Lessek's Key

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  The old woman shivered and without speaking, she pointed to another loaf, paid with a copper Marek and hurried away along the pier, careful not to look back.

  ‘Enjoy your breakfast,’ Brexan called after her; ‘see you tomorrow!’ She waved before turning back to the bakery window. ‘Miserable old hen. Don’t you hate it when someone does that?’

  The baker, a gigantic man who appeared to have lived on nothing but unleavened dough for the past three hundred Twinmoons, had missed the whole by-play; he was far more interested in what his assistant, a much younger man, but already well on his way to baker’s girth himself, was saying about an incident along the southern wharf the previous night.

  ‘Ran all the way? Gods-rut-a-whore, but I would pay a Moon’s wages to have seen that. I can just imagine it, all those cheeks and chins of his all jouncing along! And crying, too?’

  ‘I heard he was crying,’ the apprentice said, ‘but I didn’t see it. I guess he ran all the way across the bridge and out to his place near the barracks. He’s probably still out of breath, hey.’

  ‘Well,’ the baker shrugged sympathetically, ‘I know what that’s like. And old Carpello, he’s not quite as big as me – but I don’t go running scared, hey. I stand and fight, you know.’

  ‘Hey, I know, but running full-on and terrified of something, hey – maybe he saw old Prince Malagon? I mean, no one else has, hey.’

  ‘Nah.’ The bigger man laughed, a wet throaty chortle that left Brexan staring in wonder that he was not already dead. ‘Old Carpello probably ran into one of his wives, huh, or maybe his wives ran into one another and he was running to get the coffers locked up, hey?’

  ‘Yes and down on the southern wharf, too. If his wives are spending time down there, they’re making their own money. You know what I’m saying?’

  The baker laughed again and nodded towards Brexan. ‘Which one, girly?’

  Brexan gaped: she needed to find this man. She had been frightened in the alley, feeling Jacrys’ breath on her skin as he pressed his dirk into her ribs, but had she not been attacked by the Malakasian spy she would never have known the man’s name: Carpello, the Falkan merchant with the mole on his nose. ‘Um, that one up there, please—’ She indicated the loaf on the third shelf.

  ‘This one?’ The baker grabbed the wrong loaf, but Brexan was too busy trying to come up with a reasonable question which would keep the men talking.

  ‘Something scared old Carpello last night?’ she asked, controlling the quaver in her voice. Anyone know what it was?’

  ‘His wives had a meeting.’ The baker nearly howled at that as he sprayed the counter.

  ‘Oh, really? Well, I think my mother was married to the fat old horsecock once or twice – I wonder if she was there.’ Brexan was getting into the spirit now; all she had to do was pretend she was back in the regiment.

  Both men roared and the younger of the two nearly lost his balance.

  Brexan continued, ‘The southern wharf, huh? Well, maybe I’ll go down there and see if she’s around. Actually, you’d better give me another loaf in case I find her.’

  The baker’s face reddened and broke out in a sweat. This was apparently the funniest thing he had heard in his lifetime. Unable to breathe, he coughed long and hard into a piece of soiled cloth, hacking up whatever was festering in his lungs. ‘Oh girly, but that is the best I’ve heard in a Twinmoon. You come back any morning, any morning and visit us. If you find old Carpello down there, you tell him if all those wives are going to meet, he needs to build a bigger warehouse, huh.’

  Brexan laughed herself, and repeated, ‘Bigger warehouse, you bet!’ She paid for her bread and waved cheerily before turning to hurry down the wharf.

  Brexan had met Sallax Farro near the last pier on the southern wharf and she thought she knew the warehouses the bakers were talking about. She would be able to eliminate most of them just by asking around, although she might have to sneak inside two or three for a quick search. Gnawing thoughtfully on one of the loaves, she forgot her desire for a decent cup of tecan and instead bought a beer at a dockside tavern, one where she could sit and observe the pedestrian traffic outside.

  The sun was bright this morning and except for the same black cloud that looked as if it had been hanging sentinel over the harbour since the day she arrived, the skies above the waterfront were clear. There was a pervasive chill, and the passersby all looked the same: bent over and clutching their cloaks tightly closed. They reminded her of Sallax; he had been stooped over as well.

  Carpello would know. He would know where she could find Jacrys, too. She had originally planned to torture the bloated merchant simply because of what he had done to Versen. Now she could do both: Carpello’s imminent interrogation would be closely followed by an agonisingly long session of creative revenge. Anyone who had ever told her that revenge felt hollow had obviously not been doing it properly – bleeding Haden to death had ranked among the most gratifying things she had ever done. She hadn’t killed the scarred Seron to revive Versen; she had killed him out of a passionate lust for vengeance.

  Now that lust flared again: as soon as he revealed Sallax’s whereabouts, she would quench that fire with Carpello’s blood. His mole, Brexan decided, she would hang from a string and present to Brynne if she ever managed to catch up with the rest of the Ronan freedom fighters.

  By the evening, Brexan had worked out a rudimentary map of the southern wharf. There were numerous warehouses, owned by a mixture of individuals and companies, as far as she could make out, and roving teams of Malakasian guards patrolled the area. At least two of the buildings provided permanent offices for Malakasian customs officials, so those were discounted – though Carpello was working for Prince Malagon, Brexan didn’t believe for a moment that all his business was legitimate.

  Several storage facilities were obviously owned by the same person: they were marked with a red slash through a white triangle. She had chatted idly with a stevedore stacking empty crates – the only one who would to talk with her, for work was hard to find in Orindale and most of the dockers had learned to keep their mouths shut. He mentioned that he did not often see his employer, a Malakasian shipping magnate who lived most Twinmoons in Pellia, and Brexan struck five more warehouses from her mental map.

  Finally she found someone who directed her to a series of storage units as far down the pier as she could go – he knew the ships loading and unloading along those piers were bound for Malakasia. ‘You said he was from Falkan but that he had done well.’ The brawny young man tossed a pallet up and through a roughly hewn window in the warehouse wall. Brexan heard it jounce over several others before coming to rest somewhere inside. ‘No locals do well unless they run shipments back and forth for the prince. Try down there. You’ll find him.’

  NEAR THE GORSKAN BORDER

  Gilmour took his time checking every hoof, each limb and all the saddlery while the rest of them bedded down for the night: it had been the hardest ride thus far. He knew their nights of using a Larion tailwind were over; in northern Falkan the land was too rough: rocks and granite boulders broke unevenly through the surface of the earth. Too often the previous night Gilmour had been forced to make last-moment changes in their path to avoid tripping one of the mounts; it was too dangerous to risk again.

  Now he had determined that the horses were fine, and quite fit to ride later that day, but he dallied a few moments longer, watching the stream trickle by. Late autumn was moving quickly into winter and there wouldn’t be much grass left anywhere this far north; they would need hay, and stables for the horses each night from this point forward.

  He sighed. It had taken too long to get here, five, maybe six days. Nerak could have made it in one. Gilmour calculated that Traver’s Notch was still a day or two north and east from the bare earth and the exposed rock of their current campsite.

  Once he was certain his friends had fallen asleep he waved his hand slowly through the air and whispered a few words, ensuring none of them w
ould awaken until well after the midday aven. ‘They need the rest, anyway.’ He reached into his saddlebag and withdrew the leatherbound spell book.

  Nearly a thousand Twinmoons later and he still wasn’t ready. He hadn’t lied when he said he had spent all his time since the fall of the Larion Senate studying, preparing himself intellectually and mystically to face Nerak over the Larion spell table one day. And he had, scouring every destroyed university and blasted library, seeking books and scrolls on science, medicine, the arts and especially magic, any remnants that remained. Though there were pockets of renegade scholars, with secret laboratories or hidden libraries, dissemination of their findings was nearly impossible in the occupied nations, so Gilmour was left working with outdated information in a world filled with ageing academics.

  He learned to create spells of his own, infusing his existing knowledge of magic with research, but every time he used magic, he had put himself at risk. Nerak knew when Gilmour practised one of the more complicated weaves and invariably sent along bounty hunters, Seron warriors, spies, assassins, even a demon or two, whenever he felt his former colleague experimenting.

  So Gilmour had lived a life on the run, moving from place to place, from job to job, learning to move quickly, and knowing every time he worked one of the master spells, Nerak would be after him.

  Over time, even with all the difficulties facing him, Gilmour had expanded his work. Was all hope completely lost because he hadn’t studied Lessek’s spell book? Certainly not. The old man stroked his horse’s mane; brushing the long hair until it fell smoothly and he himself was calm again.

  Then he bent to retrieve the spell book from the log where he’d placed it, flinching as his fingers closed about the binding in case the tome lashed out at him before he had even opened the cover.

  The ash dream, folio one.

  What secrets were hiding in these pages? He was certain the book represented a glimpse into Nerak’s power – the dark prince must have cherished the book deeply to have carried it with him when he travelled … or perhaps he had yet to master the magic inside, which was why he had it with him. Gilmour, fervently hoped for the latter.

  The ash dream. He studied the first page and wondered if this was Lessek’s handwriting, or if the Larion founder had employed a scribe. Lessek was a scholar. He studied the nature of everything he hoped to incorporate into a spell or an incantation and he used common threads to link one to another, to build ever more complex spells – and eventually to fashion the stone table. I am the same, Gilmour thought; what Lessek had was time.

  Gilmour flipped through a few pages: each was lined top to bottom in the fine script, Lessek’s thoughts, ideas and findings. Nothing had happened yet, and Gilmour’s heart began to race. Perhaps this time he would be permitted inside, the moment he had been simultaneously hoping for and dreading. Heartened, he turned back to the opening folios, flattened his palm across the text and began to read.

  Ash: of fire and wind. The first spell seemed to be—

  Gilmour’s thoughts eluded him. He swallowed, clearing his throat. It was a spell about – there it was again, a tightening feeling. He tried to unfasten the leather thongs holding his cloak together, but the bow had worked into a knot and he had to put the book down to sort it out. He shrugged the cloak off his shoulders and reached for the book, but this time, his throat closed entirely. An invisible fist came from the book and slammed into his neck, then encircled it with an iron band. He couldn’t breathe, but that wasn’t enough to stop the book’s assault.

  As it tightened, Gilmour tried to stay calm and think of a spell that would release him – whatever held him wasn’t trying to suffocate him, for he would be unconscious already. As he felt muscles and tissues collapsing in on one another he realised it meant to rip his head off.

  Get out of this body! Find another one, now – there has to be someone around you can take -just this once! Do it!

  His eyes bulged and went blind as his cheeks caved in and blood spurted from his nostrils and mouth. Still the grip tightened. As the old fisherman’s larynx caved in, Gilmour panicked; had he been thinking clearly, he would have slipped away, but he hesitated another moment, despite his own best counsel.

  A great rush of warm air, redolent of organic decay and death, blew out from between the pages of the old spell book, then it was over. The invisible fist opened and he fell backwards over the log, clawing at his ruined throat, gasping for breath, almost blind in his panic. He knew no one would awake and help him; he had put them into an enchanted sleep himself.

  Then a voice inside his head, called, ‘Think, you fool – you’re not going to die!’

  Gilmour stopped struggling. Right. That’s right. As he grew calmer, he searched his memory, the great filing system in which he kept most of the magic he knew: a key word there, a memorable phrase here – hundreds of spells at his fingertips. Fix the damage, he chided himself, and mouthed the words that would repair the injuries to his throat. That’s why it tried to pry your head off, stupid. It knew you didn’t have a spell for that.

  Gilmour felt the old fisherman’s lungs fill with cold air. He lay there for a long time, his bony knees still draped over the rotting pine trunk, enjoying the steady rhythm of his breathing. For a while he thought of nothing, content instead to bask in the joy of simply being alive: two thousand Twinmoons and still alive.

  His thoughts drifted: there was no question now that they had to rely on the key, the spell table and the Windscrolls. The book would be no help. He hoped the faded pages had treated Nerak as inhospitably when the dark prince had endeavoured to read to them. He had no idea how Steven had managed to flip through the spell book so nonchalantly.

  Tired now. He realised he hadn’t slept since Steven’s return to Colorado. He reached for his cloak and folded it over himself and drifted off for an aven’s rest. He left the book where it had fallen closed beside the log.

  Jennifer’s foot broke through the new snow, leaving her standing knee-deep in the rest area parking lot. The bike path behind a row of evergreens had been ploughed – with nearly three hundred days of sunshine a year, bicyclists in the mountains enjoyed their winter riding and a bit of snow wasn’t enough to interfere with that pastime. Jennifer wasn’t here to go cycling, though: she was meeting David Johnson for a long walk, and maybe a quiet lunch in town.

  She had run into him the previous night when she stopped at the grocery store; he had been happy to see her and had insisted that they get together before she left again. ‘Nothing serious,’ he said, ‘but you mentioned you come up here for the walking and, well, I am an exceptional walker.’

  ‘Oh are you?’ She had been amused.

  ‘Yes, just watch.’ He turned and strode across the floor, much to the amusement of his employees and customers. ‘See? A veritable world champion.’

  She laughed. ‘How are you over mixed terrain?’

  David didn’t miss a beat. ‘You’ll have to join me and find out for yourself.’

  She gave in gracefully and agreed – she didn’t plan to be in Silverthorn for more than two days, but while here, it wouldn’t hurt to enjoy herself. She had been on the run for the past week, moving from one ski resort town to the next, taking rooms under assumed names and paying cash – trying to remain anonymous. She had twice been back to check Brian’s place, but there was no sign of forced entry. She didn’t want to stay there too long, but the constant moving was growing tiresome and expensive. She needed to find somewhere for a couple of months, but as family and friends were off limits, she was at a loss for where to go.

  She hoped a day or two in Silverthorn would give her a chance to make contact with Brian and Meg, to impress upon them the need to be careful in the coming weeks and decide where to go next. She pondered on what to do about her brother and his wife; the truth was an unappetising option, and if she told them to avoid contact with strangers and remain in well-lighted, well-populated areas because she believed Hannah’s disappearance was the result of
foul play, Brian would insist that she call the police. As much as he loved her, he didn’t trust her to make wise decisions about Hannah; he would promise not to interfere and as soon as she was gone, it would be the first thing he did.

  Jennifer was still troubling over what to do when she heard David call from the parking lot.

  She waved. ‘Well, hello! Come on over, but be careful. It’s deeper there than it looks. I nearly went in over my head.’

  ‘I wish you had stayed in the shallow end until my arrival, young lady,’ he chided. ‘Did you at least wait forty-five minutes after eating?’

  They walked together for over an hour as the village of Silverthorn gave way to the quiet solitude of the mountain forest. From time to time a bird or a squirrel would disturb the branches and snow would fall around them, but, lost in conversation, neither noticed as they walked, holding hands like school children, across the alpine wilderness, waving to the occasional cyclists who passed them. Jennifer was tempted to share her current predicament – David seemed open-minded enough – but each time she started to speak about Hannah and Steven, she caught herself. The last thing she wanted to do was to frighten this nice man off with fantastical talk of otherworldly monsters and demon hunters! As she gripped his hand she knew she wanted to come back here after Hannah was safely home; she just hoped he would forgive her when she disappeared in a day or two.

  She caught sight of a young woman some distance ahead, wearing the same bright red apron David invariably donned while working at the supermarket. Gesturing down the path, she asked, ‘Do you know that girl?’

  David squinted into the late morning sun. ‘It’s Laura, I think – I wonder what she’s doing out here today.’

  ‘I hope nothing’s wrong back at the store.’ Jennifer felt a knot begin to twist in her stomach. She should not have come back to Silverthorn.

  ‘Let’s find out,’ David said and hurried up the path with Jennifer close behind him. ‘Laura,’ he called as he reached her, ‘what are you doing out here without a coat? Is something wrong at the store? Is everyone okay?’ His breath came in great clouds; he was in good shape, but running at this altitude was hard for anyone.