The Spell of the Black Dagger

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “That’s stupid,” Sarai said. “Of course we’d be too noticeable.” She raised her voice and announced, “I’m going to the Guildhouse now; I’d be glad to travel with one or two others.”

  “But Lady Sarai...” one of the guards began.

  Lady Sarai did not stay to hear what he might have to say; she marched out the door onto Wizard Street.

  The morning was a bright and cheerful one; she could hear children laughing as they chased each other through the alleys, and somewhere a block or two away a hawker was shouting out praises of his wares. There was no outward sign at all that a dangerous lunatic had overthrown the government the night before, that the overlord and half his court had fled.

  In fact, Lady Sarai suspected that most of the city was unaware of Tabaea’s accession to the throne. It would probably be a few days before the average citizen became aware of any change.

  Or perhaps not—one of the shops across the way was shuttered and barred. Had the proprietor fled?

  Or maybe the proprietor was in bed with a fever, or just taking a day off to go down to the beach. Lady Sarai snorted at her own eagerness to see some difference in the city. Just because her own life was all awry, that didn’t mean that the entire city’s was.

  She did expect that Tabaea’s usurpation of power would have its effect eventually, since she doubted very much that Tabaea and her cohorts could rule the city as well as the old overlord had, but it would be a slow, subtle thing. A city the size of Ethshar mostly ran by itself. Lady Sarai thought of it as a great spinning top, and it was the government’s job to keep it balanced—a touch here, a touch there. Tabaea would be bound to miss a wobble here, push too hard there, and before long the whole thing would careen wildly out of control, maybe come smashing to a halt.

  But for now, it looked just as it always had. She paused a few steps from Mereth’s gilded door, looking about.

  “Lady Sarai!” someone called. Sarai turned, a finger to her lips.

  It was Alorria who had spoken; she stood in the doorway, leaning forward, her feet still safely within the threshold in case she had to slip quickly back inside. Behind her stood Kelder of Tazmor on one side, Thar on the other.

  “Don’t use the title,” Sarai said mildly. “It might be unhealthy just now.”

  “Oh,” Alorria said. She looked uneasily out at the street.

  “What is it?” Sarai asked.

  “I’d like to come with you,” Alorria said. “I think they’re going to argue all day, and I want to see my husband. And I don’t know the way to this Guildhouse they talk about. And I don’t like traveling alone.”

  “I would be glad to provide an escort,” Kelder said, in his odd Sardironese accent, “but I fear I don’t know the house’s location, either.”

  “Well, come on then, both of you.” Sarai waited while the two of them hurried out. Kelder, she noted, carried a large knapsack; a floppy, broad-brimmed hat shaded his face, and his feet were ensconced in large, well-worn boots. As for Alorria, while she was not dressed for serious travel, she wore three assorted pouches on her belt; both were probably better equipped than she was herself, Sarai thought wryly.

  Together, the three of them strolled northeastward on Wizard Street, moving at a leisurely pace so as not to tax the pregnant Alorria. The sun was bright, and Sarai quickly regretted not having a hat like Kelder’s. When she had left the Palace in the middle of the night she hadn’t worried about sunlight.

  They crossed North Street and a block or so later moved on from Nightside into Shadyside—but it was hardly shady today; the shadow of the palace dome could never have reached this far out, the name was more symbolic than descriptive.

  “Warm,” Alorria remarked. She pulled a gauzy red kerchief from one pouch and draped it over her head, then secured it in place with her coronet. Sarai admired the effect—barbaric, but not unattractive.

  She glanced enviously at Kelder’s hat—that wasn’t exactly barbaric, but it was rather outlandish. There was nothing unreasonable about that, since he was an outlander.

  The two foreigners made rather a striking contrast—Kelder in his rough and practical attire, Alorria in her barbarian Small Kingdom splendor of silks and gold. The coronet and kerchief might be pretty, but on the whole Sarai thought she would prefer Kelder’s hat.

  And thinking about Kelder, something struck her.

  “You said you don’t know where the house is,” she said accusingly, “but of course you do.”

  “I do?” Kelder asked, startled.

  “Certainly! You’ve been there.”

  “I have? No, La ... no, I haven’t.”

  “You said you had been there. Did you lie to me?”

  “No! How did I lie? I haven’t been to the wizards’ Guildhouse, and I never claimed I had.”

  “Yes, you have, if you really did the investigating you told me about. It’s the old wizard’s house. Serem’s.”

  “Ah,” Kelder said, nodding. “I see. Then it stands at the corner of Wizard Street and Grand Street, and we are now on Wizard Street, are we not? Need we just follow this right to the door, then?”

  “If we want to take all day, we could do that,” Sarai agreed, “but Wizard Street turns south and makes a long detour, through Morningside and Eastside, before it comes back north through Midway to Grandgate. We’ll be turning and following Harbor Street from Shadyside to Midway, then Gate Street from Midway to Grandgate, and then we’ll meet Wizard Street again for the last few blocks.”

  “Ah,” Kelder said. “I see. The streets of Sardiron are not so complex.”

  “Sardiron isn’t as big.”

  Just then a pair of spriggans ran across the street in front of the threesome, shrieking. Someone shouted imprecations after the creatures. Alorria sighed.

  “I wish Tobas had never invented those things,” she said.

  “Did he really?” Sarai asked.

  “Not on purpose,” Alorria explained. “A spell went wrong. But yes, it was really his doing.”

  Sarai looked at her, then around at the shops, at the signboards promising miracles of every sort, at the window displays of strange apparatus or stuffed monsters, at the posted testimonials from satisfied customers.

  Magic really could do amazing things. If anyone could ever get it all organized, all working toward the same end, who knew what might be accomplished?

  And of course, who knew what might go wrong?

  “Harbor Street,” Alorria said. “Isn’t that where most of the fighting was last night?”

  “I think the worst was on Quarter Street,” Sarai said, “but yes, there was fighting there. We’ll be reversing the route of Tabaea’s march for about half our journey—the entire time we aren’t on Wizard Street, we’ll be on the streets she used.” She had not really thought about that before; it would be interesting to see if there was more obvious evidence of Tabaea’s accession than there was on Wizard Street.

  Alorria shuddered. “I’ve never been on a battlefield before,” she said.

  “A battlefield?” Sarai had never thought of any part of Ethshar of the Sands as a battlefield. Battlefields were far-off places, in the Small Kingdoms or on the borders of Sardiron, not here in the heart of civilization. But what else was Tabaea’s route from Grandgate to the Palace, but a battlefield?

  “We’ll see it soon enough,” Sarai said. “We turn at the next corner.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  At first, when Tabaea awoke, she didn’t remember where she was. She looked up at the ornate canopy, the incredibly high, elaborately-painted ceiling with its gilded coffering, and wondered what sort of an inn she had found this time.

  The bed was broad and long and soft, the coverings rich and luxurious—a bed fit for the overlord, she thought.

  And then memory came back. It was a bed fit for the overlord—or for the empress who had deposed him.

  But it couldn’t be real, she thought, sitting up. It must have been a dream. Even with all her magic, she could
n’t have overthrown the overlord in a single night...

  Could she?

  A bell-pull hung by the bed; she jerked at it, then slid out from under the coverlet and onto her feet.

  She was wearing a red silk gown that she had never seen before—no, she corrected herself, she remembered changing into it last night. The chambermaid had tried to take away her old clothes, and Tabaea had refused.

  Sure enough, draped across a chair was her skirt, still muddy; hung on the back was her embroidered tunic.

  A dozen holes had been punched through it, it had been slashed several places, and dried blood had stiffened it horribly. It looked like ancient scraps of untanned black leather.

  Tabaea shuddered. Those holes and slashes had been made by swords and spears and arrows, and they had gone right through her, as well. That was her own blood that stained the fabric. She looked down at the robe she wore, then tore it open.

  Faint scars traced across her breast. No one would ever have believed they were the remains of wounds less than a day old.

  Tabaea blinked. Were they less than a day old? How long had she slept?

  A door opened, and a young woman leaned in. “Yes, your Majesty?” she asked.

  “What time is it?” Tabaea demanded. “And what day is it?”

  “It’s midday, your Majesty, or close to it, on the sixteenth of Harvest, in the Year of Speech 5227.”

  Tabaea relaxed slightly. She had marched to the Palace on the night of the fifteenth, she was fairly sure. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Lethe of Longwall, your Majesty. Your morning maid.” She curtsied, still half hidden by the door. Tabaea noticed that she was wearing the same gold tunic, red skirt, and white apron as the woman last night, Ista, who had given Tabaea a tour of her new home.

  But this was definitely not Ista. Lethe was younger, shorter, and plumper. Ista worked at night. Lethe, it seemed, worked mornings.

  “My morning maid.” Tabaea grinned. “Fine. Excellent.” She glanced around the room, and then down at the robe she had just torn.

  “Fetch me some clothes, Lethe,” Tabaea said. “Clothes fit for an empress. And rouse my court—the ones I brought with me, and anyone who didn’t flee with old Ederd. I intend to hold audience in half an hour, and I want them all there.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.” Lethe vanished, closing the door behind her.

  Tabaea hopped back onto the edge of the bed and sat for a moment, swinging her feet and looking around the room, at the carved and polished woodwork, the ornate ceiling, the fine tapestries.

  Then a tap sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” Tabaea called.

  The door opened, and Lethe reappeared, but still did not fully enter the room. “Your Majesty,” she said, “I’ve passed on your orders, and the mistress of the wardrobe is bringing selections from the closets of Annara the Graceful and others, but she asked me to tell you that there’s been no time to make new dresses or alter what was here, so that she cannot promise any will fit properly at first.”

  “Who’s Annara the Graceful?” Tabaea asked.

  Lethe blinked, startled. “Why, that’s the overlord’s ... I mean, the former overlord’s granddaughter.”

  “Oh,” Tabaea said. She had never taken much of an interest in politics. “He has grandchildren?”

  “Only the one.”

  “Too bad. Is she pretty?”

  Lethe hesitated. “I couldn’t say,” she answered at last.

  Tabaea hopped off the bed again. “I take it she dressed well, at any rate.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  “I don’t expect miracles about the fit...” Tabaea began. Then she stopped.

  “But on the other hand,” she said, “why shouldn’t I expect miracles? Lethe, go fetch me the court magicians!”

  Lethe’s face turned white.

  “Your Maj ... Majesty,” she stammered, “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Tabaea demanded, more curious than angry. “Are they so terrifying as all that?”

  “No, your Majesty; they’re gone. They fled last night, for fear you would slay them all. They said that you had already killed many magicians.”

  “Oh.” Tabaea considered that. Even after spying on several magicians as they discussed the murders, it had never occurred to her that killing half a dozen people could terrorize all the other magicians so thoroughly. It wasn’t quite the effect she had had in mind. She had just wanted one of each, to absorb their powers and abilities.

  Well, what was done was done. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “We’ll make do with ordinary tailors and seamstresses to adapt my new clothes, then, rather than magic.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  A thought struck Tabaea. “What do they pay you, Lethe?” she asked.

  “I have a room here in the Palace that I share with three other maids, your Majesty, and I get my meals, and six bits a day, as well.” She lifted a corner of her apron. “And my clothes,” she added.

  “Is that all?”

  Lethe nodded.

  “From now on, Lethe, you’ll be paid a round and a half—with none of those expensive magicians around, I’m sure the treasury can pay all you servants twice as much!”

  “Yes, your Majesty. Thank you.” Lethe curtsied.

  “And the dungeons—last night Ista showed me the stair to the dungeons, but we didn’t go down. Are there prisoners down there?”

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  “I want them freed. Right now. All of them.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.” Lethe started to turn to go, then stopped and stepped out of the way as two men marched in, hauling a large wooden trunk. Behind this came a tall woman in a green and gold gown, perhaps the most extravagant garment Tabaea had ever seen.

  “Your Majesty,” this new arrival said, as the men set the trunk on the floor, “it’s such an honor to meet you! I’m Jandin, mistress of the wardrobe.”

  “I’ll go tell the guards,” Lethe called, ducking out. Almost out of earshot, she added, “if I can find any.” The two men departed close on her heels, and the door closed behind them.

  Jandin flung open the trunk, revealing a glittering array of expensive fabric, fine embroidery, and bright jewelry. Tabaea gasped, and her eyes went wide.

  “Now, if your Majesty could give me just the tiniest clue as to how you wish to appear today,” Jandin said, “I’m sure I can find something here that will suit us...”

  An hour later, as the nervous courtiers milled about the Great Hall in two distinct groups, the old and the new, their desultory conversations were cut short by the sound of trumpets. All eyes turned toward the rear staircase, and a few unfortunates quickly scurried to one side or the other to get out of their ruler’s path.

  As Tabaea rose into sight someone stifled a giggle.

  The Empress was wearing the most incredibly gaudy dress that anyone present had ever seen. The basic colors were red and green, in alternating panels divided by gold borders. Jewels in a dozen hues glittered along every golden border and in elaborate patterns on the panels, as well. Gold braid circled the waist, hips, and bust, and edged each cuff; fine gold chains draped across the bodice. Padded crests rose from either shoulder. Gold-edged slashes in the puffed sleeves revealed tight black velvet undersleeves. She also wore dangling earrings of intricately-wrought gold, and a headpiece of woven peacock feathers.

  Several jaws dropped at the sight.

  “I’ll be damned,” someone muttered as Tabaea made her slow march down the full length of the hall to the throne. He leaned to a companion and whispered, “I know that dress—Annara had it made for a show in the Arena. It was supposed to represent greed and tastelessness.”

  “Do you think Tabaea knows?”

  “She couldn’t—she wouldn’t wear it if she knew.”

  “Maybe someone’s played a trick on her?”

  “That’s one very risky trick to play on a known murderer and self-proclaimed empress!”

&nb
sp; The speakers had no way of knowing that Tabaea, with her stolen abilities, could hear every word they said. She flushed angrily, but continued her procession, up onto the dais. With each step she considered what, if anything, she should do to Jandin; the wardrobe mistress had not suggested the dress, but she had not said anything against it when Tabaea had pulled it out, either. And she had put it in the trunk in the first place, hadn’t she?

  But on the other hand, Tabaea realized that this incident might well determine the whole tenor of her reign, whether she was seen as a ruthless tyrant or a merciful and generous benefactor. She had heard those courtiers call her a “known murderer,” and she didn’t like it. That was not the image she wanted.

  Therefore, when she reached the dais, she turned and announced, “Welcome, my people!”

  No one answered; no one knew what reply was expected.

  “The brutal reign of the heirs of Anaran is ended!” Tabaea announced. “Today we begin a new era of justice and mercy! I hereby decree an end to slavery in this city; all slaves in Ethshar of the Sands are to be freed immediately! I decree forgiveness for those who have been driven to crime by the cruelty of my predecesssors; all prisoners in the dungeons are likewise to be freed immediately! I decree that the brutal oppression of innocents by the city guard is to cease immediately; all guardsmen are to surrender their swords, and are hereby charged with finding food and lodging for all those who have been forced to take shelter in the Wall Street Field! I decree that those who serve me shall be paid according to their true worth, and that for the present, that shall be assumed to be twice whatever my foul predecessor, the so-called overlord, saw fit to pay them!”

  “She’s mad,” a courtier muttered. “Completely mad!”

  “No!” Tabea shouted, “I am not mad!” She leapt from the dais and marched across the room, a pointing finger thrust out before her.

  The courtiers parted, and she confronted the man who had dared to speak.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  The man bowed. “Lord Sancha, Minister of the Port,” he said. “At your Majesty’s service.”