Darkborn Part 13

The lawyer replied blandly, "I have represented his family's interests in the city since I was a young solicitor; I expect to continue doing so until I retire. I have known the baron all his adult life. Tell me, sir, what is it you believe you can add to the case?"

"What is the case?" Bal said. "What I have heard has come to me secondhand."

The lawyer considered a moment. "The case, sir, is that Baron Strumh.e.l.ler is charged with the murder of a lady in the Lagerhans district, and with malignant sorcery against Lord Vladimer, who lies mysteriously stricken in the ducal summer house. There is a witness to the murder, who has testified to having been elsewhere in the house when the murder was committed, and to having heard Baron Strumh.e.l.ler's voice raised in argument with the lady, on behalf of a child who had disappeared. Shortly afterward the lady screamed, and when her staff entered the room the baron shot one, though that is not part of the charge as yet, and fled. The lady was newly dead. There are, however, some irregularities about the charges laid that make one wonder, and I expect an interview with my client to be illuminating."

"Perhaps I can help you, too," Bal said. "I know who the lady was, and the missing child is my daughter."

Preston di Brennan's sonn washed over him. He had a touch that was almost feminine in its lightness. "Pray continue."

"You may have to decide what of this to use," Bal cautioned, "because it may come to touch on affairs of state." He laid out events for the lawyers, starting with the arrival of Tercelle Amberley on his doorstep and the birth of the children, omitting, once more, the mention of their sightedness, and not naming the midwife he had called to attend her. As a respectable physician and a man, he would take responsibility before the law, and the case was not one of malpractice. He described Tercelle's attempt to drug him and expose the newborns, and her flight, and the a.s.sault on himself two days later. With great care, he qualified his impressions of the next day, emphasizing his own pain, weakness, and disorientation, and therefore his unreliability, and taking up the narrative with authority only with the return of Baron Strumh.e.l.ler from the burning Rivermarch and his evacuation of Bal and his family.

"Mm, interesting," said di Brennan. "Most interesting. And with Lord Ferdenzil himself arriving, there will be much pressure to resolve the murder of his intended in a way least embarra.s.sing to him. Though I cannot understand how the trial of a fellow peer would achieve that." To his junior he said, "Do you know anything of this, Ingmar? Your circle has an interest in Ferdenzil Mycene's doings."

The young man stiffened. It was, after all, his home and inheritance that Ferdenzil Mycene's ambitions threatened, and there was a growing clique of islanders in the city agitating for support against them.

"Think on your answer, and give me your best," said the older lawyer in a mellow tone. "If you feel you have a conflict of interest, you must tell me. And you will hold this information in confidence until it is brought forward in court."

"I will, sir," said the young man, bridling at the suggestion against his honor, for all the meek acquiescence of his words. The older man leaned over and patted his arm. "Forgive me lad," he said. "I do trust you, but it must be said so that this gentlemen knows he can trust us. He means well toward Baron Strumh.e.l.ler, and has valuable information for us. Sir, you are prepared to testify to this?"

"Yes," Bal said.

"Well, if the lady were indiscreet, then it will be worth inquiry as to who else may have an interest. It is most unfortunate that the infants cannot presently be traced, although examination of the lady's body will confirm that she bore a child very shortly before her death. Still, we must move along; I judge we have half an hour before we must leave, or have to impose upon the archduke's hospitality for the day. And then there is the second charge," he said in a more delicate tone.

"There are," Bal said quietly, "many reasons for a man to fall unconscious that have nothing to do with sorcery, many of which, again, we would consider natural. A cerebral stroke, for instance, can produce sudden and profound unconsciousness."

"We will, of course, produce witnesses to that effect," the lawyer said, his tone once more bland.

"I did not mention until now how Baron Strumh.e.l.ler came to be at my door," Bal said after a moment. "It was a very fortunate circ.u.mstance for myself, since his timely arrival prevented my a.s.sailants from returning and may have saved my life. But I understand from my wife that Lord Vladimer had in fact sent him to me. I can only surmise why at this moment, but you may not be aware that I specialize in the care of people with disorders of thought: addictions, compulsions, and delusions. The delusion that one possesses magic is not a common one, but it is not entirely unknown, either."

The delicate sonn washed over him once more. "Again, sir, this conversation is proving surprisingly interesting; do go on."

"It is widely rumored, I believe, that Baron Strumh.e.l.ler is a mage," Bal said carefully. "Indeed, he seems to believe so himself. However, the archduke's physicians, upon examining me, a.s.serted their opinions that, although my injuries were painful and debilitating, I must not have been as badly injured as my wife and I believed. They do not recognize the efficacy of magical healing, you realize."

"And why should a man choose to believe himself a mage?" probed the lawyer.

"There is little choice in delusion. Again, I have not spoken to Baron Strumh.e.l.ler, but in such cases it can arise out of a great loss in his early life, a sense of powerlessness or insignificance, or perhaps neglect and a need for attention, even negative attention."

"His mother, to whom the family was much devoted, died when he was sixteen, bearing a premature child. He claimed to have healed the child, his sister."

Bal nodded. "That might indeed have been it. I suppose the family did not receive the claim particularly well."

"His father threw him out of the house. Disinherited him completely. He spent the next nine years a vagabond, and took to the trade, such as it is, of Shadowhunter."

"But not magic?" Balthasar said.

"Not magic, not then. He returned to the family when he did the barony the service of ridding them of a glazen, and the old baron's friends persuaded his father to reinstate him. The scars on his face-he got them then."

"That he carries them still argues against him having much in the way of power," Bal remarked.

"He didn't stay in the Borders: There'd been a woman killed by the glazen, whom he'd loved as a girl. He came into the city and made contact with the mages."

"A similar impetus as before, the death of someone dear to him," Bal murmured, nodding slightly.

"Supposedly, he trained his magic then. Lord Vladimer took him on somewhat later, and for the next few years he went hither and yon on Lord Vladimer's account, up and down the coast, into and out of the Shadowlands, Shadowhunting when there was need. Then, when his father died, he returned to the barony. He's done well there; he's well regarded by his tenants and his peers, and he has organized and built up the Borders defense against Shadowborn so well that the number of deaths from incursions has steadily declined. This year, there were none."

"And once again, the claim to magic is in abeyance," Bal noted.

"He wears gloves all the time," the lawyer said, testing.

Bal said, "My wife wears gloves in public. It is, in her case, a harmless phobia about infection."

"He claims these collapses of his are exhaustion of his magic."

"Neurasthenic collapses," Bal said. "Not at all uncommon, either, though he should be examined by a physician to rule out a physical cause."

"And you believe Lord Vladimer might have sent him to you for the treatment of this delusion."

"I am aware that professional discretion should have imposed silence on me, except that Baron Strumh.e.l.ler's life could be in far greater danger from this charge than from a relatively mild delusion-I would not say benign, because it has obviously had great consequences in his personal life-that he possesses magic."

There was a silence. Bal did not dare sonn the lawyer, shrewd as he was.

"You are a clever young man," di Brennan observed, by way of acknowledging the question evaded. "Were you to go onto the stand, you could testify to all this?"

"I could testify to all this."

"Even though you yourself were ostensibly a recipient of Baron Strumh.e.l.ler's healing."

"Sir, I was injured and in great pain. Indeed, I believed I was dying, and so I must qualify my own reliability."

"Yes, I noted that. And what of his menservants?" he asked, with a cast of sonn toward Lorcas, who had been standing quiet and tense throughout.

"They must tell the truth of what they have witnessed, of course," Bal said. "It is for the defense to frame their testimony as suits their case. Baron Strumh.e.l.ler, I understand, has never claimed to be a mage of great power."

"And is that characteristic of such a delusion?"

"It depends," Bal said carefully, "upon the nature and severity of the delusion. Baron Strumh.e.l.ler's condition seems to me mild, though of long duration, and potentially curable, should he so choose. Lord Vladimer's wish may well have been enough for him to consider treatment, and Lord Vladimer's trust-and the relations.h.i.+ps he now has-could prove most helpful."

There was another silence, and then the rustle of clothing. Bal sonned the two lawyers in the act of rising. "A most interesting discussion, Dr. Hearne, but we must go now; the sunrise bell will be tolling soon. You will be available for further consultation, I trust."

"I will be, certainly."

"Then we will bid you good day, with our best wishes for your recovery."

Bal lay back on his pillows, limp and aching, and did not sonn around him when he heard Lorcas approach.

"You realize why?" he said.

"To undermine the charge," Lorcas said, "but sir, we cannot cannot go on the stand. Our experience-" He stopped, unhappily. go on the stand. Our experience-" He stopped, unhappily.

"As I said, you must testify according to what you yourself have witnessed and believe, and let the legal gentlemen frame your testimony. I am afraid that you may come off seeming credulous-though they will have to be careful, because we cannot insult the whole of society, which ostracized him because of this claim of magic, because we cannot risk their turning on him. High society's att.i.tude to the Borders will help, I fear. It will be delicate maneuvering, but I do believe Mr. di Brennan can do it. You realize that I still have no idea whether or not he himself knows or believes that Baron Strumh.e.l.ler is a mage. But it does not matter; he can guide us through the pitfalls without our perjuring ourselves."

"It is clever," Lorcas said. Bal's sonn showed his tight, unhappy face.

"It troubles you," Bal said quietly, "because it does a disservice to your master, who is a man who lives with courage and integrity and who faces complex and painful realities squarely. The very last man, I would suspect, to succ.u.mb to a delusion."

"Yes," Lorcas said. "You . . . know him very well, it seems, already."

"And hold him in high regard," Bal said quietly. "Tell me, has your son returned or sent word? It's very close to sunrise, as di Brennan said."

"Not yet," Lorcas said. "Best you do not worry yourself over it, sir. He'll not leave your sister until he's a.s.sured of her safety."

Ishmael The Darkborn prison was adjacent to the city's main bell tower, so that the thick stone walls twice daily reverberated with the tolling of sunrise and sunset. All its inmates could not but know, on execution days, the moment that justice was done. Justice, Ish had long ago decided, served a barbarous and bloodthirsty G.o.d. It was a conclusion he had reached lying in a prison cell much smaller and cruder than this one, listening to the curses, sobs, and pleas of the two men and one woman chained to the execution post outside. He had been barely seventeen, in the first year of his exile, before he learned which company to keep and which to avoid: The three outside had been the leaders of the gang who had taken him up. The county judge had been merciful to the terrified boy, and lectured him, pardoned him, and told him to go home to his family. Ish had not, of course, told the judge that he was a mage.

The tolling fell silent, and no screams and prayers of the condemned followed after. Ish did not allow relief to alter either his breathing or posture. Since he had been practically unconscious when they carried him through the doors, he had missed knowing whether or not there was to be an execution, and had been lying in dread of this moment. On the other hand, being practically unconscious had likely saved him from a beating. Prisons abounded with men to whom any or all of his scarred face, his t.i.tle, or his reputation were welcome provocation-and that did not include his fellow prisoners. Against those, at least, he'd be permitted a knock or two, until the guards decided whether or not they cared for the way the bout was going. But that he'd been spared, too: He was alone in his cell.

From the corridor, beyond the bars, he heard boots scuffing in the corridor, and harsh sonn blasted over him. He amused himself briefly thinking of Telmaine's reaction. "Ugly brute," he heard a voice remark from the bars beyond his feet. "You'd think if he were such a mage, he'd fix those scars."

He heard a sound he identified as rough fingers scratching a stubbled chin, and a slow voice with an East Borders accent. "Aye, well, I reckon he hasn't fixed those scars for the same reason he's not stirred a finger since they dumped him here." A meaningful pause. "To make y'think he's not what he is."

Good thinking, Ish approved. Maybe incorrect in this particular case, but in principle, it was a sensible philosophy. He carried these scars because he deserved them; they were a brand of memory for a time he had been foolish and others had paid for it. And he had not stirred a finger because, although he might be able to summon the strength, he would not much like the consequences. If he sat up, he would be sick, and go on being sick for several hours, that being his frequent reaction to overreaching himself. Which was unpleasant enough when done in baronial comfort, never mind when crouched over the open toilet of a prison cell, to the mockery of guards and prisoners alike. So he would just lie here, limp as boiled leather, and go back to sleep. When the prison settled would be time enough to crawl to the water jug on the floor beside the bars.

"We could wake him up," the first voice said.

"And then again," the second voice said, "we could just do what we've been paid to do: let him lie quiet and make sure he comes to court with no marks on him."

Interesting, thought Ish, as the guards moved on. And encouraging, if this implied bribes moving in the right direction. He tracked the scuffing boots and occasional clink of a key down the corridor between the cells. He had already started to place the location and temper of the occupants by their voices, and now he added a few more, uncovered by the silence that fell after the sunset bell. He would not be the only prisoner who remembered the screams and cries of the condemned and had opportunity to consider his situation.

Murder was a grim enough charge, but one that, after the aborted trap at Tercelle Amberley's home, he had half expected. For the accusation of sorcery, he had been in no way prepared. Ostracism was the worst penalty he had come to expect from the Darkborn, since Darkborn polite society preferred to ignore the existence of magic. The Lightborn Temple Vigilance, against whom he had warned Telmaine, would hardly take notice of a mage as weak as he. But their justice would not misfire. Amongst his own, he could be accused, tried, and convicted by those ignorant of all aspects of magic. Others had been, in years gone by.

Had he known about that second charge, he might well have attempted to flee. That mental cry to Telmaine had been an act of desperation and, likely, futility. If she had heard it, would she have heeded it? If she had heeded it, what could she do, an untrained mage fixated on concealing, if not outright denying, what she was? Moreover, she was an aristocratic lady, educated to pa.s.sivity and accustomed to a public stage in which the men around her were the actors and she merely audience and decoration. He would have been better off to have cried out to Olivede Hearne or Phoebe Broome, and even better off not to have spent himself so. It would be two or three days before he had his full strength back, though he'd be fit to stand by nightfall, for all the good it would do him. The guards had taken his shoes and, with his shoes, his lock picks and concealed knives. Though they had left him his body armor.

He was puzzling over the meaning of that when he realized that there was someone outside his cell. He heard a key sc.r.a.pe in the lock, and willed himself not to stiffen, not to betray his awareness by even the twitch of a muscle. The key turned-the lock clearly better made and kept than those of other cells he'd been in-and he heard a shoe scuff nearby.

"You've overspent yourself," the voice said from close to his level and in the manner of one long accustomed to being heard no farther away than he needed to be. It was a young man's voice, with the accent of the Rivermarch lightly overlaid by erudition. Ish did not respond, but his heart, over which he had no control, quickened, and he was sure the pulse in his throat betrayed itself to the man's sonn.

So he risked a feather touch of sonn, enough to reveal the man as he moved the water jug to the head of the cot, where it would not be obvious to casual inspection, but where Ish need not rise to reach it. He was a narrow-faced, canny fellow, wearing a fas.h.i.+onably styled jacket that was clearly secondhand and altered to fit. To Ish's keen nose, a faint medicinal odor lingered around him. The prison apothecary, then.

"Magistra Hearne said to give you these and bid you use them." Ish caught the scent of the herbed lozenges mages used as a restorative, which were often charged as spicules by their makers.

"No one's in the cells opposite," the apothecary continued. "You're good for the day. You'll have to be chary with the night watch, but they'll be kept busy, and there'll be people in for you soon as the sun sets; she said to tell you that." Ish heard him s.h.i.+ft away, and rise, and move to the door. The key turned. "He'll be no trouble," he heard him say to an approaching set of boots.

Ish disciplined himself to lie quiet as the prison settled around him for the day, before he risked feeling beneath the cot for the flask and lozenges. There were six, each one big as his lower thumb, and he knew, with the first touch of them, that they were charged and who by; the character of each mage's magic was distinctive, and Olivede Hearne's was unmistakable in its brisk focus. So he had a conduit to the outside as well, and friends already working on his behalf. He slid the first into his mouth, and let the sugar and stored vitality start to dissolve away the sickly la.s.situde of magical overuse.

He had mentioned marriage to her in whimsical relief at surcease from pain, and she had treated it as such. If he survived this, then perhaps he would would lay his suit at Olivede Hearne's door. Her bloodline was older than his; she could not yet be much over thirty; she was unmarried; and she was at peace with her magic. She was no society lady, but she might well suit the Borders, and the Borders might well suit her. Lady Telmaine-married or otherwise-had beauty, spirit, and power, but time would erode the beauty, society would stifle the spirit, and her own will would smother her power. Lying in a prison cell, at peril of life and reputation from a charge of sorcery, only an impractical fool-as his father had so often called him-would grieve the waste of it all. lay his suit at Olivede Hearne's door. Her bloodline was older than his; she could not yet be much over thirty; she was unmarried; and she was at peace with her magic. She was no society lady, but she might well suit the Borders, and the Borders might well suit her. Lady Telmaine-married or otherwise-had beauty, spirit, and power, but time would erode the beauty, society would stifle the spirit, and her own will would smother her power. Lying in a prison cell, at peril of life and reputation from a charge of sorcery, only an impractical fool-as his father had so often called him-would grieve the waste of it all.

Seven

Balthasar

T he sunset bell, and his last dose of soporific wearing off, woke Balthasar. Not quite awake, he reached for Telmaine and found only a wasteland of luxury, a smothering desert of pillows and quilt, with only a single stuffed toy to mark the place of his daughters. He drew it to him. he sunset bell, and his last dose of soporific wearing off, woke Balthasar. Not quite awake, he reached for Telmaine and found only a wasteland of luxury, a smothering desert of pillows and quilt, with only a single stuffed toy to mark the place of his daughters. He drew it to him.

Lorcas rose from the chair he had been sitting in. "Good evening, sir."

He took efficient charge of Balthasar, helping him out of bed and to the toilet. "You seem stronger this evening," he observed, while Bal concentrated on placing his feet just so, so that his knees, which seemed made of pure milk pudding, would not collapse under his weight.

"Any word?" he said, as Lorcas spread the covers over him again. "Olivede? Baron Strumh.e.l.ler? Your son? Baronet di Maurier?" Florilinde, Florilinde, he wanted to say, but shrank from the answer. he wanted to say, but shrank from the answer.

"One moment," Lorcas said. From the doorway, he beckoned in his strong son. "He set foot on the doorstep as the sunrise bell stopped," the old man said, with a lingering note of censure for such risk taking. "You were already asleep; I decided to hold word until you awoke."

Bal decided it would take a better man than he to argue with that decision.

"I delivered Magistra Hearne to the home of Magister Broome," Eldon reported.

"Was his son or daughter there?" he said. He would trust either one of them to protect Olivede before he'd trust the father. Had Farquhar Broome not been a mage of extraordinary strength, Bal would have diagnosed him as deranged. But since he was such a mage, he was rightly out of touch with common limitations and vulnerabilities.

"His daughter was, and much relieved t'greet Magistra Hearne. Your sister is very well respected, sir, amongst her own." Bal recognized this as intended rea.s.surance. He sighed and said, half to himself, "Olivede's an adult, and responsible to herself. Did she give you any message for me?"

"She said the very thing, that she was adult and responsible, and that I should give you her love and promise that she would be back in a few days."

Bal drew a slow breath, bracing himself against the stab of pain from his ribs. "How bad is it in the Rivermarch?"

"Nine solid blocks burned, and th'people are still searching the ruins and numbering the dead. There's ash and water ankle-deep in the streets all around, and folk moving through it like they're sick to death. It grieved me not t'have stayed and helped, and if the master had been free, we'd have been down there wi' them. Still have a few people every hour coming out of the understreets, too, same way the master escaped, but it's half-flooded in there wi' the Lightborn's rain, and there may be some drowned. Magistra Olivede said that the Lightborn weather-workers were keeping a land breeze going t'blow the worst of the smoke and stink downriver. She also said you weren't t'think of coming down there in your present condition. There'd be a need for your help for a long time after you'd healed."

"She's one to talk," Bal said, past a lump in his throat. "And the mages, how are they managing?"

"Weary, sir. I could almost be glad the master isn't there." He said no more, whether out of habitual or new circ.u.mspection, his father no doubt having briefed him on Bal's discussions with his lawyer.

Bal's clinician's mind briefly diverted itself by wondering what compelled Ishmael di Studier to so recklessly overspend his slender magical talent, when he had so many other resources at his command.

"There's been . . . no word of my daughter, has there? Or Baronet di Maurier?" he said, his hand moving slowly over the furred head of her toy.

"I am afraid not, sir."

"Imogene's bane, I can't lie here and do nothing!" he said, aware that sounded like an invalid's fretfulness. "There's been no word from Floria-Mistress White Hand?"

"No, sir."