Mob magic, p.8
Mob Magic, page 8
A word to the guards at the door brought the due running to his son's bedchamber, but instead of a dying child he was met by a pale, desperate-eyed young man clutching a knife.
Duc Giovanni de Marco was known as a pragmatic man. He sized up the situation in his son's bedchamber in an instant, then calmly asked for an explanation. Coil's hysterically babbled response was not what he'd expected.
Lord Sepori was a powerful and respected member of the due's own class. There was no reason he should have believed this ragged, young man but the due had waited a long time for proof of Sepori's guilt, and he had no intention of letting this opportunity pass. Calling for his guard captain, senior mage and physician, he had his son removed to a safer room, then presented them with Coll's story.
The ensuing outrage was quickly suppressed as they realized the possibilities. Pressed against the wall, Coll listened to their plans to kill his master, his own thoughts in turmoil.
He'd always believed that to be safe was to serve the most powerful protector. If the due could destroy Lord Sepori, then Coll would be safe—but only if the due could destroy Sepori. It was begining to look as if he couldn't.
The due's people continued to debate, the lord himself listening objectively. The captain was pushing for an all-out attack, the mage advising caution. Finally the physician, a wizened old man, cleared his throat.
"We cannot defeat Sep ... the necromancer by secular means," he wheezed. "He's a powerful mage and will have powerful offensive and defensive capabilities. We must fight him with equal magnitude or we will lose."
"Are you powerful enough to do that?" the due asked bluntly, turning to the mage.
The woman pursed her lips. "No, My Lord."
"There may be another way," the old physician continued. "Necromancy is a very precise and delicate spellcraft. One wrong ... component ... and the effect could be most devastating to the mage involved."
The due frowned. "How do you know this?" he demanded.
The physician met his suspicious gaze fearlessly. "I do not know this for certain, My Lord, but one hears such things. Ask the boy."
The due's gaze swung toward Coll, who nodded mutely.
"And?"
"And I believe that if we could substitute the collected ... er ... item, we might effect a magical attack against him which would put him out of commission long enough for a military attack to succeed."
"Substitute the collected item? Just what kind of a substitute are you suggesting?"
"Substitute flesh, My Lord."
"No."
The old man drew himself up. "This threat poses the greatest danger this city, this country, has ever faced, My Lord. If he gains the living flesh of the aristocracy, no one in power is safe. I strongly advise that, for the good of the realm, substitute flesh be delivered so that the necromancer might destroy himself in the spellcasting."
His eyes narrow, the due glared back at his physician. "And who do you suggest that this flesh be taken from?"
"That is for My Lord to decide."
"No, it isn't. You're my adviser. Advise me. Whose spirit would you damn for this deed?"
"A criminal from My Lord's prisons?"
The mage was shaking her head. "There isn't time, My Lord. Most spellcraft must be done with fresh components. I'd surmise Lord Sep ... the necromancer plans to work his casting directly."
"Then what would you suggest?"
She raised her hands helplessly.
In the corner Coll continued to stare into the fire. The eyes of the dead priest stared unwaveringly back at him, demanding atonement, expecting action. He stepped forward before the thought of what he was offering to do caught up with him.
"I will volunteer my flesh, My Lord," he said quietly.
The duc turned to stare at him.
"You?"
"Yes, My Lord."
"Why?"
Coll could give him no rational answer, but the physician leaped at the offer.
"He's perfect, My Lord, a nobody. His flesh would ruin the spellcasting."
"All my subjects are somebody," the due grated. "Do you know what you're offering? What it might do to your body, your spirit?"
"I know, My Lord, but we haven't much time. This will work. I know it will. To substitute my flesh for a nobleman's would completely throw the spell. It might even kill him."
"And it might kill you."
"If this doesn't work, My Lord, I'll wish I were dead."
"But you're expected to ... make this delivery yourself arn't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"How can you possibly do both?" The duc swung his attention back to his physician. "Can you guarantee his safety?"
Coll answered for him. "No, My Lord, he can't."
The old man opened his mouth angrily, but, confident now, Coll cut him off. "I'm the only one here qualified to collect the item safely."
"You can hardly perform surgery on yourself," the due pointed out.
"No, sir, but your mage can overlay my will onto your physician's. Using his hands, I can do the cutting."
"That's coercion," the mage replied stiffly.
The duc turned. "Can you do it?"
Glaring at the cutter, she shrugged. "I can, My Lord, but it's highly unethical."
"I have no intention of allowing my will to be suborned by a defiling little corpse-cutter!" the physician snapped.
"Yes, you will!" the due flung back. "You argued for this form of attack. Very well, you've convinced me. And if this boy can offer such a sacrifice, then you can give him what assistance he requires. Is that quite clear?"
The old man wilted in the face of his lord's sudden rage. "Yes, sir," he said meekly.
"Do it."
Once begun, the spell took less than a heartbeat to cast. There was a sudden bout of vertigo, and Coll found himself looking down at his own body stretched out by the fire. He was as pale as a corpse, his thin chest barely rising, his dark eyes blank and staring. The mage pulled his shirt up to expose the flesh underneath, and Coll swallowed against a rising bout of nausea. He had only one chance. He knelt.
Years of practice made the first cut for him. The second was harder. There was a sharp pain, and Coll felt the physician echo his body's sudden jerk. He almost dropped the knife, but somehow he had the urn filled and the horrible wound stitched up before the repulsion spilled through his self-control. Snapped back into his body, he began to vomit. Beside him, the old physician collapsed.
Somehow, they got him cleaned up and on his feet by forcing a narcotic infusion down his throat. Then, reeling from the effects of the spell and the surgery, Coll staggered from the palace.
The return journey was a nightmare. His abdomen ached horribly, and the bitter taste of the infusion made him want to spew again, but he clamped his teeth shut against it. He had to make the delivery; after that, he could be as sick as he wanted.
The markers brought him into the palazzo, but instead of returning to the lord's study, they took him down a flight of stone steps. At the bottom was an open door. They entered.
The odor of stale magic and rotting flesh almost made him faint, but the sight of Lord Sepori, dressed in a stained robe and leather apron, stiffened him as no infusion could have.
The necromancer set a thin chopping knife onto the grooved table and frowned at the cutter, his red eyes dark.
"You're late," he said coldly, holding out one imperious hand.
Coll stilled the urge to bolt from the room.
"Forgive me, My Lord," he choked. Not daring to meet the man's eyes, he passed over the urn.
Sepori pulled the cork and pored the contents out on the table. Coll paled. Picking up the knife, the mage indicated the door.
"I will speak with you afterward. Wait in the upper hall."
Coll stumbled from the room.
The upper hall was dark and deserted, the crescent moon barely illuminating a foot of tiled floor. Several times Coll made to run, but each time he drew back. Where could he go? It was much too late to turn back now.
Suddenly a white-hot pain scored across his abdomen. He fell with a cry, striking his head against the floor. As wave after wave of pain doubled him over, he shrieked in agony. He was on fire from the inside, and he began to tear at the bandaged wound, desperate to wrench the terrible pain from his body. The dead priest appeared before him, a promise of relief, but as he reached out, it became the stitched and tattooed visage of the silent gardener. Coll screamed.
Hands gripped him, raised him into the air. He almost lost consciousness then but somehow remained aware as he was dragged from the room.
There was mage-fire everywhere. Coll's clothes began to smolder with a dull, blue smoke. He cried out as the flames lashed against him, and then he was outside, gulping in the cold night air. He saw figures fighting in the courtyard, saw the due's mage send a bolt of azure fire toward him, and before he could cry out, his undead bearer was slammed away by the force of it. Coll crumpled to the ground. Dragging himself to a corner, he watched with staring eyes the taking of La Palazzo de Sulla.
By dawn it was almost over. As the new sun touched the walls, Coll felt a sudden rush of frigid air and knew Sepori was dead.
He began to cry.
Standing with his physician in the center of the courtyard, his face smeared with soot, the duc turned.
"Help him," he said wearily.
The man knelt and examined the wound. Coll shuddered. "It's as I feared, My Lord," he said with a shake of his head, "the spellcasting has injured him internally."
"Then heal it."
"I can't, sir. I'm not trained to combat necromantic spellcraft."
"Then who is?"
The physician shrugged. "A priest?"
"Get one."
"They will not tend to the dammed, My Lord ..."
The duc rounded on him. "This boy saved my son's life tonight," he growled, "possibly the entire city. You've never given me such service; neither has the church. You will find him a priest."
The physician looked into the savage face of his lord and acquiesced.
The duc turned away and gestured for his guard captain.
"I want this craft wiped out," he said grimly. "When you're finished here, spread out across the city. Anyone suspected of practicing, supplying or supporting necromancy is to be immediately put to death. I don't care how you discover their identities, I just want it done. Understood?"
"Yes, My Lord."
The due glanced down at the young cutter again. Coll was staring up at him, his expression dull.
"Take him up."
Two guardsmen moved to haul him to his feet.
"Gently, damn you! Take him to the palazzo. The priest can tend to him there."
"Yes, sir."
Lifting him carefully, the guards placed him on a piece of burned door. The due turned away.
Across the courtyard those who'd survived the fire were being dragged out and put to the sword. Coll blinked as the limp body of the gardener was hauled from the wreckage. Finally free of Sepori's spellcraft, it had an air of peace that reached out and touched the ex-cutter gently. Coll suddenly felt very tired.
The guardsmen moved off. Coll's last sight before sleep claimed him was of the duc standing in the courtyard, watching the blue smoke rise above the necromancer's home. He closed his eyes, knowing that all the spirits which had hovered about his bedside were finally laid to rest and that two of them, a priest and a gardener, guarded his dreams.
* * *
SOLO
by Robert Greenberger
"I can't do it any more," he said by way of greeting. A Old Grimface Nelkin looked old and tired, worn from the service he proudly provided the Galway family but also tired of life it seemed. The deep lines on his face allowed the candlelight to draw shadows that masked much of his expression. The slate-gray hair was kept untied, against current fashion, fanning across his shoulders and looking in need of a trim.
Knowing better, I merely took the chair nearest him so I could catch the dry words in his usually hushed tones. Nelkin once sounded powerful in this way but that night he sounded very, very tired.
He drank from his flagon and studied the intricate carving of a manticore on its face. I recognized the flagon as one he was given by Dorn on the occasion of some famous battle, one no one ever spoke of and one I never dared ask about.
"Dorn wants another hit, and I know I am done. It's time for youth. It's time for you to solo."
Me? This went against form, and I knew it. I fully expected to work alongside him for a time, making sure my skill and technique were just right. But to solo after just one hit together boggled my mind, which, according to some, was not so hard to do.
"Things are getting ugly, and Dorn wants them hit where it will hurt deeply. Wives, sisters, foot soldiers, they don't mean a thing to Mickanton. He's in love, the fool, and Dorn knows it. Lacey she's called, short for something I forget. She's his mistress, and that's the target. Dorn figures hitting her may make Mickanton sit up and realize that this thing has gotten out of hand. And then maybe he can have a sit down and settle this."
Nelkin studied his cup once more and then drank for a time. I sat, still silent but listening to my heart race. This was not just any assignment but an opportunity with a purpose and a chance to make my mark with Dorn. It was obviously time for Nelkin to retire gracefully to the background, provide house security of some sort or whatever they do with aging warlock assassins. I can't recall any ever getting to this stage, and I suspect Dorn doesn't know what to do with Nelkin either, and surely that is a problem for another time.
This, of course, brought me to Deep Pockets Glim's, the best-supplied Arts shop. With only two days and two nights to figure it all out, I think I know what I want to do. Of course I am inspired by Old Grimface's success and I want to honor his lessons, but not by the same complex magicks of red and white. I prefer the essence of the elements, letting earth, wind, sea, or fire aid my work. I feel the strongest bond with wind and set to work devising the right kind of spell to whack that woman silly or, better yet, dead.
"Oh, it's you," Deep Pockets Glim says by way of greeting. This is a sign he knows and respects you.
I nod my head in greeting and let my eyes scan the shelves, a treasure trove of pretty arcane stuff, seeking out the crystal boxes and quartz containers that hold my ingredients. Deep Pockets Glim never offers to help, always waiting for you to ask. His expertise is amazing, and he always leads you to exactly what you need, which can be very helpful unless there's a dispute as to what kind of ear you need or which kind of mineral works best. No one has ever seen Deep Pockets Glim perform a spell, but he knows of what he speaks and has earned Old Grimface's respect; therefore he has my own.
Strolling through the well-lit shop, I begin ticking off the makings of my spell. Actually, it's spells since I have a plan and plans can be very good if they do not become overly complicated. Nelkin taught me that by revealing to me the reports of those that preceded him and how they failed. Some were trying to be too fine, others too cute, and all failed because they got caught up in the spellmaking, which prevented the hit from getting done.
With each ingredient, Deep Pockets Glim organizes the items on a countertop behind the main table. He never guesses what you are trying to do, and he's never been suspected of tipping off one family that another might be casting after them, which is another reason people continue to frequent his establishment. The first reason remains his inexhaustible supplies and keen knowledge of where to find the best of any ingredient the books may call for, although you can't find the books in his store since he feels you should know what you're doing before you buy the best. His thoughts are good ones, and I admire a man with high standards such as he holds.
My order complete, Deep Pockets Glim turns his back to me and begins measuring things out and fills my leather satchel with the finished items, which he has artfully wrapped in soft parchment or sealed within small glass bottles. This makes me think that now that I am a solo, I will need to buy my own crystal and quartz holdings so I could build a small inventory of those things which will not spoil with age.
He rattles off a price and I know not to even try to haggle, since Deep Pockets Glim has been known to throw such customers out of his shop.
We nod one final time and I am quickly out of his shop and am hurrying back to the center of the End, where I hope Salia the Dancer is still loitering. I think it might be nice to buy her a drink or two and talk the night away. This may be nerves talking, but I cannot begin to mix my spells until the morning, and then the stalking doesn't begin until after the noon meal and, as everyone knows, Salia may not be able to dance, but she has legs that are lovely to look upon.
My spells mixed and complete, I speak with Slither York, Dorn's best snitch, and he tells me that Lacey has not been seen on this sunny day. But, he tells me, she is known to watch the small animals that scramble for crumbs in the park that surrounds the Castle. Slither York is a tall, thin man with a long nose and a nasty profile, and he has been with the family for thirty-five summers. We have not had much to do with one another, but his word is law, and he has always been good at knowing who has been found in foreign beds or which family might be trying a new angle or which four-footed beast might win in the evening race. We chat about the weather, and he tells me which carved wooden bench is her favorite. He wishes me luck and then slides into an alcove, seeking out some other nugget of information.
The walk to the park is not an unpleasant one although it is far from the Galway Keep. Since my nerves have been getting the better of me, I figure the walk will do me some good, especially since it lets me remain solitary, away from those wishing me luck or offering advice. I avoid both Dorn and Nelkin this day, and they wisely have not sought me out. Nelkin shows me respect with this action and for Dorn, this is in keeping with his style of leadership.
