And he’s a mage—there’s another thing. If he’s anything like our mages, he’s been frantic with frustration at the way magic has been rendered unreliable. Our people have tried every way short of blood-magic to bring things back under control, and even Snowstar admitted to me that the temptation to resort to that is a great one after you’ve had your spells abort one too many times. What if Palisar has gotten his hands burnt too many times by the storms? What if he didn’t resist that temptation to resort to blood-bought power?
Granted, every single one of those arguments could be applied to every single priest-mage among the Haighlei, but still—Palisar disapproved of the foreigners, of change in general, and possessed everything required to be the one holding Hadanelith’s leash.
I don’t know how the succession goes around here, but as a powerful Advisor, he could have some blood-ties to the King. If he has royal blood, he could see a chance at the throne he wouldn’t otherwise get.
Amberdrake touched the door again, easing it open still more. Now it was held ajar enough he could squeeze through it if he wanted to.
I don’t want to, but I don’t have a choice. He shivered, and clenched his trembling fingers tightly around the iron bar he carried. Even if Skan made it to the Ceremony in time to stop Hadanelith, if Hadanelith got away somehow, things would be worse than they had been before the Ceremony. It would still look as if Amberdrake had been the one trying to kill the King.
They’re going to want to kill me on sight! The King is going to have orders out to strike first and bring back the body, and I doubt he’s going to listen to anything Skan has to say!
Not that Amberdrake could blame him, in the abstract.
What am I doing, just standing here? I have to do something to keep the conspirators from rescuing Hadanelith. Good answer, Drake—and as soon as you magically transform into a squad of mercenaries, it will be no worry at all.
The room began to darken visibly. The last part of the Eclipse must be starting. His time was running out; Hadanelith would strike any moment now! And what if the mages—or mage—wasn’t here, but was somewhere else entirely?
For a moment, he panicked, then logic asserted itself. Hadanelith’s not predictable enough to be left unsuper-vised. He was gloating, so he wouldn’t see a need to lie. He is insane, but he was never known to lie. He implied they were here, so they have to be here, probably scrying the Ceremony to see when to snatch their assassin back again.
That made good sense. It also meant that he’d better do something now.
Something physical? Against two or more people? Not a good idea. I’m not a fighter. I do know self-defense, but that isn’t going to help me attack someone. What do I have left? Bluff?
Well, why not? It couldn’t hurt. It could buy time, and as soon as everything is over, Skan can send me help. While I’m bluffing them, they aren’t going to be doing anything but watching me. If Skan can catch Hadanelith, the time I buy could give the King’s people a chance to shield him against rescue.
Assuming one of them isn‘t Palisar— He shook his head angrily, with cold fear a great lump of ice lodged just below his heart. If he kept on arguing with himself, he wouldn’t get a chance to do anything! Time was slipping away, and the Eclipse wasn’t going to delay for anyone or anything.
He pushed the door open, to find himself, not in a hallway, but on the top of a set of stairs. This must be one of the corner towers of Fragrant Joy, where the “suite” was a series of rooms on a private staircase. Very handy, if one was expecting to send an accomplice out over the rooftops at night. And very convenient, if you wanted to isolate a madman in a place he’d find it hard to escape from.
He stalked noiselessly down the staircase as the light grew dimmer and dimmer, listening for the sound of voices. The hand holding the iron bar was beginning to go numb, he was squeezing it so hard. He passed one room without hearing anything, but halfway down to the ground floor he picked up a distant, uneven hum that might have been conversation. A few steps downward, around the turn, and he knew it was voices. A few more, and he distinctly caught the word, “Hadanelith.”
He clenched his free hand on the stair-rail, grimly, as his knees went to jelly. It was the other conspirators, all right. Two of them, just as he’d thought, from the sound of the voices. Unless there were others there who weren’t speaking.
He pushed the thought that he might be struck down the moment he crossed the threshold resolutely out of his mind. If he thought about it, he’d faint or bolt right back up the stairs again. His throat was tight, and his breath came short; every muscle in his back and neck was knotted up. Every sound was terribly loud, and his eyes felt hot. He forced himself onward. One step. Another. He reached the bottom; there were no more stairs now. He faced a hallway, with several doors along it. He knew which one he wanted, though- It was the first one; the one that was open just a crack, enough to let light from inside shine out into the hall.
The staircase was lit by a skylight with frosted glass at the top; it grew darker and darker in the stairwell, until by the time he reached the door he wanted, it was as dark as early dusk. The voices on the other side of the door were very clear, and it was with a feeling of relief that left him light-headed that he realized neither of the two speakers was Palisar.
It didn’t sound as if there was anyone else there; he took a chance, braced himself, and kicked the door open. It crashed into the wall on the other side; hit so hard that the entire wall shook, and the two men sitting at a small, round table looked up at him with wide and startled eyes. Bluff, Drake!
The room was well-lit by three lanterns; a smallish chamber without windows, it held the round table in the middle, some bookcases against the walls, and not much else. There were more things on the shelves than books, though he didn’t have the time to identify anything. The men had something between them on the tabletop—a ceramic scrying-bowl, he thought. So his guess had been right!
“Put your hands flat on the table, both of you!” he boomed, using his voice as he’d been taught, so long ago, to control a crowd. He hadn’t used command-voice much until the journey west; now it came easily, second nature. “I am a special agent for Leyuet and the Spears of the Law! You are to surrender!”
The two men obeyed, warily and not instantly. That was a bad sign. . . .