Authors: Colin Harvey
"Can it trace an individual spell?” Duff asked.
"Or combination,” she said. “It can also track people, particularly those who have handled those spells."
He leaned forward. “How will it know what it's looking for?"
She doodled in a miniature lake of condensation left by the glass. “Think of perfumes, or tea.” She hesitated. “Each particular
type
of spell has its similarities, which each person who handles it changes minutely. So if you put together as near a duplicate of that spell as you can—"
"You mean buy another spell?” He laughed mirthlessly. “Then why do we need you?"
"No, no.” Flustered, she tried again. “You can rent a master spell of its kind from the archives."
"And let everyone know that it's been stolen?” He looked unimpressed, and Jocasta felt her chance slipping away, spellhound or no spellhound.
She took a deep breath, trying to formulate an answer to a conundrum to which she didn't have all the clues, let alone the answers. “Did you keep the spell somewhere specific?” she asked desperately, scrabbling for inspiration. “If we have time to examine in close detail where the spell was kept, it would help."
"We could do that,” Duff agreed.
"Ser Stanislav,” Jocasta implored. “I need more detail. Is this spell reusable? Is it personally keyed to you? You've told me nothing but expect me to answer riddles."
He nodded, coming to a decision. “You're right. Time for answers—follow me."
He led her through a concealed doorway into a small square room about twice the length of a man. “It has the air of a room well used,” Jocasta murmured to the spellhound, which brought up the rear. “Antique.” She fingered the books lining the walls. “Printed on priceless paper. Each probably costing more than we earn in a month.” She smiled at Duff's sharp look. Even in daylight the room was gloomy but cosy. She and the spellhound stepped away from Duff and wandered around the room, seemingly at random. “It's the first warm room in this house of cold comfort.” She had difficulty concentrating and called, “Stanislav, are you operating a confusion?” She pressed her hand against her eye to try to relieve the pressure of a sinus headache. She swallowed, fighting down nausea.
"Sorry.” He motioned, and the pressure eased.
"It's set only to you?"
"All my spells are set to myself and Sinhalese. Though that means little. A determined thief will find ways around that."
"Agreed.” Jocasta looked around. “There's too much magic in here,” she complained. “Truesight won't work. Will a sketch?” she asked the spellhound. At its answer, her shoulders slumped. “Then we'll have to use basic techniques."
Duff pressed a concealed switch, and a bookcase swung open to reveal a tiny chamber, little bigger than a concealed cupboard. Jocasta waved the spellhound forward, and it almost flowed into the chamber. It snuffled and then sneezed explosively.
They watched the spellhound licking the wall to get a taste, its hackles raised. It sniffed its way along every surface, into every gap, into every cranny, its muscles straining as it fought to separate what it sought from what was extraneous. It warbled and chirped in excitement, and hieroglyphs danced in the air.
"Who had access to this room?” Jocasta asked.
"Myself, Sinhalese, and our servant, Damon Task."
"Task?” Suspicion suffused her voice.
"He's a zombie.” Meaning, no one had anything that could suborn him.
"Ah,” Jocasta said, satisfied. “What was the spell?"
"Spells,” he said absently, his attention on the spellhound as it worked. “Can it track them even after all this time?"
"Them?” she said sharply. “It depends how many. It depends on luck as well, to an extent. How many were stolen?"
"Eleven."
"Eleven?” Jocasta shrieked.
Sinhalese appeared in the doorway as if conjured. “Is everything under control?” She smiled vindictively.
Jocasta gritted her teeth. “Everything is well."
"Eleven,” Duff said. “We thought ten at first. With counterspells. And some blanks.” He itemised them on great sausage-like fingers: “The Spell of Invisibility; Summoning; Elsewhere; the Spell of Yesterday; Enchantment; Levitation; Succubation—"
"Succubation?” Jocasta said. “I'm not familiar with that."
"It allows the user to create a succubus. A female version of an incubus,” he said before she could ask. He continued, counting on his fingers: “The Spell of Reanimation; Shadow-casting; Strength and Speed; and the Spell of Silent Death.” He stared at her as if she were a specimen on a slab. “This isn't looking for an errant husband who has run off with a glamour girl or who's putting laxative in their supervisor's tree-tea.” He laughed. “You look shocked, Jocasta. Did you really think I wouldn't have you checked, discreetly. Small time, but capable, they assured me.” He oozed concern. “Is the job too big for you?"
Jocasta thought,
I know too much to be allowed to live if I decline it. Even if I didn't need it so badly, I couldn't turn it down.
“It is big,” she admitted. “We'll need to subcontract.” She held up a hand: “They'll only be told the minimum.” She studied him again. “What sort of spells?"
"All class one,” he answered.
She looked puzzled.
"Self-regenerating.” He added, “They'd need time to regenerate. And they could eventually be worn out, just as you could work a man to death."
"There were counterspells for them?"
"For some, antidotes. In some cases actually separate spells."
"And the blanks. Do you think they intended to create new ones by grafting them?” She saw that she'd surprised him by how quickly she'd caught the implications.
"Very likely.” His voice held new respect.
"Do you have any idea who did it?"
"I know exactly who did it,” he said flatly. “He's dead."
"Oh.” She looked thoughtful.
"It's what he's done with the spells or where he's stashed them that puzzles us,” Duff said.
"This is going to cost you a lot of money."
"Whatever it takes,” he said. They pressed palms to confirm the contract. “I'll send you a copy of my spy's witnessing our conversation as confirmation."
She gulped, realising that she was committed. It was what she'd wanted, but like so much in life, sometimes getting what one wanted had unforeseen consequences.
"I must go,” she said breathlessly. “I need to call at the bank. I'll send you an estimate and a formal contract with all the details."
"I'll take you there, if you're in a hurry,” he offered. “Have you bills to pay?"
Does he know?
she wondered. “I've had a tip from another client,” she said and simpered. “I shouldn't really discuss it."
"Come, Jocasta...” he murmured.
"You won't tell anyone else? Please? It's supposed to be confidential!"
"It'll be our secret,” he promised.
"You know the Third Spice Mercantile Bank?"
"Indeed."
"I've heard one of the Orbital finance houses is preparing a takeover.” She studiously examined her nails and added, “I've a little money put aside for some shares in the bank. Which will be an absolute bargain.”
Even though it's money I should really be spending on food and rent. But wouldn't life be dull if survival were all that drove us?
Still, she wondered if she would yet have to spend her last chunk of painfully gathered savings. She had no intention of becoming a slave, even temporarily.
"I might be interested myself,” he said absently. “If it's that good a bargain..."
"Don't go wild,” she said. “If too many shares are bought, then it will be obvious that someone's talked."
"I'll decide how much I spend!” he growled. “But this may lead to a bonus for you."
"You are most generous toward a humble enquiry agent, Ser Stanislav.” She bowed.
"And you're more resourceful than you first appear, Demoiselle Jocasta.” He smiled his snaggle-toothed grin. “I want those spells."
He added, “Remember, whatever it takes."
"Whatever it takes,” she agreed.
While he drove her to the bank and she drew out her funds, she kept up the pretence of being relaxed and that the case really was so unimportant. Only when she was sure that he was gone and that she was alone with the spellhound, did she lean back against the wall, wipe the sweat from her forehead, and wipe her eyes.
"It's just the release of the tension,” she said to the spellhound.
—The tension is only just about to begin. Now that we are committed to him, tension will be our constant companion.—
"I know! Leave me some illusions, won't you?” she grumbled.
Shhh! Don't move! If you're quiet and stay still, he might not get you. Mamma warned you about The Badman, and she was right to. Here he is...
Quickly—
Be still.
Be quiet.
Big kids don't cry.
If you don't move, The Badman might not notice you.
Keep your eyes shut, keep the bright sunlight out.
Be still. Be quiet. Big kids don't cry. Be still be quiet be still—
Spring ambled toward summer. The days lengthened, the land grew greener, blossoms stained the trees before carpeting the ground, and insects buzzed and hummed. Jocasta swapped her winter cloak for a lighter summer one.
"Superficially, life in the Duff house seems normal, but we mustn't be fooled by appearances,” she said to the spellhound. Jocasta sat in their little box of an office while the spellhound stood. “I'm sure that behind closed doors there's tension bubbling away. It seems the rich often pay free people to serve, even in the most menial of positions. The trouble is free people talk, however scared they are of reprisals."
—You think that it's why when a servant leaves, Duff replaces them with a zombie?—
"Probably more to keep security tight than to economise,” she said. “But the influx persuades other warms to leave. Now the zombies outnumber the living."
She leaned back and looked around the office. It was clean but spartan, almost empty save for a small table in the middle and tatty couches for visitors on two sides. Pillars around the edge and arches at the front gave it what she thought of as a Grecian look. A door hidden in the back wall led to plusher rooms that she kept for important clients. Limited cash flow made a secretary an unaffordable luxury, so she did the work herself—most of her clients could barely afford her charges.
She thought,
It's amazing that humanity still clings to the same old vices. People still rob, cheat, and kill, and still need someone like me to clean up their messes.
Jocasta said, “Duff believes that knowledge is power. So what do we know? What power do we have?” She ticked each point off on her fingers: “Duff has paid the death-dues for Maltby and Maltby's staff. Rumours have spread like the wildfires that crackle around the edges of the city every high summer. Some claim that the death-dues have severely dented Duff's fortune, that Maltby's death has created a vacuum amongst the city's elite, that trying to fill that vacuum keeps most of them occupied, including Duff."
She raised another finger. “When I brought this up, he looked uncomfortable. Said,” she parodied Duff's pompous bass, “'I'm not interested in committees, but it would look odd if I didn't join the feeding frenzy.'” Reverting to her normal voice, she went on, “The time he spends on those committees gave him an excuse to decline commissions for which he needs his spells, but turning down those commissions further erodes his income."
She sighed. “Only Sinhalese and I know of the temporary spells, which he often needs, and what they cost. His involvement in the power struggle has given us free rein. But the calm will end soon, and we must be able to justify our fee before it does."
Jocasta thought of how she had told Duff bluntly when he signed the contract: “We're not the cheapest, but we are the most efficient. My spellhound is the best there is. I've spent years designing it. There's only us and a small office to pay for. Overheads are small, and we use subcontractors, who work on a need-to-know basis for the grunt work, so leaks are minimal. If you used a bigger agency, it would be around town in two days, with enormous damage to your reputation.” She'd leaned forward. “We really
want
the business. This could be our big chance."
She said out loud, “I suspect it was my honesty more than anything else that persuaded Duff to sign."
She sighed again. With the lack of results she was growing to dread more and more calling at the Duff manse. She stood up. “Come on, let's have another look at the Maltby place."
It was a dead end, just as the previous visits had been. Maltby's house lay on the edge of the commercial district. It was smaller, less pretentious than Duff's grandiose folly. Altogether bookish, which, Duff had once commented to Jocasta, reflected Maltby: “A clerk who reached above himself."
At her shocked look, he had grinned. “Have no illusions, Demoiselle Pantile. We played our power games for years, a mix of chess and shadowboxing. One of us made a move. The other would block and countermove. Our battlefields were chambers, councils, and whispers in meetings. Maltby was the politician, a man I couldn't match when it came to schmoozing, but he couldn't match my magic. Neither of us liked the other, but we held back from all out war until the fool clearly decided that he had allowed our feud to drift on for far too long."
"What happened?” Jocasta asked, blinking foolishly.
He grinned again, a prehistoric killing machine about to devour its prey. “I settled it."
Jocasta shivered at the memory. “There's nothing here,” she said. But when she and the spellhound stepped into the darkened corridors, she saw that she had been wrong.
Back in the office, they laid the comatose little being onto a revivifier. “They made sure that all the spies watching that corridor were dead,” she said grimly to the spellhound. “Whoever left this spy there wanted to make damn sure we didn't know who they were.” As the juice surged into the tiny creature, barely visible to the naked eye, it fluttered its wings. If it were healthy, the wings would be only a blur.