The Spell of the Black Dagger

CHAPTER 25

Lady Sarai could hear distant shouting as she tucked the blanket around her father; Tabaea and her army must have gotten as far as Quarter Street, at the very least. Kalthon the Younger sat upright at the back of the wagon, looking slightly dazed; Lady Sarai could see his expression clearly in the light of the torch the wagon’s driver held.

“Sarai, I don’t understand,” her brother said again.

“You don’t have to,” Sarai said. “You just do what I told you.”

“But aren’t you coming?”

Sarai hesitated. She looked down at her father. He had appeared to be more or less awake when they left the palace, and had moved partly under his own power, but now he gave no sign of consciousness; he probably couldn’t hear anything, might well have no idea what was going on around him. “No,” she said, “I’m not.”

“But why not?” young Kalthon protested. “If this crazy magician would kill us all, won’t she kill you, too?”

“Oh, I suppose she will if she catches me and finds out who I am, yes.” Sarai attempted a mocking smile, but it didn’t work very well—or perhaps her brother couldn’t see it in the dark; her face was probably in shadow from where he sat.

“Then shouldn’t you come with us?”

“No. ” She gave the blanket a final tug, then let herself slide back over the side of the wagon.

“Why nor?” Kalthon’s wail was heartbreaking. “How am I going to manage Daddy without you?”

“You won’t be alone; there will be people to help. The overlord’s going, too, and all his family. His granddaughter An-nara will help. And Ederd the Heir.” She hoped Ederd the Heir would, at any rate; he was a healthy man, not yet fifty, but prone to turn morose and useless at times. His daughter Annara was just a year older than Sarai, though, and still cheerful and energetic.

“But what will you do? Are you staying in the palace? Is this horrible woman going to kill you?”

“No,” Sarai said. “No, she won’t kill me. I won’t stay in the palace. I’ll hide somewhere in the city.”

“But if you’re hiding, why can’t you come with us?”

Sarai sighed. “Kallie,” she said, “I’m sending you and Dad and the others away so you’ll be safe, but someone has to stay here to fight Tabaea, and I ’m going to be the one from our family who does that.”

“What about Ederd the Heir, then? Shouldn’t he be staying?”

“No, because he’s too valuable. He’s the overlord’s heir.”

Kalthon couldn’t argue with that, but he still didn’t like it.

“I think you should come with us,” he said.

“No, Kallie,” Sarai said gently. Then she stepped away and told the waiting driver, “Go, quickly!”

He obeyed wordlessly, setting the torch in its bracket and cracking the reins over the horses.

Lady Sarai watched them go, the horses trotting, the wagon bumping its way down Palace Street, toward the docks at Seagate. The torchlight wavered madly with the wagon’s motion, sending light and shadow dancing insanely across the darkened housefronts on either side.

Sarai hoped that using horses wouldn’t be too conspicuous, especially at this hour of the night; the palace stables had held no oxen, and besides, oxen would be dangerously slow. A few of the richest merchants were using horses to draw their wagons now, weren’t they?

She hoped so. Or if not, then she hoped Tabaea wouldn’t know any better; it was entirely possible the little thief wouldn’t even recognize a horse, or wouldn’t know that they were traditionally the exclusive property of the nobility.

The royal family was all safe now, or as safe as she could make them—Ederd IV, his wife Zarrea, his sour old bachelor brother Edarth, the aging son who would one day be Ederd V, his wife Kinthera, and their daughter Annara, all rousted from their beds and sent hurrying on their way to a hastily chartered ship. And now Lady Sarai’s own family, her father and brother, were following. Okko, too old to fight—if theurgists could fight, which they generally couldn’t—had gone as well.

Lord Torrut hadn’t fled, of course; he was out there somewhere, trying every sort of trap, ambush, and delaying tactic he could improvise. Sarai was fairly sure that Captain Tikri was with him. And most of the magicians she had collected in the palace were taking shelter at various places in the city, on Wizard Street or elsewhere. And of course, she was staying, herself—but where?

There was a temptation to remain in the palace after all, but to pretend to be someone else—borrow a maid’s apron, perhaps, or join the assistant cooks in the kitchens. After all, as far as she knew, Tabaea had never seen her and wouldn’t recognize her face.

That was too risky, though. Tabaea might have spies, or her unknown magic might expose the deception, or some innocent servant might slip up and reveal Sarai’s rank.

No, Sarai knew she would have to find somewhere else-but where?

She realized she was still staring down the black and empty length of Palace Street, though the wagon was out of sight; she turned away with a wry smile.

Maybe, she thought, she should go to the Wall Street Field. After all, wasn’t that where anyone in Ethshar went who had lost her home and been thrown out into a hostile world? And wouldn’t it be appropriate, now that Tabaea’s ragtag followers would be taking their places in the palace?

But it wasn’t everyone from the Field who was marching with the self-proclaimed empress, and Sarai realized, with a bitter little laugh, that the Field was probably the place in all the city outside the palace where she was most likely to be recognized as Lord Kalthon’s daughter.

The barracks towers in Grandgate would be almost as bad— and besides, a woman alone there would hardly be safe. Besides, Grandgate, or any part of Wall Street, was a long way from the palace. She wanted somewhere closer at hand, somewhere she could keep an eye on things, the way the magicians did.

The magicians were mostly on Wizard Street, of course—and not necessarily the closer sections, since for many their spells could serve them even at a distance.

She frowned. She was no magician, and she hardly belonged on Wizard Street. She had a little money with her—not much, but a little. Why not just take a room at an inn?

No, she told herself, that would be too exposed, would involve too much dealing with strangers, and at this hour, would be far too noticeable. Ordinary travelers didn’t take rooms hours after midnight, did they?

A high, thin scream sounded somewhere to the northeast, on the other side of the palace. The shouting was much closer, and she could hear other noises, noises she couldn’t identify. Tabaea must be almost to the palace, and here she was, still standing on the plaza across from Palace Street.

She stepped off the stone pavement onto the bare earth of Circle Street, and choosing her direction at random, she turned right—she didn’t want to follow Palace Street, or even the fork for North Palace Street. She wanted to put distance between herself and the fleeing nobles.

The next turn off the circle was Nightside Street, and she passed that by, as well, and the next. Here her choice was largely pragmatic; both streets were utterly black and unlit, while closer at hand the glow from the windows of the palace spilled out over the outer walls and made Circle Street relatively navigable.

She could hear the hissing of fountains left running, out there in the darkened gardens and forecourts; the sound, normally pleasant, was turned sinister and menacing by the circumstances. Sarai wondered whether the wealthy inhabitants of the mansions of Nightside were aware of what was happening just a few blocks away. When they awoke in the morning, how long would it take them to realize that the World had gone mad, that their overlord had been deposed, and that a thieving young magician was ruling the city? Would Tabaea leave them alone, or would she pillage those mansions behind their iron fences?

Well, if Sarai had her way, Tabaea wouldn’t have time to disrupt the city’s life that much. And right now, Lady Sarai did not care to try finding her way through Nightside’s unlit streets.

Sooner or later, despite the dark, Sarai knew she would have to move farther out into the city, away from the palace; she wished there was more natural light to help her. The greater moon was rising in the east, casting orange light on the rooftops, but not yet penetrating to the streets below, while the lesser moon was far down in the west, its pale pink glow of no use at all.

By the time she reached North Street the roar of battle was overpowering, and farther ahead, farther around the circle, she could see reflected torchlight and the shadowed backs of soldiers. North Street was no more brightly illuminated than the others she had passed, but she could scarcely go any farther around the circle if she meant to escape; she turned left onto North Street, despite the darkness.

And then, suddenly, she knew where she was going. She would go to Wizard Street, just three blocks away. She would go to Mereth’s shop, Mereth of the Golden Door. Even if Mereth wouldn’t take her in, surely the wizard would know of someone who would.

Now that she had a destination in mind, Sarai began to hurry.

Behind her, a man’s dying scream sounded above the fighting. Sarai winced. It seemed so pointless, fighting Tabaea every step of the way like this; didn’t Lord Torrut see that? He was letting his men die for nothing.

But there was nothing Sarai could do about it, not anymore. She fled down North Street.

The stub of a lone torch still burned unnoticed above a shuttered shop on Harbor Street; Lady Sarai glanced at it, grateful for the slight relief from the surrounding night. To see Harbor Street utterly empty and almost dark seemed very odd indeed; she had never before been out so late and never seen the streets so deserted.

Behind her, the shouting seemed to be fading away. By the time she turned left onto Wizard Street, she was no longer entirely sure whether she heard shouting, or the distant roar of the sea.

Here there were no torches, only whatever light moons and stars might provide, but Sarai could see that the door of Mereth’s shop was shut, her signboard unlit. The shop windows were tightly closed, draperies drawn, but a thin line of light showed around the edges; it would scarcely have been visible were the street brighter, either with daylight or the glow of the evening’s torches and lanterns.

Sarai hurried to the door and rapped gently on the gilded panels.

For a long moment, nothing happened; then, abruptly, the door was flung open. “Get in!” someone ordered.

Sarai obeyed, and the door slammed shut behind her, leaving Wizard Street once more dark and empty.

CHAPTER 26

The palace door was locked and barred, but Tabaea didn ’t mind; sbs braced herself against the paving stones of the plaza, put her shoulder to the brass-covered panels, and shoved with all her supernatural strength. The latch shattered, the brackets holding the bar snapped, and the twisted, ruined door swung open. Tabaea laughed and shouted, “Come on!” She waved to her followers; some of them surged forward, close on her heels, but others hung back, intimidated by the idea of intruding on the palace itself.

Tabaea stepped through the broken portal into a broad and shadowy marble corridor; somewhere far ahead light spilled through an archway, and the contrast of the distant glow with the surrounding darkness seemed to exaggerate the length of the passage.

Or did it? Tabaea was unsure; the palace was for larger than any other building she had ever been in. Perhaps the corridor really was that long.

The euphoria of her triumphant march from Grandgate faded quickly at the sight of the polished stone floor, the countless doors on either side, and a gleaming staircase barely visible in the dim distance. This hardly seemed to her like a part of her own familiar city, or like anything human at all. She had thought old Serem’s house was almost offensively magnificent, yet this palace hall dwarfed anything in the wizard’s home.

But it was hers now, she reminded herself. She sniffed the air, but that told her little; people had been through here recently, but were not here now. The faint familiar odors of furniture, of lamps and candles, and of polishing oil reached her, mingled both with the smells of her followers and the street outside, and with scents she could not identify. No longer feeling particularly bold, she nonetheless put on a bold front and marched forward. Her footsteps tapped loudly on the shining marble, and echoed eerily from the stone walls.

Behind her came a score of the vagabonds and scoundrels who had followed her from the Wall Street Field; their feet, bare or slippered or wrapped in rags, did not make the sharp tapping her good new boots did, but slapped or scraped or shuffled. Like her, they were awed by what they saw; their shouting dropped to whispers that echoed from the stone, chasing each other back and forth along the passage.

“Where is everybody?” someone asked.

“Who do you mean?” Tabaea demanded, turning. “Who did you expect here? We fought the city guard in the streets!”

“I mean the people who live here,” the beggar said. “The overlord and his family, and all the others.”

“Fled, probably,” someone said. “Or cowering in then-beds. ”

“Did you think they’d be waiting by the door to welcome us?”

Someone laughed. “Come on,” Tabaea said. She had intended to shout it, but somehow couldn’t bring herself to do it; instead she merely spoke loudly. She turned forward and marched on down the corridor.

The doors on either side were mostly closed; a few stood ajar, but the rooms beyond were dark, and Tabaea did not bother to explore them. They passed arches opening into large dark rooms, and those, too, Tabaea hurried quickly by without further investigation. Three of her followers carried torches; they waved them in the open rooms to be sure no soldiers lurked in ambush there, but then hurried on after their leader.

Ahead, that lone light spilled its golden glow across gray marble floor, walls of white marble veined with gray, and Tabaea hurried forward to see where it came from.

The answer was a disappointment; a perfectly ordinary oil lamp, apparently forgotten by whoever had extinguished the others, burned atop a black iron bracket on the side of a pillar, lighting another passageway that ran crosswise to the one they were in. This other corridor, Tabaea saw, was not so inhumanly, perfectly straight, but instead curved away in the distance.

And it gave her a choice, and therefore a problem; which way should she go?

The left-hand passage curved to the right; the right-hand passage curved to the left. Whichever of the three she took, she would be proceeding deeper in toward the center of the palace— in which case, there was no reason to prefer one over the other. She marched on straight ahead.

Now that the light was all behind her, shining over her shoulders, she could see more clearly what lay ahead. The corridor continued another forty feet or so, then ended in a dark open space—she could not judge its extent, only that its walls and ceiling were out of sight. All she could see, beyond the corridor’s end, was a set of broad steps leading up into the darkness, steps of polished yellow marble.

Where had the builders of this place gotten all this stone, Tabaea wondered; she hadn’t known there was so much marble in all the World.

She marched on to the end of the passage; there she paused and looked around. She sniffed the air, but caught no suspicious odors.

To either side, walls began at right angles to the corridor, then curved away into darkness; ahead, under the great staircase, were walls and, she thought, doors. There were carvings in niches and statues standing on pedestals here and there—one stood on either side of the bottommost step. Everything was of stone, in white and gold and maroon.

She let her gaze drift up the staircase; she had expected the top to be utterly black, like the unlit hallway of an inn late at night, but instead there was a faint glow, and she thought she could make out vague shapes. There was a certain airiness about it, somehow, and a hint of the pastel colors of moonslight.

She considered a warlock light, but decided against trying it; she hadn’t really learned how to do one properly yet, and she was very wary about overusing warlockry. Instead she waved the torchbearers back and let her eyes adjust. After all, she reminded herself, she could see as well as any cat.

She blinked and drew in her breath. “Come on,” she said, waving her little band forward and marching up the marble steps.

At the top she paused. The sensible thing to do would be to use the torches, but she couldn’t resist the more dramatic gesture; she waved, and her warlock fire-lighting skill struck a hundred candlewicks. Golden light flickered, then blazed forth, and Tabaea stepped forward into the Great Hall of the Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands.

She stood on a broad floor paved in tesselated stone, a square floor a hundred feet across. Far above, the palace’s immense dome curved gracefully through shadowed distance, too far up for the light of candles to illuminate it well; a hundred-foot ring of sixteen hexagonal skylights set into the dome gave a view of the stars.

Three of the four walls were broken at the center by a broad stair; Tabaea and company had just mounted one of these, the others lying to their left and directly across. To the right, the fourth wall had no stair, but instead an elaborate display of carvings, gilt, and scarlet draperies, all centered around an ornate golden chair on a wide dais. Magnificent golden candelabra, wrought in a variety of shapes, lined the walls to either side of this display, and it was these that now provided the light.

“The throne room,” someone murmured, as Tabaea’s followers emerged into this splendor.

“And the overlord’s throne,” someone else added, pointing at the golden chair.

Tabaea grinned, her enthusiasm suddenly returning.

“Wrong,” she said, bounding gaily to the throne. She leaped up and stood for a moment on its scarlet velvet cushion, watching as the last few stragglers trickled into the room.

“This is not the overlord’s throne,” she proclaimed, “not anymore!” She paused dramatically, then slid down and seated herself properly. “This is my throne now,” she said. “Mine! Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar!” She smiled—not at all a pleasant smile.

After a second’s hesitation, the little crowd burst into wild applause.

As they cheered, Tabaea ran her hands along the arms of the throne, enjoying the feel of it; the arms were of solid gold, she thought, worn smooth by centuries of use.

Under one arm she found a loop; curious, she tugged at it. It yielded an inch or so, then stopped. She could have forced it, but decided not to; there was no point in breaking something before she even knew what it was.

It occurred to her belatedly that the loop might have been a trap, something intended to dispose of usurpers like herself, but if so, it obviously wasn’t working.

She sat and looked out at the room, at the people cheering for her, at the dim soaring dome above, the shining stone floor, the gold ornaments and silken tapestries, and an immense satisfaction settled over her.

It was hers. All of it, hers. At least for the moment.

She sniffed the air, sorting out the scents in the room. Nothing was very fresh; no one had been in here for at least an hour before her arrival. The throne smelled of an old man—Ederd IV, of course; wasn’t he seventy or eighty years old? Tabaea had never paid much attention to politics.

However old he might be, he was still the only one who had sat in this throne—until herself, of course.

Others had come and gone, men and women of all ages. She could smell the cold stone, the dust on the tapestries, and the lingering scents of the overlord’s courtiers. They had stood and knelt on that vast expanse of unfurnished floor. They had been there just that day, Tabaea was sure—but now it might as well have been a century ago, because they were gone, their overlord overthrown. It was all hers now.

She heard footsteps on the stairs, and leaped down from the throne, snatching the Black Dagger from her belt.

A woman was on the stairs; Tabaea could smell her. A woman was approaching, and she was frightened.

Tabaea’s followers, the twenty or so that had made it this far, had heard nothing, sensed nothing, until they saw their leader jump from her throne and crouch, knife ready. Their babbling euphoria vanished; a few began to retreat toward the stairs by which they had entered, while the others stared nervously in every direction.

“What is it?” someone asked.

Then the woman’s head came into sight as she ascended the staircase to the right, as seen from the throne—the side opposite where Tabaea had entered. By her expression, she was utterly terrified; she hesitated at her first glimpse of the new masters of the palace, then continued up the steps.

She wore a gold tunic and a skirt of dark red, almost maroon, with a white apron protecting the front; her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was not particularly young, nor particularly attractive. She looked harmless; what’s more, she smelled harmless. Tabaea relaxed somewhat, rising up from her fighting stance, but keeping the dagger ready in her hand.

At the top step the woman in the apron hesitated again, one hand on the rail. She looked over the ragged crew before her, then turned toward the empty throne and spotted Tabaea, in her fine embroidered tunic that was smeared with blood and pierced by holes and tears left by sword thrusts, and her long black skirt stained with mud from the Field.

The newcomer curtsied, catching her apron and skirt up and bobbing quickly.

Tabaea blinked; she had hardly ever seen anyone curtsy before, and certainly never to her. That was reserved for the nobility.

“Um... Your Majesty?” the woman said. “My lady? I’m sorry, I don’t know how to address you.”

Tabaea smiled. “ ’Your Majesty’ will suit me quite well,” she said.

“Very good, Your Majesty. You rang for me?” “I did?” Tabaea remembered the loop on the throne. “Ah, yes, so I did.”

“How may I serve you?”

Tabaea sheathed her knife and stood as tall as she could on the dais. “You may begin,” she said, “by explaining how you know who I am, and by telling me who you are.”

The woman in the apron curtsied again. “My name is Ista, Your Majesty; I’m just a servant. I was on duty downstairs when you rang. As for knowing who you are, I don’t know for certain, but we were told that the old overlord was fleeing because a great magician had declared herself empress, and he could not stop her. I assume you are she.”

“That’s right,” Tabaea said. “Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar of the Sands!” She waved toward the others. “And these are my court!” She laughed, and stepped back to the throne. “So old Ederd’s fled?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Tabaea settled onto the scarlet cushion, grinning broadly. “But you’re still here?”

“Oh, yes, of course, Your Majesty; the palace is my home. Where else would I go?”

“And you’ll serve me, as you served Ederd?”

Ista bobbed her head. “If you’ll permit me, Your Majesty.”

“I will,” Tabaea said, gesturing magnanimously. “What about the other servants?”

“I can’t speak for them all, Your Majesty, but most of them are still here and ready to obey you.”

“Oh, excellent! And what about the others? Ederd had a family, didn’t he? And there are all the others, the so-called Minister of Justice and the rest—what of them?”

“Fled, Your Majesty. Lord Ederd the Heir, Lady Zarrea of the Spices, Lord Edarth of Ethshar, Lord Kalthon, all of them fled.”

“Well, let them flee, then—maybe they can take shelter hi the Wall Street Field!” She laughed. “So this palace is all mine, then?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then show me my new domain, Ista—give us all the grand tour!” She stood again and made a shooing gesture.

Ista hesitated, then curtsied once more. “What would you like to see first, Your Majesty?” she asked.

CHAPTER 27

The three brocade armchairs were already occupied when Lady Sarai stepped into Mereth’s front room—Alorria sat in the green, sound asleep; Kelder of Tazmor was in the gold, awake but visibly weary; and an old man Sarai didn’t recognize dozed in the blue. Two soldiers leaned against the wall, one of them brushing his elbow against an ink painting; young Thar, who had admitted Sarai, eyed that nervously but said nothing. A few salvaged belongings were in battered knapsacks, stacked in odd corners, looking rather grubby and out of place. The little decorative boxes had all been shoved to one side of the table, making room for a plate covered with crumbs—whatever food had been provided, Sarai had clearly missed it.

“Is Mereth here?” Sarai asked. “Or Tobas?”

Thar shook his head. “No,” he said, “they’re over at the Guildhouse.”

Lady Sarai blinked. “What Guildhouse?” she asked.

“Guildmaster Serem’s house, on Grand Street,” Thar explained. “Lirrin turned it over to the Wizards’ Guild until Serem’s murderer is caught.” He shrugged. “She doesn’t need all that space, anyway.”

Sarai nodded. That explained why there had been several other wizards there, as well as Lirrin, when she took Teneria and Luralla to see the murder scene. Naturally, the wizards hadn’t said anything about it to her. “Are they... what’s happening there?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Thar said. “I’m just an apprentice.”

“Are they looking for a way to stop Tabaea?”

“I don’t know—honestly, Lady Sarai, I don’t know.”

“I’m going there,” Sarai said. She turned back toward the door.

“No, Lady Sarai,” Thar protested, “not at this hour! In the morning we’ll all go, but right now everyone needs to rest. That’s what Guildmaster Telurinon said. I’ll be taking Princess Alorria myself.”

“We don’t have time to rest,” Sarai objected. “Tabaea isn’t sleeping, is she?”

“I don’t know, maybe she is, but whatever she’s doing, we should rest. Or at least, you should—I have to stay up in case anyone else comes.”

Lady Sarai hesitated.

“Tabaea isn’t going to come after us tonight, my lady. Honestly, she won’t.”

Sarai studied Thar’s face and saw a child trying hard to be grown up, a child on the very edge of complete exhaustion. She thought if she argued he would probably start crying.

She didn’t want that, and besides, he was right; she was incredibly tired herself. It had been an abominably long day. Hard as it was to remember, when she had gotten up the morning before, about twenty hours ago, she had not yet heard the name “Tabaea the Thief,” and she had never met Tolthar of Small-gate.

“The chairs are all taken,” she said.

Thar smiled with relief. “The guest beds are all taken, too,” he said, “but you can use mine. I have to stay up and watch the door, any way.” Sarai nodded.

The apprentice’s bed was lumpy and narrow, and she didn’t sleep well; it seemed as if she had only just managed to get comfortable, at long last, when a guard’s polite cough awakened her.

“They’re getting ready to go to the Guildhouse, my lady,” he said. Then he ducked back beyond the curtain that separated Thar’s niche from Mereth’s kitchen, leaving her to her own devices.

Lady Sarai rose and brushed herself off, then straightened her clothes as best she could; there was no need to get dressed, since she had brought none of her clothing out of the palace with her except the outfit she was wearing. She had packed a few things for her father and brother, but had not worried about her own needs.

She made a quick trip to the privy in the courtyard behind the shop, then rinsed her face with water from the kitchen pump— Mereth was lucky, having a pump right there; or perhaps, since she had surely paid a good bit of money for it, “lucky” was not exactly the right word.

Feeling a little more alert and socially acceptable, Sarai hurried back down the corridor to the consultation room.

A crowd of people was gathered there—everyone who had been present the night before, and others as well. Sarai recognized some of them, but by no means all; there were magicians of various sorts, minor officials in the overlord’s government, and people who could have come’from anywhere.

And they were all arguing about something, but Sarai could make out nothing of what they were debating. She looked around for help.

The two guards were both there, but this time, instead of standing to one side, they were among those arguing most intently. Thar, however, was leaning silently against the archway, looking distressed.

“What’s happening?” Sarai asked him.

The apprentice looked up at her unhappily. “They’re arguing about how to go to the Guildhouse.”

Sarai blinked. “I had assumed we would walk,” she said.

“Well, yes,” Thar agreed. He paused, considering, then added, “Except maybe some of the wizards and warlocks—I suppose they might fly.”

“Wouldn’t that attract attention?”

“Probably.”

“So if we’re walking,” Lady Sarai asked, trying not to let her exasperation show, “what are they arguing about?”

“Whether we should all go at once, or go separately. Some of them think we should go together, in one big group, but the others think that would be too noticeable.”

“That’s stupid,” Sarai said. “Of course we’d be too noticeable.” She raised her voice and announced, “I’m going to the Guildhouse now; I’d be glad to travel with one or two others.” “But Lady Sarai...” one of the guards began.

Lady Sarai did not stay to hear what he might have to say; she marched out the door onto Wizard Street.

The morning was a bright and cheerful one; she could hear children laughing as they chased each other through the alleys, and somewhere a block or two away a hawker was shouting out praises of his wares. There was no outward sign at all that a dangerous lunatic had overthrown the government the night before, that the overlord and half his court had fled.

In fact, Lady Sarai suspected that most of the city was unaware of Tabaea’s accession to the throne. It would probably be a few days before the average citizen became aware of any change.

Or perhaps not—one of the shops across the way was shuttered and barred. Had the proprietor fled?

Or maybe the proprietor was in bed with a fever, or just taking a day off to go down to the beach. Lady Sarai snorted at her own eagerness to see some difference in the city. Just because her own life was all awry, that didn’t mean that the entire city’s was.

She did expect that Tabaea’s usurpation of power would have its effect eventually, since she doubted very much that Tabaea and her cohorts could rule the city as well as the old overlord had, but it would be a slow, subtle thing. A city the size of Ethshar mostly ran by itself. Lady Sarai thought of it as a great spinning top, and it was the government’s job to keep it balanced—a touch here, a touch there. Tabaea would be bound to miss a wobble here, push too hard there, and before long the whole thing would careen wildly out of control, maybe come smashing to a halt.

But for now, it looked just as it always had. She paused a few steps from Mereth’s gilded door, looking about.

“Lady Sarai!” someone called. Sarai turned, a finger to her lips.

It was Alorria who had spoken; she stood in the doorway, leaning forward, her feet still safely within the threshold in case she had to slip quickly back inside. Behind her stood Kelder of Tazmor on one side, Thar on the other.

“Don’t use the title,” Sarai said mildly. “It might be unhealthy just now.”

“Oh,” Alorria said. She looked uneasily out at the street.

“What is it?” Sarai asked.

“I’d like to come with you,” Alorria said. “I think they’re going to argue all day, and I want to see my husband. And I don’t know the way to this Guildhouse they talk about. And I don’t like traveling alone.”

“I would be glad to provide an escort,” Kelder said, in his odd Sardironese accent, “but I fear I don’t know the house’s location, either.”

“Well, come on then, both of you.” Sarai waited while the two of them hurried out. Kelder, she noted, carried a large knapsack; a floppy, broad-brimmed hat shaded his face, and his feet were ensconced in large, well-worn boots. As for Alorria, while she was not dressed for serious travel, she wore three assorted pouches on her belt; both were probably better equipped than she was herself, Sarai thought wryly.

Together, the three of them strolled northeastward on Wizard Street, moving at a leisurely pace so as not to tax the pregnant Alorria. The sun was bright, and Sarai quickly regretted not having a hat like Kelder’s. When she had left the palace in the middle of the night she hadn’t worried about sunlight.

They crossed North Street and a block or so later moved on from Nightside into Shadyside—but it was hardly shady today; the shadow of the palace dome could never have reached this far out; the name was more symbolic than descriptive.

“Warm,” Alorria remarked. She pulled a gauzy red kerchief from one pouch and draped it over her head, then secured it in place with her coronet. Sarai admired the effect—barbaric, but not unattractive.

She glanced enviously at Kelder’s hat—that wasn’t exactly barbaric, but it was rather outlandish. There was nothing unreasonable about that, since he was an outlander.

The two foreigners made rather a striking contrast—Kelder in his rough and practical attire, Alorria in her barbarian Small Kingdom splendor of silks and gold. The coronet and kerchief might be pretty, but on the whole, Sarai thought she would prefer Kelder’s hat.

And thinking about Kelder, something struck her.

“You said you don’t know where the house is,” she said accusingly, “but of course you do.”

“I do?” Kelder asked, startled.

“Certainly! You’ve been there.”

“I have? No, La... no, I haven’t.”

“You said you had been there. Did you lie to me?”

“No! How did I lie? I haven’t been to the wizards’ Guild-house, and I never claimed I had.”

“Yes, you have, if you really did the investigating you told me about. It’s the old wizard’s house. Serem’s.”

“Ah,” Kelder said, nodding. “I see. Then it stands at the corner of Wizard Street and Grand Street, and we are now on Wizard Street, are we not? Need we just follow this right to the door, then?”

“If we want to take all day, we could do that,” Sarai agreed, “but Wizard Street turns south and makes a long detour, through Morningside and Eastside, before it comes back north through Midway to Grandgate. We’ll be turning and following Harbor Street from Shadyside to Midway, then Gate Street from Midway to Grandgate, and then we’ll meet Wizard Street again for the last few blocks.”

“Ah,” Kelder said. “I see. The streets of Sardiron are not so complex.”

“Sardiron isn’t as big.”

Just then a pair of spriggans ran across the street in front of the threesome, shrieking. Someone shouted imprecations after the creatures. Alorria sighed. “I wish Tobas had never invented those things,” she said.

“Did he really?” Sarai asked.

“Not on purpose,” Alorria explained. “A spell went wrong. But yes, it was really his doing.”

Sarai looked at her, then around at the shops, at the signboards promising miracles of every sort, at the window displays of strange apparatuses or stuffed monsters, at the posted testimonials from satisfied customers.

Magic really could do amazing things. If anyone could ever get it all organized, all working toward the same end, who knew what might be accomplished?

And of course, who knew what might go wrong?

“Harbor Street,” Alorria said. “Isn’t that where most of the fighting was last night?”

“I think the worst was on Quarter Street,” Sarai said, “but yes, there was fighting there. We’ll be reversing the route of Tabaea’s march for about half our journey—the entire time we aren’t on Wizard Street, we’ll be on the streets she used.” She had not really thought about that before; it would be interesting to see if there was more obvious evidence of Tabaea’s accession than there was on Wizard Street.

Alorria shuddered. “I’ve never been on a battlefield before,” she said.

“A battlefield?” Sarai had never thought of any part of Eth-sharof the Sands as a battlefield. Battlefields were far-off places, in the Small Kingdoms or on the borders of Sardiron, not here in the heart of civilization. But what else was Tabaea’s route from Grandgate to the palace, but a battlefield?

“We’ll see it soon enough,” Sarai said. “We turn at the next corner.”

CHAPTER 28

At first, when Tabaea awoke, she didn’t remember where she was. She looked up at the ornate canopy, the incredibly high, elaborately painted ceiling with its gilded coffering, and wondered what sort of an inn she had found this time.

The bed was broad and long and soft, the coverings rich and luxurious—a bed fit for the overlord, she thought.

And then memory came back. It was a bed fit for the overlord—or for the empress who had deposed him.

But it couldn’t be real, she thought, sitting up. It must have been a dream. Even with all her magic, she couldn’t have overthrown the overlord in a single night...

Could she?

A bellpull hung by the bed; she jerked at it, then slid out from under the coverlet and onto her feet.

She was wearing a red silk gown that she had never seen before—no, she corrected herself, she remembered changing into it last night. The chambermaid had tried to take away her old clothes, and Tabaea had refused.

Sure enough, draped across a chair was her skirt, still muddy; hung on the back was her embroidered tunic.

A dozen holes had been punched through it, it had been slashed several places, and dried blood had stiffened it horribly. It looked like ancient scraps of untanned black leather.

Tabaea shuddered. Those holes and slashes had been made by swords and spears and arrows, and they had gone right through her, as well. That was her own blood that stained the fabric. She looked down at the robe she wore, then tore it open.

Faint scars traced across her breast. No one would ever have believed they were the remains of wounds less than a day old.

Tabaea blinked. Were they less than a day old? How long had she slept?

A door opened, and a young woman leaned in. “Yes, Your Majesty?” she asked.

“What time is it?” Tabaea demanded. “And what day is it?”

“It’s midday, Your Majesty, or close to it, on the sixteenth of Harvest, in the Year of Speech 5227.”

Tabaea relaxed slightly. She had marched to the palace on the night of the fifteenth, she was fairly sure. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Lethe of Longwall, Your Majesty. Your morning maid.” She curtsied, still half-hidden by the door. Tabaea noticed that she was wearing the same gold tunic, red skirt, and white apron as the woman last night, Ista, who had given Tabaea a tour of her new home.

But this was definitely not Ista. Lethe was younger, shorter, and plumper. Ista worked at night. Lethe, it seemed, worked mornings.

“My morning maid.” Tabaea grinned. “Fine. Excellent.” She glanced around the room, and then down at the robe she had just torn.

“Fetch me some clothes, Lethe,” Tabaea said. “Clothes fit for an empress. And rouse my court—the ones I brought with me and anyone who didn’t flee with old Ederd. I intend to hold audience in half an hour, and I want them all there.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Lethe vanished, closing the door behind her.

Tabaea hopped back onto the edge of the bed and sat for a moment, swinging her feet and looking around the room, at the carved and polished woodwork, the ornate ceiling, the fine tapestries.

Then a tap sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Tabaea called.

The door opened, and Lethe reappeared, but still did not fully enter the room. “Your Majesty,” she said, “I’ve passed on your orders, and the mistress of the wardrobe is bringing selections from the closets of Annara the Graceful and others, but she asked me to tell you that there’s been no time to make new dresses or alter what was here, so that she cannot promise any will fit properly at first.” “Who’s Annara the Graceful?” Tabaea asked. Lethe blinked, startled. “Why, that’s the overlord’s... I mean, the former overlord’s granddaughter.”

“Oh,” Tabaea said. She had never taken much of an interest in politics. “He has grandchildren?” “Only the one.” “Too bad. Is she pretty?”

Lethe hesitated. “I couldn’t say,” she answered at last. Tabaea hopped off the bed again. “I take it she dressed well, at any rate.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I don’t expect miracles about the fit...” Tabaea began. Then she stopped.

“But on the other hand,” she said, “why shouldn’t I expect miracles? Lethe, go fetch me the court magicians!” Lethe’s face turned white.

“YourMaj... Majesty,” she stammered, “I can’t.” “Why not?” Tabaea demanded, more curious than angry. “Are they so terrifying as all that?”

“No, Your Majesty; they’re gone. They fled last night, for fear you would slay them all. They said that you had already killed many magicians.”

“Oh.” Tabaea considered that. Even after spying on several magicians as they discussed the murders, it had never occurred to her that killing half a dozen people could terrorize all the other magicians so thoroughly. It wasn’t quite the effect she had in mind. She had just wanted one of each, to absorb their powers and abilities.

Well, what was done was done. “It doesn’t matter,” shesaid. “We’ll make do with ordinary tailors and seamstresses to adapt my new clothes, then, rather than magic.” “Yes, Your Majesty.”

A thought struck Tabaea. “What do they pay you, Lethe?” she asked.

“I have a room here in the palace that I share with three other maids, Your Majesty, and I get my meals, and six bits a day, as well.” She lifted a comer of her apron. “And my clothes,” she added.

“Is that all?”

Lethe nodded.

“From now on, Lethe, you’ll be paid a round and a half— with none of those expensive magicians around, I’m sure the treasury can pay all you servants twice as much!”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.” Lethe curtsied.

“And the dungeons—last night Ista showed me the stair to the dungeons, but we didn’t go down. Are there prisoners down there?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I want them freed. Right now. All of them.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Lethe started to turn to go, then stopped and stepped out of the way as two men marched in, hauling a large wooden trunk. Behind this came a tall woman in a green and gold gown, perhaps the most extravagant garment Tabaea had ever seen. “Your Majesty,” this new arrival said, as the men set the trunk on the floor, “it’s such an honor to meet you! I’m Jandin, mistress of the wardrobe.”

“I’ll go tell the guards,” Lethe called, ducking out. Almost out of earshot, she added, “If I can find any.” The two men departed close on her heels, and the door closed behind them.

Jandin flung open the trunk, revealing a glittering array of expensive fabric, fine embroidery, and bright jewelry. Tabaea gasped, and her eyes went wide.

“Now, if Your Majesty could give me just the tiniest clue as to how you wish to appear today,” Jandin said, “I’m sure I can find something here that will suit us...”

An hour later, as the nervous courtiers milled about the Great Hall in two distinct groups, the old and the new, their desultory conversations were cut short by the sound of trumpets. All eyes turned toward the rear staircase, and a few unfortunates quickly scurried to one side or the other to get out of their ruler’s path.

As Tabaea rose into sight someone stifled a giggle. The empress was wearing the most incredibly gaudy dress that anyone present had ever seen. The basic colors were red and green, in alternating panels divided by gold borders. Jewels in a dozen hues glittered along every golden border and in elaborate patterns on the panels, as well. Gold braid circled the waist, hips, and bust, and edged each cuff; fine gold chains draped across the bodice. Padded crests rose from either shoulder. Gold-edged slashes in the puffed sleeves revealed tight black velvet undersleeves. She also wore dangling earrings of intricately wrought gold, and a headpiece of woven peacock feathers.

Several jaws dropped at the sight.

“I’ll be damned,” someone muttered as Tabaea made her slow march down the full length of the hall to the throne. He leaned to a companion and whispered, “I know that dress— Annara had it made for a show in the Arena. It was supposed to represent greed and tastelessness.”

“Do you think Tabaea knows?”

“She couldn’t—she wouldn’t wear it if she knew.”

“Maybe someone’s played a trick on her?”

“That’s one very risky trick to play on a known murderer and self-proclaimed empress!”

The speakers had no way of knowing that Tabaea, with her stolen abilities, could hear every word they said. She flushed angrily, but continued her procession, up onto the dais. With each step she considered what, if anything, she should do to Jandin; the wardrobe mistress had not suggested the dress, but she had not said anything against it when Tabaea had pulled it out, either. And she had put it in the trunk in the first place, hadn’t she?

But on the other hand, Tabaea realized that this incident might well determine the whole tenor of her reign, whether she was seen as a ruthless tyrant or a merciful and generous benefactor. She had heard those courtiers call her a “known murderer,” and she didn’t like it. That was not the image she wanted.

Therefore, when she reached the dais, she turned and announced, “Welcome, my people!”

No one answered; no one knew what reply was expected.

“The brutal reign of the heirs of Anaran is ended!” Tabaea announced. “Today we begin a new era of justice and mercy! I hereby decree an end to slavery in this city; all slaves in Ethshar of the Sands are to be freed immediately! I decree forgiveness for those who have been driven to crime by the cruelty of my predecessors; all prisoners in the dungeons are likewise to be freed immediately! I decree that the brutal oppression of innocents by the city guard is to cease immediately; all guardsmen are to surrender their swords and are hereby charged with finding food and lodging for all those who have been forced to take shelter in the Wall Street Field! I decree that those who serve me shall be paid according to their true worth, and that for the present, that shall be assumed to be twice whatever my foul predecessor, the so-called overlord, saw fit to pay them!” “She’s mad,” a courtier muttered, “completely mad!” “No!” Tabaea shouted. “I am not mad!” She leaped from the dais and marched across the room, a pointing finger thrust out before her.

The courtiers parted, and she confronted the man who had dared to speak.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

The man bowed. “Lord Sancha, Minister of the Port,” he said. “At Your Majesty’s service.” “Minister of the Port?” Tabaea asked. “I have that honor, Your Majesty.” “Not anymore,” Tabaea said. She laughed. “Sancha is no name for a portmaster, in any case. You’re now Sancha the Fool, and your job is to entertain me with your foolishness.” She had heard of such things in old tales about the Small Kingdoms; she had no idea whether Ethshar had ever had a court jester before, and she didn’t much care. It had one now.

“As Your Majesty wills,” Sancha said, bowing more deeply— much more deeply, an exaggerated, absurd bow.

Tabaea smiled. He was taking to his new post already. She reached out and grabbed his nose, then turned and led him to the dais. Those watching assumed that Lord Sancha was playing along as he followed, struggling wildly to keep his nose from injury; they had no idea just how strong Tabaea actually was. She was, in fact, hauling Sancha against his will, and the process was quite painful. She pushed him to the floor beside the throne, then sat down.

“It seems we need a new Minister of the Port,” she said, “and undoubtedly there are other posts to be filled, as well, as I understand many of the officials of the city chose to depart with old Ederd. Fortunately, I brought some people to fill these vacated positions.” She waved at the motley group that had followed her from Grandgate; some were still in their own ragged clothing, while others had plundered the palace and put on newer, cleaner, and better domes. Some were dressed splendidly, others ineptly; the result was a far more mixed group than the original rags had produced, and a far more mixed group than the more uniform and sedate crowd left from the overlord’s court.

“Now, if you’ll come forward, one at a time, and tell me who you are,” Tabaea said, “we’ll see if we can’t put together a better government than this city has ever seen before!”

CHAPTER 29

At first glance, Harbor Street appeared unchanged—but upon a closer look, Sarai noticed differences. Windows were broken, buildings blackened by smoke, and walls chipped by blades and flying debris. Dark stains could still be seen in the dirt. And several businesses, perhaps the majority, were closed, although it was full daylight.

At least there weren’t any bodies or other remains; someone had cleaned up after the fighting, clearing away the dead and wounded, dropped weapons, broken glass, and the rest.

Even so, the journey impressed upon Sarai that Tabaea had done real damage to Ethshar of the Sands. She arrived at the Guildhouse in a very somber and thoughtful mood indeed.

Someone she didn’t know opened the door to her knock, and showed the three of them, Sarai and Kelder and Alorria, into the parlor. Alorria inquired after Tobas, and was promptly led away; Kelder and Sarai waited in uncomfortable silence for a second or two before Mereth, rumpled and worried, came to welcome them.

“How many died?” Sarai asked Mereth, after only the most perfunctory greetings.

“I don’t know,” Mereth said. “I don’t think anyone’s counted. At least, no one here; I suppose Lord Torrut knows.”

“Where is Lord Torrut, then?”

Mereth shrugged. “I don’t know, Lady Sarai. In hiding somewhere, probably—or perhaps he’s holed up in the barracks towers; so far, almost all of the city guard has remained loyal to him.”

Lady Sarai looked around at the parlor, which had continued undisturbed by Serem’s murder, by the house’s usurpation by the Wizards’ Guild, by the overthrow of the city government. The animated plant still fanned the air endlessly.

She shooed away a spriggan and then settled slowly onto a divan embroidered with pink and green flowers.

“Is that wise?” she asked.

Mereth blinked, puzzled. “Is what wise?”

“I take it that Lord Torrut is still resisting,” Sarai said, “even though Tabaea’s in the palace and the overlord has fled.”

“Well, he isn’t actually fighting anymore,” Mereth said, seating herself in a nearby armchair, “but I’m sure he isn’t taking orders from her.”

“And I wonder if that’s wise,” Sarai said. “Maybe we should just let her govern and not damage the city further.”

“But she’s a murderer!” Mereth protested, “and a thief, a burglar! And she’s... wizards aren’t allowed in government.”

“Is she a wizard?” Sarai asked. “She’s not a member of the Guild.”

“She’s a magician, and she’s something like a wizard, and the Guild doesn’t want any magicians interfering in politics. It’s dangerous. It’s a bad precedent.”

“Then perhaps it’s the job of the Wizards’ Guild to remove her,” Lady Sarai said. “I don’t see any reason to throw away more lives trying to depose her. And whether we like it or not, at the moment she is the ruler of Ethshar of the Sands, and she can’t rule without the city guard—the guard is what gives the government authority, and no one can run the city without it. I think perhaps Lord Torrut should reconsider.”

“I don’t,” Mereth said. “Maybe if she finds out that she can’t run the city she’ll pack up and leave.”

“Somehow, I doubt she’ll do that,” Sarai replied. “And who’s to say that she can’t be a good ruler? It’s not as if Ederd was chosen by the gods, or worked his way up to be overlord; he just happened to be born right.”

“Isn’t that enough?” Mereth asked, shocked. “He’s Anaran’s heir!”

“Anaran was a fine general, but does that mean all his descendants are going to be natural rulers?” Sarai said. “They’ve ruled Ethshar of the Sands for seven generations now; doesn’t that mean that less than one part in a hundred of Ederd’s blood comes from Anaran?”

“Oh, but they’ve intermarried with the families of the other overlords, and bred back in...” “So what?”

“Lady Sarai,” Kelder interrupted, “at least Anaran’s descendants did not take their thrones by force, or murder innocents in their beds.”

“That’s true,” Sarai admitted. “But I still don’t like it. I don’t want anyone else to be killed.”

“None of us do,” Mereth said. “Or at least, we don’t want anyone other than Tabaea to be killed.”

“Mereth?” The voice came from the archway opening into the central hall; Sarai and Kelder turned to find Lirrin, Serein’s former apprentice, standing there.

“You’re needed downstairs,” Lirrin said. “What’s happening downstairs?” Sarai asked. She blinked; was there a downstairs? She hadn’t noticed that when she visited the house in the course of her investigation.

“Guild business,” Lirrin said apologetically. Mereth rose, gathering her skirts, then looked back at Sarai. “Oh.” Sarai glanced at Kelder, who shrugged. “I’m no more a wizard than you,” he said. “We can wait here together and pass the time.”

“I’m sorry, Lady Sarai,” Mereth said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She and Lirrin vanished down the hallway.

That left Kelder and Sarai alone in the parlor; for a moment they sat in awkward silence.

“Do you still have all those talismans and trinkets of yours?” Sarai asked at last.

“Of course,” he said, gesturing at his pack. “Do you think they could tell you anything more about Tabaea that might be useful in deposing her? She was in this house once, after all.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Kelder said. “There will be traces, but what they can tell us will be limited. If you like, I can see what there is to see.” “I’d be very interested.”

Kelder bobbed his head in a semblance of a bow. “Then I’ll try,” he said. He opened his pack and began rummaging through it.

A moment later he emerged holding a thin silver box set with square-cut gems. “A denekin allasir,” he explained, tapping an uneven rhythm upon it.

“What’s that mean?” Lady Sarai asked.

“I haven’t any idea,” Kelder admitted. “It’s just what it’s called.”

“What does it do?”

Kelder proudly explained, “It reads traces a person has left— flakes of skin, bits of hair, even the air he or she breathed—and then displays for me a pattern of lights, in this row of jewels here, that I can interpret to tell me about that person. What I can see will vary; sometimes it’s a great deal, sometimes it’s nothing at all.”

Lady Sarai looked at the row of jewels Kelder pointed to. She could see odd little curls of light, glowing deep within the stones, but they made no pattern that she could see. “And what does it tell you about Tabaea?” she asked.

“Well, this is the device that gave me the description I gave you,” Kelder said. “I don’t suppose it will find any trace of her in here, though; the murder was upstairs, and I assume Tabaea came in through the bedroom window.”

“Did she?”

Kelder hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “Shall we find out?”

Sarai nodded.

“If she used the stairs, we’ll probably find...” Kelder began, as he tapped at a dark blue gem on the side of his little box. Then he stopped in midsentence and stared. He began tapping other jewels and various places on the surface of the allasir.

“What is it?” Lady Sarai asked.

“She was here,” Kelder said.

“That’s not so very surprising,” Sarai began.

“No, no, Lady Sarai,” Kelder said, cutting her off. “She was here four years ago. Several times.”

“Perhaps she knew Serem, then,” Sarai suggested. “Perhaps she bought a potion from him, or sold him something he needed for one of his spells. It’s hardly as shocking as all that.”

Kelder blinked.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Yes, of course you’re right.” He sighed. “And here I thought I’d found something important.”

“Well, perhaps you did,” Lady Sarai said comfortingly. “There might be a connection. Why don’t we go discuss it with the others, the wizards?” “Do you think that’s a good idea?” Kelder asked.

“Yes, I do,” Sarai said, getting to her feet. “I’m tired of being shut out by them, anyway. Maybe we can trade this discovery of yours for some of their information.” She pushed aside the plant that was waving determinedly at her and headed for the hallway. Kelder followed.

In the central corridor Sarai stopped, suddenly aware that she didn’t know where the wizards were.

“That way,” Kelder said, holding out his silver box. Following his directions, Sarai soon found herself on the stairs to the old wizard’s great underground chamber, which she had not known existed; surprised into caution and silence, she crept down the steps slowly and carefully.

Before her, she saw a score of wizards—Mereth, Tobas, Lir-rin, the Guildmasters Telurinon, Heremon, and Algarin, and others she knew only slightly or not at all. No one else could be seen; despite Tobas’s presence, Alorria was not there. Voices rose from below.

“... the dagger,” an unfamiliar voice said, “it must be that dagger she carries that’s stopping all our spells.”

“I don’t think there’s much doubt of that,” replied Telurinon. “Which leaves us with the question of where the dagger came from, and what it is, and how this thief obtained it.”

“We’ve been using the Spell of Omniscient Vision,” Mereth’s voice said. “We’ve managed to follow her back for a few months, though it’s very difficult, the way she’s constantly moved around and never lived in the same place for more than a few sixnights. She’s always had that dagger, as far back as we’ve gone. She always had that embroidered tunic and black skirt, and a few other things, as well—I’ve made a list—are you sure it’s the dagger?”

A chorus of voices replied, all in the affirmative. Lady Sarai cleared her throat.

Noone heard her, as Telurinon said, “I’m sure you’ve all seen the significance of the fact that this woman’s magic appears to reside in a dagger...”

“Ahem,” Lady Sarai said loudly. She really did not want to be accused of spying on wizards. Several eyes turned toward her, and someone shrieked. “Excuse me,” Lady Sarai said, trying very hard to stay calm, “but Kelder and I have just learned something that we thought might be of use.”

Guildmaster Telurinon stepped forward from the corner where he had been standing, and glared up at the new arrivals.

“Lady Sarai,” he said, “what is the meaning of this intrusion? Surely, despite your display the other day at the Cap and Dagger, you know better than to enter uninvited into the private councils of the Wizards’ Guild!”

Lady Sarai glared back. “And surely you, sir, know better than to leave the doors unlocked and unwarded when conducting private councils! Therefore, this could hardly have been such a council, or else neither of us would have made such a foolish mistake!”

Mereth giggled nervously; Tobas threw her a warning glance. “The doors of this house are locked and warded, my lady, and you are here only because the door was opened for you,” Telurinon replied. “Still, I see your point and concede that you have not forfeited your life.”

“How gracious of you,” Lady Sarai said. “Now, as I started to explain, the forensic sorcerer, Kelder of Tazmor, has learned something that might be of use in your investigations.”

“And what might that be?” Telurinon asked, in the unconvinced tone of one merely being polite about a waste of his time.

Sarai moved aside and beckoned Kelder forward; the sorcerer stepped up to the railing and announced, “I have found traces of Tabaea the Thief’s presence in this very house—in fact, on this very stairway—dating back some four years, to the summer of 5223.”

“You mean she lived here?” Algarin asked.

“No,” Kelder answered. “The only traces of her presence upstairs were those left when she murdered Serem the Wise. But on several occasions in 5223 she passed through the front parlor, down the hallway and onto this staircase where I now stand.”

“Only that year?” Tobas asked. “Not since then?”

“Not since then,” Kelder confirmed.

“Why did she come down here?” Mereth asked. “Why would Serem allow it?”

“She didn’t go down there,” Kelder said. “The trail stops right here, at this railing.”

The wizards looked at one another.

“She spied on him,” someone said.

“She spied on us,” Lirrin answered. “That was when... I mean... I began my apprenticeship on the eighth of Rains, 5223.”

“These visits,” Telurinon asked. “Can you date them precisely?”

Kelder shook his head. “Not to the day, certainly. I doubt any were as early as Rains, though—I would judge them to fall mostly in the later part of Greengrowth, and perhaps into the first naif of Longdays.”

The wizards exchanged looks again.

“Leave us,” Telurinon said.

Lady Sarai said, “But...”

“Go!” Telurinon bellowed. “We thank you for this information, but we must speak in private now—Tobas, see that the door is locked and warded.”

“Yes, Guildmaster,” Tobas said. He headed for the Starrs.

Sarai and Kelder did not wait for him; they turned and retreated, back up the steps and out through Serem’s cluttered little workroom. They were in the hallway when Sarai heard the door slam shut. “Lady Sarai?” a woman’s voice called.

Sarai turned and saw Karanissa on the stairs. Teneria and Alorria were behind her, watching over her shoulders.

“We sensed some upset,” she said.

“We intruded on Guildmaster Telurinon’s meeting,” Sarai explained.

“Oh.” The witch glanced at the door to the workroom. “That’s unfortunate,” she said. “Telurinon can be very difficult. ” She hesitated, then asked, “Have you had breakfast, either of you?”

“No,” Lady Sarai admitted. “At least, I haven’t. Have all of you?”

“Yes, but don’t let that trouble you.” Karanissa trotted quickly down the stairs and led the way to the kitchens, where she found biscuits, jam, and a variety of fruit for Sarai and Kelder.

Teneria and Alorria joined them there, and the five sat comfortably chatting for some time.

They were still there, though the food was long gone, when Telurinon marched in and informed them all that they were no longer welcome in the Guildhouse.

“It’s nothing personal,” he said, after the initial shock had passed. “The incident this morning demonstrated, however, that it’s a serious mistake to allow anyone not a member of the Guild to be in the building when we have such important and secret matters to discuss as we do at present.”

“Wait a minute,” Sarai protested. “We had an...”

“Lady Sarai,” Telurinon retorted, cutting her short, “or rather, Sarai of Ethshar, we had an agreement to share information relevant to your investigation of a series of murders. Well, that investigation is over now—the identity of the killer is known, her whereabouts are known, and the question is not who is responsible, but how to punish her, which is purely a Guild matter and none of the concern of the city government. And furthermore, you, along with your overlord, have been removed from office. We have no more information to share with you.”

“But...”

“And even if that were not the case,” Telurinon continued, “we never invited you to wander into our councils whenever you chose. There are times when we wish to discuss matters that we never agreed to share with you or anyone else outside the Guild, matters that it is absolutely forbidden for anyone outside the Guild to know.” He turned to the others. “I expect that your husband will find a comfortable inn for you all, Alorria and Karanissa—the Cap and Dagger, perhaps. Or if you prefer, I ’m sure some other member of the Guild will be glad to accommodate you.”

For a moment no one spoke; then Telurinon turned to go. Alorria stuck her tongue out at his departing figure, and Sarai, despite herself, giggled.

When the mage had gone, the giggle vanished.

“Now what will I do?” she asked.

CHAPTER 30

“Is this all of them?” the Empress Tabaea said, looking over the immense crowd that was jammed into her throne room and spilling down the three grand staircases.

“All who would come,” her newly appointed chancellor replied.

Tabaea turned to him, startled. “Some wouldn’t come?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Some people refused your invitation.” “Why? Did they say why?” “Some of them did.” “Why, then?”

The chancellor hesitated, scuffed a foot on the marble, and then said, “Various reasons, Your Majesty.”

Tabaea could smell his nervousness, but was not in a mood to let him avoid explanations. “Name a few, Arl. Just for our enlightenment.”

“Well, some...”He glanced warily at her, and seeing more curiosity than anger, he continued, “some didn’t trust you. They suspected a trick of some kind, that you were going to enslave them all, or kill them.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Tabaea was honestly baffled. She could smell that Arl was telling the truth; his tension had decreased as he spoke, rather than increasing, and liars didn’t do that.

Chancellor Arl shrugged. “I couldn’t say, Your Majesty.” “What other reasons did they give?” “Well, some said they were happy where they were, that they enjoyed living in the open—there are a few people who are like that, Your Majesty...”

“I know.” She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “I never understood why they stay in the city, instead of out in the wilderness somewhere, if that’s what they want, but I’ve met them. What else?”

“A few said they wouldn’t bother moving because they didn’t think... uh... they said that it wouldn’t last, they’d just have to go back in a few days...”

He was getting nervous again. “Why?” the Empress demanded. “Do they think I’m going to change my mind and throw everyone out again?”

“That, or that you... urn... won’t remain in power.” “Oh.” Tabaea frowned. “Well, they’re wrong about that, anyway. The overlord’s run for his life and isn’t coming back, and I ’m going to stay right here.” “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Tabaea turned back to the crowd, then asked her chancellor one final question. “How many are there, here?”

“I have no idea, Your Majesty,” Arl admitted unhappily. “I didn’t think to count them.”

Tabaea nodded, then addressed the crowd. “People of Eth-shar!” she said, “welcome to my palace!”

A halfhearted cheer rose, then died.

“I am Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar, your new ruler!” Tabaea continued. “The days of oppression are at an end, and the cruel descendants of Anaran driven from us! All the people of Ethshar of the Sands are now free and equal—there shall be no more nobility to lord it over us, no more slaves to suffer unjustly!”

She paused for more applause, and after an uncertain beginning, she received a satisfactory ovation.

“No citizen of my city need cower in the Wall Street Field for fear of the overlord’s guards and tax collectors,” Tabaea said. “Those who have no homes of their own will now have a home here, with me, in the palace built by the sweat of slaves...”

The chancellor cleared his throat and looked up at the dome— the dome which every educated person in Ethshar knew had been built mostly by magic, not by muscle. Tabaea carried on, ignoring him.

“... a palace far larger than any conceivable government might need, built entirely for the ostentatious display of power and wealth! You may all stay here as long as you wish, and in exchange I ask only that you help clean and maintain the palace, that you run those errands I and my aides might ask of you, and that you stand with me against any misguided fools who might try to restore the foul Ederd to my throne. What do you say?” The applause was not all that Tabaea had hoped for—several of her listeners were unenthusiastic about those unspecified errands and the call to help defend the palace—but she decided it would do.

When the crowd had quieted—which really, Tabaea thought, happened a little too quickly—the empress raised her arms for silence, and continued.

“As some of you probably know,” she said, “much of the former overlord’s city guard has not yet accepted my authority. I ordered them to turn in their swords, as a sign that they would no longer rule through fear, and many have refused to do so.” In fact, fewer than a hundred had handed in swords, and she knew that there were supposed to be ten thousand men in the city guard. “Some of these renegades have scattered among the people, abandoning their posts; others have gone into hiding, where they seem to have maintained a semblance of organization, in defiance of my orders. While I, since I am no oppressing tyrant, have no need for the large numbers of thugs and parasites my predecessor retained, still, there are some tasks appropriate to soldiers that yet need doing—searching the city for slaveowners who ignore my order to free their prisoners, for one. If any of you would like to volunteer to help with this glorious liberation, report to my new and loyal general, Derneth, formerly Derneth the Fence, at the northeast door of the palace today at midday. And all of you are free to come and go as you please—this palace is home to all my people, from this day forward!”

The applause was a little better this time, Tabaea thought. She smiled and waved, then stepped back and sat down on her throne.

The crowd dissipated slowly as Tabaea sat and watched, her smile gradually growing rigid and fixed. She had expected it all to vanish rather quickly, as her guests went about their business, but it didn’t; some stubbornly refused to vanish at all, quickly or otherwise. Some of the people simply stood, watching her nervously, and gave no sign of leaving; a few approached the dais cautiously, then stopped, or changed their minds and retreated.

“You haven’t told them what to do,” Arl whispered. “They can do what they like,” Tabaea snapped, the pretense of a smile disappearing instantly.

“But some of them don’t know what that is, Your Majesty,” her chancellor explained. “Not everyone in the Wall Street Field was there through simple misfortune, you know; some were there because they didn’t fit anywhere else—they’re mad, or simpleminded, or blind, or deaf, or crippled, or deranged in various other ways.”

“So what?” Tabaea demanded. “They’re still people!”

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty,” Arl agreed hastily. “But some of them aren’t entirely capable of thinking for themselves; they don’t know what to do unless someone tells them.” He looked out at the few dozen people who still lingered. “And I think some of these people have favors to ask of you, but don’t know how to go about it.”

Tabaea glared up at Arl, then at the waiting citizens. A handful, noting her expression, headed for the stairs, but the others remained; at least one smiled tentatively at her.

“All right, Arl,” Tabaea said, “have them form a line, and I’ll hear them. I suppose an empress has to do some work to earn her keep, like any other honest citizen.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Arl bowed hesitantly; he had never been in the palace before Tabaea’s conquest the night before last, had never formally learned anything of court etiquette, and in any case Tabaea’s rules might well differ from what had gone before—if Tabaea had any rules—but he had seen a few plays, had seen the overlord’s visits to the Arena and how he was treated there, and thought that a bow was appropriate at this point.

Then he stepped to the front of the dais, where he paused for a moment to think how to word what he wanted to say. When he thought he had it worked out, he took a deep breath and announced, “Her Imperial Majesty, Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar of the Sands, will now hold audience. Those who wish to address the emp... address Her Majesty may form a line.” He pointed to a spot just before his own feet.

He had the feeling that a true chancellor, or chamberlain— wasn’t this something a chamberlain would do?—would have made that sound better, somehow. Until two days ago, Arl had been a beggar and swindler, not a courtier; he had used fancy words, all right, but for persuasion, not formal announcements. It was a different sort of skill.

Of course, it was his old skill, carefully applied to his “old friend” Tabaea, that had gotten him his impressive title and powerful position in the first place.

People were lining up, just the way they were supposed to; Arl was pleased with himself. Without waiting for everyone to settle into place, he took the first one, an old woman, by the hand and led her up onto the dais. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned and sent her on her way to the throne, but did not accompany her.

Uncertainly, the woman took a few tottering steps, then stood before the throne, looking down at Tabaea. The empress looked back.

The old woman was supposed to kneel, Tabaea thought, and she showed no sign of doing it. Her scent didn’t provide any useful information about what she was feeling or planning—she wasn’t scared or excited. Her movements gave no clues.

Well, she was supposed to kneel, and Tabaea decided that she would kneel. Her warlock’s touch reached out and gripped the woman’s knees, forcing them to bend.

The old woman almost tumbled forward; she was far slower catching herself than Tabaea had expected. At last, though, she steadied, and knelt before the throne.

Tabaea addressed her.

“What is it you want, woman?”

“I want a turn in the pretty chair,” the woman mumbled.

Tabaea stared at her.

“I want a turn,” the woman repeated, pointing at the throne.

For a moment, the empress couldn’t believe she had heard correctly. When she did believe it, her first reaction was fury.

Then she remembered what Arl had said about some of the people from the Field; the old woman was obviously demented. “No,” Tabaea said gently. “It’s my throne. I’m the empress.”

“You said we could share,” the woman protested.

“The palace,” Tabaea said. “Not the throne.”

“We don’t share the pretty chair?”

“No,” Tabaea said. “We don’t.”

“Oh.” The old woman looked down at her knees, and announced, “I fell down.”

“You knelt,” Tabaea explained. “When you speak to an empress, you must kneel.”

“Oh.” She showed no sign of rising, of leaving; the line of other petitioners was growing restless, Tabaea could see it and smell it and hear it.

“Is there anyone taking care of you?” Tabaea asked.

“No.”

“That’s too bad,” Tabaea said. “I think you could use some help. But you’ll have to go now.”

“Will you take care of me?”

“No, I’m too busy. I’m the empress.”

“Hike you.”

“That’s nice. Go away, now, and let someone else have a turn.”

“But I didn’t get to sit in the pretty chair.” Tabaea stared at the old woman, frustration beginning to overwhelm her determination to be patient and understanding. She wished someone else would come and drag the old fool away, that there was someone she could signal, but Arl was much too busy keeping order among the others, and she had no one else there to help her. Her other new appointees had been sent off about their various businesses, and what with desertions and confusion she didn’t have all the guards and servants that the overlord had kept close at hand.

To get rid of this nuisance she would either have to call for help or use her own two hands, either of which seemed beneath her dignity as empress.

Tabaea began to see that mere was a contradiction here, between her desire to be an absolute ruler, honored and respected, and her desire to avoid oppressing her people. She might want to be a fair and reasonable empress, but obviously, there were people in the city who wouldn’t be fair and reasonable subjects.

And with people like that, soldiers would be very useful.

Even if she had had a thousand soldiers in the palace, Tabaea realized, in her determination to be a good and kind and fair and accessible ruler she would have sent them away while she was holding court. She now saw that this would not have been a good idea. She resolved that when things were more organized, when she had a proper city guard of her own, she would keep a couple of soldiers nearby.

For now, she had to improvise. The warlock power reached out and pinched the old woman’s nostrils shut.

“Go away,” Tabaea told her, as the woman gasped for breath.

The invisible grip vanished, and the woman got to her feet.

She did not leave, however, instead she reached out and slapped Tabaea across the face. “You nasty!” she shrieked. “You squeezed my nose!”

Tabaea, with her animal responses, had seen the blow coming and ducked aside; what should have been a resounding blow was just a gentle brush across one cheek.

Still, it could not be tolerated; in an instant, Tabaea was on her feet, picking the old woman up by the throat, one-handed.

She looked up at the astonishment on the ancient face and said, “You should die for that. The person of your empress is not to be touched. Because of your age, because my reign is new and you understand little, you won’t die this time, but don’t ever let me see or smell you again.”

Then she flung the woman out onto the marble floor of the audience hall. Brittle old bones snapped, and the woman lay in a heap, moaning softly.

“Get her out of here,” Tabaea said.

No one moved.

“Get her out of here!” Tabaea shouted, pointing at the line of waiting petitioners.

Two men from the back ran to obey; a few of the others abruptly decided that whatever requests they might have had could wait until a more propitious time, and scurried away down the side stairs.

Tabaea settled back on the throne, touched her unmarked cheek, then turned to Arl and snapped, “Next!”

CHAPTER 31

It had been Lady Sarai ’s own suggestion that she not stay at the same inn as Tobas and his wives; she had been worried that such a group would be too distinctive. Instead, she had gratefully accepted a loan of a dozen copper rounds and had found herself lodgings at the Fatted Calf, an inn on Soldiertown Street, a block south of Grandgate Market. The rather inept painting on the inn’s signboard had given it the nickname the Bloated Beef, and that had seemed to imply a cheerful good humor.

That was not, Sarai discovered, reflected hi the urn’s rather tense atmosphere. Her night there was an uneasy one; whenever she had set foot outside her own room she had been in constant fear that someone would recognize and denounce her.

The conversation in the common room had been strained for almost everyone; two burly men had announced that they were friends of the new empress, members of the new court, and as such entitled to the best oushka in the house, at no charge. The innkeeper had been inclined to refuse, and a former guardsman—at least, he wore no sword, though he was still hi the traditional red and yellow and had spoken of fighting Tabaea’s mob on Harbor Street—had supported that refusal, whereupon the two thugs had beaten the guardsman soundly and thrown him out into the street.

Those others among the guests who might have been inclined to help found themselves badly outnumbered by those who were cheering the thugs on and had declined to intervene, thereby avoiding an all-out brawl.

The thugs got their oushka. They also got the company of a frightened young woman. One of them eyed Sarai herself, but when Sarai bared her teeth, in as threatening a snarl as she could manage, he turned away and didn’t pursue the matter.

And Sarai stayed the night, as she had planned, since it was too late to go elsewhere and she had nowhere else to go, but the next morning she left quickly, taking a pastry with her for her breakfast.

Like anyone strolling in that part of the city with no particular destination hi mind, she found herself wandering into Grand-gate Market. For a while she strolled about, nibbling her pastry while looking over the merchants’ goods and the farmers’ produce; superficially, it all appeared quite normal, unchanged by Tabaea’s accession.

On a closer look, though, anyone reasonably observant—and Sarai knew herself to be at least reasonably observant—would notice that there were no guards at the gate.

There were subtler differences as well. The great gates themselves stood open, but the doors that led into the towers did not; they were instead locked and barred. The familiar yellow tunics and red kilts of soldiers were not only not to be seen at the gate, they were nowhere in sight, not in the gate or the market or the streets.

The rather sparse crowd hi the marketplace did not seem particularly troubled by the guards’ absence; in fact, if anything, Sarai thought the buyers and sellers looked somewhat more prosperous than usual.

That didn’t seem right; she looked again.

There was a real difference, she realized, but it was not that the merchants or farmers or their customers were attired any better than their usual wont. Rather, the difference was that there were no beggars. In all of Grandgate Market, no one wore rags, any more than anyone wore the red kilt of the overlord’s service.

Sarai wondered at that. Tabaea might well have promised to eliminate poverty, but how could she have possibly made any significant change so quickly!

And for that matter, where did all the soldiers actually go! Ten thousand people—well, seven or eight thousand, anyway; she knew that the guard had not been up to its full authorized strength for decades—could not simply vanish.

Or could they? It was a big city, after all. There were hundreds of miles of streets and alleyways out there, and all a soldier needed to do to hide was to get out of uniform.

And there were plenty of little-used military and government installations, as well—die towers at Beachgate and Northgate and Smallgate, the Island Tower out past the South Channel, the Great Lighthouse, the four towers guarding the harbor, all the dozens of watch-stations along the wall, the tunnels and passages under the wall, even the Arena’s maze of storerooms and corridors, all of those were under Lord Torrut’s jurisdiction before Tabaea’s arrival. Companies of guardsmen could be gathered in any of them.

The soldiers could even still be in the two immense barracks towers here at Grandgate itself, or in the six towers that guarded the city’s main landward entrance; just because the doors were closed and no soldiers were in sight, that didn’t mean there were no soldiers inside. Sarai wandered northward across the square, toward the gate, the towers, and the barracks.

The tower doors were unmistakably closed and barred; the windows were shuttered, those that had shutters. From her vantage point in the market she could see no signs of life anywhere in the entire elaborate complex that guarded the entrance to Ethshar of the Sands.

Idly, she wandered on northward, out of the market and into the Wall Street Field.

And in the Field she finally found a place that did not appear normal in the least.

Most of the shacks and hovels were still there, though some had been knocked down or had simply collapsed; the stones that some of those who dwelt there had used as boundary markers or weights to keep blankets in place were still scattered about, indicating rough paths between bedsites. The charred remnants of cookfires could still be seen here and there.

The hundreds of Ethsharites who had lived there, though, were gone.

Normally, Lady Sarai would not have dared to enter the Field without an escort of well-armed guardsmen. Normally, the place would be constantly abuzz with conversation, shouts, arguments, the cries of children, and the rattle of crockery. Babies would be waning, youngsters would be laughing and chasing one another through the chaos. The only sounds now were the flapping of unfastened door-cloths, the snuffling of dogs and other animals scavenging in the ruins, and the distant hum of Grandgate Market and the rest of the city going about its business.

The effect was eerie and utterly unsettling; despite the growing heat of the day, Sarai shivered and pulled her loose tunic a little more closely about her. Even that didn’t help much, as it reminded her that this was the third day that she had been wearing this same tunic, this same skirt.

Her uneasiness was such that she almost screamed when a spriggan giggled nearby, leaped down from atop a ramshackle lean-to, and ran shrieking past her feet. Cursing, she watched the little nuisance scurry away.

When she had regained her composure, she forced herself to think.

Where had everyone gone?

She knew that some of the people here had followed Tabaea in her march to the palace, but surely, not all of them had! The mob that the magicians had reported had hardly been large enough to account for the entire population of the Field!

Where were the rest of them, then? Had Tabaea done something terrible to those who had refused to follow her? Old tales Sarai had heard from her mother as a child came back to her, stories about how Northern demonologists, during the Great War, would sacrifice entire villages to appease their patron demons, or to pay for horrible services those demons might perform. Sarai had long since decided that those tales were just leftover lies, wartime propaganda, but now she wondered whether there might be some truth to the legends, and whether Tabaea might have made some ghastly bargain with creatures no sane demonologist would dare approach.

Of course, she told herself, she might be jumping to conclusions. She didn’t even know for certain how much of the Wall Street Field really was abandoned; it could just be a block or two here by the barracks. Perhaps the city guard, before disbanding or fleeing or whatever they had done, had cleared this area for some obscure reason.

She walked on, past huts constructed of broken furniture and collapsed tents made of scavenged draperies, and sure enough, as she rounded the corner from Grandgate into Northangle, she saw the smoke of a small fire sliding up the summer sky.

“Hello!” she called. “Who’s there?”

No one answered; cautiously, almost timidly, Sarai inched closer, until she could see the little cookfire and the old woman sitting beside it.

“Hello!” she called again. The woman turned, this time; and spotted Sarai. “Hello yourself,” she said. “May I talk to you?” Sarai asked nervously. “Don’t see how I can very well stop you,” the old woman replied. “I’m not planning to go anywhere if I can help it, and I doubt I have the strength to chase you away if you don’t care to go.” She poked at her fire with what looked to Sarai like an old curtain rod.

Sarai could hardly argue with this. She crept forward, then squatted beside the fire, at right angles to the old woman. To remain standing seemed rude, but she could not quite bring herself to sit on the dirt here, and there were no chairs, no blankets within easy reach. “My name’s Sarai,” she said.

“Pretty,” the old woman remarked. She poked the fire again, then added, “I don’t usually give my name out to strangers. Most of the folks who used to live here called me Mama Kilina, though, and you can call me that if you need a name.” “Thank you,” Sarai said, a little uncertainly. For a moment the two sat silently; Sarai was unsure how to phrase her question, whether there was anything she should say to lead up to it, and Mama Kilina clearly had nothing that she particularly cared to say.

Finally, however, Sarai asked, “Where did everybody go?” Mama Kilina glanced at her, a look that was not hostile, exactly, but which made it clear that the old woman didn’t think much of the question. “Most folks,” she said, “didn’t go anywhere special. I’d suppose that everyone in the Small Kingdoms or the mountains of Sardiron must be going about all the usual business hi the usual way, without paying any mind to what we’ve been doing here in Ethshar. And for that, I doubt the fifth part of the city knows anything’s out of the ordinary, even here.” “I mean...” Sarai began.

Mama Kilina did not let her say any more; she raised a hand and said, “I know what you meant. I’m no dotard. You mean, where did most of the folks that ordinarily stay here in the Field for lack of anywhere better to go, go? And if you think, Sarai, as you name yourself, you might see that that question’s got half its own answer in it, when it’s asked right, just like most questions.”

Sarai blinked. “I’m not sure I... oh. You mean they had somewhere better to go?”

“Well, they thought so, anyway. I didn’t agree, and that’s why I’m still here.”

“Where did they go, then? What’s this better place?”

“What’s the best place in Ethshar, to most ways of thinking?”

“I don’t know, I... oh.” Sarai finally saw the connection. “The palace, you mean. They’ve all gone to the palace.”

“You have a little wit to you, I see.” Mama Kilina’s tone was one of mild satisfaction.

“But they can’t all live there!” Sarai said. “It’s not big enough! I mean, the palace is... well, it’s huge, but...”

Mama Kilina nodded. “Now, you think that’s a better place?” she asked. “I don’t, not with all that riffraff bedding down in the corridors, as I suppose they’ll be doing.”

“Oh, but that’s... I mean...” Sarai groped for words, and finally asked, “Is this Tabaea’s idea?”

Mama Kilina nodded. “That young woman’s got no sense at all, if you ask me,” she said. “What she wants to be empress for in the first place I don’t know, and how she can call herself an empress when all she rules is one city, and everyone knows an empress rules more than one people...” She shook her head. “I suppose she heard about that Vond calling himself an emperor, out in the Small Kingdoms, and she liked the sound of it, but Vond conquered half a dozen kingdoms before he called it an empire.” “What exactly did she say? Did she come out here herself to invite everybody?”

“She sent messengers,” Mama Kilina explained. “A bunch of prissy fools got up in clothes that wouldn’t look decent even on someone who knew how to wear them came out here and told us all that from now on, the palace belonged to all the people of Ethshar of the Sands, and we were all free to come and go as we pleased, and to live there if we wanted to until we could find homes of our own. And all those eager young idiots went galloping off down Wall Street to take her up on it and get a roof over their empty heads.” She shook her head and spat in disgust, into the fire, where the gob of expectorate sizzled loudly. “That whole mob living in the palace...” Sarai said. The idea was horrifying—all those stone corridors jammed with people, with ragged beggars and belligerent thieves, strangers crowding into the rooms, into her office, into the family apartment—somehow the idea of Tabaea invading was nowhere near as upsetting as the notion of that entire indiscriminate mob. She wanted to get up and run back down there to save her family’s possessions, to chase the squatters out of her old room, but of course she couldn’t, she didn’t dare show her face in the palace...

Or did she?

With all those strangers wandering in and out, who would recognize her? Who would stop her? She could just walk right in and see what Tabaea was up to, she could search out Tabaea’s weaknesses—if she had any.

Of course, some people might recognize her, people who had seen her at her father’s side. If she wore a disguise of some sort, though, no one would ask her who she was or what business she had in the palace.

This was just too good an opportunity to miss. She had been wondering where she could live, and here, it seemed, was the answer.

She could live in the palace, just as she always had!

CHAPTER 32

Tobas had been idly turning a cat’s skull over in his hands; now he flung it down on the table in disgust, cracking the jaw and loosening a fang.

“You’re mad,” he said.

Telurinon drew himself up, obviously seriously affronted. “I do not think,” he began, “that there is any call for insults...”

“And that’s just more evidence that you’re mad,” Tobas said, a little surprised at his own daring even as he said it. He had never before spoken to any other wizard, let alone a Guildmas-ter, so bluntly.

“Might I remind you...” Telurinon began.

Tobas interrupted again. “Might I remind you,” he said, “that this Black Dagger is the cause of all the trouble we’ve seen in this city, trouble enough to bring me here all the way from Dwomor and to drag all of the rest of you away from your own affairs to attend these meetings. It’s prevented us from killing someone that Guild law says must die. And you want to make another one?”

“I think we should at least consider the possibility,” Telurinon said. “After all, this artifact is, by its very nature, utterly immune to all other wizardry, and protects its wielder from wizardry as well. Our spells, as we have demonstrated repeatedly over these past few days, cannot touch its bearer. That being so, how else are we to defeat this Tabaea and destroy her utterly, as we must, except by creating another Black Dagger to counter the first?”

“If the esteemed Guildmaster will permit me,” Tobas said, with thinly veiled sarcasm, “how are we to defeat whoever wields this second Black Dagger you propose to create?”

“Why, we’ll have no need to defeat him,” Telurinon said, honestly startled. “That’s the entire point. We’ll choose someone we can trust.”

“ Will we,” Tobas replied. “Need I point out to the esteemed Guildmaster that whoever creates this dagger cannot be a wiz-zard? The Spell of the Black Dagger is a perversion of the Spell of Athamezation and cannot be performed by anyone who has ever owned an athame—and therefore, since the athame is the mark of the true wizard and the sole token of membership in our Guild, whoever creates the new dagger must be an outsider. Has the Wizards’ Guild ever trusted an outsider in anything, let alone something as important as this? How are we to explain to this outsider why he must perform this spell, rather than one of us? How are we to explain how this spell was ever discovered in the first place, if no wizard can perform it? And how can we trust anyone with a weapon like this, when by creating it in the first place we’re admitting that we can’t defeat it? Even if our hypothetical hero doesn’t decide to make himself emperor in Tabaea’s stead and doesn’t go about murdering magicians, do we really want someone wandering the World with such a weapon? Even supposing we find some noble and innocent soul to serve as our warrior, and this trusting fellow builds himself up to be Tabaea’s equal or superior and slays her, leaving himself in possession of two Black Daggers and the knowledge of how to make more, yet is so good and pure and wholesome that he never even thinks of turning those daggers against his sponsors in the Guild—even supposing all that, what happens when our original recruit dies, and passes the daggers on to his heirs, who might not be quite so cooperative?”

“We won’t allow that,” Telurinon said, rather huffily. “When Tabaea is defeated, both daggers will become the property of the Guild.” “Says who?”

“ We say it, damn your insolence!” Telurinon shouted. “And who are we, that the bearer of a Black Dagger need listen to us?”

Telurinon glared at Tobas, mustache thrust out angrily. Before he could argue further, Mereth spoke up.

“And how would we build up our man?” she asked. “Tabaea killed people, half a dozen of them. She killed a warlock and a witch. For our dagger-wielder to match her, he would have to kill a warlock and a witch. I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.”

“Of course not!” Telurinon yelled. Then he repeated, more quietly, “Of course not.” He frowned. Reluctantly, he admitted, “I see that there are difficulties with the scheme. While I am not convinced that these difficulties are insuperable, they are, I fear, undeniable. In which case I must ask if, bluntly, anyone has a better idea.”

It was at that moment that Lirrin, who was acting as doorkeeper, appeared at the railing above the chamber and made the sign of requesting recognition. “What is it?” Telurinon demanded. “It’s Lady Sarai,” Lirrin replied. “She’s at the front door and says she wants to talk to Mereth, or whoever’s available.” “Tell her to come back later,” Telurinon answered. Lirrin bowed and ascended the stairs, out of sight. “There must be something better than another Black Dagger,” Mereth said, when Lirrin was gone.

“There are any number of incredibly powerful magicks we could use,” Tobas remarked. “Can that dagger really stop all of them?”

“Apparently so,” Telurinon said. “WeVe been throwing death spells at her ever since we first heard her name, after all, and what the dagger doesn’t stop, Tabaea can probably handle by herself. Remember, she has the speed and eyesight of a cat, a dog’s sense of smell, the strength of a dozen men, and multiple lives—she must be killed repeatedly, not just once, to be destroyed. Even if we got the dagger away from her, she would be a threat.”

“If we got the dagger away from her, we could dispose of her in any number of ways,” Heremon the Mage pointed out. “She wouldn’t be protected against wizardry anymore.”

“She would still have some protection,” Mereth replied. “She would still be both witch and warlock, and wizardry is unreliable against either one. We would want to use something really drastic, to be sure.”

“We have plenty of drastic magic at our disposal,” Tobas pointed out. “We have spells all the way up to the Seething Death—it’s hard to imagine anything much more drastic than that.”

“I don’t know if we need to be so drastic as all that,” Telurinon muttered.

“What’s the Seething Death?” Mereth asked.

“Never mind,” Tobas said, “we don’t want to use it.”

“You’re supposed to be an expert on countermagicks, aren’t you, Tobas?” Heremon asked.

“Well, not exactly,” Tobas said. “I happen to have a castle in a place where wizardry doesn’t work, that’s all.”

“You do?” Mereth eyed him curiously. “A place where magic doesn’t work?”

“Wizardry, anyway; witchcraft still works there, and I don’t know about the others,” Tobas explained. “I’m not inclined to invite a bunch of theurgists and sorcerers out there to experiment.”

“But it’s really a place that wizardry doesn’t work? I thought those were just legends.” Mereth said.

“Oh, no,” Tobas said. “It’s real. And it appears to have been created on purpose, by a wizard—apparently there’s a spell that will do that, will make a place permanently dead to wizardry.”

“Do you know it?”

“By the gods, no,” Tobas said, “and I wouldn’t want to use it if I did. Think about it, Mereth—it makes a place permanently dead to wizardry. The one I know about has been there for centuries, and it covers half a mountain and part of a valley. We’re powerless there, just ordinary people. We don’t want any more places like that around, and certainly not in a city like Ethshar!”

“I suppose not,” Mereth agreed.

“If we could get Tabaea into a place like that, though,” Her-emon suggested, “then wouldn’t her magic stop working? Wouldn’t she be just another vicious young woman?”

“I don’t know,” Tobas said. “It’s very hard to say just what magical effects are permanent and which are only maintained by magic. I mean, if you had cast a perpetual youth spell on yourself a hundred years ago, you wouldn’t instantly age a century in the no-wizardry area—but you would start aging at a normal rate. So perhaps Tabaea would lose all her acquired abilities, and perhaps she wouldn’t.”

“Besides, how would we get her there?” Mereth asked. “A Transporting Tapestry, perhaps?” Heremon suggested. “One of those that a person can step into and emerge wherever the picture showed? I believe you’ve said you own such a thing, Tobas?”

“Two of them,” Tobas admitted. “A set. One of them goes into the dead area, all right, but I need it—I mean, it’s absolutely essential.” He paused, and then added, “Besides, I can’t get it here.”

“Can Y?”Telurinon snorted. “Tobas, are you sure you aren’t putting your own convenience before the welfare of an entire city, perhaps the entire World? Where in the World is this tapestry, that you cannot bring it hither?”

“Well, that’s the thing, Guildmaster,” Tobas said. “It isn’t in the World—it’s somewhere else, somewhere that can only be reached with the other tapestry. And I can’t bring the tapestry out because the tapestry itself is the only way out.”

“Oh,” Telurinon said. He frowned and stroked his beard. “Is that possible?” Heremon asked. “I never heard of such a thing!”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Telurinon said. “Tobas would scarcely lie about that, and the Transporting Tapestries have always been quirky and untrustworthy things. That’s why we don’t use them more.”

“I thought it was the cost,” Mereth muttered.

“Oh, that, too,” Telurinon agreed. “But during the Great War cost and reliability weren’t as important as we consider them now, and they made a great many of those damnable tapestries, and a good many of them went wrong. About half of them would only deliver people at certain times of day, or when the weather was right—if you stepped in at the wrong time, you just wouldn’t be anywhere until the light or whatever it was matched the picture. There was one fool who got the stars wrong, outside a window; it took the astrologers months to figure out what had gone wrong with that one, and meanwhile the people who stepped into it have been gone for three hundred years and they still aren’t going to step out again for decades yet—and that’s assuming that the room in the tapestry is still there when the stars are right!”

“I’ve had some experience with that sort of thing,” Tobas remarked. “They’re tricky devices, all right.”

“Yet you trust one to get you safely out of this nowhere of yours?” Heremon asked.

Tobas shrugged.

“What if,” Mereth suggested, “we gave Tobas another Transporting Tapestry that he could take into this wherever-it-is, and then he could hang it there and bring the one that shows the no-magic place out through it?”

“Where would we get another one?” Heremon asked. “Doesn’t it take a year or more to make one?”

“Telurinon said there were many of them made during the Great War,” Mereth said. “What happened to them all?”

Telurinon blinked. “Um,” he said.

A sudden smile spread across Tobas’s face. “You know, IVe wondered sometimes about how some of the elder Guildmasters seem to be able to travel so quickly, yet I never see them flying.”

“Well, there might still be a few old tapestries in use,” Telurinon admitted. “But not so many as all that; some of the old ones show places that aren’t there anymore, and therefore they don’t work.”

“You don’t appear somewhere in the past, when the place did exist?” Heremon asked.

“Oh, no,” Telurinon said. “Transporting Tapestries can never move anyone back in time. They aren’t that powerful or eccentric. If the place did exist, but doesn’t anymore, they just don’t work.”

“But you have some that still work,” Mereth said. “Why don’t you give one to Tobas, in exchange for his to the no-wizardry place?”

“Well, I suppose we might,” Telurinon said uneasily, “but they’re all Guild property; I’d have to consult with, um, the others...”

“And will the Guild put their own convenience ahead of the welfare of an entire city?” Tobas said, grinning.

“We’ll just have to see about that,” Telurinon said angrily. “And besides, even if we get this tapestry of yours here to Ethshar, Tobas, how would we get Tabaea to step into it?”

“Will she be able to step into it if she’s carrying the Black Dagger?” Heremon asked.

“And if we’re going to get her to step into a Transporting Tapestry,” Tobas asked, “do we need all the rigamarole about the dead area? What happened to that one that had the stars wrong, Guildmaster? If we could get her to step into that, we’d have however many decades you said it would be until she came out again...”

“I don’t think a tapestry will work on the Black Dagger,” Heremon said. “You might wind up permanently ruining the tapestry.”

“And I don’t think Tabaea’s likely to step into one in the first place,” Mereth said.

“I think we’d better come up with something else,” Tobas said.

“Why don’t we all take a little time to think about it?” Heremon suggested. “We can meet back here in a few hours, after we’ve had a chance to come up with more ideas.” “And meanwhile,” Mereth said, “I can see what Lady Sarai wants.”

With that, the wizards arose and scattered, the meeting adjourned.

CHAPTER 33

J. o all appearances, Lady Sarai of Ethshar was no more.

In her place, a young woman with a face broader, darker, and less distinctive than Sarai’s, wearing as nondescript an outfit as Mereth could provide, had wandered into the palace, where she roamed the wide marble passageways, gaping—or pretending to do so—at the splendors of the place.

No one who encountered this slack-jawed young woman would be likely to connect her with the ousted aristocrats, or to suspect her of spying; and in fact, none of the dozens of vagabonds and scoundrels who did encounter her even noticed her. She was just another refugee from the Wall Street Field, come to live in the corridors of the palace.

Sarai was pleased. The disguise worked very well indeed; she owed Algarin of Longwall a debt for this—or at the very least, she would forgive him his earlier offenses.

She had first asked Mereth to help, but Mereth had been unable to oblige; she simply didn’t know a suitable spell. It had been a surprise when Algarin, hearing what Sarai wanted, had volunteered his services.

But then, the alteration of her features was probably not the most valuable thing she had received from the wizards, and it had been Mereth, rather than Algarin, who told Sarai a good deal of what the wizards had discussed after sending Sarai and the others out of the Guildhouse.

She had not revealed any Guild secrets, of course, nor had Sarai asked her to. She had, however, confirmed what Sarai had already suspected from her inadvertant eavesdropping—Ta-baea’s power derived originally from a single wizardry artifact: a black dagger. She appeared to have no true command of wizardry, as she had not been seen to use any other spells, but she had used the dagger somehow to steal other sorts of magic.

Tabaea might not have really mastered those other magicks, though.

Mereth had also spoken, with some scorn, of the various plans the wizards had suggested for dealing with Tabaea. Sarai knew that they did not have any simple counterspell for the Black Dagger, nor any simple means of killing or disarming Tabaea. The Guild might yet devise something, but as yet, Mereth told her, they had not.

That somehow didn’t surprise Sarai much. The Wizards’ Guild was very, very good at some things, but in this case they seemed to be completely out of their depth.

But then, so was everybody else, Sarai herself included. As she roamed the sadly transformed halls of the palace, Sarai could see that plainly. Even the conquerors, the city’s outcasts, didn’t seem comfortable with the new situation. They had not moved into the palace as if they were the new aristocracy, but rather as if it were a temporary shelter, a substitute for the Wall Street Field; it was with a curious mixture of annoyance and amazed relief that Sarai discovered that for the most part, the invaders had not dared to intrude on any of the private apartments or bedrooms. Her own family’s rooms were untouched, as were most of the others that had been abandoned, and those courtiers and officials who had remained behind were, for the most part, undisturbed.

Instead the newcomers were camped in the corridors, the stairways, the audience chambers, and the meeting rooms. They had no beds, but slept on carpets, blankets, stolen draperies’, or tapestries taken from the walls; they did not take their meals in the dining halls, but wherever they could scrounge food, eating it on the spot. The palace servants sometimes brought trays through the passages, handing out tidbits.

There was no organization at all; the people simply sat wherever they chose and moved when the urge struck them. They chatted with one another, played at dice and finger games, and, Sarai saw with disgust, stole one another’s belongings whenever someone’s back was turned. These were the new rulers of the city? After a tour of the palace that took her slightly more than two hours, however, Sarai found herself in the Great Hall, watching Tabaea at work, and realized that here were the real rulers of the city. The people in the corridors below were parasites, hangers-on, like the lesser nobility of old.

Still, she was not particularly impressed with what she saw. Tabaea held court as if she were settling arguments between unruly children—which was often appropriate, Sarai had to admit, but not always. And she didn’t have the sense to delegate anything; no one seemed to be screening out the frivolous cases. Tabaea was serving as overlord, and as her own Minister of Justice, and half a dozen other roles as well.

Sarai watched as Tabaea heard a dispute between an old woman and the drunkard she claimed had stolen her blanket; as she received a representative of the Council of Warlocks who wanted to know her intentions, and whether she acknowledged killing Inza the Apprentice, and if so whether she intended to make reparations; and as she listened to a delegation of merchants from Grandgate Market who were upset about the absence of the city guard.

Tabaea gave the drunkard to the count of three to return the blanket; his failure to meet this deadline got him a broken hand as the empress forcibly removed the blanket.

She freely admitting killing Inza, but claimed that it was a matter of state and no reparations or apologies would be forthcoming; furthermore, she saw no need to tell anyone of her plans, especially not a bunch of warlocks. They could wait and see, like everyone else, or consult fortune-telling wizards or theurgists—but no, she wasn’t holding any particular grudge, and they were free to stay in Ethshar of the Sands and operate as they always had, so long as they didn’t annoy her. The warlocks’ representative was not especially pleased by this, but he had little choice; he had to accept it. When she dismissed him, he bowed and departed without further argument.

As for the merchants, she asked if there had been any increase in theft or vandalism in the guards’ absence.

“I don’t know,” the spokesman admitted, as his companions eyed one another uneasily.

“Not yet,” one of the others muttered; Tabaea clearly heard him, however.

“You think the thieves will be bolder in the future, perhaps?” Tabaea asked, her tone challenging.

For a moment, no one replied, and a hush fell on the room. The delegates shifted their feet uneasily, looking at one another and stealing glances at the empress. At last, one spoke up, far more courageously than Sarai would ever have expected.

“I think that at the moment, all the thieves in the city are here in the palace,” he said. “And when they either finish looting the place, or they realize they aren’t going to get a chance to loot it, they’ll be back out in the market.”

“And what if they find they don’t have to loot it?” Tabaea shot back. “What if they find that the new government here is more generous than the old, and that anyone can have a decent living without being forced to steal?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the brave merchant answered. “I think there’ll always be thieves, and I want someone to protect us from them.”

“You have me,” Tabaea said. “That’s all you need.”

The merchant’s expression made it quite plain that he did not consider his new empress, whatever her abilities, to be an adequate replacement for several thousand soldiers, but his nerve had apparently run out; he said nothing more, and the scruffy little man who seemed to be serving as Tabaea’s chamberlain herded the group down the stairs.

Next up was a woman who claimed she had been unfairly forced from her home; as she gathered herself together and inched up to the dais, Sarai, standing at the head of the left-hand stairway, considered what she had just heard.

Tabaea was no diplomat; her treatment of the warlock and the merchants had made that plain. The case of the stolen blanket was interesting, though; she had not hesitated in the slightest before ordering the man to give the woman the blanket. Had Tabaea really known who was lying, as quickly as that?

It could be, of course; if Tabaea had acquired the right magical skills, she might be able to instantly tell falsehoods from truth. She hadn’t had to consult any magicians other than herself, certainly.

Or maybe she had just guessed. Maybe she assumed that the accused were always guilty. Maybe she would always prefer women to men, or the sober to the intoxicated. From one case, Sarai really couldn’t say...

She had reached that point in her thoughts when the arrow whistled past. Her eyes widened, and she saw the impact very clearly as the missile struck Tabaea, Empress of Ethshar, in the throat.

Sarai stared as blood dribbled down the pale skin and onto the front of Tabaea’s absurdly gaudy dress; the sight of the woman standing there gasping, with the arrow projecting from her neck, was horribly unnatural. Sarai was vaguely aware of clattering footsteps behind her as someone descended the stairs so fast that it was almost as much a fall as a climb, and then the fading sound of running feet as the archer fled down the corridor below. The sound was very loud and distinct in the shocked silence following the shot.

Then Tabaea reached up and ripped the arrow free; blood gushed forth, spattering the dais and drenching her dress. Someone screamed—a single voice at first, then a chorus of shrieks and shouts.

The empress took a single step, staggered—and then straightened up.

As Sarai watched, the gaping red hole in Tabaea’s throat closed, the skin smoothed itself out, and the wound was gone as if it had never been.

“Where did that come from?” Tabaea demanded, in a voice as strong as ever.

Several fingers pointed, and Tabaea strode through the room, imposing in her anger despite her small size, with the bloody arrow still clutched in her hand. She headed for the stairs where the assassin had lurked. All present, regardless of who they might be, hastened to get out of her way—Sarai among them.

She had to admit, as she watched Tabaea pass, that was a very impressive bit of magic, the way that wound had healed—if it had all been real, and not some sort of illusion. She turned back to the throne room.

The dais was soaked with blood; if it was an illusion, it was a durable one. And, Sarai saw, a line of bloody drops and smears on the stone floor marked Tabaea’s path from the dais to the stairs.

Sarai did not really think it was an illusion at all.

She wondered who the assassin was, and why he had made his attempt. Had Lord Torrut sent him, perhaps? And would he get away, or would Tabaea catch him?

If she caught him, Sarai was sure the man would die. She hoped it wouldn’t be too slow or painful a death.

She looked around again, at the remnants of the crowd, at Tabaea’s chamberlain standing by the dais looking bewildered, at the rapidly drying blood the empress had lost. She thought of the warlock, and the merchants, and the drunk with the broken hand, of Grandgate Market and the gate itself left unguarded, and of the palace corridors jammed with beggars and thieves. She thought of the empress of Ethshar abandoning everything else to chase her own would-be assassin, because she had no guards to do it for her, no magicians to track down and slay the attacker.

This was no way to run a city.

Quite aside from any question of Tabaea’s right to rule, it was clear to Sarai that the murderous young woman didn’t know how to rule properly.

She would have to be removed—but as the scene with the arrow had demonstrated, as Mereth’s report of the Wizards’ Guild’s repeated failures, removing her wasn’t as simple as it might seem, with the Black Dagger protecting her.

Sarai paused, looking after the departed empress. At least, she thought, there was an obvious place to start. If the Black Dagger protected Tabaea, then the Black Dagger had to be eliminated.

Of course, Tabaea knew that. It wasn’t going to be easy to get the enchanted knife away from her.

Easy or not, a way would have to be found. And since no one else seemed to be doing it, Sarai would have to do it herself.

She sighed; it was easy to say she should do it. The hard part, Sarai told herself, was figuring out how.

CHAPTER 34

“Let me help you with that, Your Majesty,” Sarai said, reaching out for Tabaea’s blood-soaked robe.

Tabaea looked around, startled. “Thank you,” she said, pulling the robe free. Sarai accepted it and folded it into a bundle; half-dried blood smeared her arms and dripped on the carpet.

“You’re not one of my usual servants,” Tabaea remarked, as she unbuckled her belt and tossed it aside. She tugged at her sticky, bloody tunic and asked, “Where’s Lethe? Or Ista?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Sarai replied. “I was nearby, and I just thought I’d help.” She hoped very much that if Lethe or Ista showed up that neither would see through her disguise, or recognize her voice.

Of course, those two had mostly waited on the overlord and his immediate family, not on Lord Kalthon and his children; while they both knew Lady Sarai by sight, neither had been a close friend.

And both of them were tired of cleaning up Tabaea’s blood, so they probably wouldn’t be in any hurry to answer the empress’ call. This latest attack, an attempt at decapitation, had been even messier than previous unsuccessful assassinations.

Sarai had seen it, of course; she made a habit of unobtrusively following Tabaea about her everyday business, watching any time an assassin might strike. She wanted to know more about Tabaea’s capabilities; she wanted to be there if Tabaea did die, to help restore order; and she wanted to be there if there was ever a chance to get the Black Dagger away.

She had an idea about that last that she hoped to try. That idea was why she was now playing the role of a palace servant.

She supposed she hadn’t really needed to watch the actual decapitation, but she had been too fascinated to turn away. For a moment, when the assassin’s sword finished its cut through the imperial neck and emerged from the other side, Sarai had thought that this might be too much for even Tabaea’s magic— but then she had seen that the wound was already healing where the blade had entered, that the head had never been completely severed from the body, and that Tabaea was already tugging the Black Dagger from its sheath.

Each time someone had openly tried to kill the empress, Tabaea had pursued her attacker, and two times out of three she had caught and killed someone she claimed to be the assassin.

At least, Sarai thought she had; certainly, she had caught the archer the first time, and judging by her remarks to her courtiers and the satisfied expression on her face, she had caught this swordsman, as well.

She hadn’t caught anyone when magical attacks had been made, of course, but those attacks hadn’t inflicted any deadly wounds, either; the Black Dagger had dissipated any wizard’s spell used against her, and Tabaea, using her own powers, had fought off all the others before they got that far.

She hadn’t eaten the poisoned meals, either; Sarai didn’t know why.

At least, she had turned away meals she said were poisoned, but Sarai had no way of knowing whether poison had actually been present, or that Tabaea hadn’t cheerfully consumed poisons in other meals without detecting them—and without being harmed. And for that matter, if magical attacks had reached her undetected, perhaps they had used up some of her store of stolen lives—but Sarai had no reason to think that had happened. As far as Sarai could see, neither magic nor poison had affected Tabaea’s vitality.

The more direct assaults, however, surely did.

If Sarai correctly understood how the Black Dagger worked— which she doubted, since her information was third-hand at best, relayed by Mereth or Tobas or one of Tobas’s wives from analyses provided by various wizards—then each time Tabaea killed someone, she added another life to her total; each time she received a wound that would have killed an ordinary person, a life was lost from that sum.

So while she had lost three lives to assassins, she had recovered two of them, tracking down her enemies and stabbing them to death before they had a chance to escape. Neither one had even gotten out of the palace.

That must have been a ghastly sight for the would-be killers, Sarai thought, to look back and see Tabaea, covered with her own blood and wielding that horrible dagger, in hot pursuit. And it had presumably been the last thing they ever saw—at least, for two out of three.

The chase was over now, and Tabaea had retreated to her apartments, to change out of her bloody clothes, to wash the blood from her skin and hair, before going on about the business of ruling me city. She had sent her chancellor and her other followers away, so that she could clean up in private.

And this was what Sarai had been waiting for. The instant Tabaea had set out after the assassin, Sarai had hurried to the imperial quarters, where she had filled the marble tub and hung the kettle over the fire.

“The bath is ready, Your Majesty,” she said. “I hope the water’s warm enough; it’s not my usual job.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Tabaea said wearily, as she handed Sarai her tunic and ambled into the bath chamber. Sarai accepted the garment, bowed, and hurried after.

Tabaea dropped her skirt, stepped out of her girdle, and stepped into the tub.

“It is a bit cool,” she said. “See to the kettle, whatever your name is.”

“Pharea, Your Majesty,” Sarai said. She put the bloody clothes aside and fetched the kettle from the fire, then poured steaming hot water into the tub, stirring it in with her other hand.

She wanted Tabaea to be comfortable, to take a nice, long bath—and give her a good head start.

“You’re nervous, Pharea,” Tabaea said.

Sarai looked up, startled.

“Don’t be,” the empress said, “I won’t hurt you.”

Sarai was not reassured, but she tried to hide her discomfort. “Of course not, Your Majesty,” she said. “I suppose it’s just the blood.” “Your Majesty?” a new voice called.

Sarai turned, as Tabaea said, “Ah, Lethe! Come in here and help me get this blood out of my hair.”

Sarai bowed, collected Tabaea’s remaining garments, and backed out of the bath chamber as Lethe stepped in. The servant gave Sarai a startled glance, then ignored her as she tended to her mistress’ needs.

Sarai collected Tabaea’s bloody clothes into a bundle, and dumped it in me hallway, to be disposed of or cleaned, whichever was more practical—she really didn’t know and didn’t much care. Her servant act was almost over. In a few seconds she would have what she wanted. She returned to the bath chamber and leaned in.

“I’ll just close this door to keep the steam in, shall I?” she said.

“Yes, thank you, Pharea,” Tabaea said with a wave.

Sarai closed the door, quietly but firmly.

Then she hurried to Tabaea’s belt, still lying on the floor where the empress had flung it; she snatched the Black Dagger from its sheath, took her own knife from concealment beneath her skirt, and substituted the ordinary belt knife for Tabaea’s magical weapon. She tucked the Black Dagger carefully under her skirt, then looked around, checking to see if she had forgotten anything.

As she turned, she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror; at first, she paid no attention, but then, startled, she stared at the glass.

Her magical disguise was gone; she was no longer Pharea, a moon-faced servant, but herself, Lady Sarai.

The Black Dagger had done that, obviously; it had cut away the illusion spell.

She certainly couldn’t afford to stay here, in that case, not that she had intended to. Moving quickly, but not hurrying so much as to attract attention if someone saw her, she stepped out into the passageway and closed the door behind her.

And then, carefully not hurrying, trying very hard to appear as ordinary as possible, she strolled down the hall, down the stairs, and a few minutes later, out of the palace entirely, across the plaza onto Circle Street.

She had done it. She had the Black Dagger.

Now what?

She didn’t want to do anything hasty or ill-considered. The obvious thing to do would be to go to the Guildhouse on Grand Street and tell the wizards that Tabaea had been disarmed—but

Sarai did not always trust the obvious.

Would magic work against Tabaea now? She still had the strengths and talents of a dozen or so people, even if she could no longer add more. And mere was the question of whether it would be for the best in the long run if wizards removed the usurper empress; however much she might like some of the individual members, Sarai did not like or trust the Wizards’ Guild. They had claimed they didn’t meddle in politics, yet she was quite sure that if she told them the Black Dagger was gone, they would immediately assassinate Tabaea. Like it or not, Tabaea was the city’s ruler. What sort of a precedent would it set if she helped the Wizards’ Guild kill a reigning monarch and go unpunished?

Not only would they surely go unpunished, they might expect to be rewarded for such a service. They might well demand a larger role in running the city, or some tangible expression of gratitude. Sarai did not for a minute believe that their strictures against interfering in politics, or their insistence that they wanted to kill Tabaea for themselves rather than the good of the city, would prevent them from expecting payment for such a service to the overlord.

What if they demanded the Black Dagger?

Sarai frowned. She didn’t like that idea. The Black Dagger was dangerous.

Of course, wizards were dangerous—but still, why hand them even more power?

And then again, it might be, for all she knew, that the Black Dagger would only work for Tabaea. It might be that the wizards already knew how to make such daggers.

It might be that Tabaea would be able to make another as soon as she found that this one was gone, in which case Sarai really shouldn’t be wasting any time—but still, she hesitated. Wherever the Black Dagger came from, whether more could be made or not, Sarai was sure that the wizards would want it.

Well, the wizards had things she wanted—not for Ethshar, but for herself. What if she were to trade the dagger to them in exchange for a cure for her father and brother?

This all needed more thought, despite any risk that Tabaea would make another dagger. The time was not yet right, Sarai decided, for a quick trip to the Guildhouse.

But then, where should she go?

Lord Torrut, she decided. There was no point in letting more assassins die for nothing, not when a single spell might now be enough to handle the problem. She had no doubt at all that the assassins were sent by Lord Torrut; when open battle had failed, he had gone underground, but she was sure he was still fighting.

The question was, where?

The obvious place to start looking was the barracks towers; with that in mind, she headed out Quarter Street toward Grand-gate Market.

And as she walked, a thought struck her.

Ordinary swords and knives and arrows could not kill Tabaea, as long as she had extra lives saved up—but what if she were stabbed with the Black Dagger? Wouldn’t that steal all her lives at once?

Maybe not; it would certainly be a risky thing to try. Most particularly, it would be risky for an ordinary person, with an ordinary person’s strength, to attempt to stab Tabaea, with all her stolen power.

But what if someone used the Black Dagger to build herself up to be Tabaea’s equal, or her superior, and then stabbed Tabaea?

Whoever it was couldn’t go about murdering magicians, of course, or even just ordinary people, but perhaps if there were condemned criminals...

Did the dagger’s magic work on animals? Sarai remembered that dogs, cats, and even a pigeon had been found with their throats cut; Tabaea had, at the very least, experimented with animals. Someone with the strength of a dozen oxen might be a match for her.

Of course, if anyone tried that, then the knife’s new wielder would be a threat to the peace of the city—unless it was someone completely trustworthy, someone who would simply never want to disrupt the normal flow of events.

Someone, for example, like Sarai herself.

She glanced briefly toward the Guildhouse as she crossed Wizard Street, but walked on toward the Wall Street Field without even slowing.

In the Guildhouse, Tobas watched uneasily from the landing.

“I know that I sort of suggested some of mis,” he said, “but I’m not sure it’s really a good idea.”

Mereth glanced at him uneasily, then turned her attention back to Telurinon. The Guildmaster was seated cross-legged on a small carpet, his athame held out before him, its point directly over a shallow silver bowl supported on a low iron tripod; he was chanting intently. Fluid bubbled and steamed in the silver dish. A sword lay on the floor beneath the bowl, and an old and worn noose encircled the tripod, the sword’s blade passing under it on one side and atop it on the other.

“Well,” Mereth said, “if any kind of wizardry can kill Ta-baea, this can—can’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Tobas said. “I just hope it doesn’t kill everybody.’”

“Oh, it won’t do that,” Mereth said, not anywhere near as certainly as she would have liked.

“It might,” Tobas replied. “The original countercharm is lost, has been lost for four or five hundred years now, and in all that time no one’s been foolish enough to risk trying it. The spell book I found it in had a note at the bottom in big red runes, saying, ’Don’t try it!,’ but here we are, trying it.”

“But we’ve got it all figured out,” Mereth insisted. “As soon as Tabaea’s dead, the warlocks pick it up and push it through that tapestry of yours, to the no-magic place, and it’ll be gone!”

“That assumes,” Tobas pointed out, “that the warlocks really can pick it up and that the tapestry really will transport it. For the former we have only the warlocks’ word that they can lift anything that isn’t too immense, and for the latter, all we have is assumptions and guesses. What if, instead of the tapestry transporting the Seething Death, the Seething Death destroys the Transporting Tapestry?”

Mereth went pale.

“Oh, gods,” she said. “What if it does destroy the tapestry? Tobas, why didn’t you say anything sooner?” “I did,” Tobas replied. “I argued until my throat was sore and my lungs wouldn’t hold air, and Telurinon promised to think it all over carefully, and when I came back he’d started the ritual.”

“Oh, but... but it’s so dangerous... How could he?”

Tobas turned up an empty palm. “He’s frustrated,” he said. “We’ve all been throwing spells at Tabaea for a sixnight now, and they’ve had even less effect than Lord Torrut’s archers and booby traps—by the way, did you hear about the tripwire and razor-wheels? The spies said it took Tabaea almost five minutes to heal.”

Mereth shuddered.

“Well, anyway,” Tobas continued, “all his life Telurinon has had these spells too terrible to use, he’s heard about how wizardry is more powerful than anything, and now there’s someone who just absorbs anything we throw at her—I can see why he’d want to try some of the real World-wrecker spells on her. He’ll probably never have another opportunity to use any of them. But I don’t think he should use the Seething Death.”

“Then why don’t you stop him?”

“Oh, now, you know better than that,” Tobas chided her. “Have you ever interrupted a wizard in the middle of a spell?”

“Um... once.” Mereth winced at the memory. “When I was an apprentice. Nobody died, but it was close.”

“Low-order magic, I assume?”

“Very.”

Tobas nodded. “Ever see the Tower of Flame?”

Mereth turned to him, startled. “No, have you? I wasn’t even sure it was real!”

“Oh, it’s real, all right,” Tobas replied. “It’s in the mountains southeast of Dwomor. You can see it for a dozen leagues in every direction; it lights up the whole area at night. It just keeps going and going and going, spewing fire upward out of a field of bare rock. The best records say it’s been burning for eight hundred years now, and the story is—I can’t swear it’s true—the story is that it was only about a second- or third-order spell that went wrong, some ordinary little spell, meant to sharpen a sword or something.”

“Yes, but...”

“And for myself,” Tobas said, interrupting her protest, “I’m not about to forget that every spriggan in the World, and there must be hundreds of them by now, maybe thousands, but every single one of them is out there running around, causing trouble, because I got a gesture wrong doing Lugwiler’s Haunting Phantasm.”

“But...”

“Not to mention,” Tobas added forcefully, “that all our problems with Tabaea and the Black Dagger are the result of a mistake during an athamezation.” “So you aren’t going to stop him,” Mereth said.

“That’s right,” Tobas said. “That’s got to be tenth-, maybe twelfth-order magic he’s doing down there; I can’t handle anything like that, hardly anyone can, even among Guildmasters, and I’m not about to risk seeing a spell like that go wrong. It’s bad enough if it goes right.”

“What happens if it doesn’t?” Mereth asked. “I mean, Tel-urinon could make a mistake even if we don’t disturb him.”

Tobas shrugged. “Who knows? Dragon’s blood, serpent’s venom, a rope that’s hanged a man, and a sword that’s slain a woman... there’s some potent stuff in there.”

“How is it supposed to work?”

Tobas sighed. “Well,” he said, “when he’s finished, that brew in the silver bowl there is supposed to yield a single drop of fluid that’s decanted into a golden thimble. It’s almost stable at that point; it won’t do anything to the thimble as long as the drop stays entirely within it. But when the drop is tipped over the edge of the thimble, whether it’s deliberately poured, or spilled, or whatever, the spell will be activated, and whatever it falls upon will be consumed by the Seething Death, which will then slowly spread, destroying everything it touches, until something stops it.”

“And we don’t know of anything that will stop it,” Mereth said.

“Right. Unless Telurinon’s scheme to transport it to the dead area works.”

“What if the Black Dagger stops it? ”

Tobas shrugged. “Who knows?” he said.

Mereth blinked. “I’m not sure I understand exactly,” she said. “The way I understand it, the Seething Death forms a sort of pool of this stuff, right? A pool that gradually spreads?”

“That’s right.”

“How will that stop Tabaea? Are we planning to push her into the pool?”

Tobas grimaced.

“No,” he said. “Telurinon intends to pour the drop directly on her head.”

Mereth was a wizard and had been for all her adult life; she regularly worked with bits of corpses and various repulsive organic fluids. What was more, she had worked for the Minister of Justice and his daughter, the Minister of Investigation, studying and spying on all the various things that the citizens of Eth-shar did to one another when sufficiently provoked. All the same, she winced slightly at the thought of pouring that stuff on someone’s head.

“Ick,” she said. Then, after a moment’s thought, she asked, “How?”

“The warlocks,” Tobas told her. “As soon as it’s ready, the warlocks will transport it to the palace and pour it on Tabaea. Then, as soon as she’s dead, they’ll lift her corpse, so the stuff won’t get on anything else, and send Tabaea and the Seething Death through the tapestry. It’s all ready to go, rolled up by the front door.” “Couldn’t they just send her through the tapestry alive? Then we wouldn’t have to use the Seething Death at all!”

Tobas sighed again. “Maybe they could,” he said, “but they don’t think so. She’s a warlock herself, while she’s alive, and she can block them. I don’t understand that part, I’m not a warlock any more than you are, but that’s what they say.”

“Have they tried!” Mereth demanded.

Tobas turned up an empty palm. “Whether they have or not,” he said, pointing at Telurinon, “it’s a little late to turn back now, isn’t it?”

CHAPTER 35

Sarai winced, eyes closed, as she slit the dog’s throat. The animal thrashed wildly, and hot blood sprayed on Sarai’s hands, but she kept her hold.

And as it struggled, Sarai felt a surge of heat, of strength, all through her; without meaning to, she tightened her grip on the dying dog and felt the flesh yielding beneath her fingers. Her heart was pounding, her muscles were tense.

Then the dog went limp, sagging to the ground between her legs, and the world suddenly seemed to flood in on her; her ears rang with strange new sounds, and her vision seemed suddenly sharper and more intense, as if everything was outlined against the background of the Wall Street Field—though for a moment, the colors seemed to fade away, as if drowned out by the clarity of shape and movement.

Most of all, though, scents poured in. She could smell everything, all at once—the dog’s blood, her own sweat, her sex, the dirt of the Field, the sun-warmed stone of the city wall, the smokes and stenches of every individual shop or home on Wall Street or the blocks beyond. She could tell at once which of the empty blankets and abandoned tents of the Field were mildewed or decayed and which were still clean and wholesome; she could smell the metal of the Black Dagger itself.

For a moment she stood over the dead dog, just breathing in the city, marveling at it all. She had known that dogs could smell better than mere humans, of course, everyone knew that, but she had never before realized how much better, and she had never imagined what it would be like.

Her attempts to find Lord Torrut had, so far, been unsuccessful; she had found no one in the barracks or the gatehouses. Now, though, she wondered if she could locate him by smell, track him down by following his scent. She had heard about dogs doing such things and had always dismissed the stories as exaggerations, but now, she had to reconsider. She could smell everything.

She was stronger now, too; she could feel it. The dog had not been particularly strong or healthy, just a half-starved stray scavenging in the almost-empty Field, but she had felt the power in her grip as she held it while it died.

Tabaea had killed a dozen men—Sarai tried to imagine just how strong that made her feel, and couldn’t.

And Tabaea had killed several dogs, as well, Sarai remembered—she, too, had experienced this flood of scent and sound and image.

Scents—that explained some of Tabaea’s mysterious abilities. It wasn’t magic, not in the way Sarai and the others had assumed; she could smell people approaching; she could hear them, like a watchdog. People said dogs could smell fear, as well, could tell friend from foe by scent—could Tabaea?

Until now, Sarai had viewed Tabaea as a mysterious and powerful magician, her talents and abilities beyond any ordinary explanation, her mind beyond understanding; now, suddenly, she thought she understood the usurper. Sarai had assumed that Tabaea had created the Black Dagger deliberately, knowing what she was doing; that she had studied magic, had set out to conquer Ethshar. It was the Black Dagger that gave her her physical strength and immunity to harm, the wizards had told Sarai that, but now Sarai began to believe that all Tabaea’s power came from the dagger.

Without it, did she have any magic?

Well, she presumably still had her warlockry, and maybe witchcraft—Teneria and Karanissa had said that Tabaea had the talent, as they called it, but didn’t know how to use it properly.

And she had her canine sense of smell and her accumulated strength and stolen lives.

Sarai remembered the dead cats and the dead pigeon; could Tabaea have stolen the bird’s ability to fly? What had she gotten from the cats?

Well, Sarai thought, holding up the bloody dagger, there was one way to find out, wasn’t there?

The first cat came as a revelation; the addition to her strength was nothing, smell and hearing got no better, but the increase in her speed and the intense sensitivity to movement were as big a surprise as the dog’s sense of smell. That was how Tabaea could react so quickly when she fought!

The pigeon was a waste of time; that explained why dead birds hadn’t littered the city when Tabaea was building herself up.

The next step, Sarai decided, was an ox, for the raw strength it would provide; Tabaea had used people, but Sarai had no intention of committing murder.

Unfortunately, there were no stray oxen wandering in the Wall Street Field. Buying an ox was not difficult—if one had money. Sarai had no money to speak of, just a few borrowed coppers in the purse on her belt. The family treasure had gone to sea with her father and brother, while the family income was gone with Lord Tollern and the overlord.

Perhaps she could borrow more money somewhere, she thought. The obvious place to go would be the Guildhouse, since that was where the richest and most powerful of her nominal allies were, but she still did not care for the idea of walking in there with the Black Dagger on her belt. She thought she could trust Mereth, and Tobas seemed like a reasonable person, but Telurinon and Algarin and the rest...

Tobas was not living in the Guildhouse, though; he and his wives were staying at the Cap and Dagger. Lady Sarai sniffed the air, without consciously realizing she was doing it. She stretched, catlike, then flexed her shoulders in a way that would have fluffed a pigeon’s feathers out nicely. Then she wiped the Black Dagger clean, sheathed it, and headed out of the Field, up onto Wall Street, and toward Grandgate. From the market, she turned down Gate Street; the Cap and Dagger was six blocks down on the right.

As she walked, she soaked in the odors and sights of a city turned strange and rich by her augmented senses. She could, she found, tell what each person she passed had eaten for his or her last meal and how long ago that meal was; she could detect the slightest twitch of a hand or an eye. She spotted rats foraging in an alley and knew that she would never have seen them without the Black Dagger’s spell.

She saw someone glance oddly at her and realized that she was moving strangely, her gaze darting back and forth, her nose lifted to catch the air. She forced herself to look straight ahead. Then she was at the inn; she stood in the door until the inn-Keeper came to ask what she wanted.

Sarai was sure she had not seen the man before and wondered where he had hidden himself when the wizards held their meeting in his establishment.

“I’m looking for a man named Tbbas of Telven,” she said. “Or if he’s not here, one of his wives.”

The innkeeper frowned, then directed her to a room upstairs. Sarai thanked him, and was about to head up, when the man reconsidered. “Maybe I’d better come with you,” he said. “I don’t know you, and I don’t want any trouble.”

“There won’t be any trouble,” Sarai said, but the innkeeper insisted. Together, they ascended the stairs and found the door of the room Tobas, Karanissa, and Alorria shared. The innkeeper knocked.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice called. Sarai had not entirely adjusted to her new hearing, so much more sensitive to high-pitched sounds, so at first she didn’t recognize it.

“There’s a woman here to see your husband,” the innkeeper called.

Sarai heard footsteps, and then the door opened; Alorria leaned out. “Tobas isn’t here,” she said. She spotted Sarai, and said, “Oh, it’s you, La... it’s you, Sarai. Is there anything I can do?”

“I hope so,” Sarai said. “May I come in?” “Oh. All right, come in.” She swung the door wide. Sarai stepped in, and Alorria closed it gently in the innkeeper’s face.

“Thank you,” she called to him as the door shut.

Then, for a moment, the two women stared at each other, Sarai unsure how to begin, Alorria unsure she had done the right thing admitting anyone when she was alone and so clumsy and helpless with her swollen belly.

But after all, Lady Sarai was a friend and a fellow noblewoman.

Sarai looked around the room, at the three beds, the table that held basin and pitcher, and the two large trunks, while Alorria studied her guest’s face. “Why do you want to see Tobas?” the princess asked.

“Well, I probably don’t need to,” Sarai said. “I really just need to borrow some money. I’ll pay it back as soon as tilings are back to normal.”

Alorria blinked, slightly startled. “Why do you need to borrow money?” she asked. “To buy an ox.”

Alorria stared at Sarai. “Why do you want an ox?”

“To kill,” Sarai explained. “As part of a spell.”

Alorria frowned. “You’re doing magic now? Isn’t there enough of that already?”

Sarai shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “Is there?”

“Well, I certainly thought so,” Alorria said, settling awkwardly onto the edge of the nearest bed. “That’s where Tobas and Kara are—the Wizards’ Guild is trying some horrible spell on Tabaea, with the help of the warlocks, and Karanissa and the other witches are all standing by to help, at the palace or the Guildhouse or places in between.”

“What kind of a spell?” Sarai asked, seating herself on the next bed over. She berated herself for not realizing that the wizards would still be trying their spells on Tabaea, even without knowing the Black Dagger had been removed, and she suddenly wished that she had gone straight to the Guildhouse when she had first stolen the dagger. She didn’t like it when things went on that she didn’t know about, particularly anything as bizarre as wizards and warlocks working together.

And how could warlocks help with anything, when Tabaea was a warlock herself? Warlockry didn’t work on warlocks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alorria said, flustered. “I leave all the magic up to Tobas and Kara, and I take care of the rest of it.”

“Oh, but...” Sarai began.

Alorria interrupted, “It’s called the Seething Death; Tobas got it from that horrible old book of Derithon’s, and nobody’s used it in about five hundred years.”

Sarai’s mouth twitched. “I thought you didn’t know anything about magic.”

“I don’t,” Alorria insisted, “not really. But I do know about my husband.” She smiled weakly.

Sarai smiled back, but it was not a terribly sincere smile. “The Seething Death” sounded dangerous, and she had never heard of it before. Maybe building up her strength with an ox could wait; watching this spell might be more important. And some high official of the overlord’s government ought to be there when Tabaea died. The overlord himself had sailed off to Eth-shar of the Spices with Lord Tbllern and Sarai’s own father and the rest, and Lord Torrut was in hiding; Sarai knew she was probably the highest-ranking official available.

That assumed that the spell would work on Tabaea, but with the Black Dagger gone Sarai thought that was a reasonable assumption. And if it didn ’t kill her, Sarai wanted to see that, too, to see how Tabaea defended herself without the knife.

“The Seething Death,” the spell was called. Where had it come from, anyway?

“Who’s Derithon?” she asked, “Derithon the Mage,” Alorria said. “Karanissa’s first husband—or lover, anyway. He’s been dead for centuries. She had his book of spells when she first met Tobas, and she couldn’t use it, since she’s a witch instead of a wizard, so she gave it to Tobas, and that’s where he got most of his magic.”

“Centuries?” There was obviously even more of a story to this threesome than she had realized.

“Derithon put a youth spell on her. How much does an ox cost, anyway?”

“About three rounds of silver, I think. So Tobas is working this Seething Death spell?”

“Oh, no!” Alorria said. “He thinks it’s much too dangerous, that it’s really stupid. Telurinon did it before Tobas could stop him.”

The last remnants of Sarai’s smile vanished. She stood up. “I think I better go,” she said. “Forget about the ox; I need to see what’s going on at the palace.” Alorria smiled up at her. “Be careful,” she said. Sarai didn’t answer; she was already on her way out the door. Tobas was a sensible person, despite his peculiar domestic arrangements, but Telurinon—Telurinon was an overeducated idiot who wanted to prove to the Inner Circle how powerful he was. What’s more, he was an overeducated idiot who still thought Tabaea had the Black Dagger protecting her.

Whatever this spell was, Telurinon expected it to overpower the Black Dagger. Sarai was sure of that; Tobas or Heremon or Algarin might have found some way around the dagger’s magic, but Telurinon would have just thrown more and more magic back at it. Unchecked wizardry could do an amazing amount of damage, and there was no Black Dagger in the palace to blunt this Seething Death.

Sarai had to force herself not to draw attention by running as she headed for the palace.

CHAPTER 36

Everyone knew that there were things in life that stayed interesting, and things that got dull fairly quickly; this was no revelation to the Empress Tabaea, who considered herself to be an intelligent person, and who thought she had a pretty good idea of how the World worked.

All the same, she was rather surprised to find that ruling a city was one of the things that got dull quickly.

In fact, by the end of her first sixnight as empress, she was bored with the whole business and had begun trying to find ways to make it more enjoyable.

An obvious one would be to appoint someone else to handle the tedious parts of the job, but that would require finding someone she trusted to do it properly, and as yet she hadn’t found such a person. Sometimes it seemed as if there wasn’t anyone in her entire court with the wit of a spriggan.

There were times she wasn’t sure she was much better than the others, at that.

And then there was the loneliness. She had never exactly been popular company, but at least she had usually had friends to talk to, just about everyday matters. She could discuss the fine points of housebreaking with other burglars, gripe about the city guard to anyone in the Wall Street Field—but all her old friends were scared of her now. Not only was she the empress, but she was a magician, with her superhuman strength and all the rest of her abilities. And she had beaten Jandin and thrown that stupid old woman around.

So everyone was frightened of her.

She could still talk to them, of course, but it wasn’t the same; they wouldn’t dare say anything she didn’t want to hear, or, rather, anything they thought that she might possibly not want to hear.

The remaining palace servants were actually better company now; they were accustomed to dealing with powerful people, and they weren’t anywhere near as frightened of her as most of the others—but on the other hand, they didn’t seem to have much to say. They were mostly concerned with clothes and meals and furniture, with how to keep the rugs clean, and what tunic went well with which skirt.

And they were all women. Tabaea didn’t understand that. Surely, the overlord had had male servants; where had they all gone?

Wherever they were, she didn’t see them. Perhaps they were still there, working down in the depths of the palace kitchens, or the stables, or any of the other places that the empress didn’t go, but they certainly weren’t bringing her her meals or waiting on her in her apartments.

They might be mixed in with the crowds in the corridors, of course.

And that was another source of her displeasure, she thought as she left her apartments and headed for the throne room. Here she had done everything she could to be an enlightened and benevolent ruler, and nobody seemed to appreciate it. She had freed all the slaves, had emptied the overlord’s dungeons, had pardoned any number of criminals, had invited the entire population of the Wall Street Field to live in the palace, had in fact thrown the palace open to anyone who cared to enter—by her order, all the doors were kept open in good weather, and were always unlocked in any weather—and what had it gotten her? Had those people been grateful to her? Had they taken advantage of this chance to improve themselves? Had any of them tried to repay her by helping out, even such little things as cleaning up after themselves, as she had asked?

No. Of course not. All she had to do was glance about to see that. The palace corridors were littered with cast-off rags, with fruit rinds and chicken bones and other remnants of stolen meals, and they stank of urine and worse. Dead bodies were left unattended until they began to stink, if she or one of the servants didn’t happen on them; out hi the Wall Street Field someone would have informed the city guard and the body would have been removed, but here no one seemed to know who should be told.

What was worse, not all the deaths were from disease or age; not counting the assassination attempts, there had definitely been at least two murders in the palace since her ascension, both apparently the result of fights over unattended goods. There were reports of other fights that had not ended quite so badly, and stories of rapes and molestations.

It was just as bad as the Wall Street Field had been. Didn’t these people appreciate the fact that they had a roof over their heads now, that they weren’t outcasts anymore?

Obviously not. About the only comfort was that the population of the palace seemed to be declining; there were clearly fewer people in the corridors now. They might just be moving into the rooms and chambers, or down into the deeper areas where she didn’t see them, but Tabaea liked to think that they were finding places for themselves outside, in the houses her people were taking back from the old overlord’s tax collectors, or with their families, or somewhere.

She frowned. There had been that rumor that some were moving back to the Wall Street Field. She didn’t like that.

And then there were all the complaints from the other people, the outsiders, the merchants and nobles and even sailors and craftsmen and the like, worried about the absence of the city guard, complaining about the loss of their slaves, claiming they had been robbed and the thieves had taken shelter in the palace, and any number of other things...

The pleasures of ruling, Tabaea thought as she neared the steps that would lead her up to the start of her working day, were overrated, and it didn’t help at all that she had gone and limited what pleasures there were, in her idealistic drive to improve the lot of her subjects. She could think of interesting ways to pass the time with a handsome slave, now that she could afford one, could have had one for the asking—but she had abolished slavery. She sighed, straightened her skirt, and proceeded up the steps toward the throne room.

At least she had finally had the sense to give up on those silly gowns and gewgaws. She didn’t need to look like some jewel-encrusted queen out of an old story to convince people that she was the empress; all she needed was to be herself, Tabaea the First.

As always, there was a crowd waiting for her; as always, she ignored them and marched straight toward the dais, expecting them to get out of her way.

Then, abruptly, she stopped. Something was wrong. She sniffed the air.

Someone in the crowd was terrified—not just nervous, but really scared, and at the same time she scented aggression. And it wasn’t from someone lurking in a back corner, it was someone nearby. She saw movement, a hand raising. Another assassination attempt, obviously. Well, this time she didn’t intend to be killed. Even if she always recovered almost instantly, it still hurt; in fact, it was downright agonizing, for a few seconds. It used up precious magic energy, and besides, it made a mess, getting blood all over everything.

This time she sensed warlockry, just a trace of it, a tiny bit of magic. That had happened before; warlocks had tried to stop her heart, had tried to throw knives at her, had tried to strangle her from afar, and every time, she had blocked the attempt easily. Warlockry didn’t work on warlocks, and she, thanks to that silly Inza, was a warlock.

Usually, though, the warlock attacks had come when she was alone, not here in the throne room.

Well, those attacks hadn’t worked, so a change in strategy was sensible enough. She wondered just what was intended this time.

All this ran through her mind almost instantly; she was reacting far faster than any ordinary human could, faster than any ordinary warlock.

The frightened warlock in the crowd was holding something hi his upraised hand, something small and golden, and then he was releasing it, sending it flying toward her at incredible speed, supported and propelled by magic. An ordinary woman probably wouldn’t have seen it in time to react. An ordinary warlock probably couldn’t have gathered the will to respond before the gold thimble reached her.

Tabaea had no trouble at all knocking the thing aside while it was still three or four feet away; the thimble dropped to the floor, rattling on the stone, and the single drop it held spattered out.

Immediately, a white vapor arose, hissing. Tabaea didn’t concern herself with that; she had an assassin to stop. She leaped over the smoking thimble, reaching the warlock in a single bound; she grabbed the front of his tunic with her left hand, and her right snatched her dagger from its sheath. Then she stopped.

People were screaming and backing away, the white vapor was spreading, and Tabaea could smell it, a horrible, burning stench like nothing she had ever smelled before; the assassin, more frightened than ever, was struggling helplessly hi her grip, trying to get free. Tabaea ignored all that. The knife in her hand felt wrong.

It was a fairly subtle thing, and she couldn’t have described exactly what the difference was, but the instant her hand closed on the hilt, she knew, beyond any doubt, that this knife was not the Black Dagger. A person gets to know a tool when it’s handled with any frequency, gets to know its feel, its shape. Without question, Tabaea knew the Black Dagger.

And without question, the knife in her hand was not the Black Dagger.

Furious, she rammed the blade into her would-be assassin’s belly, partly to be certain that this was not just some inexplicable transformation that had left the magic intact, and partly because after all, even if she couldn’t steal his life, this man had tried to kill her, and was therefore a traitor who deserved to die.

She felt no surge of energy, no tingle of magic, as the man screamed and clutched at her hand.

There was no magic. The Black Dagger was gone.

She threw the assassin aside, unconcerned whether he was dead or alive, and turned to face the stairway she had just ascended.

Where could the Black Dagger have gone?

She had some vague idea of retracing her steps, but when she turned, she found herself face-to-face with that stinking smoke. It was still rising, still spreading. She looked down.

The contents of the thimble had spread, and now completely covered an area the width of her hand, perfectly circular in shape—and Tabaea knew that that perfect a circle was unnatural. The stuff should have sprayed unevenly across the stone in a fan shape.

What was more, within that circle the floor was completely invisible, hidden by a layer of... of something. Tabaea had no name for it, either for the substance or even for its color. It wasn’t exactly green, wasn’t exactly gray or brown or yellow, but it was closer to those colors than to anything else. It was liquid, but she couldn’t say what kind; it was shiny and looked somehow slimy, but it wasn’t quite like anything she had ever seen before. And it wasn’t still; it roiled and rippled and bubbled and steamed, though Tabaea could feel no heat from it. It moved almost as if it were somehow alive.

She had assumed at first that the drop was some sort of concentrated acid, or virulent poison, but this stuff was obviously magic.

What’s more, it was spreading.

And, she realized with a twinge of horror, it wasn’t spreading on top of the marble floor; it was eating into the stone.

And someone had wanted to put that stuff on her, and she didn’t even have the Black Dagger to protect her, it would have eaten away at her, just as it was eating at the floor. She shuddered.

Who was responsible for this? She looked up and around at the throne room. Most of the crowd had fled, but some were still there, staying well away from her and from the little pool of whatever-it-was. No one was smiling; no one seemed to stand out as reacting oddly, unless she counted the assassin, who was still breathing, still alive.

Had the assassin known that her dagger was gone, that she was no longer protected against wizardry? Had he taken the dagger himself?

She strode over to him and used one toe to roll him over onto his back. He lay there, gasping and bleeding. The knife on his belt was obviously not the Black Dagger; Tabaea could see that at a glance.

“Who sent you?” she demanded.

He made a strangled choking noise. He clearly was in no condition to answer, even if he had wanted to. Tabaea frowned.

She reached out, warlock-fashion, and tried to sense the damage her knife blow had done.

The wound was pretty bad, but she thought it could be healed if someone, a powerful witch or a warlock who had been trained properly, got to it before the man finished bleeding to death, or if a theurgist managed to get the right prayer through in time. Unfortunately, Tabaea could not do it herself; she had never learned to heal, with either warlockry or witchcraft.

She turned and spotted Arl, standing by the dais. “You, Art,” she said. “Find a witch or a priest or someone; I want this man healed, so he can tell me who sent him. And be careful, he’s a warlock. ” “Uh...”

“Hurry! And I won’t be holding court today, so the rest of you can all... no, wait a minute. You, and you — find something to cover over that stuff, I don’t want anyone stepping in it. It looks nasty. And then get out of here, all of you. Get going, Arl.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. ”

A moment later the throne room was empty, save for Tabaea and the wounded assassin. The empress glanced around and noticed that even here, in the imperial audience chamber, trash had piled up in the corners.

And over by the stair, the little pool of magical gunk was still bubbling and smoking. Tabaea didn’t worry about it; she was far more concerned just now with the whereabouts of the Black Dagger.

After all, whatever that stuff was, it would surely dry up and die soon enough.

CHAPTER 37

A fanner’s wagon was sitting by the palace door in plain sight in the morning sun, Sarai noticed. It looked incongruous; when the overlord was in power, deliveries had been made as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, over at the southeast entrance.

People were milling about, some in rags, some in commonplace attire, some in finery—though most of the last seemed uncomfortable in their obviously stolen clothes, and sometimes combined their finery with familiar rags. Those who were just emerging from the dim interior of the palace blinked in the bright sunlight; hands shading eyes were common. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the wagon or its driver.

The mix of clothing was familiar to Sarai from her stay in Tabaea’s palace, but she had never noticed wagons at the northeast entry before. She took a good look at it as she approached— and then stopped dead in her tracks.

The wagon’s driver was Tobas, the wizard. He was dressed in rough brown wool instead of his usual wizard’s robe, but it was unmistakably him. He was leaning down from his seat talking to someone, and Sarai recognized the young woman in the black dress as Teneria, the witch.

Sarai took a second to gather her wits, then hurried forward again; a moment later she hailed Tobas. She had to shout twice before he looked up, startled. Even then, he didn’t answer at first; he stared blankly at Lady Sarai until Teneria said, “Oh, it’s Sarai!”

Two or three passersby looked up at that and glanced curiously at Sarai. Sarai hurried up to the wagon, not at all pleased by this attention; she didn’t want to be recognized, and with her disguise gone, it was entirely possible that someone would know her face.

Well, it was her own fault for calling out. “Pharea,” Sarai said. “I’m called Pharea. What’s happening?”

“Well, right at the moment, there’s a warlock in the throne room, waiting for Tabaea to make her entrance, and when she does, he’s going to try a spell of Telurinon’s on her,” Tobas explained. “Karanissa is in there, too, keeping an eye on everything.”

“That’s the Seething Death?” Sarai asked. “Now, how...” Tobas began.

Teneria said, “She talked to Alorria. Excuse me, Sar... Pharea, but Tabaea’s coming up the steps right now, she’s at the top.”

“So you know about this?” Tobas asked.

Sarai nodded.

“And you know about the Black Dagger.”

“Yes,” Sarai said.

Tobas sighed uneasily and said, “Well, in a moment we should find out if the Black Dagger can stop the Seething Death. And if...”

“No,” Sarai interrupted. “We aren’t going to find out anything about the Black Dagger.”

“We aren’t?” Tobas stared down at her. “Why not?”

Sarai hesitated, and before she could say anything, Teneria cried out, “Oh, no!”

Tobas whirled back to the witch. “What happened?” he demanded.

“She spilled it! She knocked it aside and spilled it on the floor, and now she’s grabbed Thurin and...” Teneria winced. “... and she’s stabbed him, and it hurts really bad...” She closed her eyes and leaned against the wagon.

Sarai bit her lip and watched as the witch tried to continue. She had worried that something might go wrong, ever since she had used the Black Dagger herself and discovered how Tabaea saw the World—or rather, how she sensed it. She could smell danger. She could move inhumanly fast. The slightest movement could alert her. She could hear a whisper from across a room. None of the magicians would realize that—at least, Sarai didn’t see how they could. The witches might have sensed something, but would even they have really appreciated just how fast and how sensitive Tabaea was?

Well, either they hadn’t, or they hadn’t been consulted in setting this up.

“Now what?” Sarai asked.

“Now she’s trying to get Thurin to talk, but he can’t; he’s dying, he’s bleeding to death, and she doesn’t know how to heal him. She’s sent her chancellor for a healer, and Karanissa wants to know whether we should send a volunteer—she’ll try it herself, if you want, but she isn’t sure she can heal a wound that bad; a warlock would be better—Tobas, warlocks have trouble at healing, they don’t have the subtlety of touch, but if I did it, with a warlock helping, I know how to draw on a warlock’s strength...” She looked up. “Who’s the Council got nearby?” Tobas asked. “Vengar is in the antechamber...” “All right, then, you go find Vengar, and the two of you help Thurin, but you be careful around Tabaea! And send Karanissa out here, so we can stay in touch!”

Teneria nodded, then turned and ran into the palace.

As she did, the first of those who had fled the throne room in panic began to emerge, shoving the young witch aside as they hurried out into the sun. She fought her way past and in.

Tobas sighed as he watched her go.

“It all went wrong, didn’t it?” Sarai said.

Tobas nodded.

“So how was it supposed to go?” she asked. “How does the Seething Death work?”

Tobas sighed. He climbed down off the wagon, patted the ox, and turned to stare at the door to the palace.

“The Seething Death,” he said, “creates a drop of... well, it’s more or less liquid chaos. It’s the raw stuff that wizardry is made of, I think; the descriptions aren’t very clear. But whatever it is, once it’s activated, it spreads. It expands, and as it expands, it consumes everything it touches. Anything that comes into contact with it dissolves away—the book says that first it loses solidity, and then all the different elements that make it up blend together into a sort of boiling slime, and then it all becomes more of the Death itself, more pure chaos.”

He was interrupted by the screams of three women who came running out the door just then. When they had passed, Sarai remarked, “Sounds nasty.”

“It is,” Tobas agreed. “It hasn’t been used in centuries because it’s too dangerous, but Telurinon was desperate to find something that could get at Tabaea despite the Black Dagger, so he tried it.”

“Someone was supposed to get it on Tabaea and dissolve her?”

“That was the idea,” Tobas agreed. “A warlock named Thurin of Northbeach volunteered—but he missed, I guess, and Tabaea caught him and stabbed him. I don’t know why he’s still alive; I thought the Black Dagger stole the souls of anyone it cut.”

Sarai started to say something, to explain that Tabaea didn’t have the Black Dagger anymore and that that wasn’t how it worked anyway, but then she stopped. There would be plenty of time for that later. “So the spell didn’t work?” she asked.

“Well, it didn’t work on Tabaea” Tobas said. “If the stuff landed on the floor, then right now it’s dissolving away the floor of your throne room, and there’s no way to stop it.”

Sarai had been watching the people emerging from the palace; now, startled, she turned back to Tobas. “No way to stop it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No way we know of,” he said. “If it had been confined to Tabaea’s body, we could have transported her to a place where magic doesn’t work—that’s what’s in the wagon here, a magic tapestry that would send her there. But I don’t see how we can send an entire floor through the tapestry.” “There isn’t any countercharm?” Tobas shook his head.

“So how much is it going to dissolve, then?” Sarai asked. “I mean, it won’t ruin the whole palace, will it?”

Tobas sighed. “Lady Sarai,” he said, “For all I know, in time it will dissolve the whole World.” She stared at him. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. He turned up an empty palm. “Nonetheless,” he said, “that’s what may happen. It’s what the old books say will happen; every text that mentions the Seething Death agrees that unchecked, it will indeed spread until it has reduced all the World to primordial chaos.” “But that’s absurd!”

“I wish it were,” Tobas replied, and Sarai realized for the first time that despite his calm answers, the wizard was seriously frightened. He was almost trembling.

“But there must be a countercharm,” she said. “If the spell was written down, then someone must have performed it, right?”

Tobas nodded. “I can’t see any other way it could have been,” he agreed.

“Well, the World’s still here,” Sarai pointed out. “Something must have stopped the spell, mustn’t it?” “Yes,” Tobas admitted, “something must have. Someone must have tried the spell at least once, at least four hundred years ago, so it must have been stopped, or it would have dissolved the World by now. But we don’t know how it was stopped.”

“Well, find out!” Sarai snapped. “Isn’t that one of the things magic is good at?”

“Sometimes,” Tobas said, “but not always. Spying on wizards, even dead ones, isn’t easy, Lady Sarai; we tend to use warding spells, since we don’t like being spied on; we’re a secretive bunch. And even if we don’t use warding spells, learning a spell by watching a vision of it being performed is not always reliable.” “Well, has anyone tried to find the countercharm for this Seething Death?”

Tobas laughed hollowly. “Oh, yes, Lady Sarai,” he said. “Of course they have. A spell that destructive has been a temptation for generations of wizards. But no one’s ever found that lost counterspell.”

Sarai sputtered. “Then how could Telurinon... Why didn’t... What kind of idiot ever wrote the spell down in the first place without including the countercharm?”

Tobas turned up an empty palm. “Who knows?” he said. “Lady Sarai, we wizards do a good many things that don’t make much sense; it’s been our policy for a thousand years to record everything, but to keep it all secret, and that means we have situations like this one. It doesn’t surprise me at all, I’m sorry to say.”

Sarai was too worried and angry to correct him for calling her by her right name; she turned and stared at the palace.

“What’s happening in there?” she asked.

Tobas shrugged again. “How would I know? I’m not a seer, and Teneria isn’t here.”

“I’m going in to see.”

“I don’t... well, be careful, Sar... Pharea. Don’t go near the Seething Death. And Tabaea’s still in there, you know, still the empress.”

“I know, I know,” Sarai said. She waved a distracted goodbye to Tobas, then marched on into the palace.

CHAPTER 38

Tabaea stepped back as the witch knelt by the assassin’s side, giving her room to work. She glanced quickly at the wooden bowl that someone had placed upside down atop the puddle of magical gunk; it still looked secure enough, but the nasty odor of the stuff lingered, making it unpleasant for someone with the empress’ superhuman sense of smell to breathe.

Whatever that fluid was, Tabaea was very glad she hadn’t touched it, or gotten any on her. She had tried moving it by warlockry and had found that as far as a warlock’s or witch’s special senses and abilities were concerned, it didn’t exist; she couldn’t affect it in any way, with any of the limited magic at her command.

What’s more, everything she had dropped or poked into it had dissolved. Wood, cloth, metal—anything at all, it didn’t matter, whatever touched the stuff would dissolve like ice shards dropped in boiling water. At least the goo didn’t splash.

She wished the spell would hurry up and burn out; it was beginning to worry her. Maybe there was more to it than she had thought at first.

She would have to ask the assassin, if he lived. She turned back to him and to the witch tending to him. Tabaea could feel the witch’s energy gathering in her hands, then transferring out through her fingers into the assassin’s belly, knitting together the ruined tissues...

And she could feel something else, too; something was strange about the flow of power. It wasn’t witchcraft; something else was at work, as well. The witch was drawing power from somewhere else.

Tabaea had heard that witches could share energy; was there another witch nearby, then, who was helping this Teneria? If so, why didn’t the other witch step forward and help openly?

The empress turned and nervously looked over the people in sight. Arl was there, of course; it was he who had brought the witch. There were half a dozen others on the stairs behind him, watching from what they presumably thought was a safe distance. As Tabaea watched, another woman came up and peered into the room.

There was something familiar about this new arrival; not her face, which Tabaea was fairly sure she hadn’t seen before, but something. Perhaps her scent was one that Tabaea had smelled somewhere.

Whatever it was, she couldn’t place the woman immediately. She wasn’t a witch, though, Tabaea could sense that, and it was magicians who worried the empress just now. With the Black Dagger gone she was not at all sure of her ability to fend off hostile magic.

One of the other women, the tall dark one with the long hair, was a witch, but she wasn’t sending Teneria any power. She was doing something, but it wasn’t helping Teneria.

Then the tall woman noticed Tabaea’s interest and instantly stopped whatever she had been doing. That was annoying of her. Tabaea wished she hadn’t been so careless in her investigation; that witch was on her guard, now.

But that wasn’t where the power was coming from, anyway; Tabaea tried her best to see where this not-quite-witchcraft was coming from, and suddenly something dropped into place.

It wasn’t witchcraft; it was warlockry. It was coming from a man on the stair. Teneria was taking the warlock energy and using it for witchcraft.

That was interesting and a little frightening; Tabaea had not known that that was possible. She had discovered for herself that the two varieties of magic were surprisingly similar, but she hadn’t realized that anyone else knew it, since no one else was both a witch and a warlock, and it had never even occurred to her that anyone might have learned how to use the two in combination. Magicians, it seemed, were just full of unpleasant surprises today—a warlock had used wizardry against her, and now a witch was using another warlock’s power to heal the attacker.

They were joining forces.

They were joining forces against her.

And the Black Dagger was gone.

Just then something hissed; everyone but Teneria and the unconscious assassin turned at the sound, to see the cloud of noxious grayish smoke that rose from the pool of whatever-it-was as the bowl sank down into it, dissolving away as it went.

“By the gods,” someone muttered.

Tabaea, shaken, stared at the puddle. It was almost a foot across now, still a perfect circle.

How large would it get? It had only been there perhaps half an hour, starting from a single drop.

She turned back to Teneria and demanded, “Hurry up! I need him conscious!”

“I’m hurrying,” Teneria said quietly, in an odd, distracted tone; an ordinary woman wouldn’t have heard her, but Tabaea, Empress of Ethshar, did. She heard everything, saw everything, smelled everything; she had the strength of a dozen men and the speed of a cat. She was a witch and a warlock both.

But she wasn’t a wizard anymore, with the Black Dagger gone, and her enemies were working together.

And this Teneria was one of them, wasn’t she? She was working with a warlock, and the warlocks had sent the assassin. When the man was healed, what was to keep him and the other warlock and the two witches from turning all their power on her, their common foe?

Tabaea could counter a warlock and fight off a witch, but she wasn’t sure about the combination, and two of each; the dagger had always helped her, had blocked part of any magic. And witches were subtle.

She took a step backward, away from Teneria, and then caught a whiff of the fumes from the wizard-stuff. Without thinking, she took a sniff and almost choked; the stuff was unbelievably foul. It covered other scents, as well—but not completely; Tabaea realized that she could still smell the blood from the assassin’s wound, the nervous sweat on Teneria’s skin, the distinct odors of the people on the stairs, some familiar, some strange.

There was another odor there as well, a very faint trace, that somehow seemed important. The fumes were making her dizzy, and she had too much to think about, with the assassin and all the magicians working together; if she still had the Black Dagger...

When had it disappeared, anyway? How had they taken it? Magic wouldn’t work on it, so it couldn’t have been taken magically; someone must have slipped it away while Tabaea was asleep—but she had always kept the knife close at hand, even when she slept, she only took it off to bathe. It must have been one of the servants. It was not Lethe or Ista. She could trust them; she knew by the smell. And they had still been here when she came down to the throne room.

Pharea.

That woman who had only been there once, who had helped her clean off the blood, then disappeared. She must have taken it.

And that’s who that was on the stairs, Tabaea realized, the woman with the familiar scent. That smell was the peculiar odor the woman had had that Tabaea had thought was just some odd sort of perfume—but it was too faint for perfume, an ordinary human probably couldn’t smell it at all.

Her face was different, but that must have just been a disguise of some sort, probably magical. There was no mistaking the scent. That was Pharea, and she was in it, too—in the plot against Tabaea, against the empress.

Tabaea whirled and stared at the group on the stairs. “Arl,” she said, “bring those people in here.”

Arl blinked; he had been staring at that horrible puddle. “What people, Your Majesty?” he asked.

“Those people on the stairs. You, all of you—come closer.” Tabaea beckoned. With varying degrees of reluctance and much glancing at one another, the little group stepped up into the throne room. Arl stepped in behind them, herding them forward.

“Line up,” Tabaea ordered. Something drew her attention; she turned to see Teneria looking up. “Go on healing him!” Tabaea snapped.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the witch said, turning back to her work.

The people formed a ragged line, and Tabaea looked them over. “You,” she said, pointing at the tall witch, “get over there.” She gestured toward the dais.

The woman glanced at the others, then obeyed.

“You, too,” Tabaea ordered the warlock. He hesitated, then went.

“And you, Pharea.”

“I don’t think so,” the woman replied; her hand dropped to the hilt of the knife she carried on her belt, concealed by a fold of her skirt. She never questioned how Tabaea had recognized her, never tried to deny her identity; the empress thought she knew what that meant. “The rest of you, get out of here,” Pharea said. She waved at the others still in the line.

The three of them looked at Tabaea.

“She’s right,” the empress said. “Get out of here. Now.”

“Your Majesty...” Arl began.

“Shut up,” Tabaea commanded. She was watching Pharea’s hand closely, the hand that was on the hilt of a knife.

Tabaea knew that knife well. She had carried it herself for four years. Witchcraft couldn’t sense it; warlockry couldn’t touch it; although she had no spells to test it with, Tabaea knew that wizardry would not work on the person who held it.

That meant that it would have dispelled a magical disguise, didn’t it? So this was Pharea’s real face, and the other had been an illusion.

The bystanders departed, and now the sides were clear, the stage set, Tabaea thought; she and Arl on one side, Pharea and the four magicians on the other. When the footsteps had reached the bottom of the stairs, and her enhanced senses assured the empress that there were no other intruders around, Tabaea demanded, “Do you know what you’ve got there, Pharea?”

“I think so,” Pharea said warily; something about the way she stood, the way her eyes moved, told Tabaea that she had already used the Black Dagger herself, had killed at least one cat, and perhaps other animals.

A movement on the dais attracted Tabaea’s attention for an instant; the older witch had moved, had taken a step toward Pharea, and was staring at her.

“I don’t think your friends know,” Tabaea said. “You are working with the magicians, aren’t you? They’re all working together, now.”

Pharea smiled crookedly. “We haven’t always been as coordinated as we might be,” she said. “But yes, we’re all on the same side.”

Behind Pharea, Arl was moving up slowly and quietly, clearly planning to grab her from behind; the tall witch was about to say something, and Tabaea did not want Pharea warned. She turned to the witch and demanded, “And who are you, anyway? I can see that you’re a witch, but you didn’t volunteer to help heal this killer you people sent. Who are you?”

Startled, the woman answered, “My name is Karanissa of the Mountains,” she said.

“And you aren’t helping Teneria; why not?”

“Because she doesn’t need help,” Karanissa said. “I would if she wanted me to; I was going to try it myself, but Teneria thought...”

She was interrupted by Arl’s lunge—and his falling headlong on the marble floor, as Pharea dodged neatly and drew the Black Dagger. Before anyone else could react, the false servant grabbed Arl by the hair and stood over him with the knife to his throat.

“It’s not that easy,” Pharea said to Tabaea. “I’ve got the dagger, and I’m keeping it. And I’ll use it to defend myself if I need to.”

Tabaea frowned. “You think you can handle all my followers so easily?”

Pharea smiled grimly. “Why not?” she asked. “You handled the city guard. And they’re on our side, too, by the way—Lord Torrut is still in command, and only a few dozen men deserted or went over to you.”

Tabaea stared at Pharea, trying to decide if that was a bluff. Hadn’t Lord Torrut fled with the others, sailed off to wherever they all went? “Who are you, anyway?” she demanded, stalling for time to think. “You’re no magician, so far as I can see, and you don’t look like a soldier.”

The woman Tabaea called Pharea smiled an unpleasant smile. “I’m Lady Sarai,” she said. “Minister of Investigation and Acting Minister of Justice to Ederd the Fourth, overlord of Eth-shar.”

“Ederd’s not the overlord anymore,” Tabaea replied angrily. “I’m empressl” She tried to hide how much she was shaken by the discovery that she was facing Lord Kalthon’s daughter; for all her life until the last few sixnights, Tabaea had lived in terror of the Minister of Justice, and for the last few months of that time Lady Sarai had been feared, as well. Tabaea had tried to dismiss her as a harmless girl, but here was that harmless girl, in her own throne room, holding the Black Dagger.

“You’re Tabaea the Thief,” Sarai said. “Four years ago you stole a spell from Serem the Wise, but it came out wrong and made this dagger I’m holding. For a long time you didn’t do anything with it—maybe you didn’t know what it did—but then you killed Inza the Apprentice, and Serem the Wise, and Kelder of Quarter Street, and others. And when the guards came to arrest you for those murders, you declared yourself empress, and used the knife’s magic to occupy the palace.”

“I am the empress!” Tabaea insisted. “I rule the city—the old guards don’t dare show their faces, and the overlord and his family all fled before me!”

“But that,” Sarai said, holding up the dagger, “was when you had this.”

“And I’ll have it again! Give it back to me!”

Outrageously, mockingly, Sarai laughed. She dared to laugh at the empress of Ethshar!

Moving faster than humanly possible, Tabaea lunged for Sarai, intending to snatch the knife away from her.

Moving faster than humanly possible, Sarai dodged, flinging Arl aside, and spun to face Tabaea again, with the enchanted knife raised and ready.

“Think a minute, Tabaea,” the noblewoman said. “We both have stolen lives and stolen talents—but I have the dagger. If you stab me, I lose a life—but if I stab you, you not only lose a life, I gain one. And maybe, you know, maybe this dagger will take more than one at a time. Maybe I only have to kill you once.”

Tabaea, hearing this, started to turn, then stopped herself. No ordinary enemy would have seen the tiny little twitch, but Sarai saw it.

“And yes, you’re right; I’m not a witch nor a warlock,” the overlord’s Minister of Investigation said. Then she pointed with the dagger to her companions, and added, “But they are, over there, and they’re on my side.”

Tabaea glanced at Arl—but there was no need for Sarai to say a word about the rat-faced little chancellor; he was crawling away from both women, heading for the stairs, obviously wanting only to be out of sight.

But Sarai hadn’t cut his throat when she had the chance, when Tabaea had attacked; Lord Kalthon’s daughter was apparently not as bloodthirsty as her father was said to be.

“Are you planning to kill me?” Tabaea demanded.

Sarai blinked, catlike and quick. “I suppose we ought to,” she said. Tabaea thought she sounded almost startled, not at the question, but at her own reply. “After all, you’re a murderer. But there were some exceptional circumstances here, and I think my father and I, acting in the overlord’s behalf, would accept a plea for mercy and commute the sentence to exile from the city—if you surrender now and don’t force us to do any more damage to depose you.”

“You think,” Tabaea said. “And what if I don’t surrender, then? I’ve seen you move—you’re fast, all right, and yes, you have the dagger, but I think I’m still faster and stronger. Your magicians and I cancel each other out. Are you ready to take me on and try to kill me, here and now?”

“Oh, no,” Sarai said, smiling again. “I don’t have to. All I have to do is get us all out of here alive, and I think I can manage that much. And after that, we’ll let the wizards and the demon-ologists try out their spells on you—now that you don’t have the Black Dagger. Or maybe we’ll just wait.”

“Wait for what?” Tabaea demanded, shaken by the woman’s confidence and the threat of demons and wizardry. She could still counter witchcraft, since she had the talent and more raw vitality than any three normal witches; she could still counter warlockry because of the inherent limits on every warlock; but without the dagger she had no defense against other magicks.

“For the Seething Death to get you,” Sarai replied, pointing to the pool of wizard-stuff. “True, it didn’t get you immediately, but it will keep spreading until it does—unless we use the countercharm to stop it.”

Disconcerted, Tabaea turned to stare at the puddle—and the instant she did, the two witches and the unhurt warlock dashed for the stairs. The assassin, still unconscious, sailed along behind them, unsupported through the air—his fellow warlock was doing that, Tabaea sensed.

She let them go. This was between Sarai and herself, now. Sarai seemed very sure of herself—but was she really? The sight of the fleeing witches reminded Tabaea of her own witchcraft—she had so many choices now, so many things she could do, that there were times when she forgot some of them. “That stufF is going to go on spreading?” she asked. “That’s right,” Sarai said—but Tabaea, witch-senses alert, knew that was a half truth. Sarai was hiding something. “Until it kills me? It’s after me, specifically?” “That’s right,” Sarai said—but this time it was a lie, Tabaea knew.

“Unless you use the countercharm?” “A wizard working for us,” Sarai said, “not me.” And that was a lie, too. It was all lies and tricks.

Except, perhaps, the part about using wizardry to kill her. Tabaea was between Sarai and the nearest staircase; the other exits were far across the throne room. Sarai was fast, but Tabaea thought she was faster. Sarai had the Black Dagger—and Tabaea needed it. Only the dagger could guard her against wizards.

She had killed a Guildmaster; even if Lord Kalthon gave her mercy, the Wizards’ Guild never would. She knew that. They hadn’t killed her yet—but Tabaea remembered when Sarai had first shown the dagger. The other magicians had been surprised. The Wizards’ Guild must not have known about the theft, either. And only the fact that they didn’t know Lady Sarai had gotten the Black Dagger away from her had kept Tabaea alive this long, she was suddenly certain.

She might lose a fight with Lady Sarai, but at least she’d have a chance; if she didn’t get the dagger back, she was as good as dead.

She lunged.

CHAPTER 39

Oarai had watched from the stairs as Teneria worked at her healing and had watched as the Seething Death dissolved the bowl Tabaea had used to cover it, had seen and smelled that Tabaea was on the ragged edge of panic, and had realized that the situation was critical.

Tabaea had to be removed, and the Seething Death had to be stopped.

The wizards could handle Tabaea now, once they knew the dagger was gone; all Sarai had to do was to tell Tobas, or even just Karanissa or Teneria, that she had stolen the Black Dagger.

Stopping the Seething Death wouldn’t be so easy.

Or would it? The Black Dagger negated most wizardry; would it be able to stop the Seething Death?

That was something to think about, maybe something to try if Tabaea ever left the room—but at that thought, something occurred to Sarai that she should, she told herself, have considered sooner: Bringing the Black Dagger so close to Tabaea might have been a foolish risk to take. If the self-proclaimed empress were to realize that the knife was there...

Just then, Tabaea demanded, “Art, bring those people in here.”

The funny little man who was acting as Tabaea’s majordomo looked up. “What people, Your Majesty?” he asked.

“Those people on the stairs.” Tabaea waved for them to come forward, and said, “You, all of you—come closer.”

Sarai cursed herself for getting into this dangerous a position. She should have slipped away while she had the chance, gone to the Guildhouse, and told them everything.

“Line up,” Tabaea ordered. Then she turned and shouted at Teneria, “Go on healing him!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Teneria replied. Tabaea pointed at Karanissa. “You,” she said, “get over there.” She ordered Vengar to the dais, as well.

And then she turned back and pointed directly at Sarai and said, “And you, Pharea.”

For an instant, Sarai froze; how had Tabaea recognized her? “Pharea” had had a different face.

But then she realized what had given it away, what must have given it away: her scent.

She should have known; after all, she could now recognize the odor of anyone she had been near herself, and Tabaea had killed not just one dog, but several.

The method didn’t really matter, though; all that mattered was that Sarai had been spotted.

But of course, Tabaea didn’t know everything; she didn’t know who “Pharea” was, didn’t know everything that was going on. She couldn’t. She had magic, she had superhuman senses, but she wasn’t omniscient. If Sarai let Tabaea control events now, that might ruin everything. Tabaea might take the dagger back, she might kill Thurin and Teneria and Karanissa and Vengar, and she might let the Seething Death spread unchecked; Sarai hoped that if it was dealt with while it was still small the spell could be stopped.

She didn’t dare let Tabaea tell her what to do—but what choice did she have?

She had to bluff. She had had four years of practice in talking information out of people; maybe she could talk Tabaea into giving herself up. And what choice did she have?

“I don’t think so,” Sarai said, as confidently as she could. She let her hand fall to the hilt of the Black Dagger.

It seemed to go well at first; she dodged Tabaea’s first attack, removing whatever threat Art might pose. A moment later, the distracted would-be empress let the four magicians escape.

And it all seemed to be working, right up until Tabaea dove at her.

Sarai just barely dodged; she had not been ready for it this time, as she had before. And the little empress looked so small and harmless—it was hard to remember that she had torn men apart with her bare hands.

Tabaea whirled and struck again, and again Sarai dodged. She couldn’t keep this up, though, and she didn’t dare actually fight; Tabaea was much faster, vastly more powerful, and had her magic, as well. Sarai had to escape, to get away—and even that would be difficult. She remembered the assassins Tabaea had run down and butchered. She had to do something they hadn’t, something unexpected—but what?

Lord Torrut had mentioned a trick once, when he and Captain Tikri had been joking with each other; Tabaea came at Sarai again, and she tried it, putting her hands on Tabaea’s shoulders and vaulting over her head.

If the throne room had had a normal ceiling, it would never have worked, but there under the great dome, with cat-reflexes and her augmented strength, the move sent Sarai sailing a dozen feet through the air. She landed, catlike, on her feet, and immediately sprinted for the stairs most nearly straight ahead, which happened to be the right-hand set as seen from the dais. Tabaea needed a second or two to whirl on one toe and set out in pursuit, but she closed much faster than Sarai liked. At the very brink, Sarai dodged sideways and ran along the throne-room wall toward the rear stairs.

Tabaea was unable to stop until she was four or five steps down; Sarai had gained at least a second this time.

As she ran along the side of the throne room, Sarai’s feet stirred through the trash that had accumulated during Tabaea’s reign; she took a fraction of a second from her narrow lead to stoop and scoop up a handful of garbage. She flung it over her shoulder, in Tabaea’s face. The empress screamed with anger as a chicken bone hit her in the eye, but she hardly slowed at all. As she neared the corner, wondering why Tabaea had not cut diagonally across the room to head her off, Sarai scooped up more debris; this time she tossed it, not at Tabaea, but at the Seething Death.

Trash rattled and skittered across the stone floor—and then some of it skidded into the Death, and dissolved with a loud hiss and a billow of stinking white vapor.

Startled, Tabaea turned, and stumbled, then caught herself— but by then Sarai was on the stairs, descending in four-step leaps, constantly on the verge of tumbling headlong.

At the foot of the stairs she turned left, ignoring the broad straightaway directly ahead; she wanted to get back to Tobas and his wagon, in hopes that he would be able to help. Besides, there were fewer people in the way by this route; that long southeast corridor had several dozen of Tabaea’s “guests” scattered along it, sprawled on the floor or seated against the wall, and any one of them might decide to trip her or try to grab her. Furthermore, Tabaea might not expect her to turn.

But that last hope was dashed almost instantly; she heard Tabaea’s steps on the stairs and knew that the empress had seen her make the turn. Running with all her might, not daring to look back, Sarai ran on, leaping over the one startled, rag-clad figure in her path.

Tabaea had stolen more strength and more speed, Sarai reminded herself, but her legs were still shorter, and her skirt longer; there was still a chance.

She cut toward the inner side of the curving passageway at first, then back toward the outside as she neared the next turn. She skidded around the corner so fast, making her right turn, that she almost collided with the left-hand wall of the passageway and with a frightened old woman who crouched on a ragged blanket there.

Tabaea made the turn more neatly—Sarai could tell by the sound. Her own breath was beginning to come hard, while Tabaea still seemed fresh.

Fifty yards ahead she could see the rectangle of sunlight that was the open door; she charged for it full tilt, trying to think of somewhere she could dodge aside, or some ruse she could use. Nothing came, and Tabaea was gaining, inch by inch, step by step—but Sarai judged she would reach the door first, and maybe if she dove aside...

And then, when she was less than a dozen yards away, the sunlight vanished; a drapery of some kind had fallen across the door.

Sarai’s heart sank, but she had no choice. She could only hope that Tabaea would become entangled in whatever the obstruction was. She dove forward, hoping to hit it low and crawl underneath.

As she crossed the last few feet, as her eyes adjusted, catlike, to the dimness, she could see that it was a tapestry, one that showed a very odd design, an amazingly realistic depiction of an empty room. Who would want something like that on his wall?

And then she dove, and her hand touched the tapestry, but there was nothing there—she felt no fabric at all, nothing that would slow her headlong plunge onto the pavement of the plaza. Magic, obviously, she thought, an illusion of some kind. She closed her eyes, anticipating the impact.

And sure enough, she struck hard stone—but not the warm, sun-drenched pavement of the plaza; instead, she sprawled on a sloping floor of cold smooth stone in chilly darkness.

She still managed to scrape one cheek raw and give herself several bumps and bruises, as well as banging her head. Dazed, she scrambled up on all fours, eyes open again, and started forward, down the slope, sure that Tabaea was right behind her.

Then she stopped and stared.

Tabaea was nowhere to be seen. In fact, there was nothing to be seen; she was in near-total darkness, a deeper and more complete darkness than any moonless midnight she had ever seen. The only place Sarai had ever before encountered anything so dark as this was in the deeper dungeons of the palace.

It was not perfect darkness, however; she could make out very faint differentiations around her, places that were tinged with the darkest of grays, rather than utter blackness.

But her eyes were unable to adjust. Even a cat, she decided, couldn’t see here.

She listened for Tabaea, but there was no sound of pursuit; in fact, there was no sound at all, of any description. Sarai had never before experienced such absolute silence, not even in the dungeons.

And she couldn’t smell anything.

That wasn’t right; at the very least, with her canine senses she should have smelled her own clothes, her own sweat, and the stone of the floor she had landed on. But she couldn’t.

Was she dead, then? Was this darkness part of an afterlife of some sort?

What sort of afterlife was built on a slant? But no, she could sti&feel perfectly well; she could see, however faintly, and she could hear the sound of her own hand slapping on the stone. She wasn’t dead, she had just lost her sense of smell.

Or rather, she had lost the sense of smell she had stolen; she realized that she could still detect odors, very slightly. She lifted her skirt and sniffed at the hem, and the familiar scent of wool was there, faint and muffled.

Maybe a cat could see here, after all, and she had lost that, as well.

Where was she, then? And why hadn’t Tabaea come after her, wherever it was? She crawled down the slope, feeling her way in the darkness.

She came to a wall, and followed it along for several feet, still sloping downward.

And then she heard footsteps behind her—not approaching, just suddenly there, out of nowhere. She judged they were no more than a few feet away from where she had first fallen when she came through the magical tapestry.

Sarai raised the Black Dagger, ready to defend herself.

Then the newcomer said, “Sarai? Are you there? Damn it all, I forgot we’d need a light.”

The voice was not Tabaea’s; it was a woman’s voice, and it sounded familiar, but Sarai couldn’t place it. She turned over into a sitting position, the knife still in her hand. “Are you in the passage? Did you find it?” the newcomer called, a bit louder. “Sarai, it’s me, Karanissa!”

“I’m here,” Sarai said, lowering the knife; the voice was Karanissa’s.

A faint orange witch-light appeared—but at first even that dim illumination seemed almost blinding in such deep gloom. By its glow, Sarai could see that she was in a stone corridor, just around a corner from a fair-sized room or chamber. The glow, and the voice, came from the room.

She backed up far enough to see into the chamber and found Karanissa standing in the center of an utterly bare stone room, a simple rectangular box with straight sides and square corners—but the entire place was on a slant. The witch’s upraised hand was glowing, casting an eerie light on her arm and face, as well as the stone walls.

“Karanissa,” Sarai asked, “where are we?”

CHAPTER 40

Tabaea saw the sunlight vanish ahead, plunging the corridor into gray dimness, and she slowed slightly; was this some new trick? Had Lady Sarai and her magician friends set a trap of some kind?

And then Sarai dove toward the cloth and vanished, and Tabaea threw herself to the ground, rolling, to stop her forward motion.

Wizardry! That had to be wizardry! It was a trap!

Furious, growling, she got to her feet and stared at the fabric that blocked the door.

It was a tapestry, one of fine workmanship—she could hardly see the stitches, and the depiction of the empty room was flawless. It was extraordinarily ugly, however; it showed only bare stone, in black and shades of gray, with no bright color, no graceful curves, nothing of any interest to it at all.

A tapestry, a magical tapestry—she almost reached out to touch it, and then stopped herself.

A Transporting Tapestry! That was what it must be! Shuddering, she drew back. She had spied on wizards as they spoke of such things. A Transporting Tapestry—and one that, by the look of it, would deliver her directly into a prison cell somewhere. The room in the picture had no doors, no windows; in one of the rear corners was an opening that might have been a passageway, or might just have been a niche, perhaps where a cot or privy might be.

They had wanted her to plunge right into it, after Lady Sarai— and she almost had!

If she had, of course, they would have had some way to get Lady Sarai out, leaving Tabaea trapped there forever as her punishment for killing their Guildmaster Serem. That would be their revenge—not merely death, but perpetual imprisonment. Perhaps they had other plans for her, as well.

Well, she wasn’t going to fall for their tricks. She turned and marched away, back up the corridor.

And then, as she remembered that Lady Sarai still had the Black Dagger, and that Lady Sarai had just dived headlong into a wizard’s tapestry and was therefore back in contact with the Wizards’ Guild, and that the Wizards’ Guild surely wanted to kill her for what she had done, she began to run.

“I abdicate!” she called as she ran, hoping that someone was listening. “I abdicate! I give up!”

Maybe, she thought, just maybe, if she escaped quickly enough by another door, she could still hide, could find somewhere even wizards couldn’t get her.

But she doubted it.

“I think they’re coming this way,” Karanissa shouted. “They’re still on the stairs, but Sarai wants to come here. And Tabaea’s gaining on her, she’s much faster. Quick, Tobas, do something!”

“Do what!” the wizard asked. “I didn’t bring anything but the tapestry!” He looked around helplessly. Teneria and the warlocks were off to one side; Teneria and Vengar were once again working at repairing Thurin’s wound, but the situation was no longer desperate, and Thurin was conscious and watching.

None of them were making any suggestions.

“Well, then do something with the tapestry!” Karanissa called. “Set it up somewhere Tabaea will run into it!”

Tobas hesitated, then said, “All right, give me a hand with it, will you?” He hurried to the wagon.

A moment later, carefully holding the tapestry by the supporting bar and not allowing themselves to touch any part of the fabric, Tobas and Karanissa had the hanging unrolled, and up against the wall beside the door.

Passersby were staring, but no one interfered. This was clearly either the work of magicians or Tabaea’s followers, and no one wanted trouble with either group.

“How do we get her into it?” Tobas asked.

“Put it across the door,” Teneria called. “Then she’ll run right into it.”

“But Sarai will run into it first,” Karanissa objected.

Teneria pointed out, “Well, at least she’ll get away, then— and with the dagger.” Karanissa looked at Tobas, who shrugged. “All right,” the witch said, “let’s do it.” She swung her end around, and a few seconds later they draped the tapestry across the open doorway.

Vengar, using warlockry, helped them to raise it until it hung perfectly smooth and unwrinkled—the spell might not work if the fabric wasn’t smooth.

“Now what?” Tobas said. “Do you think we could lift it while Sarai dives underneath, and then drop it back before Tabaea could stop?”

“I don’t...” Karanissa began. Then, as the sound of desperately running footsteps suddenly became audible, drew near, and vanished, all in a few seconds, she said, “No.”

“What happened?” Tobas asked.

“Sarai hit the tapestry. She’s gone.” “What about Tabaea?”

“Stopped in time.”

“Then should we put it down?”

“No!” Teneria called. “If we do, she might come out here and attack us!”

Karanissa nodded confirmation, and for a long moment she and Tobas stood absolutely still, holding the tapestry up against the palace door.

Then, at last, they heard retreating footsteps; cautiously, Tobas began to lower the rod, just in time to let them all hear Tabaea shrieking, “I abdicate! I abdicate! I give up! Just leave me alone!”

Karanissa lowered her end, too. “Now what?” she asked.

“Well, if she’s serious, we just forget about her for now,” Tobas said. “We have to deal with the Seething Death.”

“What about Lady Sarai?”

“Oh, damn.” Tobas frowned. “That’s right, she doesn’t know where she is. She’s probably terrified. Someone had better go after her and bring her home.”

“I’ll go,” Karanissa said. “After all, I know the way.”

Reluctantly, Tobas nodded. “You’re right. You go.” He beckoned for Vengar to come hold the other side of the tapestry while Karanissa stepped into it.

Wizard and warlock supported the hanging, one on either side, while the witch stepped up and put her hand on it. Nothing happened.

“She must still be in the room,” Karanissa said. “It won’t work while she’s in the part that’s in the picture.”

“That’s it, of course,” Tobas agreed. “I guess we’ll just have to wait until she finds the passage, or wanders into one of the back corners.”

He and Vengar stood patiently for a moment, while Karanissa kept her hand on the fabric. “I’m getting tired of holding this,” Tobas said. “Maybe we should put it aside for now and see if we can do something about the Seething Death, and then try again later.”

Karanissa, her hand still on the tapestry, started to say something—and just then, she vanished.

Karanissa found herself standing in complete darkness, and the silence was startling after the constant hum of the city. She stepped forward and peered into the gloom, trying to make out whether Sarai was anywhere nearby. “Sarai?” she called. “Are you there? Damn it all, I forgot we’d need a light.”

No one answered; Karanissa frowned. Maybe Sarai had already found the corridor out to the rest of the castle.

“Are you in the passage?” the witch called. “Did you find it? Sarai, it’s me, Karanissa!” “I’m here,” Sarai’s voice replied. Karanissa still couldn’t tell where it was coming from, though.

Well, she was a witch; she could do something about that. She raised her hand and concentrated.

The hand began to glow, a weak orange witch-light. At first, Karanissa saw only the bare stone walls of the arrival chamber, but then Lady Sarai, crawling on hands and knees, backed into the room from the passageway out, and turned to look up at her. “Karanissa,” the Ethsharitic noblewoman asked plaintively, “where ore we?”

“In the mountains between Aigoa and Dwomor,” Karanissa answered. “In a secret room in a castle that Tobas and I own.” “What!? ” Sarai shrieked, as she turned to a sitting position. “We’re in the Small Kingdoms! A hundred leagues away?”

“Not much more than eighty, by my best estimate,” Karanissa corrected her. “But yes, we’re in the Small Kingdoms. I came after you to show you the way back. Now, can we get out of here, please? This light’s very tiring, and there isn’t much to eat around here.”

“Yes! Where? Where’s the door?” She was almost pathetically eager—but then, Karanissa could understand that.

“That way,” she said. “Down the passage to the end, and out through the door.”

Sarai stood and proceeded down the corridor, never more than a few feet ahead of Karanissa for fear of losing the light, until at last the two of them emerged into daylight in a room lit by a single high window.

Sarai stopped and stared. The room was lined with bookshelves, but most were empty, many broken or rotted; a table had been shoved to one side. And like the dark room and the connecting corridor, everything was at a slant. It was as if the entire building, whatever it was, had tipped.

She remembered what Karanissa had said; the words hadn’t really registered, as she had been more concerned with getting out of that horrible darkness. “A castle?” Sarai asked. “You two really have a castle?”

“We have a couple of them, actually,” Karanissa said. “Both of them were built by Derithon the Mage, hundreds of years ago. This one used to fly, until it ran into a place where wizardry doesn’t work.”

“Oh,” Sarai said. Understanding slowly dawned. “Oh. A place where wizardry doesn’t work? You wanted to send Tabaea here. That’s why I lost... why I’m back to just myself. And she would have been, too.”

Karanissa nodded. “She dodged the tapestry, though; she wouldn’t touch it.”

Sarai held out the Black Dagger, which she had not yet sheathed. “So this thing is useless, now? The spell on it is broken?”

Karanissa frowned. “No,” she said, “it doesn’t work that way. As long as we’re in the no-wizardry area, that’s just an ordinary knife; but once we’re back out, it’ll be magical again. We’ve brought a magical tapestry and an enchanted mirror through this place, and neither one worked here, but they both worked just fine elsewhere.”

“Oh.” Sarai looked at the dagger. “Maybe we should leave it here, then, where it can’t harm anyone.”

“Not without a guard,” Karanissa said. “We tried that with the mirror. For one thing, there are spriggans around here, a lot of them, and they just love playing with magical things.” She hesitated, then added, “Besides, we might need it.”

“Against Tabaea?”

“Or against the Seething Death; I don’t know if that thing will do any good against the Death, but it certainly stopped every other spell Tobas and Telurinon sent against labaea.”

Sarai looked at the knife, then nodded and tucked it into the sheath on her belt.

“All right,” she said, “how do we get out of here, and back to Ethshar?”

Karanissa considered that. “Well, we have to walk to the edge of the dead area, of course,” she said. “Usually, we have a flying carpet to take us from there, but I’m afraid we don’t have it with us—after shuffling the tapestries about I’m not sure whether it’s in Dwomor or Ethshar or somewhere else entirely, but it’s not here.” She sighed. “So unless Tobas or one of the other wizards has arranged something special, I think we’ll have to walk the entire distance to Dwomor Keep.”

“Not all the way to Ethshar of the Sands?”

“Oh, no!” Karanissa replied, startled. “Of course not! We have another tapestry down in Dwomor, even if the carpet isn’t there. Once we get to Dwomor Keep, we can be back in Ethshar in no more than a day, probably no more than an hour.”

“Oh, good,” Sarai said, relieved. “And how far is it to Dwomor Keep?”

“Three days,” Karanissa said. “Two, if we really hurry.”

“Three days,” Sarai repeated, thinking of Tabaea roaming freely about the city, of the Seething Death spreading in the throne-room floor. She wondered what the Wizards’ Guild would do with those three days. Would anyone tell the exiled nobility that the Black Dagger was gone and Tabaea’s power lessened? Would Tabaea cling to her title of empress right up until someone killed her, or would she flee?

What would Ethshar be like when she got back to it?

Well, there was no use in wondering; she would see for herself soon enough.

“Let’s get going, then,” she said.

CHAPTER 41

Tobas watched intently as the dozen volunteer warlocks went about their work, cutting deep grooves in the marble floor in a circle around the Seething Death. The lamps set on every side did not burn well, but smoked and flared—Teneria thought the fumes from the pool were responsible. Whatever the reason, the magicians worked in a dim and smoky light, surrounded by gigantic shadows, adding to the strangeness of the task at hand. Telurinon was still trying counterspells; he had brought three cartloads of raw materials from the Guildhouse and set up shop in the meeting room directly below, where a roiling bubble of the Seething Death now hung from the ceiling, hissing and smoking and dripping corrosive slime on the floor beneath—but not spilling through. The stuff remained a perfect hemisphere, demonstrating irrefutably that despite appearances, it was not a liquid in any normal sense of the word. It wasn’t a solid or a gas, either; it was magic. And it was, Tobas thought, damnably powerful and stubborn magic. It had already dissolved a bottomless bag when Mereth had attempted to scoop the goo into it, on the theory that Hallin’s Bottomless Bag could hold anything. It had been utterly unaffected by Thrindle’s Combustion, Javan’s Restorative, the Greater Spell of Temporal Stasis, Tranai’s Stasis Spell, the Spell of Intolerable Heat, the Spell of Intense Cold, Fendel’s Accelerated Corruption, and Javan’s Contraction. It had expanded unhindered through Verlian’s Spell of Protection, Fendel’s Invisible Cage, Cauthen’s Protective Cantrip, Fendel’s Elementary Protection, and the Rune of Holding. If Tobas had interpreted Telurinon’s latest efforts correctly, the Guildmaster was currently attempting the Spell of Reversal, but Tobas did not expect that to work, either—and even if it did, it would only shrink the Seething Death back to where it had been perhaps an hour before. The prospect of wizards endlessly working the Spell of Reversal to keep the Seething Death contained for the rest of time was not appealing.

There were still more spells to be attempted, and Tobas expected Telurinon to attempt them—if his own scheme didn’t work.

Marble dust sprayed up as the warlocks used their mysterious powers to slice through the stone of the floor, cutting out the chunk that held the Seething Death. It was perhaps twenty hours since that one fateful drop had been spilled, and the bubbling, boiling, smoking pool was more than a yard across, the outer edge expanding fast enough that if a person watched for a moment he could see the surrounding stone melting away.

Tobas felt he had to work fast if his plan was to have any chance at all. Once the Seething Death was wider than the tapestry, it might not fit.

He had hoped that the warlocks would be able to simply scoop the stuff up, out of its hole, but they reported that there wasn’t anything there that warlockry could touch. Whatever the stuff was, though, the floor could hold it, and the warlocks could touch the floor, so they were cutting a chunk free, intending to lift it up to the Transporting Tapestry. It meant doing serious and permanent damage to the overlord’s Great Hall, but the Seething Death would do that anyway—had already done that. The rest of the mess Tabaea had made could be cleaned up fairly easily, Tobas thought, but this might be difficult. He supposed a good stonemason could handle it, somehow.

At the thought of Tabaea he glanced around nervously. The would-be empress had vanished without a trace that morning, after announcing her abdication—which meant she was still around someplace, and could spring out at them at any time, complicating matters.

Once the Seething Death was dealt with, the Guild really would have to track down Tabaea and kill her. Maybe they should go ahead and throw a death-spell after her right now—but Tobas didn’t want to take the time and was reluctant to act on his own in any case. The Guild might want to use something especially horrible.

“We almost have it, wizard,” one of the warlocks said—a tall, black-clad man whose name Tobas did not know.

“Good,” Tobas said. He bent down and picked up the tapestry that lay at his feet. He hoped that Sarai and Karanissa were well clear; in theory the stuff would be completely harmless the instant it passed into the dead area around the fallen castle, but Tobas had his doubts about just how fast it would lose its virulence. The Seething Death was not just another spell.

Teneria helped him unroll the tapestry, lift it, and smooth it.

“It’s free,” another warlock announced.

“All right, then,” the black-clad man said. “Lift!”

The marble circle, four feet in diameter, shuddered, and then began to rise, up out of the surrounding floor.

Unfortunately, the Seething Death did not rise with it; instead, Tobas stared in horror as the steady hiss of dissolving marble suddenly became a roar, and dust and smoke boiled up from the circular hole in the center of the ascending marble cylinder.

A warlock coughed; then another.

“Stop! Stop!” Telurinon shrieked from below.

The steady ascent slowed; the stone cylinder wobbled, and still more smoke and powder spilled out of the central hole.

“You might as well keep going,” Tobas said. “It’s too late now.”

A warlock doubled over, coughing, as more of the reeking cloud of smoke rolled over the magicians.

The marble cylinder, four feet across and fifteen inches high, was clear of the floor now—and clear of the Seething Death. Still following the original plan, the warlocks started to move it toward the tapestry.

“No!” Tbbas shouted, suddenly realizing what they were doing. If they sent the chunk of stone through the tapestry, the tapestry would no longer function—not until somebody hiked out to the fallen castle, in the mountains between Dwomor and Aigoa, and removed the cylinder from that hidden chamber.

The warlocks paid no attention, and in desperation Tobas simply dropped his end of the tapestry’s hanging rod; Teneria, not entirely sure why but following the wizard’s lead, dropped hers as well. A moment later the marble cylinder hung suspended in the air, touching nothing, above the tapestry.

“Put it down somewhere,” Tobas called. “Somewhere out of the way. It didn’t work.”

The cylinder wobbled, then glided to the side and settled to the floor.

Tobas stared at it for a second, then turned his attention to the Seething Death. It was hard to see clearly through the swirling vapor, but at last Tobas convinced himself that he was not imagining it.

The Death was hanging there, totally unsupported, exactly where it had been before, in the center of a ring of empty air. It was a perfect half sphere, flat side up.

Not that the flat side was truly flat; it bubbled and, just as the name said, seethed.

“It’s dripping all aver now!” Telurinon wailed from below. “You people aren’t holding it, are you?” Tobas asked the nearest warlock.

“No,” the woman assured him, smothering a cough. “We couldn’t if we wanted to.” “I was afraid of that.” Tobas stared at the Death. This was not a possibility he had considered. This meant that his back-up plan, of having relays of warlocks transport the entire thing to Aigoa, was totally impossible, not just incredibly difficult and impractical. The only way to get it to the dead area would be through the tapestry.

Well, if he couldn’t move the Seething Death to the tapestry, he would just have to bring the tapestry to the Seething Death. “All right,” he said, “time to try it another way.” It took another half hour to cut away more of the floor, so that the tapestry could be suspended flat beside the expanding hemisphere; the first faint light of dawn was beginning to show in the dome’s skylights, high overhead, as Tobas and Teneria maneuvered the hanging into position. In the interim, Telurinon had established that Kandir’s Impregnable Sphere did not live up to its name; the Seething Death had burst it, popping it like a soap bubble.

And afterward, the Seething Death had still touched nothing but air.

The circle had grown at least an inch in diameter, though; Tobas was certain of that. He and Teneria had to approach it much more closely than he liked; he moved with exaggerated caution, dreading the possibility that he might lean out too far and touch that stuff, or worse, lose his balance and fall into it. Finally, though, the tapestry was in position, hung through the floor, its lower edge dangling into the meeting room below, its supporting bar in Tobas’s and Teneria’s hands. Several of the warlocks had left to escape the fumes; those who remained, though no longer involved now that they had cleared away the chunks of marble flooring, watched from the sidelines with interest.

“Now what?” the young witch asked.

Tobas had maneuvered the tapestry as close as he dared, without touching the stuff; whatever was to be transported had to come to the tapestry, not the other way around, to be certain the spell would work.

“Now we wait,” he said. “When it expands far enough, it’ll touch the cloth, and then poof! It’s gone!” He smiled; then the smile vanished, and he added, “If we’re lucky.”

They waited, seated cross-legged on either side of the hole, the tapestry between them.

At last, after a quarter-hour of growing nervousness and worsening sore throats from breathing the foul air, the Death touched the tapestry—and did not vanish. Instead, stinking white smoke billowed up from the point of contact.

Teneria looked up and stared across at Tobas, looking for some sign as to what she should do.

Tobas stared in horror.

“My tapestry,” he said weakly. He could see the fabric dissolving, the threads unraveling, where the Seething Death had touched it.

“What should...” Teneria began.

“Pull it out!” Tobas shouted, before she could finish her sentence, but he knew it was already too late.

They pulled the tapestry back, away from the Death, then lifted it out and spread it out on the floor; Tobas studied the semicircular hole, six inches across, and the blackened, frayed edges around it.

“It’s ruined,” he said. “A four-hundred-year-old Transporting Tapestry, ruined.”

“You’re sure?” Teneria asked. “It won’t still work? It can’t be repaired?”

“I’m sure,” Tobas said. “The tapestry has to be perfect, or the spell is broken, and you can’t put it back without reweaving the entire thing.” He looked up from the hanging and glared angrily at the Seething Death.

“There must be some way to stop that thing!” he growled.

“Maybe the dagger Tabaea had,” Teneria said. “It stopped all the other wizardry.”

“Maybe,” Tobas agreed, “but that’s in Dwomor with Lady Sarai right now.”

“Tobas,” Teneria asked, “what about Sarai and Karanissa? How will they get back, without the tapestry?”

Startled, Tobas looked at her. “Oh, they couldn’t come back through that anyway,” he said. “The tapestries are only oneway. They’ll have to walk to Dwomor Keep, and then they can come through the other castle and the new tapestry the Guild-masters gave me to replace this one. They should be back here in a couple of days.”

“Is it safe?”

Tobas shrugged. “Pretty safe. Karanissa’s walked that route a few times before; she knows the way.” He glowered at the Seething Death again. “I suppose we might as well keep trying things until they get here, though. And what we’re going to do if the Black Dagger doesn ’t work...”

He never finished his sentence.

CHAPTER 42

Whoever occupied the house on the comer of Grand Street and Wizard Street now was more careful than old Serem had ever been; Tabaea had found every door locked, front, back, or side-alley, with warding spells protecting them. The Black Dagger could have cut through the wards as if they weren’t there, but the Black Dagger was gone.

Whoever the wizard was who had placed the wards had been more careful than Serem, but he hadn’t been ridiculous about it. He hadn’t put wards on the roof. The idea that somebody might climb up on the roof and pry the tiles up with her bare fingers, one by one so they wouldn’t clatter, in the middle of the night so she wouldn’t be seen—well, no one had worried about anything as unlikely as that.

Even with a cat’s eyesight and the strength of a dozen men, the job took hours. The sky was pale pink in the east by the time Tabaea lowered herself, slowly and carefully, through the hole into the attic.

She didn’t know who lived here, or what the house had become, but she had seen the magicians going in and out, the messengers hurrying to and from the front door, and she knew that this place was somehow important. She guessed that her enemies had made it their headquarters.

Why they weren’t operating out of the palace, now that she was gone, she wasn’t quite sure. Maybe they were waiting until me overlord came back—one of the messengers had said his ship was on the way; Tabaea had heard it quite clearly from her place on the rooftop.

The city guard was back, even if the overlord wasn’t; from atop the house Tabaea could see the uniforms in Grandgate Market, the formations of men marching back and forth as they resumed their duties and “restored order.” Much as she hated to admit it, the sight was somehow comforting.

Less comforting was the knowledge that the guard was clearing out the palace, room by room and corridor by corridor, but oddly, even the processions of the homeless finding their way back to the Wall Street Field were almost reassuring; Tabaea was relieved that her people weren’t being sent to the dungeons, or slaughtered. Everything was to be returned to what it had been before, it seemed.

Everything, that is, except herself. There was no way they could turn her back to the harmless little thief she had once been. They would have to kill her—if they could.

And it seemed to her that the best chance of making sure that they couldn’t would be to find out just what the wizards had planned. And since the wizards seemed to hold their meetings here, in Serem’s house...

Well, that was why she was standing on the bare, dusty planks of the attic floor, peering through the dimness, looking for the trapdoor that would let her down into the house itself.

She found it at last, over in a corner, and lifted it with excruciating slowness, in case anyone was in the room below. The trap was larger than she had expected, and when raised it revealed not a ladder, or an empty space where a ladder might be placed, but a steep, narrow staircase with a closed door at the bottom.

She crept down, and slipped through, and she was in the wizards’ house, able to spy on all that went on.

Except that nothing was going on; everyone in the place—and there were several people there—was asleep, or nearly so; from the central hallway of the second floor Tabaea could look down the stairs and see that one woman sat by the front door, presumably standing watch, but even this guard in fact dozed off and on.

None of the people were witches, which was a relief; a witch, or possibly even a warlock, might have been able to detect her presence, no matter how quiet she was. Wizards, though, needed their spells to do anything like that.

Of course, even a witch wouldn’t spot her when the witch was asleep, and everybody here was asleep.

This was hardly surprising, with the sun not yet above the horizon; after some thought, Tabaea crept back to the attic, closed the door carefully, then curled up on the plank floor for a catnap.

She awoke suddenly, as cats do, aware that she had slept longer than she had intended to; quickly and quietly, she slipped back downstairs.

A meeting was going on hi the front parlor; she crept down the hall and stood by the door, out of sight, listening.

“...at least sixty feet across now,” a man’s voice said. “It’s taken out a section of the back wall and rear stairway, while mostly maintaining its hemispherical shape. It seems to send appendages up the walls, breaking off chunks and pulling them down into the main mass. On the stairs, the upper edge sags somewhat, rounding itself off, now that it’s above the level of the step it’s dissolving. It’s penetrated the floor of the meeting room below the Great Hall and worked deep into the storeroom below; in a few hours, at most, it should pierce that floor, as well, and begin dripping into the dungeons. The Greater Spell of Transmutation, generally considered to be a tenth-order spell, has had no effect, any more than any of the earlier attempts at finding a countercharm. The Spell of Cleansing, third-order but requiring extensive preparation, should be complete soon. Llarimuir’s Vaporization is in progress, but requires twenty-four hours of ritual, so we won’t know the results until late tonight.”

A dismayed silence followed this report; Tabaea tried to figure out what it was all about. A meeting room below a great hall? That sounded like the palace. Something was dissolving things in the palace?

Then she blinked, astonished. They were discussing the Seething Death! “... earlier attempts at finding a counter-charm...” They didn’t know how to stop their own spell!

And Lady Sarai had laughed at her! As if prompted by her thought, someone asked, “Is there any word from Lady Sarai?”

“Not yet,” a man replied, “but she and Karanissa should reach Dwomor Keep late this evening or early tomorrow, if all goes well, and they can be here within an hour after that. The tapestry we gave Tobas comes out in an unused room in one of the Grandgate towers; we have a guard posted there, ready to escort them here the moment they appear.”

“That assumes, of course,” someone said, with heavy sarcasm, “that they’re coming back at all, that it isn’t raining or snowing, that they haven’t been waylaid by bandits or eaten by a dragon, that they haven’t gotten lost in the mountains, that Lady Sarai didn’t panic and kill Karanissa the moment she appeared, that someone at Dwomor Keep hasn’t inadvertently ruined the tapestry there...” Tabaea recognized the speaker as the one who had reported on the Seething Death.

“Oh, shut up, Heremon,” a different voice said, speaking with weary annoyance. “Karanissa is fine; she spun a coin the day we arrived in Ethshar, and it’s still spuming, without the slightest slowing or wobbling. I checked less than an hour ago.” “That doesn’t prove she isn’t holed up somewhere waiting out a blizzard, or warding off wolves,” Heremon argued.

“There are no wolves in Dwomor,” the tired voice said. “And for that matter, even in the mountains, it doesn’t snow in Harvest.” “Still...”

“Yes, they might be delayed,” the tired voice agreed. “We just have to hope that they aren’t.” He sighed. “The overlord’s ship is due tomorrow afternoon, I understand. It would be nice if we could present him with a palace, even a damaged one, that’s safe to enter and not in danger of being reduced to bubbling slime.” Someone answered that, but Tabaea was no longer listening; she was thinking.

Lady Sarai would be returning soon, to one of the towers in Grandgate—and she would have the Black Dagger with her, surely; that was why all these wizards were so eager for her return. Tabaea had figured it out; the Black Dagger was the countercharm for the Seething Death! And when Sarai had carried it off to wherever that magic tapestry went, apparently some place called Dwomor, that had left them unable to stop the Death from spreading.

If Tabaea could get to Sarai before the magicians did, she could take back the Black Dagger. Then she could stop the Seething Death, renounce her abdication, and resume her rule. Old Ederd was coming back, too—she could catch him and kill him and put an end to attempts to restore him to the throne. Stopping the Death would make her a hero; even those who had fought her would see that.

And she would do better this time; she wouldn’t make the same mistakes. Letting everyone live in the palace—well, there would have to be rules. And the city guard was useful; if she couldn’t make the old one obey her, she would organize her own.

She would do it right this time.

First, though, she had to retrieve the Black Dagger, and that meant finding Lady Sarai when she came back, before she was surrounded by guards and wizards.

She would be coming through an unused room in the Grand-gate towers, the man had said. There were eight towers in the Grandgate complex: the two gigantic barracks towers, and then the six lesser towers, three on either side of the entry road. Each of them contained dozens of rooms, Tabaea was sure, and many of those were unused; she would have to search them all until she found the right one.

But how would she know which was the right one? She smiled. The wizards had told her that. When she found someone guarding an empty, unused room, she had found what she was after.

And she had until that evening, at the very least. She scampered for the stairs, her eagerness making her so careless that in the parlor Tobas looked up, thinking he had heard something in the hall.

But of course, that was ridiculous. No one could possibly be in the Guildhouse but the wizards, who were all gathered in the parlor—unless a spriggan had managed to hide somewhere.

That was probably it, he decided; a spriggan must be running about somewhere. That was nothing to worry about, then; annoying as they were, spriggans were relatively harmless. “Has anyone tried Lirrim’s Rectification?” he asked. “I’ve never used it myself, but it’s in the books...”

Dwomor Keep was not a particularly attractive or well-designed structure, but Lady Sarai thought she had never seen anything so beautiful. However ugly and decayed it might be, it was a building, and after two days in the wilderness, anything that could possibly be considered urban was an absolute delight. That this ramshackle fortress was also the gateway back to her beloved Ethshar of the Sands only added to its appeal. The walk down through the mountains had not been enjoyable at all. Karanissa had taken it all in stride, but Sarai, accustomed to city streets and flat terrain, had been constantly tripping over stones and stumbling on the steep slopes. She had kept hoping, also, that her enhanced senses would return once they were free of the dead area, but that had never happened. With Karanissa’s witchcraft to help she had managed to catch and kill a rabbit with the Black Dagger, which provided both dinner and proof that the Black Dagger’s spell still worked, but the better hearing, tiny added strength, and slightly improved vision and sense of smell didn’t amount to much.

The little animal had been good eating, though, she had to admit.

Half a rabbit, however, and a few apples stolen from a farmer’s orchard were not much food for an entire two days, which made Dwomor Keep, where Karanissa assured her they could expect to be fed, very attractive.

The guard at the gate greeted Karanissa familiarly in a language Lady Sarai had never heard before; the two women were then escorted inside, where Sarai got to stand idly by, studying the architecture and interior design, while Karanissa carried on several conversations with assorted people dressed in varying degrees of barbaric splendor. Some of the people she spoke to seemed concerned, others inquisitive, still others casually friendly; most of them, judging by gestures, inquired about Lady Sarai at one point or another, and each time Karanissa answered without bothering to explain to Sarai what was being said. In fact, throughout her stay in Dwomor Keep, including a bath, a change into fresh clothing, and a generous supper, Sarai had no idea at all what was going on around her. As far as she could tell, nobody present spoke a word of Ethsharitic.

At last, however, Karanissa waved a farewell to three people and led Sarai down a passageway into a lush bedchamber, where she drew aside a drapery to reveal a truly bizarre tapestry.

The image was absolutely perfect and incredibly detailed; it showed a path leading from a stone mound across a narrow rope bridge to a castle out of someone’s nightmares, a fortress of gray and black stone encrusted with turrets and gargoyles, much of it covered with carven faces—most of them leering monstrosities, while the few that appeared human were screaming in terror. Even the front wall of the nearest section was a face, the entry way a yawning, fanged mouth, two windows above serving as eyes.

This structure stood against a blank background of red and purple shading into one another in vague, cloudlike patterns, and the reddish highlights on the castle made it plain that these colors were part of the picture, intended to represent a sky unlike anything in the World.

“You better hold my hand,” Karanissa said.

“Oh, you don’t... We aren’t going there...” Sarai said, trying to back away.

The witch grabbed her by the hand and yanked, pulling them both forward into the tapestry. Lady Sarai screamed and fell to her knees.

She landed on the rough stone of that pathway; on either side was empty, bottomless void, purple shot through with crimson.

“Welcome to my home,” Karanissa said, smiling. Then she led the way across the little bit of bare stone, over the rope bridge, through the fanged entryway and the open door widiin, into the castle. Lady Sarai followed wordlessly, staring at her strange surroundings, as

Karanissa explained, “Deny—that’s Derithon the Mage—made this place, hundreds of years ago, and brought me here. Then he got himself killed when his other castle, out in the World, crashed, and I was stranded until Tobas found the tapestry and came in here and found the way out, through the tapestry that took us to the fallen castle. Except Telurinon traded with him, to get the tapestry to the dead area—he wanted to send Tabaea there, or else the Seething Death after it killed her. So now we’ve got another tapestry, one that will bring us out in one of the towers in Grandgate.” She paused for breath.

Sarai didn’t say anything; she was too busy looking around at the forbidding, torch-lit corridor, with its gargoyles peering down from the ceiling comers.

Karanissa led the way up a broad spiral staircase, saying, “I suppose we’ll have to move now, take the other tapestry out of Dwomor to Ethshar—it’s just not practical, having our front door and our back door so far apart. The walk down the mountains was bad enough, even with the flying carpet; having to cross a hundred leagues of ocean is just impossible.”

They emerged in an arched passageway; Karanissa lifted a torch from a nearby bracket and led the way down a side passage.

“I don’t know if Alorria is going to like that much,” Karanissa said, as they turned a corner. “And I’m pretty such that her father, King Derneth, isn’t going to like it at all. He likes having Tobas as his court wizard, and he likes having his daughter nearby. Alorria’s never lived anywhere but Dwomor Keep—well, and here, of course.” She waved at the castie walls.

Sarai shivered slightly; this place made her very nervous. There was something utterly unnatural about it. They had entered from bright sunlight, but most of the castle was dark except for Karanissa’s torch, and where light did get in through windows, the light was an eerie reddish purple.

It didn’t seem to bother the witch at all; she prattled on cheerfully as she led the way through a maze of chambers and passages until at last they arrived at a door, several stories up from the entrance. “We need to go through together,” she warned Sarai, as she opened the door.

Cautiously, Sarai stepped into the room beyond, and looked around. Karanissa stepped in behind her and reached up to set her torch in an empty bracket.

The room was small and simple—no gargoyles or black iron here, just plain gray walls, on one of which hung a tapestry. There were no other furnishings.

“Maybe we should move this downstairs, nearer the entrance,” Karanissa said, considering the tapestry carefully. “That would save time when we’re just passing through like this.”

Sarai gazed at the hanging, too, but with relief, ratiier dian consideration. The room it depicted was so utterly normal and ordinary! A simple room, with off-white walls, an iron-bound wooden door, and one of the standard-issue wooden tables the Ethsharitic city guard used. “Come on,” she said. This time, she was the one who grabbed and pulled, and an instant later she and Karanissa stepped out in Ethshar.

The light was brighter here and the color of normal daylight, rather than the orange of a torch or that weird reddish purple; Lady Sarai blinked and looked around.

The tapestry was gone; from this side it simply wasn’t there. Instead she saw the other half of a nondescript and unused little room, with a single narrow window providing illumination.

“North light,” Karanissa remarked. “It’s steadier, doesn’t change much over time, so it doesn’t matter where the sun is, or whether it’s cloudy.” She frowned. “I’ll wager the tapestry doesn’t work at night, though; I hadn’t thought of that before, and that could be inconvenient.” She stared for a moment, then turned back to the door. “Oh, well,” she said, “there isn’t much we can do about it now.” She lifted the latch and opened the door.

Before she could get a glimpse of what lay beyond, Lady Sarai heard the thump of a chair’s front legs hitting the stone floor and a soldier getting hurriedly to his feet, kilt rustling and sword belt rattling. She followed Karanissa through the door into a wide hall, where various military equipment was strewn about or leaning against walls and pillars. Hazy sunlight poured in through skylights; voices and footsteps were audible in the distance. Close at hand stood a soldier and a chair; the soldier saluted, hand on his chest, and announced, “I’m Deran Wuller’s son, ladies; if you’d come with me, please, Captain Tikri wishes to see you.”

“Tikri?” Sarai was astonished and delighted; she hadn’t seen Tikri since the day Tabaea first marched on the palace, when he had gone off to defend the overlord. She had feared he was dead, or at best driven into exile, yet here he was, apparently back at work.

“Yes, my lady,” Deran answered. “This way.”

Sarai and Karanissa followed him across the room, toward a stairway leading down. “Where are we?” Sarai asked.

“Officers’ training area, my lady,” Deran answered. “Top floor of the North Barracks, in Grandgate.”

“So the city guard is back here? Everything’s back to normal?”

Deran kept walking, but hesitated before answering, “Not everything, my lady. The guard’s back, all right—Lord Torrut saw to that as soon as he heard that Tabaea had given up her claim to be empress—but I wouldn’t say everything’s back to normal. The overlord is still aboard his ship down in Seagate— there’s something wrong with the palace, something to do with the Wizards’ Guild. Nobody goes in there without the Guild’s permission. And Lord Kalthon...”He broke off.

“What about my father?” Sarai demanded. “They say he’s dying, my lady,” Deran reluctantly admitted. “The sea journey was bad for him; they say he has a sixnight at most, even with that witch Theas tending him. But the overlord won’t appoint a replacement, and we need a Minister of Justice right now, to sort out the mess. Lord Torrut’s doing what he can, but... well, I wouldn’t say everything’s normal.” He stopped in front of a door and knocked.

The door opened, and Captain Tikri glared out angrily. When he saw Sarai, though, the anger evaporated; he smiled.

“Lady Sarai!” he said. “You’re back!” Belatedly, he added, “and you, Karanissa!”

The two women smiled and made polite noises, but then Tikri held up a hand. “We don’t have any time to waste,” he said. “We need to get you to the palace immediately; the wizards have been very emphatic about that. We can talk on the way; just let me get my sword.” A few minutes later, a party of four—Deran, Tikri, Sarai, and Karanissa—emerged from the barracks into the inner bailey of Grandgate, walking briskly; they passed through the immense inner gate into Grandgate Market, headed for the palace.

And atop the south inner tower Tabaea leaned over the battlement, glaring furiously. She could not see faces clearly from that distance, could not be sure of the scents, but two women in aristocratic garb, accompanied by two soldiers—that had to be Sarai! She had missed them! After all this time spent searching through the absurd complexities of Grandgate’s many towers, she had missed them!

She ran for the stairs, berating herself for being overcautious. She had searched all six of the gate towers, and most of the South Barracks, but had left the North Barracks, with its hundreds of soldiers, for last.

But of course it would be the North Barracks—that was where everything important was. She should have checked there first, despite the soldiers.

Furious, she plunged down the stairs, in hot pursuit of the Black Dagger.

CHAPTER 43

Lady Sarai stared in shock and dismay through the stinking, unnatural white mist at the bubbling, steaming, swirling mass of greenish slime before her. It blocked the entire corridor, wall to wall and floor to ceiling, at an oblique angle.

“It’s slightly over a hundred feet in diameter now,” Tobas told her. “It’s down into the lower dungeons, and as you can see, it’s consumed the rear half of the throne room, including the entire rear staircase and the corridor below. It’s also eaten its way through into the passageway above, there, but hasn’t reached the overlord’s apartments yet.”

“And you expect the Black Dagger to stop thaf!” Sarai demanded, turning to face the party of magicians and soldiers jamming the corridor behind her, and holding up the knife so that everyone could see just how small and harmless the enchanted weapon looked when compared with that gigantic mass of corrosive, all-consuming wizardry.

For a moment, no one answered; Sarai could see them judging, comparing, contrasting, considering.

Then one of the warlocks giggled nervously.

The giggle caught and spread, and in seconds several magicians—witches, warlocks, and even a wizard or two—were laughing hysterically. The soldiers were grinning, but not openly laughing.

Angrily, Telurinon shushed them all; after a few moments, with the soldiers’ assistance, order was restored. Then the Guildmaster turned angrily on Lady Sarai.

“What do you know about wizardry?” he shouted. “Size is irrelevant! What matters is the strength and nature of the enchantment, nothing else!”

“And you think a dagger enchanted by accident, by a girl who knew almost nothing of wizardry, is going to stop a spell you say can destroy the entire World, Guildmaster?” Sarai shouted back. “It might!” Telurinon answered, not as certainly as he would have liked.

“I don’t mink so,” Sarai replied. “I think that stuff will dissolve the dagger, just as it dissolved Tobas’s tapestry and everything else, magical or mundane, that it’s touched.”

“And what would vow suggest, then?” Telurinon sarcastically demanded. “Do you have some clever little counterspell that’s somehow eluded the attention of the Wizards’ Guild? We’ve tried everything we know; the warlocks, the witches, the sorcerers, they’ve all tried. The theurgists couldn’t even find anything to try; the demonologists marched a score of demons and monsters in there, and it consumed them all. Nothing stops it.”

“And the Black Dagger won’t, either,” Sarai retorted.’ “Look at it!”

“The dagger cuts all other wizardry,” Telurinon insisted. “We’ve never found anything else that stops wizardry so completely.”

Startled, Sarai glanced at Tobas and Karanissa, then announced, “That’s not true, Guildmaster, and you know it.”

Telurinon gaped. The rest of the party, soldiers and magicians alike, was suddenly absolutely silent, and Sarai could feel them all staring at her, giving her their full attention. Accusing a Guildmaster of lying, before such an audience as this...

“I saw it myself,” Sarai insisted. “There’s a place in the Small Kingdoms somewhere where wizardry doesn’t work; it brought down & flying castle, by the gods! That could stop the Seething Death!”

Telurinon recovered quickly. “Oh, that” he said. “Well, yes, there is such a place. We had hoped to transport the Seething Death there, in fact, but it turned out to be impossible.”

“It dissolved the Transporting Tapestry,” Tobas confirmed.

“It ate away the chunk of floor we tried to move,” a warlock added.

“It can’t be moved,” Vengar agreed.

Sarai looked from face to face, trying to think. “You can’t move the Seething Death,” she said.

Several voices muttered affirmation.

“Can you move the dead area?” she asked. “As the saying has it, if the dragon won’t come to the hunter, then the hunter must go to the dragon.”

For a moment, silence descended, broken only by the hissing of the Death, as everyone considered this.

“I don’t see how,” Tobas said at last. “It’s not a thing, it’s a place. Certainly wizardry couldn’t move it, since wizardry doesn’t work there.”

“Witchcraft does,” Sarai pointed out. Karanissa had demonstrated as much.

“Yes, but Lady Sarai, it’s a place,” Tobas insisted. “Even if, say, moving that entire mountain would be enough to move it, how could you bring it eighty leagues to Ethshar? Witches couldn’t do it, not unless you had thousands upon thousands of them, probably more witches than there are in the World. Warlocks could, perhaps—if they were all willing to accept the Calling. Sorcery, demons—I don’t think so.”

“Not sorcery,” Kelder of Tazmor agreed.

“Nordemonology,” Kallia confirmed.

“Then can you create a new one?” Sarai demanded. “A new dead area, here in the palace?”

Tobas hesitated and looked at Telurinon.

“No,” the Guildmaster said, quite emphatically.

“The spell is lost,” Tobas agreed.

Intending to make a point, Sarai turned to look at the Seething Death and involuntarily found herself backing away—the wall of seething ooze had drawn visibly nearer while she argued. Shaken, and after having moved several feet farther down the corridor, she turned back to Tobas and demanded, “You’re sure of that?”

He nodded. “The only Book of Spells that ever held it was burned, over four hundred years ago—in 4763,1 think it was.” He added helpfully, “They hanged the wizard who used it.”

“But it was done by wizardry in the first place?” Sarai asked.

Telurinon glared at Tobas.

“Yes,” Tobas said.

“And the spell was written down?” Sarai asked.

“By Ellran the Unfortunate, in 4680,” Tobas said.’ “That was when he discovered it.” He smiled wryly. “By accident. Just the way Tabaea made the Black Dagger by accident. Ellran never used the spell again, but his apprentice did, and got hanged for it. And the book was burned.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Sarai remarked.

“It’s a sort of specialty of mine, if you’ll recall—I told you that,” Tobas said. “It’s why I was brought here in the first place. As you know, I have a personal interest—or at least, I used to.” “If you know that much about this spell,” Vengar asked, “can’t you recover it somehow?”

“If you know the true name of the apprentice, and when the spell was used,” Mereth volunteered, “the Spell of Omniscient Vision ought to let me see the page it was written on. We never knew enough about the countercharm for the Seething Death, but this one...”

“No! ”shouted Telurinon. “Mereth, I forbid it! Stopandthink what you’re proposing! The overlord’s palace, dead to wizardry? The Guild could no longer...”

He stopped, abruptly, looking about wildly, as if realizing that he was about to say far too much in front of far too many people. Then he shouted, “No! We’ll try the Black Dagger, and if that doesn’t work we can evacuate the city...” Lady Sarai, moving as quickly as she could without her cat abilities—rabbits were quick, but not as fast in their reactions as cats—stepped up and, with her left hand, grabbed the front of Telurinon’s robe. The Black Dagger, in her right hand, pressed against his chest.

“Listen to me, Guildmaster,” she said. “You and your stupid spells are destroying the overlord’s palace—and maybe the rest of the city, maybe the rest of the World—and you’re worrying about saving your Guild’s secrets, your Guild’s power? You’re worried that maybe you won’t be able to eavesdrop any more, won’t be able to threaten the overlord with your spells and curses? That you might have to really give up meddling in politics? Well, I’ve got a real worry for you, Telurinon—this dagger. I don’t intend to try it on the Seething Death, Telurinon—I intend to use it on you. It’ll eat your soul, you know—it sucks the essence right out of you, doesn’t even leave a ghost.”

She didn’t know whether this was truth or lie—but right now, she didn’t care. She pressed the point harder against the old wizard’s chest, piercing the fabric of his robe.

Telurinon gaped at her. “You can’t do this!” he said. “The Guild...”

“The Seething Death is going to kill us all anyway if we stay here,” Sarai told him. “And besides, I don’t think your Guild is on your side in this one. Has anyone tried to stop me?”

Telurinon turned and looked.

Tobas and Mereth and Heremon were standing there, unmoving; Heremon at least had the grace to look somewhat abashed, and Algarin had turned away rather than watch. Further back, the other magicians were watching, but showed no signs of helping the Guildmaster. The soldiers were obviously ready to cheer Lady Sarai on.

“I don’t know what spells you people are talking about,” a soldier called, “but I’ve about had my fill of the Wizards’ Guild here. If anyone harms Lady Sarai, he’ll answer to me!”

Several growls of agreement, not all from soldiers, were enough to convince Telurinon.

“Very well,” he said, “very well. We’ll try the Spell of Omniscient Vision, as Mereth said, and if we can find Ellran’s forbidden spell we’ll try that. But if it doesn’t work, Lady Sarai, then we’ll try the Black Dagger!”

“Agreed,” Sarai said, stepping back and releasing the Guild-master’s robe.

“I need my scrying stone for the Spell of Omniscient Vision,” Mereth said, “and I left the stone at home. Besides, I need a totally dark room, and I don’t know of any in the palace.”

“Then go home and do it there,” Sarai said. “I’ll come with you,” Tobas ofiered, “to write down Ellran’s spell. Besides, I want to see this.”

Telurinon started to say something, but before he could speak, Sarai said, “And I think it would be best if Guildmaster Telurinon returned to the Guildhouse, wouldn’t it, to see how things stand there?”

He glared at her, then looked over the crowd of magicians and decided not to argue. Sarai knew she had made an enemy for life of Telurinon, but just now she really didn’t care. As Mereth and Tobas headed down one corridor, circling around toward the northwest gate, while Telurinon and Heremon headed out toward the northeast and the others scattered in various directions, she just wanted to find somewhere to rest. She wondered whether her old room was safe; the Seething Death was nowhere near the southeast wing yet, where her family’s apartments were, but it seemed to be spreading quickly.

Someplace nearer a door would be better. She stopped into one of the little waiting rooms along the northeast corridor, where petitioners could prepare for their audience before the overlord.

The place was a mess; she stared around in dismay, unable to decide whether someone had lived here during Tabaea’s brief reign, or whether it had been used as a garbage dump.

Karanissa appeared behind her. “What are you doing, Lady Sarai?” she asked.

“I wanted to... oh, just look at this place, Karanissa!” She waved a hand at the disaster. The two little silk-upholstered benches had lost their legs and become crude beds; the pink silk itself was slashed and stained several places. The gilded tea table was on its side. Three rotting blankets were heaped on the floor, amid orange peels, eggshells, chicken bones, and other detritus.

Karanissa looked and found nothing to say.

Sarai picked up one of the blankets, holding it between two fingers, then used it to sweep a pile of trash out into the corridor.

“You shouldn’t bother with that, Sarai,” Karanissa said. “For one thing, the Seething Death may eat this room before we stop it.”

“Before the wizards stop it,” Sarai snapped, flinging the blanket aside. “Those idiots who started it in the first place! Wizards who showed Tabaea how to make the Black Dagger, wizards who started the Seething Death, wizards who wouldn’t help my father...”

“Wizards like my husband,” Karanissa replied gently. “And your friend Mereth.”

“Oh, I know,” Sarai said, peevishly. “Most of the wizards I’ve known have been good people, really. But sometimes they don’t know what they’re doing, and it can be so dangerous! And they talk about these stupid rules about not meddling in politics, and then that old fool Telurinon practically admitted they spy on the overlord...” She sat down abruptly, on the floor of the passage.

Karanissa settled down beside her, and for a time the two women simply sat, side by side. In the distance Sarai could hear footsteps and voices—and the hissing of the Seething Death. She looked down at the Black Dagger, which was still in her hand, and noticed a tiny drop of Telurinon’s blood on the point. She shuddered.

“I think I really would have killed him,” she said.

“Probably,” Karanissa said. “Something we all knew during the Great War was that anybody can kill, under the right circumstances. Anybody can be dangerous.”

“Even a harmless little nobody like Tabaea the Thief,” Sarai said. “With this knife in her hand, she was empress of Eth-shar.” She shuddered. “Maybe I should have tried it on the Seething Death—at least then we’d be rid of it.”

“Why didn’t you?” Karanissa asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sarai replied. “It just seemed like such a waste. You have no idea what it’s like, Karanissa—being able to smell everything, to practically see with your nose. And seeing in the dark, like a cat, or hearing all those sounds we can’t hear; being strong and fest...”

“Are you going to do it again, then? Kill more animals?”

Sarai hesitated.

“No,” she said at last. “I don’t need to, with Tabaea gone, and I don’t like killing anything. I don’t want to like killing.”

“Then what will you do with it?”

“I don’t know,” Sarai replied slowly. “I’ll have to think about it.” She stared at the dagger for a moment longer, men looked up at Karanissa and asked, “What’s it like, being a witch?”

Karanissa tried to explain, without much success; from there, the conversation turned to what it was like to be married to a wizard, then what it was like to share a husband, and how she had come to marry Tobas, and how Alorria had come to marry him, as well. Some of this Sarai already knew, of course; me two women had talked during the long walk down the mountains, but only now did Sarai feel able to ask the questions that really interested her.

At last, though, the conversation ran down. The daylight was starting to fade, and the hissing of the Seething Death seemed significantly closer.

“I’m hungry, and you look tired,” Karanissa said. “Would you like to come back to the inn with me for dinner and then borrow a bed?”

“That would be wonderful,” Sarai admitted gratefully. She got to her feet; the Black Dagger tumbled from her lap to the floor, and she picked it up.

She did not sheathe it immediately, but carried it loose—not for any particular reason, but on a whim. The hilt felt curiously reassuring in her hand.

Together, the two women strolled down the northeast corridor and out onto the plaza.

CHAPTER 44

Tabaea had been waiting. She had not caught up to Lady Sarai and her escort on Gate Street, Harbor Street had been crowded, and Quarter Street had soldiers patrolling it; Tabaea had not dared to jump Lady Sarai anywhere on the way. She had not dared to enter the palace, either, with all those guards and magicians about, not without the Black Dagger in her hand. Sooner or later, though, Lady Sarai would come out again; surely she wouldn’t sleep in the palace with the Seething Death still there. She would go out to Serem’s house, or to the barracks in Grandgate, or somewhere. Sooner or later she would be careless, would travel with a small enough escort that Tabaea would have her chance.

There was an abandoned wagon on the plaza, and Tabaea had seized her opportunity; she had lain down in the wagon, out of sight, and watched the door through a crack in the side.

Soon, soldiers and magicians came pouring out the door and marched or ambled away without seeing her; Lady Sarai was not among them, however.

At last, though, as evening approached, Tabaea’s patience was rewarded—out the door, all by themselves, came Lady Sarai and that tall black-haired witch.

And Lady Sarai was holding the Black Dagger in her hand.

Using all her speed, all her agility, Tabaea leaped from the wagon and threw herself at Lady Sarai’s arm.

Sarai didn’t even see her coming; she was still blinking, letting her eyes adjust to the fading sunlight, when something smashed into her arm, spinning her around, knocking the Black Dagger from her hand. She staggered and fell as pain shot through her hand.

“Tabaea!” Karanissa shouted.

The self-proclaimed empress was already past them, and inside the palace, running down the corridor with the Black Dagger in her hand.

“I think I sprained my wrist,” Sarai said, sitting dazed on the pavement. “What happened?”

“It’s Tabaea!” Karanissa told her, reaching down to help her up. “She took the dagger!”

Sarai blinked, then got to her feet as quickly as she could. “I thought you said she was gone,” she said.

“She’s back,” Karanissa answered.

“Why haven’t the wizards killed her?” Sarai asked, still slightly dazed. “They were so hot for vengeance...”

“They hadn’t got around to it yet,” Karanissa answered. “They were too busy worrying about the Seething Death. And what difference does it make why? They didn ’t kill her, and she’s back. Come on!” As Sarai moved uncertainly toward the palace door, Karanissa cupped her hands around her mouth and called to a pair of guards nearby, “Tabaea! Tabaea’s back! Get help! Bring torches!”

Then she and Sarai stepped cautiously into the palace.

Tabaea ran into the dark corridors, dagger held out before her, hurrying toward the throne room. Had Sarai already stopped the Seething Death? That would ruin her plan to become the city’s savior—but on the other hand, she could still resume her role as empress, now that she had the dagger back.

She wondered how big the Seething Death was now—had it kept spreading? Was it still sixty feet across, as Heremon had reported, or had it grown even larger?

Then she heard the hissing and came skidding to a stop.

Full night had fallen outside; the passageway ahead was utterly dark, even to Tabaea’s enhanced vision, but she could hear the Death hissing and bubbling, and she could smell its foul reek. She needed light; guided by smell, she groped on the floor and found a fragment of greasy cotton rag. She wrapped it around a broken table leg and knotted it; then she held this makeshift torch up over her head and felt for the whisper that gave a warlock power.

She knew how to use warlockry to light fires, but she was too nervous to concentrate properly; she had no more than warmed her makeshift torch when a golden light sprang up behind her. She whirled and saw the tall witch holding up a glowing hand— witch-light, Tabaea realized. Lady Sarai was at the witch’s side.

“Stay back!” Tabaea shrieked, brandishing the dagger and backing a few steps down a side-passage.

The other two followed her. “What are you doing in here?” Sarai called. “I thought you had abdicated!”

“That was conditional!” Tabaea shouted back. “That was if you people stopped the Seething Death, but you didn’t! I will, and then I’ll resume my rightful throne!”

Sarai and Karanissa looked at each other.

“You can’t,” Sarai said.

“Yes I can!” Tabaea screamed. “I have the Black Dagger back, and it can cut any wizardry!”

“Not that it can’t,” Sarai said. “Just look at it, Your Majesty!”

Karanissa added, “If you just wait, we have a way to stop it— my husband should be here soon, with the spell.”

“No!” Tabaea shouted. “I’ll stop it! Not you! I will!” She looked past the two women at the sound of approaching steps, heavy boots on marble—soldiers, not magicians.

That was all right; she wanted witnesses, wanted all the soldiers to side with her this time. Torchlight gleamed from stone walls. She waited.

A moment later, a band of torch-bearing guards trotted around the corner and stopped, startled, at the sight of their former empress, clad in black rags, holding off Lady Sarai with a knife.

“Don’t get too close,” Karanissa warned, as she extinguished her witch-light. “She’s got her magic dagger back.”

“That’s right,” Tabaea said, “I have my dagger back, the one I made with a piece of my own soul, and I’m going to use it to save the city from the evil magic these two, and their magician helpers, loosed on us.”

“All right, then,” Sarai said, “if you’re going to do it, do it.”

“I will,” Tabaea retorted. She turned and marched toward the center of the palace, toward the Great Hall, toward the Seething Death. Behind her came Lady Sarai, Karanissa, and half a dozen soldiers, Captain Tikri commanding, Deran Wuller’s son among them.

Then Sarai stumbled and tugged at Deran’s sleeve; he stepped aside to steady her, while the others moved on past. Quickly, she stood on her toes and whispered in his ear, “Go find Tobas of Ifelven, the wizard; if he can work his spell while Tabaea’s still in the palace, she’ll lose all her magic, just be an ordinary girl with an ordinary dagger. Tell Tobas to hurry.” She spoke in as low a tone as she could manage; she well remembered, from her own experience, that dogs and cats would hear best in the higher registers. She would have preferred to have sent Captain Tikri, whom she knew better, but his absence would have been too noticeable; she at least knew Deran as a familiar face, and hoped he was up to the task.

Tabaea whirled at the sound of whispering, but over the growling and hissing ahead she couldn’t make out the words. She saw Lady Sarai hanging back, though, and called, “Come on, Pharea, or Sarai, whichever it really is—come on and see why I deserve to rule Ethshar!”

Sarai came, trotting to catch up—and Deran, moving as silently and quickly as he could, trotted in the other direction, to start a search for Tobas.

A moment later the party reached the point where the Seething Death blocked the way, a wall of greenish boiling ooze across the corridor. At the sight of it Tabaea hesitated, but then she stepped resolutely closer.

“Watch!” she called. She stepped up and slashed at the stuff with the Black Dagger.

The Seething Death erupted in a gout of white steam and a roaring, boiling hiss, and for a moment the watchers were deafened, the vapor blocking their view.

When they could see again, they saw the Seething Death still blocking the passage, unmarked by the dagger’s cut. Tabaea stood before it, holding up the Black Dagger’s hilt.

The blade was gone, dissolved away down to an inch or so from the crossguard.

Tabaea screamed, and Sarai remembered what she had said about putting a part of her soul into the knife. Sarai started forward to help, Karanissa beside her.

“No!” Tabaea shrieked. “Stay back!” She whirled and waved the ruined stump of the Black Dagger at them, and Sarai and Karanissa stopped short. Then the empress of Ethshar turned back to the Seething Death and cried, “It must work,” and thrust her hand at it, stabbing into the ooze.

Her hand went in clear to the wrist.

She screamed again and drew back the stump of her arm, blood spraying. Clutching at it with her left hand, she staggered and toppled...

Into the Seething Death.

Her scream was abruptly cut short, but again, a roar of magical dissolution and a gout of stinking vapor erupted; the two women and the five soldiers backed away.

When the scene quieted, all that remained of Tabaea the Thief was one bloody, severed bare foot, lying on the marble floor of the corridor, inches from the Seething Death.

“Gods,” Captain Tikri muttered under his breath. For a long moment, they all simply stared. And then, abruptly, the hissing of the Death faded away, and the wall of magical chaos puffed outward and vanished like mist that blows in a doorway. The close confines of the corridor were suddenly at the edge of a great open space, a vast bowl-shaped hole in the palace, beneath the soaring central dome.

The Seething Death was gone. Not so much as a single drop of corrosive slime remained; the cut edges of walls and floors shone clean and sharp. Sarai and her companions could see the fragment of wall that had once been one end of the throne room, could see into rooms and passageways on six levels, from the lower dungeons to the overlord’s private apartments. Sarai imagined that the Arena might look like that, if all the seats and floors were removed.

And standing in the open end of the corridor directly opposite their own was Tobas, holding a knife and a handful of brass shards. He waved.

For several minutes no one did much of anything; they were all shocked into inactivity by the suddenness of it all.

Then Deran came trotting up from behind. “I didn’t find him, but I saw that the Seething Death was gone,” he called. “Was it in time? Where’s Tabaea? Where’s the dagger?”

Sarai looked down at the hideous fragment that was all that remained of Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar.

“Nowhere,” she said. “Nowhere at all.”

CHAPTER 45

“What did you say the spell was called?” the overlord asked, leaning heavily on Lord Torrut and staring at the hollowed-out ruin of his home. “The one that stopped it?”

“Ellran’s Dissipation,” Tobas answered. “The Wizards’ Guild outlawed it over four hundred years ago, but this was a special case.”

“Telurinon didn’t like it,” Lady Sarai remarked.

“I suspect the higher-ups in the Guild aren’t very happy about it, either,” Tobas said. “In fact, they’ll probably be very annoyed with Telurinon for making it necessary by using the Seething Death.”

“Are there higher-ups in the Wizards’ Guild?” Lord Torrut asked, startled.

“Oh, yes,” Tobas said. “But I don’t know much about them—and I shouldn’t even say as much as I have.” He smiled crookedly. “Fortunately, they can’t see or hear me here.”

The overlord nodded thoughtfully. “That’s going to make rebuilding difficult,” he said. “This place was all built by magic originally, you know—my ancestor Anaran managed to get the largest share of the wizards when the war ended and the army disbanded, and the Guild was a good bit less troublesome about these things back then.” He sighed. “Of course, Azrad lured most of them away later.”

“I’m sure that there are good stonemasons around,” Lord Torrut said.

“Besides,” Tbbas pointed out, “h’s only wizardry that won’t work here; you could have warlocks, or witches, or even de-monologists do the repair work, if you wanted to.”

“I might just leave most of it open,” the overlord said, looking up into the dome. “As a sort of memorial.” Then he turned to Lady Sarai and said, “It’s going to make your job as Minister of Justice more difficult, too.”

“My father usually relied on theurgy, my lord,” Sarai replied. “That won’t have changed.” She thought, but did not mention, that just now she wasn’t particularly inclined to trust wizards— or any other magicians, really.

Ederd nodded. “I suppose,” he said. “And if I haven’t said so before, let me say now that I share your loss; your father was a good man and a faithful servant. I truly regret that my own health would not permit me to attend the funeral.” He coughed, as if to demonstrate that he was not yet fully recovered from the indisposition that had kept him in seclusion for a sixnight after Tabaea’s death. Then he turned to Tobas. “You know, I used to have protective spells around this place,” he said. “Wards and alarms and so forth. Not that they did much good against that poor girl and her magic dagger. Do you think you could put them back? They were on the outside of the building, I believe.”

“No, my lord,” Tobas said. “While I kept it as confined as I could, even to the point of risking failure, the dead area extends over the entire palace and the surrounding plaza and out onto Circle Street to the northwest—I wasn’t at the center of the building when I performed the spell, of course, since the Seething Death was in the way. I’m afraid that the wards can never be restored.”

“All the way to Circle Street? That will make the parades at Festival a bit difficult.”

“It might be, my lord,” Lord Torrut ventured, not looking at Ederd, “that we have, perhaps, used more wizardry around here than is entirely good for us.”

Ederd snorted. “We often haven’t used as much as I would like,” he said. “The Wizards’ Guild hasn’t always been very cooperative. And they always seem to know what’s going on— when I want something done, they’ll insist I yield on some other point.”

“That should change,” Lady Sarai pointed out. “They can’t see what happens in the palace anymore.”

“Which might mean that they’ll assume the worst,” Ederd said. Then he shrugged. “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now.” He turned away, forcing Lord Torrut to turn, as well.

“At least they can maintain their reputation for implacable vengeance,” Lady Sarai pointed out. “It was Telurinon’s spell that killed Tabaea.”

“And don’t doubt for a minute that they’ll take every advantage of that,” Lord Torrut said. “They’ll boast of having saved Ethshar.”

“But on the other hand,” Tobas replied, addressing himself to Ederd, “it’s going to be hard to hide the feet that we made some very bad mistakes, especially if your lordship does leave the interior of the palace open, as you suggested. I doubt that even the Guild will be able to stop the rumors of how Tabaea came by her abilities, or to hide how badly we bungled the use of the Seething Death.”

“And that will probably turn most of them foul-tempered and reluctant to serve me,” Ederd pointed out. “It’s been my experience that most wizards are not so reasonable as yourself, Tobas.”

Tobas acknowledged this praise with a nod of his head.

“It may be, my lord,” Lady Sarai said, “that there will be gains elsewhere, to offset any loss of cooperation from the Wizards’Guild.”

The overlord glanced at her as he started down the corridor. “Oh?” he said.

Sarai nodded. She looked quickly at Tobas, the only magician present, and decided that he could be trusted. Besides, it could hardly stay secret for long. “It would seem,” she said, “that the Council of Warlocks is interested in leasing space here in the palace that would be used for their meetings and, perhaps, other activities. I was approached on the matter this morning.”

Ederd looked at her thoughtfully. “Go on,” he said.

“Well, naturally, I said that I would need to consult with you about it, but that I thought it might be done—and that perhaps arrangements could be made to pay part of the rent in services, rather than gold.” She smiled. “Of course, we all know that they want to be sure their meetings can’t be observed by wizards; despite their cooperation against Tabaea, they do see the Wizards’ Guild as a rival.”

“You think allowing these warlocks in the palace would be wise?”

“I think that if they meet here, wizards won’t be able to observe them, but we will. And I think that having the Council of Warlocks in your debt can’t hurt.”

Ederd nodded.

Sarai cleared her throat, and added, “If you wish, my lord, I could send messages to the two witches’ organizations, the Sisterhood and the Brotherhood...”

“It bears thinking about,” the overlord agreed. He glanced at Sarai again. “It interests me, Lady Sarai, that the warlocks came toyow.”

“Well, my lord,” Sarai said, “I’ve dealt with them before, in my duties as your investigator.”

“My investigator,” Ederd echoed. “And my Minister of Justice, at least until your brother is old enough, and well enough, for the job—if he ever is. And it seems that your recent actions have made you my liaison to every magician in Ethshar, as well. You’ll be a very busy young woman.”

“In your service, my lord.” She bowed.

“While we were in port, the rumors among the sailors aboard my ship mentioned you, you know,” the overlord said.

“Really, my lord?”

He nodded. “They scarcely mentioned the Wizards’ Guild. It seems they credit you, Lady Sarai, with forcing Tabaea back into the palace and trapping her with the Seething Death while this counterspell of young Tobas’s was performed. That you offered Tabaea her life, but without magic, and that she chose to perish instead. The tone of the accounts was frankly admiring.” Hesmiled. “It’s a good beginning for a Minister of Justice to have such a reputation.”

“It isn’t...”

The overlord held up a hand, silencing her. “The truth of the matter really isn’t as important, you know, as what people believe.”

“But...”

“There are also stories,” Ederd continued, “about the meetings you held before Tabaea’s identity was known. They say you have sorcerers who would do anything to please you, that a cult of assassins fears you. And it’s said you can vanish and reappear at will, that you’re a master of disguise.”

Sarai was too astonished to protest further.

“You will understand, I am sure,” the overlord said, “that at my age, I am no longer looked upon with awe or fear; that my son, while a good man, has utterly failed to distinguish himself in a lifetime of being my heir and nothing else, and furthermore managed to do nothing but flee when Tabaea threatened his inheritance; and that it’s therefore very useful for me to have someone in my service who is looked upon as a hero, who is believed to have performed superhuman deeds in the interest of keeping me on my throne, or restoring me to it—and who had a chance to take that throne herself, as you are presumed to have had when Tabaea was dead and I not returned, yet who turned that chance down. The existence of such a hero will, I am sure, discourage attempts to emulate poor little Tabaea. I therefore order you, Lady Sarai, as your overlord, not to deny any rumors about your abilities, or about secret knowledge you may possess, no matter how absurd.”

Sarai’s mouth opened, then closed. She stared at Ederd, then finally managed, “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Then I believe we part here; I’m using Lord Torrut’s quarters until my own apartments are repaired.” He turned, supported by the guard commander, and hobbled down a side corridor.

For a moment, Lady Sarai watched him go. Then she walked on, not toward her own apartments, but toward an exit from the palace. She wanted to walk in sunlight and fresh air, to think. She did not feel ready to talk to her brother and his nurse.

Besides, she had not yet decided which quarters were hers; should she return to her own old room, or take her lather’s?

It was a trivial matter, really, but right now, after sixnights of worrying about usurpers and murderers, World-shaking magic and matters of life and death, she preferred to think about trivia.

She emerged onto the plaza and looked out at the city of Ethshar of the Sands, the streets and houses stretching away in all directions. Directly ahead of her a wisp of smoke from a kitchen fire was spiraling slowly upward.

It reminded her of the smoke from her father’s pyre. He was really gone, now—his soul was free, risen to the gods on that smoke.

She wondered whether Tabaea’s soul had been freed when her body was destroyed, or whether the Seething Death had consumed that, as well. And what of the various people killed by the Black Dagger? No necromancer, of any school, had ever been able to find any trace of their ghosts, either in the World or elsewhere.

She supposed she would never know. There were a great many things she supposed she would never know.

But that would never stop her from learning what she could.