The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (10 page)

His
illidre
was not like those of most master majicars. It served as a focus for majick, and while most majicars carefully crafted theirs into artistic shapes and colors, Keros’s was a misshapen blob, looking very much like a shattered rainbow that he’d squeezed with his fist. He’d been angry when he formed it and had left it that way as a reminder to himself that he was an outsider to majick. He’d not asked for the gift and it had cost him far more than anyone should ever have to pay.

The pulse inside it told him that someone was waiting for him at one of the safe houses. Only Margaret, Ryland, and Vaughn could activate the summons and Vaughn was on the other side of Crosspointe. That meant that one of the others was in trouble, or they’d never have risked activating the summoning ward. He thrust himself out of the tub, toweling off vigorously. The fluctuations in majick made the safe houses a lot more vulnerable than their name implied. Not only that, but with so many majicars in the city, someone might have sensed the spike of majick from the signal and followed it back to its source.

He dressed and was out the door in less than five minutes, taking the time to make a sandwich from stale bread and sharp cheese, biting into it as he ran out the door.

The signal pulled at him, drawing him toward the southwest and he realized that the Lily house had been activated—each safe house was named for a flower. He strode through the gray morning and soon a drizzle began again, the breeze picking up. Keros pulled his hood up and snarled up at the pewter clouds. Damnable weather.

He wove through the nonsensical sprawl of buildings that made up the Riddles. He came to Ashford Avenue and halted in the shadows, glancing up and down. The avenue was the one place in the Riddles where law and order reigned. Here ornate expensive gaming houses crowded each other. Though illegal in Crosspointe, gambling was permitted in the Riddles. Or rather, the Crown elected to ignore it. Too many influential and wealthy men and women—including Ramplings—frequented these establishments. Raiding them would only embarrass important friends and strain alliances.

The street was full of workers raking away leaf debris, mule manure left behind by hacks, and whatever other random bits of flotsam and jetsam had accumulated during the day. Most were wearing only ragged trousers and shirts and no shoes; iron collars circled every neck. Their hands were red and chapped, their faces splotched with bruises. Most were thin nearly to the point of emaciation. The heavy rains had damaged crops and imported food was too expensive to waste on slaves. The various crews were made up of mostly men and boys and guarded by footmen and women carrying cudgels and short, stiff leather whips. Girls were kept for the scullery and the brothels.

Keros’s lip curled in a snarl and his fingers hooked into claws. Damn the regent! Damn every soul who bought slaves or stood by while others did! He swallowed, hot fury burning through his chest and turning his stomach. Bile flooded his tongue. He was one of the latter, his hands tied by Ryland and Vaughn’s orders. He’d promised to support them, never realizing that he’d have to stand by and watch people be dragged from their homes and sold like livestock. He gave a negative shake of his head. No—livestock was worth taking care of; these people were rags, to be used up and then tossed away.

Three loud cracks sounded in quick succession. A man crumpled to his hands and knees. Above him, a woman in pale orange and blue livery shouted at him, her whip cocked back over her head. She swung again and then two other servants joined her, one in matching livery, the other wearing cream and tan, and together they began to shout and kick the now-prone man. Keros sucked in a ragged breath and jolted forward. The rest of the slaves had cowed away, while more liveried overseers joined the attack. In front of the ornate building facades, men and women of the Blackwatch, Eyes, and Howlers watched the fracas impassively. They were paid to keep the peace for the owners, nothing more.

Keros stopped short, helplessness swallowing him. What could he really do? Even if he killed every mother-cracking bully bastard, he’d probably also kill their victim and likely a good number of the other slaves. But he couldn’t do nothing; he was tired to death of just watching helpless people being tortured. Looking down at the magic snapping and flashing around his hands like blue fire, he clenched them into fists, his body shaking with indecision. But then the decision was taken from him.

“Hey! Get on with you!” A hand struck him sharply in the middle of the back and sent him sprawling. “Move along. Your kind don’t belong here.”

Keros rolled to his feet, his jaw jutting. Majick sizzled through him. He spun and found himself facing the points of four halberds. On the other end were four determined Howlers in dark blue uniforms with high collars, shining black boots, and caped greatcoats. They glowered at him and, as one, they stepped forward, prodding the air before him with their weapons. He was suddenly aware of the scruffiness of his appearance—his long hair, tangled by the wind and weather; his untrimmed beard; his muddy cloak and battered boots. He was not the sort of man who frequented the businesses on Ashford Avenue, nor was he the sort who worked in them.

With instinct born of a life of wariness, he yanked back hard on his majick and pulled his hands up inside the sleeve of his cloak. He ducked his head. “Yessir. Just watchin’ th’ show.”

Someone spat and it hit Keros’s boot. “It’s not a show, wick-licker. It’s a cracking nightmare. Now get outta here before I shorten you by about a head.”

Keros bobbed a swift bow and jogged away in the other direction, his chest tight, still hearing the thumping of boots on flesh. His mouth twisted. He’d done nothing. Again. He was a coward. He turned a corner and stopped, leaning against a wall and breathing slowly, pulling his emotions and majick under control. Next time. He would not let it pass next time, and to the depths with the consequences.

As his breathing steadied, he suddenly became aware that majick hung thick in the air. It swirled about in sticky, spiny swirls and sank beneath Keros’s clothing, stroking painfully across his skin and making him shudder. It felt
wrong
in a way he couldn’t describe. But its touch sent his heart racing like a hunted animal. He swallowed and felt the majick pulsing from the buildings lining the avenue. They were smothered in majick—wards of protection against weather, fire, and attacks; wards of strengthening and comfort; and more to keep out bugs and dust. But their majick was . . . if not quite fraying, then softening. It felt to Keros like thick honey that had been warmed and had begun to run. Soon the wards would start to break apart and that could be disastrous. For they wouldn’t just dissolve and disappear. No, their majickal fragments would combine and transform into something else. Or they would smash against each other and explode wildly. This part of the Riddles could be leveled.

Keros swallowed, his mouth dry. So far things were holding, but that could change at any moment. How long could this wrongness last? He thought of the Pale and Lucy’s warnings. Too long.

He was about to set off across the avenue when something stopped him. It’s wasn’t precisely a sound; it was more the impression that there ought to have been sound. He turned his head, trying to hear.

A fine molten threading spiderwebbed across the inside of his skull. It burned like venom and made him reel. He staggered back against a tree and clutched the rough bark with clawed fingers. It was a spell—or rather, the side effect of one. Using majick always caused a ripple effect that disrupted other spells, unless contained within a smother room. It was like a ghost of the original spell, but unpredictable both in the form it would take and what it could do, especially if it insinuated bits away from other spells or collided with other ghost spells. Careful majicars planned for the ripple effect and found ways to harness or contain it. Sometimes it wasn’t possible.

This one was strong—violent even. His knees sagged as pain ripped through him. He clenched his teeth, heat enveloping him in a smothering fist. What
was
this?

He yanked at the laces of his shirt and freed his
illidre
, grasping it tightly and invoking its powerful shield spell. Instantly the pain faded, the majick curling away like burnt hair. He sucked in a harsh breath and straightened, his legs trembling. His skin was feverish and his entire body felt desiccated.

The majick continued to bombard him. It came in steady waves and there was no dodging it—there was simply too much and it expanded as it gnawed away bits of majick from every spell it passed. Each time a wave rolled over him, Keros’s
illidre
pushed it away. But he could feel the ghost majick eroding the shield, nibbling away at the structure of it. He reached in and strengthened it, then began to trail the majick back to its source. He had no other choice.

It led him northwest on an angle leading away from the Lily house. He strode quickly, repairing the shield spell every twenty steps. He stumbled over the uneven ground, climbing over a stile spanning a stone wall. Beyond, the ground dropped away sharply. A set of crumbling steps provided the route downward. At the bottom, several paths spoked away and quickly wriggled out of sight between hovels. Keros stood a moment to take his bearings, then followed the middle one.

Fear crept up his spine on beetle feet. He swallowed and repaired the shield spell again. Since the Kalpestrine had fallen, even properly constructed spells twisted strangely. It was like the rules of majick had changed. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Using majick now seemed to do something inside the majicar’s mind. It was a numb feeling, like part of himself didn’t belong to him anymore. He’d avoided using his own majick as much as possible, hoping that the strangeness would pass. But now he had no choice, and couldn’t help but wonder what it was doing to him. His stomach tightened and he continued on.

At this time of the morning, there should have been a bustle in the Riddles, but it was deserted. There wasn’t even a stray cat or rat. A clatter behind him made him start. He spun around. A handful of roof tiles had fallen. Now he noticed that the weeds thrusting up between the buckled cobblestones were vibrating. As he watched, the house beside him shifted with a grating groan. Keros turned and bolted. Just in time. A moment later, the house collapsed with a thunderous roar. A cloud of dust billowed in the air. Keros coughed and continued on, hoping that no one had been inside. It was a frail hope.

The majick trail took him over the Ferradon River to the edge of the Riddles. He paused at the stone bridge. It arched over the swift-running river in a graceful span and was wide enough for two carriages to pass without touching. At some point the original stone rails had been replaced with wrought iron, which now was rusting and flaking away. The road across was in good repair, however, because the businesses on Ashford Avenue used this bridge for their supply wagons.

As he watched, the bridge twitched. But the trail led to the other side. Keros started over in a quick jog. The wind gusted and rain slapped his face as his hood slipped off his head. He crested the span and stopped dead.

The bridge ended in a broad roundabout on the other bank. A half-dozen streets fed into it. Normally this was a bustling market. On the fringe of the Riddles, it attracted the denizens of Sylmont. Here was where you could buy a vast array of smuggled and illegal things. Except now the carts and tents were flattened and debris littered the area as if a tornado had struck but moments ago.

As he watched, a streak of majick erupted from the mouth of one of the streets. It disappeared up an opposite street. Keros waited for the sound of an impact, but there was only eerie silence. Then suddenly a ball of majick floated out of the second street opening and floated gently toward the first. Before it got there, the sickly green bubble burst. Droplets of majick sprayed outward and dripped down on the ground. Where it landed, stone bubbled and ran in thick, viscous trickles. The side of a bakery sweated away and the wall crumpled with a wet, grating sound. A bed tumbled from the third floor and screams from within echoed and then cut off sharply.

Ghost majick swirled away from the two spells. They tangled together and found a weaving, then drifted away, this time toward Sylmont’s city center. Keros bit the tip of his tongue, tasting blood. What in the holy black depths was happening?

He scuttled forward, feeling too exposed on the bridge. He reached the other side and dropped to a crouch beside the pier anchoring the bridge to the bank of the river. More majick erupted from the two streets. Different colors this time—gray and orange. The gray flung itself out in sticky strands. The orange meandered over the ground like a blind animal, nosing its way across the roundabout. The two majicks collided and flames erupted. Black greasy smoke billowed and tumbled down close to the ground, spreading outward in a thick, menacing cloud. Keros gripped his
illidre
, feeding the shield spell as he drew a deep breath and held it, closing his eyes tight. The smoke enveloped him. It was cold and it groped his exposed skin with a corrosive touch. Blisters spread over face and ears, traveling down his neck and over his hands. The grains dribbled past and the smoke settled slowly, flowing away like water draining out of a tub. It slid down his chest and thighs and lay across the ground like a sulfurous mist.

Keros let out the breath he was holding with a gasp. His face was on fire. The blisters on his eyelids split open and seeped as he blinked. He pushed to his feet and staggered forward. It didn’t take guild-schooling to realize that what was happening was a majicar battle. It was unheard of—it was insane. Yet it could be nothing else. He had to stop this—somehow—before they leveled Sylmont and killed everyone inside the city.

He crossed to the middle of the roundabout, standing between the two streets where the battling majicars hid from one another. From the left, a thin scarlet skein of majick rolled out, spinning through the air like a corkscrew. Fury swelled in Keros. He reached for his majick, drawing deep. He didn’t try for finesse. His cardinal affinities were Stone and Water. He wove them together with Bone, Stillness, and Ice, forming a massive club. It glimmered blue and white. With it, he battered the twisting scarlet spell, smashing it to pieces with brutal determination, knowing that the recoil on the casting majicar would be painful, if not fatal. He did the same to the streamer of green majick that unrolled like a ribbon of silk on his right. The attacking majicars were either getting tired, or they were not masters; Keros shattered their spells easily.