Behind him, the theater exploded into applause once more. Adriana's eyes were squeezed shut. Her arms fell limp to her sides. An idea popped into Alexander's head and he cursed himself for not thinking of it earlier. He yanked at the flap of a pouch, ripping it off completely instead of flipping open the hammerlock. The pouch was filled with a glittering gold powder. Alexander prayed briefly that the charm would work and pulled a handful of the stuff out, flinging it into the air about Adriana.
The powder dispersed into a voluminous cloud. Time seemed to freeze for a moment as the individual flakes hung in the air. Tiny bolts of lightning arced from one to the next, filling the box with an acrid smell and an abrupt display of fireworks. Adriana's eyes flew open at once, and Alexander heard the raw gasp of her indrawn breath. He turned about to seek help, but it proved unnecessary. The music had ceased and nearly every face in the theater was directed toward their box; shouted questions and cries of alarm had replaced the applause. A few boxes away, Alexander saw two men wearing the blue robes of the Emperor's wizards leap to their feet. One began chanting while his companion ducked through the back curtains.
Adriana doubled over in her chair, retching. Alexander retrieved his sword and knelt next to her, one arm about the counselor's shoulders. He extended the weapon in a defensive posture and cast a frantic gaze over the other boxes, trying to watch all directions at once. The attack, however, was over.
* * * * *
Though the majority of the conspirators made residence in the keep, they met in the heart of the city, in the basement of a warehouse owned by Burrel Tarlsman. The merchant dwarf could be smuggled into the keep with relative ease. The same was not true, however, for the Sandlander warrior-mage. Soto was difficult to disguise by non-magical means, and Malthus was loath to employ unnecessary sorcery. Hence, while the rest of the city slumbered, the conspirators gathered beneath Burrel's stock of quarried stone and construction equipment.
Malthus sat at the head of the table. As he always did in the presence of others, he had conceded to one trifling illusion. He wore the appearance of a young human, a fair-haired man of muscular build and a pleasant, if not memorable face. The warlock knew quite well his allies would turn on him in an instant if they suspected his Weirdling nature. Fenric alone was privy to that knowledge, and his discretion was absolute.
The prince was seated at the far end of the table, drumming his fingers while scowling at the ceiling. To his right was Stamovan, then Burrel Tarlsman and Count Hafflston of Addamantia. On the opposing side Soto sat next to Franklin Draston, the newly appointed general. Soto's oversized body threatened to collapse the chair beneath him.
“I still say we should delay the next step,” said Draston. The general rubbed absently at his nose. He'd removed his rank ring en route to the meeting and its absence seemed to bother him. “With the counselor still alive he might actually stumble across our plan."
“I had no idea we'd promoted such a weak-willed officer, Draston,” said Fenric.
Draston ignored the barb. “Also, Highness, we must find the thief before the Sandlanders.” Though the general addressed Fenric, his words were directed toward Malthus. The warlock merely watched the conversation.
“The thief'll be found and dealt with,” said Stamovan. He glared across the table at Draston.
“Mayhap we should take more direct action against the Burning Men,” suggested Burrel.
Hafflston shook his head. “We cannot. There may be only one hundred here now, but direct aggression would likely bring all the clans down on us. Wouldn't you say, Soto?"
“Agreed,” said the warrior-mage. “You'd have thousands of us on the doorstep within the month."
“Safe to say, that would throw a herringbone in our plans,” said Hafflston. “Still, if we proceed, and the Sandlanders get hold of our young thief—"
“There will be no change of course,” said Malthus.
Soto nodded vigorously. “A way has been chosen. To abandon the way is to weaken the attack."
“But Malthus,” said Draston, “if the Burning Men catch the thief, the entire story could come out. That'd put His Highness in considerable peril."
“We should've killed that damned thief the instant she stepped out of the desert,” said Stamovan.
“Hindsight, Stamovan,” said Malthus. “Even the brilliant err on occasion."
“All the more reason to proceed on schedule,” said Fenric. “Two days from now the entire city will be screaming for war against Addamantia. Even if a few rumors get out, nobody'll have time to dwell on them."
“Precisely."
“Use the imminent fighting as an excuse to send my ‘brothers’ home,” said Soto. “You don't want them at your backs when you march on Addamantia, especially if they're convinced that the grimoire is still in Hurst."
“I've felt the touch of their thaumaluk,” said Malthus. “He's a strong one."
“Speakin’ of mages,” said Burrel, “what of Nikkolynda? I hear he's a powerful one himself."
Malthus snorted, the first hint of emotion he'd displayed. “The wizard is limited by his loyalty to the Emperor. Nikkolynda will be one of our most useful tools."
“Will you be able to throw the tool down the mineshaft, if need be?” asked Burrel.
The warlock favored Burrel with a baleful gaze. “Are you capable of slaying a dove in a cage?”
Stamovan chuckled and nudged the other dwarf.
Fenric rapped on the tabletop with his knuckles. “All right, then. I want to be back at the keep before sunrise. Burrel, how go the preparations at the Stronghold?"
“As planned,” said the merchant. “My people're ready to raise hell; when the fightin’ starts out here, there won't be a dwarf to spare outside the mountain."
“What odds that you'll control the Stronghold?” asked Draston.
“Good, but not great,” said Stamovan. “Don't matter, though. Tarlsman's people can drag a civil war out for years in there. When we're done with Addamantia, we can clean out any opposition in the Stronghold."
“It's time for the next step, then,” said Malthus. “Two days from now, the populace of Hurst will be convinced that Addamantia has declared war."
“I'd still like to know what's going to happen,” said Draston. Burrel nodded his agreement. “I'm not happy with only you and Fenric knowing this part of the plan. How'll the rest of us know if something's gone wrong?"
“If nothing happens at all, you'll know that something went wrong,” said Fenric.
“It's best you remain unaware,” said Malthus. “You might be tempted to make some special preparation, and we can't risk giving away prior knowledge."
“I don't understand,” said Draston.
“I don't understand either,” said Soto, “but your work has proved sound thus far, warlock."
“Just stay off the streets two days hence,” warned Fenric. “Soto, Tarlsman, I suggest you spend the afternoon down here."
“Think I'll hide in the keep with you, Highness,” said Stamovan. “Mayhap we'll have that little thief to keep us some company."
“A prince of Hurst does not hide like a commoner,” said Draston coldly.
Malthus surprised his allies for a second time, breaking into a nerve-wracking, high-pitched laugh. “Oh, I think he will,” the warlock said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alexander sat in the corner of the common room at Mad Eisen's Inn and ate a second breakfast of porridge and unrecognizable chunks of fruit. The watchful eye of Mad Eisen himself fell on him every few minutes as the proprietor made sure that Alexander was actually eating. Loiterers and vagabonds, Eisen had informed him earlier, were not tolerated. Purchase and consumption of food, however, made one a welcome customer. Fortunately, Alexander's quarry descended the stairs at the back of the room before his bowl was empty.
The buzz of conversation, already low in the sparsely populated room, ceased altogether as the tigri appeared. Alexander smiled, guessing the woman was greeted with this rea
ction every morning. She looked much the same as the first time he had seen her, dressed in long, multi-layered skirts and a leather halter thick enough to almost constitute armor. Both her dagger and sword hung from her belt, along with the strange flat sticks. She was almost out the door before he realized that she wasn't stopping to dine. He left his bowl on the table and hurried after her, ignoring Mad Eisen's scowl.
“Pardon me,” Alexander said. He reached for her elbow but stopped abruptly, overcome with the feeling that touching the black-banded skin would be a poor idea.
The tigri stopped and turned. For the first time Alexander realized how tall she was—looking straight ahead, he found himself staring at the woman's chin. He could see the texture of her pores where the black pigment encircled her throat. The edges of the band were sharply defined, sweeping upward as they disappeared around the back of her neck. Alexander tore his gaze away from the strange coloration and took a step back, embarrassed.
“You're not the first,” the tigri said. Her voice was low and flat. Purposely expressionless, he wondered, or characteristic of her people?
“The first to stop you on the street?”
“You're not the first to gawk at me like a child.” The tigri didn't return his smile.
“I apologize,” said Alexander. “You're the first tigri I've met, or even seen, I suppose."
“What do you want?”
“I was hoping to ask you some questions. My name's Alexander. I'm not from Hurst either."
The tigri finally betrayed some emotion, a slight upward twitch at one corner of her mouth. “You look like the rest of them."
He laughed. “I'm from Addamantia. I'm here to figure out who's been killing the Emperor's advisors and generals."
The hint of a smile vanished and the tigri turned without a word. She headed up the street, toward the Temple District, and Alexander cursed inwardly. He trotted forward and fell in stride beside her.
“I'm not implying that you're involved. This is just a wild guess on my part. I saw you at the gate the same day I came in—the first tigri to visit Hurst in thirty-five years, I'm told. You're obviously not a trader, but I doubt you're just visiting the Western Realm for a vacation. I'm hoping my mission and yours have something in common."
“They do not."
At least she was talking to him again. “Look,” he said, “I've got to be at the keep in less than two hours. Could we talk for at least a few minutes? Sure, it might come to nothing, but it seems like an awfully strange coincidence, your arrival and mine, at the same time."
“How did you find me?” the tigri asked.
“Easy enough. You came in with a horse. If I'd come to a strange city from hundreds of miles away, I'd want my horse close by. Only three inns here have stables attached—if you stay at the others you'd have to leave your horse at one of the places by the gates. I asked at one other inn this morning before Mad Eisen's. For half a copper he told me that there was a tigri woman staying in one of his rooms."
The tigri made a sound deep in her throat. Alexander wasn't sure whether she was expressing approval or anger.
“Very smart,” she said. “We can talk, but you must walk with me.” A pair of rickshaws raced by on the street, each carrying a pair of young men who yelled and threw things at one another as their drivers fought for the lead position.
“Fine with me. Mind telling me your name?"
The tigri hesitated for a moment, then said, “I am Shrera-tal Derinahin li-Irriveth, a Daughter of the Blood from the Huiris tribe of the Nahina Range. You may call me Deri."
“First time my name's ever felt inadequate,” said Alexander. “What's a Daughter of the Blood? Are you a soldier of some sort?"
Deri wrinkled her nose. “No. Your people refer to those who possess Blood as ‘magicians.’”
Alexander felt a quick thrill of elation but kept his face neutral. “What brings you to Hurst?"
Deri looked at him sideways and appeared to consider for a moment. “Do you know anything of magic?"
“Some. Human magicians fall into three classes—wizards, who do magic in service to a noble; magicians, who freelance their work, and warlocks—"
“Enough,” said Deri. “Southern politics mean nothing to me. You southerners don't understand the Blood at all.” They turned a corner and continued walking, ignoring the stares of the people they passed. A sickeningly sweet odor wafted from the door of an apothecary's shop.
“Your magicians are fledglings compared to the Sons and Daughters of the Blood,” Deri continued. “They learn to perform certain feats but never understand the nature of magic. This is why men and dwarves have never achieved great ability."
“There're some incredible magicians in the Western Realm. During the Exodus, Hotchkiss of Forthaven summoned wolves and bears to fight the elves. Hurst's Prime Wizard is supposed to be pretty damned impressive, too, and I've heard there's a dwarf that—"
“A few stand out amongst the rest. This brings me to the south."
It took Alexander a moment to catch the meaning in Deri's statement. “You're looking for someone, aren't you?"
“Yes. A southern magician has tapped the All-River. This feat has never happened before in the south, though the desert people have some knowledge of it."
“Which river?"
Deri sighed. “The All-River. The source of life."
“What happens when someone, um, taps the river?"
“Many things. Most things. I seek the purpose behind this use of the All-River. If southern magic is preparing to evolve, the Sons and Daughters of the Blood must be prepared."
“But you haven't been able to find the magician who did it, have you?"
“No."
“I don't think you will, either. I don't really understand what you're talking about, but I'll hazard a guess. This person you're looking for, I'll wager he's, well, tapped the river four times, right?"
Deri halted and turned to fully face Alexander. The air around him warmed noticeably and his senses suddenly sharpened. The scent of the tigri's hair, a combination of straw and mountain flowers, suffused Alexander's nostrils. Through his boots he felt the contours of the tiny stones crushed together to form the walk and he saw the tiny rainbow flecks of light floating in Deri's eyes.
“How do you know?” she asked, and for the first time Alexander recognized hints of emotion in her voice. He heard just a touch of fear wrapped around a combination of surprise and the urgent need to know more.
“There've been four murders in Hurst. Very strange, very violent, and cloaked with magic. The Emperor's wizards haven't been able to find the man responsible."
Alexander's heightened senses returned to normal without warning, and he was left with a slightly dizzy feeling.
“This is very bad,” said Deri. “The Imperial wizards said nothing of killing. But this explains why a magician of such power would hide from me."
“You're sure it's not the Prime Wizard?"
“No. We have known of Nikkolynda for many years. I would recognize him."
“What'll you do now? I don't think the Imperial wizards will come up with anything new for you. I'm told they're at wit's end trying to scry the killer."
“This morning I visit the Magician's Guild. They will confirm your words for me. This is very bad, Alexander. That the All-River would be touched for such a purpose—it is very bad."
“Will you tell me if you find the magician who's doing it?” Alexander asked. “He's planning something a lot more important than just a few random murders."
“It is unlikely that I'll find him. The southerner has hidden himself from me thus far. More likely I will return to my tribe and the Lords of the Range will decide what to do."
“Still, some chance is better than none at all.” He gave her the name of his inn and Deri nodded.
“Continue your own search,” the tigri said, “and good luck to you. Better the southerners remain infants in magic than dive headfirst into the Blood."
> * * * * *
The antechamber of the Emperor's throne room was filled to capacity. Alexander stood next to Adriana, hands patting his waist constantly where his sword and dagger would normally hang. A dark bruise encircled the counselor's neck. Her eyes were tired but devoid of fear; if anything, he guessed her determination to solve this puzzle had doubled.
His gaze flickered from face to face in the busy room, though every so often it returned to the discoloration of his companion's throat. The men, dwarves, and gnomes hoping for the Emperor's ear stood in small groups, chatting quietly. Harri Domerrit appeared on occasion to beckon an individual or group through the doors to the actual audience chamber. The majordomo looked at Adriana each time he poked his head through the door but had yet to invite her and Alexander inside. Except for a few muttered deprecations regarding Domerrit's lineage, Adriana hid her irritation well. The pair of guards stationed to either side of the door ignored everyone.
“Odd choice of weapons for interior guards,” Alexander said. He nodded toward the long spears in the soldiers’ hands.
“What?” asked Adriana. She'd been lost in thought, gazing into space and unconsciously massaging the base of her neck.
Before he could reply, a slight figure in shimmering blue robes slipped through the exterior doors. The man spotted Adriana and approached, tugging at his short black beard with one hand. The Imperial lion's-head emblem decorated the front of his robe. Alexander recognized him as one of the wizards who'd come to their aid in the Theater of Giants. He was fairly certain the magical attack had withdrawn before the Emperor's wizards intervened, but he was grateful for their efforts all the same.
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