Flamecaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  The class commander fancied himself a ladies’ man. Lila suspected he took his standard-issue Wien House uniforms to a tailor, because they always had a custom fit. He also sported one of those ridiculous tiny mustaches that probably take hours to achieve, but that look like a shaving mistake.

  Around them seethed a sea of dun-colored uniforms just like her own, save the markings of rank. It was nearly all Wien House, nearly all Arden with just a splash of Mystwerk black here and there. No Temple white at all. Which was probably a good thing.

  “Is everything on the table?” Lila said, looking around for more takers. “All right, then. You ready?” she said, looking across the table at Tourant.

  The commander nodded, his face shiny with sweat, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his ale.

  “Hey, now,” Lila said, grinning. “No worries. I’ll cover your tab out of my winnings.”

  He flushed russet. “Go!” he said, tipping back his head, gulping noisily.

  Lila shook back her hair, opened her throat, and poured the ale down. She thunked down her glass moments before Tourant did. “You lose,” she said, scooping up her share of the money, leaving enough on the table to cover the drinks. This was timely, at least. She’d been thinking she’d need some traveling money.

  Tourant slammed his hands down on the table, going white with fury. Funny how he could change colors like that.

  “You—you—you—” Turning away, he scooped up a fresh tankard, drew off some ale from a smallish keg, then thrust it into Lila’s face. “Try this one. Lieutenant Rochefort brought it all the way from Ardenscourt.”

  “Did he, now? Does he have his own brewery? Raising a little money for the war effort?” Lila accepted the tankard with the exaggerated care of someone who’s a bit lushy already. Peering into it, she saw a muddy brown brew, with a rather musty nose to it. Not as top-shelf as she’d expected.

  She looked up to find Tourant watching her. “Where is this Lieutenant Rochefort, anyway?” she said. “I’m eager to meet him.”

  “He’ll be here,” Tourant said. “Soon. He had some business to attend to.” He gestured toward the ale. “What do you think?”

  Lila made a show of gulping some down, then wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “It’s quite . . . complex, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Indeed,” Tourant said, smirking. “It’s not the usual Tamric swill.” His gaze shifted so that he was looking over Lila’s shoulder. “Here’s Rochefort now. You can thank him in person.”

  Lila swung around, coming face-to-face with the newcomer. In contrast to Tourant’s plumage, the visitor’s clothing was finely made but subdued, without the markings of rank. He had a lean, sinuous build and fine-boned, artist’s hands. His skin was pale and unmarked, as if it had never seen sunlight. His eyes were hazel—oddly pale under thick dark lashes, and his hair was the same color as his ale.

  Blood and bones, she thought. Destin Karn. What are you doing here?

  “Lila Barrowhill, may I introduce Lieutenant Denis Rochefort,” Tourant said, seeming eager to make it a three-way. “Lieutenant, this is Cadet Barrowhill. The one I told you about.” His eye twitched, and Lila realized that Tourant was trying to wink and not quite succeeding.

  Lila had been working with Destin Karn for two years now—long enough to know that the younger Karn was a chameleon of a man, who could play any part, who could take on the colors of his surroundings. Just as he was doing at that very moment. She just wasn’t sure who the real Karn was.

  Destin’s father, Marin Karn, was commander of the Ardenine army and of the military campaigns against Tamron, Delphi, and the Fells. He was the architect of Arden’s captive mage program, in which they used flashcraft collars to force wizards to fight alongside them. Both Karns were wizards who had found a way to survive and thrive in a land that despised magic. Naturally, they’d managed to avoid taking the collar themselves.

  “Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant Rochefort,” Lila said, putting on a fierce, brilliant smile that said she wasn’t pleased at all. Setting her ale on the table, she extended her hand. Destin hesitated, as if worried about her intentions, then took it. His palm was smooth, uncalloused, and delivered a definite sting of wizardry. Magic was the weapon he wielded on behalf of his king.

  Destin kept hold of her hand, his eyes fixed on Lila. “Tourant was right,” he murmured, his lips twitching with amusement. “You are quite lovely—such an exotic mingling of races. We don’t have officers like you at home.”

  Lila bit back the first retort that came to mind. “No,” Lila said, withdrawing her hand. “You don’t.” Destin was having fun at Tourant’s expense—always a good thing—but that didn’t excuse his showing up here like this. She needed to get rid of Tourant, so they could have a heart-to-heart.

  “While we’re on the subject of physical gifts,” Lila said loudly, “I must point out Proficient Tourant’s very impressive ass. Nobody fills his breeches like he does. Turn around, Tourant, and give the lieutenant a look.” Lila described a circle in the air with her forefinger and raised her eyebrows.

  Horror and rage chased embarrassment across Tourant’s face.

  “And did you notice his skin—it’s the color of roasted beets.”

  The commander backed away, spluttering, unable to manage a suitable retort.

  “You forgot your ale!” Lila thrust a mug at him. Tourant took it and slunk away.

  Destin’s eyes followed Tourant’s retreat, then he looked back at Lila, grimacing. “Is it politically astute to antagonize your class commander?” Meaning Tourant.

  “I’ve never been accused of being politically astute,” Lila said.

  “Tourant should know better than to engage with you.”

  “He should, but he does not,” Lila said, “just as you should know better than to come here.” She added loudly, “So what brings you to Oden’s Ford, Lieutenant? Is the marching season really over in Arden?”

  “It’s always the marching season in Arden,” Destin said, cradling his mug of ale but not drinking from it. “The king is a demanding master.”

  Lila leaned toward him, so their faces were inches apart. “If you’re here to see me, you’re wasting your time.”

  “I’m here on other business,” Destin said, looking away.

  Which raised the question—what other business?

  “But as long as I’m here,” he went on, “it seemed like a good opportunity to convey a message from our quartermaster. We have an urgent need for as many—”

  “I thought I made myself clear. I don’t do business here. Never ever. If you want to talk, I’ll be heading east in another week or so. You can leave me a message at the Seven Horses on the West Road, or Chauncey’s in the city. Let me know how to get in touch with you.”

  Destin’s hand stole to his neckline, then dropped away as he remembered himself. “Hear me out, at least. The king has made a proposal that I think you’ll find—”

  “I said no. Is there something you don’t understand about no?”

  “Is there a problem?” Somebody’s foul breath washed over her, and Lila looked up to find that Tourant was back, like a bad dream, and pulling up a chair. He all but fell into it, clunking his mug down on the table. It was nearly empty.

  “Tourant,” Destin said in a low, vicious voice. “Go away. The lady and I were having a private discussion.”

  “Lady?” Tourant snorted. “You must be joking. I can tell you stories about Barrowhill that would—”

  “It’s all right,” Lila said heartily. “We were done with our discussion anyway. How are you feeling, Tourant?” She propped her chin on her fist. “You look a little under the weather.”

  “Me?” Tourant blinked his bleary eyes as if unable to focus. “You! You’re the one who . . . how are you feeling?”

  Lila shrugged. “I’m fine. But it looks like maybe you should call it a night.”

  “You’re drunk, Tourant,” Destin said icily. “Why don’t you do as she says and go somewhe
re and sleep it off?”

  Tourant ran his tongue over his lips. Did it again. Frowned. Pulled his tankard toward him, and sniffed at it. He reached for Lila’s, and she pulled it back, out of reach.

  “Keep your hands off my ale!” she said. “Go lay down before you fall down.”

  Tourant pointed a shaking finger at Lila. “You—you—you switched drinks on me.” He turned to Destin, a wounded look on his face. “Lieutenant Karn, I—”

  Karn. It was as if the room had gone silent around them, leaving that one name ringing off the walls. Destin Karn might keep a low profile, but his father’s name was known throughout the Realms.

  Karn planted both hands on the table and leaned in toward Tourant. “Imbecile. Have you lost your mind?”

  Lila saw death in Destin’s face, and wondered how far her own usually reliable sharp’s face had slipped. “Ease up, Lieutenant Rochefort,” she said. “Tourant’s just a little confused is all. He gets that way when he’s drinking. No harm done.”

  “But . . . she switched drinks on me,” Tourant persisted. “See for yourself.” The cadet shoved his tankard toward Rochefort/Karn. The lieutenant snatched it up and hurled it into the fireplace, where it shattered, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

  Temper, temper, Lila thought, picking a sliver of glass out of her arm. Destin seemed to keep a lot of anger bottled within his sleek skin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Why would I want to switch drinks? And why would it matter, anyway, since it all came from the same—”

  Tourant swayed in his seat, wilting before her eyes. Then slammed facedown on the table.

  Really, Tourant? Lila thought. Did you think I’d actually fall for the turtled ale trick?

  Tourant snored on, drool pooling on the table beneath his open mouth.

  Lila took a quick look around, what she should have been doing all along. All around the room, people were slumped over tables, snoring in corners, sprawled on the floor. With the exception of a dozen Ardenine cadets, hard-faced and totally sober. And they all stood between Lila and the door.

  Yeah, you’re clever, Lila, she thought, panic flickering through her. You were so focused on the turtleweed trap that you didn’t notice the other one closing around you.

  “Well, Rochefort,” she said casually as cold sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades. “Who knew that Tourant can’t hold his ale?”

  “Who knew?” Destin said evenly.

  Pushing to her feet, Lila crossed to the row of kegs, scanning the room for a way out. Saw none. She turned back toward Destin. “All this talk makes me thirsty. Would you like another?”

  He shook his head.

  Lila filled a new cup and set it down on the table, her mind working furiously. It didn’t make sense. Arden wouldn’t break the Peace of Oden’s Ford in order to dispose of a black sheep cadet who’d become a valuable Ardenine spy and an important black market supplier.

  Could they really have nailed her this quickly? If so, she’d underestimated them.

  Unless she wasn’t really the target. Unless they just wanted to keep her—and everybody else—out of the way long enough to—

  Bones. Bloody, bloody bones. Ash. Ash was the target.

  Destin was watching her, still as a coiled snake.

  “Watch my ale,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Destin’s hand shot out and gripped her wrist. “Sit down, Lila,” he said. “Please. Stay a little longer.”

  Let go of me, Karn, or lose the hand. “I said I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the privy,” Lila said. “Now let go, unless you want me to piss in your lap.”

  Lila could see the indecision in Destin’s eyes. She guessed that he and his crew wanted to do whatever they’d come to do and get out without being noticed. She was banking on that.

  “All right,” he said, releasing her wrist. “Hurry back. We’re not done talking yet.”

  Maybe you’re not, Lila thought. But I am. I just hope I’m not too late.

  10

  BLOOD HUNGER

  Ash awoke from a nightmare into a nightmare. It was the weight on his chest that aroused him, as if someone had placed an anvil there. He opened his eyes to find a man smiling down at him, a man who might have been a demon out of the old stories. His face was framed in the cowl of his rough-woven robe, his pale skin stretched across the bones around the caverns of his eyes and the slash of his mouth. A pendant dangled free at his neck, some kind of amulet. No, it was a tiny gold cup, like the kind used to dose medicines. Something in the man’s face reminded Ash of the cannis fungus addicts who lived in caves in the Spirit Mountains, growing their hallucinatory mushrooms in the dark.

  Ash tried to lift his hand to move the weight off his chest and found he couldn’t move, not one finger. When he looked down the length of his body, he saw nothing to explain it.

  He sought his gift, and could touch nothing. It was like pumping from a dry well. Nor could he touch the shivs under his pillow or behind the headboard or hidden in the book on his bedside table.

  The robed man gripped the chain of Ash’s serpent amulet, lifted it over his head, and tucked the pendant into his carry bag. Then he brought out a knife, a wickedly sharp thin blade, the hilt inscribed with runes and symbols. He waved it before Ash’s eyes, making sure he got a good look at it.

  The man spoke softly, a cadenced Malthusian prayer in Ardenine. Then he switched to the Common speech. “Rejoice, mage, for I am a priest of the true church come to cleanse you of the taint of sorcery.”

  Ash felt the cold metal of the blade against his arm. A stinging pain told him he’d been sliced. Then, horribly, his attacker lifted Ash’s arm to his lips and sucked the blood from the wound. The man shivered, closing his eyes, as if it were syrup of poppy. Blood was smeared all around his mouth, until he wiped it away with one hand. He uncorked a small bottle and poured something burning into the gash. Ash screamed, but made no sound, struggled and thrashed, but moved not a bit. Sweat pooled beneath the small of his back, soaking the linens under him.

  The blade man raked a hand through Ash’s hair, then lifted the bloody knife. Cut a lock away, tied it with a thread, and put it into a little bag at his belt. A trophy. Ash struggled again to move, to raise a wizard flame, to cry for help. Nothing. That was when he realized that he was going to die.

  The priest drank from the wound again and smiled a beatific smile, his teeth rimed with blood. “I do so wish that we had more time, and a private place, to do this properly,” he said, running his cold fingers along Ash’s collarbone, seeking the pulse point. “I would take you up in small sips, slowly draining you of sin and substance until the mana’in slips away like a whisper in the dark. With a healthy young demon such as yourself, the cleansing ceremony can last for hours.” He sighed. “It’s a lovely ritual, and a peaceful end.” He sighed again. “But my brothers will be here soon, and then, I’m afraid, it will be something of a feeding frenzy.”

  As if on cue, Ash heard the door to his room slam open. The priest muttered a curse, and his movements now became quick and purposeful. He grasped Ash’s chin and shoved it back and up. Ash closed his eyes and sent up a prayer to the Maker, expecting the touch of steel at the base of his neck, where the great vein comes close to the surface.

  The assassin made a new sound, a cross between a grunt of surprise and a gurgle. Something warm and wet splashed across Ash’s bare chest, and his chin was suddenly released. He opened his eyes just as his attacker slid sideways onto the bed, his own knife sticking out of his throat.

  “Ash.” Lila’s voice was soft and urgent. “Are you all right? Did he stick you?” Her face appeared within his field of vision, eyes narrowed with worry.

  Ash could only stare at her helplessly. Lila sucked in her breath and ran her hands over him, looking for a point of entry. Her hand stopped over his heart. “What’s this?”

  The suffocating weight was gone
. Ash pushed up on his elbows.

  Lila was holding something on her palm, like a dark spot. When she passed it under the light from the window, Ash could see it was a stone, a burnt-sugar color, veined with crystal.

  “It’s magic,” Ash gasped. “I couldn’t move, not a twitch. And . . . and it sucked all the magic out of me.”

  Lila weighed the stone in her hand, then tucked it into her pocket. “Are you hurt otherwise?”

  Ash shook his head. “Just my arm. It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing? Where’s all the blood coming from then?” Lila’s voice tremored a bit.

  Ash looked. The sheets where his arm had rested were sodden with blood, and the flesh was ripped from his wrist halfway to his elbow. It was the sort of a wound a person might have made a fuss over, in normal circumstances. But just now it seemed unimportant, next to his life. He flexed his fingers and found the tendons and nerves intact. Blood still ran freely down his arm, and he pressed it tightly to his side to stanch the bleeding. An anticoagulant, he thought, his training kicking in. They use an anticoagulant to keep the blood flowing.

  “He took my amulet,” Ash said hoarsely. “It’s in his bag. On the floor. There.” He pointed. Can you . . . get it for me?”

  “You mages and your amulets,” Lila said, the relief in her voice unmistakable. She turned away from Ash, knelt on the floor, and rooted in the assassin’s carry bag.

  Ash saw a flash of movement over Lila’s shoulder, someone flying through the doorway, heading his way.

  “Lila!” Ash shouted, using the body of the dead assassin as a shield so that the newcomer buried his blade in the corpse. The newcomer was still trying to free it when Lila slammed into him, sending him flying. He landed, hard, his head striking the washstand.

  Instantly, Lila was on him. She gripped the hilt of her knife with both hands, raised it and—

  “Wait!” Ash shouted.

  The blade was already on its way down, with all Lila’s weight behind it, but she somehow managed to turn it so it stuck in the floor next to the man’s throat. She swore and yanked the point free, then let it drop until it rested just above the assassin’s collarbone. He didn’t stir. Lila looked back at Ash.