As Ajax said this, a dark figure stepped to the edge of the pit and looked down at Max. Umbra wore leather armor sewn together from mismatched pieces she’d evidently scavenged or stolen. She clutched an infantry spear whose nicked, oiled blade gleamed razor-sharp in the firelight. Thick, wild tangles of black hair hung about her head, shadowing her features until she brushed it aside to reveal the tanned skin and chiseled features of an Inuit girl. Umbra was no older than Max. Her black eyes stared at him, hard as iron.
Max met and held her gaze before flicking his attention back to Ajax.
“No one’s taking my teeth,” he said quietly. “And you’ve got ten seconds to tell me what the problem is before I take yours.”
Tension saturated the air, that almost tangible, sickly calm that often preceded a fight. Rolf hurried around the pit toward Ajax and the other refugees.
“Everyone relax,” he pleaded. “This is stupid—we’re all on the same side!”
“Sure we are,” Ajax jeered. “That’s why you’re wearing new boots but I can almost see my toes. Shut your mouth before you get the beating of your life. Think your little pupils will look up to you then, Blondie?”
Rolf stopped in midstride and looked imploringly at Max and Sarah.
“I’m still waiting,” said Max calmly.
Ajax glared at him. “Two years ago, a brayma took the last of my sisters,” he said. “Thought it was all over, but then someone told me ’bout this place. So I cut loose and clawed my way here—eight thousand miles through two kingdoms. And what’s my welcome? I get to sleep in a tent and gobble down slop while you feast like lords in your marble Manse. Shoot, I can handle that. But what I can’t goddamn stomach is the idea that I gotta step aside for a bunch of bookworm sissies whenever they decide to go slumming. I’ll be dead and buried ’fore I let that happen. We ain’t just dregs and driftwood.”
Ajax’s expression was defiant. By the time he’d finished, he was breathing hard, exhaling frosty gusts that scattered on the breeze. Max smiled.
“Sarah … meet your new training partner.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “I don’t need him!”
“He is exactly what you need,” Max said, climbing out of the sparring pit. Walking around the pit’s perimeter, he approached the refugees. When Umbra stepped in front of Ajax, Max stopped and held up his hands.
“What you say is fair,” he acknowledged. “It’s not right that you’re living this way and have to step aside for us whenever we please. Rowan can do better and will. Its students have a lot to learn from you, Ajax. If I can get you better food and equipment, will you and your friends help train our students?”
The boy blinked. Anger gave way to confused surprise. Ajax glanced at his comrades, who offered noncommittal shrugs.
“Sure,” he grunted, turning back to Max. “I guess we could do that. Once you make good.”
“I’ll make good—you have my word. I’m Max McDaniels.”
Ajax’s dour, battle-scarred face broke out in a rogue’s grin.
“Hell,” he laughed, “we know who you are. Looks like you’re off the hook, Umbra.”
With an almost imperceptible nod, Umbra stood aside. The conflict averted, Max called over Sarah, Rolf, and the Second Years while Ajax introduced him to the rest of his motley troop. However, even as Sarah and the others came up behind him, Max sensed that something was amiss with Umbra. The girl had never relaxed her grip on her spear; her dark, inscrutable eyes remained fixed on him with unsettling intensity. She reminded Max of a viper, coiled and lethal. He casually shifted his hand to the pommel of the
“Everyone friends now?” he inquired, clasping Max’s shoulder.
In a blur, Umbra struck.
Her spear caught Rolf squarely in the throat, its impact so sudden and savage that he barely gasped. Max knew his friend was dead even before he staggered back and collapsed into his students. The Second Years didn’t even seem to realize what had happened until they saw the blood. Then they screamed.
Max had already drawn his sword. The
“He meant you harm.”
She spoke these words with such calm conviction that Max held his attack. The girl was either utterly insane or … Backing slowly beyond the lethal reach of her spear, he glanced down at Rolf. The boy’s eyes were already blank; his lips were parted on the verge of a scream that had never come. His entire throat was an open wound that gleamed wet and black in the moonlight.
But it was not this gruesome spectacle that made Max’s blood run cold. It was the cruel-looking knife that Rolf clutched in his right hand. Max had seen its wavy blade many times before. The knife belonged to William Cooper.
~ 5 ~
Laqueus Diaboli
Bedlam followed Rolf’s death, a crush of bodies as refugees rushed forward to see what had happened. Agents arrived within minutes, forcing the crowds back and questioning Max and the rest. Sarah had been inconsolable, weeping over Rolf’s body as one Agent led the Second Years away. She’d screamed at Umbra, vowing revenge, but the refugee girl didn’t appear to have heard her. She simply stood by, leaning on her bloodstained spear and gazing stoically at the boy she had slain.
Word arrived swiftly from the Manse; Max was to report immediately. He knew Ms. Richter’s concern. The scene at the sparring pit was too frenzied and chaotic; there might be more assassins lurking in the mob. Leaving Sarah in the care of another Agent, Max hurried away through the crowd, pushing and jostling through their ranks until he was free of them.
Miss Boon was waiting in the Manse’s foyer. She was composed but had clearly been crying. Rolf’s death no doubt hit her hard; he had been an uncommonly talented and industrious student. But it occurred to Max that she had another reason to grieve; the appearance of Cooper’s notorious dagger was a clear sign that the man was either dead or in mortal peril.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m okay,” he said. “I take it you heard about the knife?”
Miss Boon nodded before gesturing weakly at his face and clothes. Wiping his cheek, Max felt that it was sticky. Glancing down, he now realized that his shirt was spattered with Rolf’s blood. “Go clean yourself up,” she said heavily. “We’ll be waiting for you in the Archmage’s chambers. Would you like a guard?”
Max shook his head. “Rolf was my friend and he meant to kill me. Why should I trust a random guard? For all I know, you’re one of the Atropos, Miss Boon.”
She nodded sadly. “We’ll be waiting for you. David says time is important. Be quick and be vigilant.”
Heading to the dormitories, Max ducked into the bathroom. It was nearly empty. The only occupants were the dozing domovoi attendant and a First Year who nearly swallowed his toothbrush when he registered Max’s gruesome appearance. Max gnored him, turning on one of the silvery faucets and scrubbing roughly at his hands and face until they were clean. Peeling off his shirt and jacket, he stuffed them into a waste-basket.
Back in his room, Max dressed quickly. He pulled on a gray doublet of quilted cotton before donning a hauberk of black steel rings. Over this he slipped the simple tunic of the Red Branch and a leather baldric to which he belted the
Ten minutes later he stood before the Archmage’s door. The Director herself answered his knock.
“There are only friends here,” she said, sensing his wariness.
“How do I know that?”
“David has made certain.”
Looking past her, Max saw his roommate sitting by the fire in Bram’s chair. Their eyes met and David gave a
