breathe.
The others sucked in their breath as they saw the hound too.
Alaron reached out a tentative hand. ‘Nye? Nye, here boy, here—’ The ghost dog came and nuzzled him, his spectral nose as cold as ice. Alaron felt weary relief, and an awed sense of accomplishment. I did it! After being the class joke in Necromancy, he had solved a riddle that had defeated Fyrell and Vult, thank you very much. Take that, you pricks.
He looked across at Ramon and as he smiled, faintly dizzy from the effort, the little Silacian grinned back encouragingly and whispered, ‘Well done, amici.’
The dog snuffled at him as though learning his scent. He stroked it tentatively and then laughed as it responded with a happy wag of the tail and a nudge that knocked him off his feet. He cautiously bound the hound’s essence to his, and then released his call. The dog remained, ghostlike, but solid enough to touch. ‘Hey, Nye, nice to meet you, boy.’
‘He likes you, Alaron,’ laughed Cym, kneeling down and cuddling the wolfhound.
‘Huh. The ghost dog likes Necromancers,’ Ramon sniffed. ‘I find his taste suspect in the extreme. So what now?’
‘I don’t know,’ Alaron replied. Nye’s fur had a slightly insubstantial feel, as if it were made of smoke. He had the creepy feeling he could pass his hands through him if he wanted to. He kept his touch light. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Let’s ask him,’ Cym suggested, as Nye bounded towards the door, wagging his tail. He neither disturbed the water on the floor nor made any sound.
‘Do you speak dog-language, Cym?’ Ramon laughed. ‘In Silacia we say that dogs and Rimoni share the same family tree,’ he added teasingly.
‘As do rats and Silacians,’ replied Cym, quick as a flash. ‘Just look at him, stupid: he wants to go outside. You don’t have to be a mage to see that. He wants to show us something. Come on boy, shall we go walkies? Shall we go?’
The ghost-dog waited at the closed door, whimpering softly. Ramon opened the door and peered outside. ‘It’s still dark,’ he said. ‘What should we do?’
‘I’m not sure I can hold him in this world once the sun comes up,’ Alaron replied. ‘I think we have to chance it and let him out. If someone sees us, I’ll follow the dog and you guys try and draw them off, yeah?’
‘Ha! Classic Robler – so that expensive education wasn’t for nothing after all.’ Ramon bowed. ‘Lead on, General Mercer.’
Cym pulled the door fully open. Nye gave a sharp bark and dashed across the square, turning every few yards to check he was being followed. Alaron wrapped an illusion of shadow about himself and ran after him, the others in his wake. They crossed the square, trailing the hound’s faintly luminous form. Fortunately, Nye’s route led through less populous ways, where the soldiers seldom patrolled. On the one occasion a patrol came near, he melted into the darkness so thoroughly that Alaron feared he’d lost him, but when the clanking and the lanterns had subsided, there was Nye, wuffling softly, urging them on.
They took the Mint Bridge over the Leille River, and Alaron began to feel his time listening to Kyra Langstrit hadn’t been wasted after all. ‘He’s retracing the path his master walked him each day. Langstrit was teaching him the route,’ he said excitedly. They had to dodge another patrol near the Royal Mint before they started descending towards Old Town and the lake. Nye bounded happily under the aqueduct, ignoring the water thundering above their heads, then took a side-street through the Silver Market, spooking a pack of wild dogs who backed down an alley, snarling timidly, before fleeing.
They entered a small square in Old Town and as they approached, Nye cocked his leg and sent a ghostly stream of piss against the door, all the while wagging his tail.
Ramon choked back laughter. ‘He’s marking it for us,’ he laughed. ‘Brilliant!’
They examined the door, which fronted an old stone crypt, the type noble families favoured on their city estates. They stared at the crests and Kore Angels above the entrance. The grey stone was weathered, but the locked door was freshly painted, in the green hue traditionally used for crypt doors. The family name on the crypt, De Savioc, was an extinct dynasty, the last descendants of one of the Blessed Three Hundred. There were several such sites about the city, still sacrosanct, though the mage-families themselves had fallen into ruin.
‘“De Savioc”.’ Alaron turned to the others. ‘I’ve never heard of them.’
‘You’re the only local among us, Al,’ Ramon observed.
Nye trotted back to Alaron, looking up expectantly. The first shaft of sunlight broken over the mountains in the east and the sky went from grey to pale blue. Nye whimpered; suddenly he looked translucent. ‘We’ll come back tonight,’ Alaron said, then, quickly, ‘We’re going to lose him—’ and he slapped his thigh and called, ‘Come on, boy!’ He whirled and ran for home.
He ran all the way, Nye bounding eagerly beside him. He fumbled open the door, the dog sniffed once, then barked and tore into the house, Alaron on his heels.
Jarius Langstrit was sleeping in the armchair by the cold fireplace, but he awoke as Nye ran towards him, barking happily, and recognition seemed to run through him. The hound put his paws in the general’s lap and nuzzled him happily, and the old man stared down at him, then began to ruffle his fur, his face blank but tears rolling down his cheeks.
‘Nye,’ he whispered. ‘Nye.’ They were the first words he had spoken since he had appeared.
Alaron felt his heart trip. The others pounded in behind him, panting; they clapped him on the shoulder as they peered into the room, then he heard them gasp too as they heard the general repeat the dog’s name, over and over, as he hugged the wolfhound. The dog’s tail pounded the floor delightedly.
Perhaps this will cure him, Alaron thought, but as the sun rose outside, the dog started to fade away. With a regretful snuffle he turned and was gone, bounding away into some dark place that acknowledged no walls, his final bark slowly echoing into silence. The general stared after him, his cheeks wet, a wondering smile on his face.
They couldn’t coax any other words from Langstrit, so they were left whiling away the day in feverish impatience. Ramon went to Bekontor Hill to check whether Vult had arrived, using the pretext of booking his passage to Pontus – he was due to rejoin his legion in a few weeks. A small flotilla of windships was already assembling, getting ready to take the magi to join the Crusade.
Meanwhile Alaron read up on the de Savioc family in one of Tesla’s books. They seemed remarkable only for their dullness. ‘In a world where nobodi
es like us end up on quests for the greatest treasure of the empire, this lot have managed a footnote in a horse-breeding manual,’ he told Cym. ‘The only interesting one was the last of them. He got killed in a duel over gambling debts. His last words were: “What were my odds?”’ He chuckled morosely.
They spent the rest of the day packing all the clues from their quest in a chest, ready to transfer to the cellar they’d prepared as Alaron’s hideaway. Ramon got back from the landing towers. There was no word yet of Vult.
Cym agreed to stay with Tesla and the general while Ramon and Alaron returned to the de Savioc crypt. They set off at dusk. In Old Town the wealthy lived behind high walls and locked and guarded doors. The streets were always quiet and they reached the crypt unchallenged. Ramon worked the lock open with studious application of gnosis and within a few seconds they were both inside and the door closed behind them. Alaron lit a torch.
The difference between this and the previous chapel was pronounced. All but one of the sarcophagi were marble, and expensive shades of marble too: reds and greens and blacks. The one plain stone sarcophagus belonged to the unfortunate gambler, Roben de Savioc, the last of his line.
‘So, what are we looking for?’ Alaron wondered aloud.
Ramon was staring at the headstone of one Alvo de Savioc, Roben’s father. ‘That,’ he replied after a few seconds. The marble was worn and cracked, and the moss growing in the cracks had all but obliterated the family crest, a set of keys and the words JEUNE ETERNAL: for ever young.
‘What?’
Ramon poked a finger at the script. ‘Look: the first and last letters are discoloured: J and L.’
Alaron sucked in his breath. ‘J L. Jarius Langstrit.’
Ramon nodded. He had his periapt out and was scanning the tomb. ‘Ha – see this?’ He wiped the moss away just below the letters J and L. ‘There—’
Alaron peered. A phrase was scratched into the stone: Voco Arbendesai. His mind clicked over. ‘It’s wizardry – “Voco” means “Summon”.’
‘And “Arbendesai”?’
‘It’s a name – all spirits have names by which they are summoned.’ He gripped Ramon’s shoulder excitedly. ‘We’re almost there, Ramon.’
