The Rite (12 page)

“What about Firefingers?” Taegan asked.

“He’s lived in Thentia since Selűne lit the sun, and has a stainless reputation. No, it’s impossible that it could be him.” “My wine glass is empty,” Jivex announced.

Rilitar smiled, rose, and picked up the bottle.

Taegan was feeling increasingly discouraged, but trying not to give in to it. “Have you noticed anything strange?” he asked.

“Well, the chasme.”

“What, specifically?”

“First off, its aura of flame. Chasmes don’t usually have that. Perhaps its master enchanted it to help it destroy our notes and such. If the demon sets fires wherever it goes, then with Rick, it wouldn’t have to single out important papers to burn them up.”

“Would the enchantment require a master of fire magic?” “Firefingers is scarcely the only one of us to make a study of the properties of the essential elements.”

Taegan sighed. “Well, it was worth inquiring. What else about the chasme was peculiar?”

“It was a wizard itself. It used magic above and beyond the innate abilities of its breed. But to my mind, the strangest thing of all was its resistance to wards and banishment. No tanar’ri should be able to enter my house unless I summon it myself. I have protections. Yet the chasme evidently experienced no difficulty, and when I tried to send it back to its own world, it laughed at me. Somehow, it knew the spell had no chance of working.”

“What do you conclude from all of that?”

Rilitar shook his head. “At this point, I don’t know what it means. I’m not much of a thief-taker, am I?” “You’re doing as well as I am,” Taegan said.

“Look,” Rilitar said, “I understand why you wanted to poke about in secret, but now that we’re both certain there is a traitor, and that he intends further killing, we have to warn, the other mages.”

Taegan replied, “I don’t like it much, but you’re right.” “We can downplay the fact that you’re trying to ferret out the killer.”

“No. To the Abyss with it, make me a target. Perhaps, in the act of striking at me, the killer will reveal himself.”

“I think you are as cocky as you seem,” Rilitar said. He crossed the room, opened a handsomely carved maple cupboard, brought out a long, straight, relatively slender sword, and presented it to the avariel. “So take this. We can’t have you pausing to enchant your weapon every time some malevolent spirit attacks you.”

Taegan gripped the sharkskin-wrapped hilt, pulled the sword from its silver-chased green leather scabbard, came on guard, and experimentally thrust and cut. Diamond-shaped in cross-section, the gleaming blade was light and exquisitely balanced, with a needle point. He felt a shade stronger, a hair quicker, even a bit bolder, wielding it, a manifestation of the potent magic infusing the steel.

It was, in fact, the finest sword he’d ever handled, a weapon sharp and sturdy enough to cut through mail or a dragon’s scales, but that responded to his manipulations as quickly and precisely as the rapiers he’d regretfully left behind in Impiltur.

“I hesitate to accept such a princely gift,” he said.

“Please,” Rilitar replied. “I’m no swordsman, so it’s no use to me. it’s an elven blade I enchanted when Firefingers first got me involved making gear for Dorn Graybrook’s hunters, but for one reason or another, none of them wanted it.”

‘Weil, I do,” said Taegan, extending his hand. “May sweet Lady Firehair bless you.”

“What do we do next?” Rilitar asked.

“Convene a meeting, announce that you magicians have a traitor in your midst, watch to see if the wretch somehow betrays himself—not that I believe we could possibly be so lucky—and be wary in the meantime.”

27 Mirtul, the Year of Rogue Dragons

Dorn kept wanting to blink, as if his eyesight was cloudy. It wasn’t. It was just different. Colors were muted, altered, or entirely faded to shades of gray. Yet, thanks to the enchantment Kara had cast on him, he could see clearly despite the darkness.

Employing his harpoon like a walking staff, Raryn stalked along at the head of the procession. His white goatee and long hair, like Kara’s moon-blond tresses, seemed almost to blaze in the gloom.

It had taken Raryn a long, weary time to backtrack the dead monk to the hidden tunnel entrance. The poor wretch had stumbled a long way before succumbing to his burns. But after resting, and using some of their precious healing potions to ease the hurts the chromatic dragons had given them, the seekers had headed down the passage.

Which, after a final twist, opened out into a sizable cavern. Stalactites stabbed from the arched ceiling, and other spikes and lumps of limestone jutted above the uneven floor. The cool air stank of guano, evidence of a colony of bats somewhere close at hand. Indeed, Dorn thought he heard one or two of them fluttering about.

“Curse it!” Raryn snarled.

Dorn wasn’t accustomed to seeing his usually placid partner betray such agitation. The half-golem had been serving as rearguard, but concerned, he sidled around Kara and Chatulio—whose long, serpentine body nearly plugged the tunnel—to draw even with the dwarf.

“What’s wrong?” asked Dorn.

Raryn pointed with a stubby finger, indicating three openings in the chamber walls ahead. “That, that, and that.” “What about them?” asked Dorn.

“Which is the right way?” Raryn said. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to make such choices, though really, I knew better. We’re miles from the monastery. The monks couldn’t have dug a single straight tunnel all this distance. What they could do was find a way into a honeycomb of caves beneath the mountains. Unfortunately, such places are always mazes.”

“Perhaps,” said Chatulio, “the monks made signposts to find their way through.”

“No,” said Dorn, “not if they want their secret road to remain a secret. Plenty of intelligent and unfriendly creatures spend much of their lives in caves. But Raryn, I still don’t see the problem. Why can’t you just puzzle out which is the right way?”

“Because I’m not that kind of dwarf,” Raryn said. “I’m the only example of the arctic variety any of you has ever seen, so maybe you forget, I didn’t grow up underground.”

“You’re still the best tracker and pathfinder I’ve ever seen,” said Dorn.

“Like any scout, I’m good in country I understand, which for me is someplace under the open sky. Below ground, I’m a tenderfoot again.”

Chatulio laughed. “And here I thought I was the joker.” Kara said, “I don’t believe it, either.”

“Nor I,” said Dorn, “and who knows you better than me? You can do this.”

Half hidden by his bushy mustache, Raryn’s mouth quirked upward in a somber smile. “All right. I owed you a warning, but I’ll try.”

“Everyone’s here,” Rilitar said.

Taegan nodded and turned to the wizards standing or sitting about their workroom in various attitudes of curiosity and impatience. He spread his wings a bit as if stretching, then folded them with an audible snap. It was a trick he’d learned as a fencing teacher, to draw an audience’s attention and make them fall quiet.

“Worthy mages….” he began.

“I want to say right at the outset,” interrupted Phourkyn, head cocked slightly to bring the glare of his single eye directly to bear on Taegan, his slicked-back hair giving off the sweet scent of pomade, “how inappropriate it was for you, Maestro, to command any of us to attend you. You lack the authority, and so, for that matter, does your fellow elf.”

Some of his colleagues growled their agreement. Perched on one of the rafters, Jivex made a spitting sound, expressing his disgust at their show of pique.

“Yet you indulged me,” Taegan said. “I thank you for that, and hope to repay your kindness by saving your lives. A demon tried to kill Rilitar last night. I’m certain it was the same tanar’ri that slew Lissa Uvarrk, and am just as sure we haven’t seen the last of it. It will keep on trying to destroy one or another of you, at moments when it—or the warlock controlling it—hopes to find you alone and vulnerable.”

The wizards all started clamoring at once. Taegan raised his hands for silence until the babble faded, then gave the assembly an abridged account of the battle with the chasme, omitting any mention of the chase that had ended in front of Scattercloak’s house.

Afterward, Firefingers, looking not merely elderly but troubled, perhaps even frail for the first time since Taegan had met him, said, “Plainly, this is cause for concern, but I’m loath to believe that any member of our fellowship could be a traitor. Surely we can find a likelier explanation.”

“Such as another mage?” said Sinylla, looking fresh and pert as usual in her silvery vestments and crescent-moon pendant. “One unknown to any of us, lurking here in town.”

“It’s not impossible,” Taegan said, “but I’m currently gazing at a chamber stuffed full of powerful wizards. It makes little sense to assume, without a wisp of evidence to support such a supposition, the covert presence of yet another unless we can establish the innocence of each of you.”

“We know of the shadow Sammaster left in his writings,” said Phourkyn, “to possess any who tries to read the text by magical means. Perhaps he bound a chasme in the folio to provide a second trap, and our investigations released the thing without us even realizing.”

“I doubt it,” Rilitar said. “Neither Lissa nor I had tried to unravel Sammaster’s cipher in a good long while. We were concentrating on the lore Kara and her allies have recovered from the ancient shrines. Why, then, would a tanar’ri charged with protecting the secrets of the lich’s notes attack us in preference to someone who was still working on them?”

Pink-jowled and sweaty-faced in his white and silver robes, Darvin Kordeion said, “I warned you all that no good would come of persisting in these inquiries, but nobody listens to me.”

“Because you’re a coward and a fool,” Phourkyn said.

“For once,” said Scattercloak, shrouded in his mantle, head bowed so no one could see under his cowl, “you and I agree. But in this instance, Master Kordeion was correct to worry.”

“Murder is the Watchlord’s business,” called one of the lesser mages. “We should inform him right away.”

“No,” Taegan said. “For the sake of keeping the peace, he’d forbid you to continue your studies as he nearly did before. No one can tell him anything. If someone does, I’ll take it as proof that the informer himself is Sammaster’s agent, and deal with him accordingly.”

Phourkyn sneered. “Don’t flatter yourself that a mere bladesinger could ‘deal’ with me, Maestro, or with a number of these others. But that aside, I agree with you. What’s the point of whining to Gelduth Blackturret? Does anyone believe him capable of contending with a threat powerful enough to menace us? We have to protect ourselves.”’

“Or abandon our inquiries,” Darvin said.

“We’ve already discussed that,” Firefingers said “and determined it would be irresponsible.”

“Worse than that,” Phourkyn said, “giving up would constitute a craven surrender to our foe.”

“I weary,” said Scattercloak, “of the manner in which you constantly presume to pass judgment on the rest of us. It’s not your place to define the course of wisdom or honor for your fellows.”

“Maybe not,” said the one-eyed mage. “It’s certainly a waste of time trying to recommend honor or courage to you.”

“Blood and dung!” Taegan exclaimed. “Dorn and his’ comrades warned me that you lot love to squabble, but it’s accomplishing nothing. I suggest we turn our attention to safeguarding this enterprise. Rilitar and I have some ideas in that regard.”

Phourkyn snorted. “I’ve already explained, Maestro, you’re not in command here.”

“I’m aware of that,” Taegan said. “But Master Shadow-water and I have had a little time to ponder this matter. You haven’t. For that reason if no other, it makes sense for you to listen to our recommendations.”

“Yes,” said Firefingers, “I concur.”

Phourkyn spread his hands in a curt gesture conveying that, though it would likely prove a waste of time, he was willing to humor the senior wizard.

“Each of you” Taegan said, “needs to make himself as safe as he can. To the extent possible, keep defensive enchantments in place, and carry your arcane weapons wherever you go. Bodyguards, be they conjured spirits or hired bravos, may also prove useful.”

“Surely,” said Scattercloak in his emotionless, artificial-sounding voice, “this is obvious.”

“What’s obvious,” one of the lesser mages murmured to another, “is that if you really want to be safe, you’ll clear out of Thentia.”

“Right,” said the second warlock, “and then a dragon flight catches you on the road.”

“Perhaps,” said Taegan, “what I say next will seem less obvious. Most of you pursue your studies not just here, but in your own homes, your own sanctuaries—”

“Because we all have private spells and resources,” Phourkyn said, “which we’re reluctant to reveal. So of course we labor in secret. We’re wizards! You can’t expect us to do all our work together in one room, like apprentices under a master’s supervision.”

“I’m not suggesting that,” Taegan said. “But henceforth, no pages from Sammaster’s folio, or other materials relevant to your investigations, can leave this room. Moreover, we need to make an inventory of what we have, and employ a clerk to keep track of it. With luck, it will insure that the traitor doesn’t steal or destroy vital information.”

“I’ll provide the clerk,” Firefingers said.

“I also advise,” Taegan continued, “that each of you submit to an interrogation conducted by one of the Moonmaiden’s priestesses. I trust Sinylla Zoranyian and her sisters in the goddess’s service can arrange it discretely, without the Watchlord finding out. Perhaps, employing spells to sift truth from falsehood, the Silver Lady’s servants can identify the traitor.”

“Not a chance,” Phourkyn sneered. Any accomplished mage can flummox such piddling enchantments.”

“I think,” said little Jannatha Goldenshield, a trace of anger in her voice, “that you underestimate Selűne’s power.” Taegan had learned that Jannatha and her sister Baerimel Dunnath, the third mage in service to the House of the Moon, were Sinylla’s cousins.

“It’s worth trying,” Taegan said. “I know wizards are jealous of their secrets, but surely you can trust Selűne’s handmaidens to restrict their questions to the matter at hand.”