Magic Steps tco-1
Page 7
"Sure I will," the mage whispered. He stared blankly at the filthy ceiling as they descended the stairs.
* * *
The duke stared at the card the footman had brought. His nostrils flared with distaste. "He will not set a proper time?"
"Your grace, he said it was important."
"His brothers murder, doubtless. Show him in." As the footman left them, the duke told Sandry and Baron Erdogun, "It is Qasam Rokat—Jamar Rokat's brother. No doubt he feels not enough is being done." Sandry and the baron rose, but Vedris shook his head. "Please stay. This is a complex affair—perhaps you will see what I do not. I should leave this to the provost and her people, but it is my sense that the more heads are put to this thing, the better, Is there any way to reach Niko?" he asked Sandry.
The girl shook her head. Tris's teacher, Niklaren Goldeye, was not just the greatest living truthsayer, able to spot a lie at a glance; he was one of the few who could work the magic that made it possible to see the past, even if only for a short time. "They're halfway between here and the Cape of Grief," she said, naming the southernmost tip of land below the Pebbled Sea. "That's much too far away. I won't even be able to talk to Tris until they return to Hatar."
"And that will be?" inquired Erdogun.
"Not till next year." She sighed.
The duke smiled. "You miss her, don't you?"
"I miss them all," Sandry admitted. "It's like part of me left with them. At least I can still mind-speak to Daja and Briar, if I really strain."
The duke reached over to pat her hand. "Well, I am delighted you stayed at Winding Circle."
The door opened. Sandry had been present at such meetings before and kept her workbox here for them. Quickly she lifted her embroidery hoop from the box and began to stitch on its design. She was the very picture of a noble maiden.
"Qasam Rokat, of Rokat House, merchants," the footman announced before he closed the door behind the guest. Sandry peered under her lashes at the new comer. Qasam Rokat was plump, not fat like his brother had been. He was sweating so much that his white tur ban had gone dark where the lower edge touched his skin. His face was brown, his full dark beard neatly trimmed. Like Jamar Rokat, he was richly clothed in silk, wearing draped breeches under a long, buttoned coat. The sword and knife sheaths at his sash were empty—the Guards would have taken his weapons before allowing him to come before the duke. He repeatedly dabbed his forehead and cheeks with a silk handkerchief.
First he bowed to the duke, touching his forehead, then his chest, with both hands as the people of Aliput greeted their royalty. When he straightened, he bowed less formally to Baron Erdogun.
When he noticed Sandry, he frowned. "Your grace, what I have to say is not for a lady's ears."
"Lady Sandrilene has my confidence," replied the duke coldly. "I value her advice. Moreover, she is an accomplished mage with a broad education. You may speak before her and the baron as you would privately to me."
"But your grace," argued the man, bowing once more to Sandry, "it regards matters of considerable violence and bloodshed. Surely you do not wish so lovely a young lady—,"
"Either talk or go away," snapped the baron. "It is not for you to question his grace."
The duke raised a hand. "Peace Erdo." To Qasam Rokat he said, "My caretakers are zealous. Speak before them or not at all."
Sandry felt the merchant's eyes on her. She kept hers down, picking out a design of blue lotuses, their petals and stems shaping the signs for health. It was complex work; most embroiderers would be able to attend to nothing else while they stitched.
"Your grace, I appreciate your seeing me at such a time," Qasam said at last. "My deepest felicitations on your recovery so prayed for—,"
Again the duke raised his hand. "Spare me your felicitations and prayers. If you have concerns about your brother's murder, why have you not addressed them to my lady provost? The investigation is her affair, not mine."
"But your grace understands the way of the world," Qasam replied. "A servant always works better when the masters eye is upon him. I wished to assure myself that your grace's eye is indeed upon my lady provost and her guards. It is known that your grace is not a—a supporter of Rokat House."
The duke braced his elbows on his chair and folded his hands. "Let us speak frankly," he said in an icy voice. Hairs stirred on the back of Sandry's neck. Suddenly he looked—he felt—dangerous. "I permitted your house to do business here under certain conditions. The thievery and, murder you employ were never to occur in Emelan, or you would be barred from my lands, and I would, find other ways to obtain myrrh. Is that not so?"
Qasam, bowed. He was trembling now as well as sweating.
"From where I sit, it appears that your methods outside my borders have come within them. What act did the Rokats commit to rate your brother so messy an execution? And if you think to retaliate, you and your people are on the next ship out."
"No, your grace, please! We did nothing to cause this, nothing!"
"I find that hard to believe," drawled Erdogun.
Qasam threw him a frantic look, then dropped to his knees before the duke. "Please, you must help us! We have done nothing in Emelan, on my mother's honor I swear it! The Dihanur are animals, my poor brother is evidence of that—,"
"Now we come to it. Get up," the duke said crossly. "Don't grovel." He glanced at the baron, who tugged the bell pull.
Sandry put aside her embroidery and got a chair for Rokat. The man struggled to his feet and sagged into the chair, weeping. She watched him for a moment, then lifted his handkerchief from his fingers.
"As a rule, silk isn't practical for handkerchiefs," she told him. "It's expensive and it looks nice, but it doesn't soak up moisture very well." She gave hers to him, and laid the silk over the back of his chair to dry. Qasam rolled his eyes at her—they were bloodshot from weeping and fear—and buried his face in the new handkerchief.
A soft-footed maid brought glasses, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of pomegranate juice, Sandry poured wine for the men and gave out the glasses, then took some juice for herself. Mages soon learned that any drug or liquor had unusual effects on their power, some good, many bad. She didn't think Qasam Rokat would like it if all the threads in the room began to move.
His sips of wine seemed to quiet the merchant. "Thank you, your grace," he whispered.
"I do not require thanks. You suspect your rivals the Dihanur are involved?"
Qasam nodded. "I know it."
"Have you favored my lady provost with this information?»
Qasam shook his head.
"Why not?" asked, the duke.
Qasam did not look up. "My lady—she, she is not a woman of power, in the merchant's world, or, or under standing, or sympathy.”
"His grace knew that when he asked her to take the post," said Erdogun waspishly.
Sandry, back, at her embroidery, was fascinated. She had, to suppose that the baron and, the duke had done this many times, She knew her great-uncle; if the baron made tart observations in situations like this it was be cause the: duke wanted him to.
They stir the pot, and see what bubbles to the top, she thought.
"The provost thinks it is not a business matter, when murder is done with such violence," Qasam explained, staring at the glass in his hands. "She expects a slighted husband or lover, or a madman." He began to tremble again. "She does not understand the Dihanur. They are heartless, little better than animals—,"
"You said that," the baron interrupted. "Tell us some thing new."
Now Qasam did look up. His skin gleamed with sweat. "We are rivals. They have the frankincense trade and desire our monopoly on myrrh as well, the greedy pigs. And somehow they have learned, they found—," He drained his glass and set it down, shaking so hard that he nearly dropped it. "Today I received word they have gained the upper hand. In Bihan, in Janaal. My—my father is dead, my mother, their parents, my sisters, and their husbands…" He covered his face with his hands.
Qasam lowered his hands. "They mean to wipe our house from the world. In Bihan, in Janaal, they have succeeded. Now they send their murderers here. My brother Jamar was the first—they will not stop until they have killed every Rokat in Emelan."
The duke got to his feet; the baron and Qasam did the same. Sandry began to rise, but the duke shook his head at her.
"They shall commit no mass slaughter here," Vedris told Qasam. "Tell all this to my lady provost and her harriers—they will find it useful. You may have obstructed their search by keeping information back, and think of the rest of your family in Emelan—they will need protection."
"Don't bunch up in one building," said Erdogun. "You don't want to make it easy for them."
Qasam nodded. He was spent with emotion; Sandry wondered if he'd slept at all last night.
"I am curious," the duke remarked, standing idly at rest. "Were you told how your brother was found?"
The merchant nodded, wiping his face again.
"Murderers rarely stop to arrange their work. The way they left things suggests" — Vedris paused, searching for the right word, while his eyes never left Qasam's drooping form—, "it suggests a message. Particularly the display of your brother's head. Am I correct? Was a message intended?"
"It refers to a thing that, that was done," whispered Qasam.. "My brother in Janaal is—was—intemperate. A Dihanur thrust ahead of our great-uncle as they went into the temple of Tirpu. The insult was avenged on Palaq Dihanur, their patriarch. Then my brother showed, all the city what became of those who did not treat the elders of Rokat House with the proper respect."
"He displayed the head—?” prodded the baron.
"On the city walls. Over the south gate, for all to see."
"And you wonder why they're angry," Baron Erdogun growled, disgusted.
Qasam shook his head and looked at the duke. "You will help? Please, I am not… My brothers, my uncles, my father, all have spilled blood to defend our house. I am only a bookkeeper, they do not even listen to me. Please say we are under your protection."
"Everyone in Emelan is under my protection," the duke said evenly. "Be sure you inform my lady provost that I suggested you explain these further details to her."
Qasam bowed, touching his forehead and chest. Sandry looked at her uncle reproachfully. Did he really mean to send this poor man back to the city without guards? Qasam would have his own guards, under the circumstances, but the presence of the Duke's Guard would show he was under her uncle's eye. The duke glanced at her. His mouth twitched.
"Erdo, go with Master Rokat. Detail a pair of guards to accompany him to my lady provost."
"I must stop at home." Qasam's face was suddenly brighter. "For papers…"
"Yes, very well," said the duke. "My guards will stay with you."
Erdoguns bow conveyed respect mingled with reproach that the duke would bother to give this man extra protection. "By your command, your grace," he said coolly, and ushered their guest out the door.
* * *
Alzena waited across the street from Qasam Rokat's home, her curved sword balanced on her knees. She was clad in the essence of nothingness, like her husband Nurhar, and the mage, who was tucked in a niche in a nearby wall. The nothingness was the mage's special power, the unmagic that got them past the cleverest guards and the most powerful spells. It cloaked her and Nurhar and even himself in sheer emptiness. Guards and magical protections felt nothing because nothing was there. She could not even see Nurhar or the mage as she peered through the tiny slit in the spells that enabled her to look at the real world. Late at night she sometimes wondered how it would feel, if that slit were to close. Would the nothingness eat her, as it seemed to have eaten the mage?
What ate him is dragonsalt, her practical self scolded. Keep your mind on the task!
Here came Rokat. She stirred. She had expected his own, guards, two in front and two behind. The surprise was that somehow he'd talked Duke Vedris out of a pair of soldiers. They will do him as much good as his own bodyguards, she thought, getting to her feet.
She couldn't see Nurhar, but she knew he had gone to work when the confusion balls burst. They had two for the bodyguards ahead of Rokat, and two for those body guards behind him. The guards reeled; their horses staggered as the enclosed drug went into sensitive noses. The balls were good for three minutes, and they hadn't brought extras to cover the duke's men. She would just have to be quick, quicker than the soldiers—but that was why the family had honored her with the task.
As silent as a shark streaking toward prey, Alzena Dihanur ran across the cobblestones, between the lurching horses. The two Duke's Guards closed in around the sweating Rokat, their weapons drawn. Down went the Guardsman's horse on Rokat's left, blood pouring from two hacked legs. That would be Nurhar. He knew if he crippled the mount the rider would be too busy to interfere. Alzena dodged to that side as horse and man top pled away from her target. Sweeping her curved blade up, she sliced through Rokat's saddle girth, not caring that the razor edge bit deep into his animal's side. Grabbing Rokat's clothes, she yanked.
Down he tumbled, screaming, as the other Guardsman tried to shove past the flailing bodyguards to reach him. Alzena hacked Rokat across the belly and thighs, then got into position for her third cut, and made it. Gripping the head by the beard, she thrust it into a bag, spelled like the rest of her with unmagic, and raced down the street with it. She was invincible as long as she bumped into no one; they would never see her, because she was nothing. On she ran, giddy with blood. Nurhar would collect the mage, and return with him to the inn. It was her job to display the head, and she knew just where she would leave it.
* * *
The duke's fist struck the mahogany table, making plates and silver jump. "Shurri curse them!" he whispered. "Atop the Market Square fountain, for the world to see!"
Sandry glared at the Provost's Guard who had brought the news. She had just gotten her uncle to sit down to supper when the messenger came with word of Qasam Rokat's murder. Couldn't the servants have kept the woman back until the duke had eaten?
She bowed her head, ashamed of her anger, but a fact was a fact. Qasam Rokat was dead. She'd like to keep her uncle from following him out of life.
"What of the Guardsmen with Rokat?” the duke wanted to know.
"Guryil broke his leg when his mare dropped on him," replied the Provosts Guard. "He's in your infirmary now. His partner, Lebua, is with him. Our people are taking their story."
The duke stood. Sandry got to her feet, fighting to push her heavy chair back
"My dear," Vedris began, "there is really no need for you to—," He met her eyes and smiled ruefully. "Forgive me. I forgot who I was talking to. I become like poor Rokat, trying to shelter you when you do not want such care." To the messenger he said, "My servants will give you food and a mount for your return. Tell my lady provost I appreciate the prompt notification."
The messenger bowed her thanks.
The walk to the infirmary was a brisk one. Sandry wanted to protest the pace, but the bleak look in her uncle's eyes discouraged her. I can't coddle him forever, she thought as she trotted to keep up. He'll just get impatient and overdo.
Knowing that, it was still hard not to protest. She couldn't forget how he'd looked when, only six weeks ago, she got word that he'd collapsed in his library. When she had reached him the duke was in bed, his face ash gray and pain-twisted. He looked old and. half-dead. It had taken all her strength to bind his spirit to his body until the healers could do their work. She never, ever wanted to see him like that again.
As if he felt her worry, the duke slowed near the infirmary door and waited for her to catch up. I’ll be all right," he murmured as a guard opened the door for them. "and I promise I will eat as soon as we're done here."
The injured Guryil lay in a curtained alcove at the rear of the small infirmary. A heale
r sat with him, one hand on his wrist, the other on a leg braced with splints. To Sandry's magical vision the healer's power was a cool silvery blaze that ran through the Guardsman. It flickered in the broken leg, as if the magic fought something there.
"Guryil has broken that leg several times," remarked a short, stocky man who watched from the curtains edge. "He’s built up a resistance to healing." The speaker was only a handful of inches taller than Sandry, with curly white-and-gray hair cropped short, a salt-and- pepper mustache, and full, dark eyes. He spoke with a crisp Namornese accent, and wore the uniform of the Provost's Guard. His insignia was two yellow concentric circles surrounded by a rayed circle, which meant he was a colonel. The fastenings and trim on his uniform were all white, he was a mage.
"I am told his mount fell," remarked the duke quietly.
"Collapsed, poor beast," the stocky man replied. “Tendons cut in the right fore and hind legs."
"I swear, I saw nothing!" cried the young man beside the bed. He, too, wore the uniform of the Duke's Guards, he clung desperately to Guryil's free hand. "Not a midget, not a child—Gury's too good to let anyone get close like that, and they didn't use confusion balls on us, just Rokat's bodyguards!"
"Confusion balls?" Sandry whispered to the duke.
The stocky man heard and replied, "Clever devices. Mix spells for addlement and visions, throw in a drug to give the horse the staggers, and stitch them in a ball. Throw it at a man's chest, it bursts, and you've got him and his horse useless for three or five minutes, depending."
"They are illegal," said the duke coldly.
The mage shrugged. "Of course they're illegal—they're for the one purpose, aren't they? More importantly, they cost. Our killers have full moneybags."
The duke went to the Guardsman who sat beside Guryil. "Tell me what happened." He gave a flask to the young man—and where did Uncle get that? wondered Sandry—who opened it and took a long drink.
She squinted at the Guardsman as he returned the duke's flask and began to talk. There was something, not in, him but on his sleeve, like a brush of ash, something that felt alien. She wanted to go closer to look, but he was far too nervous. His full lips trembled as he talked and his eyes flicked repeatedly to the man on the bed.