The Spell of the Black Dagger loe-6

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Well,” Mereth said, “if any kind of wizardry can kill Ta-baea, this can—can’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Tobas said. “I just hope it doesn’t kill everybody.’”

  “Oh, it won’t do that,” Mereth said, not anywhere near as certainly as she would have liked.

  “It might,” Tobas replied. “The original countercharm is lost, has been lost for four or five hundred years now, and in all that time no one’s been foolish enough to risk trying it. The spell book I found it in had a note at the bottom in big red runes, saying, ’Don’t try it!,’ but here we are, trying it.”

  “But we’ve got it all figured out,” Mereth insisted. “As soon as Tabaea’s dead, the warlocks pick it up and push it through that tapestry of yours, to the no-magic place, and it’ll be gone!”

  “That assumes,” Tobas pointed out, “that the warlocks really can pick it up and that the tapestry really will transport it. For the former we have only the warlocks’ word that they can lift anything that isn’t too immense, and for the latter, all we have is assumptions and guesses. What if, instead of the tapestry transporting the Seething Death, the Seething Death destroys the Transporting Tapestry?”

  Mereth went pale.

  “Oh, gods,” she said. “What if it does destroy the tapestry? Tobas, why didn’t you say anything sooner?” “I did,” Tobas replied. “I argued until my throat was sore and my lungs wouldn’t hold air, and Telurinon promised to think it all over carefully, and when I came back he’d started the ritual.”

  “Oh, but... but it’s so dangerous... How could he?”

  Tobas turned up an empty palm. “He’s frustrated,” he said. “We’ve all been throwing spells at Tabaea for a sixnight now, and they’ve had even less effect than Lord Torrut’s archers and booby traps—by the way, did you hear about the tripwire and razor-wheels? The spies said it took Tabaea almost five minutes to heal.”

  Mereth shuddered.

  “Well, anyway,” Tobas continued, “all his life Telurinon has had these spells too terrible to use, he’s heard about how wizardry is more powerful than anything, and now there’s someone who just absorbs anything we throw at her—I can see why he’d want to try some of the real World-wrecker spells on her. He’ll probably never have another opportunity to use any of them. But I don’t think he should use the Seething Death.”

  “Then why don’t you stop him?”

  “Oh, now, you know better than that,” Tobas chided her. “Have you ever interrupted a wizard in the middle of a spell?”

  “Um... once.” Mereth winced at the memory. “When I was an apprentice. Nobody died, but it was close.”

  “Low-order magic, I assume?”

  “Very.”

  Tobas nodded. “Ever see the Tower of Flame?”

  Mereth turned to him, startled. “No, have you? I wasn’t even sure it was real!”

  “Oh, it’s real, all right,” Tobas replied. “It’s in the mountains southeast of Dwomor. You can see it for a dozen leagues in every direction; it lights up the whole area at night. It just keeps going and going and going, spewing fire upward out of a field of bare rock. The best records say it’s been burning for eight hundred years now, and the story is—I can’t swear it’s true—the story is that it was only about a second- or third-order spell that went wrong, some ordinary little spell, meant to sharpen a sword or something.”

  “Yes, but...”

  “And for myself,” Tobas said, interrupting her protest, “I’m not about to forget that every spriggan in the World, and there must be hundreds of them by now, maybe thousands, but every single one of them is out there running around, causing trouble, because I got a gesture wrong doing Lugwiler’s Haunting Phantasm.”

  “But...”

  “Not to mention,” Tobas added forcefully, “that all our problems with Tabaea and the Black Dagger are the result of a mistake during an athamezation.” “So you aren’t going to stop him,” Mereth said.

  “That’s right,” Tobas said. “That’s got to be tenth-, maybe twelfth-order magic he’s doing down there; I can’t handle anything like that, hardly anyone can, even among Guildmasters, and I’m not about to risk seeing a spell like that go wrong. It’s bad enough if it goes right.”

  “What happens if it doesn’t?” Mereth asked. “I mean, Tel-urinon could make a mistake even if we don’t disturb him.”

  Tobas shrugged. “Who knows? Dragon’s blood, serpent’s venom, a rope that’s hanged a man, and a sword that’s slain a woman... there’s some potent stuff in there.”

  “How is it supposed to work?”

  Tobas sighed. “Well,” he said, “when he’s finished, that brew in the silver bowl there is supposed to yield a single drop of fluid that’s decanted into a golden thimble. It’s almost stable at that point; it won’t do anything to the thimble as long as the drop stays entirely within it. But when the drop is tipped over the edge of the thimble, whether it’s deliberately poured, or spilled, or whatever, the spell will be activated, and whatever it falls upon will be consumed by the Seething Death, which will then slowly spread, destroying everything it touches, until something stops it.”

  “And we don’t know of anything that will stop it,” Mereth said.

  “Right. Unless Telurinon’s scheme to transport it to the dead area works.”

  “What if the Black Dagger stops it? ”

  Tobas shrugged. “Who knows?” he said.

  Mereth blinked. “I’m not sure I understand exactly,” she said. “The way I understand it, the Seething Death forms a sort of pool of this stuff, right? A pool that gradually spreads?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How will that stop Tabaea? Are we planning to push her into the pool?”

  Tobas grimaced.

  “No,” he said. “Telurinon intends to pour the drop directly on her head.”

  Mereth was a wizard and had been for all her adult life; she regularly worked with bits of corpses and various repulsive organic fluids. What was more, she had worked for the Minister of Justice and his daughter, the Minister of Investigation, studying and spying on all the various things that the citizens of Eth-shar did to one another when sufficiently provoked. All the same, she winced slightly at the thought of pouring that stuff on someone’s head.

  “Ick,” she said. Then, after a moment’s thought, she asked, “How?”

  “The warlocks,” Tobas told her. “As soon as it’s ready, the warlocks will transport it to the palace and pour it on Tabaea. Then, as soon as she’s dead, they’ll lift her corpse, so the stuff won’t get on anything else, and send Tabaea and the Seething Death through the tapestry. It’s all ready to go, rolled up by the front door.” “Couldn’t they just send her through the tapestry alive? Then we wouldn’t have to use the Seething Death at all!”

  Tobas sighed again. “Maybe they could,” he said, “but they don’t think so. She’s a warlock herself, while she’s alive, and she can block them. I don’t understand that part, I’m not a warlock any more than you are, but that’s what they say.”

  “Have they tried!” Mereth demanded.

  Tobas turned up an empty palm. “Whether they have or not,” he said, pointing at Telurinon, “it’s a little late to turn back now, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER 35

  Sarai winced, eyes closed, as she slit the dog’s throat. The animal thrashed wildly, and hot blood sprayed on Sarai’s hands, but she kept her hold.

  And as it struggled, Sarai felt a surge of heat, of strength, all through her; without meaning to, she tightened her grip on the dying dog and felt the flesh yielding beneath her fingers. Her heart was pounding, her muscles were tense.

  Then the dog went limp, sagging to the ground between her legs, and the world suddenly seemed to flood in on her; her ears rang with strange new sounds, and her vision seemed suddenly sharper and more intense, as if everything was outlined against the background of the Wall Street Field—though for a moment, the colors seemed to fade away, as if drowned ou
t by the clarity of shape and movement.

  Most of all, though, scents poured in. She could smell everything, all at once—the dog’s blood, her own sweat, her sex, the dirt of the Field, the sun-warmed stone of the city wall, the smokes and stenches of every individual shop or home on Wall Street or the blocks beyond. She could tell at once which of the empty blankets and abandoned tents of the Field were mildewed or decayed and which were still clean and wholesome; she could smell the metal of the Black Dagger itself.

  For a moment she stood over the dead dog, just breathing in the city, marveling at it all. She had known that dogs could smell better than mere humans, of course, everyone knew that, but she had never before realized how much better, and she had never imagined what it would be like.

  Her attempts to find Lord Torrut had, so far, been unsuccessful; she had found no one in the barracks or the gatehouses. Now, though, she wondered if she could locate him by smell, track him down by following his scent. She had heard about dogs doing such things and had always dismissed the stories as exaggerations, but now, she had to reconsider. She could smell everything.

  She was stronger now, too; she could feel it. The dog had not been particularly strong or healthy, just a half-starved stray scavenging in the almost-empty Field, but she had felt the power in her grip as she held it while it died.

  Tabaea had killed a dozen men—Sarai tried to imagine just how strong that made her feel, and couldn’t.

  And Tabaea had killed several dogs, as well, Sarai remembered—she, too, had experienced this flood of scent and sound and image.

  Scents—that explained some of Tabaea’s mysterious abilities. It wasn’t magic, not in the way Sarai and the others had assumed; she could smell people approaching; she could hear them, like a watchdog. People said dogs could smell fear, as well, could tell friend from foe by scent—could Tabaea?

  Until now, Sarai had viewed Tabaea as a mysterious and powerful magician, her talents and abilities beyond any ordinary explanation, her mind beyond understanding; now, suddenly, she thought she understood the usurper. Sarai had assumed that Tabaea had created the Black Dagger deliberately, knowing what she was doing; that she had studied magic, had set out to conquer Ethshar. It was the Black Dagger that gave her her physical strength and immunity to harm, the wizards had told Sarai that, but now Sarai began to believe that all Tabaea’s power came from the dagger.

  Without it, did she have any magic?

  Well, she presumably still had her warlockry, and maybe witchcraft—Teneria and Karanissa had said that Tabaea had the talent, as they called it, but didn’t know how to use it properly.

  And she had her canine sense of smell and her accumulated strength and stolen lives.

  Sarai remembered the dead cats and the dead pigeon; could Tabaea have stolen the bird’s ability to fly? What had she gotten from the cats?

  Well, Sarai thought, holding up the bloody dagger, there was one way to find out, wasn’t there?

  The first cat came as a revelation; the addition to her strength was nothing, smell and hearing got no better, but the increase in her speed and the intense sensitivity to movement were as big a surprise as the dog’s sense of smell. That was how Tabaea could react so quickly when she fought!

  The pigeon was a waste of time; that explained why dead birds hadn’t littered the city when Tabaea was building herself up.

  The next step, Sarai decided, was an ox, for the raw strength it would provide; Tabaea had used people, but Sarai had no intention of committing murder.

  Unfortunately, there were no stray oxen wandering in the Wall Street Field. Buying an ox was not difficult—if one had money. Sarai had no money to speak of, just a few borrowed coppers in the purse on her belt. The family treasure had gone to sea with her father and brother, while the family income was gone with Lord Tollern and the overlord.

  Perhaps she could borrow more money somewhere, she thought. The obvious place to go would be the Guildhouse, since that was where the richest and most powerful of her nominal allies were, but she still did not care for the idea of walking in there with the Black Dagger on her belt. She thought she could trust Mereth, and Tobas seemed like a reasonable person, but Telurinon and Algarin and the rest...

  Tobas was not living in the Guildhouse, though; he and his wives were staying at the Cap and Dagger. Lady Sarai sniffed the air, without consciously realizing she was doing it. She stretched, catlike, then flexed her shoulders in a way that would have fluffed a pigeon’s feathers out nicely. Then she wiped the Black Dagger clean, sheathed it, and headed out of the Field, up onto Wall Street, and toward Grandgate. From the market, she turned down Gate Street; the Cap and Dagger was six blocks down on the right.

  As she walked, she soaked in the odors and sights of a city turned strange and rich by her augmented senses. She could, she found, tell what each person she passed had eaten for his or her last meal and how long ago that meal was; she could detect the slightest twitch of a hand or an eye. She spotted rats foraging in an alley and knew that she would never have seen them without the Black Dagger’s spell.

  She saw someone glance oddly at her and realized that she was moving strangely, her gaze darting back and forth, her nose lifted to catch the air. She forced herself to look straight ahead. Then she was at the inn; she stood in the door until the inn-Keeper came to ask what she wanted.

  Sarai was sure she had not seen the man before and wondered where he had hidden himself when the wizards held their meeting in his establishment.

  “I’m looking for a man named Tbbas of Telven,” she said. “Or if he’s not here, one of his wives.”

  The innkeeper frowned, then directed her to a room upstairs. Sarai thanked him, and was about to head up, when the man reconsidered. “Maybe I’d better come with you,” he said. “I don’t know you, and I don’t want any trouble.”

  “There won’t be any trouble,” Sarai said, but the innkeeper insisted. Together, they ascended the stairs and found the door of the room Tobas, Karanissa, and Alorria shared. The innkeeper knocked.

  “Yes?” a woman’s voice called. Sarai had not entirely adjusted to her new hearing, so much more sensitive to high-pitched sounds, so at first she didn’t recognize it.

  “There’s a woman here to see your husband,” the innkeeper called.

  Sarai heard footsteps, and then the door opened; Alorria leaned out. “Tobas isn’t here,” she said. She spotted Sarai, and said, “Oh, it’s you, La... it’s you, Sarai. Is there anything I can do?”

  “I hope so,” Sarai said. “May I come in?” “Oh. All right, come in.” She swung the door wide. Sarai stepped in, and Alorria closed it gently in the innkeeper’s face.

  “Thank you,” she called to him as the door shut.

  Then, for a moment, the two women stared at each other, Sarai unsure how to begin, Alorria unsure she had done the right thing admitting anyone when she was alone and so clumsy and helpless with her swollen belly.

  But after all, Lady Sarai was a friend and a fellow noblewoman.

  Sarai looked around the room, at the three beds, the table that held basin and pitcher, and the two large trunks, while Alorria studied her guest’s face. “Why do you want to see Tobas?” the princess asked.

  “Well, I probably don’t need to,” Sarai said. “I really just need to borrow some money. I’ll pay it back as soon as tilings are back to normal.”

  Alorria blinked, slightly startled. “Why do you need to borrow money?” she asked. “To buy an ox.”

  Alorria stared at Sarai. “Why do you want an ox?”

  “To kill,” Sarai explained. “As part of a spell.”

  Alorria frowned. “You’re doing magic now? Isn’t there enough of that already?”

  Sarai shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “Is there?”

  “Well, I certainly thought so,” Alorria said, settling awkwardly onto the edge of the nearest bed. “That’s where Tobas and Kara are—the Wizards’ Guild is trying some horrible spell on Tabaea, with the hel
p of the warlocks, and Karanissa and the other witches are all standing by to help, at the palace or the Guildhouse or places in between.”

  “What kind of a spell?” Sarai asked, seating herself on the next bed over. She berated herself for not realizing that the wizards would still be trying their spells on Tabaea, even without knowing the Black Dagger had been removed, and she suddenly wished that she had gone straight to the Guildhouse when she had first stolen the dagger. She didn’t like it when things went on that she didn’t know about, particularly anything as bizarre as wizards and warlocks working together.

  And how could warlocks help with anything, when Tabaea was a warlock herself? Warlockry didn’t work on warlocks.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Alorria said, flustered. “I leave all the magic up to Tobas and Kara, and I take care of the rest of it.”

  “Oh, but...” Sarai began.

  Alorria interrupted, “It’s called the Seething Death; Tobas got it from that horrible old book of Derithon’s, and nobody’s used it in about five hundred years.”

  Sarai’s mouth twitched. “I thought you didn’t know anything about magic.”

  “I don’t,” Alorria insisted, “not really. But I do know about my husband.” She smiled weakly.

  Sarai smiled back, but it was not a terribly sincere smile. “The Seething Death” sounded dangerous, and she had never heard of it before. Maybe building up her strength with an ox could wait; watching this spell might be more important. And some high official of the overlord’s government ought to be there when Tabaea died. The overlord himself had sailed off to Eth-shar of the Spices with Lord Tbllern and Sarai’s own father and the rest, and Lord Torrut was in hiding; Sarai knew she was probably the highest-ranking official available.