Incredibly, Mezzino's thrust met oblatt instead of silk and skin. The folds of Soto's robe snapped in the wind as he twisted away and dropped to his back, whipping both feet toward Mezzino's head. The fandyiha snatched one of Soto's ankles right out of the air and threw the exile off-balance, but Soto's body went limp and his eyes flashed again. Mezzino found his hand abruptly empty, and Shinvai's scimitar gouged a furrow in the pavestones. Fifteen feet away, Soto scrambled to his feet.
“Great Death,” said Shinvai. He winced as his own weight stressed the cut above his knee. “I've never seen that."
“Pray he hasn't the strength to do it more than once,” said Mezzino. He glanced at Kalnai, who sat against the moneylender's wall and rubbed his head while reaching with his other hand for his scimitar.
“Flank him within blade's reach,” Mezzino said to Shinvai, “but don't press the attack. Don't allow him to use us against one another."
Shinvai nodded, and Mezzino climbed to his feet. Then Soto did a curious thing. He began pacing backward, sheathing one scimitar as he walked. Far beyond the thaumarekh, Mezzino saw a thick crowd of men approaching. For the first time he noticed the flock of winged shadows wheeling about on the street and heard the shriek of their whistles as they summoned help.
“What's he doing?” Shinvai said. He lifted his scimitar but stood still next to Mezzino.
“I'm not—” said Mezzino, then Soto answered the question for him. The thaumarekh tossed the scimitar in his hand at Shinvai. It was a lazy throw, made from far too great a distance to be a serious threat, and Shinvai stepped sideways easily to let it pass. Mezzino saw Soto's face break into a smile and tried to shout a warning but he was too late. Tumbling end over end, the scimitar suddenly straightened out and veered to the side, plunging to the center of its curved blade through Shinvai's chest. The feyrhakin gasped, then looked at Mezzino with an apologetic expression before collapsing.
Mezzino reached Soto just ahead of Kalnai, who howled with rage as he bore down on the thaumarekh. Soto hadn't expected the pair to react so quickly to their clansman's death and his remaining weapon was still half-sheathed. He abandoned it and stepped into Mezzino's charge, twisting past the oncoming blow as he struck for Mezzino's throat with both hands. His rigid fingers glanced off the fandyiha's shoulder, then he snarled as Mezzino's scimitar bit into his side. Their momentum reversed their positions such that Kalnai couldn't swing for fear of hitting Mezzino, but the feyrhakin simply lowered his shoulder and charged straight into Soto. The unorthodox attack dashed the exile to the ground and Kalnai followed without hesitation, scimitar flashing down from above his head as he ran past Mezzino.
Even flat on the pavestones Soto proved a ferocious opponent. He snapped his weight up onto the backs of his shoulders and kicked, one foot catching Kalnai's wrist while the other slammed into his chin. Kalnai stumbled backward, to be replaced by Mezzino. The fandyiha landed on Soto's chest before the thaumarekh could spring back to his feet. The tip of Mezzino's scimitar scored the slightest wound on Soto's chest before it was sent clattering across the road, then the two Burning Men were locked together in a storm of open hand fighting.
Sirgar and his men arrived just as Mezzino's scimitar hit the pavestones. They came to a halt a few yards away from the struggling Sandlanders and held their weapons ready at the sergeant's orders. He glanced at Kalnai, who spat two broken teeth and stalked the tumbling pair while blood dripped from his lips.
Mezzino and Soto fought like twin tornados meeting in the open sand. They twisted and rolled around one another, attacking with hands, elbows, knees and feet. Mezzino locked the crook of his elbow around Soto's arm and pulled, but Soto flipped over Mezzino's shoulder and crouched back-to-back with the fandyiha. He pivoted and jabbed his elbow at the side of Mezzino's head, only to be stopped by Mezzino's forearm. They whirled to face one another, and Mezzino found a grip on the other's throat as Soto drove his foot into Mezzino's stomach. Mezzino grunted but didn't relinquish his hold; instead, he stiffened his free hand and jabbed his fingers into the flowing wound on Soto's thigh. The thaumarekh hissed and slashed at Mezzino's face with a series of three impossibly fast strikes. Mezzino's grip slackened instantly and he brought one hand back to guard his head. He saw the change in Soto's eyes a split second too late—the thaumarekh winked out of existence and popped back into view a dozen yards away. Kalnai whipped around to face him as Mezzino jumped to his feet, but Soto was easily out of reach. Mezzino froze as the thaumarekh drew his remaining scimitar and held it before him with both hands.
Mezzino fought to control his ragged breath. “Wait until he throws,” he said. The thaumarekh could most likely hear him, but Mezzino knew that nothing he said to Kalnai would change the exile's next attack. “He'll have to concentrate on the blade to control it. Kill him as it comes."
The command was hardly past Mezzino's lips before the scimitar flashed in the midday sun. Mezzino knew immediately that Soto would recover and be ready for Kalnai before the feyrhakin could cross the distance between them. Kalnai, however, stepped in front of his fandyiha and spread his arms, offering his chest to the thaumarekh's scimitar as he held his own where Mezzino could easily take it up.
“No!” shouted Mezzino, then a terrible howl filled the street. Soto's weapon dropped lifelessly to the pavestones, landing with the blade lying flat across Kalnai's sandals. Mezzino darted around Kalnai to rejoin the battle, but the action proved unnecessary.
Soto still stood in the center of the road, but his back arched forward and he balanced on his toes as if he were dancing. His eyes bulged and lost their red hue, fading to orange and then yellow as Mezzino and Kalnai watched. The exile's arms were thrown wide, fingers splayed, and he reached vainly for something at his back. The shriek of pain exploding from his throat reminded Mezzino of the winter winds resonating through the rock formations above Crag Vysthuk, horribly powerful, yet somehow empty. The thaumarekh's body stiffened suddenly and the street fell silent. He fell forward, sliding off of Sirgar's spear to lie motionless on the pavestones.
“If I understand it correctly,” said Sirgar, “this means this man is a criminal?” He reversed the spear and tapped at the iron collar on Soto's neck.
“It is so,” said Mezzino. He made no move to collect his weapons.
“His Righteousness'll be pleased to hear you're protecting our city,” said Sirgar. “All the same, I'll have to escort you outside the walls."
“All the same,” said Mezzino. “Thank you for your assistance, Sergeant."
Sirgar shrugged. “Never liked this one too much. I always figured him for a bad one."
A blast of heat washed over the combatants and spectators, originating at Soto's inert body to spread in every direction. Sirgar's men scrambled backward and the sergeant lifted an arm to shield his eyes. Mezzino mimicked the motion instinctively, though he and Kalnai both knew what was happening. Soto's robes billowed from the sudden heat, then his red skin began to dissolve. It flaked away quickly, the process picking up speed as the deterioration progressed. Within seconds the thaumarekh was reduced to a large pile of sand that weighed down his torn robe and blew gently over the iron collar left on the pavestones. Sirgar's men muttered startled curses and exclamations, and a few hastily re-armed themselves.
“The warrior-mage becomes a product of magic,” said Mezzino. “With the life force gone, the magic claims all else."
Sirgar prodded the robe cautiously with his spear, releasing more dark sand into the breeze. “He's staying dead, ain't he?"
“Oh, yes,” said Mezzino. “He has returned to the desert."
“You'll be wantin’ to do the same, and quick,” said Sirgar, “but I'll be just as happy if you do it on your feet."
“As will I,” said Mezzino.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Adriana strode through the keep, half-angry and half-worried as she searched for Nikkolynda. The time-marked candles at the hallway intersections showed afternoon fading quickly to evening, and Alexa
nder still hadn't shown. She feared he and Kandys had been caught in their nocturnal raid on Tarlsman's warehouse, but a check with the city guard had revealed no Addamantian Huntsman in the jail. She refused to consider the possibility that Tarlsman's guards had simply done away with the pair. Her frustration was deep enough without that option to dwell upon.
In times past she would have taken this problem to Virmual Postwick; her mentor would have known whom to enlist against the hidden conspirators. The old counselor could offer no advice, however, and thinking about him made her all the more upset. She wished she'd shared more of her situation with Alexander. She realized belatedly that the Huntsman's innate understanding of people's interactions would've been the ideal sounding board for her feelings of helplessness. Sirgar listened, but the soldier in him never seemed to comprehend how adrift Adriana had become in the turbulent politics of the Imperial court. To Sirgar power flowed in distinct, immutable lines molded by a personal sense of duty, not in the semi-predictable waves taught by Postwick. She wondered if her best chance for a confidant now lay dead in an alley and laughed bitterly at the thought.
“Wouldn't Kandys like to see me now,” she said to herself. “Near weeping with nowhere to go. How she'd love that."
A familiar blue robe flashed through a doorway as Adriana rounded the corner near the library. “Pellorin!” she called, and hurried forward. The wizard paused, then saw who had hailed him and waited for her to approach.
He looks as anxious as I feel, thought Adriana. Pellorin's hands were clasped in front of his stomach and his fingers tapped nervous rhythms against one another. For the first time she could remember, the wizard's robe was stained under the arms. She stared at him in surprise.
“Quickly, Counselor,” said Pellorin. “I'm in a hurry."
“Which way?”
“Nikkolynda's tower."
“I'll walk with you,” she said, already starting off. “I was going to see him anyway."
Beside her, Pellorin shook his head. “He's not there."
“Where—?"
“Gone. Nobody knows. The Prime Wizard disappeared sometime during the night."
The last shred of Adriana's hope threatened to slip away, anchored to her only by Pellorin's presence. She looked down and realized she was unconsciously mimicking his nervous, drumming fingers.
“It can't be,” she said. “They couldn't have defeated Nikkolynda."
“They?”
“The conspirators. The warlock, Stamovan—whoever's trying to goad us to war with Addamantia. Alexander and Kandys thought they'd found their headquarters—Alexander was supposed to meet me this afternoon, but—"
Pellorin glanced up and down the corridor, then took her by the elbow and gently pulled her to the side. “Adriana,” he said, “you have my attention, but I'm afraid I don't understand any of this. Have you found some proof that the attacks weren't sponsored by Addamantia? Do you know something about Nikkolynda's disappearance?"
Adriana closed her eyes and took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm before speaking. The panicked feeling that had built steadily over the past hours threatened to explode from her lips in one great babbling torrent, but she fought herself back under control. She organized her thoughts without speaking, trying to find the right balance of information and expediency. When she looked again Pellorin was waiting patiently.
“All right. We're certain the warlock isn't working alone. Alexander and I are sure that a conspiracy of some sort exists with the intention of starting a war between Hurst and Addamantia.” With that much out, she committed to trusting Pellorin completely. She told him all she knew, beginning with Kandys's theft of the Sandlander grimoire. By the time she'd related the rumors of dwarven takeover heard by Hafflston, Pellorin was nodding eagerly. If Adriana's relationship to Kandys surprised him he didn't allow it to show.
“It all fits,” he said. “Except one thing. Do your conspirators wish for Hurst to win or Addamantia?"
“Why, Hurst, I assume. The attacks and the spider were only meant to look as though they'd come from Addamantia."
“In that case, why slay the Prime Wizard. Hurst will fare much better at war with Nikkolynda present."
“I—crap,” said Adriana. “I didn't think of that. Are you sure he's, well, dead?"
Pellorin rubbed at his eyes and sighed. “A half-dozen wizards and even men from the Magician's Guild have driven themselves near madness with scrying. We find no trace of Nikkolynda. If he's not dead, he's hidden himself well enough to be completely unreachable, and I can't imagine a reason for that."
“Wait,” said Adriana. “There's the Burning Men's grimoire, and that army of spirits Alexander said it could summon. What if the warlock thinks we can defeat Addamantia with that alone? If that's the case, he'd try to get rid of Nikkolynda before Nikkolynda could find and expose him. The warlock could've even led that Burning Man to Nikkolynda's tower."
“What Burning Man?"
Her brow creased as she looked at the wizard. “The one who attacked the tower the other night."
“How do you know it was a Sandlander? The body was reduced to almost nothing."
“Hafflston said—” Adriana covered her mouth with her hand and let the sentence go unfinished. Pellorin responded with a grimace.
“If Count Hafflston is involved,” he said, “it will appear even more likely that Addamantia simply attacks us, unprovoked."
“Alexander's told Hafflston everything,” said Adriana, not listening. “And it was Hafflston who put us on Tarlsman's trail."
“We're back to where we started,” Pellorin said. “We must know who the other members of this conspiracy are, which means that we need to find the Huntsman and your sister."
“I was going to ask Nikkolynda for help, but, well, I guess that option's out. Can you scry for Alexander or Kandys?"
“Amaut will,” said Pellorin. “He'll need something personal, a piece of clothing, perhaps. Can you locate that?"
“I've nothing of Alexander's,” Adriana said, shaking her head. “Maybe—no, never mind."
“Out with it,” said Pellorin. “Even a useless idea is better than none at all right now.” He glanced again down the hall, and Adriana finally noticed what he'd been looking at. The candle mounted at the next corner had melted through one of its red hash marks. The sixth hour past midday was nearly gone.
“Kandys,” said Adriana. “I keep a pillow that she used when we were children. She hasn't slept on it, though, for more than fifteen years."
“Do you use it?"
“No, I keep it locked up in a chest."
“It'll do. Get it and meet me at the entrance to the apprentice's lecture hall on the second floor. Amaut and the others are working there—I'm going to look once more through Nikkolynda's quarters, then I'll find you."
Adriana's confidence grew steadily as she raced through the keep. Though her heart tripped with fear at the loss of Nikkolynda, the fortunate encounter with Pellorin rekindled her hope. She darted through a stream of servants carrying wide platters into the formal dining hall, ignoring curses from those whose burdens she nearly toppled. Concern for Alexander returned as she considered Hafflston's treachery, but she insisted to herself that the Huntsman yet lived. She only wished Sirgar were here. He would at least post guards near the count's quarters.
Near the back of the keep Adriana flew up two flights of stairs and into the corridor that led to her room, along with those of a dozen other functionaries. She fumbled her key into the lock and left the door hanging open as she ran to the chest at the foot of her bed. Throwing back the lid, she tossed various keepsakes carelessly onto the floor and pulled a small, white pillow from the bottom of the chest.
Unbidden and unwelcome tears filled her eyes as she inhaled the clean, flowery scent of the pillow. A vision of Kandys came to her, not as the nervous, trembling thief under the willow tree but as a sleeping ten-year-old, long hair fanned over the edge of her mattress. Surprised by the surge of concern fo
r her wayward sister, Adriana wiped angrily at her eyes and stood. She strode to the door, reaching for the key.
A blast of foul-smelling air soured the air in her lungs. A cloud of red powder streamed through the space between door and wall to engulf Adriana with the smell of rotten meat. She gasped and dropped the pillow, then fell to one knee, retching. The blurred image of sandaled feet and the hem of a white robe swam through her watery eyes. She scrambled away too fast and felt the painful crack of the bed's footboard against her back. Her assailant stepped farther into the room, waving a broad fan to disperse the noxious cloud. Adriana stopped choking but her vision continued to fade as she slumped next to the bed and stared up at the warlock.
“I've little energy for this work,” said Malthus, “but we can't have you and your wizard friend finding the Huntsman too soon. Be glad that I came for you and not Stamovan."
The thought did little to console Adriana as she slipped further from consciousness. As her head dropped to the cool stone floor she reached weakly for Kandys's pillow. The inches between the cloth and her fingers stretched to a vast gulf, however, and the light from the window faded away.
* * * * *
She awoke to a pounding headache and the feel of a damp cloth on her cheek. She lay on her back with her head resting on someone's thigh. Torchlight flickered from elsewhere in the room and she smelled cold, stale air. As her eyes regained focus she discovered Alexander's worried face looking down at her.
“Where—?” she began.
“Lie still,” said Alexander, keeping her prone with a hand on one shoulder. “I think someone hit you with cantnor powder. You'll be dizzy ’til it's gone."
“The warlock,” said Adriana. Her eyes misted again and Alexander's face melted into a grotesque parody of Malthus's. The features weren't quite right, though, and Adriana struggled to remember some forgotten detail.
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