Kitabı oku: «Cast in Chaos», sayfa 3

CHAPTER 3

When a Dragon of Sanabalis’s power uses the word problem in that tone of voice, you start to look for two things: a good weapon, and a place to hide, because, when it comes right down to it, the weapon’s going to be useless. Kaylin, aware of this, did neither.

“Problem?” she said, staring at the malformed map. Sanabalis didn’t appear to have heard her. Clearing her throat, she said, “What are the distances from the Palace to the Halls, the Halls to Elani and the Palace to Elani?”

“I would prefer, at this point, not to ask,” he replied. “Suffice it to say it is not an insignificant distance. The full length of Elani itself would not have been an insignificant distance, given the perturbations you’ve described. I am now assuming that either Margot or the young Alyssa Larienne drew upon the waiting potential and used it. That they did so entirely without intent…

“Come,” he told them both, and turned away from the mirror.

“Where are we going?”

“You are going to the courtyard. I will meet you there with an Imperial Carriage.”

“Why?”

“I would prefer not to use magic at this point. I would also prefer to have no one else use it. Word of this zone, if we can even deduce its boundaries, will spread. We cannot afford to have it touched or used by the wrong people.”

Kaylin stilled. “People can deliberately use it?”

“Not without effort, and not without unpredictable results. Mages are likely to find their spells much more powerful in that zone, and if they are not prepared for it and they are using the wrong spells, it could prove fatal. It is not, however, for the mages that I am concerned.”

“This has happened before,” she said, voice flat.

“Yes, of course it has. Magic is not easily caged or defined. It has not, however, happened over an area this large in any recent history.”

“How recent is recent?”

“The existence of our current Empire.”

Immortals.

If Kaylin had any curiosity about where Sanabalis had gone in the brief interval before he met them in the courtyard, it was satisfied before they left the Palace: she could hear the thunderous clap of syllables that was the equivalent of dragon shouting. The Imperial guards, to give them their due, didn’t even blink as she and Severn walked past.

But if Dragons were immortal, an emergency was still an emergency; they waited for maybe fifteen minutes in total before Sanabalis, looking composed and grim, met them. “Do not,” he said, although Kaylin hadn’t even opened her mouth, “ask.” He glared at the carriage door, and it opened, although admittedly it opened at the hands of footmen.

The ride was grim, silent, and fast. Imperial Carriages were built for as much comfort as a carriage allowed, and people got out of its way. Sanabalis had the door open when it hit the Halls’ yard; the Halls, unlike the Palace, expected people to more or less do things for themselves. He waited until the precise moment someone else had a hand on the horse’s jesses, and then jumped down. Kaylin and Severn did the same, following him as quickly as they could without breaking into a run.

Sanabalis wasn’t running, of course.

There was what wouldn’t pass for a cursory inspection at the front doors; Sanabalis gave his name, but the formality of crossed polearms failed to happen because Sanabalis also didn’t stop moving. They didn’t have time to send a runner ahead, at least not on foot, but there were Aerians practicing maneuvers in the Aerie that opened up just behind the front doors, and Kaylin noticed the way at least one shadow dropped out of formation.

Lord Grammayre was, uncharacteristically, not in his Tower when they finally crested the last corner and hit the office proper. Nor was Marcus behind his desk. The two of them were standing more or less in the space in front of Caitlin’s desk, which was what passed for a reception area this deep into the Halls itself. They turned to greet Sanabalis as he walked briskly toward them.

“Lord Sanabalis,” the Hawklord said, bowing.

“Lord Grammayre. I have need of your Hawks.”

“Of course.”

“Let us repair to the West Room. We can discuss the nature of their deployment—and their new schedule.”

Marcus didn’t even blink.

“For reasons which will become clear, I would like to shut down the use of Records except in emergencies.” He turned to the small mirror on the wall. “Records,” he said. Which would clearly make this an emergency.

Lord Grammayre lifted his left wing, and then nodded.

“I have spoken with the Imperial Order of mages. The Emperor is currently evaluating the possibility of a quarantine on the Arcanum. Map, Elantra.”

A map that was in no way the equal of the one he’d called on in the Palace shimmered into view. For one, it occupied a much smaller surface. Reaching out, Sanabalis touched three points on the map; they were familiar to Kaylin.

“A quarantine?” the Hawklord asked, watching the map shift colors where the Dragon Lord had touched it.

Sanabalis nodded grimly. “I will,” he added, “speak with the Lord of Swords when I am finished here. If it is possible, it will be his duty to see that it is enforced.”

“That is not likely to make the Emperor more popular with the Arcanists.”

“Nothing short of his disappearance would do that. The Arcanists are a concern, but they are not the cause of the current difficulty. They are merely the most obvious avenue for turning it into a disaster. Here,” he added. “Here, and here. At the moment, they are sites in which what I will call leakage for the purpose of discussion has been known to occur. The leakage in your office—the windows—is not as severe as the incidents that occurred in Elani street.

“It does not, however, matter. People’s expectations during this unfortunate leakage guide some of its effects. Our historical Records are, as might be expected, veiled. The Arkon is looking over them now.”

“Are there historical Records that would be relevant, Lord Sanabalis?”

“There are. They are not exactly fonts of optimism, however. What we need the Hawks to do is, as Private Neya would colloquially put it, ‘hit the streets.’ We need to ascertain what the boundaries of the area are. Look for the unusual. Look for the miraculous. Take note of the usual crimes or deaths, but examine them for any…unexplained…phenomenon. This has to start now,” he added.

“The Emperor himself will speak to the Master Arcanist. He has been summoned to Court as a precaution. At the moment however, the Arcanum sits squarely outside of the area marked by the three geographical incidents. With luck, it will remain that way.

“Sergeant Kassan,” Sanabalis added, “you may assure your Hawks that they will be adequately reimbursed for their extra duties.”

Marcus looked as though he had just swallowed something more unpleasant than a week’s worth of unforwarded reports. “Several of the Hawks are involved in the current investigation into the Exchequer.”

“It pains me to say this, Sergeant Kassan, but both duties—the more subtle and now-endangered investigation, and the much less predictable magical one—must be fully discharged.

“As Private Neya is not currently involved in the former, I suggest you deploy her in the latter. I have taken the liberty of arranging an appointment with the Oracular Halls, as she had some success in not offending the man who runs it on her previous visit. I would recommend that you send both her and her current partner.”

“I have—” Kaylin began.

“Private Neya will, however, be excused her classes.”

Kaylin shut her mouth.

“Or rather,” Sanabalis continued, “her classes under my tutelage. I was unable to shift the class schedule for the etiquette lessons, and it is vital that she not offend that teacher.” He turned to Kaylin. “If anything is untoward or of particular interest in the Oracular Halls, you will return to the Palace to report to me.”

Kaylin glanced at Marcus, who nodded stiffly, and managed not to growl. Given the state of his hair, much of which was standing on end, it was surprising. In a good way.

As if he could read that stray thought, the Sergeant added, “And you’ll report back at the Halls after you’ve been debriefed at the Palace.”

“But—”

“I don’t care how late it is. From the sounds of it, the office will be operating under extended hours.” He grimaced, which in Leontine involved more fur and ears than actual facial expression. “I’ll mirror my wives and let them know.”

She didn’t envy him that call.

The appointment with the Oracular Halls was, ironically enough, one hour in the future. Sanabalis handed Kaylin a very official document with the unmistakable seal of the Eternal Emperor occupying the lower left quarter, where words weren’t.

“Take the Imperial Carriage. Master Sabrai will be expecting you,” he told her. “He did not, of course, have time to respond to or question the request, and he did not look terribly surprised to receive it, which is telling.”

What it told Sanabalis, Kaylin wasn’t sure; Sabrai was an oracle, after all, and they were supposed to be able to thresh glimpses of the future out of the broken dreams and visions of the Halls’ many occupants. “What am I supposed to discuss as the official representative of the Imperial Court?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Given the lack of disaster during your last visit—in spite of your many attempts to contravene the rules for visitors to the Halls—I am willing to trust your discretion in this matter.”

Someone cursed, loudly, in Leontine. Kaylin recognized the voice: it was Teela’s.

“Well,” she told Sanabalis, “Severn and I will head there immediately.” She managed to make it out of the office as other voices, mostly Barrani, joined Teela’s. Marcus had apparently already started the who-hates-the-duty-roster-most game, and while the Barrani in the office were Hawks first, they were still Barrani. Barrani in a foul mood were a very special version of Hell, which, if you were lucky, you survived intact.

Given the way the day had started, she didn’t feel particularly lucky.

“It isn’t cowardice,” Severn said, with a wry grin, because he understood her sudden desire for punctuality. “It’s common sense.”

The Oracular Halls, as befitted any mystical institution that labored in service to the Eternal Emperor, was imposing. Constructed of stone in various layers that suggested a very sharp cliff face, it was surrounded on all sides by a fence that looked as if it would impale any careless bird that landed on it. The posts were grounded by about three feet of stone that was at least as solid as the walls it protected; it wasn’t going to be blown over by a storm, a mage, or an angry Leontine.

A Dragon, on the other hand, wouldn’t have too much trouble.

In the center of the east side of the fence, which fronted the wide streets that led up to and around it, was a guardhouse. It was late in the day, but the hour did not lead to less guards; there seemed to be more than the last time she’d visited at the side of Lord Sanabalis. She counted eight visible men, and those eight wore expensive, very heavy armor. They also carried swords.

Severn glanced at her as the carriage came to a halt, but said nothing.

The guards didn’t meet the carriage itself; they waited until it disgorged its occupants. Said occupants walked—in much less heavy armor—to the wide, very closed, doors that led to the grounds. To Kaylin’s surprise, the guards didn’t demand her name or her business. Then again, the first thing she did was hand them the paper that Sanabalis had handed her.

A lot of clanking later, the doors opened.

“Master Sabrai is waiting,” one of the men told her. “He will meet you when you enter.”

The rules that governed visitors to the Oracular Halls were pretty simple: Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t touch anyone. Don’t react if someone screams and runs away at the sight of you.

The first time Kaylin had come up against these rules they had been confusing right up until the moment she’d entered the building. She understood them better now, and wasn’t surprised when she entered the Halls and saw a young girl teetering precariously on the winding steps that punctuated the foyer, singing to herself in a language that almost sounded like Elantran if you weren’t trying to make any sense of it.

Master Sabrai was, as the guard had suggested, waiting to greet them. Kaylin tendered him a bow; Severn tendered him a perfect bow. He nodded to each in turn, and Kaylin remembered, belatedly, that all visitors to these Halls were called supplicants.

Master Sabrai looked every inch the noble. His hair was iron-gray, and his beard was so perfectly tended it might as well have been chiseled. He wore expensive clothing, and if his hands weren’t entirely bejeweled, the two rings he did wear were very heavy gold with gems that suited that size. He had the bearing and posture of a man who was used to being obeyed.

Once that would have bothered Kaylin. In truth, in another man, it would have set her teeth on edge now.

“Private Neya,” Master Sabrai said. “Your companion?”

“Corporal Handred, also of the Hawks.”

“You have apprised him of the rules for visitors?”

“I have.” She grimaced, and added, “He’s better at following rules than I generally am. He’ll cause no trouble here.”

“Good. I am afraid that your visit here was not unexpected, and it is for that reason that I am here. Sigrenne is at the moment attempting to quiet two of the children, one of whom you met on a previous visit.”

“Everly? But he doesn’t talk—”

“No. He doesn’t. I was speaking of a young girl.”

Kaylin remembered the child, although she couldn’t remember the name. “She’s the one who saw—” She stopped. “She’s upset?”

“She had planted herself firmly in the door and would only be moved by force. She was not notably upset until her removal. I believe she was looking forward to reading you. Those were her exact words. She also,” he added, glancing at the covered mirrors that adorned part of the foyer, “attempted to decorate. She seemed to be afraid of the mirrors, which is not, with that child, at all the usual case. Come, please. Let us go to the Supplicant room.”

Sigrenne, still large and still intimidatingly matronly in exactly the same way as Marrin of the Foundling Hall—but without the attendant fur, fangs, and claws—was waiting for Master Sabrai in the Supplicant room. She was not on guard duty, so she didn’t resemble an armor-plated warrior, unless you actually paid attention to her expression.

That expression softened—slightly—when she caught sight of Kaylin. “You’re the Supplicant?” she asked.

“Well, sort of. One of the Supplicants, at any rate.”

“How is Marrin?”

“Doing really well. I swear, someone rich left all their money to the Foundling Halls. I’ve never heard so few complaints from her.”

“It’s probably the new kit.”

“You heard about him?”

“I saw him.” Sigrenne’s face creased in a smile that made her look, momentarily, friendly. “She brought him here when she came for her usual suspicious flyby.”

Some of the orphans left on the steps of the Foundling Halls ended up with the Oracles. Marrin, as territorial as any Leontine, still considered them her responsibility in some ways, so she made sure they were eating, dressing, and behaving as well as one could expect in the Oracular Halls.

Master Sabrai raised a brow at Sigrenne, and then threw his hands in the air, a gesture entirely at odds with both his dress and his generally reserved manner.

Sigrenne took this as permission to speak about matters that concerned the Oracles more directly. “You’re the only Supplicant we’re entertaining today. And that would mean you’re here by Imperial Dictate.” The last two words were spoken with very chilly and suspicious capitals.

Kaylin stiffened. “The other Supplicants?”

“Meetings have been postponed.”

“For how long?”

“Indefinitely. You can imagine how popular this has made Master Sabrai.”

If the Oracles did, indeed, see into the future—or the past—they often spoke in a way that made no bloody sense to anyone who couldn’t also see what they were seeing. Some of the Oracles didn’t speak at all, although that was rarer. But since the Emperor himself consulted with the Oracular Halls from time to time—and funded them—many powerful men and women thought they could gain some advantage by visits to the Oracles.

Those visits weren’t free, and they weren’t cheap. Kaylin, who sneered at the charlatans in Elani on a weekly basis, found the so-called real thing just as troubling, but for different reasons. She was mostly certain that the Supplicants who came with their questions couldn’t make heads or tails of the answers they actually got, and she couldn’t figure out why they’d spend the money at all.

But people with that much money could be really, really difficult if disappointed. She glanced at Sabrai. “Why have the Halls been closed to visitors?” she asked, in the no-nonsense tone she’d adopted while on formal Hawk business.

“I would imagine,” he replied, “that you have some suspicion, or Lord Sanabalis wouldn’t have sent you.”

“Is it like the last time?”

“No. Or at least, not yet.”

She waited.

So did he. And since he was used to dealing with people who could forget a conversation before they’d even finished a sentence, he won. “What do you mean when you say not yet?”

“There were a number of disturbing incidents today.”

“Were there any visual Oracles offered?”

“There were. They are not…unified, but there is a similarity of theme in some of them. It is not the visual that is of concern, and until we isolate the possible cause, we would prefer not to deal with the more trivial questions that cross this threshold. Why did the Emperor send you?”

“There were marked unusual disturbances in parts of the city today.”

“Unusual?”

“You could call them miraculous, given that we were on Elani.”

“How?”

“Some of the daily garbage that passes for magic on Elani actually seemed to work,” she replied.

He was silent for a few moments, staring just to the left of Kaylin’s shoulder.

“Master Sabrai,” Sigrenne said firmly.

He blinked, and shook his head. “My pardon, Sigrenne. I was…thinking.” His gaze became more focused, and his expression sharper. “And did incidents of this nature occur elsewhere?”

“Yes. I’m wondering, at this point, if they occurred here.”

“No. Or at least not in a fashion that would appear unusual to either myself or the caretakers. What question do you have for us?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute,” she replied, with a confidence she didn’t feel, because she didn’t actually have a question she wanted to hand to the Oracles. “Can you describe the unusual verbal incidents you’ve been experiencing?”

He hesitated for just a moment, and then said, “Let me see the letter you’re carrying.” It wasn’t what she was expecting, but she had no trouble handing it over. He, on the other hand, read it with care before he returned it.

“We have transcripts on hand,” he finally said. “They are less…useful…than normal, but in the past two days, a pattern seems to be emerging. The pattern involves fear—of monsters, of armies, of invasions. And,” he added, with a frown, “of doors.”

She watched the glance that passed between Master Sabrai and Sigrenne.

“There’s more.”

Master Sabrai nodded and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Everly is painting.”

CHAPTER 4

Everly wasn’t painting. He was stretching a canvas. He worked, as he always did, in silence; the only noises he made were the usual grunts physical effort produced. The canvas, however, was taller than he was, and it was almost as wide as it was tall. Kaylin looked at it, and then turned to Master Sabrai.

“When did he start?”

“Approximately two hours ago. We keep wood, nails, and canvas in the corner of his gallery.” The gallery in question was also the room he slept and lived in.

“He hasn’t done any drawings at all?”

“No. Not one. Whatever it is he’s painting, the image is strong enough—and large enough—that he feels compelled to begin immediately.”

From tone alone, Kaylin understood that this was not a good thing in the opinion of Master Sabrai.

“It is seldom that his large canvases are used for trivial affairs, but it does happen. The very large image of Lord Sanabalis might be considered one such event.”

That image, as Master Sabrai called it, occupied the wall directly opposite the door. It was the largest painting in the room, and as Kaylin wasn’t much of an artist, one of the largest she’d seen. The Halls of Law did boast some sculpture and some tapestry, but it was mostly for show, and therefore tucked away where only important visitors could see it.

“He will work until he’s done,” Master Sabrai added. “Inform Lord Sanabalis when you report to him. He has always expressed a clear interest in Everly’s work.” He paused and then added, “If you wish to remain, Private, you may remain to observe.”

She watched Everly for another fifteen minutes, and then said, “We’ll come by tomorrow or the day after.”

It was raining when they left the Oracular Halls. Master Sabrai was kind enough to hand them the transcriptions of the other possible Oracles, and he was foresightful enough to mention that anything discovered while under the auspices of the Imperial Court, however indirectly, could be legally discussed only with members of said Court.

Then again, foresight—for a definition of foresight that included garbled confusion and mute painters—was his specialty, so it didn’t come as much of a surprise. The carriage was still waiting, the horses looked a little more bedraggled, and the streets had half emptied, which at this time of day—closing in on sunset—was about as much as you could hope for this side of the Ablayne.

But as they drove toward the Imperial Palace, the rain changed. Kaylin thought at first it had just gotten heavier, because visibility plummeted sharply as they turned a corner. This pleasant bit of mundane wrongheadedness didn’t last, in part because the street around the carriage suddenly got a whole lot louder. People were shouting, screaming, and running for cover—not all at once, and not necessarily in that order.

She glanced at Severn; Severn had already unlatched the door on his side of the carriage by the time the carriage rolled to a halt. The streets weren’t empty enough to negotiate while people were running all over the place in blind panic.

Kaylin stepped into the rain and immediately understood why people were screaming.

It was raining blood.

Blood this watery and this red was usually warm; the rain was no exception. The clouds that were shedding it looked like normal green-gray storm clouds; there was no lightning and no thunder. Given the nature of what there was, on the other hand, the lack was probably a blessing in disguise.

It was the only one they were likely to get.

Kaylin headed straight for an actual store, tried hard not to drip on the bolts of cloth that seemed to take up most of its available space, and borrowed a mirror. She let Severn talk the establishment’s occupants down from the ceiling, because frankly, he was better at it.

The mirror rippled, losing her reflection—and gaining, sadly, a sticky, wet palm print, which, given the cost of the mirror, was going to cause ructions—and Caitlin’s face swam into view, solidifying after a few seconds. Her usually calm expression stiffened instantly, and her eyes widened.

“No, no—it’s fine, Caitlin. The blood’s not mine.” Realizing that this would not, in fact, calm the office mother down, she added, “We’re having a bit of trouble down on Lattimar road, near Gorran, and we need Swords out here. Now. Can you get Marcus?”

The image froze on silence. When it began to move again, Caitlin said, “You’re not the only place that’s having trouble, dear.” At least she looked less shocked about the blood. Her image froze again. Kaylin waited until it started moving and said, “How large an area is this rain falling in?”

“A large one, dear. Sergeant Kassan is here.”

Ironjaw’s eyes were orange, and he was bristling. He was not, however, angry at Kaylin, and even if he were, she was well out of reach. “You said you were at Lattimar and Gorran?”

She nodded. “It was at Lattimar and Gorran that the rain went…strange, sir.”

“Get your butt back outside and see whether or not there’s a clear line of so-called strange.”

“People are running around screaming in total panic.”

Eyebrows rose; the tufts of Leontine ears were standing on end. “The Swords are already out in the streets, Private. It’s covered. Now get out there and get me some useful information.”

There was a clear line of so-called strange, a point at which blood gave way to water. It wasn’t instant, but the blur between the two could be seen both on the ground and in the air itself. They had followed Lattimar past Gorran, heading toward the wall, and when they found the five yards of blur, Kaylin actually muttered what she hoped sounded like thanks to any possible deity who might be eavesdropping.

It was wet, and the rain was cold; the blood-rain wasn’t, but in this case, Kaylin was willing to settle for cold. While the rain lasted, Kaylin and Severn followed its line, and marked the streets where clear water gave way to red fluid. Neither of them had the means to take more than a very small sample of this altered rain, if you didn’t count what could be wrung out of their clothing.

They didn’t manage to trace the periphery of the area, which seemed to be roughly circular in shape, before the rain petered out. It was perhaps the only time she could think of that she cursed lack of rain—and in two languages, at that. But they’d circled a large enough part of the city, sans carriage, before they made their way back to the Halls.

There were guards at the doors, which wasn’t unusual—even in the midnight hours, these doors were manned. But these guards had clearly not only seen the effects of the rain; they’d also been standing in it. They didn’t even lift a brow at the reddened mess that was Kaylin’s clothing. Nor did they engage in anything like small talk; they were silent in that grim, worried way, and they waved both Hawks through the unlocked doors.

The Aerie was as crowded as it was during training maneuvers, and Kaylin glimpsed familiar wings in the artificial light that radiated down from the heights. Aerian shadows looked a lot like giant fish against the stone floors, and she watched them—briefly—before Severn tapped her shoulder.

“Sorry,” she told him, as she picked up her walking speed.

The office was not, as one would expect at this time of the day, empty. But the foul temper the orders from on high had caused had dissipated the way it always did when there was a distinct and obvious emergency. If people weren’t thrilled to be there—and judging from some expressions, they weren’t—they were awake and focused.

They were all also, almost to a man—and one shockingly matted Leontine—in various shades of red. Patches of dried blood lay across the office floor, making a visible track between desks and mirrors; it looked as if Marcus had gone berserk.

“Private!”

Speaking of berserk… Kaylin headed straight to the Sergeant’s desk, and stood at attention, which was hard because he looked like a drowned cat. But huge. “Reporting in, Sir.”

“Well?”

“We have some street coordinates. We gathered the information we could before the rain stopped.”

He turned and shouted at the mirror closest to his desk, not that it mattered much; all of the office mirrors were alive. The window, sadly, was also alive, and it reminded people that it was time to leave, that they had to clock out, that they had to check the duty roster before they left, and that they should be careful in case of rain. Kaylin stared at it.

“Every ten minutes,” Marcus growled. “And it has special commentary on the hour.” He added, “Map, center city, low detail.” The mirror rippled, as it often did, and the image that had occupied it before his curt command receded until it was part of a larger network of lines.

“Special commentary?” She walked over to the mirror, looked at her hands, and let them drop to the side.

“It has,” he continued, ignoring the interruption, “stopped attempting to correct ‘obscene’ language.” He gestured to the mirror, stepping out from behind his desk to do so.

Since even Mallory had never attempted to rein in what was politely referred to as local color, Kaylin grimaced. She hated to think that something could be more uptight than Mallory. “I’ll wash up,” she told him.

“Don’t bother. No one else has.” To drive this point home, he ran a claw lightly over the mirror’s surface. It stopped at the intersection of Lattimar and Gorran. “You mirrored from here.”

“A bit down the road, but yes, that was the general area.”

Severn stepped up to the mirror, to the left of their Sergeant. “Magnify. Center Lattimar and Gorran.” The mirror obeyed, and Kaylin found herself holding her breath as the buildings came into view. But they didn’t leap out of the mirror’s surface, and they didn’t turn into something monstrous or strange, which was good because she needed to exhale.

Severn pinpointed the boundary—and the boundary’s width. The point just beneath his finger began to glow; gold for the outer bounds, bright pink for the inner. When she snorted, he said, “I don’t choose the colors.”

Marcus growled, which was tired Leontine for Shut the Hell Up. Since it was aimed at Kaylin, Severn continued to call cross streets. The map would blur and shift, he’d add two points, and then repeat the process. When he was done, he called “Map” again, and this time the line of dots—in gold and pink—formed a pattern. To emphasize this, a line, in each color, ran between the points, terminating at the start and the finish of their trek.