by Dave Duncan
“Did you feel any acceptance when you chanted either of these?” I asked.
“No, sir,” Lovise said.
I asked if they had any chalk or charcoal, and Lars found a fragment of charcoal in the hearth. I scored out the trip wire. Boy and girl both gasped in horror, so I knew that their father had taught them the traditional belief that the given texts were sacred and immutable.
“It will wipe off if I am wrong,” I told them. “But I am certain that this word is incorrect. That is why you could not gain acceptance.”
Lars exploded. “But how can you know that, Your Wisdom?”
“It is what is taught at Helmdon,” I said, not mentioning that I had taught the teachers. If I was wrong, of course, neither Lars nor Lovise would ever trust me again, and I already knew that I would very much like to impress Lovise. I read the whole incantation over once more, but found no more trip wires. “Let’s try this again. I am sure that I have solved the problem.”
My two companions lit up like festive bonfires.
So, back upstairs we went, with Lars lugging the massive grimoire and Lovise some spare candles, which she proceeded to light in her father’s room, already dimming as evening drew in. He began to mumble angrily about waste, flames, hellfire, and soap.
We laid the book on the unoccupied side of the bed, and I realized that Lovise regarded herself as senior to her brother, and so expected to be my cantor. My hosts had not prepared separate song sheets for the parts, so both of us would have to read off the original. I had never chanted with a woman before. We had to stand very close and that was distracting, especially the fascinating scent of lilac.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” she said.
“Abi maledictum . . .” I proclaimed before I realized that we had not agreed on a pitch. Concentrate, dammit! I carried on to the end of the versicle, and Lovise came in with the first response, an octave higher, but matching my key perfectly. Her voice was as impressive as she was, rich and strong. As we reached the halfway point, I felt the thrill of acceptance coming.
I dared not to turn to look at my assistant, but I could glance across at Lars, and he must have been watching his sister, for he suddenly broke into that enormous grin of his.
We finished. We all stared at the patient.
After a lone moment, just about when hope had died, Larson’s eyes flicked open. He frowned, stared around the room and then fixed his gaze on me. “And just who in hell might you be?”
“My name is Durwin, Your Wisdom. How do you feel?”
“I feel in exceeding good health, but I want to know who you are and what you are doing in my chamber practically leaning on my daughter.”
“I am a healer, sir. You were in need of my services. We can discuss the situation more fully downstairs, at your convenience.”
So there was evil thaumaturgy at work in Lincoln, and I had just struck a first blow against it! That I had walked into a trap did not occur to me until later.
chapter 8
lars remained behind, and I could hear his excited jabber as he told his father all about me. I followed Lovise downstairs and into the kitchen.
She spun around. “That was a miracle! Oh, Your Wisdom, I don’t know how to thank you enough.”
I was shocked to hear myself say, “A kiss would be ample reward.”
Lovise was understandably startled. This was not a royal palace, where lechery is always rampant and tolerated if the perpetrators are of sufficiently high rank. In small-town England back then, public kissing would be regarded as salacious behavior even if the participants were legally married. For a man to suggest such a thing to a woman he had known for less than an hour was gross immorality. She should have screamed for her father and brother to come and defend her honor. Alternatively, she should have grabbed up an iron pan and dented my skull with it.
Instead she smiled nervously. “Just a small one.”
It began as a small kiss, lips pursed, and my hands holding her shoulders gently and I swear that this was all I intended, but our embrace grew more urgent by mutual consent. Her arms closed around me, mine embraced her. Soon we were locked as tightly as if breathing didn’t matter anymore, and our lips were anything but pursed. It was I who called a halt at last, worried that her father might be already dressed and headed in our direction. She was flushed and breathless, and so was I. Neither of us had expected that to happen.
Other men have admitted to me—on the few occasions when I plucked up the courage to ask—that the first kiss between a man and a woman can be extremely informative, and that one certainly was. Had Harald Larson burst into the room at that moment and shouted that I had shamed his daughter and must marry her to save her reputation, I would have thanked him with all my heart.
And I suspected that Lovise, the gorgeous, stupendously desirable Lovise was of similar mind. Avoiding my eye, she murmured, “Was that more magic, Durwin?”
“Just the magic Eve worked on Adam, Lovise.”
“Always the man blames the woman.”
“But always he is very grateful.”
Yes, this is a tale of love at first sight. The rich are likely to be betrothed as children, for commercial or political advantage; love has nothing to do with it. Wooing is faster among the poor: boy meets girl from next village at harvest time or spring fair— looks nice, talks nice, smells nice, tastes nice, feels nice . . . come and meet the family.
I was no longer poor, but I certainly was not rich. I did have prospects as one of the king’s familiares. Two days ago Helmdon had granted me my green cape and Sir Neil had confirmed that the king remembered me and wanted me in his service. Suddenly I had become a man of stature in the world and the prospect of marriage was no longer an impossible dream. Even if the king paid me little—and kings are always notoriously short of ready cash—my title would allow me to earn a good living as a healer. Now, suddenly, Lovise! Was I just letting my imagination run away with me? She almost seemed to be waiting for me to seek a second kiss.
But instead she said was, “Would you be gracious enough, Your Wisdom, to explain to me how you knew what change to make in that incantation?”
I understood the return to formal address. “Do please sit, Maid Larson.” I plopped myself down on a stool. She obeyed, not too close to me. We carefully did not look each other in the eye.
“The key phrase was Qui nemo illa dixisse, which doesn’t make any sense. What’s ‘nobody’ doing in there? Take him out and you get Qui illa dixisse, meaning roughly, ‘Whoever spoke those words,’ which does make sense, and the person who transcribed that spell put the extra word in there precisely to make sure that the spell wouldn’t work! Then, anybody who stole his copy would find it worthless. If the master himself needed to use it, he just had to remember to omit nemo. Understand?”
She nodded at once. “So you have to look for nonsense words?”
“More or less. Sometimes the trip wires are a little more subtle, but the rhythm usually gives them away. Second or third versicles are favorite hiding spots, because later in the incantation the singers may sense the start of acceptance and notice when it cuts off.”
“You’re telling me that we could alter old spells to fit special cases?”
She was well ahead of me already. “I imagine that would be possible, within limits. I wouldn’t try to change Abi Maledictum enough that I could use it to make—” I was about to say, “a beautiful girl fall in love with me,” but fortunately stopped myself in time. “‘Cure warts,’ for instance.”
I was saved by the boot-avalanche noise of Lars descending the stairs. Lovise hastily jumped up and pretended to be tidying the table. Her brother burst in—he seemed to see every door as a jousting opponent.
“He’s coming . . . What—? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” his sister snapped. “Go, bring me a bucket of water.”
He then looked at me. His eyebrows rose. I tried to assume the Face of Absolute Innocence. Lars grinned unde
rstandingly— and approvingly, I was relieved to see, because he could have thrown me out into the street and my horse after me. He spun around and stormed out through the back door, with bucket.
Then Harald entered by the inner doorway. Seen upright and conscious, he was tall and gaunt, almost haggard, so that I wondered about the state of his health. On top of his simple gray robe, he wore a brown healer’s cape, and that warned me that I might be going to have trouble. He leaned a hand on the door jamb for a moment as he surveyed me, his expression grim.
Fair enough—he was three times my age, a respected man in his city, while I was an unknown and uninvited rapscallion whom he had discovered weaving spells in his bedroom. His pride had been wounded much more than his physical well-being. I did not care about reward—I had already claimed that, or even gratitude, for I had only been performing a task for which I had been trained, but I did need Harald’s help and cooperation in my mission.
I rose and bowed. “Honored to meet you, brother.”
“Durwin, you said?”
So we were not to be brothers. “Aye, sir. Durwin of Pipewell.” I could have named myself Durwin of Helmdon, but that would have sounded like a putdown worse than his rejection of my offer of friendship. I could guess that Harald Larson was no graduate of any learned college. He was a folk healer, who had garnered his expertise and inherited his grimoire from his father or some other local seer. His home indicated that he prospered in his profession, so he must be skilled in it, but his overall knowledge would be strictly limited to his giant-sized book of spells.
“My son informs me that I owe you thanks for my recovery.”
Lovise was watching in silence from the far side of the big table.
“I was merely doing what the ethics of our profession require me to do, sir. I am impressed with the way your son and daughter responded to your misfortune, and am glad that I was able to help them.”
He nodded uncertainly. “I am curious to know what brought you by so fortuitously. Let us go into my sanctum and share a glass of wine.”
Lars hurled the back door open and entered, dribbling water from a brimful bucket. His gaze flickered around, appraising the body language and emotional temperature.
“With respect, Healer,” I said, “I would prefer that both Lars and Lovise be present while I explain the situation.”
The old man’s chin jerked up as he took offense. “For what reason?”
Stubborn as a mule!
“Reasons of state.” I drew out a stool and sat down. “Shut the door, please, Lars.”
He did, but no one else moved, and a change in tactics was indicated. I slapped a hand on the table. “Your Wisdom! I know I look young to you, but must I go upstairs and rummage through my pack to find my green cape before you will accept that I am a qualified sage? Surely I have already demonstrated my skills to you? I have come to Lincoln by order of King Henry himself and I demand and require your help in the task he set me.”
I have often found since then that the king’s name can be as effective as a blow to the head with a spiked morningstar. Three shocked people hastily grabbed stools and sat down. Lars was openmouthed at hearing that he was in the presence of someone who had actually met His Grace. Lovise’s expression was more guarded, for beautiful maidens must beware young men who make wild claims about their own importance. Her father seemed even more mistrustful.
But now I could smile. “Thank you.”
“And what task is this, Sage?”
“To investigate rumors of black magic being performed in his castle of Lincoln. A couple of years ago I was fortunate enough to perform a task that drew me to the Lord King’s attention. He rewarded me handsomely and funded the rest of my training at Helmdon. Two days ago, on Monday, one of his trusted housecarls arrived on my doorstep with orders to accompany him here for the purpose I just mentioned. That man has gone to the castle to make direct inquiries there. He asked me to inquire among the enchanter community of the city—and already I have learned from Lovise that all is not well.”
No one spoke.
“Your daughter has told me how Sage Bjarni and Healers Peter and Nerian were forced out of their livelihoods, all in a matter of a few weeks. That in itself, I find highly suspicious. That two of them also lost their lives is, frankly, terrifying. Now, sir, will you tell me what transpired yesterday after you went to the castle?”
“I wish I could.” Harald rubbed his eyes as if that might clear his memory. “A boy brought a note yesterday morning—”
“Just after Terce,” Lars interjected helpfully; he was silenced by a glare from his father.
“A note from Sage Quentin, inviting me to dine with him to meet his new cantor. Of course I accepted—how could I not? I walked up there as the cathedral bell rang for vespers and was admitted to the castle through the east gate. I was escorted to a room I had not seen before in a building I had never visited before, and there I met them all, already assembled: Quentin, Walter, Henri, and Tancred. Plus there was a newcomer, a cantor, Corneille Boterel.”
Yet another French name, I noted. “A boy? A man?”
“Corneille? Oh, a man, probably about my age. Stocky, almost plump. Black hair and beard. Much older than I would have expected for a cantor. Cantors are usually apprentices, as you know.”
“But a house sage must employ fairly complex spells for healing and so on. How did Quentin cope without a helper?” “Oh he didn’t,” Harald said. “At least Bjarni, his predecessor, didn’t. He would always employ an apprentice and a varlet, too. When the apprentice was ready to strike out on his own, the varlet stepped into his shoes and another lad into his.”
“So hiring an older man . . .” Something was niggling at me, a thought I couldn’t quite put my tongue on. Corneille? Corneille? . . . “Did you find out anything more about this Corneille man?”
“I do not remember! I know Quentin himself handed me a silver goblet and asked me what I thought of the new wine. And that’s all.”
“There were no servants present?”
“None. I assumed they would bring the food later.”
“Did you ever meet any of Quentin’s previous cantors, or any of Bjarni’s cantors?”
Harald shook his head. “I knew them. Bjarni would include them in our gatherings and introduce them, but I never recall being invited to a welcoming party for one of them.”
I saw Lovise bite her lip, so I invited her into the conversation with a questioning look.
“He’s driven out all the other locals,” she said angrily. “Now he’s brought in this Corneille man to replace Father!”
Harald frowned, but did not openly reproach his daughter for interrupting serious man talk. He said, “They know better than to suggest it. I have already refused two of their offers, explaining that I am the third generation Larson to practice healing at this location and I am training my son to succeed me.”
A conspiracy aimed at high treason would not shy at lesser crimes like murder; I wondered if Lars had been fortunate not to be hit by a falling chimney pot and how long his luck would last. “Apparently the potion he gave you was intended to steal your wits,” I said. “They must have chanted a spell over you to make you act like a drunk, because you were certainly enchanted when I first saw you. They spilled wine on you to make you smell like a drunk, and then they took you out and dumped you in a gutter somewhere to look like a drunk.”
“I was very lucky that you arrived at my house so fortuitously,” Harald said coldly.
I saw Lovise go suddenly tense. Her father, I realized, had spoken in a curiously flat tone. Then Lars caught the implication too, and bared his teeth. They were all wondering whether I might be another member of the conspiracy, and I could not blame them.
“Yes, you were, weren’t you?” I said. As coincidences go, that one was a whopper, and I needed a moment to work it out.
“I have not lied to you or your children. I am not in league with Sage Quentin! If you want me to swear to that o
n a Bible or some holy relic, I will be happy to do so. Let me suggest another explanation for your apparent good fortune. Last Monday, when the king’s messenger arrived on my doorstep in Helmdon, he found me already packed and ready to go, and my cantor also, with our horses saddled. Not being familiar with arcane powers, he was both furious and deeply suspicious. The explanation was that I had foreseen his arrival. Foresight is not easy for us, but it is possible.”
“I have never met it,” Harald said, not even trying to hide his distrust.
“You have now, I think. The incantation we were trying did not tell us any details, just that armed men from the king would come for me, with a hint that we would be proceeding to Lincoln. If I could foresee the king’s men arriving last Saturday, so could Quentin yesterday! After all, for me they were an opportunity, but they are a danger to him, if he is truly working evil in the castle. He may even have foreseen that I would find you, the only honest enchanter left in the city, so he . . .” Then my thoughts shifted like snow sliding off a roof. Had I blundered already?
Lovise said, “Go on, Dur . . . Your Wisdom.”
“As you say, he may have been trying to disgrace your father, to create a job opening for this Corneille man.”
She nodded.
“Or,” I continued, “he may have been setting a trap for me. By removing the spell on you, Healer, I have revealed the presence of another enchanter come to the town. I do not wish to belittle your own talents and skills, my lady. You and Lars did very well. Your appeal for help would have been felt by the others—Henri and the rest, but they would have known to resist its call and would have had means to resist it. If my suspicions are correct, sir, you may have a messenger from the castle knocking at your door before nightfall to check on your condition and find out if anyone did respond to that appeal. Very shortly, in fact,” I added with a glance at the evening shadows gathering outside the window.
“If he can foresee the future, won’t he already know the answer?” Lars said.
“Not necessarily. Prophecies are spotty and often obscure. They rarely go into details. I was not forewarned that I would be required to deal with anything so dire as the conspiracy you have revealed to me. If I had been, I would have brought much stronger spells with me.”