He was never without an invitation to dinner. He nodded over that truth, then reviewed a small list of the elegant tables at which he’d enjoyed a prime seat, the stunning women for whom he’d poured wine, and the noble husbands and fathers withwhom he’d engaged in battles fought with the tools associated with his class.
He had also enjoyed a wide variety of entertainments. Frolics on the stage, the occasional duel at dawn he thought worth getting up early for, and long, pleasant evenings spent listening to musicians who played in tune only began the lengthy list of pleasures he had enjoyed.
There were other things he relished, things that were perhaps a bit less gentlemanlike but absolutely to his taste. There were murders to boast of—and not a soul with the courage to ask him about the particulars—mischief to be about, and mayhem to inflict. His terrible reputation preceded him like a cleansing wind and trailed after him like so many neophytes wishing they had earned even a single word of the gossip that attended him. When he entered a gilded chamber, women swooned, men clutched the keys to their coffers, and mages scampered out the nearest exit.
And why not? He was the youngest natural son of the worst black mage in recent memory, and his mother was a witch. He had the wit, the courage, and the cheek to succeed at all sorts of ventures that might give a lesser man pause. Was there in truth any who possessed an existence such as his own?
“All right, bastard, where to now?”
He took a careful breath and reminded himself that killing anyone directly after breakfast might get the day off to a bad start. He clasped his hands behind his back where they wouldn’t do something he might regret later, then revisited why he still had a use for that wee rustic from Neroche standing closer to Léirsinn of Sàraichte than he was happy about.
He was trapped in the middle of the city of Eòlas, a place he continued to wish he weren’t visiting, preparing to mount an assault on the library attached to the city’s university in order toretrieve something he’d hidden there previously. He couldn’t use his magic, which left him relying on lesser souls to take care of any of that sort of business on his behalf. Not the most ideal of circumstances, but his life was not his own at the moment.
Mansourah of Neroche had been told all that already. If he had been left in the dark about a few things of note, that simply couldn’t be helped. There were few whom Acair trusted with the complete particulars of any given plan, and that lad from Neroche, whilst surely a pleasant fellow, hadn’t yet earned a place on that list.
Besides, what was there to tell? He needed a book that currently found itself in the university’s library. If he wanted to see what sort of trouble his presence in the city might stir up as he went about liberating that tome from its spot, that was his business. If his business also included a visit to his tailor when time permitted, so much the better.
And last but certainly not least, if his companions slept deeply enough during the coming night that he could slip out the window and do a bit of snooping in the local ruler’s private chambers, who could blame him? There was something in Eòlas that didn’t smell quite right and that wasn’t simply the trio of drunken, vomit-covered students sprawled on the sidewalk in front of him.
Exam time at the university, obviously.
He stepped over a moaning lad sporting ink-stained fingers and gave thought to the mystery that stank of something unpleasant.
Simeon of Diarmailt had been willing a pair of years earlier to trade his most treasured book of spells for a decent amount of the world’s magic. The king had sworn on his signet ring that it was the only copy of said book in existence, a claim no doubt made to enhance its desirability. Acair had doubted that the oathcarried its usual weight considering that Simeon had left his crown behind—unwillingly, or so rumor had it—at the gaming table of one of his northern neighbors, but quibbling over the details had seemed a bit gauche at the time. He had accepted the king’s assurance about the exclusive nature of his book and hoped for the best.
He had wondered, of course, why the king wanted power badly enough to pay that sort of price, though the answer hadn’t been long in coming. The simple fact was, Simeon had lost his throne and therefore a solid border between his own sweet self and Wychweald. Given that the man was one of the most unpleasant knaves spawned in the past century, charm alone was obviously not going to win him a return of crown and country. Power it would have to be.
“Acair?”
He pulled himself reluctantly away from thoughts of poking his nose into royal affairs that weren’t his and brought his attention back to the matter at hand. The library was currently rising up before them in all its austere glory and getting inside without being discovered was going to be a challenge. He paused with his companions in the shadow of that imposing structure, then looked at the hapless middle—or thereabouts—prince of the house of Neroche.
“Where to?” he repeated slowly. “The library, which you already knew. I would like to pay said visit whilst shielded by as much anonymity as possible, which you also already knew.”
“Why is that again?” Mansourah asked with something of a smirk. “I believe I’ve forgotten.”
Acair imagined Mansourah hadn’t forgotten a damned thing. The obvious reason for discretion was that he was being chased by black mages who were salivating over the prospect of doinghim in, though that was nothing unusual. A more pressing problem would be finding himself also being chased by the crownless ruler of Diarmailt if the man knew he had come to town.
He supposed the king would have been justified in it. The unfortunate truth was that though he had indeed made Simeon a promise to deliver power in exchange for that book of spells, his plans to discreetly acquire a sizeable amount of the world’s magic had gone completely south the year before. He’d sent along a note of regret to His Former Majesty, which, he understood via the grapevine generally used for that sort of thing, hadn’t been received terribly well. Not that his welcome in Diarmailt had ever been particularly warm, but such an embarrassing failure had certainly not helped matters any—
“We’re making for the library,” Mansourah reminded him.
Acair noted the thoughtful frown gracing the prince’s noble brow. No doubt the lad was struggling to imagine why one would ever want to spend any time in such a locale. What Mansourah of Neroche did with his days beyond inserting himself into places where the only results were social disasters was a mystery, but perhaps that was all the child could hope for. Acair thought it best to just let the matter lie.
“I’m here for a book,” he said, hoping the use of small words would aid Mansourah in understanding what they were about. He was, as even those he’d brought to their knees pleading for mercy would admit, altruistic to the last.
Mansourah’s brow puckered a bit more. “But Rùnach has your book.”
Acair was fairly certain they’d covered that ground before, but he wasn’t unwilling to cover it again. As he’d noted before,altruismwas his middle name.
“Rùnach has the innards ofabook,” he said. “I might even goso far as to say that those innards might have belonged to one ofmybooks. He has those, my young princeling, because I put them there for him to find. I knew he needed something with which to keep himself busy last year and I was happy to oblige him in the same. In return, I liberated the pages ofhismost cherished tome and deposited them in a safe place of my choosing.”
He could have said more, of course, but there was no reason to go into details that would only keep Mansourah awake at night. Aye, he had pages from a book of Rùnach’s and he knew very well what those pages contained. He could scarce wait to flex his fingers and dive into his half-brother’s efforts to counter their father’s dastardly spells.
Even more intriguing were the notes Rùnach had dropped all over the plains of Ailean that Acair had been, again, altruistic enough to scoop up for him, but those were equally well hidden and best forgotten about for the moment.
“What’s in this book we’ve come for?” Mansourah asked. “Lists of pubs to avoid?”
Acair sighed lightly. He would have preferred to boast that the pages were full of his own lists of black mages of note, but the truth was, he was after something he’d liberated from under the blotter on his father’s desk one evening when Gair had been suffering from intense tummy troubles that might or might not have been caused by Acair having spent the afternoon loitering in the kitchens near the stewpot. Those pages were hidden in a book of lists of other things that woulddefinitelykeep that wee prince there awake at night.
