“Here.” A sergeant whose almond-shaped eyes and gold skin showed his ancestors were from the Far East went to the desk. He used a wooden rod drawn from a quiverlike container hung on his belt to separate a piece of jewelry from the sticky heap of gems and precious metal. It was a long oval pendant on a chain.
“Don’t touch it, my lady,” he cautioned. “Not till our mages have a go at it. We knew he had spells on the place, of course, though we can’t see them. His kind always does.”
She nodded and leaned closer. The pendant was inlaid with a number of minute squares, each made of black, pale, or fire opal. A thin slice of clear crystal was laid over them. A hair-fine thread of magic stretched away from each square.
“He would have paid a fortune for this,” Sandry murmured. “Yes, it’s his key.
Each square must be tied to a different set of spells, so he’d know exactly where somebody tried to break in. But look at it.” She glanced at the Guards and their captain, all of whom stared at her without understanding. There was a tiny, ironic smile on the duke’s lips. He gave her a slight nod. “Like I said, the spells were never touched. This whole pendant is dark,” Sandry told them.
“Nothing’s glowing, and it’s made to be read by someone with no magic whatever.
No one broke through these spells.”
“The killers’ spells were better, that’s all,” said Captain Qais bluntly.
“Someone always has better magic. Or the guards, or one of the family, must have given the right passwords to whoever they let in.”
“But we had no trouble comin’ in without passwords,” the tiny woman pointed out.
“You had no trouble because Jamar Rokat is dead,” Sandry replied. “The main power of the spells would be keyed, to him.”
The duke rubbed his chin. “Surely after he went to the expense to have these spells laid on, he’d only give passwords to a few. He was a careful man with many enemies. He’d keep the password to this room for his own use.”
“Coulda come in over the roof,” said the bald, chunky man who was the third investigator.
“He’d’ve spelled the roof, too,” the sergeant told them tersely. “He never left no loopholes, not him.”
Sandry looked at the ceiling, though she was really inspecting the magical fabric above it. There were store rooms on the floors upstairs, all with their own protec tions. The roof was a solid mass of untouched magic. She shook her head. “You’re right. The roof is absolutely covered with spells, and none show signs of tampering.”
Captain Qais crossed his arms. “Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but you are versed in weaving and needlework. We have mages who know just this kind of thing, magic used by criminals and magic used to keep criminals out. They will be able to explain. And I still think those guards will talk plenty once they’re sweated.”
Sandry stared at the man, honestly shocked. What did he think magic was, if not a kind of thread? He spoke as though she’d spent the last four years minding a spinning wheel or a tapestry frame, not cudgeling her brain with lessons in arts, sciences, and the theories of how and why mages could get magic to work.
“Captain,” the duke said coolly, “if your mages are coming, we must not remain underfoot.” He got up. “You will keep me apprised of all developments?”
The captain was studying Jamar’s head. He glanced at the duke, startled at the interruption, and hurriedly bowed. “Of course, your grace.”
Sandry hesitated. She would like to see Provosts Mageswhom Pasco had called “harrier-mages.” They would be academic mages, taught at places like the uni versity in Lightsbridge, their ways different from those of craft-mages like Sandry and her friends. While she had been taught academic methods and had learned about different specialties in academic magic, she had never seen a Provost’s Mage at work.
The duke offered Sandry his arm. She had a choice, she realizedshe could stay, or she could get her uncle back to Duke’s Citadel. Her uncle came first, so she took the offered arm, Perhaps she could get him to introduce her to some Provosts Mages before she went home to Winding Circle.
Sandry and the duke made their way out of the build ing in silence. Two of the guards stationed before the door escorted them to their horses and their own soldiers. Sandry kept a wary eye on the press of human beings that folded away from them, but there were no weapons in the fingers that brushed the duke’s tunic or arm and there was only respect in the whispers of ” Gods bless your grace.”
Their approach was so quiet that they surprised one of the Duke’s Guard telling some Provost’s Guards, “took an hour to cut them out of her cocoons. They growed into the very walls and floor,”
Someone cleared her throat and the guards snapped to attention. Their mounts were brought forward as the Provost’s Guards melted back through the side door to Rokat House.
“Some got nothing better to do than gossip,” Kwaben said to no one in particular.
Sandry peered at her uncle and saw the corner of his mouth quiver with amusement. She: almost smiled herself. Perhaps; it was bad of me, she thought as she mounted her horse. Still, at least I taught them who they’re dealing with.
No one will keep me away from Uncle again.
Once in the saddle, there was a delay while the duke spoke to their guard sergeant. The knowledge of what she’d seen in that building hit Sandry without warning. The copper stink of blood returned to her nose; the sight of a man she’d met with his head cut off lingered in her mind’s eye. She gripped her saddle horn with hands that trembled. For once in her life she wished passionately that she carried smelling salts, or even a scented ball as some nobles did, to clear her nose and chase off the shudders.