The Traitor and the Chalice

by Jane Fletcher

  “Four hundred miles, maybe five hundred if you were lucky with the winds.”

  “So a sorcerer on the mainland could have got the chalice?”

  “Only if they were in southern Walderim.”

  “Could someone have taken a raven and changed the spell to treacle binding?”

  Jemeryl laughed. “It’s Treascal’s Binding, and they couldn’t change the spell without killing the raven.”

  Klara joined in. “Which would have a negative impact on its flying ability. Speaking as the expert on this.”

  “You’re supposed to be a simple pet.” Tevi tapped the magpie’s beak, but with a sorcerer present, nobody would be surprised even if the table started talking.

  “So you’re saying that either the traitor was in Walderim, or it wasn’t one of the school ravens?”

  “That sums it up.”

  Tevi chewed her lip. “People who saw the chalice taken described it as a huge black bird.”

  “That sounds like a raven.”

  “Could the culprit have got another raven from somewhere else?”

  “It’s not that easy. Animals need a couple of months to prepare for binding spells, and the work is rather conspicuous. It would be noticed if somebody did it inside the school, so the enchanting would have to be done after leaving Ekranos. Whichever way you look at it, the traitor had to be away on a very lengthy trip. It certainly ought to narrow down the suspects.”

  Tevi leaned back and stared up at the trees. A breeze rustled overhead, producing a flickering effect as the pale undersides of leaves caught the lamplight.

  “How about this artificial bird you said Tapley was so upset about? Could that have been used instead, without the traitor leaving Ekranos?”

  “It’s a possibility. I’ve got to find out more. How much work was done on it and what its capabilities were.”

  “It would point to Neame, since she initiated the thing.”

  “Yes.” Jemeryl drummed her fingers on the table. “Assuming that I understood Tapley correctly.”

  “You’re not happy with Neame being the guilty one, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Because you think she’s a good person?”

  “I respect her.”

  “Both Levannue and Tapley dislike her. Perhaps they’re right. Perhaps there’s a less-than-pleasant side to Neame that she keeps hidden.”

  “Perhaps.” Jemeryl sighed. “There are too many questions and loose ends. Things don’t tie up. And there’s something odd going on. Both Moragar and Erlam were keeping secrets. Even Vine has clammed up once or twice. To call that out of character is like saying the sea is a bit damp on occasion.”

  The analogy made Tevi laugh. She took a sip of her beer. Not far away, the innkeeper was passing on her rounds. The stout woman smiled deferentially in their direction. Tevi acknowledged the smile and then put her tankard down as another idea occurred.

  “Could one of the seniors have persuaded a younger sorcerer to get the chalice?” Magic might be outside Tevi’s understanding, but the abuse of power was not.

  “It would mean letting someone else in on the crime. You know the saying—two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. It’s hard enough to keep anything private from other sorcerers, even without Vine’s help. I’d have thought involving another person was an unacceptable risk.”

  “Couldn’t the culprit use magic to make a weaker sorcerer get the chalice and then forget what they’d done?”

  “Not a sorcerer. There’d be no trouble enslaving the ungifted or a low-grade witch, but someone like that wouldn’t be able to control the ravens.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Snaring someone’s mind is like tying their hands with cotton thread.” Jemeryl held her wrists together to illustrate. “It’s easy if the person holds their hands like this for five minutes so you can make several dozen loops, but if they see what you’re doing and move...” She pulled her hands apart. “Equally, it’s easy to ensorcel someone who can’t see what you’re doing. But anyone who is aware of the fifth dimension would have to do the magical equivalent of standing still.”

  An unrelated problem struck Tevi. “If it’s so hard to overpower a sorcerer, supposing we find our traitor, how do we take them back to Lyremouth as a prisoner?”

  “We use an enslaving ward. Levannue probably has one we could borrow. It’s a device that exploits the elemental powers of the sixth dimension to bind someone’s mind. And before you ask, I’m quite sure nobody at the school is trapped by one. Enslaving wards are very crude in their effect. The victim would be expressionless, sluggish, and probably unable to speak.”

  “I suppose that would be noticed.”

  “It wouldn’t take Vine to spot it. Mind you, I could probably muster a fair number of votes for having one snapped on her.”

  “Supposing that Levannue doesn’t have one of these wards?”

  “We could revert to a simple iron collar. Iron is funny stuff; it distorts magical forces even more than water. For a sorcerer, wearing an iron collar is like having fireworks continuously going off in your face. Iralin had me wear one briefly as a demonstration.” Jemeryl shuddered at the memory. “The combined forces of the school would be enough to restrain the culprit while the collar was put on. After that, I think we can leave it to you to take care of them.”

  “That simple?”

  “Providing we don’t take too long getting back to Lyremouth.”

  “How long before the collar stops working?”

  “It doesn’t exactly stop, but given time, you can get used to the effects. There’s a story of a group of bandits who took a sorcerer prisoner by using one and treated him rather badly. After a year, he was able to overcome the iron sufficiently to teleport the key into his hand one night.”

  “That must have surprised the bandits the next day.”

  “I don’t think many of them got to see dawn.”

  “If iron is so distracting, why do you have iron caps on the end of your staff?”

  “The caps reflect energy waves, forming a resonating cavity as an amplifier. The wooden staff in the middle is irrelevant. It’s simply to hold the iron reflectors a precise distance apart. We use oak since it has the right thermal coefficients.”

  Tevi frowned. What was a thermal coefficient or a resonating cavity? While she was trying to frame the question, noise from the square caught her attention. Several young people were splashing water from a drinking trough at each other. The horseplay was comprehensibly human. Magic left Tevi uneasy. So much she could not understand, yet she did not want her lover’s abilities to be a barrier between them. I just need to simply accept it, she told herself. As long as it makes sense to Jem, I won’t worry.

  Tevi focused on another part of Jemeryl’s report. “You think the person who took the chalice also stole Lorimal’s manuscript from the library?”

  “It’s a bit of a coincidence otherwise.”

  “Does this mean we can be sure the traitor is here?”

  “I’ve been certain from the start. Call it a sorcerer’s hunch.” Jemeryl gave a lopsided grin. “Not that it means much. Like most people’s hunches, they work better with hindsight.”

  “I’ve found out where the customs record for the nectar is. Do you still want Klara to read it?”

  “If you can. There may be some useful information, not least the dates. I’d like to know if the traitor is still working on the chalice—”

  “Or if they’ve perfected the spell and are ready to wage war on the Protectorate, starting tomorrow,” Klara interjected.

  “There’s a cheering thought.”

  Tevi was less amused. She hunched forward. “I won’t be happy until we have the traitor. I worry about you up there alone. Promise me you won’t take risks.” As she spoke, Tevi felt Jemeryl shiver. “Are you cold?”

  “No, it was...”

  “Was what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It wasn’t a premonition or a
nything like that?”

  The night air was growing cooler. Jemeryl slid along the bench and put her arm around Tevi. “No. Don’t be silly”

  Tevi did not push the issue, but neither could she dismiss it from her mind. Her eyes fixed, over the rooftops, on the cliff-top school. The sooner the traitor was identified and captured, the better.

  Chapter Five—Unplanned Conversations

  The pale liquid began to simmer. Bubbles frothed around the sides of the pot. They hissed when Jemeryl dislodged them with a wooden spatula before pushing the pot to a cooler spot at the rear of the stove. Vine knelt to open the fire hatch. Her face looked demonic in the red light, scowling at the heat as she fed in more logs.

  Neame bustled over. “How’s everything going?” She carried on without waiting for an answer. “I’ve got to go upstairs. I won’t be long. I’ve left a list of the compounds we need. Could you get them ready? And be careful; some are dangerous if mishandled.”

  “Bet she just wants a break from the heat,” Vine said, once the sound of Neame’s footsteps had faded away along the corridor outside and up the stairs at the end.

  Jemeryl glared balefully at the stove. Its cast-iron frame was a magic-disrupting epicentre that prevented them from alleviating the heat it generated. The room was a bakehouse. Being in the low vaulted cellar under the dispensary did not help. The windows were little more than slits at ceiling level. The stove was built into an open chimney. Shelves lined the walls. Apart from this, furniture in the room consisted of a large wooden bench against one wall, a small round table by the stove, and two stools.

  The claustrophobic chamber, generally known as Neame’s Kitchen, was the place where potions were prepared. Neame was in charge of this work, so the cellar was the only part of the dispensary where order prevailed. The ingredients were arranged on the shelves by strict classification. Nothing except for items in use were laid out on the bench.

  Vine picked up Neame’s list and got as far from the stove as possible—not that it did much good. The heat was inescapable. Jemeryl could feel sweat trickling through her hair as she peered over Vine’s shoulder.

  “It’s pretty straightforward. Won’t take long.” Vine nodded.

  “If you say so.” Many of the names on the list were unfamiliar to Jemeryl. She leaned against the bench and watched Vine work her way along the shelves, picking out jars. After a short while, Jemeryl asked, “You remember telling me Druse was the only sorcerer killed by the plague?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tapley mentioned someone called Aris. Was it me getting confused, or did she die at the same time?”

  “She died, but it wasn’t the plague.” Vine deposited the jars on the bench. “Here, hand me that flask.”

  Jemeryl did as asked. She waited until Vine had finished measuring out an oily green fluid before continuing. “So what did she die of?”

  “Suicide.”

  “She killed herself?”

  “That’s what ‘suicide’ usually means. She was unstable—putting it mildly. I suppose it shouldn’t have been unexpected, but it was hard on Erlam. I don’t think he’s over her. They were partners, you see.”

  “Oh, that would explain...”

  “What?”

  “Erlam got prickly when I was talking to him. It would make sense if he thought you’d been gossiping about him and Aris.”

  “Would I do a thing like that?” Vine’s tone was all hurt innocence.

  “Yes.”

  “Charming! Anyway, you’re not just here to be ornamental. If you took those over to the stove, it would help.”

  “How close in time did the two deaths take place?” Jemeryl asked while transferring the indicated bottles to a tray.

  “Pretty much the same day, as far as we could tell.”

  “Were they linked?”

  “Must have been a coincidence. They happened over two thousand miles apart. Druse was here, and Aris was out travelling in Walderim.”

  “Walderim!”

  “It’s the strip of land between the Aldrak Mountains and the Western Ocean.”

  “I know where it is.” Carelessly, Jemeryl dumped the tray on the small table by the stove and turned back, almost tripping over one of the stools. “Whereabouts in Walderim?”

  Even as the words left her mouth, Jemeryl knew she was sounding far too eager. Vine’s curiosity was easy to attract and very, very hard to evade, but before either could say more, they heard Neame’s footsteps on the stairs. In a flurry of activity, they assembled the remaining items. By the time Neame opened the door, Vine was wiping the bench with a damp rag and Jemeryl was at the stove, spatula in hand.

  “How’s the list going?” Neame asked.

  “Just finished, ma’am.” Vine gave a last sweep with the cloth and went to assist Jemeryl.

  From the calculating expression on Vine’s face, Jemeryl could tell that the school gossip was puzzling over her interest in Walderim. Vine’s lower lip was caught in her teeth. Her eyes were fixed on the distance. She certainly was not paying attention to where she was walking.

  Jemeryl realised the danger a split second too late. Vine’s knee cracked hard against the stool in the middle of the floor. She staggered sideways, with her toe caught in the rungs and her hand thrown out for support. Her fingers snagged the tray that Jemeryl had left precariously overhanging the edge of the table. The table tipped over and the tray flipped up, catapulting its contents into the air. Vine’s balance was completely lost. She stumbled forward, straight towards the hot stove.

  There was no time to think. If Vine landed on the stove, she would be badly burnt. The mass of iron was a deep vortex in the paranormal planes. Yet somehow, responding by reflex and making up with force what she lacked in subtlety, Jemeryl summoned the powers of the sixth dimension. Vine flew back across the room and crashed into the bench on the opposite wall. She would be bruised but not seriously injured.

  Bottles from the tray landed with loud cracks and the tinkle of breaking glass. One smashed on the stovetop; the contents hissed over the hot plate and ran down the sides, giving off wisps of yellow smoke. Still shaken, Jemeryl stood in the middle of the debris—liquids, powder, and shards of glass. Cleaning up would not be fun.

  “Jemeryl, move!” Neame shouted.

  Jemeryl stopped considering the mess around her and looked back. Neame was in the doorway at the rear. Vine was scrambling painfully to her feet. Suddenly, Jemeryl became aware of the creeping smoke. What was it burning? Without thinking, she reached for a cloth before the emphasis of Neame’s words registered.

  She began to step backwards, but too late. The pungent smell of fumes reached her. Acid vapour rasped Jemeryl’s throat. A muscle inside her chest contracted convulsively while the floor lurched under her feet. She gasped, breathing in more poisoned air.

  “Jemeryl!”

  Grey darkness flowed before Jemeryl’s eyes. Her left knee buckled. Jemeryl knew she was about to pass out. She was drowning in the yellow air. Then a hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her away from the stove.

  Jemeryl was dragged stumbling backwards from the room and into the corridor. Feeling strangely detached, she watched Vine slam the door shut and realised that Neame was the one who had hauled her out. Together, they half carried her up the stairway.

  In the fresh air of the ground floor lobby, Jemeryl’s head started to clear, but a feeling of nausea grew. Uncontrollable shaking overwhelmed her. Neame’s face wavered too close for Jemeryl to focus on.

  “I guess you’ll survive.” The forced lightness in Neame’s voice did not hide her relief. “You can sit in Orrago’s study. I’m sure she won’t mind, under the circumstances.”

  Jemeryl surrendered to being led a short distance and guided into a chair. Despite the careful treatment, her stomach spasmed. The bucket placed near at hand was reassuring. She stared miserably at her knees, trying to ignore everything else. She heard talking; then the door closed, and Vine knelt by her side.

  “Nea
me’s gone to sort out the mess downstairs. I’m going to look after you. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. I’ve got instructions.” She squeezed Jemeryl’s shoulder. “And I must say you’ve gone a really unusual shade of green.”

  Jemeryl closed her eyes, trying to relax. An inner cold gnawed into her bones, but after a while, the convulsive shuddering subsided. She raised her head carefully.

  She was in a small, cosy study. A lifetime’s accumulation of clutter swamped any academic aspect of the room. A few feet away, dozing in a second chair, was Orrago, with Frog perched like a carved ornament on the armrest. Jemeryl shivered and shifted back in her seat. Even that slight movement increased her nausea. She pressed her hand against her mouth.

  Vine returned with three steaming mugs. “Thought I’d have one myself. I even made a cup for Orrago, if she wakes up. Yours has got extra honey, plus a few more bits.”

  “Thanks.” Jemeryl was surprised at how raw her voice sounded. She wrapped her hands around the cup, sucking the warmth into her fingers, and took a cautious sip.

  Vine plonked herself down on a footstool. “You know, I was just as keen as you to get away from the heat, but I think your escape plan was a little overdramatic.”

  “I admit it didn’t work out quite the way I intended.”

  Orrago coughed and opened her eyes. The elderly woman peered around the room. “Where’s my hat? Has anyone seen my hat? It was here just now. I need my hat. I’ve got to go to the library...got to see...”

  Vine went to her side. “It’s all right, ma’am. You don’t need to bother. I’ve made you some tea.”

  “Oh, that is good of you, Kally.” The ancient sorcerer calmed at the sight of the mug. “It’s nice of you and Iralin to visit me.”

  “It’s Vine and Jemeryl, ma’am.”

  “Where? Who are they?”

  “They’re us, ma’am. Vine and Jemeryl. We had a small accident, and Neame has sent us here to recover,” Vine explained slowly.

  “Oh, young Neame...yes.” Becoming more animated, Orrago leaned forward. “You must ask Druse to see me this afternoon. I have to talk to him about some books he’s repairing. He’s not supposed to touch—” Orrago broke off and pointed at a shadow on the wall. “Oh, there’s my hat. What’s happened to the brim?”