“Of course,” Vengar agreed. “But what has this to do with us? We are no part of Lord Ederd’s government.”
“No,” Sarai agreed, “but at least one of your people, a warlock, is involved in the killings.”
“Who says so?” a younger warlock demanded—Sirinita of somewhere, Sarai thought her name was.
“Kelder of Quarter Street,” Sarai replied. “A first-rate witch who was aiding me in my investigations. He assured me that both wizardry and warlockry were involved.”
“Why doesn’t he speak for himself?” Sirinita called angrily.
“Because he’s dead,” Sarai answered, just as angrily. “He was the last victim—that we know of.”
“How convenient!” Sirinita replied, her voice dripping sarcasm.
This disrespect was too much for some of the other warlocks, provoking a shocked murmur from several of them. “My apologies, Lady Sarai,” Vengar said, throwing a furious glance at Sirinita. “You are sure of this? A warlock was involved in the killings?”
“Quite sure,” Sarai replied.
Vengar frowned. “I regret to say,” he said, “that we are still unable to help you. Ours is purely a physical magic; we have no way to read the thoughts or memories of other warlocks, and we do not spy on each other. It may well be that one or more warlocks participated in these crimes; it may even be that those participants were among the warlocks of Ethshar of the Sands, and as such nominally subject to this council. Still, we have no knowledge of them, nor any means of obtaining such knowledge.”
“You’re certain of that?” Sarai asked.
“I swear it,” Vengar answered.
“You all say so? You all swear it?”
There was a general mutter of agreement, but Sarai was not satisfied; she went through the entire score, one by one. All gave their oaths that they knew nothing about the murders that Sarai did not.
Finally, the vows complete, Sarai announced, “I accept your word. Still, you claim to represent the warlocks of this city, and that means that you are partially responsible for them, as well. I therefore charge you all to tell me at once if you learn anything more, and further, I hereby require, in the overlord’s name, that if at any point in this investigation 1 call upon the services of the Council of Warlocks, that those services will be forthcoming. It doesn’t have to be any of you who does what I ask—send your journeymen, your apprentices, whoever you please, but when I call, I expect cooperation.” This speech was composed on the spur of the moment; she was up against a magically gifted multiple murderer, who might reasonably be expected to be very dangerous. Knowing that she could call on several powerful warlocks would be reassuring. “Is that clear?” she asked.
Sirinita spoke up again. “Who are you,” she demanded, “to give orders to the Council of Warlocks?”
“I,” Sarah answered, “am Minister of Investigation and Acting Minister of Justice to Ederd the Fourth, Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, Triumvir of the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, Commander of the Holy Armies—which means that I have those holy armies, which is to say the city guard, at my disposal.”
“You seek to frighten us with mere soldiers?” Sirinita sneered.
“Not exactly,” Sarai said. “I hope to frighten you with the knowledge that if you defy me, you’ll be forced to use your warlockry over and over to defend yourselves for as long as you stay in this city—and we all know what happens when a warlock uses a little too much of his magic, don’t we? The twenty of you are the most powerful warlocks in the city—but you and I realize what most people do not, that that also makes you the twenty most vulnerable to the Calling. True, you’ll easily be able to defeat a dozen guardsmen apiece, but I have several thousand soldiers I can send and send and send, until the Calling does my work for me. And there’s nothing south of here but ocean; if you try to flee farther from Aldagmor, that means the Small Kingdoms far to the east, or the Pirate Towns to the west—is that really what you want?”
She stared questioningly at them; no one answered.
After a moment of silence, Sarai said, “I don’t like making threats, you know; I’m not trying to make enemies of you, any of you. I’m just explaining that I do know who and what you are, and that I will have your cooperation, one way or another. This investigation is very, very important to me.”
There was a reluctant mutter of acknowledgment.
With that, Sarai dismissed eighteen of the warlocks, but asked Vengar and Sirinita to stay for a moment.
“Sirinita,” she said in a low voice, when the others had gone, “I don’t know why you seem so displeased that the overlord’s government should require the cooperation of the Council of Warlocks. Is there some personal issue at stake here?”
Sirinita, a magnificent creature who looked scarcely older man Sarai but far more powerful, and who stood several inches taller, peered down her nose at the noblewoman. “I became a warlock,” she said, “because I was tired of being told what I could and couldn’t do. I worked my way up to the Council at an earlier age than anyone else for the same reason. And I still don’t like it.”
Sarai sighed. “I will keep mat in mind, then.” She dismissed them both; she had only wanted Vengar as a witness and restraint on Sirinita, should she prove dangerous.
Then, for several minutes, she sat on the edge of the dais, thinking.
She had completely forgotten her entourage until Captain Tikri cleared his throat. She looked up.
“Yes? ”she asked.
“My lady,” Tikri said, “one of my men reports that a stranger wishes to speak with you.”
Sarai blinked up at nun. “What sort of a stranger?”
Tikri shrugged. “He’s dressed as a magician,” he said. “That’s all we know. That, and that he knew where to find you.”
“Send him in,” Sarai said, puzzled.
The moment she spoke, the door at the back of the council chamber opened, and a figure in white appeared. Sarai watched silently as he approached.
He was a man of medium height, heavily built, wearing a robe of fine white linen; a hood hid any hair, and his weathered face was clean-shaven—Sarai could not remember ever before seeing a man so obviously mature without so much as a mustache.
He stopped a few feet away, looking down at her. He did not bow.
“I am Abran of Demerchan,” he announced. Sarai stared silently up at him.
“It has come to the attention of our organization, Lady Sarai,” Abran said, speaking slowly and clearly, as if he were reciting a prepared speech in a language not his own, “that you suspect we are responsible for a series of unnatural deaths that have taken place in this city. I am here on behalf of Demerchan to address this suspicion.” “Go on,” Sarai told him.
Abran nodded, and said, “You know of Demerchan as a cult of assassins; that description is inadequate, at best, but it is true that at times we have slain outsiders. However, we have not struck down any of those whose slayer you seek. I swear, by my name and by all the gods, that Demerchan had no part in the deaths of Inza the Apprentice, Captain Deru of the Guard, Athaniel the Theurgist, Karitha of the East End, Serem the Wise, or Kelder of Quarter Street. If you doubt me, consider that Demerchan has existed for centuries—why, then, should we suddenly kill these, and in this new and noticeable way?”
“Any number of possible reasons,” Sarai answered, a little surprised by her own courage hi answering this intimidating figure. “Someone could have hired you, for example.”
“Butnonedid,” the spokesman for Demerchan replied. “You have your concealed magicians who can tell truth from falsehood; they will tell you I speak the truth.”