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Narantir's correct; you really should make a habit of knocking before you
enter."
I have, from time to time, truthfully claimed to be unhe-roic. That was
before, lying on the cold stone floor, having been hit by a wizard's spell, I
rolled to my belly and man-aged to rise to my hands and knees. Dapucet, the
Power that holds the world together, exercises no more strength than I did as
I rose first to my knees and then to my feet, the world spinning gently under
them.
"That's not important now," I said with all the force available, the words
.coming out as a harsh whisper. "You said that there was no magic used in
Minch's room," I said. "How about in Demick's?"
"Demick's?"
I nodded. "That was the part of it that bothered me. It wasn't impossible that
somebody could aim at the carrier of a lantern through the window screen. But
how would Demick or whoever he had do it possibly know that Minch was hanging
his lantern by himself? It could have been one of the castle servitors,
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warming his bedding for the night or laying out sleeping clothes."
Narantir shrugged. "Which would do as well, assuming that Demick's purpose was
to dishonor
Arefai, no?"
"No. Not if Demick didn't know where Arefai was, too. If, say, Arefai was
sitting with Lady Estrer and Lord Orazhi, the whole plan would fall through,
and point an accusing finger toward Patrice and
Demick. Demick had to know both where Arefai and Minch were and that Arefai
was alone. For Arefai, a spy would do, perhaps but for Minch? To be sure that
it was he who was holding a lantern? How could a spy report quickly enough?
Demick must have had another way."
"Of course
." Narantir spread his hands. "A direction spell. The sort dishonorable
hunters use, except made spe-cific. Not the most difficult application of the
Law of Synechdoche; whole to part, and part to whole."
Tebol nodded, quickly. "A piece of skin perhaps, or better hair." He turned
to me. "Skin and blood change too quickly when they're separated from their
owner, but hair and nails remain the same."
He pulled down a book from a shelf and brought it over to a table. He muttered
a quick cantrip and touched his fin-ger to the tip of an unlit candle; it
flared too brightly, cast-ing dark shadows all around the room. "I haven't
done this sort of thing since I was an apprentice, but it should leave some
effluence.
Narantir?"
The fat wizard, despite himself, had gotten interested. "It should reek of
it."
Tebol grunted. "I don't like sniffing around doorways, but& so-be-it."
I snorted. "I don't know that it exactly calls for sniffing around doorways."
"If you don't know, then shhh."
Tebol had brought out a rack of vials and set it on the workbench. Narantir
took a small silver spoon and scooped out some white powder into a ceramic
mortar. He added some of a red powder, and then a black one, care-fully
washing the spoon, then passing it through the flame instead of drying it.
Narantir took something that looked like a many-spiked ball on a stick down
from a shelf and whirled it around the mortar, muttering a quick cantrip.
"Basic allergenics," he said. "Come this way."
I held up a hand. "Now, wait one moment, if you please. The last time I helped
out in an experiment, you turned me into a sword, and I didn't like that much.
It hurt. Are you telling me this won't?"
Narantir chuckled. "No, I'm promising it will hurt you, precisely as much as
if you sniffed three kinds of pepper up your nose. But it'll also make you so
allergic to synechdochal directional magic that, well, you'll itch un-
controllably for hours if you come in contact with any of it."
I held up a hand. "Then why don't one of you take it?"
"Because we're wizards, you young idiot. No wizard is going to make himself
allergic to magic." He held out the vial. "And it does so call for sniffing
around doorways. If that sort of spell was used in Lord
Demick's rooms, then all you need to do is take a hefty sniff of this, then
sniff around the edge of his door, and you'll know. Believe me, with hives the
size of a plover's egg all over your body, you'll know."
He tossed the vial high into the air. Somebody who had spent years as a
juggler couldn't help but catch it.
There were guards, of course, on at both ends of the floor where Lord Demick's
rooms were;
members of our be-loved ruling class always travel with their own, no matter
how serious a safe conduct they travel under. It's always possible that some
other lord would like to complicate the issue by inserting an assassin or two,
letting the local lord take the blame for a murder&
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Which, of course, was always a possibility for Minch. The only trouble was, it
was pretty clear what the result was from Minch's death, and who would
benefit.
The guards weren't eager to let anybody in, since it was the hour of the lion,
and his lordship had officially retired for the evening. But I was the
Historical Master Dan'Shir, and Demick had volunteered to aid me in my
investigation and had made it clear to both me and them that he would rather
enjoy gloating some more, so they agreed to let me into the corridor and speak
to his valet, after a quick search.
Which, of course, immediately turned up the vial.
The guard's face was fiat and expressionless. "I wouldn't suppose this to be
poison," he said, holding it out toward me.
I forced a laugh. "If it was," I said, accepting it and pulling off the top,
"would I do this?"
I tilted back the vial and inhaled sharply.
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