The High King bent over the bandaged man. “Gossy! Can you tell Snudge their names?”
Cant recall. Ask Dean of Studies, Vra-Edzal.
Snudge reached for a wax tablet and stylus that lay on a bedside table beside a tray of medicines, wrote the name down, and handed the tablet to the king. “This man will know, sire.”
Deveron… examine my rooms. See if there really is a hiding place… empty. Those unholy tools of the Beaconfolk must not reach Kilian… Aah! The pain… very bad.
“Never fear, my lord. I’ll do as you say. If Darasilo’s Trove has been stolen, the thieves can’t have gone far yet. We’ll catch them.”
The sigils and books must be destroyed. You know what Kilian and Beynor would do with them. Even my dear brother might… Promise me!
“I promise, my lord.”
The pain… the pain … No more, Deveron. Summon the doctors and I’ll take the poppy draft. God have mercy on me…
“What’s he saying?” Conrig demanded.
“He’s finished speaking. He wants the doctors. He’s in agony.”
Conrig strode to the door and shouted for the medical attendants to return. They flocked back, and several of them lifted the burn victim, parted the ointment-smeared bandages covering his mouth, and administered the narcotic draft that had been refused earlier.
“You must leave him now, Your Grace,” one of the doctors said. “He will sleep for many hours.”
Conrig scowled, but he finally turned away and beckoned Snudge to follow. When the two of them were alone in the corridor, the king asked sharply, “What did you promise Lord Stergos you would do?”
“Pursue the mysterious Brothers,” Snudge said evasively, “presuming they stole the sigils and the books.”
“If those three are the villains who burned poor Gossy,” the king said with quiet menace, “they shall have their own close acquaintance with flame.”
“Perhaps they’re still hiding in the palace. But it’s more likely that they escaped in the confusion and fled the city. A search must begin at once, sire. You’ll need to summon this Vra-Edzal. He can provide the names and descriptions of the three, and perhaps even arrange for drawings of their faces. This would greatly assist both the windsearchers and the untalented hunters. The Lord Constable, Earl Marshal Parlian, and the other members of your Privy Council will have to know about this.”
Including Duke Feribor Blackhorse, who might have played a key role in the disaster! But there was no way of proving that, nor even any chance now of discussing the possibility with Stergos.
“Hmm.” Conrig looked away, thinking. “I must decide how much to tell my counselors. Unfortunately, we can’t avoid giving out some sort of description of the stolen trove. But it should be as vague as possible—old books of great value only to alchymists, and a few small stone carvings. We’ll offer a large reward, but make it seem that the most important consideration is capturing those who wounded Stergos and destroyed the library. All of the searchers will be sworn to secrecy. Others will learn soon enough about this damned collection of moonstone sigils, but we must keep their dread capability secret. Only you and I and Stergos must ever know of that.”
“Not the Conjure-Queen?” Snudge asked softly. “Her Subtle Loophole would readily scry the location of the stolen things.”
“God forbid! If Ullanoth found them before we did, it could bring on a catastrophe far worse than the one we already face. You do understand that, don’t you, Snudge?”
“Yes, sire. I was not sure you did.”
“Impudence…”
“However, you face something of a dilemma here, sire. I think Queen Ullanoth is bound to learn something about the theft before long. News of the palace fire will spread from one end of the island to the other. Fortunately for us, there’s no easy way for her to get her hands on the trove, even if she scries its location. Her Sending is unable to take back anything to its point of origin. She’d have to come after the trove using her natural body. That would be quite difficult for her, given the situation in Moss and her present state of physical frailty.“
“What are you driving at? What’s the dilemma?”
“If the thieves aren’t captured in short order, you may be forced to ask for her help. To prevent the trove from falling into the hands of Kilian or Beynor.”
“God’s Eyes! Of course. One of them certainly planned the theft.”
“Or both,” Snudge said. “This is what Lord Stergos believes. He asked me to inspect the scene of the conflagration. Perhaps I might find some useful indications.”
“The burned-out wing can hardly be cool yet, but the oncoming rainstorm will take care of that.” Outside the corridor windows it had grown very dark, and the lightning and peals of thunder were now almost continuous. “When you finish, come to my study. We still must talk of the reason why I called you back to the city.”
Snudge let his chagrin show. “How remiss of me! This terrible disaster wiped all thought of the other matter from my mind.”
“We’ll talk of it later.” Conrig turned abruptly and strode away.
Snudge started off in the opposite direction, intending to go to the knights’ lodging in the Square Tower where he had left Gavlok and the others. He was going to need help searching the ruins, and he already felt deathly weary. The anguish emanating from the mind of Lord Stergos had deeply affected his own humor. It was a troubling aspect of his wild talent that he was only beginning to come to terms with. There were other considerations as well, but they didn’t bear thinking of now.
And neither did his motive for not telling King Conrig all that he had promised Lord Stergos.
Snudge, Gavlok, and the three squires armed themselves with iron-shafted pikes, donned waterproof military cloaks and heavy boots, then set off to begin the miserable task of poking through steaming rubble. A torrential deluge now beat down upon the palace. Since the damaged wing had largely lost its roof and was open to the elements, the rain had quenched the last of the flames. Most of the firefighters had withdrawn.
When Snudge’s party arrived at the ruined library they found Vra-Sulkorig Casswell himself. He had put off his robes in favor of waxed-leather hunting garb, and was supervising the removal of an incinerated human body from among the fallen stacks.
Stergos’s principal assistant bore the symbolic title Keeper of Arcana, but his actual duties were administrative. He was an austere, balding man in early middle age, more pragmatic than mystical. The king’s brother was over twenty years his junior, and had relied on Sulkorig’s greater experience to govern the scores of Zeth Brethren assigned to various palace duties.
As Gavlok and the armigers began a cautious tour of the gutted library, Snudge explained to the Keeper why he and his men had come.
Sulkorig nodded brusquely. “Looking for clues, are you, Sir Deveron? Then you’ll find this interesting.” He held out something in his gloved hand. “We found it with these sad remains.”
Snudge took the muck-encrusted, faintly gleaming object, bent down, and rinsed it in one of the myriad pools of rainwater. It was a solid gold gammadion pendant on a matching chain, one of those worn by every professed Brother of Zeth. On one side, the pendant was engraved with the voided cross emblem of the order. On the other side was a name. Snudge had to strain to read it in the gloom:
VRA-VITUBIO BENTLAND—C.Y. 1108
“The name of the owner and the date of his ordination,” Sulkorig explained. “He was one of those heroes who attempted to rescue the Royal Alchymist after the tarnblaze explosions took place.”
Snudge pocketed the pendant. “I’ll give this to His Grace. He’ll surely wish to commemorate the bravery of this man, who gave up his own life for Lord Stergos. Can you tell me anything about him?”
Sulkorig watched stoically as two white-faced young novices finished loading the nearly fleshless, contorted corpse onto a litter and covered it with a sheet. “Take him to the old laboratory and lay him out with the others, lads. You need do n
o more work today.”
“Yes, Brother Keeper.” The pair shuffled off with their grisly burden.
“Vra-Vitubio was a visitor to Gala,” Sulkorig said to Snudge, “one of three historians come down from Zeth Abbey to do research in our library. I myself know little about him, but doubtless his companions can tell us all that the High King requires for the commemoration.“
“Doubtless,” Snudge said through clenched teeth. “Do you know the names of the others?”
“Vra-Felmar Nightcott and Vra-Scarth Saltbeck. It appears that they were also among those who tried to rescue Lord Stergos, but were unable to find him in the smoke. Neither one was seriously hurt.”
“Would you do me the great favor of windspeaking the two right now, and ask them to present themselves to Lord Telifar, His Grace’s secretary?”
Sulkorig’s brows rose in surprise, but he pulled off a glove and covered his eyes with his hand. After a couple of minutes had passed, he regarded Snudge with a puzzled expression. “Neither man responds. I consulted our innrmarian, and they are not among those recuperating from injuries.”
“I didn’t think they would be!… Vra-Sulkorig, you know that I am the king’s man, and that I undertake to perform certain privy services for him. I must tell you something now in strictest confidence. His Grace suspects that those two Brothers and their dead comrade were responsible for this terrible conflagration.”
“My God! Why should they do such a thing?”
“In order to steal certain valuable arcane objects belonging to Lord Stergos. I was not in the city at the time of the disaster. Please tell me what you know of the sequence of events here.”
The first explosion had occurred at about eight in the morning, at a time when most residents of the palace were still sleeping off the night’s festivities, so as to be well rested for the events scheduled later on Midsummer Day. The Brothers were free to do as they chose, but many of them—including the Royal Alchymist—attended the usual communal breakfast in the refectory at the sixth hour.
Stergos would ordinarily have gone to his office at the far end of the cloister wing after eating and dealt with his correspondence. But on this holiday, with the scribes and secretaries excused from duty, he told his assistant Sulkorig that he would return to his own quarters for a time, since he had much to meditate upon. When the first tarnblaze explosion blew open the outer door of the Alchymical Library, Stergos was among the stacks, searching for a book dealing with the thaumaturgical history of the Salka race.
The concussion toppled many of the freestanding bookshelves. One of them caught Stergos by the lower leg, trapping him. He began to cry for help and became aware of agitated shouts in the exterior corridor. Then, as he later told Vra-Sulkorig, red-robed figures moved into the smoke-filled chamber. As yet there was no widespread fire. A reassuring voice called out from not far away, apparently trying to locate him among the jumble of fallen stacks. Stergos answered, but heard nothing further for some minutes save the tolling of the alarm bell mounted outside the library door and a single youthful voice— perhaps the bellringer—screaming for help.
What happened next was so appalling that Stergos nearly fainted from shock. First came a sound of persons running. The smoke, which had the typical sulphurous stench of tarnblaze, had thickened and it was getting harder for him to breathe. Then a tremendous blast emanated from his own rooms on the far side of the library, causing more shelves to crash and shaking the edifice to its foundations. He’d left the apartment door open when he came out to fetch the book, and even through the smoke he could see a huge gout of flame belch out of his sitting room and set the library furnishings—and his own clothing—afire.
He cried out with the last of his strength, then succumbed to oblivion until he awoke in the King’s Suite and bespoke his story to Sulkorig, who later pieced together certain missing details by questioning witnesses.
Earlier, the novice who had been hauling hysterically on the bell cord was joined by another young Brother with more initiative. Shortly before the second explosion occurred, the two of them decided to attempt to rescue the unknown victim who was trapped in the library and calling out. They pulled down arras from the corridor wall and wrapped themselves, as protection against the fire within, and together plunged into the smoke.
Instantly, they were bowled over by two Brothers dashing out of the library and crying, “Run! Run for your lives!” Then came the horrendous second blast, and the fast-spreading inferno. In a small miracle, the roaring flames seemed to diminish the thickness of the smoke momentarily. The two rescuers caught sight of Stergos engulfed in fire. They used an arras to beat it down, then dragged the Royal Alchymist to safety.
By then the corridor was thronged with men in red robes, members of the Palace Guard trying without success to restore order, and a few servants bearing containers of water, who doused the burned man and his scorched saviors.
“Everyone on the scene assumed that the two Brothers who had emerged from the library a few minutes earlier were would-be rescuers who lost heart and fled,” Vra-Sulkorig concluded. “Someone recognized them as they pushed through the crowd and tried to ask them questions. But they were coughing and moaning, and soon vanished amidst the commotion. By then the flames had spread to other parts of the cloister wing, and the residents were fleeing.”
Snudge stood over the spot where the corpse had lain. “Do you see, Brother Keeper? He had come only a few ells from Lord Stergos’s apartment door. He must have been the last one to run out of there before the second explosion happened. The fireball roasted him in mid-stride.”
“Blessed Zeth,” Sulkorig muttered. “May heaven grant him mercy.”
Snudge suspected there was scant chance of that.
“Sir Deveron!” The armiger Valdos called out from somewhere inside the ruined apartment. “You must come in here and see this! But beware. Some of the roof beams are sagging and may collapse at any minute.”
Snudge entered, trailed by the Keeper. Fallen timbers lay everywhere in precarious tangles, some still smoldering in spite of the continuing downpour. Blackened and broken containers of ceramic or glass had survived, but all of the furnishings were ashes, and the beautiful hardwood floor that he remembered from his clandestine invasion of Kilian’s quarters four years earlier was entirely burned away, leaving the same flagstone underpavement that was visible in the library.
Valdos stood just inside the doorframe of what had been the Royal Alchymist’s bedroom. The rear wall, made of closely fitted granite blocks, bore an irregular stain of yellowish-white at least five feet in diameter, surrounded by a halo of soot.
“I believe that the second explosion involved two bombshells, set off simultaneously,” Vra-Sulkorig noted. “In my early life I was a soldier, and I’ve seen such things before. Perhaps the fire-raisers had intended to blast open the door to Lord Stergos’s apartment. When they found it unlocked, they used both bombs inside.”
But Snudge’s attention was elsewhere.
In the middle of this room, where the bed had once stood, was a square area of newly exposed floor that measured some three ells by four. Instead of stone, it was covered over with rusted iron plates that were bulging and distorted by heat. At one end, a pair of plates on hinges had dropped open like trapdoors, revealing a hole partially clogged by debris from the fire. Stone steps led down from the bedroom level into a kind of cellar… or crypt.
“Codders!” Snudge whispered.
He crossed the room with the greatest care, squatted gingerly, and peered into the opening. The underground chamber was about three ells deep and awash at the bottom with water in which floated bits of burned material. At the far end were two sizable objects of roughly hewn stone with heavy lids. They looked like tombs. In front of them stood a warped iron framework like a skeletal cabinet or chest that still held a few slabs of charred wood.
The iron thing had a tantalizing familiarity.
Then he knew what he must be seeing. Using his pik
e as a staff, he descended the steps into the crypt.
“It was the remains of Kilian’s small oaken storage cabinet, sire. The one I had discovered in his sanctum, bound with iron bands and fitted with the peculiar lock that almost defeated my attempt to pick it. Its doors—or what was left of them—were wide-open.” He reached into his belt-wallet and placed a discolored metal mechanism on the king’s desk. “I found this in the dirty water down around the tombs. But there was no trace of the sigils that had been stored in that cabinet—more than a hundred of them—nor the small moonstone medallions that were fastened to the covers of the two large books that I left behind with the sigils.”
Conrig took up the lock and turned it slowly in his hands. “Someone knew how to work it,” Snudge said. “It’s undamaged. And open.”
The draperies of the study windows were drawn against the grey twilight and the wrenching sight of the ruined library and cloister wing across the quadrangle gardens. It was around the tenth hour after noon and still raining steadily, although the thunder and lightning had passed.
“So now we are certain,” the king said. “The trove is gone. Stolen.”
“I fear so, sire. I learned sometime ago that the two ancient books were transcribed in the Salkan language. Like the smaller one that I took away, they contained pictures of different sigils. I can only presume that the books held expanded descriptions of their varied uses, along with spells of activation.”
“Including that of your own Concealer sigil that was… lost during the assault on Mallmouth Bridge?” The Sovereign’s tone was dry.
“I never noticed, sire. Since the larger books were illegible to me, I paid them scant attention. Concealer was certainly depicted in the smaller book, which had much of its content written in an old version of our own tongue. That’s why I stole it. But Concealer’s activating spell, like all others in the little book, was written in Salkan. And I must emphasize that correct pronunciation is absolutely critical for bringing a sigil to life. I was told by Beynor himself that saying the words wrong would anger the Beaconfolk and cause them to kill me. So he pretended to coach me—while actually plotting my death. Lord Stergos and I believe that Kilian also knew the peril of mispronouncing the spells. This was why he formed an alliance with the Crown Prince of Moss and agreed to share the stones, in exchange for Beynor’s expertise in the Salkan language. The Glaumerie Guild knows how to bring sigils to life, and Beynor belongs to the Guild, as do all members of Moss’s Royal Family. Kilian evidently had no suspicion that there might be another, simpler way to activate sigils—merely by touching them to the moonstone disks mounted on the book covers.”