The fay moved closer, the low growl rising again. Nicholas waited until it was almost just below, then tipped the revenant off the ledge.
The fay dove for it instantly, clawing at the rock as the revenant bounced down the slope. Nicholas scrambled back into the shelter of the crevice thinking, come on, you greedy bastard, go after it.
The fay pounced as the revenant rolled to the end of the lowest ledge and crammed the battered corpse into its maw.
Nicholas crouched against the wall next to Arisilde’s limp body. There now. If it worked at all. If it worked in time.
Madeline caught up with Ronsarde and Halle only a little further into the catacomb. The Inspector was leaning heavily against one of the crypts. His eyes were closed but the lids fluttered as he fought to return to consciousness.
"He keeps blacking out," Halle explained as she climbed over some broken steps to join them. "He’s had a bad knock on the head."
"We’re all right for the moment but we’ve got to keep moving." Madeline was trembling so hard from fear and their precipitate flight that her teeth were chattering. She was relieved Halle was too occupied to take notice of it. She lifted Ronsarde’s other arm and stretched it across her shoulders to get them moving again. This was going to be difficult. She was strong for a woman but she couldn’t carry Ronsarde all the way out of here, even with Halle’s help.
"The sphere destroyed that thing that was coming after us?" Halle asked as they made their way forward.
"It stopped it. I don’t think it destroyed it." Madeline was still having difficulty believing what she had seen with her own eyes. The sphere must be alive to some extent. She certainly hadn’t told it to lay a trap for Macob, if Macob that thing had been, luring him close enough and then letting go full blast. That had been no accident; this little metal ball had exhibited human cunning. "Nicholas should be up ahead of us here somewhere," she added. She only hoped he was still searching for her in the catacomb or the tunnel and hadn’t decided to turn around and look for her back in the cave. "I’ve been lost for a bit."
"How did you know where to look for us?"
"Nicholas deduced it." Even in the bad light, she could tell Halle’s face was strained and ill. "How were you brought here?"
"I’m not entirely certain," he admitted. "We were in the sorcerer Damal’s apartment in the Philosopher’s Cross and I had just started to examine him. He still appeared to be unconscious though it seemed to be a natural sleep and not the state he was in before. Then something struck the outer wall of the building. I was knocked unconscious. We woke as prisoners where you found us and we’ve seen no one except the ghouls. Wait. Your grandmother and the Parscian Isham, they were in the apartment," Halle said suddenly. He stopped, as if ready to turn back to search for them. "Were they—"
"My grandmother’s dead." The dim light had given her a wonderful headache; she wanted to rub her eyes but with the sphere to hold onto and Ronsarde to support, she had no free hand. She didn’t want to think about Madele’s death. "Isham was badly injured but Nicholas had him taken to a physician, that was a few hours ago." At least she thought so; her watch had been pinned inside a coat pocket and been torn loose in one of the near-misses. She had lost it and all track of time.
"I’m sorry. Your grandmother—"
She shook her head, warning him off. "Nicholas thinks this sorcerer, this man who’s doing this to us, is actually Constant Macob himself, or his ghost or shade or something."
"Can that be possible?" Halle muttered, then shook his head, annoyed at himself. "What am I saying? Of course it’s possible."
"Damn sorcery," Ronsarde said suddenly, in a weak voice. "Didn’t consider that as a valid hypothesis. Tell Valiarde—"
"Sebastion, save your strength," Halle said urgently. "You can’t tell him anything until we get out of here."
"Tell Valiarde," Ronsarde continued stubbornly, ignoring the interruption, "that Macob isn’t mad. Conclusion I came to, studying the historical accounts. Halle, you know—"
"No, I don’t agree, and you know it," Halle said, exasperated. "I think he is mad, but it’s a strange sort of madness. Madmen are often cunning, but not so deliberate. Macob’s madness didn’t—that is, hasn’t hampered his intelligence."
"And he’s dead already, so killing him is problematical anyway," Madeline said. "It’s all right, Inspector, we’ll tell Nicholas."
Ronsarde stopped suddenly, let go of Halle, and with startling strength grabbed the collar of Madeline’s coat. Ferocity lending force to his voice, he said, "Tell Valiarde that in my study in my apartment on Avenue Fount, under the loose tile on the right side of the hearth, there is a packet of documents. He must see them."
Halle recaptured Ronsarde’s aim and urged him to move. The Inspector seemed to be losing consciousness again. He added, "I wanted him to see. . . . Not pertinent to this matter but he must know after this is over. . . ."
"Do you know what he means?" Madeline asked Halle.
"No." Halle shook his head. "I just hope we last long enough to find out."
They made their way back through the catacomb with what seemed painful slowness, but fear kept them moving. There were three ghouls waiting for them at the entrance to the tunnel that led to the sewers but the sphere disposed of them almost desultorily, as if it had faced a greater challenge and now found ghouls rather pass้. Next you’ll be talking to it, Madeline thought wearily.
The tunnel was difficult until Ronsarde woke abruptly again. He was able to lean on Halle, allowing Madeline to light one of the candle stubs she had in her pocket so they could see past the point where the ghost-lichen died out. As they made their way closer to the sewers the rising stench, fetid and familiar, was a welcome sign that they were almost home.
They reached the rotted door into the old sewer channel and Madeline was about to help Ronsarde through when they heard voices.
She and Halle stared at each other in the dim candlelight. "Crack got through," she whispered hopefully. But she didn’t hear Nicholas’s voice.
"I’ll make certain," Halle said. "You wait here with Sebastion."
"All right." They eased Ronsarde down so he could sit against the wall and she handed Halle the candle. "Don’t go too far. There are branchements and turns and you’ll get lost."
Halle made his way up the broken path toward the voices and she sat next to Ronsarde. After a moment, she thought that was a mistake. Her legs ached from climbing and running in the damp chill, her muscles were strained from lifting Ronsarde and her arms were sore from holding the sphere so tightly. She leaned her head back against the filthy wall and closed her eyes; she wasn’t sure she could get up again.
The candlelight faded as Halle moved further away and they sat for a moment in the pitch dark. Then the sphere began to emit a dim, golden glow. Madeline stared down at it. The color of the light was very like flame, as if it was imitating the departed candle. She glanced up to meet Ronsarde’s eyes. He was still conscious and his gaze was sharper. He smiled and said, "Clever gadget."
She heard the voices again then, louder this time. She recognized Doctor Halle, who sounded relieved, and the person replying to him was . . . . "That’s Reynard!" she said to Ronsarde.
"Doctor, is the Inspector with you?" someone called out.
"And Captain Giarde," Ronsarde said, identifying the voice and sounding pleased. "Success may be at hand."
But where’s Nicholas, Madeline wondered. He must have been far ahead of us. If he had realized she was behind him he would have turned back to look for her and they would have encountered him in the catacomb or the tunnel. If he was ahead of her, she realized coldly. But if he was behind me. . . .
The voices came closer as Halle led the rescuers toward them. "Yes, Crack told us," Reynard was saying. "Nicholas and Madeline are with you?"
Halle’s answer was inaudible but she heard Reynard reply, "No, he’s not with us, are you sure—"
More confused answers, then Halle saying distinctly, "
But Arisilde Damal, the injured sorcerer, was taken prisoner also. He and Valiarde must still be down there."
The man Ronsarde had identified as Captain Giarde said, "Fallier and the other sorcerers are planning to collapse the underground chambers. If there’s anyone left down there—"
"You can’t leave them there," Reynard said, sounding furious. "You wouldn’t know where the bastard was without Nic’s help. I’ll go down after him."
"I’ll show you the way," Halle said.
"No." That was Giarde again. "We’d just lose the lot of you. I can hold Fallier off, give them time to get out, but if we wait too long this necromancer will escape—"
More protests. It sounded as if Giarde had a great many men with him and Reynard and Halle were trapped among them. Madeline looked at Ronsarde.
The Inspector’s expression was tired and vexed. He said, "I wish I could accompany you, my dear. You are a resourceful woman but a little assistance never hurts." He let out his breath. "I can contrive, however, to delay any possible pursuit."
"Thank you," she whispered. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then got to her feet. "I’ll be back."
As she stepped back through the door and into the tunnel, she heard Ronsarde whisper, "I hope to God you will."
Nicholas watched the fay stalk back and forth, clawing at its belly. It had lost interest in searching for them but refused to go away and perish somewhere else. The lost time was grating; he only hoped Crack or Madeline had reached the surface by this point to carry the word of Macob’s whereabouts to the help that was, theoretically at least, waiting for them.
Crushed back into the crevice as they both were, it was hard to tell if Arisilde was showing any more signs of returning consciousness. If he didn’t wake soon, Nicholas had no idea what to do with him. He couldn’t leave him here in this condition. With the giant fay eliminated there was no telling what other inhabitants of this place would emerge and if Arisilde wasn’t conscious enough to defend himself, it would be murder to leave him here. "What am I going to do with you?" Nicholas muttered to himself.
"Might I move now?"
The voice was a weak whisper and plaintive, but as the first time Arisilde had spoken in days, it was entirely welcome. Nicholas could have shouted in relief but he confined himself to saying, "Yes, but slowly. It’s still down there." He pressed back against the wall to give him room. "How do you feel?"
"Rather . . . horrid, actually." Arisilde managed to sit up a little. He blinked as if even the dim light of the ghost-lichen was too much for him. His face was terribly drawn and gaunt, but he was alive. "Rather confused, too."
"Do you know where you are?"
"I thought I was at home." Arisilde peered at the fay pacing below. It gave a high-pitched shriek of anger and clawed at its belly again, leaving wide tears in the putrid flesh. "Oh, my. That’s awful, isn’t it?"
"Mildly, yes," Nicholas agreed. "It’s a fay or what’s left of one. I tried to poison it but since the creature is already dead it’s taking much longer than I thought."
Arisilde greeted this speech, which must have sounded quite mad, with a complacent nod. "I see, yes. Most inconvenient. Now, why are we here again?"
"The necromancer I was searching for enspelled you with a corpse ring, do you remember that?"
Arisilde’s vague gaze suddenly sharpened. "Someone came to the door. Isham was out so I went to open it. There was a man, he handed me something. . . . Oh, I’m a fool. That’s the oldest trick in the world." He shook his head, his expression rueful. "He handed me a ring and said he wanted me to tell him where the person who had owned it was now. I said I’d work on it. He even paid me. People around the neighborhood bring me those sorts of commissions all the time. The ring probably had a charm, a simple, subtle one, that suggested I put it on. Where was I wearing it?"
"On your foot, oddly enough," Nicholas said. Arisilde’s opium habit must have left him open to this. His power was proof against open assaults but his failing senses left him vulnerable to more subtle, indirect attacks.
"That’s quite a good idea, actually; Isham would have checked my hands. I don’t remember putting it on at all. But if I was under the influence of a charm, I wouldn’t." He sighed. "I failed you, Nicholas."
"We can assign blame later, Ari." Nicholas was thinking hard. Macob must have put the ring back on Arisilde and simply dumped his body down here with the unwanted revenants. Well, it was hardly surprising. He knew Macob had no respect for life.
Nicholas considered the fay again. It seemed increasingly distracted and was staying at the far end of the pit. They might be able to make it back up to the opening into the fissure and from there get through to the other side of the pit and reach the way out. "Can you stand?"
Arisilde frowned in concentration and tried to pull his legs up. With some effort he managed to bend his knees, wincing in pain. "Not yet. I’ll keep trying. Is there a time constraint?"
"We can’t afford to wait long." Nicholas drew a sharp breath. With so much time in an unconscious state Arisilde must be unbelievably stiff. He said, "Listen: this necromancer is Constant Macob and he’s been dead nearly two hundred years. He has what’s left of his corpse and he seems to be using one of the spheres—"
"Macob, the Necromancer, himself? That’s not good," Arisilde interrupted, startled. Then his gaze suddenly sharpened. "Is the corpse intact?"
"No, he’s missing the skull," Nicholas answered. The expression on Arisilde’s face was not encouraging. "What does it mean?"
"He’s trying to bring himself back to life, that much is obvious. But how?" Arisilde frowned into the distance. "The planets are in entirely the wrong configuration for that sort of— Wait, I wasn’t unconscious for months, was I?"
"No, no. Only a few days."
"That’s all right, then." Arisilde paused in thought again, then asked urgently, "You said he had one of the spheres? That Edouard made? Which one?"
"One that Ilamires Rohan helped him with. Doctor Octave blackmailed Rohan for it."
"Rohan helped Edouard? I didn’t even realize. . . ." As the knowledge sank in, Arisilde swore incredulously. "That bastard Rohan. He didn’t even offer to testify in Edouard’s behalf. I knew he was a hypocrite but—"
"I know," Nicholas said, his mouth set in a grim line.
Arisilde ran a trembling hand through his hair, as if trying to get his thoughts in order. "What does the sphere do?"
"I don’t know, Ari. I was hoping you could tell me." Nicholas’s voice rose a bit in exasperation and he lowered it hastily, glancing at the fay to make sure he hadn’t drawn its attention. It didn’t look in their direction, entirely occupied with the iron in its belly.
"No, I haven’t the faintest idea," Arisilde assured him. "I suppose it was an early effort. Rohan, hmm? Well, as long as it isn’t that last one that Edouard made, the one I helped with. Even he thought that one was a bit much." Arisilde nodded to himself. "Now if this necromancer had that one, we would be in a real difficulty." He looked up and saw the expression on Nicholas’s face. "Oh."
"It was the largest of the three at Coldcourt, with the copper-colored metal case?" Nicholas asked, reluctantly.
"Yes, that’s it." Arisilde looked worried. "He does have it?"
"No, Madeline has it. She came down here with me but we were separated and she escaped. At least, I hope she did." Frustrated, Nicholas looked back at the fay. "I haven’t had any chance to search for her."
"As long as this Macob doesn’t have it. I don’t suppose we should ever have made that one in the first place, but it’s a trifle late for regrets, isn’t it?"
"What does it do?" Nicholas demanded. He was glad Arisilde wasn’t dead but he was also ready to bang the sorcerer’s head against the nearest rock.
"It’s hard to say." Arisilde gestured earnestly. "A little bit of everything, I should think, from the spells Edouard wanted me to cast for it. At the time I think he knew more about sorcery than I did, for all he was never able to p
erform it. The spheres were meant to allow anyone to cast spells, even a person with no talent and no ability for magic. It was all based on Edouard’s theories about how the etheric plane worked. He thought everyone had some ability to sense the presence of magical phenomena—"
"Even if it wasn’t on a conscious level. Yes, he told me." Nicholas had heard it all at length before Edouard died. Edouard had believed that it was only the people who had a heightened perception of magic, who could consciously sense it, who could learn to become sorcerers, but that everyone had some awareness of it. "And Rohan said the spheres will only work for someone who has some talent for magic, despite what Edouard wanted."
"Yes, Edouard was disappointed. They never turned out quite right. But Madeline has some talent, she should be able to control it. If she can give it some direction, it can do the rest." Arisilde looked thoughtful. "This Macob—he’s dead, you say? He couldn’t possibly remain on the plane of the living and use his powers without some sort of assistance. If there’s no other sorcerer in the matter, then it must be the sphere he has that’s keeping him here. If Macob used it the way it was meant to be used, it would be as if he had another living sorcerer performing spells but completely under his domination. If he manages to force his spirit to reinhabit his body, he won’t need the sphere anymore but it would make him . . . well, terribly powerful." Arisilde said this apologetically, as if it was somehow his fault. "The spheres seem to give the bearer, in some measure at least, the power of the sorcerer who helped create it. I put all my best spells into that last one I helped Edouard with. Somehow, all that machinery inside it, those gears and things, remember the spells. Edouard explained it to me but I never fully understood."
"So if Macob brings himself back to life, the sphere he has now will give him all the same power of Ilamires Rohan, Master of Lodun, plus his own not inconsiderable abilities?"
"Well, yes."