Ward Against Death Part 23

Just being there was like a truth serum. Even though he knew he needed to focus on their story-that they were scholars from New Calbourne-Ward couldn't help but think about all the things he'd done. Breaking into the Keeper's house, stealing the Keeper's key, his escape from Veresteven in Bantianta the last time he'd been caught stealing bodies. All the way back to when he used to sneak into Grandfather's library and read books he wasn't supposed to.

The prospect that some apprentice would lose control and read his mind made his insides churn.

He smoothed down his s.h.i.+rtsleeves, wis.h.i.+ng his doublet covered them as well, aware of every wrinkle he'd put in the s.h.i.+rt when he'd chosen not to take it off last night. All an attempt to save his arm, which still throbbed, magnifying every twitch and jolt into an inferno.

Hoping to pull his attention from himself to his surroundings, he looked beyond the youth standing at the gate into the complex. Across a small courtyard sat a long, squat, two-story building of mixed architecture.

The center appeared to be from the period of Prince Givan the Second, constructed of ma.s.sive granite blocks with two round columns framing a giant front door. Ivy clung to the crevices between the blocks, digging into the old mortar and curling around the wooden shutters at the many small windows.

On either side were additions made from smaller bricks with larger windows. Ornamental brickwork along the eaves and around the windows, and at the division between the first and second story, indicated architecture from the era of Prince Erist the Fourth or maybe the Fifth.

He ran his good hand down his s.h.i.+rtsleeve again.

One of the two front doors opened and a girl scurried across the courtyard.

Ward moved to smooth his already smoothed sleeve and Celia grabbed his hand. Her lips were pushed back in a smile but it didn't reach her eyes deep within the shadows of her outrageous hat.

"Hopefully Professor Grysmore will have insight into Professor Nicco's work, and we won't have traveled all this way for nothing," she said, reminding Ward of their story.

She crushed his hand in hers, releasing it as the girl, dressed in the tan and auburn uniform of an apprentice Tracker, approached. Oh, how times had changed. Until a generation ago women only visited the Collegiate-they didn't attend. Rumor had it until the reign of Prince Rillard the First, women weren't even allowed beyond the front gate. If Celia had been born into a different family, she would have made an excellent Tracker, apprehending criminals instead of being one.

They crossed the courtyard, stepped into the cool granite halls of the Collegiate, and marched along worn floorboards, the wood polished to the color of dark honey by thousands upon thousands of scurrying feet. Their route took them to the left, along the main hall into the addition, down a small side hall, and out into a ma.s.sive courtyard with more buildings of mixed architecture. Groups of men and boys, along with a few girls-most in the tan and auburn of Tracker apprentices and a few in the tan and navy of Inquisitor apprentices-stepped through their exercises on a lawn edged by large topiaries, towering oaks, and marble benches. Most of them had fine features and fair hair, since many n.o.ble families kept the tradition of enrolling their third-born son in the Quayestri. It always helped to have a member of the highest law around to maintain the family's interests against the commoners. Which was great for the n.o.bles, but not so great for anyone else.

The child skirted the lawn and took them into the closest door of the next building, leading them to Grysmore's office. It was small and cramped, but he was fortunate enough to be in a corner, and hence, had two thin windows no larger than arrow slits. The child cleared her throat, but didn't wait for the professor to acknowledge her before she ran away.

Celia stepped into the chamber, leaving enough room for Ward to stand in the doorway. Grysmore sat behind a desk with piles of books on either side that rose above his bald head. He leaned over a book so small Ward didn't see it at first, and had to take a second look to see what the man was so intent on.

She glanced over her shoulder at Ward. He could see the question in her eyes: should she interrupt?

Ward shrugged. It was possible Grysmore hadn't heard the child clear her throat. Ward could remember many times he'd been so engrossed in a doc.u.ment or a necropsy he didn't notice when someone had entered the room.

"My lord?" Celia asked.

"I have no answers for the likes of you. Go away and learn to read."

Celia's back straightened. "Excuse me?" Then her posture melted back to that of her scholar persona.

"I said-" Grysmore looked up, peering at them with owl-eyes through thick round lenses. His expression softened and his lips stretched into a smile. It looked unnatural, as if the action was foreign to the man. "I thought you were one of those new girls. I can't imagine what possessed the Seers on the Council to admit girls into the Collegiate." He closed the tiny book. "They haven't the wit to learn reading, let alone political history." He leaned forward. "What do you want?"

Celia frowned and Ward stepped further into the room before she could say anything they'd later regret.

"We're from New Calbourne to talk to Professor Allyan Nicco concerning his astounding research on the Ancients."

"I am not Nicco." He chuckled. "I'm too alive to be Nicco."

"Yes. We heard that the professor died," Celia said.

Grysmore kept his gaze on Ward, who sensed Celia's rising anger. So far, Grysmore hadn't noticed the subtle tensing of her shoulders, back, and neck, but Ward had no idea how long that would last.

Ward inched further into the room. "Nicco's widow said you might be able to help us."

"If you want to look at his research, you're about four years too late. It went missing. It's just as mysterious as his death." He chuckled again. "Well, not the manner of his death-a wide smile across the neck is a sure sign of death. But I mean why was his throat slit?"

"Slit?" Celia asked in breathy exclamation.

Grysmore tilted his head and his gaze traveled from her face, down to the hem of her dress, then back up to her bust. "I realize scholars don't face the same kind of excitement as Trackers, but research can still be dangerous."

"I see," Celia said. "And you think Professor Nicco was murdered?"

He gave an exasperated sigh. "A man doesn't usually slit his own throat. If it's a death of his choosing, it's a fall from a high place, or, if a blade... a strike to the heart." He squinted. "Have I upset you?"

Ward suppressed a snort. Not likely. Celia probably knew slower and more gruesome ways to kill a man.

Celia fanned her face with her hand. "I'm just a little surprised. Nicco's widow didn't say anything about murder."

"Yes, well," Grysmore said, and he turned his attention to Ward. "It looked like a professional job. Very smooth. No one heard or saw anything. Nothing. The next day his wife found him dead and his desk empty."

"What was he researching that would cause so much trouble?" Celia asked, her eyes wide with feigned fright. "Wasn't it just the Ancients?"

"The Ancients took many secrets to their graves, hence the Age of Darkness." Grysmore sounded as if he were talking to a small child. It reminded Ward of how Celia had first talked to him. "A few scholars believe they possessed magic that far surpa.s.sed even the most powerful of the Brothers of Light."

"But that's just myth," Ward said.

"That's what Nicco thought"-Grysmore glanced about his tiny office-"until he came across some obscure texts in the prince's library."

"What texts?" Celia asked.

"Unfortunately they were all destroyed in the fire last year." Grysmore leaned forward. "Before Nicco died, he called a meeting of the Society for Historical Scholars. He was so excited about what he'd found. He said he needed to confirm his information against the original wall carvings. At the time we didn't think much of it. He'd made some illogical connection between a bizarre list of made-up words, and a repeated phrase-the Nectar of Veknormai-that appeared in a number of those books."

"So what changed your mind?" Ward asked.

"The man is dead. And even if he'd been working on a number of projects-which I knew for a fact he wasn't-his research on the Nectar and the list was missing." Grysmore sat back, a self-a.s.sured grin lighting his face. "If poor Nicco was killed over it, I suggest you forget your visit here and go home."

"Yes, we should go home," Celia said.

Ward nodded. "Thank you for your time, Professor."

Celia turned to go, but looked back at Grysmore. "One question. If Professor Nicco was murdered because of his research, who do you think killed him?"

"I've spent a lot of time thinking about it. No one knows for sure, but the impression I received from our last meeting was that we were the first to learn of Nicco's theoretical connection to this Nectar of Veknormai. That would mean it was someone in the Society. Which is completely ridiculous. Nicco was the only one with any interest in the Ancients."

"Who's in this society?" Ward asked.

"We're no longer together. Nicco's death put an end to it. But it was I, Nicco, Vordin Tarsh-he studies ancient languages and specializes in Yarbonian poetry-and Hal Ogden, a Bantiantin historian. Hal went to teach down in Bantianta for some Duke who has a small army of children and is working on his third wife."

"Have you seen Tarsh or Ogden lately?"

"Tarsh works here at the Collegiate, trying to teach manners to the low-borns accepted for apprentices.h.i.+ps. Ogden..." He shook his head. "I guess he's still in Bantianta. I haven't seen him since Nicco's death. It really shook us."

"I can imagine," Ward said. "Thank you."

Celia adjusted her hat and left.

"You should forget about Nicco's research," Grysmore said as Ward turned to follow Celia. He pushed his gla.s.ses up his nose with a thick finger. "Take that beautiful girl home. She has no business tramping around the princ.i.p.alities doing research. She doesn't have the mind for it. She should be making babies and tending your house like an honest woman."

Ward forced a smile and nodded, grateful Celia hadn't heard that or they'd be faced with another dead scholar. Making babies and tending house. He couldn't imagine Celia doing anything so domestic. Ward was surprised she'd st.i.tched him up and bandaged his wound. She struck him as having more important things to do than the hired help's work. Like learning a new, quieter way to stab a man in the heart.

Ward stepped into the hall.

"What was that about?" Celia asked.

"You don't want to know."

They left through the same door they had entered, and stopped in the shadow of a building.

"What now?" Ward let his gaze wander over the youths going about their studies while his mind retraced the conversation. Grysmore hadn't said anything they didn't know, save that he was unaware the words were herbs and thought they were fict.i.tious.

"I don't know."

"Well," he said, knowing he'd regret reminding Celia of their newly acquired information, "Tarsh teaches here."

Celia smiled. "And we are still here."

"You want to talk to Tarsh?"

She shrugged. "Why not?"

"Might I remind you that not everyone we meet will wear tan and auburn?"

"Then I suggest you don't think about that," Celia said. "And concentrate very hard on how shocking it is that Professor Allyan Nicco was murdered."

She headed down the path, away from the main building and deeper into the Collegiate, toward a group of young men sitting at the edge of the lawn. They were a mixed group of even numbers, two Trackers and two Inquisitors, possibly partners already since they looked old enough to be in their final few years. The same age as Ward. He bit back a sigh. He could be a recent graduate from the Physician's Academy, starting his career already.

And there wasn't anything he could do about that now.

He concentrated on veiling his thoughts and headed toward Celia. By the time he reached her, she'd already received her directions and was thanking the young men. She seemed so feminine, in her plain dress and outrageous hat, with two tiny wisps of hair that had escaped, curling down the back of her neck. She gave a girlish giggle, grabbed Ward's arm, and directed him back into the same building.

Tarsh's office was on the opposite end of the building to Grysmore's and in the bas.e.m.e.nt. They found a narrow stairwell and took it down into a hall with a low ceiling. All the doors were closed and Ward couldn't see any light from around the edges, except for a narrow rectangle at the far end of the hall, stretching across the tiles.

"This is ridiculous. You can't fail me from a stupid cla.s.s that only Trackers need," a reedy tenor said.

Celia squeezed Ward's forearm and they slowed their pace.

"Ancient languages are important for Inquisitors as well." This voice was a deep baritone verging on ba.s.s, and held the hint of a Gordelian accent.

"The Council is planning a large investigation for the Festival of Souls in the spring. My father promised I would graduate in time for that and I have every intention of doing so."

"Then I suggest," the baritone said, "that you study."

Ward glanced at Celia. They were almost at the pool of light, and he knew they couldn't be caught standing there without looking as if they were eavesdropping.

"No. I suggest you think about whether or not you want a conversation with my father."

A beautiful blond man stormed from the office and stumbled into Ward.

Ward reached for the wall to catch his balance, and the man glared at him. He wore the tan and navy of an Inquisitor apprentice. His hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail that accentuated his high cheekbones, long thin nose, and bright blue eyes, which narrowed and remained focused on Ward.

A s.h.i.+ver ran down Ward's back, and he bit his tongue. He needed to think about why they were there. They were researching the Ancients. They were from far away and were talking to Nicco's a.s.sociates before they left. He felt as if his soul was on display and there was no way he could measure up. Regardless that a warrant or appropriate suspicion was required to read anyone's mind, that usually didn't stop most Inquisitors from performing the painful procedure.

Ward needed to end this and move on. He had nothing to hide... really. He was an innocent, curious scholar who had traveled from far away.

"Excuse me, my lord." Ward didn't know if the man was n.o.bility or not, although his sculpted features were a strong indicator, but he decided excessive politeness might encourage the man to be more forgiving.

The man harrumphed. "Watch where you're going." He shoved past Ward and continued down the hall.

Ward met Celia's gaze and she smiled, but he knew she was only trying to relax him. They'd had their first encounter with an Inquisitor apprentice and were fine. For now. She grabbed his hand, and they stepped around the corner and into the doorway of Tarsh's office.

Tarsh was a big man with broad shoulders and a wide chest. All of his weight appeared to be thick, corded muscle. He, too, sat behind a desk, but his was clean save for a small pile of loose-leaf parchments.

"Professor Tarsh?" Celia asked.

Tarsh looked up from his work. His skin was dark, a hint of olive indicating he indeed was from Gordel.

"How long have you been at my door?" he asked.

"We didn't want to interrupt such an important discussion," Celia said.

Tarsh snorted. "He only thinks he's important because his father is. Sometimes the low-borns have better manners than the n.o.bles." He picked up his pile of pages, straightened them, and set them on the corner of his desk. "What can I do for you?"

"We've come from New Calbourne to talk to Professor Allyan Nicco."

Tarsh opened his mouth as if to speak but Celia cut him off. "We've already talked to his widow and Professor Grysmore. We know he's dead and his research gone."

"We just wanted to talk to you before we left," Ward said.

Tarsh sat back. "You've already talked to Grysmore?"

Ward nodded.

"Well, I'm glad you're talking to me before you go."

"Grysmore said that Nicco was murdered," Celia said.

"Yes," Tarsh said. "He's been talking about a conspiracy for years now. He fancies himself a Tracker of sorts, able to solve puzzles and mysteries, and so he sees a conspiracy wherever he goes."

"So, Nicco wasn't murdered?" Celia asked.

"No, Nicco was murdered, but not for his ridiculous research."