Magebane (9 page)

It annoyed him, and puzzled him, since when questioned by his most skilled interrogators, very few people would fail to tell all they knew, sooner or later.

Well, no doubt that simply meant that he had not yet brought in the right people to question. He needed to dig deeper, and with a sharper shovel. And now, of course—he allowed himself a small, tight smile—the attempt to assassinate the Prince had given him the perfect opportunity to do so.

If it actually pointed him to the person behind the assassination attempt, that would be pure gravy. He didn't think it would, because of the Unbound symbol. It was stretching the limits of coincidence to think that the assassin would have worn that particular symbol purely by chance. It had been intended to taunt him.
Someone knows
, he thought.
And they're working against me
.

Still, being a man who lived by the motto “never let a crisis go to waste,” Falk stopped by Brich's desk. “Brich,” he said.

The secretary stopped text-stamping and blinked up at him with watery blue eyes. Brich had looked eighty years old for the last twenty years; Falk had no idea how old he really was. He pushed one of the few strands of gray hair that still spanned his brown-spotted scalp back from his forehead. “Yes, my lord?”

“Prepare orders for all of our operatives in the Commons. They are to arrest for questioning anyone they know or suspect has ties to the Common Cause.”

Brich raised an eyebrow so high it almost disappeared behind the hair he had just pushed back. “There are many who profess sympathy with the Cause,” he said. “That number of arrests will cause an uproar . . .”

“Let them roar,” Falk snapped. “Issue the orders. And make certain that the word also goes out to all the Commons' newssheets that this is a direct response to the most heinous crime ever attempted in Evrenfels: the attempt to murder Prince Karl, Heir Apparent to the Throne and the Keys.”

“You believe the Cause is behind it?” Brich unwound paper from the text-stamper's platen, picked up a fresh piece, and wound it in.

Falk snorted. “No. But this seems like the perfect excuse to ensure the Cause doesn't interfere with the Plan, however inadvertently.”

Brich rested his fingers on the levers of the text-stamper. “Then who
do
you think is behind it?”

“I don't know,” Falk admitted. “But I intend to find out.” He said nothing to Brich about the Unbound symbol. Brich was Unbound, too . . . which, perhaps for the first time ever, put him within the realm of suspicion. “And when I do,” Falk continued, showing his teeth in a predatory grin, “then the Rock of Justice awaits.” He turned his voice brusque. “Now carry out my orders!”

Brich knew the limits of Falk's patience to within the breadth of a rather fine hair. “At once, my lord. Will there be anything else?”

“Yes,” Falk said. “There is a . . . resource . . . at my own estate I need to consult. Order my magecarriage brought around to the west entrance, ready to leave at noon. I believe Robinton is the driver on call?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“We'll need a second. We'll be driving straight through.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Have the body of the attacker loaded aboard. Not in a coffin—that's too obvious—an ordinary packing crate. Magespeak Gannick and tell him I will be traveling overnight and will arrive at the manor by noon tomorrow.”

“When may I expect your return, my lord?” Brich said. He sounded uncharacteristically tentative, as if reading something of Falk's mood. “You have four meetings scheduled for tomorrow alone, and the operatives will ask—”

When I'm good and ready
, Falk almost snapped—a sign of how much the attack worried him, he realized even as he bit off the retort, not to mention another sign of how well Brich knew him. “The earliest I can be back is late the day after tomorrow, but it will more likely be the day after that,” he said in a level voice instead. “Reschedule the meetings with my apologies. Prepare a daily précis for me of any reports or information that make their way to this office during my absence. I will magespeak with you each evening.”

“Yes, my lord.” Brich blinked at the paper in the text-stamper for a moment, then began pulling again at the padded levers, fingers flicking as though he were scratching a dog behind the ears.

Falk let the clacking sound drive him into his own office, where he spent the next hour dealing with the most pressing paperwork: arrest warrants, incarceration papers, orders for execution. Toward the end of that time Brich came in with a preliminary report from Captain Fedric on the search they'd conducted inside the Lesser Barrier for anyone who shouldn't be there. They'd found nothing. Everyone had the proper permissions, the proper papers, or the proper breeding. Falk frowned and went back to his work.

Half an hour later he had cleared his desk of the most pressing matters, and went into the outer office again. “Carriage?” he said to Brich.

“It's ready, my lord.”

Falk nodded and headed toward the Palace's west entrance.

He could understand Brich's confusion as to why he would leave just after ordering a roundup of suspects, but he did not really anticipate receiving any useful information from the Commoners his operatives would arrest. They might be sympathizers of the Cause, but they wouldn't be its ringleaders. Some, in fact, would simply be innocent victims of whispering campaigns organized by their enemies.

The leaders, if they truly existed, would be far more deeply hidden. Most of them were no doubt thought of as fine, upstanding citizens. But the roundup would be a sharp reminder that Falk would not stand by indefinitely while sedition brewed in the Commons . . . and even though he considered it unlikely, there was always the possibility that someone might give him a name or a place, a tiny loose thread he could begin to pull at until he unraveled the whole web, revealing the mysterious Patron crouched like a fat spider at its center.

A better hope for beginning that unraveling process lay with Mother Northwind, but to see her, Falk had to go home.

His carriage hadn't yet pulled up as he stepped out under the pillared portico. The Magecorps had scheduled rain for that evening, and so a thick gray mist was beginning to obscure the magesun. Falk leaned against a pillar, idly slapping his black gloves against his knee with his right hand and holding the briefcase full of paperwork he had packed in his office with the other. He gazed across the broad lawn beyond the drive to the line of trees that marked the edge of the Mageborn Enclave; he could just see the chimneys of the house he maintained there for . . . special guests.

He would have been returning home soon in any case, he thought. Tagaza was quite right: with the execution of the Plan so close, it was time to bring Brenna to the Palace to stay.

He didn't think she would object—not that it made any difference, but it would be easier if she came willingly. She had turned eighteen half a year previously—at the same time as Prince Karl, of course—and he had often told her, setting the stage for the long-awaited culmination of his plans, that when she was of age he would bring her to New Cabora and find a position for her as a maid within the Palace or, if she preferred, in the Commons.

Falk's feelings for his ward were not at all fatherly, but neither were they lecherous. He saw Brenna more as . . . an investment. Or perhaps a gamble, though that word carried with it far more sense of uncertainty than he felt about the chances of the Plan's success. He did have some affection for her, doomed though she was—or perhaps because of that; he wasn't a monster, after all—and resolved to ensure she enjoyed herself during her final few weeks.

His magecarriage came rolling up the drive from the outbuildings south of the Palace. Painted black, with no device to mark it as belonging to him, it trailed smoke as it approached. At the tiller in front sat his usual driver, Robinton; beside him was a young man he didn't know.

Robinton pulled the brake lever to bring the magecarriage to a stop, then clambered down from the high seat. “Sorry for the delay, my lord,” he said. “I felt the coal bin should be topped up for an overnight drive in this weather, and then, of course, there was the crate to load.” He pointed to the carriage roof, where the large rectangular box containing—though Robinton surely didn't know it—the assassin's charred body, magically preserved, had been strapped. “Heavy, that. Cold, too.”

“Quite all right, Robinton,” Falk said. “Better to delay the start of the journey than to be stranded halfway. And though the crate
is
awkward—and cold—it is also the reason for my journey.” He glanced up at the young man, who, like Robinton, wore Falk's gray livery. “And you are . . . ?”

“Shand, my lord,” said the young man, looking very pale and serious.

“I'm sure it was very short notice for you, Shand,” said Falk. “Thank you for agreeing to help Robinton.” He sighed. “Normally I would take two days for the journey, but this trip is urgent. We'll be driving straight through, and at top speed.” Shand, he noted, was wearing a heavy fur coat, with enormous fur mitts and a fur hat on the black leather of the seat beside him. Falk glanced at Robinton; he wore no extra layers at all. “Will you be warm enough?” he said skeptically.

“Oh, yes, my lord, thank you for asking.” Robinton pulled off his broad-rimmed black hat and turned it over. “Gift from the missus. Enchanted silver threads in the lining. I give 'em a kick before I set out, and they wrap me in nice warm air for most of a day. Plenty of time to get us to the valley. And just in case, I've got my old beaver-fur coat in the trunk.”

Falk laughed. “You have a wise missus, Robinton.”

“Thank you, my lord. Though I'm not certain a truly wise woman would have chosen to marry
me
.” He opened the door. “My lord . . . ?”

Falk settled himself in the well-cushioned red-velvet interior, warmed by the heat of the coal burner that also provided energy to the enchanted gearbox that magically turned the magecarriage's wheels, settled his briefcase on his knees, and with a brief push of magic, unlocked it.

Before the carriage had rolled through the Gate at the end of the bridge, out of perpetual spring into the stillfalling snow of late winter, he was deep into work once more, never once raising his head to look out the window.

Otherwise he might have glimpsed, here and there in the snow-choked streets of New Cabora, the bright blue uniforms of the Royal guards making the arrests he had ordered.

ANTON DASHED THROUGH THE DESERTED STREETS of Elkbone, the mixture of slush, mud, and horse manure a recent thaw had created splattering his leather pants, even reaching as high as his sheepskin coat. The boardwalks on both sides of the street, fronting the few shops the cattle town could boast (half of which were saloons), were covered with ice, and he couldn't risk a fall . . . not now, not today. The sky overhead had just turned to blue from pink as the sun rose above the horizon, and for the moment, at least, there was no wind: perfect flying weather.

Elkbone nestled in a low valley, sheltered from the cold winds that scoured the prairie above by the valley slopes and a few straggly trees . . . if you could call them trees.

If you could even call Elkbone a town. Lord Mayor Ronal Ferkkisson liked to call it a city, but perhaps that level of delusional grandiosity was to be expected from someone who also insisted he was not just a mayor, but “Lord Mayor.”

Elkbone wouldn't even have made a good-sized neighborhood in Hexton Down, Anton thought as he skidded around a corner, and Hexton Down was small compared to the truly great cities of the Union Republic, like Summerfell and Hawksight. Even the harbor town of Wavehaven, more than a thousand miles to the west and the largest settlement in the Wild Land, barely qualified as a city by Anton's standards.

Cities, for instance, usually had tall buildings, whereas in Elkbone the Temple Tower, rising ahead of him, was the only structure that exceeded two stories . . . except for what rose, albeit temporarily, just
beyond
the tower. Blue like the sky, shaped like a breadloaf, made of the finest silk, the envelope of Professor Carteri's airship tugged at its constraining netting as though longing to leap into the air . . . as it would, momentarily.

As it would have already if the Professor . . .
oh, all right, if I
. . . hadn't forgotten the telescope, thought Anton. The Professor was not the sort of master who beat his apprentice. But he was also not the sort to simply let an oversight like that slide, and Anton knew he'd be hearing about it all day.

The emptiness of the streets he had run along was due to the presence of the airship, of course. The town's entire population seemed to have come down to the Temple courtyard to see them off. As Anton dashed through the slush and finally onto good solid cobblestones, he couldn't even see the Professor, though he knew Carteri had to be standing by the wicker basket, impatiently awaiting his apprentice's return. All he could see were the backs of people's heads; but, of course, as he started to make his way through the crowd, those heads turned in his direction, and then, as though he'd parted the seas like the Prophet in the old Temple tale, the crowd opened up before him, giving him a straight run to the rope barrier surrounding the airship . . . and Professor Carteri. The Professor, standing with the Lord Mayor and a red-robed priest from the Temple, appeared completely calm, but he frowned just enough in Anton's direction as Anton reached the barrier to let him know that he definitely would hear more about this later.