Night of the Eye (26 page)

Stunned by the viciousness of the attack, Guerrand bent low and clung to the austritch’s neck, just trying to stay on the creature. One well-placed blow landed square on his right shoulder and knocked him halfway off the austritch, but Guerrand’s determination kept him clinging by his heels. Between swings, he slithered back into the saddle, yanked the bird’s head to the right with the blue scarf, and managed to spur his mount beyond the reach of Lyim’s broom-lance.

“Now who’s taking this too seriously?” gasped Guerrand, his breathing ragged from his efforts to stay on the austritch. “This is supposed to be a game, not a fight to the death!”

Lyim considered Guerrand through narrowed, unfocused eyes. Spurring his animal, he reached out with the broom and deliberately swatted Guerrand’s bird on the thigh. Feathers flying, squawking wildly, the austritch ran off like a beheaded chicken. It took all of Guerrand’s riding skill to stay on the beast and calm it down.

Even the attendants seemed concerned by Lyim’s unscrupulous action. One hastened over to within earshot
of Belize’s apprentice. “This is a friendly contest of honor, sir. Please refrain from blows to the birds, if you will.”

Lyim’s answer was to swing out with his long-handled broom and smash the attendant in the side of his unprotected head, dropping him, unconscious, to the sand.

“Lyim!” gasped Guerrand, “what’s the matter with you?” His friend’s expression was blank, totally devoid of emotion or recognition. He simply sat, as if waiting for instructions.

A horrified gasp rose from the crowd. The other attendant scrambled out on his haunches and dragged his fallen comrade to the sidelines, anxiously watching the motionless Lyim all the while.

Looking at his friend’s face, Guerrand concluded that Lyim’s excessive pride had robbed him of self-control. Guerrand was past pleading or compromise; he had to stop the other apprentice before anyone else was hurt.

Guerrand nudged his austritch backward, his face set as grimly as his opponent’s. Couching the broom under his right arm the way he’d been taught to use a lance, Guerrand lowered his head, leaned forward, and charged straight at Lyim. Unfazed, Lyim urged his own mount toward Guerrand, swinging his broom wildly. Guerrand dipped his broom beneath Lyim’s and rammed it squarely into his opponent’s right shoulder. The broom splintered, sending Lyim to the ground.

Guerrand stopped his austritch immediately and yanked off the bucket helm. Throwing it and the broken broom far away, he slid from the bird and ran to where Lyim lay, moaning and rolling in the sand. The noise of the crowd had raised to a fever pitch.

Kneeling in the sand, Guerrand was relieved to see no blood where his broom had struck Lyim. Still, Guerrand was worried. He knew from experience just how hard Lyim had been hit, with little protection. He plucked the metal bucket from his friend’s head and cradled him in his lap.

Lyim’s eyes cleared of confusion, and he appeared to recognize Guerrand again. The apprentice sounded stunned. “What happened?” he muttered, shaking his head. Wincing, Lyim reached up with his left hand and massaged his sore shoulder.

“You don’t remember?” gasped Guerrand. “You tried to kill me, and nearly succeeded with your own attendant!”

Guerrand would have continued the recounting, concluding with a good tongue-lashing, if he hadn’t felt a booted foot on his fingers in the sand. Guerrand’s gaze followed the foot up, past the neck of the red robe, and he shivered.

“I’ll take my apprentice now, if you’re quite finished batting him around,” Belize said quietly. “He needs my immediate care.”

It was Guerrand’s first meeting with Belize since the tower at Wayreth. Flustered as usual in the wizard’s presence, the young man merely gulped, “Yes, of course,” without even thinking to correct the master of the order’s interpretation of events.

Esme rushed up at that moment and saw the stare Belize gave Guerrand. Watching anxiously as the master mage lifted their friend, her voice was a high squeak. “Is Lyim’s wound serious? He’ll be fine, won’t he?”

Belize’s frightful stare remained on Guerrand, as if that apprentice had asked the question. “I hardly see how that’s your concern,” he said, his purple lips barely moving in the circle of his tiny mustache and goatee. “I had high hopes for you, young man,” he said to Guerrand, “but you’re proving to be a terrible disappointment.” With that, he hitched Lyim more securely in his arms, closed his coal-black eyes, and was gone. The space where he and Lyim had been was filled with red, sulfurous smoke.

“By the gods, he’s creepy,” whispered Esme, squinting as she waved away the acrid-smelling smoke. “Don’t let him bother you, Guerrand. Belize has no
idea the progress you’ve made in your studies. He’s just embarrassed that Lyim lost, after making such a big deal of fighting for him.” She took Guerrand’s arm in both her hands and began to steer them through the crowds. “It’s natural for him to blame you, though it was clearly all Lyim’s idea.”

Guerrand nodded absently, though he secretly wondered if there wasn’t something else he could have done to stop his friend.

“If Belize is that condescending as an instructor,” continued Esme, “I can’t fathom how Lyim tolerates him. No wonder he never seems displeased that Belize is gone so often.”

Guerrand only half heard her. Belize’s parting words had sent a chill running up his spine, a chill that Esme’s consoling chatter could not discharge. Hadn’t old Nahampkin from Thonvil often said that such a chill meant someone was walking on your grave? Guerrand couldn’t describe the feeling as fear, but more as a vague apprehension. It did not speak well for his future in the Order of the Red Robes to be disliked, however unfairly, by the master of the order.

Suddenly the milling spectators reached him, and he was yanked from Esme’s side, tossed high on the shoulders of the crowd, and passed around. The faces beneath him were a smiling, indistinguishable blur. Their joy began to work at the edges of his distraction, until it overwhelmed his feelings of apprehension. His heart lighter, Guerrand actually started to enjoy being the center of attention.

Then, like a beacon in the crowd, one face demanded his notice. Arms folded before him, hands tucked into the bells of his red cuffs, his master, Justarius, was regarding him with an uncharacteristic expression of deep concern.

Guerrand’s apprehension returned in a flash.

“No, Justarius.” Guerrand gulped hoarsely, twirling the delicate
stem of his half-filled wineglass between cold fingers. “I can’t—I won’t—believe Lyim was actually trying to kill me.” His hand shook as he lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed the acrid, blood-red liquid.

If the subject was not enough to jangle Guerrand’s nerves, the audience in Justarius’s private laboratory was. Guerrand had been in Justarius’s lab only twice before. The first time had been part of an orientation tour when he arrived at the villa.

The second trip had been less auspicious. Denbigh had escorted him here after the master discovered that Guerrand, in his impatience to progress, was trying to cast a spell beyond his ability. Justarius never told Guerrand how he’d learned of his attempts, or even allowed Guerrand to explain his actions. The archmage
simply, curtly ordered his apprentice to stop at once and scrub the kitchen as punishment. Ever after, Guerrand remembered his master’s pronouncement that very little occurred in Villa Rosad of which Justarius was unaware.

Both times Guerrand had been awed by the number of scrolls, books, and other paraphernalia Justarius managed to keep in this relatively small room. Everything was meticulously organized and catalogued in the wizard’s head.

The room was more enclosed than others in the villa. It lacked the big windows and skylights so common elsewhere. There was only one small window, and the space would have been very dark if not for the floating glass globes that emitted a soft light. They hovered effortlessly in the air and could be positioned anywhere, creating perfect lighting conditions for whatever task was at hand. The room could easily be made totally lightless as well, a useful condition for some types of spell research.

The master of the villa refilled Guerrand’s wineglass, then strode to the small chest-high window that overlooked the peristyle. “You misunderstood me, Guerrand. I said nothing about someone trying to kill you.” Justarius’s elbow was propped on the high windowsill, but his tone belied the casual pose.

“You asked me if I knew my enemies from my friends,” accused Guerrand, “then what I knew about Lyim. I just assumed you meant …”

“Do you have reason to assume Lyim wants you dead?”

“Lyim? No!”

“Someone else, perhaps?”

“No!”

Justarius arched one brow. “Your tone suggests otherwise.”

“I’m sorry, Justarius. My tone suggests that this
discussion is making me uneasy.”

“I could use a spell to determine the truth, and you wouldn’t even be aware of it.” Justarius sounded more apologetic than threatening. “I don’t think you want me to do that.”

Guerrand shook his head mutely, torn with indecision. He jumped up and fidgeted with some of Justarius’s component beakers on a nearby table. “If you don’t think someone is after me,” he asked abruptly, “why did you ask about my enemies?”

“Again, you misunderstand me.”

“Then why don’t you stop this cat-and-mouse game,” demanded Guerrand, “and tell me what you suspect. Just what do you want from me?” He stopped, and his hand flew to his mouth in horror. “I’m sorry, master. I should not—”

“Never mind, Guerrand.” Justarius moved to sit on the corner of his ornately carved mahogany desk. “Passion—anger, even—is part of a balanced character. Just guard against its becoming impertinence.”

He motioned for Guerrand to sit again. “I did not intend to play cat to your mouse,” he explained. “I simply wished to learn what you knew without biasing it with my own observations. I will share those with you first, if it makes it easier for you to speak.”

Justarius hesitated, then spoke softly over steepled fingers. “There was magic at play in your jest with Lyim—”

“Magic?” exclaimed Guerrand. “But we were forbidden to use it! Lyim knew that as well as I.” He found himself getting angry at his friend all over again. “When next I see him, I’ll—”

“I don’t believe Lyim was at fault,” interrupted Justarius. He frowned as he hopped off the desk, then came back to the table. “You have a most unfortunate habit of jumping to conclusions, Guerrand. You would do well to curb the tendency, for that is the sort of thing
that might one day lead you into a dire dilemma.”

Guerrand, though still confused, had the grace to hang his head at the observation. “I will endeavor to correct it, Justarius. Please continue. I promise not to speak until you’re finished.”

Justarius swirled the herbs and slices of lemon in the acrid drink he favored. “As I said, I’m nearly certain Lyim was not the spellcaster. In fact, the spell was cast
on
him.”

Justarius looked up as a sound blurted from Guerrand, who had obviously begun a question, then remembered his vow of silence.

“My guess is that the spell affected his emotions,” Justarius supplied, accurately guessing the nature of Guerrand’s unspoken question. “Didn’t you notice the change in Lyim’s attitude during the jest, his sudden burst of strength?”

Guerrand blinked. “Of course, but I attributed it to anger over not winning as easily as he’d expected. Lyim does not like to appear the fool.”

“Who but a court jester does?” Justarius shook his dark head briefly. “No, it was a spell. The questions that remain are why it was cast, and who cast it? In a city of mages, it could have been anyone. I was there, as was Esme, and every other apprentice in the city. Perhaps it was simply a mage who’d bet on the outcome and wished to guarantee victory for his favorite.”

“If you truly believed that, we wouldn’t be here,” said Guerrand.

“Who do
you
think cast the spell?” asked Justarius.

Guerrand felt that cold chill up his spine as he remembered his conversation with Lyim’s master and Esme. “The obvious answer is Belize. He clearly doesn’t like me. Esme thinks the mage was mad because Lyim lost after he’d made such a fuss about fighting for his master.”

“Highly unlikely.” Justarius chuckled out loud.
“Belize cares less for what others think of him than anyone I know. Frankly, I was surprised to see him at the fair at all.” He shook his head firmly again. “I find it difficult to believe that Belize would risk a spell on his own apprentice, or try to kill one of his order, for such a petty emotion as pride. Still, we will not eliminate anyone from our list of suspects.”

“Who else is on the list?”

“Who, indeed?” asked Justarius archly.

Guerrand drew a big breath and let it out in a rush. “Perhaps it’s my family.”

The answer surprised even Justarius. “Your family? You told me your brother disapproved of magic.”

“Despises it,” corrected Guerrand. “I believe I told you Cormac would be furious if he found out I had joined the order.” Guerrand set down his wineglass. “What I didn’t say was that he might be angry enough to kill me because I ran out on an arranged political marriage.”