The Death of the Necromancer

by Martha Wells

  "Good." Arisilde sat back against the pillows, more at ease. "I hope he’s well soon enough that he can come and see me here. It would be terrible if we all visited the palace and he missed it." His violet eyes turned pensive and he added, "The Queen was here. She’s very sweet, but she asked me if I wanted to be Court Sorcerer. I don’t think she’s very fond of Rahene Fallier. I told her I’d have to think about it. I’m not very reliable, you know."

  "You were there when it counted, Ari."

  "Well, yes, but. . . . I remembered what I had been going to tell you, you know. That night I went so mad and charged all over the room."

  "What was it?"

  "I’d looked at those things you brought me. The fabric with the ghost-lichen on it and the remnants of that golem. There was the mark of an unfamiliar sorcerer on them. A very powerful sorcerer. But it went right out of my head until now."

  "It wouldn’t have mattered, even at the time." Nicholas hesitated a long moment. "I came to tell you that I’m going away for a while."

  Arisilde brightened, interested. "Really? Where?"

  "Abroad. I’ll write you when I get there and let you know. If you like, you and Isham can move into Coldcourt while I’m gone."

  "Ah, yes. They told me that Macob didn’t leave much of the garret. That would be very nice. And you’d better write Isham instead of me. He’ll keep track of the letter better than I would." Arisilde watched him a moment, his gaze sharpening. "Take care of yourself, Nicholas. I don’t think I could manage to bring you back from the dead twice."

  Nicholas stood, an ironic edge to his smile. "Ari, I hope you won’t have to."

  They were watching him, of course.

  Nicholas sent two messages, one to Madeline and one to Cusard, both in code. Reynard got them out for him easily enough under the cover of an innocuous note to Nicholas’s butler Sarasate at Coldcourt, asking him to send one of the footmen with some clothes proper for court attire.

  Ronsarde demanded to see him again but Nicholas dodged the Inspector’s questions and refused to elaborate on his future plans. He had to endure a court luncheon where the others in attendance all seemed to know his Alsene antecedents and to be present only to get a look at him. It did however provide Reynard, who now had the Queen’s favor and Captain Giarde’s powerful patronage, with an opportunity to be rude to a number of highly placed courtiers.

  Rahene Fallier was also there, with a dour expression somewhat at odds with his usual implacable visage.

  After the luncheon, Nicholas slipped away from the men assigned to watch him and followed Fallier. The sorcerer went through the wing that held the galleries and grand ballrooms and into the main hall of the Old Palace, which adjoined the newer, open sections of the structure with the older defensive bastions. At the top of the massive stone spiral stair that led to the King’s Bastion, Fallier stopped, turned back, and said, "What do you want?"

  Nicholas climbed the last few steps. Fallier’s eyes were cold and not encouraging. "We need to talk."

  "I think not." Fallier took his gloves out of his pocket and began to pull them on.

  "I know you didn’t do Rive Montesq’s bidding of your own will."

  Fallier hesitated, all motion arrested, then finished tugging on his glove. He looked at Nicholas and the expression in those opaque eyes was deadly.

  Nicholas leaned one hand on the balustrade. "No, you don’t want to kill me," he said, easily. "I have friends who wouldn’t take it kindly. Especially Arisilde Damal, who is ordinarily the mildest of creatures. But he is suffering the effects of many years overindulgence in opium and his temperament could be uncertain."

  Fallier considered that. "Damal would be a worthy opponent," he said. "Perhaps . . . too worthy. What do you want?"

  "I don’t care what Montesq is holding over your head. I studied at Lodun myself, at the medical college. I know many student sorcerers dabble with the harmless minor divinatory spells of necromancy. Of course, with your position at court—"

  "I understand you. Go on."

  "You don’t know what Montesq will ask for next."

  "I can imagine," Fallier said dryly.

  From his tone, Nicholas suspected Fallier had already been approached to aid Montesq in eluding Ronsarde’s charges. But if he read Fallier right, that wouldn’t be a problem. He said, "Then you wouldn’t be adverse to helping me put Montesq in a position where he couldn’t act against you."

  Fallier actually unbent enough to sneer mildly and say, "If it was only a matter of giving testimony—"

  "It isn’t, and we both know it." Nicholas smiled. "I’m speaking of a way to stop Montesq from acting against anyone—permanently."

  Fallier eyed him a moment thoughtfully, and nodded. "Then I think we need to speak in private."

  With Reynard’s help, Nicholas received permission to visit Doctor Brile’s surgery to see how Crack and Isham were recovering. It was Ronsarde from whom the permission had come, he knew. He thought the Queen would have let him wander as he pleased and Captain Giarde, though always a dark horse, didn’t have anything against him. It was Ronsarde who thought he needed watching.

  He was transported in one of the palace coaches and delivered to the door of Doctor Brile’s surgery. The doctor appeared bemused by the liveried Royal Guards who posted themselves on his stoop, but conducted Nicholas upstairs to where his patients were housed.

  Nicholas saw Isham first, who was sitting up in bed though unable to talk for long without tiring himself. He reassured the old man as to everyone’s safety and told him that Arisilde wanted to see him as soon as possible. But as he was taking his leave, Isham gestured him back with some firmness and said, "About Madele—"

  Nicholas shook his head abruptly. "I don’t want to—"

  "She was not an old woman," Isham continued, ignoring the interruption. "She was a witch, from the time when witches were warriors. She had done everything from curing plague to crawling behind the lines in border skirmishes with Bisra to assassinate their priest-magicians. She was very old and she knew she would die soon, and she preferred a death in battle. Do not look doubtfully at me. When you are my age you will know what I say is true."

  "All right, all right," Nicholas said placatingly. Isham was looking gray about the mouth again. "I believe you."

  "No, you don’t," Isham said stubbornly, but allowed himself to be laid back in bed. "But you will, eventually."

  Nicholas went next door to see Crack, who greeted him with an impatient demand for information. Nicholas spent more time than he meant, telling Crack what had happened in the caves and how they had defeated Macob.

  He hadn’t alluded to Madeline’s current whereabouts, but Crack wasn’t fooled. He said, "She was here."

  "She was?" Nicholas tried to look mildly interested, but knew he wasn’t fooling his henchman.

  "The doctor don’t know it—she climbed in through the window. Isham don’t know it either, since he was asleep and she didn’t want to wake him."

  Nicholas gave in. "What did she say?" he demanded.

  "Some things," Crack said. It would have been evasive, except Crack never was. He added, "She’s worried at you."

  Nicholas put it out of his mind firmly. He had too much to do now and he would know if she had received his message when he went to Coldcourt. "Never mind that now," he said. "I’ve spoken to Inspector Ronsarde about you working for him while I’m gone." He explained further.

  Crack didn’t like the idea and expressed his displeasure volubly. Patiently, Nicholas said, "It would only be until I returned, then you could decide if you wanted to continue with the Inspector or come back with me. You’ll get your normal retainer from me, anyway. Sarasate will see to that."

  "It ain’t the money," Crack grumbled. "What about Montesq?"

  Nicholas glanced at the door of the room, making sure Brile was out of earshot. "Montesq won’t be a consideration anymore."

  "He won’t?" Crack sounded hopeful.

  "No."

&nb
sp; "Then I’ll think on it."

  And that was the most he could get out of Crack. Nicholas went out to the consulting room where Doctor Brile was sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, writing. The physician stood and put on his coat when Nicholas came into the room. "You saw both of them?" he asked.

  "Yes." Nicholas hesitated. He had brought money to pay Brile for his services but in light of his next request, it would look unpleasantly like a bribe, and he knew the physician wouldn’t respond well to that. "Make sure they have whatever they want and send the bill to Coldcourt. I won’t be there but my butler has instructions to arrange payment."

  "I wasn’t worried," Brile said mildly. "Are you going now?"

  "Yes. Do you have a trapdoor to the roof?"

  It was Brile’s turn to hesitate. Nicholas saw him considering the presence of the Royal Guards at his door, perhaps weighing it with what he had seen of Nicholas’s concern for his patients. He said finally, "There’s a back door to the court behind the house."

  "There is probably someone watching it."

  Brile sighed. "I knew it would lead to this when Morane turned up at my door in the middle of the night. Will I be arrested if I help you?"

  "I doubt it, but if you are, ask to speak to Inspector Ronsarde or Doctor Halle. They know all about it."

  "Then I’ll show you the roof door."

  It was later that night, long after the streetlights were lit. Pompiene, Count Rive Montesq’s Great House, looked down on the empty street, towering over the more modest town houses that clustered around it. Its original fortress-like facade had been modernized to make it current with fashion and a number of generous windows and a second floor terrace gave it an airy, fanciful appearance.

  Across the street a figure stood in the shadows, muffled in a dark shabby coat and a hat with the brim pulled low. It wasn’t raining but a damp mist hung heavy in the air and the flickering light of the gas lamps gleamed off the slick paving stones.

  He crossed the street, moving toward the arcaded carriage alley at the side of the house. He avoided the pool of light from the single oil lamp that hung over the carriage doors and went instead to an inconspicuous portal further down the alley. It was a servants’ door and though it was heavy and well-made, the inside bolts hadn’t been shot and after some moments’ work, the lock yielded to the picks.

  Everything there was to know about this house, from its original floorplan to its furnishings to the habits of its servants, he already knew. The door opened into a narrow dark hall, with the servants’ stairs on one side and the entrances to the pantries and servery on the other. He slipped past these doorways, hearing muted voices from the kitchens, and out the curtained door at the end and into the main foyer of the house.

  The gas sconces and the chandelier were lit, revealing the house’s main entrance, a carved set of double doors framed by multi-paned windows and a grand sweep of double staircase that led up into the public and private rooms. He took the right branch of the stairs, moved soundlessly down the carpeted gallery at the top and paused at a door that stood partway open.

  It was a room made familiar by long hours of watching, spying. It was dark but a fall of light from the hallway revealed bookcases and a beautifully carved marble mantel and glinted off the frame of the watercolor and the marble bust by Bargentere. Across the room, above the large desk of mottled gold satinwood, was the painting The Scribe by Emile Avenne, the large canvas taking up a good portion of the wall above the wainscotting. He crossed the room swiftly, stepped around the desk and began to open drawers. Locating the one where Count Montesq kept correspondence, he took a packet of letters out of an inside coat pocket and placed it within. Shutting the drawer, he paused, listening to a quiet step out in the stairwell. He smiled to himself and stepped to the other side of the desk and opened another drawer, pretending to search it.

  That was how the light caught him when the library door swung fully open. Two men stood there and a voice said, "Don’t move."

  He stayed where he was, knowing at least one firearm was directed his way. A figure stepped into the room and lit the gas sconce on the wall. The light revealed a burly, rough-featured man standing in the doorway, pointing a pistol at him. Count Montesq adjusted the height of the flame in the sconce, then turned unhurriedly to light the candle lamp on the nearby table. He said, "You were foolish to come here." His voice was warm and rich and he was smiling faintly.

  The man he knew as Nicholas Valiarde said, "Not foolish."

  Montesq finished with the lamp and stepped back to take the gun from the wary guard, motioning him to step out into the hall. The Count pushed the door closed behind the man and said, "After you dropped out of sight, I thought you were dead."

  "Oh, why the pretense?" Nicholas said, showing no evidence of discomfiture at being caught. "I’m sure Rahene Fallier told you that Inspector Ronsarde had surfaced again and that he extricated me from Fallier’s clutches and used the episode as a chance to solicit Captain Giarde’s assistance."

  Montesq’s eyes narrowed. "You know about Fallier."

  "I know everything, now."

  "Not quite everything."

  "Fallier also told you that I approached him today and asked for his help to circumvent the wards on this house, so I could enter it tonight."

  The smile on the Count’s lips died. He didn’t try to deny the charge. "But you came anyway? Why? What could you possibly hope to accomplish?"

  "It was the only way."

  Montesq had observed that something in the quality of his guest’s voice was not quite normal, that there was a flatness in his dark eyes. "How disappointing," Montesq drawled, coming to the wrong conclusion. "I was hoping you weren’t mad."

  "It is a little tawdry, isn’t it?" Nicholas agreed, watching him with an odd intensity. "Ending like this. There was one thing I wanted to ask you."

  "Yes?"

  "You did realize that Edouard was telling you the truth. The spheres never worked for just anyone; they had to be wielded by a sorcerer, or someone with at least a minor magical talent."

  Montesq hesitated, but there was no harm in admitting such things to a dead man. "I realized it, after I killed the woman."

  Nicholas nodded to himself, satisfied. "I’m glad you said that."

  Montesq smiled, one brow lifted in a quizzical expression. "You don’t think I’ll shoot, do you?"

  "No, I know you will," Nicholas said, quietly. "I’m counting on it."

  They both heard the crash and a surprised shout as a downstairs door was flung open. Montesq’s head jerked involuntarily toward the sound and Nicholas leapt at him, making a wild grab for the pistol. Montesq stumbled back and as footsteps pounded up the stairs, he fired.

  Two burly constables of the Prefecture were first into the room but Inspector Ronsarde was right behind them.

  Ronsarde paused in the doorway, redfaced and breathing hard from the run up the stairs. The two constables had seized Montesq and taken possession of the pistol. The sight of the body on the carpet in front of the hearth broke the Inspector’s temporary paralysis and he crossed over to it. He knelt and felt for a pulse at the throat, then jerked his hand back as if he had been burned. Ronsarde looked hard at the face, then slowly stood and turned to Montesq.

  Their eyes met. Montesq’s expression of bafflement turned to rage. In a grating voice, he said, "You bastard."

  One of the constables reported, "When we came in, he was standing over him with the pistol, looking down at him, sir."

  "Yes," Ronsarde said, nodding. "I’m sure he was."

  Doctor Halle appeared in the doorway, more constables behind him. Taking in the scene, Halle swore and pushed past Ronsarde to the body. He knelt and ripped open his medical bag, then froze as he stared down at the face of the corpse.

  The constables at the door made room for Lord Albier, who was trailed by his secretary Viarn and Captain Defanse. Albier summed up the situation with a swift glance and ordered Defanse to secure the house and arr
est the servants.

  Halle stood and turned a bewildered expression on Ronsarde. "This isn’t— This man’s been dead for—"

  Ronsarde said, "Yes?" and stared hard at Halle.

  After a moment, Halle cleared his throat and finished, "Moments, only. A few moments." He picked up his bag and retreated to a corner to gather his thoughts.

  Albier stepped into the room now, glancing ruefully at Ronsarde. "Well, when you’re right, you’re right," he admitted gruffly.

  Ronsarde’s lips twitched. "Or vice versa," he murmured inaudibly.

  Montesq had had a moment to recover himself. He said, "I was attacked by that man—"

  "He’s unarmed," Ronsarde interrupted. He hadn’t bothered to search the body, but he was reasonably sure of his facts.

  Albier nodded to Viarn, who went over and began to go through the corpse’s pockets. "You won’t find it easy to explain this away, sir," Albier said to Montesq with some satisfaction. "This wasn’t a burglary. It’s early evening, the lamps lit, your servants everywhere. You must have invited the man in."

  Montesq almost bared his teeth in fury. "He entered without my knowledge, with sorcery."

  Albier raised a skeptical brow. "If he was a sorcerer why did he let you shoot him? Besides, Inspector Ronsarde had information that you would have an interview with a man whom you would attempt to murder tonight."

  "I’m sure he did." Montesq turned his cold gaze on Ronsarde and said contemptuously, "You violate your principles, sir."

  "Do I?" Ronsarde said softly. "If you hadn’t shot him, this would all have fallen to pieces. He laid the trap, but you didn’t have to step into it."

  Albier frowned. "What would have fallen to—"

  "Sir!" The secretary Viarn was holding up a pocket watch with a jeweled fob. "Sir, he has several documents that should identify him but they all seem to be in different names, and he has this!" He stood and handed the watch to Albier. "Look at the inscription on the back of the setting for that opal."

  Albier squinted down at the jewel in his palm, half turning so the lamplight would fall on it. "Romele," he breathed. "This is one of the pieces stolen in the Romele jewel robbery." He and Viarn exchanged a significant look. "That man is Donatien."