Laughing aloud, Mygenos went back to his writing table and shoved the assorted wax tablets aside. Oh yes, he'd have a new plan of attack to give his new master. At a guess, Entori would capitulate before the moon reached full again.
Mygenos reached for his meditation gem and set to work.
Because the city's draftees were hastily trained . . .
The sentry sat shivering on the bank of the Dawnstream, wishing its namesake weren't yet three hours away, wishing he were back in the familiar lands nearer the Baiz, wishing he were south in warm—if hungry—Sabis. Gods, but half a moon's training, mostly fumbling with too-big equipment while armored louts yelled at him, wasn't enough to make an invincible warrior out of a shoemaker. He'd told them and told them he'd do better making boots for the army, that years of bending over lapstone and awl had done nothing to improve his eyesight—which had been none too good at distances, ever, which was why he'd been apprenticed to a shoemaker in the first place—but none of them listened to him.
So here he sat, cold and wet and miserable, on the banks of a strange river in lands he'd never seen before, watching for some sign of invading Ancar. As if he'd recognize an Ancar if he saw one; they couldn't really be tall as trees, pale as fish bellies, dressed in scale-plate armor all over, now could they? And how was he to spot them, anyway? With his shortsighted shoemaker's eyes, he'd be lucky if he could see much beyond the ford itself: and the moon covered with clouds, as usual, and no fires or torches allowed where the Ancar might spot them and pick off troops with their fabled long bows. How was he supposed to see anything, anyway?
Oh, he could hear all right—the faint endless muttering from the entrenched camp behind him, the eternal rumbling of the water, nothing else for hours and hours, just like last night and the night before. Nothing new.
He hoped the other sentries were better at this than he was.
They weren't.
None of them heard, beneath the sound of the river, the faint splashing downstream where the water was just over waist-deep for the taller Ancari. None of them saw, in the pitch dark under the cloud-covered moon, the dark-dressed troops struggling quietly through the water.
The attack came before the first dawnlight.
The former shoemaker never heard the arrow that killed him.
Because an old miser was proud and suspicious . . .
First, the coals on the hearth went out during the night, and the cook-fire was devilishly hard to start in the morning. Then the water crock slipped out of the scullery maid's hands, shattered, and splashed half of the kitchen. Then the cook sliced her thumb on a peeling knife. Then the pot boiled over.
It grew worse from there. Roaches got into the larder, followed by mice. Nails pulled out of the walls, dumping tapestries on the floor, which knocked bits of statuary off their pedestals, which inevitably broke. Inkwells spilled, always across important parchments, quill points broke and styli slipped on waxboards to mar whole columns of figures. Mildew grew on the walls and shelves, proliferated in the laundry. Bed webbing frayed and snapped. Old chairs collapsed when sat upon. Everything that could go wrong did.
Beyond doubt, the House of Entori was under a curse.
Morning reports lasted almost until noon, and mostly consisted of lists of small disasters. Entori spent an hour locked away behind his study door, screaming threats and insults at the house wizard. Omis and Sulun, last in line, could hear the shouts through the door, and winced in sympathy for the old drunkard. They weren't at all surprised to see, when the door finally opened, a tattered and terrified Elizan come stumbling out at the best pace he could manage—followed by a thrown inkwell. The old man held a jingling purse in his hand as if it were a large poisonous spider, and as he left he hurried down the corridor toward the front door.
"Going to fetch some professional help, no doubt," Omis guessed, watching him go. "Hope it comes soon. I don't dare light up my forge while the curse is running unchecked."
"We'd best go in together to explain that," Sulun considered. "Oh gods, I just thought: if it's this bad here, what's happening down at the river house?"
"The firepowder," Omis whispered, going pale.
"We won't know until we get down there, which we'd best do soon."
"Make some excuse to go there."
The bell rang peremptorily, and they walked in together.
"No, of course you can't work your forge until the other wizards get here," Entori snapped, looking more than ever like a ruffled vulture. "I don't suppose your other tools will be safe, either. Gods, nothing's safe but what's watched every moment. Nobody can work like this."
"We could test how far the curse extends," Sulun offered. "We'll get out to market—we need some supplies—and see what befalls us once we're away from the house."
"Nonsense! No one leaves the house today, not until the new wizards come." Entori poked among his scattered parchments and waxboards, mumbling something they couldn't quite catch, something about desertion. He paused and glared up at them. "Once they arrive, I'll need you to instruct them on the proper workings of your tools so the protections can be arranged. Ugh, more damned outsiders knowing my business . . . Gods' curses, it can't be helped."
"But meanwhile," Omis wheedled, "perhaps we could investigate, go out and ask in the right places, discover who it is that put the curse on your house—"
"I know who it is!" Entori slapped his hands on the pile of parchments, making another stylus fall off on the floor. "It's that damned Valishni and his doubly damned wizard, the one who wanted my steam engine. Who else? If he can't have it, he'll see to it that I can't use it. Son of an ape, I'll get him. . . ."
Mygenos! Omis and Sulun looked at each other, shivering with dread.
"Oh, get out of here," Entori snarled. "Go keep watch on your tools and apprentices, see that nothing else breaks or disappears. I'll have you summoned when the new wizards come. Go on, leave."
The engineers did, shaking their heads, not daring to speak until they were out the door and a good way down the corridor.
"Memi told," Omis growled. "Myggy knows we're here. Gods, the curse must center on our tools!"
"Don't blame the child," Sulun insisted. "The gods only know how he got it out of her. The old vulture's right about getting new wizards to protect our gear. Hmm, wait. We should talk to the Mistress about this."
"Best find her speedily, then."
The search took not long at all; Eloti was waiting for them in the back courtyard, expressionless as always.
"Mistress, the curse comes from Mygenos, of Valishni's house," Sulun told her without preamble. "He knew us when we worked for Shibari, and hated us cordially. We need to know if the curse centers upon us, our tools, or only on Entori's house."
"But how—" Omis threw him a wide-eyed look, only now realizing that Eloti was, despite her earlier comment, the true mage of Entori House.
Eloti gave him a cold, imperious stare. Sulun met it levelly. She shrugged capitulation. "It centers somewhere in the house," she admitted. "I went out this morning, and it did not follow me. Nor do I think, for all your . . . acquaintance's malice, that it centers on you." She met Sulun's eyes again. "I myself put protection upon you and your people, and your workshop by the river. As you've seen, I have somewhat more power than your Mygenos."