by Lynn Kurland
“She would be safe enough here,” Mansourah said firmly. “She looks weary.”
Léirsinn came back to herself to find herself standing in the middle of the chamber, staring at nothing and hearing not much more. She realized the innkeeper was gone and her companions were close to blows.
“I am absolutely not leaving her in some slum you’ve chosen,” Acair growled.
“You said you’d taken lodgings here before,” Mansourah protested.
“I have stayed here before because I have the means to protect myself, unlike my lady here,” Acair said. “As for anything else, you know as well as I that the entire bloody city is dangerous.”
“I have excellent taste in—”
“Pubs, no doubt,” Léirsinn said loudly enough to be heard over their snarling. “Breakfast sounds wonderful, thank you.” If the distraction of a warm bucket of grain was good enough for horses, it was surely suitable for those two there.
Mansourah looked as if he were having trouble choosing between finding breakfast and dealing out death, but good sense apparently prevailed. He left off with his glaring and walked over to the door. She followed him from the chamber with Acair on her heels, then found herself between the two of them as they made their way down the street to a pub that seemed to suit them both.
A meal was provided posthaste, which fortunately occupied her companions long enough for her to manage to gulp down what had been set in front of her. By the time she had fed and watered herself sufficiently, the sun had somehow managed to get itself above the horizon and make its presence known through the window she was facing. She was tempted to doze off right there, which made her wonder if she shouldn’t have remained back in that chamber and taken a nap on what had looked to be a perfectly serviceable divan.
She fought an enormous yawn and turned her attention back to the conversation going on in front of her, if conversation it could be called. She reminded herself that stepping between two crotchety stallions was never a good idea, but at the moment she was very tempted. She needed those two fools to keep from killing each other long enough for Acair to see to his business so he could then help her see to hers. At the moment, she wasn’t entirely sure she would manage it.
“I wonder if you understand whom you’re dealing with here,” Mansourah said, holding his fork as if he could hardly stop himself from plunging it into Acair’s chest.
“Do you?” Acair returned.
Mansourah pursed his lips. “Aye, a black mageling with no power.”
“That is a temporary condition, I assure you.”
Léirsinn watched them in fascination, wondering if they actually believed they would draw blood with words alone. Mansourah was obviously quite used to having everyone jump to humor him, and Acair, well, she supposed if she had met him in a darkened alley, she would have done exactly what that lad earlier had done, namely turned tail and run.
“I wonder,” she interrupted, “if it might be time to go.”
Mansourah took a deep breath, then very deliberately set his fork down. “An excellent thought. I’ll go see what the street contains.”
“Oh, please do,” Acair said, waving him off. “Can’t wait to see what you scout out.”
Mansourah swore at him, then rose and made his way to the entrance to the pub.
Léirsinn glanced at Acair to find him watching the doorway. Either he was considering the lay of the land himself or he was plotting their companion’s demise. She honestly wouldn’t have been surprised by either.
“You can’t do what you’re contemplating, you know,” she said, because she thought she should.
He glanced at her. “What? Smother him in his sleep?”
“Aye.”
He shook his head. “I’ll forebear, but only because I might need his aid.”
She toyed idly with her mug of ale. “Perilous deeds await, is that what you’re saying?”
“Hopefully not. All we have to look forward to here is a pleasant stroll to the library, though I will admit I might need someone to serve as a distraction. I believe I know just the lad—and there he is by the door, obviously ready to be about the business of the morning.” He rose and put his hand on the back of her chair. “Shall we?”
She couldn’t think of a decent reason why not, so she pushed herself to her feet, then followed him across the room and out into the pale winter morning sunlight. It was chilly, true, but she was wearing a discreet but extremely well-made cloak given to her by the queen of Neroche so the cold didn’t trouble her overmuch.
Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to be helping the unease she felt. It was mad to think she was being watched, but she couldn’t ignore the feeling. Perhaps it was nothing more than that lad from earlier, the one Acair had sent off with a stern look and a handful of harsh words—
“My lady?”
She blinked when she realized Mansourah was holding out his elbow toward her. Damnation, too late to run. She took a deep breath, took his arm, and nodded. Acair fell in on her other side, breathing out fiery threats under his breath.
“Do shut up, peasant,” Mansourah drawled.
“I’ll kill you the first chance I have,” Acair promised.
“And find yourself swinging from the nearest tree before you managed it?” Mansourah asked with a yawn. “Wouldn’t risk it, were I you.”
Léirsinn heard Acair take a deep breath, then let it out gustily. Perhaps thoughts of murder were being shelved for the moment. She looked at him briefly, had a raised eyebrow in return, then took her own steadying breath. She would leave her companions to their business and concentrate on her own task of watching for shadows on the ground that she found herself particularly adept at seeing.
She could do no more. Their quest was begun with little more than their wits, a bad-tempered horse, and the company of a handsome, noble prince who she suspected would slip a knife between Acair’s ribs if given half a chance.
She supposed others had trotted off into the fray with less.
She just wasn’t sure she wanted to know where that lack had left them.
Two
There was much to be said for the quiet, unassuming life of a black mage.
Acair of Ceangail walked along the cobblestone streets of a city he hadn’t planned on visiting ever again without a very dire reason indeed and took the opportunity to indulge in a leisurely mental recounting of the pleasures of that normally quiet life.
He interrupted himself long enough to give a frisky lad a shove away from his companion and situate her more fully between himself and that empty-headed archer from Neroche, then he turned his mind back to his much-needed distraction.
He was never without an invitation to dinner. He nodded over that truth, then reviewed a small list of the elegant tables at which he’d enjoyed a prime seat, the stunning women for whom he’d poured wine, and the noble husbands and fathers with whom he’d engaged in battles fought with the tools associated with his class.
He had also enjoyed a wide variety of entertainments. Frolics on the stage, the occasional duel at dawn he thought worth getting up early for, and long, pleasant evenings spent listening to musicians who played in tune only began the lengthy list of pleasures he had enjoyed.
There were other things he relished, things that were perhaps a bit less gentlemanlike but absolutely to his taste. There were murders to boast of—and not a soul with the courage to ask him about the particulars—mischief to be about, and mayhem to inflict. His terrible reputation preceded him like a cleansing wind and trailed after him like so many neophytes wishing they had earned even a single word of the gossip that attended him. When he entered a gilded chamber, women swooned, men clutched the keys to their coffers, and mages scampered out the nearest exit.
And why not? He was the youngest natural son of the worst black mage in recent memory, and his mother was a witch. He had the wit,
the courage, and the cheek to succeed at all sorts of ventures that might give a lesser man pause. Was there in truth any who possessed an existence such as his own?
“All right, bastard, where to now?”
He took a careful breath and reminded himself that killing anyone directly after breakfast might get the day off to a bad start. He clasped his hands behind his back where they wouldn’t do something he might regret later, then revisited why he still had a use for that wee rustic from Neroche standing closer to Léirsinn of Sàraichte than he was happy about.
He was trapped in the middle of the city of Eòlas, a place he continued to wish he weren’t visiting, preparing to mount an assault on the library attached to the city’s university in order to retrieve something he’d hidden there previously. He couldn’t use his magic, which left him relying on lesser souls to take care of any of that sort of business on his behalf. Not the most ideal of circumstances, but his life was not his own at the moment.
Mansourah of Neroche had been told all that already. If he had been left in the dark about a few things of note, that simply couldn’t be helped. There were few whom Acair trusted with the complete particulars of any given plan, and that lad from Neroche, whilst surely a pleasant fellow, hadn’t yet earned a place on that list.
Besides, what was there to tell? He needed a book that currently found itself in the university’s library. If he wanted to see what sort of trouble his presence in the city might stir up as he went about liberating that tome from its spot, that was his business. If his business also included a visit to his tailor when time permitted, so much the better.
And last but certainly not least, if his companions slept deeply enough during the coming night that he could slip out the window and do a bit of snooping in the local ruler’s private chambers, who could blame him? There was something in Eòlas that didn’t smell quite right and that wasn’t simply the trio of drunken, vomit-covered students sprawled on the sidewalk in front of him.
Exam time at the university, obviously.
He stepped over a moaning lad sporting ink-stained fingers and gave thought to the mystery that stank of something unpleasant.
Simeon of Diarmailt had been willing a pair of years earlier to trade his most treasured book of spells for a decent amount of the world’s magic. The king had sworn on his signet ring that it was the only copy of said book in existence, a claim no doubt made to enhance its desirability. Acair had doubted that the oath carried its usual weight considering that Simeon had left his crown behind—unwillingly, or so rumor had it—at the gaming table of one of his northern neighbors, but quibbling over the details had seemed a bit gauche at the time. He had accepted the king’s assurance about the exclusive nature of his book and hoped for the best.
He had wondered, of course, why the king wanted power badly enough to pay that sort of price, though the answer hadn’t been long in coming. The simple fact was, Simeon had lost his throne and therefore a solid border between his own sweet self and Wychweald. Given that the man was one of the most unpleasant knaves spawned in the past century, charm alone was obviously not going to win him a return of crown and country. Power it would have to be.
“Acair?”
He pulled himself reluctantly away from thoughts of poking his nose into royal affairs that weren’t his and brought his attention back to the matter at hand. The library was currently rising up before them in all its austere glory and getting inside without being discovered was going to be a challenge. He paused with his companions in the shadow of that imposing structure, then looked at the hapless middle—or thereabouts—prince of the house of Neroche.
“Where to?” he repeated slowly. “The library, which you already knew. I would like to pay said visit whilst shielded by as much anonymity as possible, which you also already knew.”
“Why is that again?” Mansourah asked with something of a smirk. “I believe I’ve forgotten.”
Acair imagined Mansourah hadn’t forgotten a damned thing. The obvious reason for discretion was that he was being chased by black mages who were salivating over the prospect of doing him in, though that was nothing unusual. A more pressing problem would be finding himself also being chased by the crownless ruler of Diarmailt if the man knew he had come to town.
He supposed the king would have been justified in it. The unfortunate truth was that though he had indeed made Simeon a promise to deliver power in exchange for that book of spells, his plans to discreetly acquire a sizeable amount of the world’s magic had gone completely south the year before. He’d sent along a note of regret to His Former Majesty, which, he understood via the grapevine generally used for that sort of thing, hadn’t been received terribly well. Not that his welcome in Diarmailt had ever been particularly warm, but such an embarrassing failure had certainly not helped matters any—
“We’re making for the library,” Mansourah reminded him.
Acair noted the thoughtful frown gracing the prince’s noble brow. No doubt the lad was struggling to imagine why one would ever want to spend any time in such a locale. What Mansourah of Neroche did with his days beyond inserting himself into places where the only results were social disasters was a mystery, but perhaps that was all the child could hope for. Acair thought it best to just let the matter lie.
“I’m here for a book,” he said, hoping the use of small words would aid Mansourah in understanding what they were about. He was, as even those he’d brought to their knees pleading for mercy would admit, altruistic to the last.
Mansourah’s brow puckered a bit more. “But Rùnach has your book.”
Acair was fairly certain they’d covered that ground before, but he wasn’t unwilling to cover it again. As he’d noted before, altruism was his middle name.
“Rùnach has the innards of a book,” he said. “I might even go so far as to say that those innards might have belonged to one of my books. He has those, my young princeling, because I put them there for him to find. I knew he needed something with which to keep himself busy last year and I was happy to oblige him in the same. In return, I liberated the pages of his most cherished tome and deposited them in a safe place of my choosing.”
He could have said more, of course, but there was no reason to go into details that would only keep Mansourah awake at night. Aye, he had pages from a book of Rùnach’s and he knew very well what those pages contained. He could scarce wait to flex his fingers and dive into his half-brother’s efforts to counter their father’s dastardly spells.
Even more intriguing were the notes Rùnach had dropped all over the plains of Ailean that Acair had been, again, altruistic enough to scoop up for him, but those were equally well hidden and best forgotten about for the moment.
“What’s in this book we’ve come for?” Mansourah asked. “Lists of pubs to avoid?”
Acair sighed lightly. He would have preferred to boast that the pages were full of his own lists of black mages of note, but the truth was, he was after something he’d liberated from under the blotter on his father’s desk one evening when Gair had been suffering from intense tummy troubles that might or might not have been caused by Acair having spent the afternoon loitering in the kitchens near the stewpot. Those pages were hidden in a book of lists of other things that would definitely keep that wee prince there awake at night.
“The address of my tailor, rather,” Acair said with a casual shrug. “You might find it useful.”
Mansourah looked as if he were toying with the idea of taking one of the arrows in the quiver slung over his shoulder and plunging it into Acair’s chest. Normally, Acair wouldn’t have even yawned over such a possibility, but things were as they were and his only protections were threats and the rather unsatisfactory dagger stashed down the side of his boot. He reached out and clapped Mansourah companionably on the shoulder. If his hand got in the way of the man reaching for an arrow, perhaps it could be considered saving time and trouble
for those who swept the streets.
“Just having a bit of sport at your expense, old bean,” he said soothingly. “I’m here for my usual sort of thing: state secrets, terrible spells, and quite potentially the address of my father’s bootmaker. You might want to order a pair whilst we’re there. That ought to take up our afternoon quite nicely.”
Mansourah glared at him, then turned a much more pleasant look on Léirsinn. “Please, get me away from him.”
Léirsinn took his arm, then looked over her shoulder and raised her eyebrows. Acair smiled briefly at her, then settled for walking behind the pair. He was followed by his own constant shadow, a spell of death that was apparently charged with keeping him from turning vexatious princes into steaming piles of dung. He hadn’t hit upon a way to rid himself of the damned thing yet, but that was definitely high up on his list of things to do. Obviously, the sooner he was able to be back to the business of proper black magery, the better.
He watched the crowd as he followed his companions toward the library’s front doors. Those souls were students for the most part, lads and lassies fortunate enough to study at the university surrounding what was arguably the largest library in all the Nine Kingdoms. Perhaps not the most interesting collection of books, but definitely the largest. He wasn’t troubled by the press, but he could tell by the way Léirsinn was occasionally flinching that she was. He leaned forward and tapped Mansourah smartly on the shoulder.
“Put her between yourself and the wall, dolt.”
Mansourah apologized profusely, then did as he’d been bid. Acair turned back to watching for thugs and wondering just what sort of hornet’s nest he might stir up with an innocent visit to the small collection of tomes he kept hidden in plain sight among other books of catastrophically boring subjects. His trio of books was covered in his own spells, spells which were designed to render them uninteresting to anyone with a merely rudimentary command of magic.