And she could feel something else, too; something was strange about the flow of power. It wasn't witchcraft; something else was at work, as well. The witch was drawing power from somewhere else.
Tabaea had heard that witches could share energy; was there another witch nearby, then, who was helping this Teneria? If so, why didn't the other witch step forward and help openly?
The empress turned and nervously looked over the people in sight. Arl was there, of course; it was he who had brought the witch. There were half a dozen others on the stairs behind him, watching from what they presumably thought was a safe distance. As Tabaea watched, another woman came up and peered into the room.
There was something familiar about this new arrival; not her face, which Tabaea was fairly sure she hadn't seen before, but something. Perhaps her scent was one that Tabaea had smelled somewhere.
Whatever it was, she couldn't place the woman immediately. She wasn't a witch, though, Tabaea could sense that, and it was magicians who worried the empress just now. With the Black Dagger gone she was not at all sure of her ability to fend off hostile magic.
One of the other women, the tall dark one with the long hair, was a witch, but she wasn't sending Teneria any power. She was doing something, but it wasn't helping Teneria.
Then the tall woman noticed Tabaea's interest and instantly stopped whatever she had been doing. That was annoying of her. Tabaea wished she hadn't been so careless in her investigation; that witch was on her guard, now.
But that wasn't where the power was coming from, anyway; Tabaea tried her best to see where this not-quite-witchcraft was coming from, and suddenly something dropped into place.
It wasn't witchcraft; it was warlockry. It was coming from a man on the stair. Teneria was taking the warlock energy and using it for witchcraft.
That was interesting and a little frightening; Tabaea had not known that that was possible. She had discovered for herself that the two varieties of magic were surprisingly similar, but she hadn't realized that anyone else knew it, since no one else was both a witch and a warlock, and it had never even occurred to her that anyone might have learned how to use the two in combination.
Magicians, it seemed, were just full of unpleasant surprises today-a warlock had used wizardry against her, and now a witch was using another warlock's power to heal the attacker.
They were joining forces.
They were joining forces against her.
And the Black Dagger was gone.
Just then something hissed; everyone but Teneria and the unconscious assassin turned at the sound, to see the cloud of noxious grayish smoke that rose from the pool of whatever-it-was as the bowl sank down into it, dissolving away as it went.
"By the gods," someone muttered.
Tabaea, shaken, stared at the puddle. It was almost a foot across now, still a perfect circle.
How large would it get? It had only been there perhaps half an hour, starting from a single drop.
She turned back to Teneria and demanded, "Hurry up! I need him conscious!"
"I'm hurrying," Teneria said quietly, in an odd, distracted tone; an ordinary woman wouldn't have heard her, but Tabaea, Empress of Ethshar, did. She heard everything, saw everything, smelled everything; she had the strength of a dozen men and the speed of a cat. She was a witch and a warlock both.
But she wasn't a wizard anymore, with the Black Dagger gone, and her enemies were working together.
And this Teneria was one of them, wasn't she? She was working with a warlock, and the warlocks had sent the assassin. When the man was healed, what was to keep him and the other warlock and the two witches from turning all their power on her, their common foe?
Tabaea could counter a warlock and fight off a witch, but she wasn't sure about the combination, and two of each; the dagger had always helped her, had blocked part of any magic. And witches were subtle.
She took a step backward, away from Teneria, and then caught a whiff of the fumes from the wizard-stuff. Without thinking, she took a sniff and almost choked; the stuff was unbelievably foul. It covered other scents, as well-but not completely; Tabaea realized that she could still smell the blood from the assassin's wound, the nervous sweat on Teneria's skin, the distinct odors of the people on the stairs, some familiar, some strange.
There was another odor there as well, a very faint trace, that somehow seemed important. The fumes were making her dizzy, and she had too much to think about, with the assassin and all the magicians working together; if she still had the Black Dagger…
When had it disappeared, anyway? How had they taken it? Magic wouldn't work on it, so it couldn't have been taken magically; someone must have slipped it away while Tabaea was asleep-but she had always kept the knife close at hand, even when she slept, she only took it off to bathe.
It must have been one of the servants. It was not Lethe or Ista. She could trust them; she knew by the smell. And they had still been here when she came down to the throne room.
Pharea.
That woman who had only been there once, who had helped her clean off the blood, then disappeared. She must have taken it.
And that's who that was on the stairs, Tabaea realized, the woman with the familiar scent. That smell was the peculiar odor the woman had had that Tabaea had thought was just some odd sort of perfume-but it was too faint for perfume, an ordinary human probably couldn't smell it at all.
Her face was different, but that must have just been a disguise of some sort, probably magical. There was no mistaking the scent. That was Pharea, and she was in it, too-in the plot against Tabaea, against the empress.
Tabaea whirled and stared at the group on the stairs. "Arl," she said, "bring those people in here."
Arl blinked; he had been staring at that horrible puddle. "What people, Your Majesty?" he asked.
"Those people on the stairs. You, all of you-come closer." Tabaea beckoned. With varying degrees of reluctance and much glancing at one another, the little group stepped up into the throne room. Arl stepped in behind them, herding them forward.
"Line up," Tabaea ordered. Something drew her attention; she turned to see Teneria looking up. "Go on healing him!" Tabaea snapped.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the witch said, turning back to her work.
The people formed a ragged line, and Tabaea looked them over. "You," she said, pointing at the tall witch, "get over there." She gestured toward the dais.
The woman glanced at the others, then obeyed.
"You, too," Tabaea ordered the warlock. He hesitated, then went.
"And you, Pharea."
"I don't think so," the woman replied; her hand dropped to the hilt of the knife she carried on her belt, concealed by a fold of her skirt. She never questioned how Tabaea had recognized her, never tried to deny her identity; the empress thought she knew what that meant. "The rest of you, get out of here," Pharea said. She waved at the others still in the line.
The three of them looked at Tabaea.
"She's right," the empress said. "Get out of here. Now."
"Your Majesty…" Arl began.
"Shut up," Tabaea commanded. She was watching Pharea's hand closely, the hand that was on the hilt of a knife.
Tabaea knew that knife well. She had carried it herself for four years. Witchcraft couldn't sense it; warlockry couldn't touch it; although she had no spells to test it with, Tabaea knew that wizardry would not work on the person who held it.
That meant that it would have dispelled a magical disguise, didn't it? So this was Pharea's real face, and the other had been an illusion.
The bystanders departed, and now the sides were clear, the stage set, Tabaea thought; she and Arl on one side, Pharea and the four magicians on the other. When the footsteps had reached the bottom of the stairs, and her enhanced senses assured the empress that there were no other intruders around, Tabaea demanded, "Do you know what you've got there, Pharea?"