Murder In-Absentia

by Assaph Mehr

  As he spoke I looked at his face. An open and honest one, with clear green eyes set widely under unruly black curls. In my business one learns to distinguish between the truthful and the liars even without resorting to incantations, or one is soon dead. And in Gaius Famnius I sensed no shred of guile. “Tell me,” I asked, “What else did he want to learn?”

  “He had quite a wide interest, as I have said, always willing to learn. He was also very interested in the old numina of our people, looking for ancient myths about the places of power. We had a few discussions on these subjects, and I presented him with the modern philosophies of the nature of magia versus the superstitious beliefs of the common people. In that respect I fear he never really agreed with me. There was that unshakable belief in him, that the old powers still lingered amongst us, alive and sentient.” I thought about my own encounters with the sibyl and on top of Mons Krodus. I sided with Caeso on that one, although, like him, I stayed silent on the subject.

  “Did he ever experiment with performing incantations and spells on his own?” I asked.

  “He never told me, though I suspect he might have. I cautioned him against it. I told him it takes year to practice, learn how to draw the power. I explained to him the Collegium’s view of unlicensed incantations within the city. He tried to argue that every washer woman and basket weaver, blacksmith or tailor have their own little chants and charms. How the crossroad colleges maintain the ancient lares alive in the city. I explained to the best of my ability that these people have no understanding, and thus no real power, behind their blind mutterings. I cautioned that should he dabble in the real incantations, someone from a prominent family like him would not escape notice. I even gave him all the old cautionary tales to read, all the scary stories of old magic, of careless or malicious incantatores and their end. He seemed to reluctantly accept this restriction and limit himself to the theoretical understanding and pursuits, although as I’ve said I would not be surprised to learn he tried.”

  “Tell me please, do you know if he went to any other sources? Have you referred him anywhere, or did he mention such?”

  He looked uneasy for a moment. “Really, I do not know,” he said.

  “Come now,” I said, “This is to ease his father’s aching heart. None of this will ever be made public, not by me nor by his family.”

  He looked apprehensive, “Was there anything about his death that makes you think it had to do with his pursuit of knowledge?” he asked.

  A difficult question, though I was expecting it. How much should I trust this young man? If I told him the truth, could I trust his apparent honesty or would he report me to the Collegium? That would be at cross purposes with the wishes of Corpio, to keep the matter under wraps. Instead I said, “I believe he may have sought more knowledge, and ran into some bad company. Not everyone is as scrupulous as you. It is nothing definite, no charges I could bring forward. But he did end up in a miserable way. I intend to find more about the men he got involved with, and your knowledge will help see justice.”

  “Well…” he hesitated, and I kept my eyes locked on his. “I did sneak him into the library at the Collegium. Twice in fact. The first was a late night, sometime in the middle of the intercalaris. We got together to discuss his most recent reading, and stayed up very late, talking, drinking. I don’t know how he convinced me to sneak him in to the Collegium’s library. It must have been the wine… Anyhow, he took off his toga and put on a simple tunic, posing as my slave. I pretended to come do some research, as I often do for my father. By right the guard at the door should not have let us in, but we managed to keep a straight face and found ourselves inside, alone. At first he was in awe, wandering and looking at the vast number of scrolls. I don’t know if you ever had cause to be there — the library in the Collegium Incantatorum is the most magnificent in the known world. Hall after hall, from floor to high ceiling, miles and miles of pigeon-hole shelves of scrolls, with everything from the banally mundane to the utterly arcane. I could see the look of wonder in his eyes, the excitement colouring his cheeks in the lamp light. He walked along like a boy in wonderland. I guess he still was.

  “He was curious how we could ever find scrolls in there, so I showed him the master index and the way things work. He didn’t have the visus verum of course, so he couldn’t fully see the index, could not use it properly. He looked through the parts he was able to perceive, and asked many questions about it. Now that I think of it, he was unusually observant, his questions altogether too… perceptive.”

  Famnius paused in his account of that fateful night, seeming to view events with a sudden new insight. I looked at the man sitting in front of me. Twenty-five, I thought, or twenty-six, not that much older than the boy he was speaking of. Not a man of guile by nature, so my instincts told me, yet growing up fast even as he spoke.

  Famnius resumed, with knotted brows and a new understanding dawning in his eyes. “The next time was soon after. In our following discussions Caeso was most enthused about the visit to the library. He wanted to visit again. At first I refused of course, saying that the risk was just too high. Eventually he wore me down, and one night when we were quite drunk he got me to take him a second time.” Famnius paused to draw breath.

  “We went again with him posing as my slave. I bribed the night watchmen, pretending to have forgotten to complete a task for my father. When we got to the library… Caeso seemed to almost know what he was looking for. He looked at the index, quickly and proceeded down the hall. At the time I thought he just could not see the lines of power and walked away, but now… now that I recall that night, I think he knew exactly what he was after. He started to run ahead, and I tried to follow but tripped. I lost him, and by the time I picked myself off the floor, nose bleeding, I could not see him. I went ahead, looking for him, whispering his name loudly, suddenly afraid. He reappeared then, all flush and excited. I took him away from that place, and told him in no uncertain terms that he was a lunatic, a fool, a danger to himself and to others. I’m afraid our relationship chilled after that night. I saw him perhaps a couple of times more, though we did not speak as before.” He paused again, disturbed by his own self-revelation.

  When he resumed he spoke slowly and measured his words, his eyes not meeting mine, rather focused inward to witness once more the events of that night. “When he reappeared, that last time when we were in the library, he came from a side corridor. The rooms along that corridor house the scrolls of love potions, and beyond it lie the closed vaults, the ones housing the scrolls of nefastum scientiam. At the time I thought it was random, or that perhaps he managed to find his way to some minor love spell. After all, there is no way he could have gotten past the locks on the doors to the vaults. Now I am not so sure.”

  * * *

  I sat in a small tavern, far enough from the Porticus Aemilia and the Famnius’ business that I could afford the wine I so desperately wanted. Young Caeso, it seems, had some instruction in the basics of incantation. That by itself should not have amounted to anything, however. To use the library’s master index requires the visus verum — the true sight. It takes apprentices years to develop it. I myself studied in the Collegium for almost two years, and got sensitive enough to sense the flow of magia on my skin when close to it, yet never developed the visus verum. Indeed, one cannot graduate the Collegium without it, and it is a part of the final test.

  And then Caeso was found wandering back from the direction of the vaults. Not many of my readers will have been inside the library of the Collegium Incantatorum. Those readers must understand the vastness of the library, the unlikelihood of just stumbling in that direction, tucked as it is in a lower hall far at the end. And the doors — oh the doors — of the vaults. Thick doors, made each of layers of wood and bronze, held together both by iron rivets and sigils of power. All this to lock the nefastum scientiam — the scrolls of forbidden knowledge. Naught but the highest ranking amongst the magisters of the Collegium may enter. I have been very privileg
ed, and was once there with my magister during my studies, helping him with a task I could not comprehend. The skin of my right arm was in goose-bumps and the hairs standing straight for a week, merely for brushing carelessly against some nameless scroll.

  And yet… Did Caeso manage to somehow use the index, pass the doors, find the scrolls kept there? It would give him knowledge, which he was ill equipped to use. Perhaps he bartered it into Zymaxis’ cabal. Perhaps he even found the scroll that described the ritual of his own death…

  But no. It was just not possible, for an untrained son of a merchant to use the index of power within the library, to get past the doors, to steal a scroll unnoticed. Even if he did abscond with something, it was a lucky grab of a recipe for some love philtre. Surely that would still buy him the acceptance price of the cabal.

  Chapter XX

  I tried Brewyn again. It was well after lunch, so both he and his clientele were up and about by now. I walked in on him working on the back of a large Arbari, executing a traditional tribal design. I waited, and took the time to observe closely the techniques used. Brewyn kept the skin lightly stretched between thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and with the little finger held a short brush dipped in ink. In his right hand he held a set of five short needles made of bone. He brushed the needles against the ink, and then pierced them a few times into the skin at an oblique angle. His hand was fast and sure, making a few repeated strokes before renewing the pigment on the needles.

  Every few minutes he stopped to dab at the blood oozing slowly from the punctures and replenish the ink on the brush. As he did that I could see the man’s face relax a little, only to become tightly drawn again as Brewyn resumed. It was obviously an uncomfortable experience, a moderate amount of pain to be tolerated proudly.

  I wondered about the treatment that Caeso had undergone. How long would it have taken to complete the star design above his heart with the radiating lines along his ribs. How did he find the experience, endure the pain? From the description in the Ephemezican scroll, the whole pattern was to be done in a single night, started at midnight and finished by dawn. When Brewyn took a break, the man flexed his arms and back, grimacing in pain. How did Caeso manage to hide this from family and friends?

  Brewyn finished, laid his tools down neatly and stretched. He dabbed at the blood carefully, cleaning the last of it. He picked up a pyxis and opened it, revealing a sweet-smelling unguent. He rubbed it gently with his fingertips into the back of the man, covering the newly made lines and scars. I could see the man’s face relax, the blood cease flowing from the wound, the skin growing less red and agitated.

  As the man thanked, paid and left, I lifted the pyxis of the unguent to my nose. I could feel the skin of my fingers tingle lightly, a slight acrid burning in my nose as I sniffed. “What is this?” I asked Brewyn.

  “The deluxe treatment,” he replied with a grin, “for those who pay extra.”

  “Your own recipe, or a known one?”

  “My own, which is sold at the shop outside as well. A successful business like mine requires significant knowledge. A number of people in Egretia can put ink under skin, and a few have a decent hand. Only some can manage pain. Fewer still can draw stigmas of power.”

  “Speaking of power stigmas, do you recall that business with the young man, a month or so ago?” I asked.

  “The one with the blue star design? How could I forget? One does not come across such stigmas of power often.”

  “I found out the recipe for the ink, and the ceremony for drawing in the magia.” I took out a wax tablet on which I copied from the ancient scroll I found in Ephemezica those parts of the Rite of Pelegrinus regarding the tattoo. “This is not the full thing of course, just the relevant sections. I assume you can read Quirite?” I added as the thought struck me.

  He gave me a pained look. “Canicula, please. Don’t insult me. Do you think I could become a master tattooist if I could not? Do you think people would pay for an illiterate mentula who can’t write to ink them? Would you like the name of your loved one misspelled, the letters mangled across your arse?”

  I apologised hastily, and handed him the waxed tablet. He examined it closely, working out the components, the preparations, the process, cursing and muttering under his breath all the time. At long last he lifted his eyes from the wax tablet. “This is truly esoteric stuff,” he said. “Some of the power formulae are beyond my understanding, though I can see the general gist, the progression of it. The ink is special, the materials rare and the preparation is delicate. Placing the tattoo on the skin does not seem out of the ordinary. I’d say the one who wrote the procedure was complicating things, probably lacking understanding and being over-cautious. As with the young boy, this would awaken his stigma at the end, as a massive jolt of power. It would have been painful, much more than the inking.”

  “Is that a normal process?” I asked.

  “Only for cruel bastards. There are many ways that a stigma could be awakened from a tattoo. It depends on the dye used together with the method of inking, but most would allow you gradually place the enchantment into the ink as you go, to do this slowly and carefully, shape the energies of magia to the desired effect. This…” he held up the tablet, his face showing professional disdain, “this has no finesse.”

  “And yet it is supposed to be a very powerful rite, with some spectacular results” I said. “The recipient is reputed to end up with power over both life and elements, impervious to failings of the flesh, removed and elevated above mortal men. It has been performed successfully but once before, so far as I know, and that a very long time ago. I can’t even be sure that this copy is the full and correct one.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Brewyn said with conviction. “I can’t tell you about the incantations and their effects, you’d have to ask one of the magic wand-wankers of your Collegium about that. But of power there is plenty here. See this?” he stabbed his finger at the wax, smudging the writing, “using ink from mountain orchids is pure extravagance, because any tattooist who knows anything would know that garden lilies are just as good. And mixing them all with bile from a ferret that had been poisoned by an asp? Whoever used that and lived? Sheer stupidity. And so are the chants. You may recognise more words of power then me, though I thought I knew all that were related to stigmas. And none are used till the very end! None!” He got quite worked up, and paused to draw a deep breath. “No, my friend, this is complicated and unnecessary. The cheap octopus ink they mention last, mixed with the spices, would be the real conduit. A drop of lilies nectar would add it all the refinement it needs. The words here and here,” he pointed at the paragraph of chants towards the end, “will just draw the magia like a lightning into the stigma, burning all else in its path. A ceremony of raw power this may be, and its ultimate meaning I freely admit not to grasp, but as a professional master of my trade I can say with certainty that the inking is over-complicated. A simple lightning rod is all it is.”

  * * *

  I left Brewyn with information on some of the importers and procurers of the more exotic ingredients, although he swore it would be a waste of my time. Also in his opinion, none of the known masters of the ink in Egretia had anything to do with Caeso’s tattooing. He maintained that the work was done by the cabal, and the ink recipe almost immaterial to the amount of energy that coursed through it. Unfortunately this didn’t progress me much as I was always sure that the cabal had performed the ceremony themselves. It meant I still had to track down their suppliers for more conclusive proof.

  Next on my list was Akhirabus. Before I left for Ephemezica I left him with the samples of herbs Didia had procured for me, those that Zymaxis used on me and, presumably, on the cabal. I was curious to know whether he found anything that I could not.

  I reached Akhirabus’ shop by the eleventh hour of the day, late-afternoon. As much as I always expect it, the clashing, complementing, competing scents still overwhelmed my nose. I let my eyes adjust to the gloom inside, and
let my nose learn anew to block the assault.

  “My friend of the puzzles!” he greeted me, “What new mystery brings you to my shop this fine day?”

  “The same puzzle, but with new pieces.” I showed him the wax tablet with another fragment of the Rite I prepared, this one concentrating on the herbs and other ingredients, and on the preparations and anointment of the chosen one’s body. He took the tablet from me and read through it slowly, eyebrows knitting and expanding repeatedly, muttering and exclaiming as he worked through it from obscurity to understanding.

  When he was done, before he could speak I held out a second wax tablet. “These,” I said, “are the symbols and names I am unfamiliar with.” He took it from my hand eagerly, his face in deep concentration as he scanned it. I could see the succession of recall and comprehension on his face, until it suddenly darkened.

  “Come,” he said and turned, without lifting his eyes from the tablet. “Parennefer!” he shouted, still looking at the tablet, “Parennefer! Look after the shop and send us some wine to my study.”

  We settled ourselves in the back room that Akhirabus has set as his study. A slave girl soon brought us pitchers of fine Mitzrani wine and water. I poured us both drinks as Akhirabus was busy with the wax tablet I had given him, opening scroll after scroll from his collection and laying them on the table. At last he sat back in his chair and looked up, picked up his forgotten cup. He sipped his wine, organising his thoughts while I waited in silence. Finally he spoke.

  “Most of these are trivial and I can give you the Quirite names, the explanations. But this symbol,” he tapped his finger at one of the more complex ones I copied from the ancient scroll, “this one had me perplexed. It is… a difficult one to interpret. Can you get me the original text? It must be viewed in context.”