Study in Slaughter (Schooled in Magic)
Page 17
Somehow, the thought was not really amusing.
She ran through the first three calming exercises the sergeants had taught her, trying not to think about the Warden’s dead body. But no matter how she concentrated, it just kept coming back into her mind. She’d barely known the Warden—outside of punishment sessions, she’d never even seen him—but he hadn’t deserved to die, had he? And why him?
Maybe he didn’t have any magic too, she thought, remembering Sergeant Harkin. But that didn’t seem too likely. She hadn’t really known what was about to happen the first time she’d visited him, yet surely the other students would have known. If someone had panicked and started to lash around with magic, it could have been disastrous. No, the Warden would have to be someone with real power, just to keep himself alive. But his magic had clearly failed him at the last.
And if someone had managed to use a necromantic rite to kill him, that meant that a necromancer was wandering the halls of Whitehall, probably already going insane.
Emily shivered, looking over at the wooden door. She had to tell the Grandmaster, she had to warn him, but Mistress Irene had told her not to leave the room. It was funny; once, she could have spent hours on her own, yet the moment she was told not to leave she wanted to leave. But the room was empty, without anything to distract her from her own thoughts. It was definitely a prison cell.
She reached into her pockets, looking for something to distract her. There was a small notepad, one of the ones created in Zangaria using the improved paper-making process, a couple of pencils and little else. Emily felt an odd twinge as she held one of the pencils in her fingers; designing an ink-filled pen had been relatively simple, but they hadn’t caught on in Whitehall. She wasn’t quite sure why.
But if literacy levels explode over the next few years, they’ll get in, she thought, remembering the school she’d visited in Zangaria. The New Math and New Writing, as they called it, was spreading like wildfire. By the time she graduated—if she was allowed to remain in the school for the next five years—it would be everywhere. And the implications of that were staggering.
Imaiqah and Alassa had both known how to write in the empire’s script; Alassa had been a royal princess, while Imaiqah had been expected to do the bookkeeping for her family and her husband’s family, whenever she finally married. Emily had had to write in English, using a translation spell, at least until she had mastered the empire’s script herself. Even with special tuition and memory-enhancing potions, it hadn’t been simple. But now...what would happen if everyone learned how to read and write?
The thought failed to distract her for long, so she pulled the notepad out of her pocket and started making notes about gunpowder weapons and tactics. Her quiet research program in Zangaria hadn’t yet produced anything more dangerous than primitive cannons, but she knew that it was only a matter of time before they graduated to flintlocks, muskets and rifles. The basic concepts had come from her mind, yet they’d taken them and worked like demons to build something new. And once they had pistols and revolvers....
They complained about stirrups, Emily recalled. The simple invention had turned some societies upside down. Noblemen had been the only ones with any training to ride horses, but stirrups eliminated most of the required training. Or something like that; Emily had learned to ride, from Alassa, but she’d never fallen in love with the beasts. The sooner the railways were running all over the Allied Lands, the better. What will they say when they realize what gunpowder can do?
She shook her head. It was impossible to concentrate for more than a few minutes without remembering the Warden—and the lecture Master Tor had given her. She closed the notepad, returned it to her pocket and lay back on the bed. If she could only clear her mind...
...But her mind refused to stop focusing on the dead man.
“I know I didn’t kill him,” she said, out loud. “I didn’t.”
There was a loud tap on the door, which opened a moment later. Emily half-expected to see Master Tor, coming to shout at her some more; it was a relief when she saw Sergeant Miles, even if he looked coldly furious. He hadn’t looked so angry when he’d shown them the Death Viper and told them just how it had entered the school. But the anger, thankfully, didn’t seem to be directed at Emily.
“Good afternoon,” he said, as he closed the door. “How are you feeling?”
Emily stared at him, fighting down the urge to burst into tears. “I don’t know,” she admitted, finally. Untangling her feelings would take weeks. She wanted a stronger sleeping potion and a few days to relax and rest, but she knew she wasn’t going to get it. “I just...”
“Too much stress can do that,” Sergeant Miles said. He held a hand out to her. “On your feet, soldier.”
Emily obeyed, even though part of her mind pointed out that he was unlikely to help another soldier to his feet. Lady Barb had told her, in brutal detail, that combat sorceresses had to work twice as hard as the combat sorcerers to be accepted—and they had to suppress their femininity completely while they were in the field. Given how many students Emily had overheard muttering about how attractive Lady Barb was, Emily couldn’t help wondering how successful she had been. But then, Lady Barb was a combat sorceress and power was always attractive.
“I’m afraid they’re going to ask you a great many questions,” Sergeant Miles said, as he led her towards the door. “Just do your best to answer truthfully and you should be fine.”
It struck Emily, suddenly, that he knew she hadn’t killed the Warden. She could have kissed him in that moment, even though it would have started off a whole new series of rumors if anyone saw them. Instead, she allowed him to lead her up towards the Grandmaster’s office, through a series of deserted corridors. The entire school seemed to be empty.
“Everyone has been sent back to their rooms,” Sergeant Miles explained, when she asked. “The staff is searching the entire building, thoroughly.”
For a murderer, perhaps a necromancer, Emily thought. Her blood ran cold. Or for proof that I killed him.
Sergeant Bane, wearing a suit of silver rune-covered armor and carrying a large broadsword, met them just outside the Grandmaster’s office. The faint shimmer of magic behind him suggested that he wasn’t alone. Emily had no idea who would come into Whitehall and remain invisible, but maybe it was a test for her. If she had been intent on fighting her way out, she might think that the odds were better if she faced only the two Sergeants. Her lips quirked with bitter humor. Either of the sergeants could have snapped her in half with one hand tied behind his back.
But if I were a necromancer, she added, in the privacy of her own mind, I would have enough power to kill them both before they could react.
“I’m afraid we have to search you,” Sergeant Bane said. He looked uncomfortable, rather than nervous. “Are you carrying anything we ought to know about?”
Emily shook her head, silently grateful that she hadn’t copied Alassa’s habit of carrying a dagger everywhere she went. Alassa might have used it to save her life—and Emily’s life—but it would have looked damning right now. A similar dagger had been used to kill the Warden. She gritted her teeth as Sergeant Bane frisked her, quickly and efficiently, then cast a revealing spell over her body. It found nothing.
Would it find a necromancer? She asked herself. Very few necromancers, according to her research, had ever bothered to try to hide. Even when they did, their madness was quite capable of making them think that a false accent and a wig was enough to fool everyone else. But there was no way to know, not when she didn’t dare ask.
“Nothing of great interest,” Sergeant Bane said, finally. “Leave the pencils with me, if you don’t mind.”
Emily fought down the urge to roll her eyes, then passed him the pencils, keeping the notepad within her pocket. She had no idea what they would have made of her notes and diagrams—she’d written them in English, but a translation spell would be able to decipher them—but she didn’t want to find out. Not now.
There was the sound of someone clearing his throat from one of the shimmers. Sergeant Miles glared at it, then pushed Emily towards the office door. There was a flare of magic and it opened, allowing her to step inside. It was all she could do to take the first step over the threshold. If it hadn’t been for the reassuring presence of the sergeant, she might have turned and fled.
Inside, the Grandmaster was waiting for her.
And he wasn’t alone.
Chapter Eighteen
THE OFFICE SEEMED LARGER SOMEHOW, EMILY realized, as she wilted under several accusing stares from the gathering. Sergeant Miles kept his hand on her shoulder, quietly reassuring her, as he steered her towards a chair that had been placed in front of the Grandmaster’s desk. The Grandmaster himself had a perfect poker face—not being able to see his eyes made it harder to read him—but the others seemed less inclined to hide their feelings. She recognized Master Tor, Mistress Irene and Professor Lombardi; the others were strangers. It crossed her mind that they might have been brought to Whitehall because of the Warden’s murder...
She felt a tickle of magic as she sat down on the chair, a spell that sparkled around her and then faded out of existence. She frowned as it vanished completely, wondering just what it had been intended to do. It hadn’t even stuck her to the chair. The Grandmaster frowned too, sharing a brief glance—insofar as he could glance—with Mistress Irene.
“We had planned to question you on what happened when you entered the Warden’s office,” he said, flatly. “But the truth spell seems to have slipped away from you. Why?”
For a moment, Emily’s mind went blank. And then she remembered.
“Void gave me a spell to prevent my secrets from being taken from me,” she said, grimly. She’d hesitated when he’d given her the spell, but not for very long. It would have been easy for someone to pull her knowledge from her mind without it. “I don’t know if it would affect the truth spell.”
“It did,” the Grandmaster said. His tone hadn’t changed at all. “Which is inconvenient, as you have no way to prove your innocence.”
He cocked his head, slightly. “Tell us what happened from the moment you entered the Hall of Shame,” he ordered. “And be as detailed as possible.”
Emily flushed, but outlined everything from Travis’s taunts to opening the Warden’s office and discovering his body. The spectators listened, then bounced questions off her when she finished, some of which puzzled her. What did it matter what Travis had said to her, precisely? Or how she’d entered the Warden’s office?
“If she wasn’t called in, he might well have been dead before she entered,” Mistress Irene pointed out. “It isn’t as if the Warden gives—gave—them much time to stew before administering punishment.”
“But he was definitely alive when I spoke to him,” Master Tor objected. “The Warden must have died after that...was anyone else sent there between then and Emily’s arrival?”
“Travis says no,” one of the strangers said. “And the truth spell worked on him.”
Emily grunted, inwardly. If Travis had told her that the sky was blue, she would certainly have insisted on checking before accepting his statement. But if he’d been under a truth spell...she knew quite a bit about them, mainly through reading Master Tor’s lecture notes and background reading. The strongest of them compelled the subject to talk, while even the milder ones prevented the subject from actually lying. But could a strong sorcerer push the effects aside without making it noticeable?
“She could have slipped past Travis after I left and staged finding the body to throw off suspicion,” Master Tor said.
“I was in your office,” Emily protested. “I...”
“Quiet,” one of the strangers snapped. “You will...”
“You will not talk to one of my students like that,” the Grandmaster interrupted. His tone was mild, but Emily heard the sheer power behind it and shivered. “You were saying, Emily?”
“I was in Master Tor’s office,” Emily said, wondering if they would bring up the whole matter of pocket dimensions. “I couldn’t have gone anywhere else.”
“The wards would certainly have noticed your exit,” Mistress Irene said. She cast an ironic look at Master Tor. “Did you think to check before you made wild accusations?”
Master Tor looked embarrassed. “I do not bother to record people who leave my office,” he admitted. “But she might have been able to fool the wards and slip back into my office after destroying the Warden.”
Emily blinked. Destroying the Warden?
Mistress Irene snorted. “Are you suggesting that a second year student, even one with an excellent grade in Charms, was capable of breaking into your office without leaving any evidence behind?”
Professor Lombardi coughed. “I do not believe that Lady Emily is capable of breaking into the offices at all,” he informed the room. “Doing it without leaving a trace would be far harder. I can examine the wards to see if they have been tampered with, but that would be spellwork well above her current level.”
“But she does know how to perform a necromantic rite,” Master Tor pointed out. “That makes her the prime suspect.”
Sergeant Miles cleared his throat, loudly. “It does not require more than a passing grade in charms to reinvent the basic necromantic rite,” he said, darkly. “And there is clear proof that whoever was responsible for the destruction of the Warden didn’t know as much as Emily knows.”
“And how,” Master Tor demanded, “do you know that?”
“The knife,” Sergeant Miles said, simply. “Necromancers use stone blades because they can channel the magic, once properly prepared, without destroying themselves. A necromancer who used a silver dagger as a tool would be lucky if it didn’t explode in his hand. At worst, there would be a sudden surge of magic and the necromancer would be vaporized. In fact, I am inclined to wonder if this really was a necromantic rite at all.”
“Breaking the Warden’s neck and stabbing him with a silver blade would not be enough to destroy him,” Mistress Irene said, simply. “Something else had to be involved.”
“Yes,” Sergeant Miles said. “But what?”
He was right, Emily realized. If someone had tried to perform necromancy with a silver blade, the consequences would have been disastrous. And yet...the consequences hadn’t materialized at all. That suggested...what?
She looked at the Grandmaster. “Was the Warden a magician?”
The Grandmaster looked surprised at the question, but some of the others seemed to find it funny. Master Tor’s lips twisted into a sneer, while Mistress Irene seemed determined to hide a smile and several of the strangers weren’t even trying to hide their amusement. Emily opened her mouth to demand to know what was so funny—Shadye’s attempt to use Sergeant Harkin as a power source had failed because he hadn’t been a magician—but Sergeant Miles tightened his grip on her shoulder, warning her to be quiet.
“That is an interesting point,” Master Tor said, smoothly. “Would a necromantic rite even work on the Warden?”
“Possibly,” the Grandmaster said, reluctantly. “No one has ever tried.”
He looked around the room. “In order to destroy the Warden, Lady Emily would have had to slip out of Master Tor’s office, slip past Travis in the Hall of Shame, destroy the Warden and make her way back to Master Tor’s office before he returned. Does anyone really believe that she could have done all of that in the time she had?”
Emily shivered. If Master Tor had gone to the Grandmaster first, then to the Warden, she would have had only a few minutes to do all that without being detected. No, there just wouldn’t have been the time she would have needed to do it, even assuming that the Warden didn’t put up a fight. She couldn’t imagine him not having the power—or the protections—to deal with uppity students who didn’t want to take their punishments.
“It looks rather more like a clumsy frame up to me,” Sergeant Miles said, bluntly. “The one person we are supposed to blame is the one person who can prove her innocence.”
“But she had a motive,” Master Tor pointed out, smoothly.
“I dare say that there isn’t a student in Whitehall who doesn’t have a motive,” Mistress Irene said, equally smoothly. “Can anyone name any student here who didn’t face the Warden at least once?”
“But she has an immediate motive,” Master Tor said. “Her unauthorized experiments...”
The Grandmaster held up a hand. “Have nothing to do with this, I believe,” he said. He looked down at Emily, his blindfold twitching. It took Emily a moment to realize that he’d winked at her. “There is no proof that Lady Emily was anything other than the person who discovered the body.”
“Hell of a coincidence,” Master Tor grumbled.
“Students don’t often face the Warden on weekends,” Sergeant Miles pointed out. “The destroyer, whoever he was, might have assumed that the body would remain undiscovered for hours.”
Emily wondered, inwardly, if that was actually true. If the murderer had been close enough to move in and kill the Warden, he would have had to do it just after Master Tor had left. She’d dawdled on her way down to the Hall of Shame, but had she given the murderer enough time to kill the Warden and vanish?
She looked up at Master Tor and wondered if he was the murderer. He’d certainly had the opportunity to set it up and frame Emily for the deed...but it would be clumsy—and stupid, when she had an alibi he’d provided himself. No, no matter how much he disliked her, it was hard to see any conceivable scenario where he was the murderer. There would be just too many things that could go wrong. Master Tor’s insistence on precision, she suspected, wasn’t just related to the law.
But why had he looked at her and decided to hate her?
One of the strangers had a different question. “Where did the knife actually come from?”
“We don’t know,” Sergeant Miles said. “Silver blades are not uncommon; they’re used against both werewolves and vampires. I have checked the stockpiles in the armory, but none of our blades are unaccounted for.”