The Maelstrom

designs. Max sat forward.

“Are there other assassins at Rowan?” inquired David.

“Of course.”

“Who are they?”

“I do not know.” The corpse grinned maliciously at Max. “I was summoned and I served. I may have failed, but the Atropos will not. The son of the Sidh will not escape them.”

“Where are William Cooper and Ben Polk?” asked David.

“I do not know.” The demon shrugged. “My summoner only gave me the scarred man’s knife.”

Miss Boon stood. “S-so you never saw William on the rack,” she stammered. “It was just a lie.”

“If you like,” the demon chuckled. “I’ve seen the rack.”

“Why did they arm you with William Cooper’s blade?” asked David.

“It is the kris of Mpu Gandring,” replied the demon. “Its blade is accursed. My masters fear no ordinary weapon can slay the Sidh prince.”

David paused at this. Several seconds passed before he spoke. “Do the Atropos know Max’s geis?” he asked softly.

“No,” replied the demon. “But they are searching, scrying, lying, pining for it. They care not whether they slay the Hound of Rowan or he slays himself. They care only that he dies.”

“What were the terms of your service to the Atropos?” asked David.

“Nothing fancy,” the demon tittered. “Ghollah was to get close to Sidh boy and murder him. If Ghollah succeeds, he is free. If he fails, he must report back.”

“Where specifically?”

“A grotto,” the demon hissed. “A grotto in the sea cliffs north of Rowan’s outer walls. A day’s ride. Last question, vile sorcerer, before our bargain is fulfilled.”

“Certainly,” said David. “Can you detect if another being is possessed?”

“Of course we know our own,” the demon scoffed. “Mortal flesh is a flimsy cloak.”

“Excellent,” said David, walking over to a bookcase and opening a carved wooden box upon its topmost shelf. Fishing inside, he selected a silver ring. Rolf’s corpse watched him, its eyes dark and mistrustful. When the sorcerer returned, the demon hissed and retreated to the table’s edge.

“You shall warn my friend of peril,” said David, holding up the ring. “For seven years, you shall inhabit this and warm its metal to a scald whenever you detect your own kind nearby. You shall serve faithfully and true. In seven years, your service shall end and you will be free to go. I give you Solomon’s Pledge. The choice is yours, Ghollah— you can wear silver for seven years or a pig of iron for all eternity.”

“But my service to the Atropos is not complete,” the demon reflected. “I must report my failure.”

“You may report your failure in seven years.”

The corpse shook its head as though weighing all options and liking none.

“They are a dangerous enemy, Sorcerer.”

“So am I.”

“Very well,” the demon sighed. “I agree to your terms, curse you. Seven years, not a second longer.”

David tossed the ring inside the circle. Snatching it out of the air, the corpse stared at the object upon its palm with a look of unmitigated loathing. With an awful snarl, it closed its fist about the ring and toppled over, lifeless once again. The simmering flames about the circle died away so that only the seven candles remained, merry and golden.

“An ugly business,” mused David wearily. “But it is finished.” Stooping, he blew out the candles and knocked gently on the bedroom door. The door unbolted and Mina slipped out alone. “There is a ring in the body’s hand,” said David. “Give it to our Max and tell him what it is.”

If the corpse frightened Mina, the girl did not let it show. Without a hint of squeamishness, she retrieved the ring from Rolf’s clenched fist and turned it over in her fingers.

“There is a demon in this ring,” she declared, half turning to David. The boy nodded and gestured for her to go on. “His name is … Ghollah. And he promises to warn fierce Max if there are others about. Seven years he will serve and he has vowed revenge against you.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” said David, smiling.

“She can tell all that from merely handling it?” wondered Miss Boon.

“Of course I can,” said Mina, coming over to Max. “It cannot keep secrets from me.”

Max thanked her, studying the ring as she placed it on his finger.

David turned to Ms. Richter. “Are there any others from the Red Branch still at Rowan?”

“Xiumei and Matheus are still here,” she replied. “And Peter Varga returned two days ago.”

“What of the Vanguard or the Minstrels?” he inquired, referring to other elite cadres of Agents. There were several such groups at Rowan. They were not as skilled or exclusive as the Red Branch, but each had their own specialties.

“Fifteen,” she said. “Perhaps twenty.”

“Good,” said David. “I would send them along with the Cheshirewulf to the area Ghollah described. I don’t know if they’ll find Cooper and Ben Polk, but it’s a starting point. Even if the Atropos have moved, Grendel should be on the scent.”

The Cheshirewulf twitched and growled at the mention of his name.

“I’m going, too,” said Miss Boon, rising.

“Hazel,” said Ms. Richter, “best to leave this—”

“No, Director!” flashed the young teacher. “If they could have possessed William by now, they would have sent him for Max instead of using Rolf. William’s too strong-willed to give in easily, but if they’re torturing him …”

Ms. Richter relented. “I’ll give the order,” she sighed. “We’ll put Xiumei in charge. She has the most experience with this sort of thing. Take Grendel and prepare yourself for a journey. I would pack for at least a week.”

“My students—”

“Will be fine,” Ms. Richter assured her. “We’ll see to your classes; you see to William.”

The two women embraced. With a parting glance at Rolf’s body, Miss Boon hurried out of Bram’s chambers with Grendel at her side. When the door closed, the Director turned to the two boys. Her face was grave.

“There’s something else,” she said softly. “War has broken out. I had word earlier this evening. Aamon has declared war on Prusias. His armies are marching on Blys from the east. Rashaverak is attacking from the south. Given this development and the events this evening, I want you to leave for Blys at once—before Prusias can blockade our shores. Make contact with the Workshop through the one we discussed, David. The Workshop would be a valuable ally in the days ahead, and perhaps the war will give them an opportunity to break free from Prusias’s grasp. Even if they refuse to join us, we need intelligence. We need to know how Prusias intends to use their technologies should the war come to Rowan. Sir Alistair has already prepared a dossier for you.”

“Alistair Wesley?” Max exclaimed, remembering his old etiquette instructor. He had long regarded the departed teacher as a vain and patronizing fop. The man had accepted Prusias’s offer of land and titles and abandoned Rowan two years earlier. “Isn’t he an earl or something, lording it up in Blys?”

“Sir Alistair is one of our finest intelligence operatives,” replied Ms. Richter firmly. “And he accepted that awful mission at my request, so please show some respect.”

“How have you been in contact with him?” asked David. “I thought scrying was impossible.”

“Laqueus Diaboli isn’t the only old trick in use tonight,” observed the Director. “We’ve been communicating with Alistair using Florentine spypaper the domovoi discovered in the Archives.”

“Ah,” said David, understanding at once. “I should like to see some.”

“There is some in your dossier,” said Ms. Richter. “It contains all of Alistair’s recommendations regarding the Workshop, along with my comments and notes. Do not write upon the sheets unless you wish the contents to be transcribed back to those in Sir Alistair’s keeping. That could be very dangerous.”

“Understood,” said David, taking a portfolio from the Director. He gazed about his grandfather’s room, absorbing each detail as though he might not see it again. “What will you do with the body?” he asked.

“The moomenhovens will prepare Rolf for burial and we will arrange a service,” Ms. Richter sighed. “Sarah and the Second Years are with Miss Awolowo. As to the refugees, we shall have to see what to do with them.…”

“They didn’t do anything wrong,” said Max quickly. “Ajax and the rest … they’re valuable. They’ve seen a lot