The Capital

by A. H. Lee

  “That’s amazing,” whispered Roland. Sairis realized that Roland was about to reach out and take one of his hands, perhaps for a better look or perhaps...

  Sairis shoved his hands back under the blankets. He spoke with irritation to cover his confusion. “Did you have your way with me after all? What did you do with my clothes?”

  Roland sat back, studying him. “They were soaked with blood. The dry parts had holes singed into them from the fire. Your waistcoat and shirt had a slice through the middle. I put the contents of your pockets in the bedside drawer, but the rest...”

  Sairis yanked open the drawer and was relieved to see that nothing was missing. He peered down at the shirt he was wearing—something frilly in a shade of cheerful sunshine yellow.

  “Your trousers might be salvageable,” continued Roland, “but I don’t think you’ll want the shirt and waistcoat back.”

  Sairis considered the possible repercussions of borrowing his master’s best clothes and then destroying them. “Karkaroth is going to have something to say about that.”

  “I would think he would have more to say about the hole in you!” exclaimed Roland. “Will it have healed? Like your hands?”

  Sairis gave him a crooked smile. You’re not going to ask to see that one? “Yes.” He took an experimentally deep breath. “My insides, too. Mostly.” He coughed and flinched at the pain in torn muscles that were still knitting themselves back together. “Might take a few more days.”

  An awkward silence settled between them. Sairis felt guilty for the way he’d jerked back from Roland’s hand. But he could still hear that chunk of obsidian plopping into the punch. And besides... Think about what you’re doing, Sair.

  He did need to say something, though. “Thank you for pulling that sword out of me. It was spelled stone. I couldn’t heal around it.”

  “That’s why you were cutting your hands up trying to get it out?”

  Sairis nodded.

  Roland started to say something else. Then a knock sounded on the door. “Roland?”

  “Come in.”

  It was Daphne. “I heard voices,” she began, and then smiled when she saw Sairis sitting up.

  “Good morning, Magus Sairis. I’m sure you had no idea when you agreed to come to my conference that it would be such a wild party.”

  Sairis smiled. “Your Grace. Thank you for...ah...helping Roland scrape me off the floor last night.”

  Daphne was wearing a man’s trousers, shirt, and waistcoat, her hair twisted into a bun on top of her head. She came into the room and sat beside Roland on the bed, letting the door swing shut behind her. “Are you well enough to talk about what happened?”

  “Yes,” said Sairis. “It was my impression last night that your city had not been overrun with Zolsestrian warriors. Is that still the case?”

  “It is,” said Daphne.

  Sairis nodded. “I didn’t think he could have sent many people through such a gate, but obviously I am not infallible. I should have tested the mirrors right away to see whether they’d been tampered with on our side of the glass. It did not occur to me... I should have checked.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed such a thing, either,” said Daphne. “What would have been required to prepare the glass?”

  Sairis sat up straighter in the bed, wincing at the way his stomach muscles pulled against the healing wound. “It takes a lot of magic to make a gate, Your Grace, and even more to make it stable. This was impossible before the Sundering. It is new magic, and we are still learning. It could be that Hastafel has discovered techniques I’ve never heard of.”

  “But,” persisted Daphne, “for those you have heard of?”

  “Runes written in his own blood on both ends of the gate,” said Sairis at once. “That’s the easiest way. But I can’t imagine that Hastafel would trust anyone with his own blood. He’s never been in your palace, has he?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Daphne.

  “An accomplice, then,” said Sairis, “although I can’t say offhand how they did it.”

  A long silence while they all considered the implications of this. At last, Daphne straightened and looked Sairis directly in the eyes. “Can Hastafel be defeated?”

  “Yes,” he said at once. “The more powerful the magic, the easier it is to make a mistake. It doesn’t get any more powerful than a walking, talking astral demon. Hastafel is probably making mistakes right now.”

  Sairis saw the relief on her face and hastened to add, “However, I am just an apprentice necromancer who’s been living in a tower for the better part of two decades. Your own court magicians have more resources than I do.”

  Daphne gave a thin smile. “Sairis, the university magicians have a laundry list of things they cannot do. Sometimes I think it’s longer than the list of things they can.”

  Sairis rolled his eyes. “No summoning demons, no spirit-walking, no interactions with Faerie, no binding of non-human entities, certainly no death magic.”

  Daphne cocked her head. “And you’ve done all those things?”

  Every one of them punishable by death. Sairis wished that he were not having this conversation while lying in bed, wearing nothing but a ridiculous yellow shirt and a blanket. No one should have to think for his life without trousers!

  When he said nothing Daphne continued in a gentler tone, “When I arrived here last night, the proprietor, Miss November, showed me a false wall at the back of my closet and a place to hide ‘in case of emergencies.’ The emergencies to which she referred were raids by my grandfather’s police and my father’s, too, at the beginning of his reign. She trusted me a great deal to show me that hiding place. Roland trusted me to bring me here.”

  Sairis’s eyes flicked unwillingly to Roland, watching quietly at the other end of the bed.

  “Many people have trusted me lately,” continued Daphne, “people my family persecuted—inverts, magicians, our own neighbors. But, frankly, my grandfather would have been just as appalled to see a woman on the throne of Mistala. You are in good company, Sairis.”

  Sairis wanted to laugh. I’m two for the price of one. He cleared his throat. “What are you asking, Your Grace?”

  “You have experience with all kinds of magic forbidden at the university. Not just death magic. Demons, faeries, this...what did you call it? Spirit-walking in the mirrors. You know about that, too?”

  Sairis hesitated. “Yes.”

  Daphne stood up and paced around the room. “I am tired of running and hiding. I don’t want to scrape together the means to hold the pass through winter. I don’t want to shore up our defenses. I want to kill Hastafel. Or beat him so badly that he never shows his face here again, so that every sorcerer and necromancer and warlord on the Shattered Sea thinks twice about invading Mistala. We have been attacked in our own strategy room in the heart of our kingdom, and I am sick unto death of simply defending ourselves. I want to respond in kind. I believe that means magic. Can you or Karkaroth counter Hastafel’s sorcery?”

  Sairis decided to take her at her word. “Certainly, if you care to make a large number of human sacrifices.”

  He was impressed when Daphne didn’t even blink. “How large?”

  Roland recoiled.

  Before he could speak, she said, “I am asking questions, Roland. No one will die because I asked a question. Besides, we’re already making a large number of human sacrifices. They’re called battles.”

  Sairis answered her question, “Depends on who they are and how you kill them. Ritual killing is more powerful. If I know names and have a piece of them—hair, nails, bones, blood—I can wring more magic out of them.” He was being harsh on purpose, and was relieved to see Daphne give a flicker of discomfort. “But,” continued Sairis, “magic isn’t a blunt force weapon. It’s a precision instrument. If you want to strike at Hastafel directly, the first step is to figure out how he gained access to your palace. Gates usually go both ways. I need to have a look around that room. I might be able to retr
ace his line of attack or at least find something we could use against him.”

  Daphne perked up. “That sounds promising. How soon can you leave?”

  “The sooner the better if I want to find useful traces of Hastafel’s magic. I should be well enough by tonight.”

  Daphne looked at him doubtfully. Sairis didn’t know whether to be insulted or grateful. Do I look that bad?

  “Alright,” she said. “Roland can go with you. If you’re caught, he can speak for you.”

  Sairis felt a twinge of alarm. “That won’t be necessary. I have a small cloaking charm. It’s how I escaped yesterday.”

  “It makes you invisible?”

  “No. Just...harder to see if a person isn’t specifically looking for me.”

  Daphne shook her head. “Sairis, plenty of people will be ‘specifically’ looking for you. They think you killed me. They think you killed Roland.”

  Sairis sighed. Of course they do.

  “If Roland is with you,” continued Daphne, “and you are discovered, he can vouch that I am alive in a safe location. I would prefer to proceed in secret, but if you are discovered, I want you to get out alive.”

  Sairis glanced at Roland, who was keeping very quiet. Not so anxious to hold my hand after the bit about human sacrifices?

  Daphne seemed to take Roland’s acquiescence for granted. “Do you need any supplies?” she continued to Sairis.

  He nodded. “I’ll make a list. I’d also like to begin warding a room so that I’ve got a safe place to work.”

  Daphne crossed her arms, thinking. “I’m going to send a few letters with you. It won’t do for everyone in the palace to actually think I’m dead.” She hesitated. “Should we send a letter to your master as well?”

  Sairis didn’t quite meet her eyes. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  Chapter 17. Professionals

  “Ritualistic killing is more powerful. If I know names and have a piece of them—hair, nails, bones, blood—I can wring more magic out of them.”

  Something inside Roland had frozen on those words. Sairis had sounded so clinical—as though he were talking about things and not people. I don’t know him at all. I should stop behaving as though I do. He might be a thoroughly bad person.

  Roland remembered that bloodless stare the first time they’d met and again in the strategy room. At the same time, he remembered hesitant fingers, a warm mouth, the fleeting expression of hurt when Roland had dropped the obsidian shard into the punch. He remembered the deadweight of Sairis’s body, his voice, desperate and thick against Roland’s ear. I kissed you and then you died in my arms. You came back here to find me. You trusted me when you clearly trust very few people. How can I not feel things for you? But maybe I shouldn’t.

  Roland wasn’t often conflicted. He wasn’t often confused. He felt both now. When Daphne left, he said nothing, waiting to see what Sairis would do.

  The other man sat for a moment as though gathering his thoughts. At last, he said, “Are we sharing this room?”

  Roland nodded. “We’ve invited ourselves here. They have a limited number of rooms. It seemed polite not to take up too many.”

  Sairis massaged the bridge of his nose. “I meant what I said earlier.”

  Sairis had said a lot of things earlier. Roland waited for him to elaborate.

  “I would not have let you kiss me if I’d known who you were.”

  Roland felt a trace of annoyance. “Just for the record, the sentiment is mutual.”

  Sairis didn’t look offended. He looked relieved. “Good. Can we just...start over? Working together as professionals?”

  Roland relaxed. “Yes, I think we can do that.”

  Some of the tension left Sairis’s shoulders and he finally looked Roland in the eyes. “You professionally kill things, and I professionally make them walk.”

  Roland laughed in spite of himself. That boyish grin flashed across Sairis’s face. Gods damn it. Aloud, Roland said, “As a professional, I suppose you would like some trousers.”

  “You’re a better mind-reader than I originally guessed.”

  “There’s food and drink in the kitchen. There’s a washroom when you want to get cleaned up. Do you need anything else?”

  “Paper and quill. I’ll make a list of supplies. Also...what did you do with Hastafel’s sword after you pulled it out of me?”

  “I hid it in the stables,” said Roland. “I didn’t have a scabbard, and it’s damned odd looking. I wasn’t sure I could get away with walking through the streets with it, especially covered in blood as we were.”

  Sairis considered. “Alright. We’ll need to stop and get it. Do you think the sword is likely to be discovered by anyone else in the meantime?”

  “No.”

  Sairis nodded. “This will sound odd, but I’d like a mouse. If your friends here at the Knave happen to have any trapped or poisoned, I’ll take them. The mouse does need to be alive, although hurt or sick is acceptable. I could use something bigger...a rat, a dog, a cat, a pigeon, a hen... But something small would be best.”

  The knot was back in Roland’s stomach. “You’re going to kill an animal?”

  “Yes.” Sairis had turned away from him. He was testing his legs on the opposite side of the bed, the long shirt falling down over his knees.

  “I don’t like it,” said Roland. “What you do.”

  Sairis didn’t turn around. “I know.”

  * * * *

  They did not have a mouse. They did have a cat, but Sairis was pretty sure Miss November would feed him his own liver if he turned the tavern’s pet into an undead servant. “Give the errand boy a penny,” said November. “He’ll find you a mouse by tomorrow.” So the queen of Mistala promised money to a local urchin in exchange for live vermin to be delivered to the apprentice of the realm’s sworn enemy.

  What a strange pass we’ve come to, thought Sairis.

  He ate some food. He drank two more pitchers of water and was rewarded by a return of normal bodily functions. Then Sairis got to work warding the bedroom with salt and runes and blood and iron. He even borrowed a few pieces of silver dishware, which he assured November he would return.

  “If all goes well, I’ll need a mirror in here,” he told them. “As big as you can find.”

  He worked all day and by evening, the mirror had arrived. It wasn’t as grand as those in the palace, but it was tall enough—a full-length oval on wheels. The glass was of reasonably good quality.

  Roland stayed out of the room for most of the preparations. Sairis forced himself not to say, “I don’t actually have to kill anything for this part,” or, “You killed men yesterday; how am I a monster for killing a mouse?”

  Since when do I care what knights think of me?

  He focused on the work. He grew so intent that he was actually startled when Roland poked his head in the door and said, “It’s full dark. Are you ready to go?”

  Chapter 18. A Lamp and a Loft

  The streets of Chireese had been lit with gas lamps not so long ago. However, like the mirrors in the palace, these modern wonders had been installed before the Sundering. With the loss of Mistala’s ports, the breakdown of trade, and the war with Zolsestron, the crown could no longer finance such luxuries. Most of the lamps stood dark and cold, with only a few strategically lit. Many citizens kept lights in their windows until nine or ten o’clock, and torch boys could be paid to light the way for those with means. Roland would have called the situation less than ideal for a ruler, since it encouraged crime. However, he had reason to thank the darkness as he and Sairis slipped through the shadows towards the palace.

  The wall that adjoined the stables contained a postern gate, through which messengers might ride. The lamp over the door was lit and sentries passed occasionally on the wall above. Anyone trying to force the heavy door would be seen long before obtaining entrance. Roland, however, had Daphne’s keys. His simple plan was to wait until the sentry was around the curve of the w
all, approach the door, unlock it swiftly, and enter.

  All went well until, upon pushing the door, Roland met with resistance. “They’ve dropped the deadbolt,” he muttered.

  “Is this door usually bolted?” asked Sairis.

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t bolted yesterday evening.”

  “Do you think someone expects us?”

  Roland hesitated.

  “Expects me?” added Sairis after a moment.

  Roland frowned. The stables aren’t the closest exit to the strategy room or the most obvious. The gardens are an easier escape route for a person unfamiliar with the palace. “I’m not sure,” he said aloud, “but the guard is coming back. We might be able to get in through the gardens...”

  “Hastafel’s sword is here,” said Sairis impatiently. “I can get us in. You’ll need to follow directions.” Half under his breath, he muttered, “This is why I should have come alone.”

  “Can you lift a deadbolt from outside a door?” asked Roland with real curiosity.

  “No.” Sairis was scanning the battlements above them. Roland’s ears strained for the tap, tap of the sentry’s boots.

  “Lock the door again,” said Sairis.

  Roland complied.

  Sairis pulled a hand from his pocket and drew out what looked like a bone about the length of a human finger. It was etched in runes and banded in silver. Roland only got a glimpse of it before Sairis cupped it in his palms and whispered...something. Roland was standing close enough that he should have caught the words, but he didn’t. They seemed to twist inside his head, gone as soon as they were heard. The evening air was mild, yet the words made a thin puff of smoky condensation as they left Sairis’s lips.

  Roland’s skin prickled all over and the hair of his arms stood up straight. This was magic. Not tame magic. Not a parlor trick. This was the thing that his grandfather had feared and outlawed and hunted. Death magic.