Master of Devils

by Dave Gross

  That morning, I took pride in my soup.

  During our unarmed sparring, my mind racing ahead to the afternoon’s studies, I found myself subconsciously incorporating arcane gestures into my strikes. When I realized what I was doing, I felt a momentary fear of Master Wu’s ungentle correction. In the earliest weeks of our training, the master of combat was quick to correct the slightest deviation from basic form. Yet in recent months, Wu had gradually relaxed his grip, allowing each student to begin to develop an individual style.

  Brother Kwan, for example, was unusually vocal. One could track his fights from the opposite side of a wall merely by listening to the piercing cries and whoops that, like his talon tattoos, evoked the image of a diving bird of prey. Yingjie fought silently, yet with every retreat he flourished the tip of his staff like a scorpion’s tail to distract his opponent. Mon Choi’s prominent idiosyncrasy was a wide variety of terrifying facial expressions as he charged forward or heaved an opponent above his head.

  Except in sword, I struggled to master even the rudiments of each weapon technique. My only previous indulgence of personal style was an unconscious return to the Chelish sword techniques I favored. Now I felt a curious urge to incorporate more arcane gestures into our sparring bouts.

  After delivering a credible strike to Karfai’s chest, I added a feeble finger-strike to his throat. It startled but did not harm him, yet somehow it felt correct, or close to some improvement in my technique. I flattered myself that I was on the verge of a revelation concerning the art of hand-to-hand combat.

  My experiments continued with a light press of my thumb against a pressure point on Mon Choi’s wrist as I escaped an arm lock. Once more my effort was distracting but ultimately ineffective. The gesture was too light to stun a nerve and provide a tangible advantage, and yet again it felt near to some previously undiscovered correctness related to my recently reawakened spellcasting.

  After the unarmed exercises, my opponent in sword was Harbin, who still far exceeded me in knives but had not significantly improved his swordplay over the summer. While I kept his sword at bay with a series of parries and feints, my thoughts drifted to the somatic ritual of one of the spells I had reclaimed. While parrying another of Harbin’s aggressive but obvious thrusts, I subconsciously performed the gestures with my left hand.

  One of my flying scrolls exploded inside my sash. Simultaneously, my hands crackled with electricity.

  I retreated, relinquishing the advantage of position to Harbin. He heard the sudden crackling at my hip, but also saw that I was open to attack.

  “No!” I said.

  He ignored my warning and lunged.

  I threw myself to the side and dropped my wooden sword. Pressing my hands to the ground, I discharged the shock charge harmlessly into the earth.

  Harbin rapped me smartly on the back. He repeated the blow twice to ensure that everyone had seen his victory.

  “Brother Jeggare must have traded his sword skill for cooking skill,” suggested Runme. The resulting laughter restored the mocking leer he had lost since breakfast. Fortunately, it also distracted everyone from what had truly happened.

  I was learning to combine my swordplay with wizardry.

  Weeks later, the arcane library of the Persimmon Court became the locus of my despair.

  Virtually all of the spells contained within the dusty scrolls were dedicated to combat. In other circumstances, I should have been delighted, for I have always favored evocations and conjurations, whose applications are best demonstrated in battle. Yet the spell I most desired was absent.

  Only once did I dare inquire of Master Li for assistance with the arcane library, but his only answer was a withering glare before he walked away to resume his fishing. I could not reconcile his hostile disposition with the mercy he showed after the discovery of my flying scrolls. Why did he allow me to continue these studies if he disapproved? He must have felt that Su Chau’s generous plea had forced him to act as he had.

  The master’s displeasure only added to the anxiety I felt as I continued my studies. As the summer waned, I compiled an arsenal of spells to inspire lust in the black hearts of the arcane assassins of Her Infernal Majestrix, Abrogail II. Inscribing the spells contained within the library increased my practical skill along with my repertoire.

  And yet within the library I found no magical means of communicating with Radovan.

  It was all but inconceivable that an otherwise comprehensive collection should lack such a spell. I scoured the chamber for a misplaced scroll or hidden cache. The library was a small building, barely larger than one of my wardrobes at Greensteeples, with scrolls resting in narrow racks not unlike those lining my wine cellars. The outer wall was filled with shelves except for the large circular entrances on the northern and southern walls. I hopefully pored over their contents.

  My most promising discovery was of a long-neglected cabinet containing the materials required for the spells I had already discovered. Within the dozens of tiny compartments I found the preserved legs of grasshoppers, scales of various reptiles, drops of bat guano, sulfur rocks, and dozens of other ingredients.

  I cursed every bare compartment and empty spot on the shelves. My intuition told me that there should have been more scrolls and books than currently remained, but in the dust I could discern no trace of any recent disturbance. Indeed, with the exception of a few corners, the entire chamber was unexpectedly clean for a place left so long in disuse.

  That fact was in itself intriguing.

  When I beckoned a servant to the library, he paused at the threshold and glanced warily at the floor. His hesitation suggested to me that the chamber was secured against unauthorized intrusion, yet I had entered without triggering a magical defense. The library contained a spell for inscribing runes that would blast anyone crossing them—and indeed, I had already added that particular weapon to my arsenal—yet I saw no such runes at either entrance.

  On the other hand, I knew of at least two common spells that could remove or disable such wards.

  After Wen Zhao revealed my flying scrolls, Master Li had been quick to assume I had stolen into the arcane library and bypassed the magical ward. That was a logical deduction if he knew, as I did, how easily a wizard or sorcerer could bypass the explosive sigils. Unlike Master Li, however, I knew I had not entered the library.

  I also knew I was not the only practitioner of the arcane arts in Dragon Temple.

  The obvious suspect was Jade Tiger. There was no question of accusing the eunuch of the theft, or even of inquiring of him directly. Clearly he had been avoiding me since the night of the assassin, and his interest in Kwan made me suspicious of his motives. Had Jade Tiger stolen into the arcane library and removed the one spell he knew I desired? To what end? What was his interest in Kwan, who smelled of peach blossoms after the night of the attack on the princess?

  If only I could speak to her again. Unfortunately, she was farther out of reach than ever. Despite my newfound privileges in the Persimmon Court, I felt the eyes of the servants and my fellow disciples on me at all times. I had no doubt that one or both of the temple masters had ordered a general surveillance of my activities.

  Only during training on the high posts had I glimpsed the princess’s veiled hat as she descended the stairs from the Peach Court to the garden one afternoon. Noticing the object of my attention, Kwan took advantage of my distraction and knocked me from the poles. When my battered head cleared, I looked up from the sand to see him staring in the same direction with a fierce look on his face.

  Was it mere rivalry, I wondered, or some other secret that fired his heart?

  The waning moon illuminated the paper windows of the library. An autumn breeze set the panes to trembling as leaves skittered across the roof. I had just lit my second candle with a spark cantrip. It was a waste of paper for the flying scroll, but it pleased me
to practice even the most trifling of spells. For so long I had been unable to do so without regrettable consequences, and I meant to make up for my years of abstinence.

  After learning or setting aside all of the spells available in the library, I turned my efforts to innovation. From my earliest days at the Acadamae in Korvosa, my interests inclined toward the means of altering and enhancing standard spells: the field of metamagic. Alas, my disability had always limited my studies to the theoretical. With the advantage of riffle and flying scrolls, I hoped to at last turn theory into practice.

  Unfortunately, the principals of metamagic that I had learned applied only to preparing a spell in the traditional manner. It was left to me to discover how to apply them to my particular means of casting spells.

  I closed my eyes to peruse my memory library. It was a trick I’d mastered early on in my schooling: the art of imagining every new fact or concept I learned as a book, which I then shelved according to its subject. Now I used it to browse my volumes on theoretical magic. Owing to my wealth and longevity, the number of such tomes was considerable, most of them direct transcriptions of actual books I had read over the course of my studies. Though I could recount every chapter title and many of the authors’ arguments verbatim, they contained little in the way of guidance and nothing in the way of revelation.

  My powers of recall are great but finite. No doubt there are a few wizened sages throughout Golarion whose capabilities rival mine, yet I found myself wishing for a moment’s use of the boundless knowledge of Nethys, or even one glance inside the god’s Book of Magic. The All-Seeing Eye is notoriously indifferent to the practitioners of his art, so I was unsurprised that no vision came upon me.

  However, an unexpected sort of messenger did arrive.

  “You have ingratiated yourself with Master Li.”

  I turned toward Jade Tiger’s voice and bowed without opening my eyes. He had interrupted my perusing a mental copy of Khaled Mumata’s treatise On the Contraction of Perceived Time in Abjuration and Evocation. I hesitated long enough to finish the paragraph before responding.

  “I cannot claim so, Your Excellency.”

  I opened my eyes. The eunuch wore a splendid green robe with gold embroidery. On one side the garment depicted a phoenix, complete with peacock feathers sewn in to form a tail; on the other side, a sinuous serpent wound around his sleeve and down to his hem. Besides Jade Tiger’s omnipresent fan, he carried not one but two slender swords in his sash. More than ever before, I sensed an aura of danger about the man.

  “It is strange that he grants privileges for your mischief.”

  “Master Li is wise. Perhaps he sees a lesson in assigning me this duty.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jade Tiger. “But a lesson to whom?”

  If I understood the eunuch’s insinuation, I had underestimated Master Li. Perhaps the venerable monk only appeared uninterested in the day-to-day affairs of the temple. It was absurd to think that Jade Tiger’s visits to me in the scriptorium had gone unnoticed by the servants. Likewise, it was equally tenuous to assume that the monk remained unaware of the eunuch’s wizardry; I discarded the foolish notion. Master Li must have assigned me to the arcane library not to reward me but to remove my dependency on Jade Tiger.

  The eunuch removed a scroll from his sash and held it before me. I saw at once that it was different from the spells he had shared from his personal spellbook. The parchment on which it was written was similar to that of the scrolls in the Persimmon Court library.

  No, not similar. Identical.

  “The subtleties of this illusion might remain beyond your understanding,” he said. “But if you can master it, the spell allows you to communicate with a dreamer, no matter the distance.”

  I bowed, suspicious but grateful for this unexpected boon. “Your generosity quite overwhelms—”

  “It is not a gift.” Jade Tiger returned the scroll to his sash. “If you wish it, you must take it from me.”

  “But Your Excellency—”

  He threw me one of his swords and drew the other before the first had touched my hand.

  “Defend your life.”

  He attacked, moving faster than Kwan. Retreating, I parried his thrust with the four inches of blade I could draw from the scabbard before my back struck the wall. Pushing him away, I shifted to the side and drew the blade fully.

  “Why—?”

  He attacked again.

  I concentrated on my defense. His swordsmanship was admirable, but I sensed mine was superior. The challenge was to defeat him without causing injury. Even defending oneself against a member of the royal court risked a judgment of instant death. To wound him would surely invoke a far more lingering punishment.

  “You insult me by concealing your true talent,” said Jade Tiger. “Fight with all your skill, or I will leave your body on this floor.”

  Often have I faced a foe with a flair for the dramatic. Some had nothing but bluff behind their words. Others were perfectly capable of executing their threats, no matter how bombastic.

  I sensed Jade Tiger was one of the latter sort.

  While I held his sword at bay with a simple variation on the Lepidstadt defense, I plucked a flying scroll from my sash. It was the spell he had first taught me, an enchantment capable of paralyzing him in an instant.

  Smiling, Jade Tiger snapped open his fan. With a wave he dispelled my magic. Normally invisible, the spell dissipated in a thin pink smoke. Jade Tiger snapped shut both the fan and his smile.

  I marveled at the magic of his fan. I wondered how many secret properties it held.

  Jade Tiger obliged my unspoken question by binding my blade to the outside and whirling in to graze the tip of my nose with the razor-sharp tip of the fan.

  It was an insolent, mocking strike. In an instant it dispelled all deference with which I viewed the court eunuch. No one may insult a Jeggare with impunity.

  I pressed him with a swift attack, driving him to defend his leading shoulder. It was child’s play to draw his guard open. Rather than execute the mortal strike, I tested his vanity with a feint toward his face. He overcompensated, drawing his defense too close. I swept his legs with a low kick.

  He rolled over the strike and resumed a balanced stance. A flicker of doubt crossed his face. I was almost satisfied to have placed him on the defensive, but only almost. The eunuch required a lesson in mutual courtesy.

  Before I could administer the instruction, I glimpsed a motion from his hand and parried the darts he flung from his fan’s hollow spine. One cut the shoulder of my robe, but the others glanced off my blade.

  He made a grudging nod. “You emulate Kwan, but you lack his strength.”

  A few apt taunts about what Jade Tiger lacked came to mind, none of them worthy of a count of Cheliax.

  I discharged another flying scroll. My eyes blazed with arcane fire. I directed their heat onto the eunuch, but once more he dispelled my magic. I could not touch him with a spell. He was far too quick with the fan.

  No, I realized. I was too slow. More precisely, my spells were too slow.

  I plucked the scrolls for two of my meanest spells from my sash. Neither was apt to kill Jade Tiger, but one might repay him for the slight of my nose.

  Maintaining my guard, I recalled certain metamagical principals and adopted an unorthodox stance, gesturing with my free hand as though I were modifying the spell I had already inscribed. If I had paused to consider what I was attempting, I should have abandoned the effort as preposterous. There was no reason to believe it would have an effect.

  And yet I did not pause, and I did not think. I acted on impulse.

  The first scroll caused frost to radiate from my finger. Jade Tiger swept it away, but before he could close his fan, four gray bolts of energy leaped from my hand and struck his torso.

  He g
asped and felt his body where the bolts had struck. At each point a neat round hole penetrated the cloth. Blood seeped from the wounds.

  I knew I should throw myself at his feet and beg that he spare my life, yet I could not bear to do so. Instead I sheathed the sword he had given me and laid it at his feet.

  Jade Tiger studied his stained fingertips with an astonished expression. A long moment later, his gaze returned to my face. His fine lips began to twist, and his fan snapped up to conceal whatever emotion they might betray.

  On the side facing me, three smiling cubs tumbled upon each other.

  Jade Tiger retrieved the sword and swept out of the library. In his wake lay the scroll with which he had tempted me. I seized it at once, examining it for any sign of defect. My beating heart slowed as anxiety released its grip. The spell upon the scroll was exactly as it appeared at first glance.

  At last, I had a means of contacting Radovan. Now the question was whether my bodyguard could reach me before the eunuch’s inevitable revenge.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Necromancer

  I knelt by the grave and stroked the granite face of a dead girl.

  For some reason I couldn’t pin down, her carved face attracted me to the stone. Sure, she was pretty, but there was something more to it than that. Maybe it was her sad expression. The words beneath her image meant little to me. I could read the numbers, but I never learned how they count years in Tian Xia. It didn’t matter. The face carved into the stone told me more than words could have. The artist had given the image all the life its subject had lost, maybe more.

  It wasn’t just the woman’s beauty, and it wasn’t her fetching pout as she played on a bamboo flute. It was more about what the artist hadn’t carved. Her long straight hair hid half her face, giving her a mystery.