by T. H. Lain
Serge wanted to scream, or cry, or do anything, but he couldn't. All he could do was wait in silent agony for the few moments that his reeling mind needed to realize that the rest of his body was already dead.
Vargussel smoothed the brilliant white gippon over his waist and studied his reflection in the full-length mirror. The padded undergarment stretched tightly across his chest. Vargussel was pleased with the way his body had held up over his fifty long, often difficult years.
He was further pleased to be back in his home. Most of the sprawling house had been closed off for years but Vargussel's suite of rooms was more than large enough to accommodate him, his wardrobe, and his library. Though the abandoned slaughterhouse served as his laboratory and shrine, he seldom stayed there for more than a few hours at a time. Accustomed as he was to the stench, even Vargussel had his limits.
Dragging his fingers through his thick, gray hair, Vargussel smiled at the thought of the previous night's success. The name of yet another of his competitors for the hand of fair Maelani had been crossed off the list, and the shield guardian had returned undetected.
Vargussel silently thanked Vecna once again not only for his continuing successes against the would-be suitors but for the labyrinth of catacombs, sewers, and forgotten dungeons that riddled the ground under New Koratia. He'd spent a good six months studying them, and even then mapped only a fraction of the tunnels—enough for the shield guardian to move in secret.
He stepped into a pair of breeches. They were made of the same green linen he preferred for most of his wardrobe and fell just to his ankles. As clean and well pressed as the gippon, the breeches made Vargussel momentarily aware of the efforts of what remained of his household staff.
With each dead relative, each married-off female cousin, a room, then a hall, then a wing of the house had been closed off. The servants were dismissed accordingly. Thousands of gold pieces worth of furniture, art, and abandoned possessions lay silently waiting under dusty sheets for someone to breathe life back into the comatose house. To Vargussel, the lonely, quiet expanse of his boyhood home had become a constant reminder of his family's abject failure.
The coffers still brimmed with gold, and the bulk of its holdings were still intact, but the family itself had not managed to survive. Was it Vargussel's fault? Perhaps. At least some of it was. After all, at fifty, he still had never married, had not produced an heir.
He buttoned the breeches to the bottom of the gippon and smoothed the fabric again.
He had been occupied, he told himself for perhaps the thousandth time. He hadn't wasted his youth. Vargussel was among the most powerful wizards in the city—in all the duchy. The fools in their floating tower were useless academics. Vargussel alone held the ear of the duke. Koratia had never had a Ducal Wizard and didn't even recognize the post, but if it did, that wizard would be Vargussel. He had, after all, built the shield guardian. That was no small task for a team of wizards, let alone to do so alone and in secret.
He slipped a bliaut off a hanger and drew it over his head. The ankle-length overgown wasn't as functional as the enchanted robe he otherwise wore almost exclusively. In the bliaut he would find no hidden pockets yielding just what he wanted when he slipped his fingers in, but for this excursion he was more concerned with impressing Maelani than with quick access to spell components. The gown, with its wine-red appliques of spiny vines, would certainly catch the young lady's eye. There were spells enough in his repertoire that needed no hand-held focus or consumable element, and the wizard had studied accordingly that morning.
When the noon hour arrived, he would go as bidden to the duke's palace. It was Vargussel's magic that elicited the duke's summons. Vargussel didn't doubt that news of the latest unfortunate death of another of New Koratia's favored sons had reached the palace, and the duke was bringing in his closest advisors to set them loose upon the murderer. Vargussel was well practiced in deceiving the duke.
He sat on a cushioned bench and slipped his feet into a pair of gaudy but fashionable pigaches. The long, upturned, pointed shoes were of a matching set with the bliaut. Vargussel admired them at the same time they made him feel a bit ridiculous. Here was but one more of the sacrifices he made to secure his family's future.
Still sitting, Vargussel closed his eyes, bowed his head, and pressed his hands gently against his chest.
"Great Vecna," he whispered, "Master of All that is Secret and Hidden, hear my prayer. Accept my sacrifices of souls and horror, accept my allegiance and my humility. Mask me from the eyes of my enemy. Hold the truth of my heart from the heart of my intended. Give me the hand of Maelani, in exchange for her father's lands, the duke's influence, and the soul of Koratia."
Vargussel sat in quiet meditation for the space of twenty-seven heartbeats, as was prescribed in the scriptures. On the twenty-eighth heartbeat, he opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and stood.
Vecna would protect him, or not. Hear him, or not. All Vargussel could do was pray, and serve, and work. As the Eighty-third Commandment taught, "Vecna helps those who help Vecna."
Vargussel stood, smoothed his clothes once more, and gave himself a last, long look in the mirror. He hated having to fuss over his appearance but it was a part of his plan, and his plan would continue apace regardless of the obstacles that might appear in his path.
He crossed to his dressing table and waved his right hand over a wooden box. His fingertips tingled, letting him know that the spell was a success. He opened the box without setting off the trap, then waved his hand over the jumble of gold and silver jewelry that filled it. His fingertips tingled once more, and he reached in with a finger to slide open the box's false bottom. From within he chose a simple band of brushed platinum. He slipped the ring on his finger, and the air around him vibrated momentarily with the item's protective magic.
Next, he drew out the dog-face amulet. Taking a moment to admire the cut of the rubies that made up its eyes, he slipped the amulet over his neck and concentrated. The link with the shield guardian rose into his consciousness. He could feel the construct standing in the gloom of the abandoned slaughterhouse, waiting for his command.
For the moment, Vargussel let the guardian sleep, if that was what its present state could be called. He closed the false bottom of the box, then its lid, resetting the enchanted triggers both times.
The wizard didn't pause for another look in the mirror but hurried out to the waiting coach for the short ride north along the wide avenue between his mansion and the palace—the palace that would soon be his.
When Regdar was shown into the duke's private office, he quickly bowed and fixed his eyes on the floor in an effort to avoid eye contact with Maelani.
He'd been summoned to the palace for a second day in a row, having to leave a steaming Naull behind at the Thrush and the Jay once more, and the duke's beautiful daughter was the last person he wanted to see. Someone had been murdered during the night in a room only a few doors from the one he shared with Naull, and the crime had drawn the attention of the duke. Though both Regdar and Naull answered the few brief questions the watch officers posed them early that morning, neither had much to report. When the duke sent for him again, Regdar drew the simple conclusion that his proximity to the scene of the crime had something to do with it.
"Ah, Regdar," the duke said, "you remember my daughter, of course."
Regdar worked to affect a polite smile, and he nodded at Maelani.
"Indeed," he answered, "My Lady...."
Maelani grinned, her face alighting with a girlish pleasure that embarrassed Regdar as much as it attracted him. He forced his attention to the duke.
"Please," the duke said, "sit."
He indicated a massive, leather armchair and Regdar dutifully sat. The duke put his elbows on the broad desk in front of him and leaned forward to face Regdar. Lady Maelani seemed to float down into the chair next to Regdar. Her thin frame looked all the more delicate surrounded by the huge chair, which was a twin to Regdar's. The d
uke's private office was a small room, by ducal palace standards, but no less ornate it its woodwork and decorations. The martial theme—weapons, shields, and the mounted head of an owlbear—was both more pleasing to and comfortable for Regdar.
"We have a matter of some importance to discuss," the duke said, "but my daughter has appealed to me to meet you again. I indulge my only child, as I'm sure you've heard."
The duke smiled and Regdar found himself caught between nodding and shaking his head.
"I indulge my father as well," Maelani said. "I daresay we both got what we wanted today. It was especially heartening for me to hear that you will be granted a title. After all, your service to my father has guaranteed that we will all live under his protection for many good years."
Regdar nodded to the girl, but was confused. Title?
"The Lady Maelani gets ahead of herself," the duke said, with no little irritation evident in his voice. "More importantly, she gets ahead of me."
Maelani only smiled at the duke's stern countenance and said, "By moving sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, the duke makes it difficult not to sometimes pass him, or lag too far behind."
The two nobles shared a knowing stare, making Regdar feel like he should excuse himself.
The duke finally turned to Regdar and said, "Be that as it may, in light of recent events it is not only my pleasure but my duty to grant you the title of Lord Constable of New Koratia. You will assume this post immediately."
Regdar opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat.
Maelani leaned toward him so that their faces were only a foot apart. Looking into his eyes in a way that made Regdar even less comfortable, she said, "Welcome to the club, Lord Constable."
"Thank you," Regdar said. He knew it would take a while before he could sort out his thoughts enough to feel appropriately honored, but he added, "I serve at the will of the duke."
This elicited a girlish giggle from Maelani, who stood in a swirl of fine silk and finer jewelry. Regdar hastened to his feet, as was customary, but the duke remained seated.
"I was told," the girl said, "that I would have to leave you both once that announcement was made. I hope that whatever mysterious business you strong men have will not keep you too long."
Regdar bowed again, and Maelani swept from the room, leaving a pleasing draft of perfume in her wake. Regdar allowed himself a relieved sigh, and sat.
"As you know," the duke began without preamble, "another murder has been committed."
"Another?" Regdar asked.
The duke sighed and said, "The fifth in less than two weeks. All five of the victims died the same way, and all are of similar age and similar station."
"I know about the murder last night, but I heard of no other," Regdar said.
"We didn't realize they were murders at the time," the duke replied. "Now, well...some things are best left to the proper circles."
Regdar nodded and said, "I take it the victims were important people."
"They would have been," the duke replied, "eventually. All five of them were still young, all were heirs to sizable family fortunes. All five came from some of the finest families in the duchy."
"I assume, Your Highness," Regdar said, "that you have named me Lord Constable and informed me of these crimes so that I can bring the murderer to justice."
The duke smiled. "Well said, Lord Constable."
"With all due respect, Your Highness," Regdar replied, "surely there must be someone more qualified than I to assume this post. I am a commoner by birth and a soldier by profession. There must be officers, trained men from the watch, who've spent a lifetime working toward that post."
"Indeed there are," the duke said. "The problem is that all of those men, and there are a few, are sons of the aristocracy. They're more politicians than soldiers, more merchants than guardsmen. They also know every one of the victims, as all of the victims knew each other."
"But that means—"
"That someone is killing the sons of the aristocracy," the duke finished for him, "and I suspect the murderer is likely a noble himself. I need someone I can trust, Regdar, and I trust you. I need someone who will not be on this murderer's list of victims. I need your common blood as much as your soldier's training."
"But the title..."
"The title will permit you to command the guard," the duke said. "You will have men and resources at your disposal, but you will remain outside the political circles, at least for now."
Regdar took a deep breath and nodded.
"The man who was killed at the Thrush and the Jay," he said. "I was questioned by the guards, but no one would say how he died."
"Heartstop," the duke answered. "At least, that was the determination of the Temple of Pelor."
"Heartstop?" Regdar asked. "How was it determined that it was murder then?"
"The young victim," the duke answered, "Serge d'Allion, was only twenty years old."
"Twenty?"
"Yet he died of an affliction more appropriate to a man of my own advanced years," the duke said. "The other young men—the oldest only twenty-three, the youngest a mere eighteen—died the same way. And it isn't merely that. My examiners tell me that the convulsion began in the heart but quickly coursed through them so rapidly, and with such force, that it broke every bone in their bodies. That, with no outward sign of violence."
"And the priests?" Regdar asked. "Was no effort made to return them to life?"
"Indeed," he duke replied, "in all cases. The families paid a pretty penny, called in favors, but the priests were stymied. Something not only killed these young men but sent them to oblivion, never to return."
Regdar sighed, contemplating that dark, empty, infinite fate.
"Why these five?" Regdar asked.
The duke shrugged and said, "That's something our new Lord Constable needs to find out."
"They all knew each other?"
"I have to assume so," the duke said. "This is a big city, but the noble class is small and something of a closed community. They all went to the same balls, the same weddings, the same funerals."
"To kill is easy," Regdar said, "but to kill without leaving a connection so that even a god's power could bring body and soul together again...that's hard."
"Again," the duke replied, "I couldn't agree more. Whoever is committing these crimes is taking great pains to make them stick and expending no little magical power in the process."
"These five families," Regdar asked, "were they allied with each other?"
"No," the duke replied, "and that only makes it more difficult to understand. Some of them were bitter rivals. Still, in the circles these families move in, alliances and animosities blow like the wind. At some point they all find themselves competing over the same resources—the same land, skilled artisans, or bits of magic and treasure."
"Then why not kill the fathers?" Regdar asked. "If it's business, why not kill the businessmen?"
"A good question," the duke said with a shrug. "Precisely the sort I'd expect the Lord Constable to ask."
Regdar nodded and considered his position. A commoner, a soldier loyal to the duke but with hardly two gold coins to rub together, and he was going to investigate the murders of young men who might have been killed over age-old family grievances or fleeting matters of commerce. He would have to question men who could buy and sell him a thousand times over and be accountable to the same men for the lives of their sons. All the while he'd be commanding men he'd never met over officers whom he'd just leapfrogged into a position of authority he never sought.
He needed to learn to stay away from the city.
Maelani stopped in the short hall that connected her father's office with the anteroom and gathered herself. She sighed and made a show of waving fresh air onto her flushed face. Maelani knew that a contingent of guards was watching her every move from concealed murder holes in the walls and ceiling. They would be some of her father's most trusted men, but even they weren't above a bi
t of court gossip. She had no doubt that they would take the locations of the spyholes to their graves under even the most baroque of tortures, but what would it matter that the duke's daughter was all flustered at the sight of the new lord constable?
Let them talk, Maelani thought. I've made my choice and the sooner the city gossips talk themselves through it, the better.
Not wanting to lay it on too thick, she stepped briskly down the hall.
The door to the anteroom swung open for her, and before she bothered to scan the room, she said, "Theria, don't dawdle."
Her maid rustled about in her chair, her servant's gown all wrinkled though her large frame was fairly packed into it like a sausage in its casing. The gown they had traded the day before had been specially made so that it would accommodate both Maelani and her maid. The servant's day-to-day uniform enjoyed a much less expert tailoring. The maid stood, glancing quickly back and forth between Maelani and the man she'd been sitting next to.
"Vargussel," Maelani said, the moment she remembered the man's name.
Vargussel stood while bending at the waist in a sort of ascending bow. His thin lips twisted into a grin Maelani had seen on a hundred faces, though they were always much younger faces. A man of Vargussel's age shouldn't look at a woman her age with a grin like that.
Theria stepped away from the older man, her own face puckered in a most unattractive way.
"Oh, Mistress," the maid said as she swished up next to her employer. "I understand you know this...gentleman?"
Vargussel nodded like some kind of carrion bird inspecting a carcass and said, "It has been my distinct pleasure to make the lady's acquaintance on a number of occasions. Lady Maelani..."