The Capital

by A. H. Lee

  He’d seen nothing out of the ordinary. Still, if we are to be allies, I must have a word with the queen about these mirrors. Even if they’re warded, the spell-work will be all theoretical. The university magicians don’t believe in spirit-walking.

  And are these people your allies? countered a voice in his head.

  Sairis didn’t have an answer.

  Chapter 7. Winthrop

  Roland could tell he’d shaken the group with his description of Hastafel’s creations. I should have asked for new terms from Norres right then.

  Instead, Uncle Winthrop tried to soften Roland’s dire predictions by assuring everyone that the border garrisons had enough troops to defend the capital, should such a thing be necessary. He even suggested that, if the pass fell, Mistala would crush the armies of Zolsestron on the plains between the mountains and the capital, due to their superior knowledge of the land.

  Roland sighed inwardly. He understood what Winthrop was doing—making sure that Mistala did not look weak to her neighbors. But we are weak right now, Uncle, and pretending otherwise won’t help. Our weakness makes our neighbors weak, too, and they need to see that.

  By the time Winthrop was done, Norres was looking more settled and Anton was looking bored. Uncle Maniford was doodling pornographic sketches on a notepad. Daphne’s political smile looked strained. There followed a long, tedious discussion of exactly which towns Mistala might be willing to return in exchange for troops from Falcosta.

  Roland noted that his bride-to-be had taken out her embroidery. He’d known she was young, but he hadn’t realized quite how young. At least she won’t be expecting anything in the bedroom just yet. It’ll take her years to become disappointed in me.

  They broke for lunch, which Daphne had arranged in the gardens. Winthrop took Roland’s arm as they walked down the long veranda, steering him away from the others. “Did you know your sister intended to involve this necromancer?” he muttered.

  Roland didn’t like his tone. “My sister, the queen, is exploring every avenue to save her people, Uncle.”

  Winthrop huffed. He adopted a man-to-man voice. “Roland, I could see as well as anyone at that table what you thought of her decision.”

  What you saw had nothing to do with her decision and everything to do with my decision last night.

  “I agree with you,” continued Winthrop. “Inviting a viper into our bosom will not solve this problem.”

  “I am skeptical,” admitted Roland, “but I don’t blame Daphne for examining every option.”

  “If we win a war by allying with a necromancer, we have already lost,” growled Winthrop. “Your father conquered Karkaroth, Roland. You will conquer Hastafel. I have faith in you. So does the kingdom. Do not, I entreat you, allow yourself to be shackled to the Falcostan bitch.”

  Again, Roland disliked his choice of words, but felt drawn to the sentiment. “I won’t marry her if I can see another way, Uncle.”

  Winthrop clasped him on the shoulder. “I should empty the border garrisons. I could draw fifteen thousand men and make all speed to the pass. We could strike hard with a determined offensive before Hastafel realizes you’ve been reinforced. We could win, Roland.”

  Roland licked his lips. Risk everything in one throw? If they emptied the border garrisons for an offensive attack in the pass and failed, they wouldn’t even have enough men left to protect the capital. They would be broken, at the mercy of a sorcerer who had never proven merciful.

  “What does Uncle Jessup think of this idea?”

  “I don’t know. I want to know what you think.”

  Roland thought it was a desperate move. But maybe he’s right. If I’m considering selling myself to Falcosta, and Daphne is marrying a man more than a decade her senior...? Maybe I’m not thinking big enough. “I will consider your words, Uncle.”

  “Good. You’ll make a great leader, Nephew.” He slapped Roland on the shoulder with a force that would have toppled a smaller man.

  “There’s something else I think you should consider. Please understand: I do share your sentiments about the witch, Sairis.”

  I doubt that, thought Roland, but kept his composure.

  “I’d like nothing better than to send him back to Karkaroth in pieces,” continued Winthrop. “I think Daphne was mad to let him in the door without a collar. He cannot be trusted. But...he is a weapon, Roland. A necromancer on a battlefield? Can you imagine?”

  Roland could imagine. He kept his voice neutral with effort. “I think if it were possible to simply recruit the dead, Hastafel would already be doing that.”

  “Not necessarily. Hastafel is a sorcerer, not a necromancer.”

  Since when did you become an expert on magic, Uncle? “What are you suggesting, sir?”

  “Collar him, clap him in chains, and take him to the border. If he doesn’t cooperate, cut off fingers until he does.”

  Roland had a sudden memory of the way Sairis had flinched when Roland touched his jaw, that sense of fragile trust when he’d opened his mouth. “Daphne promised him safe conduct.”

  “That was none of your doing. We owe nothing to Karkaroth or to his underlings.”

  “I will not gainsay my queen!”

  Winthrop threw up his hands in exasperation. “Well, then capture him outside the palace! He seems young and overconfident. Pretend you’d like to hear his ideas, lure him somewhere private, and take him in hand.”

  Roland shut his eyes. He remembered a palm extended hesitantly across a bar, like an animal fearing a trap.

  “Think of your men on the border,” continued Winthrop. “Think of what we are facing. This is not a child’s game, Roland. This is win or die. We cannot afford to be precious about the rules.”

  Roland had stopped walking. He crossed his arms and stared, unseeing, over the gardens.

  Winthrop spoke more quietly at his elbow. “I know you are frustrated with me for undercutting your warning in council. But Lamont and Falcosta are not our friends, and they must not see us weak. We must maintain our autonomy. I would not be suggesting the use of a necromancer if I did not think the situation was critical. Karkaroth and his creature are abominations, but they are our abominations—homegrown in our own country. Sairis is a weapon, Roland. You can’t trust him, but you can use him.”

  Chapter 8. A Shard and a Punch Bowl

  Sairis was tired of these people. He was tired of listening to them argue, tired of looking at Roland, tired of feeling things. They’d been talking half the day, and they didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. In addition, no one had asked Sairis what he wanted in exchange for his services. They seemed to think they were doing him a favor by tolerating his presence.

  He’d initially planned to stay at least one more night in the capital. He’d had a vague idea of consulting with the queen’s magicians tomorrow. But I can do that by letter.

  The idea that he would almost certainly need to exchange letters with Roland to discuss Hastafel’s golems made him squirm, but at least he wouldn’t have to look at the sour judgment on that perfect face any longer. He did want to speak to the queen about the mirrors. She had extended great trust, and Sairis felt that he owed her that much.

  He caught her eye as they were leaving the strategy room for lunch. “Your Grace, I would like a word in private.”

  She looked at him wearily. Sairis felt sorry for her. Me and a hundred others. “Certainly, Magus Sairis, but I’m afraid my lunch hour is already promised. You are being very patient. I do appreciate this.”

  Sairis couldn’t dislike her. She sounded so sincere. But so did Roland in the tavern.

  A moment later, he caught a glimpse of the man walking the veranda with his eldest uncle. In spite of the softening effect of the jeweled wig, Roland’s profile still looked intimidating. He had a knight’s brutal power in every line and movement. And yet... You touched my face like I was made of spun glass.

  Sairis screwed his eyes shut. Gods, Sair, why don’t you torture yourself some more? Inst
ead of staring at him, you could poke a stick in your eyeball or something.

  The gardens were beautiful, at least. Even leafless, the big trees had a tranquility that made Sairis breathe a little easier. An ornamental stream wound through the hedges. The cool air smelled of damp earth. This was surely installed before water became so dear.

  “I’m watching you, witch.”

  Sairis turned to see King Norres, flanked by two unfriendly looking barons. Sairis was suddenly aware of the hedgerow that shielded the four of them from the remainder of the party.

  “Do not suppose that, since Queen Daphne is desperate, creatures like you will be permitted to prey upon my people unchallenged,” continued Norres.

  Sairis wished he had Roland’s way of grinning a threat. When Sairis grinned, he just looked like a little boy.

  “You and your master will get what is coming to you,” hissed Norres. “No hysterical woman will change that.”

  “Noted,” said Sairis. “Excuse me.” He made to walk between them, and the group scattered so fast that one baron tripped and nearly sat down in the wet grass.

  So much for the bravery imparted by numbers. Sairis stifled a laugh, but made a mental note to stay where the queen’s guards could see him. As much as he itched to get away from these people, he did not want to be stabbed behind a hedge or in a deserted hallway. Regretfully, Sairis threaded his way to the middle of the group and stayed there.

  To his chagrin, he found himself standing across from Roland at the punch bowl. The prince looked like he had his mind on something else and took a moment to register Sairis. When he did, he blinked and glanced away.

  Sairis sighed. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

  Roland shot him a suspicious look.

  Sairis sipped his punch. “How could I possibly have known?” He realized this was a hopeless angle. They have no idea what magic can and can’t do.

  He gave up on that point and said, “I might be able to help with the golems. Do you have anything from them? A fragment? A bit of mud? Anything?”

  Roland still looked suspicious, but the tension in his jaw eased. “I can do better than that.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and brought out a chunk of what looked like obsidian. It was about the size of a fruit pit, vaguely triangular, smooth on one side and rough along the others.

  Sairis cocked his head.

  “This is a piece of the sword,” said Roland.

  Sairis blinked. “How...?”

  “I fought with him.”

  Sairis glanced at Roland’s face, but it was closed and guarded. He looked back down at the fragment. “How...valiant of you.” And by “valiant,” I mean “stupid.” Sairis could see a faint aura around the obsidian. He reached out to take it, and his fingers brushed Roland’s.

  Roland jerked away so fast that the chunk of stone slipped between them and fell with an enormous plop into the punch bowl. A look of shock passed over Roland’s face, and he spoke in a rush, “Gods, that was clumsy of me. I apologize. Did I get punch all over you?”

  Sairis sighed. He shed his jacket, rolled up his sleeve, and fished the shard out of the sticky liquid. He sluiced it and his hand in water from a pitcher and called to a servant. “You’ll need another bowl of punch. No one’s going to want to drink this.”

  Roland’s eyes met Sairis’s as Sairis shrugged back into his coat. Sairis saw conflicted emotions. Maybe a little guilt.

  Roland licked his lips. “I’m sorry.”

  Sairis gave him an acid smile. “I’ll just have a look at this and give it back before I leave. I can return it to one of your magicians if you prefer not to handle it after me.”

  Chapter 9. Something Tethered

  The day dragged on. Roland was glad that he hadn’t made a career in politics. How does Daphne stand it?

  He would rather be riding border patrol any day—in the open air, on a good horse, facing an enemy who at least wore his colors on his sleeve. Anton was trying to be helpful. At least, Roland thought so. Although he might just be trying to strengthen Lamont’s position. He had a list of requirements from his father, all of which Norres seemed to reject on general principle.

  The parties of Lamont and Falcosta kept breaking into squabbles between each other, in which Daphne was forced to play referee.

  Uncle Maniford kept drawing naked ladies. Roland was certain he was paying more attention than he let on. Uncle Mani was a bit of a rake, but he didn’t miss much. Roland made a mental note to ask him his opinion later in private. I hope it doesn’t involve dragging Sairis to the border in chains.

  The only person who appeared less interested in the discussion than Maniford was Roland’s potential bride-to-be, Lady Candice. The girl continued to embroider steadily without looking at anyone. Roland noticed that she’d stuck herself with her embroidery needle. She had a bit of cloth wrapped around one finger, speckled with blood. He also noticed that she had a bruise on her wrist—mostly covered by her sleeve, but occasionally sliding into view. The bruise looked like the imprint of fingers.

  Roland frowned. There were very few people who might be permitted to leave bruises on a princess. Would she have more patience with my tastes if I rescued her? He felt immediately guilty for the idea. To turn a girl’s suffering to his own advantage seemed low indeed.

  I doubt I will marry Candice no matter what happens. He wondered if he could say anything to her that would make the years ahead seem less bleak. With a father like Norres? Probably not.

  Sairis had lain the chunk of obsidian on the table in front of him, sometimes studying it and sometimes watching the people in the room. He did not look at Roland.

  During a break, Roland got up his nerve to ask, “What do you think of it?”

  Sairis’s dark eyes flicked up behind his glasses. Roland remembered the way his eyelashes had brushed them. Gods damn it.

  “It’s got traces of death magic, certainly.” Sairis’s voice was clinical. “The way it was made might give us a link to Hastafel. I’m not sure...” He broke off, shook his head. “I think there’s something tethered here, but I’d need to examine it under different conditions to learn the details.”

  “Something tethered?” repeated Roland.

  “Ghosts,” said Sairis. “Or fragments of ghosts. I can’t tell without spirit-walking.”

  Roland scratched his head. “Where would you do that?”

  “Not in your conference room.”

  In spite of everything, Roland heard himself say, “I’m sure nothing could make this conference more unpleasant.”

  “Drawing a salt circle on your floor and writing a few runes in blood would certainly end the tedium.”

  Roland wanted to laugh. Sairis’s lips gave an answering twitch. “Excuse me while I take a walk-about on the Styx and search for ghosts. Prince Roland has ordered it, and he knows what he’s doing. I’m told he has some aptitude for magic.”

  It had been a long, stressful day. Roland barked a laugh. He was on the verge of saying that, while he might have some aptitude for magic, he had it on expert authority that he wasn’t very good at it. Then he caught Uncle Winthrop’s eyes across the room—a questioning look, a faint nod of approval. “Pretend you’d like to hear his ideas, lure him somewhere private, and take him in hand.”

  Suddenly, nothing seemed funny. Roland pushed back his chair, putting more distance between himself and Sairis. “That does seem likely to cause a fuss. But thank you for whatever you can tell us.”

  * * * *

  Well, that’s that. Sairis wasn’t sure what had prompted him to try another overture towards Roland. Perhaps Roland’s stammered apology over the punch. Perhaps that look of guilty regret.

  Sairis wasn’t sure why he’d chosen a joke about summoning circles, blood runes, and ghosts, either. Flirting: this is how not to do it.

  Still, Roland had laughed...right before his face closed like a slamming door and his posture stiffened like a wooden soldier. Roland ended their conversation in a v
oice that had become formal and unfriendly. He didn’t look at Sairis again for the rest of the meeting.

  He might be feeling conflicted about me, but he’s decided not to be friends, and he’s not going to change his mind.

  It took every ounce of Sairis’s will to avoid getting up and leaving. A word to Queen Daphne. Then I’m gone.

  A clock on the wall revealed that the time was near sunset when the meeting finally adjourned. They’d agreed upon some of the towns that Norres required from Mistala, although they were still discussing towns he wanted from Lamont. A generous dowry had been offered to accompany Princess Candice. Daphne greeted this with reservations, but not outright rejection.

  In a moment of spite, Sairis thought, I wish you joy of your marriage, Roland. An invert and a sullen little girl. What times you shall have together!

  And then they were all rising from their chairs, shaking hands, bowing, moving towards the doors. “Your Grace,” murmured Sairis as Daphne was turning away.

  She looked at him with tired confusion. Then recollection crossed her face, and she gave a faint nod. Sairis lingered as the other guests filed out, the queen speaking a word here and there, thanking them for coming. When only the guards remained, Sairis said, “Are you familiar with mirror magic, Your Grace?”

  Chapter 10. Mirror Magic

  Roland’s first thought, as he descended the stairs from the conference room, was that he’d been looking forward to something this evening. His second thought was that it had been the Tipsy Knave, and that had been because... Roland swore under his breath. His third thought was, Where is Sairis?

  He hadn’t come down the stairs with everyone else. On an impulse, Roland turned and went back up. His suspicions were confirmed when he reached the end of the hall and heard the faint sound of voices in the strategy room.