Turning Points (36 page)

Lumm looked at the linguist for a long moment. “People don’t like spellcasters much in Sanctuary.”

“I know,” said Heliz, letting out a relieved sigh that nothing had really sunk into the barrel-maker’s thick-spackled skull. “That’s one reason I came here. Less danger of some wizard wanting to take my work. Privacy for my studies. That and there are so many languages that people have used here.”

“Hmmmpf,” said Lumm, looking at the collection of writing, and dismissing it. Heliz let himself relax. “I’ll leave you to your work, then. But I hope you stung that merchant enough to make the rent. I don’t want any more buttons. I’m going back to the Unicorn. You want to come?”

Heliz managed a modest shrug that would only fool someone like Lumm. “I cannot. I have my studies.”

Lumm shook his head and galumphed down the back stairs, taking most of the air with him.

Heliz was suddenly aware that he was still clutching the booklet tightly to his chest. Carefully he opened it, as if the words caught within could escape. There were about a dozen. A verb that softened the earth for plowing. An adjective that caused fire to ignite. A turn of phrase that helped lambs’ birthing.

Words that any mage would slay for, if he knew they existed.

And a single word, a noun, that Heliz had spoken aloud only once. A word that had devastated his home monastery and killed every one of the other Crimson Scholars. There had been fifty of them, members of his order, in a hillside tower a day’s ride north of Lirt, all led by his great-grandmother. He had grown up there. He had studied there. And he had researched and toiled in its great libraries. And he had discovered this word there. And after he had spoken the deadly word, the tower lay in wreckage at the foot of the hill, and only he managed to pull himself from the wreckage.

And he had fled to the most illiterate, backwards, unmagical spot he could find to avoid ever having to deal with it again.

Lumm stalked through the streets, heading back to the Vulgar Unicorn. He wasn’t angry at the little scholar as much as confused. Why would anyone turn down a bit of coin, especially for a skill that didn’t require any heavy lifting? This scholar was a good tenant as tenants go, but his mule-headed devotion to words completely bum-fundled him. If the lad would just get out a little, he wouldn’t be so tightly wound.

Above Sanctuary, the sky grumbled a warning curse. The cloud cover was heavy and low tonight, such that the reflections of fire-pits could been seen illuminating the rounded bottoms of the clouds. It looked like a trickster’s storm, more like a summer storm than a winter one. A storm that could drench the town in an instant, or could equally pass over Sanctuary for more promising locations. As Lumm looked up, a spidery thread of lightning crawled along the cloud base, followed by the deep toll of thunder. Definitely a summer trickster’s storm.

For the first time, Lumm wondered if Heliz was really a sorcerer.

He didn’t seem like one, in that he didn’t turn into things or have curses or anything. He didn’t do any chanting, or dancing, or summoning. And he didn’t have the animals, the familiars, stalking about. He wouldn’t rent to someone with pets.

Maybe Heliz was a sorcerer—a spellcasting wizard, in fact—but he wasn’t a very good one, and that’s why he came here. But why be a wizard if you don’t want to cast spells?

For that matter, why would a scholar be in Sanctuary? It was not as if the town had a university, or a library, or even other people interested in languages.

Of course, the easy solution would be just to leave the smaller scholar alone, take his silver buttons, and then turn him out on the street when his funds were exhausted. That would be the easiest solution.

Lumm shook his head. Without proper coin, this town would kick the small man into the gutter in a week’s time. Heliz was right that Lumm looked for sad cases. Heliz was one of them.

The common room of the Unicorn was as smoke-ridden and murky as usual. Old Thool, the Unicorn’s resident sot, was lurching from table to table, cadging what change and dregs of drinks he could manage. The two waitresses, known to all as Big Minx and Little Minx, threaded through the tables, grabbing empties and avoiding hands with equal deftness. Half the people in the room were watching the other half, and malice hung in the air with the smoke. A typical night, then.

Lumm himself scanned the room, looking for the Berucat merchant. No sign of his heavy frame. But Lumm’s eyes stopped for a moment at one of the back tables.

At first he could have sworn that Heliz was a wizard, and had gotten to the Unicorn before he did. On second thought, the table’s occupant could have been the scholar’s sister. She was dressed similarly to the linguist, though her red robes, running from neck to ankle, were cleaner, newer, and still had all of their silver buttons. Yet her hair was as dark as the scholar’s, swept back instead of in the bowl cut that Heliz wore. They shared sharp features: dark, heavy eyebrows and a thin, raptorish nose. Yes, she could have been his sister.

And Lumm was staring long enough that the newcomer realized she was being watched. She gave Lumm a smile and beckoned him come over.

“Help you?” she said in a pleasant, soothing voice.

“Sorry to stare,” Lumm stammered. “You just remind me of someone.” There might be another reason, he realized, that the linguist was in Sanctuary. It would not be the first time someone came to the town to lose themselves of pursuers, family, creditors, or all three.

“No offense taken,” said the young woman. She looked a few years younger than Heliz. A younger sister? Surely not a daughter. Heliz did not strike him as either being old enough or bold enough to spawn any young. “Sit and tell me about it,” she continued.

“Sorry to disturb you,” said Lumm.

“I said sit and tell me about it.” And she said something else as well, something low and wispy that the staver did not catch, that brushed against his mind and was immediately forgotten.

Lumm suddenly found himself in the chair opposite, though he did not remember sitting down.

The young woman in the red robes leaned forward, and Lumm could not help but notice that, unlike Heliz, the newcomer did not use the top dozen buttons of her garment. Yet it was her eyes that most caught his attention—wide, deep, and green. Eyes you could wander around in.

“I remind you of someone?” she said.

“Another fellow,” said Lumm. ‘“I mean, not that you’re a fellow and all. Dressed like you. The fellow. And you.”

“These are the robes of my order,” said the young lady. “I am a Crimson Scholar. Have you heard of them?”

Lumm felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. “No,” he managed.

“Really?” she said, and added that breathy, low word again. Lumm felt the words surge up his throat like a bad egg sandwich.

“I’ve never heard of your order,” he said, almost like it was a single word. It was the truth, of course, but he felt compelled to say it. “You just look like someone else I’ve seen.”

The young woman raised a glass of mulled wine, the spices heavy even at Lumm’s distance. “So you said. Friend of yours?”

Despite himself, Lumm laughed. “I don’t think he has any friends. A very private person. Wants to be left alone. Spends most of his time in his room. Reclusive, that’s the word.”

“Indeed,” said the young woman, “that’s the word. You know where to find him?”

“I should,” said Lumm, “I’m his landlord. Maybe I should go get him, if you’re looking for him.”

“Maybe you should tell me where he is,” said the young woman, and for a third time added a breathy addendum.

Again, Lumm felt the need to tell her, felt the words vomiting upwards. But as he opened his mouth, Old Thool slammed into both him and the table, hard. The young woman dropped her glass on the table, sending shards and wine everywhere. She raised her arm to keep it from getting in her face.

“Padpol for an old veteran?” slurred the drunk.

“Go jump off the dock,” snarled the young woman, her face suddenly a mask of rage. She added something as well, that struggling fish of a word that kept avoiding getting tangled in Lumm’s mind.

Thool stood bolt upright and started lurching towards the door.

Lumm rose as well, suddenly realizing he was sweating. He didn’t look directly at the young woman, but instead said, “Let me get a rag to clean all this up. Won’t take a moment.” Without waiting for an answer, he headed for the bar, and grabbed Little Minx by the arm.

He pressed slivers of pot-metal into her hand. “Get a clean rag for the young woman in red. And another drink. And keep an eye on her until I get back. And don’t talk to her.”

Little Minx responded with a coquettish nod and a wink, and Lumm was gone as well, out into the night.

The barmaid turned and regarded the young woman with the hard, practiced eye of a Sanctuary native. A few years older than she, but only a few. Wine-spattered robe, but otherwise in good apparent financial shape. Definitely first time in Sanctuary.

Little Minx headed over towards the back table, a slim smile on her lips. She wondered how much more she could get from this fat pigeon by telling her whatever Lumm didn’t want her to know about.

Heliz sighed deeply. Of course the moment, the thrill of discovery, wasn’t coming back again. Once the path of reasoning was upset, there was no recovery. He had managed the diminutive form, but the two documents were just that—pieces of paper with writing. They held their secrets.

Still, he did not pay enough attention to the heavy footfalls up the back stairs, and jumped in his seat when Lumm, without preamble or politeness, burst into his garret.

“Your sister is here!” the large man blurted out.

All Heliz could manage was a startled, “What?”

“Your sister,” said the staver, gulping for air. He had run the last block, or at least tried to. “At the Unicorn. I think she’s looking for you.”

“I never had a sist…” started Heliz, then caught himself up short. “A woman in red robes?”

“She said she was a Crimson Scholar,” said Lumm, “I suppose you are too. You never said.”

Heliz waved a hand to silence the larger man. “Black hair, worn long? Green eyes? Almost as tall as I am?”

“Yes, yes, and yes,” said Lumm, Heliz Yunz turning paler with each answer.

“I’ll need my satchel,” said Heliz, launching over to the desk to pull out a heavy bag.

“I left her at the tavern, and said I would go get you,” said Lumm.

“Not enough room,” said Heliz, looking into the depths of the bag. “Need to take the base primers, and the Ilsig grammars. And the Beysib phrase book. I’m never going to find those again. But what to leave behind?”

“Are you in trouble with your sister?” asked Lumm. “Perhaps if I told her…”

“She is
not
my sister,” said Heliz, turning on the cooper. “Her name is Jennicandra. She is my Great. Grand. Mother. And Yes, I am in trouble with her.”

Lumm stood there, a puzzled look on his face, as Heliz started throwing bulky volumes into the satchel. “Now wait a moment. She’s younger than you are…”

Heliz was choosing which tome to take and which to abandon. “I know. She’s very powerful.”

“Powerful? I don’t…”

“I told you about the power of words. Jennicandra knows these words. Each morning after she rises, she speaks a word of power that keeps the demons of age at bay. She’s looked that way for a century. She has a lot of words. More than me. I thought she died when the tower fell, but no such luck. She’s tracked me down.” He put both tomes aside and dumped his scribe’s pouch into the satchel, then touched the notebook resting over his heart. “I have to go. Here’s the silver. Sell the books and whatever else I’ve left behind.”

“You said they weren’t spells,” said Lumm.

“I said they weren’t
like
spells,” said Heliz, his voice rising. “They are the hearts of spells. The bits that connect for their powers. They are words that should not be spoken. Ideas that should not be evoked. And she knows more of them than I do.”

Lumm continued to block the door. “I think you two need to talk.”

“I blew up her tower!” shouted Heliz. “I found a very, very dangerous word and uttered it like a damned fool, and blew up the monastery! She’s going to want me dead! Now out of my…”

The words died in Heliz’s throat at a sound in the street out front. It was a single string of syllables, chanted softly. The linguist’s face went white and he pressed both palms against Lumm’s chest, forcing the larger man backwards in surprise.

Lumm recognized the voice.

“Back! Out the door! She’s here!” shouted Heliz.

The front of the garret was already losing all color, turning an ash white that spread from the window overlooking the street. Desk, books, and shelves all slowly were drained, turning first white, and then a pebbly gray. Then, like burned ash, it began to fall in on itself, cascading downwards, striking the whitened floor like dumped flour. Then the floor itself turned gray and began to dissolve as well.

“What is—?” began Lumm, looking as the front of the house disintegrated.

“Out. Now!” shouted Heliz, grabbing his satchel and pushing the cooper out the door onto the back landing.

Both men were now in flight, hurtling down the back stairs. Behind them the house continued to collapse upon itself, becoming nothing more than a cloud of silent gray ash.

“What was that?” gasped the barrel-maker.

“A collection of syllables,” said Heliz. “It pulls the energy out of wood and stone without burning, leaving only the ash behind. It’s one of her favorites.”

“She’s a sorceress!” muttered Lumm.

“Worse,” said Heliz, clutching his bag of books. “She’s a thesaurus.”

The clouds of settling ash thundered behind them. “Heliz!” shouted a female voice from the ashen cloud. “Show yourself! I won’t harm you!”

“How do we fight her?” asked Lumm.

“With our feet. Put distance between us and her. What’s the best way out of town?”

Lumm thought a moment. “This way. There are some abandoned manors north of the city. You could hole up there until she moves on. Follow.”

The two darted down the alleyway behind the house. Above, the pregnant clouds were just starting to spit a hot drizzle, and the sky rumbled like a dyspeptic deity.