Eliseth alone seemed unmoved by Miathan’s wrath—probably, the captain thought sourly, because the scheming bitch was letting the brunt of it fall on himself.
“Well, you needn’t look at me,” she was saying coolly. “I left Vannor as well guarded as always last night—and frankly, by the time I’d finished with him, he was in no condition to arrange his own escape, let alone get far. This whole business reeks of some kind of a plot.” She shot the captain of the guard a poisonous look from beneath her lowered eyelids.
“Well I had him guarded as usual, too, sir,” the captain added hastily, deciding that her example was not a bad one to follow. “Both the top and lower gates were manned, and the road up here was patrolled. How anyone could get past that lot beats me.” He turned to glare at the shrinking, scar-faced guard. “He was there. Why not ask him how those two blockheaded bastards managed to get themselves ambushed…?”
“Let us find out.” Miathan’s voice was steel wrapped in silk. He turned the sinister gaze of his dispassionate, arachnid eyes on the unfortunate guard.
Only too glad to be dismissed, the captain hurried down the tower stairs. He wasn’t fast enough, however, to escape the screams of excruciating torment that came from the room above. Clapping his hands over his ears to shut out the gut-wrenching howls, he abandoned all dignity and fled.
“It was my maid?” For once, even Eliseth’s face betrayed her shock.
“From what I wrenched out of the guard’s mind”—the Archmage glanced contemptuously at the twisted body on the floor—“there would seem to be no doubt.”
“But—she was only a kitchen menial—scarcely more than a child, and with barely wits enough about her to—”
“She had wits enough about her to plan and execute the escape of the most wanted man in Nexis—thanks to you!” Miathan snapped. Despite the crisis, he was enjoying the discomposure of the ice-cool Mage.
“And who was it that charged her with Vannor’s care?” Eliseth retorted with a sneer. “Not I! That was your idea, Archmage—and you put the little wretch in a perfect position to carry out her plans!”
Miathan’s scant pleasure in the situation vanished abruptly. A Vision of his hands squeezing Eliseth’s throat flashed briefly through his mind… Then he pulled himself together. “Enough!” he barked. “I admit, she duped us both. But the question remains—who is she? One of Vannor’s rebels? Does he have other spies within the Academy?” It was an unpleasant thought, that the Magefolk were no longer inviolate. He remembered that traitor Elewin, and clenched his fists.
“I’ll soon find out,” Eliseth promised grimly, “even if it means tearing apart the minds of every servant in the place. She had to have help, Miathan. How could a slip of a girl like that have managed to kill both Janok and a trained warrior three times her size?”
“That’s not the only mystery to concern us.” The Archmage frowned. “How did she get Vannor out of the Academy without being seen? And where are they now? If you injured Vannor as badly as you described”—he scowled at her in displeasure—“then he couldn’t have gone far.”
“Do you think they’re still hiding somewhere in the Academy?” Eliseth suggested.
“It would seem the most likely option—but if they are, the gods themselves will not be able to help them. We’ll seal the place off—no one goes in or out for any reason—and have it searched from top to bottom.”
“And what if they aren’t here?” the Weather-Mage demanded. “We can’t search the entire city—we don’t have sufficient men. And we can’t offer a reward for Vannor’s recapture, because that would mean admitting to the Mortals that he’s still alive.”
“No—but we can offer a reward for the girl.” Miathan’s eyes glittered. “We’ll say that she stole something of value from the Magefolk—which is true enough,” he added wryly. “My release of those provisions yesterday worked to our advantage—there are some in Nexis, at any rate, who are already blessing my name. We’ll offer a large reward, both food and gold, to anyone who can lead us to the girl. Either Vannor will be with her, or”—he smiled with avid cruelty—“we can soon extract from her the information that we need as to his whereabouts. I intend to get Vannor back, no matter what it takes, and when I do, I’ll make both him and that wretched girl sorry they were ever born.”
Benziorn hurried through the streets of Nexis, losing himself among the early passersby, and congratulated himself on giving his guardians the slip once again. Though Yanis, the young Nightrunner leader, was gradually recovering under his care—and thanks to the skills that the physician had not forgotten, had lost neither his arm nor the use of it—it was becoming more and more difficult to escape the vigilance of Tarnal and Hebba, who seemed to have a totally unreasonable attitude to the idea of a man taking a little drink every once in a while. Benziorn shrugged. Well, that was just too bad. Though he welcomed the amenities of Hebba’s household—in fact, he admitted that, after all the privations he had suffered, he very much welcomed the luxury of a stout roof and a fireside again, not to mention Hebba’s cooking, when there was anything to cook—he was damned if he was going to let her dictate to him with regard to his drinking. Was there no respect for a physician in Nexis anymore?
Luckily—for Hebba would not allow so much as the sight of a bottle in her house—Benziorn had his own secret cache of spirits hidden away in the old fulling milclass="underline" payment in kind for treating a vintner’s warehouse guard, a mercenary who’d been suffering the inevitable results of spending too much time with the wharfside whores. Try as they might, Hebba and Tarnal had been unable to discover the source of his secret supply of drink.
Unfortunately, Tarnal had taken to following him in the hope of unearthing the cache… Benziorn chuckled to himself. The lad still had a lot to learn. Hebba had gone out this morning to the Academy to wait in an endless line for the rations that the Archmage, for some reason of his own, had seen fit to release, and the young smuggler, perforce, had gone with her, to guard the precious food from robbery on the way home. Yanis had been asleep—which had given his physician the perfect opportunity to escape.
By the time the sun had reached its zenith, Benziorn was feeling more than mellow—and he had the rest of the day ahead of him. Given the number of hungry folk in Nexis, the food distribution was likely to take a good long while. Spring sunlight filtered down in dusty bars through the nigh, smeared windows of the old mill, warming the air and bleaching to near invisibility the flames of the small fire he had kindled for his comfort. Seated on his folded cloak, with his back resting comfortably against one of the great dye vats and a bottle in his hand, Benziom almost felt like singing—in fact, why not? It had been a while since he’d had a respite from his responsibilities. It was almost like a holiday…
He awakened suddenly, shivering, and saw that the dusk was stretching shadowy fingers through the ruins of the old building. Benziorn groaned and rubbed his eyes. His head was beginning to throb, and his mouth felt as though someone had filled it with mud from the river bottom. The last thing he remembered was singing—he had no recollection of falling asleep—and he wondered blearily what had wakened him so abruptly. Then it came again—a tortured, grating squeal of metal on stone, loud enough to send a fresh burst of pain exploding through his pounding head.