through his robes, disspelling any text they encountered. She extemporized a clawed Magnus paragraph and threw it onto the folded red cloth. When the paragraph grabbed hold, she yanked hard a connecting sentence and so pulled the cloth out of Cyrus’s reach.
“Don’t make this harder than …” Her voice died.
He was staring at her, making no attempt to rid his robes of her disspell.
In that instant, Francesca recognized her mistake.
Calmly, Cyrus laid his hand on the landing bay’s wall. In the next instant, a strip of sailcloth jumped out of the wall and struck Francesca’s thigh where it wove itself into the fabric of her robes. She forged defensive language in both arms and tried to pull away.
But Cyrus had invested her robes with hierophantic language, and they became as stiff as iron. She began to forge disspells in her tongue, intending to spit them onto her sleeves, but the cleric’s stole she wore around her shoulders twisted into a cord and wrapped around her forehead.
The world dissolved into whiteness.
Chapter Thirteen
Squinting in the sunlight, Nicodemus examined his school of five false lepers.
Shannon stood beside him, leaning on a walking stick. “My boy,” he muttered, “remind me why I didn’t question your escape plan deeply enough to discover you intended to kill us with costumes.”
Both Shannon and Nicodemus were dressed in the itchy gray robes of Northern Spirish holy men sworn to care for the sick and destitute. Before them, on rain-wet terracotta tiles, squatted Nicodemus’s kobold students. All were wrapped from toe to nose tip in the dirty rags of lepers.
Nicodemus studied them now. Vein was looking about wearily while Slag and Dross argued with each other. Flint and Jasp crouched as if resting.
All kobolds distrusted humans. When forced to interact with men, they instinctively hid as much of their bodies and identities as possible. Presently this desire for secrecy manifested in the kobolds’ tense posture and in the way they huddled together as if to block out the rest of the world. Fortuitously, this body language reinforced the illusion that they were in fact a group of lepers, shunned by society.
Nicodemus adjusted his gray headdress. Shannon had a point; a convincing disguise was not the same thing as safety. But according to Nicodemus’s original plan, they should have recovered the emerald or died by now. Either would have made escape unnecessary.
“The problem with disguised escape plans,” Shannon continued, “is that they often become disguised suicide plans.”
“Magister, you’re overreacting,” Nicodemus muttered. “Neither the Walker nor the demon will suspect us of hiding in sunlight.”
Shannon only readjusted his grip on Azure; he was obliged to hide his parrot familiar in a wrapped-up rag.
They were standing in the Courtyard of Lesser Benediction on the northern border of the sanctuary’s complex. It was a plain public square. Here, two or three times a day, Avel’s poor came to receive flatbread and sing to Cala. When making these devotions, they allowed the demigod’s godspell to siphon some of their bodily strength into Cala’s ark. Wealthier citizens made devotions only every other day in courtyards decorated with fountains and hanging flowers.
Some form of this devotional ritual—sometimes incorporating song, sometimes prayer, sometimes silent meditation—was practiced in every major city on the human continent. This was how the deities accrued power.
Of the five hundred souls gathered around Nicodemus, most were simply poor; others had lost limbs, vision, sanity, or all three.
No one noticed Nicodemus’s party. The Spirish believed leprosy was a punishment for a past sin. In times of plenty, lepers were shunned; in times of famine, they were expelled onto the savanna to face lycanthropes. Only the Ixonians—whose hydromancers could cure leprosy with their aqueous spells—treated lepers differently.
With his Language Prime fluency, Nicodemus had seen the infection that caused leprosy and knew the sick were innocent of any causal sin. Though disgusted by how lepers were regarded, Nicodemus had no qualms exploiting that prejudice for his benefit. No one in Avel would look at his rag-wrapped students long enough to realize their figures were inhumanly broad chested and large limbed. Or, if someone did, they would attribute such bodies to disfiguring disease.
“The raid was a failure,” Nicodemus admitted to his mentor. “I am sorry, Magister. I had no idea the Walker would return to the sanctuary that quickly. But we will still find a way to recover the emerald and cure you.”
The old man frowned and then exhaled. “Not a failure. You killed the three librarians. The pyromancer must have been Typhon’s contact with demon worshipers in Trillinon. The hydromancer the same for Ixos. In fact, the hydromancer must have been the one shipping lucerin into Avel.”
“But we were so close, right next to the vulnerable demon. Perhaps we could have hacked through the door if you were with me instead of standing guard at our backs.”
“No, my boy, it was better to leave me as a lookout. I’m too weak to hack through anything.”
“And if only the Walker hadn’t returned from the lycanthrope attack so damned fast,” Nicodemus grumbled. “Faster than ever before.” He looked up at the octagonal dome with its red-tile roof and sandstone minarets. The Walker had now climbed up to the canonist’s quarters.
Nicodemus found himself thinking about the monster’s ability to inflict aphasia; it was unsettlingly analogous to his own disability. Cacography prevented one from forming written words, aphasia from forming spoken words. There had to be a reason for this similarity. Perhaps something Typhon had planned?
“My boy, are you all right?”
Shannon’s words made Nicodemus start. “I’m fine,” he said. “Only thinking about the Savanna Walker. The beast thinks he’s so clever, but he’s just a heap of flesh and pretentious prose.”
Shannon laughed. “He seems to feel the same way about you.”
“He is unbelievably powerful within the sanctuary walls, I will give him that. But if I could just catch him outside the city at night.”
“There was that time two dry seasons ago when the two of you wrestled below the dam.”
“Doesn’t count. How was I to know he’d filled that damn gate with lucerin dilution?”
“There was that night in Coldlock Harbor. Your fishing boat scheme.”
Despite himself, Nicodemus shivered. “Doesn’t count either. Who knew orca whales could come in so close to shore or that the Savanna Walker could do … that … to them?”
Shannon rubbed his temples. “I still have nightmares about thrashing around in that water. The dark figures swimming below us, and all that … blood.”
Nicodemus felt his cold anger grow but changed the subject. “Magister, your ghost, I wanted to say—”
“We won’t talk about it.”
“But, Magister, Typhon has held that ghost captive for a year. Surely, the demon has rewritten him. We had to try to deconstruct him.”
Shannon turned toward him, his all-white eyes unreadable. “Yes. Of course. And if you had proper wizardly training, if you’d just listened to me back in Heaven Tree Valley, you would have destroyed the ghost instead of letting it escape back to Typhon.”
“Magister, we couldn’t have stayed in the valley. As I’ve told you a hundred times—”
“You have. We’re finished.”
“Magister,” Nicodemus started to say, but just then the courtyard grew quiet and all eyes turned toward the dais at the far end. A procession of Celestial devotees had emerged bearing a litter. With practiced ceremony, they laid down