by Holly Lisle
Anger, Luercas thought. That would be the best way to play this. “I have every reason to have that bastard followed. He was the last person seen with Velyn before she disappeared, and I have reason to believe that he’s the reason she disappeared.”
“But she disappeared from a boardinghouse, and we know that he was having dinner with friends at the time.”
“You think he’d be stupid enough to kidnap her himself?”
“No. Nor do we think that you would be so stupid, though rumors seem to suggest that you had more reason to want her to disappear than even the judge’s verdict might indicate.”
“Rumors are worth half what you pay for them. I didn’t kidnap Velyn.”
The woman smiled gently, and in her dark face her pale teeth seemed predatory. “The thing that made us think you were innocent of her absence was that you’re spending a great deal of time and money to look for her—and Gellas isn’t. Which is not to say we think you’re innocent of anything else.”
“So you think he knows where she is?”
“We know he knows where she is. We’ve found her—right where he had his people hide her. She’s on her way here now.”
Luercas felt a huge rush of relief—he wouldn’t be charged with murder, he wouldn’t suffer financial losses worse than those that already faced him, and he might yet find a way to pull the whole mess out of the fire. “Excellent,” he said.
“Is it? I suspect she’ll have some fascinating things to tell us—and you know we have ways of getting at the truth better than anything anyone else has ever created. She’ll be telling us … many things.” The woman stared at him like a cat who’d cornered a mouse. Had she a tail, it would have been whipping from side to side right then. The man, in contrast, looked over Luercas’s shoulder, down at the floor, up at the sky, anywhere but directly at Luercas. His restlessness, his darting eyes, and his gaunt, hungry look sharpened Luercas’s fear like a whetstone sharpens steel. The woman said, “So what we would like to know—and we’re only asking in a friendly fashion, you understand—” she smiled, and her smile held nightmares in it, “is this: Have you anything to tell us before Velyn arrives? Any little thing that she might be privy to—anything that might bring you grief should we find out about it after she … tells us what she knows?”
And how much did Velyn suspect? How much did she know of his activities with Dafril; how much had she seen or intuited or overheard of his struggles with this flesh that did not belong to him? How completely could she destroy him?
He had not been careful around her, because he had never feared her. She lived in terror of him—of what he would do to her—and so he had been free with his speech in front of her, and had not worried when Dafril was equally free. Her cringing, her silence, her head-down submissiveness had always seemed to be its own guarantee. But next to the Silent Inquest, any power he had over her would be nonexistent.
He looked at the woman, at the man, and he said softly, “What is the price of immunity?”
The woman and the man glanced at each other, quick smug smiles flitting across their lips, and then the man said, “You can buy your freedom with either Solander Artis or Gellas Tomersin. Give one or the other to us, and you will live.”
“I believe I can give you Tomersin. My investigators have discovered … interesting things about him.”
“Then come with us to our chambers, and we’ll talk.”
Wraith viewed the morning with pleasure. No one had been watching him at his home; no one followed him to the Galtin, and the theater hummed with the activity and excitement peculiar to such places. The actors on the stage finished up their rehearsal of Seven Little Lies and applauded themselves before they left the stage for their break.
He’d had word first thing that morning that members of the Order of Resonance had successfully infiltrated the high-security Empire Center for Public Education and inserted his latest round of Warrens information into the upcoming nightlies.
Jess had cut short her visit and left Oel Artis. Solander had successfully hidden his discovery and was quickly and quietly putting together plans to get himself and his associate out of the city entirely—and probably permanently.
Wraith smiled a little as he added up the presold seats for the night and tried to determine whether he had already made the necessary take for the day to cover expenses. He could begin to breathe again. Whatever had been going on had apparently not been about him, or if it had been about him, then his precautions and the carefully compartmented way that he lived his life had paid off.
Someone tapped gently on his door. Without looking up—he was halfway through a column of figures—he said, “Come in. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
His guest opened the door and waited patiently while he added up his figures. When he was finished, Wraith looked up at the stranger and smiled. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “Math and I have never been friends, and once I’ve started a long column of figures, the last thing I want to have to do is restart it.”
The man chuckled. Thin, plainly dressed, with a nondescript face, he was a man that Wraith thought must almost disappear in crowds. “My sympathies. I’m no friend of math myself.”
Wraith rose and bowed appropriately to the man, who nonetheless seemed for all his ordinariness slightly familiar to him. “I’m Gellas Tomersin, which you no doubt already knew since you’re in my office. And you are … ?”
“Davic Etareiff.” The man returned the bow, adding a flourish, and said, “I’m the head of a special investigative unit fielded by the … ah, the Dragons.”
All of the quiet pleasure of the day disappeared for Wraith. “And how may I help you?”
“You may come with me without making any scenes that will disturb your employees. My people are scattered throughout the building, and are both capable of killing and prepared to kill anyone who decides to make a heroic attempt to rescue you from us. The best thing you can do, if you value the lives of the people who work for you, is to pretend that you are coming with us voluntarily.”
Wraith stood there for a moment, thoughtful. He could, perhaps, escape the men in his theater; they would try to use magic-powered weapons on him, and those weapons would do nothing to him. However, any of his people who happened to be in the way wouldn’t share his immunity.
“I’ll go with you,” he said at last.
“I’m glad you’ve reached the right decision,” Etareiff said. He smiled a bland, congenial smile, and said, “Just walk beside me. Please don’t bring anything with you—no bags or cases or papers. Keep your hands empty and in plain sight at all times. We’ll be walking out the back of the theater, where you’ll find one of our aircars waiting for you. You’ll board it without struggle, and without attempting to give any sign to anyone still in or around the building. Anything you do that is not as I have outlined will result in the deaths of as many innocent people as we can reach within your theater in the time we have available to us. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” Wraith said.
“Very good. Would you consider yourself much of an actor?”
The question startled Wraith. “I’ll do, I suppose. I haven’t the talent of the least of the people on one of my stages, but …” He shrugged. “Why?”
“Because when the two of us walk out the door, we’re going to discuss some of the plays you have produced. You and I will carry on a happy, enthusiastic conversation that will convince anyone listening to us that you and I are great friends, and that everything is going just as it should be. Do you feel capable of doing that right now?”
Considering that if he failed, his friends and employees would be the ones to pay the price, he nodded slowly.
“Then let’s go. Tell me about the work you’re producing right now.”
They stepped out the door and began the walk down the long hall. Wraith nodded to his people but said nothing to any of them. Instead he made it clear by his stance and focus that he was paying attention to his guest
, in order to forestall employees who might be tempted to come up to him for just one signature or just one question. He discussed with as much animation as he could muster Seven Little Lies and several works that he’d recently put into production in out-of-town venues—works both of Vincalis and of promising young playwrights Wraith had sponsored. He spotted plenty of Etareiff’s people in that long walk through the building. Etareiff proved both clever and well read; he was able to quote choice lines from a number of Vincalis plays, and he made entertaining jokes and comments to encourage the flow of conversation.
Wraith thought that, under other circumstances, he would have found Etareiff a likable and enjoyable companion. And that frightened him. He worked with actors, but had never truly considered that the best actors he met daily might not be the ones on the stage.
He hoped Jess was truly clear of Oel Artis, and under no suspicion for her past connection to him. That Solander was safe. That no one had been able to prove any connection between Master Gellas and the invisible, but well documented, Vincalis, or the Kaan, or the Order of Resonance, or the Warrens, or the family in Ynjarval who lied for Wraith about who he was.
He got into the aircar, and both he and Etareiff fell silent. He discovered that he was sweating profusely—the stinking sweat of fear. The aircar lifted off and headed west, toward the Merocalins.
“Any questions about where we’re going?” Etareiff asked.
“No.”
“I’ll tell you anyway.” Etareiff smiled a cheerful smile entirely out of keeping with the situation. “You’ve heard of the Gold Building?”
“Not really.”
“Of the Silent Inquest?”
A pause. “No.”
“Ah. Then you can’t begin to appreciate the honor being done you. Only the very worst traitors in the Empire have ever been brought before an assemblage of the Silent Inquest.” Etareiff leaned back, folded his hands in his lap, and stared out the window.
Beads of sweat dripped down Wraith’s forehead into his eyes, slipped off of his upper lip, ran down the furrow between the muscles on either side of his spine with an icy and unnerving irregularity.
He looked longingly at the world racing below him; he couldn’t help but wonder if this was the last look he would get of Oel Artis.
The aircar settled on the flat roof of one of the ancient wings of a building of tremendously ancient design, landing in deep shadow. Around the roof rose windowless walls three times the height of the tallest man, smooth and featureless and impenetrable. Only one door punctuated the grim expanse of whiteness, and it was toward that door that Etareiff and Wraith began to walk. Wraith knew he could fight Etareiff now—the weapons the agent would have with him would be unlikely to do anything at all to Wraith. But the driver of the aircar would pose a more difficult problem, and there were no other aircars on the roof. He could make things more difficult for himself in the long run by fighting now. If he maintained his assertion that he was an innocent man, a stolti due the respect and protection of the law, and not a criminal who deserved its punishment, he still might be able to walk away from all of this.
“We’re going into one of the interrogation observation rooms,” Etareiff said as the two of them passed through the single broad door and into a wide, plain hallway. “I’d like for you to hear some things that the Masters of the Inquest—and the Dragons who asked for our assistance— have found very interesting. You won’t be listening to these confessions live—you’ll simply be observing copies made of the interrogation procedure. I think you’ll find some of what we’ve learned … well, frankly, fascinating.”
“Learned about whom?” Wraith asked.
“Oh, all sorts of people. You’ll see. It has been one of the most interesting days of my career so far, and I must say I can only anticipate it getting more interesting. The Inquestor Triad is simply stunned by what we’ve been uncovering.”
Wraith said nothing else. Anything he said might tell them something they didn’t already know. He wouldn’t do that.
He followed Etareiff into a small room in which a semicircle of silk brocade and leather chairs faced a raised dais. Men in green and gold robes glanced over at him as he entered, and he was shown to one of the chairs and bade to sit. Etareiff did not take a seat; instead, he retreated to the back of the room and took a position on one side of the door. Another man, clearly armed with several weapons, leaned against the wall on the other side.
“Master Tomersin,” the oldest of the men said, standing up, “I am Master Omwi. The Dragons of the Council have … yes, appointed would be the right word … have appointed me investigator into your activities and those of your associates. Welcome to our little circle. We regret the necessity of bringing you here, but as you will see in a moment, serious issues have arisen that require not just your presence, but will eventually demand some form of explanation.”
“Master Omwi,” Wraith said, and rose and bowed deeply. “I’m sure I’ll be able to clear up any questions you might have.”
“That would be almost a miracle,” Omwi said, “but I do look forward to seeing you try.”
Then Master Omwi waved a hand gently through the air, and on the dais in front of the observers Solander Artis appeared, seated in a chair. A column of light surrounded him, so that his questioners of record remained hidden in shadow—he would not have been able to see them, but no one could see them now, either.
“Name,” a disembodied voice said.
“Solander Kothern Jans Emanual Artis, stolti, son of Rone Jans—”
“We know your parentage, Artis. It’s part of what makes your betrayal so significant. Your father died a hero. You—”
“Enough,” another voice whispered. “Stay with relevant matters.”
Wraith watched Solander closely. He seemed completely unworried; he sat in a relaxed pose, his hands folded, an expression of calm acceptance on his face. This was a different Solander than the panicked friend who had come to Wraith for help; who had falsified data to save his own life and who had planned to leave Oel Artis as soon as he thought he could escape without drawing any attention to his departure.
Wraith wondered what had changed. Obviously Solander was in trouble. However, he projected an air of such complete confidence that even Wraith, who knew what he had done and who could at least guess at the possible repercussions of Solander’s actions, should they be proven, felt himself wondering if perhaps Solander had found a way to prove his innocence.
“You have been brought before the private interrogators because you have refused to agree to cooperate in our investigation. Do you understand this?”
“I do,” Solander said.
“You have refused to turn over information on others associated with you; you have refused to explain in any form your own behavior as it has been related to us by our agent; and you have refused to provide us with the complete formulas and background research to explain your new theory of magic, or the law that you claim to have discovered—”
Solander held up a hand to interrupt. “Excuse me, but I haven’t claimed to have discovered anything. I’ve spent years researching rewhah-free magic, but my research, while it has provided many useful side products, has failed in its main objective.”
“Not according to our agent.”
“No. I’m aware that Borlen Haiff has informed you that I was successful in my research. I’m also aware that he has been unable to duplicate the results he claims I obtained, and that while he is vehement in his claims that I have been successful, he has no proof of this.”
Wraith heard the long, hostile silence and had to smile. So Solander had figured out who the Inquest’s spy was. Of course, the fact that he’d brought Borlen with him when he met with Wraith—and that Wraith had offered what could only be seen as treasonous advice regarding the way in which Solander could prevent the Empire from finding out what he’d been working on—did not bode well for Wraith’s future freedom, and certainly went far to suggest a reason why he sat
with members of the Inquest watching the interrogation.
Wraith waited, studying the image of his friend. After a moment of silence, the invisible interrogators began again. “Had you not discovered something that you believed the Hars Ticlarim would find valuable, why would you have acted as you did?”
“How did I act?” Solander asked.
“You fled to a meeting with a suspected traitor to the Empire, Gellas Tomersin, and discussed ways of hiding your discovery from the Council of Dragons, and further, ways of leaving the empire with this discovery.”
“Nonsense.” Solander actually laughed. “Is that what dear Borlen told you? At least now I know why I’m here. He must have had a much more interesting night than I did. I took him to meet Gellas, who is both my distant cousin and a friend of mine from childhood. Borlen had claimed to be a great admirer of Gellas’s work, and seemed to enjoy meeting him. The three of us walked to dinner at a fine restaurant, ate our meal, engaged in ordinary table talk, and after Gellas bought us our meal, we left, and Borlen and I went to our separate homes because we needed a good night’s rest; we had to check our equipment calibrations and present a public test of my theory on the morrow.”
“Borlen Haiff presents an entirely different picture of that evening.”
Solander smiled slowly. “And now you’re admitting that Borlen is your agent. Thank you. So we’re making some progress.” He sighed. “Borlen is ambitious. He’s also careless, and has, for most of the time he’s been assigned to me, proven astonishingly lazy.” Solander shrugged. “I made do with his assignment to me because I was told we were short on qualified assistants; I believe my regular written complaints dating back over two years will be on record, making clear the fact that I did not consider him competent help and requested an adequate replacement as soon as one might be found.”
“They are. But your complaints about Borlen have nothing to do with your own treasonous activities.”
“I have no treasonous activities. What sort of fantasy world do you live in?” Solander asked. “You think that a two-year complaint file regarding the general worthlessness of an ambitious assistant—who just happens to also be a spy for the Dragons, or whatever offshoot of the Dragons you might be—won’t have any repercussions? Borlen Haiff finally decided that the bad references in his file and the fact that we weren’t making the sort of progress that would make him famous added up to a need for him to take action on his own. So he concocted this story of his and presented it to you; what’s more, according to you, he made himself the hero who created some sort of mystical shield that did not lose energy as regular shields do, and that rebounded both rewhah and spell force on the sender, making it the perfect defensive weapon.” Solander shook his head gently. “It makes a lovely story—who wouldn’t want to have created such a thing? But if it had any truth to it, why couldn’t Borlen show you his brilliant shield himself? Your questions to me have made it clear that he claimed all along to have created this shield—not even he blamed that on me. Why did you come to me and demand that I was hiding something from you, and that I should show you this thing that only Borlen in all the world claims exists?”