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Chapter 4:
The Shadow on the Stairs


I


The spear passed so close it set Varahan’s beard waving. Startled, it took him a few heartbeats to understand that yes, someone on a Dervan street had hurled a weapon at him. The shaft was still vibrating in the door of the carriage he’d just opened, and the spearhead intended for his flesh was sunk halfway into the wood. He was still soberly registering that when he looked right to discover a man in the snowy road not fifteen paces away. The stranger’s left arm was thrust back for balance, and his right arm was extended, as if he were an athlete modeling for a sculptor .

Varahan was used to long spans of time passing in blurs; he might sit in contemplation of an equation for hours at a time, belatedly realizing he was hungry because he’d worked straight through lunch and dinner both. But now, at this moment, time actually slowed. He became acutely aware of everything around him.

He scrambled into the carriage meant to convey him and Norok to the next phase of their imprisonment. To his rear, the praetorian shepherding them shouted to attack and another soldier screamed in agony.

Varahan crawled out the other side and looked back, calling for Norok to follow, but he didn’t see the old Nuvaran, even though he’d been just behind. On his right a pair of cloaked figures struggled. Neither was in legionary uniform. He could have sworn one of them shouted at him, in Volani no less, to get back in the carriage, but he saw an opening to a narrow lane and hurried toward it. He passed a crumpled body in the street, heard the scream of another legionary and the click of blade on blade, a sound he knew all too well from the fall of Volanus.

He ran into the dim alley, leaving prints in the thin snow with every sandaled stride. The pavers just ahead looked icy, so Varahan stepped to the left, breathing hard, before resuming his forward progress. The end of the alley was a bright rectangle opening onto a little marketplace. It seemed emblematic of safety and warmth, as though to pass through it he himself would be newly born into freedom.

But behind him the sound of footsteps came. He looked over his shoulder to see if his end would come via another spear throw or a sword to the back. A black-cloaked man snarled in close pursuit, a wickedly pointed knife raised in one hand. Varahan whispered a prayer to Danit, asking her to make it painless.

Then the assassin crossed onto the bricks Varahan had avoided, and his eyes flared wide. His arms flailed and his feet left the ground. He landed on his back with a loud splat and a painful sounding thunk.

He did not rise.

Just shy of the opening onto the marketplace, Varahan stopped and looked back at the downed assassin. So far there was no other pursuit. And while the marketplace might represent freedom, it was illusory, for Varahan had no money. He couldn’t afford so much as a shave without any Dervan coins, let alone passage from this enemy city.

A sudden inspiration sent him back to his would-be murderer. Puffing, and thinking that he really ought to exercise more, he took the man’s knife from the snow. Varahan sought and found the coin purse at the killer’s side, then cut it free. The fellow groaned feebly in response.

Varahan looked back to the alley’s empty entrance. Norok was probably dead. He hadn’t realized how fond of his fellow prisoner he’d grown until he felt a catch in his throat. But there was nothing he could do for him, and more attackers might turn up at any moment. He turned and hurried for the end of the alley, his mind alive with plans.

First, he thought, a change of clothes, and a haircut and shave. After that, who could say? The coin purse felt as though it held a lot of money. His spirits rose. He glanced back a final time, only noticing then that his scarf had slipped off while he knelt. But he didn’t need it anymore. He could buy another. He strode determinedly into the light.



II


Hanuvar pressed against the shutters of the second story window and peered to the north, as if he might see through the intervening buildings to the street where everything had gone wrong.

When he’d learned that the prisoners were shortly to be transported to speak to the senator sponsoring their experiments, he had quickly arranged what had looked to be a relatively simple interception. Matters had gone awry when a completely unexpected party intervened at the same time. And unlike Hanuvar, the Cerdian interlopers appeared to have had murder on their minds. By the time Hanuvar had dealt with them, his countryman Varahan had disappeared, and Hanuvar had been forced to depart in the carriage with only the Nuvaran. Four legionaries lay in the street, along with two Cerdians, and a passerby had been shouting for the vigiles. It hadn’t been wise to remain.

The rest of their team scattered. He and Carthalo’s son Horace left the carriage in a small warehouse a few blocks south set up as a hiding place. There they’d turned the horses over to Carthalo’s daughter, Lucena, and retreated into an apartment above a fishmonger.

Hanuvar had removed the curly black wig he’d worn during the escape and traded out his black cloak for a brown one. He was still waiting on the Nuvaran to finish changing when Horace returned, stomping snow from his boots as he headed up the tight interior staircase. To Hanuvar’s unvoiced query he only shook his head.

“They haven’t caught anyone yet.” Horace arrived at the landing and came through the doorway. The youth closely resembled a young Carthalo, save that his face was leaner and longer, and, though the boy’s mother had been a Dervan woman, the hook in his nose was even more pronounced than his father’s. He was as dependable as Carthalo, as well, although more excitable.

The young man continued eagerly as he closed the inner door. “There’s one thing in our favor. The Dervans believe the incident was a [6]

Norok emerged from the back room, fussing with his abundant wispy white hair. He’d put on a light blue tunic and a black cloak, of flowery Herrenic style. He had complained that he looked nothing like a Herrene, and he certainly looked nothing like Antires, for he was old, wrinkled, and dour. He was also taller than the typical Herrene, and darker as well, but for his own safety his distinctive clothing had been discarded. He retained a necklace of colorful red and blue stones.

Hanuvar pointed to them. “You should hide those under your collar.”

Norok did so as he spoke, his accented Dervan thick. “Why do the Cerdians want to hurt us?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Horace agreed.

Hanuvar explained. “If Cerdia is preparing for a war and learned you and Varahan are developing weapons, their movements make perfect sense. But then they may simply have been assassins who were Cerdians, rather than assassins sent by Cerdia. It could be they were hired by a rival senator to frustrate Senator Aminius’ pet project.”

“The Dervans would do this? Against their own government?” Norok asked in bewilderment.

“It’s possible. Whoever they were, they seemed to learn you were out in the open, then moved against you.”

“But how could they know?”

“Presumably the same way we did. Paid informers.”

“And what about my colleague?” Norok looked at Horace. “I heard you say Varahan hadn’t been caught by the Dervans. Is it possible the Cerdians captured him?”

“If they have him, he’s dead,” Hanuvar answered. “But I don’t think they have him. I saw Varahan flee west. Where would he go?”

Norok let out a bark of laughter. “I think he ducked into the alley. But after that? How am I to know? He is a fluff headed idiot.” His troubled expression belied his callous words.

Hanuvar had hoped for more insight into Varahan’s likely whereabouts. The Volani scholar and Norok had been kept together by the Dervans for months. “He’s relatively new to the streets of Derva, but he’s a strategic thinker and well capable of improvisation. Did you ever discuss escape plans?”

Norok peered at him through shaggy brows. “None of any consequence. You speak as though you know him.”

In fact he did, but Hanuvar merely shrugged. Varahan had helped design the dreaded Volani fire, a flame that burned on the surface of water, and when Hanuvar had held one of the two magisterial offices of Volanus he had consulted with Varahan dozens of times. So far as Norok knew, however, Hanuvar was a freelance mercenary working at the behest of friendly benefactors. That was a far more digestible lie than the truth that he was a de-aged general presumed dead but really leading a Volani liberation group.

“Stay with Horace,” Hanuvar said to Norok, then threw on a blue cloak. “How well does Varahan speak Dervan?”

“Passably. But with an obvious Volani accent. And he has a beard like no Dervan wears. He could not possibly go unrecognized for long.”

Norok was assuming Varahan would continue to act as he might normally. Hanuvar assumed a clever man would channel his wiles along new courses. “Stay alert,” he said to Horace, then left the room, hurried down the steps, and exited the building.

He walked the few blocks to the ambush site and started down the sidewalk. Dozens of gawkers talked in little groups and pointed and stared at the bodies lying along the street. The masked priests of Lutar, swathed in their long brown robes and conical hats, were even now waving black wands over one of the corpses, ritually removing curses and sending spirits on their way so ordinary men could touch the bodies without fear of retribution from the angry dead.

A small band of praetorian soldiers kept onlookers back while their officers loitered, watching. All were distinctive in their white tunics, cloak, and helmet crests. But a group in black was drawing the most attention.

Hanuvar had expected the praetorians and the priests and the crowds, but he hadn’t been certain the revenants would be called in. They were uniformed in full black armor and capes, complete with shining cloak tabs and helmet medallions. He was too far away to see the silvery decorative skulls inlaid upon their accouterments, but he knew they’d be present. Two of them were questioning a praetorian with a bandaged arm while a third studied the gray, overcast sky. A pair of black-cloaked, scholarly looking young assistants waited attentively to one side, and Hanuvar deduced they were some kind of adjunct force. Knowing revenants, they could be clerks with special knowledge, or even assistant spellcasters.

It was the smallest of the three revenants who’d drawn most of the crowd’s scrutiny, a centurion, obvious from the way the horsehair crest crossed the officer’s helmet from side to side. The onlookers seemed sure she was a woman. The men in the crowd of a half dozen actively mocked the notion, but the young man who’d seen her pass close insisted upon it, saying it was no beardless youth.

In no other Dervan military unit did women serve, but a handful of the most magically sensitive had been granted special status in the Revenant Order and been appointed to the rank of centurion so that common soldiers would be forced to treat them with respect. Most were kept out of sight of the public. This woman’s presence in the field suggested she must formidable in several ways.

Hanuvar gave her and the rest of the soldiers a wide berth. He listened to the street gossip only long enough to determine there was no suspicion about Volani, then made for the lane a few dozen paces from where the carriage had sat against the curb. A pair of blue-cloaked vigiles stood with crossed arms in the alley’s mouth, watching the activity but knowing better than to intervene. Vigiles might be charged with keeping the peace and fighting fires in the city, but when it came to investigating assaults and murders against praetorians, they were wisely hesitant to become involved. They gave Hanuvar scant notice as he sidled past.

Footprints in the street had been a muddle, but they were obvious in the narrow lane between warehouses. One man had fled this direction, his prints clear in the thin snow, and another had followed. A third had trailed later. Only two prints exited.

Eighty good strides past the opening, one of the men had lost his footing and slipped, landing on his back. It looked as though two others had knelt near him, one with smaller sandals. A wet scarf lay near at hand. Varahan’s. Had he doubled back?

While Hanuvar considered the possible explanations, he noticed where two sets of tracks reversed course to leave the alley the way they’d come in. The other, smaller prints proceeded on for the far end. So Varahan had returned after the assassin had slipped, hopefully to take his weapon and money, then escaped before the second entered the alley. Hanuvar approved.

He glanced back to the alley mouth. The vigiles still had their backs turned. He followed Varahan’s tracks out the alley and into a small forum with an abundance of market stalls. The scent of fresh baked bread helped obscure the more common, and less agreeable, odors of the city. After a cursory search Hanuvar spotted a pair of clothiers on his left. On his right lay a barber.

Norok had called Varahan a fluff-head, but even if he were absent minded, surely the scholar had seen the advantage of these resources. What he would have done after resorting to them, Hanuvar could not guess, but he hoped to narrow possibilities before the praetorians and revenants got their information straight.



III


Here in this neighborhood near the river Tibron, the lifeblood of the empire’s capital, the apartment buildings climbed only a few stories, and much of this block was given over to old warehouses, many of them empty in winter. Dania been told the street was often deserted, but it wasn’t now. A crowd of onlookers had gathered, and she’d ordered most of the useless praetorians to keep them back, dispatching the smartest to follow the carriage tracks, although she doubted his efforts would come to much. There were too many tracks through the snow already.

Like the crowd their subordinates kept at bay, the praetorian officers kept eying her as if they expected her to perform a trick.

She ignored them and thought about the battle site she walked. There were three dead attackers, one along the sidewalk, the others near where the carriage had stood. The survivor’s confused recounting hadn’t mentioned fighting a man on the sidewalk, and she bent to examine the corpse’s wounds even as her junior companion Publius trudged up, two assistants following in his wake and complaining about the cold. Dania’s look to him was meant to suggest he order them quiet, but Publius missed it because he was staring up at the empty windows.

Reedy and freckled, Publius looked more like a bewildered young priest than a revenant. He had come highly recommended from central, but so far today he’d only been interested in taking bird auguries, which would be of little to no immediate use even if Publius had mastered the difficult study, which she doubted.

She returned her attention to the corpse twisted in the snow. Like the other dead man, the body looked foreign. That was no mark of distinction here in Derva, the very center of the world, where people from all lands came to trade. Yet the corpse had the dark brown complexion and thicker eyebrows, not to mention the distinctive wide nostrils of his compatriot, and those were features common among Cerdian people.

Her optio, Vennius, led the praetorian over. While the optio wandered off, the trooper came to attention and saluted awkwardly, gingerly pressing his freshly bandaged arm to his white lacquered chest armor.

“At ease,” Dania said. “There’s something I want to ask you, Cassius.”

“Yes, Centurion.”

Dania walked him over to the driver, slumped in the snow, glassy eyes staring down the road, as if mystified by the absence of his carriage and horses. The true cause of his bewilderment was likely the gaping red wound in his throat. She pointed a finger at the black-cloaked figure crumpled nearby. Another likely Cerdian. “So you saw this man kill the driver.”

“Yes.”

“And you killed the Cerdian?”

“No, sir,” the soldier corrected hastily. “I wounded him. Narses killed him.” He pointed to a dead praetorian hidden by a crimson-soaked cloth. A pool of blood had stained the snow around the body and been soaked up by the fabric’s edges.

“And who killed Narses?”

“The enemy was throwing javelins.”

It had been hard to miss the javelin standing out of the other praetorian’s head. Cassius himself had been wounded in the arm by one before slipping on the snow and spraining the same limb.

“So—how many attackers?” Dania had asked the praetorian the same question while the healer tended him, and Cassius hadn’t been sure then. After revisiting the attack site, the praetorian looked even more puzzled.

“Three or four. Maybe five. I didn’t see all of them. And it happened really fast.”

“Come with me.” Dania led him to where the third Cerdian lay in a doorway. “If I understand correctly, your attackers had assaulted the driver. At the same time, they moved against you praetorians, and all of you were in the street. You saw Narses caught from behind. You said Talcus was sliced open as he rushed forward, and that Tertius caught a javelin with his face. You were injured over there.” She pointed back the way they’d come. “So who killed this man?”

Cassius’ brow wrinkled.

Vennius returned, waiting expectantly. The handsome optio looked self-satisfied, as though he had news to report, but Dania held up a hand for him to wait.

“I don’t think we got over here,” Cassius said finally.

She sighed. “That is my point.”

“Do you think one of them did it?” Cassius asked.

Dania rolled her eyes. “Why would they kill one of their own?”

“I’m just thinking out loud,” Cassius answered apologetically.

“The tracks show the carriage horse moved off at a good clip. Did you see anyone besides these attackers?”

“I can’t say as I noticed. I was watching the prisoners, keeping them safe while we walked them toward the carriage. The others were monitoring front, side, and rear.”

“I don’t think he knows much more, Centurion,” Vennius said, smugly pleased with himself. “But I’ve found something.”

Dania bade Cassius stay and then followed her optio, who said, “There are interesting tracks down this alley.”

Vennius was arrogant, but he was also perceptive, and Dania tolerated him because he’d proven himself useful from time to time.

Publius and his assistants had already occupied the alley. The revenant knelt over a wet red scarf, contemplating it as though it held the world’s secrets. She saw from his glassy, inward stare that he worked sorcery. What he expected to find she couldn’t imagine.

Vennius adjusted his black cloak and leaned down toward the footprints in the lane to the right of Publius and explained what he thought they meant. If he was right, someone had run this way, pursued by one of the assassins. Then the pursuer had lost his footing. The running figure had returned, then headed out of the alley. Someone had dropped a scarf.

“And these other tracks?” Dani asked.

“Someone else wandering through, and me,” Vennius explained.

“But our survivor said both the Volani and the Nuvaran were in the carriage.”

Vennius scoffed. “Cassius isn’t the brightest, though, is he?”

“That’s certainly true.”

“It might be coincidence,” Vennius said. “Or it might be that one of our escapees ran this way.”

As the wind picked up Dania pulled her cloak close about her shoulders and suppressed a shiver. The men were always looking for weakness in her and she worked never to show it to them. Instead, she absorbed the information and considered possibilities. “You think the prisoners weren’t actively involved. That the Cerdians wanted them for themselves, and that one of them got away.”

Vennius smiled in satisfaction. “Yes, Centurion. That’s exactly it.”

Publius cleared his throat then said, in a sententious voice: “I have determined the escapee’s course.” He lifted the balled, dripping red scarf.

“Yes?” Dania asked.

The sorcerer pointed down the alley, the way the footprints had gone.

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Vennius muttered.

“There’s more to it than that.” Cradling the scarf against him, Publius lifted his other hand, as though he meant to throttle someone with it, then walked slowly forward. His fingers were outthrust before him, as though his hand was an independent entity and the rest of the body its mindless servant.

Vennius sniffed derisively. The young sorcerer did seem on the dramatic side, which was hardly unique among magical practitioners. Drama didn’t especially bother Dania, so long as it got results. But she would not tolerate deceit. Over the five years of her service Dania had uncovered dozens of charlatans, three of them in the Revenant Order. If Publius was aware of that, he seemed unworried. But then fraudsters were well-practiced at being bold. And foolish.

They left the alley and emerged in a bustling marketplace. The sorcerer, led by his hand, moved blithely on before stopping at a booth displaying cloaks and shawls upon shelves under a sidewalk awning. At sight of the uniformed revenants led by one with a hand extended as if for strangling, a gaggle of shoppers turned heel, retreating into nearby shops or fleeing the square entirely. Dania was used to the respect her uniform inspired and wasn’t especially suspicious of any of those who left. Most likely their true quarry had already vacated the area.

A wide selection of different colored cloth and a small assortment of finished garments were arranged on carts under the shop’s awning. A middle-aged clerk was folding a red cloak at the counter just past the doorway. Her placid expression fell into one of dread when she beheld the strange, grim revenant and the others at his heels.

Publius stopped at a row of garments hanging on pegs just beyond the doorway, and the hand fell upon a plain brown cloak. He sounded weary when he turned to Dania, but relieved as well, as though he’d been able to set down a weighty burden. “This was with the scarf.”

The woman had paled behind her counter. She pulled her hands back from the shawl she was folding and watched with wide eyes.

Dania lifted the cloak and walked toward her. “We’re looking for an old man who was in this cloak. Either a Nuvaran or a Volani.”

“I didn’t know anything was wrong with him, I swear!” The wiry clerk paused to catch a breath then blurted: “That’s just what I told his nephew.”

“His nephew?” Dania repeated.

The woman stared as though she didn’t understand the words.

Dania spoke slowly. “Tell me about his nephew.”

“Yes, his nephew. He came by only a little while ago. He was looking for his uncle, whom he said was a little addled.”

Vennius stepped up beside Dania. His voice was cold and remote. “What did this nephew look like?”

“Young. Friendly.”

“Nuvaran?”

“Oh, no.”

“Short, thin, fat?” Dania prompted.

“About average.”

Vennius sighed in disgust. “This woman is useless.”

Dania’s temper had begun to fray but she still pretended calm. “Hair color?”

“Dark?”

“Are you telling me, or asking me?”

“I’m sorry—I was really more interested in the clothing. You know. That’s my job. The garment selling.”

Vennius curtly asked another question. “Did the nephew look like a Cerdian?”

“Well, no. I mean, I don’t think so. He looked like a fine young Dervan man.” She rattled on nervously. “I didn’t know the old man was a Nuvaran—or Volani, I guess, I mean Nuvarans are dark, aren’t they? Though he did have a funny accent. But a lot of people do.” She briefly showed the tip of her tongue as she licked dried lips.

There was one last question Dania might ask. “Did either the old man or the nephew say anything about where they were going next?”

“The young man asked that same question and I didn’t know, because his uncle didn’t say. And he said he’d just go take a look around for him. Are they dangerous?”

“They’re no one for you to worry about,” Dania said.

The clothing seller gulped. Probably she was still afraid that she herself was in trouble.

Publius cleared his throat and Dania turned to face him.

“Centurion, I think I can find the Volani man.” Publius pointed to one of his assistants, wringing water out of the scarf just beyond the doorway. “That garment wasn’t important enough to him to be of any more use to me, nor was the cloak. I’ll need access to his quarters. I need something that has more of his personal energy invested in it.”

“You mean to work a more powerful spell,” Dania said. “Can it be done quickly?”

“Regrettably, it may take some time. Perhaps an hour.”

That was better than Dania had expected, though she did not show her relief. She looked to the sky herself, thinking that if she dared to use her own magics, it might speed the tracking. Unfortunately, the shadow would be very weak during the daytime. “It will have to be as it is. I think we’ve learned all that we can here.” Her gaze fell on the clerk. “Stop quaking, woman.”

The merchant watched with wide, fearful eyes until they’d left her shop.



IV


Varahan walked twelve blocks from the little marketplace where he’d effectively changed his appearance. Gone was the foreign bearded scholar with shaggy hair and in his place was a clean-shaven, prosperous older plebeian, with a tidy haircut and an ordinary off-white cloak. He’d purchased garments at a variety of vendors, the better to confound potential pursuers, then struck out in a random direction. He kept quiet, for his accent marked him as a foreigner. The weather let him keep his head down and nod politely if it was necessary to exchange a greeting.

Beyond the warehouse district lay an even wider mix of dwellings, with tenements and villas and smaller apartments above merchant shops on every hand, and it didn’t take him long to find a clean, moderately empty tavern and then to settle in with a meal and consider the changed trajectory of his life. Only last week he’d planned to die in an explosion that would destroy his research and as many praetorians and politicians as could be lured in to witness the demonstration of Volani fire.

Senator Aminius had thought to foster a sense of gratitude by keeping them under guard near the river docks, where they could live in relative comfort with fresh restaurant meals. That they were also close to the warehouses where Varahan and Norok worked their experiments, and the riverfront, where Aminius had hoped his prisoners would demonstrate the secret weapons, had been a matter of convenience.

Varahan felt no more grateful to Aminius than he would have a guard dog who hadn’t bitten him, and frowned at the memory of the oily promise to provide them with even greater luxuries, including slave girls, if they delivered for him. After Aminius had left, Norok had wished that the senator had provided a sharp Nuvaran axe and a brief moment to visit alone.

Neither in interest nor temperament had Varahan and Norok been well suited to work together, but they had found common cause in their captivity. The Nuvaran had stood a chance of one day being freed if he served his Dervan masters well, and he still had a home to return to. He had spoken about the wide valleys and distant snow-capped peaks of his country, and the bright songs of his people ringing through the clear air to cheer the sun.

Varahan made the sign of Danit over his chest, silently praying that the goddess had somehow protected Norok. And then he contemplated the smart course of action, which was surely to book passage to Surru or some other land. But he realized honor demanded he make a detour.

As far as he could tell, he was the sole surviving member of Volanus’ scientific community. At his request, Aminius had provided a small library of scrolls liberated from Volanus’ collegium, decades’ worth of research he and his lost colleagues had conducted.

Those papers had inspired Varahan’s resolve to destroy every scrap of Volani knowledge available before the Dervans could put them to use. He’d meant to have them go up in flames when he ensured his demonstration went wrong. He was free, now, but he could not, in good conscience, permit those papers to remain in Dervan hands. Someone clever could piece together the information they contained, and then the Empire would be spreading its misery with the aid of Volani science.

Varahan drank deep.

Resolved, he set down the mug, left a coin for the tavern keep, and stood. Pulling his cloak tight, he returned to the street. This course would probably get him killed, but then he’d honestly been surprised to survive the sack of Volanus. Maybe the gods had spared him for this purpose alone.



V


Lacking leads, Hanuvar returned to their safehouse, where Horace still stood guard by the upper window.

Norok crouched over a complex floor diagram he drew in charcoal. It had begun with a six-pointed star shape. He had then added a circle through its middle and a vast array of numbers and symbols written above and below the various lines.

“I am almost done. If he lives, this should find him.” Norok looked up at Hanuvar, his heavy brows lowered as if in remorse. He spoke softly. “Do you think the fluff-head is still alive out there?”

“The fluff-head shaved, got a haircut, and an entire new set of clothes. He has money. He has a disguise. What do you think he would do?”

Norok shook his own curly gray head, which, now that Hanuvar considered it, was genuinely fluffy. “I do not know the man so well. He is . . . unpredictable. But if I were he, I would get very far away as quickly as possible.”

That seemed the wisest course. “How easy is it to perform this spell?”

“Easy? Does this look easy, young man?”

The mage had misunderstood his point. Hanuvar tried once more, this time with greater specificity. “How easy is it to track someone with magic? Can the Dervans do that to you or Varahan?”

“If you’re worried someone’s going to manage this with me or Varahan, rest easy. First, sorcerers of real skill are rare. Second . . . ” He paused, his brow furrowing. “This is hard to explain in Dervan.”

“I can speak Nuvaran,” Hanuvar said in that language.

Norok’s lips parted in surprise. “More than just a few curses?”

“Yes. I am a little out of practice, but I can speak it well enough.” Hanuvar did not add that since he had learned the language from soldiers, he could reproduce a wide and colorful range of insults and imprecations.

“You speak with little accent,” Norok observed.

Hanuvar was not nearly so fluent as he once had been, for his rehearsal opportunities with Nuvaran had been scant in recent years. “I’m a quick study. What were you wanting to tell me?”

Norok gave the head roll that was the Nuvaran equivalent of a shrug. “First, sorcerers of real skill are truly rare. Second, we either have to know the target fairly well or possess something that was important to him that was in his possession for some long while. Third, those who specialize in this kind of spell are rarer yet. Some mages lack the natural inclination. Just because you are a sorcerer doesn’t mean you can manage every sort of spell. It’s not like being a warrior, who could become proficient at every sort of weapon.”

Hanuvar didn’t correct Norok’s impression about the ease of mastering a variety of weapons. He thought instead of a line from a Volani philosophy text; he translated the idiom into Nuvaran. “Like a musician born with a lovely voice who has no rhythm.”

“A fair analogy,” Norok conceded, and favored him with a penetrating look.

“Very well,” Hanuvar said. “But can you find Varahan?”

“It will depend upon whether or not he has left the city. If he is within two miles, I should be able to do it quickly. But likely longer; if he’s half as clever as you think then he’s managed to get on a ship.”

Hanuvar accepted a proffered wine cup from Horace and watched as the mage finished drawing his sigils. During the war, and while governing Volanus, he had staffed personal mages. Most had been employed in a defensive capacity, to help cancel the efforts of enemy sorcerers. He had never relied upon magic to turn the course of a battle, for sorcery was not just dangerous, it was notoriously unreliable.

Once complete, Norok’s spell required almost a quarter hour of ongoing effort to activate. Even while he chanted, he had to adjust or add tiny squiggles to the diagram, move two small candles infinitesimal degrees, and sprinkle powder in the air. Finally he sat back and lit a larger candle beyond the circle.

At first, nothing seemed to happen. And then the flames began to rotate. Horace let out a low oath.

Norok sprinkled fresh gray powder around the central circle. That which dripped down to the northeast sparkled as it touched the diagram. He sighed. “Well, he’s not dead, but he’s still a fluff head. He’s within two miles.”

“Can you tell if the revenants have him?” Hanuvar asked.

Norok fixed a withering look on him.

Hanuvar couldn’t help sounding defensive. “I don’t know the limits of your power.”

Norok spoke with asperity. “Shall I conjure you up a gold chariot, or a pretty lover, or a giant made of stone to smash your enemies?”

“The third one might be useful.”

While bent over his diagram, Norok’s necklace had slipped outside his collar. The little blue stone hanging between the red ones began to glow with a ghostly internal light. Norok lifted it in one weathered hand, his expression troubled.

“What does that mean?” Horace asked anxiously.

“Someone’s tracking me.”

“You said that skill was rare,” Horace pointed out.

“It is.” Norok swore in Nuvaran about the improbable digestive practices of Dervan mages, then looked over to Hanuvar, still speaking Nuvaran. “I should have bathed. Some fiber of my real clothing is stuck to me, or they’ve some garment of mine with my hair in it. A spellcaster could make use of that.”

“Revenants,” Hanuvar said grimly. “They have a sorcerer. Can you tell how far away they are?”

Norok climbed unsteadily to his feet. It had not been obvious until then that he’d been weakened by magic use. Hanuvar gripped his shoulder to steady him.

“It should take them a while to hone in on us.” Norok stared at the soft blue glow. “It will get brighter when they are closer.”

“How do we counter their ability to track you?”

“I have time for a fast towel off. And I may have you cut my hair.”

At mention of the Nuvaran’s hair, Hanuvar brightened. “You’ve given me an idea.”



VI


Dania had sent one praetorian to walk ahead of their band as they maneuvered through the streets. Publius, his assistants, and another praetorian brought up the rear. She would have thought a pair of revenants and a pair of praetorians would send crowds scurrying, but these streets were so narrow it was impossible for people to give them a wide berth.

Each time someone bumped the assistants, the wooden platform they carried between them wobbled, and then Publius cursed at them, for on the platform’s rimmed surface lay a complex pattern of symbols and materials the sorcerer had arranged with laborious care. For his tracking spell to work, everything had to remain precisely as he’d arranged it, which took incredible care on the uneven stone streets. To make the progress of the assistants even more challenging, thick snow was drifting down out of the graying skies, and snowflakes too would interfere with the tableau. One of the assistants had removed his cloak, and one of the praetorians used it to shield the platform from the snow, walking backward the while.

Dania was aware that their entourage looked comical and guessed that if she had not left Vennius behind to sort the paperwork of the prisoners he would be constantly scoffing. The situation was nothing to laugh at, however, for owing to her gender her superiors were always ready to assign blame, no matter her long string of successes. She would not fail.

Publius took their efforts seriously. He followed his assistants, hand cupped over a ruby he’d covered in his own blood. It glowed with inner fire that seemed to have brightened as the skies themselves darkened. The mage halted at the intersection with a little side street, snapping at his assistants to stop, and he stared at the patterns of powder on the platform. He placed the blood crusted ruby at its center. Golden lines glimmered along its every edge.

“Why are we stopping?” Dania demanded.

The mage shifted a pinch of gray powder into a pile of blue powder in a little cup to the left of the ruby, then looked up at her. “Something’s gone wrong. First I thought he was moving, and now it seems he’s in multiple places at once.”

Dania addressed him with quiet severity. “You’ve made an error.”

Only then did Publius seem to realize he might be in trouble, and his eyes sought Dania’s own, pleading. He actually gulped. “No, I swear, Centurion. I would never act with anything but the greatest—”

“I don’t care about your excuses. I want you to find them. Either of them. You said you could get a better fix on the Nuvaran.” Though her own magic skills were of a different sort she had understood the younger man’s explanations. The Nuvaran simply had more emotionality invested into his belongings. Apart from Varahan’s writings, the Volani had left almost nothing behind that had not been given him by his captors.

Dania still had a hard time believing Senator Aminius’ folly. Aminius had wanted the prisoners kept near the Tibron river, so they could perfect their Volani fire experiments on actual boats. He’d also subscribed to the theory that his prisoners would be more inspired to cooperate if they were provided with comforts.

The coddling hadn’t produced results, and only made it that much easier for Cerdians to get wind of both their location and the very date and time Aminius had summoned them to explain their lack of performance. Sooner or later that security gap would have to be explored. For now, though, locating the prisoners was the matter of gravest import. And until a few moments ago, Publius had seemed to feel they were very close.

The mage shifted some of his powders about, then pointed down the lane. “This way.”

They diverted down a diagonal alley then climbed a short set of steps to turn sharply onto Dolus street, which, a half mile distant, would wind up Campion hill and the fine homes upon its rounded height.

“We’re getting close now,” the sorcerer said, and Dania wished she could know for sure if that was real or feigned confidence in his voice.

They turned a corner into a fountain square surrounded by old two-story buildings sheathed in flaking gray plaster. Young women were fetching water from a basin fed by a broken-winged swan sculpture. A small crowd looked over a grocer’s wares, and dozens more huddled under the awning at a neighborhood restaurant. The smell of frying meat and uncounted decades of wine was somehow sharper and more distinct in the crisp winter air. Nearby a band of young boys tossed a black ball while two smaller boys and an eager brown dog tried to intercept, unbothered by either cold or snow.

“He’s right here,” Publius said. He raised his finger without directing it toward any of the dozens who eyed them warily.

“Where?” Dania snapped. “Make it quick!”

The mage paused an agonizingly long time and Dania bared her teeth, willing him to get on with it. She searched for a Nuvaran, wondering if those two near the weaver’s shop in heavy cloaks might be the escaped prisoners, or if the Nuvaran might be one of those darker skinned men staring at them from the back of the restaurant line. She was readying to order her men forward when the mage finally spoke.

“He’s by the children!”

Dania pointed. “Secure the children and anyone near them!”

The praetorians trotted forward, happy to have something to do, and shouted for the boys to stop. The seven youngsters, none of whom could be older than ten, halted their game. Most of them had the sense to look alarmed.

Publius’ assistants advanced more slowly, burdened now with both the platform and the cloak shielding it from the snow.

Dania ordered them to watch their step then followed the praetorians. She thought the situation would grow clear as she drew close, but no one near the boys looked remotely Nuvaran, unless she was to count a dark-skinned woman looking down from a window above a leather worker’s shop.

Frowning, Dania scanned and discovered no Nuvarans anywhere close, and certainly not among the patch-cloaked boys or their dog, panting beside the skinniest of them.

“You,” she said to the gangly boy holding the black leather ball, “have you seen a dark-skinned old man? A Nuvaran?”

His eyes wide, the boy slowly shook his head, as though his very life depended upon his answer. It might.

Publius lifted his hand, and Dania gave him space, waiting to see where the fingers led. Might the Nuvaran be hidden someplace nearby, in that barrel, or even behind some secret door?

The sorcerer halted before the skinny boy, shifting to left and right in time with the dog, who seemed frightened but unwilling to run off. It was a medium sized shaggy mutt just this side of a puppy, a little dirty and mostly brown. Animals were especially sensitive to magical doings, and the pup was probably uncomfortable with the mage’s spell, and her own aura.

“The dog,” Publius shouted. “Seize the dog!”

One of the praetorians bent and snagged the animal’s ruff. It whimpered and fought the soldier’s grasp, growling as the mage bent at its side. It was only then that Dania observed a small brown pouch tied about its neck. The mage grabbed hold of the pouch, lifted a broad knife—eliciting a gasp from the onlookers—then cut the bag free without harming the animal.

He rose with it in his hand.

Dania’s lip curled. “What are you doing?”

The mage showed his teeth in a grimace, then opened the little bag. He closed his eyes and passed it to Dania.

It had been stuffed with curly gray hair.

“You’ve been following a hair bag,” Dania said with a groan.

“Yes, Centurion,” Publius said softly. “The Nuvaran must have cut his hair and tied some on stray dogs. All over the neighborhood.”

“You’ve figured that out, have you?”

The mage’s voice rose in a whine. “But how did he know I was watching him?”

“Clearly he’s created some kind of ward.” Dania stalked to the board that the acolytes still held, ignoring their apprehensive looks. The one who’d given over his cloak was shivering. She peered over the complex symbols and the arrangement of the power web. She understood what Publius had done but felt no affinity for the lines he’d manipulated. Below the bloody ruby lay a tiny piece of fabric torn from the Nuvaran sorcerer’s belongings.

“If we replace the garment with a some of that paper that Varahan handled, can this same spell work for him?” she asked.

“It will not be as powerful.” The mage had said as much earlier. “We will have to proceed far slower.”

“Perhaps not.” Dania reached within her cloak and withdrew a small, flattened jar, all of black, with a gold-threaded stopper.

Even with it unopened, Publius sensed the jar’s power. Fascinated rather than repelled, he took a single step forward. “What is that?”

“The help we need.” At least, Dania hoped it was. She glanced to the clouds, wishing they were even darker, or that evening was closer. The circumstances were far from ideal, but she was tired of relying solely upon the other mage. She could not afford to fail. She passed over the scrap of papyrus she’d torn from the most handled of Varahan’s documents. “Reset the spell with this as a focusing agent, and I will ready my own magics to assist.”

“But what kind of magic is that? It feels like . . . many heartbeats.”

“A special project. I haven’t quite perfected it, but . . . Stop staring, man. You, Praetorian! Clear those people away from that restaurant so we can set this down out of the snow and make adjustments!”



VII


Only a few hours before, Varahan had fled down this lane. Now he peered out from its mouth, studying the door to the building where he’d been held. Apart from some stained snow, no sign of the struggle itself remained, and the street itself was empty save for a lone cart. When its driver finished guiding it slowly through an intersection, the scholar started across the street and along the far sidewalk.

The snow had been descending in sheets, but it died back as Varahan reached the door.

He fully expected the place to be locked, but when he walked up to try the latch the door swung inward. The gods were smiling. He entered cautiously, stopping only a few steps into the atrium. He could have sworn he’d heard the creak of a floorboard above, as of someone moving, but it overlapped the sound of him swinging the door closed, so he couldn’t be certain. He stepped into the shadows and watched the balcony overlooking the entry, expecting to see a face.

No one appeared. It might be that an old building like this was just shifting in the winter wind. He flexed his fingers, eying the dark archway to right and left that had led to the quarters kept by the ground floor guards. No sound could be heard apart from his breathing and the bark of a distant dog. He started up the stairs. He had never before noticed how much the boards complained at someone passing over them.

The upstairs apartments were centered around a single common space open to the balcony and mostly taken up with the desks Varahan and Norok had used. Shelves holding Norok’s jars of foul liquids and colored powders rose along the east wall between the doorways to their tiny bedrooms. Most of Varahan’s papers were stored along a shelf upon the west wall, right up to the edge of the closed doorway to the right of the landing, leading to the upstairs guard bedroom. Most of the south wall was papered over with his equation covered sheets of papyrus. The only breaks in the run of calculations were a single window shuttered on the south wall, high on the left, and the sealed door to the roof, on the far right.

In a single glance Varahan saw that someone had been rifling through the papers. Not only had they been piling things up beside a satchel, they’d left a heavy lantern burning on the desk.

He didn’t see the body until he’d walked a little further in. A man in a dark tunic was stretched out on the floor on the other side of a chair.

The floor creaked further under Varahan’s approach. As he nudged the man with the heel of his new boot he noted that a helmet with a black crest sat on the edge of Norok’s table, near a gladius in a black sheath. He swore in his own language. The man was a revenant. Varahan had seen more than his share of dead bodies during the fall of Volanus and recognized that unfocused stare in a face frozen with pain. The pool of blood was small, but originated from a rent in the revenant’s black tunic.

While he was still wondering who had left a dead revenant on the floor of his detention apartment a hinge squeaked behind him.

Varahan whirled. A pair of men in brown tunics and cloaks eased from the guard’s bedroom at the top of the stairs. Both held swords. The one on the left was the man who’d knocked himself senseless in the alley.

So it wasn’t oversight that had left the front door open. These men had forced their way in, killed the revenant, and then looked over the papers. He should have known his luck was going to run thin eventually. Varahan pulled his knife, but it looked pitifully short in comparison to the weapons of the opposition. The Cerdian he’d stolen it from frowned.

“You do not want to fight us,” the other Cerdian said, his Dervan so fluent that his accent was virtually unnoticeable. “We can make this nearly painless, if you cooperate.”

“If you’re afraid I will give secrets to the Dervans, why kill me? I’m planning to escape.”

The Cerdian inclined his head, his mouth shifting into a doleful frown. “Regrettably, I have my orders. My superiors do not like us to take too much initiative, and you have already proved a complication. I do not lack compassion, however. I shall be swift. Where is the other?”

When Varahan saw the shadow of a man upon the stair to the Cerdians’ right he naturally assumed it was cast by someone climbing stealthily for their position. The figure glided swiftly on, soundlessly and without the lurch from a person shifting their weight on each stair, Varahan realized, as his blood chilled.

No one was casting the shadow.

Alarmed as he was by the thought of death on a Cerdian blade, the shadow on the stairs terrified him to the very core of his being.

The head assassin was faced away from the stairs, so that all he noticed was Varahan’s reaction. He looked pained, as if disappointed the scholar would attempt a well-worn ploy. But his companion turned in time to see the shadow reach the landing. The second assassin cried out in horror and tripped over his own foot as he fled for the door to the roof.

By then chief assassin had turned to behold the man-shaped blot of inky darkness floating above the floorboards. He shouted in alarm, then stabbed at the shadow. His blade passed through without doing any apparent damage.

The thing thrust its hands for the Cerdian’s neck and closed around it.

The assassin-turned-victim wrestled with black wrists no longer insubstantial, but he might as well have pried at stone with his fingertips. The shadow proved unyielding. The Cerdian’s eyes rolled, and his face was a ghastly mask of terror. A tremor passed through his body, and then he dropped, motionless, fainted or dead. His sword clanged against the floorboard and slid next to the leg of the revenant’s corpse.

The shadow glided over the body and toward the remaining Cerdian. Finding the door to the roof locked, the other assassin had been kicking it frantically, and had just managed to break through the lower panel when the creature fell upon him. He screamed, once, and struggled fitfully.

In desperation, Varahan snatched the lantern, thinking it might be of use against a creature made of darkness. He had just lifted it when the shadow left the limp body of the second assassin and drifted toward him.

He opened his mouth, wondering what he might say to it, and found himself only capable of gasping. He had read accounts of men stricken by fear, and that scholarly part of his mind that was always dispassionately observing was fascinated by his reaction.

He lifted the lantern to the shadow and the thing halted only a few paces out. Varahan gulped, staring up at where its head would be. He perceived a dim face floating in the murk. Disturbingly, it appeared familiar.

The ground floor door opened.

If Varahan took a step or two to the right he could have peered over the balcony and down at the door. But he dared not move.

“He is up there,” Norok’s voice said. And two pairs of footsteps hurried up the stairs.

Wonderful as it was to hear a friendly voice, Norok’s approach awakened Varahan to action. “Get away, Norok,” he cried. “There’s a spirit here!”

It was not Norok who reached the landing first, but a young man. Varahan did not recognize the bald Nuvaran just behind him as his colleague until Norok shouted something in his own language.

The shadow rotated to face both newcomers, then extended its hands and flowed forward.

Norok lifted a charm from his neck and thrust it stiff armed before him. Chanting, he placed himself between the shadow and the young man.

It was only then Varahan glimpsed a future in which he might not have to die. He surprised himself when he plodded forward, lantern held high and blazing against the shadow.

As he neared the thing its form wavered, fading to a lighter gray through which he saw not just Norok, but the three red stones of the Nuvaran’s necklace, dangling from the sorcerer’s hand and burning with such intense inner light Varahan could not bear to stare directly at them.

The spirit cared for the stones even less than it liked the lantern. It shivered in its place, then sank slowly, narrowing as it did, sliding finally between a dark gap in the floorboards.

Breathing with effort, Norok restored the necklace to his throat. The stones dimmed, fading to black.

Varahan beamed. “Norok!”

The young man with Norok was talking quickly. Norok had his hand to his blue stone, the only colorful one left to him. He rattled on in what sounded like Nuvaran and the young man responded in kind. Their exchange continued, and then Norok pointed toward the door along the back wall, and the young man rushed to it, kicked the broken panel the rest of the way open, and squeezed through. Varahan heard him pounding up the steep flight of stairs to the roof.

“Who’s that?” Varahan asked. “What did you tell him?”

“That the shadow is going back to its master. It was weak in the daylight, and poorly formed, or we could not have hurt it.”

“And what’s your friend going to do?”

“Disrupt the spell used to find us, if he can. Now thank me, you fool! Of all the places to go, you came back here?”

“I had to get the papers.”

“Papers,” Norok snorted. “You and your numbers.”

Varahan laughed and threw his arms wide, and then Norok grinned at him and did the same. The next moment, they were clasping and thumping one another’s back.

“Do you know how many years I put into those stones I burned?” Norok said to him. “It is a good thing I like you, fluff head.”

“What happened to your hair?”



VIII


Norok had told Hanuvar the shadow wasn’t dead, just weakened. He’d said further the workings for any spell so powerful would be obvious, and fragile. And that whoever controlled it was drawing closer.

Hanuvar hurried up the dark, narrow stairwell, unbolted the door and headed into the cold air, striding through the slush and snow gathered on the building’s flat black roof. To the north was nothing but the empty street below, and Horace, standing watch outside. To the south, behind their building, he found a similarly deserted lane and a line of warehouses, and beyond them docks projecting into the mighty Tibron itself, a murky channel winding through the city.

He stilled, listening, at slowly advancing footsteps. A strange procession came slowly into view on the back street. Among them was the woman revenant centurion in black, two praetorians in white, their uniforms tarnished with mud, and a rangy revenant plodding behind the two black-cloaked assistants, who carried a wooden platform holding a collection of painted diagrams and powders. Flitting in front of them was something that might have been a bit of dark mist. Hanuvar knew better—it was all that remained of the shadow thing.

The gangly revenant was manipulating some ingredients upon the platform.

So far, none in that procession were looking up. Hanuvar crouched at the rail, digging into the snow at his feet.

Below, one of the praetorians remarked that the neighborhood seemed familiar.

When Hanuvar rose again, his left arm cradled a half dozen compacted balls of snow. He’d sent the second hurtling through the air before the first one struck the mage in the side of the head. The sorcerer staggered with a grunt that transformed into a cry of anguish as the second snowball hit the platform. Unguents and powders spattered widely and what looked like a ruby slid to one side. One of the bearers stumbled and then the third snowball hit him in face and he and the table dropped. Powders wafted into the air.

The misty shape in front vanished entirely.

By then the revenant centurion was shouting that they were under attack. Hanuvar dashed for the exit.

His father had taught him that neutralizing an enemy didn’t always require lethal force. Hanuvar wondered what Himli Cabera would have said to see how his son had just eliminated this particular threat of Dervan sorcery.

It was a hard dash then for a better hiding place, but Hanuvar managed to guide his charges to freedom at one of Carthalo’s safehouses four blocks distant. Varahan had insisted on dragging a big bag along with him, and once Hanuvar understood the importance of the papers it contained, he had shouldered it himself.

They had access to a water pump in the courtyard behind a bakery, and, after consulting with Norok, arranged for both Varahan and the Nuvaran to scrub themselves thoroughly in the cold water, and for the Volani to shave his head down to the scalp. Neither of the old men were especially happy to be so wet on such a cold day, but after they dried off, Norok grudgingly agreed this would probably put the Dervans completely off the scent. Through a sorcerous lens, the cleansing would be like granting them new identities.

By then Lucena had arrived with a new cart, and they climbed inside. Soon they were rumbling away toward the city center.

“What happens next?” Varahan asked.

Hanuvar, seated across from him, answered easily. “That depends on what you want. If you wish to go to safety directly, I can arrange that. A place with free Volani.”

Varahan blinked in surprise at this idea, obviously curious, but didn’t ask for the details Hanuvar expected. “What’s the other option?

“I mean to free more Volani. And I can use your help.”

“And what about me?” Norok asked.

“I can supply you with the funds to return to your homeland.”

The Nuvaran’s brows rose in wonder. “Just like that?”

“My money isn’t endless,” Hanuvar admitted. “And if you wished to help me with a few things before you left, I’d be grateful. But I wouldn’t require it of you.”

Norok cleared his throat, his expression thoughtful. “What sort of things do you need help with?”

“I’m only interested in getting Volani free. But there will be more revenants, and more mages, and from time to time I may need to consult with a sorcerer to counter their spells. Like that shadow.”

Norok nodded. “We were lucky to fight that thing in daylight. And it seemed, somehow, unfinished. Like the spell was not complete.”

The cart rattled over a low spot and all three men quickly grabbed the side of their seats. Up front, beside Lucena, Horace swore.

“The shadow monster,” Varahan said. “It had a face. Did you see it?”

Norok gave him a sharp look. “You should not look into the eyes of such evil.”

Hanuvar had not seen a face in the creature and looked to Varahan for further information.

“Its face looked familiar, and it took me a while to realize why, though it made no sense.”

“Go on,” Hanuvar urged.

Even with that encouragement, Varahan still needed a moment to explain. “I could have sworn that the face looked like one of the seven Volani councilors.”

Hanuvar’s heart sank. He thought he could guess. “Tanilia?”

The scholar gaped. “How did you know?”

He wrestled with the weight of the ramifications of his deduction as he answered. “A few months ago I learned the revenants had some high-ranking Volani in their custody. She was one.” He did not add that one of his cousins had been another.

“Then they have warped living spirits to make a monster.” Norok’s face was drawn. “That shadow was powerful because it was held by the life of many. Whoever they are, they are trapped, and controlled by this mage.”

Long years ago, during the second war, Hanuvar’s own band of mages had almost been wiped out by shadow magics, until his brother Harnil had rooted out the Dervan sorcerers behind the attack. It had seemed the entire school of them was finished forever, for they’d encountered no further such dark sorcery during the rest of the conflict. He hadn’t personally faced them or their powers before, but he remembered what Harnil had relayed to him, and something in Norok’s words gave him further pause. “You mean we didn’t destroy the shadow when I broke their spell?”

“No. I think it was dismissed only. You broke their tracking spell. To fully eliminate an abomination such as that . . . this will require some thought.” He met Hanuvar’s eyes. “Such a thing is a blight upon humanity. I will stay, and I will think hard, and I will find a way for you to send those spirits home.”

Hanuvar inclined his head and spoke formally. “I am grateful.”

His sincerity seemed to embarrass the Nuvaran. “Well, I can’t really imagine travelling in the winter anyway,” he said. “Especially crossing mountains.”

“I’ve done that a few times,” Hanuvar said. “I don’t recommend it.”

***

We did not know it at the time, but Dania’s superiors were displeased with her failure, pulling her from active command and sending her back to the remote prison fortress of the Revenant Order. There she brooded and labored in the darkness upon her monster.

All that winter Hanuvar and Carthalo worked their miracles, reinvigorating the old spy network and empowering middlemen to handle the negotiation and purchase of dozens of captured Volani. This swiftly grew expensive, and not just because coins had to cross so many hands. Too much attention would have been drawn if it became obvious interested buyers were combing the country and purchasing only Volani slaves. Sometimes entire domestic staffs had to be obtained, at exorbitant fees, just to acquire one or two slaves.

Once, to free a single slave, every wretched man working a small silver mine had to be liberated. Many of these workers were in terrible condition, and required nursing, and others were hardened criminals, rightly sentenced to hard labor for terrible crimes. Their fates had to be handled with great delicacy. The most violent had to be killed after they attacked the men who had freed them. The untrustworthy had to be sent far away after we had revealed as little about ourselves as possible, for some would have sold out their own brother for a few extra coins.

Despite these and other trials, a small but steady stream of freed Volani was being guided north to me. Though I had little experience in management I did not fare too badly. I had to pay at first for the labor that saw to the felling of trees and the construction of buildings, but before much longer I had a host of free assistance, some of it skilled and all of it grateful. This eased the strain on finances but did not alleviate it, nor did it solve our most pressing issue—we needed trained shipwrights, and navigators.

Hanuvar knew this all too well, and so, one day in late winter, he made the day’s journey from Derva to the port of Ostra, there to call upon Izivar Lenereva for assistance.

—Sosilos, Book Eight


Footnotes


6) Nowhere in The Hanuvid or within my ancestor’s notes does Antires discuss how Carthalo explained Hanuvar’s role or his rapid aging to his immediate associates and family. From statements later in his text it’s clear Hanuvar’s identity was not discussed beyond a core group, just as it’s clear that a trusted few knew precisely who he was.

Fortunately, Silenus’ researches supplied an answer. During her visit to New Volanus long decades later, she sat down with Kester, the youngest of Carthalo’s sons, and asked for the details.

“You must understand,” Kester said, “that we were schooled in keeping secrets from a very young age, and on reaching maturity were entrusted with greater responsibility. There were four of us in the immediate family, six if you count our two cousins. And there was an inner circle of trusted lieutenants who were either veteran spies from the war, or their descendants. Brutus was one of the latter, a half-Volani like myself, but there were old timers, like Farnus, who had been sneaking around behind Dervan lines in the war when he was younger than me. Anyway, the secret of Hanuvar’s identity was shared only with those who were stationed in the central building in Derva.”

Silenus asked: “How did your father introduce Hanuvar to you?”

“He was always direct. We’d been a little jealous that he seemed to trust this new young man above all others, and concerned that he seemed even to be giving Father orders, and so Father said something simple like: ‘This is Hanuvar. Yes. He’s encountered some magic so he looks younger than he really is.’ Father then explained that everything we did from then on was to be dedicated to the recovery of Volani slaves. Hanuvar said a few words, and then that was that, and we got to work.”

Silenus asked what Hanuvar had said.

“I don’t really recall. I do remember that overnight we went from being jealous of him to being in awe of him. I also remember suddenly seeing Father in a whole new light. He was my father, so I had naturally respected him. But here was this living legend deferring to his judgment and closeting with him to lay plans. I began to understand just how important my father must have been back in the war, if Hanuvar depended upon him. And I tried to get Hanuvar to tell me stories, sometimes, but he didn’t like to talk about the war very much.”

Andronikos Sosilos


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