"However you think best," Krispos said. Listening to Zaidas cheerfully explain how he did what he did helped the Emperor not think about all the things that could have happened to Phostis.
The wizard said, "Once I have chanted, the little stick here, by virtue of its connection to the wool that was once connected to your son, will turn in the cup to reveal the direction in which he lies."
This spell, as Zaidas had said, was more intricate than the first one he'd used. He needed both hands for the passes, and he guided his horse by the pressure of his knees. At the climax of the incantation, he stabbed down at the floating stick with a rigid forefinger, crying out at the same time in a loud, commanding voice.
Krispos waited for the stick to quiver and point like a well-trained hunting dog. Instead, it spun wildly in the cup, splashing wine up over the edge and then sinking out of sight in the rich ruby liquid. Krispos stared. "What does that mean?"
"Your Majesty, if I knew, I would tell you." Zaidas sounded even more surprised than the Avtokrator had. He paused for a moment to think, then went on, "It might mean this blanket was in fact never in direct contact with Phostis. But no—" He shook his head. "That cannot be. either. Had the blanket no affinity for your son, it would not have responded to the spell that showed us he is alive."
"Yes, I follow your reasoning," Krispos said. "What other choices have we?"
"Next most likely, or so it seems to me, is that my sorcerous efforts are somehow being blocked, to keep me from learning where the young Majesty is," Zaidas said.
"But you are a master mage, one of the leaders of the Sorcerers' Collegium," Krispos protested. "How can anyone keep vou from working what you wish?"
"Several ways, your Majesty. I am not the only sorcerer of my grade within the Empire of Videssos. Another master, or perhaps even a team of lesser wizards, may be working to keep the truth from me. Notice the spell did not send us off in a direction that later proved false, but merely prevented us from learning the true one. That is an easier magic."
"I see," Krispos said slowly. "You named one way, or possibly even two, in which you could be deceived. Are there others?"
"Yes," Zaidas answered. "I am a master in wizardry based on our faith in Phos and rejection of his dark foe Skotos." The mage paused to spit. "This is, you might say, a two-poled system of magic. The Halogai with their many gods, or the Khamorth of the steppe with their belief in supernatural powers animating each rock or stream or sheep or blade of grass, view the world from such a different perspective that their sorcery is more difficult for a mage of my school to detect or counter. The same applies in lesser degree to the Makuraners, who filter the power of what they term the God through the intermediary of the Prophets Four."
"Assuming this blocking magic is from some school other than ours, can you fight through it?" Krispos asked.
"Your Majesty, there I am imperfectly certain. In theory, since ours is the only true faith, magic developed from it will in the end prove mightier than that based on any other system. In practice, man's creations being the makeshifts they are, a great deal depends on the strength and skill of the mages involved, regardless of the school to which they belong. I can try my utmost, but I cannot guarantee success."
"Do your utmost," Krispos said. "I suppose you will need to halt for your more complicated spells. I'll leave you a courier; send word the moment you have results of any sort."
"I shall, your Majesty," Zaidas promised. He looked as if he wanted to say something more. Krispos waved for him to go on. He did: "I pray you forgive me, your Majesty, but you might also be wise to send out riders to beat the countryside."
"I'll do that," Krispos said with a sinking feeling. Zaidas was warning him not to expect success in a huny, if at all.
The squads of horsemen clattered forth, some ahead of the army, some back toward Nakoleia, others out to either side of the track. No encouraging word came from them by sundown. Krispos and the main body of his force rode on, leaving Zaidas behind to set up his search magic. A company stayed with him to protect him from Thanasioi or simple robbers. Krispos waited and waited for the courier to return. At last, just as weariness was about to drive him to his cot, the fellow rode into the encampment. Seeing the question in the Emperor's eyes, he just shook his head.
"No luck?" Krispos said, for the sake of being sure.
"No luck," the courier answered. "I'm sorry, your Majesty. The wizard's magic failed again: more than once, from what he told me."
Grimacing, Krispos thanked the man and sent him to his own rest. He hadn't really believed Zaidas would stay baffled. He lay down on the cot as he'd intended, but found sleep a long time coming.
Stupid. The word slid sluggishly through Phostis' mind. Because he saw only darkness, he thought for a confused moment that he was still back at the latrines. Then he realized a bandage covered his eyes. He reached up to pull it off, only to discover his hands had been efficiently tied behind his back, his legs at knees and ankles.
He groaned. The sound came out muffled—he was also gagged. He groaned again anyhow. His head felt like an anvil on which a smith about as tall as the top of the High Temple's dome was hammering out a complicated piece of ironwork. He was lying on something hard—boards, he found out when a splinter dug into the thin strip of flesh between blindfold and gag.
Adding to the pounding agony behind his eyes were squeaks and jolts. I'm in a wagon, or maybe a cart, he thought, amazed and impressed that his poor benighted brain functioned at all. He groaned one more time.
"He's coming around," said somebody—a man—above and in front of him. The fellow laughed, loudly and raucously. "It's took him long enough, it has, it has."
"Shall we let him see where he's going?" another voice, a woman's, asked. After a moment, Phostis recognized it: Olyvria's. He ground his teeth in helpless fury; he felt he'd already used up all the groans in him.
The man—the driver?—said, "Nah, our orders was to bring him the first stage of the way to Livanios without him knowin' nothin' about it. That's what your pa done said, and that's what we does. So don't go untyin' him, either, you hear me?"
"I hear you, Syagrios," Olyvria answered. "It's too bad. We'd all be happier if we could get him cleaned up a bit."
"I've smelled worse, out in the fields at manuring time," Syagrios said. "The stink won't kill him, and it won't kill you, neither."
Phostis had been aware of a foul smell since his wits returned. He hadn't realized he was the cause of it. He must have gone on fouling himself after Olyvria's potion—the one that was supposed to end his internal turmoil—forced him down into oblivion. I'll have revenge for that, by the good god, he thought. I'll— He gave up. No vengeance seemed savage enough to suit him.
Olyvria said, "I wish he would have come and talked with me when he saw me by the baggage train. He recognized me, I know he did. I think I could have persuaded him to come with us of his own will. I know he follows Thanasios' gleaming path, at least in large measure."
Syagrios gave a loud, skeptical grunt. "How d'you know that?"
"He wouldn't bed me when he had the chance," Olyvria answered.
Her companion grunted again, in a slightly different tone. "Well, maybe. It don't matter, though. Our orders was to snatch him fast as we could, and we done did it. Livanios will be happy with us."
"So he will," Olyvria said.
She and Syagrios went on talking, but Phostis stopped heeding them. He hadn't figured out for himself—though he supposed he should have—that his kidnappers were Thanasioi. As it did Olyvria, the irony of that struck him, though in his case the impact was far more forcible. Given any sort of choice in the matter, he would have picked a different way of coming into their number. But they had not given him any choice.