“What is?” whispered Prue, struggling to comprehend. If the situation had been different, she would have been helpless with laughter. Erik and Magick?
The Necromancer continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “You, my dear,” he said, his focus all on her, “you are the honeyed bait that will bring me everything, not only the power, but the flesh to house it. You are the fated instrument of my destiny. Who’d have thought?” A soundless chuckle. “A plain little thing like you.”
In a parody of affection, his touch ghosted over her hair, brushed across her lips. Suddenly, urgently, Prue needed to spit. She could have sworn her mouth filled with something foul and sweet.
A final lingering pat and the featureless head swiveled toward to the Technomage Primus. “Pace yourself,” he ordered. “Complete the tests. I want to know where that shield comes from. But remember, I need her alive and reasonably whole for”—he calculated—“another two days.”
The Technomage’s mouth tightened. “No vivisection. Very well, I understand.” She stared into the darkness under the hood, her gaze both intent and wary. “What are your plans now?” Unobtrusively, she braced herself against the desk. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Vivisection? Prue’s vision hazed and a scream bubbled in her throat. Ruthlessly, she clamped her lips shut, forcing herself to listen.
“I have a trap to set and a message to send.” The satisfaction streaming off him made the air glutinous. “Ah, death is full of simple pleasures.” He drifted away from Prue’s vision. Distantly, a latch clicked and she thought she heard teeth snapping, a low feral growl abruptly chopped off.
The Technomage let out a long breath. “We’d better get on, I suppose.” She picked up her tray and approached the chair. “The most likely hypothesis is that you broadcast some kind of nullifying field.”
Prue met her eye. “You’re as much a prisoner here as I am, aren’t you?”
“We’re partners. An alliance between Science and Magick. Building bridges.”
Prue snorted. “So you’re free to leave this room any time you want?”
Silence. “There’s a . . . guardian on the door.” The Technomage pulled a high stool close to Prue’s chair and perched on it. “Besides, this is important work. Exciting.” Her eyes glowed and her white-jacketed chest expanded. “I’m a pioneer in the field.” A shadow crossed her face. “In fact, I’m the only one.”
“Is scientific curiosity worth sacrificing your freedom? Your life?” Prue stared straight into the blue gray eyes. “He’s going to kill you.”
“I have my resources. He can try.” The other woman shrugged, though her gaze slid away from Prue’s. “Every endeavor has its risks.
“Caracole of the Leaves is a beautiful city,” said Prue. “Let me tell you what you’re missing.”
The Technomage’s heels hit the floor with a sharp clack. “It’s been months since I spoke with anyone . . . normal. Or anyone at all.” She took a pace away, then spun around. “Clever of you.” Her smile looked pared to the bone. “What a pity you weren’t born a Technomage. I could have done something with a mind like yours.”
She reached for the machine behind the chair. Something clicked, the hum increased in volume. The gray pads on Prue’s skin began to tingle, not unpleasantly.
“We’ll establish our benchmarks first,” said the Technomage Primus. “Take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Controlled respiration makes the sensations easier to bear.”
34
“Quiet!” roared Erik.
The agitated babble ceased. Around the big table in the cavernous kitchen of The Garden, six startled faces turned to face him. That had been perilously close to the Voice, but he didn’t give a fuck. Night had fallen and they hadn’t resolved anything. Prue could be . . . She could be . . .
He swallowed, then steadied. “We need to plan. Florien, run up to Prue’s study. There should be a map of the city on the desk. Bring it.”
“Yah.” The boy hopped off his chair and trotted away, still chewing.
After the first shock had worn off, Katrin had stalked over to the big ovens and retrieved one dish after another, moving with automatic efficiency, but blindly, as if in a dream. Now she sat next to a slender, serious young man wearing spectacles, her hand tucked into his. Arkady.
Across the table, Erik met Walker’s flat black gaze. “I’ll find the assassin tonight,” said the swordsmaster. “I guarantee.”
“Haven’t done too well so far.”
Walker’s jaw set like a granite cliff. “Three times now I’ve entered a building minutes after she’s left. As if she knows I’m coming.”
“The assassin’s the obvious lead.” Rosarina sat with an arm around Tansy, who still shook with the occasional sob. Rose’s eyes were dry, her lovely mouth thin with resolve. “But whoever’s paying is the one we really want.”
Erik’s lips drew back from his teeth. “Oh yes.” He took the map from Florien and swept aside the tisane cups to spread it on the table. He anchored one corner with the empty pot, another with his bowl of reheated stew. It had been hot and savory, and he knew he needed the fuel, but he hadn’t been able to choke down more than a few mouthfuls.
Hell, Prue, Prue! Even now, she might be lying at the bottom of a canal or abandoned on a midden. Or she might be at the mercy of cruel men with rough hands and hard bodies, men who’d violate and break her. Her flesh was so soft, her breasts so tender and sweet. Oh gods.
Thoughts rattled around in his skull, buffeting him as brutally as a gale. The very air he breathed seemed to set his chest on fire.
“Control it, Erik.” Strong brown fingers wrapped around his upper arm and squeezed hard. “Now think,” said Walker. “This started when you went public with the seelies, the death of the Leaf.” He leaned back, releasing his grip. “Didn’t it?”
“Yes.” Erik filled his lungs, reaching for his singer’s discipline. Breathe in the power, breathe it out again. For a moment, he thought he saw the air streaming before him, tinged an angry red. “You believe me?”
Walker blinked, an extraordinary show of emotion for a man with his degree of reserve. “I was a shaman among my people once,” he said, as though the words were yanked out of him on barbed hooks. “There is a . . . wrongness in Caracole. It made me ill.”
Katrin slapped her palm down on the table. A bread roll tumbled off the edge. “How does this help find Mam? Anyway”—she turned a tear-stained face to Walker—“you look fine to me.”
“I dealt with it,” said the swordsmaster curtly. “Once I understood what it was.”
“Katrin, you and Arkady go to the City Guard and report your mother missing,” said Erik, making a heroic effort not to shout. “Talk to Rhiomard if you can. But every minute counts, we can’t afford to wait for them to get organized.” He tapped a finger on the map. “Walker, you and your men cover the Melting Pot. The assassin’s probably gone to ground there anyway.”
“Maybe.” The swordsmaster set down his empty bowl with a decisive click and rose. “You’ll take the Leaf of Nobility?”
Their eyes met. “Yes.” Something powerful roiled in Erik’s chest, fighting to get free, to blow the world to bloody smithereens. Panting, he harnessed the gathering storm. Later, later, he promised it. In response, it roared so loud he was sure the others must be able to hear the eldritch howling of the winds.
Rose patted Tansy’s shoulder. “Go get the others,” she said. “All of them. Tell them to come armed and to wear something practical. Dark colors.”
Small, hard fingers tugged his sleeve. “Fook, what ’bout me? I kin help.”
Before Erik could answer, someone shrieked outside in the garden, a cry full of shock and fear. With a crash, the shutters splintered and a heavy bird blundered into the room, wings laboring as it circled above their heads. Even in the spacious kitchen, it was huge, with a wingspan greater than a man’s outstretched arms. It squawked continuously, a low, harsh bray.
Heads ducked as the bi
rd floundered, its flailing wings knocking crockery from shelves. Cauldrons and pans clanged together in the wind of its passage.
With a final strangled honk, the bird folded its wings and fell out of the air like a stone, landing on the map with a meaty thud. Delicate cups jumped and shattered. A shudder and the creature lay still, its body and scaly legs covering most of the table.
In the echoing silence, Arkady covered his nose. “Faugh! What a stink!” He slipped an arm around Katrin’s waist. Her face had gone gray with horror. Tansy wavered on her feet, clutching at Rose.
“Siblings save us, it’s a corpsebird!” Rose stretched out a hand and snatched it back. “What’s it doing here?”
Erik stared at the vicious, curved beak, the hooked talons. A carrion eater. The internal tempest surged, roaring like the hungry breath of a forest fire. His head spun and wind swirled around the chamber. All along one wing, the tips of the dusty black feathers ruffled.
“The bastard . . .” He dragged in a breath. “It’s a messenger.”
Forcing himself, he reached for the pouch hanging round the naked, scrawny neck. A stream of bitemes and other parasites crept from under the feathers, but he ignored them, ripping open the ties and pulling out a slip of paper.
The script was a clerk’s. Innocuous, anonymous.
Singer, come alone. Midnight, tomorrow night, two water stairs to the east of the Processional Bridge. Speak and she dies—slowly.
Katrin snatched it from his fingers, and as she scanned the lines, her features took on an expression he hoped he’d never see again. What was she? Nineteen? But this was how she would look as an old, old woman, lying on her deathbed. She lifted those almond eyes, so like Prue’s and yet so unlike, to his face. “This is all your fault, Erik. We were fine before—” She choked. “Gods, what have you got her into?”
Frozen, Erik shook his head. Inga’s slack features, her bright hair wreathed in weeds. Was this how the man who’d loved her had suffered? The way he felt now, swallowing the prettydeath would have been preferable.
A vicious gust rattled every pot and pan. Dishcloths flew around the room, a curtain ripped from bottom to top. Dimly, Erik heard Walker mutter, “Careful.” And then, “Rose, is Purist Bartelm here, by any chance?”
“I’ll find her,” Erik croaked. “I swear.” I’ll take him apart, piece by bloody screaming piece. Horned Lord, I swear it.
When he used his fists to brace himself on the table, a biteme skittered onto his knuckle and nipped him. Cursing, Erik crushed it, leaving a small bloody smear on his skin. He lifted his head in time to see Tansy slip out the door, to hear her light steps recede down the passage, breaking from a trot into a run.
Calmly, Walker plucked the paper from Katrin’s hand. “This is excellent,” he said. “It indicates she’s alive and it narrows the search area.”
Erik upended the pouch. With a quiet tinkle, two silver cuffs bounced across the table and came to rest against the corpsebird’s bare, leathery neck. Aquamarines winked at him, a sly blue green.
Prue!
He threw his head back and roared his rage and pain from the depths of his soul. It hurt the whole way out, a burn he relished, dark pleasure and relief and bloody murder in an unholy mixture. It was the Voice he used, but it emerged without words, a full-throated, formless bellow that rattled the walls. Something shattered with a sharp crack and a tinkle. A woman shrieked, a man swore.
Erik opened his eyes.
Every loose item in the kitchen was whirling in the air above his head, including the corpsebird. Bowls, kettles, dishcloths, trays, shards of glass from a broken window. The massive table floated two feet off the floor, revolving majestically. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rose shove Florien into the pantry.
That was strange enough, but what was even stranger was that he was standing with his legs spread, his arms raised, and he could see the glinting streams of air supporting all the various objects. Every cell in his body fizzed with power, he shuddered with it, vibrating right down to his bones. Gods, he couldn’t contain it. He was going to disintegrate, explode like a star going nova!
The Voice strangled in his throat and the objects slowed. A heartbeat later and everything fell to the floor with an earsplitting clatter, the table thudding down an inch from his foot, the corpsebird sprawling across Katrin’s spotless workbench.
Erik staggered where he stood, his jaw sagging.
“For an adult, your lack of discipline is appalling,” said an acid voice from the doorway. “And you’re noisy.”
The old man wore one of The Garden’s familiar robes, belted tightly around his spare waist. He was dark-skinned, with a high-nosed, imperious face and a gray beard, neatly groomed.
“Who the hell are you?” Erik tried to say it, but no sound came out. Instead, he stared, feeling oddly empty, scoured out.
“Purist! Thank the Sister Tansy found you.” Rose reappeared from behind a cupboard, shook her skirts into place and took the old man’s hand in both of hers. “I’m sorry to interrupt your massage, but we need you.”
His dignity unimpaired by his state of undress, the wizard patted her arm. “Happens all the time, my dear. My poor old bones can wait.” He exchanged a cool nod with Walker. Katrin, Arkady and Florien, he simply ignored.
“I am Purist Bartelm,” he said to Erik. “And you’re a disgrace to your Enclave. Which is it?”
Erik wet his lips. “Enclave?” He dropped into a chair. “I don’t—I’m not—” He pulled himself together. “I don’t have time for this.” Pushing to his feet, he said, “I have to go. Prue—”
“Young Tansy told me.” The wizard’s dark eyes narrowed, bright with interest. “Is it possible?” He stroked his beard. “You don’t know, do you?” he said at last. “Unbelievable.”
“Know what?”
“Have you done that before? Moved objects in the air?”
“No!” Erik took a step toward the old man, subduing the urge to pick him up and break him over his knee. “What is it that I don’t know?”
“I have been a Purist for more than sixty years. I thought I’d seen every form of Magick the gods permit.” Bartelm’s lips quirked. Erik stopped dead, his spine prickling with apprehension. “But I’ve not seen anything like yours.”
Erik gave a harsh bark of laughter. “That’s ridiculous. For the last time, get out of my way. Rose, we’ll start at the Processional Bridge. I’ll meet you there.”
But Rose shook her head. “This could help. Erik, you have to listen.”
The power surged again, a clear, clean blast of it, blowing through his body, feeding his impatience. Erik growled, heading for the door, and the old Purist stepped aside. “A gift from the gods,” he murmured.
The huge voice of the Horned Lord. We will give you your life, together with a gift—a weapon, a tool, a pleasure, a curse.
Erik turned. A weapon? Everything within him leaped.
He searched the wizard’s face in silence.
“How long do we have?” said Bartelm softly.
Erik pulled the note from his pocket and handed it over without a word. The old man scanned it, frowning. Then he closed his eyes and passed his fingertips over the characters. His wince was barely perceptible, but it was there nonetheless. “It stinks of the Dark Arts,” he said. His gaze lingered on the corpsebird and his lips grew tight. “Necromancy.”
Sighing, he pulled out a chair and lowered himself gingerly into it. “Rose, my dear,” he said, “send someone to the Enclave for Purist Nori. I’ll give you a note for her. She won’t want to come.”
Could it get any worse? A brisk wind plastered Erik’s shirt to his chest, lifted the hair on his forehead. “Lord’s balls, how bloody long is it going to take? Whatever this thing is I’m supposed to have, godsdammit, I don’t care. Just show me how to make it do what I want.”
Bartelm chuckled with genuine amusement, his eyelids crinkling like plum-colored parchment. “Magick’s not a blunt instrument, though I can s
ee why a man like you might think so.”
Erik ground his teeth. “Necromancy’s death Magick, isn’t it?” At Bartelm’s nod, he thumped a fist on the table, making shards jump like bitemes on a hot griddle. “I don’t have time for finesse. A blunt instrument will do.” He skewered the old man with his glare. “Teach me! ”
“Well done,” said the Technomage, frowning down at her transplas tablet. She made an annotation.
Prue gurgled.
“Here, I’ll take that.” The other woman removed the thick leather strap from between Prue’s teeth. “Would you like some water?”
Her jaw aching, her mouth too parched to form words, Prue made a noise of assent.
Establishing the benchmarks hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared, but the first battery of real tests had ratcheted up her discomfort by inexorable degrees—building from subtle hurt to bright pain to bone-melting agony. The worst part was that even if her hands had been free, there was nothing to stroke or soothe on the outside. Every cell, every organ and vessel deep inside her body ached with the abuse.
The straw made an obscene slurping noise in the bottom of the cup.
The brutal labor she’d endured to birth Katrin was nothing in comparison. For the Sister’s sake, after this she’d be able to pump out one babe after another and laugh while she did it. With cruel clarity, her imagination painted a picture of Erik’s face as she laid his child in his arms, Katrin’s fond smile as she stroked the baby’s plump cheek. Prue hadn’t shed a single tear, but suddenly, her face was wet. Gods, she was a fool! Happiness had been within her grasp, and she hadn’t had the guts to reach for it. Gone, all gone. She swallowed a hiccup-ping sob. She’d never see either of them again.
“Finished?” The Technomage removed the cup. “Sleep now while I tabulate the data.” She bent to work some mechanism under the chair. With a creak, the back tilted and the foot rose until Prue lay flat. The relief was exquisite.
“Sleep?” she croaked. “You must be . . . joking.”
Thief of Light Page 33
