The Traitor and the Chalice

by Jane Fletcher

  “Neame should have said.”

  “I’m sure if she hadn’t been so concerned—”

  “And I’m sure she enjoyed the chance to be unpleasant.” After a last furious glare at the door, Levannue marched off, leaving the two younger sorcerers alone.

  Jemeryl had been holding her breath. She let it out in a rush. To her surprise, she felt sympathy for Levannue. It was as if Neame had been deliberately provoking her adversary by refusing to provide any explanation. Yet the behaviour was so untypical that Jemeryl was sure there had to be more to it.

  “Squabbling like children.” Erlam’s voice carried surprising vehemence.

  “Neame wasn’t helpful.”

  “She never is where Levannue is involved.”

  “Vine didn’t tell me what the original argument was.”

  “Didn’t she?” Erlam sounded surprised but then shrugged. “Anyway, it’s irrelevant by now; there’s too much history in between. And to be honest, they aren’t usually this bad. I think Neame was genuinely worried by news of marsh plague.”

  Jemeryl noticed Erlam also had avoided telling her of the root of the argument. She was going to have to pump Vine for details. The school gossip would be an easier target than Erlam. She contented herself with asking, “Is the disease serious enough to upset Neame that much?”

  “Yes.”

  “How far could it spread?”

  “It could cause trouble in Ekranos, but it won’t infect the rest of the Protectorate. It’s linked to the breeding cycle of a type of gnat, so it’s restricted to spring in hot climates. It also requires still water to breed. Unfortunately, there are several spots around the Dhaliki that suit it perfectly.”

  “You sound very certain. Have you seen it before?”

  “I think so. It was a month or so later when it arrived last time, but there was a late spring that year.”

  “Was that three years back? When your sorcerer died?”

  Erlam flinched. “Vine told you about that as well?” His tone was icy.

  The severity of his reaction surprised Jemeryl. Vine had said nothing to predict it. “Druse, your librarian. Vine said he died of plague.”

  Erlam’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, yes. Him.”

  “Did another sorcerer at the school die as well?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Jemeryl was confused. “Do you think we’ll be all right now?”

  “The main risk is to other patients who are already sick and vulnerable. But Neame developed a cure. And I’d better see if she wants my help. You can go.” It was a curt dismissal. Then Erlam rubbed a hand across his face as if sweeping a bad memory away. His expression softened, and he gave Jemeryl a sad smile. “Go on. You’ve done your work for today. If you hang around, someone will only give you more.”

  It was good advice. As Jemeryl walked back to her room, she considered what she had learned. Erlam’s reaction to Druse’s death was unexpected, as was Neame’s behaviour with Levannue. In all likelihood, neither was relevant to the search for the traitor, but one fact had registered firmly: Plague had been raging in Ekranos at exactly the same time as the theft of the chalice. Exactly how it tied in was unclear, but Jemeryl had the sure sense, born of her sorcerer’s training, that it was no coincidence.

  *

  At the rear of the school was an open field. The turf rolled away, dotted with white flowers, until it abruptly cut short at the cliff’s edge. The early morning sun warmed the air, although the ground was still squelchy underfoot from the previous day’s rain. The risk of slipping forced Jemeryl to go cautiously. Fortunately, her destination was not far, and she reached the shack where the ravens were kept without mishap.

  The roost was built from rough timber, open along one side, with a low thatch roof. Jemeryl ducked under the eaves. The ground inside was covered in loose straw, mud-soaked in places. Running along the back was a shoulder-height rail.

  Four ravens were perched there, huddled at one end as if engaged in a private debate. They were bigger than she expected, stocky, boxlike shapes easily three times the length of Klara. They fixed her with beady eyes. Not a feather was out of place, yet they gave the impression of being untidy. There was no sign of the keeper. A sound made Jemeryl look down. Two more ravens hopped over the straw towards her, bounding in an ungainly, sideways fashion.

  It was hard to tell if the ravens were friendly and unwise to use magic until she knew what other spells controlled them. Jemeryl was considering a strategic retreat when she heard someone coming, muttering cheerfully. The ravens clearly recognised the voice and replied with throaty chirps that rose to full-volume caws as Tapley arrived, carrying a large wooden bucket.

  The raven keeper was roughly Jemeryl’s height, but his build could only be described as scrawny. Deeply lined skin was drawn tight to the outline of his skull. His pale hair was cropped short. He moved with jerky, exaggerated gestures, as if imitating the ravens, although his looks were more reminiscent of a newly hatched, featherless chick. His age could have been anywhere between forty and seventy.

  At the sight of his visitor, Tapley came to a standstill.

  “If you please, sir, I have been detailed to work with you. My name’s Jemeryl.” She was uncertain of Tapley’s status. The keeper was too old to count as a junior sorcerer, but nobody spoke of him with the respect a senior position usually received.

  “You’re new here.”

  It could have been a statement or a question. Jemeryl gave a nod that would meet either case.

  “And you’ve got to learn about the ravens.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tapley’s face lit up. “Yes. We can start with food—because we loves our din-dins.” His last words were spoken in sibilant baby talk to the ravens.

  Tapley reached into the bucket and scattered a fistful of chopped meat on the ground. The ravens descended in an explosion of black feathers, squabbling unnecessarily; there was plenty of food for all. The racket almost drowned out Tapley’s broken monologue.

  “We get leftovers from the kitchen. The cook’s all right, but you have to watch the rest. They’d give the ravens any old muck, carrot tops and stale bread—and we don’t like that. They aren’t finicky, except Sniper, who won’t eat pork—you’re an old fuss-pot. Sniper sleeps on the post by the door. He’s Pollo’s youngest son. His sister, Spludge, is on your right. She’s seven years old. Toggle and Dork are her babies—you’re big babies now. Whomper is the oldest, Pollo’s father. He keeps the rest in order, but you must make sure Toggle doesn’t take anyone else’s share of the food— who’s a greedy guts?”

  The keeper rambled away, losing Jemeryl within seconds. She looked at the six identical birds and abandoned all attempt to identify them by name. Unaware of Jemeryl’s lapse in concentration, Tapley had jumped onto the eating habits of birds from years gone by. His remarks then lurched on through a random sequence of topics.

  Once the food was gone, the ravens dispersed around the roost. They directed unblinking stares at the two sorcerers, their small black eyes similar to Klara’s but seeming both more critical and less intelligent. Under their gaze, Jemeryl felt tremors running through the higher dimensions, carrying the taste of magic. She had the growing suspicion that the object of the morning’s work was for the ravens to learn about her, rather than the other way around. Just as well, since she was unlikely to gain much from Tapley’s babbling. However, it would be better to act as if she were paying attention. She composed her expression into one of polite interest.

  *

  Three hours later, Jemeryl had reached the end of her endurance and given up any pretence of listening. Fortunately, Tapley was too obsessed with his ravens to notice. Vine’s warnings had fallen pitifully short of the truth. Jemeryl spent ten minutes staring at her feet, scuffing dry straw into a patch of mud and watching the pattern as the wet soaked through.

  In her growing cerebral numbness, Jemeryl’s attention to her surroundings was minimal. The trance-like state broke sud
denly when she realised that Tapley had stopped speaking and had left the shed with a raven on his wrist.

  In vain, Jemeryl tried to recall his last words. Was she supposed to follow? Bring something? Wait behind? The keeper was out in the sunshine, walking across the grass. Making a quick decision, Jemeryl hurried after.

  By the time she caught up, Tapley had stopped in the open field, well beyond the perimeter of the school’s guarding shields. His face was lifted upwards and showed no awareness of Jemeryl’s presence. Then he asked abruptly, “Have you done this before?”

  “Er...maybe not exactly,” Jemeryl hedged.

  “When you’re a raven, flying is so easy.”

  “Oh, mind-riding a bird? Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t be heavy-handed. Ravens aren’t machines—yes my precious; we don’t care what Neame thinks, do we?” Tapley’s conversation degenerated into mumbled half-sentences while he stroked the raven.

  “Is there anything in particular you want me to do, sir?” Jemeryl reminded him of her presence.

  “Fly with Whomper. Fly...up, up over everything, on the wind.” His voice was a dreamy singsong. “I’ve done that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jemeryl said, adding silently, It’s obvious you have.

  Tapley showed the classic symptoms of having spent far too much time outside his own skull. Many sorcerers had fallen into the same trap and become victim to the accumulated effects that turned the brain to mush. Consequently, the dangers of prolonged mind-riding were so well known that it was surprising no one had intervened before Tapley had reached his current pitiful state. Someone must have seen the risks he was taking.

  “Whomper will know what he’s doing even if you don’t.” Tapley thrust the raven in her direction, with obvious misgivings. “Now take the raven. Look into his eyes, and—”

  Jemeryl braced her arm to take the weight. “I know how to do it, sir. What’s the core binding spell?”

  At first, it seemed that Tapley would ignore Jemeryl’s question and carry on rambling, but then something in the keeper seemed to mesh. His eyes focused on Jemeryl.

  “It’s the Three Calling Circles.”

  “Three Calling Circles?” Jemeryl was surprised. The spell was not one she had expected.

  Tapley backed away and was waiting for her to begin. Jemeryl did not have the time to think the implications through. Delaying might make him think she needed instructions after all.

  Jemeryl lifted the raven so that its shrewd eyes bored into hers. Latching onto the core spell, she started interlinking the circles of calling. All unnecessary thoughts were swept away, leaving awareness only of herself and the raven. Jemeryl sank deeper into the lacework of thoughts. As always, childhood memories of playing cat’s cradle wove themselves into her spell as she caught the links that spun through their joint minds. Then, with the gentlest of shifts, she made the transition.

  The sky was wide and tempting; Jemeryl launched herself towards it. The buildings of the school fell away. Earth and sky hung around her. The wind was moulded by the beat of her wings. Jemeryl climbed through the sky. The body was strange, like ill-fitting clothing, but wonderful in its power. She played with the air currents, looping and dancing on the wind. The tedium of the morning was forgotten in the joy of flight.

  “Enough. You can come back now.” Tapley’s cry drifted on the wind.

  Jemeryl circled, looking down at two small figures on the grass below, earthbound. One was her, strange and unlikely though it seemed. Again, she heard the call, and tempting as it was to disobey, she knew her time was up. A last sweep through the heavens, feeling the wind rippling over her feathers, and then she glided down, breaking through the confusion of sensation as an arm under her claws matched the claws clasping her arm. The links snapped, and she was back, standing on the ground with a raven on her wrist.

  Tapley trotted to her side and reclaimed the raven. A huge beam spread across his face. “You love the ravens.”

  “I enjoy the work.”

  “No. You need to love the ravens to work with them. Aris loved the ravens—and you loved her, too; we miss her, don’t we? Neame doesn’t like the ravens—no, she doesn’t, nasty woman. She wanted to get rid of the ravens and replace them with her pretend bird. Real ravens are best. Neame thought she could make a better one, except she couldn’t. She hoped a third-rate witch could use it—she’d like that, wouldn’t she? A good job Bramell stopped her. She’s no sorcerer.”

  Jemeryl’s attention was immediately hooked by what Tapley was saying, or by what she thought he was saying. “A pretend bird? You mean a golem?”

  “Nasty thing.”

  “What happened to this bird?”

  “Whomper’s here.”

  Jemeryl sighed. Tapley was lost again. “Neame’s pretend bird. What happened to it?”

  “You can’t have a pretend bird; it won’t work. I told you that.” Tapley scowled. “You need to love the ravens, like Aris did—even though she lost your sister; she didn’t mean it.”

  It was hopeless. Was the pretend bird a golem or just something that wasn’t a raven? The only thing Jemeryl could be certain of was Tapley’s outrage directed at Neame. Who was Aris, anyway? Jemeryl was certain that she was no longer at the school.

  “What happened to Aris? Where is she now?”

  “Poor Aris.”

  “Why ‘poor’?”

  “Aris died.”

  Jemeryl’s sorcerer senses prickled. “When?”

  “At the time of the plague, and we didn’t know. We lost Whomper’s sister as well.” Tapley’s face twisted in grief, though whether it was for the death of the raven or the sorcerer was hard to say.

  Jemeryl was confused. Vine had said that only Druse died of the plague, but Erlam’s reaction the night before had implied otherwise, and now Tapley had given a name.

  “She caught the marsh plague?”

  “Ravens don’t get plague.”

  Before Jemeryl could rephrase her question, the refectory bell rang out.

  Tapley nodded. “We’re finished. You can go. It’s lunchtime.”

  Jemeryl was about to leave when a fresh question struck her. “Why do you use the Three Calling Circles? Surely Treascal’s Binding would be better.”

  “Treascal’s Binding?” Tapley nodded. “It’s a good spell, but the sixth dimension...some people”—a sweep of his arm took in the school—“can’t manage it. We used to use the Long Ties of Anima, but Orrago forbade it.”

  “I’m not surprised.” It was an extremely risky spell, used only as a last resort.

  “Orrago said we couldn’t after...after what happened to me. I was flying and...the tie broke.” Tapley turned watery eyes on Jemeryl. “I’ve not been very well since.”

  “No, sir. I guess you haven’t.”

  Tapley walked away, muttering to himself.

  Jemeryl wanted more details about Aris, the ravens, and Neame’s artificial bird, but there were better sources of information, sources such as Vine. Jemeryl headed for the refectory, her mind whirling as she considered the implications of the binding spell. She had a lot to discuss with Tevi.

  *

  Shouts and laughter rang out in the warm spring evening. To the west, the last touches of pink and purple smudged the undersides of wispy clouds. The square outside the Inn of Singing Birds was busy. Activity centred on the tables outside taverns, where lanterns marked the traditional boundaries to what the innkeepers considered their own territory.

  The clientele outside the Inn of Singing Birds were noticeably older and quieter than the others, although there was little to choose in the flow of wine and beer. Tevi and Jemeryl sat at the back, beneath one of the trees lining the square. No one paid them any attention or showed any inclination to sit at their table, but Tevi noticed that there was always a discreet waiter circulating like a guard dog, ready to head off the unwary. She found it irritating, but it guaranteed them the privacy to discuss what they had learnt.

  Jemeryl was musing al
oud. “I wasn’t expecting Three Calling Circles. It’s got me rethinking my assumptions about the ravens. It’s such a limiting spell. But from what I think Tapley said, some sorcerers can’t handle the sixth dimension.”

  “How does that affect it?”

  “For mind-riding, you bond with the aura on the fifth dimension via the tensors of the sixth. Various binding spells use different methods to achieve this. By definition, a sorcerer can work in all three paranormal dimensions, but usually, you’re better in one than the others. The sorcerers here are primarily herbalists, so you’d expect the fifth to be their strength. The Three Calling Circles is notable for being very undemanding on sixth-dimensional ability. The Long Ties of Anima is another easy spell in the sixth, except it’s risky. Tapley implied that Orrago made them stop using it after he’d had an accident. It explains the state he’s in.”

  Tevi held up her hands. “I’ll take your word on it. What does it mean to our hunt?”

  “For starters, Tapley is off the list of suspects. But also, I’d assumed that the culprit had taken a raven away for a week or two, saying they were going for samples. The raven was then dispatched to Storenseg, and the culprit collected the plants in a conventional manner while it was gone. A spell like Treascal’s Binding would allow this. However, the Three Calling Circles is a close binding spell. You have to physically touch the bird to make the initial bond, and all the time you’re linked to it, you’re in a trance. You can’t eat or drink or even sleep properly.”

  Tevi’s face cleared. She could see where Jemeryl was going. “You mean a sorcerer can only link to the raven for”—she paused, thinking—“two...three days at most. Which limits how far you can send it.”

  “Exactly. And having been a raven, I know they aren’t—”

  “When were you a raven?”

  “This morning.”

  “You...” Tevi banged the side of her head with her open palm. “Right, forget the rest. What would be the limit to send a raven to collect something?”