In a simple spell, the other two elements—the sorcerer and the focus—were one and the same. The sorcerer enacted the spell with a word of power—or series of words, depending on the complexity—and the focus was the thing through which the veta channeled its power. This could be quite tiring and even painful for the sorcerer, and quite a lot of instruction in the Arcanostrum was devoted to ways to reduce sorcerous fatigue. In the case of a ritual, the energies drawn were often too powerful or intense for the human body to realistically manage, and therefore they would use something external for a focus. In the case of the Astral, objects made of sedimentary rock were best. For Myreon’s makeshift ritual, the best she could manage was a pebble that had been lodged in the tread of her boot. It looked very small at the center of her thickly drawn, barely legible veta. She concluded she would be lucky if she could channel enough energy to even risk a miscast. More likely nothing would happen whatsoever.
It took her hours, but finally, with her semimagical candlestick worn almost to the nub and the first rays of dawn breaking over the horizon, she was ready to enact the ritual and send her wraith. She couldn’t send it far—only to that river-inn along the Trell where Reldamar’s gnoll had assaulted all the patrons. Assuming the spell worked, she only hoped the people who witnessed her knew what she was and what to do . . . and that somebody would be awake, at dawn, in the galley of a river-inn. Myreon sighed; it was the long shot of long shots.
Fingers trembling with fatigue, body aching in every pore, she chanted the activation words under her breath, just below a whisper, and gradually increased volume to something just below a speaking voice. She tried to keep her mind balanced, calm—the Astral reacted well to even-tempered people . . . usually. Her tongue and lips carefully slid across the complicated syllables of the activation words with practiced ease, but the veta remained dark and the pebble didn’t shudder. She was about to give up when, with a sudden flash, the wax veta sizzled like bacon in a pan and the tiny pebble grew dark as onyx and seemed to fade in and out of existence for a moment. The ritual was working.
She knew it wouldn’t work for long, so Myreon lost no time in delivering her message. “People of the Wandering Fountain,” she said aloud. “Do not be alarmed. I am Mage Defender Myreon Alafarr of Galaspin Tower, and I require assistance.” If anyone was seeing her, she had no idea—no one there was capable of sending a wraith back to her, she was certain. She had to hope they would listen, though. She was due for some luck.
“Please inform Galaspin Tower that I am a prisoner of Tyvian Reldamar in Freegate. He is holding me in a penthouse flat on Top Street, two or three blocks from the Stair Market.” Myreon imagined the patrons of the bar sitting around, looking at each other with wide eyes, as her ghostly form chattered on about such outlandish things as Freegate and Tyvian Reldamar and Mage Defenders. She hoped whoever was there wasn’t so hung over they discounted this as a hallucination.
The spell was fading, so Myreon sped up her message. “There’s a reward for this news being passed to Master Tarlyth of Galaspin Tower. Your service to the Arcanostrum will be appreciated. Please hurry—I am in grave danger!”
Myreon felt the spell fade, and with it, a profound sense of weariness overcame her. Please, Hann. Let someone have seen the message.
With the last vestiges of her energy, she pushed the bed over where the ritual had been performed and threw herself under the quilts. She had to hand it to Reldamar—at least the bed was comfortable. She slept like the dead.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STALKING HENDRIEUX
The Blocks was a neighborhood in Freegate that lay at the very base of the Cliff District, just above the more industrious trade-oriented quarters on the valley floor and just below the fashionable, wealthy, and comfortable areas above the smog layer. It was a place that had no real purpose beyond housing the teeming masses of human detritus that drifted through the Free City, and was widely considered to be the most god-forsaken place in town, full of run-down brothels, diseased tenements, and dank ink-dens. It was a tangled warren of trash-strewn streets, rickety catwalks, flimsy staircases, and narrow alleys built more to accommodate rats than people.
Hool crouched in the shadows of one such crooked alley, her nose testing the cold morning air. What Tyvian Reldamar had told her early that morning was not a lie—Hendrieux was close. His smell was dirty and foul, like rotting garbage, and he was excited, perhaps afraid. Her nose and ears told her that he was within the filthy building that jutted into the street not twenty yards away, even though there was no sign that the place was occupied. It had a sign with a picture of some kind of snake coming out of a pool of water. Hool didn’t like snakes, didn’t like water, and thought the sign was ugly.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember the scents of Api and little Brana, her two missing pups. She imagined the open plains of the Taqar, alive with spring wildflowers, and the blue sky that went on forever. She remembered the feeling of bounding through the tall grass after an antelope, the smell of a brush fire on a dry summer evening, the warmth of her cubs, nestled against her as they slept beneath a million stars. Api would count them—she was a good counter—and Brana would ask Hool stupid questions. Where does the moon go? Why do we sleep? What is metal made from? Hool purred to herself, took a deep breath . . .
. . . and choked on the poisonous fumes filling the air of the foul, dark, human city—the city where her pups were held, somewhere. The city she would tear apart until she found them.
If Hendrieux had been alone, she would have already gone into the run-down building, found him, and broken his bones until he told her where Api and Brana were. Hendrieux was not alone, though—Tyvian had told the truth about that, too. He had with him six men. These men wore armor and carried weapons, like the ones from last night. Unlike those men, though, these men were wary. Hool could tell by how still the ugly building was that they were waiting for something to happen. That meant she could not strike, not yet. She would have to wait.
In their meeting that morning, Tyvian had told her that she should simply follow Hendrieux to his hiding place, but Hool didn’t like that plan. It was too slow, too uncertain, and she couldn’t be sure that her enemy wouldn’t just disappear again, like he had last night. Tyvian had said that was impossible; he had told her things like that were too expensive. Hool didn’t believe him, though—how would he know how much money Hendrieux had?
She decided instead to see if Hendrieux would talk about where he was hiding. Humans were always talking about things they did or were doing or wanted to do. It was like they all wanted the world to care about them for some reason. Hool reflected that this was probably a result of poor upbringing.
Being quiet in the city was much easier than being quiet in the country. There was so much noise in the city, Hool barely needed to look where she stepped as she crawled out of her alley and slunk across the street to the side of the ugly, smelly house. Even though it was morning, there were very few people around. Many of them, Hool knew, were sleeping in their dirty beds as their bodies worked off a whole night of drinking poison and doing wicked things. Many others smelled like fear; its oily scent seemed to stick to every building and house in this tumble-down district.
Hool wedged herself between a barrel of rainwater and a pile of rotting firewood below one of the boarded-up windows of the house and swiveled her ears to their best listening angle. Hendrieux and his six men were inside, but so was another group of men. These men smelled like the human poison called “beer” as well as something filthy and magical and not altogether different than Hendrieux. She could tell there were four or five of them, plus a few others farther away that smelled like they were dying.
“I’m not pleased, Tupa. I was expecting more from you.” Hendrieux’s voice was clear as day through the flimsy boards on the windows. Hool had to restrain her urge to burst through them and t
ear his throat out. As it was, she curled her lips back and felt her hackles rise.
The man who was probably Tupa belched noisily. His voice sounded like he had stones stuffed in his cheeks. “So now you comes for me, eh? Every alchemist, talismonger, and thaumaturge in town has themselves holed-up in their shops like they is under siege. Thought maybe, seein’ as how I keep you wrist-deep in the stuff, you’d might be makin’ an exception. Guess you’ve finally got to the point where you’re scrapin’ the bottom, eh?”
“Don’t make this bloody, Tupa Fat-Hands. You can drug up cheap alley-muscle all you want, but they’ll never be a match for my boys here, and you know it.”
“You come one step closer, and me back-alley muscle is gonna show you what they thinks of your Delloran stooges. You touch me, and it’s a poison needle in the ear. I disappear, and the Phantom Guild will put the spot on you, they will. You’ll have knives in every alley, poison in every drink, and don’t think it won’t happen! I’ve got connections, so don’t come back ’round here, or I’ll feather ye one between the— Aaaghghhh!”
Hool cocked her head. She was pretty sure Hendrieux had thrown a knife, and it had stuck in Tupa’s hand. She listened as the black market alchemist screamed and moaned, and then there was more fighting. Swords were drawn and men shouted curses at one another. Hool knew who was going to win long before it happened, though; men who smelled of beer and foulness didn’t kill men who smelled of boiled leather and oiled metal. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, which made Hool hungry. She made a mental note to catch and eat a rat later—the rats around here were as big as beavers.
“Here,” Hendrieux barked, “get Tupa and stuff him in that chest—watch out for poison needles. You, get some of the wretches to do the heavy lifting.”
Tupa’s voice cracked as he bawled, “No! No! You can’t! I don’t— Mmgghhhmmmpfff!”
There was a thump and somebody locking something. Hendrieux barked some more orders and then said. “Let’s go, and stay wary—that gnoll could be out there somewhere.”
The door to the building opened and two men in long cloaks and carrying crossbows stepped out. They scanned the street carefully from side to side for a moment, and Hool was very still. They did not see her, and nodded to those inside. Four others came out, but these were not soldiers. They were skinny and smelled of sweat and deathly sickness, wearing only rags, a big chest slung between them that they labored to carry—Hool’s gnoll ears could hear Tupa sobbing and calling for help from inside. These men looked cold and in pain, and Hool wondered what was wrong with them. Finally, the four other guards came out with Hendrieux, who was wearing a suit of mail that hung off his sloping shoulders like an ill-fitting second skin.
The procession set out down the street, and Hool watched them go without being noticed by the wary eyes of the armored men. Waiting until they had rounded the corner, she picked up the trail, following them easily while staying out of their line of sight. Even still, she kept to the shadows, using the murk and grime of the Blocks to her advantage as she stalked her prey.
The buildings around Hool did not improve much in quality, but they did improve in cleanliness. Instead of smoke and ash, she smelled liquor and sweat, as well as a fair amount of blood. Here the road ran close to a muddy ditch about ten yards across, through which moved a rapidly flowing flume of brown water. Along its banks were a series of mills, each one larger and more impressive than the last, their great wheels grumbling and clattering as they turned, filling the air with a mechanical riot of noise. It was here, in the awful racket and stink, that Hool lost the trail.
Laying her ears back against her skull, she doubled back and checked to make sure she hadn’t missed a turn, then searched the area in gradually widening circles to pick up the scent again. She got it, and quickly, but it was different. She tracked it to an alley with another old door at its end. Ripping it open, she found it led to a dusty, empty storeroom with nothing but piles of empty crates and no other exits.
She snorted. “Magic.”
Hool checked the sky and guessed it was mid-morning. She turned and left the alley, then, making her way toward the center of the city—it was time for Reldamar to make himself useful.
Imar’s was a restaurant of the highest quality but not of the highest breeding. It was the premiere meeting place for the wealthiest businessmen, guild members, and merchants in Freegate, and Tyvian found its thick carpeting and ostentatious hardwood furniture the most crass and obvious display of tasteless wealth in the city. The potted plants were too large, the chandeliers too ornate, and the waiters strutted around in cartoonish imitation of their actual, nobility-bound counterparts. The food, though, was excellent, and this, coupled with the opportunity it gave Tyvian to turn his nose up at the middle class, made it one of his favorite spots.
“It is a bit early for lunch, Tyvian.” Carlo diCarlo said quietly. Sitting across the table from the smuggler, he gazed over Tyvian’s shoulder at a table full of Saldorian tailors splurging on expensive wine and roast duck.
Tyvian sipped his tea, admiring its delicate flavor while simultaneously sneering at the ridiculous pattern of the cup. “I had an early morning, Carlo. Not everybody sleeps until noon, you know.”
“You are lucky I came, with the way you treated me yesterday.”
“The invitation involved food and a business proposition. Why wouldn’t you show up?”
Carlo snorted and reviewed his menu. “I am getting the lobster, just to spite you. What are you getting?”
Tyvian held up two fingers. “Firstly, I wouldn’t tell you what I was getting even if I knew, since I know for a fact that one of the cooks here owes you a favor. Secondly, I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m getting, since I don’t know what they are serving today.”
Carlo pointed at Tyvian’s menu, as yet untouched and unopened. “You could find out.”
Tyvian sneered at the menu. “The very idea that they expect me to read what food they have available is precisely why they will never attract anyone of higher social station than those tailors over there. I mean, why even have a servant if you are going to do all the work anyway?”
Carlo rolled his one real eye. “So speaks the man who showed up at my door yesterday in dirty furs with a gnoll by his side.”
“Tragedies of circumstance, Carlo, that’s all. Tragedies that will be set right soon enough, by the way.” Tyvian smiled and sipped his tea.
Carlo put his eye back on the menu and spoke casually. “I heard you had some excitement last night.”
“Your rumormongers are talented, I’ll give you that.”
Carlo nodded. “So now you know who you’re dealing with.”
“Hendrieux.”
The Verisi pirate slammed his menu down. “No! Sahand!”
Several tables full of various blacksmiths and fur traders looked over in their direction. Tyvian, remembering his breeding, didn’t return their gaze. Instead, he remarked coolly to Carlo, “You are not yourself, my friend.”
Carlo regained his composure rapidly. He removed his crystal eye and buffed it with a napkin. Tyvian watched, catching the simple cues; the secrets passed through innuendo. “Times have been stressful, and you are making everything worse.” What you’re doing is going to hurt Hendrieux.
Tyvian laughed softly. “Now Carlo, how can that be? I’ve only been in town for twenty-four hours. Surely I couldn’t have—”
Carlo popped his eyepiece back in to complete a stern glare. “Stop playing coy with me, Tyvian. You know as well as I do that you are shaking things up. For Hann’s sake, boy, you’ve done that your whole life. This time is different, though. This time it isn’t a game.”
“Who said I’m playing, Carlo? That skinny ink-thrall Hendrieux betrayed me, and I’m settling accounts. It’s business, not games.”
“You can’t settle accounts
without getting in Sahand’s way, and that’s the kind of trouble you don’t want, Tyvian. I tried to tell you this yesterday, but you had to go threatening me with that bloodthirsty monster . . .” Carlo shuddered. “You might be able to handle Hendrieux—he’s a fool, as you say—but Sahand is out of your class, Tyvian. He’s both brutal and intelligent, and don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”
Here, the implication was clear enough. Tyvian smiled broadly. “He’s in town, or near enough, you know.”
Carlo choked on his glass of water. “How . . . how in blazes do you . . . wh-where did you see—”
Tyvian laid a finger beside his nose. “Tut tut, Carlo—a secret of that magnitude will cost you quite a lot.”
The waiter arrived, and Carlo ordered the lobster, as threatened. Tyvian, after demanding a recitation of the menu, whispered his order in the waiter’s ear and sent him on his way. Carlo shook his head. “I’m not going to poison you, Tyvian.”
“Yesterday’s conversation would indicate the contrary,” Tyvian countered.
Carlo folded his arms. “Fine. What is your proposition?”
“I want you to set me up a meeting with the Kalsaari Hanim.”
“Hilarious. What do you really want?”
“A meeting with the aforementioned Kalsaari Hanim.”
Carlo cleared his throat. “You are aware that I do not get along well with the Kalsaari nobility. I spent a good few years under Mudboots Varner and Finn Cadogan in Rhond, cutting Kalsaari throats.”
Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Don’t play the whole ‘patriotic Westerner’ card with me, Carlo. You were a mercenary—you were paid.”
“Ten percent under market rate, mind you. I don’t truck with queenies.”
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