The noncom nodded, indicated two men, took off.
Wolf asked, “What was that?”
“Royal charity.” He scanned the surrounding night but could not find the watcher.
…
Chames Marks eased back from the dormer vent in the attic over the apothecary shop. That man knew he was being watched. Best not tempt fate. He had shown unexpected abilities already, as a thinker and a magic user.
The sorcerer had not been distracted by the return of Colonel Gales and he had left the butcher shop looking like he had gotten a concrete lead.
Marks could not imagine what had gone wrong. He had done this his whole adult life. He did not make mistakes. That was why he was still alive. Minter had brought the tracker spell but he had been ready for that.
Black should be squarely in the center of the frame.
Marks took a careful look.
The party was breaking up down there.
He could hear some of their talk. They were not going to go after the butcher.
Damn! The man deserved the intimate attention of the Queen’s interrogators.
Chames backed up again. “I suppose that’s true justice. I shouldn’t be so petty.”
Forward again, to get the best last look he could. In a similar situation he might hide a man or two to see what happened after it looked like the nosies had cleared away.
No one had stayed behind.
He went downstairs. Haida was in the back room, looking shaken. She husked, “That man was looking for me, wasn’t he?”
“No. He had no reason to connect you…” His eyes widened. “What happened to the beer? What did we do with that?”
“I don’t know. I gave it to you.” Then, “It’s probably still over in the cutting room.”
“And the sorcerer saw you buy it.” Chames sighed. “He wasn’t after you before but he will be now. We need to get you on the road west.”
“But…”
“You knew what he was thinking when he looked at you?”
“Yes. Uncle Paget used to get that look when…”
“This one might be worse than any of your uncles. Which means you need to be somewhere that he isn’t.”
“Yes, sir.” Wearily. Resigned. “I’ll get my stuff. Who should I be?”
“Bertram Blodgett. He’s your best character. Go to Errol enThal in Sedlmayr. While you turn into Bert I’ll write letters of introduction in case you can’t get to Errol or someone else you know.”
Carrying a small pack, looking like just another vagabond, the newly minted Bert slipped out the back of the apothecary shop half an hour later.
Chames Marks sat alone, contemplating a candle nearing the end of its life. Everyone else was covered. Now to cover himself.
He had tempted fate by tugging the royal beard. The stunt had snapped back in a big way.
…
Babeltausque chatted with the injured publican while tired old Dr. Wachtel tried to repair the man’s face. The sorcerer convinced the bartender, Rhys Benedit, that the explosion had not been meant to happen inside the Wrench. Those men should have taken the medallion to their boss.
“Doctor Wachtel is the best doc in Kavelin. He’ll make you right. There’ll be an annuity, too, while Inger is Queen. Mr. Wolf has already told the troops that the Wrench is the official watering hole of the garrison again.”
Babeltausque inscribed strings of characters and symbols in precise calligraphy on strips of the same heavy paper he had used to carry his tracer spell. He used five pens and five inks, sometimes including several colors in a single glyph. In addition to black he employed an intense scarlet, a dark green, a fierce yellow, and an ink that could not be seen at all, thus leaving spaces that looked like blanks.
Dr. Wachtel said, “I’ve done everything I can for Master Benedit. From now on he’ll have to depend on luck and clean healing. He’ll probably lose sight in his right eye. Unless you can do something.”
“Other than reducing the risk of infection all I can contribute is moral support. My healing skills are limited. Although I do have the ability to find the best medical man available.”
Wachtel gave him a brief, inscrutable look, as though unsure he had just heard that.
Babeltausque said, “Mr. Wolf, I have something for you.” He folded a paper strip. “I’m creating protective spells to surround my space here. I expect to hear from Kristen’s gang before long. I want to be protected but I don’t want to have to drop everything whenever somebody trustworthy needs to get in. That script will get you through the barrier spells. Come. I need to prick your thumb and draw a drop of blood. Once that’s in the paper it won’t do anybody any good to steal your pass. It won’t work for anybody but you. Doctor, I have one for you, too. I’ll see Toby, the Queen, and some others tomorrow. But right now I’m ready to collapse.”
Wolf was not happy about having to wound himself, however trivially, but did what needed doing. As did Dr. Wachtel.
Babeltausque then said, “Friend Benedit is miserable. He’s in pain, he’s scared, and he’s exhausted. Doctor, do you want to take him with you? Or should he stay here? I have the spare cot Toby uses sometimes.” Which was, right now, occupied by the man killed in the explosion at the Wrench.
The barkeep mumbled.
Babeltausque said, “He says he’d be more comfortable staying with you.”
“As you wish. Come along, then, sir. There is an infirmary off my quarters. We’ll keep you there till you’re fit to go home.”
Wolf stayed. Once the others were out of earshot, he asked, “You got what you wanted?”
“I did. But I can’t do anything about it now. I am exhausted. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
“Let me know when you’re ready. I’m enjoying this.” Wolf slipped his pass into a pocket as he departed.
Babeltausque went to bed right away. He stared at the ceiling, wondering how best to enjoy himself once they captured the girl.
The prospects were delicious.
Chapter Thirteen:
1017 AFE:
Eyes of Night
N epanthe deposited Varthlokkur’s dinner on the table designated for the purpose, close by where he was working. “Hey. You. Wake up. Time to eat.”
He did awaken, displeased with himself for having fallen asleep.
Not good.
Sorcerers who fell asleep at work became known as late lamented sorcerers.
“I was resting my eyes.”
“Right. Why are you taking chances? What are you doing?”
“Looking to build a better rat trap based on the latest research.”
It was too damned cold for rats in Fangdred. “Ethrian tried to talk this afternoon. He couldn’t put a sentence together right but he tried hard.”
The wizard moved to the food. Nepanthe settled opposite him. She had brought something for herself. She could pretend to share a meal.
“That sounds good. Why not let him help with Smyrena? Teach him to change diapers.”
“Oh! I don’t know. He’s really clumsy. And he gets frustrated.”
“Sometimes I think he must have had a stroke. Sometimes it feels like he’s completely aware but is trapped behind a wall he can’t break through.”
“You told me…”
“I know. But I’m no life-magic specialist. If the Old Man was here…” “He’s gone. Wishes and fishes.” She noticed a change. “What happened to the mummies?”
“I got worried that the Star Rider might find a use for them. I put them where he’ll never get to them.” Each now resided inside a block of concrete distressed to look like an old aggregate boulder in the shadowed bottom of a distant canyon. And that was temporary. He wanted to reduce mummies and concrete to dust that Radeachar could scatter across a thousand miles of wilderness.
“Part of your strategy of denying him his resources?”
“Exactly.”
“Any plan for the Place of the Iron Statues?”