Филип Этанс - The Death Ray

Vargussel silently thanked Vecna once again not only for his continuing successes against the would-be suitors but for the labyrinth of catacombs, sewers, and forgotten dungeons that riddled the ground under New Koratia. He’d spent a good six months studying them, and even then mapped only a fraction of the tunnels—enough for the shield guardian to move in secret.

He stepped into a pair of breeches. They were made of the same green linen he preferred for most of his wardrobe and fell just to his ankles. As clean and well pressed as the gippon, the breeches made Vargussel momentarily aware of the efforts of what remained of his household staff.

With each dead relative, each married-off female cousin, a room, then a hall, then a wing of the house had been closed off. The servants were dismissed accordingly. Thousands of gold pieces worth of furniture, art, and abandoned possessions lay silently waiting under dusty sheets for someone to breathe life back into the comatose house. To Vargussel, the lonely, quiet expanse of his boyhood home had become a constant reminder of his family’s abject failure.

The coffers still brimmed with gold, and the bulk of its holdings were still intact, but the family itself had not managed to survive. Was it Vargussel’s fault? Perhaps. At least some of it was. After all, at fifty, he still had never married, had not produced an heir.

He buttoned the breeches to the bottom of the gippon and smoothed the fabric again.

He had been occupied, he told himself for perhaps the thousandth time. He hadn’t wasted his youth. Vargussel was among the most powerful wizards in the city—in all the duchy. The fools in their floating tower were useless academics. Vargussel alone held the ear of the duke. Koratia had never had a Ducal Wizard and didn’t even recognize the post, but if it did, that wizard would be Vargussel. He had, after all, built the shield guardian. That was no small task for a team of wizards, let alone to do so alone and in secret.

He slipped a bliaut off a hanger and drew it over his head. The ankle-length overgown wasn’t as functional as the enchanted robe he otherwise wore almost exclusively. In the bliaut he would find no hidden pockets yielding just what he wanted when he slipped his fingers in, but for this excursion he was more concerned with impressing Maelani than with quick access to spell components. The gown, with its wine-red appliqués of spiny vines, would certainly catch the young lady’s eye. There were spells enough in his repertoire that needed no hand-held focus or consumable element, and the wizard had studied accordingly that morning.

When the noon hour arrived, he would go as bidden to the duke’s palace. It was Vargussel’s magic that elicited the duke’s summons. Vargussel didn’t doubt that news of the latest unfortunate death of another of New Koratia’s favored sons had reached the palace, and the duke was bringing in his closest advisors to set them loose upon the murderer. Vargussel was well practiced in deceiving the duke.

He sat on a cushioned bench and slipped his feet into a pair of gaudy but fashionable pigaches. The long, upturned, pointed shoes were of a matching set with the bliaut. Vargussel admired them at the same time they made him feel a bit ridiculous. Here was but one more of the sacrifices he made to secure his family’s future.

Still sitting, Vargussel closed his eyes, bowed his head, and pressed his hands gently against his chest.

“Great Vecna,” he whispered, “Master of All that is Secret and Hidden, hear my prayer. Accept my sacrifices of souls and horror, accept my allegiance and my humility. Mask me from the eyes of my enemy. Hold the truth of my heart from the heart of my intended. Give me the hand of Maelani, in exchange for her father’s lands, the duke’s influence, and the soul of Koratia.”

Vargussel sat in quiet meditation for the space of twenty-seven heartbeats, as was prescribed in the scriptures. On the twenty-eighth heartbeat, he opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and stood.

Vecna would protect him, or not. Hear him, or not. All Vargussel could do was pray, and serve, and work. As the Eighty-third Commandment taught, “Vecna helps those who help Vecna.”

Vargussel stood, smoothed his clothes once more, and gave himself a last, long look in the mirror. He hated having to fuss over his appearance but it was a part of his plan, and his plan would continue apace regardless of the obstacles that might appear in his path.

He crossed to his dressing table and waved his right hand over a wooden box. His fingertips tingled, letting him know that the spell was a success. He opened the box without setting off the trap, then waved his hand over the jumble of gold and silver jewelry that filled it. His fingertips tingled once more, and he reached in with a finger to slide open the box’s false bottom. From within he chose a simple band of brushed platinum. He slipped the ring on his finger, and the air around him vibrated momentarily with the item’s protective magic.

Next, he drew out the dog-face amulet. Taking a moment to admire the cut of the rubies that made up its eyes, he slipped the amulet over his neck and concentrated. The link with the shield guardian rose into his consciousness. He could feel the construct standing in the gloom of the abandoned slaughterhouse, waiting for his command.

For the moment, Vargussel let the guardian sleep, if that was what its present state could be called. He closed the false bottom of the box, then its lid, resetting the enchanted triggers both times.

The wizard didn’t pause for another look in the mirror but hurried out to the waiting coach for the short ride north along the wide avenue between his mansion and the palace—the palace that would soon be his.

When Regdar was shown into the duke’s private office, he quickly bowed and fixed his eyes on the floor in an effort to avoid eye contact with Maelani.

He’d been summoned to the palace for a second day in a row, having to leave a steaming Naull behind at the Thrush and the Jay once more, and the duke’s beautiful daughter was the last person he wanted to see. Someone had been murdered during the night in a room only a few doors from the one he shared with Naull, and the crime had drawn the attention of the duke. Though both Regdar and Naull answered the few brief questions the watch officers posed them early that morning, neither had much to report. When the duke sent for him again, Regdar drew the simple conclusion that his proximity to the scene of the crime had something to do with it.

“Ah, Regdar,” the duke said, “you remember my daughter, of course.”

Regdar worked to affect a polite smile, and he nodded at Maelani.

“Indeed,” he answered, “My Lady…”

Maelani grinned, her face alighting with a girlish pleasure that embarrassed Regdar as much as it attracted him. He forced his attention to the duke.

“Please,” the duke said, “sit.”

He indicated a massive, leather armchair and Regdar dutifully sat. The duke put his elbows on the broad desk in front of him and leaned forward to face Regdar. Lady Maelani seemed to float down into the chair next to Regdar. Her thin frame looked all the more delicate surrounded by the huge chair, which was a twin to Regdar’s. The duke’s private office was a small room, by ducal palace standards, but no less ornate it its woodwork and decorations. The martial theme—weapons, shields, and the mounted head of an owlbear—was both more pleasing to and comfortable for Regdar.

“We have a matter of some importance to discuss,” the duke said, “but my daughter has appealed to me to meet you again. I indulge my only child, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

The duke smiled and Regdar found himself caught between nodding and shaking his head.