Chapter 390: The Right Hound
The Right Hound
Pelday saw their last lessons practising with golden weapons in the Circle of Fire; as their class came to an end, Moira announced as much. "That's enough fooling around from you lot. If this won't teach you how to survive an attack with gold, you'll just have to die."
Encouraging as always.
"Glunday, we'll move on. Not that I expect much from you." She collected the gold-edged daggers from the students.
Martel noticed that none of them were his; he had not seen it once, in fact. It would be nice to know where his dagger was held. "Those weapons aren't kept in the armoury, are they?"
"What's it to you, boy?" she snapped.
Martel doubted she would be more amenable to his request for the return of the blade than Master Alastair had been. Better to give her a reason that aligned with her thinking. "In case we want to train with them on our own time. To get better."
"You got plenty of other spells you could hone," she retorted.
"Well, one of those daggers is mine. It seems only fair I have access to it if I want to practise," Martel argued.
His teacher narrowed her eyes, turning her gaze from wild to calculating. "I did see a new one. That's yours? From the attack?"
"It is. I should like access to it, so I can keep practising. In case someone else makes an attempt on my life using the same means." Martel figured that was reasonable; nobody could fault him for being eager to improve his fighting skills against gold-bladed weapons.
Moira laughed, looking and sounding like the old crone she was. Without further words, she turned around and left.
***
As evening fell, Martel made his way north towards the temple district. Although he had only been there once before, he mostly recalled the path to the shrine of Saint Laurentius; a few questions to the locals helped him with the last few steps.
Inside, the temple looked the same as his previous visit, with the stairs to the crypt taking up the centre. A few other people could be seen, either the local priests or worshippers. Squinting in the dark interior, Martel glanced around until he recognised the Friar.
The old monk sat on a bench to the side, and he gestured for the wizard to join him. "I was surprised to hear of your request for a meeting, as I thought our business concluded. But hearing the rumours in town, I suppose I can guess."
"You said that you'd send a group of inquisitors to search the catacombs. They didn't meet with success, I gather."
"I fear not. They searched that unholy place as best they could, but they encountered nothing but the simple undead creatures that plague the tombs. No sign of a maleficar nor that strange spirit you spoke of."
"Did they search everywhere?"
"The catacombs are a labyrinth, by design. Nor is the necromancy an accident. Who knows what riches lie in the deepest tombs of that great crypt? To keep it that way, our predecessors made the place impossible to navigate, and let the dead rise again to guard it."
"Did they bring a mage?" Martel only realised now he should have mentioned this originally; a wizard would be able to track the jinni much like he had done with the relic.
The Friar nodded. "They did. She claimed that the necromantic energies made it impossible to discern any other magic."
"That's not true," Martel exclaimed. The presence of the jinni had been unmistakeable. "If she had caught a trace of the spirit, she would have known immediately. It felt nothing like the simple skeletons that wander the tombs."
"That may be the case for you, since you know the scent already, so to say," the Friar retorted. "Regardless, the inquisitors found nothing, nor did the mage."
"I didn't lie about this," the young wizard protested.
"Of course not. You could have asked me for all kinds of favours, yet you chose this. But either the maleficar has absconded from the tombs, or he hides so deep inside, we cannot hope to find his trail in the twisting and turning hallways of that dark sepulchre."
Disappointment filled Martel. He knew already that this had failed, else the maleficar would not have been free to strike at the harbour the other night; still, it stung to think that nothing had come of all his troubles.
"Of course, another mage might succeed where my contact failed. One who already has the scent of this strange creature."
Martel became aware of the Friar staring straight at him, and he took the hint. He ought to decline. This was not his problem to solve. By all rights, the inquisitors should return and scour the catacombs, no matter how long it took.
But right and wrong had limited influence in Morcaster, and it seemed the maleficar had given up on targeting mages, turning his aim on the Sparrows and Julias of the city. People, children, those who none would or could protect – unless Martel did it.
He exhaled. "Very well. I'll join."
The Friar inclined his head. "I'll see to the arrangements."
***
Walking home, Martel felt disquiet about his decision. Entering the catacombs with a group of inquisitors – everything felt wrong about that. He knew that his friends always advised him to steer clear of the blue-clad zealots, regardless of reason; but so far, the Friar had proven true to his word, and his influence should protect Martel among the inquisitors. Should.
Certainly, he would not involve Maximilian or Eleanor. They had followed him once; he saw no reason to endanger them again. Asking them to face the jinni once more, this time surrounded by inquisitors – he had no right to make that request, and there might be a strong chance they would refuse. Best not to put them in that position.
But if Martel was to face either the jinni or the maleficar, possibly both, he wanted his golden dagger back.
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