Vengeance (18 page)

—There's no time to wait for the nice lady. Now, where will they keep O'Malley?—

Duff had visited the Juezhalle before, but he had never thought he would stand there as a defendant. He wondered if the accused always felt as he did, if they questioned whether they would ever see blue sky and their loved ones again, and felt an unaccustomed pang of guilt at the way he'd left Sinhalese.

When Jocasta had gone, he'd buried his face in his hands, and the smile had slipped from his face. He summoned Sinhalese, who cringed.

"You moron!” he bellowed. “Why on earth did you interrupt when you did? You couldn't have waited a few minutes? You slack-jawed cretin, she was on the verge of quitting—and you gave her another shove to get her going again! You've ruined me, you little half-wit!” His jaw worked, and he turned away. “Get out of my sight,” he muttered, barely audibly, but so venomously Sinhalese fled.

He guessed she'd run to her room and shiver there while Task consoled her. He could just picture them, his stomach churning at the way she'd have dived into Task's arms for comfort, and the way he'd have held her until her shaking stopped.

"I know he's under pressure, but it's coming from inside him. Nobody else makes such demands of him.” Duff could hear her whisper, almost to herself in an anguished voice. She'd said so often enough—as if relaxing would solve anything at the moment.

Task would have led her to the bed and laid her down on it. Then held her while her tenseness eased a little. When he moved to leave the bed, she would have stirred and murmured, “Don't go. Please."

Such thoughts sickened him, but Duff couldn't stop himself.

A little later, she'd have murmured, half asleep, “I wish he was like he used to be."

Duff wished he could be too.
Maybe if I survive this
, he thought. Maybe. He made a huge effort to relax and look around him as if he had nothing to worry about. As if his future as a mage didn't hang in the balance; as if there was no possibility of expulsion from the order, no possibility of having to work as a menial, fit only for selling love potions or acting as a rich man's decoy.

The room was an empty, windowless rectangle—wooden-floored and high-ceilinged, big enough to hold a thousand standing. He had no idea how many were present now. The room was in darkness, apart from the cone of light he stood in. A drumbeat pounded slowly, monotonously to his right. It was meant to intimidate, and he should ignore it, but he felt a prickle of perspiration. The attendants had removed as many of his spells as they could before they'd sent him over, and he felt nearly naked.

Duff didn't know how many stood in the darkness beyond the light. He'd have preferred to use ultraviolet vision, but they were using wards to prevent him—his eyes watered every time he tried. He could have been alone or the whole order could have stood there. Duff wasn't sure which he preferred, a full room or an empty one.

"Stanislav Duff, archmage. Will you accept questioning under Truth Spell?” Hobken's voice was massively amplified.

"I will not.” They could ask him anything once he was under. He could fudge, use any ambiguity in the question, or deflect it back to the interrogator, but his inquisitor would be as skilled as he would. It was too great a risk.

Another cone of light appeared to his left. A nondescript old man sat on a chair in it, staring straight ahead. Again the drumbeat sounded.

"Auguste Dell. Will you answer questions under Truth Spell?"

"I will,” the old man answered without hesitation. A pattern of lights ringed his head, contracting until they formed a crown.

"Did you work for Thaddeus Maltby until his death?"

"I did."

"Did Maltby state to you that he intended to run for leadership of the council?"

"He did."

"When?"

"Three days before The Festival of Shamsharra."

Duff caught his breath.

"And did he do so?"

"Yes."

"You were witness to his application?"

"Yes."

"To whom did he make the application?"

"Jarl Sproat, archmage."

Another cone of light appeared with Jarl Sproat standing inside. He was so anonymous, Duff found it hard to believe he really was an archmage. His prominent eyes watered often, and his large Adam's apple bounced up and down.

"Do you confirm this allegation?"

"I do.” Sproat's voice was thin and reedy.

"Will you undergo Truth Spell?"

"Yes.” The crown of lights surrounded Sproat's head, and he corroborated Dell's allegation.

Duff wanted to punch Sproat's nonexistent chin through the back of his head, but he contained himself. “I have a question."

"Ask,” the inquisitor answered.

"Why didn't you make this allegation before?"

"The time wasn't right.” Sproat looked anxious.

"How? What was not right before?"

"There was no advantage.” Sproat was fighting to hide something.

"It's irrelevant,” Hobken interrupted them. “We've confirmed Maltby made the application and when he made it. We need to establish if you knew of his application when you killed him. Again, will you submit to Truth Spell?"

"I will not."

"Very well.” Hobken sounded more sad than threatening. “You remain suspended."

The Counterspell of Sending had yanked Duff away before he could speak. He thought about it and initially dismissed his own suspicions as paranoia, but by the time he had dressed again and was leaving for home, he'd reluctantly decided there was no better theory for Sproat keeping the accusation secret until he was ready. The gloating look on the other mage's face had given the game away; Hobken was ready to step down, and with Maltby dead, Sproat clearly believed that if Duff were neutralized, the council leadership was his for the taking.

Jocasta had used the Spell of Elsewhere twice in the space of a few days, which wasn't recommended, but the side effects were no worse than ordinary travel lag.

When she'd got her bearings, she set out for the café. Using the Spell of Shadow-casting she would have appeared to an onlooker as a frail, tottering old man instead of a middle-aged woman.

Meroë was in turmoil, militiamen and women on every corner, hulking thugs pumped up on muscle-growers. The Sisterhood ran Meroë, Gulane had said, but Meroë had to be shown to be under the militia's control, even if it wasn't really. Her wild accusations of kidnapping and attempted murder to the Meroë militia had added to the confusion, which suited her perfectly; the more chaos, the better her chances of proceeding unhindered.

When Gulane served her, she dropped the spell until the other woman recognized her and hissed, “Out back."

A narrow alley ran behind the café. Jocasta waited for Gulane, who stood with arms folded across her chest.

"Your friend's gone,” she said. “Sorry, I panicked a bit when I called you. I thought they'd hurt him worse than they had."

"It."

"Whatever.” The woman shrugged. Jocasta could read her body language. Things were returning to normal, she'd had enough intrusions and wanted a return to normality.

"Where's it gone?” Jocasta pressed.

"If I tell you, will you and O'Malley get the hell out of my life? No disrespect intended, Demoiselle.” Her tone belied her words. “Much as I liked Dezenine, he screwed up things so bad it's gonna be a long, long time before The Sisterhood forgives me.” She added, “If they ever do."

"I promise,” Jocasta replied, “once I find my friend and O'Malley, you'll never see us again."

O'Malley had lost track of time in the dark—a dampening field was suppressing his familiar. Long enough for him to loosen his bonds and, wincing, remove the sticky tape. He made little effort to escape. The whole cell stank of heavy-duty magic that would probably bounce any spell back at him, so he saved his energy for the right moment.

In time the door swung open, outlining a woman. The woman was so fat, even obese wasn't a full description of her. Rolls of fat spilled over her midriff, and her arms dimpled when she moved them. A skirt hung from waist to ankles, so he couldn't see her legs.

"Boss wants to see you,” she wheezed. She turned without waiting, assuming he would obey. He had no intention of arguing with the musclemorphs who'd marched him through the labyrinth. He realized no one had searched him and wondered when they'd correct the oversight.

They led him into a large room with a skylight almost the size of the whole ceiling, through which early evening sunlight flooded. The centrepiece was a huge oval table, surrounded by a group of cowled figures.

One figure had her cowl cast back. She sat at the far side of the table, a wizened old crone gumming fruit. But there was nothing decrepit about the glare she shot at him.

"Sit!” Her voice was strong, with none of the quaver of the very aged. She indicated a place set with food.

He accepted a glass of fruit juice poured for him by a servant and a dish of sweet pastries. He was starving and decided there was little point in worrying about drugs or poison, so he wolfed them down. A second plate was placed in front of him, and he ate more slowly, aware he was being watched and studying them in turn.

Despite the fact that the cowls showed nothing but shadows, it was clear from their hands that the figures around the table were all women.

"That was good. Thank you.” He directly addressed the old woman he thought of as The Godmother.

She nodded. “I'm sorry you've been neglected,” she said dryly. “I've been busy, and some of my associates’
thinking,
"—her emphasis on that word seemed a rebuke for some around the table—"is a little blinkered. Still, you weren't harmed, were you?"

"No,” he agreed. “What happens now?"

The woman cocked her head to one side. “You've caused us quite a problem. Have you got any ideas?"

The spellhound returned to its dormitory and paid a small fortune for a cold shower—a luxury only for the rich in the water-starved city. Refreshed, it returned to the hunt.

Meroë brimmed with magic, but most of it was poor stuff compared to the spells of Imrhaddyon. It was like eating leftovers after a banquet: dull on the palate, but at least it would be easy to spot its quarry among the dross.

It quartered the city while afternoon gave way to evening and to the next morning, until its senses exploded in that way that indicated O'Malley's trail. He still smelt laden with spells, but the scent was almost drowned in the riot of other odours. Body taut, it pushed through the crowds, earning curses and taunts, until it stood in the shadow of a crag, upon which perched a square block of a desert fortress, squat and ugly and completely at odds with every other building around.

The crag made it impossible to approach from any direction except one. A road ran up the steep slope on that side, watched by lumbering guards and, probably, unseen eyes.

Unable to think of any approach for the moment, except a direct one, the spellhound sat down and watched the proceedings on the principle that if it waited long enough, inspiration would come to it. Inspiration came with Jocasta and Gabriel.

"I sympathize with your predicament.” O'Malley tried to sound sympathetic. “I suppose we couldn't simply shake hands and put our encounter down to experience?” He chuckled at the look from The Godmother. “I thought not."

"We need to make an example of this—” one of the women spat the word, “—
male
. We can't have the marks thinking they can defy us.” She sounded young, one of the firebrands.

"There's the loss of income to consider as well,” an older woman added. Her more thoughtful tone worried him. Any punishment she suggested would sound reasonable, so had more chance of being agreed to. “We're hamstrung while the militias swarm round."

"What if I made a goodwill payment?” O'Malley was fishing, surrounded by piranhas.

"You wouldn't have enough money to pay for the havoc you've caused.” another snapped.

The piranhas are hungry,
O'Malley thought and surreptitiously fumbled in his pockets, feeling each spell, as a numismatic might identify a coin by its edge. He rejected each in turn until he found a likely one. He held it, just in case.

The alleyway was deserted, framed by a sheer wall that rose hundreds of metres into the air. Gabriel stood to one side, unremarked by Jocasta or the spellhound, but not unnoticed. After the first hug between Jocasta and the spellhound, few words had been exchanged, but the affection was almost tangible.

"They'll think they're safe from an aerial attack."

—Exactly. They'd think anyone using a levitation spell would struggle to use an invisibility spell as well.—

"And anyone using an invisibility spell would find it difficult to levitate.” She grinned.

"The only problem is if they have spell-sniffers on the walls, or have counterspells mounted.” She added, “Everyone's so used to the invisibility spell there's a real danger of us triggering a defence."

—Could Gabriel distract them?—

Some minutes later, the spellhound and Jocasta linked hands and faded from view. Gabriel waited as instructed, before patiently but futilely digging out the alley wall at the base of the crag.

Invisible to all except those able to see beyond the visible spectrum, Jocasta and the spellhound strode from the alleyway, still holding hands, careful to avoid contact with those in the busy street in case someone entered the field. When they were on the far side of the crag from the alley, Jocasta invoked the levitation spell.

As they began to ascend, the spellhound nudged Jocasta.

—That woman.—It pointed with its free paw.

"What about her?” Jocasta hissed.

—She has Duff's Spell of Shadow-casting.—

"You're sure?"

—Absolutely. Fix her in your mind, should we get separated. We'll deal with her later.—

Moments later, there was a bang, then shouts from the other side of the crag.

"One of the booby traps, I think,” Jocasta whispered. Below them, the crowd milled in confusion. Musclemorphs ran down the road. Their ascent quickened.