The Spell of the Black Dagger (2nd Edition)

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  That settled, the only questions remaining were who and when.

  She had killed a warlock—she reached out and picked up the biggest chunk of the broken mug and sent it sailing in broad circles around the room, all without touching it; now that she knew how, it seemed to grow easier with every passing second. The next step would be either some other form of magic, or some vital, nonmagical skill—archery, perhaps, or swordsmanship. A soldier, then?

  Yes, a soldier, but one who knew his trade, not just one of the fat, lazy bullies who guarded Grandgate by day and caroused in Soldiertown by night. An officer, perhaps—one who trained the new enlistees.

  And then some more magicians—a demonologist, perhaps, and a theurgist. Even if they needed incantations, maybe she could learn those somewhere, listen to someone at work; it couldn't be that hard, once you had the gift, the skill, whatever it was that made them magicians instead of mere mortals. And then maybe a wizard, despite the Guild and her inability to make an athame, maybe two, they didn't all use the same spells, maybe she could learn something useful. A sorcerer, a witch…

  She drew the dagger and looked at it.

  "We're going to be busy," she said. She smiled. "And it'll be worth it."

  CHAPTER 15

  There's wizardry here," the witch said, kneeling by the body.

  "You're sure it's wizardry and not some other magic?" Sarai asked from the doorway.

  The witch frowned. "Well, my lady," he said, "it's either wizardry or something entirely new, and if it's something entirely new, it's something that's more like wizardry than it's like anything else we've ever known."

  "So it could be something entirely new?"

  The witch sighed as he got stiffly to his feet. He ran a bony hand through thinning hair.

  "I don't know, Lady Sarai," he said. "I know that when warlockry first came along, when I was just finishing my apprenticeship, we had a hard time telling it from witchcraft at first, because there are similarities, and we didn't know the differences yet. I know that theurgy and demonology are opposite sides of the same coin, so that in some ways they look alike and in others they couldn't be more different. Whatever happened here feels like wizardry to me, but it might be that it's something new, and I just don't know the differences yet. But it feels like wizardry."

  Sarai nodded.

  "All right," she said. "Wizardry, then, or something like it. Can you tell me anything about the person who did it?"

  The witch shook his head. "No," he said, "I'm afraid not. The magic fouls up everything else."

  "Can you tell me anything more about the magic, then?" Sarai asked. "Would you know it if you met the murderer on the street?"

  The witch tilted his head and considered that carefully. "I doubt it," he said at last. "What I sense here is the flavor of the single spell that killed him. It doesn't seem likely that the killer would be walking around with that spell still active. I'm not a wizard, but as I understand it, their spells are usually temporary things—they make them fresh each time, as it were."

  Sarai nodded again. "But it's the same spell here as the others?"

  The witch shrugged. "I think so," he said, "but I can't be absolutely certain. The others were not so recent when I saw them."

  For a moment the two of them stood silently, staring at the bloody corpse on the floor. The body, in turn, was staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  "There's one thing," Sarai said. "You and the others all keep saying that a spell killed these people, but it's plain to see that a knife killed them. Do you mean that it was an enchanted dagger? That an ordinary knife was wielded by magic? That the dagger was conjured out of thin air?"

  The witch hesitated. "I mean," he said, very carefully, "that whatever made the wounds was magical and that the life was drawn out by that magic. If it was a dagger, the dagger was enchanted; whether it was wielded by magic or by someone's hand I have no way of knowing."

  "Very well, then," Sarai said, "suppose it's an enchanted dagger, and you happen to bump into someone on the street who's wearing that dagger on his belt. Would you know it?"

  The witch hesitated even longer this time. "I doubt it," he said at last. "But I think—I think—that if I saw someone use that dagger to cut someone, I would know it."

  "Well, that's better than nothing," Sarai muttered.

  "I would, of course, immediately inform you, my lady, if I saw anything of the sort."

  "Of course," she said. "Or the nearest guardsman, or whoever."

  "Of course."

  Sarai turned and headed for the stairs.

  This one was the worst yet, and for a very simple reason-she had known the victim. Serem the Wise was one of the best-known enchanters in Ethshar of the Sands—or rather, he had been; now he was nothing but a wandering ghost and a throat-slashed cadaver.

  His apprentice—what was her name? Oh, yes, Lirrin. Lirrin was waiting at the foot of the stairs, looking pale and ill. Behind her, in the front parlor, Sarai could see Serem's famous fan-tree, waving away as if nothing had happened; trust old Serem to use solid, permanent enchantments, not the feeble sort that would have died with their creator.

  Lirrin would be doing all right for herself, probably—as far as Sarai knew, there were no relatives with a stronger claim to any part of the estate than that of a new apprentice. If Serem had any children or siblings, they were long since grown, and any wives were dead, divorced, or disappeared. Under Ethsharitic custom, a child's welfare came before that of any adult other than a spouse, and Lirrin, at seventeen, was still officially a child. She would inherit the wizard's house and goods, including his Book of Spells and the contents of his workshop.

  That might be a sufficient motive for murder, and despite Lirrin's display of grief Sarai might have suspected her, were it not for all the other deaths.

  Inza the Apprentice Warlock had been the first, slain in her own bed, her throat slashed, a stab wound in her chest; then there had been Captain Deru, waylaid in an alley off Archer Street, stabbed in the back, and his throat slashed. Athaniel the Theurgist was jumped in his shop, his throat slashed, and a single thrust through his heart to finish him off. Karitha of East End, a demonologist, had been beaten into unconsciousness in her own parlor, her throat cut as she lay insensible.

  Strangest of all, even as these murders had been taking place, a dozen animals, mostly stray cats or runaway dogs, had been found dead at various places in the Wall Street Field, with their throats cut open. Had they all been killed before Inza, then Sarai might have guessed the killer was working up his nerve, practicing before he dared risk tackling a human being, but they were not; instead, a dog and a cat had been killed shortly after Inza, the rest one by one in the days that followed, interspersed with the other victims.

  And now old Serem was dead, on the floor of his bedchamber, stabbed in the belly, and—like all the rest—his throat had been cut.

  And on all of them, men, women, and beasts, the magicians found lingering traces of a strange magic, probably wizardry, that blocked any divination or scrying spell.

  Mereth swore she couldn't identify the killer. Okko could tell nothing of what had happened. Luris the Black had offered to help, to avenge her dead apprentice, but she was as useless as any warlock when it came to knowledge, rather than raw power. And now this witch, Kelder of Quarter Street, had failed, as well.

  "He hasn't killed any witches yet," Sarai remarked as she marched down the stairs. "One of you will probably be next; he seems to be trying for one of every sort of magician."

  "There are still sorcerers, Lady Sarai," Kelder replied, "and the various lesser disciplines, the herbalists and scientists and illusionists."

  "True," Sarai conceded. "Still, I'd lock my door, if I were you, and maybe invest in a few warding spells. Besides your own, I mean." Witches did not have any true warding spells of their own, she knew, but she also knew that witches didn't want outsiders to know it.

  "Perhaps you're right, my lady," the witch agreed. "I would
like to say that I don't fit the pattern in these killings, but in truth, I don't see a clear pattern."

  "Neither do I," Sarai admitted.

  That bothered her. There ought to be more of a pattern in who was killed, and how; criminals were usually abysmally unimaginative. This one, though…

  They had no idea of any motive. The killer had slain the apprentice warlock, leaving Luris untouched, but here he or she had killed Serem, the master, and had left the apprentice, Lirrin, untouched. Athaniel had had no apprentice, nor, of course, had Deru, since the city guard did not operate on an apprenticeship system. Karitha's apprentice was a boy of fourteen who had been visiting his parents on their farm somewhere outside the city. Serem's apprentice inherited everything; Karitha's, due to the existence of the demonologist's husband and nine-year-old daughter, inherited nothing but a few papers and the right to stay on until Festival.

  There was no pattern, no connecting motive, no common factor among the victims that Sarai had yet discovered.

  Lirrin was inheriting a large and valuable house and a great deal of wealth, which would make an excellent motive, and she was a wizard of sorts, as well—could she have arranged the entire thing, staging the other killings in order to throw off suspicion? It was hard to believe that anyone could be so coldblooded; besides, if that was it, she had been foolish to kill Inza and not Luris, thereby missing the chance to create a false pattern and divert suspicion onto Inza. And why kill the dogs?

  Besides, Karitha was killed by a very strong person—she had been picked up and flung against a wall at one point. And the killer had not been gentle with Deru or Athaniel, either. Lirrin scarcely looked strong enough to do anything like that. She wasn't as scrawny and underfed as some apprentices, but she still had more bone showing than muscle. Of course, with magic, anything is possible… Sarai realized that she had reached the bottom of the stairs and was now staring into Lirrin's face from a distance of only four or five feet.

  "I'm sorry," Sarai said, trying to sound sincere. She was sorry that Serem was dead, genuinely sorry, but right now she was thinking too hard about who might have killed him to get real emotion into her voice.

  Lirrin grimaced. "I guess you see things like this all the time, Lady Sarai," she said, her voice unsteady.

  "No," Sarai said. "No, I don't. Usually the guard takes care of… of deaths without calling me in. They're usually simple— someone lost his temper and is sitting there crying and confessing, or there are a dozen witnesses. If it's not that obvious, then we call in the magicians, and generally we have the perpetrator in the dungeons the next day." She sighed. "But this time," she said, "we seem to be dealing with a lunatic of some sort, one who uses magic that hides all his traces. So they called me in, because I'm supposed to be good at figuring these things out.

  And I'm trying, Lirrin, I really am, but I just don't know how to catch this one."

  "Oh," the apprentice—the former apprentice, Sarai reminded herself, since the apprenticeship was over and done, and Lirrin would have to prove herself worthy of journeyman status before the representatives of the Wizards' Guild, despite missing the final year of her studies—said, in a tiny voice.

  Sarai hesitated before saying any more, but finally spoke. "Lirrin," she said, "you're Serem's heir, and that means you're responsible for his funeral rites. But before you build a pyre, I have a favor to ask, a big one."

  "What?" Lirrin was clearly on the verge of tears.

  "Could you summon a necromancer to see if someone can speak to Serem's ghost? His soul won't be free to flee to Heaven until his body is destroyed; if we can question him, ask who stabbed him—he must have seen who it was. He might not know a name, he might not remember everything—ghosts often don't—but anything he could tell us might help."

  Lirrin blinked, and a tear spilled down one cheek. "You said there were others…"

  Sarai sighed again.

  "There were," she admitted, "but with the first few we didn't know it would be necessary until it was too late, until after the funeral. We did finally try with the demonologist; her soul was gone without a trace, probably taken by some demon she owed a debt to. We hope to do better with Serem. With your permission."

  "Of course," Lirrin said weakly. "Of course."

  The smoke from the pyre drifted lazily upward; the weather was starting to turn cooler again, and the air was clear, the sky a dazzling turquoise blue.

  "Damn it," Sarai muttered.

  Captain Tikri glanced sideways at her, then across at Lirrin. The apprentice seemed oblivious to everything but the burning remains of her master. The handful of friends and family in attendance were lost in their own thoughts or talking to one another.

  "Troubled, Lady Sarai?" Tikri murmured.

  "Of course I am!" she said in reply. "It's all so wasteful and stupid! Even this funeral—it's just empty ritual. His soul isn't even in there; there's nothing to be freed!"

  "You're sure?"

  "The necromancer was sure, anyway, or at least he said he was."

  Tikri didn't reply for a moment; when he did, it was to ask, "Which sort of necromancer was it?"

  "A wizard," Sarai answered. "Does it matter, though?" Tikri shrugged, showing her an empty palm. "I don't know," he said. "It might. My Aunt Thithenna always used a theurgist to talk to Uncle Gar, after he died—at least, until the priest said she should leave him alone and let him enjoy the afterlife. Worked fine."

  Sarai sighed. "Your Aunt Thithenna was lucky," she said. "Half the time theurgical necromancers can't find the one you want, even when there isn't any question of other magic. And demonological necromancers are worse—unless the ghost you want is a dead demonologist; they're lucky to contact one out of ten. Sorcerers and warlocks don't do necromancy at all— they're probably smart. It's a messy business. And as often as not the ghost doesn't remember anything useful."

  "What about a witch, then?" It was Sarai's turn to shrug.

  "It's a little late now," she said. "I know theurgists and de-monologists don't need the body, but witches do, even more than wizards. I did have a witch look at him, though—Kelder of Quarter Street. You know him, don't you?" Tikri thought for a moment, then nodded. "Well, he's not a real necromancer," Sarai said. "But he couldn't see anything."

  "Too bad." Tikri hesitated, and said, "There's news, though. I was going to wait until after the funeral to tell you, but maybe I should mention it now."

  "Oh? What is it?"

  "It's not good news."

  Sarai sighed again. "In this case, I wasn't expecting good news. What is it, another body?"

  "No, no," Tikri hastily assured her. "Not that bad."

  "Not even a dog?" Tikri shook his head. "Well, then?" Sarai demanded.

  "Well, it looks like we have more than one killer. Mereth and her apprentice were studying the traces in Athaniel's shop—the actual break-in was done by warlockry."

  Sarai frowned. "But it wasn't warlockry that killed him. Mereth was sure of that."

  Tikri nodded. "So if our killer is a wizard, he has a warlock working with him," he said.

  "Maybe it's a warlock who's gotten hold of an enchanted dagger somewhere," Sarai suggested.

  "Maybe," Tikri conceded. "But why would a warlock be doing any of this? A warlock can stop a man's heart without touching him; why cut throats?"

  "Why would anybody do all this?" Sarai retorted.

  "A demonologist making a sacrifice, maybe? Or a wizard collecting the ingredients for a spell?"

  "And how would a demonologist or a wizard do warlockry?" Sarai started to take a deep breath to say more and accidentally caught a lungful of smoke from the pyre; she lost whatever she had intended to say in an extended coughing fit. Tikri stood silently by, waiting.

  When she regained control of herself, Sarai was no longer thinking entirely about warlocks or motives; the coughing had reminded her of her father's failing health and poor Kalthon the Younger with his fits. Her family was not exactly robust or numerous anymore. She ha
d to face the possibility that any day, she could find herself the new Minister of Justice permanently, not just filling in—and she would still be Minister of Investigation, as well.

  As a girl, she had never expected to have this sort of responsibility; her father and brother were supposed to handle the Ministry of Justice, and back then there had been no Minister of Investigation yet. By rights, she shouldn't have had a government job at all; she should have been married off years ago to a wealthy merchant, or to some noble not too closely related to her. She should be raising chickens and sewing clothes and tending children, not standing here watching a murdered friend burn and worrying about who killed him instead of remembering his life.

  The idea of being the overlord's investigator had sounded intriguing four years ago, but the idea of spending the rest of her life at it, at hunting down demented criminals and sadistic thugs, or worse, failing to hunt them down…

  It was beginning to wear on her. She wondered how her father could stand going on being Minister of Justice, year after year.

  But of course, maybe he couldn't stand it, maybe that was why he was dying.

  And here before her was the body of a man who could have saved her father, and had refused. Maybe, Sarai thought bitterly, she should be applauding, instead of mourning.

  Then she blinked, startled.

  Could that be the killer's motive?

  It wasn't at all likely that all the victims had wronged any one person by their actions, but might they have done so by inaction? Was there something the killer wanted that all of them, the warlock, the soldier, the theurgist, the demonologist, the wizard, had failed to provide?

  It seemed like a reasonable -possibility. It didn't explain the almost ritualistic throat-slashing, or the use of both warlockry and wizardry, though.

  Sarai remembered that Tikri thought there was more than one killer involved. That made sense—the man who threw Athaniel and Karitha around had clearly been immensely strong and must have been large and muscular, while Inza's killer appeared to have slipped in through a window open only a few inches. Deru's killer had been big enough to kill him while he was awake, without leaving signs of a struggle, but had done so from the back—and an experienced old brawler like Deru would not have turned his back on anyone he considered a threat. That called for someone strong, but not big and burly.