The Necromancer's Grimoire Page 23
“Thomas Calvin is hurt,” she told him breathlessly, rubbing her leg. “It is time to go. Come.” She lowered herself into the cool water and felt it up to her knees as she moved away from the cistern walls. She cast for Calvin as she stopped and waited for the men to find her in the darkness. She saw the Templar huddled against the trees that lined the street, bleeding; his hands tried to stanch the blood that flowed down his leg from a gaping wound in his thigh. I left him too soon, she grieved.
She heard William slide from the ledge. Both men splashed towards her until they touched her. She found she did not need to feel the walls, or shuffle her feet in the shallow water. She set out across the empty space, one foot into the darkness, then the other. The bottom was slick but she did not slide. She heard the two men behind her trying not to splash with each step because they could follow her only with their ears.
That thought reminded her of what she had read in the Hermetica. “Only the eye fears darkness”. She looked around at nothing. The ear does not fear darkness. Now in this place the ears will show their quality and be admired for their usefulness. Using her ears, she formed the image in her mind of the high arched ceiling of the cisterns from the many echoes. She heard the many pillars as she passed them to her right and her left. She could see the path before them in her mind without eyes. She felt the great age of the columns in the sound of the water. She cocked her head and listened behind her. William and Montrose pushed through the water, following the sounds of her passage. She stopped until they both touched her.
“We turn here.” She pushed through the water, listening as they followed. After a long while she stopped again. “There is another entrance here above me. There is a man standing there. Not a soldier. I will put him to sleep.”
She moved forward until she could feel the first step, then lifted her sodden skirts to ascend the steps. Very gradually her eyes took back their power from her ears and she could see the cleft that opened into the moonlight. She stopped and the men stopped with her. A silver tendril found the man sitting at the entrance and toppled him to the side. She waited to hear a deep snore before moving past him into the street.
William and Montrose joined her.
She looked up at the sky. Dawn would come soon and expose them. The Grimoire had shown her the way out of the cistern, but would it show her the way out of the city? She turned to William and touched the covers of the book he held in his hands.
“Will. Put that away,” she told him. William lifted his shirt and tucked the book inside against his chest, then tied his sash tightly around it, winding it to his waist.
“You do not want to stop and read it?” he asked as he tied the red cloth in a knot.
“No. It is not like the Hermetica at all,” she answered. “Not at all.”
She looked up and down the empty street ahead of them. “The janissaries are like wild horses,” she said to them, “Powerful and beautiful when harnessed, but dangerous and uncontrollable when maddened.” They were maddened now. “They riot. The necromancer has told them that Corbett is a spy for the pope and that he is responsible for the carnage in his library.”
She searched for Alisdair and Garreth.
They were long gone beyond the city gates. The necromancer would turn to them later. He was more immediately interested in Montrose and William. She felt him stab at them with feeble shards of light, testing for weakness. She felt him cast a red tendril at Kemal. The necromancer had seen the reis in her heart. He was not so eager to antagonize him at this moment, for Kemal had some strength of his own to resist and was beloved by the Padishah. But she cringed, for she could feel the thin red thread that snared the sultan’s captain and was merely waiting for the right moment to strike.
He would kill Corbett, now. His rage at the Templar was fierce. The janissaries pounded at the gates of the prison, demanding that Corbett be brought out to them.
“Corbett.” Montrose was grim. “Where is he?”
“He is a prisoner. The vizier has him and only an order from the sultan will release him. Calvin cannot walk. We must find him before the janissaries do. But between now and then…” she felt danger and a rising tide of dread as she touched the magus with her threads. Her head began to ache. The pain intensified and she lowered herself to the ground. She had to breathe in little shallow bursts, for any movement felt like a large nail being slowly driven into her temple. She put a hand over the place where the pain entered her, but it did not abate. She was vaguely aware of her name being spoken, then being picked up and cradled. She lost all contact with the world of light and sound.
The darkness was deafening. She felt the necromancer with her in the nothingness. No words, just feelings. She felt his anger. She felt his intent. He could not harm her body, for she possessed the Grimoire, and he feared its retaliation should he attack her directly. He could not harm her mind, for it was her own and inviolate. But he could strike at her heart, because one’s heart never belongs to one’s self, it is always given to others. The Grimoire could not stop him from striking at her there. Corbett and Calvin were the first. They had been separated from her and were easy targets.
The necromancer told her this. Nadira pressed back against his intrusion. She formed a whirl of threads and cast a net about her, warning him to back away.
He did, but not because her net repelled him, but because he had sent his message, and would now turn to other things. Vengeance. He faded and her eyes opened. William and Montrose were looking down at her, concerned. She smiled quickly to reassure them, but there was no warmth or meaning in it. She struggled to get up, but Montrose held her tightly.
“What just happened?” he asked, “Your face was not slack with sleep, but moved through pain and fear. Your cheek twitched and your lips moved. I heard you moan.”
William knelt beside her. “Did he do this to you?” he asked.
She nodded. The pain in her head was gone, the twisting nail had instead moved to her heart as she realized the true meaning of the necromancer’s message.
“He will strike at you and at the Templars,” she whispered. “I must find a way to protect you all. I have to get to Eleusis.”
She looked down at her body, her bloody silks from the neck down had dried to a brown crust, only below the knees where she had waded through the cisterns was the blue silk free from gore. Montrose saw what she was doing and looked down at himself as well.
“Well, then,” he said. His brigandine and breeches were still splattered with the remains of the janissaries in the necromancer’s house.
William, too, was splattered.
“I did not plan anything beyond capturing the book and bringing it to Corbett,” she said. “But now we must act quickly, because he will. He will stab at Corbett through the vizier, and he has informed the janissaries where Calvin hides.”
“What can we do? How do we find them? None will allow us to pass through the gates, even if we were fresh from the baths,” Montrose said. “If the Templars are prisoners we would need papers from the palace to leave with them,” he sighed, “and I cannot be disguised.” He turned his head toward the sounds of shouting in the streets. The sun had come over the horizon and shone brightly on the city of Istanbul. The janissaries were gathering into a mob at the gates of the prison not far below them. ”Bloodlust will not be satisfied. Soon they will fan out for us. We are trapped.”
“There is another way out,” William said. “There must be.”
Nadira looked at the high walls. “You cannot walk out of this city without passing through a gate.”
William pushed the book toward her. “Ask it, Nadira.”
She took the book and let it fall open where it would. The thick vellum pages were soft and supple, the words in sharp black calligraphy told her the sky was blue, the mountains white at the tops, and rolling fields of ripe grain were golden in the sun. She narrowed her eyes.
“What does it say?” William leaned over her shoulder. “The sky is blue?”
She looked at him sharply. “You can read that?”
“Of course. My Greek is excellent. You know that.”
“This is not Greek. She put her finger on the word ‘blue’. This is Arabic. Look at the swirling calligraphy.”
They looked at each other for a moment. Nadira closed the book gently. “Well.”
William let his breath out slowly. “Oh.”
“’The sky is fucking blue’?” Montrose slapped his thigh. “God damn it and all books.” He stomped past them, lifting his sword. He stooped to look down from the high bluffs and over the walls below them and to the bright Bosphorus that sparkled beyond them in the morning sun. “’The sky is blue’,” he repeated, grumbling.
“I wonder if it means we must find a blue gate,” William said, eyeing Montrose warily.
“No.” Nadira handed the book back to William. “Wrap it back up and keep it safe. It means the answer is obvious and all around us. We have been too distracted to think of it.”
“Distracted? Distracted!” Montrose turned around and walked back toward them, his sword scything the air in front of him. “Distracted?” His eyes flashed as he turned and stomped past her in the other direction.
“Robert,” Nadira turned to follow him with her eyes, “we are not trapped. Calm yourself.”
“I am as calm as I am going to be, standing in the middle of a street in Istanbul in broad daylight a mile from a riot after a night of death and some hours in a dark cavern. Do not tell me to be calm.” His eyes were wild. The sword swung in an arc against invisible foes.
William shrunk back from the blade, crossing his arms over the bulge under his tunic and sash.
“There is no one in this street. Look around,” she soothed.
“The riot below keeps all eyes from us,” William agreed.
She closed her eyes to see. Yes. The riot. The turmoil outside the prison filled her mind. Her vision snapped to Corbett and she watched as the janissaries led him limping away from the vizier’s palace and marched him to the old prison tucked inside the walls of the great city. The soldiers had beaten him in the vizier’s house.
The golden calf that tipped the necromancer’s staff waved before the crowd of angry men. She saw the magus tell the janissaries that Corbett was responsible for the death of their comrades. She saw him plant ideas in their minds of Christian conspiracies and that Corbett was the pope’s spy. She saw the old knight in chains, beaten so badly he bled inside where none could see. She cast again for his companion and saw that Calvin had retrieved his blade after a painful crawl in the street. He now crouched in the shadows unable to move any further. She felt his desperation. Both Templars needed her. Right now.
She gathered her skirt in her fist and took off running down toward the harbor and the Anemas prison. Behind her she heard the pounding steps of the two men following. Her feet ran toward the prison. Her mind had no idea what she would do when she got there.
Montrose and William kept pace beside her. When it became obvious to the men that they were heading directly toward the riot outside the prison gates Montrose shouted, “You would lead us into that battle?” He reached out and stopped her. She could not take her eyes from the gathering crowd below them near the great wall. The three of them stood in the street, panting. She heard the sound of Montrose’s sword leaving the scabbard again. She did not answer him.
Montrose stepped in front of her, his eyes on the crowd of men around the prison. He shook his sword, feeling the balance. They could see everything from the high bluffs where they stood. Dozens of janissaries were waving blades in the air, and the sound of their shouts drew people from their houses and into the streets.
Montrose began to pace a circle around them, the sword now steady in his hand.
“We need to contact DiMarco, or he will be left behind,” she murmured, eyes on the mob.
“Then do it,” he said, as he made another pass.
“I cannot,” she realized. “He has locked his mind to defend himself against the necromancer. He has created a wall of threads to protect him.”
“Then we leave him.”
She put a hand up to stop his pacing. He came to a halt, breathing hard, his eyes touching every street corner, every door of every house. “So quick to abandon him…have you no compassion?”
He frowned. “DiMarco has no claim on my pity. He is fated to get what he deserves. Did he show you compassion?”
“He did,” she remembered.
“But he gave you to the cardinals to be burned…” Montrose shook his head. “I say we leave him.”
William disagreed. “He is like a mule that bites and kicks. We need him, but we are wary of his teeth and hooves.”
“I have a way with mules,” Montrose hissed and slapped his thigh with his gloved hand.
“You are so strong,” she murmured, “You feel that all problems can be solved with the edge of a blade.”
“No. I know that is not true,” he bowed his head, “but the edge of a blade is all I have.” He lifted it for emphasis, looking at its length. He shook it again to balance it in his hand. They all turned to look at the growing mob.
William took the Grimoire from under his shirt. She heard him open it.
“It says that all things are good.” He was still breathless from the running. “It says there is no evil but what we imagine.”
Nadira imagined that what was happening to Corbett right now was evil.
William turned a page. “It says all life is an illusion, why should death be any different?”
She looked at him sharply. Malcolm Corbett would be beaten to death in the prison. Thomas Calvin would be found by another band of janissaries. He could not move. Blood seeped between his fingers as he squeezed his thigh. His prayers would be unheard unless she answered them.
Nadira took off running again. She heard Montrose curse as he sheathed his blade and then heard the hard pounding of his big boots on the ground behind her. She flew as fast as she could but he was faster.
He caught her up in his arms and stopped her again.
“You want us to charge the City’s garrison?” Montrose lowered her gently to the ground then moved to block her with his body as she tried to run. William came panting after. He bent over double, hands on knees, gasping.
She leaned to the side to see beyond his chest to the gathering of angry men. Turbaned heads, bright red caps and the distinctive white headgear of the janissaries bobbed and milled about the entrance. The flash of scimitars and glitter of short daggers reflected the rising sun. Their shouts and chants swelled and faded as the sound bounced off the wooden houses and made its way up the steep bluffs to her ears. She took a deep breath.
“Yes.” She did not look up at him.
“No!” William stood straighter, now that he had regained his breath. “That is madness. What are you thinking?”
She turned around. “Malcolm Corbett is in there. They will kill him. The necromancer has told them that he is responsible for the loss of his book.” She waved a hand at the book under his tunic. “He has told them Corbett is a spy.”
His face registered his sorrow at this news, but did not convey eagerness to engage scores of janissaries with an eating knife.
She continued, “I must go down and stop them. There is little time. Already they have beaten him badly. They will kill Calvin as well.” She looked up at Montrose who was drawing his sword again. “Sheathe that damned blade, Robert, and keep it there. You will not need it.” She began to trot down the hill knowing they would follow. There was no traffic. The early morning hours combined with the frightening scene below kept citizens inside. She could see the roofs and balconies full of the curious, but none dared the street. She heard Montrose and William a few steps behind.
She slowed as she neared the milling mob. She opened her arms to her sides and faced the palms out as she approached them at a slow walk. Her eyes scanned the faces and the various headgear, looking for the agha or for Kemal Reis.
“Robert,” she whispered. “Be still. Do not move until I do.” She felt his hand on her shoulder.
The men stopped when she did and the swords wavered before lowering to their sides. The shouting slowly died and an eerie silence fell over the milling crowd. The men in front were frowning. The men behind pushed to see what had caused the sudden quiet.
Nadira began to walk slowly toward the gate. The mob parted to let her pass. Montrose was close on her heels. He was so near she could feel the scrape of his boots on her legs as she walked. She had more tendrils extended and inserted into men than she had known was possible. The dark eyes and sweating faces that surrounded her were puzzled. Some of the men were afraid. The ones she concerned herself with, however, were the ones who burned with anger. She stared hard at them and thickened the tendrils in those men until she saw uncertainty waver in their eyes. A few of them turned away from her and looked behind her. Many made the sign against the evil eye.
“Are you confounding all of them?” William asked her in a low voice.
“Just the ones in front,” she answered. “Keep moving.”
They crowd closed in behind them as they approached the prison gate. The distance between bodies gradually decreased until Nadira could no longer see beyond the first rank. She stopped and looked up at Montrose.
“I can’t see anymore,” she said to him.
“We are before the gate.” He turned his head. “I see the agha’s hat. He is to the left. The men are letting him through. Your captain is with him.”
His eyes glanced down at her when he mentioned Kemal, then back to the crowd. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Controlling so many reduced her ability to cast farther out. She trusted that the appearance of their commander might calm the mob and allow her to release some of the tendrils. The men directly in front of the gate parted, revealing the iron bars that sank into the ground and towered above her. She waited for the agha, feeling the expectation of the janissaries through the cords.