The Knife in the Dark (The Seven Signs Book 2)

by D. W. Hawkins

  He’d awoken irritable and restless. Even during his morning meditation, when he’d let his magical senses commune with his environment, he could feel the buzz of tension vibrating in the very stones of the Conclave Proper. It felt like insects scratching at something just out of sight, a constant burr on the back of his mind.

  Warlocks and Philosophers, Hedge Wizards and Scouts—everyone had something to say about the Galanian Empire, and whether or not the Mekai’s response was appropriate. Dormael had been surprised to overhear how many of his fellows and friends felt angry with the Mekai, as if he had betrayed their people to a foreign enemy. Political discussions in the Conclave were known to be hyperbolic and emotionally charged, but over the last few things things had taken a darker turn.

  The entire feeling of the place was like that of a simmering pot.

  Or the calm before the gods-damned storm.

  The Council of Seven had called a meeting two days past—a closed meeting, which was rare in the Sevenlands. Meetings of the Council were open forum by tradition, meaning that any Sevenlander could attend and listen in on the proceedings. This time, however, the Council had closed the great doors of the Hall of Kansils, and posted guards around the building to ensure privacy. In all the time he’d been alive, Dormael could count the number of closed meetings of the Council on one hand. The Conclave had held its breath for the outcome.

  There had been nothing—no announcements from the heralds, no official proclamations plastered to walls, no meetings of the Conclave disciplines, or secret assignments issued to the Warlocks. By the next day, there were open arguments in the hallways of the Conclave Proper, and even Initiates were taking sides. Dormael had stopped an Initiate in the hallway during the evening, asking about a red band he’d tied over his blue tunic. The boy had informed him that it was to show solidarity with the prisoners of Galanian Death Camps, and the color was red for the blood on the Mekai’s hands. Dormael had almost smacked the boy. He had commanded the child to remove the band from his uniform, and informed him that an Initiate’s place was to clean and learn.

  He then gave the boy a magic lesson while the lad swept his rooms.

  There were two factions in the Conclave. One faction called for patience, diplomacy, and faith in the Mekai’s judgment, while the other screamed for Galanian blood, and the Mekai’s immediate resignation from his seat. Various friends had called upon him, or found him in the dining hall, to ask after which faction Dormael supported. All of the Warlocks, of course, spouted Victus’s lines as if they’d all read a book he had written on the subject.

  Dormael wasn’t sure how he felt about the whole thing. He felt a deep respect for Victus, but every time he felt his sympathies shifting toward him, he remembered Victus’s face during the meeting with the Mekai. He remembered the Mekai’s suspicion, and the lie that had come out of Victus’s mouth. Between the political tension, and the unwelcome news of the death of a third of his classmates, Dormael had needed to get out.

  Bethany had found him in the morning, wishing to go down to the Bruising Stretch and learn to use her knife. Dormael had sent her there with an Initiate, and instructions regarding where she was allowed to go within the Conclave without supervision. He knew Shawna would be there giving impromptu instruction on the proper way to use a blade, so he told her to find Shawna if she got bored. She had become a celebrity on the Bruising Stretch since the moment she stepped foot upon it, which was no surprise to Dormael. The students followed her with their eyes popping from their heads, and drool dropping from their mouths. Bethany would have no trouble locating her.

  Dormael would have joined them, had his body felt like doing anything but wilting into a ball and crying for ten weeks straight. Instead, since Bethany was occupied for the day, he decided to limp out into the city and tip back an ale for the souls of his friends. He’d slipped a few daggers into his clothing, tossed a cloak over his shoulders, and made his way outside.

  He limped to the river, which split the Conclave—as it did the entire city—in two. Winding down a white stone path, he descended the stairs to the Conclave Docks, where there were always enterprising citizens willing to ferry a wizard anywhere along the river. A whole troop of them waited alongside the docks, floating in a plethora of different boats.

  “Where to, Blessed?” asked a young man with short-cropped brown hair, and a distinctive line of tattoos down one thin forearm. He sat leaning on the side of a beaten old canoe, the oars dipped into the brown water beside him.

  “East Market,” Dormael replied, grunting as he stepped down into the canoe and got situated, “the quicker, the better.” He tossed the young man a few bronze marks. The boy snatched them out of the air, and without another word, pushed out from the Conclave Docks and into the river Ishamael.

  Ishamael was an expansive city. It sat in the middle of a valley that was just on the northern side of the Runemian Mountains, north and west of Soirus-Gamerit. There was a lot argument between Conclave historians about when the city had been founded. Some believed it was one of the first cities in the entirety of the Sevenlands. Others said that it was simply the first city built after the Sevenlands had unified. Before that, they said, there was no Ishamael, only the seven warring city-states of the Vendon people. Some even said there had once been more than seven tribes, but the others were lost to the various trials of antiquity.

  Ishamael had no walls, so it had spilled out over the countryside through the years, growing like moss along tree roots. The residents of Ishamael and the leadership of the Sevenlands had never been afraid of being attacked in their capital city. Even during the turbulent years of the Second Great War, when the Dannon armies had ravaged the Sevenlands, Ishamael had remained unspoiled. In fact, it had been given a wide berth.

  No one wanted to attack a city which contained so many of the Blessed.

  The day was cold, gray, and bitter. Storm clouds gathered in the mountains, threatening the city with rain. The wind whipped by in no certain direction, blowing the cowl of Dormael’s cloak about his head. He ignored it. He was in no mood for storms.

  The oars made sloshing noises in the river as the young man dipped them into the green, choppy water. The current was with them, since it flowed from north to south, and the canoe slipped through the water at a steady pace. The fishy smell of the river filled Dormael’s nose, but it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. There was a peacefulness to the river, and Dormael tried his best to soak it in.

  The lad was skillful on the oars, and guided them between the larger vessels that crowded the harbor. Ishamael didn’t have the thriving coastal markets of Mistfall, but the harbors in Ishamael were abuzz with activity year-round. Dormael gave the boy an appraising look and wondered how well his business was doing. He could earn more than a dockworker just ferrying people around, especially wizards, who usually had the money to be a bit more generous.

  The young man pulled the canoe to an innocuous dock. It bumped against the posts, and the lad whipped a rope over it in one deft movement. He pulled the canoe up to the side, and gave Dormael a smirk.

  “Right. East Market, just like you asked, Blessed.”

  “Just as I asked,” Dormael said, grunting in pain as a muscle in his stomach spasmed.

  “I can wait here for you, for a small fee.”

  “Larger than I’d want to pay you. I’ll be getting drunk for the foreseeable future, anyway, lad. I’ve no plans to come back in your direction.”

  “A man’s got to have priorities, Blessed.”

  “That he does, boy. Run along, now.” He climbed from the canoe and tossed the boy a silver mark—more than ten times what his ride was worth. The boy snatched it from the air and made it disappear in the space of a breath. His smile deepened, and he offered Dormael a seated bow.

  “Always a pleasure serving the Conclave, Blessed,” the lad said as he pushed off.

  “I’m sure,” Dormael muttered. He turned to head into the city.

  The East Market of Ishamae
l was a sprawling chaos of taverns, shops, brothels, smithies, and vendors who hawked their wares from covered wagons. A web of streets criss-crossed the Market, full of choking points where the sea of humanity slowed to a crawl. Men and women haggled over items of every sort, and children dragged parents to beg for the ownership of new treasures. Dormael enjoyed the press of people, and the low buzz of humanity that surrounded him. Having been shut up in the Conclave for a few days, it was nice to be surrounded by conversation that wasn’t so charged with anger.

  Dormael wove through the throng of people, his pace as quick as he could manage. He shouldered his way between groups of singing drunks, and slipped by mothers carrying their babes in tight bundles. He dodged carts and horses, and smacked the hands of a few cut-purses who tried him. His body hurt, but the movement itself was making him feel better.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, the mountain stirring the coming storm to a boil. Rain began to patter onto the cobblestone streets, and various cheers issued up from the crowd. Dormael pulled his cowl over his head and shrugged deeper into his cloak. He spared a thought for using magic to stay dry, but using any sort of spell would play his melody through the ether, which would alert any nearby wizards to his presence. He wasn’t in the mood for any sort of attention, unless it involved a pretty girl. He endured the rain.

  Dormael made his way down clogged thoroughfares, and curving avenues. He took shortcuts through alleyways full of dirty, mischievous-looking children that melted into the surroundings at the sight of him, like minnows under rocks. His hands hovered near his knives. Most criminals could smell wizards, though, and avoided them like the plague. Dormael didn’t know how they could tell, but wizards were ignored by the types of street toughs who accosted people—at least in Ishamael.

  The rain began in earnest as Dormael reached his destination. He hurried out of the rain, and ducked into a squat, three-story building sandwiched between two others much like it. There were six windows facing the street, three of them decorated with sighing women staring at the rain. Today was a working day in Ishamael, which meant that the place would be practically empty.

  Dormael was fine with that.

  The Headless Dancer was a combination brothel, taproom, and inn. In one place the errant traveler could find all the services he needed after a long journey—a cool drink, a soft bed, and a soft body for warmth. It was an infamous place, and the girls had a reputation for being rowdy. The Headless Dancer’s parties were almost as sophisticated as theater productions, but the parties never got started until sundown. Under the rain on an overcast working day, it was subdued.

  Dormael passed his heavy cloak to a serving man at the door, and limped over to sit at the bar. The interior of the Headless Dancer was covered with velvet, cushions, and lace. Vast swaths of fabric hung from everywhere, filling the room with red, purple, and gray. Smoke hung heavy in the air, creating a pleasant haze that dulled Dormael’s wits as he breathed it in. He knew from experience that the owner of the place burned a narcotic in the incense, creating a relaxed atmosphere that dulled the inhibitions of his proprietors. It was, Dormael imagined, good for business.

  The bar was empty except for two men sharing a long-stemmed pipe, and four girls in various states of dress—or undress, depending on how one viewed it. The barmaid, a woman with lustrous black hair over pale skin, sauntered over to him as he sat.

  “What’s your poison?” she asked, giving him a hooded smile.

  “Firewine. It’s a good day for that, I think,” Dormael said, situating himself at the bar.

  “Aye, it’s always a good day for that, if you’re asking me. You look like you’ve been trampled by a team of horses. What kind of rough business got you so mishandled?”

  Her hands stayed busy while she spoke, pouring him a drink with practiced ease.

  “Nothing good,” Dormael said, tipping his cup in her direction. He took a sip, then offered the cup to the barmaid. “Care to join me?”

  “It’s not as though I have anything else to do.” She smiled, all rounded features and bottomless eyes.

  “Then pull that bottle up here and let’s get started.”

  **

  D’Jenn sat with his legs crossed, his body relaxed, and his mind as quiet as he could make it.

  It was nigh impossible since the meeting with Victus. Something about all the information he had absorbed tickled at his mind, hinted at a pattern he was not seeing. Victus had said it himself during their conversation.

  They’re not trained to see the patterns, he’d said, they don’t recognize the knife in the dark.

  Those words tumbled over and over in D’Jenn’s mind. Victus had been lying during the meeting—or, at least, he had been hiding something. Body language couldn’t reveal a lie, but one could deduce when a subject was distressed over their words. Victus had clearly been distressed, though for what reason, D’Jenn had yet to understand.

  Vera’s note sat in a nearby cabinet, weighing on his mind. His sorrow at her death was coloring everything. Dormael had escaped, probably to mourn in his own way, and that left D’Jenn to brood on his own. Maybe his emotions were the reason nothing seemed right to him, maybe that’s why he felt so suspicious of everything. Perhaps it was simple melancholy.

  The urge to read her letter was a terrible thing.

  He calmed his stormy thoughts and sank into a deeper state, where his emotions were nothing but a whisper at the edge of his consciousness. His magic was roiling at the center of his being, but he let it sleep for now. At the present moment, it was his mind that he needed, not his magic.

  D’Jenn thought of all the players at the table. The Galanian Emperor, whose motivations, other than power for power’s sake, could not be deduced with what D’Jenn knew of him. He was an incomplete picture, a puzzle with missing pieces. He might be able to tell what some of the man’s motivations had been in some situations, but divining his entire strategy from those disparate events was nigh impossible. Until he could get a fuller picture of the man, he could not make any effective predictions about his intentions, except to continue pursuing the armlet. If Victus’s theory was correct, then the armlet was only the beginning.

  The Mekai’s motivations were clear enough. D’Jenn had sensed something from him in the War Room during the meeting…mistrust? Anxiety? He’d never seen the man speak with the slightest amount of anger. On the subject of the Galanian persecution of Sevenlanders, though, he had loosened his emotional control. The controversy over the rumor was simmering throughout the Conclave—though every time D’Jenn heard the story from a new set of lips, it became more gruesome and villainous. The Mekai saw himself as the protector of the Conclave’s laws, and the conventions established by hundreds of years of tradition. His motivations were sincere, and predictable.

  It was Victus that D’Jenn couldn’t reconcile. He knew the man, trusted the man, yet there was something that kept bringing the problem back around in D’Jenn’s mind. He had lied—but why? The Deacon of the Warlocks was one of the most powerful and dangerous men in all of Eldath. What did he have to hide? Why lie to the Mekai, to Dormael and D’Jenn—Hells, why lie at all?

  Why is he so invested in the idea of an offensive against the Galanian Empire? What would such a thing gain him? What would it gain the Conclave?

  D’Jenn agreed that keeping the armlets safe from Dargorin was paramount, and defeating this vilth—whether he worked with the emperor or not—was just as important. But risking an offensive involving Warlocks against the Galanian Empire would be a declaration of war. If such an operation were found out—or even worse, defeated and captured—it would mean the descent of all the world into chaos. Other Alderakian kingdoms, when it was discovered that the Conclave had attacked the Galanians, would rally around them as the victims of an unprovoked magical aggression.

  And they would be the victims of a magical aggression, D’Jenn realized. Provoked or not, such a thing is forbidden.

  All over Eldath, swords would be pol
ished for war. Victus would have known that, though, which made his actions all the more confusing. The man who had taught D’Jenn to see these patterns, predict these outcomes, would have come to the same conclusions. Why, then, did he advocate for this dangerous path?

  There must be a reason.

  Uncle Saul had mentioned something strange during their idle discussions back at Harlun homestead. The man was ever into conspiracy talk, but he wasn’t as bumbling as Dormael pretended. He’d had some wild theory about the son of Nyra Jurillic, and the creation of a large fund for the Council of Seven through tax revenue. D’Jenn had paid only passing attention at the time, but now the conversation hovered around the edges of his pattern, begging to find a place. He tried to smooth away his concerns, and thought back to what the old man had said.

  Kitamin Jurillic.

  The name bubbled to the surface of his mind.

  Kitamin Jurillic was the son of Nyra Jurillic, Kansil of the Tasha-Mal. Kitamin had been captured in a Rashardian raid, and carted away in a slave caravan. If D’Jenn remembered correctly, the old man had linked Kitamin’s reappearance to the vote that Nyra had proposed after his return. At the time, D’Jenn had dismissed the story as fanciful.

  Now that D’Jenn had time to consider, the old man might have been on to something. Jurillic’s vote to create the fund made no sense. Even stranger was the fact that the Soirus-Gamerit Kansil, Nilliam Berrul, had voted in favor of the tax hike in direct opposition to his clan leaders—a move that could see him deposed by the same.

  Kitamin Jurillic had been a renowned warrior. He had fought in the Gladiator’s Ring, and had been at war with the Rashardian raiders his entire life. Even for a man of his strength, it was unlikely he could escape from a Rashardian slaver’s caravan unless he did so before they crossed the border into the desert. The Golden Waste was an ocean of sand that covered almost half of Rashardia—a deadly landscape by any measure. If one didn’t know how to navigate it, one was doomed to die under the sun.