by Lynn Kurland
But he wasn’t interested in lesser mages.
He was looking for a lad with power to match his own, perhaps. At any other time, such a thought would have had him perking up his ears and preparing a few dire things for use in a tight spot, but things were what they were at the moment. The best he could do was see whom he provoked, then be out of the vicinity when the storm arrived.
The truth was, he knew he was being watched. He knew that because the watcher had recently sent along a missive telling him as much. His catalog of enemies was substantial and, it had to be noted, very well deserved. But this felt different somehow. He was accustomed to outraged monarchs and papas coming after him for wives, daughters, and priceless treasures he might or might not have absconded with, but this . . . this was something else entirely. He wasn’t sure whom he could have possibly angered recently in light of all the damned do-gooding he’d been engaged in, but there you had it. Life on the wrong side of black magery was unpredictable. If he could solve that with a little nipping in and out of the library, so much the better.
If he also used his time wisely enough to acquire a new pair of boots and perhaps a decent shirt or two, who could blame him?
They continued on toward the library. Acair patted himself figuratively on the back several times for resisting the urge to pull the dagger from his boot and slide it between Mansourah’s ribs for spending more time chatting with that beautiful woman on his arm than he did watching where he was going. At least there wasn’t much opportunity for getting lost between where they were and the library’s front doors. Mansourah came to a halt a dozen paces away from the same, then stood there, frowning thoughtfully. Acair waited until it became painful to continue.
“What?” he asked shortly.
“I’ve been thinking,” Mansourah said slowly.
“Ye gads, not that,” Acair said before he could stop himself.
Mansourah gave him a look that Acair had to admit left him almost impressed.
“You realize most everything precious resides in glass cases,” Mansourah said pointedly. “Protected by impenetrable spells.”
“The quality of those spells is debatable,” Acair said with a shrug, “but aye, I realize that.”
“But if your book is hidden in such a place, how are you going to get past all that magic?”
Acair sighed. “Let me walk you through this gently. If you were me—and you’ll never manage that so don’t try—and you wanted to hide a perilous book, where, with your superior intellect and cleverness, would you hide it?”
“Behind glass and impenetrable spells, of course.”
Acair studied him. “The trouble with you, my young friend, is that you fail to use any imagination when presented with these conundrums. If you have a priceless treasure, you don’t hide it behind something that screams I’m hiding something priceless behind myself! You hide the damned thing in plain sight.”
Mansourah looked thoroughly baffled. “You’re not afraid someone will simply pick it up and walk off with it?”
“Not when it’s slathered with the kinds of spells I prefer to use for that sort of slathering.”
Mansourah looked at Léirsinn. “I don’t know how you haven’t pushed him off the back of your horse before now.”
“I have a strong stomach.”
Acair would have preferred a compliment about his flawless face, but he had dragged her places she hadn’t wanted to go. He had also called her hair red, which didn’t begin to describe the glorious fire of that mane she was currently hiding under the hood of her cloak. He vowed to compliment her properly on not only her locks but her strong stomach later, then looked at Mansourah.
“We’ll walk in as normal patrons, go to the appropriate spot without garnering any notice, then I’ll retrieve my book. I suggest we not linger over any fashion papers, which I’m sure will be a great blow to you.”
Mansourah bit back something, his agreement no doubt. He considered, then looked at Acair. “And your book is behind spells.”
“As I said before, aye.”
Silence descended.
It descended softly, as if it had been a delicate snowfall somewhere between the first sloppy business of autumn but not yet the brittle stuff of winter that sounded like glass shattering as it fell through the air.
It was a fairly substantial silence, actually.
Acair had known that moment would come, of course, because he never walked into any dodgy situation without first having studied it thoroughly. It had obviously occurred to him that what he needed was hidden behind his own spells that he couldn’t very well undo in his present condition. He had also given thought to the master spell he’d laid there, a very pedestrian but useful thing that could be triggered by a single word.
Only he couldn’t utter that single word without causing that damned spell currently resting its bony shadow of a chin on his shoulder to fall upon him and, as he would have told anyone willing to listen, slay him instantly. He flicked it off as if it had been an annoying fly, then waited for the abuse he knew was coming his way.
Mansourah arched his back and did everything but yawn hugely before he began to purr in satisfaction. “I suppose,” he drawled, “that you might need my help.”
Acair smiled instead of snarling because he knew which side his bread was buttered on, as the saying went. “Terribly kind of you, of course.”
“It also seems as though you might need my aid in getting past the guards at the door given that they’ll want a list of anyone in our party who has magic.”
“Indeed they will and that would be absolutely sporting of you, Your Highness.”
Mansourah was obviously enjoying the situation far more than it merited, but Acair wasn’t about to spoil the man’s pleasure. He was above all a pragmatist. If he had to use that empty-headed flirt to get what he wanted, he would and swallow his pride in the bargain.
Mansourah nodded toward the doors. “Léirsinn, stay close to me. If things go badly, we’ll toss him to the wolves and escape whilst they’re feasting.”
Acair had heard worse ideas, so he kept his head down as they made their way to the front doors and waited with the rest of the rabble to be allowed inside. He didn’t expect Mansourah to keep his own identity a secret and the lad didn’t disappoint. Léirsinn was introduced as his fiancée, a practice Acair fully intended to put a stop to sooner rather than later. He was himself presented as a lowly servant with enough magic to his name to find his master’s slippers but not quite enough to prepare morning chocolate in any but the most pedestrian of ways. He didn’t argue, but he made a mental note of the insult for future repayment.
He followed along behind Mansourah and Léirsinn as deferentially as possible. He spared a look over his shoulder and wasn’t at all comfortable with the notice they were still attracting from those at the front door. Mansourah might have been a prince from that rustic hovel of Tor Neroche, but he wasn’t at all shy about using any of his nobility credentials. The head librarian was still in a bit of a swoon, leaving a handful of under librarians saddled with the task of holding him up.
It could have been worse, Acair supposed. The lad with the nose for magic they generally used for sniffing out interlopers could have been standing there as well. He was perhaps off having his morning ale, which was definitely a boon for them.
Acair gave Mansourah directions to an unassuming spot in an even more unassuming stack of extremely dry and rather poorly written—he’d checked previously, of course—tomes on the production of various varieties of cheese to be found only in the country of Meith. He’d been to Meith several times and whilst he could definitely say they were masters at their craft, they were also quite possibly the worst writers in the whole of the Nine Kingdoms. He paused with his companions, endured an opinion or two about his taste in literature that Mansourah couldn’t seem to keep from sharing, then turned his mind ba
ck to the business at hand.
He shared the single word necessary, then stood back and waited to see what would happen.
He honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if the entire library had come crashing down on their heads, which was one reason he’d pulled Léirsinn over to him where he could keep her safe in the case of such an event. Fortunately for the patrons within, however, not even a vigorous vocalization of the appropriate magical key had any effect. He considered Mansourah’s failure to obtain that slim, worn volume he could plainly see hiding there and came to the only conclusion possible.
He was a damned good mage.
Obviously his spells were every bit as formidable as he’d always considered them to be. He examined that particularly marvelous piece of work there to make certain it hadn’t been tampered with, but saw only what he’d left behind several months ago.
“What now?” Mansourah asked shortly. “Given that this is a dead end.”
Acair was disappointed, of course, but not ready to consign the whole of the journey to the rubbish heap. He hadn’t made a copy of his book, true, but it was possible perhaps to find the pertinent information in other places. Whether or not he wanted to go to those places was another matter, but it looked as if he might not have a choice.
He smiled gamely. “We’ll continue the search for what I need, of course. The journey has certainly not been wasted. The city does offer other delights worthy of our visit.”
“If you tell me we’re here to sit by and watch as you have another pair of boots fashioned,” Mansourah managed, “I will take them and shove them down your throat.”
“I’d rather see my tailor, actually,” Acair said without hesitation. “He always keeps a few things on hand for my sartorial emergencies. I might or might not have an extra pair of boots tucked into his workroom as well, so not to worry.”
Mansourah’s mouth fell open. It was possible he made one or two inarticulate sounds of amazement, but Acair thought it wise not to comment.
“You,” Mansourah said, apparently finding his tongue, “dragged us here to see your tailor?”
“My barber as well, if we’ve the time—”
He had to admit that the present moment wasn’t the first time he’d used Léirsinn of Sàraichte as a shield, and it was true that she’d stepped in front of him of her own accord, but there would come a day when he wouldn’t allow that sort of thing any longer. Convincing her of that might prove to be another thing entirely.
He peeked at Mansourah over her head. “Don’t bother with your puny spells.”
“I won’t need a spell to help me shove my dagger into your chest!”
Acair tsk-tsked him. “Lower your voice, lad. This is a place of study.”
Mansourah looked as if he might benefit from either some fresh air or a strong glass of port—perhaps both—so Acair didn’t waste any time urging Léirsinn around that choking piece of royalty and forging on ahead out of the stacks. He imagined Mansourah wouldn’t resort to murder in such a place, but he wasn’t at all sure that would last once they reached the outside.
Slipping out a back door he had used more than once in the past was accomplished easily enough and without any unwanted additions to their number. He continued on with his companions through the press of souls about their morning business, stopping only when he felt they’d gained enough distance from the library to be safe.
Mansourah shoved him aside. “Léirsinn, let us be away,” he said crisply. “We’ll retreat to our lodgings and share a bottle of wine in front of the fire whilst I decide how best to inflict a well-deserved and long-overdue death upon my servant.”
Acair didn’t waste breath arguing. He would absolutely prefer that Léirsinn be safely behind heavy doors whilst he spent the afternoon roaming the streets, keeping his eye peeled for any trouble he might have stirred up.
He walked behind the prince and a woman who would surely never lower herself to wed that same prince back to the most exclusive and, admittedly, expensive lodgings in town. If there were a pair of rough-looking lads leaning negligently near the very unassuming door that led to a much less unassuming courtyard, so much the better. Léirsinn would be safe, Mansourah would likely fall asleep in his ale, and he himself might manage to do a bit of nosing about.
He wasn’t above playing the part of a servant as they were again shown upstairs to that fabulously appointed sitting room. He found himself complimenting the prince of Neroche on his good taste before he could stop himself.
Mansourah glared at him. “Don’t plan on staying in here. I believe they have a spot by the coal bin downstairs that will be more fitting for your station.”
Acair hadn’t planned on anything, actually, though he couldn’t stop himself from eyeing a rather comfortable looking settee. He watched Léirsinn stumble over to it, sit, then lean over. She was asleep before she managed to even remove her boots. He did the honors for her, had a barely audible thank you as a reward, then covered her with a luxurious blanket that had been tossed over one of the armrests for just such a need. He straightened and turned to assess the lay of the land, as it were.
Mansourah was watching him. Acair didn’t suppose he wanted to know what was intended by that look, so he put on a polite smile and rubbed his hands together purposefully.
“I think I’ll go for a walk.”
Mansourah tossed his cloak over the back of one of the chairs in front of the fire. “I suggest a visit to the garden instead. No time like the present for a bit of swordplay.”
Acair snorted. “If you think I’ll lower myself to brawl with you—”
He stopped speaking abruptly for the simple reason that he became distracted by the rather fine rapier Mansourah had simply drawn out of thin air, then tossed at him. It arrived hilt-first, which he supposed was something of a concession. He examined the blade and found that it was very sharp indeed. He considered, then lifted an eyebrow.
“I thought you confined yourself to shooting little arrows into things.”
Mansourah looked at him coolly. “I believe you’ll find that I can do far more than that.” He nodded sharply toward the door. “Outside.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Would you prefer that I prod you along with a spell of death?” Mansourah growled.
“Don’t you lads from Neroche have a prohibition about that sort of thing?” Acair asked politely.
“Aye, ’tis called honor, which is why I’ll take great pleasure in killing you in the usual way, with a sword through your chest, not your back.”
Acair supposed that was fair enough, though he had no intention of dying that day. Humoring his half-sister’s husband’s brother—he didn’t like to think about how that left him related to the grumbling prince currently exiting the chamber—seemed the very least he could do, however. Perhaps the lad could be prevailed upon to produce funds for a decent supper if he’d been taken out and exercised properly for a bit.
Acair made certain Léirsinn was still sleeping comfortably before he left the chamber and pulled the door shut behind him. He thanked Mansourah politely for the discreet spell of protection he dropped over the door, then followed him down the stairs to the inn’s great room. He made good use of the time by reminding himself of a few things he hadn’t particularly wanted to think about before.
He was on, he thought he could say without too much of a twitch, a Noble Quest.
He wasn’t one for those sorts of things, as it happened, being much more inclined to sit by the fire with a hearty mug of tasty ale and indulge in ribald mocking of those who embarked on the same. It was truly an indication of how far his life had gotten away from him that he had become the one trotting off into the Deepening Gloom.
His father would have had an attack of the vapors if he’d known.
But damnation, what else had there been to do? Someone was cluttering up the world
with disturbing spots of shadow that left anyone who walked through them adversely affected. There seemed to be no one else with the stomach to take up the trail, which had left him forgoing the impulse to bolt to more elegant surroundings to instead hoist the proverbial sword in the world’s defense. If Léirsinn’s grandfather needed a rescue from the clutches of her dastardly uncle, and Léirsinn herself needed protection from that same unsavory relative, well, all the more reason to lay hold of whatever nobler instincts he could dredge up and be about his business.
That was made substantially more difficult by an injunction that he not use even a smidgen of his formidable magic, a vexing charge of which Acair found himself endlessly reminded thanks to that damned spell of death that threatened to fall on him at the first sign of even a casually muttered spell.
Finding the rogue who had sent that spell to dog his heels was, he had to admit, very high on his list of things to do whilst questing.
He shook his head wearily. His task was daunting, his resources scarce, and his survival depended on nothing much past his formidable wits. Those lads from heroic tales could scarce lay claim to anything much more noteworthy than that.
“Acair? Hallo?”
He pulled himself back to the business at hand and looked at Mansourah. “A bit of a stroll first, to warm the blood.”
Mansourah considered. “Interested in seeing what you stirred up this morning?”
Acair bestowed a smile upon the poor lad. “There is hope for you yet.”
“You won’t escape crossing blades with me later.”
“My dearest boy, I would count it a great disappointment to miss such an opportunity. Now, can you possibly be discreet?”
Mansourah shot him a dark look, but Acair expected nothing else. He was happy to list the lad’s flaws at length, but he had to admit that there had been the odd tale or two circulating about that one there having accomplished the occasional Heroic Deed. Even those lads from Neroche didn’t manage that without some small bit of skill.