“Gods bless me,” she whispered, and dipped into the black contents of the iron bowl. The unmagic was eager to stick to her purified skin. It crawled over her head, seeking an opening. Sandry shuddered.
Taking a deep breath, ordering herself not to think about how bad it felt, she pinched thumb and forefinger together and drew them out of the nothingness. With them came a strand like thin cord. Overlapping it with her cotton leader, Sandry gave both an experienced twist. They wound together. On her next twist, she set the spindle going, letting it whirl around and around. The twist in the joined cotton and unmagic traveled up the dark cord, twirling it, making it stronger and thicker.
In one way the spinning was easy. She never had to worry about the dark cord breaking; one bit of unmagic was always determined to join the rest. She never had to stop as she put darkness to be spun against the end of what she’d already worked, as she did with real fiber. As long as that shadowy pool lay in the iron dish, the nothingness streamed through her hand. Once the dish was empty, she took the finished cord from her spindle, wound it onto a spool, and put the spool in its holder. Then she would empty the next bottle into the dish, remove a strand, and begin to spin again.
That was the easy part.
The unmagic wanted her. It tested her skin and the cracks under her nails. It tried to creep out of her hands and up her chest, seeking her face. She felt as if she wore gloves of it, cool and slimy. As the night wore on she thought, or the nothingness made her think, of letting go, lying back and resting without a thought for tomorrow. It offered no more worries about her uncle, about teaching Pasco, about distant friends. What did people matter, when shadows would have them in the end? it wanted her to think. All she had to do was give in.
She caught herself drifting, and shook off the listless-ness that had seeped into her bones. Whipping her magic to a white heat, she sent it coursing through her body, its fire driving the shadows back. She spun harder, winding the darkness so tight that it had nothing left over to pry at her with.
The wind howled. The tent walls flapped, fighting the magical bonds that held them to the rock platform. Despite the globes that warmed the tent, drafts crept in to make her shiver.
What if it leaked? she wondered in sudden panic. What if this stuff oozed through the rock, bleeding into the ground below? It would spread. The desperate poor of the Mire would give up and starve to death, not caring enough to feed themselves. She could almost see it: babies cried unattended in their cradles; old people called feebly, and no one came to help. Houses burned, no one came to put out the fires. And unmagic crept up to Winding Circle, trickling past the walls, seeping into the water.…
Oh, get serious, Duchess! She could hear Briar as clearly as if he stood before her. Is this real, or is it just what the goo wants you to think?
What it wants me to think, replied Sandry, and woke up. Her spindle dropped to the floor. While she had sunk into visions of disaster, her spindle had reversed direction, unspinning all she had done with the unmagic from the current bottle. She growled and thrust the dark smears that crawled up her arm back into the iron dish. Taking a few deep breaths, she pulled herself together and began again.
The rain beat down on the tent. The walls brightened somewhat. It was after dawn, but on a day when she could have used some sunshine, it was going to keep raining. Sandry finished another bottle. One more to go.
As she started the last bowlful, the waking dreams began. Duke Vedris was blue-lipped and gray-faced, clutching his left arm as if it pained him. He collapsed in his study, or at the supper table, or fell from his horse. Lark was abed, coughing and coughing, with bright red blood on the handkerchief she held to her lips. Tris burned alive, encased in solid lightning, her skin turning black in the heat. Daja’s teacher, Frostpine, turned from an anvil and bashed Daja’s head in with his hammer. Vines with thorns as long as a man’s hand snaked around Briar and Rosethorn, ripping them to pieces like claws. She smelled blood and rot, dung, urine, and bad things she couldn’t name.
She walked into the inner keep, where she had been only twice before. The rooms where they’d put the four Rokat families dripped with blood. Everyone had been chopped to pieces, even the children’s pets.
No, thought Sandry fiercely. No. She tightened her grip on the nothingness, and used the white heat of her magic to banish it from her mind and heart. It is going to turn out as I mean it to, without hopelessness or despair, thank you very much!
Suddenly her clean fingertips met — she was out of darkness. Instantly she grabbed for her spindle as it fell. A roll of finished unmagic cord wrapped around her spindle’s stem. Confused, she looked at the dish. It was empty. No drop of shadow clung to the spelled iron. She checked the bottles. They, too, were empty. She had spun it all.
Sandry wound the cord onto the last spool, and put it away. For the first time since she had dismounted from Russet, she sat. Her feet were swollen and sore; her knees and hands stiff. She let her head fall back for a moment, then looked at that rack of spools. The unmagic on them was tamed, at least for the moment.
Now to fashion her net.
13
With Alzena’s latest wound, everything seemed to go awry. No healer would attend someone they didn’t know — they’d all heard about the one who was killed. She and Nurhar should have been able to take the mage’s nameless path to the Battle Islands, where healers asked no questions. They should have, but the mage said that after their escape from House Rokat, he could open those paths no longer. It took more strength than he could summon.
Nurhar could have hidden in the mage’s spells and kidnapped a healer, but he had been foolish while Alzena was at Duke’s Citadel. He had given the mage a dose of dragonsalt. Now the mage could only hum nursery songs. He would be useless until the drug was gone from his body. Alzena wanted to kick Nurhar for his folly, but even the idea of it was tiring.
She suspected that Nurhar wanted to say she had bungled the Citadel exploration, but he, too, seemed not to care. She had made lesser mistakes in their years together and he had screamed at her for them. Now all he wanted to do was huddle by the fire once he had treated her wound.
Alzena joined him there. When meals came, they made themselves eat. They also forced the mage to eat. Left to himself, he would have starved, forgetting everything but the happiness he found in dragonsalt.
He should have asked for more after a day, but he didn’t. Three days passed before Alzena figured out why. Somehow the mage had gotten Nurhar’s dragonsalt pouch and was dosing himself.
There were Rokats to kill. She still cared about that, so she made herself get moving. She took the drugs from the mage. Then she had a thought: dragonsalt gave strength to those not gifted with magic. She poured a measure of the drug into a cup, mixing it with ale. She drank that down, then fixed another cup for Nurhar. He refused at first, but when she would not let him be, he drank it to silence her. Within half an hour they were changing their filthy clothes, combing out their hair, and cleaning the place up. As they worked, they laid plans. There had to be a way to get at those Rokats.
“Let’s try the roof,” Nurhar suggested. “Hooks and rope we have in plenty. We go to the palace, get on its roof, then climb to the roof of the inner keep. If it’s separate, we swing across on the ropes. We’ll go in that way. I bet they don’t have so many guards up above. We can avoid the ones they have. Enough sitting around. Let’s move.”
“What about him?” Alzena demanded, gesturing at the mage. He was huddled into a ball, furious at losing his dragonsalt, hurting after just an hour without it.
Nurhar opened his medicine pouch and selected a pain ball. He forced it down the mage’s throat and held his jaws shut until the mage had swallowed. That would ease the dragonsalt pangs.
“Why can’t you just let me die?” he asked bitterly when Nurhar released him. “It’s not that far off for me anyway.”
“You die when we say,” Nurhar snapped. He groped under the bed. “And you go wit
h us,” he said, pulling out the carry-frame he’d made after their escape from Rokat House. “If you can’t make yourself useful, we’ll dump you off the keep. You’ll die then, but it’ll hurt.” He giggled, liking that idea.
Alzena didn’t care for a husband who giggled, but she needed to get some Rokats while the dragonsalt made her want to. She helped Nurhar strap the mage to the carry-frame.
The duke had returned to the Citadel by the time Sandry emerged from the tent on Wehen Ridge. On some level of her exhausted mind, the girl was relieved. She knew her uncle might be alarmed if he saw her now, and she hadn’t the strength to reassure him.
Do soldiers ever feel like this? she wondered dully as the cart rumbled down Harbor Road to Summersea. Like they’ve marched and marched until they just want to fall down and die, only to be told they have to keep marching?
She was cold. She was wet from the rain and from the showers that had cleansed her once she finished the net and locked it away. Most of all, she was so tired her bones hurt.
If Tris had been home where she belonged, instead of jauntering to parts unknown, at least Sandry wouldn’t be quite so cold and wet. Tris would have sent the storm that continued to buffet Summersea on its way, to make things easier for her friend.
Get some rest, Lark had advised when Sandry got into the cart. Now the girl curled up on the pallet someone had left there, thinking she would never be able to sleep. The thought of sliding across the bed of the cart until she fetched up against the ebony box that held the net gave her the horrors. Looking around, she saw ropes that anchored the canvas cover. They were securely tied, with plenty left over. Sandry called the ends to her wearily. Only when they had wrapped themselves firmly around her waist, holding her away from the box, did she close her eyes.
She woke briefly when the ropes let her go and someone lifted her out of the cart. She looked around: one of Winding Circle’s top mages, Dedicate Crane, was carrying her into a cellar. “Where are we?” she mumbled.
“It seems Durshan Rokat has a secret entrance to his home,” Crane replied in his usual, energyless murmur. “Now no one will know we’re in his house. It’s a good thing he volunteered to be bait, is it not? Rest while you can.”
She was about to tell him that he was strong for someone so bony. Instead she slept. The next time she woke, she was being gently placed on a divan and covered with a blanket. She muttered and curled up, not wanting to open her eyes a moment before she had to.
She napped until she heard a familiar voice: “Is she going to sleep forever?”
Sandry opened her eyes and saw Pasco. “Are we ready?” she asked, yawning as she sat up. The welcome scent of rose-orange tea met her nostrils. With Pasco beside her, Sandry followed her nose to the kitchen. Lark smiled and pressed a large mug of tea into her hands.
“You left me with the little monster for hours and hours,” accused Pasco. “She worked me to death!”
The tea was just cool enough to gulp. Sandry took a large swallow, then replied, “I’m sure the experience was good for you.”
“Why do people always say too much work is good?” complained the boy. “I never thought so!”
“But you are lazy to the bone, my lad,” replied Lark. “And that’s one of my best friends you’re calling a ‘little monster.’” She gave Sandry two thick pieces of bread with ham and a sliced-up tomato between them. Sandry ate gratefully.
“But she is a monster,” Pasco argued. “She’s trying to kill me.” He helped himself to a slice of the iced cake that sat on a counter.
“Can you do that dance exactly?” Sandry wanted to know.
Pasco grinned, smug. “Yazmín says if she puts a mark on the floor I can land on it on my toes ten times of ten. She says I have perfect body memory.”
Sandry glanced at Lark, who winked at her. For someone who called her a monster, Pasco seemed very pleased by Yazmín’s praise.
“You have to get it absolutely right,” Sandry told Pasco solemnly. “You won’t be able to see my net at all.”
“I know,” he said impatiently. “I’ve only been told a thousand times!”
“Actually, we found a way to cope with that,” Lark told Sandry. “Come.” She led the girl and Pasco through a doorway as Sandry continued to eat. They entered what had probably been a dining room before the furnishings had all been taken out. Now there were only whitewashed walls, candle sconces, and a tile floor. The entire room — floor, walls, and ceiling — had been thoroughly cleansed by Winding Circle’s mages.
Sandry blinked at the floor and began to smile. She doubted that the central pattern of red and white clay tiles — a pattern that matched her net precisely — had been part of the original floor.
“Are you ready to start?” Lark asked her. “It’s after one. We fixed the starting time for when the Citadel clock strikes two. That’s when Durshan Rokat will leave the inner keep.” When they had worked out their plan, the mage council had suggested the Dihanurs would be less suspicious of a trap if they had a reason to come to the net, like following a quarry on his way home.
“He is a volunteer?” Sandry wanted to know.
Lark nodded. “His grace talked to Durshan himself. Your uncle insisted on making sure we had a genuine volunteer.”
Sandry took a deep breath. “I need something sweet,” she told Lark, “another mug of tea, and time to use the privy. After that, I’ll be as ready as I can ever be.” She had a case of the shakes. Somehow she had the feeling they weren’t going to go away — she would just have to work around them.
Lark walked them back to the kitchen. As she cut a slice from the cake, she looked at Pasco. “Go through that door and find the musicians — they’re in the front parlor. Tell them we’re almost ready. And once your part is done, go home with them. No one will think anything of servants leaving the house.”
“Leaving?” cried Pasco. “But I want to see what happens!”
“Absolutely not.” Sandry had never heard herself use that tone before, though it sounded like a combination of the duke and Tris. “You are to get away and stay away, understand?” she demanded, holding the boy’s eyes with hers. “This isn’t a game. I will not tell your parents you got killed because I let you stay and watch like this was a performance!”
“For one thing,” Lark pointed out, “we don’t know they’ll even come now. We hope the net will bring them quickly, but if they aren’t in this part of the city when Durshan Rokat leaves the Citadel, it may take them a day or two to hear about him.”
“Please, Lady Sandry,” whined the boy.
Lark took him by the shoulders, turned him around, and thrust him through the door that led to the front hall. “Musicians. Go,” she said firmly.
Pasco looked back, hesitated, then obeyed.
As Lark poured a fresh cup of tea and added honey, she asked gravely, “Was it very bad, dear? Spinning the unmagic. Tying the net.”
Sandry shivered. “It likes real magic more than anything,” she whispered. “It isn’t happy if it can’t eat what you have, and it never stops trying to get in.”
Lark smoothed her hair with a gentle hand. “I would have given anything to spare you that.”
Sandry hugged her teacher. “I know.”
She finished her cake and her tea, went to the privy, then washed her hands and face in a bucket of water. When she next entered the empty dining room, the musicians stood in the door that led to the front of the house. Pasco waited in a corner. Other council mages came to watch: Crane, Winding Circle’s Dedicate Superior, Moonstream, the Duke’s healer, Comfrey, and Skyfire, who was the head of the Fire temple, and a handful of others. Sandry knew the plan was that these mages would be outside the house, concealed within spells, standing guard. When Pasco finished the net dance, they would sprinkle the lines of ash across the ways into the house. There was a chance the Dihanurs might leave footprints. If they did, the watchers could give Sandry some warning of the killers’ approach.
The Guildhall clock
struck two. Up at Duke’s Citadel the play they were staging for the Dihanurs was just starting. It was Skyfire, a one-time general, who had devised this part of the plan with the help of the duke and Erdogun. They had no way to know where the assassins were: they might be in the duke’s residence, trying to get at the inner keep once more, in the outer bailey of the Citadel, or somewhere between the Citadel and the waterfront. With that in mind, everyone had to act as if their quarry could see them at any moment, from the time Durshan Rokat walked out of the inner keep and demanded to go home. The handful of people who were to create the charade and keep it going had orders to make as much noise and fuss as possible. That way, even if the killers were not watching, they would hear Citadel, Guard, or city gossip about the crazy old man who turned down the duke’s hospitality.
Durshan Rokat would be walking out of the inner keep now. It was time for Sandry and Pasco to add the power of their net to the killers’ discovery that one Rokat was available to be murdered.
“Have we soldiers to arrest the Dihanurs?” Sandry asked Lark as she opened the ebony box where the net was kept.
“In the cellar and upstairs,” Lark replied.
Sandry looked down into the box. Her shadowy creation was invisible against the black wood, but she could feel it there. Tying and knotting the net, she had become attuned to unmagic. It was stronger now, the knots increasing its power as it fed back on itself.
Her skin tingling with fear, she gathered her net in her arms. She had left bits of her own power like yarn ties at the corners so she could find them. Taking the first corner, she placed it on the north point on the pattern, over a round socket in the floor. Lark knelt and fitted an ebony peg into the socket to anchor that corner of the net. Sandry then went to the eastern point of the tile pattern and set another corner of the net there; Crane anchored it with an elderwood peg. South came next; Dedicate Skyfire anchored the unmagic with an oak peg. Last was the west corner; Sandry nodded her thanks to Healer Comfrey, who placed a hawthorn peg to hold the net.