Winter Witch (4 page)

As they watched, the drawing began to move. The courtesan rolled her hips in a sensuous walk along a popular Korvosan street known for its various entertainments. “Nothing like this is taught at the Acadamae, nothing even remotely similar. Who taught you this?”

“No one,” said Declan. That was true. He liked to explain that the magical animation might have been the residual effect of a curse placed on the creature whose hide became the leather cover. In reality, he had replicated the magical effect in two other tomes with completely different bindings. The truth was that he had no idea how his attempt at composing a flip-page novelty had transformed from nearly two hundred pages of sequential drawings to a single fat sheet on which his caricatures moved of their own accord.

Revealing his own ignorance to someone like Jamang Kira was like dumping chum overboard to draw sharks before jumping in for a swim, so Declan merely shrugged and said, “It’s a spell of my own creation.”

An expression like relief flared across the necromancer’s face. “Truly? This is remarkably original work. Even so—” Jamang pursed his lips and studied Declan as if calculating how much he could reveal without tipping his hand. “This particular application of magic,” he said at last, “is something I’ve not seen before. It is not an illusion. If it were, the spell would affect the person viewing it, but here the ink itself moves.”

Declan shrugged. “So it’s a transmutation.”

“No, I tested, and it isn’t,” Jamang said. “Don’t bother listing the seven ancient schools for something that seems to fit. I’ve examined this thoroughly, and the answer is not what one might expect at first study.” He snapped the little book shut and raised it like a priest presenting a holy artifact. “This is necromancy.”

“There’s no need to be insulting,” Declan said.

“I’m serious,” Jamang insisted, once again oblivious to Declan’s mockery. “The spell you crafted animates the ink itself. It brings the dead organic matter of the ink back to a semblance of life.”

“So?”

“So?” the little man echoed. “While the story plays out, the characters you drew are alive. Well,” he amended, “not ‘alive’ as most understand the word, but certainly in the more inclusive sense that defines a necromancer’s art. Observe.”

He opened the book once more. The image started to move—gracefully, realistically, with a lavish sashay of the sort Declan had spent many happy hours observing as the young women of Korvosa took their evening promenades. The courtesan strolled past an open-air tavern where a uniformed member of the Sable Company sat drinking. She paused to cast a look of unmistakable invitation back over her shoulder. The marine gestured, and the drawing’s perspective pulled back to reveal a broader vista and the sight he wished the courtesan to observe: his hippogriff mount, an enormous eagle-headed, winged horse tethered to a rail in the tavern side yard. In response, the beast arched his wings to reveal a saddle long enough for two. The courtesan’s lips curved and she sent her new client an arch, sidelong glance.

“I have seen this,” Declan said. “Remember, I drew it.”

“Wait and watch,” the necromancer insisted.

Declan watched as the familiar scene played out. When the marine’s hippogriff began circling Castle Korvosa and the courtesan’s legs encircled the soldier’s waist, Jamang pulled a jeweled pin from his hat and jabbed the page.

The hippogriff reared up, wings back-beating the air and beak flung wide in a silent shriek. A stream of ink-dark blood stained the white feathers of its breast. The riders slid from the saddle and tumbled toward the distant city, limbs flailing. Discarded bits of clothing drifted down after them like autumn leaves.

Jamang snapped the book shut and affixed Declan with an expectant stare.

Declan realized he was gaping and shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth. “You killed my hippogriff.”

“I admit that I have tried,” Jamang said candidly. “But short of burning the book, I don’t think I could have any lasting effect on the spell.”

He handed the book to Declan. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Declan cracked open the book. The courtesan began her undulating stroll anew.

“You see? The magic remains intact.”

“That’s a relief,” Declan said in a voice heavy with irony. “I’d hate to redraw all the sketches that became this one page.”

Jamang waved this consideration aside. “You could easily hire someone else to do the drawings. It’s the magic that interests Somar Nevinoff.”

At last Declan understood Jamang’s motive, and he suppressed a smile as he said the words he knew would foil the man’s scheme. “In that case, I’d be happy to talk with him. Set up an appointment.”

“One does not just ‘set up an appointment’ with Somar Nevinoff,” Jamang said. “Tell me how the spell is done, and I will relay the information.”

“Let me guess,” said Declan. “You passed the book off as your own work. Is that how you got your position with the necromancer?”

Jamang’s face reddened. “What matters is that this discovery could be very good for both of us. If you show me how the spell is done, you will be well paid.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll be turned into a newt for promising more than you could deliver. Out of curiosity, what is the price of newt prevention these days?”

“Fifty crowns,” Jamang said. “In addition, in exchange for this spell, I will undertake to teach you the necromancer’s art. You obviously have a gift and would benefit from the knowledge I have gained at the Acadamae. After a few months of my tutelage, you won’t even know yourself.”

“And that,” Declan said, “is precisely why I must decline your generous offer.”

Spots of angry color rose high on Jamang’s cheeks and his eyes turned hard. He moved to stand toe to toe with Declan. He reached for the book, but Declan held it tight against his chest. He knew Jamang lacked the physical courage to take it by force.

“Your brother’s body was tossed into a vat of urine and simmered for two days,” Jamang said. “That process dissolves the flesh from the bone. The resulting sludge was fed to the creatures that scour the Acadamae sewers. His bones were added to those of camels and asses to create skeletal amalgamations—difficult to animate, but the results are amusing to watch.”

Vengeance uncoiled in some dark corner of Declan’s heart. He let it fill his eyes as he held the necromancer’s gaze.

Uncertainty flickered across Jamang’s face. He covered it with a sneer before he spun away with a swirl of his crimson cloak. He paused at the head of the stairs and swung dramatically back.

“Keep it,” he spat. “I have others like it, and from them I will learn the secret on my own. But you will pay dearly for the time and effort that costs me. Before I’m finished with you, you will wish that you’d sold me the spell.”

Declan tipped his head to one side and considered. “Not a particularly original threat, but the delivery was authentic. Marvelous prop, the cloak. One might mistake you for a proper villain if only you could grow a sinister mustache.”

The necromancer’s face twisted with rage. He hissed. “This isn’t over.”

“No, I suppose not,” Declan agreed. “There’s still the question of your explaining yourself to Somar Nevinoff. To be a fly on the wall of that room ...”

For an instant, stark terror replaced Jamang’s furious expression. He mastered his countenance with all the grace of a grocer stuffing a sack with cabbages.

“Master Somar is a reasonable man. He wants the spell. It will be of little consequence to him whether he gets it from me or peels the secret from your animated corpse.”

He tipped a mocking bow toward Declan and started down the stairs. “It’s a surprisingly effective means of inquisition,” he called back. “You might be surprised by the secrets your brother’s corpse revealed.”

On impulse, Declan hurled the book after Jamang. The tome flew over the necromancer’s head by a comfortable margin and smacked solidly into the pergola. A startled feminine gasp and an equally startled but telepathically silent
squawk
reminded Declan that he was not alone on the roof.

The drake flew toward Castle Korvosa, no doubt to join his fellows in chasing the imps. Silvana emerged from the pergola and picked up the book. She opened it, and her eyes widened.

Declan skirted the reflecting pool at a run and took the book gently from her hands. “Pay no attention to that. This trifle isn’t worthy of your eyes.”

“Not worthy of a kitchen wench?” she teased. “I doubt your educated friend shares that opinion.”

Silvana’s voice suited her delicate appearance. It was high and light, with a pretty lilt that sounded more like personal affectation than any accent Declan could identify. Despite his embarrassment, Declan found it easy to return her smile.

“Jamang is an ass,” he said. “Having perfected this art among the living, he trained as a necromancer so that he could annoy the dead.”

Silvana rewarded his wit with a smile. She said, “Your necromancer friend was right about one thing. The magic in that book is clever.”

Declan shrugged. “It’s a trifle. Just a silly little trick to amuse boys. I was only a boy when I did it. Years ago. I would never think of such a thing now.”

“A silly little trick?” she laughed, ignoring the rest of his halting equivocation. “Those are words seldom spoken in Korvosa. Magic is so very important here.”

Her imitation of Jamang’s overwrought tone was spot-on. The unexpected mockery sent Declan into a spasm of laughter. When their shared mirth faded, an uncertain expression rippled across Silvana’s face.

“Have you made a drawing of me?”

“No!” he said. “Certainly not. Not anything like this,” he added. “That would be ...I would never do that.”

“But you have drawn a picture of me?” she persisted.

Declan had never intended to show her the painting, but under the circumstances he didn’t see how he could avoid doing so. He reached for the silver chain he wore around his neck and pulled the miniature from its hiding place beneath his tunic. He pulled the chain over his head and handed it to her.

Silvana stared at the tiny painting, her face the essence of puzzlement.

Declan wasn’t surprised by her reaction. The likeness was true, but he’d taken certain liberties. For one thing, he’d depicted her standing in front of a many-paned window overlooking a springtime garden. The pale hair she always pulled back in one braid spilled to her waist in a rippling cascade. She wore a pale blue gown trimmed with pearls, a garment much finer than anything Silvana might own and extravagant even by the standards of Korvosan nobility. Declan had drawn it from memory and imagination, calling upon a childhood story of a fey princess for inspiration. To his eyes, the fairy tale image suited Silvana. No other woman had ever made him remember ancient stories so vividly.

After a long moment, Silvana lifted her gaze from the little oval frame. “This is how I look to you?”

The awe in her voice gave him courage. “The elves of Kyonin make the truest pigments, but no elf alive can do justice to hair the color of ripe wheat, or eyes that shame the winter sky.”

“Now you’re teasing me.” She flushed, turned half away from him, and then with an adder-quick thrust pushed him backward into the brisk water of the scrying pool.

The shock of cold water stole his breath, if not his ardor. He climbed back to his feet, surrounded by scattered fragments of starlight reflected from the rippling pool. A wicked grin curved his lips as he reached for her. She darted beyond his reach, laughing.

Declan sloshed over the low wall and chased her. They circled the scrying pool twice, Silvana pulling away with each fleet step. She ran for the pergola and nimbly climbed the trellis. Declan started to follow, but the lowest wooden strip snapped under his boot, letting him know beyond question that the pergola would not hold his weight.

Silvana scrambled to the top and sat on the edge of the pergola’s roof, feet swinging just out of reach. As she watched him, the playful expression on her face shifted to one of chagrin.

“You’re shivering,” she said. “The wind off the bay is chilly. I should have thought of that.”

Now that she mentioned it, Declan realized that his teeth were chattering like a gaggle of schoolgirls.

“I can endure a little hardship in pursuit of ...” He was running out of poetry, even the cheap stuff that had seemed successful a few moments ago. He winced as he said, “beauty.”

She shook her head. “You must get warm and dry at once, or you will be sick.”

The concern in her voice warmed Declan. “My room is just off the bathhouse. If it will make you feel better, I promise I’ll take a quick steam to warm up.”

“That’s a good idea.” Silvana climbed down from her perch and walked toward him, holding up the painting. “I have no mirror, and even if I did I would never appear so fine. May I keep this? Not the chain, of course,” she added.

He pressed the trinket back into her hand. “It’s the picture I value, but I can always paint another.”

Something flickered in her eyes, an emotion Declan couldn’t identify. She gave him a shy smile. “When you are warm and dry, perhaps you will return to the roof?” she said. “I thought I might wait here until Skywing returns.”

“Skywing?”

“The little blue dragon,” she explained. “That is what I call him. He seems to like the name.”

“He talks to you?” Declan said, secretly pleased. House drakes could communicate by projecting their thoughts, but they deemed few humans worth the effort. He wondered what it meant that Skywing had determined them both worthy. He decided it was a good omen.

Silvana nodded. “It took a while for me to learn how to think out loud so that Skywing could hear me. But let’s talk about it when you return.” She shooed him away with both hands, a charming gesture that solidified his faith in good omens.

Declan ran for the stairs, curving his path only far enough to surreptitiously pick up the dirty book from where it had fallen next to the reflecting pool. The last thing he wanted right now was for Silvana to get bored and open it again for a longer stretch, revealing his indiscretions in earnest. With it tucked safely under his arm, he took the stairs three at a time. Two floors down, a narrow corridor led past the servants’ quarters into the turret that housed his room. He seldom came this way, but Majeed would not thank him for dripping on the carpets that covered the lower floor.