Dark Magic (23 page)

“By coach, I think,” he replied around a mouthful of the spiced stew. “A coach will hide us from prying eyes.”

“But not conceal us from such glamours as he might set,” she murmured.

Calandryll answered with a shrug: words seemed redundant, for Katya stated the obvious and if they
approached in fear of magicks, to approach at all was pointless. They had no choice save to hope.

“Do we discern spell-making, then we run,” said Bracht, adding with a wry grin, “if we can.”

“And if all seems well?”

“Then we enter,” the Kern said firmly. “I left a horse in Varent’s stable and I’d take him back.”

“And if Rhythamun is gone?” Tekkan demanded.

All three looked to the boatmaster at that and it occurred to Calandryll that they had all chosen to forget that possibility. This return to Aldarin had acquired the feeling of approaching confrontation, and the thought that Rhythamun might be already departed had not figured in their thinking. He broke bread from the loaf at his elbow and said, “Then we must seek information from whoever remains.”

“What does that stone you wear tell you?” asked Bracht, head ducking to indicate the talisman hung about Katya’s neck.

“That he is here,” she replied.

The Kern nodded. Tekkan seemed almost disappointed. Calandryll felt nothing: he wiped his plate with a hunk of bread, not much interested in further talk. It seemed to him that they must proceed on the assumption that Rhythamun remained in Aldarin, in the body of Varent den Tarl, and that speculation concerning his possible moves was fruitless: the sorcerer led the game and they could only follow. Were he departed, they could only hope to discover his destination and continue after; if he remained they must attack as best they could. Suddenly he felt a great impatience. He swallowed the bread and pushed his plate aside; took up his glass and drained it. “Shall we find out?” he demanded.

Without awaiting a reply he shoved his chair back, rising and drawing his cloak about his shoulders. Bracht’s grin was fierce as he followed suit, Katya a little slower, pausing to speak with her father in the Vanu tongue, her words eliciting a wan smile from Tekkan.

“Until later,” Calandryll murmured. “In the Seagull,”

Tekkan nodded and said, “Aye, until later. And may Dera and all her fellow gods go with you.”

T
HE
coach was such as gentlefolk favored, a phaeton drawn by two deep-chested horses, the cab secured against the elements with narrow doors and windows covered by curtains of thick felt. Katya and Bracht, the hoods of their cloaks concealing their faces, sat side by side, Calandryll on the other bench, where he might direct the driver. The vehicle swayed on its leather springs, bouncing as it carried them away from the Harbor Quarter into the bowels of the city. The night was yet young and for a while they traveled busy streets, along the course of the Alda, the river hidden by the buildings that stood along its banks, then they turned across one of the many bridges and the roadway grew smoother, confirmation that they entered a more salubrious quarter. Soon the streets grew empty, the taverns and emporiums and their concomitant crowds left behind, replaced by the walled mansions of the wealthy. Neither Calandryll nor Bracht recognized the avenue along which Varent den Tarl’s palace was situated until the coachman slowed his team, studying the insignia that marked the stuccoed walls.

From the window, Calandryll saw a familiar gate, and frowned as something about it struck him amiss. At first he was not sure—or could not believe his eyes—for the avenue was shaded with winter-stripped trees and the new moon not so bright as to shed clear light. He called for the coachman to halt, staring in numbed silence at the long pennants of white silk hung from the arched gate-top. They stirred fitfully in the night wind, ghostly at his dawning suspicion: he groaned.

“What is it?” Bracht’s whisper was loud in his ear
as the freesword peered at the gate. “What are those ribbons?”

Calandryll’s teeth ground hard together as the coachman’s voice came from the seat above: “Shall you be staying overnight, or would you have me wait while you pay your respects?”

“Funerary pennants!” His answer was harsh with conjecture. “Someone has died here. In Lysse it’s the custom to hang such ribbons to announce a death.”

“Rhythamun?” Bracht’s reply was disbelieving.

“More likely Varent den Tarl.” Calandryll shook his head, turning a face paled by moon’s light and apprehension toward the Kern. “Know you what that means?”

“That Rhythamun has quit the body,” Katya said softly, helplessly, “and now inhabits another.”

Bracht mouthed a curse. From the seat the coachman asked again, “Do I await you, or go on?”

“Go on!”

Calandryll flung the door open, springing to the street and tossing coins to the driver. Bracht came behind, pausing only to hand Katya down. Calandryll eyed the white pennants with loathing and hammered on the gate, the need for caution replaced now by the fear they had come too late.

Dera, but if Varent den Tarl was dead and Rhythamun ensconced in the form of some fresh victim their task was become near impossible! Must they now hunt a stranger, the warlock masked in another’s body, faceless? He felt his heart beat faster, drumming a rhythm of awful trepidation as he waited for the gate to open, his fingers tapping impatiently on the hilt of his sword. At his side he heard Bracht demand, “How can he be dead if your stone points us here?” and Katya answer simply, “I know not,” that reply met with another curse from the Kern.

Then the gate was opened by a servant dressed in Varent’s blue and gold livery, divided across the chest by the white sash of mourning, his face hollowed by
the shadows his lantern threw. “Masters?” he asked. “What would you in this sad place?”

“The Lord Varent den Tarl,” Calandryll extemporized, composing himself to some semblance of calm. “He is dead?”

“Aye.” The servant nodded solemnly. “And lies now in his coffin.”

“We’d pay our respects,” Calandryll said quickly. “Only today did we arrive in Aldarin, and this news was unknown to us.”

“You knew him?” The white-sashed man raised the lantern higher, studying the visitors with an element of suspicion, as if such latecomers could herald no good. “I had thought all who would offer their farewells were come. On the morrow he shall be entombed in his family’s crypt.”

“Lord Varent commissioned us to a duty,” Calandryll said firmly. “Do you speak with”—he hesitated as he racked his memory for near-forgotten names—“his man Darth. Aye, Darth; or Symeon, who manages his accounts—either one will vouch for us.”

The servant paused, clearly torn between offending this tall young man who spoke in the accents of the Lyssian nobility for all he wore the appearance of some itinerant freesword, and the dubious nature of his arrival at so late an hour. Bracht resolved the problem.

The Kern pushed past Calandryll, settling himself directly before the servant. “I gave a black stallion into Darth’s care,” he snapped, “and Symeon will, I trust, confirm that some two thousand five hundred varre are owed me. Now—do you bring us inside, or . . .”

He touched the falchion’s hilt suggestively; the servant started back, mumbling reluctant agreement, and beckoned them after him.

The mansion’s doors were draped, like the gates, with white and the interior was mostly unlit, though a single chandelier illuminated the vestibule to which he brought them. He sketched a bow and murmured
that they should wait, his expression one of relief as Calandryll waved his dismissal and frowned nervously at Bracht.

“Tact might well serve us better now,” he whispered. “If—as it seems—worst has come to worst, we must learn all we may from Varent’s people, not antagonize them.”

“I’d enough of his prevarication.” The Kern gestured irritably, then as abruptly grinned. “And we are here, are we not?”

“Aye,” Calandryll allowed. “For what good it does us.”

“Mayhap we shall find some clue,” Katya suggested. “Did you not say he had a library?”

Calandryll nodded curtly. “Though I doubt he’s left us markers to follow. And if he’s taken some other form, time is even more our enemy.”

“We do what we can.” Bracht’s voice was hard, defensive of the woman. Calandryll sighed and said, “I fear he shall escape us.”

The Kern smiled briefly then, mollified, and said, “At least we face no magicks here.”

Calandryll began to reply, but the inner door swung open then, admitting Darth. Like the gateman he wore a sash of white silk to indicate his mourning, wound about his waist, the hilt of a long dagger protruding. Red wine colored his lips and his step appeared a trifle unsteady as he came toward them. He studied them a moment, squinting as his eyes took time to focus, then ducked his head and smiled in recognition, his tongue thick as he greeted them.

“So you return at last, and with a beauty.” His gaze flickered blearily over Katya and he offered an unstable bow before murmuring lewdly to Bracht, “Rytha will be disappointed.”

Had he been less concerned with the enormity of events, Calandryll would have been amused by the reddening of the Kern’s cheeks as Katya fixed him with a speculative glance, offsetting the anger sparked
by Darth’s drunken admiration. He cleared his throat and said, “Rytha? I had forgotten Rytha.”

Darth shrugged carelessly and asked, “You’ve come for your horse? He’s been well tended,”

“And the money owed me,” Bracht said, indicating Calandryll with a callused thumb, playing the part of mercenary bodyguard. “Two thousand five hundred varre were promised did I bring my charge back safe from Gessyth—which you can see I’ve done.”

“Dera’s love!” Darth shook his head in exaggerated censure. “Lord Varent lies scarce cold in his coffin and you talk of debts. Have you no respect, man?”

“Life goes on,” said Bracht bluntly.

Darth’s flushed features grew darker and Calandryll feared he might eject them, but then the man’s stained mouth curved in a smile and he began to chuckle. “That much is true,” he agreed, “but Symeon is majordomo to this household and he must settle all such matters now. Come—I’ll bring you to him.”

Calandryll raised a hand, halting him as he beckoned them to follow. “The sum was, indeed, agreed,” he said, “but before such mundane matters are discussed, I’d pay my respects to Lord Varent.”

Darth appeared impressed by this observation of the proprieties and nodded, ushering them from the vestibule along a gallery lit at intervals by the soft yellow glow of candles to a door hung with a single unbroken sheet of white.

As was the custom in Lysse a room had been cleared and set aside, that the coffin might stand alone, awaiting those who would say their last farewells. Pristine curtains covered the windows and the only light came from tall candelabra standing at the head and foot of a catafalque draped with more silk. Upon that platform stood a sarcophagus of marble worked in Varent’s colors, blue and gold. Calandryll gazed at the elaborate coffin, not sure whether he felt apprehension or hope, his thoughts in turmoil at this dramatic turn of events. His instinct was to hurry forward,
but he curbed his haste, forcing himself to approach slowly, head bowed in apparent reverence. He realized that he held his breath as he looked down, half expecting Rhythamun to spring up, laughing in triumph. But in the coffin there was only a body, a husk with all the life gone out of it. It was swathed in white, the still face gleaming in the candlelight, its lifelike appearance testament to the embalmer’s artifice. Calandryll stared at the familiar features, the dark eyes dull now, no longer animated by the bright spark of existence.

This was, beyond all doubt, Varent den Tarl, and he was truly dead: Calandryll heard his stifled breath come out in a slow sigh and turned away.

He looked to Darth as Bracht and Katya approached the bier, his mind racing, horribly aware that the sorcerer had escaped and that he must somehow find a way to pursue. “When did he die?” he asked.

Darth took his hollow tone for grief, which in a way it was, and answered, “As is our custom, he’s lain in state these past three weeks. And now the house is to be sold and I’ve to find some other employment.”

He glanced accusingly at the catafalque: Calandryll assumed a sympathetic smile and said, “My condolences. Shall you bring us to Symeon now?”

Symeon was huddled behind the same cluttered desk in the same wood-paneled chamber where last they had seen him, as if he had not moved from there in all the time they had been gone. The single high window was shuttered, candlelight glinting off his bald pate and the spectacles that magnified his shortsighted eyes. Those fixed on the trio as Darth ushered them in.

“Two thousand five hundred varre,” he said by way of welcome. “Which you prefer be paid in decuris. Correct?”

Bracht nodded and the little man opened a leather-bound register, fastidiously annotated a column of figures, and set down his quill. He wiped his inky hands
on his grubby tunic, succeeding in transferring a generous measure to the sash that spanned the mound of his belly, and rose without further ado to crouch before the metal door set in the wall behind him. Calandryll watched as he brought a key from his breeches and set it in the lock. He swung the door open with a great huffing and reached into a chest he hid with his body. Coins clinked as he counted them into a leather pouch, then he closed the chest, returned it to the wall, and carefully locked the door. Wheezing, he rose to his feet and set the pouch on the farther edge of the desk.

“We thought you dead,” he murmured, eyes shifting from their faces to the promised commission, “but a contract is a contract.”

“Indeed,” said Bracht, taking the pouch and weighing it thoughtfully in his hand.

“It’s all there,” said Symeon.

Bracht inclined his head and said, “I’ve no doubt,” as he tucked the pouch safely beneath his jerkin.

The fat little man nodded, fingers caressing his ledgers as if he deemed all their business done and longed to return to his books. When they failed to remove themselves he grunted somewhat irritably and demanded, “Have you other matters we need discuss? Lord Varent had no kin and it falls to me to set this house in order that his possessions may be auctioned off.”