The Dihanurs
How to deal with that mage. How to deal with a mage and two killers who could reach through Sandry's magical barrier as if it were a net with large holes…
There was a scrap of shadow inches from where she sat. It could be worked like magic, or the killers would not be able to wear it as a cloak. She could work her own magic like thread, and the magics belonging to others. Could she do that with unmagic?
Steeling herself, she reached into the dark smear and pinched at it with her fingers. As she pulled her hand away, it followed in a long strand like a fine grade of fiber. Goosebumps rippled over her skin—the almost-greasy, almost-sticky, whisper-sense of it on her fingers was very unpleasant—but she did not let go. Instead she twirled the strand as she might a tuft of wool, testing to see how easily it would spin. The strand turned as her twist traveled through it, thickening, just as wool might.
She got to her feet. "Everyone out of this room, right now," she said loudly. She turned, and held the eyes of the Provost's Guards with her own. She had to convince them that she was a senior mage and in total control, or they would never let her do this. "You can't see it, but the that lets those people get about unseen is smeared everywhere in here. It must be got up. That's what Master Snaptrap and I came here to do. If you don't want to track it all over Summersea, spreading gods only know what kind of ill power, then I've got to clean it up."
"But there's the investigators," objected the most senior of the guards present. He bore a corporal's yellow arrowhead on his sleeves. "They need statements from you and from your guards. That's how murder is looked into. There's the mages, who will try to see what happened."
"We
From the pack, Sandry produced a bolt of spelled white silk. It had already been, rubbed with the oil of attraction, so much so that it was already pulling the dark smears from her hands, arms, and the front of her gown onto itself. She marched, out through the guards and into the hall with it. As she'd thought, the killers had kept to this part of the building—the marks they had left were confined to a small area… The hall that stretched toward the back of Rokat House and the stair that led to the third story were clean of unmagic.
Sandry threw the bolt of cloth into the long hallway, shoving it with her power. It unrolled to its full length, giving off a heavy, flowery scent. "Walk or sit on that, and nowhere else," she ordered the Guards. Returning to the packs, she found another such bolt, and spread it in the hall that led from the stair to the office. It moved as it settled over the smears of nothingness, pulling them from wood and carpet.
"I'll be in here," she told the Guards. They watched her with dismay. "Make sure the people who arrive know what I’m doing, and don't bother me."
Kwaben and Oama stood in front of the Rokat office, their faces mulish. "We are
Next, Sandry found canvas bags stuffed with spelled cloth squares in the packs. Placing one bag on the floor near Wulfric's body, she forced apart the stitches that held it together. A second unvoiced command, and squares flew through the room in a blizzard of white silk. They raced to cover every spot where Sandry could see unmagic. Taking the second canvas bag into the outer office, she did the same thing there. One canvas bag remained; she ordered its contents into the hall, where they draped themselves over benches and windowsill, sopping up darkness.
Walking back past Kwaben and Oama, Sandry noticed shadow smears on them. Getting a few extra squares of silk, she rubbed them briskly over her guards, collecting all of the nothingness she could find. Once she had it, she called one of the linen bags in the packs to her. It came, unfolding itself as it did. It blazed with signs for protection and enclosure written onto the fabric in the same powerful oils that filled every fiber. Sandry let it hang in front of her as she dumped the cloths she'd used on her bodyguards into the bag. Oama shifted, when Sandry looked at her, she realized that both dark-skinned guards were pale. They were staring at her.
"What's the matter?” Sandry demanded. "Why are you looking at me that way?"
To her surprise it was silent Kwaben who spoke. He said, "Lady, we knew you were a mage, but… Mostly you're like a cat with it. You never let it show any more than you can help, I think because you know it makes folk nervous."
"You only throw it around when you're upset," Oama added.
"I
everything.
When all her silk was used up, she had to stop for a few minutes and think. She knew there was more nothingness in the building from the killers' earlier visit. She couldn't bear the thought of it lying about. Holding on to her last bag, the one in which she'd placed the two bolts of silk, she began to tremble. How would she get it all?
"Lady Sandry?" Oama whispered. She drew close to the girl, but didn't touch her. Summersea residents knew very well that it was a bad idea to bother a mage in the middle of a working. "Colonel Snaptrap's assistants came. They're gathering all the—the unmagic, they called it—on the stairwell, and on the ground floor. They said you should know."
Relief. Sandry rolled the top of her linen bag to close it. An order to the fibers in the cloth sent them weaving through one another. At last the bag was sealed as well as if she had sewn it shut with fine, tight stitches. Once that was done, she put the bag next to its mates, and found a chair for herself.
What next? she wondered, resting her head on her hands.
"Lady Sandry? It was Oama again. She offered her water flask. "Captain Qais and his investigators are here. They got statements from the others and from Kwaben and me. You're all that's left."
She'd forgotten the Provost's Guards. "Tell them to make it quick," Sandry whispered. She accepted the water flask and drank deeply. If she hadn't thought it would be disagreeable, she might have poured water down her nose in the hope of rinsing away the stink of blood and death.
It wasn't the captain who questioned her, but the tiny woman with the seamed face and the old eyes. A scribe took notes as the investigator got Sandry to tell her story, from Wulfrics arrival at the Bountiful Inn to that very moment. Once done, she took Sandry over it again, making changes as Sandry added things she had forgotten, or barely spoken of.
When she was done, the woman laid a hand on her arm. "You've been a very brave girl, my lady," she told Sandry warmly. "Captain Behazin and Lieutenant Ulrina said you were true to the heart and would never falter, and they were right."
Sandry blinked. "Oh. Thank you."
"My lady." Captain Qais had come in he bowed to hen "All done?" he asked the investigator who had questioned Sandry. She nodded. He jerked his head toward the door. The woman bowed to Sandry and left, taking the scribe with her.
"Well," the captain said, his dark face wooden. "I must say, my lady, it would have been better if you had left this—unmagic—to Master Wulfric's assistants." The captain tucked his thumbs in his belt. "I am sure his grace will be most displeased when he learns of your involvement here."
Sandry rubbed her hands over her face. "At least you had the sense not to interrupt me while I was working," she informed the man, ignoring his indignant gasp. "And my uncle will understand why I involved myself. Pasco really is related to you? Because he's not at all stiff." She was being rude, as rude as her friend Tris. She would probably spend days writing a properly apologetic note after this was all over, but just now she didn't care.
"You are under a strain, lady." Qais appeared more wooden than ever. "I have told you, violent scenes like this are no place for a gently reared young woman. And while our family is gratified by your interest in my scape grace nephew, it does no good to encourage him in his odd imaginings. Dancing, even dancing magic, whatever that means, will not clothe him or feed his children when he is a man. It would be better for you to send him to Lightsbridge or Winding Circle for lessons, and for him to settle once and for all into the training he needs for real work.”
Sandry got to her feet. This time she trembled with fury as she stared up into the captains eyes. "Until you know more of magic, you will not voice opinions about it.” Each word dropped from her lips like a chunk of ice. “For your information, I am proud and honored to be Pasco's teacher. He will be a credit to me. If he's a 'scape grace' with 'odd imaginings,’ perhaps it's because no one gave him reason to think he had anything good to offer." The captain came to a jarring halt against a windowsill, she had backed him out of the inner office and across the outer one, "He will
* * *
There was no way Sandry could break the news gently to Duke Vedris. "I'm going to lay a trap for the Dihanurs. The mages at Winding Circle think I have a chance."
For a moment there was only silence as the duke's eyes met hers. Then he said, "No. We have provosts mages, even battle-mages, with more experience in the taking of killers than you."
"This is different, Uncle."
“I forbid you to put yourself in such danger," the duke said tightly.
Sandry gulped and stood her ground. "I don't like it either, but I don't see another way. They must be stopped.
The duke turned his gaze to Lark, who stood just behind Sandry. "How can this be? Of all the mages at Winding Circle, how is my great-niece the
The duke rested his shaved head on his hands. "That feckless, rattle-pated… Well. Knowing that he will assist you makes all the difference. Now, instead
Lark settled herself in a chair in front of Duke Vedris's desk. "You may as well get comfortable, dear," she advised Sandry. "He's going to be difficult." Sandry obeyed, taking the seat beside hers. To the duke Lark said, "We will do all we can—prepare the materials she needs, guard her and Pasco when the time comes, and dispose of what remains of the enemy's work. We won't send a fourteen-year-old girl and a twelve-year-old boy naked to do battle with a blighted mage."
"Strange," remarked Erdogun. He sat just behind the duke's chair. "That's what it sounds like to
must
"Lark," Sandry protested.
"No, my dear, it's important that people know how unique your gift is. In this case it's vital—I'd hate to have to fight the Dihanur mage and his grace."
The duke smiled, but his eyes were grim. "I'm honored that you would think the task difficult."
"But why?" Erdogun demanded. "You're a great mage—your fellows on the council are great mages, legendary for power and craft. You have an arsenal of capture-magics and spells to drain the power of other mages. Do you really expect us to believe you people can't take this—fellow—and turn him into a tea cozy, if that's your fancy? However powerful this madman may be, I do not believe that he can stand against all of you."