The High Lord (19 page)

“So you must trust me if I say whether you do or don’t kill one of the murderers—or murderesses.” Cery allowed himself a smile. “But, if you’re set on watching this fight, then I’ll also be there. I hate that I always miss the show.”

She smiled and nodded. “That is fair.” She paused, then took a step backward. “I should start looking for the woman.”

“I guess you should.”

Turning away, she walked across the room to the door. After she had gone he felt a vague disappointment, and he began considering ways he could have kept her around a little longer. The door opened again, but it was Gol.

“Ready to see Hem now?”

Cery grimaced. “Send him in.”

He pulled the drawer open, picked up one of the yerim and a sharpening stone. As the merchant minced into the room, Cery began honing the point of the scribing tool.

“So, Hem, tell me why I shouldn’t see how many holes I need to make before you start leaking money?”

From the University roof it was just possible to see the stump of the old, half-dismantled Lookout. Somewhere behind the trees, new stone was being taken by gorin-drawn carts up the long winding road to the summit.

“Construction may have to wait until after the summer break,” Lord Sarrin said.

“Delay construction?” Lorlen turned to the magician at his side. “I was hoping this project wouldn’t drag out any longer than three months. I’m already tired of the complaints about delayed projects and lack of free time.”

“I’m sure many would agree with you,” Lord Sarrin replied. “Nevertheless, we can’t tell everyone involved that they won’t be visiting their families this year. The trouble with magically strengthened buildings is that they’re not structurally sound until the stone has been fused, and we don’t do that until everything is in place. In the meantime, we hold everything together consciously. Delays are not appreciated.”

Unlike Lord Peakin, Lord Sarrin had offered little input during the debate over the new Lookout. Lorlen wasn’t sure if this was because the old Head of Alchemists didn’t have a strong opinion on the matter, or if he had seen which side would win and kept prudently silent. Perhaps this was a good time to ask.

“What do you really think about this project, Sarrin?”

The old magician shrugged. “I agree that the Guild should do something grand and challenging now and then, but I wonder if, perhaps, we should be doing something other than constructing yet another building.”

“I hear Peakin wanted to use one of Lord Coren’s unused designs.”

“Lord Coren!” Sarrin rolled his eyes. “How tired I am of hearing that name! I like some of what the architect designed in his day, but we have magicians alive today who are just as capable of designing attractive and functional buildings as he was.”

“Yes,” Lorlen agreed. “I hear Balkan nearly had a fit when he saw Coren’s plans.”

“He called them ‘a nightmare of frivolity.’ ”

Lorlen sighed. “I don’t think it will just be the summer break that will delay this project.”

Sarrin pursed his lips. “A little external pressure might speed it along. Is the King in a hurry?”

“Is the King ever
not
in a hurry?”

Sarrin chuckled.

“I’ll ask Akkarin to inquire for us,” Lorlen said. “I’m sure—”

“Administrator?” a voice called.

Lorlen turned. Osen was hurrying across the roof toward him.

“Yes?”

“Captain Barran of the Guard is here to see you.”

Lorlen turned to Sarrin. “I had best see to this.”

“Of course.” Sarrin nodded in farewell. As Lorlen started toward Osen, the young magician stopped and waited for him.

“Did the Captain say why he has come?” Lorlen asked.

“No,” Osen replied, falling into step beside Lorlen, “but he seemed agitated.”

They stepped through the door to the roof and made their way through the University. As Lorlen stepped out of the Entrance Hall he saw Barran standing by his office door. The guard looked relieved when he saw Lorlen approaching.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” Lorlen said.

Barran bowed. “Administrator.”

“Come into my office.” Lorlen held the door open for Barran and Osen, then ushered his guest to a seat. Settling down behind his desk, he regarded the Captain soberly.

“So what brings you to the Guild? Not another murder, I hope.”

“I’m afraid so. And not just one murder.” Barran’s voice was strained. “There has been what I can only call a massacre.”

Lorlen felt his blood turn cold. “Go on.”

“Fourteen victims, all killed in the same manner, found in Northside last night. Most were found on the street, a few in houses.” Barran shook his head. “It’s as if some madman roamed the slums, killing anyone he saw.”

“Surely there’d be witnesses, in that case.”

Barran shook his head. “Nothing useful. A few people said they thought they saw a woman, others said it was a man. None saw the killer’s face. Too dark.”

“And the manner of death?” Lorlen forced himself to ask.

“Shallow cuts. None that ought to have been fatal. No sign of poison. Fingerprints on the wounds. That is why I came to you. It is the only similarity to the previous cases we’ve discussed.” He paused. “There is one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“One of my investigators was told by the husband of a victim that stories were going around about a fight in a bol-house last night. A fight between magicians.”

Lorlen managed to look skeptical. “Magicians?”

“Yes. One apparently floated to the ground from a third-story window. I thought it was probably a fancy invented in the dark, except that the murders all occurred in a line pointing directly to this bolhouse. Or away from it.”

“And did you investigate the bolhouse?”

“Yes. One of the rooms was smashed up quite badly, so something did happen there last night. Whether it was magic…” He shrugged. “Who can tell?”

“We can tell,” Osen said.

Lorlen looked up at his assistant. Osen was right; someone from the Guild should examine the bolhouse.
Akkarin will want me to do it,
Lorlen thought.

“I would like to see this room.”

Barran nodded. “I can take you there now. I have a Guard carriage waiting outside.”

“I could go instead,” Osen offered.

“No,” Lorlen replied. “I will do it. I know more about these cases than you. Stay here and keep an eye on things.”

“Other magicians may hear about this,” Osen said. “They’ll be concerned. What should I tell them?”

“Just that there has been another disturbing set of murders and that the bolhouse story is probably an exaggeration. We don’t want people jumping to conclusions or causing a panic.” He stood, and Barran followed suit.

“And if you do find evidence of magic?” Osen added.

“We’ll deal with that if it happens.”

Osen remained standing by the desk as Lorlen and Barran moved to the door. Looking back, Lorlen saw that his assistant was frowning with concern.

“Don’t worry,” Lorlen assured him. He managed a wry smile. “This is probably only as sinister as all the other murder cases.”

Osen smiled thinly and nodded.

Closing the door to his office, Lorlen strode into the Entrance Hall, then out of the University doors.

—
You should interview Captain Barran alone, my friend.

Lorlen glanced toward the High Lord’s Residence.

—
Osen is a sensible man.

—
Sensible men can become quite irrational when their suspicions get the better of them.

—
Should he be suspicious? What happened last night?

—
A lot of drunk dwells witnessed the Thieves’ failed attempt to catch a killer.

—
Is that really what happened?

“Administrator?”

Lorlen blinked, then realized he was standing by the open door of the carriage. Barran was regarding him questioningly.

“Excuse me.” Lorlen smiled. “Just consulting with a colleague.”

Barran’s eyes widened slightly as he realized what Lorlen meant. “Must be a handy skill, that.”

“It is,” Lorlen agreed. He stepped up into the carriage. “But it does have its limitations.”

Or it ought to,
he added silently.

Sonea’s stomach fluttered as she entered the underground room; it had been doing this whenever she thought of the coming lesson in black magic—which had been every few minutes. Doubts had worked their way into her thoughts, and a few times she had almost decided to tell Akkarin she had changed her mind. But if she sat calmly and thought it through, her resolve remained strong. Learning it was a risk to herself, but the alternative was to put the Guild and Kyralia at greater risk.

As Akkarin turned to regard her, she bowed.

“Take a seat, Sonea.”

“Yes, High Lord.”

She sat down, then glanced at the table. It was covered in a strange collection of items: a bowl of water, a common plant in a small pot, a cage with a harrel nosing about within, small towels, books, and a polished and unadorned wooden box. Akkarin was reading one of the books.

“What is all this for?” she asked.

“Your training,” he said, closing the book. “I have not taught another what I will teach you tonight. My own learning did not come with an explanation. I discovered more only when I found the old books that Lord Coren had re-buried under the Guild.”

She nodded. “How did you find them?”

“Coren knew that the magicians who originally buried the trunk had been right to preserve the knowledge of black magic in case the Guild faced a stronger enemy one day. But it was of no use to anyone if it could not be found again. He wrote a letter to the High Lord, to be delivered only after his death, explaining that he had buried a secret store of knowledge under the University that might save the Guild if it faced a terrible enemy.” Akkarin glanced up at the ceiling. “I found the letter wedged in a record book when the library here was moved after the renovations I had done. Coren’s instructions for finding this secret were so obscure none of my predecessors had had the patience to decipher them. Eventually the letter’s existence was forgotten. I guessed what Coren’s secret was, however.”

“And you worked out the instructions?”

“No.” Akkarin chuckled. “I spent every night for five months exploring the underground passages until I found the chest.”

Sonea smiled. “Too bad if the Guild
had
faced a terrible enemy.” She sobered. “Well, now it does.”

Akkarin’s expression became serious. He glanced down at the items on the table.

“Much of what I will tell you, you already know. You have been taught that all living things contain energy, and that each of us has a barrier at the skin protecting us from external magical influences. If we did not, a magician could kill you from a distance by, say, reaching into your body with his mind and crushing your heart. This barrier will allow certain kinds of magic to penetrate, such as Healing magic, but only via skin-to-skin contact.”

He pushed himself away from the table and took a step closer. “If you break the skin, you break the barrier. Drawing energy through this gap can be slow. In Alchemy classes you will have learned that magic travels faster through water than air or stone. In Healing classes you have learned that the blood system reaches every part of the body. When you cut deep enough to draw blood, you can draw energy from all parts of the body quite rapidly.

“The skill of drawing is not a difficult one to learn,” Akkarin continued. “I could explain it to you as it is described in these books, then leave you to experiment on animals, but it would take many days, even weeks, before you learned to draw with any control.” He smiled. “And smuggling in all the animals could be more trouble than it’s worth.”

He sobered again. “But there is another reason. The night you observed me drawing power from Takan, you sensed something. I had read that, as with ordinary magic, the use of black magic can be sensed by other magicians, particularly those close by. As with ordinary magic, this effect can be hidden. I did not know I was detectable until I read your mind. Afterward I experimented until I was sure I was undetectable. I will need to teach you this quickly, to reduce the risk of discovery.”

He looked up toward the ceiling. “I will guide you mentally, and we will use Takan as our first source. When he arrives, take care what you speak of. He does not want to learn these things, for reasons too complicated and personal to explain.”

Muffled footsteps came from the stairwell, then the door opened and Takan stepped into the room. He bowed.

“You called, master?”

“It is time to teach Sonea black magic,” Akkarin said.

Takan nodded. He moved to the table and opened the box. Inside, nestled in a bed of fine black cloth, lay the knife Akkarin had used to kill the Sachakan spy. Takan took it carefully, handling it with reverence.

Then, in a smooth, practiced movement, Takan placed the knife across his wrists and approached Sonea, his head bowed. Akkarin’s eyes narrowed.

“Enough of that, Takan—and no kneeling.” Akkarin shook his head. “We are a civilized people. We don’t enslave others.”

A faint smile played at Takan’s mouth. He looked at Akkarin, his eyes bright. Akkarin snorted softly, then nodded at Sonea.

‘This is a Sachakan blade, worn only by magicians,” he said. “Their knives are forged and sharpened with magic. It is many centuries old and was passed down from father to son. Its last owner was Dakova. I would have left it behind, but Takan salvaged it and brought it with him. Take the knife, Sonea.”

Sonea accepted the blade gingerly. How many people had been killed with this knife? Hundreds? Thousands? She shivered.

“Takan will be needing that chair, too.”

She rose. Takan took her place, then began rolling up his sleeve.

“Make a shallow cut. Press lightly. It is very sharp.”

She looked down at the servant and felt her mouth go dry. The servant smiled at her and lifted his arm. His skin was crisscrossed with scars. Like Akkarin’s.

“See,” Takan said. “Done this before.”

The blade shook a little as she pressed it against Takan’s skin. Lifting it away, she saw beads of red form along the cut. She swallowed hard.
I’m really doing this.
She looked up and found Akkarin watching her closely.