Mage's Blood (63 page)

‘Not yet,’ Ramon answered, his ferret-like face alert and his voice still lively. ‘Just because the poor general has been struck by two common runes, it doesn’t mean the other one or two aren’t from a Study. It’d have to be something Theurgic or Sorcerous – it wouldn’t be Elemental, although I suppose it could be Hermetic.’ He reached down to another pile of books and started flipping through them. ‘Every spell is represented by a rune, so let’s go – should only take us an hour or so.’

In fact it was less than half an hour when Alaron blinked, looked back and forth a couple of times to make sure, then whispered, ‘Look, I’ve got it: the line from this symbol fits that line, and the other lines overlay these two. It’s a Spiritualism spell called “Transfer Recall” – listen to this. It takes the consciousness of the person and sends it into something else, usually a crystal.’ He looked at them. ‘So what do you think?’

‘It fits,’ Ramon agreed. ‘I’ve never heard of it before, but it could be the one.’

‘The Church hoards all the most powerful knowledge,’ Alaron said. His mother always said that. ‘So it looks like whatever was cast upon the general was a multiple-casting: this Transfer Recall spell, plus a weak or flawed Chain-rune and a Hiding-rune. That must be it.’ He clenched his fist in victory.

‘Why would anyone do that to him?’ Cym asked.

Ramon looked thoughtful. ‘Let’s think … Perhaps he and a friend know about the Scytale. The army has surrendered, the Rondians are closing in, so they make a run for it, but his friend needs to cover his own tracks: no one knows of his involvement, but the general is very well-known. He can’t bear to kill his friend, so instead he steals his memories, leaves him on the streets to be taken care of by the people and makes a run for it.’

Cym frowned. ‘Okay, so that’s a possibility – but if so, where is this mysterious friend now?’

‘Who knows?’ Ramon said, stretching. ‘Maybe he sold it back to the Rondians?’

Aaron was struggling with a new thought. ‘Why did we see the runes at all?’

‘Not this again,’ grumped Ramon impatiently. ‘We’ve been over that—’

‘No, listen: he
made
those symbols appear – but why display the spells someone’s cast upon you?’

Ramon put a finger up. ‘Maybe it’s the last thing he remembers?’

Alaron nodded emphatically. ‘Exactly what I’m thinking: when someone uses a rune, they trace it in the air and it leaves a trail of light, right? So that rune-pattern – or patterns, in fact – were the last thing Langstrit saw as his memory got fried, right?’

His friends nodded in unison.

Alaron felt inspired, and the words poured from him. ‘A multilayered rune like that would take a trance-mage, right? But since when does a trance-mage even
need
to trace a rune? Those guys can do it all with a thought; no words, no gestures, it’s just will and execution. You saw Malevorn – the bastard had outgrown using visible runes and audible words by Year Four. Yet whoever cast that
multi-rune had to be a trance-mage, and he used the standard symbols that are universally taught, writ large in fire –
as if he wanted them to be seen
. And think about this: why is it the wrong way round?’

Cym and Ramon were nodding thoughtfully. ‘Okay, why was it the wrong way round?’ Cym said.

Alaron thumped the table triumphantly. ‘You were standing in front of the general, but what you copied turned out to be the wrong way around. So if the caster was the person who left those runemarks …
then the caster was General Langstrit himself!
’

Ramon reached out and shook Alaron’s hand. ‘You’re right, amici – you must be. The poor bastard did it to himself – and you know what? That means if he left those rune-marks to be found, then they are meant as clues and he wants someone to undo it.’ He puffed up importantly. ‘And that means us.’

Magi and windships care nothing for fortifications, and castles in modern warfare are more death-trap than refuge. Holding Lukhazan was impossible. My critics are simpletons who refuse to acknowledge the strategic and tactical realities
.

B
ELONIUS
V
ULT
,
SPEAKING TO THE
R
OYAL
W
AR
C
ONDUCT
E
NQUIRY
, N
OROSTEIN
911

Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros
Maicin 928
2 months until the Moontide

Alaron didn’t tell his parents of their discoveries. They didn’t want to distract Vann Mercer, not when he needed to go to Pontus to save the family from bankruptcy. They were also scared Vann would put their information into the hands of Jeris Muhren, and Alaron still didn’t trust the watch captain. So the unravelling of the clues remained a secret.

‘When do you go, Da?’ Alaron asked his father, who was dealing with piles of paperwork.

‘Next week.’ He looked tired. ‘How are you, son? Are you going to be able to look after things here when your friends go home?’

‘Sure. Ramon’ll be here until the end of Maicin, and Cym says she’ll stay longer if I need. Mum is – well, you know—’ He flinched slightly. ‘She’s not too bad really. I think she likes being back here.’

‘What are we going to do about the general?’ His father ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘We can’t keep him here for ever, even leaving aside the risk we’re taking. At some point we’ll have to put him in the hands of someone who can look after him properly. I should speak to Jeris Muhren.’

‘No! I can look after him. The council doesn’t mean him well. And he’s making progress.’

For a moment Vann looked as if he might argue, then he relented. ‘Just until the end of Junesse, Alaron. If he’s no better by then, you must go to Jeris Muhren. Promise?’

Alaron considered. Surely they would have solved the mystery by then.
And if not, well, Da will be in Pontus
. ‘Okay,’ he said, then something occurred to him. ‘Do you know who found the general, back on the day after the Surrender? The actual person, I mean?’

Vann frowned. ‘No – but the Watch should have a record. I’ll ask Jens, if you like …’

‘Uh, no, it’s all right, thanks. It’s nothing really; I was just curious,’ he said quickly, excusing himself. He hurried back to his friends. ‘I just asked Da about who might have found the general and he said the Watch should have records. That would mean asking Muhren, but I don’t trust him.’

Ramon waved an airy hand. ‘We should be able to find an eyewitness and take it from there. As long as we’re discreet.’ He grinned. ‘That means me. No one trusts gypsies and Alaron couldn’t do discreet if his life depended upon it. Just give me a day or two.’

Ramon had been using his status as a legion battle-mage to use the Arcanum library, returning each day with diligently copied notes for the others to pore over. If they were right about the rune then
the general’s memories had to be captured in a crystal and hidden somewhere.

‘So if we discover the crystal, we can put his soul and body back together,’ Ramon told them. ‘And I found out who arrested General Langstrit.’ He smirked like a well-satisfied cat.

The following day Alaron met Hans Lehmann, the watchman Ramon had identified, in a run-down tavern inappropriately named the Summer Dream. The dark little room reeked of pipe-smoke and the stink of the sewer that ran past the one open window. The beer was watery and the landlord had sausage-breath.

Lehmann had been a sergeant of the Watch during the Revolt. With all the young men away fighting, the Watch had been reduced to those men too old or infirm to fight; he’d been over fifty then, just a few years off retirement. He was more than seventy now, and though his once-muscular frame had run to fat, his eyes were clear and he was happy to talk about the old times. His eyes lit up at Vann Mercer’s name, which filled Alaron with pride.

Alaron asked about the general, and Lehmann sighed. ‘If I close my eyes I can still see Old Jari that morning. He looked totally lost. The surrender, I guess, it must have hit him hard.’

‘Wasn’t the general supposed to be in camp?’ Alaron prompted.

‘I wouldn’t know, lad. Trudi, the chapel’s cleaner, found him first—’

‘What chapel?’ Alaron interrupted eagerly.

‘The one by the oak on the north side of Pordavin Square. Jari was wandering around inside when Trudi found him. He was crying his eyes out, but he wouldn’t speak, didn’t seem to know his own name. Trudi sent a boy to find me and my mate Rodde. We sat him down, closed up the chapel and were just wondering what to do next, but word must’ve spread because some Palace men came and took him away.’

‘King’s men, you mean, or Rondians?’

‘Our own king’s men, lad, but they was under the thumb of the Rondians – you see, the Rondians, they was occupying us, but they was stretched so they let us oldsters police Lower Town. Some o’
them who cry-babied at Lukhazan was paroled; one of ’em was put in charge of the Watch: a sharp young fella, name of Fyrell.’

Alaron felt his eyes pop out. ‘Darius Fyrell?’ he whispered.

‘Aye, that was his name, he was one of them the Rondians set up to transition power. The fella what sold us down the creek, he was involved too.’

‘Belonius Vult?’

Sergeant Lehmann spat on the floor. ‘Aye, him.’

‘But wasn’t he imprisoned after Lukhazan?’

‘The Rondians paroled him. He was up at the Governor’s Palace even then, filling the Rondians’ ears with our secrets and his own pockets with gold, I don’t doubt. He allus was a shifty beggar.’

‘So, Fyrell, he was working for Belonius Vult, who was working for the Rondians—’

‘Aye, that were the way of it. Didn’t make them palace lads too popular with the folks. Anyway, there was a fair few skulls cracked before Fyrell got his hands on the general, but in the end they cleaned out the chapel and took the general away. No one’s ever seen him since. They had Old Jari killed, I reckon. Poor bastard.’ He finished his beer and looked meaningfully at Alaron, who took the hint and waved for another pint. ‘You’re a gent, lad, just like yer dad.’

‘Why don’t people know this?’ Alaron asked. ‘All the books say Langstrit surrendered with Robler.’

‘Well, that’s books for you, full o’ lies. The generals was rivals, lad, feuding like Silacians. Vult and Langstrit hated each other, and Robler favoured Langstrit. Old Jari, he were a tough bugger, and Vult were a strutting peacock. I allus figured Fyrell saw a chance for Vult to get Langstrit to himself.’

‘What happened to the others who saw this?’ Alaron asked. ‘Rodde and Trudi?’

‘Both in the grave, lad. Trudi was old even then, and Rodde, he were knifed in a tavern brawl a few months later. Nasty, that were: took him a week to die.’ He tutted morosely. ‘All the young men was away fighting and the young women, they kept off the streets to protect themselves from those dirty Rondian bastards. I doubt anyone
under fifty saw the whole thing play out. They’ll be mostly in the ground now – it were a long time ago, after all. I may be the last person as saw it all.’ His face clouded over.

Alaron pushed his own beer across the table to him and rose, his words of thanks most probably unheard, for Sergeant Lehmann was staring out the window, his eyes glazed and moist.

Alaron and Cym found the chapel on Pordavin Square, right where the old watchman had said. It was more than six hundred years old, and originally Sollan: there were still traces of the dedications to Sol and Luna. But the door was broken and the whole place stank of rot and urine. It had escaped demolition only because it housed some historic gravestones, the last remains of some of the first magi to settle in Norostein – it was illegal to destroy anything pertaining to the magi.

They looked around, but there was nothing to see; the floors had been scoured long ago, there were no furnishings and the walls were peeling and covered in mildew. It was a sad, neglected place.

‘Is this where he did it, do you think? Where he cast all those runes on himself,’ Alaron asked.

‘Who knows?’ The gypsy girl fixed Alaron with a look. ‘If we do find the Scytale of Corineus, I believe we should take it to the Ordo Costruo. They’re sworn to peace. What do you think?’

Alaron swallowed. He hadn’t expected her to spring that question without warning. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘No one trusts Antonin Meiros any more, do they? He lost the Bridge, so who could trust him with the Scytale? Maybe he’d just give it back to the emperor.’

‘The Rondians have been lording it over everyone else for too long. If the Ordo Costruo have it, they can regain control of the Bridge and stop the wars.’

Alaron looked at Cym’s lovely face framed by a cascade of black hair. He just wanted to make her happy. ‘You’re probably right,’ he said, hopefully.

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she told him, her face solemn, and tantalisingly close.

‘Don’t forget Ramon has to agree too,’ he warned her nervously.
If I leaned closer I could kiss her—

She turned away. ‘He’ll come round,’ she said. Her shape was outlined by the light streaming through the door. She looked angelic, and out of reach. ‘There’s nothing here,’ she added. ‘Let’s go.’

‘So where does that leave us?’ Alaron wondered aloud. ‘The chapel’s empty. Unless we can find out what Fyrell took away with him, we’re at a dead end.’ He ran fingers through his hair. ‘Twenty years – that’s such a long time. The governor’s men probably destroyed everything. The trail has gone cold.’