Mage's Blood (77 page)

‘You’re the only local among us, Al,’ Ramon observed.

Nye trotted back to Alaron, looking up expectantly. The first shaft of sunlight broken over the mountains in the east and the sky went from grey to pale blue. Nye whimpered; suddenly he looked translucent. ‘We’ll come back tonight,’ Alaron said, then, quickly, ‘We’re going to lose him—’ and he slapped his thigh and called, ‘Come on, boy!’ He whirled and ran for home.

He ran all the way, Nye bounding eagerly beside him. He fumbled
open the door, the dog sniffed once, then barked and tore into the house, Alaron on his heels.

Jarius Langstrit was sleeping in the armchair by the cold fireplace, but he awoke as Nye ran towards him, barking happily, and recognition seemed to run through him. The hound put his paws in the general’s lap and nuzzled him happily, and the old man stared down at him, then began to ruffle his fur, his face blank but tears rolling down his cheeks.

‘Nye,’ he whispered. ‘
Nye
.’ They were the first words he had spoken since he had appeared.

Alaron felt his heart trip. The others pounded in behind him, panting; they clapped him on the shoulder as they peered into the room, then he heard them gasp too as they heard the general repeat the dog’s name, over and over, as he hugged the wolfhound. The dog’s tail pounded the floor delightedly.

Perhaps this will cure him
, Alaron thought, but as the sun rose outside, the dog started to fade away. With a regretful snuffle he turned and was gone, bounding away into some dark place that acknowledged no walls, his final bark slowly echoing into silence. The general stared after him, his cheeks wet, a wondering smile on his face.

They couldn’t coax any other words from Langstrit, so they were left whiling away the day in feverish impatience. Ramon went to Bekontor Hill to check whether Vult had arrived, using the pretext of booking his passage to Pontus – he was due to rejoin his legion in a few weeks. A small flotilla of windships was already assembling, getting ready to take the magi to join the Crusade.

Meanwhile Alaron read up on the de Savioc family in one of Tesla’s books. They seemed remarkable only for their dullness. ‘In a world where nobodies like us end up on quests for the greatest treasure of the empire, this lot have managed a footnote in a horse-breeding manual,’ he told Cym. ‘The only interesting one was the last of them. He got killed in a duel over gambling debts. His last words were: “What were my odds?”’ He chuckled morosely.

They spent the rest of the day packing all the clues from their
quest in a chest, ready to transfer to the cellar they’d prepared as Alaron’s hideaway. Ramon got back from the landing towers. There was no word yet of Vult.

Cym agreed to stay with Tesla and the general while Ramon and Alaron returned to the de Savioc crypt. They set off at dusk. In Old Town the wealthy lived behind high walls and locked and guarded doors. The streets were always quiet and they reached the crypt unchallenged. Ramon worked the lock open with studious application of gnosis and within a few seconds they were both inside and the door closed behind them. Alaron lit a torch.

The difference between this and the previous chapel was pronounced. All but one of the sarcophagi were marble, and expensive shades of marble too: reds and greens and blacks. The one plain stone sarcophagus belonged to the unfortunate gambler, Roben de Savioc, the last of his line.

‘So, what are we looking for?’ Alaron wondered aloud.

Ramon was staring at the headstone of one Alvo de Savioc, Roben’s father. ‘That,’ he replied after a few seconds. The marble was worn and cracked, and the moss growing in the cracks had all but obliterated the family crest, a set of keys and the words JEUNE ETERNAL: for ever young.

‘What?’

Ramon poked a finger at the script. ‘Look: the first and last letters are discoloured: J and L.’

Alaron sucked in his breath. ‘J L. Jarius Langstrit.’

Ramon nodded. He had his periapt out and was scanning the tomb. ‘Ha – see this?’ He wiped the moss away just below the letters J and L. ‘There—’

Alaron peered. A phrase was scratched into the stone:
Voco Arbendesai
. His mind clicked over. ‘It’s wizardry – “Voco” means “Summon”.’

‘And “Arbendesai”?’

‘It’s a name – all spirits have names by which they are summoned.’ He gripped Ramon’s shoulder excitedly. ‘We’re almost there, Ramon.’

*

It was dawn over the Alps. Vult felt the updrafts, breathed in the clear, cold air. He had slept, finally, until woken by a tentative touch on his mind. <
Magister Vult – answer!
>

<
Mater-Imperia?
> He licked his lips.

<
Where are you, Magister?
>

<
I am flying back to Noros, Imperia-Mater. I can explain
…>

<
Good. Because I am not accustomed to finding that one of my envoys has abandoned his post without explanation. There is a rumour that you panicked because assault is imminent and fled the field. The name of Lukhazan has been raised repeatedly here in Pallas. Explain yourself, Magister Vult
.>

The grip she took of his mind tightened as she spoke and he felt a cold dread that she might be able to reach down from her tower in Pallas and tear out the inside of his head. He marshalled his defences, establishing a new barrier within himself, not challenging the grip she had, but prepared to contest any further intrusion. Only then could he think rationally.

Something close to the truth was required – but not the real truth, of course: never that. The stakes were too high. <
There has been a security breach at the Norostein Governor’s Palace, Mater-Imperia. Information may have been stolen that is critical to the empire
.>

When she replied it was in an even, concerned voice. <
What information is that, Magister?
>

<
That is yet to be ascertained. I felt the breach and followed it back. I almost scryed the intruders, until someone broke the link
.>

<
Then your thieves have talent, Magister. You must be anxious
.>

<
It is unnerving, Majesty. There are few I would rate capable of such a deed
.>

<
Do you have any suspects?
>

<
Until I land and can be briefed, no
.>

He awaited her displeasure, but when she responded again, she remained sternly cordial. <
I must have a soft spot for Noromen, Magister Vult. I have had to forgive your compatriot Gyle twice, and now I do the same for you. I shall expect a full report. Keep me appraised of developments. The list of those capable of such an outrage would be small, Magister, but the names on it are alarming, I deem
.>

<
I am suitably alarmed, Mater-Imperia
.>

She laughed. <
Yes, I am sure you are. May that alarm fuel your hunger to solve this matter. But Magister, I am not amused at you abandoning your post. It frightened the garrison at Hebusalim, and scared men make poor decisions. I will not forget this. Find your thieves and deal with them. Keep me informed
.>

<
Yes Majesty
,> he replied, but she was already gone.

Next morning Alaron was breakfasting early, on his own. Cym was still sleeping and Ramon had gone to the land-towers – but Alaron had barely finished his porridge when the door burst open and Ramon hurtled in. ‘You’ve got to move, Alaron – they’re expecting the governor tonight. We need to get you and the general to that cellar now—’

The enormity of it all hit Alaron like a punch to the belly, but Ramon didn’t let him hesitate. Evidently going into hiding at a moment’s notice was normal for Silacians. ‘Come on, Al, let’s move!’

Dusk found Alaron fifteen feet below ground in a hidden cellar beneath an abandoned wreck of a cottage. He was perched on a pile of sacks, wondering how on Urte he was going to be able to endure the coming night, here beneath the ground with no one but the general and a pile of books for company. At least a dose of gnosis-fire had dealt with the fleas. But life looked like it was going to be pretty miserable henceforth.

The hatch above was wrenched open and Ramon clattered down the stairs, clad in dark clothes. The general stared at him with a passive face and disinterested eyes. Ramon sniffed and wrinkled his nose. ‘What a sewer.’

‘Thanks,’ Alaron scowled, from his lumpy mattress of flour-sacks. ‘What were you expecting, the Royal Suite?’

‘No, just less filth and decay.’

‘Thanks for raising the point. I’ll have the maid clear up – oh, hang on, no maid—’

‘Stop sulking, Alaron. Your father dealt with worse during the Revolt.’

‘Yeah, but that was patriotic,’ Alaron muttered sourly. ‘I suppose your
tavern room
is comfortable?’

‘Not bad,’ Ramon said, ‘thanks for asking.’

‘Huh. So, are you here to help, or what?’

‘To help, as always.’ Ramon held up a clay pot. ‘Silver compound, for the summoning circle.’ They both knew the theory, but Ramon had no affinity for Wizardry himself, so it was left to Alaron to once again take up a Study he had always been more than a little frightened of. Wizardry involved calling and binding the spirits of the dead who haunted the earth as servants. They were mentally linked to each other, a web of dead souls, constantly being renewed as some passed on and others died – but there were others, still superstitiously called ‘daemons’. These beings had been around for millennia, and the eldest daemons were very strong – and much prized by wizards; once named, they could be summoned and controlled.

Though a wizard could summon a daemon without a circle, only a madman would summon an unknown daemon without one. A summoning circle would confine the daemon until it could be subdued; the circles could be attuned to the specific powers of known spirits, tailored to hide identities and detection or filled with illusions and traps: this was all part of the varied arts of Wizardry. A full wizard’s summoning circle could take hours to inscribe.

Like Necromancy, Alaron had always found Wizardry terrifying. Never mind that the entrance exams had suggested that he had an analytic and logical mind well suited for such Studies; the truth was he was gut-clenchingly scared of all these dead souls and daemons – and just the threat of having his mind destroyed if he failed to subdue the summoned being was the stuff of nightmares. He had hoped to never again use Wizardry in his life, but it didn’t seem to be working out that way.

I did Necromancy the other day … I can do this
, he told himself firmly.

The painstaking inscription and the preparation of the inner circle took all night, though the boys worked well together. Just before dawn, Alaron experimentally activated the summoning circle with a light touch of gnosis and gave a grunt of satisfaction when a
scintillating column of semi-opaque light arose inside. The silver liquefied and fused. He walked around it, looking for gaps, then deactivated it, so that he didn’t burn off the valuable ingredients. ‘It’s done!’ he announced, and immediately felt immeasurably tired, wanting only to sleep for ever – but he was excited too.

A few months ago I’d have fallen apart at what we’re going through. But I can do this
, he thought. He showed Ramon the circle. ‘The inner circle is for the daemon and the outer one is for me, so that if I screw up, the daemon can’t get at the rest of you. It looks good. I think we’re ready.’

‘Then we’ll do it tonight.’ Ramon peered at Alaron. ‘You’ll need to sleep, amici. You need a fresh mind to take on a daemon, si?’

Alaron felt surprisingly confident. ‘We can do this,’ he insisted. ‘Hey, what do you reckon the general will say if we can restore him?’

Ramon chuckled. ‘Something along the lines of: “Who the Hel are you clowns?”, I imagine.’

Alaron tried to hold onto the light moment, but couldn’t. ‘Imagine being so desperate you’d destroy your own mind and just take it on trust that someone would find you and repair it for you.’

Ramon said soberly, ‘Si – maybe he’s crazier than we are.’ He glanced at the sleeping Langstrit. ‘I should go. We both need to rest for the summoning tonight.’

‘And maybe battle an uncontrolled daemon, if I screw up,’ Alaron worried.

‘Or fight off Vult, Fyrell, Muhren and half the Watch,’ Ramon added lightly.

Alaron looked at him miserably. ‘I’m sorry, Ramon. I should never have taken that file, I know—’

‘Done is done, Al. We’ll just have to be cleverer now.’ Ramon stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t panic, amici. We’re nearly there.
Tonight!
’

Alaron pulled him into a rough hug. ‘Thank you, my friend – thank you for everything. Without you here, I’d already be dead.’

Ramon cocked his head impatiently. ‘Don’t make me cry, Al.’

Alaron hugged him again. ‘I mean it, Ramon. You’re my best friend.’

‘And you are mine, Al. But you’re still an absolute moron.’ Ramon pushed him away. ‘What does that say about me, eh?’

Alaron tried not to succumb to claustrophobia as the hatch shut above him. He settled into the darkness, alone with the silent general. He thought of Cym, watching over his mother, and sent his love. It would have been hypocritical to pray when he despised the Church, but he came close to breaking ranks on that score, for sheer terror at what might happen to the people he loved.

Be safe, all of you. Please, be safe
…

Freyadai, 29 Maicin 928

A bitter north wind blew Vult into Norostein before dawn. He stood dizzily and stretched as the windship settled on the paved terrace above the city. The Air-magi who had piloted Vult nonstop since Pontus simply rolled onto their backs on the deck and groaned, their relief needing no words. They had met his wishes, and exceeded them. The stars glittered off the snow-covered slopes of the Alps thousands of feet above them, the barrier to the south, the throne that gazed down upon them, as implacable as Mater-Imperia Lucia herself.

He threw a pouch of gold onto the deck as he left. Let them fight over it; that was the way he had always run his underlings. Let the wolves rip and tear at each other, then he would adopt the winner. It was how he’d found Gurvon Gyle, and Darius Fyrell. And here was Fyrell, waiting loyally.