Tempest

by Mercedes Lackey

  She squawked in shock and lost her balance, then cried out in pain as Arvil slammed her back against the edge of the heavy table. He winced and babbled apologies while wrenching the toy rabbit out of her hands, then scrambled out of his chair and took several steps backward, away from the baby.

  Three of the black-and-silver guards were right there, grasping his arms, something pointy pressing hard between his shoulder blades. Another blade and the guard gripping it appeared between him and the lady, shoving him hard. He lost his balance and fell, his bad leg buckling under him. The guards stayed with him, bodies and weapons alike tracking with him as he crashed to the floor. People shouted, the baby cried, Lord Brandin demanded to know what he thought he was doing . . .

  Arvil wrapped himself around the toy rabbit, his only thought at the moment to prevent anyone from taking it from him.

  The fear dribbled away, slowly, as the babble and shouting in the room increased. He relaxed, just a little, and just as slowly, but kept a tight hold on the bunny.

  “Herald Arvil!” Lord Brandin snapped. Arvil felt a hard nudge on his thigh with what felt like the toe of a boot. “Explain yourself!”

  Arvil took a deep breath and uncurled a bit more. The guard whose blade was still poking his back gave it another warning jab, and Arvil rolled away from the man’s lord.

  “Foresight,” he said, then took another breath. His head started to clear and the pounding of his heart slowed. “The rabbit is a danger to the baby. I felt it.”

  “A danger to the babe?” bellowed Lord Brandin. “How the deuce is a toy rabbit a danger to anyone?”

  “Perhaps he would have choked on it? On an ear?” suggested Lady Udette. Her voice was low and distant, and when Arvil looked up in her direction, he saw she’d been hustled over to the other side of the room by four guards.

  The baby was gone. Just as well.

  “I don’t think so,” said Arvil. He shifted again but stayed seated, his bad leg out in front of him and the other one folded under it, the half-cross that was the best he could manage on a floor. He studied the toy and tried to think.

  In the arms of a nanny and right next to his mama, a baby would hardly be in serious danger of choking. The shock of Foresight had indicated an immediate danger, not a slower danger to come, if, say, the baby went to bed with the bunny and choked in his sleep.

  He held the bunny up to his nose and sniffed. There was an odd scent, but then, the threads used to embroider the toy were particularly bright. Dyes that bright—and doubtless fresh since the toy looked new—might well have a sharper scent than duller, more common colors.

  Although that might also be a mask for something. Poison, perhaps? Babies put everything in their mouths . . . .

  Arvil licked his finger and rubbed it on a patch of bright red embroidery. Maybe it would leave a stain, some kind of clue—?

  As soon as his saliva-smeared finger touched the threads, the whole toy shifted, stretching out of shape, changing. The threads and fabric all melted away, leaving the surface of the thing a smooth swirl of colors that engulfed Arvil’s hand, as though it were trying to devour his spit and whatever else it was touching.

  Arvil shouted in shock while scrambling to his feet, his voice adding to the roar of surprise and anger that filled the room once more. A woman screamed, and then another, more.

  Shaking his hand didn’t dislodge the thing, which had solidified around his right hand into a rough sphere bigger than his head.

  Lady Udette screamed, “Let me go!” and broke away from her guards to dash down the hall through which the nanny had brought the baby, doubtless where the baby’d been taken away again.

  Arvil thought about what would have happened if the baby had gotten his mouth onto the bunny and wanted to vomit. He could only imagine what the baby’s mother felt when she realized what had almost happened.

  Lord Brandin snapped, “Guards, Oakley!” and four of the guards seized Lord Oakley just as roughly as they’d seized Arvil a minute earlier. He remembered that Lord Oakley had been announced as the bunny’s giver.

  But . . . that made no sense.

  “I don’t know anything about this! My lord, please! What would I gain from hurting the boy?” Oakley looked frantic and terrified in the face of Lord Brandin’s fury.

  “Take his head!” shouted Brandin, his face red and his hands fisted.

  Before the guards could do more than twitch, Arvil shouted, “No! Hold!” and lunged forward, jerking away from his own guards, who’d loosened their grasp. “My lord, wait! Think!” Arvil grabbed a free spot on one of Oakley’s arms and waved his free hand—the one engulfed by the bright-colored ball—at the guards, fending them off as well as he could.

  “Herald, move!”

  “No! In the name of the Queen, hold!” Arvil drew himself up, projecting as much gravitas as he could with one hand looking like it was stuck in a jar, aided by his full court Whites. He glared at Lord Brandin, who glared right back.

  The hall fell silent during the showdown, until finally Lord Brandin snarled, “Explain yourself! Now!”

  “Lord Oakley is right, my lord. He has nothing to gain by harming your son, and everything to lose. Everyone knows he hopes to marry his infant daughter to your infant son some day, yes?”

  Lord Brandin scowled, but nodded. “Yes. We have spoken of it.”

  “Well, then? What does it profit him to kill the babe? He’s scuttling his own boat. That makes no sense. Someone else did this and wanted you to blame Lord Oakley.”

  “Yes!” cried Oakley. “Exactly! Some enemy of mine—of us both—did this!” He scanned the room, his eyes wide with panic, then shouted, “There, Unter! It was him! He’s been complaining of the betrothal for weeks! He said that us joining our families was stabbing him in the back! He said it this evening, the Herald heard him!”

  Lord Brandin glared at Arvil. “Well?”

  “I did hear him say that,” Arvil allowed. “But—”

  “There, see!” shouted Oakley. “It was him, not me!”

  “I did no such thing!” yelled Unter, who was being dragged forward by two more guards. Two more left Arvil to help surround Lord Unter. “Oakley’s trying to ruin me! This was his plan all along!”

  Arvil took a few paces away from all the shouting and scrubbed at his face with his free hand. “That makes no sense either. Oakley stands to gain too much by marrying his daughter into the family of ‘the Lord of the Armor Hills.’ Why would he risk sabotaging that plan just to ruin a man who’s poorer and less powerful than he is already?”

  “You insolent peasant!” squawked Lord Unter, drawing himself up as much as he could while weighed down by angry guards. “How dare you!”

  “Shut up, Unter,” snarled Lord Brandin. “He’s right. You’re highborn, but you barely have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. I call you ‘Lord’ out of courtesy and respect for your forebears. You’ve no real power, and Oakley’s not fool enough to throw away an alliance with me—to make a mortal enemy of me—just to spite you.” He clamped his jaw shut and scanned the room, searching faces, his forehead tense and his eyes glaring.

  Arvil turned to Oakley. “Where did the toy come from?”

  “That’s it, it must have been her! I had Lotta make it for me! She’s the finest embroiderer for three days’ ride! She must have magicked it!” He tried to jerk around and face Lord Brandin. “I know nothing of magic, my lord! Who in Valdemar does? I’d have had no idea where to even begin to create such an evil thing as that, nor even how to find someone to make it for me!”

  Lord Brandin ignored him and ordered a guard to go to the village and bring Lotta the seamstress to the keep.

  While the woman was being fetched, some of the guests made noises about departing, but Lord Brandin forbade it. “No one is leaving until the foul Mage who did this is dead at my feet.”

&nb
sp; Arvil set his jaw, but said nothing. He’d allow no murder, especially since the magical trap had hurt no one, fortunately.

  Scowling at the brightly colored ball attached to his hand, he shook it, to no avail. The thing didn’t hurt, but he wanted it off.

  At any rate, for attempting to murder a baby, the culprit might well be executed, but it wouldn’t be done by a raging father. Lord Brandin was in no state to listen to dissenting counsel, however, so Arvil decided to keep his peace for a while and hope the man calmed down soon.

  Servants passed food and drinks to the nervous crowd, and eventually the guard returned, hauling an elderly woman behind him.

  “Lotta the embroiderer, my lord,” he said, shoving the woman to her knees before Lord Brandin.

  “You made a toy rabbit for this man?” demanded Brandin, jabbing a finger at Oakley.

  “Yes, m’lord!” said the woman, nodding her head in quick jerks. “Did the babe not like it? I could make something else? Whatever he’d like, anything!” She sank down, cowering, burying her face in her hands, curled upon the floor and shaking.

  “Something else?” Brandin roared. “Do you jest? Another of these?” He grabbed Arvil’s arm and waved the colored blob at the woman.

  She peeked up from between her hands, looked, knelt up, stared. “My lord? I don’t understand. What is that?”

  Lord Brandin looked like he was about to explode. Arvil laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Peace, my lord. Everyone is denying, and we need the truth.”

  “Yes,” said Lord Brandin. “Do your truth magic. Force the truth from them all and we’ll see who the villain is.”

  “I cannot force the truth, my lord,” Arvil said, his voice even and calm. “I can reveal lies, however, and that should suffice.”

  Lord Brandin muttered something, but Arvil ignored him and went to one knee in front of the embroideress.

  “Calm, Mistress Lotta. This will not hurt.”

  She stared at him, her eyes huge and round despite his reassurances. He took a breath, then another, grounding and centering. He imagined a blue-eyed wisp of fog and began the rhyme.

  A minute later, a murmur ran through the assembled crowd as the old woman’s head glowed blue with magic.

  “Have you the Mage Gift?” he asked, getting right to the point.

  “No, m’lord,” she said.

  The blue glow remained.

  “Truth,” said Arvil. “Do you know who cast a spell upon the toy rabbit you made for Lord Oakley?”

  “No, m’lord.”

  Arvil sighed. That would’ve been too easy.

  “So there is no doubt, Lord Oakley, approach.”

  Oakley stepped carefully forward, still surrounded by guards. Arvil gestured the guards to move back a few steps, then cast a Truth Spell at Lord Oakley.

  “Did you enchant the toy?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “No.”

  “Lord Unter, approach.”

  Unter strode forward and stood before Arvil, his arms crossed, glaring around at the staring crowd while Arvil cast the spell over him. He too answered “no” to both questions.

  “There,” said Unter. “I am innocent, that proves it. I’ll take my leave.”

  “No, stay,” said Arvil. “We’re not done yet.” He turned back to Lord Oakley and asked, “Who knew you’d commissioned the toy rabbit? Who knew Mistress Lotta would make it for you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Oakley.

  Lord Brandin brought his fist down on the table and cursed. Then to Arvil, “Now what? Do we question everyone here?”

  The crowd shuffled and murmured, and Arvil felt exhausted just thinking about it. “No, not unless we have no choice. What if—””

  “Wait, m’lord,” said Lotta. She cringed back, as though expecting a clout.

  “Well, what is it, woman?” Lord Brandin said. “Speak!”

  “One of the visitors knew. He came to my house to ask about a gift, to see my work. Nothing pleased him, and he went away again, but he looked about the place for some time while I was sewing.”

  “Do you know who?” asked Arvil. “Is he in this room?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lotta. She struggled to stand, and Arvil helped her with a hand under her elbow. She wandered the room, squinting at folk, clearly nearsighted.

  Some folk shrank back while others leaned forward, clearly eager to be seen and exonerated. She moved through the crowd muttering, “No, no, no . . .”

  Finally she stopped—in front of the Hardornen envoy.

  Paskal of Gramersy stood glaring at her while she studied his face, and he made no attempt to escape when she pointed at him.

  “That one,” she said. “That’s the visitor who came to my house.”

  Arvil closed his eyes for a moment; the situation had just complicated itself tenfold. Bad enough that such an evil thing should happen in the middle of a local squabble for power and wealth, but such a horrible crime committed by a representative of King Tremane could break the too-new treaty between Valdemar and Hardorn, pulling a large stone out of the alliance.

  Well, then, he thought, it’s my good luck that I won’t be the one unpacking that sack of angry cats.

  He ushered Mistress Lotta out of the way, and cast the Truth Spell on Gramersy.

  “Did you enchant the toy rabbit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you intend to murder the baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “For the Lady’s sake, why?”

  Gramersy stood straighter and looked Arvil right in the eye. “I have served my Lord Tremane for eighteen years,” he said. “I have carried out his orders.”

  The glow around his head remained, bright and blue.

  The room exploded in angry shouting, but something was saying, No, no, no . . . in Arvil’s mind. Herald Jinnia, who’d trained him as a lad, had always said that grammar was a sticky tangle and that you had to unwind it when using the Truth Spell.

  Have served. Have carried out.

  Arvil stared hard at Gramersy. “Did King Tremane order you to murder Lord Branwell? Answer yes or no.”

  “Yes. I always followed his orders.”

  The blue glow blinked, then returned.

  “You lied, just for a moment,” said Arvil. He waved to quiet the crowd and gave Lord Brandin a hard stare until he backed off, fury in his eyes. “Answer yes or no, and only yes or no. Do you serve King Tremane this minute?”

  Gramersy snarled, “Yes! Damn you!” The blue glow faded, then returned.

  Arvil smirked at the Hardornen. “Who do you serve, right this minute?”

  Gramersy just glared at him.

  “He’s a Hardornen!” cried Lord Brandin. “That’s enough. Whether his orders came from Tremane, or from some lackey of his, it’s all the same!”

  Arvil kept his gaze on Gramersy and saw a spark of triumph in his eyes at Brandin’s angry declaration.

  “No,” said Arvil. “Curse him, this is exactly what he wants. Hold . . .”

  He took a breath, then another.

  No, this wouldn’t work.

  Before he could think what to do, Gramersy snarled a tangle of words and jerked a hand at Arvil’s. Before the guards could grab him again, the weight covering Arvil’s hand shifted and began to ooze up his arm.

  The Hardornen didn’t struggle against the guards; he let them drag him back a step while he laughed.

  Arvil stared at the man’s open mouth, then lunged at him and swung the magicked blob at his face.

  A high-pitched shriek escaped Gramersy’s mouth as he jerked his head to one side. Arvil cried, “Let him go!” and the guards jumped away.

  Gramersy flailed for a second while the blob spread over his ear, covered the back of his head, and
oozed around toward his face. He gestured and shouted a spell just before the blob finished engulfing his head. The thing fell off him, falling to the floor in a pile of rags and thread.

  The guards grabbed him once more without waiting for a command.

  “Good,” said Arvil, who’d just had an idea. “I need help. Bring him. I need my Companion.”

  He led the way, with Gramersy and half a dozen guards and Lord Brandin and most of the guests all parading after him, out to the stables.

  “Graya!” he called as he entered the stableyard. “I need help. I need to lean on you.”

  She met him out in the yard, and he leaned against her satiny neck. “I need a second stage Truth Spell,” he said, his voice low. “Lord Brandin is ready to execute the man who tried to murder his baby, and if he kills him before we have answers, it could restart the war. We need to know the truth. Help me?”

  Graya whinnied outrage at the news, then huffed grain-sweet breath in his face and nodded.

  “Bring him,” said Arvil, waving at the prisoner.

  The guards hauled Gramersy up in front of Arvil and forced the man to his knees.

  Arvil grounded himself deep in the earth, took a long, centering breath, and felt Graya’s strength wrap around his own.

  Fog.

  Blue eyes.

  A rhyming spell, over and over and over, then more, more, farther than he’d ever had the strength to go, Graya buoying him up . . .

  Done.

  “Who ordered you to murder the baby?” he asked.

  Gramersy’s eyes widened, then he snarled, struggled, before saying, “No one!”

  More shouting, denials. It seemed impossible that such a horrible act could have been committed by a stranger who couldn’t possibly bear a grudge against people he’d never meet.

  “Why did you try to murder the baby?”

  Gramersy tried to clamp his mouth shut, but it was useless. “For the Empire! I am loyal to the Emperor, and Tremane is a traitor! Dying at the hands of ignorant westerners who can barely wield magic would be the least he deserved!”