Sourcethief (Book 3) (50 page)

The temptation was strong to rush to her aid, but it
was a futile gesture. It would likely get him killed, and anger Soria even if
it did not. Any help ought to come from a more welcome hand.

"Brannis," Rakashi called out. "Soria
has found a sorcerer among our foes!"

* * * * * * *
*

A sorcerer?
Brannis's eyes went wide. He was numb to the aether and preoccupied with his
own battles. Had he really been so oblivious to the presence of magic at work
in the fight?

He raced toward the crunching sounds of feet
trampling leaves, pausing only to hack his way through his own field of
arboreal debris. He heard the crackle of fire as he approached.

"
Eket jimagu denpek wanapi
,"
Brannis heard the chant.
What fool actually uses fire in the woodlands?
That had been the barb in his own ruse. Brannis chopped twice through a fallen
tree and kicked the resulting log out of his way. Once through the gap, he had
his answer.

The Tezuan sorcerer was flinging fire bolts in
Soria's direction, and it was all she could do to evade them. Little bonfires
were already ablaze in the brush, all around.

"Brannis, look out!" Soria warned. The
sorcerer turned his way and stepped back. Brannis broke into a run.

“Kolo ketenxu mafira
,” the sorcerer spoke. Brannis
put his arm up to shield his face, not recognizing the spell until it was too
late. His charge faltered as the ground gave way beneath him, watery as a thick
soup. It hardened again with Brannis chest deep in the ground.

The sorcerer made some remark in Kheshi that was
lost on him, then turned to face Soria.

"
Eket jimagu denpek
—"

A spray of dirt, rocks and small plants showered the
Tezuan sorcerer as Avalanche swept up great furrows of earth at him. The fire
bolts never materialized, and the sorcerer stumbled back, clutching his head.

Curses can be conveyed through tone and timbre
alone, breaking even the sturdiest of language barriers. The Kheshi language
was no exception.

"
Haxu tenmal ssarxu wegam
," Soria
chanted, twisting her fingers in the direction of the sorcerer. A lick of
indigo lightning sputtered from her hand, ending in mid-air, several paces
short of the sorcerer, who was gathering himself after his misspent spell.
Soria swore using the same Kheshi curses, but in a prettier voice.

Soria charged in, and the Tezuan sorcerer set
himself in a warrior's stance to defend himself with his fists. Brannis began
working furiously with Avalanche to loosen the earth all around him enough to
escape.

The sorcerer took the initiative, not waiting for
Soria's attack. He kicked out.

Soria's second attempt at the spell was silent. The
lightning was black as it leapt from her hand to slam into the Tezuan sorcerer.
He was thrown back and lay twitching and smoking on the forest floor before
lying still.

"Stupid hands," Soria groused. "They
just don't get enough practice at all that wiggling you Veydrans use." She
gave Brannis a wink and knelt to help him out of his hole.

They set about taking stock of their losses. Rakashi
came down from his perch and began rounding up however many horses could still
be found alive. Brannis cleared paths among the fallen trees to make the
searching easier. They had little time, for the fires had already spread beyond
what Soria's limited magic could be expected to extinguish.

"That was marvelous," Tomas called out as
he rode over with Abbiley still tucked safely in front of him. "You folk
are amazing protectors. I must see that father finds you work in some
capacity."

"You bloody that sword yourself?" Brannis
asked. Tomas was riding with one hand to the reins and a bared sword in the
other, red halfway to the hilt.

"I haven't fenced since I was a lad, but that
poor rascal didn't know that, hey?" Tomas said. His face was aglow—he was
perched on a horse with his lady in his lap, having just slain a brigand to
defend her.

Brannis saw Abbiley twist in Tomas's loose grasp and
kiss him. He was a good man. Perhaps he was not a terribly useful one, but he
could manage in dire need, and that counted for something. Abbiley was in good
hands.

Brannis turned and left them to their affections.

The
Dhakoun
sailed the skies above the Kadrin
plains, her sails tattered and blackened, the rigging repaired by inexpert
hands. They had sailed around Garsley, leaving it to the advance of the ground
forces that Jinzan's apprentices were massing back in Weiselton. Jinzan had
grander plans for a richer target.

The countryside that ran below them was fields as
far as the horizon in both directions, crisscrossed by roads and dotted with
farmhouses. The landscape switched from green, to golden, to brown and back
again as the crops shifted, all pale and washed bleak in the starlight.

The Kadrin ship had plenty of maps aboard. The
landward maps were not as precise as the nautical charts Jinzan was accustomed
to. He knew how to plot a heading, be it in air or sea, but there were no maps
of air currents, and no matter how careful the plan, that unknown loomed over
him. Jinzan's raids had come mainly in daylight hours, purely by mischance. If
his course flew true, Whitefield would feel his wrath in darkness.

Jinzan paced the decks, his sleepless habits giving
no rest to his weary mind. Twice since they had begun their raids he had tried
to sleep despite Aolyn's objections. She found the thought unbecoming of a
grand necromancer. I was an easy judgment for her to make—she was not the one
who had been left wondering about the fate of a Telluraki twin, unseen for
countless days. Jinzan's awareness of Denrik had gone dim. His thoughts did not
sit quiet enough in his skull to allow him to relax and view Tellurak with
waking eyes. His memory of Denrik's recent exploits was muddied as well. He
could not separate out anything as being distinctly recent—activities on the ship,
the Katamic Sea, all things he had done most of his life.

His restless mind had kneaded ideas, punched them,
twisted them into shapes. He had a sheaf of notes for how he would prepare his
trap. It was likely that the demon would rush to the aid of a city that could
call for aid by speaking stone. He had to be prepared for the eventuality.

The sky was lightening off the port side of the
ship. Jinzan swore.
What sort of necromancer bides his days in daylight
hours alone?

"Morning impends, master," Aolyn informed
him, rubbing the wound raw. Jinzan glared at her, stopping any further remark
on the subject.

An odd line stood out from the fields ahead of them.
Jinzan watched and waited as the
Dhakoun
drew him closer to it.
An
aqueduct
! It was the sign he had been waiting for. All the aqueducts of the
central plains ran from the Wellspire in Whitefield. They served only a small
portion of the endless expanse of arable land, and ran for less than a day's
ride.
We might make it with darkness to spare, at last
.

They rose higher in the sky on Jinzan's command. He
had a destination in mind, but no clear map of the city to find it by. The
aerial view of Whitefield would have to be his map, bereft of annotation.

The city wall appeared in the distance, a lone, flat
ring on the plains amid a sea of farmland. They flew above, not stopping at the
nearest defensive post as they usually did. Instead, Jinzan searched the
predawn streets for a building he knew would be there. Every Academy student
had to memorize the cities that had speaking stones, and the Kadrin Empire was
not wont to place them in hovels or public squares.

Whitefield separated itself into a grid of sorts, or
perhaps more like a spider's web. The city walls ran in concentric circles,
growth rings—a sign of the city's humble origins, and its rise. At the very
center stood the Wellspire, rising higher than the city walls and feeding the
aqueducts that radiated out in all directions, spreading water to the city and
beyond.

Jinzan looked through one section, then the next. No
building in the city separated itself readily from the rest. They looped
around, thankful to the deserted streets that no general alarm had yet been
raised. For a city its size, Whitefield was spread thin. Trees and fields, and
even small farms dwelt snugly in its confines. There were houses and shops,
taverns and plazas, workshops and stables. There was nothing that screamed out
its importance beyond a few overfed manor houses and the Wellspire itself.

The Wellspire! Of course
. Jinzan shook his head at his
own sluggish thinking, and ordered the
Dhakoun
to the heart of the city.
They followed one of the aqueducts, racing against the peeking sun that
threatened to wake the populace at any moment. Drawing closer, he saw the
terraces, the balconies, the windows; it was the center of the city in more
than just geography.

"Bring us alongside. Ready the grapples.
Prepare to board," Jinzan rasped. He caught a smirk on Aolyn's face, and
purged it with a glare. Jinzan had picked a balcony at random, figuring that
any assault of the upper floors would be quicker than entering through the main
gates.

The dead crew threw grapples, struggling even to hit
the balcony railing on a stationary building. After a few tries apiece, enough
of the grapples caught for the
Dhakoun
to be hauled up next to the
Wellspire. Jinzan winced, watching as the yardarms were caught against the
outer walls of the spire as the ship was pulled in. There was a scraping and
scratching of wood on stone, and a cracking at last, as the sails were forced
askew.

Jinzan's crew leapt the railings with more
enthusiasm than grace. They spread into the halls of the Wellspire, searching
for the speaking stone. Jinzan followed gingerly. His apprentices seemed
sufficient to subdue whatever resistance they might find, and the dead were all
linked to his mind, capable of reporting the speaking stone's discovery. There
was no need for Jinzan to rush just yet, and he took great care with the notes
he brought along with him.

* * * * * * *
*

"Varnus, I thought you would be seeing to the
arrangements for the security of the wedding, or at least be getting harried by
the nobles over every little detail of your plan," Kyrus said. He was
having tea with a few of those nobles himself, and they were the sort who would
bristle and brood, never mentioning Kyrus's casual attire, but bearing it as a
mark against him for generations.

"I don't ask often. I know you're a busy man,
but ... if you wouldn't mind, I could use a moment with you," Varnus
requested. He looked as sheepish as Kyrus could ever recall seeing him, staring
at the floor, shoulders slumped.

"Of course," Kyrus replied. "If you
will excuse us." Kyrus stood from the table, glad to be free of the tedium
that Celia had foisted upon him by introducing him to a gaggle of wedding
guests. Kyrus had retaliated by studiously not listening to their names. There
were objections of course—strong ones. A dowager sniffed and turned her head
from him; some backwater lord gave him a sound harrumphing.

The palace was overflowing with people. In the halls
it was mostly servants, in the rooms, mainly guests for the wedding. There was
scant room for a quiet conversation anywhere. Kyrus chose the option that
proved the least likely to intersect with celebratory preparations, and led them
down to the dungeons.

Though in some disrepair, the dungeons were kept
tidy under Rashan's watch. He was ill inclined to keep many prisoners around,
preferring either amnesty or execution to confining men for ages on end in
darkness and squalor. Kyrus shooed a jailor out of the watch room and took it
over for himself and Varnus.

"What is it that cannot wait?" Kyrus
asked. He leaned against the jailor's little table, set with bread and ale for
a mid-day meal.

"I'm dead," Varnus said, shaking his head.

"What?" Kyrus exclaimed. "What
happened?"

"It was ... a couple nights ago, I lose track
so easy now. Kidnappers came in the night—all a blur. I got my sword out, but
I'd been asleep and the fella knew his bladework," Varnus said. The guard
captain slumped against the wall.

"Who killed you? Why did you not tell me
sooner?" Kyrus asked. "What of Faolen's twin, and the boy?"

"Faolen told me not to tell you, said you had
enough worries for now. But ... he's been askin' more and more weird questions
lately ... I caught him workin' magic on the boy. Been thinkin' ... not a lot
else to do lyin' in bed these nights. I'm wonderin' if ... maybe Faolen got rid
of me. He'd wanted me gone ... made no secret of it. But I stayed to keep 'em
safe," Varnus said. He glanced down at the jailor's desk, and grabbed the
mug of ale. Varnus downed it in a long gulp. "Think he might still be
workin' for Rashan."

"After the disaster with the Staff of
Gehlen?" Kyrus said, putting a hand to his chin. "I would be
surprised, to say the least. Rashan might not kill him for failure, but trust
him again so soon? That seems unlikely."

"But the questions," Varnus said. He put a
hand on Kyrus's shoulder, leaned his face in close. "He got me thinkin'
maybe you were up to some plot to kill Rashan. He never out and said it, but I
can see where a dog's nose is pointin'."

Kyrus felt a chill, though the air in the dungeon
was cloyingly warm.

"Where can I find Faolen? I think I should have
a word with him," Kyrus said.

"I don't find him. I just let it drop that I'm
looking, and he finds me," Varnus replied with a shrug.

"Ah, very well, in that case—" Kyrus
finished his thought with a spell. The room and a bit of the corridor around it
were shielded in. "Show yourself, Faolen. Yes ... you can see I have you
trapped in with us. I give you a chance to explain your way out of this before
I set fire to everything within my shield."

"How do you know he's—" Varnus began, but
stopped short, his head pulled back. Faolen faded into view, a knife to
Varnus's throat. It was neither a warrior's last resort, nor a sneak's tool,
nor even a kitchen implement. It looked like a letter opener gone sharp, but a
droplet of blood welling at the tip told that it was enough to do its job.

Varnus struggled, but Faolen pulled the knife
tighter against his flesh. "Hold still, you oaf, or I'll kill you by
accident. Brannis, I demand to see the warlock."

Kyrus said nothing. He regarded Faolen with much the
same look that he had seen on the faces of the Society of Learned Men
professors, studying an entomological specimen pinned to a display board.

"Brannis, do something," Varnus pleaded.

"No," Kyrus told them both.

"You are subject of the empire," Faolen
said. "Any demand to see Warlock Rashan must be honored."

"I think you shall find that many of the rules
the warlock sets have difficulty laying hand upon me," Kyrus returned.
"If you would explain yourself, first release Varnus."

"They got me, too," Faolen said, still
keeping tight hold of Varnus with his blade. "It was Tanner, and he had
Stalyart with him. They got the boy back for Zayne."

"Any of that sound true, Varnus?" Kyrus
asked.

"It wasn't Tanner. Even drunk I'd know his
bladework anywhere."

"It was Stalyart that killed you, you
ale-soaked buffoon!" Faolen shouted. "Some protector you turned out
to be!"

"Faolen, now let Varnus go," Kyrus said.

"I want you to swear first—"

Kyrus lost his patience with the ruse. He twisted
knife and wrist himself, prying Faolen away from his hostage. Faolen cried out
in pain, dropping the knife before Kyrus released him. Faolen collapsed seated
to the floor, leaning on the wall for support and cradling a broken wrist.
Kyrus had not had to move a muscle.

"Care to start that sentence again?" Kyrus
asked. When no response was forthcoming, he persisted. "What of Varnus's
claim that you are spying for Rashan? What is the warlock seeking from
me?"

"He's just concerned about your
well-being," Faolen said. "You have so much responsibility—"

"Piss in the wind," Varnus said. "He
wasn't asking after your health, he wanted to know what you've been studying,
what we talked about behind wards and doors."

"Care for one last try?" Kyrus asked.

Faolen faded, melted, and flowed. The image of the
effete illusionist was replaced by the youthful form of the demon warlock.
"Faolen is not the only one versed in illusion, Kyrus. You should have
known better," Rashan said. "I am disappointed in you. Caladris was
never so easily—"

Rashan's voice cut short, his eyes bulged and darted
about madly. Kyrus smirked at him.

"Come on, Rashan. I should not be that easy to
hold you fast—if you really
are
Rashan," Kyrus said. "In fact,
I think I have an idea to make sure."

"What are you thinking, Brannis?" Varnus
said, grabbing him by the arm. "What if this really is Rashan?"

"I would not put the ruse past him, but Rashan
was careful to avoid ever learning my real name. He did not want to be able to
slip, and knowing that the real Brannis was on the other side was all the
knowledge he really needed, anyway," Kyrus explained. "But I intend
to see if he can escape from one of the warded cells. We are in the dungeons
already, so it is the first test that comes to mind."