Mage's Blood

32

The Ghost of a Dog

Necromancy

You speak as if Necromancers are inherently evil. But do you not want the knowledge the dead hold? Would you have murderers go free when I can ask their victim who killed them? Would you allow spirits to linger in torment for want of a mage who can bring them peace? Not all that Necromancy can do is moral, but fire burns, does it not? Like all Crafts, Necromancy is a tool; it is the use it is put to that may be questioned by this committee, but not the tool itself.

DARIUS FYRELL, WAR CRIMES HEARING, NOROSTEIN 911

Pontus and Norostein, on the continent of Yuros

Maicin 928

2 months until the Moontide

Mordai, 25 Maicin 928

There was no fanfare for the arrival of Belonius Vult back into Pontus after two nights on a windship above the ocean. He used Clairvoyance to send ahead his instructions: Tell no one I am here, not even Korion. I need a skiff and crew, ready to leave for Norostein within an hour of my arrival.

He’d been forced to leave the diplomatic mission in Hebusalim early – not that it mattered; the most important meetings had already taken place, with Meiros and Betillon, and the secret one with Emir Rashid. He had more pressing matters to attend to now: finding whoever had broken into his personal quarters. Who dared?

It was incredible, that someone would have the nerve to take him on. And how had they known where to look? Had that guttersnipe Gron Koll thought to rob his master – no, it surely wasn’t Koll. Someone tremendously powerful had blocked his counter-strike. He’d been on the verge of breaking through and at least learning the identity of the robbers, even from across the ocean, when his scrying-assault has been shattered. The strength of that blow still unnerved him. He had only ever felt that level of power wielded by Church Inquisitors.

The windskiff he’d requested was waiting for him when he landed and he was in the air again inside an hour. The skiff was lightweight and full-sailed, built for speed, and the two young magi piloting it were on extra money to get him to Norostein by Freyadai night. The wind whipped his hair as he sat beside the mast, staring ahead as the night turned slowly to day, his mind racing. He would be able to contact Fyrell tomorrow or the next day. How much he could tell him was debatable, but he needed someone there to get the investigation started discreetly. He wondered which files had been taken – all of them? Many were personally incriminating, but most were more damaging to people he currently wanted to protect. Whichever had been taken, it was imperative they were recovered.

Who the Hel has robbed me?

‘You did what?’ Ramon leapt to his feet and stared at him, his eyes bulging.

Alaron hung his head. ‘I needed to know,’ he said defensively. Once he’d realised that he’d probably signed all of their death warrants he knew he had to confess.

Ramon swore and cursed, but Cym just looked away, perhaps calculating how much time they had until someone worked out the Alaron Mercer file was missing and came looking for him. Either that, or she was deciding precisely how she would kill him.

‘For Kore’s sake, Alaron,’ Ramon shouted, ‘we all knew your graduation failing was a fix – anyone with half a brain could work that out! And obviously it had to be ratified by the governor! You didn’t need to steal the rukking file to know that!’

Alaron hung his head. There was no point arguing. Ramon was right.

‘So, when Vult gets back he’ll find two files missing: one, the Langstrit file, and two, the Alaron Mercer file. So it should take him, oh – about two seconds – to send a squad here. Kore’s cods – are you a complete rukking idiot?’ Ramon balled his fists furiously.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t think—’

‘No, you never think! You just do things, and then stare at the broken pieces with a gormless look on your face.’ Ramon was shaking with rage. ‘We’d just pulled off one of the thefts of the century, and for once – for once – you’d actually been really smart. And now you tell us you followed that up by doing the equivalent of painting our names and addresses on the walls as you left.’ Ramon threw his hands up in fury and stomped out, as if afraid of what violence he would commit if he stayed.

Alaron buried his face in his hands, wondering almost in passing what his mother was making of all the shouting. Cym came and knelt beside his chair and put her hands over his. ‘Kore’s Blood, Alaron, but you’re such a fool,’ she murmured, a pitying look on her face. ‘What are we going to do now?’

He’d been thinking about that himself, all night long. And he was grateful she wasn’t screaming at him too. ‘Well, I think we have two choices,’ he started. ‘We could run far enough away that he can’t follow us, but I don’t think we’re capable of that. The other option is to solve this in the next few days. The maps say it’s five thousand miles from here to Hebusalim. Even Vult can’t make that sort of journey in less than a week. I reckon we’ve got until the first of Junesse, and then he’ll be here and I’ll be dead.’

‘That sounds right,’ she said, touching his cheek. ‘You really are an idiot, you know. But you’re interesting to be around. We need to make plans. I’ll go and pacify Ramon.’

He tried to thank her, but she just waved a hand and left him alone, his eyes full and his throat so tight he struggled to breathe, thinking, I’m not too clever, but I’m lucky in my friends.

They returned a few minutes later, Ramon still clench-fisted and simmering, Cym with a matronly look on her face. Alaron looked at her gratefully. ‘Ramon, Cym, I’m really, really sorry. The only one he can pin the break-in to is me – it’s my fault, and I deserve the consequences. If I were you I would run and leave me to it.’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Cym said. ‘You’d stay and help, just like we’re going to. You’re an idiot, but you’re loyal to a fault.’

‘One of many faults,’ Ramon growled. He still looked ready to spit, but Cym put a warning hand on the Silacian’s shoulder. ‘Vult can’t get here for days,’ she said, ‘so we’ll solve it by then. Then we’ll hide you somehow until we work out what to do next. We’re not going to leave you in the lurch.’

‘However richly you deserve it,’ Ramon muttered. He glared at Alaron, and then forced a grim smile. ‘Well, instead of having the leisure to solve this in our own time, we’ve got about four days before a legendary pure-blood mage descends upon our sorry arses. So let’s get on with it.’

‘I mean it,’ Alaron insisted. ‘If you go, I’ll not—’

‘Yes, we got that,’ Ramon said sarcastically, ‘now shut up and concentrate. Realistically, we probably only had about a week to solve it anyway, before we all had to get on with our lives, so apart from having attracted the attention of the most powerful man in Noros, what’s changed, eh?’ He held out a hand. ‘Where’s that bloody arrest report?’

They spent some time poring over the Watch Report, penned in the flowing hand of Special Constable Darius Fyrell, bane of their college lives. Fyrell had left a detailed written report of the arrest, the skirmish that followed and the condition of the general, which was just as he was now: disoriented, with memories and self-identity gone. He did note marks on Langstrit’s hands and forearms, recently inflicted, as if he had been either tortured, engaged in combat or caught in a gnosis energy blast.

Fyrell had also listed what he found in the chapel:

General Langstrit, wearing commoner’s clothing and his periapt (emerald set on neck-chain).

A flask of gnosis-brewed truth serum, partially consumed and detectable upon the general’s breath.

A bowl of milk, mostly consumed, containing a fast-acting and lethal poison.

A dead wolf-hound, identified as JL’s favourite, recently deceased from ingestion of said poison.

A sheath of papers containing writings from the Scriptures, with possible encryption markings.

A scratching in the paint of the floor, reading ‘JL 824: Argundun my wife’.

The rest of the scroll-case contained the Scripture pages mentioned under item 5: sheets pulled from a Kore Scriptorium, with red markings under various letters. There were also several pages of notes in a different hand, probably Belonius Vult’s, which looked to be attempts to solve the encryption. Judging by the crossings-outs and increasingly ragged writing, it hadn’t been going well. The final page looked like it had been screwed up several times before Vult decided to keep it. It contained a complex chart of numbers and letters and lines drawing conclusions. The final line appeared to be his conclusion, a series of dotted lines, each containing a letter. Vult had got most of the way through, then stopped. What he had ‘solved’ read:

W R O N G | A G A I N | B E L O _ _ _ _

Ramon laughed aloud when he saw that. ‘So the old general outsmarted Vult – good on him.’

‘But if Vult couldn’t solve it, what hope have we got?’ Alaron asked worriedly.

Ramon shrugged. ‘I can solve anything.’ He’d recovered his normal good humour somewhat, though he still shook his head disbelievingly whenever he looked at Alaron.

‘It’s all the murder investigations they have in Silacia,’ Cym observed tartly. ‘It sharpens their minds.’

‘My mind was already a razor, Cym-amora.’ Ramon frowned. ‘Let’s assume that Belonius has worked them over thoroughly. So does this mean there is a real clue here, or was it just a puzzle Langstrit left to annoy Vult?’

‘Or both,’ Cym added.

‘Or both,’ Ramon agreed. ‘So, Fyrell gets the word that Langstrit is in Lower Town. He arrives with his men, cracks a few skulls and grabs him. Langstrit has a few burns and his mind is gone. Inside the chapel there is a poisoned dog and traces of a truth serum. What are his conclusions?’

Alaron tried first. ‘How’s this: someone was trying to get information out of Langstrit. They threatened him with the death of his dog and when threatening didn’t work, they killed it. They hurt him with mage-fire – so they’re a mage. They fed him the serum, he told them what they want, so they destroyed his mind and left the other stuff to taunt Belonius.’

Ramon shook his head. ‘No, no, we know that is exactly what didn’t happen because we know something that Fyrell and Vult haven’t worked out yet: Langstrit did this to himself. I’m sure Vult hasn’t seen the rune we deciphered, so they were working under the assumption that there’s another party involved, someone who erased Langstrit’s mind. That puts a whole new slant on it, doesn’t it?’

Cym agreed. ‘It means that Langstrit did all of this himself: he swallowed the serum, he burnt himself. Sol et Lune, he even poisoned his own dog – so why would he do that?’

‘It knew too much,’ Ramon sniggered, before waving a placating hand. ‘Sorry, bad joke.’

‘What it might mean,’ said Alaron carefully, ‘is that Langstrit hid the Scytale and wanted to leave a trail for friendly eyes. If we hadn’t seen the rune, we would believe someone else was involved too.’

‘Vult must be terrified that whoever that person is will show up one day and demand some answers – for Lukhazan, and a few other things. How does he sleep?’ Cym wondered.

‘Badly, I hope,’ Ramon said. ‘So: why would Langstrit take truth serum if he’s about to erase his own mind?’

Alaron pulled a long face. ‘I can’t think of one good reason – unless it’s just a distraction to hide the real clues.’

‘I agree,’ Cym said. ‘The truth serum only makes sense if he were being tortured, not if he did it to himself. It’s a false trail.’

Ramon rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘Okay, that’s possible.’

‘But why would he kill his own dog?’ Alaron wondered. ‘That makes no sense at all.’

They were quiet for a long time.

‘What about this, “JL 824: Argundun my wife”?’ Ramon asked eventually. ‘Is that year significant to the general somehow?’

Alaron consulted Generals of the Glorious Rebellion, but there was nothing there. He found what he needed in another of his mother’s books. ‘Langstrit was born in 824,’ he reported excitedly, ‘and he was married for a long time ago, to a mage-woman called Beatta. Hey, don’t Argundians call themselves “Argundun”?’

‘Yes,’ Ramon said, ‘but why scratch it on the floor of the chapel?’

There was another long silence.

Cym leaned forward. ‘Who or what burnt him if he was there alone? Maybe it was just another attempt to throw everyone off the scent?’

Ramon jabbed a finger at her. ‘Probably – but it would also have messed up all the psychic residue in the chapel.’ He snatched up the sheet containing the runes-pattern they’d been studying for so long. ‘Look – remember that squiggle in the rune that we couldn’t explain? It could be a “wild energy” sigil.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘That means the burn-marks were deliberate and self-inflicted. Langstrit knew that other magi would try and investigate, so he covered his traces.’

Alaron sat up, feeling like they were making progress. ‘So what next?’

‘Let me think about that.’ Ramon looked hard at Alaron. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice what Vult said in that memorandum: he told Gavius and Muhren not to intervene if they saw you using a periapt. That is absolutely non-procedural. Vult wanted you to have a periapt.’

‘He’s a Diviner. I think he’s Divined something.’

‘Agreed. After he heard your thesis, he must have asked: “Who is this boy? Is he right?” He must have been crawling out of his skin trying to figure out what he’d missed. And then Langstrit escaped from wherever he was being held—’

‘I did wonder if perhaps he pushed Langstrit my way,’ Alaron mused. ‘If he’d been getting nowhere with him, maybe he thought we might unlock the problem for him?’

Ramon whistled softly. ‘Possible, amici – but no, unlikely. No, I think he just Divined that you might be onto something and decided to give you some rope.’

‘You mean we’re leading him to the Scytale?’ Cym looked aghast.

‘He will believe so.’ Ramon pulled a face. ‘But what choice do we have now?’

‘I wish there was someone we could trust who would help us,’ Cym said. ‘There must be someone in this city who wouldn’t just turn us over to Vult or rob us and use the information for themselves.’

‘You would think so,’ Alaron agreed, ‘but there’s no one I can think of. I don’t trust the Church – and don’t even mention the Watch. That memo suggests that so-called hero Jeris Muhren is in this up to his eyeballs.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Cym disagreed. ‘He could be totally unaware and just following orders.’

‘You just fancy him,’ Ramon grinned, and when Cym blushed girlishly, ‘Ha! Knew it!’

‘He is a friend of my father,’ Cym said, a little sheepishly. ‘He’s always been decent to my family.’

‘We can’t risk telling him anything,’ Alaron repeated, piqued by Cym’s reaction to Ramon’s jibe, and Cym nodded grudgingly. They all winced a little as they heard Tesla start another coughing fit in the next room.

‘I don’t like your mother’s cough,’ she added quietly to Alaron. ‘She’s not as healthy as she pretends.’

It was another thing to worry about – not what Alaron needed.

Tydai, 26 Maicin 928

The valleys of East Verelon had been transformed into a floodplain, Belonius Vult noted grimly as his windskiff roared above. Repeated weather-working by Air-magi as the legions traversed the Great Road had left a trail of devastation; storms, flash floods and furious gales battered the farms and villagers, ruining crops and houses. Half the trees had been ripped up by tornados and hurricanes, and dead cattle floated in the miles of trapped floodwaters. The air stank of rotting bodies and muddy water, heated by the summer sun until the land was nothing but a series of tepid lakes of cesswater. All along the Imperial Road, miles-long caravans were bogged down in the sludge.

What a rukking waste of time and money, he thought.

They had flown all night, only putting down near dawn for his pilot-magi to get some rest. He himself had barely slept, consumed with anxiety over what awaited him in Norostein. Still, tomorrow Norostein would come within his clairvoyance range and he would be able to set things in motion. In the meantime, there were many other issues to consider. He let his mind run free …

What was Gurvon doing? Had he struck against Elena Anborn yet, or was this some elaborate game Gurvon and Elena were playing to hold the emperor to ransom? Perhaps I need to distance myself further? A year ago we outlined a programme of conquest to the emperor: does it still hold? Will the events in Javon ruin it all? Can we trust this Rashid Mubarak, on whom much rests? Is Antonin Meiros a senile fool or cunning snake? Why did he marry a Lakh – who is she, really?

A worst-case scenario haunted him: that someone else had gained the Scytale of Corineus … Where in Hel was Jarius Langstrit? How had a helpless, mind-erased old man managed to escape custody? And why did his divinations constantly tell him that Tesla Anborn’s son was a factor? Tesla, Elena’s sister – was that connection significant? Who was the hidden hand here; the mage who had destroyed Langstrit’s mind, then vanished?

What am I flying back into?

Wotendai, 27 Maicin 928

Tydai had passed without any breakthrough and the search for clues was becoming desperate. On Wotendai Alaron visited General Langstrit’s last remaining relative: the widow of his son, Ardan. She lived in Quatremille Parish, a poor area near the lake. Ardan Langstrit had been a mage, but he had married for love: a milkmaid named Kyra from the Knebb. Ardan had served in the Revolt, but he had been captured at Lukhazan and his health had been destroyed by the prison’s dreadful conditions. By the end of the war he had looked older than his father.

‘So you’re Vann and Tesla’s son,’ Kyra Langstrit said, staring at Alaron across her kitchen table. ‘I can see a little of both of them in you. Everyone thought well of your father,’ she added. Kyra had grey-streaked hair and a sad face. Ardan Langstrit had been the Principal when Alaron and his friends started at Turm Zauberin, but once Vult became governor he’d been displaced by Lucius Gavius. Ardan had hanged himself soon after, leaving Kyra with no income, no looks to attract, no sophistication and a country woman’s caution of charlatans. She’d been gradually selling off her husband’s estates to survive and now rented a room in her own house, clinging on like a limpet, with no hope of a better life. She was forty-four, and already dead.

‘What do you remember of the general?’ Alaron asked, wondering if this was a waste of time. Yes, she has a sad life, but still …

‘Old Jari? I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead – no one can tell me. He would have been one hundred, four years ago. Of course, he is a mage, and they live longer lives than we unblessed folk. I do wish I could have had children, but my Ardan was taken from me too soon …’ She trailed off, and blinked the tears from her eyes.

‘And the general?’ Alaron prompted gently.

‘Oh, he was always kind to me. You know he had a dog? Lovely old thing. I wonder what became of it – Nye, he called it. He was a funny dog, that one: dead loyal. He loved old Jari, he did, and Jari loved him back. He used to walk him every day, even during the siege, down from Old Town, across the Mint Bridge and all the way to Pordavin Square. He reckoned the old boy could do it blindfold.’

Alaron rolled his eyes. ‘Did the general ever speak of Belonius Vult?’

‘Who?’

‘The governor – the general at Lukhazan?’

She shook her head. ‘I never concerned myself with men’s talk; left that to Ardan. Would you like another biscuit?’

*

Alaron went home to report failure. ‘It was purgatory,’ he groaned to the others. ‘She went on and on about absolutely nothing – she knows nothing about the general, or even her husband. She didn’t even know he’d been fired from the college! She must have been living in cuckoo-land even then.’

It hadn’t been a good day. They’d eliminated a few possibilities, but it didn’t feel like progress. Alaron went to bed shaking with worry. He was on the verge of begging his friends to run for it. It wasn’t fair to leave themselves in the firing line when Vult returned or when Muhren came knocking.

One more day, and then we’ll all have to run …

Belonius Vult pulled the ball of light in his hands into a wider sphere, cloaking it in illusion so that his mage-pilots could not eavesdrop, and reached out with his mind. <Darius, answer!>

Fyrell’s face appeared immediately within the ball of light: black-bearded, with beak-like nose above a thin-lipped mouth. <Magister Vult! How may I serve, master?>

<There has been a break-in at my residence, Darius. Question Gron Koll. Be as hard as necessary. But do not enter my residence, understood?>

<A break-in? Who would dare, master?>

<Who indeed, Darius? At this stage, you need only ask questions; do not act on the answers you gain. I will be there on Freyadai.>

<In two days – are you not in Hebusalim?>

<Do you hear any relay-stave echoes, Darius? I’m over Verelon. Meet me at the docking platform on Freyadai. I will warn you of my imminent landing. I expect a full report on arrival.>

He broke the contact and let the ball of light dissipate. Fyrell was usually reliable, but he was not to be trusted, of course – too much pent-up ambition. Already he was chafing at his rank in the college, wanting more, too soon. But for now, he was the best tool at hand.

Though Koll was hired on Fyrell’s recommendation … Are you involved in this, Darius?

Torsdai, 28 Maicin 928

Alaron took a turn bathing his mother’s forehead that afternoon; her fever had risen and he had sent for a healer. They were running out of time to sold the puzzle, so Ramon and Cym had turned their attention to hiding Alaron from Belonius Vult.

Tesla slept poorly and her ruined face looked corpselike. His father had kept a painting of his mother done before Tesla flew off to Pontus and the carnage of the First Crusade. She had been lovely, with a determined face and a mane of red hair. Her sister Elena had been in the portrait too, angular and moody-looking. The painting was in storage; he wondered aloud where his Aunt Elena was.

‘Causing trouble, I don’t doubt,’ Tesla rasped. She grimaced and groped for a glass of water. ‘Elena will be at the heart of things, she always was. And giving the bastards Hel. Don’t be fooled by what Besko said, boy. If he says “betrayal”, you can bet it means something more like “plot thwarted”. Perhaps she’s even grown a conscience. Stranger things have happened.’

‘No one screws with Aunt Elena, right?’

His mother chuckled, a rasping sound that turned into a cough. ‘Mind your language, boy,’ she warned as an afterthought. ‘So, what are you and your friends doing that’s such a big drama?’

‘Just trying to help the general, Ma,’ Alaron replied cautiously.

‘Seems to necessitate a lot of arguing and shouting and running around,’ Tesla remarked dryly. ‘Making any progress? Still all friends?’

‘Not sure.’

‘On which point?’

‘The progress. Yes, we’re still friends.’

His mother turned and focused her eyeless gaze on him. ‘You’re in trouble, aren’t you, son?’

‘No, no – not at all—’

‘That bad, is it?’

Alaron hung his head. ‘I had to steal something. It might be pinned back to me.’

She stiffened slightly. ‘Idiot boy. Didn’t your aunt teach you anything, or that jackanapes Silacian? You never, ever, leave a trail. Who did you rob?’

He couldn’t lie to her. ‘The governor.’

She went dead still and he saw the beginning flicker of flames about her fingers. He hurriedly reached out and clutched her hands closed. They were painfully hot to touch.

‘The governor? You robbed Belonius Vult?’ She clutched his arm and wrenched him close. ‘You need to go to Jeris Muhren – he’ll shield you. Vann and he fought together. Go to Muhren—’

‘I can’t, Ma. Muhren is in it with Vult.’

‘Impossible.’ Her voice was flat and absolute. ‘They despise each other.’

‘It’s true. They’re partners in something shady. But Cym’s family know a cellar in an old warehouse down by the docks in Old Town that’s deep enough to block scrying. We can hide there, wait it out. Ramon has been preparing it, laying down food and water. Cym’s people will keep an eye out for me and I’ll take care of the general. They remember what he did for them in the Revolt. It’ll all be fine. And Cym will look after you for a while, until I can come out again.’

‘You’d be better off running to Silacia, though you should have left by now.’ She bared her yellowed teeth. ‘Why hasn’t Vult been here already?’

‘He’s away, Ma, but he’ll be back any day now.’

She wrapped her claw-like hands about him and held him against her bony frame. ‘Oh, you foolish boy.’

Alaron didn’t move until his mother fell asleep. He disentangled himself and went back to the lounge, poured himself cold lemon tea and sat staring at the sheaf of notes. Ramon had started working on the phrase ‘JL 824: Argundun my wife’, but he’d not got further than writing ‘anagram?’; ‘code?’; ‘Scripture?’ and a series of doodles.

I hate puzzles. Why kill your favourite dog, then wipe your own brain? And what on Urte does this stupid phrase have to do with anything?

He was still sitting there when the others returned. He’d forgotten to drink his tea, but he was trembling with excitement. The room was almost pitch-black and Alaron could scarcely make out the papers any more. The general snored in an armchair.

Cym pulled the curtains open. ‘You’ll go blind working in the dark.’

Ramon trailed in behind her, carrying bags of vegetables. ‘What’s up, Al?’ he asked. ‘You look like Corineus just touched you.’

‘I just had a thought, that’s all.’

‘I guess that’d be pretty stunning for you.’

Alaron made a rude sign. He’d been sitting there turning the thought over in his mind for an hour or more. ‘I think I’ve solved part of the mystery of the dog,’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

They looked at him expectantly. ‘Well?’

‘I was looking at that phrase – ‘JL 824: Argundun my wife’. This might sound dumb, and unless you know the name of the dog it wouldn’t work, and even then you have to know that Langstrit killed the dog himself, which Vult and his lot don’t know, but—’

‘Alaron, you’re babbling,’ Ramon said tersely. ‘Spit it out, amici, spit it out.’

‘Uh, sorry! You know that number: 824? I noticed it matches the number of letters in the phrase with it: “Argundun my wife”. See? An eight-letter word, a two-letter word, then a four-letter word. And if you take the last letter of each – the eighth, the second and the fourth, you get three letters: N, Y and E: Nye: the name of his dog.’

Cym cocked her head. ‘That’s a clue?’

Ramon was more enthusiastic. ‘You know, you might be right. It isn’t all that sophisticated, but it might mean something. Any further thoughts, Al?’

‘Well,’ Alaron replied, ‘the poison he used on the dog reminded me of something from Necromancy lessons. It was made from mottle-hood, which is known to enhance the likelihood of the spirit lingering close to the body. We did a whole class on them, remember? They’re called shadow-poisons.’

‘Wouldn’t Vult know that?’ Cym enquired doubtfully.

‘Only if he’s a necromancer,’ Ramon responded. ‘His profile in the Generals of the Inglorious Rhubarb doesn’t suggest that. Necromancy is part of Sorcery, which he doesn’t seem to do, and it’s associated with Earth and he’s an Air-mage, the diametric opposite.’

‘So you think Alaron might know something Belonius Vult doesn’t?’ Cym pulled a face.

‘Put like that, it does seem far-fetched,’ Ramon agreed, winking at Alaron.

‘I’m going to ignore you both and carry on,’ Alaron said. ‘Mottlehood is common enough: people use it to kill weeds, mostly, not animals. But if you wanted to create a ghost, that’s what you’d use.’

‘The ghost of a dog?’ scoffed Cym.

‘The ghost of Nye,’ Alaron corrected, ‘a dog whose master walked him every day from Old Town across Mint Bridge, all the way to Pordavin Square and the chapel where Langstrit was found.’

Ramon blinked. ‘You think that the ghost of his dog could lead us to the next step of the puzzle?’

Alaron shrugged. ‘Why not?’

‘But was Langstrit a necromancer?’

‘He was an Earth-mage, and necromancy is Earth-related, so that suggests some affinity. We need to take another look at that chapel, by night. Necromancy is an affinity of mine, even though I’m rubbish at it. It works better at night-time, but I need to prepare.’

Ramon shook his hand. ‘Good work, Agent Mercer. We may yet save your butt.’

Ramon led them through the winding alleys of Pordavin, effortlessly avoiding the Watch patrols. It was moon-dark and the predawn glow in the east was still faint, so the silent streets were lightless. They were all clad in dark clothes, and grateful for the scarves muffling their faces; Noros was high above sea-level and the nights were always cold. Dawn was still two bells away. Alaron had scarcely slept, but he felt invigorated by this possible breakthrough.

They slipped into the chapel on Pordavin Square unseen, and were relieved to find no beggars inside. The flooded floor had only partially drained, which had probably kept the homeless out. The stagnant water stank abominably. Ramon made a florid gesture at it. ‘Alaron, the floor is yours. Well, the puddle is yours, anyway.’

Cym closed the main door to prevent their lights reaching the street. Alaron steeled himself as he splashed through the main chapel to the side chapel, where the dog’s body had been found all those years ago. He glanced back at Ramon, seeking reassurance.

‘You can do this, Al,’ his friend whispered. ‘Confidence.’

Confidence … Alaron nodded and closed his eyes. He called to mind the small things he’d got right in college and blanked the failures. Ever since Ramon’s lecture at the tavern, he’d been trying to convince himself that he was capable of leaping the hurdles he’d always fallen at before. But necromantic-gnosis – ugh! Fyrell had taught Necromancy, and he’d hated all of Fyrell’s classes, so he’d always done badly. Mostly he hated the way it felt: necromantic-gnosis was horrible, manifesting as a gelid purple energy that oozed through his fingers like slime. And he hated being around corpses; the horrible cold-jelly feel of dead flesh and the stare of lifeless eyes terrified him.

Toughen up, he told himself. You’ve no choice now. Do this, or Vult will slaughter you.

The gnosis came painfully, leeching the heat from his body. As he sent out his call, it felt like a million rats with dead flesh clinging to their teeth turned and hissed at him. There was a murmur of half-heard voices in his ears, the voices of those who had died here. He blanked them out, focused only on his call.

<Nye, Nye … here boy!>

His normal sight faded and instead he could see dark shadows creeping from corners, sliding along the walls: half-seen faces, lost souls, drawn like moths to flames. <Nye, faithful hound, Nye.> He imagined the dog he had seen in the picture-book and sent that image out. <Nye …>

‘Alaron?’ Cym’s voice was ragged. She suddenly snatched her hand back as a new crack silently appeared in the wall she was standing against.

A chill voice seeped through from some deeper place beyond. <Who calls? Who dares?>

Cym backed away as a human shape imprinted itself like a wet stain on the stonework. Without thinking, Alaron raised a hand and muttered a spell to banish the dead. Something shrieked, an inhuman sound, and the shape was gone.

Wow, I did that!

‘What happened?’ Ramon gasped.

Cym backed towards the door. ‘Alaron, I’m not sure this is a good idea—’

‘I’m not liking it either,’ Ramon admitted. ‘Get it over with, will you?’

Alaron called again, focusing on the dog. He wished he’d actually met Nye, but of course he’d not been born then. He knew the breed, though – perhaps that would help? <Nye, come here, boy!>

A damp furry body rubbed itself against his leg and he shrieked and almost hit the roof. He stumbled and landed on his backside as a wolfhound padded out of the shadows, with lolling tongue and matted fur, faintly limned in purple light. Alaron almost forgot to breathe.

The others sucked in their breath as they saw the hound too.

Alaron reached out a tentative hand. ‘Nye? Nye, here boy, here—’ The ghost dog came and nuzzled him, his spectral nose as cold as ice. Alaron felt weary relief, and an awed sense of accomplishment. I did it! After being the class joke in Necromancy, he had solved a riddle that had defeated Fyrell and Vult, thank you very much. Take that, you pricks.

He looked across at Ramon and as he smiled, faintly dizzy from the effort, the little Silacian grinned back encouragingly and whispered, ‘Well done, amici.’

The dog snuffled at him as though learning his scent. He stroked it tentatively and then laughed as it responded with a happy wag of the tail and a nudge that knocked him off his feet. He cautiously bound the hound’s essence to his, and then released his call. The dog remained, ghostlike, but solid enough to touch. ‘Hey, Nye, nice to meet you, boy.’

‘He likes you, Alaron,’ laughed Cym, kneeling down and cuddling the wolfhound.

‘Huh. The ghost dog likes Necromancers,’ Ramon sniffed. ‘I find his taste suspect in the extreme. So what now?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alaron replied. Nye’s fur had a slightly insubstantial feel, as if it were made of smoke. He had the creepy feeling he could pass his hands through him if he wanted to. He kept his touch light. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Let’s ask him,’ Cym suggested, as Nye bounded towards the door, wagging his tail. He neither disturbed the water on the floor nor made any sound.

‘Do you speak dog-language, Cym?’ Ramon laughed. ‘In Silacia we say that dogs and Rimoni share the same family tree,’ he added teasingly.

‘As do rats and Silacians,’ replied Cym, quick as a flash. ‘Just look at him, stupid: he wants to go outside. You don’t have to be a mage to see that. He wants to show us something. Come on boy, shall we go walkies? Shall we go?’

The ghost-dog waited at the closed door, whimpering softly. Ramon opened the door and peered outside. ‘It’s still dark,’ he said. ‘What should we do?’

‘I’m not sure I can hold him in this world once the sun comes up,’ Alaron replied. ‘I think we have to chance it and let him out. If someone sees us, I’ll follow the dog and you guys try and draw them off, yeah?’

‘Ha! Classic Robler – so that expensive education wasn’t for nothing after all.’ Ramon bowed. ‘Lead on, General Mercer.’

Cym pulled the door fully open. Nye gave a sharp bark and dashed across the square, turning every few yards to check he was being followed. Alaron wrapped an illusion of shadow about himself and ran after him, the others in his wake. They crossed the square, trailing the hound’s faintly luminous form. Fortunately, Nye’s route led through less populous ways, where the soldiers seldom patrolled. On the one occasion a patrol came near, he melted into the darkness so thoroughly that Alaron feared he’d lost him, but when the clanking and the lanterns had subsided, there was Nye, wuffling softly, urging them on.

They took the Mint Bridge over the Leille River, and Alaron began to feel his time listening to Kyra Langstrit hadn’t been wasted after all. ‘He’s retracing the path his master walked him each day. Langstrit was teaching him the route,’ he said excitedly. They had to dodge another patrol near the Royal Mint before they started descending towards Old Town and the lake. Nye bounded happily under the aqueduct, ignoring the water thundering above their heads, then took a side-street through the Silver Market, spooking a pack of wild dogs who backed down an alley, snarling timidly, before fleeing.

They entered a small square in Old Town and as they approached, Nye cocked his leg and sent a ghostly stream of piss against the door, all the while wagging his tail.

Ramon choked back laughter. ‘He’s marking it for us,’ he laughed. ‘Brilliant!’

They examined the door, which fronted an old stone crypt, the type noble families favoured on their city estates. They stared at the crests and Kore Angels above the entrance. The grey stone was weathered, but the locked door was freshly painted, in the green hue traditionally used for crypt doors. The family name on the crypt, De Savioc, was an extinct dynasty, the last descendants of one of the Blessed Three Hundred. There were several such sites about the city, still sacrosanct, though the mage-families themselves had fallen into ruin.

‘“De Savioc”.’ Alaron turned to the others. ‘I’ve never heard of them.’

‘You’re the only local among us, Al,’ Ramon observed.

Nye trotted back to Alaron, looking up expectantly. The first shaft of sunlight broken over the mountains in the east and the sky went from grey to pale blue. Nye whimpered; suddenly he looked translucent. ‘We’ll come back tonight,’ Alaron said, then, quickly, ‘We’re going to lose him—’ and he slapped his thigh and called, ‘Come on, boy!’ He whirled and ran for home.

He ran all the way, Nye bounding eagerly beside him. He fumbled open the door, the dog sniffed once, then barked and tore into the house, Alaron on his heels.

Jarius Langstrit was sleeping in the armchair by the cold fireplace, but he awoke as Nye ran towards him, barking happily, and recognition seemed to run through him. The hound put his paws in the general’s lap and nuzzled him happily, and the old man stared down at him, then began to ruffle his fur, his face blank but tears rolling down his cheeks.

‘Nye,’ he whispered. ‘Nye.’ They were the first words he had spoken since he had appeared.

Alaron felt his heart trip. The others pounded in behind him, panting; they clapped him on the shoulder as they peered into the room, then he heard them gasp too as they heard the general repeat the dog’s name, over and over, as he hugged the wolfhound. The dog’s tail pounded the floor delightedly.

Perhaps this will cure him, Alaron thought, but as the sun rose outside, the dog started to fade away. With a regretful snuffle he turned and was gone, bounding away into some dark place that acknowledged no walls, his final bark slowly echoing into silence. The general stared after him, his cheeks wet, a wondering smile on his face.

They couldn’t coax any other words from Langstrit, so they were left whiling away the day in feverish impatience. Ramon went to Bekontor Hill to check whether Vult had arrived, using the pretext of booking his passage to Pontus – he was due to rejoin his legion in a few weeks. A small flotilla of windships was already assembling, getting ready to take the magi to join the Crusade.

Meanwhile Alaron read up on the de Savioc family in one of Tesla’s books. They seemed remarkable only for their dullness. ‘In a world where nobodies like us end up on quests for the greatest treasure of the empire, this lot have managed a footnote in a horse-breeding manual,’ he told Cym. ‘The only interesting one was the last of them. He got killed in a duel over gambling debts. His last words were: “What were my odds?”’ He chuckled morosely.

They spent the rest of the day packing all the clues from their quest in a chest, ready to transfer to the cellar they’d prepared as Alaron’s hideaway. Ramon got back from the landing towers. There was no word yet of Vult.

Cym agreed to stay with Tesla and the general while Ramon and Alaron returned to the de Savioc crypt. They set off at dusk. In Old Town the wealthy lived behind high walls and locked and guarded doors. The streets were always quiet and they reached the crypt unchallenged. Ramon worked the lock open with studious application of gnosis and within a few seconds they were both inside and the door closed behind them. Alaron lit a torch.

The difference between this and the previous chapel was pronounced. All but one of the sarcophagi were marble, and expensive shades of marble too: reds and greens and blacks. The one plain stone sarcophagus belonged to the unfortunate gambler, Roben de Savioc, the last of his line.

‘So, what are we looking for?’ Alaron wondered aloud.

Ramon was staring at the headstone of one Alvo de Savioc, Roben’s father. ‘That,’ he replied after a few seconds. The marble was worn and cracked, and the moss growing in the cracks had all but obliterated the family crest, a set of keys and the words JEUNE ETERNAL: for ever young.

‘What?’

Ramon poked a finger at the script. ‘Look: the first and last letters are discoloured: J and L.’

Alaron sucked in his breath. ‘J L. Jarius Langstrit.’

Ramon nodded. He had his periapt out and was scanning the tomb. ‘Ha – see this?’ He wiped the moss away just below the letters J and L. ‘There—’

Alaron peered. A phrase was scratched into the stone: Voco Arbendesai. His mind clicked over. ‘It’s wizardry – “Voco” means “Summon”.’

‘And “Arbendesai”?’

‘It’s a name – all spirits have names by which they are summoned.’ He gripped Ramon’s shoulder excitedly. ‘We’re almost there, Ramon.’

*

It was dawn over the Alps. Vult felt the updrafts, breathed in the clear, cold air. He had slept, finally, until woken by a tentative touch on his mind. <Magister Vult – answer!>

<Mater-Imperia?> He licked his lips.

<Where are you, Magister?>

<I am flying back to Noros, Imperia-Mater. I can explain …>

<Good. Because I am not accustomed to finding that one of my envoys has abandoned his post without explanation. There is a rumour that you panicked because assault is imminent and fled the field. The name of Lukhazan has been raised repeatedly here in Pallas. Explain yourself, Magister Vult.>

The grip she took of his mind tightened as she spoke and he felt a cold dread that she might be able to reach down from her tower in Pallas and tear out the inside of his head. He marshalled his defences, establishing a new barrier within himself, not challenging the grip she had, but prepared to contest any further intrusion. Only then could he think rationally.

Something close to the truth was required – but not the real truth, of course: never that. The stakes were too high. <There has been a security breach at the Norostein Governor’s Palace, Mater-Imperia. Information may have been stolen that is critical to the empire.>

When she replied it was in an even, concerned voice. <What information is that, Magister?>

<That is yet to be ascertained. I felt the breach and followed it back. I almost scryed the intruders, until someone broke the link.>

<Then your thieves have talent, Magister. You must be anxious.>

<It is unnerving, Majesty. There are few I would rate capable of such a deed.>

<Do you have any suspects?>

<Until I land and can be briefed, no.>

He awaited her displeasure, but when she responded again, she remained sternly cordial. <I must have a soft spot for Noromen, Magister Vult. I have had to forgive your compatriot Gyle twice, and now I do the same for you. I shall expect a full report. Keep me appraised of developments. The list of those capable of such an outrage would be small, Magister, but the names on it are alarming, I deem.>

<I am suitably alarmed, Mater-Imperia.>

She laughed. <Yes, I am sure you are. May that alarm fuel your hunger to solve this matter. But Magister, I am not amused at you abandoning your post. It frightened the garrison at Hebusalim, and scared men make poor decisions. I will not forget this. Find your thieves and deal with them. Keep me informed.>

<Yes Majesty,> he replied, but she was already gone.

Next morning Alaron was breakfasting early, on his own. Cym was still sleeping and Ramon had gone to the land-towers – but Alaron had barely finished his porridge when the door burst open and Ramon hurtled in. ‘You’ve got to move, Alaron – they’re expecting the governor tonight. We need to get you and the general to that cellar now—’

The enormity of it all hit Alaron like a punch to the belly, but Ramon didn’t let him hesitate. Evidently going into hiding at a moment’s notice was normal for Silacians. ‘Come on, Al, let’s move!’

Dusk found Alaron fifteen feet below ground in a hidden cellar beneath an abandoned wreck of a cottage. He was perched on a pile of sacks, wondering how on Urte he was going to be able to endure the coming night, here beneath the ground with no one but the general and a pile of books for company. At least a dose of gnosis-fire had dealt with the fleas. But life looked like it was going to be pretty miserable henceforth.

The hatch above was wrenched open and Ramon clattered down the stairs, clad in dark clothes. The general stared at him with a passive face and disinterested eyes. Ramon sniffed and wrinkled his nose. ‘What a sewer.’

‘Thanks,’ Alaron scowled, from his lumpy mattress of flour-sacks. ‘What were you expecting, the Royal Suite?’

‘No, just less filth and decay.’

‘Thanks for raising the point. I’ll have the maid clear up – oh, hang on, no maid—’

‘Stop sulking, Alaron. Your father dealt with worse during the Revolt.’

‘Yeah, but that was patriotic,’ Alaron muttered sourly. ‘I suppose your tavern room is comfortable?’

‘Not bad,’ Ramon said, ‘thanks for asking.’

‘Huh. So, are you here to help, or what?’

‘To help, as always.’ Ramon held up a clay pot. ‘Silver compound, for the summoning circle.’ They both knew the theory, but Ramon had no affinity for Wizardry himself, so it was left to Alaron to once again take up a Study he had always been more than a little frightened of. Wizardry involved calling and binding the spirits of the dead who haunted the earth as servants. They were mentally linked to each other, a web of dead souls, constantly being renewed as some passed on and others died – but there were others, still superstitiously called ‘daemons’. These beings had been around for millennia, and the eldest daemons were very strong – and much prized by wizards; once named, they could be summoned and controlled.

Though a wizard could summon a daemon without a circle, only a madman would summon an unknown daemon without one. A summoning circle would confine the daemon until it could be subdued; the circles could be attuned to the specific powers of known spirits, tailored to hide identities and detection or filled with illusions and traps: this was all part of the varied arts of Wizardry. A full wizard’s summoning circle could take hours to inscribe.

Like Necromancy, Alaron had always found Wizardry terrifying. Never mind that the entrance exams had suggested that he had an analytic and logical mind well suited for such Studies; the truth was he was gut-clenchingly scared of all these dead souls and daemons – and just the threat of having his mind destroyed if he failed to subdue the summoned being was the stuff of nightmares. He had hoped to never again use Wizardry in his life, but it didn’t seem to be working out that way.

I did Necromancy the other day … I can do this, he told himself firmly.

The painstaking inscription and the preparation of the inner circle took all night, though the boys worked well together. Just before dawn, Alaron experimentally activated the summoning circle with a light touch of gnosis and gave a grunt of satisfaction when a scintillating column of semi-opaque light arose inside. The silver liquefied and fused. He walked around it, looking for gaps, then deactivated it, so that he didn’t burn off the valuable ingredients. ‘It’s done!’ he announced, and immediately felt immeasurably tired, wanting only to sleep for ever – but he was excited too.

A few months ago I’d have fallen apart at what we’re going through. But I can do this, he thought. He showed Ramon the circle. ‘The inner circle is for the daemon and the outer one is for me, so that if I screw up, the daemon can’t get at the rest of you. It looks good. I think we’re ready.’

‘Then we’ll do it tonight.’ Ramon peered at Alaron. ‘You’ll need to sleep, amici. You need a fresh mind to take on a daemon, si?’

Alaron felt surprisingly confident. ‘We can do this,’ he insisted. ‘Hey, what do you reckon the general will say if we can restore him?’

Ramon chuckled. ‘Something along the lines of: “Who the Hel are you clowns?”, I imagine.’

Alaron tried to hold onto the light moment, but couldn’t. ‘Imagine being so desperate you’d destroy your own mind and just take it on trust that someone would find you and repair it for you.’

Ramon said soberly, ‘Si – maybe he’s crazier than we are.’ He glanced at the sleeping Langstrit. ‘I should go. We both need to rest for the summoning tonight.’

‘And maybe battle an uncontrolled daemon, if I screw up,’ Alaron worried.

‘Or fight off Vult, Fyrell, Muhren and half the Watch,’ Ramon added lightly.

Alaron looked at him miserably. ‘I’m sorry, Ramon. I should never have taken that file, I know—’

‘Done is done, Al. We’ll just have to be cleverer now.’ Ramon stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t panic, amici. We’re nearly there. Tonight!’

Alaron pulled him into a rough hug. ‘Thank you, my friend – thank you for everything. Without you here, I’d already be dead.’

Ramon cocked his head impatiently. ‘Don’t make me cry, Al.’

Alaron hugged him again. ‘I mean it, Ramon. You’re my best friend.’

‘And you are mine, Al. But you’re still an absolute moron.’ Ramon pushed him away. ‘What does that say about me, eh?’

Alaron tried not to succumb to claustrophobia as the hatch shut above him. He settled into the darkness, alone with the silent general. He thought of Cym, watching over his mother, and sent his love. It would have been hypocritical to pray when he despised the Church, but he came close to breaking ranks on that score, for sheer terror at what might happen to the people he loved.

Be safe, all of you. Please, be safe …

Freyadai, 29 Maicin 928

A bitter north wind blew Vult into Norostein before dawn. He stood dizzily and stretched as the windship settled on the paved terrace above the city. The Air-magi who had piloted Vult nonstop since Pontus simply rolled onto their backs on the deck and groaned, their relief needing no words. They had met his wishes, and exceeded them. The stars glittered off the snow-covered slopes of the Alps thousands of feet above them, the barrier to the south, the throne that gazed down upon them, as implacable as Mater-Imperia Lucia herself.

He threw a pouch of gold onto the deck as he left. Let them fight over it; that was the way he had always run his underlings. Let the wolves rip and tear at each other, then he would adopt the winner. It was how he’d found Gurvon Gyle, and Darius Fyrell. And here was Fyrell, waiting loyally.

‘Master!’ Fyrell bowed.

‘Darius.’ He placed a hand on his shoulder, then reasserted his distance. ‘Brief me, my friend. What did Gron Koll have to say about this outrage?’

‘Little, my lord. He claimed to have drunk too much and slept through it all,’ Fyrell sneered.

‘Had he?’

Fyrell grimaced. ‘His memories had been altered, so we may never know what he really did. The overwritten mind is difficult to restore.’

Vult felt his eyes narrow. ‘Who did it?’

‘Someone skilled enough to remove their own traces. The trail is cold, I’m afraid.’

Vult harrumphed irritably. Predictable, but annoying. ‘Take me to the Residence. I must determine what has been taken.’

Alaron felt the scrying attempt in the timeless darkness of his cellar. It touched him faintly before the weight of stone obscured it. The art of the Clairvoyant was related to Air-gnosis, so Earth could thwart it; the simplest way for non-magi to escape the seeing eyes of a mage was to go underground. The Rimoni had not realised that in time to save themselves, but the Silacians in their mountain fortresses had learned quickly, and others had followed. If you cannot shield, you dig.

He’s back – Belonius Vult’s here … Alaron felt a surge of fear, but quelled it. They had come so far – they were ahead in this game, so long as they held their nerve. He breathed out the fear and lay back on his flour-sack bed. All he could do was wait and rest now, and hope the others were safe.

Cym was in the kitchen when someone hammered on the door. Tesla was asleep upstairs and Tula was at the market. She pulled open the door, holding her periapt behind her back, ready to flee or fight.

There was a crowd of Watchmen below on the steps. A tall, grim-faced man with flowing locks and a dashing countenance stepped to the fore. She knew his face well; Jeris Muhren and her father had been friends for many years.

‘Norostein Watch,’ Muhren announced. ‘We have a warrant for the arrest of Ala—’ He paused, belatedly registering Cym’s presence. ‘Cymbellea di Regia? What are you doing here? Where is young Mercer?’

‘He’s not here – he went with his father to Pontus. I’ve been hired to be his mother’s maid,’ Cym lied smoothly, surreptitiously pocketing her periapt.

‘Does your father know you’re here?’

‘Of course.’ She feigned regret. ‘I’m sorry but no one’s home but Madam, and she is asleep. You can come back at midday, once I’ve washed and fed Mistress Tesla. She gets awfully tetchy this early in the morning – she’s apt to fire-blast people.’ She looked down at the soldiers meaningfully. ‘You know how these insane battle-magi get.’ She watched them flinch at the thought.

Jeris Muhren laughed abruptly. ‘Indeed I do!’ He turned back to his men. ‘All right, lads: Jensen, you will remain outside the front door. No one comes or goes.’ He turned and bowed up the stairs to Cym, a wry look on his face. ‘For your protection, Mistress di Regia. I’m sure you understand.’

Cym scowled, seeking a way out of this fix.

Muhren glanced at his men. ‘The rest of you, get out and start canvassing door-to-door.’ He waited until the men had tramped away and then closed the door behind him. Cym felt herself colour. ‘Well, young Cymbellea, perhaps we need to have a long talk,’ he said in a voice that brooked no refusal.

Belonius Vult stared at the figure on the other side of the desk. ‘What do you mean, you can’t find him?’ He leaned forward. ‘I know who broke into my offices, Captain Muhren: it was Alaron Mercer, and I want his goddamned head for it!’

It had been something of a relief when Vult had put two and two together: the Langstrit file was missing, which was alarming, but the Mercer file was the only other one taken, and that was intriguing.

I have cast Divinations concerning you, boy. You and the Scytale of Corineus …

After hearing the boy’s thesis, which mirrored the truth alarmingly, his Divining had revealed greater opportunity to gain the Scytale himself if he arranged for the boy to work on it as a failed but free mage – it was a low probability, but better than none. He’d divined again after finding which files were missing. The boy was active. Something was happening here, a web of conspiracy concerning the missing Scytale, and an opportunity like no other beckoned.

I can take nothing for granted, he thought, eyeing the man opposite him. Muhren was a former Revolt battle-mage, a Langstrit man, one of the hard core of soldiers who had fought to the bitter end. He’d been there on the alpine slopes when Robler had finally surrendered. He knew Vannaton Mercer, no doubt. He also knew Mercellus di Regia, the notorious Rimoni bandit who’d aided the Revolt. It could be no coincidence that di Regia’s daughter had been found at Mercer’s house. I can’t trust Muhren, I never could … Vult had been trying to have Muhren removed for years, but the position of watch captain was appointed by the king, not the governor.

No one is untouchable, not even you, Jeris Muhren, he told himself, before saying smoothly, ‘Very well, Captain. I want the search for the boy intensified. And I will question this gypsy girl myself. And the mother.’

Muhren’s reply was crisp and neutral. ‘I’m sorry, Governor. The questioning of suspects is a Watch duty.’

Vult glared at Muhren. ‘Then I will attend the questioning,’ he rasped.

‘I’m sorry, Governor,’ Muhren repeated, in an infuriating textbook-reciting manner, ‘The questioning of suspects may not be observed except by arrangement with the watch captain.’

‘Then arrange it, Watch Captain.’

‘I’m sorry, Governor, but I see no grounds to permit you.’ He stood and saluted, then strode out while Vult fumed.

Who the Hel do you think you are, Jeris Muhren? I’m the rukking governor! With a frustrated snarl, he returned to the so-far fruitless and aggravating work of trying to scry Alaron Mercer. If only he could remember the boy more clearly. He paused. Wasn’t Gron Koll a contemporary of Mercer? It was time to see if that oily young man could redeem himself after his failure on the night of the theft.

That’s if Fyrell left Koll alive and with his sanity intact.