Arcanum (10 page)

Nikoleta stopped before she left the cloister and looked behind her. There, in the far corner, was the adept master. Almost, but not quite, impossible to detect, hidden in shadow and shrouded in white. He was watching her, to see what she’d do, to see whether she’d be obedient. Perhaps he hadn’t thought she’d spot him, but he made no further effort to hide. Why should he?

She gripped Thaler’s letter more tightly, and hurried down the vaulted corridor to the projector room.

When she’d first seen it, she’d been struck by its simplicity. For most novices, the discovery that spellcasting was a matter of will, disfigurement and rote learning that left little room for either aptitude or aesthetics was a surprise soon overcome. The same with the projector, which was nothing more than a glass sphere on a stand in the middle of an empty room. And even then, the stand was superfluous, and the sphere only there to be a focus. Masters, she was told, didn’t even need that.

She was alone, which was good, because she wasn’t used to queuing, and she didn’t need an audience, either, even though she’d projected dozens of times, never failing to connect after that first time, which had been humiliating and excruciating in equal measure. Not quite: the embarrassment had burnt long after the whip-marks had faded.

As she opened the door, she was struck by the smell, heavy and decaying, but on sight of the glass, she blotted it out. “Hoson zês, phainou. Mêden holôs su lupou.”

Hesitation wasn’t part of the spell. She walked straight up to the stand and rested the fingertips of her right hand on the top of the sphere, barely touching the cool, clear surface. The whole world was within, and Nikoleta had to search it all for a knot of existence that lay to the east of her. She closed her eyes and felt her concentration waver.

That shouldn’t have happened. She stepped back, wiped her hand on her robe, then extended her hand again.

She stared through the convoluted refractions of the glass to its very centre, the place where she wanted to be, suspended in the middle of a ball of nothing. Then she closed her eyes again.

The glass was black, a black hole she could pass any object through, like a letter, to anywhere she imagined, such as the Protector of Wien’s offices. Something was tapping at her hand. Slowly, rhythmically.

Nikoleta opened her eyes, and saw watery brown dribbles running down her wrist. She looked up.

She jerked back so fast she pushed the glass sphere away from her, the reflex too instinctive to overcome. She landed on her back, the stone floor jarring her all the way from her backside to her jaw. The sphere rolled up the indentation on top of the stand, and the whole thing rocked.

Her breath caught in her throat. The stand teetered for a moment, before the heavy glass ball rolled back, and the stand rocked again. This time towards her. The sphere launched itself into the air.

She unfroze and lunged for it, her hands spread wide like a net.

Nikoleta was entirely unprepared for just how heavy it was. It crushed her fingers against the worn flagstones and she gasped. The stand banged down next to her, narrowly missing both her and the projector.

Tears of relief welled up and trickled down the side of her nose. If she’d failed to catch it, if it had been chipped or broken, she’d … she didn’t know what they’d do to her. She was certain it wouldn’t have been pleasant, and it would have lasted a long time. Bruised fingers were a good exchange.

Thaler’s letter had flopped down on the floor by her side, lying like a wounded bird with half-open leaves for wings. She dragged it closer with her heel, and slid it so that she could roll the sphere onto it. The pressure left her hands, and her blood pulsed into them.

The pain was exquisite, and she tasted copper in her mouth. Her fingers were claws. It hurt to move them almost as much as it did not to move them. She gasped and gagged, but no one seemed to hear her.

She needed to right the stand, and somehow get the projector back on top. Instead, she lay back again, hooking a finger under her veil and drawing it back so she could breathe more easily. The cloth was stained with smears of whatever had landed on her hand.

With every beat of her heart, the ache in her fingers ebbed and flowed. It would pass. Her almost destroying the projector was far more serious. As was the pair of feet she could see, swinging slowly in the dark of the rafters.

It was that smell again, and the liquid was now pooling on the floor, splattering as it landed.

He – it looked like a he, it was difficult to tell, but there were few women adepts – couldn’t have been up there long or there would have been more mess on the stones beneath. Long enough for his clothes to become saturated, though. Half an hour to an hour. Certainly dead, and no spell was going to change that. Not in a good way, anyway.

She glanced at the door. It remained closed. She stared up. The body would stay up there until someone fetched it down, or it rotted.

The projector’s stand was still lying down, the sphere itself still on the sheet of paper. There was a man hanging from the ceiling, and foul discharge dripping off him. Her hands were starting to really hurt now, and one nail had begun to go purple. The message she should have already sent remained unreceived.

Yes, of course this could be worse, she thought. It could be a lot worse, and if I don’t do something about it now, it will be.

She levitated up into the darkness above, until she was face to face with a fellow adept.

Even with his skin a dark purple, his staring eyes veined red with broken blood vessels, his fat, black tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth, she recognised him. She lit a flame in her bruised hand so that she could make certain: Richart.

He’d joined as a novice a year after her, and had progressed further than she had. He’d had fewer floggings and more mentoring from the senior adepts, while she’d had to struggle for every spell that marked her skin. She knew him. She didn’t like him, but there was so little fellow feeling among the adepts it was a wonder she didn’t actively hate him.

He’d hanged himself. Slowly, quickly, it was difficult to say. The knot he’d tied around the roof beam probably wouldn’t have withstood a long drop, so she imagined he’d slipped the noose over his neck and simply pulled himself up on the other end of the rope. Sorcerers didn’t lack will-power, quite the opposite. It was a surfeit of self-importance that led them to the art. So strangling himself while retaining the ability to save himself wasn’t surprising.

Neither was the fact of suicide. Novices tended to run away if they lacked sufficient steel to be degraded, beaten and humiliated day in, day out. Adepts either killed themselves or killed each other – duels were common, as were fatalities from the injuries sustained. There was no question of anyone else intervening. One less adept meant one less to compete for the prize of being received into the Order of the White Robe.

So she’d seen death, up close and intimate, for years, and for years before that, too.

It was that Richart had done it at all. She pulled back a little, and noticed the letter in his hand. It was similar to hers, but with a more impressive seal. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in, so it was just a matter of coaxing her fingers into movement. Hard, but not impossible.

No letter from the library for Richart. His was from Trommler, Gerhard’s chamberlain. There wasn’t enough light to read by, and she didn’t want to set the paper on fire, so she retreated to the ground and used the magical lights on the walls instead.

It was to Mad Leopold of Bavaria, warning him to keep the Teutons under close watch. Or else. Richart had plainly opened it and read it, tried to deliver it, and killed himself rather than explain why he couldn’t do it. It seemed at first sight a weak, stupid, pathetic, impulsive response.

But he could no longer use the projector.

What if no one could? What if everyone was as weak as Richart? What if she, due to her natural and untaught abilities, was the only one left among the adepts who could still shift their ink and cast a spell? She’d felt plenty of magic at the White Tower. Or had that all been what she’d expected, and had she fooled herself into believing it so?

Nikoleta decided it was time to go. Richart could swing for a little longer; she didn’t care. She briefly scanned again the contents of the second letter, and cast it to the floor. The projector could stay where it was, too. Both letters would remain unsent tonight, or any other night. She might need to fight the adept master as soon as she left the room, and she wanted to save her energy.

That was a decision quickly and easily made: if he confronted her, demanded to know why she’d failed in her task, then she’d duel with him. He must have known about Richart, because it must have been him who’d given Richart the letter. He’d wanted Nikoleta to join him.

She waited by the door to see if she could sense anyone outside. Nothing.

Using the latch was more difficult than it should have been, but it was only momentary pain. Closing the heavy door quietly behind her made her wince, but no more than that.

The corridor was crowded with shadows. Ghosts, real and imagined, swirled around her, but she pushed her way through. She covered her face again and strode out into the cloister. The adept master was not there.

Tomorrow, then. She would get her answers tomorrow.

Büber watched the sun rise in the east, over the broad Donau plain. He’d already made a fire, boiled some water for a mash, and let it cool out of reach of his tethered horse. It was his turn now, bits of sausage and day-old bread.

As he chewed, he kept one eye on the Teuton’s camp. The fires that had burnt low during the night were restoked before dawn, and a great murmuring noise had risen from the site. They were packing up and getting ready to move on.

Büber had never seen a pitched battle between two armies before – skirmishes, yes, a few people on each side and none of them a hexmaster, but they weren’t planned like a proper war with regiments and steel and horses …

The mere idea of three hundred horsemen arrayed with their banners and armour and lances fascinated him. Part of him wanted the Teutons to throw caution to the wind and come riding across the Simbach bridge just so he could see them. The destruction that would follow in their wake would be terrible, though. Not good for those caught up in it: not good for Carinthia at all.

Then there came the sound of another horse coming along the forest road. He reached for his saddle pack, pulled his sword out of its scabbard and hid it under his legs.

The rider came at a trot, his barrel-chested mount forcing his legs wide.

“Peter?”

Büber shielded his eyes. “Torsten. Just in time for breakfast.”

Torsten Nadel slowed to a walk and gratefully sat back down into his saddle. “Fuck me, the things we have to do for His Majesty.”

“Where were you?” Büber sliced some more sausage with his knife and poked it onto a green twig. “I thought you’d finished checking the passes?”

“I was on my way down. Up near Ennsbruck. Fucking giants chased me from pillar to post.” Nadel slid out of the saddle and put his hands in the small of his back. His spine clicked.

“The same up at the Katschberg.” Büber put the meat on to roast. “Some idiot Venetian tried to get a donkey-train over the top and got ripped to pieces for his pains. I’ve never known giants come down that low this soon. Did you tell the prince?”

“Wegener came through last night when he told me about Walter of Danzig’s little show. Guessed that you could do with some help.” Nadel crouched down next to the fire, warming his face and inhaling the smells of cooking. “But yes, I dropped by the White Fortress on the way.”

Büber pointed to the far side of the bank. “That’s the Teutons. Nearby should be some Bavarian spearmen, but I didn’t see any last night. They’re probably keeping the Teutons against the river in case they get the urge to wander further afield for forage.”

Nadel watched for a moment, at the smoke and dust rising through the treetops. “How did they take it, getting the body of their leader back flatter than when they last saw him?”

“I didn’t wait for a reply. Sneaked through the town in the dead of night, and just got close enough so that when I whacked the horse on its arse, one of their pickets spotted it. After that I was too busy running away to see what they did.” Büber turned the sausages and reached for a chunk of bread. “They began striking camp from before first light, but they haven’t started off yet, in whichever direction they decide. Maybe they stopped to burn him, if Teutons burn their dead.”

“You’ve got your sword out, Peter.”

“I didn’t know it was you, did I?” He passed Nadel the bread and resheathed his blade. He chewed at a finger stump. “I’d rather have an honest-to-gods sword in my hand than make a mistake.”

“We’re prince’s men, Peter. We’re Carinthian. In Carinthia.”

“I used to think that was enough. I mean, look at the pair of us. We’ve enough fingers between us for one normal man and scars enough for ten. We’ve been attacked by every bastard animal, real or magical, within the borders, and that’s okay. It’s part of the job.”

“Sure, but…”

“You ever had to fight another man? When you hadn’t been drinking?”

“I was going to say yes, but no. Not if you put it like that.” Nadel reached out and snagged the stick holding the sausage slices. He ripped his bread open and slid the meat inside.

“Why’s that then?”

“Because no one’s fucking insane enough to try it? They don’t want their mind burnt out or the ground beneath them turned into molten rock.”

“I’ve done it. By accident. You come across some outlaws who’ve wandered too close to the boundary markers and forgotten whose land they’re on.” Büber stared into the fire. “Last time must have been ten years ago now.”

“So why fill your sword-hand now?” Nadel was making short work of his food, and his horse was slowly advancing on the bucket of cooling mash.

“Another kid went missing yesterday.”

“Fuck. Where?”

“Some village near the lakes. On the road you’ve just ridden down.”