“Very well.” Evann hesitated. He wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea or not. They would find out soon enough, though. “I’ll take the upstairs, then. Call if you see anything. And remember—don’t kill him, not until we find the men.”
“You can bet on it.” Harrach headed for the down staircase.
Evann touched his talisman. He hoped it would protect him. Swallowing, he started up the broad, steep steps. Little puffs of dust rose around his boots. He kept his left hand on the wall for balance and his right hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at the first sign of trouble.
He reached the second floor and prowled through it quickly, finding little of interest. The flickering light he’d seen came from the ceiling of the front room. Whatever magic the wizard used to light his ceilings seemed to be failing there, and the light flickered faintly. The rest of the rooms contained nothing but old furniture. Evann could tell by the dust on the floor that they hadn’t been disturbed in many years.
Two of the bedchambers, though, showed signs of recent habitation: one contained a large featherbed, a scattering of books and other personal effects, and crumpled piles of clothes. The other held a pair of thin pallets, perhaps for the wizard’s servants.
Cautiously, he eased up the narrow, winding staircase for the third floor. On every other step, he paused and listened intently.
When he heard a slight creaking sound from above, he stopped. If anyone were going to try to ambush him, this would be the spot. Should he call Harrach? No—not yet, anyway. He didn’t want to tip off whoever was waiting above. Hefting his sword, he took a deep breath and crept forward.
As soon as he stepped into the third floor hallway, two men jumped at him. Both wore loose linen clothing like the other townsfolk, and Evann felt certain he’d seen them on the dock that afternoon. Both held heavy wooden clubs.
Ducking a wild blow, Evann retreated, keeping the tip of his sword high. Fortunately, the narrowness of the hallway made it impossible for both men to face him at once.
The first fisherman moved forward, raising his club for a sharp, downward sweep.
Evann feinted, lunged, and thrust his blade through the man’s chest. The fisherman looked down as if startled, and then up as the sword jerked free. He stepped forward again, seemingly uninjured, and swung his club.
It grazed Evann’s arm. Cursing, Evann took a quick step back. By all rights, the fisherman should be dead now. He glanced at his sword and noticed there wasn’t any blood on its blade. Swallowing, he retreated another step.
The man followed, raising his club again, and Evann slipped a knife from his belt. At this distance, he couldn’t miss. He tossed it underhanded in an end-over-end roll, and it stuck in the fisherman’s left eye.
The man reeled back, pawing at the knife, and managed to remove it. He made no sound. A white, milklike substance oozed from the wound.
Evann moved forward, more confident. That wound seemed to have hurt him.
Again the fisherman raised his club, but this time Evann was ready. He lunged, but instead of going for the easy chest target, he struck higher, flicking the blade across the man’s one remaining eye, completely blinding him.
The fisherman dropped to his knees and began feeling his way toward Evann.
The second man pressed forward.
Drawing a second knife, Evann readied himself. Now that he knew how to hurt these people or creatures or whatever they were, it wouldn’t take long to finish off these two. Then he’d go see what trouble Harrach had gotten himself into.
Twelve
In Grabentod, Candabraxis descended from his tower suite for the evening meal. He had taken to spending the long winter evenings in the company of the regent Harlmut, and the two of them whiled away the hours discussing the kingdom and what might be done to improve it.
At first Candabraxis had suggested trying to shift their economy back to trade and farming from piracy, but Harlmut had only shaken his head.
“It is far too late for that,” he said. “We have bred generations of warriors, not farmers, and the few farms remaining in Grabentod produce little of interest beyond the basics for life. We find it far easier to take what we want from Müden and Massenmarch and all the other kingdoms … and, ultimately, we find it more satisfying. Here, even our poorest enjoy fine wines, silks, and spices from around the world.”
“Ah,” Candabraxis had said, as if that explained it. He planned to broach the subject again when he found Harlmut in a more receptive mood. Surely something could be done to reach acceptable terms for peace with Müden.
This night, though, Harlmut wasn’t waiting at the dining table. Instead, Candabraxis found him in his private office, staring into the fire with an intensity Candabraxis had seldom seen before. Clearly, the wizard thought, something had gone very wrong … bad news from the king, perhaps?
Gingerly he slipped into the chair next to Harlmut. He waited patiently for the regent to speak. It will all come out in good time, he thought.
“Parniel Bowspear is gone,” Harlmut finally said, glancing over at him.
Candabraxis frowned. “You mean he left the city? But surely that’s good news. He won’t be here to undermine your rule.”
“Normally I would assume so. But his ships are still in port. I can only assume he left by land.”
Candabraxis leaned back and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “You think he went after Captain Evann,” he said softly.
“What else could it be?”
“How long has he been gone?”
“I don’t know.” Harlmut shook his head. “Several days, at least. I thought my luck too good when he seemed to be avoiding me. Now my spies say he’s gone—vanished from Alber without a word. Nobody has seen him since Captain Evann left. And Bowspear has taken the best of his swordsmen along, too. At least four are gone, and probably more.”
That didn’t sound like good news, Candabraxis thought. But where conventional means failed, perhaps magical ones might succeed.
“I will try to locate him,” he said. “Do you have anything personal of his? Some piece of clothing, perhaps, that he wore often?” He didn’t know Bowspear well enough to attempt it from memory alone.
“I can get something,” Harlmut said. “Why?”
“I will scry on him for you. If he is pursuing Captain Evann, you’ll know it soon enough.”
“I almost hope he is,” Harlmut said. “If you can give me proof of Bowspear’s treachery—real proof that no man can deny—I’ll make sure he never sets foot in Grabentod again.”
“Oh, it will be real enough,” Candabraxis said, rising. He already knew what he needed to do … the spells he needed to prepare. If Bowspear truly had gone after Captain Evann, he was as good as banished.
An hour later, Harlmut climbed the four flights of stairs to the wizard’s suite. In his hands he held an old leather boot of Bowspear’s. The heel had worn down; one of his men had found it set aside for the cobbler. It had been all too easy to appropriate. Hopefully it would meet Candabraxis’s requirements.
He found the door to the wizard’s sitting room standing open. Through another door, he could see Candabraxis working at a table, stirring potions, grinding powders with a small mortar and pestle, and taking notes on a long piece of parchment.
“I have it!” Harlmut called.
“Come in, come in!” The wizard hurried into the sitting room to greet him. “I’ve finished my preparations. Is this it?” Using forefinger and thumb, he took the boot from Harlmut’s hands and looked at it with distaste, giving a small sniff.
“It’s the best I could do on such short notice,” Harlmut said. “You said—”
“Yes, yes, it will do. Odor has nothing to do with the spell’s success.”