Spy, Spy Again

by Mercedes Lackey

  So they still had no idea what, exactly, they had prisoner. Otherwise they’d never have sent one man to deliver a meal. More information. Was it possible they didn’t know she was a Sleepgiver? Or did they really not understand how dangerous a Sleepgiver was?

  She waited until the sounds of footsteps faded, counting them this time, to give her an idea of how many floors there were, exactly. A door slammed shut somewhere beneath, and her total told her that her guess had been correct; there were five stories to this place.

  Only then did she get up and look at the bowl, mindful of the fact that although there was no way of being spied upon physically that she would have been able to see, they could be scrying her. She had no intention of letting these Karsites know she was also a Mage, so although she could have taken steps to detect scrying, she had not done so. It was no great hardship to present an image that suggested she was cowed, even frightened by finding herself a prisoner.

  The bowl was wood—a wise choice, since a pottery bowl could have been broken and turned into sharp-edged shards. The contents were some sort of grain porridge. She picked up the bowl and took it to her corner. It was gummy and bland, most of it overcooked, a few grains almost raw, and it didn’t even have any salt in it, but it was fuel and she ate it slowly.

  And while she ate, she was casting a spell, telling the porridge to replenish itself from its source. So until she felt sated, the level in the bowl never really dropped below half.

  There were many spells involving bringing food to the caster, but this was the simplest, and the only one she knew. As a Mage, she was nowhere near the level of the ones at Amber Moon. Most of her expertise lay in knowing everything there was to know about the magic of the Talismans. How to make them, how to break them. Still, she had a few skills that were going to come in handy now, like the one that could keep her fed even if they decided to try starving her out.

  I’m not going to do anything against them until they leave me no choice, she decided. She would put off revealing that she was a Sleepgiver until the last possible moment . . . and when they did find out, it wouldn’t be by her telling them.

  So once she finished her meal, she extracted a single uncooked grain from the bottom of the bowl and wedged it between two stones in the wall. Now if they tried to starve her, she’d still be able to magically apport the porridge from the kettle of this stuff kept perpetually cooking somewhere—out there. A kitchen on the bottom floor probably, with raw grain added to it as it was emptied into prisoners’ bowls. The gummy overcooked paste combined with half-cooked grains told her that much.

  It also told her that there might be other prisoners here, otherwise she’d probably have been given scraps from the guards’ table, not stuff that was only cheaper than scraps by virtue of it being produced constantly.

  Other prisoners. No point in even thinking about them. They couldn’t help her, and even if they could, they probably wouldn’t.

  She put the bowl by the door and went back to her corner, huddling up in feigned distress. In actual fact she was studying her bronze Talismans with the same ferocity she brought to bear when sharpening a new physical skill.

  The thing about spells was that as processes, they were always working once cast, unless there was a way built into them to stop and start them. Like the sun shining, or the grass growing. Unless you built an end to them, or at least a way to pause them just as the onset of frost ended growing grass, they kept going as long as there was energy for them.

  And the difference between lesser Mages, like Sira herself, and the great Mages, was that the great Mages had ways to tap into sources of magical energy other than themselves to keep their spells going long past their deaths.

  Most of those energy sources were limited too . . . only the greatest Mages had ways of tapping into sources that were like natural springs of water, virtually eternal and self-renewing.

  Like the Mages her people had brought with them when they escaped that great conflict of long ago.

  Now there were ways of breaking those spells. Destroying the object they were cast on was one. The problem with that was you had a not-insignificant chance of releasing very physical energy when you did so, something she hadn’t wanted to risk at the Mountain. Plus, in this case, there was something bound to the Talisman, and if you released it that way, besides not knowing what you had released, you could do so in a way that injured it and made it angry. Or, angrier.

  Now that she had been imprisoned, destroying the Talismans was not an option. That left her with the need to stop the process of the spell in other ways.

  One could break it with magical force. . . .

  But she wasn’t strong enough to do that.

  Which left unraveling it or making it break itself.

  There was always a place in a working spell where the thing had been “tied off,” where the Mage who had made it put the last piece in place and sealed it, and the sealing of it had set the spell in motion. If you could see that place and break the seal, or interrupt the spell just before the sealed-off spot, the spell would immediately begin to unravel under its own momentum, like a ball of yarn unraveling as it rolled away from you, or a sweater unraveling as its wearer walked away while you held the end in your hand.

  That was one option.

  The second was to spot a place in the spell where you could insert a small magical construct that would jam it—like inserting a bar of iron into the moving wheel on a wagon. Eventually, the bar would jam against the body of the wagon, and the spokes would start to break, the wheel would disintegrate, and the corner of the wagon would collapse as the wheel fell off, at which point the wagon would be going nowhere anymore.

  That was actually a lot easier with a spell as old as these were. “All” she had to do was study one for long enough that she’d see the recurring “hole” where she could insert her “iron bar.”

  But this was why they called ancient spells like this “tightly woven.” There weren’t many holes, and they were hard to spot.

  Still, what did she have at this point besides time?

  So she sat with her eyes closed, huddled in the corner, and watched with the concentration and patience of the practiced Sleepgiver that she was.

  Looking for the place where she could begin unraveling, looking for the “hole” she could use to make it break itself.

  Eventually she got up to use the hole in the floor for waste, using part of the water in her bucket to rinse the area clean—because why not? She could use the entire bucketful and refill it at her leisure. This prison had the advantage of being above ground, so insects were at a minimum, and she’d been given no bedding, so there were no bedbugs or fleas, but buzzing flies would certainly interrupt her concentration. Not to mention she didn’t like any part of her cell being filthy.

  She refilled the bucket, took a moment to drink—this was dry land, and there was no point in getting dehydrated—and went back to work.

  The guard returned just at dusk, took the old wooden bowl, and replaced it with another. This time he left a roll of bread with it. Once again, he failed to watch her as he set his burdens inside the door.

  Once again, she feigned being afraid of him and waited until he was long gone before getting her food.

  At least this time all the grain was cooked, if not cooked properly.

  The bread was welcome, and she ate it slowly as she apported two more rolls under the cover of her garment, to keep anyone that was scrying her from seeing what she could do. She saved a bit of the last one in the corner behind her so she could apport more, later. The brown crust blended very nicely with the brown stone; if you didn’t know it was there, you wouldn’t see it.

  Darkness came rapidly, as it always did in dry lands. She composed herself as best she could for sleep, spending a little bit more of her energies on a short-lived spell of her own that would keep the stone in her corner warmed unt
il dawn.

  And that ended her first conscious day in captivity.

  * * *

  • • •

  She expected that, whether or not someone was watching her, her captors would lose patience around about the third day. And when she showed no sign of doing anything other than huddling in the corner, right after her morning meal on that third day, it appeared that was exactly what had happened.

  The door slammed open. First two guards came in, one of them carrying a padded stool, the other with both a sword and a dagger out. The latter glowered at her as the first put the stool in the middle of the floor and left. She smiled inwardly at that; they much underestimated her if they thought that would place the occupant out of her reach.

  With much rustling of black robes and ponderous steps, a Karsite priest entered the cell and sat down on the stool. He was a tall man, bearded, balding, and of late middle age. His features proclaimed him to be a hard and inflexible man, which was not at all unexpected.

  She could have put up shields, but she did not. She did not want him to know she was a Mage—and her father had said that the Karsites burned every child they found with Mind-magic in their sacrificial fires, so he wouldn’t be able to read her thoughts. Instead, she watched him with narrowed eyes in absolute silence. Let him speak first. Let him speak a very great deal. She intended to learn much from him while telling him nothing.

  “What is your name, girl?” the Karsite asked, in tones that suggested that the mere fact of her being a female made her beneath him. He spoke in Ruvan, and there was a suggestion in the raspy tone of his voice that the dry desert air did not suit him. She answered him in the same tongue.

  Of course, even if he had known the language of her people, she wouldn’t have answered him in it.

  “Sira en Anhita,” she said truthfully, for he might have a truth-telling spell on her. She would answer everything with the truth . . . just not all, or even most, of it. Just in case he knew her father’s name—unlikely, but possible—she called herself “the daughter of her mother,” which designation was equally used among the Nation.

  He frowned, as if he did not like that answer. “What are you, and why were you traveling from the stronghold of the Sleepgivers?”

  “I am a hunter,” she said. “And I journeyed to consult with the Mages of Amber Moon, in Rethwellan on the border of Menmellith.”

  He snorted with derision. “Do you think me a fool?” he demanded. “Women are not hunters.”

  “This woman is,” which was true, after all, though what she hunted was mostly Karsite priests. . . . But already he had told her that he did not know she was a Sleepgiver, and he did not think Sleepgivers could be women.

  And yes, at this point, she thought him a fool.

  “Not possible,” he stated flatly, visibly irritated.

  “Have it your way,” she said, and shrugged. “Then animals must impale themselves upon arrows they find and come to die at my feet.” She gave him the blankest stare she could manage, then added, “In the breeding season, I also keep pigeons and chickens.”

  Also true; she took it in her turn to feed the family flocks.

  “You came from the mountains that hold the Sleepgivers,” he accused.

  “Many people live there,” she said indifferently. More truth. The Sleepgivers had no problem with other peoples sharing their territory, so long as the Nation got its due portion for the privilege.

  “What do you know of them?” he pounced upon that with triumph.

  “That they are dangerous to know and more dangerous to cross, and that is enough.”

  “And yet you wear their Talisman!” he all but shouted.

  “This?” She touched the stone Talisman at her throat. “This is the memory of my mother. She gave it to me.”

  As she had hoped, he was not fluent enough in Ruvan to tell the difference between in memory of my mother, and is the memory of my mother. Thwarted, he glowered at her.

  “You are impudent.”

  She shrugged.

  “You know more of the Sleepgivers than you have said,” he stated.

  “I know I am more afraid of them than of you,” she retorted.

  He grew red in the face. “I am a great and powerful priest of Vkandis Sunlord!” he roared. “I can have you locked here until you starve!”

  “And you’ll still get no more from me than water from a stone. My people have a saying: Do not expect clever speech from a dog; you will wait forever and be no wiser at the end of days.” This was, indeed, a common saying in Ruvan. The Sleepgivers had adopted it.

  What she was hoping for now was that this fat fool would give up on her and turn her loose. Even if all they released her with was what she stood up in, keeping her weapons and her clothing out of sheer spite, she could still make her way back home. Turn her loose in the desert and she’d have food, clothing and weapons in three days. They wouldn’t be good, but they would do until she could get better.

  But the fool cooled his wrath and glared at her. “You were taken wearing far too many weapons for a chicken farmer,” he stated. “Concealed weapons.”

  She had hoped he hade forgotten that. Worse luck.

  “I told you, I am a hunter,” she informed him, grateful now that she had not been wearing more than a dozen knives, and none of the specialist tools of a Sleepgiver. “Such things are the tools of a hunter.” Perhaps she could have explained the fine wire garrote as a snare, but some of the other things? Unlikely. “As for concealing my tools, I was alone, and when one travels alone, it does not do to advertise what one owns.”

  He continued to glower. “There is more to you than you are saying.”

  She sighed with exasperation. “And you keep saying I am merely a girl. You cannot have it both ways. I am a hunter. Nothing more, nothing less. So either you accept my being armed as the proof of that, or I am merely a girl who farms chickens and you have no reason to keep me here.”

  “You are altogether too clever for a chicken girl,” he growled, and he heaved himself up off his stool. The flunkey hastened to retrieve it.

  “And you have no grandmother’s tales of clever chicken girls?” she mocked, figuring at this point she had nothing to lose by angering him further. “What a singularly dull people you Karsites are! We have dozens. Also, tales of clever hunters. And half of them are about girls.”

  For answer, he flounced out of the cell, turning back only to say, “We shall see how three days without food or water loosens your tongue, wench,” before the flunky threw open the door and allowed him to exit, slamming the door behind him.

  * * *

  • • •

  Three days with plenty of bread and water suited her just fine. She made sure to eat and drink in the dark, being fairly certain that there was not a scrying spell known anywhere that allowed someone to see what was going on in darkness. But it was autumn, and the nights were long; it was no great hardship to stuff herself full just before dawn, waking herself automatically to do so, and do so again after sunset. She could easily sleep out the night, and wait out the day.

  And in the daylight, she studied her Talismans and surreptitiously exercised. It would not do to be caught at her usual exercises, but there were many ways to make them look like a girl who was half-mad and dancing. Particularly when she hummed loudly as she moved.

  At the end of three days, she heard the sound of labored steps on the staircase; she had been listening for just that, of course. She took her seat in the corner, and waited.

  The entire charade with the stool was played again. This time she paid closer attention to the flunkies than to the priest. They were either too terrified of their master to react properly, or they were singularly careless. If she had wanted to (she didn’t, not yet), she could have had the long dagger off the one playing guard in an instant, gutted him, slit his master’s throat, and driven it thr
ough the eye of the one minding the stool before the latter had more than a glimmering hint that all was not well.

  But that would leave her having to fight her way out of this tower, and after that possibly a much larger building, with only two short swords and two long daggers. And by the time she looted and adapted the clothing on the bodies, the entire tower would be alerted and ready to stop her.

  Not ideal.

  The priest’s expression was somewhere between a glower and a sullen frown. “What are you, wench?” he growled, when he had settled himself.

  “I told you. I’m a hunter,” she repeated patiently. “I was on my way to consult with the Amber Moon magicians when you people decided to attack me with demons for some reason. I can only guess it’s because I was coming out of those mountains the Sleepgivers call their own. The Sleepgivers actually don’t care if other people live in their mountains as long as nothing the others do interferes with them. And as long as you give them a tenth of what you grow or catch for the privilege of living there.”

  “Have you seen any?” the priest asked.

  “Of course. They approach anyone who enters peacefully to warn them what not to do. As long as you obey those rules, they leave you alone, except to collect their tenth once a year.” Once again, all true.

  The priest stared at her for a very long time. “You seem remarkably fit for someone who has done without food and water for three days,” he growled.

  “I’m a hunter. In the desert. I’m used to doing without food and water. I’m also used to skinning and gutting an animal, small or large, using every part of it, wasting nothing, and curing the skin with sand and its own brains. Would you like to see me demonstrate?” She said the last to antagonize him as much as to try to persuade him to let her go. “I’ve skinned, gutted, and eaten mice and lizards. I’ve gotten by eating insects. And you forget that dew collects on stone, and this cell is made of stone. That’s water enough for me.”