She wrapped a leather thong from her belt around one arm, tied it off with a simple knot, then touched the black dagger to it.
Nothing happened.
The cord was supposed to untie and fall away, but nothing happened.
She touched the blade of the dagger to her forehead, gently; it came away bloody, but there was no glow, not so much as a flicker of color. The gash on her brow did not heal.
She held the dagger out by the blade, on the flat of her palm; it did not tremble, did not turn its hilt to her, did not prepare to defend her.
It did nothing that an athame was supposed to do.
It was not an athame.
It was nothing.
Staring at the worthless black dagger, hungry, thirsty, exhausted, Tabaea felt her eyes fill with tears. She fought back the first sob, but then gave in and wept.
PART TWO
Killer
CHAPTER 7
Lady Sarai rubbed her temple wearily and tried to listen to what was being said. It had been four years since she had first sat at her father’s left hand and watched him work; now, for the first time, she was in his throne and doing his work herself. She had put it off as long as she could, but someone had to do it, and her father no longer had the strength.
And, she feared, she wasn’t doing it very well. How had her father ever stood up under this constant stream of venality and stupidity?
“...she told me it was her father’s—what am I supposed to do, call in a soothsayer of some kind every time I buy a trinket? How was I supposed to know it was stolen?”
“A trinket?” the gem’s rightful owner burst out angrily. “You call that stone a trinket? My grandfather went all the way to Tazmor to find a diamond that size for my grandmother! You...”
Sarai raised her right hand while the left still massaged her forehead. At the gesture, a guard lowered his spear in the general direction of the victim.
The victim’s shouting stopped abruptly.
For a long moment, the three principals stood in uneasy silence, watching Lady Sarai as she sat in her father’s throne, trying to think.
“All right,” she said, pointing, “you get your diamond back. Right now. Give it to him, somebody. No further compensation, though, because you were stupid to let her near it in the first place. Now, get out of here.”
Another guard handed the robbery victim the pendant; he took it, essayed a quick, unhappy bow in Lady Sarai’s direction, then fled the room, the jewel clutched tight in his hand.
The jeweler began to protest, and even before Sarai raised her hand, the lowered spear moved slightly in his direction.
The thief grinned; her head was down, but Sarai saw the smile all the same. A hot, rough knot of anger grew in her own chest at the sight.
“Straighten her up,” Sarai snapped.
A soldier grabbed the thief’s long braid and yanked her head back; the smile vanished, and she glared at Sarai. Sarai could see her arms flexing, as if she were trying to slip free of the ropes around her wrists.
“Sansha of Smallgate, you said your name was?” Sarai demanded.
The thief couldn’t nod, with her hair pulled back; she struggled for a moment, then said, “That’s right.”
“You spent all the money?”
“That’s right, too.” “It’s hard to believe you could use up that much that fast— eight rounds of gold, was it?”
“I had debts,” Sansha said, tilting her head in a vain attempt to loosen the guard’s grip.
“That’s too bad,” Sarai said, “because now you’ve got another one. You owe this man eight rounds of gold.” She pointed to the jeweler.
“Eleven,” the jeweler protested. “The stone was worth at least eleven!”
“You paid her eight,” Sarai told him. “The stone never belonged to you, only the money you paid her.”
The jeweler subsided unhappily, and Sarai turned her attention back to Sansha.
“You owe him eight rounds,” she said.
Sansha didn’t answer. Sarai had the impression that she would have shrugged, had her hands been free.
“I’m going to buy that debt from him,” Sarai said. “So now you owe me eight rounds of gold.”
“I can’t pay you, either,” Sansha retorted.
“I know,” Sarai said. “So I’ll settle for the five or six bits on the piece that I’ll get by selling you at auction. Somebody give him his money, and then take her down to the dungeon until we can get a slaver to take a look at her.” She waved in dismissal as Sansha’s expression shifted abruptly from defiance to shock.
She watched as the jeweler was led out in the direction of the treasury, and the thief was dragged, struggling and crying, toward the stairs leading down. Then she let out a sigh, and leaned over toward Okko.
“How did I do?” she asked.
He considered that for a moment.
“I think,” he said, “that your father would have lectured the jeweler briefly on his carelessness and might have only promised him the auction proceeds, rather than the full amount of the debt.”
“You’re right,” Sarai admitted. “That’s what I should have done.” She glanced at the door. “It’s too late now, isn’t it? It wouldn’t look right.”
“I’m afraid so,” Okko agreed.
“I wish my father was doing this,” Sarai said. “I hate it.”
Okko didn’t reply, but was clearly thinking that he, too, wished Lord Kalthon were there.
“I hope he’ll be better soon,” Sarai added.
Again, Okko said nothing; again, Sarai knew quite well what he was thinking. He was thinking that Lord Kalthon wasn’t going to get better.
Sarai feared that Okko might be right. She was doing everything she could to prevent it, but still, her father’s illness was growing steadily worse. It really wasn’t fair.
And her brother wasn’t any help—his sickliness was worse lately, too; he coughed all the time, bringing up thick fluid and sometimes blood. And he was too young to serve as Minister of Justice anyway, even if he were healthy; their father should have been around for another twenty years.
She wasn’t supposed to be her father’s heir, though; she was Minister of Investigation, not Minister of Justice! It was completely unfair that she should be stuck here, settling all these stupid arguments, instead of finding some way to cure her father’s illness. Why couldn’t some local magistrate have dealt with Sansha of Smallgate, and all the others like her? So what if the jeweler lived in a different jurisdiction from the gem’s owner?
Okko looked steadily back at her, and she realized she was staring quite rudely at him. She straightened up, then slumped back in the big chair.
For four years now, she had been learning the arts of investigation—with very little guidance, since there were no older, more experienced investigation specialists to aid her. Her assistant, Captain Tikri, was useful in a variety of ways, especially in her attempts to recruit spies, but he knew even less than she did about finding criminals or determining the facts of a puzzling case. Her father had taught her his own methods, but they were very limited—mostly a matter of which magicians to talk to.
Because magic could do so much in answering riddles and untangling puzzles, she had spent most of her time studying magic—in theory, never in practice. She knew the names of a hundred spells, but had never worked a one; she knew the names of a score of gods and as many demons, and had never summoned any of them; she knew the nature of a warlock’s talents, but had not a trace of them herself.
She had studied the working of the various spells of contagion and clairvoyance and whatever else had been used in the solving of crimes and mysteries. She knew how, with the appropriate spells, the merest traces of blood or hair could be linked to their owners; she knew which questions the gods would answer when summoned, and what the souls of the dead were likely to know-it was really rather surprising how many murder victims had no idea how they had died. She knew how warding spells worked, how loc
ks both magical and mundane operated, and how gems could be appraised and identified.
And with all this knowledge, she couldn’t do a thing for her father or brother.
It was, of course, the fault of the Wizards’ Guild.
“Shall we bring in the next case, my lady?” Chanden, the bailiff, asked quietly.
Sarai blinked. She hadn’t even noticed him approaching the throne. “The next?”
“Yes, my lady. Tenneth Tolnor’s son claims he was cheated by the wizard Dagon of Aldagmor.”
Cheated by wizards. Her mouth twisted. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry. That’s all for today.”
“My lady?” Sarai knew the polite question was a protest, that she was shirking her duties—no, shirking her father’s duties, not her own—but she didn’t care. She needed to stop. She set her jaw.
“Perhaps a short recess, my lady?”
“All right,” she said, giving in. “Half an hour, at least. T need that long. I need it, Chanden.”
“Yes, my lady.” He straightened and turned to face the little knot of people waiting at the lower end of the room—the crooked room, Sarai realized, and a crooked grin twisted her lip. The justice chamber itself was crooked—why hadn’t she realized that years ago?
It all depended on magic, after all. They used magicians to tell who was telling the truth and who was lying, to determine what had actually happened when claims conflicted. But who could tell them if the magicians were lying? “Lady Sarai, Acting Minister of Justice for Ederd the Fourth, Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, hereby declares that further judgments shall be postponed one half hour,” Chanden announced loudly. “Clear the room, please.”
Sarai ignored the murmurs and did not wait for the room to empty; she slipped out the back door as quickly as she could and headed down the passageway toward the southeast wing, where her family’s rooms were.
It was all those wizards, she thought, the Guild and its stupid rules. If her father were a wealthy commoner, they could buy a healing spell—but because he was a member of the nobility, because he held a post in the government, the Wizards’ Guild forbade the use of magic to prolong his life.
And it didn’t matter whether the spell was a simple disinfectant or perfect immortality—anything that prolonged life, in any degree, was forbidden to the nobility, as far as wizards were concerned.
What’s more, the Wizards’ Guild actively discouraged other magicians from healing the nobility, as well. Sarai had had to argue to get other magicians even to look at her father.
Not that it had done much good.
In fact, it was really quite startling how little worthwhile healing magic was out there. As she reached the first flight of steps up, Sarai began counting off the different schools of magic and how they had failed her.
Demonology was inherently destructive; it was no great surprise that demons couldn’t heal. The demonologists had all agreed on that.
The sorcerers swore that with the right artifacts, they could heal diseases, even the sort of slow, lingering weakness mat was gradually killing Lord Kalthon, or the illness of the lungs that was crippling his son—but the right artifacts could no longer be found. None existed in Ethshar of the Sands.
Sarai had paid a large fee to have a search begun throughout all the World, from the wastes of Kerroa to the Empire of Vond, but so far nothing had come of it, and she doubted anything ever would.
The warlocks were apologetic, but couldn’t work on anything that small. Patching up an opened vein, repairing a ruptured heart, welding a broken bone—those warlockry could at least attempt, though success was not always certain. But whatever was wrong with her father, they said, attacked the individual nerves, operating on a scale they could not perceive, and therefore could not affect.
Witchcraft held out some promise at first; the half-dozen witches Sarai had summoned to the palace had tried, at least. They had fed father and son strength, drawing it from their own bodies—but to no avail. When the spell was broken, the weakness returned within hours. Witchcraft could, at great cost to the witch, put the elder Kalthon back on his feet for a day or two, but could do nothing permanent.
“His own body has given up,” the eldest, Shirith of Ethshar, explained. “We can’t heal it without its help.”
But all of those Sarai had tried only when she became desperate. She had begun with the theurgists—after all, didn’t everyone pray to the gods for good health? She reached the second floor and started up the next flight. Okko had refused to handle the job—although he acknowledged that he was a top-ranked theurgist, a high priest, in fact; his specialties were truth and information. Healing was not his province. He had instead recommended her to Anna the Elder. Anna had summoned gods, had spoken with them, and had reported back to Kalthon and Sarai.
“We know of three gods of health and healing,” Anna had explained. “There are the siblings Blusheld and Blukros and their father, Mekdor. Blusheld involves herself only with the maintenance of health and thus will not concern herself with this case—it’s too late to ask her aid. Mekdor concerns himself with great wounds and catastrophes, with plagues and epidemics; anything as slow as this wasting disease, attacking only one or two people, is beneath his notice. Thus, this is clearly the province of Blukros.”
At that point Anna had hesitated, and Lord Kalthon had tried to save him the embarrassment of explaining, saying that he understood.
Sarai would have none of it; she had demanded that Anna summon Blukros and beseech him to heal her father.
“No,” Kalthon had said, “he can’t. Not on my behalf.” “Why nor?” Sarai had demanded.
“Because seven years ago, after having summoned him to help your mother, I offended the god Blukros,” Kalthon had explained. “I refused him a silver coin I had promised, and he forever withdrew his protection from me, and from my family.” Sarai had stared at her father and demanded, “But why?” “Because I was angry—your mother had died.” And so, because of her father’s long-ago pique, there was no help to be had from the gods. Anna had tried, and he had promised to attempt to call upon Luzro, god of the dead, to see if, once dead, Kalthon could be restored to life—but nothing had come of it.
So theurgy was no help. And that left wizardry.
And the wizards had healing spells and youth spells and strength spells; they had transformation spells, and if all else failed they could transform Kalthon to some other, healthier form.
But they wouldn’t.
She reached the top of the stairs and stamped down the corridor. They wouldn’t, because the Wizards’ Guild forbade it, and to oppose the will of the Guild was to die. And the Guild forbade it because they refused to meddle in politics. It was strictly forbidden for any wizard to be a member of the nobility in his or her own right; a century ago, they had even been forbidden to marry into the nobility, but that rule had been relaxed. They could hold office only if the office was one that required a magician—a post such as Okko’s, for example. No wizard could kill a king in the Small Kingdoms, or a baron in Sardiron, or an overlord or a minister or any other high official of the Hegemony, save in self-defense or to enforce Guild rules; the direct heirs of the nobility were similarly off-limits. Wizards were forbidden to use any magical compulsion on any official above the rank of lieutenant in the city guard without written consent from three Guildniasters. And anyone they could not kill, they were forbidden to heal, as well. “That’s stupid,” Sarai had said.
Algarin of Longwall, her father’s chief wizardry consultant, had turned up an empty palm. “It’s the Guild law,” he said. “Why?” Algarin had had no answer, and Sarai had demanded to see a more highly placed wizard, so it was the city’s senior Guild-master, Serem the Wise, who finally explained it.
“Magic, Lady Sarai,” the old man had said, “is power, but of a different sort than the power you and your father wield.”
“I can see that for myself,” Sarai had snapped in reply.
“And power,” Serem had con
tinued, untroubled by her interruption, “must be kept in balance. If it is not, the World will be plunged into chaos.”
“Says who?”
“It’s self-evident,” Serem had replied, with mild surprise. “Imagine, if you will, that a wizard were to become overlord of Ethshar of the Sands.”
Sarai had glowered at him, and Serem had revised his suggestion. “Suppose,” he said, “that Lord Ederd the Heir had apprenticed to a wizard in his youth. Suppose that he decided he was tired of waiting for his father to die and cast a spell that slew the overlord.”
“Then he’d be guilty of treason, and he would be executed,” Sarai had replied. “That’s easy enough. My father would see to it.”
“But how?” Serem had asked. “Suppose this evil wizard were to use his spells to guard himself, and you could not appeal to the Wizards’ Guild, because there are, in our hypothetical case, no Guild rules forbidding his actions, no matter what other laws he may have broken.”
“There aren’t any Guild rules requiring that you wizards obey the laws?”
Serem had hesitated before answering, his first hesitation, but then admitted that there were no such rules.
Sarai had insisted that a rule requiring wizards to obey the same laws as ordinary people would serve just as well as this stupid rule about keeping out of polities, and Serem had then tried to convince her that allowing kings and ministers to live for centuries, as would inevitably happen if the rules were changed, would be a bad thing.
Sarai had not accepted that.
The argument had dragged on for days—sixnights, in fact. In the end, when Sarai refused to be convinced, Serem had simply turned up a palm and said, “My lady, those are the Guild rules, and I have no power to change them.” They were stupid rules, Sarai thought as she opened the door of her father’s bedchamber, and she wanted them changed.
CHAPTER 8
The Drunken Dragon was probably not the most dangerous tavern in the city, Tabaea thought as she gulped down the watery stuff that passed for ale in that establishment, but it was the most dangerous she ever cared to see. Coming here had been a serious mistake.
The Spell of the Black Dagger loe-6 Page 6