The Death of the Necromancer

by Martha Wells

  From his corner, Doctor Halle made a muffled noise and Ronsarde rolled his eyes in disgust. Montesq said, "Donatien . . . ?" Slow understanding dawned in his eyes and he swore bitterly under his breath. "If I had known. . . ."

  Albier rounded on him. "If you had known? It looks a good deal like you did know, sir. That what we have here is a falling-out among thieves."

  "No, does it really?" Montesq said acidly.

  "There’s something missing," Ronsarde said, his expression thoughtful.

  "What?" Albier asked, startled.

  "Direct evidence of the good Count’s involvement with Donatien." Ronsarde looked around the room appraisingly. He moved behind the desk and studied the array of drawers. All were firmly shut except one, which had been left open a hair. Ronsarde let out his breath. Since he had seen the face of the dead man, he hadn’t known whether to laugh hysterically or shout and stamp. He opened the drawer and lifted out a pack of letters. "What are the names on those documents, Viarn?"

  The secretary sorted hastily through the papers he had retrieved from the body. "Ordenon, Ferrar, Ringard Alscen—"

  "Ah, yes." Ronsarde nodded to himself. "Here are letters from men of those names to Count Montesq. I’m sure this will provide the confirmation of your theory, Albier."

  Albier was surprised and a little uncomfortable. "My theory? You told me to come here, Ronsarde, and you’ve been pursuing Donatien for years. I’m sure it was your work that led to this."

  A muscle jumped in Inspector Ronsarde’s cheek. "Oh, no," he said. "I can’t take credit for this."

  Later, as the Prefecture moved into Count Montesq’s Great House in force, questioning servants, confiscating documents, collecting evidence, Ronsarde and Halle escaped outside and moved across the street to where a gas lamp lit a circle of wrought iron benches with a small fountain in the center. It was a damp cold night and a mist was beginning to rise.

  Doctor Halle stood with shoulders hunched and hands jammed into the pockets of his greatcoat. He said, "There’s just one thing I’d like to make certain of—"

  "I will check with the authorities at the city morgue tomorrow and discover that sometime yesterday afternoon a person answering to our friend Cusard’s description claimed the body of an unidentified and recently deceased young man. That he perused all the available male corpses before making his choice, rejecting the ones that had been dead too long or been killed by some obvious means, such as stabbings or disfiguring blows to the head," Ronsarde said. "I will wager you the price of a dinner at Lusaude’s grill room that this is so."

  "I won’t take that wager," Halle said. After a moment, he chuckled.

  "It’s not funny," Ronsarde said stiffly.

  "Of course you’re right." Halle stopped smiling but he didn’t give the impression of suffering any sensation of guilt. He noticed that further down the street the colored lamps outside the cafe in the ground floor of the promenade were lit, signifying that it was still open for business. Halle knew Ronsarde shouldn’t be out in this weather and steered their steps toward it, the Inspector following him by habit. After a moment, Halle said, "I understand it must have been a golem constructed in some fashion out of the corpse, and when Montesq destroyed the spell by firing the pistol into it, the rest of the thing dissolved, and left only the body. But who made the golem? Was it Arisilde Damal? He’s been at the palace all day inside the wards. Could he control the creature from there?"

  "It wasn’t Damal," Ronsarde said, his mouth thinning. "It was Rahene Fallier, who had every reason to silence Montesq."

  "Good God, Fallier," Halle said in wonder. He shook his head and chuckled again, then glanced at Ronsarde’s face. "Sorry."

  Ronsarde continued, "If the Count tries to reveal any of the information he was using to blackmail Fallier now, it will simply be more proof against him."

  "Masterful," Halle said, admiringly. He caught Ronsarde’s glare, and said, "Oh, come now. Valiarde played you expertly."

  "Thank you for mentioning it. But he also counts on me not to expose him."

  Halle stopped in his tracks. "You wouldn’t."

  "I could," Ronsarde said, grimly. "Damn that boy. He could have been a brilliant investigator." Then he relented and allowed himself a slight smile. "But I won’t expose him. Did you see the look on Montesq’s face?"

  "Did I? When I first walked in I thought you’d struck him, he looked so shocked."

  Laughing, the two men walked down the dark street toward the lights of the cafe.

  * * *

  The port city of Chaire smelled of dead fish and salt sea, or at least this portion of it did. It was long after midnight but the lower level of the old stone docks still bustled with activity when Cusard’s wagon pulled in. The shoremen and carters were hauling last minute cargos to and from the steamers preparing to leave the next morning. Nicholas jumped down from the wagon seat, dressed in work clothes and an old greatcoat, a battered leather knapsack slung over one shoulder. He usually preferred to travel light but the trunk weighing down the bed of Cusard’s wagon had to accompany him on this trip.

  Cusard dropped the tail of the wagon and as they waited for the shoremen to get around to them, he sniffed and said, "You got all your papers and tickets?"

  Nicholas rolled his eyes. Cusard was going to get maudlin. "Yes, poppa. I’ll remember to stay away from fallen women, too."

  "Like my own son, you was." Cusard let out his breath in a gusty sigh. "Should of beat you more when you was a boy."

  "Probably." Nicholas leaned back against the wagon. "For the love of God, Cusard, I’m going to Adera for a few months, not Hell."

  "Foreigners," Cusard commented succinctly. He eyed Nicholas thoughtfully. "You’ll miss the trial."

  "That’s for the best. Montesq is going to be convicted of murdering Donatien, his partner in crime. I don’t want him to have the opportunity to prove that Donatien is alive and well and living under the name Nicholas Valiarde."

  Cusard grunted. "I’ll save the penny sheets for you."

  "Just stay away from the warehouse or any of the other places I had to give them."

  "No, I was going to walk around ‘em with a sign on my back saying ’Arrest Me.‘ " Cusard sighed again. "That’s like a son to me all right, leaving me to fend for myself—"

  "Your share is enough to buy a villa on the March—"

  "High living will do you in every time," Cusard interrupted sententiously. Then he grinned. "Did the Count in, didn’t it? High living and being too clever by half."

  Nicholas tried to maintain a stony facade, but his lips twitched in a smile. "Yes, it did, didn’t it?"

  The shoremen came for the trunk then, grunting at its unexpected weight as they lifted it down from the wagon bed.

  As Nicholas was signing the bill of lading one of them, with the forthrightness characteristic of tradesmen in Ile-Rien, demanded, "What have you got in here, bricks?"

  "Almost," Nicholas said, truthfully. Small, highly valuable bricks. He added, not so truthfully, "It’s sculpture actually, busts and small figures."

  That was dull stuff for men who unloaded cargos from Parscia and Bukarin and they showed no further interest in the trunk’s contents.

  "You’d better be going," Nicholas told Cusard. "It’s a long drive back and you’re so damnably old."

  "You and your mouth," Cusard said, and cuffed him on the side of the head. "Tell her ladyship to take care of herself."

  "I will," Nicholas said, as the old man climbed back aboard the wagon and lifted the reins. At least I hope I’ll have the opportunity.

  Once the trunk was loaded and the shoremen tipped, Nicholas could have boarded the ship and sought the comfort of the first class cabin he had booked. Instead he climbed the stairs to the upper level of the dock and sat down on one of the stone benches.

  It was very late and in the chill night there were few people venturing to take the air. The bustle of last minute loading and passengers arriving to board the ships was all taki
ng place on the lower dock and this broad walk seemed very isolated. Hundreds of lamps still burned in the great hotels and the amusement pavilion at the opposite end, but that was far away.

  He knew Madeline had gotten his message. He had gone to Coldcourt after escaping Brile’s surgery to give Sarasate instructions to expect Arisilde and Isham. There had been a host of telegrams to send too, warnings and instructions to different parts of his organization. Sarasate had reported that Madeline had been there earlier to pack a few of her things and had told him that Nicholas would be there soon with further instructions. She hadn’t said where she was going.

  Alone he had watched the scene enacted in Montesq’s library through Arisilde’s enspelled copy of The Scribe. So all the books are right, he thought, revenge is bitter. Then he smiled to himself. But I’ll get over it.

  Seated on the bench, he waited long enough to get thoroughly chilled and very afraid when he saw a lone figure making its way down the promenade, moving into one of the pools of light from the wrought iron lamps.

  Nicholas drew a deep breath in relief. He would recognize that walk anywhere.

  It took her long enough to reach him that he had managed to school his features into a mild expression of welcome, instead of grinning at her like an idiot. Madeline sat down on the bench next to him, dropping a carpetbag near his feet. She was dressed in a conservative travelling costume under a new gray paletot. She looked at him a moment, her face bemused, then said, "I thought about making you wait and catching the pilot boat at the last minute tomorrow morning, but I couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t do something dramatic."

  This time he couldn’t help the grin. "Me? Do something dramatic?"

  "Idiot," she said, and busied herself with adjusting her hat. "Now tell me how it was done. Where did you get the body?"

  Nicholas let out his breath. "This afternoon I sent Cusard to the city morgue to look for a fresh, unclaimed male corpse, of about the right age, with no obvious wounds. It didn’t even have to resemble me. Fallier would take care of that when he made the golem and afterward, well, the Prefecture knows that Donatien is— was—a master of disguise."

  "Couldn’t Montesq claim that he shot Donatien in self-defense?"

  "Oh, I’m sure he will. But before he arrived the golem placed a packet of letters in Montesq’s desk. Some of them date back to the beginning of Donatien’s rather checkered career and make it clear that Montesq planned most if not all of Donatien’s activities."

  "That must have been difficult."

  She was right about that but the blow to his ego had been a sacrifice Nicholas was willing to make. "It did give me a twinge or two." He pulled off his black leather riding glove and shoved her the brown stains on his fingers. "I was more worried by what would happen if Ronsarde saw the stains from the tea I used to age the paper for the older letters. He would have known immediately I was up to something more than a simple murder. I’m lucky correct court attire demands gloves."

  Madeline frowned. "That was terribly cruel to make poor Ronsarde think you were bent on shooting Montesq in some grand self-destructive gesture. He must have been very worried about you."

  "It will teach him not to be overconfident." Nicholas continued, "My observations of Montesq through Arisilde’s portrait made it possible to salt the letters with realistic and verifiable details. The later ones implicate the solicitor Batherat, who is a nervous sort and will probably break down under the first questioning session and volunteer information about Montesq’s own indiscretions."

  "Well, it turned out better than I hoped, I’ll tell you that."

  They sat in silence for a few moments, Nicholas watching the way the cold breeze off the ocean lifted the loose strands of hair that had escaped from her hat. "The theater rehearsal season will be just starting when we get to Adera. You can look for a part in something."

  "A leading role, you mean," she said, in perfect Aderassi. "And what will you do?"

  He shrugged. "There’s the university in the capital. I could finish my medical degree. A letter from Doctor Uberque should help me gain admittance."

  Madeline snorted. "That’ll last a week."

  "Probably," he said, grinning again. Sobering, he decided there was something else he needed to ask, and finally managed, "Do you blame me for Madele’s death?"

  Madeline shook her head slowly. "I did, at first. But it’s more accurate, and more characteristic of me, to blame Madele for Madele’s death. She knew what she was risking. And it probably maddens her, wherever she is, that she missed the whole fight against Macob. That’s probably punishment enough." She gave him a sideways glance. "If you’re going to get sentimental, let’s get on the damn boat before I change my mind."

  "Yes," he said, satisfied with that answer. "Let’s go."

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Nancy Buchanan, for reading the manuscript in bits and pieces of very rough draft and for invaluable help with the research, including locating a copy of The Lighter Side of My Official Life, out of print since the 1920s. Thanks also to Z.P. Florian, for the story of the Hungarian fighting the Turks, and to Timothy John Cowden, for the story of his aunt, Lillian Saxe, who really did write a note in a book she left to him like Edouard did in Chapter 7. And finally, thanks to Troyce Wilson for ideas, support, and most of all, patience.

  About the Author

  MARTHA WELLS was born in Fort Worth, Texas, and received her B.A. in anthropology From Texas A&M University. She is the author of two previous novels, The Element of Fire and City of Bones. She lives with her husband in College Station,Texas.