The Wizard Hunters (10 page)

She was saved from further explanation when Tiamarc stepped out of one of the cross corridors, deep in conversation with Breidan Niles. While Tiamarc wore a disreputable-looking sweater and flannels, Niles’s impeccably cut suit made him look as if he had just stepped out of an exclusive tailor’s shop on Saints Procession Boulevard. Tremaine had no idea how he managed it; she knew he had spent the whole day crouched on the floor of the dusty ballroom poring over spell diagrams and reams of notes. Niles spotted them and waved imperatively. “Gerard, listen to this.”

Tiamarc turned to Gerard, smiling. His fair hair was tousled and there were shadows under his eyes from weariness. Despite that, his voice was full of energy and excitement as he said, “Great news! The test I performed last trip was conclusive, all the others agree. The destination site is not a fayre realm.”

“How is that great news? Now we don’t have a clue where it is,” Tremaine said. The astronomy work Tiamarc had completed on the Pilot Boat’s first trip had eliminated the possibility that the destination was somewhere in the opposite hemisphere. The stars were completely unfamiliar. Gerard and the others believed that the airships’ recent passage to and from Chaire had caused the spell to tune in to the spot, like a wireless operator tuning in to a distant signal. They had also discovered that physically moving the spell circle would move the target point in the other world. Moving from the estate outside Vienne to Rel had shifted the target point substantially closer to the island when they arrived in the other place.

Frowning, Gerard took off his spectacles and cleaned them absentmindedly. “That eliminates a number of the potential spells we could do. The fayre realms are far more susceptible to wide-scale sorceries than the mortal plane.”

Niles nodded. “I know, but it does seem to prove the multiple-dimension theories of Vortal and Igbenz.”

“You can’t use my sphere anymore,” Tremaine said, just to see what would happen.

Everyone stopped to stare at her for a moment, then went back to their conversation. “I don’t think it’s a proof of those theories, just because we know it’s not a fayre realm,” Tiamarc objected, shaking his head. “It could be another etheric realm within our world-structure, just not one associated with fayre.”

Niles frowned. “Oh, really, I don’t think so. Vortal and Igbenz’s theory fits so many of the spell’s projected parameters—”

Tiamarc noticed the orphaned wisp of spell light and extinguished it with a sharp gesture. “I’ve got to go up to my room and get that copy of Negretti’s
Etheric Principles
. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“We’ll meet you in the ballroom,” Niles called after him as Tiamarc started up the wide sweep of the stairs. He turned back to Gerard. “If it is another world, and not another etheric level within our world, it’s even more of a mystery where Arisilde Damal acquired the spell’s basic structure.”

Gerard nodded. “Yes, and I wish we knew how the Gardier airships manage the portals—in the one that was brought down there was no evidence of the ring or of any device like the spheres, just the broken pieces of crystal from above the steering console.”

“Yes.” Niles frowned. “But I would say the spell has to be of Gardier origin. The operative characters don’t resemble anything we’ve ever seen before, at least not without access to the Lodun Libraries.”

“My father probably stole it from the Gardier,” Tremaine said absently, studying a broken fingernail.

“What?” Niles stared at her.

“Ah.” Tremaine suddenly realized she had spoken aloud. She hadn’t thought they were listening to her. As usual, people never listened to you when you wanted them to, only when you didn’t. “Well . . .” she began, hoping something would come to her. Nothing did. “Well...” she tried again.

Niles turned to Gerard, who adjusted his glasses selfconsciously, and said, “Well. . .”

Tremaine held her breath, afraid he would get stuck there too, then he continued, “. . . Tremaine’s father was the first person to discover the Gardier’s activities.”

“Really?” Niles frowned, glancing back at her as if expecting to see some sort of evidence of this on her countenance that he had previously overlooked. “I thought Nicholas Valiarde was an art importer who funded Arisilde Damal’s work in the Viller Institute.”

“He was,” Tremaine agreed readily. “He did.” The public version of events was that Nicholas had been just a gentleman adventurer who had made the mistake of helping Arisilde test his last Great Spell. Nicholas had always meant to keep the Valiarde name clean, but after years of living a variety of double lives, too many people knew too many pieces of the truth. And after her mother’s death he had become careless.

Gerard’s brows quirked and he cleared his throat. “He occasionally did work for the government.” He took Niles’s arm and turned him back toward the hallway.

“Work for the government involving art?” Niles asked, with another baffled glance back at Tremaine.

“Uh ...” Tremaine nodded.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Gerard said over his shoulder as he hauled Niles along.

“Good night,” Tremaine called, and he gave her a backhanded wave as he disappeared down the hall. She started up the grand staircase with a shake of her head. Once they finished constructing the new spheres, her part would be over unless she could think up some other job to do here. Unfortunately the Institute needed sorcerers or scholars of etheric theory, or people trained in mechanics, philosophy or astronomy. Tremaine had an average education in writing and letters.
I can’t even make decent coffee
. Being a member of the family that had bankrolled the Institute’s nonmilitary endeavors and who owned the patent on the Viller-Damal Sphere, she could probably hang about anyway, but that would surely get awkward.

It had put a real crimp in her plan to kill herself, that was certain. There had been a profound relief and a wonderful freedom in giving up, in resolving not to strive anymore for goals she couldn’t define even to herself. Now she seemed to be weighed down with hopes again. Not the least of which was that Nicholas and Arisilde might really be alive, lost in that other world somewhere.

Tremaine paused on the stairs, thinking about it. She wasn’t sure she believed there was a chance at all, if she wasn’t just seizing on it as a convenient excuse in case someone tried to send her home before she wanted to go.
Maybe I can learn to make coffee
, she thought ruefully, continuing up the stairs.

Muttering “I hate my life” under her breath, she reached the third floor and tramped down the dusty carpet toward her room.

Only one of the glass lily light fixtures still had a bulb and it was at the end of the dim hallway. She stopped in front of the door, digging in her pocket for the latchkey. As she touched the door, she felt it give slightly. Tremaine frowned, running her hand lightly down the smooth wood to the lock. It had taken her at least five minutes of struggle last night to get the damn thing open; she knew it fit tightly. Then her fingers found the scoring on the metal that the shadows in the hallway concealed. The lock had been clumsily forced.

Half chilled, half intrigued, Tremaine stepped slowly back.
Oh, I don’t need this right now
. Getting murdered had never been near the top of her list as a viable suicide option. How embarrassing, if this was another old enemy from her family’s checkered past, come to enact vengeance on Nicholas Valiarde’s daughter. And incidentally disrupting the Institute’s vital work and causing Tremaine the humiliation of difficult explanations to people who already thought her a little odd. It had happened to her before. She wasn’t anxious for it to happen again.

There were people who were supposed to take care of this sort of thing for her. Tremaine knew Gerard wasn’t her only guardian. He had been given the legal responsibility but she knew there were others who had been assigned to watch over her and she suspected Gerard knew who they were, though he had never said. Doubtless they had lost track of her between the confusion in the city and her abrupt removal from Coldcourt. She had a telephone exchange she could call to summon their assistance, but it was a little late for that. She swore under her breath. There were ways for her to take care of this herself and dispose of the body without anyone being the wiser, and she wished she had listened better to her early lessons so she knew what they were.
Dammit
.

She debated screaming and decided against it. It would be better to trap the intruder inside the room. She edged away, moving silently back to the nearest door. That should be Tiamarc’s room. Still keeping a wary eye on her own door, she reached out to knock.

It swung open at her touch.
Oh no
, was Tremaine’s first thought as she looked down the short hall into the darkened room. She saw a figure sprawled on the floor. Then
this just happened
. She fell back a step.

Her door swung open suddenly and a man stepped out. He was tall, compactly built, dressed in dark clothes and a long coat, his hair cropped short and oddly wearing a pair of driving goggles. He started toward her without hesitation, reaching out a gloved hand to grab her.

Yelling for help, Tremaine bolted back up the corridor, feeling the dusty carpet catch maddeningly at her clunky boots. Like a chase in a nightmare, she could hear him only a few steps behind her.

She threw a look back just as a door opened and Florian stepped out, wearing a flower print bathrobe. The man careened into her, sending them both sprawling on the floor. One of her father’s rules had always been “never fail to take advantage of a fallen enemy,” and almost before this shot through her thoughts, Tremaine skidded to a halt. The man brutally shoved Florian away, the girl yelping and curling up into a protective ball. Tremaine looked around wildly, then grabbed one of the spindly-legged side tables, upsetting the vase atop it and sending up a flurry of dust and dried flower petals. She smashed it down on the man’s head just as he climbed to his feet.

Instead of going down, he shook his head, dislodging the splintered fragments, and reached for her again. Tremaine stumbled back, appalled. The wood was light but the table had had a thin marble top, which she had felt connect with a satisfying thud. The man should have a cracked skull at least. Florian uncurled and kicked at his legs, her expression white and desperate in the dim light. He swatted at her, giving Tremaine a chance to grab up the fallen vase. As he turned back toward her she swung it by the neck, the heavy stoneware body catching him squarely in the chin.

His head jerked back and his return swing caught her in the cheek, slamming her sideways into the wall. She slid down the wainscoting, hearing Florian’s yelp of dismay.

The sound of the shot was like thunder in the close corridor.

Tremaine sat up, her head aching from the blow and the noise, feeling the pounding of running feet in the floorboards.
Finally
, she thought. She looked up Wearily as Florian crawled toward her, giving the man who lay flat on his back a wide berth. “Are you all right?” the other girl gasped.

Tremaine nodded, pressing a hand to the knot of pain in her cheek. “Yes, sort of,” she admitted. She blinked and saw Gerard and Niles leaning over the intruder, with Ander trying to look over their shoulders. He was holding a pistol. Colonel Averi and two of the soldiers assigned to guard the Institute personnel pelted up the corridor to join them. Tremaine asked Florian, “Did he hurt you?”

“No, if you don’t count the terror.” Florian lifted Tremaine’s hair aside and winced. “Oh, that’s a big bruise.”

“It’ll add distinction to my appearance,” Tremaine managed.

Florian helped her stand and Ander turned to them, asking worriedly, “Are you all right?”

“Oh, fine.” Tremaine pushed her hair back, trying to see past him to the man on the floor. There was an ugly red hole in his chest where the bullet had struck. “Who is he?”

Ander shook his head, looking back at the corpse. “No idea. I was coming up when I heard the commotion. I called for Gerard and Niles, but I was the only one who was armed.” He turned to Tremaine and smiled with relief. “I’m glad you two aren’t hurt.”

Still trembling a little, Florian was selfconsciously pulling her robe closed over her flannelette nightgown and tying the belt. “It happened so fast.”

Niles had stepped into Tiamarc’s room with one of the soldiers. Now he returned, grim-faced. “Tiamarc’s dead. His throat was cut.”

Florian made a faint noise and Tremaine felt her stomach roil. She hadn’t known Tiamarc well, but she was glad she hadn’t seen his body more closely. She said, “He—that man—was in my room. He must have found Tiamarc first.” She followed that thought to its logical conclusion and felt worse. “I suppose he was just. . . moving down the hall, one room at a time.”

“That’s . . .” Florian hugged herself, uncomfortable. “Let’s not suppose that.”

“You walked in on him?” Averi demanded, staring at her. He was an older man than most of the other military personnel assigned to the Institute, with a perpetually grim expression, thinning dark hair and cold blue eyes. The Institute usually tended to get raw recruits or men who had been wounded and sent behind the lines to recover; Averi seemed to be an exception and Tremaine wasn’t sure why.

Tremaine shook her head. “I saw someone had forced the lock on my door and I was going to go for help. He must have heard me.”

Colonel Averi went to examine her door, crouching to look at the lock. He frowned, glancing at her. “How did you know it was forced?”

“I felt the scratches on the lock,” she told him. When he continued to stare in disbelief she added honestly, “I’m a very suspicious person,” not knowing how else to explain it.

“She is,” Ander agreed. At Tremaine’s expression he winced, and added, “Sorry.”

Gerard stood up from his examination of the intruder, his mouth set in a thin line. “This man is a Gardier.”

Colonel Averi turned a shade of red that indicated either shock or extreme rage and turned away, taking one of the soldiers by the arm and giving orders in a harsh undertone, sending the man running off down the corridor.