Dark Magic (19 page)

He heard himself stumbling, seeking to retrieve his dignity as he bellowed for a squad to form. Cennaire stilled her smile as she drank in his confusion, waiting as grumbling soldiers quit their dice and hurried to snatch up cloaks and weapons. At the entrance ek’Nyle offered his arm—a motion born of habit—then began to draw it back. Enjoying herself, Cennaire denied him the chance, setting her hand firmly upon his forearm before he could hide it beneath his cloak. “Describe this Vanu woman,” she demanded as the uncomfortable vexillan escorted her toward the barricade.

Ek’Nyle complied, telling her of Katya and of Tekkan as they passed into the streets of the city and began to climb toward Menelian’s residence. Cennaire listened in silence, knowing that she must relay word
of these new players to Anomius even as she contemplated her forthcoming encounter with the sorcerer.

Best met, she decided, without witnesses. Should the mage detect what she now was he would likely denounce her, and while the letter she carried invested her with such authority that she might easily command the temporal forces, Anomius had warned her against revealing her true nature: such necromancy, he had explained, was frowned upon and would certainly turn all against her. It was unlikely these weak men could harm her, but they might well hamper her mission. She would, therefore, seek solitary audience with the sorcerer.

She nodded as ek’Nyle indicated the walls surrounding Menelian’s villa and removed her hand from his arm. His relief was palpable, rendering her suggestion more easily accepted.

“You need not linger, vexillan. No doubt you’ve duties to attend, and this may take a while,”

Ek’Nyle offered no argument, only nodded and sounded the bell that brought a servant to the gate. “The Lady Cennaire would speak with Menelian,” he announced. “Bring her to him.”

Without further ado, he saluted and spun about, beckoning for his men to follow. Cennaire ignored his departure as the gateman bowed and ushered her respectfully into the courtyard.

“My lady.” He closed the gate and led her toward the house. “Do you wait here and I’ll alert my master.”

Cennaire waved dismissal and he left her in the vestibule. She glanced around, at the mosaic patterning the floor and the image of Burash standing in its niche. Then the far door opened and she was escorted deeper into the villa, to a chamber of rosewood panels that glowed warmly, reflecting the radiance of the fire and the single chandelier suspended above a table littered with scrolls and parchments. The servant bowed and departed as a man rose from behind the table.

“Lady Cennaire? I am Menelian.”

His voice was light, a soft tenor, and he was younger than she had expected, rather handsome, his jaw shaved clean, his hair a dark reddish-brown, his eyes a surprising violet color. He wore a loose robe of black, woven with occult symbols, open over a white shirt and nigrescent breeks tucked into short, soft boots. His gaze was curious, but when she tested the air she sensed no alarm, only calm confidence overlaid with intrigue. She smiled, curtsying, and said, “Forgive me for so late an intrusion.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he replied as he gestured at a chair. “Will you sit? Shall I send for wine?”

“Thank you.”

She removed her cap and cloak, taking the offered seat and the opportunity to study him further as he went to the door, calling for a servant to bring wine. She thought perhaps he employed his art to mask himself, for on him she detected no scent of desire, only that cool curiosity. She adjusted her tunic, drawing it down from her slender neck, tauter over her breasts; no longer properly human, she yet retained the habits of her previous life.

Menelian returned with a salver and filled two goblets, smiling as he settled across from her. She saw his eyes stray to her neckline and felt the satisfaction of briefly scented desire. He asked, “What brings you here, Lady?”

“Please,” she replied, “call me Cennaire.”

“A pleasant name—Cennaire it shall be.” He sipped, watching her face over the goblet’s rim. Then: “And your business in Vishat’yi, Cennaire?”

“I come from Nhur-jabal,” she answered, “on Tyrant’s business.”

Menelian nodded as if unsurprised, his expression unfathomable. Cennaire experienced a momentary confusion. Accustomed, even in life, to more positive male reactions, she found his apparent indifference to her charms somewhat disconcerting, even irritating. Save for that transient waft of unhidden lust he evinced
no sign of attraction. Long-practiced artifice prompted her to lean forward, allowing her tunic to fall lower from her breasts as she reached beneath the silk to extract the letter of marque. She passed it to him, suspicious now that he used his magic to conceal his desire; that suspicion furthering another—that if he hid his true feelings, perhaps he hid more. Perhaps his own suspicion. She watched him glance carelessly at the letter, nod, and hand it back.

“You bear impressive credentials, Cennaire.”

Did he play with words? She was uncertain: she smiled and said, “I am entrusted with such agency as may be vital to the Tyrant’s cause.”

“You speak of the rebels?” Menelian returned her smile. “We’ve seen none here.”

“I speak of traitors,” she said, “and alien spies.”

Menelian’s brows arched. “None here,” he murmured, “as best I know—and I should, were there any.”

Cennaire wondered if he warned her: this one was far harder to read than Quindar ek’Nyle. He concealed himself, hid his true feelings; and still she could not decide if that was through the use of magic, neither if it was instinctive nor deliberate. She eased back, settling an arm carelessly across the chair, deliberately emphasizing the thrust of her bosom, setting down her goblet to push long strands of glossy black hair from the pale oval of her face.

Still there was no discernible reaction. She assumed a serious expression and said, “Mayhap no longer here but recently present.”

“Ah!” Menelian nodded as if at last understanding; as if she had been needlessly obscure. “You speak of Calandryll den Karynth and Bracht ni Errhyn.”

Cennaire was startled by his honesty. Eyes widening in surprise, she murmured an affirmative.

“This is common enough knowledge,” Menelian said calmly, his expression inscrutable. “Quindar ek’Nyle and most of the garrison know of it, and
doubtless our good vexillan has already advised you of their arrival and departure,”

It was difficult now to conceal her confusion, and she felt a hint of alarm. That Menelian knew she had spoken with ek’Nyle was likely due only to the report of his gatekeeper, but his cheerful admission ran against the grain of her presence in his home: unless he knew she was sent by Anomius—and how could that be?—he must surely believe she was come on Tyrant’s business alone, and therefore the mere asking of such questions about travelers and traitors should alert him to potential danger. She could not assume him so great a fool as to casually dismiss Nhur-jabal’s interest, so something else must lie behind his calm. Did he then suspect what she was? Holding her own face bland, she nodded.

“And no doubt he also told you they came on board a Vanu warboat mastered by Tekkan, with a woman named Katya.”

Cennaire murmured agreement, suddenly aware of a subtle shifting in the sorcerer’s attitude. Neither his expression nor his stance had altered, but on mention of the woman’s name his guard had dropped a fraction. She realized that his desire for her was muted by a greater attraction, an overwhelming desire for this Katya. She was surprised to find herself jealous, jealous and increasingly angry.

“And that I examined them and commanded they be set free,” she heard him add, “with all assistance given to the repairing of their vessel, which quit Vishat’yi some five days ago.”

His expression remained imperturbable. Cennaire’s lips pursed as her mind raced, increasingly convinced that he hid more than he revealed, that certainty disturbing. “They are proscribed by Tyrant’s edict,” she said sharply, seeking to gain advantage, to ruffle his implacable calm. “Deemed enemies of Kandahar.”

“I met them, as you know,” he returned, “and I found in them nothing to suggest they are our enemies. Rather, friends.”

“Mayhap,” she said, carefully now, “they employed sorcery to disguise their true natures.”

“Impossible.” Menelian shook his head, though his eyes never left her face. “Had that been so, I should have known it.”

“Can you be certain?”

“Absolutely.” He ducked his head confidently. “More wine?”

“Thank you, no.”

She could not prevent the frown that creased her brow as Menelian stretched out a hand and crooked his fingers, that simple gesture bringing the decanter floating from the table, whatever scent he gave off masked by the smell of almonds. Was that demonstration a warning? Did he toy with her? She transformed frown to smile: one servant of Xenomenus to another.

“Where did they go?”

The sorcerer poured red wine and sent the decanter back to the table, sipping before he spoke.

“To Lysse, as Quindar doubtless told you. Specifically, to Aldarin.”

“To Aldarin.” It was another piece in the jigsaw of her hunt. “Yet Calandryll den Karynth hails from Secca.”

“Indeed,” the wizard murmured, “but it was to Aldarin they sailed.”

“Why?” she asked.

“They’ve business there—money owed, a debtor to confront.”

Cennaire wondered if this smile mocked her. “Nhur-jabal would sooner they had remained here,” she said, “as prisoners.”

“On what charge?” Menelian demanded. “They broke no laws, nor are they enemies. Why hold them, then?”

“I do not question the Tyrant’s wishes,” she answered, “only obey the orders given me.”

“You bear a letter of marque,” he returned, “but you’ve shown me no script bearing their names.”

Cennaire was taken aback an instant. Then: “No, my instruction was verbal.”

“Odd,” Menelian said softly. “Were they truly enemies of Kandahar I’d assume their proscription would be written down, authorized with the seal of Nhur-jabal. Who issued this instruction?”

Now faint scent reached Cennaire’s attuned nostrils, though she found it difficult to read. Curiosity remained, but also definite suspicion, and—perhaps—hostility. Because, she wondered, he sought to protect this Vanu woman? Or for some other reason? His blunt question seemed a test: she said coldly, “The Tyrant Xenomenus.”

“Xenomenus himself?” Menelian set his goblet aside; Cennaire sensed his suspicion mount. “The Tyrant concerns himself with this affair?”

Cennaire nodded.

“Such matters would more usually be within the province of his sorcerers,” the mage said slowly. “Or Attam ek’Talus.”

His violet eyes fastened on her face then, intense, and in her expression he must have read doubt, for he added by way of explanation, “The commander of the army.”

“Of course.” She forced a wan smile, seeking to cover herself. “Attam ek’Talus.”

“Whose name you appear to find unfamiliar.”

His voice changed tone, edged now with the steel of mounting certainty. Cennaire held her features still as she shrugged, affecting irritation that was not altogether feigned: the sorcerer’s confidence began to anger her. “Do you question my authority?” she snapped.

Menelian spread his hands, a gesture that could be interpreted as either apology or unconcern. “Kandahar is reft with civil war, Cennaire, and you come hunting folk who are our friends—without written authority. I suggest you return to Nhur-jabal and tell them there that I have examined these men and vouch for
their probity. I think you’ll find my word holds sway with both the Tyrant’s sorcerers and Attam ek’Talus.”

Her anger grew: she sensed a trap laid and sprung. “You take much upon yourself,” she said.

“I am one of the Tyrant’s sorcerers,” he replied. “It is my sworn duty to defend this city and my talent is easily capable of discerning enmity. From whatever source.”

Sharp white teeth closed on her lower lip as she contemplated his face and his words. Those last had the ring of a direct challenge and all the instincts of her newly undead being urged her to spring at him, to attack and rend him as she felt sure she could, be he sorcerer or no. She curbed the impulse, retaining her role as agent of Nhur-jabal, a high-born lady come on Tyrant’s mission. Her huge eyes narrowed, she said, “You defy the orders of the Tyrant?”

“I have seen no such orders,” came the cool response, “only heard you tell me they exist. In turn, I have advised you these folk you seek are not enemies of Kandahar, and that on my word they were let go. Should I be required to explain myself in Nhur-jabal, then I shall go there. When—and if!—I receive written instructions to that effect.”

Diplomatically it was an impasse, and Cennaire had no choice but to accept that. She had, perhaps, learned as much as she could, and as much as Anomius would demand of her, but this man irked her—she would have more of him. She allowed her anger to show, rising as if propelled by irritation at his refusal to recognize her authority.

“You say they sailed for Aldarin five days gone?”

Menelian nodded.

“To seek some debtor—his name?”

“Varent den Tarl.”

It was another piece in the puzzle, another clue: she likely had sufficient that she could find them. Either find them in Aldarin or pick up their trail. Anomius would surely be content with that and perhaps it were better she go to him with the information,
leave now; but she could not, for her own sake: she was anchored by her annoyance.

“You appear undecided.” Menelian’s voice intruded on her thoughts and she stared at him with unconcealed dislike. His next words struck sharp as a blade: “Mayhap you wonder what to tell your master.”

“My master?”

Her eyes slitted. Through anger and surprise she caught a fresh scent, neither knowing nor caring whether the sorcerer dispensed with camouflaging magic or if his emotions grew too strong to hide any longer. She scented open hostility, suspicion becoming conviction. Danger!

“Is Anomius not your master?” Menelian rose to face her. “Or had I better name him your creator?”

Slitted eyes opened wide. “What do you say?” she hissed.