“How?”
She lifted the satchel which contained the daggers.
“You’ll forgive me if I consider the aid granted to travel in the opposite direction.”
“Indeed. But the fact that these proved helpful—when so little else available did—tells us what we have begun to suspect. It is not welcome news, but we are long past the days of the Blood Barons, and we do not hold the bearer of unwelcome tidings responsible for carrying them.
“These are, of course, daggers. They will cut a man—”
“If he’s standing still; they are far from the definition of sharp in any of the languages I know.”
She smiled. “Very well. They are not new blades, and they were made in a time when the edge was less important than what was granted the blade as a whole. Andrei says you have studied some Old Weston.” She waited for his nod, as if it made a difference. He almost believed it did.
She defined the term “grandmotherly” with her bearing, her obvious wisdom, her subdued affection. Rath found it disconcerting. He had had many reasons to deal with men—and women—of power in this City; he had hoped never to meet the person under whose sway the Order of Knowledge fell. He had taken care, during his rare visits to the Order, to use different names and a variety of odd disguises to further this goal.
“I know, dear,” she told him, frowning as a circle of smoke crossed her vision. “I am seldom what anyone expects the first time.”
“Nor,” Member APhaniel said, having moved his pipe a fraction of an arm’s length to one side, “is she what anyone expects a second or third time.”
“Meralonne—”
He lifted a hand. “Time is at issue here. What Sigurne has said is true; the blades were not made to be common weapons. If you read Old Weston, you will see most of their purpose written on the flats of the blades themselves; if you have not mastered it, you will see some fragment of purpose; the metal, as I said, is not a hard one.
“But it was meant to endure enchantment, and to carry some hint of Lattan magic within it.”
Rath frowned. “Lattan, as in the month?”
“As in the month, yes. There were other weapons made at one time that were meant as vessels for Scaral magic, but they serve little purpose now.”
Lattan. Scaral. Opposite months in the Imperial calendar. Rath’s frown deepened a moment. “The solstices,” he said at last.
Meralonne clearly expected his words to have conveyed that information.
“The longest day,” Rath added quietly.
“Indeed. In the ancient tongue, the height of Summer at the crossroads.”
If Rath was not a mage—and to his great regret, he was not—he had more than a passing knowledge of the various branches of magic studied and practiced within the Order of Knowledge. Summer was not one of them. They were, after all, not agrarians.
“The blades contain that essence, when they are properly consecrated and prepared. It is not,” Meralonne added, “a trivial task, and it is also not a task that can be undertaken by members of the Order.”
“But the daggers—”
“They came from our hands, yes, but they were delivered to them, at some political cost and inconvenience, by the god-born upon the Isle.”
The heads, Rath thought, of the triad of Churches whose spires were allowed, by law, to reach higher than the towers of Avantari, the palace of Kings. The only such spires.
“Had you stabbed a man with this—with either of these—it would have wounded him. That is not the effect such action had.” He spoke with absolute certainty, and it was a warning to Rath: lying was not only unwise, it was pointless. Worse than pointless. Given that the head of the Order of Knowledge had chosen to involve herself, and given how little actual knowledge Rath possessed, it gave him only the opportunity to make enemies.
“No,” he said quietly. “It—seemed to—burn them from the inside out.”
The two mages exchanged a glance.
“You recognized these men?”
“No. In both cases, they were strangers to me.”
“You’ve spoken of two incidents; the first?”
“I was followed in the Common, as Andrei has recounted,” he said, speaking with care, “when I left the abode of a friend.”
“Why?”
“Why was I followed?”
“That will do, for a start.”
Rath shrugged. Lying was pointless, yes, but truth could be an art when used with care. “I had, in my possession, two old bowls that I hoped to sell. One of them was cracked,” he added.
“And these?”
“I sold them; they are no longer in my possession.”
“Who was their purchaser?”
This suited Rath. “A tall, bald man by the name of Patris AMatie.”
Meralonne frowned. “The name is not known to me.”
Andrei chose to speak. “He is a merchant, Member APhaniel, of some ten years good standing in the Merchants’ Guild.”
“And he has an interest in cracked bowls?” Member APhaniel took Andrei’s information without once glancing at the man who had offered it.
“Of a particular vintage.”
“You believe he had you followed.”
Rath nodded.
“And you used the daggers—”
Andrei lifted a hand. “I used them,” he said quietly. “Some discreet inquiries had been made by that time, and I chose to follow instinct.”
“May it always serve you this well.” Member APhaniel looked to Sigurne. “Four,” he said again.
“Who were these men?” Rath finally asked.
“They were not, in our parlance, men, as I believe you already suspect,” Sigurne replied. “But this is ill news, for those of us who labor within the Order. You were a child once,” she continued, “and perhaps as a child you were told stories of the times before Veralaan returned to grace the Empire with her sons?”
Rath nodded.
“And you are aware of the wars that occurred between the Blood Barons?”
He nodded again. As perhaps the most significant of the holidays observed in Averalaan involved that history, not even Rath could fail to be familiar with it, although he understood well that history was remade by generations.
“During the dark years, the Blood Barons—those who were powerful enough—often summoned servants.”
“From the Hells,” Rath said with just the hint of a sardonic smile.
No answering smile was offered. “From the Hells,” she replied gravely. “If they had power, the possession of the creature’s name, and the will and ability to use it to bind the summoned to service. Those creatures were called—”
“Demons.”
Sigurne nodded gravely. “It is not, perhaps, what they would call themselves should you be in a position to ask.”
“The ability to summon and enslave—”
“The arts are considered dark arts,” she replied. Her voice was a shade cooler. “And the practice or study of such arts has long been forbidden any member of the Order of Knowledge.”
Rath frowned. “Surely such creatures could be considered a superior form of servant or weapon,” he began.
She met his words as if they were a physical threat—and she, the most powerful woman in the Order. The change in her posture was subtle, and the shift in the networks of lines that comprised her expression, equally hard to delineate—but they were there.
“It is a time-honored debate upon the floor of the Council of the Order,” Meralonne told him. “And it is a debate which is, in its entirety, an intellectual exercise. Imagine,” he added, “that you could force someone—anyone—to do your bidding with but the use of a single word.”
“The bards—”
“The bards control a momentary action, not the whole of an existence.” He waved a hand. “Those who are young and less experienced do not understand the particular mind-set such control involves.”
“And even if they did,” Sigurne added, “it woul
d signify nothing. The Kings consider demonology a forbidden art.”
And you, Rath thought, would kill a man who broke that law without a second thought. “Which means—”
“That we are in all probability dealing with a rogue mage, yes. There have, as you are no doubt aware, been a number of rogue mages in the history of Averalaan. Demonologists are rare, because there is usually only one mistake allowed them; if they make that mistake, they are no longer a consideration.” Meralonne paused to draw smoke through pipestem before he continued. “The unknown mage in question has summoned at least four demons, and at least two concurrently. I did not fight them,” he added, and Rath thought he heard regret’s familiar edge between those last words, “and I therefore cannot judge their value, or their power.
“But if they were devoured by the ceremonial blades, they were not inconsequential. If they were immune to your weapons—” and here he actually did frown with distaste, “—your weapons were either of negligible quality, or the summoned creatures were of nonnegligible power.
“It is frustrating,” he added. “But my assumption—our assumption—is that the demons summoned were of significant power only in the streets of the lower holdings.”
“One used fire,” Rath said quietly. “As a mage might.”
Meralonne nodded. “But did he draw a sword?”
“Why would he need one? He had fire. And he could use it to far greater effect.”
“They are arrogant by nature,” Meralonne replied. “And you presented very little threat.” But he seemed to relax. “Very well. You have found four demons—or they have found you—and you have dispatched them. Unlike mortals, their absence would be noted instantly by the summoner; if the summoner is skilled, it is likely that the cause of their disappearance might also be noted.”
“They’re aware of me,” Rath said flatly.
“That is our supposition.” Meralonne set his pipe aside and leaned forward in his chair. “For reasons we have already expressed, we wish to avoid a direct involvement of the Magisterium—beyond that which is legally necessary—at this time.
“Without their presence, however, we have little method of compelling you to part with either information or time; we must rely, instead, on your enlightened sense of self-preservation. Were it up to me, I would demand what information you possess; it is not, however, up to me, and Sigurne Mellifas has chosen to regard nicety of law as necessary.”
“What he meant to say,” Sigurne added, pointedly refusing to look at her companion, “is that we don’t actually care what you’re involved in, as long as it isn’t the summoning of demons. We have taken the liberty of bringing with us two more of the blessed daggers, and we will leave them with you; we require in return—and will trust you in this—that you inform us of any need to actually use them.
“The bowls,” she added. “If you describe them, we will look for them. We will undertake our own investigations into Patris AMatie.”
“They were ringed with Old Weston,” Rath told her. “Near complete.”
Sigurne nodded, but it was clear that she did not like the way the information he had given her fit with the information she had withheld. “We must go,” she told him. “But let me offer a word of warning.”
He waited.
“I do not ask how you came across these bowls—or any other artifact of interest—because in the end, that is not my concern. But were I you, I would avoid a like discovery any time in the near future.”
“Were it not for my discovery, you would not now be armed with what little knowledge you have.”
“Aye, there’s truth in that,” she said softly. “But we are armed now; this is not your fight.”
He nodded. He vastly preferred fights which were not.
“If you have need of us, Andrei knows how we may best be contacted.” She rose. And then she smiled again, looking down on Rath. “Ararath Handernesse. Your sister—”
He lifted a hand. “I have no sister,” he said quietly.
She nodded, as if this came as no surprise to her. “Amarais Handernesse ATerafin would not disavow you. Think what you will of her life and her choices, but understand this: She is worthy of House Terafin. The only question in my mind is whether or not the House can be made, in the end, worthy of her.”
“And you say this because?”
“I have met her, of course.” She turned to Meralonne APhaniel, and as one, they both drew their hoods up, shadowing their faces. “Think less harshly of her, if you can. What Handernesse surrendered to the Empire, even if it was surrendered unwilling, may well define much of its fate for decades to come.”
“And what of Handernesse?” Rath asked, the bitterness in his voice beyond his ability to control.
“Handernesse had two children of note, or so it is said; the daughter, who gave up her name and her birthright in pursuit of her goals, and a son who apparently disappeared not long thereafter.”
“You’ve met her,” Rath replied. “Can you honestly say that I am her equal?”
“Not honestly, no,” was the quiet reply. “But in life, there is fluidity and the possibility of change. The Terafin spoke highly of you, if briefly,” she added, “and her words were not unkind.”
He said nothing; instead, he turned his gaze to the warm and moving shapes of fire, contained by grate and burning logs. Nor did he look up until the shadows had passed, and he was once again alone with Andrei.
The servant said, “That went, I think, as well as one could expect.” He rose. “I, too, have things to investigate, Ararath.”
“Not on my account.”
“Everything I do, I do at the behest of Patris Hectore.” Andrei bowed neatly. “But I will say this: you do better than you know. I do not entirely understand the turn of events in the holdings,” he added, “but it is clear to me that things are changing. You have always been cautious,” he added, “and that caution has been both bane and blessing.
“But the child—”
“I will not speak of her, Andrei.”
“As you wish.” He bowed again.
Andrei left Rath at the door of the Placid Sea. His bow was curt, but it was not perfunctory, and when he rose, his eyes were dark and almost unblinking. Even rain, trailing slowly from his forehead, did not cause his regard to waver. He might have been made of stone, if stone lived. Rath had always admired that, in Andrei: he was a man who needed no one.
And lack of need defined strength.
“I have duties,” Andrei said quietly, “and I am uneasy away from the Patris at this time. You will call upon me if you require my aid, but I feel it in the interests of Patris Hectore that your communications do not cross his desk.”
Rath was momentarily silent.
“I have served Hectore for many years,” Andrei replied, “and the manner and method I deem wise has always been accepted by the Patris himself. Patris AMatie is a merchant; I spoke truth, there. If the Order cannot find the information they require to secure his removal, it is best for future relations between House Araven and the Merchants’ Guild that knowledge of these difficulties are kept from Patris Hectore.”
“I doubt they would have missed any lie.”
“Unlikely, and Member APhaniel is known for a somewhat mercurial temper.” Andrei’s smile was slight, and shadowed by more than the endless drab of passing cloud.
“The Terafin—”
“Leave it, Andrei,” Rath replied wearily. “If I’m old enough to feel a twinge of nostalgia,” he added, spitting the word from his mouth with distaste, “it is a problem I consider private.”
Andrei nodded again. But before he left, he said, “you would not, even a year ago, have concerned yourself with the existence of a brothel.”
Rath shrugged. “In a year, I probably won’t be overly concerned with it either.”
“As you say.” Andrei turned then, and left.
Rath left as well, missing the fireside in the Placid Sea; missing the moment of warmth, the sense of belon
ging, that had crept up on him without warning.
Perhaps this sharp and bitter reminder of the past addled his brain; he was not a young man. He walked through the streets of Averalaan Aramarelas, gazing at the tall buildings that never crowded the wide thoroughfare. They were marvels of architecture; they used the scant—and expensive—land upon the Isle as if small space were divine, decreed, and much desired. Where the buildings of the poor holdings loomed at great height, their facades were often adorned by peeling paint or faded wood, barred and broken panes of once grand windows letting light creep in with rain and wind.
The height here was entirely majestic; it spoke of grandeur and drama; it spoke of wealth.
Such a house as this Handernesse had once owned. Such a house as this, he thought bitterly, with its large grounds, its high gates, its guards and its servants. If none of them were the equal of Andrei, they were nonetheless competent, and even trusted.
But Amarais? She had been their heart. From the moment she could speak, precocious child blossoming into something too quick and too subtle to long accept precocious as a relevant description, she had been the joy of their grandfather, Patris Handernesse. The Handernesse.
She had adored the old man.
So, in his fashion, had Rath.
He could not make his way to that home; it was no longer his.
“It could still be yours,” Patris Hectore had told him. He had made that mistake exactly once, and two years had passed before Rath was ready to speak with him again. Rath’s godfather learned from his errors; he was a canny man, and a cunning merchant.
But he had a weakness for his fledgling children, his wayward godchildren, and a belief that his guidance and wisdom could lead them to safe harbor; it was difficult for him to surrender beliefs so firmly anchored in sentiment.
Rath would have said that sentiment played no part in his life, and as the streets widened, as the carriages grew less frequent, he followed roads that he would have sworn were no longer familiar, lost in thought.
Averalaan Aramarelas had once been his home. He had not been proud of it; he had not been displeased by it. The Isle, with its stately, expensive buildings, its high manners, its proximity to the Kings and the god-born who ruled their followers across the Empire from the confines of the grand and glorious cathedrals to which many made pilgrimage—these were almost mundane in their matter-of-fact existence.
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