A Night in the Archives
John C. Hocking

I was in the middle of a midnight shift when I saw the grappling hook. If the hook was a shock, the midnight shift was not. I'd had to attend to my ailing uncle outside the city and had been gone almost a month. Only my seniority among the attendants at the Archive allowed me that kind of time off, so I wasn't really surprised when I returned and found that the Elder had given me the late shift. The Archive is always understaffed, with only six attendants to file and tend to the paperwork of the entire city of Frekore, so archival work can go on around the clock, especially when the House of Flavius drops off its monthly load of documents. I'd been updating the military personnel files to reflect changes in rank, tossing old parchments into a dustbin and putting new ones into the racks, when I heard the city watch strike the midnight bell. That meant I was supposed to take a turn around the Archive and make sure all was well. So I left my dusty task in the corner of the third floor and, oil lamp in hand, made my rounds.

Friends have told me that the Archive is an unsettling place, and that they wouldn't be comfortable walking its close, shelf-lined halls after dark. I was apprenticed as a boy of twelve summers, and in the ten years since I've learned every inch of the place. I'm more at home there than in my living quarters, yet as I descended the south stairwell to begin my circuit on the first floor, I couldn't help recalling an event described to me earlier that day.

It's not common knowledge, but the fifth floor of the Archive is sealed. It contains the most crucial documents in the inventory, like the wills of the rich, bloodlines of senators, and the registration of every sorcerer in Frekore. As senior attendant, I am responsible for the care of most of this material. The fifth floor is only accessible with myself of the Elder present. Some few know this, but almost nobody knows that it's protected by a harnessed Death Spell that was placed upon the only door by Valtier the Claw back in my grandfather's day. When I returned to work I was informed that, two days after my departure, the Death Spell had been triggered for the first time since its original casting. This was pretty remarkable, but stranger still was the fact that it apparently hadn't killed anybody. The moment the door was breached the heart of anyone in the foyer should have been frozen solid, but there was no body, no sign of theft, nothing. The spell had undoubtedly fired; it had to be reconstructed by a team of wizards brought in from Freehold. Of course the attendants were all abuzz with this news, and everyone was full of theories, with the most commonly accepted being that the spell had weakened with age and just gone off by itself. I've had the honor of reading the Archive's rare complete copy of The LifeSong of Renj, which describes the exploits, and skills, of Valtier the Claw in some detail. I found it hard to believe that the Death Spell of such an accomplished sorcerer would misfire, even after seventy years.

So that unexplained event preoccupied me as I made my way along the dim, quiet aisles with the gentle glow of my oil lamp fluttering over every shadow. It left my mind entirely when I saw the grappling hook.

I was in the west stairwell on the fourth floor, having worked my way up, and there it was, wrapped in black velvet to deaden sound and trailing a rope of dense-woven black silk. The hook was dug in under the windowsill. The rope passed between the shutters and dropped into the night outside. I gaped at it.

My first thoughts were scarcely worthy of the name. All I could think to do was get out of the stairwell before the intruder returned. I slipped through the doors onto the fourth floor, imagining I'd sneak through the land deeds and mortgages to the east stairwell, descend to the street and attempt to flag down the night watch. It didn't happen like that. I got across the fourth floor easily enough, but when I stepped into the east stairwell I immediately felt something cold come snug up against the tender flesh of my throat. It was a sword.

I'm proud to say I didn't drop the oil lamp, though the shadows leapt a little more dramatically with my trembling.

"I don't want to kill you," said a harsh whisper.

"Excellent," I managed. "How agreeable."

"Up the stairs. Don't try to look back at me."

"Wouldn't think of it." One gauntleted hand clasped my shoulder, the other held the military issue short sword to my throat; both hands guided me up the stairs to the fifth floor. I held the door open for my captor.

"Hold the lamp out."

I extended the lamp as instructed, revealing the hallway and foyer with its single door, the only entrance to the sealed archives. The door was stout oak, with no visible lock. To either side of the door, set in the wall as if in mere decoration, was a circular metal plate the size of a man's open hand. On the wall across from the door, a little to my right, a braided cord hung in a niche. In the center of the foyer, directly before the door, was a white marble amphora as tall as my waist. It was full of dark water.

"Set the lamp on the floor, then turn and press your nose to the wall."

I did as I was told, feeling less fear than curiosity, and cultivating a certain suspicion about the intruder. The sword came away from my throat.

"This is where the registration of sorcerers is kept?"

"Yes. What do you intend to do with me?"

"I'm still making up my mind. You're an attendant, aren't you? I didn't know they made you librarians work nights. Maybe you can help me find what I'm looking for."

"Of course I can. What do you seek?"

"Information on a certain wizard. You'd think they'd place a guard on this door." The forced whisper faded back and I tensed. "All one must do is pull it open…"

I spun. "Stop! Don't touch it!"

I'd been right to turn around; the intruder's hand was on the latch and in another moment would have tugged the door open and blasted both of us with the recast Death Spell. It was the right thing to do, but it didn't feel that way when my visitor lunged across the foyer and thrust the sword for the hollow of my throat. The needle-sharp point just broke the skin. I didn't even twitch.

"Is it loyalty to the Archives that makes you toy with death?"

The whisper was gone, replaced by a flat tone that was even worse. I wasn't comforted by the fact that my suspicions were correct; the intruder was a woman. She was both a bit taller and a bit heavier than I, and looked every inch a soldier in the gray and gold armor of the House of Flavius. Unpolished steel bands encased her torso, cinched in tight as a corset at her narrow waist. Her hair was tied back and fell in a thick, golden stream from beneath her helmet, which bore no crest to reveal her rank.

Her features were strong and regular enough to be beautiful, but the expression she wore was that of a warrior about to shed an enemy's blood. The oil lamp shone in eyes that burned as coldly as a panther's.

"Gods," I choked out. "Hold off! It's the damned door. It's got a Death Spell harnessed to it that would have done for both of us had you pulled it open."

The sword lowered a fraction. I felt a warm rill of blood moving down my throat toward my collar. I wiped at it and edged a little to my right.

"How do you get in?" Her voice was still savage, but the frigid blood lust had faded from her eyes.

"You don't. Only the Elder knows how to get past that door," I lied. The soldier cursed, lowered the sword, and stepped back, her face a mask of frustration. I took two quick steps to the right and seized the pull cord in its wall niche.

"I pull this and the guard will be here in minutes," I lied again. This was worse, though. There's a cord on every level. If I pulled this one a bell would ring in the basement storerooms, letting any attendants loafing down there know there was archival work to be done on the fifth floor. It was a desperate move, but the intruder was clearly very dangerous and I'd had the misfortune of seeing her face.

"Pull it," said the woman disgustedly. "I'm screwed anyway." She sheathed her sword, dropped her hands to her sides, and looked me in the face. Although I had looked into her eyes earlier, this was the first time I noticed they were blue.

I think I said, "What?" or something similarly trenchant.

"What else is there?" she said, gesturing helplessly. "If the guard catches me, military discipline is the least of my worries. Please don't pull the cord. I didn't kill you, and the gods know it would have been easy enough to do so. You owe me a favor."

"Perhaps I do at that," I said in astonishment, "but don't forget that I saved you from opening that door."

"That hardly counts, you saved yourself as well."

"Have it your way," I said. "I'll do you the favor of letting you walk out of here unreported. Let us forget that any of this ever happened."

"You don't understand," she said after a moment. "I have to get through that door, and the sooner I do so the better. I don't think I have long to live if I do not. Perhaps you can arrange for the Elder to allow me in."

This grew stranger by the second; my uninvited visitor had gone from holding a sword to my throat to requesting an audience with the Elder.

"It's not easy for someone of the lower classes to have audience with the Elder…" I began, then succumbed to curiosity. "What in the sealed archives is so damn important that it holds your life in the balance?"

She smiled at me, and I liked it, but I kept my hand on the cord all the same. The fear and excitement that had shaken me were beginning to fade and the whole unreal situation was starting to sink in. I began to notice details, like the rope wound around her waist and the scar on her jawline, the greaves on her shins and the hob-nailed sandals on her feet.

"I'm a good soldier," she said proudly. "I wouldn't stoop to burglary unless I had to. My name is Lucella Esteriak and my family has served the House of Flavius since the cities of the Triad broke with Janarax. It is my belief that my family, my brother, has come to ill at the hands of the wizard, Thall."

She paused, but if she expected me to chime in with words of wisdom or encouragement she was disappointed. I'd looked over Thall's papers when his servant brought them to the Archive upon his arrival to Frekore. The sorcerer had come from Anparar, the most ill-favored city of the Triad. Wizards work unchecked and unhindered there. Rather than an embarrassing social stigma, the indelicacy of his origins proved more of an asset to Thall than anything else. Over the past year, his exoticism and courtly air had led him to be accepted into the highest levels of Frekor's society. There were rumors he was being considered as a permanent fixture in the High Court of the House of Flavius, perhaps even as private wizard to the king.

I swallowed. "You've made an enemy of Thall?"

She snorted in disgust. "Nay. He's made an enemy of me, and all my house. My brother, Darien, was in the service of the House of Flavius as I am." Lucella paused and drew a slow breath. "He was the better warrior, though. Many wagered on him in the games, but almost as many bet on him in private gladiatorial bouts held in secret for the pleasure of lords and senators. Thall is a gambler, and not as skilled at that craft as he believes. One night, in the house of Vettius Karabonde, Thall got drunk and bet 500 gold on my brother. And he lost. The next day Darien was thrown from his horse in the center of town. He broke his neck and died instantly."

There was a long moment of silence.

"I'm sorry, " I offered lamely. She ignored me.

"My brother was a professional soldier since he was fifteen. And he'd had that nag for five years. I do not accept that Darien died in a freak accident. Thall used some dark magic to kill him."

My initial reaction mixed pity and skepticism in equal measures. Thankfully, she continued before I said anything foolish.

"I know what you're thinking. But there's more. Yesterday I came out of a tavern and almost stumbled into Thall's palanquin. Six men, each wearing no more than a mask and a loincloth, carried the wizard's veiled chair through the marketplace. And in the evening light I saw that across the back of the last man on the right was a tapering scar. A scar I put upon Darien when we practiced at blades seven years gone."

"Necromancy?" I breathed. The blackest art is forbidden in Frekore without special dispensation from the House of Flavius.

"I went to the grave of my brother last night and found the earth all turned." She looked at me and her eyes began to burn again. "I believe Thall is making my brother repay him for his loss. And I think he may suspect that I know. Someone has been following me."

"So what do you hope to do here?"

"I thought it would be easy to find Thall's registration, see how he represented himself upon entering the city. If I could be certain his necromancy was illegal I thought I might confront him publicly. Do you think a wizard fresh from the fleshpots of Anparar has been granted dispensation to practice necromancy in Frekore? I doubt it."

"He's not. I'm the senior attendant and personally responsible for the registration of every sorcerer in the city. There are perhaps two-score wizards in Frekore, and only three are permitted to practice necromancy. Thall is not one of them."

"You're certain? Then I shall prove to the authorities that Thall has broken the King's law!" She didn't look as confident as she sounded, and I felt a perverse urge to help her however I might. "You're absolutely certain?" she asked again.

"Of course," I said, "unless the Elder amended it, and he would have told me."

She looked at me with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, come on then, let us have a look," I said at last.

I walked to the left side of the door, placed my left palm on the metal plate set in the wall there. As always, it was cold enough to make my hand numb. I repeated the procedure on the right side, then put both hands in the dark water of the amphora. There was a sudden absence in the room, as if an irritating but scarcely audible tone had been stilled. The door swung open. I've done it a thousand times but the process still makes me faintly queasy.

"I thought you said only the Elder could…" Lucella began.

"I deceived you. It's a rare day that I don't have to open this door for some task or another. You're lucky it was me you caught; only the senior attendant is trusted with the secret. Leave the door open, closing it resets the spell." I picked up the oil lamp and walked into the sealed archives, closely followed by Lucella.

The instant we crossed the portal I heard a muffled sound behind us, the unmistakable scrape of a sandal on the floorboards. Lucella wheeled, her short sword coming unsheathed in a silver blur. I was abruptly and senselessly gifted with a painful awareness of the fact that the rope wrapped around Lucella's waist was plain brown hemp, while the rope I'd seen affixed to the grappling hook in the west stairwell had been black silk.

The Archives had a second uninvited visitor.

Holding my lamp up to ward off the darkness, I backpedaled from the doorway until my spine hit a rack of scrolls. Lucella held her ground, sword extended. There was a breathless silence.

And then a man stood in the door. He wore plain armor, without design or heraldry, and there was a naked sword in his gauntleted fist. A heavy war helm encased his head, and his eyes shone through the black slits in the visor with a fearsome scarlet luminescence. I had but an instant to observe all this, then the man hurled himself at Lucella in terrible silence. Their blades met with a clash, ground together, and sprang apart. Vicious blows were traded and deflected with the fierce speed of two well-trained warriors, each determined to make a swift kill.

The only weapon I had was the oil lamp, and I briefly considered hurling it at Lucella's opponent, then discarded the idea. I had no wish to set them both afire and burn the Archive down in the process.

Lucella and her attacker whirled in the quick and unforgiving dance of mortal combat, then suddenly leapt apart. An upward slash of Lucella's sword had knocked her foe's helmet askew. I watched in amazement as she stood back and gave him the time necessary to tear the helm from his head. When the helmet came off, the face of a golden-haired young man was revealed. The face bore no expression, but the eyes were like smoldering coals.

"Darien," said Lucella softly. She'd pulled something from a pouch at her belt and now hefted it in her left hand. I saw it was a tiny bottle of green glass.

The thing that had been her brother regarded Lucella without recognition. His helm rang dully as it hit the floor, then Darien lunged forward to run his sister through the body.

Lucella sidestepped like a dancer, and tossed the contents of the green glass bottle full into her brother's face. The results were instantaneous. Darien dropped his sword and rolled to the floor. His body curled into a rigid ball and he uttered a terrible ululating cry that was at once mournful and soulless. He shuddered visibly, then went still. A flicker of azure light pulsed from his skull, shot through the open doorway and was gone.

Lucella dropped to her knees beside her brother. Her hands found the back of his head and stroked it. She said quiet things I tried not to overhear. After a time she stood and turned her tear-streaked face to mine.

"What did you cast on him?" I asked, for want of anything else to say.

"Quicksilver blessed by the Druids of Kelandrium. It banishes unnatural life. The one bottle cost me all my savings." She held it out and I took it automatically. "I thought it would be a small price to pay if it bought Darien his final rest."

"There's still a little left of your investment," I said, trying to be funny. She didn't respond, only shrugged heavily. I thrust the bottle into my robe, and pointed to the shelves that held the registrations of Frekore's sorcerers.

"Thall's information should still be shelved with the most recent arrivals."

The House of Flavius has reigned in Frekore for almost three hundred years, and the military order it has imposed is both loved and hated. No other city of the Triad has such organization or such wealth, but none is so thoroughly regimented. Certainly no other would demand full disclosure of the skills of every sorcerer to enter the city walls, with death as the penalty for noncompliance.

Thall's document was still there, a rolled scroll sealed with my senior attendant's stamp. I set the oil lamp on a shelf, took the scroll from the rack and handed it to Lucella, who accepted it wordlessly, broke the seal, then handed it back to me.

"I can't read," she said evenly.

I was flustered for a moment; I've worked in the Archive long enough to occasionally forget that many, perhaps most, people of the Triad are illiterate.

"Hardly necessary," I finally responded. "It still bears the seal I put on it when it was received."

"Read it to me." It was not a request.

I unrolled Thall's scroll, started to read, and found that my voice failed me.

"Gods and demons," I managed at last.

"What?" Lucella pressed in close beside me. She stared intently at the scroll as if she might read it through sheer force of will. "What's wrong?"

"It's completely different than when I first received it. He declares himself twice, no, three times as wealthy as he did in the original document. Thall's presenting himself as a much more substantial individual than he did initially."

"What about his sorcery?" Her voice had gone dangerously flat again. I flipped the page, and felt the hair on my forearms rise.

"He…he claims mastery of all nine circle of necromancy. This is impossible. These kinds of claims should have been submitted to the Elder. And he would have to pass them on to officials in the House of Flavius. I never approved this."

"But your seal proves you did, right?"

"By law, yes, but this is an elaborate forgery!"

My oil lamp flickered.

"A soldier and a bureaucrat," said a voice in disgust. I dropped the scroll and Lucella drew her weapon as we both turned toward the open door.

"Thall!" snarled the woman, but I would have guessed the identity of the third trespasser of the evening even if she hadn't announced him.

He was taller than either of us, lean and gaunt in elegant robes of black and green brocade. His dark hair was greased back and tied into a knot at the nape of his neck. An emerald the size of the tip of my thumb was woven into his beard. Eyes like chips of garnet regarded us blankly.

"There is such power in Frekore, such wealth and potential for one like myself," continued the sorcerer. His voice was bemused and he might have been talking to himself. "It is unfortunate that one must play Frekore's tedious games in order to reap its rewards."

"You're found out, wizard!" cried Lucella. Her body trembled, charged with barely controlled energy and the potential for immediate violence.

"And who would have ever checked? Who would see fit to examine the papers that the authoritarian idiots of the House of Flavius demand? And if they ever had, wouldn't the documents have been in perfect order?" The absurdity of the situation seemed to please Thall, but his wide smile didn't affect his eyes. The wizard's long hands hung relaxed at his sides.

"I checked, murderer," rasped Lucella.

"Of course." Thall's smile grew cruel. "Because of your bumbling brother's horsemanship. Tell me, what did you make of the illumination that fled his body? It was an alarm, telling me my puppet had fallen. Did you mistake it for his fleeing soul?"

Lucella let out a shriek of rage and leapt at the sorcerer, her blade driving straight for his heart. He lifted a hand and she stopped with a sick wheeze of expelled breath, halted as if she'd run headlong into a transparent wall.

"Stay," commanded Thall. "Drop that ridiculous sword."

Lucella's weapon rang on the floorboards. I fought back the urge to dive across the room and catch it up. As far as Thall was concerned I wasn't worth noticing, but that could change.

"You'll look well bearing my palanquin. Now, soldier, take your last breath and hold it," smiled Thall. "Forever." His hand fell back to his side.

To my horror Lucella immediately drew a quick gasp, then pressed her lips tightly together. I wondered if the wizard actually had the ability to make human beings suffocate themselves. A glance at Lucella's features, gone tense with disbelief, convinced me of Thall's fearsome power. A foolish idea came upon me then, and I am often powerless before foolish ideas, especially when they are my own.

"But why change it?" I blurted. Thall turned toward me and I felt much as if I'd cast a stone at a tiger. My belly rolled over and I had to fight to keep my voice steady.

"Why bother altering your documents?" I asked.

"Because I am enjoying greater success than I ever dreamed," answered Thall agreeably. "The rich fools of the House of Flavius take me to their bosom and offer me all that is theirs. I now keep company with the king. I don't wish to lose everything because of a foolish bit of paper."

I saw Lucella's face darkening, her eyes burning fiercely, hopelessly, into mine. Thall's hand rose.

"An excellent forgery," I said quickly, clutching my arms across my breast while one hand groped in my robe.

His hand stopped in mid-gesture and he smiled again. "Not my forte, but passable, don't you agree?"

"Oh yes," I said, and hurled the last of Lucella's quicksilver into his face. There wasn't much left; tiny silver spots appeared on his brow, cheek and throat. It was enough.

Thall's dark eyes went wide, and he screamed more hideously than had Darien. My hands went to my ears but couldn't shut out the sound. He staggered backward, pressed his fists to his face, then fell to his knees. His body bent and curled in on itself, shuddered, then moved no more.

Lucella exhaled explosively and sat down hard.

"Gods!" she wheezed. "What the hell was that?"

"That was a good guess," I said immodestly. My astonishment wore off with surprising speed and I found myself grinning like a baboon. "We've done Frekore a fine service this night. Just imagine this monster sitting at the side of the King. He was a necromancer all right, and the most powerful one I've ever heard of."

"Is he dead?" She was getting her breath back but couldn't seem to believe we were out of danger.

"Hell yes, he's dead. He's been a corpse for weeks, ever since he broke into these chambers to alter his documents and triggered the Death Spell harnessed to the door. Thall's necromantic powers were so great that his own death was a manageable condition. It couldn't stop him. Nothing could stop him."

Lucella rose unsteadily, walked to the lifeless body of Thall and stared down on it contemptuously.

"Nothing but a soldier and a bureaucrat," she said.