Mage's Blood

30

Dressed to Steal

‘Magic Spells’

Prior to the Ascendancy of Corineus, all cultures had in their folklore tales of magic – the ability to do the inexplicable and miraculous. Many of the words used now in the practice of the Gnostic Arts are derived from such sources – wizard, sorcerer, spell; the list goes on. We magi know that the ability to wield the gnosis does not depend on saying special magic words, but the myth persists among the common people.

ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS

Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros

Maicin 928

2 months until the Moontide

As soon as his father left for Pontus, Alaron and his friends started a systematic surveillance of the Governor’s Palace, and discovered Belonius Vult was to be absent for two more weeks at least. The three felt a little like the infamous Kaden Rats, a group of magi who’d turned to crime half a century before and subsequently led the authorities a merry dance through Bricia and Argundy. ‘Of course, the Kaden Rats were pure-blood nobles, not a ragtag group of rejects like us,’ Ramon noted. He’d put himself in charge of the plan to break in: ‘I’m a Silacian,’ he told them. ‘It has to be me.’

The top floor of the Merry Magpie Inn commanded a fine view of the palace’s back entrance. The window seats were perfectly placed for them to reconnoître the movement of guards. Alaron made soft comments that Ramon surreptitiously noted down or sketched. The table was littered with goblets; the boys had been there all afternoon. They were the only customers in the upstairs room so business was nonexistent for Prissy, the bored-looking prostitute in the corner.

A barmaid came up and scooped up the empties. ‘Another round, young sirs?’

‘Mmm,’ murmured Ramon, not looking up from his notepad.

Alaron jerked around. ‘Huh? Yeah, sure.’

The barmaid looked at the empties, then at the bored whore. ‘You lads ain’t paid for nothing yet, nor spent any coin with Prissy. I’m thinking it’s time I saw the colour of your money.’

Ramon absently flashed a gold Silacian auros and she nodded her approval.

‘You’ve got an auros?’ said Alaron when she’d gone.

‘It’s a Silacian auros – it’s mostly lead. I wouldn’t swap a Rondian silver for it, but these morons don’t know that.’ He glanced at Prissy, who had caught the glint of gold and was now heading for their table. Her breasts were almost hanging out of her dress. ‘Alaron, could you help that poor girl – her laces have come undone.’ He went back to his writing.

Prissy waggled herself helpfully at Alaron, who did his best to look the other way. ‘Well?’ she said in something approximating a seductive purr, ‘wanna bury your face in these?’

‘He doesn’t,’ Ramon said without looking up, ‘he’s saving himself for the woman of his dreams. Which is rather sad as she’s not interested.’ He rummaged in his pouch and produced a silver Silacian foli, which he pressed into her hands. ‘Look, take this and go away. I’ll treble it if you never talk to us again.’

‘Quadruple it and you’ve got a deal.’

Ramon frowned. ‘You want me to pay you four foli not to bed you?’

She shrugged. ‘It was your idea.’

‘What’s your normal rate?’

‘Three silver.’

‘So you’re saying you want three to sleep with you and four if we don’t?’

‘Um, yeah.’

‘Okay, here’s another two. Start without me and I’ll catch you up later.’ She pouted and stomped away, but not before she’d pocketed the coins. Alaron tried to work out who had won that exchange, but gave up and went back to thinking about Cym.

The next round arrived. Ramon took a slurp of sour red wine, winced slightly and let a cheery smile play across his face. He was clearly enjoying playing at criminals.

‘By the way, Cym is interested in me,’ Alaron told him. ‘I’m just waiting for the right moment.’

‘Uh-huh. In your dreams, lanky. Is there still a man in the watchtower?’

Alaron peered back to the palace. ‘Yes, but he’ll come down at dusk. Anyway, Cym came back and helped me when I was at my lowest point. She gave me a periapt, free of charge.’

‘Nothing is free, Alaron: she owns you, as if she didn’t already. I bet she’s tried to talk you into giving the you-know-what to her Rimoni pals if we get it.’

‘No, she hasn’t.’ He decided not to mention Cym’s suggestion of the Ordo Costruo.

‘We don’t want to start a war with it, Al. We should just keep it secret and live quiet lives of luxury and crime,’ said Ramon with relish.

‘I’m not a thief and neither is Cym—’

‘Oh please, she’s Rimoni: to be a gypsy is to lead a life of crime.’

‘They used to have an empire,’ Alaron retorted.

‘And they lost it and were nearly wiped out. Now they’re forbidden the ownership or even the rent of land so of course they’re all thieves now. I’m just being realistic. If we take the view that we’re totally in it for ourselves, then we can quietly set about accumulating money without having to make awkward choices that will all lead to war and misery anyway. It makes perfect sense.’

‘But it’s not right.’

‘According to who? Alaron, you need to dry behind your ears. The Rondians run the world because they’re the biggest pack of bullies, not because they’re nice people – they’ve got nine-tenths of the magi, including all the most powerful ones. They tax us and demand tribute from us and generally roger us up the arse, and why? Because they can! If they realise someone has found their precious Scytale, they’re going to smash the pillars of heaven to get it back.’

‘But by then we’ll be Ascendants too.’

‘Al, it took the first Ascendants years to master the gnosis. You and I aren’t in the same field as them in terms of knowledge and skill, regardless of our blood-strength. Even as Ascendants we wouldn’t last ten minutes against the Pallas Kirkegarde. If we find this thing, we’ll need to keep it utterly secret.’

Alaron scowled, trying to think of a rational counter-argument, but he couldn’t. ‘It’s just not right.’

Ramon rolled his eyes and went back to his mapping.

‘Why are we so rubbish at the gnosis?’ Alaron asked miserably.

Ramon frowned. ‘Speak for yourself. I’m competent enough; it’s just that I’m only a sixteenth-blood. That’s the lowest you can be without having no power at all. But I get by.’

‘Yeah, but I’m a quarter-blood. There are lots of quarter-bloods who are accounted powerful, so what’s wrong with me?’

Ramon fixed him in the eye. ‘You really want to know?’

Alaron blinked. ‘Of course!’

Ramon reached out and tweaked his nose. ‘It’s because you have no self-confidence. You don’t believe in yourself and you’re afraid of the gnosis.’

Alaron had been preparing himself for something complicated and beyond his control, not this. He was silent for a moment, then said vehemently, ‘I do have confidence! I know a spell will work when I cast it – I’m only afraid when doing the sorcery stuff, you know that. Hel, if I can fight Malevorn knowing right from the start I’m going to lose, then I’m hardly going to be afraid of a little spell not working, am I?’

Ramon shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. It’s pretty clear to everyone else. You fight Malevorn because you can’t control your temper, but you’ve never once believed you’d beat him.’

‘He’s a pure-blood – I never stood a chance—’

‘Of course you didn’t – because you were mentally already beaten. You were just feeding his ego. If you’d really wanted to take him down you’d have knifed him in his sleep. You never tried to win, you were just fighting to get a badge of honour that said “I tried”.’ Ramon tapped the table. ‘Your first experience of the gnosis was to see your mother’s face and all her nightmares. It’s no wonder you’re petrified by what the gnosis can do.’

Alaron felt like he’d been slapped. ‘I thought you were my friend!’

‘I am your friend, idiot. That’s why I’m telling you this. Look, once you accept the gnosis and learn to fight to win, you’ll master all your fears and become a half-decent mage. So harden up, stop doubting and believe in yourself. It really is that simple.’

Alaron hung his head. ‘So why didn’t you do something about Malevorn?’

‘Because it was an Arcanum tiff. It wasn’t important. You might think college is the beginning and end of the universe, but the truth is that all that shit is just trivia. You’ll have forgotten it all in a few years – or you should have. Alaron, just toughen up. We’re in the middle of something that could be truly huge and if you’re going to play your part, you need to put your best foot forward.’ Ramon leaned forward. ‘I’ve learned more in six months in a Silacian village than I ever did in college. The familioso stuff, it isn’t pretty.’ His voice took on a haunted quality. ‘At home I’m the familioso problem-solver: someone has a problem, they go to the Pater, and he sends for me. I fix it. You’re still sheltered from that side of life, but you won’t be for long. Harden up, amici.’

‘How?’

Ramon rolled his eyes, then put a hand over Alaron’s. ‘Mostly you need to stop thinking negatively about yourself. Never say “I can’t”; say “I can”. Be positive.’ He took a sip of beer. ‘Alaron, inside your shell of insecurity and incompetence is a tenacious mage and a natural leader – I see flashes of it when you lose your temper. But you need to draw that out of yourself while you’re calm.’

Alaron wrinkled his nose. ‘I can’t— Uh, okay, I’ll try.’

‘Don’t try – do.’

‘And you can do all this?’

Ramon grinned. ‘Of course. I’m a genius.’

Ramon’s access to the legion barracks and battle-mage records room gave him the opportunity to copy the plans of the palace. ‘It was so damned easy it was embarrassing: one look at my legion badge and that overrode any concern of me being Silacian. Complacency, that is what it is.’

He built them a three-dimensional map of the palace using Earthgnosis and sat back, grinning smugly as the others examined it. Alaron contributed some tiny illusory guards and had them walk the routes he had observed so they could work out the blind spots. They really did feel like the Kaden Rats reborn.

The five-storey Governor’s Palace was in the shape of a massive H, with a massive sloping roof and a turret at each point and at every intersection. The ground floor of the governor’s wing was dedicated to entertaining, and linked to the huge kitchens. The second floor was given over to more intimate entertaining and decorated with statues, art, rare artefacts and treasures of the state. The third floor was for staff facilities – the great central staircase bypassed it completely. The fourth floor, guest suites, was almost always empty. The top floor, which enjoyed fine sunset views, was for the use of the family of the governor, though Vult had been widowed some years previously and his only child was grown up and lived in Pallas.

‘The study and his bedroom are on the top level,’ Cym noted, ‘but which one will have his personal stuff?’

‘Study, I’d think,’ Ramon replied.

‘No, bedroom,’ Cym replied. ‘This is stuff he only thinks about occasionally. He’ll have secretaries and servants coming and going in the study.’

‘We shouldn’t restrict ourselves to those two rooms,’ Alaron said. ‘Remember Fyrell lecturing us on protecting valuables? There are two ways you can do it: one, you load up wardings and hope no one comes who is too strong for you; or you go for stealth and cunning and hide them under veiling spells, relying on outwitting any enemies who might come looking. The problem with wardings is that they’re detectable to other magi; they basically say “here are my valuables – are you good enough to take them?” That doesn’t sound like Vult to me.’

They mulled that over. ‘What will we be facing?’ Ramon asked. ‘What studies does Vult use?’

Alaron put his hand up. ‘I can tell you that,’ he announced. ‘Like all good Noros babies, I was raised on stories of the Revolt. I found this one in Ma’s library.’ He brandished a battered copy of Generals of the Glorious Revolt. ‘It say here that Belonius Vult is “a noble and urbane general beloved of the people. He is at his most deadly to the craven foe in the arts of Sorcery and the elements of Air and Water. His mastery of Divination allows him to foresee all turns of the game.” He grinned at them. ‘It was written prior to Lukhazan, obviously. But it does give us an idea what we’ll be facing.’

‘If he’s mostly a diviner and clairvoyant, he’ll be of limited use when it comes to protecting his stuff,’ Ramon commented. ‘Most sorcery is fairly limited unless you’re there in person. And Air-magery is not great for traps, and nor is Water. This is good – I was worried he’d be a Fire-mage, and have all sorts of nastiness waiting for us.’

‘What if he used a friend, like this teacher Fyrell, to enhance his defences?’ Cym wondered aloud.

‘It’s not impossible,’ Ramon acknowledged, ‘but it would take a lot of trust for him to leave his defences in the hands of someone who could deactivate them, rob him and then reactivate, all the time playing the innocent. I don’t think Belonius Vult is the sort of person who gives out trust like alms on Beggars Day.’

‘What does your book say about General Langstrit, Alaron?’ Cym asked.

Alaron found the page. ‘Here it is: Ha! You’ll like this: “Though from Argundy’s far vales, Jarius Langstrit heard the resounding call for freedom and came prepared to expend his blood upon the slopes of this mountain kingdom for the cause of justice. A master of the elements, the fell-handed Argundian loves nothing better than to bring the wrath of fire and lightning upon the foe, whilst his illusions cloak the presence of our boys from the cowering cheese-munchers”. “Cowering cheese-munchers” – I love it!’

Ramon pulled a face. ‘So the general is an Elementalist – handy, but Sorcery is the weakness of Elementalists. Ordinary runic magic should be fine, provided I can get him to do anything. What about any spirit-guardians Vult might have left?’

‘No problem,’ Alaron answered. ‘Vult’s not a Wizard, or a Necromancer.’

‘But how are we going to get inside?’ Cym wondered.

Ramon put his hands behind his head and leaned back. ‘We’ll get in. We just need to investigate a bit more and a way will open to us. Trust me.’

Alaron looked at Cym. ‘Did the Silacian familioso just say “trust me”?’

‘Alaron?’ a vaguely familiar voice called as he walked up to the Governor’s Palace; he’d planned on going inside this time, to see what kind of reception area there was, how it was manned and guarded. He wore a cloth cap and a light scarf despite the heat, but it obviously hadn’t been disguise enough. So much for getting in without attracting any notice. ‘Alaron Mercer?’

He cursed under his breath and looked up into a freckled face framed by braided blonde hair. He groaned internally: his almost-fiancée Gina Weber. ‘Uh, hello Gina,’ he responded as he sought an excuse to move on.

Gina was wearing a grey dress and a modest headscarf covered the braids which showed she was still unmarried, but there was an engagement ring on her left hand. She was smiling like he was an old friend. ‘It is you – I thought it was! What have you been up to?’

‘Oh, looking after Ma, mostly. Dad’s gone east on business. Not much, you know.’

Some of the desolation of his reply must have triggered her memory, for she suddenly coloured and apologised. ‘I’m so sorry about the graduation thing. It seemed very unfair.’

‘Tell the governor that,’ Alaron snapped, regretting it when she flinched. ‘Sorry, Gina, it’s not your fault. Anyway, we’re still trying to petition the governor – better get on, eh?’ He tried to walk away, but she came with him.

‘I hope your petition is successful, I really do. I thought you were – well, you know, a decent person.’

He swallowed, suddenly a little choked up. It had never occurred to him to worry about what she thought of him. ‘Yeah, well, thanks for that, Gina. No hard feelings. You seemed like a decent person too.’ He met her eyes, possibly for the first time ever. ‘Good luck with your marriage to that Brician fellow.’

Her face clouded. ‘We won’t actually marry until he gets back from the Crusade,’ she said quietly.

‘Well, I hope he makes it. What was his name again?’

‘Blayne de Noellen. His father has a big estate and lots of horses near Fellanton. He’s from an old half-blood line, like our family. Father was quite pleased—’

‘Good, good—Excuse me, Gina, but I have to go.’ He fought an unexpected sense of regret – not that he had really wanted to marry her, but that future had been safe, normal. Now here he was, contemplating a crime that could get him executed. ‘Goodbye, Gina.’

‘Watch out at the governor’s office,’ she said suddenly. ‘There’s a young mage there who’s an absolute creep. He’s their security man now that the legions have marched. He keeps propositioning me, the slime.’

‘Any useful battle-magi has gone east, so I’m told,’ Alaron remarked. ‘Just the arseholes and losers left, huh?’ he couldn’t help adding morosely.

‘I don’t think you’re either of those things, Alaron,’ Gina told him. ‘Good luck – let me know how it goes. I’m around here a lot. Unmarried mage-women like me who aren’t good at fighting or healing do most of the communication tasks. I’m working as personal secretary to the watch captain.’

‘Jeris Muhren?’

‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘He’s wonderful. If you’d like to meet him one day I could arrange it – he already knows about you. I’ve heard him dictating letters to the governor on your behalf.’

Alaron felt a flicker of surprise: so Muhren hadn’t been lying when he claimed to be trying to help him. ‘I’ve met him already. Look, thanks, Gina, but I’ve got to go. I might see you around.’

She gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Good luck, Alaron.’

He set off, then turned back. ‘Do you know Malevorn Andevarion?’ he asked her, trying to sound indifferent. Her resultant blush told him all he needed to know. He stomped away.

He climbed the stairs to the west wing, passing assorted guards and statuary. Inside was a cavernous foyer, filled with more statues, including a huge one of Vult, and ceiling murals of the Alps. A bored-looking man sat at a large desk confronting rows of men and women of all ages. The room had an oppressive air of stillness, as if the supplicants had been there so long that invisible spiders had woven unseen webs about them.

Alaron sat as if he were another petitioner and began to take mental note of what he could see of the lay-out.

‘Alaron Mercer,’ purred a voice behind his shoulder that made him shudder.

Alaron stood warily, confronting Gron Koll. The last time he had seen Koll’s sallow face, Muhren had just pounded it into a pillar. Sadly, Koll had healed, but the cure for acne still eluded him. He was wearing the red and blue uniform of the governor’s staff. ‘Koll. I’d heard only the dregs were still in town. I guess seeing you here proves it.’

Gron Koll allowed a faint sneer to curl his lips, as though baiting by inferiors were beneath his contempt now. ‘The best men get the best positions, Mercer. Only the knuckleheads went east. The clever ones don’t need to go grubbing around deserts to make their fortunes. I’m Personal Aide to Acting-Governor Besko. He’s got his eye on you. And so have I, you and your little group of foreign scum that hang around your father’s house day and night. Does your gypsy slut give good sport?’

Alaron fought the urge to hit the smirking youth whilst quelling alarm at the news that their house was being watched. ‘You and Besko are a lovely couple. Let me know when you decide to make it official.’ He turned his back to go.

Unseen fists gripped his throat, squeezing the air from his windpipe whilst lifting him kicking and choking into the air. He was peripherally aware of shocked supplicants staring as he fought to breathe through Koll’s gnosis-choke. He was horribly afraid that Koll would probe his mind, but instead Koll just giggled as he spun Alaron slowly in the air. His vision started turning ragged, coming in and out of focus, and he felt himself beginning to black out when he was dumped on the floor, cracking his skull as he fell. He gasped for air like a beached fish as heavy hands picked him up and he was half-dragged, half-carried out the door and down the steps. The two watchmen left him sprawled on the ground in front of a small group of onlookers. He lay there, trying to inhale through tortured throat muscles.

Koll’s voice slithered into his mind from the top of the stairs.

‘Alaron?’ Gina Weber bent over him and soothing, balm-like gnosis suffused his throat muscles until blessed air flowed in without pain once more. He coughed and retched.

‘Gina, darling, don’t waste your time on that failure. Tomorrow night after work, perhaps?’ Gron Koll called, his voice oily and mocking. ‘Wear that lovely green dress.’

Gina ignored him as she helped Alaron to his feet. ‘You know him? Oh, that’s right – he was one of Mal’s friends. What a creep,’ she murmured. ‘Come on, I’ll help you home.’

It’s ‘Mal’ still, is it? Alaron let her steady him until his legs regained their full strength and he was able to stand under his own steam. ‘Thanks Gina,’ he croaked. ‘I can make it from here.’

She looked at him with a pitying face. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

He shook his head, feeling nothing but helpless rage at Koll, Gavius, Muhren and everyone else who had ruined his future. When we’ve solved this Langstrit mystery, I’m going to leave here and never look back. He glared at her, then remembered his manners and softened his look. ‘Sorry. Thanks again, Gina.’

‘That’s okay,’ she said quietly, looking at him oddly, almost as if he were a child. ‘Well, then. Nice to see you,’ she said, slightly awkwardly, and backed away.

She actually wanted to marry me, it dawned on him. It wasn’t a peripheral thing, not to her. What on Urte did she see in me? ‘See you around then,’ he muttered and fled.

They set the evening of Torsdai, 22 Maicin as the night for their raid on the Governor’s Residence. Ramon reacted with vindictive delight at the thought that Gron Koll would be guarding the building. ‘We knew some mage or other would be there – good to know it’s that bastard.’

Alaron frowned. ‘I’m not so sure. Koll is no pushover.’

‘It’s ideal! For one, he’s a known quantity. We know what he’s good at – Illusion, obviously, and Air-gnosis – so we know how to beat him. Two, I’ve been wanting the chance to beat the shit out of him for seven years.’

‘He’s not easy,’ Alaron warned. ‘We’ve both duelled him at college. He’s tough to beat.’

‘It won’t be a square fight,’ Ramon said. ‘We can’t afford the time and noise. He has to go down with one hit.’

‘No killing,’ Cym warned them. ‘It doesn’t matter how much you hate him, we can’t afford that.’

The boys muttered their reluctant agreement.

‘Good,’ she pronounced, ‘because I’ve thought of the best way to do this …’

So it was that Alaron found himself wearing a large green dress and a pale blue half-cloak, and thus cowled, with Ramon on his arm, he tried to walk like a woman through the twilight streets. ‘This is the worst plan ever,’ he muttered sourly.

‘Hush, gorgeous,’ Ramon hissed.

‘Arsehole! You should be the one in the dress. You might even like it.’

Ramon stifled laughter. ‘You look lovely, Alaron. Good enough to kiss.’

Alaron scowled. ‘Don’t you dare!’

‘Shhh! And don’t pull faces, you’ll spoil the effect.’

Gina was a moderately tall girl, bigger than Cym or Ramon, and only a fraction smaller than Alaron. Her hair was a problem, but Cym had somehow came up with a blonde wig. After that, it didn’t really take much work at all to make the transformation, especially with some judicious use of normal disguising techniques: a little padding here, a little make-up there. They even pierced his ears so he could wear earrings. He felt mortified, a complete fool, and his ears stung, but Cym was right: it did have to be him.

‘One moment you’re telling me to toughen up, next moment you’re putting me in a frock,’ he complained.

Ramon chuckled. ‘Part of being tough is taking a hit for your friends, Al. Doesn’t have to be a physical blow – being tough enough to put on a dress is part of being in a team.’

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely.’ Then Ramon spoiled the pep talk by bursting into uncontrollable laughter.

The sun was gone and the waning moon hung in the eastern sky. There weren’t many abroad in the streets, and the Watchmen weren’t about to harass a girl on the arm of a battle-mage, so they were left alone as they headed for the private entrance to the Governor’s Palace. It hadn’t taken much research to find out that the governor’s new aide was using the guest rooms of the Residence; Koll was ill-liked among the staff, to no one’s surprise.

Ramon left Alaron at the corner of the square and went to join the others in a nearby alley. Alaron crossed the plaza, his head bowed, trying to walk like a woman and praying he didn’t meet anyone.

He wasn’t that lucky.

‘Hello, young Gina,’ came a rough warm voice, and Alaron stole a glance, pursing his lips. Damn! Some young bureaucrat, he couldn’t think of the name. He hoped Gina wasn’t too friendly towards him normally.

‘Hello.’ He used Shaping to soften his tones and Mesmerism to encourage the other to find him as expected, just as he’d practised for the last two days. It must have worked, because the young man appeared to be taken in.

‘Visiting someone?’ he asked curiously.

‘Just a friend,’ Alaron said softly, flicking his head at the Residence.

The young official screwed his face up. ‘Gron Koll?’ he said disgustedly. ‘Well, there’s no accounting for taste, but I’d have thought better of an engaged woman like you.’ He tipped his cap tersely and marched away.

Sorry about your reputation, Gina. Once he was sure the young man was out of sight he hurried on: the third night-bell had already sounded. He would only get one chance if Koll was there. Failure would be fatal. He came to the servants’ door and knocked, his hand trembling.

He had to wait for a several seconds before a middle-aged woman’s voice called, ‘Who’s there?’

Alaron summoned all his courage and spoke in Gina’s voice. ‘I’m here to visit Master Koll.’

He heard a disgusted sigh, then, ‘What name shall I give?’

When he said ‘Gina,’ he heard a small curse.

The viewing slot opened. ‘Let’s look at you.’

He met the servant’s eyes through the slot and reaching out with the gnosis. You see Gina Weber, no doubt about it. Let me in.

Mesmerism wasn’t one of his best affinities, but the maid was busy and not expecting anyone else. ‘Very well,’ she grunted tiredly. She worked the locks open and let him in. Light shone from the kitchen and cooking smells filled the hall. The woman looked about forty, with flour on her hands. ‘I’d have thought better of you, lass,’ she said resignedly. ‘Come on. I’ll show you to the parlour.’

She led him down a hall; outside, Ramon and Cym should be leading Langstrit across the square, ready to follow him through, if he was able to see off the guard and Koll.

The cook called to one of the guards who were casting dice in the foyer. ‘Kurt, take Miss Weber to the parlour … Charles, go and fetch Slimetongue.’ She sounded disgruntled.

To know you is clearly not to love you, Gron Koll, Alaron thought. Slimetongue – ha!

The guard, Kurt, led him to a small armless chair in a tiny round room overlooking the square. He reeked of rusty mail and sweat. He peered at Alaron curiously.

Guards of magi houses were often taught shielding techniques, so Alaron put extra effort into his mesmerism. You see an attractive woman, but she is not for you. Leave.

There was little resistance. Kurt sniffed and turned away. ‘What do you want to see Koll for?’

‘None of your business, guardsman – but I’ll be sure to mention that you asked.’

Kurt flinched. ‘Uh, sorry, miss. Didn’t mean nothing by it.’ He hurried away.

Alaron, finally alone, looked around curiously. The ill-lit room was cluttered with books and tables and desks and the smell of lamp-oil. He heard footsteps and tugged his hood into place.

‘Gina,’ purred Gron Koll as he entered the room. ‘What a pleasant surprise! I hoped you would see sense after all.’ He stopped beside a decanter and splashed brandy into a glass. ‘No sense in pining for your fiancé for two years, is there?’

Alaron watched out of the corner of his eye. Come closer, Gron you prick.

Koll ambled towards him. ‘You know, Gina, I really was a little disappointed at your concern for that cretin Mercer, the other day. He got what he deserved. He’s beneath the likes of you and me.’

‘He’s nothing to me,’ Alaron risked saying, patting the seat again, conscious of Koll’s eyes studying him. He hoped the mimicking was effective as he couldn’t risk mental contact.

Koll slurped noisily and replaced the glass. ‘He’s nothing at all,’ he agreed, ‘but I’m someone; the Acting-Governor’s Personal Aide. While those fools are off soldiering, I’m filling my purse here. I could fill your purse too,’ he added with a guffaw. ‘Both your purses!’ He loomed over Alaron, who forced himself to keep his head down. He felt Koll reach out and grasp the corner of the hood. ‘Malevorn’s told me you were quite the little wettie.’ He snickered throatily.

Kore give me strength …

Something thumped in the hall and Koll swivelled, pouting. ‘Damnit, I told them—’

Alaron slammed a bunched fist into Koll’s belly, his illusory disguise vanishing as he struck, but Koll didn’t notice; he’d doubled over in time to meet Alaron’s other fist, straight to the jaw. His head snapped back with a crack as he fell. Alaron leapt onto him, ready to strike again, while he sent a mental jab into his opponent’s brain. Koll’s eyes rolled back and he went limp.

Gotcha!

The door opened and Ramon slipped inside. ‘How’d you do, Al?’

‘Done.’ Damn, that felt good.

Ramon grinned. ‘Well done. I got the guard, and the kitchen staff don’t know what’s going on. Anyone else we need to deal with?’

‘No, I think we’re clear,’ Alaron said as Cym pulled General Langstrit inside. She bent over Gron Koll. ‘This is him? Ugh; he looks the molester sort, doesn’t he? Now, let’s see …’ She closed her eyes and blue light seeped from her fingers into Koll’s temples. Then she leaned back, panting slightly. ‘He’ll be out for hours,’ she told them.

Alaron grinned at Ramon. ‘I nailed the bastard,’ he whispered. He mimicked a one-two combination.

‘I’m absolutely green with envy, amici.’

Cym smiled. ‘Sorry, but he’s not going to remember you thumping him, Alaron. He’ll think he’s spent the evening asleep after too much drink.’ She straightened. ‘Let’s go.’

They left Koll and crept silently to the main foyer, then up the stairs. A serving girl passed them on the servants’ level, oblivious to their presence. They reached the top level undetected.

Cym turned to the boys. ‘So, bedroom or study?’

Ramon pursed his lips. ‘My money’s still on the study.’ He peered down the shadowy halls. ‘First scan for wards: and don’t trigger them. Slow and cautious, remember. Cym, that’s the study; Al, check the bedroom door.’

Alaron touched it gingerly; almost instantly the door was limned in pale light. ‘Warded,’ he whispered.

‘So is the study,’ Ramon reported.

Alaron met the Silacian’s eyes. Now that they were inside Vult’s quarters, the potential for disaster was unlimited. And I still don’t think either study or bedroom is correct …

He walked off down the hall.

‘Where are you going?’ Ramon whispered irritably.

Alaron pointed to the door he was making for: the room marked as spare on the plans. There were no wards on the door, so he slowly pushed it open.

His first thought was that it was a chapel, until he saw the medals and war honours. The wall was decorated with legion banners and captured standards. The plinth itself bore a life-size bust of Vult. The room was indeed a shrine: to Belonius Vult himself.

Cym slipped in behind him, her gnosis-lit eyes pale and translucent in the gloom. ‘Look at all these,’ she said, taking in the bust and the medals. ‘Vult must have the ego of a Sollan demi-god.’

Ramon peered in. ‘What are you both doing?’

‘Alaron wanted to look in here,’ Cym whispered to him.

‘Stay focused, damn it,’ Ramon fretted. ‘Bedroom or study?’

‘Hold on a second—’ Alaron’s mind began to race. Let’s just say that the files are here. It’s not impossible – it’s not the obvious place, but it’s convenient to both bedroom and study … If I were him, I’d want my secret files at hand. I’d want them to just appear, but only to me. I’d use …

He smiled. I would use a Rune of Summoning.

He walked over to the bust and examined it closely until he found the small mark etched into the base. He pointed it out to the others. ‘Look, a Rune of Summoning.’

‘Is it?’ Ramon peered at Alaron intently. ‘So?’

‘Remember how they work?’

Ramon scowled. ‘Of course: you touch the rune, think of the object and call it to you. We did it at college. But not very well,’ he added pointedly.

Alaron pulled a face. ‘The caster is the only one who can use it. But you can override someone else’s summoning by planting your identity into the spell. We did it in class.’ Once.

‘You think you can override a pure-blood mage’s spell?’ Ramon asked. ‘No chance. It’s probably warded, too.’

Alaron stared at the little mark. It probably is warded – a touch-ward, one you can’t even see until you trigger it. That’s what I’d do. ‘We knew we’d be breaking a warding or two sometime,’ he whispered. Before the others could react – and before he could think about it too much – he plunged a gnosis-lit hand onto the symbol while casting a Binding-Rune into it.

If it is here, then this will – oh shit!

The eyes on the bust opened and focused on him. A stab of gnosis drilled into his skull and latched on. He felt his body stiffen, his heart beginning to race.

snarled Belonius Vult’s voice, emanating from the stone bust.

He was dimly aware of Ramon and Cym reaching out to him, but all he could feel was flowers of pain blooming in his breast. His body went rigid as knives of acid pierced him through. A bubble of sound swelled up inside his throat as his chest constricted. His lungs began to fail, leaving him airless, his sight and sound going dim.

A dazzling burst of light exploded around him and he screamed silently, his back arching, his legs giving way. But it was not death; it was life. Something snapped inside his skull and he could hear again. Awareness followed. He was lying on the floor, clutching his face, moaning, with Ramon’s hand over his mouth. Cym was holding him, trying to confine his limbs – he must have gone into convulsions. But neither of them was looking at him; they were staring at Jarius Langstrit, whose hand was gripping the bust of Belonius Vult.

It had cracked all the way down the middle.

Ramon knelt over him. ‘Al, are you okay?’

Alaron clutched at his head. ‘I think so – what happened?’

‘It was a Mesmerism trap,’ Ramon replied. ‘I thought you were a goner, but then the general grabbed the bust and it broke.’

‘Hel, Alaron,’ Cym snarled, ‘that was unbelievably stupid, even by your standards.’ She peered at the bust. ‘Did it work?’

Alaron looked up at Langstrit, who was staring at the bust with a look of vague interest. ‘I dunno. Hey, maybe me being endangered moved the general to act?’

‘Obviously,’ answered Cym crossly.

‘Did you know that would happen?’ he asked her.

She rolled her eyes. ‘No – my idea was to have him touch any wardings we found and hope his instincts took over.’

‘Oh. Isn’t that rather heartless?’

She met his eye and shrugged slightly.

He swallowed. ‘Okay.’ He pulled himself to his feet and reached for the broken bust, but Cym pushed him to one side.

‘Wait, let me check it first. You look half-dead.’ She placed her hand on the rune-mark and closed her eyes. ‘Okay, interesting,’ she said after half a minute. ‘The ward is gone, but the Rune of Summoning is intact, and it’s got some kind of imprint on it. You did it, Alaron. Unbelievable.’

Alaron exhaled and tentatively placed a forefinger on the symbol, triggering the Rune of Summoning. ‘General Jarius Langstrit,’ he tried, and there was a hissing sound as one of the wooden wall panels peeled back and a scroll-case floated through the air towards him. The panel closed silently. Cym caught the scroll-case, beaming excitedly. She peered at the label and her grin widened. ‘You were right, Alaron: this is it, I’m sure—’ She thrust it into her belt and looked at Alaron. ‘You’re still an idiot, though. That could have killed you.’

Ramon, examining the wall panel, quickly drew his hand back. ‘It’s still warded. They’re poised to explode if anyone tries to break in. If we’d taken a crowbar to the walls, the files would have been immolated.’ He had a faintly admiring look on his face, as though rethinking his security arrangements at home.

‘Vult must be paranoid,’ Cym remarked. ‘Perhaps he’s secretly Silacian.’ Suddenly she stiffened and her eyes widened, round as saucers. Alaron and Ramon felt it too: a sudden oppressive hammering, as if a thousand smiths were pummelling the air itself, trying to smash into the bubble of space they were in. In his mind’s eye, Alaron thought he could see the ghostly outline of an outraged face forming, pounding against his Rune of Hiding. All three threw renewed energy into their wardings, but the attack was worse than anything they had ever come across in training. Alaron felt his protections begin to slip as pain knifed through his skull, and then—

—the attack broke apart, gone between one breath and the next. Jarius Langstrit was standing like a statue with one hand raised defensively over them.

‘The general blocked it!’ Alaron whispered wonderingly. ‘That must have been Vult, trying to see who triggered his wards.’

‘Then we have to go,’ Cym hissed. ‘Vult’s next step will be to contact his underlings.’ She pulled the general towards the door. He came blankly, as if everything that had just occurred meant nothing, already forgotten.

Ramon hurried after her.

Alaron looked about the room. There could be another attack any second. But he couldn’t help himself. He touched the Rune-mark on the bust again. ‘Alaron Mercer,’ he said aloud. Another panel peeled back and another sealed scroll-case emerged. He snatched it out of the air, tucked it inside his cape and hurried after the others.

They made it out without incident, leaving the staff and guards mired in their gnosis-induced slumbers. The square was empty, as were the alleys they fled into.

They had done it. They beamed at each other exultantly.

Ramon took Alaron’s arm with a mischievous grin. ‘So, can I walk you home, my lovely? I quite like tall girls,’ he added with a grin.

‘If you don’t get me home in five minutes my mother will gut you,’ Alaron replied.

‘Why do they all say that?’ the little Silacian sighed.

The walk home seemed to take an eternity, but they made it unchallenged, and with no sign of the alarm being raised behind them. Whoever Vult might have contacted locally to investigate the break-in was acting discreetly. It wasn’t until they got inside and locked the door behind them that they finally felt safe. They threw themselves into a group hug, pulling Langstrit into their huddle, whooping joyously.

Alaron felt someone pinch his behind and yelped, jerking out of the clinch. ‘Who did that!’ he demanded, while the others roared with laughter.

Ramon winked at him. ‘So, honey, can I help you out of that dress?’

Once they were all changed and settled into the armchairs of the lounge Cym opened the Langstrit scroll-case. Tesla was already abed, and Langstrit dozed in his favourite armchair.

‘So: let’s see what’s in the general’s file,’ Cym said, pulling out a handful of tightly wrapped pages headed with the seal of the Watch. ‘Look: “Arrest Report for Prisoner L” – this is it. And here it is, the contents of the chapel—’ She set the papers down, beaming excitedly. Alaron thought she’d never looked so beautiful.

Ramon poured drinks and they toasted their success. ‘Amici, much though I want to read it all tonight, I think we should get some sleep first. But well done, us. We got in, Alaron got to biff Koll, we got what we wanted and we got out undetected. Perfect.’

‘Well, not exactly undetected,’ Cym reminded them. ‘Vult knows he’s had a break-in.’

‘He’s in Antiopia,’ Ramon replied smugly. ‘He won’t be back here for weeks, and there’s nothing to tie us to the break-in. We are geniuses; step aside, Kaden Rats, there’s a new gang in town.’

They finished their drinks and went reluctantly to bed. Alaron didn’t mention the second scroll-case. In retrospect it was an utterly stupid thing to have done – but it was too late now. He waited until he could go to the privy alone so that he could examine the papers privately.

Inside were his thesis notes. He began to tremble with rage. Vult really had stolen them, or more likely, had got someone else to do it. Then his eyes fell on the only other item in the file, a one-page letter folded up amidst the notes.

To: Lucien Gavius, Principal of Turm Zauberin, Norostein

From: Belonius Vult, Governor of Noros.

You are instructed to fail the student Alaron Mercer. On what grounds is up to you, but I suggest misconduct. However, you are not to cast the normal Chain-rune upon him, nor monitor him for ongoing possession of a periapt. The Watch have also been so instructed. Refer any queries to me, or in my absence, to Captain Muhren.

BV

He stared and stared, and then he wrapped his arms about his sides and began to tremble. Vult had secretly sanctioned his use of a periapt? Why? And if a Chain-rune was supposed to be cast upon a failed mage, why hadn’t one been cast on him?

Vult wanted me to still have access to the gnosis – why?

There could be only one reason why: Vult must have divined something about him after seeing his thesis. So Vult wants me to search for the Scytale …

He recalled the words about Vult in Generals of the Glorious Rebellion: ‘His mastery of Divination foresees all turns of the game.’