Aliphor

CHAPTER SIX

By Beck McLaughlin

Elfie hid the viscount's gold in a sewer several blocks from the hostel. Then she made her way back to her room. She found it empty, her belongings untouched. Hastily, she gathered her little bag of fruit, her dress and the ribbon the Doctor had given her. Pushing them into her satchel with the dress she left the hostel without regret.

It was near dawn. Retrieving her fortune, she slipped along the streets toward the lower city and the docks. The river seemed the quickest way to put distance between herself and Seroult. Storchi nagged at her to hurry, as he'd nagged at her not to accept Drammand's test.

It's a trick, thiefling. He's sending you for something he's afraid to get himself.

"Trick or not," she'd retorted, "its my Test and I have to do it."

Nevertheless, it was disconcerting to learn that the object to be stolen was nothing more than a book, and then that the target was none other than My Snooty Lord of Marrowcroft.

The viscount's lecture on gratitude hit closer to home than she'd let on. In l'Sanjil, a high premium was placed upon loyalty and honor. If she could not find another Guild like her own, then perhaps it was time to find some other line of work. The gold resting comfortably inside her shirt would buy her several months of comfortable living, but after that, what? Thieving was all she knew and her choices for other employment were woefully limited. She could be a domestic -- a prospect that she rejected out of hand -- or some man's mistress. This alternative, too, seemed unlikely.

Seroult was waking up all around her. By the time Elfie reached the lower city, the streets were thick with people again. At the docks, she threaded her way through crates and wagons toward a small group of barges rocking against the pier. One was ready to cast off, its broad deck piled high with bolts of textiles wrapped in oiled cloth. Just as she was about to approach the captain, a heavy hand fell on her shoulder, sending her heart into her mouth.

"And where do you think you're goin', wench?"

It was the Guildmaster's aide, Bucky. She tried to squirm out of his grip, but his fingers dug painfully into her.

"I'm leaving."

"What about the book?"

"I didn't get it," she replied sullenly. "Marrowcroft and his guard captain came in while I was trying to find it. It was close. Too close."

"So you thought you'd run off instead." Bucky sneered. "I think you'd best come with me and give an accounting of yourself to the guildmaster."

"What accounting? He's given me nothing but a stinking rat-hole of a room, crawling with bugs. Let go of me!"

It was Storchi who sent Bucky on his way, shoving the startled thief into a precarious tower of wine-barrels. Cloaked by the ensuing confusion, she found her way to the barge and wrangled passage from the captain. Like everyone else on the dock, he was laughing too hard at Bucky's misfortune to look very closely at the scrap of a "boy" who handed him the silver piece, then leapt nimbly over the fabric bales and out of sight.

Soon she felt the barge swing out into the river. Warm, morning sunshine poured down and her eyelids drooped. The shouts of the stevedores and fishmongers blended into a soothing lullaby. Succumbing to the effects of a sleepless night, lulled by the rocking of the barge, Elfie slept.

She woke much later to find the city barely visible behind her. A small hamlet spread over the southern bank. Fields stretched away on either side. The river had widened and slowed, but it was still crowded. Scrambling up a pile of wrapped silks, she looked along its glittering surface. Fishermen were grouped in their skiffs along a reed-choked bank. Another barge slid toward them and beyond it, an elegant yacht.

The former carried horses, big ones like the Doctor's and Reven's. The animals were not happy to be on the water, snorting and tossing their beautiful heads. One reared unexpectedly, sending his groom flying. There was a yelp and a tremendous splash. Giggling, Elfie dug into her satchel and brought out a honeybit, munching happily as the man splashed after the barge, yelling and sputtering.

In spite of her uncertain future, Elfie was almost happy. She had a small fortune in her pocket and Seroult's sordid excuse for a Thieves Guild far behind her. There were several cities of reasonable size along the Ser. One of them might do for a guildless thief -- perhaps the city that was home to the elegant yacht sliding past their bow. Ornately carved, heavily gilded, it was bigger than the flat she'd had in l'Sanjil. Purple banners streamed from the mast.

The fruit soured on her tongue. One banner, the largest, was embroidered with a sheaf of wheat and gold stars in an arc above it. Pridelock!

Tossing away the honeybit's core, Elfie snatched her satchel and ducking low, headed for the opposite side of the barge. At the same time, she heard a shout from the yacht. Guards in purple and gold swarmed over the rail. The barge's captain ran forward, his mate behind. Their angry protests slowed the men enough to let her slither over the side and into the water.

There were splashes behind her. Her satchel gripped in her teeth, the girl struck out for the shore and other barges moored there. Looking over her shoulder, she saw two guards fast gaining on her. Desperation lent her strength. Diving deep into the murky water, she swam under the shallow keel of a gondola, emerging with a gasp on the other side.

Storchi!

The gondola rocked wildly, spilling pilot and passenger, shrieking, into the water. One of the pursuing guards managed to struggle free of the confusion and continue after her with swift, strong strokes. Elfie swam on, lungs burning and finally reached the bank. She felt fingers brush her ankle. Kicking desperately, she hauled herself up onto the pier. A fisherman swore and leapt out of the way as she stumbled to her feet, scattering water everywhere. Amid screams and curses, she bolted down the pier, knocking over crates and barrels. Out into a bustling street-market, she ran, not slowing until the stitch in her side threatened to bring her to her knees.

There was no sign of Pridelock's men. She collapsed against a stucco wall and drew long, shaking breaths. A few curious glances were thrown her way, but no one seemed unduly interested. When her heartbeat finally slowed, she headed into a nearby alley. It wouldn't take much time to tie up the yacht and send the rest of the guards through the streets, looking for her.

Why was the nobleman even bothering? It was just a stupid book! Gods, but she had fallen into it! Pridelock's disappointment -- if any -- should be with Drammand, not her.

Was anywhere safe? Elfie took out the viscount's coins. How far would they get her? To Gemini? Wildhills?

"Hie! There she is!"

Elfie nearly jumped out of her skin. At the end of the alley were several figures in gold and purple. She turned and ran. Shouts and screams followed her. She burst from the alley, dodged through the dense rows of market stalls.

"She's over there!"

"No! Over here!"

"Remember! Take her alive!"

Ahead, a heavily-laden haywagon slowed, the driver shouting at the crowd before him to clear the way. She jumped nimbly over the side, burrowing into the dry, dusty hay. A few moments later, she heard booted feet thunder past, trailed by angry curses. Shaking, she lay still, hand pressed over her nose, trying desperately not to sneeze. The wagon lurched and started forward.

Elfie's racing pulse slowed. Cautiously, she moved aside enough hay to see out. Her heart plunged. Above the heads of the market goers she could see horsemen, purple and gold uniforms scattered among the city guard. There were more of them by the gate. Terrified, the girl edged as deep into the hay as she could. All this for her?

"HALT!"

The wagon stopped. Something crashed into the hay, moved past her, swift and deadly. Gods! They were searching the wagon! She wriggled into the open, saw a ring of soldiers about. Her sudden appearance stunned them and she was almost able to scramble out of the wagon and safely away. Unfortunately, one was a Kelblade. Viselike fingers locked around her arm, hauling her back and up across his saddle. Enraged, terrified, she went wild, kicking and pounding.

"Be still, wench, or by the Gods, I'll knock you senseless."

Storchi! Oh, gods! STORCHI!

Of course, the useless twit didn't appear, leaving it up to her, as always. Twisting like an eel, Elfie bit down hard on the leather-clad knee inches from her face. Her captor howled and kept his promise. By the time her head cleared, they were back among the docks.

Sick and dizzy from the blow, Elfie had a confused impression of people staring. Then she was hoisted up and dropped into waiting arms. The world tilted and rocked. They were back in a boat, rowing across the river to the yacht.

She slapped her guards away and climbed the rope ladder herself, but no one was taking chances. Immediately, more hard fingers clamped around her arm. Protesting, she was hustled below decks. In a cramped, but ornate corridor, her captors suddenly stopped and one of their number knocked on a door. It opened and Elfie had a brief glimpse of a smoky stateroom filled with elegantly dressed men, all talking animatedly. They were grouped around a table upon which were strewn maps and books. Then the door closed.

A moment later, the guard returned and Elfie was hustled down another brief flight of steps and into a corridor not nearly as elegant as the one above. The men tossed her into a stateroom and left her, locking the door behind them.

Elfie looked around. The room was not bad, although very, very small. All the furnishings were built in and the mattress on the clever little shelf of a bed was soft and deep. She remembered the meeting above. Her thief's eye had picked out the abundance of gold and precious gems, but it had noted other facts, as well. In particular, she remembered her glimpse of one, particular gentleman -- tall, handsome, black hair just turning silver at the temples. There had been more than a passing resemblance in those patrician features to the young Viscount of Dren, heir to the Duke of Marrowcroft.

There was no telling day from night in his cell. In spite of Kellin's optimism, the order did not come to transfer Reven to the custody of the Kelguard. As first one hour passed, then another, his optimism faded.

A black-clad acolyte brought Reven candles. The priests had given him holy books to read, but still the time dragged. Since the first failure to break Bloodsinger's spell, Reven had seen no one but the acolyte. He'd tried to measure time by the appearance of his meals, but lately he could not remember if the last had been luncheon or supper.

Rising from his bed, the kelblade crossed the small space to the wash basin, fingertips brushing along Bloodsinger's scabbard as he passed. Splashing lukewarm water on his face, he looked back at the table. Beside the sword, the Book of Truth lay open.

He could read -- should read. The priests were right. His faith was not strong enough. Yet no matter how earnestly he studied the sacred texts, how many prayers he sent to the gods, doubts always crept back. If only they'd allow the Doctor to try and break the spell.

A rattling of the lock disturbed the oppressive silence. Was it meal time again? He half rose as the door opened. It was not the acolyte. Instead, he found himself facing one of the high priest's -- Abelard? Behind him were several more priests, their hooded heads bent, hands folded before them. Reven's heart sank.

"Good evening, Lord Avril. I hope you are well?"

Reven nodded.

Abelard smiled reassuringly. "Don't look so alarmed, my lord. We are going to attempt once more to break the hold of the demon. This time, I'm certain we'll succeed. You do want to try again?"

Wishing he could refuse, the kelblade muttered: "Of course, my lord." He picked up Bloodsinger and, expecting protest, strapped it to his back. They allowed it, but bound his hands as before. Then they escorted him into the corridor and he was promptly surrounded by more priests.

The men did not take him back to the upper levels, but deeper into the cellars. Rounding a corner, Reven suddenly realized that Lord Abelard was no longer with them. There was no reason the fact should alarm him, yet it did. The kelblade stopped, bracing himself against the impatient press of men around him. "Where are we going?"

He was pushed again, and again resisted. Something was wrong, he could feel it like insects crawling across his skin. He stared around. A lean, dark face glared out of the hood's shadows -- a face Reven recognized at once.

"Thonnor!"

Another of the priests cursed. "Get him moving, damn it! Hurry!"

Gods! These were her men! Reven ducked, butting his head into the guard nearest him. The man grunted and fell. Kicking savagely to the right, the kelblade managed to disable another "priest." At once, a half-dozen of them were on him, hitting him, dragging him along the corridor. He yelled until someone drove their fist into his gut, cutting off his breath. A door slammed open and he smelled water, heard the whisper of it against stone. Torchlight glanced off glistening, black rock above and around them.

His captors hustled him along the slippery ledge toward a rowboat waiting nearby. It rocked and bobbed wildly when Reven was pushed into it. Losing his balance Reven went sprawling to a fresh accompaniment of curses, twisting himself into a fetal ball as boot heels came from every direction.

"Stop it!" Thonnor growled. "Get him up."

The feet were replaced by hands. Reven was pulled onto a seat and released, dizzy and hurting, only to erupt in another frenzy of resistence when they tied a rag around his mouth, gagging him. He felt the boat move out into the stream.

Thonnor sat heavily beside him, close enough for Reven to feel Firestorm, Thonnor's hellblade. Shivering, he tried to edge away. Bloodsinger didn't like being so close to the other, and Reven's back began to ache where the scabbard lay against it.

The boat raced along the underground channel, then rounded a curve and shot into the open. They were on the river, the Temple's bulk rising up steeply above them. Stars glittered coldly overhead. Ahead loomed a fishing boat, dark and still. The smaller craft swung around and nestled against its hull. Sweat broke out on Reven's forehead as he tried to move, but the spell they'd cast on him was too strong.

Bumping, banging against the side of the ship, Reven was hauled up onto the deck. Thonnor shouted to someone he couldn't see: "Go! We haven't much time to meet the others! Move this hulk!"

Reven's knees buckled. They dragged him across the wet planking and down to the lower deck. There, in a cramped, reeking hold, they chained him to the hull and left -- all but his fellow swordslave, Thonnor. The other Blade lit a lantern and hung it from the low rafters. Then he pulled off Reven's gag.

"Why don't you fight her, Sam?" Reven asked hoarsely. "You were always an honorable man, a charitable man."

Thonnor's mouth twisted. "Shut up, Avril, or I'll gag you again. You're not my commander anymore."

"Did she replace Michael? Does Soulstealer have a new bearer? Is it anyone else we know?"

"What do you care? So you can kill him, too?"

"Damn it, Thonnor! Do you think I liked killing Michael? He was my friend! I would have killed you, too, anything to stop the slaughter before it began! "

"And you failed, didn't you?" Thonnor shot back. "They all died, all of them!" "At least Michael was spared that damnation," whispered Reven, remembering the awful moment. "Gods that I had been!" He looked up at Thonnor, fierce. "And I swear to you, Sam, that I'll throw myself on this damned blade before I murder for her again!"

"Shut up!"

Firestorm was out -- blade glowing. Reven felt it's heat. He lifted his chin, defying Thonnor to use the demon against him. The other kelblade swore and, after a nerve racking moment, jammed the blade back into its scabbard. Turning on his heel, Thonnor strode from the hold, locking the door behind him.

Moric intended to stay well clear of the palace until the political storms whirling around Kellin had cleared. It was not only was his cousin bringing consternation to the council. Rumors were flying about troop movements up from the south, of spies and traitors infiltrating the kelguard. Faced by such a barrage of uncertainty, Moric did what any self-respecting man of fashion would -- went to his club.

It being a fine morning, he sat on the balcony with Lords Henry and Philo, playing a few hands of fox-hunt and critiquing the charms of the ladies promenading along the street below. After lunch, it was off to the horse sales. There, inexplicably, he found himself expecting to see Elfie's gamin features in the rough, noisy crowd. Moric had to remind himself sternly that this was no longer any of his business.

There was no Montav stock for sale, so the viscount and his cronies wandered away to a nearby tavern where they drank a great deal and played darts. The combination eventually resulted in a fight with a bellicose onlooker and, ultimately, the irate landlord threw them out. Moric took his leave of the merry pair and went staggering off to find his carriage. His long-suffering coachman heard the order for home with relief.

Alas, the brisk, spring evening chased off the ale's rosy glow. By the time he reached the townhouse, the viscount was very nearly sober and menaced once again by boredom. He was almost pleased to see the discreet, cream-colored envelope set neatly atop the day's correspondence.

Except it wasn't from Kellin, it was from the Towers. He tore it open, stomach sinking at the sight of Wilson's tight, precise scrawl. My Dear Lord Marrowcroft:

His Grace departs today for Seroult. I trust you will see that the house is prepared for his arrival.

Yours, H.R. Wilson, Secretary to the Duke of Marrowcroft

Panicked, Moric consulted the date. Two days ago! For a moment, he cravenly considered bolting back to his club, but was forestalled by the appearance of the butler. The elderly servant bowed and informed him that he had a Visitor.

"Who?"

"The Doctor."

The viscount's mouth dropped. Here? Gods! That was all he needed! If his father were to walk in and find one of the dreaded heretics in his own house, Moric was in for it! He drew a deep breath, then noticed the servant watching him eagerly. There were not many people in Seroult who had not heard rumors about the prince's pet mage.

"Where is he?"

"In the library, my lord."

"I'll see him now. And Dom?"

"My lord?"

"My father is coming. Please see that the house is made ready at once."

"Yes, my lord, we were informed. The Duke's priest had a note from his lordship earlier today."

How typical that the his father would personally correspond with Bram, yet leave his secretary to correspond with his heir. Trying not to be hurt by one more slight after a lifetime of them, the viscount threw open the door to the library.

The mage was wandering restlessly from shelf to shelf, a slim, bright figure in the shadowed room. He paused when Moric came in and replaced a large, red-bound book.

"Are you here to rob me, too?" Moric joked, clapping the mage on the shoulder. "Come, sit down, I'll have refreshments brought up."

The mage flashed one of his engaging grins. "You were robbed? Really?"

Laughing, Moric described his encounter with Elfie. The Doctor's smile vanished. "Book? Which one?"

"I can't remember. Kris something. It's over there."

Taking the wine Moric handed them, the mage returned to the shelves and began reading the titles.

"So Kellin let you out again, eh?" The young viscount threw himself into a chair and watched the mage remove the tiny volume. "I heard from Anton that my cousin and his sword have turned everything upside down. I thought for certain you'd be locked away somewhere until the storm died down."

"His advisers certainly think so."

"You sound surprised. You're a mage, and -- I might add -- considerably more dangerous than the charm-sellers that litter the streets. No -- no! I don't want to hear your usual excuses. Recall, please, that I and others were with the prince when you, er, appeared in your magic box. And yet you are not only alive, but the trusted friend of the most powerful man in Aliphor.

"And to the Viscount of Dren, I hope."

Moric shrugged. "You're asking a lot, Doctor. I was winning that card game you interrupted."

"Poor you," grinned the mage. "Are you certain that this is the book Elfie wanted? Krisalka?"

"Yes. What's so special about it?"

"I have no idea." The Doctor leafed carefully through the pages. Curious, in spite of his determination to remain aloof, Moric drifted to the Doctor's side.

"Aha!" The mage lifted his head, blue eyes agleam. Moric craned his neck to see the plate -- another view of the demons' fortress. Two rows of towers, unmarked by window or door, ascended a hill and ended at the foot of a great stone ring. "Did she say why she wanted this?"

"No. Only that it had probably been contracted for through the guild -- which sounds like a very shabby organization, by the way."

"You're probably right," the Doctor murmured absently. "May I borrow this?"

Moric removed the book gently from the mage's hand and returned it with exaggerated care. "This is the infamous Heretic Collection -- all that remains of the great library of Kirmil. Since the war, it was been the Marrowcrofts' sacred trust."

Face still, the mage ran a long finger along the row of gilt-edged spines. "Why save them?"

"Insurance?" Moric grinned, "just in case the mages were right? I have no idea. All I know is that I can't lend it to you. The collection is my father's. He would never agree to it."

"Especially not to me," the Doctor said with a wry grin. "He's visiting soon, isn't he? I've heard he's very reclusive and rarely leaves the Towers. What brings him so suddenly to Seroult?"

"By the gods, Doctor! Am I always the last to know about my own sire's movements?" Moric laughed, but even he could hear the bitterness. "As to your question, who knows? Kellin admitted to the counsel two weeks ago that he sent you south. That's just about enough time for my father to get the news and mobilize his household for a trip to the city."

"I've tried to be discreet," objected the Doctor. "I stay in my apartments, out of sight."

"Whenever it's convenient," Moric scoffed, "or when the prince decides to send you on a delicate spy mission. You're supposed to be under arrest, Doctor.. . ."

A sharp rapping at the door made him jump. It flew open before the viscount could call out. Anton bowed, breathless, disheveled and grim. "My lord, there is trouble! Lord Avril has disappeared and -- coincidently -- so has the Doctor! I told you your trust was misplaced ..."

"Disappeared?"

Belatedly, Anton noticed the Doctor, and shut his mouth with a snap. Moric looked from one to the other. "Anton, what is going on?"

"Ask the mage, I say," was the weapons master's terse reply.

"And my answer will be -- I have no idea." The Doctor came forward, but stopped at once when Anton backed away.

"No one knows, my lord, but the trail of the occult is certainly there! Avril vanished from a locked cell in the depths of the Temple. Simply vanished. The lock not forced, no one can remember seeing them!"

"And so, because the priests have no other explanation, they resort to the supernatural." The Doctor shook his head. "Not exactly original, but inconvenient when it comes to seeking the truth. I must get back to the palace!"

"You're going nowhere, Doctor." To Moric's shock, Anton's sword was out and up, the tip wavering just under the mage's chin. "The Kelguard is on its way, Doctor. I suggest we wait."

Shaking his head, the mage moved aside the blade. "I'm sorry, Anton. I understand your suspicion, but I'm afraid I must go -- now. It will take too long for the council to agree on a course of action -- never mind that they will almost certainly choose the wrong one!"

"Anton, put that away!"

"My lord! Why do you side with the heretic? Can you not see you've been bewitched?" With each angry word, Anton drove the mage back a step until his back was to the wall. With a hiss of frustration, the Doctor flung up his hands.

"Captain! You exceed your authority, sir!" The viscount was becoming annoyed.

"I had nothing to do with Reven's disappearance, Anton! I'll swear it on the name of anything you wish, but I have no time to persuade you."

Moric blinked. It seemed that the Doctor barely moved, yet suddenly he was beside Anton. The captain's mouth dropped and, in that moment of inattention, the mage had Anton's sword away from him. A twist of the lean wrist sent the blade spinning toward the ceiling where it lodged firmly.

"Sorry." Then, as Anton gaped, the mage turned to Moric. "Is there a back way out of the house?"

"Certainly. Don't forget, my ancestors -- well, most of them, anyway -- were fond of speedy, discreet exits. Come, I'll show you."

"My Lord!"

Moric paused and regarded his father's distressed swordmaster with a shake of his head. "Rest easy, my friend. Consider the Doctor under arrest and in my personal custody. Will that satisfy your honor?"

It did not, of course, but there was nothing poor Anton could do. The viscount's pronouncement did not sit any better with the Doctor than with Anton. "Stay out of this, Moric. Please!"

"Doctor, you can accept my company or we can all sit here and wait for the Kelguard. The decision is yours."

The Doctor glared at him, then at Anton. He said something under his breath, a spell, perhaps -- Moric did not recognize the words. "Very well, my lord. After you -- soon, if you please."