The Vildecaz Talents: The complete set of Vildecaz Stories including Nimuar's Loss, The Deceptive Oracle and Agnith's Promise (57 page)

“Yes, it is,” said Zhanf. Trying not to step in any of the blood, he went to the next flight of stairs. Pareo had been right – Hoftstan’s head was propped up on the sixth stair, mouth fixed in a silent, eternal scream.

Aghast at the sight of the slaughter around him, Jeth said, “The Night Priests of Ayon-Tur – they were said to kill this way.”

“So the stories say,” Zhanf agreed, his thoughts carefully contained. The similarities of this murder to the killings of the Night Priests of Ayon-Tur hadn’t escaped him – that ancient and destructive Order had inspired fear throughout the Great World – his own Priests of Mirvex-Doz had had a number of hideous spell-battles with them. Everyone knew the stories, even now, when the Night Priests had been obliterated more than a century ago. This ritual of agonizing death harkened back to the tales still told, but Zhanf put that, and all other considerations, out of his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to let legends, grief, or sympathy blind him to what had been done. “Is there anything missing from the weapons’ rack?”

“Not . . . not that I’m aware of,” said Jeth.

“Go look,” said Zhanf. “I want to know what did this, and how. And why none of the Night Guard reported anything amiss last night.” This last was the most disturbing, for its implications were agitating. He quieted his mind and went about looking at everything in the room.

“Nothing’s missing,” said Jeth a bit later. “There are bloodstains on some of the weapons, but they are drops, not smears.”

Zhanf nodded. “Very well. Go back into the Castle and find General Rocazin. Take her aside and tell her what has happened, as kindly as such news can be given. Then send for Lumiren Koriat. She has to be told, and it should be that General Rocazin is the one to tell her with the Duzeons away; let it be soon, or the gossip will reach her before we can offer her what comfort we may.” He dreaded speaking to Hoftstan Ruch’s wife, and to his sons. “The sooner it’s done, the better for all.”

Grateful for a reason to leave, Jeth said, “At once, Magsto,” and hastily departed, clattering down the stairs in unseemly rush.

Zhanf stood alone in the carnage and shook his head. He knew he would have to summon Hoftstan Ruch’s niedaj before a ghost could form – the spirit of the dead man might be able to tell him something useful. It would have to be done shortly after sunset, in this place. The very thought of it sickened Zhanf, and he strove to keep from gagging.

Pareo was looking ill again as he appeared at the bottom of the stair-well. “I believe Merinex is coming.”

It wasn’t surprising that Merinex should be aware of something amiss in this part of the Castle, given he was the Castle’s magician, but Zhanf didn’t want to be distracted by the well-meaning but somewhat inept fellow, who would undoubtedly be distraught by the hideous corpse of his friend.

“Bontaj!” Zhanf swore, and sighed. “Very well. Admit him, but call me down to speak to him. The fewer people who see this, the better.”

“That’s certain,” said Pareo with feeling.

“I’ll have to ask someone to make drawings of this,” Zhanf stated, and wondered whom he should ask. With Hoftstan dead, he had almost no one to advise him on Castle matters. He took a deep breath and continued to look around the butchery evident everywhere.

A short time later, Pareo called up to him, “Heijot Merinex is here, Magsto. He says he wants to see what’s happened.”

“Tell him to wait a moment before – “

Merinex interrupted the Imperial Secretary. “I believe I should be able to see what has transpired in Vildecaz Castle. After all, I am the Castle magician, and everything that happens here has importance to me.”

This was one of the most forthright statements Zhanf had heard Merinex make, and for that reason alone, he considered it. Finally, as he stared at Hoftstan’s half-closed eyes, wishing he knew what the seneschal had seen, he said, “All right, if you must, you may come up. But I warn you, Merinex, that you will not like what you see.”

“I’m prepared for the worst,” said Merinex gamely.

In the corner of the room, Pareo gagged.

Zhanf doubted that Merinex was as ready as he claimed, but he knew that challenging Merinex on that point would bring nothing but acrimony at a time that would be a problem. He said nothing as he moved away from the stairwell and called, “Come up, then, but tread softly.”

Merinex mounted the stairs at a sober pace. “What greater misfortune has fallen on Vildecaz? You convince me by your tone that this is a misfortune. What more are we asked to endure?”

“You’ll see for yourself.” Zhanf had folded his arms as he watched Merinex’s head appear above the opening in the floor. “It is a grim sight.”

“Gremmi bontaj,” Merinex exclaimed as he glimpsed the appalling room, and the body of Hoftstan Ruch. He continued upward, but more slowly than before. “”How he must have suffered.” Licking his lips, he stared at the blood on the floor and walls and ceiling. “A repugnant – “

”It must have happened last night, for the blood is long dry, hard to the touch and without heat. The blood on the floor was hard,” He indicated the severed limbs. “You see how they are placed?”

“It must be a sign,” said Merinex, his eyes as flat as pebbles. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“The Night Priests of Ayon-Tur killed in this way, a century ago.” Zhanf saw only a flicker of recognition on Merinex’s face. “They were quite powerful, at that time, and they made it their work to have enemies.”

“But they were crushed and forced to disband,” Merinex said patiently.

“So they were,” Zhanf agreed. “But their legend is still strong. Ask anyone in any of the Six Worlds, and they will know tales of the Night Priests.”

Merinex rounded on him. “Do you mean that someone is attempting to imitate their rites?” The shock of this notion seemed to shake the Castle magician more than the body of Hoftstan had done.

“I think it is something we must consider,” said Zhanf heavily. “I will notify the Priests of Mirvex-Doz this day, and send a written message with a courier to confirm what I say.” He regarded the body. “And I will try to reach the Duzeons. They need to know about this.”

“And what will your Order do then?” Merinex scoffed. “How can they fight what doesn’t exist?”

“They can warn other Orders, and inform the secular authorities of the dangers that may be among us. It is my duty to preserve the practice of magic from such perversions as the Night Priests of Ayon-Tur made of their talents. No? The Duzeons may well be in danger, you realize. If Hoftstan is dead, they lack support here, and they may require more reinforcement than I can provide alone.” He shook once, his whole body responding to this new threat, then pulled himself together. “I want to summon Hoftstan's niedaj before it fades away. It may be able to show us who attacked him.”

Merinex pressed his lips together, then gasped as something small fell from his sleeve. He bent to pick it up, holding it out for Zhanf to see. “My wandlet. I apologize for letting it go. This . . . this place has unnerved me. The thought of having to see the niedaj after all this – it may do nothing but scream. Looking on his body, I think that may be all you could achieve.”

“It is a possibility I’m prepared to deal with,” said Zhanf. “You must see that there is nothing else we can do.”

It took several heartbeats for Merinex to say, “I concur, but it is a last resort. With what Hoftstan endured – all the blood says he lived through most of the cutting. The niedaj may not be able to tell you anything.”

“It isn’t what I would prefer, either, but then, I would rather Hoftstan Ruch weren’t dead.” Zhanf scowled down at his own foot and steadied himself. “I think it might be best if I summon him alone. Two magicians working on this together might not have the results we would want.”

Merinex looked deeply relieved. “I defer to you, Magsto Atoreon.”

The use of his full title commanded Zhanf’s attention. He paused before he said, “I’ll inform you of what transpires.”

Merinex respected Zhanf, then added a respect to the stair on which Hoftstan’s head sat. “The carnage is great. I hope, with your well-trained talents, that you can still call up his niedaj, for given this death, it will fade quickly and a ghost take its place. I am grateful to you for doing this. I, having known him for so long, might not be able to witness what his niedaj reveals.”

“So I believe,” Zhanf said

“I’ll leave you to it, and hope for the best,” Merinex said, an odd smirk on his lips. He snickered nervously, his glance flicking about the room, avoiding Zhanf’s eyes. “Thanks to Analahor, the Inspirational.” He made a small, nervous respect, then departed.

As he watched Merinex descend the stairs, the wide skirts of his gaihups held high and tight to his body so that no hint of blood would touch him. “Fastidious, isn’t he?” he murmured to the air, reflecting that his own gaihups would have to be ritually burned when he had completed the summoning.

“How much longer will you remain here?” Merinex spoke up from the lower room in the North Tower.

“A half-hour should be sufficient to learn if the niedaj can tell me anything. Then I’ll speak to his wife.” Both prospects left Zhanf feeling a bit queasy. “She’s already been sent for. You needn’t bother with finding her.”

“She’s in Valdihovee. She won’t be here for at least an hour,” said Merinex, adding, “She may know why he came here, and when.”

“That had occurred to me, as well,” said Zhanf.

“Then I’ll leave you to your magic,” said Merinex.

Suddenly Pareo burst out, “I can’t stay here! Let me go with Heijot Merinex.”

Zhanf shook his head, thinking how cowardly Pareo was. “If you must go, then go.” He would be glad to be rid of that officious poltroon.

“My respect and thanks to you,” Pareo cried, and fled.

With a gesture of resignation, Zhanf listened as the two men departed. He could hear the rumble of hushed phrases but none of the words reached him. When even that had faded, he reached into his sleeve and drew out his small case of spell-casting supplies. He selected the vial of ympara-oil and a small envelope filled with salt from Zjin-Fah. He set these on the least bloody part of the floor and then stood back, beginning to make the ritual gestures to begin a summoning-spell. Next he poured out three drops of the ympara-oil, then took a pinch of the salt and blew it into the air, then began the spoken conjuration, speaking each word distinctly. When that had been done, he spoke Hoftstan Ruch’s name aloud three times, then waited, and said his name again. A smoke-like darkness coalesced in the air, not quite a recognizable shape, but sufficient for Zhanf to proceed with the rite. He saw the niedaj start to manifest, taking on a filmy substance that was more human than before. But even as the body assumed the appearance and attributes of Hoftstan Ruch, the semi-transparent body flew apart, legs and arms pointing in the same directions as those of the corpse, and an agonized shriek filled the arming-room, the sound worse and more penetrating than the scream of metal dragged over rough stone.

Zhanf hastily made the gestures to banish the niedaj, and went weak as the last wisps of the niedaj faded into nothingness. He stood still for some time, and then began the ritual to protect the room from magical interference, reminding himself that the summoning of the niedaj of someone who had been murdered rarely conveyed anything useful to the summoner. It was no consolation to Zhanf, who now turned his thoughts to what he would tell Lumiren Koriat when he had to inform her that he could not determine how she had become a widow.

“How much farther north do we have to go?” Doms asked Ninianee as they reached the stockade around the town of Jampersi-Ayo. The thick, upended-log fortifications blocked any view of the famous and busy crossroads market, but there were steep slated roofs visible above the logs that surrounded it. The snow was not as high here as it had been on the Boarthine Plateau, but it still came up to the ponies’ knees where the spells of the weather-witches hadn’t reached to lower it. Here at the walls of the town there was only a hands-breadth of snow to contend with, and although the wind still bit with icy teeth, the worst of the cold was absent.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “To the Crown of Ayo, if necessary,” she said, thinking of the northernmost island at the northern edge of Theninzalk. Little as she wanted to admit it, she was tired. Her eyes ached and the small of her back protested with Jenshaz’s every move. In the five days since they left Gnocarnaz, they had made good progress, but their efforts were catching up with them and their animals. She longed for a good meal and a soft bed.

“You wouldn’t mind spending a few days here, would you?” Doms called to her.

“I don’t want our ponies and mules dropping on the trail.”

She knew better than he that their animals were flagging for she had heard their thoughts, and so she resisted the impulse to argue with him, and said, “I think that’s a fine idea. They’re more exhausted than we are. They’ve had a hard journey and have earned some rest. They need a chance to recover from what they’ve done.”

“True enough,” said Doms as he pushed toward the main gate to the town, a wooden structure under the most significant wooden battlements of any on the walls. He, too, was feeling the pace and welcomed a respite. “The guard of Jampersi-Ayo!”

“Yes?” came the answer from above them. “Who calls us?”