by Daniel Hood
"Most obvious, Questor, " the Guardsman said with only the slightest trace of irony, "except, if it please you, how'm I to know who we're looking for?"
Liam grinned, and Boult granted him a small one in return. "I'll let you know when he arrives. Now come on."
Boult shrugged and followed Liam back into the courtyard and beyond the pile. They settled themselves between the wall of the court and the right side of the high tangle of used furniture and rubbish. Liam could see the doorway of the building, and hoped that with the garbage and the rain, they would remain unseen. As a precaution, he took back the lantern and hooded it completely, leaving them in the dark.
They waited interminably, but Boult said nothing, and Liam tried not to allow his high spirits to ebb. It was difficult, with the rain seeping slowly through his cloak, the wet chill setting his bruises to aching, and the mental itch returning to his back. He thought hard on the clue he was about to get, and succeeded at least in pushing the last worry away. There was no reason for anyone to have followed him, or to be spying on him. There was no way for anyone to know how close he hoped he was to catching Tarquin' s murderer. He thought of Marcius, but dismissed the idea. Having delivered his warning, the merchant would surely wait at least a day to see if it was carried out.
So he convinced himself that the suspicion was merely his nerves, and began to tum over his clues again.
Why the second spell? If Tarquin had cast it, it would have meant Necquer' s death; surely his mistress would not want that. But what if she had? Ignoring the why, which he hoped he would understand when he knew who she was, he
focused o the how. She had gone to Tarquin for the spell, but the wizard had not cast it, and Necquer had made it to
port safely. Was that reason enough to kill him? Again, he would know better when he knew who she was.
The waiting dragged on, and several times Liam was sure he heard the bells tolling eight, though he knew hearing them through the rain was impossible. They both shifted their positions several times, trying to minimize the discomfort of rain and projecting garbage. Liam was in the middle of an extensive rearrangement when Boult laid a hand upon his arm and he froze, one leg raised, searching for a secure spot in the unseen mess underfoot. Boult steadied him without a word.
A figure glided out of one of the alleys, shrouded in a voluminous cloak and hood. The woman, Liam knew at once, and squinted at her through the rain, willing her hood to fall away. It did not, and she came on, slipping around the pile like a ghost, mere yards from them. She was shorter than he had imagined her, but the cloak billowed so much that it could easily have hid the prodigious belly he had given her. Only when she had gone through the door did Liam realize she had not carried a lantern, and had negotiated the streets easily in the dark. The idea disturbed him.
Beside him, Boult let out his breath, and Liam did the same, allowing his weight to settle back on both feet with relief.
"That our man?" the Guardsman whispered, touching Liam's arm again for his attention.
"No. Wait."
It did not take as long the second time, and Necquer announced his presence well in advance with the light of a lantern. He came hurrying down the same alley the woman had used, but with none of her weightless grace. They heard a distinct ripping sound as he negotiated the rubbish heap, followed by a curse, startlingly loud. Liam placed a restraining hand on Boult's shoulder, and waited while the merchant opened the door. He stood in the doorway, threw back his hood, and examined a large tear in his cloak, shaking his head and spitting in anger. Liam recognized his face for certain, and gently shoved Boult.
Necquer entered, and the Guardsman disappeared around the pile, to reappear seconds later at the door. He paused a second, listening, and then went in. Liam waited as long as he could stand it, and began creeping around the pile himself. By the time he managed to cross the garbage, Boult was back, leaning with crossed arms against the doorsill.
"In th'attic," he said, gesturing up with his thumb. "I near followed him up, but stopped in time."
"Did someone greet him?"
"He knocked thrice, in a peculiar way, and a woman's voice bid him enter. You can hear through the walls as through the thinnest kerchief."
"Better and better." He would not be able to see the woman, but he could hear her at least, and their conversation might give something away. "Shall we?" He started for the stairs. Boult obediently followed with an apathetic shrug that seemed his only method of expression. At least it was dry indoors.
The stairs creaked ominously as they walked, and Liam winced even on the first flight. Going slowly and planting his feet carefully only seemed to make it worse, and the cries of old, creaking boards flew straight up, he was sure, to the attic where Necquer waited. He was struck by what he was doing—spying, basically, invading the most private moment of another man and woman. The parallel with Fanuilh did not escape him.
There was a candle on the second-story landing, but none beyond. Light showed from underneath some of the doors on the floors they passed, but this only emphasized the pitchy blackness of the stairwell. Liam's heart began to beat faster, and his skin was damp beneath the cloak. Sounds came from some of the apartments they passed, bodiless in the dark: a young girl singing to a crying child, a hissed argument between two men, the sounds of a meal in progress. The two men crept on, and the sounds died away as they reached the fourth floor, accompanied only by the creaking of the treads. Above him, Liam sensed space, a black void where the stairs to the attic would be.
Boult stopped him, and leaned close to whisper. His breath was warm in Liam's ear.
"It's the next flight. Your boots, Questor. The boards fairly shout here. The quarry made Hell's own clatter going up."
Did the Guardsman think Necquer was his quarry? He did not bother to correct him. He was after the hooded woman, and what she knew about Tarquin.
She tried to get Tarquin to substitute Lons's spell, he thought, bracing himself against the unseen wall to pull off first one boot, then the other.
"Wait here," he whispered to Boult, and wondered if he nodded in the darkness.
Switching spells would have meant Necquer' s death. Why would she want that? And why would she kill Tarquin when he didn't perform the spell?
The darkness was absolute, palpable in a sense, like warm water pressing around him. He put his stockinged foot on the first step, and hesitated. His heart beat loud, his mouth was dry. It was just spying; he had done it before in a dozen places. In wars. This was not a war; this was the merchant Necquer betraying his wife in adultery, which was entirely his business, and none of Liam's.
And why didn't Tarquin perform the spell? He had the virgin's blood, and if he had been stupid enough to believe Lons would pay him, he would certainly have believed the seductive voice.
He forced his other foot to move, and gained two steps. There was a thin line of orange above his head, the bottom of the door to the attic. It was a goal. He made two more steps with only a single stifled squeal from the decrepit wood. Suddenly he imagined the door above swinging open, and Necquer glaring angrily down at him.
I'd piss my breeches, he thought, and had to clap his hand to his mouth to stifle a giggle.
The door stayed closed, and he forced himself up three more steps. Sweat trickled down his face. He heard a voice from above and stopped, his heart hammering.
It was Necquer's, from the sound of it, though he could not discern the words. +
Had she killed him because he did not cast the spell? Was that reason enough? Or had he figured out why she wanted the spell cast, and threatened to reveal it? If he knew why she wanted Necquer dead, he could understand.
If she wanted Necquer dead. If that was what the spell was for. If—
He cursed himself viciously and silently. He would never know if he did not go further. Three more steps, stooping, his hands groping for the treads in front of him, the wood brittle and ridged beneath his finger
s. Traces of wet from Necquer's boots, and whatever shoes the woman wore.
He could hear Necquer's voice now, suddenly very clear, as if he were right next to him. His heart lurched, and he swayed in the darkness. The line of warm orange was on a level with his eyes, and he brought his legs up with infinite care, so that he was squatting on the step.
"You should buy better wine," Necquer was saying, apparently just beyond the door. He heard a clink. Goblets? His mouth was dry. "I certainly have enough money to afford some decent wine."
There must have been a reply, because the merchant was silent, but Liam could not hear it.
"No expense too great for my sweet chuck," the merchant laughed.
Your sweet chuck would have been happy to see you rotting in the sea, he thought, grinding his teeth, and wanted to shout to the woman to speak tip. The woman in his imagination had a stentorian voice, a voice like a trumpet, a voice that carried across miles as well as attic rooms. She did not even whisper when she stuck daggers in wizards. Why was he so sure?
"You're not going to start that again, are you?" said Necquer, exasperated. "I've told you, she's my wife. There's nothing else for it. You're looked after well enough."
She wanted him to leave his wife. She was pregnant, and he would not leave his wife.
"That's a good girl," Necquer said after another pause, reassured and magnanimous. "No more arguments, then. I've only got one other cheek." He laughed.
One other cheek? One other cheek to bruise. She had hit him, not some nonexistent bandit. When he came back from Warinsford, he went to see her first, before his wife. And she had hit him, hard enough to leave a mark.
"Then you'll be rid of it?" The merchant's tone was more serious; there was uncertainty in his voice, and a shade of apprehension. "There are herbs, I know. See Viyescu, he can get them. You're not so far along, are you? It's not even showing."
Rid of the child he had sired. That was a reason to kill a man, Liam supposed, because he had gotten you pregnant and would not marry you and ordered you to get rid of it. But she had already gone to Viyescu for the santhract. And after Tarquin's death she had frightened him enough to get it for her. So why try to kill Necquer, if she was prepared to do as he wished?
He clearly heard the rustle of skirts across floorboards. She was moving, and, by the sound, towards him. For a moment, he thought irrationally that she was going to open the door and find him, and then he caught hold of himself. She was coming to Necquer, and he heard another sound, the brushing of cloth against cloth. Was she embracing him? Then a loud kiss. Yes. He prayed with all his might, squinting his eyes in the dark with effort. Please, please, please, speak.
"I'll attend to it soon," she said, and his eyes sprang open and his mind reeled. "Soon. For now, drink your wine and let's to bed."
Gods, what have I done?
"A fine idea, my sweet," Necquer said, the smug smile practically audible.
Liam heard the merchant's words, but they were eaningless to him.
He knew the voice, though he had never heard it used seductively, the way Tarquin had. A dozen revelations fell on him with stunning force, and his arms trembled so much that he had to lower himself to the stairs, resting his forehead against the damp wood.
She wanted Necquer dead for his betrayal, for refusing to spurn his wife, because she was fierce that way. She had killed Tarquin, he was sure, because he had threatened to reveal her.
"Finish your wine," she said with an indulgent laugh.
And he had done that because he had discovered that the virgin's blood—so hard to come by, so useful, and Donoé couldn't possibly supply enough, however willing she was—had not been real. How could it be, when she was not a virgin? So when the illusion spell failed because of the faulty blood, the wizard had cast the spell Lons wanted instead and threatened to reveal her. And for nothing, nothing at all. She had agreed to lose the child, to reconcile herself to his wishes, to go to bed with him again.
Liam did not want to move. Self-reproach held him in an iron grip, and he wished the dark would surround him and become complete.
Gods, I have so completely bungled this whole damn thing. His mistakes were beyond repair.
He could not tell Coeccias, he could not tell Fanuilh. He could not tell them, because then he would have to tell them what he had done in his weakness and imbecility.
"When I've more of a thirst, after." After what was clear. Necquer gave the word a lecherous weight. There were footsteps, moving away.
After, Liam thought miserably. After I've crawled back down these steps and ridden as far away from Southwark as I can.
"Careful, it'll spill," the beautiful, musical voice laughed. "You'd best drink it now, or it'll end on the rugs."
Would she not shut up about the wine? He did not want to hear her anymore. He. wanted to get Diamond from the stables and ride north, to Torquay, maybe, or the Midlands, or maybe further.
"You want me drunk, do you?" Necquer laughed aloud.
Drunk, of course, drunk, Liam thought, shaking his head bitterly, drink the wine, drunk if she can't have you dead. Drunk is—
His head jerked up in the dark, and he gaped at the door. Drink the wine—
Because you powder santhract and take it in a cup of wine or cider to hide the bitter taste, and the right amount of santhract will terminate a pregnancy and too much will kill a man.
He scrabbled to his feet and jumped forward, stumbling on the stairs but gaining his balance again as he hit the door.
It burst open and he slid to a halt in his stockings.
"I didn't think—" he began, and stopped, because what he had not thought of was what to say.
Necquer and Rora stood in the middle of an expensive carpet, swaying close to each other, shocked, the merchant's hand on her exposed breast, the cup in his other hand at his lips. A broad bed, with snowy sheets, a wide window to the right. A huge number of candles, shocking after his time in the darkness of the staircase.
"Poison!" Liam shouted. "Santhract!" He pointed at them, and Necquer dropped the cup, still staring. Only a little wine spilled out. Rora's face twisted in rage.
"Questor," Boult gasped hesitantly from behind him. When Liam had suddenly burst open the door, he had hurried up.
Rora lunged at him, her teeth bared in an awful snarl, but Necquer instinctively grabbed her arm and pulled her up short. The momentum carried her around toward the window, but she turned back with a dancer's grace and lunged again, snarling furiously at Liam. No one heard the soft thump that came from the roof above.
"She's trying to kill you," he shouted at the merchant, afraid to let her speak. What would she say? He felt guilty, terribly guilty, as though he had used. her. It never occurred to him to think of it the other way around. So he shouted, trying to drown out denunciations she did not try to make. "Santhract in your cup. She killed Tarquin Tanaquil, because he would not help her, and would have told you about it."
He went on, shouting disconnected facts at Necquer, who hauled the hysterical dancer to him. The merchant held her roughly by the shoulders, trying to see her face, and she suddenly spat furiously at him. Her nails flashed up towards his eyes. Liam and Boult both started toward the struggling couple.
The large window shattered, and a dark shape hurtled towards Rora in a shower of broken glass and wood. It lit on her back, water gleaming on the scales, and a single beat of the wings drove Necquer back. Blood fountained from Rora's neck, where the wedgelike head had buried itself. She screamed.
Fanuilh rose off her back and darted in the air around in front of her to plunge at her face. Shouting now, she flailed her arms at the creature, but it came at her like a whirlwind, biting and scratching and pushing, silent except for the flap of its wings. It pulled back for a moment and then leapt again, forcing her back against the windowpane with its remnants of glass and wood, and then over.
She fell, and the dragon disengaged itself, hovering in the wi
ndow. It turned its head over one shoulder, between the lazily sweeping wings, and fixed its gaze on Liam.
Done, Master.
Then it dove out the window after Rora.
For long seconds, the three men remaining in the attic room stared at the shattered window. Gusts of rain blew in, spraying successive patterns of moisture on the rug, darkening it.
Numb, Liam could only think of Fanuilh's weakness, its constant protestations of soon, soon.But the dragon had killed her.
Silenced her, he thought, and stirred to drive the idea away.
Boult moved as well, and the spell that held them was broken. "Questor," the Guardsman said shakily, his voice uncertain.
Liam shook himself, like a dog shedding water, and looked at Necquer. The merchant's face was white, his eyes bulging and his lips moving without producing any sound. Even when he slipped bonelessly to his knees in the broken glass, Liam took it for shock, but when the merchant heaved convulsively and clasped his stomach, Liam rushed to his side.
"Go get Coeccias," he barked at Boult. "Get him and make him bring Viyescu. Tell him to tell Viyescu that the Hierarch said he needed an antidote to santhract. He'll understand." He knelt by the contorted merchant, and found the Guardsman at his side. "Go now," he shouted angrily. "Tell him it's santhract—he'll understand. Go!"
After a secorid's gawking, Boult shrugged—his all purpose reaction—and darted out the door.
The merchant was feverish, his skin slick and gritty and radiating unnatural heat. He crouched on his knees, one hand splayed out on the ground while the other clutched at his stomach. He took in great lungfuls of air with croaking sobs, as if he was desperate to breathe. His head swung in wide arcs, like a frightened cow.
Glass was digging into Liam's knees and stockinged toes, and he could see trickles of blood run, mingled with rainwater, from beneath the merchant's outflung hand. Grimacing, he put one hand around Necquer's waist and took hold of his chin with the other, probing a long finger between the clenched teeth.