That might be a sufficient motive for murder, and despite Lirrin’s display of grief Sarai might have suspected her, were it not for all the other deaths.
Inza the Apprentice Warlock had been the first, slain in her own bed, her throat slashed, a stab wound in her chest; then there had been Captain Deru, waylaid in an alley off Archer Street, stabbed in the back, and his throat slashed. Athaniel the Theurgist was jumped in his shop, his throat slashed, and a single thrust through his heart to finish him off. Karitha of East End, a demonologist, had been beaten into unconsciousness in her own parlor, her throat cut as she lay insensible.
Strangest of all, even as these murders had been talcing place, a dozen animals, mostly stray cats or runaway dogs, had been found dead at various places in the Wall Street Field, with their throats cut open. Had they all been killed before Inza, then Sarai might have guessed the killer was working up his nerve, practicing before he dared risk tackling a human being, but they were not; instead, a dog and a cat had been killed shortly after Inza, the rest one by one in the days that followed, interspersed with the other victims.
And now old Serem was dead, on the floor of his bedchamber, stabbed in the belly, and—like all the rest —his throat had been cut.
And on all of them, men, women, and beasts, the magicians found lingering traces of a strange magic, probably wizardry, that blocked any divination or scrying spell.
Mereth swore she couldn’t identify the killer. Okko could tell nothing of what had happened. Luris the Black had offered to help, to avenge her dead apprentice, but she was as useless as any warlock when it came to knowledge, rather than raw power. And now this witch, Kelder of Quarter Street, had failed, as well.
“He hasn’t killed any witches yet,” Sarai remarked as she marched down the stairs. “One of you will probably be next; he seems to be trying for one of every sort of magician.” “There are still sorcerers, Lady Sarai,” Kelder replied, “and the various lesser disciplines, the herbalists and scientists and illusionists.”
“True,” Sarai conceded. “Still, I’d lock my door, if I were you, and maybe invest in a few warding spells. Besides your own, I mean.” Witches did not have any true warding spells of their own, she knew, but she also knew that witches didn’t want outsiders to know it.
“Perhaps you’re right, my lady,” the witch agreed. “I would like to say that I don’t fit the pattern in these killings, but in truth, I don’t see a clear pattern.” “Neither do I,” Sarai admitted.
That bothered her. There ought to be more of a pattern in who was killed, and how; criminals were usually abysmally unimaginative. This one, though...
They had no idea of any motive. The killer had slain the apprentice warlock, leaving Luris untouched, but here he or she had killed Serem, the master, and had left the apprentice, Lirrin, untouched. Athaniel had had no apprentice, nor, of course, had Deru, since the city guard did not operate on an apprenticeship system. Karitha’s apprentice was a boy of fourteen who had been visiting his parents on their farm somewhere outside the city. Serem’s apprentice inherited everything; Karitha’s, due to the existence of the demonologist’s husband and nine- year-old daughter, inherited nothing but a few papers and the right to stay on until Festival.
There was no pattern, no connecting motive, no common factor among the victims that Sarai had yet discovered.
Lirrin was inheriting a large and valuable house and a great deal of wealth, which would make an excellent motive, and she was a wizard of sorts, as well—could she have arranged the entire thing, staging the other killings in order to throw off suspicion? It was hard to believe that anyone could be so coldblooded; besides, if that was it, she had been foolish to kill Inza and not Luris, thereby missing the chance to create a false pattern and divert suspicion onto Inza. And why kill the dogs?
Besides, Karitha was killed by a very strong person—she had been picked up and flung against a wall at one point. And the killer had not been gentle with Deru or Athaniel, either. Lirrin scarcely looked strong enough to do anything like that. She wasn’t as scrawny and underfed as some apprentices, but she still had more bone showing than muscle. Of course, with magic, anything is possible... Sarai realized that she had reached the bottom of the stairs and was now staring into Lirrin’s face from a distance of only four or five feet.
“I’m sorry,” Sarai said, trying to sound sincere. She was sorry that Serem was dead, genuinely sorry, but right now she was thinking too hard about who might have killed him to get real emotion into her voice.
Lirrin grimaced. “I guess you see things like this all the time, Lady Sarai,” she said, her voice unsteady.
“No,” Sarai said. “No, I don’t. Usually the guard takes care of... of deaths without calling me in. They’re usually simple— someone lost his temper and is sitting there crying and confessing, or there are a dozen witnesses. If it’s not that obvious, then we call in the magicians, and generally we have the perpetrator in the dungeons the next day.” She sighed. “But this time,” she said, “we seem to be dealing with a lunatic of some sort, one who uses magic that hides all his traces. So they called me in, because I’m supposed to be good at figuring these things out. And I’m trying, Lirrin, I really am, but I just don’t know how to catch this one.”
“Oh,” the apprentice—the former apprentice, Sarai reminded herself, since the apprenticeship was over and done, and Lirrin would have to prove herself worthy of journeyman status before the representatives of the Wizards’ Guild, despite missing the final year of her studies—said, in a tiny voice.
Sarai hesitated before saying any more, but finally spoke. “Lirrin,” she said, “you’re Serem’s heir, and that means you’re responsible for his funeral rites. But before you build a pyre, I have a favor to ask, a big one.”
“What?” Lirrin was clearly on the verge of tears.
“Could you summon a necromancer to see if someone can speak to Serem’s ghost? His soul won’t be free to flee to Heaven until his body is destroyed; if we can question him, ask who stabbed him—he must have seen who it was. He might not know a name, he might not remember everything—ghosts often don’t—but anything he could tell us might help.”
Lirrin blinked, and a tear spilled down one cheek. “You said there were others...”
Sarai sighed again.
“There were,” sheadmitted, “but with the first few we didn’t know it would be necessary until it was too late, until after the funeral. We did finally try with the demonologist; her soul was gone without a trace, probably taken by some demon she owed a debt to. We hope to do better with Serem. With your permission.”
“Of course,” Lirrin said weakly. “Of course.”
The smoke from the pyre drifted lazily upward; the weather was starting to turn cooler again, and the air was clear, the sky a dazzling turquoise blue.
“Damn it,” Sarai muttered.
Captain Tikri glanced sideways at her, then across at Lirrin. The apprentice seemed oblivious to everything but the burning remains of her master. The handful of friends and family in attendance were lost in their own thoughts or talking to one another.
“Troubled, Lady Sarai?” Tikri murmured.
“Of course I am!” she said in reply. “It’s all so wasteful and stupid! Even this funeral—it’s just empty ritual. His soul isn’t even in there; there’s nothing to be freed!”
“You’re sure?”
“The necromancer was sure, anyway, or at least he said he was.”
Tikri didn’t reply for a moment; when he did, it was to ask, “Which sort of necromancer was it?” “A wizard,” Sarai answered. “Does it matter, though?” Tikri shrugged, showing her an empty palm. “I don’t know,” he said. “It might. My Aunt Thithenna always used a theurgist to talk to Uncle Gar, after he died—at least, until the priest said she should leave him alone and let him enjoy the afterlife. Worked fine.”
Sarai sighed. “Your Aunt Thithenna was lucky,” she said. “Half the time theurgical necromancers can’t find the one you want, even when there isn’t any question of other magic. And demonological necromancers are worse—unless the ghost you want is a dead demonologist; they’re lucky to contact one out of ten. Sorcerers and warlocks don’t do necromancy at all— they’re probably smart. It’s a messy business. And as often as not the ghost doesn’t remember anything useful.” “What about a witch, then?” It was Sarai’s turn to shrug.
“It’s a little late now,” she said. “I know theurgists and de-monologists don’t need the body, but witches do, even more than wizards. I did have a witch look at him, though—Kelder of Quarter Street. You know him, don’t you?” Tikri thought for a moment, then nodded. “Well, he’s not a real necromancer,” Sarai said. “But he couldn’t see anything.”
“Too bad.” Tikri hesitated, and said, “There’s news, though. I was going to wait until after the funeral to tell you, but maybe I should mention it now.” “Oh? What is it?” “It’s not good news.”
