Spellbound (20 page)

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Authors: Blake Charlton

BOOK: Spellbound
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“Bah!” the old man said and then sniffed. “No one knows what's afoot in this cesspool. You don't know what you're talking about.”
Francesca cleared her throat. “Do you want your people to attract the canonist's attention?”
“Don't ask stupid questions.”
“If I'm looking for Nicodemus, who else do you think will be?”
The old man threw his hands in the air. “When did we start playing ‘guess what the healer's thinking?' Damnation and blood. I don't know anything!”
Francesca wasn't impressed. “In the infirmary, someone close to the canonist is talking about the Canics hiding Weal. You know I care about your people.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, that's it then? The virtuous healer come to save our wretched hides? So why'd you bring the windbag?” He gestured to Cyrus and then smiled crookedly at him. “I don't like him; he talks too much.”
Cyrus opened his mouth to say that he hadn't talked at all, but Francesca held up her hand to stop him.
Luro smirked and waved at Cyrus. “See! Just chattering away, just blowing away.” The old man laughed. “Windbags might lay golden eggs for the rest of Spires, but they don't do half a damn for the Canics. Can't even keep the lycanthropes out of our district.”
Francesca interrupted. “Hierophant Cyrus Alarcon is the new air warden of Avel. I've brought him so that he can see your people did not mean harm to the city when they harbored Nicodemus Weal. He doesn't want unrest. He'll lose his position if hierophants die on his watch. He will testify
that you helped. Did you think I'd be foolish enough to act alone? Risk my position at the infirmary to endure your … hospitality?” She nearly sneered this last word.
This made Luro hoot with pleasure. “Hospitality! Ha! All right, healer, now that I think of it—and now that I remember how damned persistent you can be—there's a favor I need doing, and none of the folk that annoy me less than you annoy me can do it. I'll make you a deal.”
“Like hell. You owe me.”
He sniffed. “Paid that off with the stories about the Walker. You're asking for something big, and that's got a big price.”
Francesca was silent for a moment. “What price?”
“Wait a moment,” the old man said and then hobbled to a chest. He rummaged around in it for a moment before coming back with something small wrapped in brown linen cloth. He held it out. “Look at this.”
Francesca took the object and unfolded the cloth. It was a thin sheet of steel, about as wide and long as a man's hand. In the upper-right-hand corner was engraved the image of a small crown. Cyrus's breath stopped.
Luro grunted. “Maybe half a year ago someone in this city started paying very desperate Canics to smuggle these into the city. I want you to find out who.”
Francesca seemed unimpressed. Cyrus was about to explain what she was holding when she spoke: “Smuggling steel through Avel? Luro, you're boring me. There's plenty of nobles in Dar and Queensport that sympathize with the would-be Highlander rebels. All of Spires would gloat if the Highlanders managed to break from Lorn. There've been Spirish smuggling weapons and steel through Avel and into Highland for centuries.”
“That steel's not being smuggled into Lorn,” Cyrus said. “It's being smuggled out.”
She looked at him. “What do you mean?”
Cyrus continued. “In the Lornish foundries, highsmiths cast their runes into metal. They charge these little sheets of metal with their runes in the same way that we hierophants charge sailcloth. A highsmith can take these different sheets, edit the text on them to create spells that transform into intricate metallic machinery or edged weapons or—”
“I know what highsmiths can do,” Francesca snapped.
Cyrus nodded. “If it's genuine and fully inscribed, that sheet you're holding has a dangerous amount of text.”
“Stop with the mumbo jumbo,” Luro said. “Fact is, smuggling those things into a Spirish city is safe as sleeping in a grass fire. You think Weal might cause trouble for the Canics? Bah! Whatever flame he'd start would be a spark in the firestorm if the canonist found we was smuggling those.”
“Luro, you old soft heart,” Francesca said through a smile. “Seems someone's still the Champion of North Gate after all.”
“Don't get cute on me, healer.”
“So someone's smuggling Lornish language into a Spirish city,” Francesca mused. “And you want us to stop them?”
“To hell with stopping them. Just get them to use someone other than Canics to smuggle the damned stuff.”
“If you can't find out who's paying for the sheets,” Cyrus asked, “what makes you think we can?”
Luro narrowed an eye. “It's got to be someone in one of the inner districts. I pull plenty weight in the outer districts; I'd have found him if he was out here. Bastard has to be operating beyond my reach. Has to be. But, I figure your fancy robes would let you ask questions in the inner districts.”
“How did you get this?” Francesca asked while bouncing the steel sheet in her hand.
“I heard rumors about them, so I had my nephews start asking around. I got a lot of nephews. Just after the rains started this year, someone leaves that at my doorstep.”
“Anonymously?” Cyrus asked.
“If that means the bastard wasn't stupid enough to give me a name I could pass on to the canonist, yeah, windbag, anonymously.”
Francesca rewrapped the metal. “I'm taking this with me. We have a deal, Luro. I'll look into this. I have a sinking feeling it may be related to this Nicodemus Weal character.”
The old man grunted. “That so?”
“That's so.”
“Good.”
“So it's time you told me about Weal. I need to find him, tonight if possible.”
Luro looked at Francesca for a while, then Cyrus, then Francesca again. “It's the militia boys. I don't mind telling you, since I don't like 'em. Nothing but goons and rioters. Hang them all by the neck and we'd be better off.”
“Militia boys?” Cyrus asked.
“Hotheaded pups wanting the Canic peoples to form a kingdom of their own or some such rot. Won't happen.”
Cyrus had not heard of such a group, but as a hierophant he had always been concerned with what was happening in the skies above Avel, not in it. So he looked at Francesca, who was grimacing as if in recognition. “Why harbor Nicodemus Weal?”
“Word went that he's talking against the canonist. Claims she's been corrupted by a demon or some idiocy. I think he's one of these War of Disjunction
lunatics, preaching about how Los and the demon army are crossing the ocean tomorrow.”
Francesca nodded. “And the militia buy it because it justifies splitting from Cala?”
“Best I can figure. They moved him about the district. Sometimes they'd hire the lowlife crews—Old Fatima's gang, Guy Fire's gang, that lot—to hide him from the city watch. They also paid Merchant Dal to hide him in one of his warehouses. That's where the violence was. A bunch of windbags tore through the place at night. Story went that more than a few of the windbags got popped.” He paused to leer at Cyrus. “But Weal got away. Militia boys must have evacuated him to Esten Town or Coldlock Harbor. Can't imagine where else he could be hiding that the lycanthropes wouldn't get him into their bellies.”
Francesca nodded. “Has he been back?”
Luro squinted at her. “You …” He paused. “Remind me again why it's so important that you find him?”
“It might be tied up in your steel problem, Luro. And you do know something about this; I see it on your face. Weal is back in the city now, isn't he?”
“Don't be stupid,” the old man growled but then asked, “Are you gonna tell me why it's so important for you to find out?”
“Because I won't attack a damned warehouse like the canonist's officers,” she said. “I can get to the bottom of this without more Canic bloodshed.”
He looked her up and down.
“Trust me, Luro,” she said. “Have I ever done wrong by your people before?”
“What's your angle? What's a healer stand to gain?”
“There's intrigue in the sanctuary,” she said. “I'm in a dangerous position. What I said before about our windbag here”—she nodded to Cyrus—“is true. He'll vouch for you and your people. But he's also been caught up in the intrigue. Trust me, Luro. Telling me how to find Nicodemus Weal will save some of your people, save our lives, and help us get to the bottom of your metal smugglers.”
The old man grunted. “That true?”
“True as a straight line.”
He squinted at her for a moment then grunted. “This morning there were rumors that Weal snuck back into the city. People are nervous. There's also rumors about this morning's commotion in the sanctuary and Weal having something to do with it. But maybe you can tell me something about that?”
Francesca shook her head. “I've told you all that I know.”
Luro sniffed. “Me spilling every detail, while you—”
“You're sure Nicodemus is in the city now?”
“Swear you'll be careful about this?”
“Swear on the Creator's name.”
He crossed his arms. “The northernmost gatehouse on our district's eastern wall is boarded up. That's where the militia's storing equipment and hiding Nicodemus. If he's in the city now, that's where he'll be.”
Francesca nodded. “Thank you, Luro. And yes, we will be careful.” She glanced at Cyrus and nodded toward the door.
“Bit of advice,” Luro said. “Change the windbag out of his green wrapping.” He jabbed a knobby finger at Cyrus's robes. “Otherwise, the militia will get powerfully curious about what a pike would look like sticking out of him.”
Once they were back on the street, Cyrus walked close to Francesca and muttered, “Disguise or no, it'd be mad to just run into a stronghold of discontented militia.”
“So let's not,” she said and turned into an alley.
He hurried to catch up. A terrified gray cat was scampering away before them. “What are you talking about?”
She stopped beside a shack. “Help me climb this.”
“Fran, tell me—” He cut his question short as she jumped up and grabbed hold of the shack's roof. He wrapped his arms around her legs and lifted until she managed to clamber onto the roof. Only when she was gone did he think about how close he had been to her waist.
“Come up,” she said. There came the cawing and wing beats of a startled raven.
Cyrus edited the sentences in his robes so that it rewove a fold of itself into a small rope. He wrote a spell at its tip and then threw it up so that it bound itself around a gutter. Once sure the line was secure, he shimmied up onto the roof. Francesca was on the far side, squatting so she could peer into the alley from which they had come.
“Why under Celeste's blue heaven do I follow you?” he groused, squatting next to her. “Why aren't we investigating the militia gatehouse?”
“Because the old man was lying,” she said while staring at Luro's house. Four ravens were flying circles overhead, probably the same birds Francesca had disturbed off of this roof.
“Luro was lying about everything?” Cyrus asked. “About the Lornish metal?”
She shook her head. “No, no. He'd have no reason to lie about that. He was lying about Nicodemus and the gatehouse.”
“Explain.”
“There are dissident Canics in that militia, certainly. That's like reporting there's fish in the sea. Maybe the militia Canics were even hiding Nicodemus when the hierophants caught him. And likely the hotheads are
building up supplies in an abandoned gatehouse. But they can't be hiding Nicodemus in it.”
“Why not?”
“He's a spellwright, Cyrus. He can't go through a gate or into a gatehouse; Cala's godspell would kill him.”
“Oh,” was all Cyrus could say. “Right.”
“I'd bet silver lengths to brass bits that Luro told us about the gatehouse to get us out of his house. Didn't you notice how his demeanor changed when I told him that there was intrigue in the sanctuary?”
Cyrus had not noticed.
“He was breathing faster, looking away when talking. His pupils were dilated. All signs of lying. I think Nicodemus is in the city now. Luro must have fed us a lie because he—” She paused as the leather curtain in Luro's door parted and revealed the old man covered in a cloak. Two children—neither one Daria—and one of the massive dogs were beside him.
“You think he's going to warn whoever is actually hiding Nicodemus?” Cyrus asked.
“Yes, and we'd better follow … God-of-gods damn it!” Francesca swore as Luro had headed off in one direction and the children in the other. “Whom do we follow?”
“Is Luro so canny that he'd send the real message with children and then act as a decoy?”
She arched an eyebrow at him.
“Right, we follow the children.” Cyrus snuck away from the ledge and then hurried to where he had left the rope. When Francesca caught up, he shimmied down. She followed, dropping the last few feet to splat in the mud.
Together they jogged down the alley and then turned into another that ran parallel to the one the children were on. They made two more sharp turns and entered a wide, rough-cobbled street. Packs of children interspersed with dogs ran about and played some sort of ball game.
To their left, the street widened into a cobbled square filled with merchant's stalls and lit by torches and tiny lamp flames. The air smelled of baking bread and cooking meat. Cyrus recognized the square as the North Gate night market—a place where the Canic people gathered to stroll and eat street food. Crowds were already filling the spaces between stalls, mostly adults but a few children and dogs among them. “Celeste in heaven,” Cyrus swore. “How are we going to find the—”
“There,” Francesca said and pointed at two children and a dog walking away from them down the street.
They hurried after, attracting little notice from the children. The dogs
however watched them pass. There were also a few adults who eyed the spellwrights. Cyrus tried to stride purposefully, as if he were on official business.
Above them, the twilight sky was fading into lavender. There was maybe a half hour of light left.
Luro's children entered another alley. Francesca turned down a different alley and then cut over to the one that the children had entered. It was darker between these buildings. Still, Cyrus could make out the dog and the two children almost a hundred feet ahead. The children turned off into yet another alley.
He and Francesca hurried after. As they ran, he noticed that the air smelled acrid, almost sulfurous. Then he saw some buildings with portions of their walls missing. Through the windows he saw patches of twilight sky.
“This neighborhood caught fire during the last lycanthrope incursion,” Francesca said while jogging beside him. “I heard it was abandoned.”
They came splashing to a halt before the corner where the children had turned. Cyrus looked after them. At first he saw nothing. The buildings here had been burned almost to the ground, leaving a forest of beams and stone chimneys.
However, there was one large sandstone structure, a temple, judging by its dome. Some of its walls had collapsed to reveal its fire-gutted interior. Charred rafters lay at awkward angles. Disappearing behind one of these was a child's figure.
They ran after. “Move quietly,” Francesca whispered as they reached the burnt-out building. “And ready any protective texts you have.”
With a few deft movements, Cyrus edited defensive language into his robes. Now, if struck by a sharp edge, his protective paragraphs would interlock and momentarily make the cloth as impenetrable as steel. “I'll go first.”
But Francesca shook her head and pointed to her wizardly robes. “I'm wearing black.”
He tried to protest, but she was already stepping over rubble and into the building. He looked down at the blue prose flowing through his sleeves and considered the few defensive actions he could take with so little cloth. If only he had a lofting kite.
The temple was quiet save for their rapid breaths. Cyrus looked up to watch Francesca step into the building. Something nearby made a sound like sand being poured out of a bag.
Francesca vanished.
The dark had not obscured her; he could still make out the dim forms of rubble and timbers. She had simply disappeared as if she'd been pulled into another world.
“Fran!” he whispered and reached for her.
But as his arm entered the dark, the blue sentences in his sleeve winked out.
Cyrus snapped his hand back as if burned. Once back in the twilight, sentences from his robe washed down to refill his sleeve. “Holy canon!” he swore. “Fran?” Nothing. “Francesca?” Still nothing.
He picked up a bit of burnt wood and threw it into the darkness. It thumped against the ground.
Again Cyrus reached into the dark, and again the sentences in his sleeve blinked into nothing. Then he understood.
It was the darkness. There was a disspell working in the dark, and something more than a disspell, something that had … swallowed Francesca.
Cyrus stepped away from the dark to stand more completely in the twilight. Night was almost upon him. He had to find some way of bringing light into the temple. He turned around and then froze.
Standing on either side of him—their muscular chests midnight blue, their long ponytails blond—were two humanlike creatures. Not lycanthropes. One had a pale scar on his cheek. Both were armed with hatchets and crouched as if to attack.
Cyrus's heart thundered and sweat formed under his turban.
One of the monsters peeled back his lips to reveal sawlike teeth of pure black. It gestured with a hatchet for Cyrus to go into the temple, into the dark.
But once in the shadow, the text in Cyrus's robes would be disspelled. He'd have no hope of getting Fran out of the trap.
Cyrus crouched, ready to fight. But his heart was still kicking hard, and sweat was dripping inside his headdress. Then a twinge of pain shot through his chest.
He went cold with terror. He'd forgotten.
Without her spellwrighting nearby, it must already be contracting.
Reflexively, he brought a hand to his chest and knew that the greatest danger was neither the two monsters in front of him nor the dark spells at his back.
It was the sentence tightening around his spellbound heart.

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